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fandomweekly2017-02-03 06:45 pm
but_can_i_be_trusted) wrote in fandomweekly2017-02-03 06:45 pm
Entry tags:
[#031] Rain
Theme Prompt: #031: Intellectual Property
Title: 'Rain'
Fandom: Original
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; mild violence; mild swearing; character death
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 911
Summary: Well. There went the errand boy.
I slid the blinds aside and stared at the rain as it fell over the city. A shift in the wind current sent drops in a careless splatter across the plate glass. I'd always liked rain. It helped me to think. And I was in a thinking mood.
There was a low rumble of thunder somewhere in the background. I closed my eyes, remembering. Suddenly, I was twenty-three again, a clever-clogs kid with a startup company. I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Precocious. Bursting with gleaming new ideas. Ideas that were as fresh as the paint that I could still smell even a few weeks in.
And I was naïve. Who isn't, at that age?
It was raining when he first came to my office. My company was still in its infancy, but everyone was watching me eagerly, to see what I'd come up with next. I'd already made a name for myself, so good things were on the horizon.
But he came, and something changed. He worked for one of those shady syndicates you always hear about. The people he represented had a proposition for me. You know the kind: A proposition where you're grateful that they pay you by letting you live, in exchange for something you don't want to lose.
To make a long story short, they insisted on taking the best idea I'd ever had. I never knew how they even got wind of it; asking didn't seem smart.
They were generous, to be honest. I got to keep my company, and everything else I was producing. I had other brain children, sure. But the one they took was my baby. Nobody could know it was mine, or the pittance--comparatively speaking--that they paid me every month to keep my mouth shut would fly away like a flock of swallows leaving Capistrano.
Fast-forward to now. I was rich enough. Nothing much was taken from me. I'd probably made many times more off of everything else than I would have off of just that one idea. Did I resent it? Sure, I did. Anybody would. Was I glad that I still got to live, and make my fortune? Damn straight. So I lost my prize. I could do without it.
But that lack of credit itched under my skin, a constant irritant.
Thunder boomed again, closer this time. It ran on for a minute, not quite drowning out the soft clicks as my office door opened, then closed again. There was the gentle vvvvipp-vvvvipp sound of fancy shoes gliding across the carpet.
I leaned a forearm on the glass of the window, not bothering to turn around. "I knew you'd be back," I told him.
"How?" By the tone of his voice, he was taken aback.
"Had a hunch."
I turned now. He was older, too; we were both kids back then. He looked weary, with a few hard edges. In his line of work, he was probably lucky to live this long.
I crossed to the wet bar. "Get you anything?" I helped myself to a whiskey.
"No, thanks." At least he had the manners to join me, taking a seat on one of the stools.
"They couldn't send another young pup, I guess," I muttered.
"I asked to come," he replied, folding his hands on the smooth surface of the bar. "I felt personally invested."
"So, what happened," I asked him. "They finally got fed up with paying the hush money?"
He frowned at me. "Don't take it so hard, buddy. The economy's a bitch. Profit margin's going down. You're lucky you weren't the one who took a hit."
Yeah. It was the same story everywhere, lately. I was lucky. My favorite brain child was a hit for a while. Then, people lost interest, moved on to the Next Big Thing. Wasn't there always a Next Big Thing, to lure their hard-earned dollars away?
"We have to cut costs somewhere," he continued.
"And I'm the unnecessary expense. I'd like to pretend that you've got a thick envelope on you somewhere, with a one-way ticket to Antigua, where I can relax on some sunny beach for the rest of my life, and not worry about your people slowly buying out my company. But I'm betting that there's a semiautomatic in your pocket, instead."
Laughing, he took said semiautomatic out, casually setting it on the bar. "You should go to Vegas sometime."
I chuckled. "Doesn't look like I have the time, does it? Looks like I've got other things I need to do."
"I'm afraid so, buddy. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. All good things come to an end."
I turned to the whiskey bottle, hand closing around its neck as though to pour myself a refill. Instead, I swung the bottle around, crashing it against his head. Before he could react, I grabbed the gun, unloading it into him.
Well. There went the errand boy. I could claim self-defense, and it'd be true. And I might get away with it, as far as the law was concerned. I'd be free and clear.
But not where the guys who sent him were concerned. There'd be a target on my back for the rest of my life. And it'd probably be a short life; word travelled fast in the city, these days.
But it wouldn't travel fast enough for me to clear out my bank account and buy a one-way ticket to Antigua.
I wondered if it was raining there.
Title: 'Rain'
Fandom: Original
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; mild violence; mild swearing; character death
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 911
Summary: Well. There went the errand boy.
I slid the blinds aside and stared at the rain as it fell over the city. A shift in the wind current sent drops in a careless splatter across the plate glass. I'd always liked rain. It helped me to think. And I was in a thinking mood.
There was a low rumble of thunder somewhere in the background. I closed my eyes, remembering. Suddenly, I was twenty-three again, a clever-clogs kid with a startup company. I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Precocious. Bursting with gleaming new ideas. Ideas that were as fresh as the paint that I could still smell even a few weeks in.
And I was naïve. Who isn't, at that age?
It was raining when he first came to my office. My company was still in its infancy, but everyone was watching me eagerly, to see what I'd come up with next. I'd already made a name for myself, so good things were on the horizon.
But he came, and something changed. He worked for one of those shady syndicates you always hear about. The people he represented had a proposition for me. You know the kind: A proposition where you're grateful that they pay you by letting you live, in exchange for something you don't want to lose.
To make a long story short, they insisted on taking the best idea I'd ever had. I never knew how they even got wind of it; asking didn't seem smart.
They were generous, to be honest. I got to keep my company, and everything else I was producing. I had other brain children, sure. But the one they took was my baby. Nobody could know it was mine, or the pittance--comparatively speaking--that they paid me every month to keep my mouth shut would fly away like a flock of swallows leaving Capistrano.
Fast-forward to now. I was rich enough. Nothing much was taken from me. I'd probably made many times more off of everything else than I would have off of just that one idea. Did I resent it? Sure, I did. Anybody would. Was I glad that I still got to live, and make my fortune? Damn straight. So I lost my prize. I could do without it.
But that lack of credit itched under my skin, a constant irritant.
Thunder boomed again, closer this time. It ran on for a minute, not quite drowning out the soft clicks as my office door opened, then closed again. There was the gentle vvvvipp-vvvvipp sound of fancy shoes gliding across the carpet.
I leaned a forearm on the glass of the window, not bothering to turn around. "I knew you'd be back," I told him.
"How?" By the tone of his voice, he was taken aback.
"Had a hunch."
I turned now. He was older, too; we were both kids back then. He looked weary, with a few hard edges. In his line of work, he was probably lucky to live this long.
I crossed to the wet bar. "Get you anything?" I helped myself to a whiskey.
"No, thanks." At least he had the manners to join me, taking a seat on one of the stools.
"They couldn't send another young pup, I guess," I muttered.
"I asked to come," he replied, folding his hands on the smooth surface of the bar. "I felt personally invested."
"So, what happened," I asked him. "They finally got fed up with paying the hush money?"
He frowned at me. "Don't take it so hard, buddy. The economy's a bitch. Profit margin's going down. You're lucky you weren't the one who took a hit."
Yeah. It was the same story everywhere, lately. I was lucky. My favorite brain child was a hit for a while. Then, people lost interest, moved on to the Next Big Thing. Wasn't there always a Next Big Thing, to lure their hard-earned dollars away?
"We have to cut costs somewhere," he continued.
"And I'm the unnecessary expense. I'd like to pretend that you've got a thick envelope on you somewhere, with a one-way ticket to Antigua, where I can relax on some sunny beach for the rest of my life, and not worry about your people slowly buying out my company. But I'm betting that there's a semiautomatic in your pocket, instead."
Laughing, he took said semiautomatic out, casually setting it on the bar. "You should go to Vegas sometime."
I chuckled. "Doesn't look like I have the time, does it? Looks like I've got other things I need to do."
"I'm afraid so, buddy. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. All good things come to an end."
I turned to the whiskey bottle, hand closing around its neck as though to pour myself a refill. Instead, I swung the bottle around, crashing it against his head. Before he could react, I grabbed the gun, unloading it into him.
Well. There went the errand boy. I could claim self-defense, and it'd be true. And I might get away with it, as far as the law was concerned. I'd be free and clear.
But not where the guys who sent him were concerned. There'd be a target on my back for the rest of my life. And it'd probably be a short life; word travelled fast in the city, these days.
But it wouldn't travel fast enough for me to clear out my bank account and buy a one-way ticket to Antigua.
I wondered if it was raining there.
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