We're two halves of a whole Idiot!

Hello! I'm Nameless at the moment, but this is a writing blog! I have one main project (Vanguard) and 5 total characters that get shoved into any number of worlds and plots and universes. Stay a while and take in the view!

[the-idiot-coin]

Also, re: Vanguard 2, it may also come down to the question I always forget to answer:

What is Juni doing?

In other verses, he's passive and self-destructive. In this one he's escaped slavery and servitude and has traveled to the neighboring country to find asylum. Which doesn't really exist there (Iderans see him as a shadow boogeyman, which is better than Subhuman Plaything and being harvested for his organs? He guesses?), so he seeks out and latches onto a small rebel cell. He's going to make his life better, and if it involves making whole damn world better, so be it.

The point being that he has agency here. A lot of it. He's holding onto it with both hands but also falling into familiar patterns at the same time.

Which begs the question: how does he react to any and all of Anna's actions.

She's his best, closest, and possibly only true friend. He confides in her that he's this evil boogeyman everyone seems to fear and blame, and that's what kicks off her destruction.

Certainly he has some emotions about that!

Guilt? Logically it isn't his fault, but not many people act and feel logically.

He doesn't have the same motivations as everyone else in the cell. They love Idera. They love The People. They hate The Leadership. They have roots and act according to those roots and connections.

He doesnt have that. He has himself and some form of ideals, and now her.

(Man, I need to make a Bible for this, don't I?)

He wants to live. He wants everyone to live. In the Wall-Etic refrain. He doesn't want to survive, he wants to live.

Anna's actions are contrary to that, but are they *visibly* so? Does he fall back on his old life of passivity and invisibility, and just let it happen?

Is he reviled for it?

Outcasted?

Her for her strength of conviction. His for his lack of it.

That's thematic as hell.

[the-idiot-coin]

I do think that Vanguard 2 (The Sequel to the novel I have not written yet for various reasons), would be much more personal and much smaller stakes.

Van1 is very Big. Large stakes, huge decisions, the fate of the world (or her world). All made in a rush of manic righteousness. She absolutely knows what to do, and there's no time to examine what that is or where the decision comes from.

It'd be nice to reverse that.

Also!

Anna's whole thing is that she's defined by her relation to The People of her city-state / small country. At all times, she's trying to protect them. The form that takes changes over the novel, but her goal remains the same.

She fails, utterly and entirely.

There is no city-state anymore, and the people who weren't injured or killed in the fighting are displaced and migratory refugees. There is no one, not even her, who benefited from her actions.

Which is the perfect stage for her to struggle with her identity.

Who is she when there's no one to protect? Who is she outside of the rabid nationalism and fervor of violence that defined 90% of her life?

Who's left over after the fires?

Certainly, the capable and loud, headstrong and stubborn person who left the Node that day is gone. Who took her place?

A plot to facilitate that will have to be hammered out, but I think it'd be neat.

[the-idiot-coin]

Flash Fiction Friday!

I'm unsure if this actually counts, as the glasses are raised offscreen.

Notes of Vanguard with hints of fantasy and time travel. Enjoy!

@flashfictionfridayofficial

Richard — Father says that he should be going by the more Grown Adult version of his name, being in his 13th year — had never been to this quarter without daylight before. He'd passed through it in a carriage on the way out of the castle town and had tried not to gawk at the squat houses constructed of the leftovers from the keep. At the people, so similar yet so different from himself, standing at the side of the road and watching the carriage go by.

He didn't know what made the Genoa different. Father had scowled when he'd asked, a look that meant he'd better not ask again — spared from a punishment of extra studies for asking in the first place only by Father's soft heart for him.

Certainly, Thomas seemed the same as the rest of the servants. He was Richard's guard, though it had taken him a while to figure out the difference between Thomas and the guards at the gate and on the walls. He didn't wear the same uniform — some version of a butler's coat, though a fair bit dowdier. It was the only one Richard ever saw in the castle.

Thomas accompanied him everywhere. To his lessons with the tutor and his lessons with the guard captain, to his down time in the garden and his time being locked in the library with only the order to study. Always a respectful distance away, hands clasped in front of him or in back. Richard had done his best to pry some personality out of the man. He wasn't dour, like some of the other servants who refused to engage. He smiled. Sometimes he had a playful twinkle in his eye that Richard just knew betrayed some kind of pleasant interior.

Thomas never showed that interior. Always painfully proper in his interactions, few words ever crossing between them.

He even slept in an chamber adjoining Richard's. As far as he had experienced, Thomas had lived his whole life in this castle, waiting on him.

Which made it odd and exciting when Father informed him that he had requested a night off, and Richard would be accompanied by a member of the actual guard for the night.

He'd had no issue ditching the man — some young recruit appearing Thomas' age, but showing a naivety that Richard hadn't expected. Slip into the adjacent room, climb a window and descend a staircase, and he was on the street. It would have been harder — impossible — otherwise, but here he was, among the commoners.

They were his people, regular people settling down for the night. He'd been sure to change into the most dressed down outfit he had, but still kept to the shadows. He wasn't sure what the everyday person knew of him (he knew very little of them), but better safe than sorry.

The Genoa lived in their own quarter, far from the castle, where the buildings tapered off into farmland and bandit country. That may be why the others in the town disliked them so — only bandits were comfortable living in bandit country.

He heard the music before he saw the tavern. Joyful, bright tunes on an instrument he didn't recognize. Not that he was a connoisseur of any kind — his own fumblings with a violin were something never spoken of outside of the practice room — but he didn't feel he knew it from the concerts and balls Father made him attend. The quality of the music itself was different. Those concerts and balls were…dour, without another word. Serious affairs with some amount of joy and laughter, but not nearly enough to stir is heart.

This sound made him want to shout, to move, to run towards it at full tilt.

So he did.

Legs pumping down the dirt roadway, coat flapping behind him as he pushed himself faster, lungs drinking in deep breaths of that clear countryside air.

He skidded to a stop, nearly falling backwards, as the door to the squat little tavern flung open, a deep pool of golden light spilling out into the darkening night. Two figures emerged, one stumbling ahead and swaying on his feet, the other following more upright, but not without a drunken sway of his own. The door closed and Richard's eyes adjusted to see them.

Thomas. And another man, who looked like him the way his Uncle looked like his Father. A brother.

They laughed and hung off each other, speaking a language that Richard didn't recognize.

He was so bright. The smile, so slight in the castle, lit his face like the sun. Eyes alight with mirth and drink, he practically glowed with joy and comraderie. The music had stopped, but picked up again with a different quality. A different player, perhaps?

He could almost imagine him, his Thomas seated at some sort of keyboard (for the music seemed closest to the harpsicord he'd heard once), fingers flying over them in a dance that spread through the room. Smiling and laughing with his countrymen.

Not his Thomas.

The other man — the brother, a concept that still came to him as a shock — noticed him first. His whole demeanor changed, straightening up and clearing his throat, the mirth and joy draining from his face into something serious. Afraid, even. He nudged Thomas, who looked up from his shoes and caught sight of Richard frozen in the road.

He never wanted to see that expression on Thomas' face again.

The light left him, until he blended in with the dark night and stone behind him. His face fell, an expression more violently neutral than he'd ever seen on him, much less the other servants. A beat drew between them, Richard's heart thundering in his chest, the idea that he'd tell Father lost behind the idea that he'd…change.

"You should go, Richie."

And go he did.

[the-idiot-coin]

"--besides, I don't know any love songs."

"Yes, you do!"

Thomas blinked, looking away from his quiet conversation with his kind host to his sister in the street, game of Pirates suspended entirely. Fenagr lowered his stick sword in confusion.

She plowed ahead, counting on her fingers.

"I Had Some Help, Morgan Wallen-"

He frowned. "Not who sings that-"

"- Akido/Neurotic -"

"Not a love song."

" - I Like It, I Love It, Tim McGraw -"

He hemmed. Looked around the sleepy fishing village, removed from time, his and his sister's presence alone a vivifying shock to the routine.

"I don't know if this is the place for Tim McGraw."

She paused, breath caught in preparation to list off another song that mentioned a person at all.

"If Tim McGraw isn't welcome here, neither am I."

[the-idiot-coin]

There's always the question of what your intent is for a piece -- what do you want to leave the reader with?

Do you want to simply entertain? To educate? To leave with a hollow feeling of dread that follows them for a time afterwards?

I do believe, for my current wip, anyway, my intent is for the reader to laugh and smile, and think "What the fuck am I reading?" no less than two times in the duration.

[the-idiot-coin]

[the-idiot-coin]

I do think about

1) reviving this blog (peep the date on the last post)

2) making writeblr posts about the Projects

But isn't it easier and more fun to scatter semi-related snippets across four different sideblogs for people to connect like a treasure hunt?

[the-idiot-coin]

Bursting through the darkest depths, the

Rolling motion of the sea with

Stomach dropping troughs and crests.

The howling, roaring wind and waves

The sharply stinging salty spray

Theren’t peace above the waves

Better to dive back down beneath

To the calm and quiet of the deep

[the-idiot-coin]

Metrolina

There used to be so many cars, all kinds of racers lined up ready to go, the noise was deafening. Races every Saturday, legends born. Now the movie’s over, credits are rolling, and the only sound left is the bullfrogs.

[the-idiot-coin]

You wake up to your last alarm, no memory of the previous ones going off. You get up, expecting to hear your family going about their morning routines and only finding silence. The living room is dark and oddly quiet, your two cats nowhere to be found. You get your coffee - the machine turned off but coffee still hot, and sit down on the couch. The lamp beside you is too dim, the TV too quiet no matter how much you turn up the volume.

Finally, you spot one of your cats staring at you from the top of the cat tower. It's pupils appear solid black in the dim light. It stares. It stares as you wave at it, stares as you get up and put your mug in the sink, stares as you go and get dressed for the day, and is still staring when you finally step out the door.

You hope the house will be better when you return.

[the-idiot-coin]

Silence

Three days since the environment controls on the ship went out. The last of the survivors were nearing the end. The various groups had stripped the bedding from the laundry and crew quarters when they had first been able to see their breath. They gathered near the remaining functioning machinery, hoping for any kind of extra warmth.

In the first days of the disaster, small groups of survivors had fought and squabbled over the remaining supplies, filling the halls of the massive colony ship with screaming and gunfire. Now the only sound was the gentle whir of the vents circulating cold air, all remaining too frozen to speak.

No one dare leave their curled up positions, lest they lose their accumulated heat. No one dare go look for supplies or try to repair the controls. No one dare speak, or their heat would leave through their mouths.

With no one to maintain them, the ship's systems were shutting down one by one. Soon, the distant whir of the vent systems would fall silent as well.

The final survivors of the colony ship huddled together next to the great heart of the very systems meant to keep them alive, waiting for one last failure, counting their breaths.

[the-idiot-coin]

Your creator looks down at you, stretching you out to see all your flaws. Their eyes rake you over, assessing your worth. You wonder if you're worth all the time they've put into you. If they'll think so too. They could rip you apart, tear you down, eradicate you from existence. You'd be remade, all your parts reworked into a new version of you. But it wouldn't be you. Your flaws would be gone, but you'd be gone too.

You wonder if the trade would be worth it.

[the-idiot-coin]

The Crown Royal burned Miss’s throat as it slid down. She winced and slammed the shot glass down on the scratched wood bar. The bartender, a nice kid named Mike or Mick or Nick or something, gave her a look she’d received many times before and wasn’t in the mood to think about right now. She pushed the glass forward and pulled out her phone, opening up the texts with he who used to be her bestest friend in the whole wide world, Jeremy. 

The words seemed to move no matter how still Miss held the phone, but she knew what they said anyway. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to come.” Miss snorted bitterly and motioned to MikeMickNick for another shot. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard, willing the venom she felt to form itself into words and hit send. MikeMickNick set the shot down next to her arm and Miss closed the app in favor of the alcohol. She sipped the shot this time though, staring bitterly into space and letting the venom fester and swirl around inside her. 

He thought she’d ruin the day, he’d said. He wanted the day to be perfect, and he didn’t want to take any chances of her “acting out.”

Acting out, like she was a child. Miss snorted again and threw back the rest of the shot, slamming the glass down with extra force. She reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a handful of crumbled and sweaty bills, throwing them on the bar before staggering out to the street. 

The bright, mid-morning light lanced through her eyes and straight into her brain as Miss stepped out onto the quiet side street. Miss groaned and held a hand up to cover her eyes as she struggled to open the Uber app and hail a ride. 

Jeremy loved horses, loved barns and saddles and leather and wood and all that ranchy crap. If he had any say in the wedding at all, it would be at the ranch outside of town, where he and Miss had gone riding a billion times before. He’d have it at the same frickin ranch, because apparently nothing was sacred. 

Miss managed to key in the address and schedule a ride. She shoved her phone into her back pocket and leaned against the wall to wait. She tried to remember the layout of the ranch, where the buildings were and where they might hold a wedding. It had been a minute since she and Jeremy had taken a ride, but  she remembered well enough. Probably. She’d figure it out. 

The car pulled up, called her name from the window. She pushed off the wall, yanked open the car door and dropped into the seat. Miss spent the drive with her head leaned against the window, the cool glass surprisingly pleasant against her skin. She’d think of a plan when she got there. 

The ranch was more or less how she thought she remembered it, except now it seemed like a car was jammed into every nook and cranny on the property. She told the driver to drop her off as close as he could get and wondered when the hell Jeremy got this many other friends. She certainly didn’t have this many people; she could count the number of people she liked on one hand. 

The driver stopped in front of the double doors and she waved to him as she staggered up from her seat. The Crown still swimming in her head made the transition difficult, but she managed it. As the driver pulled away, she caught that look the bartender had, something between pity and concern and she was in no more a mood to deal with it than she had been then.  Miss grunted and turned to greet the…usher? Guard? Blacksuited guy in front of the double doors to the church.

“Good evening, my dear sir,” Miss started, oblivious to the fact that it wasn’t even noon, “might I request a visit with the groom?” 

The UsherGuard gave her that same look and considered his reply carefully. 

“Are you on the guest list?” He said slowly. Miss’ plastered on smile grew dark and bitter, just like her thoughts. 

“I should be, you know. I’m his Best Friend, and I have every right to be at this wedding, more than, than her!” Miss pointed at some lady she didn’t recognize trying to sneak in beside her. “You don’t even know Jeremy! I did keg stands with him!”

The lady ducked into the venue as quick as she could in a mermaid dress and heels. Really, she couldn’t have picked a more impractical outfit for a ranch wedding. Miss went to follow, more accusations dripping from her lips, but the UsherGuard stepped in front of her. 

“Ms, I am going to have to tell you to leave,” he said, gently herding her back and away. Miss jerked away from him and raised her voice.

“I’m not going anywhere! I’m attending the service and you cannot stop me!” 

The UsherGuard grimaced at the volume and opened his mouth to probably tell her to keep quiet, when the Rat Bastard Man himself came running out of the double doors. 

“Miss? What are you doing here? I thought I told you not to come!” Jeremy, in his tux, a red bow tie slung around his neck, a fucking horseshoe pin on his collar, asked her angrily. Miss gave him a bitter smile. 

“Oh yeah Jerbo, that’s why I’m here. See, I don’t see why I can’t come to your big day. I have as much a right to be here as anyone, especially random weirdos who’ve obviously never been on a ranch before.” She folded her arms and made her voice sassy. Jeremy sputtered for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Yes, I heard you met my dad’s girlfriend.” 

“Your dad picks up a random floozy and she gets to come to your wedding, but I don’t? Your best friend?” Miss demanded. Jeremy grimaced as her voice rose to a yell, and peeked over his shoulder at said floozy.

He started to say something, sputtered out a syllable or two, and cut himself off. “Okay, come, come with me.” He grabbed her elbow and pulled her off to the side. Miss went willingly, ready to finally have it out. Jeremy dragged her out of earshot from the door before letting go of her elbow and pinching the bridge of his nose again. 

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t invite you, but this is exactly why!” He whisper-yelled. Miss scowled at him like a scorned child and folded her arms. 

“I wouldn’t be drunk if you had invited me,” she muttered. Jeremy groaned.

“The fact that you’re here, making a scene, when I explicitly told you not to come because you might make a scene—”

“Is why you should have invited me,” Miss finished the sentence. 

“No! It’s why we’re not friends anymore!”

Miss’ scowl deepend and she stared him down. Jeremy backpedalled.

“Look, it’s not that I don’t care about you anymore, it’s that…you don’t seem to care about me. I mean, did you even try to get to know Lucy before deciding she was trying to steal me? Did you even care that I was getting married before I said you couldn’t be a part of it? Did you think for a second about respecting my wishes, rather than just rolling up drunk out of your mind?”

Miss glared at him and nearly bared her teeth. “Did you think about me when you brought her into our lives? Did you think about how that would affect Me at all?”

Jeremy sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose again, the tired irritation written across his face. 

“I shouldn’t have to ask you about every person I meet, Miss! I have a life outside of you!” His voice raised to a yell briefly before he regained control and brought it back down to a harsh whisper. Miss folded her arms and glared at him. Jeremy sighed and put his hands on his hips, staring right back at her. After a moment of staredown, he relented and sighed again. 

“Look, I’m gonna have them call you a ride. Just go home, Miss. Please.” Jeremy gave her that look from the bar and started to walk away. 

“Oh no, I am Not leaving!” Miss shouted after him. He didn’t respond save for hunching his shoulders and quickening his pace back to the church. A crowd of people had gathered at the doors, their expressions a smattering of concern and offense. Miss started off after him, intent on making sure he knew how much she cared about him. “Hey, I’m not done with you!” She called as she tried to jog to catch up with him. Her feet had other ideas, specifically that of meeting with each other and sending her flying to the ground. She hit the sidewalk with a grunt. Her head swam even more than it had been before. Something dripped into her eye. Someone, UsherGuard maybe, ran over to her and pulled her up by her shoulders, asked her something she couldn’t hear over the pounding in her head. The crowd had come to surround and she fought them off, shoving against the arms of whoever had picked her up and pushing out into the fresh air of the parking lot. Miss’ feet were still a couple, so she decided that right here was a pretty good place to sit down. Miss pulled her knees up to her chest and buried her face in them, the sunlight suddenly way too bright and the murmuring and footsteps of the departing crowd way too loud. She could see their faces even now. The look. The one that made her feel like a fucking kid.

The pounding slowly faded, leaving just in time for an ambulance with piercing lights and sirens to pull up and be way too loud and bright all on their own, no need for the sun. Paramedics got out and started to fuss over her. Miss batted their hands away and tried to stand; her feet failed and she fell onto the shoulder of a guy. They coaxed her to the back of the ambulance, sat her down inside and said something about getting her checked out. As the paramedic closed the doors, Miss got one last glimpse of Jeremy giving her that look. That fucking look.

[the-idiot-coin]

You wake up to your last alarm, no memory of the previous ones going off. You get up, expecting to hear your family going about their morning routines and only finding silence. The living room is dark and oddly quiet, your two cats nowhere to be found. You get your coffee - the machine turned off but coffee still hot, and sit down on the couch. The lamp beside you is too dim, the TV too quiet no matter how much you turn up the volume.

Finally, you spot one of your cats staring at you from the top of the cat tower. It's pupils appear solid black in the dim light. It stares. It stares as you wave at it, stares as you get up and put your mug in the sink, stares as you go and get dressed for the day, and is still staring when you finally step out the door.

You hope the house will be better when you return.

[the-idiot-coin]

Molodniy ran the rag over the barrel of his gun again, hoping to bring the old metal to a shine but knowing that would be nearly impossible. Around him, other soldiers went about their end-of-day business, chatting amongst themselves. Nearly all of the men in his regiment were conscripted peasants and definitely all of them had better places to be. Most of them had families and children, all of them had loved ones and people to care for. None of them had any reason to be this far from any of them. 

Besides, the war was going poorly. Molodniy didn’t know any specifics, he was just a soldier, but he knew the war was bad. There weren’t any successes to be had, no cheers of triumph, no voices raised in song. No one was proud to be here, to serve their country. Everyone was just cold and tired and hungry and homesick and waiting to die. 

They would, inevitably, die here. Molodniy knew that in his heart. The war was going poorly and they were  soldiers on the front lines. They were moving out tomorrow, and  people died every day even when there wasn’t a battle. Disease ran through the camp like wind through grain, the rare doctor trying his best in the face of a mountain of corpses. All there was to do was bury the dead and separate the dying as best they could. 

Molodniy sighed and put away his rag. The metal would never shine, the only way that would happen would be to get a new gun, and that would never happen. Not with the way things are now. He stowed the gun underneath his cot and lay back on it, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t have a wife or children, only parents he missed terribly. He imagined they missed him too, thought of him everyday. He hoped they did. He stared at the ceiling for a few moments more, thinking of his parents and his farm and the other children he used to play with and the trouble they used to get in and the fun they used to have and -- He sat up, retrieved his rag and his gun and went back to polishing the metal. It might shine, eventually. If he worked at it enough, it might shine. 

The other soldiers were settling down now, lights-out coming soon. Another soldier, Drevniy, came over to him and sat down at the end of his cot. 

“Thinking too hard?” he asked. Molodniy nodded without looking up, biting his lip. Molodniy heard the older man nod, his beard scratching against his collar. Drevniy sighed and leaned back on his hands. “That’s dangerous work there, thinking. Might get yourself in trouble.” Molodniy nodded again, not sure what the man was getting at. He almost wished Drevniy would leave him alone to his “dangerous” thinking. The older man was silent for a couple moments, still leaning back on his hands, before leaning forward and looking at Molodniy’s gun. 

“You know, that’s never gonna polish, right?” Drevniy said, leaning into Molodniy’s space. Molodniy shrugged. 

“It might,” he muttered. Drevniy shook his head.

“No it won’t, it’s too rusted through. Only thing to do now is throw the whole thing out and try again with a new one,” Drevniy said. Molodniy sighed and set the gun down across his knees. He turned his head to look at Drevniy. 

“Where, exactly, am I supposed to get a new one?”

Drevniy shrugged and looked away. “I don’t know, but that one’ll do you no good tomorrow.” Molodniy just kept rubbing away at the rough metal. Drevniy was quiet for a few moments, the soldiers around them settling down for the night. Drevniy leaned back into Molodniy’s space. 

“Come on, I’ll show ya,” he said, getting up and heading to his own cot. Molodniy rolled his eyes at the old man but stood up anyway, throwing the rag down on his cot. Drevniy retrieved his own gun and his supply of bullets from underneath his cot and motioned towards the entrance to the tent. He waited until Molodniy was in front of him before heading outside himself. 

The outside air was warmer than Molodniy was used to, but still not unpleasant. It was quieter out here, everyone having either gone out on patrol or inside to sleep. Drevniy took his gun and went around the side of the tent. The wall of the camp, only four feet high and constructed a few days earlier, ran right next to their tent. Drevniy picked a discarded can off the ground and propped it up on the wall. 

“You watch now,” he said to Molodniy as he loaded his gun and took aim at the can. The shot rang off, shattering the still silence of the camp and earning a couple shouts of alarm from inside the tent. Drevniy yelled back at the tent and picked another can off the ground, propping it up on top of the wall. He motioned between Molodniy and the wall. Molodniy raised his rifle to his shoulder, stared down the sights, and pulled the trigger. 

The gun explodes in Molodniy’s hands, bits of the rusted barrel flying back and striking him in the face. Molodniy drops the remaining half and drops to the ground, hands flying to his face. Drevniy’s by his side in second, comforting hands on his shoulders. Drevniy prys Molodniy’s hands from his face and checks the damage. He clicks his tongue.

“It’s just a scratch, boy, you’re alright. If that’a happened while someone was shooting at you though,” he clicked his tongue again, “ you’d be dead meat.”

Molodniy’s hands went back to his face, running his fingers over his eyes to make sure they really were still there. His chest was heaving, gulping down air. Drevniy helped him to his feet, a steadying hand under his arm. 

“See, now you really need a new gun,” Drevniy said, a smile on his face. Molodniy groaned, running through all the steps required to do so. He’d need to go to the General,wake him up most likely, withstand a screaming lecture for breaking his gun in the first place, submit an order to the inventory people, fill out paper after paper. Molodniy shook his head. His regiment moved out tomorrow; he needed a new gun now.  He turned his head towards Drevniy, still helping him stand. 

“Could I take yours?” He asked. Drevniy nearly recoiled in surprise. He stared at Molodniy a second before shaking his head and chuckling. 

“Why, if you took mine, what would I fight with?”

Molodniy tossed his head back and forth, thinking about the issue. “One of us could hide when they do roll, and whoever doesn’t takes the gun.” 

Drevniy shook his head. “Ain’t no pride in hidin’, son.” Molodniy narrowed his eyes at the older man. 

“There’s only one gun between us,” he said slowly, Drevniy nodding, “and you want us both to go to the front tomorrow?” Drevniy smiled and nodded. 

“You get it, son. Lets get back to bed, light’s out is going soon,” Drevniy said, herding Molodniy back towards the tent. Molodniy drug his feet, thinking. If he were to stand any chance of surviving to see a third day, he needed a gun. Drevniy had a gun, was an old man who’d die in a few years anyway even if he survived. A slow old man like Drevniy wouldn’t survive anyway, gun or not. Molodniy tore himself out of Drevniy’s hold, wrenching the loaded gun from his grip. He raised it to his shoulder and stared down the sights. If Drevniy was going to die tomorrow anyway...

[the-idiot-coin]

The ‘Nice’ is Sarcastic

Juni stares down at his feet as the nice police officer leads him into the small dark room. A sleek metal table sits inside, picked perfect so it takes up exactly the middle of the room with enough room on any side. Two chairs, one definitely more comfortable than the other, stare each other down across the table. The nice police officer leads him to the uncomfortable chair and shoves him down into it. Juni keeps his eyes on his feet, and then his hands when he sits down. Better to just submit while he’s in the belly of the beast with no chance to run. They leave him there for a few minutes to stew, ruminate on his story. 

What was his story? The truth was…well…the truth wasn’t going to happen. Not the entire truth, at least. He could sprinkle it in, like seasoning on the lie, to make it go down better.

Juni snorts softly. Cooking metaphors? He really has spent too long around Anthony. The man may be a violent psychopath who’s only real passions were manipulating people and planning the perfect murder, but he faked passion for food very well. He knew how to ramble for an hour about the perfect slow simmered tomato sauce, adding just the right amount of the right seasonings at the right time so everything comes together in an intricate dance.

Huh. Come to think of it, Anthony used the same speech in regards to the murder plots.

The door opens behind him, someone managing to enter and shut it silently before stomping across the room in his polished rubber shoes. At least, rubber soles. The person— either a detective or another nice police officer, no one other than those would either care enough to be here or risk being in the same room with him— sinks heavily into the comfier chair and lets out an even heavier sigh. A folder hits the table. The person opens and peruses it for a few seconds, and sighs again. 

Detective, then. Police officers usually don’t go through so much pretense. The folder is supposed to be filled with mountains of evidence against him and all of his despicable cohorts, meant to make him sweat and admit to things he thinks they already know. In reality, it’s filled with a couple photos and conspiracy theories more suited to be tacked on a wall and connected with red string than sitting in a folder.

The detective clears his throat to get Juni’s attention, flipping the folder closed. Juni finally flicks his eyes up from his hands, getting a look at the 17th drone worker to try to intimidate him with a folder. In fact, this guy’s an amalgamation of a lot of generic parts from everyone else who’s stared him down across a sleek metal table. He’s the 8th one to have brown eyes, 16th one to be unshaven from spending long nights at the office, 5th one to have jowls and all 17 have reeked of coffee and had the stains on their teeth. This guy was the first one to have a mole on his nose, so at least he had something going for him. 

“You know, you’re in a lot of trouble, Percy,” the detective says. Juni cringes at the name, pulling a tight lipped smile and twitching his head to the side. 

“Not my name,” Juni mutters, dropping his eyes to the table.

“Oh, you don’t like that? Do you prefer, uh,” he checks the folder, “Juniper? Is that right?”

Juni twitches again at the way he said it. Only one drone had been brash enough to call it a “goddamn fairy name” to his face, but all of them spoke it the same way. 

“Juni’s fine.”

The detective snorts, closing the file again. The table creaks as he leaned forward on his elbows, probably staring Juni down despite not having his gaze.

“You are in a lot of trouble, son. You and your friend are gonna go away for a long time.”

Juni pulls and drops the tight lipped smile again. They all say the same sentiment, and now three of them have used the same words near verbatim. Did they make these people in a factory? Juni wonders if this guy even knew the extent of the “trouble” he and Anna were in. Anna was an atomic bomb: vaporizing anything near her and causing less and less damage as you moved away. Juni never left her side, and hasn’t since the day they met. He wouldn’t trade it for the world. What would he even do with the world?

“Son?” The detective grunts after a few seconds of silence. Juni draws in a deliberate breath and lets it out slowly, sifting through the possible responses. Silence was definitely on the table; if he never responds eventually they’ll stop asking. He’s used that plenty of times. Of course, that makes them think he’s crazy. He is, but he doesn’t need them to think that. It’s useful in some situations, and has been in the past, but that thought process has always been “make them leave me alone until Anna can swoop in and save me.” Admittedly, “wait until Anna saves the day” is a common theme through most of his past thought processes. That wouldn’t happen today. It was his job to save her this time.

God, that meant he had actually had to talk to people.

[the-idiot-coin]

Metrolina

There used to be so many cars, all kinds of racers lined up ready to go, the noise was deafening. Races every Saturday, legends born. Now the movie’s over, credits are rolling, and the only sound left is the bullfrogs.