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edenfallingIn which I introduce Robert (yay!) and lay some plot and character groundwork. (1,100 words)
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Weregild, part 12
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Eames woke to a tinny imitation of birdsong shrilling at him from across his room. Bloody cell phones were at least useful at keeping time, but he hated the thin, compressed nature of most of their sound files. Sally claimed the speaker quality was better on newer phones, but he was not going to get a new phone just so it would make a slightly less annoying alarm clock.
Besides, annoyance was half the point. If the tune was soothing, he wouldn't feel any urge to get up and turn it off, now would he?
He stretched, phone clutched in one hand, and kicked his bedroll into a rough semblance of order. Eleven o'clock, time for all good double agents to clean up, scout the lay of the land, and prepare to exchange perfidious secrets over the metaphorical wires.
Eames slung a black t-shirt and a pair of old jeans over his arm, grabbed his toiletry kit, and headed down to the cellar to make use of a proper bathroom and shower.
None of the vampires were up at this time of day -- Fisher and Lebrun were old enough to wake in mid-afternoon, which gave Eames somewhere between two and five hours, depending on factors he'd never been able to force into any pattern. One of Lebrun's wererats was guarding the top of the cellar staircase; she was in half-human form, wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants with a hole cut for her long, naked tail. She ducked her head and opened the door for Eames.
"Thanks, Corazon," he said as he brushed past her. He grinned to himself when she went stiff in surprise. He'd been a right dick to most of the rats the past two days, so for him to know this one's name, and use it politely, would leave them all wondering if he liked her, if he had a hidden agenda, or if Fisher and Lebrun were using him to send a message. Confusion was a beautiful thing.
And Corazon had been nice to Sally the night they arrived from Sydney. One good turn deserved another.
The cellar was deliberately confusing in its layout -- one last line of defense, Eames supposed -- but he found a bathroom easily enough by tracing water pipes on the ceiling. Twenty minutes later, he was showered, shaved, and mostly dressed. Socks and shoes would have to wait until he got back upstairs, but Lebrun kept his lair nicely carpeted so going barefoot was no hardship. Besides, lycanthropes tended to run a bit hotter than normal humans.
Eames was wandering in search of a staircase, trying to make the nest of short, right-angled hallways and oddly-sized rooms match up against the tentative mental map he'd been constructing the past two days. He wasn't having a lot of success. He could apply a map to unfamiliar territory, but he'd never quite mastered the process in reverse.
The whole cellar smelled of blood and death, no matter how much perfume or air freshener the residents poured into the air. Eames stopped outside one of the many identical white doors and sneezed, wondering who had a hard-on for orange and bergamot, and no sense of proportion in its use.
The door opened, revealing a shirtless man with tousled brown hair, pale skin, and huge blue eyes.
"Eames?" Robert said, leaning forward into the gap between the partially open door and its frame. "It's only..." He glanced back over his shoulder. "It's eleven thirty. Sally said you didn't need her until after one. Is anything wrong?" His entire body expressed nothing but earnest concern.
In the room behind him, Sally mumbled something incoherent.
Eames grinned. "No problems at all. I simply wanted a bit of fresh air and sunshine, maybe a jog down by the docks. Only I've misplaced the staircase, you see."
Robert's expression cleared and firmed. "Oh, I see. Down the hall to your left, turn right, then another right, then a left, and it should be through the door on your right." He paused, studied Eames's face -- which must have been a bloody picture -- and laughed. "I'll walk you there."
Robert disappeared into his room for a minute and returned, still shirtless and barefoot, with a key in his hand. "No sense leaving Sally unprotected," he said in response to Eames's quizzical glance. "Not that I expect anything to happen, but better safe than sorry." A brief shadow seemed to flit behind his eyes, but was quickly buried, leaving them clear again.
"A man after my own heart," Eames said, following Robert down the hall. "So. You and Sally?"
"Me and Sally," Robert agreed with a small, disbelieving smile. "At least until we leave St. Louis. Do you suppose, if my father wins, he might let her..." He trailed off, shook his head. "No, I shouldn't ask. You're his people. I shouldn't presume. And she'd grow disillusioned with me in any case. People always do." His scent said defeat; his posture said pain, submission... and under that, so faint and suppressed that most people would never catch it, resentment.
Now that could be useful.
"Sally knows her own mind," Eames said in an encouraging tone. "Fisher doesn't own us. Besides, if he wins, he'll have bigger things on his mind than one little fox, and if he loses, I doubt Saito will care much about what becomes of us. Either way, don't write yourself out of the race before it's half started."
A ghost of Robert's smile reappeared. "He might let her come work for Uncle Peter, but let her come be with me? No. My father won't give me anything unless I show I'm strong enough to take it, and how can I take anything from him? He could cut me in half without even trying."
He stopped in front of another identical white door. "Here are the stairs. Tell Corazon to get some bagels for me and Sally before you head out."
"Will do," Eames said, and slipped through the door.
He'd learned more in two days around Lebrun's people than he'd learned in a year with Fisher. That wasn't surprising, really -- the old bastard held his cards close to his chest, no matter how much he claimed to trust anyone -- but even Fisher was more revealing in the company of his long-time lieutenant and his half-estranged son. Family did have a way of bringing out skeletons.
It was just as well Arthur was calling him, Eames reflected. They had a lot to discuss, and once they were in St. Louis, they might not get another chance to talk before everything came to a head.
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End Part Twelve
continue to part 13
back to part 11
read the final version on AO3 (Trust me, you want to read the final version. The journal version is a beta draft, with all the errors that implies.)
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I am debating whether to skim through Narcissus in Chains, Incubus Dreams, and Cerulean Sins solely for the sections with Meng Die. Because hey, she is a canonical female vampire who is the second-in-command to the (unnamed?) Master of San Francisco. And she is apparently plotting a coup. That could be all kinds of interesting.
On the other hand, I'd have to skim through those three books. And by that point, the series is all about the men Anita is having sex with, the women who are jealous of her for all the men she's having sex with, and boring dubcon descriptions of the sex. Plus apparently Meng Die has very little characterization outside of blatant sexuality and jealousy. Do I really want to put myself through that?
Decisions, decisions...
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Weregild, part 12
---------------------------------------------
Eames woke to a tinny imitation of birdsong shrilling at him from across his room. Bloody cell phones were at least useful at keeping time, but he hated the thin, compressed nature of most of their sound files. Sally claimed the speaker quality was better on newer phones, but he was not going to get a new phone just so it would make a slightly less annoying alarm clock.
Besides, annoyance was half the point. If the tune was soothing, he wouldn't feel any urge to get up and turn it off, now would he?
He stretched, phone clutched in one hand, and kicked his bedroll into a rough semblance of order. Eleven o'clock, time for all good double agents to clean up, scout the lay of the land, and prepare to exchange perfidious secrets over the metaphorical wires.
Eames slung a black t-shirt and a pair of old jeans over his arm, grabbed his toiletry kit, and headed down to the cellar to make use of a proper bathroom and shower.
None of the vampires were up at this time of day -- Fisher and Lebrun were old enough to wake in mid-afternoon, which gave Eames somewhere between two and five hours, depending on factors he'd never been able to force into any pattern. One of Lebrun's wererats was guarding the top of the cellar staircase; she was in half-human form, wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants with a hole cut for her long, naked tail. She ducked her head and opened the door for Eames.
"Thanks, Corazon," he said as he brushed past her. He grinned to himself when she went stiff in surprise. He'd been a right dick to most of the rats the past two days, so for him to know this one's name, and use it politely, would leave them all wondering if he liked her, if he had a hidden agenda, or if Fisher and Lebrun were using him to send a message. Confusion was a beautiful thing.
And Corazon had been nice to Sally the night they arrived from Sydney. One good turn deserved another.
The cellar was deliberately confusing in its layout -- one last line of defense, Eames supposed -- but he found a bathroom easily enough by tracing water pipes on the ceiling. Twenty minutes later, he was showered, shaved, and mostly dressed. Socks and shoes would have to wait until he got back upstairs, but Lebrun kept his lair nicely carpeted so going barefoot was no hardship. Besides, lycanthropes tended to run a bit hotter than normal humans.
Eames was wandering in search of a staircase, trying to make the nest of short, right-angled hallways and oddly-sized rooms match up against the tentative mental map he'd been constructing the past two days. He wasn't having a lot of success. He could apply a map to unfamiliar territory, but he'd never quite mastered the process in reverse.
The whole cellar smelled of blood and death, no matter how much perfume or air freshener the residents poured into the air. Eames stopped outside one of the many identical white doors and sneezed, wondering who had a hard-on for orange and bergamot, and no sense of proportion in its use.
The door opened, revealing a shirtless man with tousled brown hair, pale skin, and huge blue eyes.
"Eames?" Robert said, leaning forward into the gap between the partially open door and its frame. "It's only..." He glanced back over his shoulder. "It's eleven thirty. Sally said you didn't need her until after one. Is anything wrong?" His entire body expressed nothing but earnest concern.
In the room behind him, Sally mumbled something incoherent.
Eames grinned. "No problems at all. I simply wanted a bit of fresh air and sunshine, maybe a jog down by the docks. Only I've misplaced the staircase, you see."
Robert's expression cleared and firmed. "Oh, I see. Down the hall to your left, turn right, then another right, then a left, and it should be through the door on your right." He paused, studied Eames's face -- which must have been a bloody picture -- and laughed. "I'll walk you there."
Robert disappeared into his room for a minute and returned, still shirtless and barefoot, with a key in his hand. "No sense leaving Sally unprotected," he said in response to Eames's quizzical glance. "Not that I expect anything to happen, but better safe than sorry." A brief shadow seemed to flit behind his eyes, but was quickly buried, leaving them clear again.
"A man after my own heart," Eames said, following Robert down the hall. "So. You and Sally?"
"Me and Sally," Robert agreed with a small, disbelieving smile. "At least until we leave St. Louis. Do you suppose, if my father wins, he might let her..." He trailed off, shook his head. "No, I shouldn't ask. You're his people. I shouldn't presume. And she'd grow disillusioned with me in any case. People always do." His scent said defeat; his posture said pain, submission... and under that, so faint and suppressed that most people would never catch it, resentment.
Now that could be useful.
"Sally knows her own mind," Eames said in an encouraging tone. "Fisher doesn't own us. Besides, if he wins, he'll have bigger things on his mind than one little fox, and if he loses, I doubt Saito will care much about what becomes of us. Either way, don't write yourself out of the race before it's half started."
A ghost of Robert's smile reappeared. "He might let her come work for Uncle Peter, but let her come be with me? No. My father won't give me anything unless I show I'm strong enough to take it, and how can I take anything from him? He could cut me in half without even trying."
He stopped in front of another identical white door. "Here are the stairs. Tell Corazon to get some bagels for me and Sally before you head out."
"Will do," Eames said, and slipped through the door.
He'd learned more in two days around Lebrun's people than he'd learned in a year with Fisher. That wasn't surprising, really -- the old bastard held his cards close to his chest, no matter how much he claimed to trust anyone -- but even Fisher was more revealing in the company of his long-time lieutenant and his half-estranged son. Family did have a way of bringing out skeletons.
It was just as well Arthur was calling him, Eames reflected. They had a lot to discuss, and once they were in St. Louis, they might not get another chance to talk before everything came to a head.
---------------------------------------------
End Part Twelve
continue to part 13
back to part 11
read the final version on AO3 (Trust me, you want to read the final version. The journal version is a beta draft, with all the errors that implies.)
---------------------------------------------
I am debating whether to skim through Narcissus in Chains, Incubus Dreams, and Cerulean Sins solely for the sections with Meng Die. Because hey, she is a canonical female vampire who is the second-in-command to the (unnamed?) Master of San Francisco. And she is apparently plotting a coup. That could be all kinds of interesting.
On the other hand, I'd have to skim through those three books. And by that point, the series is all about the men Anita is having sex with, the women who are jealous of her for all the men she's having sex with, and boring dubcon descriptions of the sex. Plus apparently Meng Die has very little characterization outside of blatant sexuality and jealousy. Do I really want to put myself through that?
Decisions, decisions...
(no subject)
Date: 2011-07-12 03:59 pm (UTC)I'd say, look up Meng Die on the wiki and expand from there; no need to put yourself through the source text if there's likely so little to be found.
(no subject)
Date: 2011-07-12 05:50 pm (UTC)Most of me is willing to use the wiki entry and let the rest go, but I keep thinking there may be some useful little details the wiki people would never think to list... *headdesk*