Fic Excerpts
So, LJ is still being a douche and I'm still not getting anywhere on this fic. I keep forgetting that I can't just skip around because it's a detective story so the build-up and slow reveal is, uh, important. *rubs forehead* I'm at 8,000+ with a projection of 12,000+ so you can see where I'm having the problem.
So here's an excerpt:
Time was running out. His blood was running out.
He gasped, trying to remember what he had to do. He had been running for ages, hiding where he could and moving when he couldn’t. The madman would be on him soon.
Trapped in a cage for hours, listening to the whimpers and screams of terror around him, too far gone with fear to know whether they were his, he had waited for salvation. He had hoped someone would come for him, that someone would know he was in the hellish dungeon.
No one had come.
Still, he had waited, his nose filling with the scent of blood, the screams dying to hoarse cries and despairing moans.
He had been taken from his cage, taunted by the madman, who cut him and laughed. A sudden sound and the madman’s attention wavered. He took his chance and ran. He had watched the madman, seen where he brought the others in. He ran for that door then, blood pouring from his neck.
The night air was muggy and cool. The streets were empty. He had no idea where he was, having lived in this city only three years and most of that spent behind bars. But not a cage. Never a cage.
He hadn’t eaten in three days, hadn’t drunken in two. He was weak and he was lost, and he knew he barely had a chance.
It was a chance. And so, he ran. He ducked behind cars and in doorways, praying that the madman wouldn’t find him. When had God ever loved him? Not now, certainly.
What was that ahead? A payphone? He still- oh, God, he still had coins in his pocket. It was too perfect. He might survive this night.
The numbers were spotty, blurring in front of his eyes. His hand trembled as he dialed a number he prayed still led to the person he needed, the one person close enough and trusted enough to help.
“Fabian Halbig.”
But it was not Fabi. He would know if it were. It was someone else, someone he didn’t recognize. He gasped, a sharp, desperate sound. There wasn’t enough time. He needed- he needed-
“Please,” he croaked. “Help me.”
ØØØ
Jan Werner had a habit of answering every phone call. Whether it was two a.m. or two p.m., he answered it because decomp didn’t wait. Spectators and police unvoiced in the art of evidence collection shouldn’t be left too long waiting for an empty morgue to answer the call.
Anyone might call him at any time, from any number.
That didn’t mean he was stupid. He knew Fabi’s phone wasn’t his. He knew there were only a handful of people who would connect that phone number to his and even fewer who would call Fabi’s cell before they called his. It wasn’t his call. It wasn’t his case.
It was just a feeling. A cautious, awful feeling that woke him at 3:42 a.m. on a Thursday morning and told him to wait. Something was coming.
Those sorts of feelings were personal. No one needed to know about them. Let’s just say, Jan thought Fabi’s phone was his, that he was being a typical nosy bedmate, and not a frightened medical examiner.
And this is from a GoT's fic I'm working on:
“So are you a Storm or a Sand?” Pyp asked once as they shared a pilfered wineskin. He didn’t take much from the kitchens, just enough that the other stewards wouldn’t notice.
“Not a bastard,” Grenn grunted, raising the wineskin to his lips. Pyp stared at him in disbelief.
“And I’m not a thief,” he answered, sarcastic as always. “Stupid Aurochs, you can’t change being baseborn. So Storm or Sand?”
“Not a bastard,” Grenn repeated. He’s telling the truth. Grenn might have been abandoned when he was a child but his father hadn’t denied him his last name and what little came with it. The old lady had told him it was a boon, the only boon life had given him, the big, festering lump. She had loved him, letting him work for her until he came into his majority and had to deal with life’s cruelty. He had no lands, no farmholding, no liege lord. He was little more than a bastard but he wasn’t a bastard. “M’name was Uller ‘fore I got here.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Was, too.”
“Liar.”
They fought, like they always did, words turning into blows. Pyp was better with words and Grenn with blows but Pyp was quick and Grenn was dense, so neither ever got too terribly hurt. Grenn, if he had been the suspicious type, would surely have noticed that Pyp loved nothing more than goading him, almost as if he had a death wish.
Grenn wasn’t suspicious, though, and, as it was, he barely noticed Pyp’s taunts. He supposed that was why the words were sometimes so vicious, Pyp destroying him with words while his eyes roamed over Grenn’s body.
Grenn didn’t much care. He’d once had a girl like that, the tailor’s niece who said the cruelest things to her suitors but was sweet in the night. Pyp wasn’t a girl but Grenn wasn’t choosy.