#rita lance

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Beyond Fantasy by @vegawriters

Read by @msrtheatre0223

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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

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OC: Rita Lance sketches from October. It’d be cool if I could draw or write about her. I penned over the sketches a little ‘cause they were getting smeared.

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had a dream about an OC and while I was dreaming it I realized that it was a business setting involving the stock market and OC isn’t in that line of business, but after a moment I thought, ‘oh it must be an AU’ and let the dream proceed.

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most of my writing has been for Strange Magic and basically all wholesome and happy good stuff and healthy relationships

now I’m noodling around with random ocs and going “oh. these are not good people. I wasn’t expecting this. I do not approve of their actions . . . but they most likely will not reform.”

 different

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I need to do some exposition

but it would be greatly out of character for the character with all the information to speak more than two sentences at a time.

Rita, use your words

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Ah yes, Rita Lance. Called many things. Heartless. The devil. Monster. Relentlessly cruel. Unforgiving.

ah yes,  Rita “I know you were sent to kill me but you’re cute so I’ll let is slide” Lance

yup

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ocs are like pearls. a speck of an idea shows up and rolls around in your head picking up layers until random Tol and Smol turn into Rita Lance and Jerome Joy, a fire mage and weaving mage respectively who meet when Jerome stabs Rita in the heart

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Random OC Stuff

“Got something for you, Joy.”

“Wha--?” Jerome Joy caught the round cookie tin that was tossed into his hands. Something rattled inside. “Is it cookies? Please let it be cookies.” he opened the tin. “Ah, of course. Sewing supplies.”

Rita Lance delivered a light slap to the back of his head. “It’s a disappointment we have all been through. Move on.”

The contents of the tin were cheap plastic spools wounded full of thread. The colors were mostly dull grays and the threads were knotted, tangled up sloppily on the spools. Jerome rubbed a thread between his finger tips.

“Ah.” he said.

“Yes.” Rita nodded. “Your memories.”

“They don’t seem very cheerful.” Jerome said, laughing because he was otherwise at a loss for how to respond.

Rita put her hand on his shoulder. Her grip was too tight but Jerome felt reassured by a feeling of being held in place in the present, her tall frame looming above him like a sheltering wall. “None of them seem to be of your own making.” Rita let go of his shoulder and gave him a couple heavy pats before going over to sit down in an armchair. “All prefabricated. Obviously not by you. Your work is far more tidy and effective.”

“Thanks.” Jerome sat down in a chair opposite RIta. He could still feel Rita’s hand on his shoulder from the lingering heat of a touch that was always at least a little too hot. She tried, Jerome knew, but she had difficulty remembering what an average human temperature was like if she wasn’t concentrating. “Then all these,” Jerome tugged at another knotted thread, “are like . . . like what happened when . . . when I . . .”

“Stabbed me?” Rita cut in. “Yes, but none of them so near as violent. More of infiltration and information gathering. Seems I was a special case.” she pulled a small plastic bag out of the inner pocket of her suit jacket. In the bag was a nasty mess of black threads that had been singed into pieces. “This one was more sloppy than all the rest, too.”

Jerome winced and looked away. He drummed his fingers on the tin, remembering how Rita’s face looked when the knife . . . Remembering how his hands felt tugged by strings and the painful heat from Rita’s hand when she gripped his to stop him from pulling the knife back out. At the time he had certainly been interested in getting a better look at her face. Just not in the circumstances of trying to assassinate her.

“Lends weight to our theory that the attempt on my life was a crime of opportunity.” Rita rubbed her fingertip back and forth on the arm of her chair. There was a faint smell of burnt fabric and Rita quickly lifted her hand away. She looked at the burn mark. “I’m a little more irritated about that than I previously thought.”

Picking a coin out from the change dish on a small side table Jerome flicked it over to Rita. She caught it without looking up from the burn. She flipped the coin around in her fingers thoughtfully. After a bit the coin began to glow from the heat. “You don’t seem to be someone who usually takes murder personally. And I’m not saying that to make myself feel better.” Jerome said. Not entirely.

“It bothers me.” Rita studied the red hot coin. “Because they used you, Joy.”

“Why? At the time we’d know each other about fifteen minutes.”

“Hm.” Rita tossed the coin in the air, caught it, and then closed her fist around it. She looked up at Jerome with her usual impassive gaze. “Possibly because I like you.”

Jerome felt that his face could turn metal red hot at that moment, a blush flooding over his face. A slight smile cracked Rita’s impassive expression. “Let’s just hope,” she said, “that our second date goes better than the first.”