This is an experiment. If this goes well, and the muse keeps it up, I'll see about more chapters.
Oh, and I don't own black lagoon, the characters, or any of that. I just like writing stories.
----------------------------------
I've never minded making a mess.
In fact, it's pretty fun. Taking something clean, sparkly, shiny, and getting dirt, mud, blood, shit, what have you, getting anything and everything all over it and just watching the clean melt away... Turning something someone used to like or admire into an object of revulsion. Something that someone had spent time and care making spotless, splattered and ruined.
That's a singular joy for me. When I was younger I used to enjoy watching messes being washed away, too. It's a kind of magic, watching the clean come back so you could do it again. I still like it now, but not as much as making the mess in the first place.
I'm lucky, you see. I get to work in a messy job. I get to spray white tiled floors with blood, offal, shredded meat, and bone splinters. I get paid to do it. Sometimes to pigs, sometimes to people. Sometimes the pigs are alive when they come to me. I make it quick for them. Sometimes the people are alive when they come to me. Them I don't rush. Anyone who ends up in front of me isn't really human anymore. They've done stuff that puts them out of that category. They DESERVE the machine.
My name's Frederica Sawyer. My boss called me Sawyer the Cleaner once, and it stuck. I don't mind it.
I've got other interests, though. Work isn't my life. For a while there it was, but that was just to set up a routine, get food on the table, and keep it together. Otherwise I would've lost it. Back then I needed something to put myself around... Kind of a spine. That's the secret to recovering from bad, really bad shit. You find something calming and repetitive and productive, and you set yourself to it and don't think of anything but the task at hand. And you keep at it until enough time passes, and life is better.
Routine.
Worked for me, I'll say that.
Hell, it even got me respect from the people I gave a shit about. And THAT's worth damn near anything.
Pilltime. Back to write more after I take my medication.
Alright, back. So, here I am in a pretty good hotel room. It's nice... Not a roach anywhere. Got a good view of the Wan Chai skyline, across the bay, lit up like a theme park at night. The room's part of a suite, with a queen-sized bed that I'm currently sprawled over, and a nice table and lamp by the door. Small bathroom off to the side, so I don't have to go out into the main suite for a shower or a piss. The room's got its own tv too, with a VCR built in. Unfortunately there's nothing good on. I'm in Hong Kong, the action movie capital of the hemisphere, and the only things on right now are documentaries, cooking shows, and romance epics. Depressing as hell. I'd kill for an 80's American style action movie right about now.
The machine's in the corner, still in its case. There it'll stay, unless things go wrong. Right now I'm kinda hoping that they do. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm bored. I only write when I'm bored.
Bored and hungry, my stomach reminds me. Time for a snack.
Back again.
I noticed that things were pretty quiet when I went into the main room. I'd figured that Shen Hua and Lawton were done bumping uglies by now, and it was good to be right. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a prude, but she's noisy as hell when she gets going. And since I left my porn and toys at home, I didn't feel like getting worked up with no good release.
On the off chance that someone reads this, I figure I'd better clarify this now, for the perverts. I LOVE my chainsaw, but not in THAT way. It does NOT have an adapter, or an attachment, or any other means of safe stimulation. Thank you, and look elsewhere for your jollies.
Anyway, no one stopped me as I headed into the kitchenette for a snack from the ludicrously-priced "complimentary" meal shelf. The boss was footing the bill, and he wouldn't grudge me some pre-prepared peking duck.
Eating's a pain sometimes. My esophagus never really recovered from when it was torn open. I get a reminder of that every time I swallow, which is why I usually eat alone.
Then on the way back to my room, I noticed that the door was open to the lounge area, and the TV light was flickering in the otherwise dark room. Poking my head in, I saw Lawton doing his own version of yoga in front of the TV. He was wearing black sweats and his body was still wet, presumably from a shower.
Of course he had his sunglasses on. It's Lawton.
He glanced over and I waved. He nodded back, without missing a beat. You could call what he was doing interpretive yoga with some tai chi thrown in. And a few modifications which he thinks looks cool.
He's good company and he'd pushed the couch back a bit, so I wandered over to it and took a seat, snacking on duck drumstick as he continued swaying and bending and, well, posing.
The man poses. It's what he does. Lawton's goal in life is to look the coolest that he can look. At all times. Just in case anyone's watching. He figures that once he's got that down, he'll work on being the coolest that he can be. Having survived Roanapur for five years, I can honestly say that there are worse goals.
He'd be pretentious and annoying, except for the indisputable fact that he's probably the nicest person I've ever met.
Which is probably why he started talking while I was working on downing the duck. He's okay with the fact that I'm silent most of the time, and he knows that I like having people talk to me, and not expect a verbal answer back.
"Salutations, Sawyer. I do hope that my nighttime devotions did not trouble your rest."
I shook my head, and indicated my clothes. Simple black skirt, striped stockings, and leotard. Not the usual sleeping sweats. Translation: No worries, I haven't gone to bed yet.
"Mm." He moved through a weird pirouette, something reminescent of a mix between swan lake and a Riverdance. I stifled a smile as he stumbled, caught himself, and glanced up to see if I'd caught it. By then my eyes were firmly affixed to my meal. Nope, I hadn't seen the near miss, his cool was preserved and he continued on. "Do you by any chance know if our august employer plans to utilize our variety of talents upon the morning? I find myself wanting to prove myself to this most impressive of individuals."
I put down duck bones and shrugged. Then I pointed at the phone, and turned a hand palm up. He nodded. "Yes, I suppose we must wait for his call. Perhaps it will be soon."
I caught his eye, cupped my fingers together and wiggled my thumbs. Then I glanced at the television and back to him. He shook his head with a sad smile, moving one extended foot through circles. "Alas, I did not think to bring the praystation." I pouted. A good game of Serial Slaughterer Seven would have been perfect to kill time.
"Fear not." He said, pausing to dramatically adjust his glasses with two fingers. "On the morrow, should inactivity continue to be our lot, we may venture forth to the somewhat-legal market and procure an uncopyrighted knockoff machine, and games. Then shall our lot be improved, and you may attempt to best me in violent virtual combat, as is your wont." I chucked a duck bone at his head, and he swayed leisurely to one side as it went by.
"Bah, take not that tone. A knockoff praystation is still a praystation. And it shall surely last for the duration of our trip."
I shook my head grudgingly, and got up to pick up the duck bone, and mop at the floor with a handkerchief. No stains, and I grunted a sigh of relief.
I don't like LIVING in mess, and there was no telling how long we'd be here.
I headed to the door, and he waved as he went back to swaying. "Good night, fair fraulein. May flights of angels exhort thee to thine respite."
Okay, THAT merited a response.
And as my hand slapped the empty holster by my side IrealizedohshitI'dleftitintheroomhowcouldIhavebeensostupid
s
o
fooli
sh
IdIOTic Dumbitchdumbitchdumbitch
No.
No, wait.
This was the new model. The smaller model. There was the smaller model, down in the bottom of the holster. I HADN'T lost it. It was okay. I was still real.
I prayed that he wouldn't see my hand shake as I brought the small, metal rod up to my throat, and thumbed the button.
"Good night Lawton. Rest well."
I noticed him turn away, and thumbed it off, retreating to the room as fast as I could go.
That had been too close.
So now here we are, book. And I think that I'm done with you for now. The medicine makes me only have to sleep four hours a night, but I think it's time for that four now.
We'll see how things go tomorrow...
-S