wytchcroft (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wytchcroft) wrote2008-09-26 06:42 pm
wytchcroft) wrote2008-09-26 06:42 pm
Entry tags:
Some SF non fandom characters...
Here are a few of my entries to the SF character generation (challenge) thread.
Please have a look at the other entries from other people, they are more than half the prompt after all.
And join in!:):)
1. Jules Strenagan
Like an Andrew Llyod Webber musical of a William Gibson novel.
The thought went through Copey's mind every time he saw the boss leaning out across the balcony to take the mountain air.
It was always early, no direct sunlight - and the range still flickering with the dawn. Hell, maybe he went skiing after...
But looking at the man it was hard to imagine. Ski-ers, they had a certain... they were compact, they were real.
Strenagan looked like a photoshop error - a smudge to be taken out when the next layer was clicked across the image.
Could be the institute - or every institute, just did that people.
People in positions that was. Power people; like Mr 'call me Jules' Strenagan.
"Morning Jules!" Copey yodelled, he couldn't help himself.
The man across the chasm waved a hand in vague response, already beginning to retreat to his chalet. To anyone else that meant 'office'.
Sun was rising now, turning the whitewash walls livid and eating up Strenagan's silhouette in an instant.
Sighing, Copey wondered if the cigarettes he'd smuggled through entry would still be in the locker where he'd stashed them.
..........................................................................................
2. Rafael Muchini
Some people like Cathedrals and some like pasta.
It was a small thought for such a large head,
but it was a consoling one as Rafael made his way toward the Inner Temple.
It was a steep hill and he was walking into the sun, the heat causing the flies on his mule to buzz into wanton life. Still, the food was wrapped and the heat would help keep it warm.
He hoped this would be the time; the final evening he would be forced to wait outside.
This recipe - this Muchini - it would get him the access he so craved and on which an artisan's life depended.
Ah, to be a 'brother', to perhaps (dare he hope) find patronage.
It was a big dream -
but then as I said, he had a very large head.
...............................................................................
3. Daffon Yam Lie
"Then I withdraw the blade,
I stand still..." The Way of Chuang Tzu.
Conjuring the words into his mind was instinctual now, like a light switch or an alarm clock, automatic as Daffon woke up to face his cell.
He did not stint on his physical discipline, palms soft slapping against the metal floor and the gradually ragged sounds of his breath, but Daffon new confinement and he knew deep space and he knew it was the mind that was the weak-point his enemies would work on.
"But to control the mind oh Krsna, seems to me more difficult than than harnessing the four winds." Baghavad Gita.
Even Prince Arjuna had his doubts - and Daffon Yam Lie was no Prince.
Right now he was nothing; Prisoner Kviii8/X. Stuffed into the crude heap of a prison ship like a horse pill in a blister pack.
Well, sooner or later someone would...
He spat tepid water from the paper cup into the transparent sink.
No, quiet yourself, he ordered.
And immediately the words came back again;
"Then I withdraw the blade... I stand still."
After a moment, he began to clean the traces of hair and skin cells, tiny smears, from the sink.
.........................................................................
4. Loud Lou
'course my girl, you would say that! and it's all very well, but 'ow d'you expect me to keep a place like this goin' if my best vocal talents are out moonlighting on some bleedin' misson for god only knows 'oo!"
Loud Lou's wide frame shook as she pulled oxygen back into her lungs - the air itself seemed reluctant to go in there.
Rika could understand that...
but she could understand Lou as well, the woman had a point. This was not only one of the few working clubs this far outside of Quater, it was also niche.
Or was that nichee, like Loud Lou said it. Either way, an authentic 1920s saloon come cabaret in a backwater quadrant, Lou was busting a gut just to get the regular floaters in. Shame - it had looked for a long time like the fashion would hold. Oh yes, the place had been full once upon a not so long while ago. When this part of space was opening up - when people were buzzing past looking for prospects, looking for a new home, looking for fun.
Lou should've gone with them. Loud Lou, the poor woman, surrounded by empty chairs and photos from the past - when she could belt out a song with the best of them and still sneak off on a hit. Was only natural she'd be jealous of Rika now.
Yet she never once mistreated her. Had her marked for a geno-hitter straight off, but it didn't stop her giving Rika a chance on stage. Well, then again, p'raps Lou was just sharp - p'raps the Division were slipping her a nice thick envelope just to keep Rika nearby and useful. Keeping the lanes free of faith clusters was one thing, the Divvies could handle that themselves - but belief systems had a way of popping up like spontaneous electrons. That called for specialised work - and in her whole life, Rika had only met a handful of modifieds like herself.
One of them was in front of her right then, peering at her with asthmatic reddened cheeks and blue lips and from under a crooked bobbed wig. Finally getting over her wheeze, Loud Lou pointed to the singing booth.
"Come on darlin' there's at least a couple of gents in tonight - even if it is only by Virt-link. Give em a song eh? For old Lou."
Rika looked over the wall of screens and there were indeed a handful of live feeds in amongst the static. "Alright then Lou, and I'm sorry I was late."
"You go girl," Lou slapped out a beefy arm. "And don't you worry about a thing - I mean, if we can't look after our own, what can we do?"
Rika gave a thin smile and went to plug herself into the booth and onto the Virt-grid.
Lou watched her go with wide and ambiguous eyes.
..........................................................................
5. Carrion
They call me Carrion. I wear the Raven's wing.
And it's true I pick the dead mens' pockets for, as is well known, they cannot tell the tale of it. Indeed they can tell no tale at all.
And what of that - who else is there to bring back the trinkets of their lives.
The waste is a hard place - time, space, reality and memory wrought into a gate through which so many now pass.
And those poor souls who lives are lost in the venturing - who but I can track their passing?
Who but I can be found willing - to dive into the wreckage, to sift the debris; the rotsome and the deadsome of these dark highways.
Not you, and that is truth - not you, who cluster round your Guiders lights like insects to a candle, minows to a great sea creature. Do not forget to follow its wake my children. Never stray from the path my children.
Only I can go that way. Only I. Carrion.
The Raven. And in the days of ancients, were not we worshipped? Did not the Raven act as oracle. Was not the news of each man's passing heard from a beak and the flap of a wing. Did not four queens kneel in the reeking dirt outside of Thebes for such as I?
And Odin? Did he not dangle from a blighted tree with but a Raven to call forth the story?
Did we not sing the dark angelic hymns from Hades to Apollo? Our claws bit deep into that fair shoulder - and poets were glad of it.
So it is now.
Each piece of debris, bric-a brac salvaged, every new use to which the parts are put... it is the marker of their going.
And so I do what I do and I trawl the waste and I bring back what I find... and songs are made from it.
And you, so soft so safe - who lie back in comfort and connect yourself to a system you can little understand. You who listen to the songs that the last of the rim-singers perform. Think now upon that and remember whomsoever aids them, aids you.
If I bring no consolation - I bring at least the gift of inspiration - I -
Rika fisted the message machine in disgust. "Christ Lou, this one don't half run on!"
Loud Lou roared with laughter. Thin trickles of dust shook free of the ceiling. "Oh he does at that - mad full of himself he is."
"He's full of something alright!"
Lou managed to restrain another laugh. "That an' all!" she wheezed. "But it's 'im we 'ave to thank for the generator patch - and the sim cells. So, let's keep it between us eh?"
Rika sucked on a long canine for a moment, then exhaling a sharp breath, in a safe direction,
she put all thoughts of Carrion from her mind, and went to find a drink.
..................................................................................
6. Margharita McGuiver
"Will there be butlers?"
Margharita McGuiver leant across the terminal desk and stared imploringly through her antique spectacles and into the eyes of the ticket-drone.
"Butlers..." There was a whir as the memory cells processed the archaic term.
Behind Margharita, her niece Sydhie sighed and began reaching for a read-pad, she'd take any distraction right now.
The drone clicked. "There are personal attendants on all services," it said finally.
Margharita scowled. "Well, I guess that's the next best thing. What's the point in a cruise - just ripe for foul play, secrets and murder - if the prime suspect is not to be found? Eh? I've authored 207 thought novellas - and let me tell you, every one has had a butler somewhere."
She raised her hands, since there was a notable lack of reaction from the drone. "I'm Margharita McGuiver for heaven's sake - my fans on the grid would expect nothing less!" She paused for effect. "Nor would Phoenix OShea, hot tempered ace detective and heroine."
Heroin... what I wouldn't give right now, thought Syd to herself. She could feel the angry drilling eyes, the bumping elbows, luggage, and - yes, there, not entirely unwelcome gropings of the blocked queue.
"Tell me, will this trip last long, only a decent plot takes time..."
"Under the circumstances..." the drone sounded almost haughty, "the question is meaningless."
"Huh?" The great mane of dyed hair she wore wiggled as Margharita shook her head.
"Once through the Gate - time has no reality," explained the drone.
"Instant forever," Syd clarified without looking up.
"Oh, well." Madame McGuiver was at something of a loss. Snatching the tickets she motioned impatiently to her niece (the girl was looking distinctly peculiar, Margharita noted) and wafted off towards the embarkation area.
Things did look up somewhat, once the flight was underway. Fifteen minutes into the pre-jump drift, she accepted a drink from a ratty-looking fellow in a dark uniform... and if anyone fit the suspect butler profile it was he.
Two minutes before the Gate however, things took a downturn again - as the man was discovered cyanose and very dead in the micro-galley.
"Drat," was all poor Margharita could think to say.
Please have a look at the other entries from other people, they are more than half the prompt after all.
And join in!:):)
1. Jules Strenagan
Like an Andrew Llyod Webber musical of a William Gibson novel.
The thought went through Copey's mind every time he saw the boss leaning out across the balcony to take the mountain air.
It was always early, no direct sunlight - and the range still flickering with the dawn. Hell, maybe he went skiing after...
But looking at the man it was hard to imagine. Ski-ers, they had a certain... they were compact, they were real.
Strenagan looked like a photoshop error - a smudge to be taken out when the next layer was clicked across the image.
Could be the institute - or every institute, just did that people.
People in positions that was. Power people; like Mr 'call me Jules' Strenagan.
"Morning Jules!" Copey yodelled, he couldn't help himself.
The man across the chasm waved a hand in vague response, already beginning to retreat to his chalet. To anyone else that meant 'office'.
Sun was rising now, turning the whitewash walls livid and eating up Strenagan's silhouette in an instant.
Sighing, Copey wondered if the cigarettes he'd smuggled through entry would still be in the locker where he'd stashed them.
..........................................................................................
2. Rafael Muchini
Some people like Cathedrals and some like pasta.
It was a small thought for such a large head,
but it was a consoling one as Rafael made his way toward the Inner Temple.
It was a steep hill and he was walking into the sun, the heat causing the flies on his mule to buzz into wanton life. Still, the food was wrapped and the heat would help keep it warm.
He hoped this would be the time; the final evening he would be forced to wait outside.
This recipe - this Muchini - it would get him the access he so craved and on which an artisan's life depended.
Ah, to be a 'brother', to perhaps (dare he hope) find patronage.
It was a big dream -
but then as I said, he had a very large head.
...............................................................................
3. Daffon Yam Lie
"Then I withdraw the blade,
I stand still..." The Way of Chuang Tzu.
Conjuring the words into his mind was instinctual now, like a light switch or an alarm clock, automatic as Daffon woke up to face his cell.
He did not stint on his physical discipline, palms soft slapping against the metal floor and the gradually ragged sounds of his breath, but Daffon new confinement and he knew deep space and he knew it was the mind that was the weak-point his enemies would work on.
"But to control the mind oh Krsna, seems to me more difficult than than harnessing the four winds." Baghavad Gita.
Even Prince Arjuna had his doubts - and Daffon Yam Lie was no Prince.
Right now he was nothing; Prisoner Kviii8/X. Stuffed into the crude heap of a prison ship like a horse pill in a blister pack.
Well, sooner or later someone would...
He spat tepid water from the paper cup into the transparent sink.
No, quiet yourself, he ordered.
And immediately the words came back again;
"Then I withdraw the blade... I stand still."
After a moment, he began to clean the traces of hair and skin cells, tiny smears, from the sink.
.........................................................................
4. Loud Lou
'course my girl, you would say that! and it's all very well, but 'ow d'you expect me to keep a place like this goin' if my best vocal talents are out moonlighting on some bleedin' misson for god only knows 'oo!"
Loud Lou's wide frame shook as she pulled oxygen back into her lungs - the air itself seemed reluctant to go in there.
Rika could understand that...
but she could understand Lou as well, the woman had a point. This was not only one of the few working clubs this far outside of Quater, it was also niche.
Or was that nichee, like Loud Lou said it. Either way, an authentic 1920s saloon come cabaret in a backwater quadrant, Lou was busting a gut just to get the regular floaters in. Shame - it had looked for a long time like the fashion would hold. Oh yes, the place had been full once upon a not so long while ago. When this part of space was opening up - when people were buzzing past looking for prospects, looking for a new home, looking for fun.
Lou should've gone with them. Loud Lou, the poor woman, surrounded by empty chairs and photos from the past - when she could belt out a song with the best of them and still sneak off on a hit. Was only natural she'd be jealous of Rika now.
Yet she never once mistreated her. Had her marked for a geno-hitter straight off, but it didn't stop her giving Rika a chance on stage. Well, then again, p'raps Lou was just sharp - p'raps the Division were slipping her a nice thick envelope just to keep Rika nearby and useful. Keeping the lanes free of faith clusters was one thing, the Divvies could handle that themselves - but belief systems had a way of popping up like spontaneous electrons. That called for specialised work - and in her whole life, Rika had only met a handful of modifieds like herself.
One of them was in front of her right then, peering at her with asthmatic reddened cheeks and blue lips and from under a crooked bobbed wig. Finally getting over her wheeze, Loud Lou pointed to the singing booth.
"Come on darlin' there's at least a couple of gents in tonight - even if it is only by Virt-link. Give em a song eh? For old Lou."
Rika looked over the wall of screens and there were indeed a handful of live feeds in amongst the static. "Alright then Lou, and I'm sorry I was late."
"You go girl," Lou slapped out a beefy arm. "And don't you worry about a thing - I mean, if we can't look after our own, what can we do?"
Rika gave a thin smile and went to plug herself into the booth and onto the Virt-grid.
Lou watched her go with wide and ambiguous eyes.
..........................................................................
5. Carrion
They call me Carrion. I wear the Raven's wing.
And it's true I pick the dead mens' pockets for, as is well known, they cannot tell the tale of it. Indeed they can tell no tale at all.
And what of that - who else is there to bring back the trinkets of their lives.
The waste is a hard place - time, space, reality and memory wrought into a gate through which so many now pass.
And those poor souls who lives are lost in the venturing - who but I can track their passing?
Who but I can be found willing - to dive into the wreckage, to sift the debris; the rotsome and the deadsome of these dark highways.
Not you, and that is truth - not you, who cluster round your Guiders lights like insects to a candle, minows to a great sea creature. Do not forget to follow its wake my children. Never stray from the path my children.
Only I can go that way. Only I. Carrion.
The Raven. And in the days of ancients, were not we worshipped? Did not the Raven act as oracle. Was not the news of each man's passing heard from a beak and the flap of a wing. Did not four queens kneel in the reeking dirt outside of Thebes for such as I?
And Odin? Did he not dangle from a blighted tree with but a Raven to call forth the story?
Did we not sing the dark angelic hymns from Hades to Apollo? Our claws bit deep into that fair shoulder - and poets were glad of it.
So it is now.
Each piece of debris, bric-a brac salvaged, every new use to which the parts are put... it is the marker of their going.
And so I do what I do and I trawl the waste and I bring back what I find... and songs are made from it.
And you, so soft so safe - who lie back in comfort and connect yourself to a system you can little understand. You who listen to the songs that the last of the rim-singers perform. Think now upon that and remember whomsoever aids them, aids you.
If I bring no consolation - I bring at least the gift of inspiration - I -
Rika fisted the message machine in disgust. "Christ Lou, this one don't half run on!"
Loud Lou roared with laughter. Thin trickles of dust shook free of the ceiling. "Oh he does at that - mad full of himself he is."
"He's full of something alright!"
Lou managed to restrain another laugh. "That an' all!" she wheezed. "But it's 'im we 'ave to thank for the generator patch - and the sim cells. So, let's keep it between us eh?"
Rika sucked on a long canine for a moment, then exhaling a sharp breath, in a safe direction,
she put all thoughts of Carrion from her mind, and went to find a drink.
..................................................................................
6. Margharita McGuiver
"Will there be butlers?"
Margharita McGuiver leant across the terminal desk and stared imploringly through her antique spectacles and into the eyes of the ticket-drone.
"Butlers..." There was a whir as the memory cells processed the archaic term.
Behind Margharita, her niece Sydhie sighed and began reaching for a read-pad, she'd take any distraction right now.
The drone clicked. "There are personal attendants on all services," it said finally.
Margharita scowled. "Well, I guess that's the next best thing. What's the point in a cruise - just ripe for foul play, secrets and murder - if the prime suspect is not to be found? Eh? I've authored 207 thought novellas - and let me tell you, every one has had a butler somewhere."
She raised her hands, since there was a notable lack of reaction from the drone. "I'm Margharita McGuiver for heaven's sake - my fans on the grid would expect nothing less!" She paused for effect. "Nor would Phoenix OShea, hot tempered ace detective and heroine."
Heroin... what I wouldn't give right now, thought Syd to herself. She could feel the angry drilling eyes, the bumping elbows, luggage, and - yes, there, not entirely unwelcome gropings of the blocked queue.
"Tell me, will this trip last long, only a decent plot takes time..."
"Under the circumstances..." the drone sounded almost haughty, "the question is meaningless."
"Huh?" The great mane of dyed hair she wore wiggled as Margharita shook her head.
"Once through the Gate - time has no reality," explained the drone.
"Instant forever," Syd clarified without looking up.
"Oh, well." Madame McGuiver was at something of a loss. Snatching the tickets she motioned impatiently to her niece (the girl was looking distinctly peculiar, Margharita noted) and wafted off towards the embarkation area.
Things did look up somewhat, once the flight was underway. Fifteen minutes into the pre-jump drift, she accepted a drink from a ratty-looking fellow in a dark uniform... and if anyone fit the suspect butler profile it was he.
Two minutes before the Gate however, things took a downturn again - as the man was discovered cyanose and very dead in the micro-galley.
"Drat," was all poor Margharita could think to say.