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the_siobhanJust to be clear, this is not NaDruWriNi, and I did not plan this, but I am drinking and I do feel like doing some writing, just not on my novel.
I have had three rum & ginger beer, one gin & tonic, and one glass of red wine. I suspect I am going to regret all my life choices in the morning.
So! Writing! I went back to last year's writing prompt here and I decided to use![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
50_ft_queenie's prompt.
What superpower would you most like to have?
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
I’ve heard the question so many times I already know how to keep the argument short. “No. It’s a terrible idea. I’m doing it anyway. You can wait back at the shelter if you want. Or you can pass me the wire cutters.”
I hold my hand backwards behind me with my palm up. I don’t look around. A few seconds later I feel the wire cutters pressing into my palm.
I clip the wires in order. Blue, green, yellow. Wait the count of seven. Red. Done. There was a gasp behind me as I put my hand on the fence. I smiled and straightened up, shoving the wire cutters into my back pocket. That interval was the hardest part of the sequence to figure out and I always feel a tiny thrill when I complete the routine safely.
I’m always the first to start climbing, but never the first actually over the fence. I’m not the youngest here by several decades - not the oldest either, but many of my companions have a speed and litheness I will never see again. And they have been hungry for a long, long time.
I’m over the fence and moving towards the warehouse when Gene catches up with me. I grab his arm and lean into his ear. “Don’t forget, the bomb crew needs to plant three charges by the back garage - there are eliminator units there that aren’t on the manifest.”
“You can’t know th… “ he starts, but I interrupt him.
“Look, I was right about being able to get us through the fence, wasn’t I? Trust me on this.”
He hesitates, staring into my eyes. My certainty must have shown on my face somehow, because he finally nods and waves over his second-in-command. A quiet word and I see the second man tap his ear. Three women split off from the rest of the crowd and run around the side of the warehouse.
Gene follows the crowd onto the warehouse floor and I take a deep breath before following him. The first hard part is coming up.
A sentry steps onto the balcony of the watch tower. He just a working shlub, handed a gun and told to protect the boxes of food with his life. The people below are calling to him, telling him to throw down his gun and join us, become a part of history. At this point he might see himself in the crowd and forsake the 5x5 room that has become his entire existence. Or he might think of the family he hasn’t seen in months, maybe years, so reliant on his meager paycheque.
I have seen both decisions. Many, many times. Humans are really the only unpredictable part of this sequence of events.
The guard lifts his gun to his shoulder. Right, paycheque it is. I grab Gene and throw us both sideways as bullets rips splinters out of the wall where he was standing seconds earlier. We hit the floor and I grunt as an elbow connects with one of my ribs. Not the worst landing I’ve ever made, but not the best either. That’s gonna leave a mark.
I roll off Gene onto my hands and knees and grab a fistful of his shirt to drag him behind me. He shakes off his shock in seconds and the two of us end up scuttling like crabs towards the warehouse door. By the time we reach the touchpad it’s safe to stand up again - I know without looking around that our gang of rebels have swarmed their way up the tower and the sentry has been thrown over the side. I enter the code and the door slides open. Gene starts to surge past me and I grab his shirt again.
“Wait,” I said.
Gene has just enough time to open his mouth for the question he’s about to ask when all the alarms go off.
“Sentry not at his post,” I explain. I bend over and pick up some scrap of something - a stained piece of paper, a shred of a leaf perhaps - and toss it into the room. The laser turns it into a fleck of cinder spiraling gently downward towards our feet.
“They won’t send anybody as long as the robots don’t request backup, so if you’re bomb crew has done their job we have a couple of hours. Stay here and I’ll get the lasers turned off.”
I’ve earned his respect by now and he stays put. Other people are coming in the doors now and he waves them back, leaving me room to work.
One step forward, three to the right. Wait the count of two. Step left. The first laser sears a spot still warm from my footprints. Step left again, dash forward, freeze. Another burst of fire from the second laser. Both will take 60 seconds to recharge, and I know the third one is malfunctioning so I have lots of time. I walk over to the wall and pull the wire cutters out of my pocket.
I make it through lasers four, five, six and seven just as easily.
Two more. I know exactly where they will strike but I don’t have the precise timing down yet. I count and leap forward just at the moment where one of the lasers blasts the spot where I was standing. The second my boots hit the ground, I step sideways but I’m not fast enough. I am struck with an indescribable spike of pain and the world goes bright red.
I swear, but there is no air to carry the sound. I am floating bodiless in a sea of red that slowly fades to black. The numbers one to six hang in the air in front of me.
I ponder.
I could anchor my life past the fence, past the bomb crew - even past the first set of lasers. But I have no idea how this raid is going to go, how this entire revolution is going to go. I’m not willing to take the chance that I won’t want to escape back to an earlier decision, chose a different path at some pivotal fork in the road.
I sigh, and I mentally go over th moves I made in the seconds before my death. I will choose differently next time.
I select the glowing 6. The numbers fade and I find myself on my knees examining the exposed wires leading into the base of an electric fence.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“No. It’s a terrible idea. I’m doing it anyway. You can wait back at the shelter if you want. Or you can pass me the wire cutters.”
Starting another glass of wine. What shall I do next?
I have had three rum & ginger beer, one gin & tonic, and one glass of red wine. I suspect I am going to regret all my life choices in the morning.
So! Writing! I went back to last year's writing prompt here and I decided to use
50_ft_queenie's prompt. What superpower would you most like to have?
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
I’ve heard the question so many times I already know how to keep the argument short. “No. It’s a terrible idea. I’m doing it anyway. You can wait back at the shelter if you want. Or you can pass me the wire cutters.”
I hold my hand backwards behind me with my palm up. I don’t look around. A few seconds later I feel the wire cutters pressing into my palm.
I clip the wires in order. Blue, green, yellow. Wait the count of seven. Red. Done. There was a gasp behind me as I put my hand on the fence. I smiled and straightened up, shoving the wire cutters into my back pocket. That interval was the hardest part of the sequence to figure out and I always feel a tiny thrill when I complete the routine safely.
I’m always the first to start climbing, but never the first actually over the fence. I’m not the youngest here by several decades - not the oldest either, but many of my companions have a speed and litheness I will never see again. And they have been hungry for a long, long time.
I’m over the fence and moving towards the warehouse when Gene catches up with me. I grab his arm and lean into his ear. “Don’t forget, the bomb crew needs to plant three charges by the back garage - there are eliminator units there that aren’t on the manifest.”
“You can’t know th… “ he starts, but I interrupt him.
“Look, I was right about being able to get us through the fence, wasn’t I? Trust me on this.”
He hesitates, staring into my eyes. My certainty must have shown on my face somehow, because he finally nods and waves over his second-in-command. A quiet word and I see the second man tap his ear. Three women split off from the rest of the crowd and run around the side of the warehouse.
Gene follows the crowd onto the warehouse floor and I take a deep breath before following him. The first hard part is coming up.
A sentry steps onto the balcony of the watch tower. He just a working shlub, handed a gun and told to protect the boxes of food with his life. The people below are calling to him, telling him to throw down his gun and join us, become a part of history. At this point he might see himself in the crowd and forsake the 5x5 room that has become his entire existence. Or he might think of the family he hasn’t seen in months, maybe years, so reliant on his meager paycheque.
I have seen both decisions. Many, many times. Humans are really the only unpredictable part of this sequence of events.
The guard lifts his gun to his shoulder. Right, paycheque it is. I grab Gene and throw us both sideways as bullets rips splinters out of the wall where he was standing seconds earlier. We hit the floor and I grunt as an elbow connects with one of my ribs. Not the worst landing I’ve ever made, but not the best either. That’s gonna leave a mark.
I roll off Gene onto my hands and knees and grab a fistful of his shirt to drag him behind me. He shakes off his shock in seconds and the two of us end up scuttling like crabs towards the warehouse door. By the time we reach the touchpad it’s safe to stand up again - I know without looking around that our gang of rebels have swarmed their way up the tower and the sentry has been thrown over the side. I enter the code and the door slides open. Gene starts to surge past me and I grab his shirt again.
“Wait,” I said.
Gene has just enough time to open his mouth for the question he’s about to ask when all the alarms go off.
“Sentry not at his post,” I explain. I bend over and pick up some scrap of something - a stained piece of paper, a shred of a leaf perhaps - and toss it into the room. The laser turns it into a fleck of cinder spiraling gently downward towards our feet.
“They won’t send anybody as long as the robots don’t request backup, so if you’re bomb crew has done their job we have a couple of hours. Stay here and I’ll get the lasers turned off.”
I’ve earned his respect by now and he stays put. Other people are coming in the doors now and he waves them back, leaving me room to work.
One step forward, three to the right. Wait the count of two. Step left. The first laser sears a spot still warm from my footprints. Step left again, dash forward, freeze. Another burst of fire from the second laser. Both will take 60 seconds to recharge, and I know the third one is malfunctioning so I have lots of time. I walk over to the wall and pull the wire cutters out of my pocket.
I make it through lasers four, five, six and seven just as easily.
Two more. I know exactly where they will strike but I don’t have the precise timing down yet. I count and leap forward just at the moment where one of the lasers blasts the spot where I was standing. The second my boots hit the ground, I step sideways but I’m not fast enough. I am struck with an indescribable spike of pain and the world goes bright red.
I swear, but there is no air to carry the sound. I am floating bodiless in a sea of red that slowly fades to black. The numbers one to six hang in the air in front of me.
I ponder.
I could anchor my life past the fence, past the bomb crew - even past the first set of lasers. But I have no idea how this raid is going to go, how this entire revolution is going to go. I’m not willing to take the chance that I won’t want to escape back to an earlier decision, chose a different path at some pivotal fork in the road.
I sigh, and I mentally go over th moves I made in the seconds before my death. I will choose differently next time.
I select the glowing 6. The numbers fade and I find myself on my knees examining the exposed wires leading into the base of an electric fence.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“No. It’s a terrible idea. I’m doing it anyway. You can wait back at the shelter if you want. Or you can pass me the wire cutters.”
Starting another glass of wine. What shall I do next?