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Jun. 3rd, 2009 09:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
katewritesI have a plot bunny that has been sprung by writing about steampunk/cyberpunk robots. It is going nowhere until I finish this darn city-state story.
A small package was waiting in front of his door when he jogged up the stairs, messenger bag slung across his back, bike across his shoulders. Wiping the sweat off of his lip, he avoided touching the box as he opened his door, put the bike against the hallway, the messenger bag on the table.
He left the door open, so he could keep the package in sight as he considered his options.
Finally, leaving his leather biking gloves on, he picked up the box and brought it in, kicking the door shut with his foot. At the table, he scanned the package with his hand held, useless if it was Organization materials, even more useless if it was a trap.
Flipping open his knife, he sliced open the tape.
"Take chances," sixty-eight had said. "Always take chances. But only good ones. Only ones that pay off."
Inside was a gun that Brandon had never seen before, with bullets that smelled of explosives. Slowly, he put it together, then took it apart, cleaned the pieces. Put it together again, faster.
As he snapped the pieces into place, he began to smile.
*****
"What do you mean?" he asked the coach. The bruises were fresh on his body, and he winched when a trainer wrapped his wrist, once, twice, three times. He could not explain these injuries to his neighbors.
"Sixty-eight is out," the coach repeated. "You're getting a new wing."
"Why didn't he say anything?" Brandon asked, aware that now people were looking. He refocused on the trainer, watching the man test his joints, prod his shoulder.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, seventeen." It was a sharp command, and Brandon bowed his head, more out of irritation than genuine submission. He was a finely tuned instrument, a means to an end, but he was not submissive by nature. If the polis had wanted passive obedience, they would have hired mecha to do the Organization's work.
"Who?" Brandon asked.
"You'll be introduced," the coach said, snapping his notebook shut.
Across the room, Brandon watched another player poked and prodded. Nineteen looked at him with a wry grin. A knowing smile.
There were rumors that he'd played for New Jersey's version of an Organization before he'd been traded. Brandon slid down off the bench and began stripping off his uniform, handing over the tech to a trainer. He didn't need a wing. He'd survived this mission on his own.
Finally free of his own debriefing, nineteen slapped Brandon's bad shoulder. "Relax, seventeen. You're still a rookie here. Just wait for trades to settle."
Brandon tried to smile, became aware of how sickly it must have looked.
A small package was waiting in front of his door when he jogged up the stairs, messenger bag slung across his back, bike across his shoulders. Wiping the sweat off of his lip, he avoided touching the box as he opened his door, put the bike against the hallway, the messenger bag on the table.
He left the door open, so he could keep the package in sight as he considered his options.
Finally, leaving his leather biking gloves on, he picked up the box and brought it in, kicking the door shut with his foot. At the table, he scanned the package with his hand held, useless if it was Organization materials, even more useless if it was a trap.
Flipping open his knife, he sliced open the tape.
"Take chances," sixty-eight had said. "Always take chances. But only good ones. Only ones that pay off."
Inside was a gun that Brandon had never seen before, with bullets that smelled of explosives. Slowly, he put it together, then took it apart, cleaned the pieces. Put it together again, faster.
As he snapped the pieces into place, he began to smile.
*****
"What do you mean?" he asked the coach. The bruises were fresh on his body, and he winched when a trainer wrapped his wrist, once, twice, three times. He could not explain these injuries to his neighbors.
"Sixty-eight is out," the coach repeated. "You're getting a new wing."
"Why didn't he say anything?" Brandon asked, aware that now people were looking. He refocused on the trainer, watching the man test his joints, prod his shoulder.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, seventeen." It was a sharp command, and Brandon bowed his head, more out of irritation than genuine submission. He was a finely tuned instrument, a means to an end, but he was not submissive by nature. If the polis had wanted passive obedience, they would have hired mecha to do the Organization's work.
"Who?" Brandon asked.
"You'll be introduced," the coach said, snapping his notebook shut.
Across the room, Brandon watched another player poked and prodded. Nineteen looked at him with a wry grin. A knowing smile.
There were rumors that he'd played for New Jersey's version of an Organization before he'd been traded. Brandon slid down off the bench and began stripping off his uniform, handing over the tech to a trainer. He didn't need a wing. He'd survived this mission on his own.
Finally free of his own debriefing, nineteen slapped Brandon's bad shoulder. "Relax, seventeen. You're still a rookie here. Just wait for trades to settle."
Brandon tried to smile, became aware of how sickly it must have looked.
