Chapter Four: Fan-bloody-tastic
October 18th, 2006 - midafternoon
I sat in the coffee shop, clutching the ceramic mug tightly between my hands, my eyes studiously on the text book before me. I could feel the short hairs standing on the back of my neck, which felt oddly vulnerable itself.
I hate being stared at.
The University lounge, Take-A-Break, was more full than usual. I don't doubt the main attraction was me. I had come in after my meeting with Professor Martin, my sword once more strapped to my hip and thigh (damned annoying to go to the bathroom with - I had to unhook the whole bloody contraption before I could even get to the fly of my jeans. And how the Hell would I wear a skirt ever again?) seeking a few hours of peace and quiet and the solace of my Romantic Literature textbook.
Instead I got whispers and gossip and eyes boring into the back of my head.
I'd ordered my chai latte curtly, moved to an empty table in the far back corner, and slung my holster over the back of the overstuffed leather chair. Then I had pulled out my highlighter and tried to concentrate as the gasps of astonishment followed me like badly set dominoes.
I had been here the better part of an afternoon, and was still on "To A Lady."
"Byron was a fucking fop, anyway," I hissed, shoving my highlighter behind my ear and setting aside the mug. My latte had gotten. I stood abruptly and snatched up my sword, holdign it mid-blade, then whirled on my heel to glare at the crowd assembled at the other end of the coffee shop. "Do you mind?" I snapped and many of them jumped. "I AM trying to study. ExCUSEme."
I shoved past them and out the doors, stomping down the hall theatrically. So what if I was throwing a melodramatic hissy fit? I think, by the kind of day I was having, I had the right.
Taking the long way to avoid yet more gawkers, I stalked to the history lounge on the fourth floor of the Humanities wing. It was thankfully empty, save for the ungodly amount of greenery. One or another of the Professors enjoyed plants and the lounge was full of them. There were several patched and donated couches, the inevitable bookshelves filled with tomes I thought could rival me in age, and a chalkboard on which students left notes for each other or strange quotes. Today's was "When life hands you lemons, you clone those lemons, and make superlemons."
In a better mood, I probably would have laughed.
Instead I let my sword fall to the floor and with a snarl of self-loathing, punted it so it skidded underneath a couch. "Stay there!" I ordered it and flopped face-first into the dusty, ratty couch. I was torn between wanted to scream and destroy everything within reach and just sobbing my guts out.
I settled on biting my bottom lip hard to keep me from doing either.
This was so unfair! What was I going to do?! I couldn't get a bloody job in this world without a stupid Bachelor's Degree because of my apparent age, which was why I had decided to do the whole University thing to begin with. But now, with these stupid laws, and stupid people, I probably wouldn't be able to finish.
Not that I really needed a History degree - hell, I'd been there for some of it - but what a shame it'd be if I wasted all the money I'd spent to be here in the first place. I'd already lost the couple thousand bucks I'd put into this new identity when we were handed our Immortal IDs (even though I had used my real name anyway),and I didn't want to loose any more.
"Abby?"
I sat up abruptly with my back to the speaker. "Yeah?"
"Abby, are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I lied, keeping my eyes on the blue sky out the lounge windows. An early Cardinal flew by. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Abby..." his voice was reproachful, and I sagged back against the cushions. I felt the couch shift as Garret sat beside me. Then I heard the intake of breath as he caught a look at my face. "You're bleeding! Abs, your lip..."
I looked down my nose to verify that there was indeed blood oozing from the spot where I had been biting my lip. "Oops."
"Oops nothing," he said and pressed a tissue into my hand. It was crumpled, so it must have been in his pants pocket.
"Don't worry," I said, although my voice was more of a sigh than anything else. "It'll heal."
He paused in his worrying and stared at me.
I snorted. "What, you haven't heard yet? You must be the only one on campus." Finally, I let myself look at Garret. His green eyes sparkled with concern. Garret was a good looking young man, a little older than I appeared to be, with a careless mop of dark hair. I had met him in first year History of the Roman Empire, and he was in the same stream of studies as me. He was, in my opinion, the only true friend I had on campus. I had other acquaintances, of course, other bar-buddies. But of all of them, Garret seemed to be the only one who really understood me, really let me talk – cliche as it sounds, Garret seemed to really give a crap about me as a person, and not as someone whose notes were always gold to score.
I had been wondering since I'd heard the announcement about the Visible Weaponry law the evening before how I was going to tell him. I'd thought of everything from stabbing myself through the gut in front of him to a long letter to casually letting it slip over an informal dinner at McDonald's.
Not once did I think it'd be on the cruddy lounge couches with blood all over my face.
No sooner had I said that the wound would heal than the little flashes of lightning began to arch across my mouth, and the cut was gone. I wiped the leftover blood away on the back of my hand.
"Surprise?" I said softly, my eyes on my knees. The tears came, and it was a surprise. I didn't want them there.
Garret reached out with the tissue and dabbed them away, and I quickly got myself under control. I was more afraid of his anger now that I had been before - would he be mad at me for not telling him? "Joyful Sorrow," he whispered, "I hate seeing you cry."
I pushed his wrist away. "Don't call me that."
"What?" I could hear the teasing undercurrent in his voice. "That's what your name means, Abigail Deirdre."
"Gar..."
"What?" he repeated, shrugging with that 'my horns are holding up my halo' look he sports when he knows he's bugging me.
There was a pause. I took a deep breath. "Gar... I asked you... if you'd heard. If you were... surprised."
His smile faded immediately. He crumpled up the tissue and jammed it in his pocket. "Abby I..." he looked out the window for a second, unsure of what to say, then yanked his eyes back to meet mine. "No, I'm not."
Then he reached down and shoved back the sleeve on his left arm. Slowly he turned his hand over, until I could see the bottom of his wrist.
A black inked tattoo stood out, dark in colour but blindingly blazing all the same. It was a small circle. Within the circle was a stylized T.
"Watcher..." I breathed, and he nodded. "Watcher..." My hands curled into fists without my permission. "My... Watcher?" He nodded again. There was a long, strained silence.
"Abby," he began, but I interrupted him by standing and prowling out the door. "Abby!" he called from behind me. "Abby, you left your sword! ABBY!"
"Fuck you!" I screamed back, and broke into a run, taking the stairs to the ground level two and three at a time.
Well, wasn't this just a fan-bloody-tastic day?
And it got better, too.
The minute I stepped out into the courtyard on the main level that sat nestled between the different wings of the university, I clutched the side of my head and grimaced.
"Well, now," a clipped and sardonic British accent said behind me, and I whirled around to face him, my eyes wide. "Seems we've been popping up everywhere, haven't we?"
The man was six feet at least, probably a bit more. Lean, with grey-blondey-brown hair and penetrating hazel eyes which framed an aquiline nose. An Ivanhoe sword was strapped across his back, and there was a brown leather lap-top carrier in his hand. The other was wrapped around his sword hilt.
As my eyes swept over his frame, he loosened his hold. "Where's your weapon?" he asked softly.
I glared at him.
"It's the law now, you know," he insisted quietly, calmly.
I snorted and looked away.
"I'm not here for your head."
"I know that," I snapped, and he made a disgruntled sound.
He lowered his sword arm and stuck the long-fingered hand in my direction. "Adam Pierson," he said and offered me a slightly lopsided smile.
"I know," I said. I didn't take his hand back. Instead I pointed at the doors I had just come out of. "Professor Martin's office is at the end of the hall, last door on the left."
He blinked, slightly startled. "I see," was all he said. He lowered his arm.
The door in question burst outward and Garret came rushing out, red faced and panting, clutching my sword. "Abby! You forgot--"
I snatched it out of his grip, and fastened the contraption to my hips.
"And you are?" Pierson ventured, sizing up Garret.
"Garret Small," he said and this time the proffered hand was taken.
"Excuse me," I said and turned away with a sneer on my lips. "I have a class to get to. My Watcher will take care of you."
I could hear them speaking, Gar shouting my name, as I walked away. I felt like an ass for being so abrupt, but I didn't want to be there anymore.
Oh yes, this was a fan-bloody-tastic day.
~~~
ANNOUNCEMENT:
I've realized that it would be really bloody cool if a bunch of other people started stories based on my own first chapter, be they about Mary Sues or Larry Lous or Cannon Characters. YOu know, sort of like a collection of short stories that take place all in the same alter-verse. If anyone wants to give it a go, e-mail me, and I'd love to read it and link you. This could be FUN! (Imagine the wonderful Duncan on the UN panels stories, or Amanda can't steal, or the crap that might go down if someone tries to publish Byron or Darius' or Richie's lives.)
Author's Note: The tinniest whisps of a plot are begining to form. Huzzah. I also forgot to mention earlier, this is post "Highlander: Endgame."
Responces:
XWingAce: I will deffinately go hunt-and-destroy-ing for those typos when it's not two in the morning. Thank you. I'm glad that you think the concept is strong - I've been rolling it around in my head for a while.
Kitty2228: I'm glad you like Prof. Martin - he's sortof a sqooshed together version of a couple of my own profs. They say the strongest characters are the ones based on real people. And some of the cannon characters will arrive, some will be major plot characters, some will have cameos. We'll see what happens.
Canyr12: Groupies are fun. I actually have an idea for a sort of "We Love Immortals" group on campus, something with a really stupid acronym filled with really stupid people. ^_^ Someone for Abbs to make fun of. And yeah, I'm aware she's not a very likeable character right now, but cut the girl some slack. She didn't get her morning coffee.
Starcat1: I'm pleased that you say that this is the first really original idea you've seen in a while. I really do strive to be original. Otherwise, what's the point? There's nothing worse than repetative fanfic.
October 18th, 2006 - midafternoon
I sat in the coffee shop, clutching the ceramic mug tightly between my hands, my eyes studiously on the text book before me. I could feel the short hairs standing on the back of my neck, which felt oddly vulnerable itself.
I hate being stared at.
The University lounge, Take-A-Break, was more full than usual. I don't doubt the main attraction was me. I had come in after my meeting with Professor Martin, my sword once more strapped to my hip and thigh (damned annoying to go to the bathroom with - I had to unhook the whole bloody contraption before I could even get to the fly of my jeans. And how the Hell would I wear a skirt ever again?) seeking a few hours of peace and quiet and the solace of my Romantic Literature textbook.
Instead I got whispers and gossip and eyes boring into the back of my head.
I'd ordered my chai latte curtly, moved to an empty table in the far back corner, and slung my holster over the back of the overstuffed leather chair. Then I had pulled out my highlighter and tried to concentrate as the gasps of astonishment followed me like badly set dominoes.
I had been here the better part of an afternoon, and was still on "To A Lady."
"Byron was a fucking fop, anyway," I hissed, shoving my highlighter behind my ear and setting aside the mug. My latte had gotten. I stood abruptly and snatched up my sword, holdign it mid-blade, then whirled on my heel to glare at the crowd assembled at the other end of the coffee shop. "Do you mind?" I snapped and many of them jumped. "I AM trying to study. ExCUSEme."
I shoved past them and out the doors, stomping down the hall theatrically. So what if I was throwing a melodramatic hissy fit? I think, by the kind of day I was having, I had the right.
Taking the long way to avoid yet more gawkers, I stalked to the history lounge on the fourth floor of the Humanities wing. It was thankfully empty, save for the ungodly amount of greenery. One or another of the Professors enjoyed plants and the lounge was full of them. There were several patched and donated couches, the inevitable bookshelves filled with tomes I thought could rival me in age, and a chalkboard on which students left notes for each other or strange quotes. Today's was "When life hands you lemons, you clone those lemons, and make superlemons."
In a better mood, I probably would have laughed.
Instead I let my sword fall to the floor and with a snarl of self-loathing, punted it so it skidded underneath a couch. "Stay there!" I ordered it and flopped face-first into the dusty, ratty couch. I was torn between wanted to scream and destroy everything within reach and just sobbing my guts out.
I settled on biting my bottom lip hard to keep me from doing either.
This was so unfair! What was I going to do?! I couldn't get a bloody job in this world without a stupid Bachelor's Degree because of my apparent age, which was why I had decided to do the whole University thing to begin with. But now, with these stupid laws, and stupid people, I probably wouldn't be able to finish.
Not that I really needed a History degree - hell, I'd been there for some of it - but what a shame it'd be if I wasted all the money I'd spent to be here in the first place. I'd already lost the couple thousand bucks I'd put into this new identity when we were handed our Immortal IDs (even though I had used my real name anyway),and I didn't want to loose any more.
"Abby?"
I sat up abruptly with my back to the speaker. "Yeah?"
"Abby, are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I lied, keeping my eyes on the blue sky out the lounge windows. An early Cardinal flew by. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Abby..." his voice was reproachful, and I sagged back against the cushions. I felt the couch shift as Garret sat beside me. Then I heard the intake of breath as he caught a look at my face. "You're bleeding! Abs, your lip..."
I looked down my nose to verify that there was indeed blood oozing from the spot where I had been biting my lip. "Oops."
"Oops nothing," he said and pressed a tissue into my hand. It was crumpled, so it must have been in his pants pocket.
"Don't worry," I said, although my voice was more of a sigh than anything else. "It'll heal."
He paused in his worrying and stared at me.
I snorted. "What, you haven't heard yet? You must be the only one on campus." Finally, I let myself look at Garret. His green eyes sparkled with concern. Garret was a good looking young man, a little older than I appeared to be, with a careless mop of dark hair. I had met him in first year History of the Roman Empire, and he was in the same stream of studies as me. He was, in my opinion, the only true friend I had on campus. I had other acquaintances, of course, other bar-buddies. But of all of them, Garret seemed to be the only one who really understood me, really let me talk – cliche as it sounds, Garret seemed to really give a crap about me as a person, and not as someone whose notes were always gold to score.
I had been wondering since I'd heard the announcement about the Visible Weaponry law the evening before how I was going to tell him. I'd thought of everything from stabbing myself through the gut in front of him to a long letter to casually letting it slip over an informal dinner at McDonald's.
Not once did I think it'd be on the cruddy lounge couches with blood all over my face.
No sooner had I said that the wound would heal than the little flashes of lightning began to arch across my mouth, and the cut was gone. I wiped the leftover blood away on the back of my hand.
"Surprise?" I said softly, my eyes on my knees. The tears came, and it was a surprise. I didn't want them there.
Garret reached out with the tissue and dabbed them away, and I quickly got myself under control. I was more afraid of his anger now that I had been before - would he be mad at me for not telling him? "Joyful Sorrow," he whispered, "I hate seeing you cry."
I pushed his wrist away. "Don't call me that."
"What?" I could hear the teasing undercurrent in his voice. "That's what your name means, Abigail Deirdre."
"Gar..."
"What?" he repeated, shrugging with that 'my horns are holding up my halo' look he sports when he knows he's bugging me.
There was a pause. I took a deep breath. "Gar... I asked you... if you'd heard. If you were... surprised."
His smile faded immediately. He crumpled up the tissue and jammed it in his pocket. "Abby I..." he looked out the window for a second, unsure of what to say, then yanked his eyes back to meet mine. "No, I'm not."
Then he reached down and shoved back the sleeve on his left arm. Slowly he turned his hand over, until I could see the bottom of his wrist.
A black inked tattoo stood out, dark in colour but blindingly blazing all the same. It was a small circle. Within the circle was a stylized T.
"Watcher..." I breathed, and he nodded. "Watcher..." My hands curled into fists without my permission. "My... Watcher?" He nodded again. There was a long, strained silence.
"Abby," he began, but I interrupted him by standing and prowling out the door. "Abby!" he called from behind me. "Abby, you left your sword! ABBY!"
"Fuck you!" I screamed back, and broke into a run, taking the stairs to the ground level two and three at a time.
Well, wasn't this just a fan-bloody-tastic day?
And it got better, too.
The minute I stepped out into the courtyard on the main level that sat nestled between the different wings of the university, I clutched the side of my head and grimaced.
"Well, now," a clipped and sardonic British accent said behind me, and I whirled around to face him, my eyes wide. "Seems we've been popping up everywhere, haven't we?"
The man was six feet at least, probably a bit more. Lean, with grey-blondey-brown hair and penetrating hazel eyes which framed an aquiline nose. An Ivanhoe sword was strapped across his back, and there was a brown leather lap-top carrier in his hand. The other was wrapped around his sword hilt.
As my eyes swept over his frame, he loosened his hold. "Where's your weapon?" he asked softly.
I glared at him.
"It's the law now, you know," he insisted quietly, calmly.
I snorted and looked away.
"I'm not here for your head."
"I know that," I snapped, and he made a disgruntled sound.
He lowered his sword arm and stuck the long-fingered hand in my direction. "Adam Pierson," he said and offered me a slightly lopsided smile.
"I know," I said. I didn't take his hand back. Instead I pointed at the doors I had just come out of. "Professor Martin's office is at the end of the hall, last door on the left."
He blinked, slightly startled. "I see," was all he said. He lowered his arm.
The door in question burst outward and Garret came rushing out, red faced and panting, clutching my sword. "Abby! You forgot--"
I snatched it out of his grip, and fastened the contraption to my hips.
"And you are?" Pierson ventured, sizing up Garret.
"Garret Small," he said and this time the proffered hand was taken.
"Excuse me," I said and turned away with a sneer on my lips. "I have a class to get to. My Watcher will take care of you."
I could hear them speaking, Gar shouting my name, as I walked away. I felt like an ass for being so abrupt, but I didn't want to be there anymore.
Oh yes, this was a fan-bloody-tastic day.
~~~
ANNOUNCEMENT:
I've realized that it would be really bloody cool if a bunch of other people started stories based on my own first chapter, be they about Mary Sues or Larry Lous or Cannon Characters. YOu know, sort of like a collection of short stories that take place all in the same alter-verse. If anyone wants to give it a go, e-mail me, and I'd love to read it and link you. This could be FUN! (Imagine the wonderful Duncan on the UN panels stories, or Amanda can't steal, or the crap that might go down if someone tries to publish Byron or Darius' or Richie's lives.)
Author's Note: The tinniest whisps of a plot are begining to form. Huzzah. I also forgot to mention earlier, this is post "Highlander: Endgame."
Responces:
XWingAce: I will deffinately go hunt-and-destroy-ing for those typos when it's not two in the morning. Thank you. I'm glad that you think the concept is strong - I've been rolling it around in my head for a while.
Kitty2228: I'm glad you like Prof. Martin - he's sortof a sqooshed together version of a couple of my own profs. They say the strongest characters are the ones based on real people. And some of the cannon characters will arrive, some will be major plot characters, some will have cameos. We'll see what happens.
Canyr12: Groupies are fun. I actually have an idea for a sort of "We Love Immortals" group on campus, something with a really stupid acronym filled with really stupid people. ^_^ Someone for Abbs to make fun of. And yeah, I'm aware she's not a very likeable character right now, but cut the girl some slack. She didn't get her morning coffee.
Starcat1: I'm pleased that you say that this is the first really original idea you've seen in a while. I really do strive to be original. Otherwise, what's the point? There's nothing worse than repetative fanfic.