VO
06-19-2006, 11:12 AM
This is a bit of an abrupt start, and many people may be shocked, or confused - there are many things you might want to question me about. It's also a bit short - but blame my work schedule. I'll unlock this thread in a few days for the RPG to start - until then, read your character's part
LONDON, 3.27AM, MONDAY 24th April 2006
London was always a city of many faces, but at three thirty. on a wet Monday morning, the origami folds of city had opened up into a slick, wet netherworld, of smoke and halogen lights and jet black mirrors. All the angles had dissolved. Cars swooshed past around the roundabout. A billboard advertising deoderant was underlit by lights and the few remaining girls huddled there, coughing on cigarette smoke in the alcove while the rain descended inches from the tips of their noses. Every now and then, a car would stop, and a girl would disappear. Ellie adjusted the strap of her top and stared out into the traffic. Sometimes the cars had sirens, although usually this didn’t mean that they’d stop.
Most of the girls had disappeared, leaving Ellie puffing on her fag. She was tired, and she could feel her makeup running, and her feet hurt from the heels. Still, she needed the money from this, and, every time traffic pulled up tight at the traffic lights, she’d flaunt her prospects to the occupants. Mostly they ignored her.
Ellie needed that money to get home. She needed that money for food tomorrow. She needed that money to go clubbing again, like tonight, to pick up a new boyfriend. She needed that money for a lot of things, really. Tonight, she’d wasted too much; taxis, entry fees, drinks which, she considered, given her remarkably clear head, hadn’t worked. She was meant to have picked up a man to pay for them, anyway.
A car swerved through the rain pulled up onto the kerb, spraying a tiny wave of water. It was big, a huge limousine large enough to mount the thin line of pavement enough to almost squeeze the walls of her shelter, and crackle over the heroin needles and empty crisp packets. Ellie took a step back. The car’s windows were tinted, it’s paint slick and black as the night that it loomed out of. This car was big; big enough to have a chauffeur, a passenger, maybe passengers. That meant money, even if it did happen to get… degrading.
Ellie rapped on the window with a red-nailed finger, running her hand across the pane. There was no response, then a sound, a scrabbling from inside the limo, and a door opened ponderously into the hissing rain.
A figure got out. It was a man wearing a dapper grey suit, who uncurled from the confines of the limo with almost painful slowness. His hair was brown and his eyes wide. Stumbling, he caught himself in the door, and looked up at Ellie, who stood just out of the rain.
“Hey,” said Ellie. “You lookin’ for something?”
The man said something to faint to catch in the rain and clutched his jacket shut. The car started to move, shaking him free as something inside pulled the door shut. The man stumbled, and fell, almost directly into Ellie’s arms.
Then she realised that there was blood. Lots of blood.
Reginald Berkley switched off his computer monitor and spun his swivel chair around. It was three twenty seven am, and he hadn’t got up since six fifteen the previous evening. Clothing stuck to him in unfortunate places, and as he turned, he knocked a packet of half-eaten Cheezy Wizzos onto the floor, where it rolled, spewing orange dust over collectable trading cards, forgotten t-shirts and empty coca-cola cans. He pulled off his Transformers T-shirt and glanced out of the basement window at the rain falling and splattering on the pavement. This was an early night for him.
His bed was just as covered in crap as everywhere else, and Reg swept a pile of gaming magazines and DVD cases onto the floor, then gave the duvet cover a perfunctory shake to get rid of the crumbs. As he placed it back over the bed, his eyes fell on a pristine polywrapped corner sticking out from under the pile of FragZones he’d just taken off the bed. That could only mean one thing.
SSR! He grabbed it, and tenderly wiped the dirt off with a man-size tissue. This was #45, alternate cover B, still in mint condition, the issue where they finally discovered the thing’s true identity. Its proper place was the sole clean place in the room: the glass-fronted, air-conditioned cabinet where he kept his collection. Tenderly, he slipped the comic book back inside into its numerically ordered slot. It was then then he noticed the cellphone, a device Reg used almost as frequently as the shower, and the flashing display that indicated that someone had left a call in his voicemail. That was strange to say the least. The call was from just after midnight; when he’d been playing World of WOC with the sound up too loud to hear it ring.
“Hey, is this Reg Berkley? Sorry about the time, but this is Erica… Erica Weybury... you fixed my computer for me about six months ago? You left a number. Look, I have a problem, my computer’s down and there’s something I need to submit tomorrow morning? Could you come and give it a look? Thanks”
Helvin was not a man who spent incredible hours in the office; indeed, he spent most of his time trying to get out of it. Nonetheless, he was no stranger to the Ministry at night, especially, when, like today, he’d been at a function. He’d even kipped here once, come to think of it, once he was on good terms with the security guard and too drunk to drive home.
He muttered a “Hullo” to Harvey, and explained he’d forgotten a few papers. The big black man nodded, and opened the door - he was a good chap, and had worked here almost as long as Helvin had – he wasn’t going to try anything funny, even at this time at night. There were alarms, of course, but Harvey flicked them off in the little control room and let Helvin go upstairs to his office unimpeded. Helvin trudged up the stairs slowly, past the shaft where moonlight shone through the wide windows.
It was there, just on the tip of his conciousness, like being stroked by a feather. Helvin took a step foreward, then steadied himself. Yes, he could definitely sense it. Maybe he should get Harvey to check it out.
Helvin Ballard could smell blood.
Lucas didn’t care what time it was; the mixture of drum and bass and alcohol throbbing through his system saw to that. The rain bounced off the pavement as he made his way back home, ducking beneath awnings when he could. It was too wet for parkour tonight, and he had to get into Tesco tomorrow morning. It was only a couple of blocks from the bus stop, but this involved walking halfway down the highstreet first. Lucas didn’t usually worry; it wasn’t like he was an easy target, but even so, walking down here late at night always set him slightly on edge, even when it was as wet as this…
… they were kicking a large green dumpster under the concrete overhang of the ODEON. Punks.
There were three of them, two big guys and a girl who looked like she was an extra for some kind of post-apocalyptic B movie: all neon hair and and Anarchy symbols and body piercing. She had a bicycle chain wrapped around her fist, while the two guys kicked the bin and laughed. Lucas would have to walk right past them; it would be too obvious to cross the road. He drew closer, and as he passed the red-haired girl stepped out infront of him. She might have been pretty, if she wasn’t dressed like that and sneering up at him while the chain clacked in her fist.
“You got the time?”
***
It was high time, Carolyn thought; they were five hours late now and she was barely through customs. The trans-atlantic flight had drained her, her muscles felt cramped and useless, and now she didn’t even know if her contact would be here; the young man from the museum who’d been meant to meet her at 11am, British there weren’t many people at this hour, then spotted him.
He was tall, and blonde, and holding the cardboard sign with her name on upside down. He didn’t look like the pictures; that one was academic, this one just appeared to be lost. She knew his name, though: Fred Goldberg.
“Hey”
“Oh”. Fred Goldberg was still staring into the stream of arrivals, and he reached with a start. “Hi. You must be Carolyn.”
LONDON, 3.27AM, MONDAY 24th April 2006
London was always a city of many faces, but at three thirty. on a wet Monday morning, the origami folds of city had opened up into a slick, wet netherworld, of smoke and halogen lights and jet black mirrors. All the angles had dissolved. Cars swooshed past around the roundabout. A billboard advertising deoderant was underlit by lights and the few remaining girls huddled there, coughing on cigarette smoke in the alcove while the rain descended inches from the tips of their noses. Every now and then, a car would stop, and a girl would disappear. Ellie adjusted the strap of her top and stared out into the traffic. Sometimes the cars had sirens, although usually this didn’t mean that they’d stop.
Most of the girls had disappeared, leaving Ellie puffing on her fag. She was tired, and she could feel her makeup running, and her feet hurt from the heels. Still, she needed the money from this, and, every time traffic pulled up tight at the traffic lights, she’d flaunt her prospects to the occupants. Mostly they ignored her.
Ellie needed that money to get home. She needed that money for food tomorrow. She needed that money to go clubbing again, like tonight, to pick up a new boyfriend. She needed that money for a lot of things, really. Tonight, she’d wasted too much; taxis, entry fees, drinks which, she considered, given her remarkably clear head, hadn’t worked. She was meant to have picked up a man to pay for them, anyway.
A car swerved through the rain pulled up onto the kerb, spraying a tiny wave of water. It was big, a huge limousine large enough to mount the thin line of pavement enough to almost squeeze the walls of her shelter, and crackle over the heroin needles and empty crisp packets. Ellie took a step back. The car’s windows were tinted, it’s paint slick and black as the night that it loomed out of. This car was big; big enough to have a chauffeur, a passenger, maybe passengers. That meant money, even if it did happen to get… degrading.
Ellie rapped on the window with a red-nailed finger, running her hand across the pane. There was no response, then a sound, a scrabbling from inside the limo, and a door opened ponderously into the hissing rain.
A figure got out. It was a man wearing a dapper grey suit, who uncurled from the confines of the limo with almost painful slowness. His hair was brown and his eyes wide. Stumbling, he caught himself in the door, and looked up at Ellie, who stood just out of the rain.
“Hey,” said Ellie. “You lookin’ for something?”
The man said something to faint to catch in the rain and clutched his jacket shut. The car started to move, shaking him free as something inside pulled the door shut. The man stumbled, and fell, almost directly into Ellie’s arms.
Then she realised that there was blood. Lots of blood.
Reginald Berkley switched off his computer monitor and spun his swivel chair around. It was three twenty seven am, and he hadn’t got up since six fifteen the previous evening. Clothing stuck to him in unfortunate places, and as he turned, he knocked a packet of half-eaten Cheezy Wizzos onto the floor, where it rolled, spewing orange dust over collectable trading cards, forgotten t-shirts and empty coca-cola cans. He pulled off his Transformers T-shirt and glanced out of the basement window at the rain falling and splattering on the pavement. This was an early night for him.
His bed was just as covered in crap as everywhere else, and Reg swept a pile of gaming magazines and DVD cases onto the floor, then gave the duvet cover a perfunctory shake to get rid of the crumbs. As he placed it back over the bed, his eyes fell on a pristine polywrapped corner sticking out from under the pile of FragZones he’d just taken off the bed. That could only mean one thing.
SSR! He grabbed it, and tenderly wiped the dirt off with a man-size tissue. This was #45, alternate cover B, still in mint condition, the issue where they finally discovered the thing’s true identity. Its proper place was the sole clean place in the room: the glass-fronted, air-conditioned cabinet where he kept his collection. Tenderly, he slipped the comic book back inside into its numerically ordered slot. It was then then he noticed the cellphone, a device Reg used almost as frequently as the shower, and the flashing display that indicated that someone had left a call in his voicemail. That was strange to say the least. The call was from just after midnight; when he’d been playing World of WOC with the sound up too loud to hear it ring.
“Hey, is this Reg Berkley? Sorry about the time, but this is Erica… Erica Weybury... you fixed my computer for me about six months ago? You left a number. Look, I have a problem, my computer’s down and there’s something I need to submit tomorrow morning? Could you come and give it a look? Thanks”
Helvin was not a man who spent incredible hours in the office; indeed, he spent most of his time trying to get out of it. Nonetheless, he was no stranger to the Ministry at night, especially, when, like today, he’d been at a function. He’d even kipped here once, come to think of it, once he was on good terms with the security guard and too drunk to drive home.
He muttered a “Hullo” to Harvey, and explained he’d forgotten a few papers. The big black man nodded, and opened the door - he was a good chap, and had worked here almost as long as Helvin had – he wasn’t going to try anything funny, even at this time at night. There were alarms, of course, but Harvey flicked them off in the little control room and let Helvin go upstairs to his office unimpeded. Helvin trudged up the stairs slowly, past the shaft where moonlight shone through the wide windows.
It was there, just on the tip of his conciousness, like being stroked by a feather. Helvin took a step foreward, then steadied himself. Yes, he could definitely sense it. Maybe he should get Harvey to check it out.
Helvin Ballard could smell blood.
Lucas didn’t care what time it was; the mixture of drum and bass and alcohol throbbing through his system saw to that. The rain bounced off the pavement as he made his way back home, ducking beneath awnings when he could. It was too wet for parkour tonight, and he had to get into Tesco tomorrow morning. It was only a couple of blocks from the bus stop, but this involved walking halfway down the highstreet first. Lucas didn’t usually worry; it wasn’t like he was an easy target, but even so, walking down here late at night always set him slightly on edge, even when it was as wet as this…
… they were kicking a large green dumpster under the concrete overhang of the ODEON. Punks.
There were three of them, two big guys and a girl who looked like she was an extra for some kind of post-apocalyptic B movie: all neon hair and and Anarchy symbols and body piercing. She had a bicycle chain wrapped around her fist, while the two guys kicked the bin and laughed. Lucas would have to walk right past them; it would be too obvious to cross the road. He drew closer, and as he passed the red-haired girl stepped out infront of him. She might have been pretty, if she wasn’t dressed like that and sneering up at him while the chain clacked in her fist.
“You got the time?”
***
It was high time, Carolyn thought; they were five hours late now and she was barely through customs. The trans-atlantic flight had drained her, her muscles felt cramped and useless, and now she didn’t even know if her contact would be here; the young man from the museum who’d been meant to meet her at 11am, British there weren’t many people at this hour, then spotted him.
He was tall, and blonde, and holding the cardboard sign with her name on upside down. He didn’t look like the pictures; that one was academic, this one just appeared to be lost. She knew his name, though: Fred Goldberg.
“Hey”
“Oh”. Fred Goldberg was still staring into the stream of arrivals, and he reached with a start. “Hi. You must be Carolyn.”