Apology Challenge: "The Gray Menace" by keerawa
Title: The Gray Menace
Author: keerawa
Characters: Ray K, Ray V
Rating: PG
Length: 500 words
Thanks to: My betas, akamine_chan and Steven, for reminding me that other people do not live in my head.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Alliance/Atlantis. I just feed them when they follow me home.
Warnings: Do I need to warn for odd and mildly dystopian future-fic with absolutely no sex?
Summary: Wait-times at O’Hare had gotten worse since Terminal 6 burned down in last year’s Gray Panther riots.
Two white males sat arguing in a green classic car under a dilapidated banner proclaiming, “Welcome to Chicago O’Hare 2025, Gateway to Ontario!” The men weren’t old enough to fit the profile, but they were parked illegally in the security zone. Officer Sinclair approached and knocked on the car window.
The driver rolled down his window. “Yes, officer?” he inquired, sounding amused. His suit was a lush olive, his bald head reflecting the glare of the adboards.
“No passenger vehicles allowed within 500 meters of the terminal,” the airport security guard announced.
The passenger, wearing a ratty flannel shirt and a week’s growth of whiskers, leaned over and flapped a badge at Sinclair. “CPD. Official business.”
“Oh,” the officer said, puzzling over the ID. “They should have issued you a security decal at the last check-point, Lieutenant Kowalski.”
“Well then, you’d better get on that,” the driver snapped.
“Yes,sir! I’ll just … I’ll be right back with one, sir.”
The officer trotted away, and the driver rolled up his window.
“Rent-a-cops,” Ray sighed. “Too fucking easy, Vecchio. Shoulda made him fetch us coffee.”
Vecchio acknowledged the praise with a little smile. “These anti-smuggling regs are getting ridiculous; pretty soon they’ll be sedating the international passengers and shipping them in freight containers.”
“Yeah, like that’d even help,” Ray complained. “Grays’re bringing it in through the ports, overland … drawing pensions off the sweat of us working stiffs, and spending all their hard currency on those damn Canadian meds. Fucking leeches.”
Vecchio turned to look out his window.
Ray craned his neck trying to see what had had caught Vecchio’s eye; there was nothing there. He stiffened with a sudden realization, then settled back in his seat, cautiously, and waited while stressed-out citizens flowed past them on the walkway. “Golden bullet’s different,” he muttered eventually. “It’s not like they gave you a choice about retiring from the force. You earned that pension.”
Vecchio’s shoulder twitched in an invisible shrug.
Ray eyed Vecchio anxiously, chewed his lip, and then scanned the crowd again. “Hey,” he called out, sitting upright. “Guy in the white jacket hustling the crowd, 3 o’clock.”
Vecchio swung around to look.
“Jesus freak?” Ray asked, low and slow across the plate.
“Speed freak, more like,” Vecchio said, voice dripping with scorn. “You need to get your eyes checked again, grandpa?”
“Yeah,” Ray countered cheerfully, “thought I’d try one of those November career-changes, go for umpire. Seriously, though, lady in the green sari,” he said, pointing out a woman arguing furiously with her cell at the taxi stop. “Call girl, or an exec making a call?”
Vecchio peered at her. “Either way, she earns more than you,” he concluded. “Six o’clock, guy in red trying to hold the automatic door open for all the senior citizens. Nut job, or just Canadian?”
“Both,” Ray said with a grin, hoping they could get Fraser out of there before the crowd of Grays decided he was a narc.
Author: keerawa
Characters: Ray K, Ray V
Rating: PG
Length: 500 words
Thanks to: My betas, akamine_chan and Steven, for reminding me that other people do not live in my head.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Alliance/Atlantis. I just feed them when they follow me home.
Warnings: Do I need to warn for odd and mildly dystopian future-fic with absolutely no sex?
Summary: Wait-times at O’Hare had gotten worse since Terminal 6 burned down in last year’s Gray Panther riots.
Two white males sat arguing in a green classic car under a dilapidated banner proclaiming, “Welcome to Chicago O’Hare 2025, Gateway to Ontario!” The men weren’t old enough to fit the profile, but they were parked illegally in the security zone. Officer Sinclair approached and knocked on the car window.
The driver rolled down his window. “Yes, officer?” he inquired, sounding amused. His suit was a lush olive, his bald head reflecting the glare of the adboards.
“No passenger vehicles allowed within 500 meters of the terminal,” the airport security guard announced.
The passenger, wearing a ratty flannel shirt and a week’s growth of whiskers, leaned over and flapped a badge at Sinclair. “CPD. Official business.”
“Oh,” the officer said, puzzling over the ID. “They should have issued you a security decal at the last check-point, Lieutenant Kowalski.”
“Well then, you’d better get on that,” the driver snapped.
“Yes,sir! I’ll just … I’ll be right back with one, sir.”
The officer trotted away, and the driver rolled up his window.
“Rent-a-cops,” Ray sighed. “Too fucking easy, Vecchio. Shoulda made him fetch us coffee.”
Vecchio acknowledged the praise with a little smile. “These anti-smuggling regs are getting ridiculous; pretty soon they’ll be sedating the international passengers and shipping them in freight containers.”
“Yeah, like that’d even help,” Ray complained. “Grays’re bringing it in through the ports, overland … drawing pensions off the sweat of us working stiffs, and spending all their hard currency on those damn Canadian meds. Fucking leeches.”
Vecchio turned to look out his window.
Ray craned his neck trying to see what had had caught Vecchio’s eye; there was nothing there. He stiffened with a sudden realization, then settled back in his seat, cautiously, and waited while stressed-out citizens flowed past them on the walkway. “Golden bullet’s different,” he muttered eventually. “It’s not like they gave you a choice about retiring from the force. You earned that pension.”
Vecchio’s shoulder twitched in an invisible shrug.
Ray eyed Vecchio anxiously, chewed his lip, and then scanned the crowd again. “Hey,” he called out, sitting upright. “Guy in the white jacket hustling the crowd, 3 o’clock.”
Vecchio swung around to look.
“Jesus freak?” Ray asked, low and slow across the plate.
“Speed freak, more like,” Vecchio said, voice dripping with scorn. “You need to get your eyes checked again, grandpa?”
“Yeah,” Ray countered cheerfully, “thought I’d try one of those November career-changes, go for umpire. Seriously, though, lady in the green sari,” he said, pointing out a woman arguing furiously with her cell at the taxi stop. “Call girl, or an exec making a call?”
Vecchio peered at her. “Either way, she earns more than you,” he concluded. “Six o’clock, guy in red trying to hold the automatic door open for all the senior citizens. Nut job, or just Canadian?”
“Both,” Ray said with a grin, hoping they could get Fraser out of there before the crowd of Grays decided he was a narc.