Unfinished Fic Wednesday!
Hello, patrons of This Bar!
Today being Wednesday, brings us a snippet of unfinished fic from alphaflyer!
(To be featured on unfinished fic Wednesday, sent 100-1000 words of fic to bc.unfinished@gmail.com, which your LJ name, warnings and a rating!)
Anyway, Alpha (Ms. Flyer if you're nasty) has this to say:
Usually once I start something I finish it, but this one .... has been eluding me. I started it based on a prompt by Anuna_81 for the Valentine promptathon; the quote intrigued me to no end, and so I decided to expand on a little blip concerning a past mission that I mentioned in at least one story. The link will be obvious, I think.
Here's Anuna's prompt: "That is the problem with people today. They've lost faith, and in that loss they don't know who they should fear any more."
And here's the line from my story that was to be the basis for the mission: "She’s thinking of the time they’d found those half-starved girls chained to a pipe, in the basement of a cult leader they’d taken out in Montana. After that, he’d shot arrow after arrow into a dead tree, because the one he’d put into the wannabe prophet’s eye just hadn’t been enough. Natasha had watched, then gone and printed out some photos off the internet and pinned them to the tree. Later, she’d pulled out all the arrows and stuck them back in his quiver. Reduce, reuse, recycle. No point wasting well-fletched ammo on scum."
Dark and cynical, a bit like bits of "In the Service". But since an indictment of the false prophecy business isn't really Valentine material, I tried to lighten it up -- but then the tone wouldn't do the theme justice. Or could it?
For now the thing is trapped in a twilight world of too dark/too light/and do I actually want to write this anymore? Any suggestions (including "drop it!") would be gratefully appreciated.
rating: likely M, albeit not for sex
warnings: none for this snippet, later probably violence and darkish themes -- non/con will likely be referenced but not depicted
Faith
“The Prophet?”
Clint’s voice, which can grate at the best of times, is laced with contempt and dipped in acid.
“That’s what he calls himself. Or what his followers call him. His real name is Jacob Malone.”
“Shit. Even the late Turkmenbashi was too modest to let himself be called Prophet, and he had his own bible, named January after himself and April after his Mom, and had his own Eau de Cologne.”
Natasha snorts, as she remembers their mission in Ashgabat. Clint had gotten so sick of the persistent personality cult that pervaded this sad, sterile city - white marble and unnatural greenery at the edge of the Karakum desert, built for the greater glory of its leader - that he’d amused himself on their last night by shooting arrows into the eye socket of the man’s image on every poster he could see from the hotel window.
“Well, this guy operates on a smaller scale than that, so he probably needs bigger words to feed his ego,” she ventures. “Besides, he runs a cult, not a country, so no political sensitivities to worry about.”
“Yeah, but what is it with people that they’d follow someone like that?”
Clint puts his elbows on the table and supports his chin with both hands as he studies the picture on the screen in the briefing room. The man looks to be in his early forties, big bushy beard and wild-looking dark eyes.
“Looks like Charles fucking Manson, he does. Guy practically oozes nut ball serial killer, or something.”
“Well, based on our information, that’s not so far off. Which is where you come in, agents.”
Hill’s tone is clipped and bland, strictly just-the-facts. If an emotion - be it love, hatred or revulsion - has ever crossed her features, it must have been while Clint wasn’t looking.
“People, and in particular women, have been disappearing into that part of Montana for four years now, ever since he set up The Loving Church of the Divine Resurrection of Valentine.”
“And local law enforcement is where, exactly?”
Hill keeps her tone even.
“Understaffed and overmatched, in no position to go chasing rumours, plus the Governor is big on religious freedom and non-interference. And the FBI doesn’t want to have another Waco on their hands, so unless he does something overtly illegal, there will be no intervention.”
“It still seems a little … pedestrian for S.H.I.E.L.D. to get involved,” Natasha ventures.
Hill gives her a measured look while Coulson looks as if he is bracing himself for something.
“It would be, except for the allegations that he is using his degree in behavioural psychology to brainwash and train his followers, particularly the women. For what, we’re not sure. So we need you to go in and find out, before he perfects his technique and decides to branch out.”
Clint casts a quick glance at Natasha. She gives no overt reaction to the words brainwash and train, but few people are able to read her rare tells as clearly as Clint Barton. Right now, she is motionless, utterly contained - a statue to professionalism.
He knows better. Natasha, for all the complete control she shows to the world, has her triggers; this is one of them. (If you want to get Hawkeye to lose his cool, threaten or harm a child.) For Clint, his partner’s silence speaks volumes. He knows the absence of expression on her face is not a blank slate, but a full one - like when you combine all the colours of a prism, you get white. There’s no space left to fake indifference, or even just polite interest; the onslaught of memories behind those blank features is too great.
Carefully, very carefully, Clint slides his left foot over until it touches hers. He can feel the quick, surprised twitch at his touch, but then the pressure is returned, with no one around the table the wiser for the silent message that just passed between them.
Here.
I know.
But they’re both too well trained to allow moments like this one to last, and Clint knows it’s time to break the silence. Briefings are to get information, ask questions, and get directions. Besides, if he’s to dive into the world of Jacob Malone, there’s something he really needs to know - like an actor, searching for “my character’s motivation” or something.
“So what would drive what I presume are ordinary people into the arms of some home-made Messiah? Why don’t they see the crazy?”
Coulson, who has remained silent until now, takes on the question. Unlike Hill, who excels in logistics and cold, hard facts, he’s the guy who can talk about how someone thinks, and why.
"That’s the problem with people today. They've lost faith, and in that loss they don't know who they should fear any more. And that includes Jacob ‘Manson’ Malone here. For them, he’s the salvation, not the problem."
Clint digests that for a moment, then shakes his head.
“Hell. When I need spiritual enlightenment, I go for a hike in the woods, not cruise the internet for the latest incarnation of the Messiah.”
Natasha, who apparently has regained her equilibrium, raises an eyebrow at him at that; he instantly comes back with a defensive, “Well, I do. Go into the woods, I mean. Sometimes. You know.”
Coulson takes pity on him before the Black Widow can come back with a comment, and proceeds to set things out in more detail. The mission is pretty clear and simple, as these things go: Go in, pose as a couple in search of the Meaning of Life, learn what you can, get out.
Oh, and … no killing. American citizens, constitutional rights, no clear and present danger. At least not that S.H.I.E.L.D. knows of. Yet. Strictly an information-gathering op, the kind of thing Romanoff excels at.
“Self-defence?” Clint asks neutrally. He likes to keep his options open, and Malone looks unpredictable.
“Reasonable force only, Agent.” Hill gives him that glare that is supposed to convey the displeasure of the Council in the face of an un-mediagenic mess.
She and Coulson play tag team for the rest of the briefing. It’s simple enough: Malone’s idea of religion focuses on … well, himself, as the One who knows when the heavens will open and form a portal to a better life. Earth’s Ambassador to Outer Space, in the flesh.
“A portal to outer space?” Clint can’t suppress a snicker at the sheer absurdity of the idea. “What’s next? A rift in the Q continuum?”
Hill glares at him and continues. Malone’s disciples appear to be disproportionately female, although some couples have joined; single males - including a couple of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents -- have been consistently vetted and found “wanting in spiritual dedication”. No one who have entered the compound is known to have left it, nor has there been any word from any of them once they had given notice of their intention to join the sect.
“I hope I can fake devotion and delusion,” Clint mutters when they rise at the end of the briefing, new passports in hand, the newly anointed Mr. and Mrs. Paul (Lucy) Edwards, from New Jersey.
“Just fake devotion to me,” his partner offers. “You’re my loving, somewhat skeptical, occasionally dense husband, who is doing this for the good of our relationship. Valentine’s Day is coming up. You’re trying to give me internal peace instead of chocolates.”
“Internal peace? Or eternal peace?” Clint wants to say more but gets interrupted when Hill closes her file with a determined snap.
“See? You’re already starting to think,” she says. “Good. You leave for Montana tomorrow. We’ve been setting this up for weeks; they should be ready for you.”
Today being Wednesday, brings us a snippet of unfinished fic from alphaflyer!
(To be featured on unfinished fic Wednesday, sent 100-1000 words of fic to bc.unfinished@gmail.com, which your LJ name, warnings and a rating!)
Anyway, Alpha (Ms. Flyer if you're nasty) has this to say:
Usually once I start something I finish it, but this one .... has been eluding me. I started it based on a prompt by Anuna_81 for the Valentine promptathon; the quote intrigued me to no end, and so I decided to expand on a little blip concerning a past mission that I mentioned in at least one story. The link will be obvious, I think.
Here's Anuna's prompt: "That is the problem with people today. They've lost faith, and in that loss they don't know who they should fear any more."
And here's the line from my story that was to be the basis for the mission: "She’s thinking of the time they’d found those half-starved girls chained to a pipe, in the basement of a cult leader they’d taken out in Montana. After that, he’d shot arrow after arrow into a dead tree, because the one he’d put into the wannabe prophet’s eye just hadn’t been enough. Natasha had watched, then gone and printed out some photos off the internet and pinned them to the tree. Later, she’d pulled out all the arrows and stuck them back in his quiver. Reduce, reuse, recycle. No point wasting well-fletched ammo on scum."
Dark and cynical, a bit like bits of "In the Service". But since an indictment of the false prophecy business isn't really Valentine material, I tried to lighten it up -- but then the tone wouldn't do the theme justice. Or could it?
For now the thing is trapped in a twilight world of too dark/too light/and do I actually want to write this anymore? Any suggestions (including "drop it!") would be gratefully appreciated.
rating: likely M, albeit not for sex
warnings: none for this snippet, later probably violence and darkish themes -- non/con will likely be referenced but not depicted
Faith
“The Prophet?”
Clint’s voice, which can grate at the best of times, is laced with contempt and dipped in acid.
“That’s what he calls himself. Or what his followers call him. His real name is Jacob Malone.”
“Shit. Even the late Turkmenbashi was too modest to let himself be called Prophet, and he had his own bible, named January after himself and April after his Mom, and had his own Eau de Cologne.”
Natasha snorts, as she remembers their mission in Ashgabat. Clint had gotten so sick of the persistent personality cult that pervaded this sad, sterile city - white marble and unnatural greenery at the edge of the Karakum desert, built for the greater glory of its leader - that he’d amused himself on their last night by shooting arrows into the eye socket of the man’s image on every poster he could see from the hotel window.
“Well, this guy operates on a smaller scale than that, so he probably needs bigger words to feed his ego,” she ventures. “Besides, he runs a cult, not a country, so no political sensitivities to worry about.”
“Yeah, but what is it with people that they’d follow someone like that?”
Clint puts his elbows on the table and supports his chin with both hands as he studies the picture on the screen in the briefing room. The man looks to be in his early forties, big bushy beard and wild-looking dark eyes.
“Looks like Charles fucking Manson, he does. Guy practically oozes nut ball serial killer, or something.”
“Well, based on our information, that’s not so far off. Which is where you come in, agents.”
Hill’s tone is clipped and bland, strictly just-the-facts. If an emotion - be it love, hatred or revulsion - has ever crossed her features, it must have been while Clint wasn’t looking.
“People, and in particular women, have been disappearing into that part of Montana for four years now, ever since he set up The Loving Church of the Divine Resurrection of Valentine.”
“And local law enforcement is where, exactly?”
Hill keeps her tone even.
“Understaffed and overmatched, in no position to go chasing rumours, plus the Governor is big on religious freedom and non-interference. And the FBI doesn’t want to have another Waco on their hands, so unless he does something overtly illegal, there will be no intervention.”
“It still seems a little … pedestrian for S.H.I.E.L.D. to get involved,” Natasha ventures.
Hill gives her a measured look while Coulson looks as if he is bracing himself for something.
“It would be, except for the allegations that he is using his degree in behavioural psychology to brainwash and train his followers, particularly the women. For what, we’re not sure. So we need you to go in and find out, before he perfects his technique and decides to branch out.”
Clint casts a quick glance at Natasha. She gives no overt reaction to the words brainwash and train, but few people are able to read her rare tells as clearly as Clint Barton. Right now, she is motionless, utterly contained - a statue to professionalism.
He knows better. Natasha, for all the complete control she shows to the world, has her triggers; this is one of them. (If you want to get Hawkeye to lose his cool, threaten or harm a child.) For Clint, his partner’s silence speaks volumes. He knows the absence of expression on her face is not a blank slate, but a full one - like when you combine all the colours of a prism, you get white. There’s no space left to fake indifference, or even just polite interest; the onslaught of memories behind those blank features is too great.
Carefully, very carefully, Clint slides his left foot over until it touches hers. He can feel the quick, surprised twitch at his touch, but then the pressure is returned, with no one around the table the wiser for the silent message that just passed between them.
Here.
I know.
But they’re both too well trained to allow moments like this one to last, and Clint knows it’s time to break the silence. Briefings are to get information, ask questions, and get directions. Besides, if he’s to dive into the world of Jacob Malone, there’s something he really needs to know - like an actor, searching for “my character’s motivation” or something.
“So what would drive what I presume are ordinary people into the arms of some home-made Messiah? Why don’t they see the crazy?”
Coulson, who has remained silent until now, takes on the question. Unlike Hill, who excels in logistics and cold, hard facts, he’s the guy who can talk about how someone thinks, and why.
"That’s the problem with people today. They've lost faith, and in that loss they don't know who they should fear any more. And that includes Jacob ‘Manson’ Malone here. For them, he’s the salvation, not the problem."
Clint digests that for a moment, then shakes his head.
“Hell. When I need spiritual enlightenment, I go for a hike in the woods, not cruise the internet for the latest incarnation of the Messiah.”
Natasha, who apparently has regained her equilibrium, raises an eyebrow at him at that; he instantly comes back with a defensive, “Well, I do. Go into the woods, I mean. Sometimes. You know.”
Coulson takes pity on him before the Black Widow can come back with a comment, and proceeds to set things out in more detail. The mission is pretty clear and simple, as these things go: Go in, pose as a couple in search of the Meaning of Life, learn what you can, get out.
Oh, and … no killing. American citizens, constitutional rights, no clear and present danger. At least not that S.H.I.E.L.D. knows of. Yet. Strictly an information-gathering op, the kind of thing Romanoff excels at.
“Self-defence?” Clint asks neutrally. He likes to keep his options open, and Malone looks unpredictable.
“Reasonable force only, Agent.” Hill gives him that glare that is supposed to convey the displeasure of the Council in the face of an un-mediagenic mess.
She and Coulson play tag team for the rest of the briefing. It’s simple enough: Malone’s idea of religion focuses on … well, himself, as the One who knows when the heavens will open and form a portal to a better life. Earth’s Ambassador to Outer Space, in the flesh.
“A portal to outer space?” Clint can’t suppress a snicker at the sheer absurdity of the idea. “What’s next? A rift in the Q continuum?”
Hill glares at him and continues. Malone’s disciples appear to be disproportionately female, although some couples have joined; single males - including a couple of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents -- have been consistently vetted and found “wanting in spiritual dedication”. No one who have entered the compound is known to have left it, nor has there been any word from any of them once they had given notice of their intention to join the sect.
“I hope I can fake devotion and delusion,” Clint mutters when they rise at the end of the briefing, new passports in hand, the newly anointed Mr. and Mrs. Paul (Lucy) Edwards, from New Jersey.
“Just fake devotion to me,” his partner offers. “You’re my loving, somewhat skeptical, occasionally dense husband, who is doing this for the good of our relationship. Valentine’s Day is coming up. You’re trying to give me internal peace instead of chocolates.”
“Internal peace? Or eternal peace?” Clint wants to say more but gets interrupted when Hill closes her file with a determined snap.
“See? You’re already starting to think,” she says. “Good. You leave for Montana tomorrow. We’ve been setting this up for weeks; they should be ready for you.”