In honour of Baudrillard
I'm posting the music video from that Drew Barrymore and Hugh Grant romcom. Because nothing says hyperreality quite like FAKE EIGHTIES.
Latest round of drabble_trade went up yesterday. There doesn't seem to be much guessing this time, so I will link and wait for people to confess. :D
Written for me:
Basch and Penelo
Fai and Sakura
FMA!Supernatural, by arboretum (to go with ladysisyphus's Fatal Frame!Supernatural and VS!Supernatural. IT'S LIKE A LITTLE BLACK DRESS.)
What I wrote (for lazulisong, reposted):
Vincent/Reeve
"I reheated your pizza," said Vincent.
Reeve, commendably, did not scream. After a moment he sighed, slid off the recliner and replaced the headset above the VR monitor screens.
"You could have called," he said.
Silence.
Reeve didn't bother to ask how he'd gotten in. The pizza smelt delicious. He was suddenly aware that he hadn't eaten for... for...
He reached for the cardboard box, and Vincent caught his wrist. Reeve blinked down at the metal vise.
"What," he began. But Vincent was already across the room, in a swirl of red.
"The real you," he said. "It's a start."
***
FFXII, Larsa
The lady by Larsa's side snored gently, in it for the long haul. The next commercial flight to Archades was delayed by two hours, thanks to the rerouting of the Imperial convoy. She'd propped her ankles on her suitcase and stacked the rest of her luggage set within arm's reach on the neighboring seat, in descending order of size from bottom to top. When he lowered his head the resultant pyramid blocked him from view entirely.
Lack of height could be a tactical advantage. Sometimes.
"Hurry up! Fan out!"
They were doing a bad job of keeping the operation quiet. Larsa could track the guards' progress by the turning of heads in the terminal area. He shifted closer to the sleeping woman and tried to look as if he belonged: no one took much notice of other people's children. She smelt like sweat and expensive powder.
"...think they're doing, running around like they own the..."
"...for boarding. I repeat, passengers on flights number 106 to Rabanastre, 953 to Nalbina..."
"...said, bhudra, if you could spare a moment to..."
In Rabanastre he would have waited until they were out and about in the city, but this visit was less planned than detour and he didn't think he would get the chance. Luckily for him, even Judge Magister Ghis would have to go through channels in order to lock Bhujerba's aerodrome down. This wasn't Imperial territory. Yet.
"...a dead man. Don't forget it. And no names."
"Of course."
Larsa blinked and nearly forgot to keep ducking.
Gabranth?
There had been no clanking armour noises for some time. He gave it a heartbeat and peered around the end of the seating. Flight attendant, harried mother of two, aging Seeq couple, viera... viera and company. Consisting of three hume males of varying age. Larsa frowned.
The mother of two was headed toward the exit, wrangling a luggage trolley as well as she could while keeping a firm grip on her youngest. Larsa slid off the seat and fell into step behind them, close enough that any casual onlooker would take them to be a single family.
"...those bounty hunters." That was the teenaged boy bringing up the rear, in a voice that carried like a clarion. The accent was pure Rabanastre, more Dalmascan than sand. "We've got to get Penelo out of there, before anything else."
"I concur with Vaan." There: the tallest man of the group. Blond, shabbily dressed, hair much longer than could be accounted for by the three weeks since Larsa had left Archades. Mistaken identity, surely. But there was the voice - and he moved the way Gabranth did, as if used to the discipline of heavy arms. And something else still, too familiar for words...
"Your sword arm as airfare?" the third man drawled. Archadian noblesse, Larsa thought, startled. He could not see the man's face, but he was well-dressed, if eccentrically so.
"If you will accept it."
What if it were Gabranth? A covert operation conducted by the head of the Ninth? It was barely possible. Rumours in the Senate. If my father had ordered - if my brother- Larsa slipped a hand into the pocketed folds of his tunic, touched the rounded edge of the object he carried. It felt faintly warm. Perhaps this is no coincidence.
He had to be certain. If that meant blowing his own cover then so be it. He had not confided his suspicions, not even to Drace, but the fact of Gabranth's presence would be corroboration enough. And he did not think Gabranth would put him in harm's way.
There were no guards in sight. They emerged onto the open walkway under a bright sun, well clear of the exit, and Larsa picked up his pace, hurrying past the woman and her children. He was careful not to glance up until the last possible moment.
As it happened, the man was looking his way, and their eyes met.
Larsa looked away again, quickly. Momentum carried him to the balustrade, and he leant his weight against it, pretending to be absorbed by the view. He felt shaken.
Not Gabranth. But who?
"The Lhusu mines are just up ahead." The Archadian accent, easy to pick out in the midst of Bhujerban singsong. They'd paused just a few feet away. "Though I do hear there's not much left there these days..."
No coincidence.
Larsa made a split-second decision. "You're on your way to the mines?" As their heads swiveled he pushed away from the balustrade and approached the group. "Please allow me to accompany you. I've an errand to attend to there." It was truth enough, as far as it went.
"What manner of errand?" asked the man who looked like Gabranth - not unkindly, Larsa thought, but without the slightest trace of recognition. He was thinner than Gabranth, and seemed wearier; a livid scar crossed his left brow, miraculously sparing the eye. Who are you?
"What errand? I might ask the same of you," he parried, turning to the others. They hardly looked like out-of-town miners seeking work, and in any case Lhusu was closed for inspection. A courtesy, Ghis had said.
It was a play for time, in order to concoct a likely story of his own, but the Archadian only tilted his head. "Right," he said without skipping a beat. "Come on, then."
"What?" said the boy.
"Excellent," said Larsa, unnerved but not showing it. The Archadian's gaze was searching, intent despite his flippant tone, and Larsa wondered suddenly if he had blown his cover after all. But if you know me, why don't I know you?
"Do me a favour and stay where I can keep my eye on you," the man said. "Should be less trouble that way."
"For us both," Larsa returned, holding his gaze. The man neither smiled nor frowned, but the ironic light in his eyes seemed to deepen.
"So what's your name?" said the boy, crossing his arms.
"Oh, I-" His first name wouldn't do, he suddenly realized. "I'm... Lamont." He'd been smoother with the other two.
The boy didn't seem to care. "Don't worry," he said after a moment, jerking his head at the motley crew. The viera had said nothing the entire time, only her ears flicking as she followed the exchange. "I don't know what's in that mine, Lamont, but you're in good hands. Right, Basch?"
The other two men exchange a consternated look. Then they both looked down at Larsa, and the consternation turned rueful. Larsa kept his face smooth and innocent.
Well, that answers one question.
***
He thought about it as they made their way through the southern quadrant of the skycity - half the streets had been cordoned off, thanks to Ghis's arrival. The inhabitants eyed the Imperials in the blockade with naked dislike, beyond what inconvenience could conceivably inspire. Larsa found the sight troubling.
"Basch" was not a common name; by their reactions, his current company expected it to carry recognition value. Larsa could only think of one personage to fit the bill. Right age, right physical type. Unfortunately for his chain of deduction, said personage was deceased. Or such were the known facts.
Basch fon Ronsenberg of Dalmasca. Traitor captain of King Raminas's guard, who had preferred regicide to parley, and gone defiant to the executioner's blade. A lesson of history, Vayne had said; he had discussed the incident with Larsa only once. He mistook pride for honour, and it drove him mad. His folly was the ruin of the country he served. Had Raminas lived, I would not now be Consul.
The common folk spit in the dust when his name is spoken.
And yet Basch fon Ronsenberg walked Bhujerba's winding streets, two years after the fact, head firmly attached to shoulders and only a little the worse for wear. Do you have a body, Marquis?
If this much were prevarication, what of the remaining fortress of cards? Raminas's daughter had been the last of Dalmasca's heirs; her suicide, too, had been confirmed on the strength of Ondore's disinterested testimony. For that matter, it was doubtful that Vayne would have been named Consul, had Ashelia lived. Fon Ronsenberg's act of treachery at least had the merit of unambiguity, committed as it was before witnesses.
Basch fon Ronsenberg, who wore the face of a Judge Magister of House Solidor.
Who had ever seen the face of a Judge Magister?
Cold knotted in the pit of Larsa's stomach. He did not want to examine it. I will consider this later, he told himself. For now I must remember my purpose.
The manufacted nethicite was warm in his hand. He thought the viera glanced at him, but her expression did not change.
***
...It's not so much a short story as it is a chunk of game novelisation told from Larsa's POV, and as such goes on and on and on and WHY IS IT NOT STOPPING. I blame Lois McMaster Bujold.
Latest round of drabble_trade went up yesterday. There doesn't seem to be much guessing this time, so I will link and wait for people to confess. :D
Written for me:
Basch and Penelo
Fai and Sakura
FMA!Supernatural, by arboretum (to go with ladysisyphus's Fatal Frame!Supernatural and VS!Supernatural. IT'S LIKE A LITTLE BLACK DRESS.)
What I wrote (for lazulisong, reposted):
Vincent/Reeve
"I reheated your pizza," said Vincent.
Reeve, commendably, did not scream. After a moment he sighed, slid off the recliner and replaced the headset above the VR monitor screens.
"You could have called," he said.
Silence.
Reeve didn't bother to ask how he'd gotten in. The pizza smelt delicious. He was suddenly aware that he hadn't eaten for... for...
He reached for the cardboard box, and Vincent caught his wrist. Reeve blinked down at the metal vise.
"What," he began. But Vincent was already across the room, in a swirl of red.
"The real you," he said. "It's a start."
***
FFXII, Larsa
The lady by Larsa's side snored gently, in it for the long haul. The next commercial flight to Archades was delayed by two hours, thanks to the rerouting of the Imperial convoy. She'd propped her ankles on her suitcase and stacked the rest of her luggage set within arm's reach on the neighboring seat, in descending order of size from bottom to top. When he lowered his head the resultant pyramid blocked him from view entirely.
Lack of height could be a tactical advantage. Sometimes.
"Hurry up! Fan out!"
They were doing a bad job of keeping the operation quiet. Larsa could track the guards' progress by the turning of heads in the terminal area. He shifted closer to the sleeping woman and tried to look as if he belonged: no one took much notice of other people's children. She smelt like sweat and expensive powder.
"...think they're doing, running around like they own the..."
"...for boarding. I repeat, passengers on flights number 106 to Rabanastre, 953 to Nalbina..."
"...said, bhudra, if you could spare a moment to..."
In Rabanastre he would have waited until they were out and about in the city, but this visit was less planned than detour and he didn't think he would get the chance. Luckily for him, even Judge Magister Ghis would have to go through channels in order to lock Bhujerba's aerodrome down. This wasn't Imperial territory. Yet.
"...a dead man. Don't forget it. And no names."
"Of course."
Larsa blinked and nearly forgot to keep ducking.
Gabranth?
There had been no clanking armour noises for some time. He gave it a heartbeat and peered around the end of the seating. Flight attendant, harried mother of two, aging Seeq couple, viera... viera and company. Consisting of three hume males of varying age. Larsa frowned.
The mother of two was headed toward the exit, wrangling a luggage trolley as well as she could while keeping a firm grip on her youngest. Larsa slid off the seat and fell into step behind them, close enough that any casual onlooker would take them to be a single family.
"...those bounty hunters." That was the teenaged boy bringing up the rear, in a voice that carried like a clarion. The accent was pure Rabanastre, more Dalmascan than sand. "We've got to get Penelo out of there, before anything else."
"I concur with Vaan." There: the tallest man of the group. Blond, shabbily dressed, hair much longer than could be accounted for by the three weeks since Larsa had left Archades. Mistaken identity, surely. But there was the voice - and he moved the way Gabranth did, as if used to the discipline of heavy arms. And something else still, too familiar for words...
"Your sword arm as airfare?" the third man drawled. Archadian noblesse, Larsa thought, startled. He could not see the man's face, but he was well-dressed, if eccentrically so.
"If you will accept it."
What if it were Gabranth? A covert operation conducted by the head of the Ninth? It was barely possible. Rumours in the Senate. If my father had ordered - if my brother- Larsa slipped a hand into the pocketed folds of his tunic, touched the rounded edge of the object he carried. It felt faintly warm. Perhaps this is no coincidence.
He had to be certain. If that meant blowing his own cover then so be it. He had not confided his suspicions, not even to Drace, but the fact of Gabranth's presence would be corroboration enough. And he did not think Gabranth would put him in harm's way.
There were no guards in sight. They emerged onto the open walkway under a bright sun, well clear of the exit, and Larsa picked up his pace, hurrying past the woman and her children. He was careful not to glance up until the last possible moment.
As it happened, the man was looking his way, and their eyes met.
Larsa looked away again, quickly. Momentum carried him to the balustrade, and he leant his weight against it, pretending to be absorbed by the view. He felt shaken.
Not Gabranth. But who?
"The Lhusu mines are just up ahead." The Archadian accent, easy to pick out in the midst of Bhujerban singsong. They'd paused just a few feet away. "Though I do hear there's not much left there these days..."
No coincidence.
Larsa made a split-second decision. "You're on your way to the mines?" As their heads swiveled he pushed away from the balustrade and approached the group. "Please allow me to accompany you. I've an errand to attend to there." It was truth enough, as far as it went.
"What manner of errand?" asked the man who looked like Gabranth - not unkindly, Larsa thought, but without the slightest trace of recognition. He was thinner than Gabranth, and seemed wearier; a livid scar crossed his left brow, miraculously sparing the eye. Who are you?
"What errand? I might ask the same of you," he parried, turning to the others. They hardly looked like out-of-town miners seeking work, and in any case Lhusu was closed for inspection. A courtesy, Ghis had said.
It was a play for time, in order to concoct a likely story of his own, but the Archadian only tilted his head. "Right," he said without skipping a beat. "Come on, then."
"What?" said the boy.
"Excellent," said Larsa, unnerved but not showing it. The Archadian's gaze was searching, intent despite his flippant tone, and Larsa wondered suddenly if he had blown his cover after all. But if you know me, why don't I know you?
"Do me a favour and stay where I can keep my eye on you," the man said. "Should be less trouble that way."
"For us both," Larsa returned, holding his gaze. The man neither smiled nor frowned, but the ironic light in his eyes seemed to deepen.
"So what's your name?" said the boy, crossing his arms.
"Oh, I-" His first name wouldn't do, he suddenly realized. "I'm... Lamont." He'd been smoother with the other two.
The boy didn't seem to care. "Don't worry," he said after a moment, jerking his head at the motley crew. The viera had said nothing the entire time, only her ears flicking as she followed the exchange. "I don't know what's in that mine, Lamont, but you're in good hands. Right, Basch?"
The other two men exchange a consternated look. Then they both looked down at Larsa, and the consternation turned rueful. Larsa kept his face smooth and innocent.
Well, that answers one question.
***
He thought about it as they made their way through the southern quadrant of the skycity - half the streets had been cordoned off, thanks to Ghis's arrival. The inhabitants eyed the Imperials in the blockade with naked dislike, beyond what inconvenience could conceivably inspire. Larsa found the sight troubling.
"Basch" was not a common name; by their reactions, his current company expected it to carry recognition value. Larsa could only think of one personage to fit the bill. Right age, right physical type. Unfortunately for his chain of deduction, said personage was deceased. Or such were the known facts.
Basch fon Ronsenberg of Dalmasca. Traitor captain of King Raminas's guard, who had preferred regicide to parley, and gone defiant to the executioner's blade. A lesson of history, Vayne had said; he had discussed the incident with Larsa only once. He mistook pride for honour, and it drove him mad. His folly was the ruin of the country he served. Had Raminas lived, I would not now be Consul.
The common folk spit in the dust when his name is spoken.
And yet Basch fon Ronsenberg walked Bhujerba's winding streets, two years after the fact, head firmly attached to shoulders and only a little the worse for wear. Do you have a body, Marquis?
If this much were prevarication, what of the remaining fortress of cards? Raminas's daughter had been the last of Dalmasca's heirs; her suicide, too, had been confirmed on the strength of Ondore's disinterested testimony. For that matter, it was doubtful that Vayne would have been named Consul, had Ashelia lived. Fon Ronsenberg's act of treachery at least had the merit of unambiguity, committed as it was before witnesses.
Basch fon Ronsenberg, who wore the face of a Judge Magister of House Solidor.
Who had ever seen the face of a Judge Magister?
Cold knotted in the pit of Larsa's stomach. He did not want to examine it. I will consider this later, he told himself. For now I must remember my purpose.
The manufacted nethicite was warm in his hand. He thought the viera glanced at him, but her expression did not change.
***
...It's not so much a short story as it is a chunk of game novelisation told from Larsa's POV, and as such goes on and on and on and WHY IS IT NOT STOPPING. I blame Lois McMaster Bujold.