So now that I’ve finally announced what I’ve been working on these past two years., I figure I could post a few snippets - not very long snippets, mind (I don’t want to spoil anything), but I can at least demonstrate what I mean when I say that the modern-day setting and relatively casual dialogue lets me cut loose a lot more than I’ve been able to before.
For example:
Local Woman cracks government database.
“I checked the signatures and the credentials and everything,” she says. “They all track back to the same place: United States Department of Homeland Security - but once I try to go further, I get nothing - like, sixteen concentric firewalls and encryption I’d either need a supercomputer or a tied-up cipher clerk and a rubber hose to crack.”
“So the trail goes cold?”
“Oui,” she replies flatly. “But it goes cold in front of a large man in a ten-gallon hat, firing M60 machine guns into the air, screeching like a bald eagle and screaming ‘what the fuck is a kilometre’.”
Local Man tries to give up drinking.
Wil snarls in frustration as he staggers up out of his chair again. “I’m sorry kid, I just can’t fuckin’ do this.”
“You’re giving up?”
He turns to you, his eyes almost manic as they shift from your face to the crate of alcohol on the other side of the room. “Look kid, we tried it your way, I gave it one more shot - and one more shot wasn’t enough. I’m done. I don’t know how I let this shit ruin me this bad, but that’s not a goat we’re gonna be able to unfuck in one day of improvised therapy.” He shakes his head. “I tried, I failed, I let you talk me into trying it one more time against my own second thoughts, I failed again. I can keep failing, keep making myself feel worse, and then be completely fucking useless when you all need me on my feet, or-”
His eyes slide back to the crate of booze, this time it stays there. “Or I can go for what works, even if it ain’t great.”
Local Man reminisces about his ex.
The Knight of St. George sighs. “The people she hung out with back then were other rich kids at UBC - nepobabies from Mumbai or Shenzhen who’d read some Bakunin and wanted to spite their dads. They went to some protests, waved some flags, scratched ‘ACAB’ on some bus shelters, and that was it. They were always one cell-phone call away from help, and Mandy’s parents knew that when they got their degrees, they’d ditch the black leather for suits and ties and go to the corporate jobs their families set up for them back home. That was safe.” Steve’s lips press into a thin line. “Mandy didn’t do that. Instead she started going off the grid, disappearing, that’s what worries them. That’s how all this started.”
“So how does it end?”
“Usually with something like this, and then with crying, then yelling- wait, that’s weird.”
You sit up out of your armchair. “What is?”
Steve’s frown deepens. “No yelling. There’s usually yelling by this point. In fact-”
The door opens.