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rainbowfic2013-02-27 10:25 pm
justice_turtle) wrote in rainbowfic2013-02-27 10:25 pm
Possibly Prologue
Name: Peter
Story: JT's Mixed Bag
Colors: Iceberg #7 (skiing), Cloud White #18 (another cloudy day), French Grey #3 (One's ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to interpret Nature.)
Supplies and Styles: Brush (expunge), Watercolors (#568, scrappy underdog w/ SFF element), Modeling Clay (#178: desk), Pastels (messenger), Yarn, Glitter ("You can close your eyes to the things you do not want to see, but you cannot close your heart to the things you do not want to feel.")
Word Count: 428
Rating: PG-13 for language
Warnings: Violent death.
Notes: I have plans for a whole story with this character - with actual plot and all - but no guarantees. Hence the "story: jt's mixed bag" label for now.
A lot of people used to think there was no magic in outer space - that it was the exclusive province of Science.
They'd be wrong.
"Come on out with your hands up," I shout through the closed steel door. "You are surrounded by police."
No answer.
"We know you're in there, Ralton. We have a space-born on the squad. Lay down all your weapons and come out now or we will shoot you."
"You're lying!" Ralton hollers. "Spacers can't hear people get snuffed. It drives them crazy."
"Maybe we don't care," I yell back. "Maybe you're important enough to risk it, or maybe we've got a special spacer who can handle it, or maybe we just don't fucking care. What do you think, Bungee? Met enough cops to bet your life on whether we care?"
Silence. About three seconds of it, then a bit of rattling with the door latch, and I'm just getting ready to wave my squad to stand down and put the cuffs on Ralton when the nose of a shortgun pokes through.
Damn. Wrong answer.
Two minutes later, when the shooting's over, I holster my sidearm, wipe my forehead, and find somewhere to sit down. Ralton wasn't wrong: being in the presence of death is no fun for a space-born. That's why most of us work the starlanes - a cushy life on the big ships, doubling as navigator or computer tech or even cook on the small to mid-size ones, till something goes wrong. When the ship gets stuck between systems, we can point the engineers in the direction of the nearest lifeform concentration, a ship or a planet, and seven times out of ten they get there whole.
I never wanted to do that. Too much downtime. I applied for the Force at seventeen, told 'em the truth; they ran me by a few hostage situations, admitted I could do the psychic equivalent of putting my fingers in my ears when somebody died nearby, and let me work my way up through the ranks.
I'm getting old, though. Forty-three isn't too old for a captain in a lot of places, but out here in the Fingers we don't do desk jobs. Captain runs a squad, writes the paperwork, and pulls any jobs that need his special talents, same as everyone else past rookie. For me, that means standoffs and missing-persons cases. Missing persons aren't so bad, but standoffs with these blast-happy punks take their toll.
I need a vacation. Preferably one that doesn't come courtesy of a bullet to the knee.
Story: JT's Mixed Bag
Colors: Iceberg #7 (skiing), Cloud White #18 (another cloudy day), French Grey #3 (One's ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to interpret Nature.)
Supplies and Styles: Brush (expunge), Watercolors (#568, scrappy underdog w/ SFF element), Modeling Clay (#178: desk), Pastels (messenger), Yarn, Glitter ("You can close your eyes to the things you do not want to see, but you cannot close your heart to the things you do not want to feel.")
Word Count: 428
Rating: PG-13 for language
Warnings: Violent death.
Notes: I have plans for a whole story with this character - with actual plot and all - but no guarantees. Hence the "story: jt's mixed bag" label for now.
A lot of people used to think there was no magic in outer space - that it was the exclusive province of Science.
They'd be wrong.
"Come on out with your hands up," I shout through the closed steel door. "You are surrounded by police."
No answer.
"We know you're in there, Ralton. We have a space-born on the squad. Lay down all your weapons and come out now or we will shoot you."
"You're lying!" Ralton hollers. "Spacers can't hear people get snuffed. It drives them crazy."
"Maybe we don't care," I yell back. "Maybe you're important enough to risk it, or maybe we've got a special spacer who can handle it, or maybe we just don't fucking care. What do you think, Bungee? Met enough cops to bet your life on whether we care?"
Silence. About three seconds of it, then a bit of rattling with the door latch, and I'm just getting ready to wave my squad to stand down and put the cuffs on Ralton when the nose of a shortgun pokes through.
Damn. Wrong answer.
Two minutes later, when the shooting's over, I holster my sidearm, wipe my forehead, and find somewhere to sit down. Ralton wasn't wrong: being in the presence of death is no fun for a space-born. That's why most of us work the starlanes - a cushy life on the big ships, doubling as navigator or computer tech or even cook on the small to mid-size ones, till something goes wrong. When the ship gets stuck between systems, we can point the engineers in the direction of the nearest lifeform concentration, a ship or a planet, and seven times out of ten they get there whole.
I never wanted to do that. Too much downtime. I applied for the Force at seventeen, told 'em the truth; they ran me by a few hostage situations, admitted I could do the psychic equivalent of putting my fingers in my ears when somebody died nearby, and let me work my way up through the ranks.
I'm getting old, though. Forty-three isn't too old for a captain in a lot of places, but out here in the Fingers we don't do desk jobs. Captain runs a squad, writes the paperwork, and pulls any jobs that need his special talents, same as everyone else past rookie. For me, that means standoffs and missing-persons cases. Missing persons aren't so bad, but standoffs with these blast-happy punks take their toll.
I need a vacation. Preferably one that doesn't come courtesy of a bullet to the knee.
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(Why thank you, random icon picker. Your commentary is cogent as ever. *dry grin*)
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