Writing update
Mar. 18th, 2014 01:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valarltd1129 words added to Anthony. Rough draft is done at 38105 words.
Have a taste of the next completed book in the Eight Thrones 'verse
The clout to the back of his head was totally expected and it knocked him into the table.
He damn near smiled and managed to put his passive face back on before he turned.
"Please don't damage him further," came a sharp voice from the doorway. "I am not authorized to pay for broken goods."
Anthony did turn at that voice. It was different. He'd always loved listening to voices. He could already pick out that this man was from nowhere near here. He also didn't sound the pleasant type. It was almost nice. Everyone in the Heartlands was either a raging fuckwad or saccharine sweet. He stood, all of his 5'4 frame lanky and thin from the various 'treatments', light red/blonde hair that had been shaved back, and a striking set of blue eyes. He blinked a little to clear his vision.
The man in the door was shorter than he was, just as thin but better dressed. His hair alone, curling down onto his shoulders, would have gotten him arrested for violating public appearance laws back home. "Do sit down, I don't have all afternoon." He looked at the guard. "Coffee now, two sugars." He took a seat at one table, opened his briefcase and began taking out paperwork. After a moment he realized Anthony was still standing and the guard had not moved. "Did I stutter? You, sit. You, coffee." He polished his glasses and Anthony caught a glimpse of an earring in his upper ear.
Raising an eyebrow, Anthony slid into a seat across from the man. Unpersons weren't allowed lawyers. They had no rights. He was already dead, and had been trying to make them finish the job...he was too proud to do it himself. This was interesting, and strange. He didn't say a word, watching and keeping his own counsel for now.
"Anthony Hatcher, age twenty, two years in the," he cleared his throat, "so called care of this facility. You are marked as Reprobate, and hence not eligible for release until two doctors sign off on you as cured. And at the rate you're going, our fine friend there will probably beat you to death before that happens." The lawyer shuffled some papers. "Where is that coffee?" he demanded in a very loud voice, one clearly used to having its orders obeyed. "I am David Inman, of Inman, Benedetto and Sparks. I represent a certain party who would like to see your talents and brains put to use, rather than spattered all over the dayroom floor. If that fucking coffee isn't here before I finish this sentence-"
An orderly came in with a styrofoam cup. Mr. Inman sniffed it and looked at him. "I think we can do better than this sludge. Make a fresh pot and have a cup here before I finish negotiations."
Have a taste of the next completed book in the Eight Thrones 'verse
The clout to the back of his head was totally expected and it knocked him into the table.
He damn near smiled and managed to put his passive face back on before he turned.
"Please don't damage him further," came a sharp voice from the doorway. "I am not authorized to pay for broken goods."
Anthony did turn at that voice. It was different. He'd always loved listening to voices. He could already pick out that this man was from nowhere near here. He also didn't sound the pleasant type. It was almost nice. Everyone in the Heartlands was either a raging fuckwad or saccharine sweet. He stood, all of his 5'4 frame lanky and thin from the various 'treatments', light red/blonde hair that had been shaved back, and a striking set of blue eyes. He blinked a little to clear his vision.
The man in the door was shorter than he was, just as thin but better dressed. His hair alone, curling down onto his shoulders, would have gotten him arrested for violating public appearance laws back home. "Do sit down, I don't have all afternoon." He looked at the guard. "Coffee now, two sugars." He took a seat at one table, opened his briefcase and began taking out paperwork. After a moment he realized Anthony was still standing and the guard had not moved. "Did I stutter? You, sit. You, coffee." He polished his glasses and Anthony caught a glimpse of an earring in his upper ear.
Raising an eyebrow, Anthony slid into a seat across from the man. Unpersons weren't allowed lawyers. They had no rights. He was already dead, and had been trying to make them finish the job...he was too proud to do it himself. This was interesting, and strange. He didn't say a word, watching and keeping his own counsel for now.
"Anthony Hatcher, age twenty, two years in the," he cleared his throat, "so called care of this facility. You are marked as Reprobate, and hence not eligible for release until two doctors sign off on you as cured. And at the rate you're going, our fine friend there will probably beat you to death before that happens." The lawyer shuffled some papers. "Where is that coffee?" he demanded in a very loud voice, one clearly used to having its orders obeyed. "I am David Inman, of Inman, Benedetto and Sparks. I represent a certain party who would like to see your talents and brains put to use, rather than spattered all over the dayroom floor. If that fucking coffee isn't here before I finish this sentence-"
An orderly came in with a styrofoam cup. Mr. Inman sniffed it and looked at him. "I think we can do better than this sludge. Make a fresh pot and have a cup here before I finish negotiations."
