Dark Angel Fic: Ball-In-Hand; Contest Entry
Title: Ball-In-Hand (aka. When Pool Balls Go Bad)
Author: Mariana O'Connor
Characters: Alec, Sketchey and a pool ball
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I don't own Dark Angel... or any of the characters therein. Although I do have a secret plot involving Alec, some heavy duty tranquiliser and my understairs cupboard.
Summary: Sometimes it's a good idea to quit when you're ahead, as Alec finds out.
Author's Note: jam_pony_fic CONTEST ENTRY - Sketchey beats Alec at pool. Just a slight warning for crack and general weirdness. Also, everything I know about pool I learnt from Wikipedia, so please forgive any errors.
Most of the time being a pool ball is not the most exciting job in the world. You do not get to see a great deal, unless someone extremely bad is playing; you get pushed around a lot and forced into quite a few small dark spaces. If you are the cue ball, things are even worse: being jabbed by a long pointy stick all day and forced to collide with other balls, even ones you do not particularly like… then again, the other balls think cue balls are stuck up - so it’s open to opinion.
People always use the phrase ‘thinking with your balls’ as derogatory, which pool balls take great offence at, after all, it is not like they have anything else to think with. No one ever asks their opinion though, they just think they are plain old inanimate objects: no brain, no emotions. Really, it is discrimination, not as if they are snooker balls. Those little things, now they are idiots, can’t even count! And such boring fashion sense: one colour ensembles are so last century.
Most pool balls, however, take it in good part, they understand that their role in life is to roll around and fall into pockets. However, even the most mild mannered of cue balls, after 5 straight hours of being pushed and jabbed and hit can get a little rebellious.
**
Alec had been at the pool table for a good number of hours now, taking down player after player who came up against him. His friends would have been worried about him getting beaten up when he left Crash, except for the fact he was a genetically engineered killing machine - sorry - one of the genetically enpowered. Not that all of them knew that... yet. Even those that did not know that, knew that he could, at least, look after himself. After all Max had not killed him yet and anyone could see she was trying.
It had got to the point that every person in the room knew that to play against Alec was to lose. So, when he made swift work of the 6’6” leather wearing man-mountain called Clarence and, with a smug smile, snatched the offered notes from his meaty fist, there were no offers of a rematch, or any other sort of match.
“Come on guys… I’ll take it easy on you,” He grinned hopefully at a guy he had not noticed before, but, with a weak smile and a shake of the head, he was refused. “Anyone?” he asked, but all those in the vicinity studiously examined their drinks. “No one even want to win their money back?” At that a man in the corner, who had played and lost three games, shifted slightly, but after an initial lift of his chin, he kept his eyes firmly down.
“Look, if I lose this next game, I’ll stop playing okay,” If pool balls had ears, the cue ball’s would have pricked up, but they don’t, so they did not, but it did start listening very intently. “Anybody… $20 and the glory of beating me, if you can.” There came an unintelligible moan from the corner and he turned on his heel. “Sketchey, my man, did you say something?”
The slightly drunken bike messenger lurched up from the table he was sitting at, under the disgusted gazes of Max and Original Cindy. He could just about stand up straight and he grinned over at his colleague.
“I’ll play.” The transgenic gave him a look up and down that spoke volumes about his lack of faith in the man’s ability to walk, let alone his ability to play pool, but after a second his face fell back into a cocky grin.
“Sure, Sketch - you wanna break?” He offered him the table, newly set up, but as Sketchey was zig-zagging his way towards it a hand grabbed his arm.
“He’s drunk.” He turned to see Max, as usual, glaring up at him.
“Yeah, I noticed, but who am I to deny the guy a chance at glory…”
“Friends don’t take advantage of other friends.” She hissed and he reached over with his uncaught arm to pat her on the shoulder.
“Just a friendly game of pool between two guys - nothing wrong with that, Maxie.” He pulled his arm free and ignored the narrowing of her eyes. “You wouldn’t be arguing if he were sobre.”
“If he were sobre it would be his own fault for being an idiot.”
“And because he had one too many beers, suddenly it’s all my fault?” Alec asked, playing the innocent, “like you’ve never done it.” The silence spoke volumes. “Thought so.” He turned back to see Sketchey leaning across the table, his chin bashing against the surface once before he managed to steady himself.
“You are so going down,” Sketchey slurred, pulling back the cue and shooting.
For a second the ball seemed to be about to miss every ball on the table, but only for a second. A quarter of the way down the table it began to swerve to the right, coming around in a perfect arc to hit the balls dead centre. Alec, Max and every other person in the room watched in astonishment as two balls were potted and Sketchey pulled himself up to grin lazily at them.
“Damn!” Original Cindy muttered from the corner, echoing everybody’s thoughts.
Still smiling to himself, Sketchey leant down to take his next shot, the cue ball (smirking to itself) swerved round once more and knocked the ball into the pocket.
“That’s impossible,” Alec said, his eyebrows drawing together in disbelief.
“Believe, my friend,” his opponent told him, patting him on the shoulder, “I don’t like to brag, but I have a talent, rarely seen…”
The next shot, however, even a sentient cue ball could not save him from, but despite his wild aim the ball only just bounced off the cushion. Breathing a sigh of relief, Alec stepped forward and aimed to pot his first ball, setting the shot up permanently.
He missed by a good foot and was left staring in obvious shock at the table. By now a small crowd had gathered to watch the lord of the pool table get taken down a peg or two, even if his opponent was cheating somehow.
“Pure God given talent… some of us have it,” Sketchey gestured at himself, “and some of us,” he looked apologetically at Alec as he lined up his next shot blind, and completely off angle, “don’t.” He hit the cue ball, which went in a completely different direction and potted a ball on the other side of the table.
“How did he do that?” Max asked quietly, as confused as Alec. Her friend just shrugged.
“Who cares? All I’m really interested in is the look on your boy’s face.”
“He’s not my boy,” Max said automatically, watching the table intently as Sketchey potted yet another impossible shot. “It’s physically impossible. That shot should have hit the back cushion.”
“Sketchey’s a lot of things, but a miracle worker is not one of them; it’s got to be physically possible… maybe alcohol just helps him get his game on.”
“Perhaps,” but she still watched, troubled as, after a very near miss by Sketchey, Alec’s shot once again went wide. “That one should have gone in…”
“Just a game of pool, boo, no reason to be getting all tense over it. You need another drink?” she asked, rising from her seat.
“Yeah… thanks.”
Soon Sketchey only had the eight ball left to pot and Alec was standing on the sidelines, staring in utter disbelief at the table. It was an easy shot, not even Sketchey could miss it, especially not playing as he was doing right now, but once again, it looked as though he was going to.
The white ball swerved dangreously around another ball to come at the eight ball, hitting it so gently it looked as though the other ball would never make it to the pocket. The watching crowd watched in something not very different from awe as the eight ball rolled gently across the table, slowing down as it went and teetered on the edge of the pocket.
Across the table, Sketchey swallowed, obviously trying to will the ball in with the power of his mind alone. It hovered on the edge for a moment longer, and he took a deep breath in.
At the last second, just as Alec was beginning to move, it toppled over the edge and into the pocket. The cue ball heaved a sigh of relief - not that it had a mouth - and the gathered crowd looked on in silence before beginning to chat animatedly.
With a grin, as though he had known it all along, Sketchey looked up and held out his hand.
“Good game.”
With the air of someone who knows they have been tricked, somehow, Alec handed over the money. “Rematch?” he asked, wanting to save some face. Sketchey shook his head, and swayed on his feet slightly. Still confused, Alec nodded and grabbed his coat, his ego obviously a little bruised. “I’ll see you tomorrow then… bye guys.”
**
On the table the balls began to relax, grateful that that night was, at last, over. Even the cue ball, sporting a new variety of chalky bruises, was beginning to nod off when it heard an ominous slurred question.
“Anyone want a game?”
Sadly, because it didn’t have a mouth, no one could hear its scream.
-
Author: Mariana O'Connor
Characters: Alec, Sketchey and a pool ball
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I don't own Dark Angel... or any of the characters therein. Although I do have a secret plot involving Alec, some heavy duty tranquiliser and my understairs cupboard.
Summary: Sometimes it's a good idea to quit when you're ahead, as Alec finds out.
Author's Note: jam_pony_fic CONTEST ENTRY - Sketchey beats Alec at pool. Just a slight warning for crack and general weirdness. Also, everything I know about pool I learnt from Wikipedia, so please forgive any errors.
Most of the time being a pool ball is not the most exciting job in the world. You do not get to see a great deal, unless someone extremely bad is playing; you get pushed around a lot and forced into quite a few small dark spaces. If you are the cue ball, things are even worse: being jabbed by a long pointy stick all day and forced to collide with other balls, even ones you do not particularly like… then again, the other balls think cue balls are stuck up - so it’s open to opinion.
People always use the phrase ‘thinking with your balls’ as derogatory, which pool balls take great offence at, after all, it is not like they have anything else to think with. No one ever asks their opinion though, they just think they are plain old inanimate objects: no brain, no emotions. Really, it is discrimination, not as if they are snooker balls. Those little things, now they are idiots, can’t even count! And such boring fashion sense: one colour ensembles are so last century.
Most pool balls, however, take it in good part, they understand that their role in life is to roll around and fall into pockets. However, even the most mild mannered of cue balls, after 5 straight hours of being pushed and jabbed and hit can get a little rebellious.
**
Alec had been at the pool table for a good number of hours now, taking down player after player who came up against him. His friends would have been worried about him getting beaten up when he left Crash, except for the fact he was a genetically engineered killing machine - sorry - one of the genetically enpowered. Not that all of them knew that... yet. Even those that did not know that, knew that he could, at least, look after himself. After all Max had not killed him yet and anyone could see she was trying.
It had got to the point that every person in the room knew that to play against Alec was to lose. So, when he made swift work of the 6’6” leather wearing man-mountain called Clarence and, with a smug smile, snatched the offered notes from his meaty fist, there were no offers of a rematch, or any other sort of match.
“Come on guys… I’ll take it easy on you,” He grinned hopefully at a guy he had not noticed before, but, with a weak smile and a shake of the head, he was refused. “Anyone?” he asked, but all those in the vicinity studiously examined their drinks. “No one even want to win their money back?” At that a man in the corner, who had played and lost three games, shifted slightly, but after an initial lift of his chin, he kept his eyes firmly down.
“Look, if I lose this next game, I’ll stop playing okay,” If pool balls had ears, the cue ball’s would have pricked up, but they don’t, so they did not, but it did start listening very intently. “Anybody… $20 and the glory of beating me, if you can.” There came an unintelligible moan from the corner and he turned on his heel. “Sketchey, my man, did you say something?”
The slightly drunken bike messenger lurched up from the table he was sitting at, under the disgusted gazes of Max and Original Cindy. He could just about stand up straight and he grinned over at his colleague.
“I’ll play.” The transgenic gave him a look up and down that spoke volumes about his lack of faith in the man’s ability to walk, let alone his ability to play pool, but after a second his face fell back into a cocky grin.
“Sure, Sketch - you wanna break?” He offered him the table, newly set up, but as Sketchey was zig-zagging his way towards it a hand grabbed his arm.
“He’s drunk.” He turned to see Max, as usual, glaring up at him.
“Yeah, I noticed, but who am I to deny the guy a chance at glory…”
“Friends don’t take advantage of other friends.” She hissed and he reached over with his uncaught arm to pat her on the shoulder.
“Just a friendly game of pool between two guys - nothing wrong with that, Maxie.” He pulled his arm free and ignored the narrowing of her eyes. “You wouldn’t be arguing if he were sobre.”
“If he were sobre it would be his own fault for being an idiot.”
“And because he had one too many beers, suddenly it’s all my fault?” Alec asked, playing the innocent, “like you’ve never done it.” The silence spoke volumes. “Thought so.” He turned back to see Sketchey leaning across the table, his chin bashing against the surface once before he managed to steady himself.
“You are so going down,” Sketchey slurred, pulling back the cue and shooting.
For a second the ball seemed to be about to miss every ball on the table, but only for a second. A quarter of the way down the table it began to swerve to the right, coming around in a perfect arc to hit the balls dead centre. Alec, Max and every other person in the room watched in astonishment as two balls were potted and Sketchey pulled himself up to grin lazily at them.
“Damn!” Original Cindy muttered from the corner, echoing everybody’s thoughts.
Still smiling to himself, Sketchey leant down to take his next shot, the cue ball (smirking to itself) swerved round once more and knocked the ball into the pocket.
“That’s impossible,” Alec said, his eyebrows drawing together in disbelief.
“Believe, my friend,” his opponent told him, patting him on the shoulder, “I don’t like to brag, but I have a talent, rarely seen…”
The next shot, however, even a sentient cue ball could not save him from, but despite his wild aim the ball only just bounced off the cushion. Breathing a sigh of relief, Alec stepped forward and aimed to pot his first ball, setting the shot up permanently.
He missed by a good foot and was left staring in obvious shock at the table. By now a small crowd had gathered to watch the lord of the pool table get taken down a peg or two, even if his opponent was cheating somehow.
“Pure God given talent… some of us have it,” Sketchey gestured at himself, “and some of us,” he looked apologetically at Alec as he lined up his next shot blind, and completely off angle, “don’t.” He hit the cue ball, which went in a completely different direction and potted a ball on the other side of the table.
“How did he do that?” Max asked quietly, as confused as Alec. Her friend just shrugged.
“Who cares? All I’m really interested in is the look on your boy’s face.”
“He’s not my boy,” Max said automatically, watching the table intently as Sketchey potted yet another impossible shot. “It’s physically impossible. That shot should have hit the back cushion.”
“Sketchey’s a lot of things, but a miracle worker is not one of them; it’s got to be physically possible… maybe alcohol just helps him get his game on.”
“Perhaps,” but she still watched, troubled as, after a very near miss by Sketchey, Alec’s shot once again went wide. “That one should have gone in…”
“Just a game of pool, boo, no reason to be getting all tense over it. You need another drink?” she asked, rising from her seat.
“Yeah… thanks.”
Soon Sketchey only had the eight ball left to pot and Alec was standing on the sidelines, staring in utter disbelief at the table. It was an easy shot, not even Sketchey could miss it, especially not playing as he was doing right now, but once again, it looked as though he was going to.
The white ball swerved dangreously around another ball to come at the eight ball, hitting it so gently it looked as though the other ball would never make it to the pocket. The watching crowd watched in something not very different from awe as the eight ball rolled gently across the table, slowing down as it went and teetered on the edge of the pocket.
Across the table, Sketchey swallowed, obviously trying to will the ball in with the power of his mind alone. It hovered on the edge for a moment longer, and he took a deep breath in.
At the last second, just as Alec was beginning to move, it toppled over the edge and into the pocket. The cue ball heaved a sigh of relief - not that it had a mouth - and the gathered crowd looked on in silence before beginning to chat animatedly.
With a grin, as though he had known it all along, Sketchey looked up and held out his hand.
“Good game.”
With the air of someone who knows they have been tricked, somehow, Alec handed over the money. “Rematch?” he asked, wanting to save some face. Sketchey shook his head, and swayed on his feet slightly. Still confused, Alec nodded and grabbed his coat, his ego obviously a little bruised. “I’ll see you tomorrow then… bye guys.”
**
On the table the balls began to relax, grateful that that night was, at last, over. Even the cue ball, sporting a new variety of chalky bruises, was beginning to nod off when it heard an ominous slurred question.
“Anyone want a game?”
Sadly, because it didn’t have a mouth, no one could hear its scream.
-