what is the dumbest possible version of the next sentence you need to write?
For Beg, Borrow or Steal:
"So like i know you tried to kill me or whatevr but now i need you to kill that guy that wanted you to kill me" said Amelia
"Ya ok" said Felix
For Brother, Can You Spare a Dime:
"So like someone tried to betray me or whatever" said Ivan
"Ew wtf" said Alfred
"Was it you" said Ivan
"Ew no wtf" said Alfred
"I have decided i beleive you" said Ivan
"Haaaa gay" said Alfred, gay-ishly
9. what do each of the relevant characters currently want?
Amelia: Thinks she wants revenge but really wants some kind of comfort that people she cares about aren't just going to throw her away when they've finished taking what they want from her
Felix: Wants to get out of this situation but doesn't know how
Ivan: Wants a break but also wants everything to just work out already
Alfred: Wants a reason to keep getting up in the morning, preferably a reason that actually makes him feel like less of a failure, and hopefully one that will actually fix the mistakes that he's made/bad circumstances that surround those mistakes but honestly that's much further down the list past 'get out of bed'
very late, but better late than never right?...tagged by @dotr-rose-love
world
The gears in the man's head were clearly spinning, and that was a good start--easier to throw a wrench in 'em that way. A healthy dose of confusion kept the world running smoothly.
--Beg, Borrow or Steal
space
A crack of gunfire–Ivan swings around, but there’s no one behind him, just…just empty black space. The desert sand stretches indefinitely to the horizon with no sky but utter darkness.
--Orphan Signal
heart
Koko really had a talent; Amelia hated to admit it but it was true. A talent for cutting to the heart of an emotion, of etching it on a canvas in a minimum of shapes and lines and colors so that they were both abundantly, unmistakably clear yet slowly unfolding, like listening to a music piece play out and grow more complex.
--Beg, Borrow or Steal
lose
<<Wasting food and breaking dishes is not acceptable,>> Russia said with a toothy smile. Inside his chest got tight again; that was an entire meal just wasted on the floor. That was half the remaining food in the house. <<If you continue like this I will lose my temper with your wastefulness.>>
--Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?
little
Sometimes the nasty little voices in the back of Alfred’s head got to him, but he’d made it out of worse scrapes than this before. Hell, remember ‘63? He’d thought that might kill him for good, or at least leave him permanently split. That was a scrape. This was nothi–well. It wasn’t nothing, but it wasn’t the end of the line.
--Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?
garden
They talk about heading to San Francisco like they’re returning to the Garden of Eden, talk about reaching the Haight-Ashbury district like it’s Nirvana. Steve rolls his eyes and scoffs, but Soda, dead tired in the middle of winter in 1966, listens, and when they roll out, he leaves with them.
--Pepsi Cola Tastes the Same in Every Possible Universe
dream
"Good news?" she said, smile going thin.
"Yeah! Yeah. Of course, 'Melia-baby." The shining silver limousine pulled around and Rolls opened the door himself. "It's about the picture. Think they might have a part for you after all."
"Oh, bushwa." Amelia batted the air. The idea of being a moving picture star had been half a joke and half a pipe dream. She'd only brought it up to get in good with that snobby wannabe starlet from the Follies who'd had a big mouth about her big-time producer friend Donald Pennyroyal.
--Beg, Borrow or Steal
car
And Vinny had never been much for guiding a conversation. He usually blamed it on not speaking English. Unfortunately Nash already knew he spoke English just fine, so the long lapses into silence stretched awkwardly in the stuffy little living room upstairs from the pawn shop. That, and every time a car backfired on the street Vinny felt his heart do a somersault and the urgent need to start mumbling his rosary for the first time in five years.
--Beg, Borrow or Steal
why
"…But this was the final straw," he was saying. "Someone asked me to kill another stranger. An innocent girl I don't even know. And I don't even know why. Why are you supposed to die?"
--Beg, Borrow or Steal
~~~~~~
Beg, Borrow or Steal is an original WIP
Brother, Can You Spare a Dime? and Orphan Signal are Hetalia fanfiction
Pepsi Cola Tastes the Same in Every Possible Universe is The Outsiders fanfiction
I'll leave an open tag because it's been so long since I've really played a tag game--if you see this, try to find one or any of the above words!
seeing @dustylovelyrun post inspired me to put this up, plus I’ve gone so long without any progress on my WIPs this might kickstart me back into working:
“God, the stars are something else when it’s cold out,” Alfred said, folding his arms behind his head. A lazy, detuned sort of smile stretched across his face as he stared into the dark sky. “It’s like it clears everything else away.”
The cold and dark made Ivan think along different lines. “…Alfred,” he said quietly, not even sure he wanted to ask but hit with curiosity, “When was the first time you died?”
Beside him Alfred shifted, wrapping his arms around himself instead. “…I don’t remember.”
“Oh, no?” Ivan kept his voice light.
“I really don’t,” Alfred said. “I was…I was brand-new. I think it was touch-and-go for a while with me.”
“What does that mean?”
“That, uh, that it could’ve gone either way.” Alfred sighed slowly, sending up a cloud of breath. “I could’ve failed to ever take hold.”
“Oh. What a shame that would be.” Cupping his hand to block the light, Ivan lit two cigarettes. A sudden bright flash would’ve ruined the ability to see those stars for a few minutes. The sharpness of tobacco smoke cut through the cold night air, not quite warm, but a little closer to it. “Then you would never be here with me.”
“Aw, shut up,” said Alfred with a sharp smirk, “and I’d never have kicked Germany’s ass, or–or–”
“Or bankrupted the West.”
“I–well…” Tucking his arms in tighter, Alfred sat up, his back against the building. He didn’t look at Ivan.
Not until Ivan waved one of the cigarettes close enough to get his attention. He double-took, glancing at Ivan’s face.
“…Spasibo.”
“Your accent is still terrible,” Ivan said.
“Back at’cha.”
“This is my country, I can speak however I like.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard.”
Ivan hissed a smoke cloud through his teeth. “That is because you keep attempting to subvert and overthrow our socialist way of life. You capitalist dog.”
Rather than answer him, Alfred took a long drag. When he came up for air, he tilted his head back.
Watching from the corner of his eye, Ivan said, “…What are you doing?”
The first smoke ring he blew was only a ring because there was no other name for it. The next two got steadily better.
Ivan knew exactly what the rude capitalist wanted him to say, and he clamped his jaw to stop himself.
The words broke out anyway. “…Show me how to do that.”
Sure enough, Alfred grinned, all teeth. Instead, after a slow and contemplative moment, he said, “I know it was in the winter.”
“What was?”
“The first time I died.” Another drag, another infuriatingly slow smoke ring. “I don’t actually know where I came from. England claims he found me in the woods in Virginia, but Tsenacommacah–the Nation-spirit that lived there first–she always claimed the Europeans brought me. I don’t know, I can’t remember more than little bits and pieces that far back. I don’t remember Europe, if that’s true. England tried to set up a colony, and…”
He paused again, but merely rolled the cigarette between his fingers. “…And winters in Virginia are a lot colder than he was expecting. I mean–” And with a sheepish sort of grin he turned to Ivan, tipped his hat. “Not like yours.”
“It is no insult to me.” Remembering his own cigarette, Ivan feigned disinterest. He’d never heard any of Alfred’s childhood; if anything, he’d only noticed the other when America threw off British rule.
“But still, more than he was expecting. I remember…I remember frostbite, and…” Alfred frowned down, drew his knees in. “When I got here, not long after, you asked me if I ever starved to death.”
“…Ah.”
“It…it wasn’t quick.”
“It never is.”
Alfred gave a little laugh, bright and brittle. “It happened a couple of times in the early years. Maybe for a hundred years or so.”
“Touch-and-gone?”
“Touch-and-go. On-and-off. Yeah.” He took another drag, although this one didn’t turn into a party trick. “…I’ve starved more than just then–I guess that’s why I’m always hungry, haha. A lot of times it happens as immigrants start getting close to shore; I’ll get dizzy, sometimes pass out. Usually don’t actually die, anymore. I guess I just pick up on their hunger, you know?”
Frowning, Ivan smoked in silence. With how many immigrants he had, he’d never noticed–his hunger came about when the people already part of him fell to famine. He’d certainly known his share of rough winters and failed crops, but…
“You sort of roll your tongue.”
<<What?>>
Hat tipped back, Alfred puffed on the cigarette and blew another smoke ring. Best yet. “You sort of keep the smoke in your throat, and tsk your tongue, but like, on the bottom of your mouth.” He did it again. A perfect circle.
Instead of trying the way he knew America wanted him to, Ivan slashed his hand through the ring.
Alfred only laughed.
An older scene from Brother, Can You Spare a Dime. (For reference, this is the 1930′s Great Depression/American Immigrant/Early Soviet Union RusAme slow burn fic I talk about on a regular basis--historical AU but exploring the nations’ nation-weirdness enough that it technically counts as fantasy or magical realism) I’m serious when I say I can’t write attempted flirting without it turning to discussions of mortality. I like this scene but most likely it’ll be cut or changed heavily to, you know, make something actually happen. But still, call this proof I am still writing it.
if anyone wants to take this as a sign to post something from their WIP, consider this an open tag!
Thank you so much for tagging me, @dotr-rose-love!
Words: Belt, Happy, Wrong, No, Morning
Belt
Something felt strange, as well--Russia was a strong country, to be sure; the might of the Soviet Socialist Republic rested with him (as with his comrades-in-arms, of course. Just, mostly with him). It was the safest option for him to be the one holding America, because America could snap a rope or belt or even most chains--Russia had seen him do it, casually, a parlor trick. It wasn’t safe to assume the limits of America’s strength if Russia didn’t want to give him a chance to escape.
--Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?
Happy
"Someone's trying to kill me. Someone's after me," she said, trying to force him through mental strain to believe her, to take it seriously for once. Seriousness never crossed her voice; couldn't he tell she meant it this time?
"Yeah, sugar, I believe you," he said, quiet and flat. "I believe you. Head to the Carnation. We'll - we'll get you out of town for a while, just until the heat dies down. You follow?"
The unwinding in her spine could be called relief. "Yeah, baby. I follow. I'll be there. I'll race ya; be happy to see me, yeah? I can't handle another long face, it's all I been seeing in the mirror lately."
--Beg, Borrow or Steal
Wrong
“White man. Kinda tall. Had a funny look on his face."
"How so?"
Nash shrugged again. "I dunno. Just, kind of a funny look. Like a bad actor, or something. Kinda smirky; it rubbed me the wrong way but hell, maybe that's just his face."
--Beg, Borrow or Steal
No (this was the hardest one, because it’s everywhere but needs context to make sense...this WIP is one I’m never going to share, but I titled it anyway...with the name of a font I like)
The cemetery means nothing to him except the way the company of the dead always suits him better than the living. But the smell of cigarette smoke hits him before he’s so much as taken the pack out of his tracksuit’s pocket, and there’s a presence that certainly isn’t a ghost yet no matter how haggard and vengeful he looks in the streetlight.
--A Cold Night for Alligators
Morning
“Nothing’s gonna be better in the morning,” Alfred grumbled.
So cynical. So unlike his usual obnoxious optimism. Ivan found himself grinning.
--Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?
Thank you again! I’ll tag anyone who sees this, and your words are: Nervous, Shine, Question, Tooth, and Heard
Crack again—the plaster exploded behind Ludwig’s head—he threw his weight behind the half-destroyed wall—waited, his heart in his throat, plaster dust in his eyes and mouth and nose.
pink (Beg, Borrow or Steal)
“I see spirits, y’know.” She did her best impression of Maman at her finest—gentle sneer, hooded eyes, head tilted back to peer down her nose.
Phil and the silent man watched her now with some interest; Rene smiled wider.
“You’ve got one snooping around right now. Doesn’t talk much, though.” She raised a crooked, mystical finger towards the man in the kitchen.
Said man’s eyes went wide, then narrowed to a glare as he turned a little pink.
dance (Beg, Borrow or Steal)
She left. Maybe she’d walk over to her sister’s place for the night, maybe just dance until she dropped in a doorway sometime around daybreak. Koko would take her back. She always had before.
frozen (Brother, Can You Spare a Dime)
“And I’m not going back to the sofa. First time I’ve slept through the night without waking up frozen since I got here.”
“I am going to strangle you.”
“Yeah, you keep sayin’ that.” Slurping his drink again, Alfred rolled his eyes. “If you bring me something to eat tonight, I’ll make sure you have dinner for the next few days.”
I’m not up to tagging right now so I’ll leave an open tag
Rules: Share a list of all the stories you’re currently working on, regardless of whether or not you have introduced them to writeblr.
I’ve got...a lot of little WIPs I sometimes leave for years and come back to, plus the usual “I have a new idea and it’s consuming my entire soul--nevermind I’m done with that, onto the next idea;” but the major ones:
Beg, Borrow or Steal
Status: 1st Draft for the 3rd-ish time | Page Count: 100+ pages (spread across multiple documents, some lost...) | Genre: Historical Fiction, Mystery, Crime, Dark Comedy
After a séance goes sideways, flapper and medium Amelia Rackham goes on the hunt to find out who would hire a hitman to kill her, how to duck further attempts on her life, and most importantly, how she’s going to get revenge. Potentially a future webcomic.
Gilbert Beilschmidt has been a soldier all his life; he knows war. Humans are too quick to panic and other Immortals get sucked into the drama. He knows better. This “War to End All Wars” can’t possibly be what everyone else says it is.
A Soviet government official (well...sort of) finds a very lost American (well...sort of) living covertly in the Soviet Union. He takes the man captive as a spy (well...sort of), intending to keep him under lock and key until it’s safe to deport him. Instead the two find each other to be the only people they can trust in 1930′s Moscow.
The Ballad of Josie Sweetwater
Status: Rough Draft | Page Count Stats in General: ~15-20 pages of notes, plot, and characters; several character, setting, & object icons; two rough Twine games (one lost to a crash; final game engine not decided) | Genre: Southern Gothic Horror, Fantasy
A young witch with a mysterious family history tries to find their way in a cruel and treacherous world of magic, gods, secrets, and music beyond mortal ken. Between the swamp where they were born and the crime-ridden, jazz-filled city they run to, Josie meets ghosts, monsters, and hard questions about who they really are. Intended to be a video game.
Rainstone
Status: 1st Draft | Page Count: 15-20-ish | Genre: Fantasy, Western I guess?
After a band of thieves and murderers devastates her family, Nela finds herself touched by magic and with the power to control water. Determined to track down what’s left of her family, she embarks on a difficult and dangerous journey across the desert, into places never intended for humans, and facing truths as devastating as a flood.
Aging skypirate Arthur Kirkland can keep one step ahead of the law, but eventually he’s going to have to face the past he’s been running from--and the son he abandoned. Comic strip.
//
I don’t know who has and hasn’t done this yet, so I’ll leave an open tag for anyone who sees this to talk about their WIPs, especially if they haven’t introduced them to writeblr yet!
Opening two scenes to Brother, Can You Spare a Dime? written years ago. It's extremely inaccurate and I'm in the process (the slow, slow process) of rewriting, but I'm so creatively inert right now I want to share something just to get it out there.
If you do read all the way through and have feedback, I'm open to hearing any thoughts.
...
It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary that brought Russia to the steelworks on the outskirts of Magnitogorsk.
It also wasn’t out of the ordinary to see some…strange names on the workers’ registar. People came from all over Europe and Asia to the mighty Soviet Socialist Republic.
The name on the list wasn’t in itself unusual for a Westerner, either.
What it was, was familiar.
“Call this worker into the office, Comrade Denisov.” Russia tapped a name on the paperwork he’d been given.
The factory manager, Denisov, checked the list and gave the name to the factory foreman. “As soon as it’s reasonable to do so, bring him up. Don’t indicate anything to him.”
Only when the foreman had gone did the manager show any expression, and even then, just the merest frown. “Is he suspected of subversive activities, Comrade Commissar?”
Ivan simply looked over the rest of the paperwork from his seat in the dingy little manager’s office. “If he is, he will be investigated thoroughly.”
“Is there a problem with his papers?”
“If there is, it will be taken care of.”
The manager frowned further, but he opened the filing cabinet and, after a quick search, pulled out the personnel file. He didn’t open it, just dropped it on the desk and sat back down quietly.
Ivan didn’t reach for it.
After a long moment where the air grew thicker, the manager said, “For what my opinion is worth, he’s a good worker. Doesn’t speak Russian very well but understands it well enough; he’s competent and diligent with his duties. We’ve never had a serious problem with him here.”
One raised eyebrow and a level stare from Ivan, and he shut up.
Quiet stretched between them again, Ivan smirking internally as the manager noticeably sweated and held unnaturally still. Good, Ivan thought. If he doesn’t learn when to shut his mouth, he’s going to end up getting someone in trouble–most likely himself.
The foreman returned, the worker in question and the smell of machine oil and welding torches following him in. The worker was a young man, tall, broad-shouldered and hungry-looking. His clothes–overalls, shirt, leather boots and work gloves, newsboy cap–were grimy and clearly on their last legs, patched and mended all over and hanging looser than simple comfort required. His grime-smeared glasses needed repair as well; one arm was taped on. Soot from the factory floor smeared across his boyish face and darkened his blond hair, but Ivan had been right. It was him. Those sky-blue eyes scanned the people in the room–then double-took to Russia and went huge. Beneath the soot, his face bleached of color.
The foreman nodded to Russia, gestured to the man beside him. “Comrade Yonz.”
“It’s pronounced ‘Jones,’ yes?” Russia said with a thin smile. Only then did he take up Alfred F. Jones’ personnel file from the desk.
The office took on a chill, and the two human workers shared a look.
“Records indicate you’ve been here for–” Ivan checked– “four months. Yes?”
“Yes,” America said in a dead, colorless voice.
“Comrade Denisov, has he been here for four months?” Ivan said with no indication he’d heard the other man at all.
America pressed his lips thin.
“If the file says so, Comrade Braginsky, then yes,” the manager replied. “To my recollection, that seems correct.”
“And where were you before that?” Ivan watched the other Nation closely.
Completely impassive, except for the one hand he balled into a fist at his side.
“Did you not understand? You do speak Russian, yes?”
“I being at United States. You being know that. In papers.” With a nod he indicated the personnel file, avoiding Russia’s eyes.
“Hm.” Wonder if his bosses know where he’s flown off to. I’ll have to look into that–for all we know, they sent him here. “Your Russian is terrible. Still,” and it’d been so long since Ivan had gotten to condescend to him, it felt like getting to stretch after too long sitting still, “I’ve been informed you understand what’s said around you, or at least some of it. Speak up if you can’t understand anymore and need to switch to English.” He made a show of searching the file, comparing with his governmental paperwork, letting America squirm.
The rude little capitalist probably was on the inside, considering how he worked his jaw, but America didn’t crack that easily. Russia hadn’t expected him to throw a tantrum anyway; it just felt good to rub it in his face. You lost, you bourgeois dog. We, the people, won. And you know it. Here you are, begging for scraps.
“Well, it appears your work visa is in order. For now.” Ivan held up the single thin slip of carbon-copied paper, made somehow pathetic by its isolation from the rest of the file. “Although it runs out in another four months. Do you plan to be gone by then?”
“Yes.”
The answer wiped the smirk off Russia’s pale face. “You–really? You plan to leave after only eight months?”
“I being at Magnitogorsk for working,” America said in his tortured Russian with its hard-edged accent. “It is all.”
Russia frowned slightly, but snapped the paper down in the file and moved on. “Your file indicates you work on the soldering line. That is correct, yes?”
The little curl in America’s lip said he knew exactly what Russia planned on doing here, but he still answered, “Yes, soldering line.”
Russia again looked right past him. “Comrade Denisov?”
“Yes, he’s on the soldering line.”
“And you work day shift, six days per week. Correct?”
His hands flexed by his sides. “Day shift, six day week. Yes.”
“Comrade Denisov?”
“Yes, Comrade Braginsky, that’s correct.”
“And it says here that—” Ivan had to double-check the file. “It doesn’t say that you’ve ever missed a day, or been late.”
“Yes.”
That…can’t be right. Not Alfred F. Jones, who doesn’t show up to a war until he’s promised a reward and a hot dinner and even then sleeps through half of his work, who allows entrance into his home for refugees only if they’re willing to slave away for him and his industrialists without complaint. Not the man who only bothers to improve someone else’s life if he gets paid in advance and then picks up a percentage at the end.
“…Comrade Denisov?”
“Comrade Braginsky,” the manager said in a voice starting to wear thin, “Will you be interviewing all the immigrant workers?”
“Answer the question, Comrade Denisov.”
“If that’s what the file says, comrade, then yes.”
Alfred stood quietly–already unusual for him, in Ivan’s experience–glaring at something to the left of Ivan’s shoulder and clasping his wrist, almost like a mockery of the military at ease.
Russia searched the file, snapping the papers as he turned them, and finally said with impatience just barely covered, “You have no listed permanent address. Why is this?”
America opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again to say, “Address, house…street?” in a low voice that didn’t seem directed at any of the men around him, swore in English and scratched his neck. “No…no how to saying it.”
“Address,” Russia said slowly and firmly. “Where are you living.” Brandishing the paper, he tapped its blank line where a street and building should’ve been listed.
The other Nation just pressed his lips together.
The foreman spoke up for the first time. “Comrade Braginsky, permission to speak?” And then without waiting for that permission, continued, “Comrade Yonz is known to board at the workers’ dormitories two streets over”–he gestured with his thumb–”on a semi-weekly basis. He has bunked with several of the other first-shift workers, who will confirm that if asked.”
Ivan searched the foreman’s face. But aside from the fact he didn’t much like the thought of his workers sharing close quarters with the capitalist, even if he couldn’t form a coherent sentence, Ivan had another question. “Semi-weekly. Where do you go the rest of the time?”
Alfred had been watching the conversation and chewing his lip, but he looked Russia in the eye this time. “Street.”
“What does that mean?” Ivan asked.
“Door,” America said, flexing his fingers and shifting his feet but still holding his head up. “Sleeping at door.”
This was getting frustrating. “Do you understand the words I’m saying?”
“Yes,” and he sounded nearly as frustrated as Russia, “Living at street, sleeping at door if no room.”
It took a moment for the words to process, and Russia still wasn’t quite sure he’d understood the mincemeat America made of his language. “You cannot be serious.”
Scowling and crossing his arms, America somehow looked smaller than before–more childish, certainly, but also simply unimportant. When he spoke again it came out in an unholy mix of Russian mis-conjugation and English swear words. “It is being <<fucking>> very cold in night. I is no <<goddamn>> laughing, <<you son of a bitch>>…”
Russia’s brain spun like a tire in mud trying to make sense of it. Who in the hell was this man, because there was no way it could possibly be the America he knew. “When did you become so pathetic? Sleeping in a doorway, living on the street as a beggar in someone else’s house? Were you always this weak and no one noticed; everyone simply gave you what you wanted without question?”
Beneath the soot, America reddened. Still, he held Russia’s eye.
How did this man manage to win a war and not collapse under the strain?
…Well. How had he managed to remain standing for so long before collapsing?
The foreman and the manager shared another look, the kind that said if anyone asks, we’re not with him.
Turning through the pages again as if the information would magically appear, Russia said, “If you have no permanent address, your work papers are incomplete. We cannot confirm your employment with the Number 3 Steel Mill. You are a nonentity. Your immigration papers, I can guarantee, will not hold up under scrutiny. Without the word of the factory foreman there would be no record of you ever being here.”
Again, the foreman spoke without waiting for permission. “Under supervision, Comrade Yonz has been completely reliable–however, he does need instruction, sometimes repeatedly.” As he spoke, the man edged away from where Jones stood and his words came faster and colder. “The other workers have expressed frustration at his inability to understand, and his attitude–he starts fights among the others.”
With every sentence America shrank a little more.
“What do you mean,” Russia said, each word sharp, “he starts fights?”
“The men say he’s overly friendly, in a mocking way. He also re-interprets instructions if, apparently, he disagrees with them. The men don’t trust him,” the foreman said, watching America’s face from the corner of his eye. “They also report he speaks of counter-revolutionary ideas.”
If the atmosphere in the office got any colder, the steel forges would freeze.
The manager spoke next. “Comrade Braginsky, had this come to management’s attention sooner we would of course have reported this worker to the proper authorities immediately. We would never allow him to continue disrupting production.”
“He’s fine so long as you watch him,” the foreman explained, the harsh snap going out of his voice. “He’s a good worker, exemplary even–so long as he’s kept under supervision.”
“Oh, I’m certain of that,” Russia said.
But from the corner, muttered and hurried, America said in his borrowed language, <<Can I talk? You said I could switch to English.>>
Russia raised one gray-blond eyebrow, but said nothing.
<<I never tried to start any arguments, I swear,>> America continued, <<It’s just that the guys here take it the wrong way–or, I guess, I say it the wrong way. Nobody smiles over here, you know? And I didn’t–it’s not like I tried to start another revolution, I just said I…you know, it’d be nice to have some nicer things in life. Like your own room–or at least a roof that doesn’t leak. Or a car so you don’t need to wait on the train. Or…I mean, I get it, you’re communists; I’m not. I say I like gold or anything shiny, everybody gets all uptight. I mention voting, even just–I’m just talking about home, that’s all!>>
His hands started talking along with him, spinning circles and waving away poor explanations. <<I’m not here to up-end your government. I’m not even here in a government-approved position. I’m just here for work, that’s all. Just showed up and said ‘Give me a job,’ you know? A little money, just to keep from starving. I’m working for it; I’m not slacking off. And I’ll be gone soon enough anyway. And I–okay, I’m not good at Russian, but I listen when they tell me to do something and I follow the directions, I just–some of the ways you fellas run this place are practically Stone Age, and your guys had other American engineers giving their two cents; I thought I could help, and…>>
He looked to the manager, who ignored him, and the foreman, who seemed to be floundering in the sea of foreign words and offered only a blank, confused stare. <<…And they’ve actually used some of my ideas, so, I mean…>>
Ivan considered the meandering speech. He did, after all, understand English much better than America spoke Russian. And, in Russian, he said, “And what does your boss think about this?”
The manager started to say, “It isn’t–”
But America, with a tired little half-smile, said, <<He told me to find work, any work, so I did. He doesn’t know where I am.>>
The human who was supposedly the boss of this factory slowly closed his mouth, the disturbed frown on his face mirrored on the foreman’s.
“Hmm.” Russia smiled, or rather, his lips stretched in a thin line. “An American government official, reporting directly to the American president, spouting counter-revolutionary garbage to Soviet workers–”
<<Wait, that’s not– >>
“–and using our generous employment policies to disrupt production, ruin morale, eavesdrop on conversations, and gather information on Soviet business without raising suspicion. I must admit, that was one of your clever ideas–no one would ever have thought you’d sink so low as to play spy yourself.”
America just stared at Russia, his eyes huge and his mouth, for once, silent.
The two humans stared as well, at America, shock and disgust evident on their faces–although whether it was disgust at an American spy in their midst, or at their own immediate futures now that he’d been discovered right under their noses, it was hard to tell.
“Comrade Denisov,” Russia said lightly to the manager, “There is a security force employed by the mill, correct?”
“Er…no, Comrade Braginsky,” the manager said.
Just barely not rolling his eyes, Russia amended his threat. “But you can call the police to be here within a minute, yes?”
The manager picked up the telephone on his desk.
“Which would you prefer,” Russia said to America, “rotting in jail before we deport you, or straight to interrogation and see where we go from there?”
America didn’t answer.
“Get your things,” Russia said. “Comrade Foreman, come with me while we get him out of here. I want an extra set of eyes on him in case he tries anything.”
America didn’t try anything. In fact he was silent and pale during the walk to the workmen’s lockers. Of the other workers they passed, the obvious end of America’s career raised some eyebrows and lowered other frowns. In the areas where it was quiet enough that Ivan could hear them muttering, he caught scraps of “What’s going on? What did he do?” and “They go for the immigrants first, I told you, get your papers in order…”
<<Russia, come on,>> America whispered as he took his coat from the rack but just held it like he might still talk his way out of leaving, <<you would never have known I’m here, I swear– >>
“You are correct that you might never have been discovered, if we were more careless about our inspections,” Russia said loudly and clearly in Russian for the foreman and nearby workers on their smoke break. “You might’ve continued your espionage without detection, had you accounted for our thorough investigation of every industry in our great union.” He’d picked Magnitogorsk Number 3 Steel Mill because he hadn’t been to Magnitogorsk since they’d first started laying it out and Number 3 was the one closest to the train station, but America didn’t need to know that.
<<It’s not–I swear, I wasn’t spying, please– >>
“And I must say, begging does not help your case. It merely makes you look more pathetic.”
Fully aware of the eavesdroppers around him, America scowled. And, in what was probably his best Russian, said, “You cannot being do anything to me. Do not being threaten me.”
“You’re fair game, you said so yourself,” Russia said easily, “Your boss doesn’t know where you are. By the time they find where you are–if they find where you are, we will have treated you to all the pleasures a captured spy can enjoy. And what will they say to that, hm? Your selfish government certainly knows what to expect when an enemy agent is captured, yes?”
Again, America went pale. <<You…wouldn’t dare execute me.>> He didn’t seem sure of his statement.
Russia merely smiled.
The foreman, who had watched the entire drama unfold, said, “Permission to speak, Comrade Braginsky? Is this man a gangster or something?”
“Comrade Aronofsky, you should learn the meaning of the phrase ‘permission to speak,’” Russia said.
“I mean, is he a wanted criminal? How did you know he was a spy just by looking at him?”
Russia raised an eyebrow. “We have our ways of checking backgrounds, comrade, and I suggest you remember that.”
The foreman looked as if he were about to ask another question–then seemed to rethink his own background.
<<Look,>> America said tiredly like it would help his cause, <<Let’s say you drag me to Moscow, we get on the phone to my boss, we get this whole thing sorted out. No harm, no foul. You can search through everything I’ve got with me, you’ll see I’ve got nothing to hide. It’s a…let’s say, a diplomatic misstep, or–or a cultural exchange attempt, failed obviously, but ultimately just another stupid idea with good intentions that fell through, what do you say?>>
<<I say,>> said Russia in English, <<you are digging your own grave. You will shut up now if you have any brain in your head.>>
America did shut up, although whether that was proof he had a brain or just the result of finally running out of excuses, it was hard to tell. The foreman and the workers on break went quiet too, all eyes on Commissar Braginsky who apparently spoke English and knew the American spy personally.
Suddenly the game wasn’t so fun anymore. Not every police chief or local military officer listened when Russia claimed to be part of the government; his commissar post was honorary at best. “Get back to work! Not you, Aronofsky…What is he doing?”
The manager half-sprinted to them and, panting for breath, said, “–Can’t come.”
“Excuse me?”
“The police,” the manager repeated, “say they can’t come. They’re all busy.”
Ivan bit back a groan and managed not to roll his eyes again. It was apparently too much to ask that more than one government department worked as it should at any given time.
On the other hand, America straightened up.
“No you don’t–” The foreman grabbed his arm.
But America said, “I not being run. But you not have police force–still want to doing this?”
Scowling, Ivan said to America and made sure the factory management heard him, “You’ll come with me back to Moscow. Personally. You’re under arrest as a spy for a foreign government.”
America exhaled like he was blowing cigarette smoke. <<If you say so.>>
