For my formal disclaimer I wish to state that: I do not own the greater vicinity of the London area, though this fic does not literally take place in London (but it could pretty much assumed it does). Think of a place that's not London, but a lot like it. Can you see it? Yes? I own that. I also do not own Gundam Wing. Big surprise there.
I also caution you that this piece of fiction you are about to read contains shounen ai, and revolves around the following pairings: 1+2, 3+4, 5+Sally, Zechs+Lucrezia, Treize+Une. There will also be some Relena-bashing.
* * * * *
Hello! I'm A Crossing Guard!
By Seph Lorraine
Prologue-- At the Corner of Baker and Marylebone
* * * * *
A crisp and business-like good morning to you, gentlemen and ladies. I'm your friendly neighbourhood crossing guard. As you may know, it is my job to ensure public safety when I take my post at the crosswalks of the intersection of Baker Street and Marylebone Road [1], over near one of the more grand parks of our city. I am there to protect the innocent and serve my proud country in the best way I know how.
Because, unfortunately, they wouldn't allow me into the military with a trick knee.
I take great pride in my job, though. Wearing this oddly fitted red jacket and thick black trousers, with my nicely shined black leather shoes and a pleasantly flat black hat-- with visor. I stand out in the street whether it be rain or shine, day or night, flood or drought; I am Trowa Barton, crossing guard extrodinaire.
Should you come to cross my streets, you shall know me, and I might wish you a pleasant day and you might step on my toes. I am not a bad guy, once you get to know me. But, should you cross these finely paved white lines without my carefully given signal, I'll have to take my large black and red directing rod and thwap you on the noggin.
It's nothing personal, though. It's my job, you see. You cross the line without permission; I give you a nice lump on your cranium and send you back to whatever hole, or pub from hence you did crawl. I rather enjoy my job, despite the primitive wig-wacking.
The intersection at which I serve is located at the very centre of a very snobbish sort of square. Down the west-bound direction of Marylebone is a nice district of rented flats, quite top-notch, but not exactly material for the High streets, further into the city [2]. These dwellings were filled with all sorts of people. Doctors, artists, musicians, elderly, lawyers, low-level politicians, teachers, drug dealers, factory workers, even the occasional student. These facilities continue directly across the intersection and establish themselves at the very corners of the east-bound Marylebone, as well. The rest is rubbish shops and sloppy cafes.
Up the north-bound direction of Baker, from my intersection, are a few more of those classy living areas, that eventually taper out into a nicely groomed grove of trees that surround the usually void street. Following the street up for a longer way, one can eventually come across the gates to the local park. The only people who go there, though, are the wealthy and the drunk.
And the drunk only go because they're, indeed, very drunk.
Down the south-bound direction of Baker Street, is a small protestant church, and a few more of those shops and cafes. This street eventually leads into the city. I've found that if you squint far enough from my intersection, you can see a McDonalds far down past the museum. Many of the people that cross my intersection are either going to or coming from south Baker Street. They're usually somewhat pleasant, though, and it makes it a nice place to work.
Despite the pleasantries of my location, I do have my bad days. I will admit, that I have been known to shout curses at the occasional child, meandering by with her bright red balloons and rosey cheeks. I will admit, I have had the desire to rip her very heart out through her naval and jump on it.
I will also admit, that sometimes I fear I'm going mad.
I'm not really a violent person. I could probably consider myself more of the calm, quiet, sensitive type. Yes, I sound quite inverted, don't I? Though, I suppose I can't be bothered to change.
Being a crossing guard is quite an interesting profession (sure, my original dreams were of a sorted variety of botany in which one trims hedges and shrubs to appear as animals, but again the trick knee has put me out of place). I meet many people. I don't like hardly any of the lot, but I do meet them. Some of them I regret meeting, but it simply can't be changed.
Some of them can actually capture my interest.
It was how I met -him-, that matters, though. I suppose you could say that I really am inverted, as I was mentioning before. Damnit, I knew I wouldn't get through this without talking about sex.
I'm completely crossing the other side of the street, you know what I mean?
I hope you choke on a biscuit.
* * * * *
To Be Continued...
* * * * *
[1] Just a note, this fic does not take place in London. And the places that will be mentioned, such as the park, is -not- Regent's. I'm just cleverly stealing the names and plotting them in a similar situation as to which they are in real life. Minus the actual city, of course.
[2] Here is where we'll be switching things. No historic posh and tour buses, just a somewhat suburban area near a very large city.
[*] Reviews are appreciated, but optional. I do implore that you leave your comments, questions, death threats and marriage proposals, that I might look over them for usage in improving my writing.
I also caution you that this piece of fiction you are about to read contains shounen ai, and revolves around the following pairings: 1+2, 3+4, 5+Sally, Zechs+Lucrezia, Treize+Une. There will also be some Relena-bashing.
* * * * *
Hello! I'm A Crossing Guard!
By Seph Lorraine
Prologue-- At the Corner of Baker and Marylebone
* * * * *
A crisp and business-like good morning to you, gentlemen and ladies. I'm your friendly neighbourhood crossing guard. As you may know, it is my job to ensure public safety when I take my post at the crosswalks of the intersection of Baker Street and Marylebone Road [1], over near one of the more grand parks of our city. I am there to protect the innocent and serve my proud country in the best way I know how.
Because, unfortunately, they wouldn't allow me into the military with a trick knee.
I take great pride in my job, though. Wearing this oddly fitted red jacket and thick black trousers, with my nicely shined black leather shoes and a pleasantly flat black hat-- with visor. I stand out in the street whether it be rain or shine, day or night, flood or drought; I am Trowa Barton, crossing guard extrodinaire.
Should you come to cross my streets, you shall know me, and I might wish you a pleasant day and you might step on my toes. I am not a bad guy, once you get to know me. But, should you cross these finely paved white lines without my carefully given signal, I'll have to take my large black and red directing rod and thwap you on the noggin.
It's nothing personal, though. It's my job, you see. You cross the line without permission; I give you a nice lump on your cranium and send you back to whatever hole, or pub from hence you did crawl. I rather enjoy my job, despite the primitive wig-wacking.
The intersection at which I serve is located at the very centre of a very snobbish sort of square. Down the west-bound direction of Marylebone is a nice district of rented flats, quite top-notch, but not exactly material for the High streets, further into the city [2]. These dwellings were filled with all sorts of people. Doctors, artists, musicians, elderly, lawyers, low-level politicians, teachers, drug dealers, factory workers, even the occasional student. These facilities continue directly across the intersection and establish themselves at the very corners of the east-bound Marylebone, as well. The rest is rubbish shops and sloppy cafes.
Up the north-bound direction of Baker, from my intersection, are a few more of those classy living areas, that eventually taper out into a nicely groomed grove of trees that surround the usually void street. Following the street up for a longer way, one can eventually come across the gates to the local park. The only people who go there, though, are the wealthy and the drunk.
And the drunk only go because they're, indeed, very drunk.
Down the south-bound direction of Baker Street, is a small protestant church, and a few more of those shops and cafes. This street eventually leads into the city. I've found that if you squint far enough from my intersection, you can see a McDonalds far down past the museum. Many of the people that cross my intersection are either going to or coming from south Baker Street. They're usually somewhat pleasant, though, and it makes it a nice place to work.
Despite the pleasantries of my location, I do have my bad days. I will admit, that I have been known to shout curses at the occasional child, meandering by with her bright red balloons and rosey cheeks. I will admit, I have had the desire to rip her very heart out through her naval and jump on it.
I will also admit, that sometimes I fear I'm going mad.
I'm not really a violent person. I could probably consider myself more of the calm, quiet, sensitive type. Yes, I sound quite inverted, don't I? Though, I suppose I can't be bothered to change.
Being a crossing guard is quite an interesting profession (sure, my original dreams were of a sorted variety of botany in which one trims hedges and shrubs to appear as animals, but again the trick knee has put me out of place). I meet many people. I don't like hardly any of the lot, but I do meet them. Some of them I regret meeting, but it simply can't be changed.
Some of them can actually capture my interest.
It was how I met -him-, that matters, though. I suppose you could say that I really am inverted, as I was mentioning before. Damnit, I knew I wouldn't get through this without talking about sex.
I'm completely crossing the other side of the street, you know what I mean?
I hope you choke on a biscuit.
* * * * *
To Be Continued...
* * * * *
[1] Just a note, this fic does not take place in London. And the places that will be mentioned, such as the park, is -not- Regent's. I'm just cleverly stealing the names and plotting them in a similar situation as to which they are in real life. Minus the actual city, of course.
[2] Here is where we'll be switching things. No historic posh and tour buses, just a somewhat suburban area near a very large city.
[*] Reviews are appreciated, but optional. I do implore that you leave your comments, questions, death threats and marriage proposals, that I might look over them for usage in improving my writing.