The Real World
Mar. 10th, 2004 10:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jackofallgeeksHere's how my novella has progressed -- I've updated the first bit some, revised it several times, and it'll probably still change a bit as I move on. I just started the second 'chapter' -- though the 'first' one is supposed to be a 'prologue' of sorts, so I'll pull a Piro and call them Chapter Zero and Capter One. I warn you now -- it comes to be about 3.5 pages all told, but I'd really appreciate it if you read it, and even more so if you commented, particularly with constructive criticisms of what you liked and didn't like.
Chapter Zero
The latch popped as he slammed his shoulder into the steel door, a hollow boom echoing back down the stairwell as he launched haphazardly out onto the roof, the soles of his sneakers sliding over the rain-wet gravel. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth into his goatee of stubbly brown hair and his dirty-blonde bangs, already drenched by the downpour of the storm-torn night, hung down over his green eyes. He brushed the dripping hair out of his face and searched the roof as sounds rumbled up from the open doorway behind him. The Operatives were closing in now, and they would have him if he didn't move.
Clutching a hand over his side, he attempted a run but only managed a fast-paced lurch, wincing at the pain flaring in his chest, sharp behind his ribs. His hooded sweatshirt was quickly soaked, and the gravel crunched wetly under his footfalls. The sapphire teardrop pendant around his neck bounced off his chest in an off-beat rhythm. As he got to the large, blocky air-conditioning unit about half-way across the roof and just off to the right, his legs burned from exertion. The aluminum side bent inward as he pulled himself around to its back side, away from the stairwell and leaning against it, gasping to catch his breath. It was slick with rain-water and cool to the touch. He searched the rooftop for some means of escape.
Other air-conditioning units stood at odd intervals around the rooftop, ducts and pipes sinking into the roof and steamy vapor rising into the churning mass of purple and grey above. The rain poured down, pooling beneath the gravel, and running in icy rivulets down his neck and along his spine. The rush of cars periodically streaming past rose up from the streets below, occasionally accented by the sharp blow of a horn or squeal of tires on the wet roadway.
On the other side of the roof, a ladder clung to the edge of the building, scrapping metallically against the brick in the sharp wind. It dipped down between this building and the taller one next to it; if he got to it, he could climb down into the alley below and escape his pursuers in the city streets.
Just as he was about to dash for the ladder, three figures appeared out of the stairwell. He caught himself, crouching back down behind the air-conditioning unit again; he had to cross in front of them to get to his escape. Watching them, he hoped for an opening to make a run for it.
The one on the left was tall and pale, his circular glasses flashing blue in the odd light of the night. His head was bald except for a fringe of hark hair around the sides and back, and he had a neatly-cropped black beard around his mouth. A haughty smirk seemed perpetually on his lips, and he stood there, his white lab coat blowing in the wind, as though he owned the place. He probably did.
Standing on the right was a stocky clean-shaven man – he seemed short due to his stoutness, and shorter still because of his hunched-over manner. He held his arms away from his body like a bear might, if a bear were dressed in a back sweater and heavy brown cargo pants. Partially obscured by his shaggy, wildly-blown brown hair, his eyes were small and dark. He wore a pair of sturdy-looking hiking boots with thick soles.
The third man stood behind the other two, like a large shadow. His charcoal Armani suit matched his dark skin; he looked as though he’d been carved from a single block of obsidian. His head was a hairless dome, and his rock-like jaw was clean-shaven. A pair of black sunglasses completed his ominous visage, streaks of purple lightning reflecting back periodically. His thick arms were held loosely at his side, and he clutched his hands at his waist, looking as though he had just entered a negotiations meeting with a rival company.
The beast-like one’s gaze swept the rooftop from side to side, like an animal seeking the scent of his prey. His nose was even tilted down slightly, towards the rooftop.
The one in the lab coat spoke. His gaze did not shift and his expression retained the haughty smirk. His voice was sharp and pointed, and cut through the night air.
“Samson, what do you see?”
Samson halted his search to look up at the taller man.
“Nothing. Not a damned thing.” His voice was harsh and gravelly. “This rain is messing me up. I’ve lost him.”
“That’s convenient.” The first man spat, his smirk turning from haughty to disdainful.
“Nothing is convenient with these types, Doctor Einsbeck.” The large black man put in. He was motionless except for his lips, and his voice carried smooth and low on the night air. “You would do well to remember that.” Einsbeck glared at him.
“He’s only a boy, Johnson. You can’t suggest this is his doing.” It was a statement.
“He is a student of The Order, Doctor. I think that should speak for itself.”
Both Einsbeck and Samson were looking at Johnson, and two out of three was the best he could hope for; crouching behind the air-conditioning unit in his soaked sweatshirt, he took the opportunity. Jumping to his feet, he launched into a sprint, the stones beneath his feet scraping loudly against each other as they were kicked up from his stride.
“There he goes.” Johnson said no hint of urgency in his voice.
Samson and Einsbeck both turned their attention from Johnson to him as he ran for the ladder. Time slowed down.
He had taken five steps; his legs felt brittle, the wet air became syrup. From the corner of his eye, he saw Einsbeck reaching into a pocket of his lab coat. Johnson was already removing his arm from inside his suit jacket, retrieving a sleek black handgun. Samson was hunched over, one hand in the gravel, making as to give chase to his now-sighted prey.
The ladder was in his sights, and now that’s all he saw. A bullet whizzed passed his leg, a near miss. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears. The cold rain stung his face like slivers of glass falling at him. Then he felt it, something changed. It was as though the world around him twisted slightly, as in a fun-house mirror, and then snapped back into place.
He felt the wave of force sweep up from behind him. There was a metallic screech when the wave reached the ladder, tearing it from the side of the building. The ladder dipped on one side and then fell completely, clattering loudly between the buildings on its way to the alley floor.
Convenient.
As he turned from the lost ladder, only a matter of feet away when it fell, pain flared in his shoulder and he cried out. A bullet from Johnson’s gun had caught him hard right at the joint. Einsbeck was discarding a strange conical pistol out now, and Samson was loping forward, almost on all fours, closing quickly.
Another bullet nearly hit his arm as he ducked and started a run toward the back edge of the roof, out toward the roadway; Samson altered his course to come rushing toward him. Whipping the pendant from around his neck, he swung his arms in an intricate tracery. As the gesture finished, Samson’s foot slid on the gravel, throwing him onto his side. A quick side-step over the large man skidding past him, and a sweeping motion with his arms. Samson’s head smacked against the lip of the roof with a crack, and his body crumpled into a heap. The force wasn’t enough to kill him; he was only unconscious. Just unconscious.
The building across the street loomed dark ahead, past the lip of the roof and across the street, so very far below. Lightning crashed as he reached the end of the roof and, running his arms through another tracery, put a foot up on the brick lip. He pushed off, jumping out over the traffic, shots of gunfire barking behind him.
To think, not long ago his only concern was turning in his philosophy paper on time.
Chapter One
Stephen jolted awake, his leg involuntarily kicking his desk as his head popped up from the crook of his arm. He had stayed up late into the early morning, trying to write his paper for Professor Hartdale’s Metaphysics class, and must’ve fallen asleep at the computer. He’d been woken up by his roommate’s radio alarm clock; it was blaring loud enough to be heard throughout the hall.
The gravelly voice on the radio sang, rolling the lyrics along to staccato guitar.
“A man only sees what he wants to see, when he's in his mind where he is what he wants to be. Living in a world where he's safe from reality. Won't you take a chance on this night, child, and follow me?” It wasn’t an unpleasant sound, but classic rock still made for a harsh awakening.
Sunlight streamed in through the slats of the plastic blinds, washing the room in light tinged yellow. Stephan’s computer sat on the desk in front of him, a sleek laptop of sculpted black plastic, the current time of 9:12am bouncing slowly around the otherwise darkened screen, shifting in through a spectrum of colors. Several empty cans of green aluminum lay around his keyboard, emblazoned with “dnL” in white bubble letters. The floor was littered with socks and t-shirts, some of it his own and some of it his roommate’s.
His roommate was an enormous heap of blankets and bedclothes, massed like a large linen hill in the middle of the bed by the window. A thick, fat-fingered arm emerged from the folds, groping lethargically through the air until it found the alarm clock and pressed the wide snooze button. Having silenced the radio, the arm retracted into the mound, which then shifted and rolled over.
Stephen shook his head, trying to clear the haze of sleep from his vision. The fiery pin-pricks that come from constricted blood flow rushed along his arm, and his temples throbbed. He hadn’t slept well last night, and it wasn't simply from sitting slumped at his desk. There had been the same restless dream of darkness and whispers. The details were quickly fading, but the acrid scent of phosphorous, like a lit match, still clung to his nose.
Chapter Zero
The latch popped as he slammed his shoulder into the steel door, a hollow boom echoing back down the stairwell as he launched haphazardly out onto the roof, the soles of his sneakers sliding over the rain-wet gravel. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth into his goatee of stubbly brown hair and his dirty-blonde bangs, already drenched by the downpour of the storm-torn night, hung down over his green eyes. He brushed the dripping hair out of his face and searched the roof as sounds rumbled up from the open doorway behind him. The Operatives were closing in now, and they would have him if he didn't move.
Clutching a hand over his side, he attempted a run but only managed a fast-paced lurch, wincing at the pain flaring in his chest, sharp behind his ribs. His hooded sweatshirt was quickly soaked, and the gravel crunched wetly under his footfalls. The sapphire teardrop pendant around his neck bounced off his chest in an off-beat rhythm. As he got to the large, blocky air-conditioning unit about half-way across the roof and just off to the right, his legs burned from exertion. The aluminum side bent inward as he pulled himself around to its back side, away from the stairwell and leaning against it, gasping to catch his breath. It was slick with rain-water and cool to the touch. He searched the rooftop for some means of escape.
Other air-conditioning units stood at odd intervals around the rooftop, ducts and pipes sinking into the roof and steamy vapor rising into the churning mass of purple and grey above. The rain poured down, pooling beneath the gravel, and running in icy rivulets down his neck and along his spine. The rush of cars periodically streaming past rose up from the streets below, occasionally accented by the sharp blow of a horn or squeal of tires on the wet roadway.
On the other side of the roof, a ladder clung to the edge of the building, scrapping metallically against the brick in the sharp wind. It dipped down between this building and the taller one next to it; if he got to it, he could climb down into the alley below and escape his pursuers in the city streets.
Just as he was about to dash for the ladder, three figures appeared out of the stairwell. He caught himself, crouching back down behind the air-conditioning unit again; he had to cross in front of them to get to his escape. Watching them, he hoped for an opening to make a run for it.
The one on the left was tall and pale, his circular glasses flashing blue in the odd light of the night. His head was bald except for a fringe of hark hair around the sides and back, and he had a neatly-cropped black beard around his mouth. A haughty smirk seemed perpetually on his lips, and he stood there, his white lab coat blowing in the wind, as though he owned the place. He probably did.
Standing on the right was a stocky clean-shaven man – he seemed short due to his stoutness, and shorter still because of his hunched-over manner. He held his arms away from his body like a bear might, if a bear were dressed in a back sweater and heavy brown cargo pants. Partially obscured by his shaggy, wildly-blown brown hair, his eyes were small and dark. He wore a pair of sturdy-looking hiking boots with thick soles.
The third man stood behind the other two, like a large shadow. His charcoal Armani suit matched his dark skin; he looked as though he’d been carved from a single block of obsidian. His head was a hairless dome, and his rock-like jaw was clean-shaven. A pair of black sunglasses completed his ominous visage, streaks of purple lightning reflecting back periodically. His thick arms were held loosely at his side, and he clutched his hands at his waist, looking as though he had just entered a negotiations meeting with a rival company.
The beast-like one’s gaze swept the rooftop from side to side, like an animal seeking the scent of his prey. His nose was even tilted down slightly, towards the rooftop.
The one in the lab coat spoke. His gaze did not shift and his expression retained the haughty smirk. His voice was sharp and pointed, and cut through the night air.
“Samson, what do you see?”
Samson halted his search to look up at the taller man.
“Nothing. Not a damned thing.” His voice was harsh and gravelly. “This rain is messing me up. I’ve lost him.”
“That’s convenient.” The first man spat, his smirk turning from haughty to disdainful.
“Nothing is convenient with these types, Doctor Einsbeck.” The large black man put in. He was motionless except for his lips, and his voice carried smooth and low on the night air. “You would do well to remember that.” Einsbeck glared at him.
“He’s only a boy, Johnson. You can’t suggest this is his doing.” It was a statement.
“He is a student of The Order, Doctor. I think that should speak for itself.”
Both Einsbeck and Samson were looking at Johnson, and two out of three was the best he could hope for; crouching behind the air-conditioning unit in his soaked sweatshirt, he took the opportunity. Jumping to his feet, he launched into a sprint, the stones beneath his feet scraping loudly against each other as they were kicked up from his stride.
“There he goes.” Johnson said no hint of urgency in his voice.
Samson and Einsbeck both turned their attention from Johnson to him as he ran for the ladder. Time slowed down.
He had taken five steps; his legs felt brittle, the wet air became syrup. From the corner of his eye, he saw Einsbeck reaching into a pocket of his lab coat. Johnson was already removing his arm from inside his suit jacket, retrieving a sleek black handgun. Samson was hunched over, one hand in the gravel, making as to give chase to his now-sighted prey.
The ladder was in his sights, and now that’s all he saw. A bullet whizzed passed his leg, a near miss. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears. The cold rain stung his face like slivers of glass falling at him. Then he felt it, something changed. It was as though the world around him twisted slightly, as in a fun-house mirror, and then snapped back into place.
He felt the wave of force sweep up from behind him. There was a metallic screech when the wave reached the ladder, tearing it from the side of the building. The ladder dipped on one side and then fell completely, clattering loudly between the buildings on its way to the alley floor.
Convenient.
As he turned from the lost ladder, only a matter of feet away when it fell, pain flared in his shoulder and he cried out. A bullet from Johnson’s gun had caught him hard right at the joint. Einsbeck was discarding a strange conical pistol out now, and Samson was loping forward, almost on all fours, closing quickly.
Another bullet nearly hit his arm as he ducked and started a run toward the back edge of the roof, out toward the roadway; Samson altered his course to come rushing toward him. Whipping the pendant from around his neck, he swung his arms in an intricate tracery. As the gesture finished, Samson’s foot slid on the gravel, throwing him onto his side. A quick side-step over the large man skidding past him, and a sweeping motion with his arms. Samson’s head smacked against the lip of the roof with a crack, and his body crumpled into a heap. The force wasn’t enough to kill him; he was only unconscious. Just unconscious.
The building across the street loomed dark ahead, past the lip of the roof and across the street, so very far below. Lightning crashed as he reached the end of the roof and, running his arms through another tracery, put a foot up on the brick lip. He pushed off, jumping out over the traffic, shots of gunfire barking behind him.
To think, not long ago his only concern was turning in his philosophy paper on time.
Chapter One
Stephen jolted awake, his leg involuntarily kicking his desk as his head popped up from the crook of his arm. He had stayed up late into the early morning, trying to write his paper for Professor Hartdale’s Metaphysics class, and must’ve fallen asleep at the computer. He’d been woken up by his roommate’s radio alarm clock; it was blaring loud enough to be heard throughout the hall.
The gravelly voice on the radio sang, rolling the lyrics along to staccato guitar.
“A man only sees what he wants to see, when he's in his mind where he is what he wants to be. Living in a world where he's safe from reality. Won't you take a chance on this night, child, and follow me?” It wasn’t an unpleasant sound, but classic rock still made for a harsh awakening.
Sunlight streamed in through the slats of the plastic blinds, washing the room in light tinged yellow. Stephan’s computer sat on the desk in front of him, a sleek laptop of sculpted black plastic, the current time of 9:12am bouncing slowly around the otherwise darkened screen, shifting in through a spectrum of colors. Several empty cans of green aluminum lay around his keyboard, emblazoned with “dnL” in white bubble letters. The floor was littered with socks and t-shirts, some of it his own and some of it his roommate’s.
His roommate was an enormous heap of blankets and bedclothes, massed like a large linen hill in the middle of the bed by the window. A thick, fat-fingered arm emerged from the folds, groping lethargically through the air until it found the alarm clock and pressed the wide snooze button. Having silenced the radio, the arm retracted into the mound, which then shifted and rolled over.
Stephen shook his head, trying to clear the haze of sleep from his vision. The fiery pin-pricks that come from constricted blood flow rushed along his arm, and his temples throbbed. He hadn’t slept well last night, and it wasn't simply from sitting slumped at his desk. There had been the same restless dream of darkness and whispers. The details were quickly fading, but the acrid scent of phosphorous, like a lit match, still clung to his nose.
