...but it's too late.
Okay, it’s awkward so let’s just start straight away. People have been asking me, what’s this whole “Late” thing, so I hope to make this post and make it a small FAQ so I can just give the link ) It’s original-fiction-story I’ve been writing for a while now, but I tend to see stories like already-made movies, so I gave it a thought and came up with some sort of casting. So, there’ll be pics.
Late.
- takes place in post WWIII country in the second half of 21st century.
- is about people who kill other people
Glossary:
The Agency - official organization, training base for professional killers.
Rattlesnake - codename for a group of three people: one fighter who specializes in guns, one fighter/spy who mostly uses knives and one guy who is responsible for computers, gadgets and organizes raids.
Fang - unofficial name for the fighter.
Rattle - unofficial name for the spy
Tongue - unofficial name for the computer guy.
Eight - unofficial name of the most common vehicle in the Agency. Described as a “lovechild of Hummer, Land Rover and old Cadillac”.
The Village - the place where they find themselves after a bus accident.
Characters:
Theodora ‘Ted’ McJess.
- used to work as a singer in a bar but then was asked by Bernie to join the Agency
- Rattle
- lost both parents in a car accident when she was 18, joined the Agency 3 years later
- is the narrator :)
Lewis Veils
- ex-cop
- widower (lost his wife and son in an accident that involved a truck full of Christmas trees. Therefore can’t stand Christmas and all the things related)
- smokes a lot
- gets drunk once in a while
- Fang, great with guns, not so good with martial arts though
- introvert
(lives in my head being a crazy mix of these two)
Bernard ‘Bernie’ Woodsworth
- the Tongue (and hates jokes about the name when they’re made by other people, though can joke himself)
- ex-hacker, was arrested and, as he says ‘sold his soul to the government’.
- earns a lot, owns a great house and drives a Porsche
- loves a party
- stops talking, only if you shove a sock in his mouth
- wears bright clothes, not necessarily of matching colors
Tim
- a guy they meet in the village
- works as a freelance labourer, though actually is stuck in the village keeping eye on apple orchards
- has problems with memory, remembering and forgetting things in random mode)
Norman Sisley
- cop
- looks after Tim when he has episodes
- lives in the village though has serious suspicions about the way it works and exists
Jeremy ‘Jerry’ Winter
- Rattle
- naturally polite and somewhat shy but actually has really strong personality
- has pretty idealistic view on fighting crime, hates the illegal business the Agency keeps and wants to quit
- Ted’s date for two weeks. Then disappears to reappear after 1,5 years.
- was wounded once and spent a week in a coma, has a number of scars around his left shoulderblade
Joseph Peter Stone
- the coach
- worked for the Agency, then quit, then came back
- very tall
- at first easily annoyed by Lewis
(not casted yet :)
Extracts:
- What’s with the coffin? - asks Lewis when he first sees Eight. He stands in the training area and stares at the car, frowning mournfully.
- H-0-8, - Bernie even manages to say it proudly, - not Miss World, I know, but runs like gazelle.
- I don’t need gazelle, - Lewis gestures keeping his hands in his pockets and stretching the jacket on his stomach, - I need a thing that won’t let anyone blow my head off before I get to the place.
- Me too, - I echo. Lewis makes a face letting me know that the remark was unnecessary.
- She won’t - Bernie answers with a bit less confidence, not moving his gaze from the car.
Lewis doesn’t move his gaze either. He reaches to the holster, pulls out the gun, accurately takes aim and fires, right at the car.
***
...Lewis tells me this, distracted from the chips, using pieces of potato to draw something with ketchup on his plate. Maybe he does miss the days when he was a bit more chatty after all. Bernie almost went to jail for some-blah-blah-hacking of some-blah-blah-databases, then proudly sold his soul to the government, though it turned out that the government sold it's soul to Bernie. Now he lives in a nice cute cottage and drives nice cute Porche. (When Lewis says 'Bernie' you can barely hear the R). I guess, he found it all on the internet. Of course there's still an option of Lewis going and asking his cop-friends, but I seriously doubt that Lewis has any friends to ask.
***
...I'm not saying that Bernie is a bad person. But when he walks into the room, there's instantly too much of him. He talks a bit too loud, wears clothes a bit too bright, hummers songs, runs up to you to take pictures. And you just have to make a face and smile to the camera, which is exhausting. But it's a nice training still.
***
For some reason I decide that he's going to die right here.
Lewis answers, offended:
- McJess, give me some rest. I'll just lie down for a minute and get up then, - he opens his left eye and looks at his ruined shirt, - oh, shit.
- Exactly, - I nod.
- You're a butcher, - he snorts.
- I apologized, - I answer curtly and kneel to get my shoulder under his arm to help him get up, - move your ass already.
Lewis gets up slowly, his clothes covered with dust, wet hair falling on his face. My right sleeve too, becomes slightly wet with his blood, and, unlike his black shirt, mine, white, also gets the colour. With every step Lewis leaves one more cherry-red stain stamped on my back or shoulder.
- You know, Bernie is almost screaming in my earpiece here, - he says, - I'm considering killing the guy.
- Agreed, - I answer and we keep walking, past the grey cube of the house, across the wide yard covered with sand, down the road to the car.
Bernie stares at us from Eight for a few seconds, then swallows unchewed gummy bear, licks his lips neurvously, blinks. Stares again. Lewis waves his hand near my ear, sarcastically cheerful, then leans on my shoulder again.
- Heloooo, deeear!
Bernie obviously doesn't get the message.
Finally he gets out of the car and helps me walk Lewis to the door. Lewis falls on the backseat, starts ripping off his sleeve with his left hand, makes two bands, holding one corner of it with his teeth, and accepts help only to have his right forearm bandaged.
On our way back Bernie drives, nervously shoving gummy bears in his mouth in rainbow-coloured handfulls.
- So, where are the ducks? - I remark.
- I already ate those, - Bernie murmurs, - you know, I had two theories here. a) you were joking again. b) you were dead.
- We managed to do both.
There's two hours drive to the hospital.
Lewis, lying in the backseat and staring at the glass ceiling, finally asks:
- Guuuys? Anyone has anything to smoke?'
***
We’re lying on a flower-patterned couch in Jerry’s flat. I’m on my back. He’s on his back. My knees are on the arm of the couch, sneakers hanging down and touching the side of it. His knees are on the arm of the couch, sneakers hanging down and touching the side of it. Top of my head touching the top of his head. Bet it looks like a piece of ancient architecture.
My relationship with Jerry is mulled wine - sweet fruit juice with a bitter hint of guilt and spices of professional killing. Jerry’s best ability is to make you forget the guilt part. It’s not that he’s a great psychologist. He’s just… Jerry.
He says:
- I’m leaving tomorrow.
- For how long?
- Couple of weeks, maybe a month. We’re having a raid in Europe, lots of stuff to be done.
In the city the night air always has a color. A playing mix of yellow, orange, window lights, softened by blinds, reflected in the snow and turning into pastel.
Jerry whispers:
- You have that look about you sometimes, like you will just stand up and walk away. And will never come back.
I ♥ comments.
Late.
- takes place in post WWIII country in the second half of 21st century.
- is about people who kill other people
Glossary:
The Agency - official organization, training base for professional killers.
Rattlesnake - codename for a group of three people: one fighter who specializes in guns, one fighter/spy who mostly uses knives and one guy who is responsible for computers, gadgets and organizes raids.
Fang - unofficial name for the fighter.
Rattle - unofficial name for the spy
Tongue - unofficial name for the computer guy.
Eight - unofficial name of the most common vehicle in the Agency. Described as a “lovechild of Hummer, Land Rover and old Cadillac”.
The Village - the place where they find themselves after a bus accident.
Characters:
Theodora ‘Ted’ McJess.
- used to work as a singer in a bar but then was asked by Bernie to join the Agency
- Rattle
- lost both parents in a car accident when she was 18, joined the Agency 3 years later
- is the narrator :)
Lewis Veils
- ex-cop
- widower (lost his wife and son in an accident that involved a truck full of Christmas trees. Therefore can’t stand Christmas and all the things related)
- smokes a lot
- gets drunk once in a while
- Fang, great with guns, not so good with martial arts though
- introvert
(lives in my head being a crazy mix of these two)
Bernard ‘Bernie’ Woodsworth
- the Tongue (and hates jokes about the name when they’re made by other people, though can joke himself)
- ex-hacker, was arrested and, as he says ‘sold his soul to the government’.
- earns a lot, owns a great house and drives a Porsche
- loves a party
- stops talking, only if you shove a sock in his mouth
- wears bright clothes, not necessarily of matching colors
Tim
- a guy they meet in the village
- works as a freelance labourer, though actually is stuck in the village keeping eye on apple orchards
- has problems with memory, remembering and forgetting things in random mode)
Norman Sisley
- cop
- looks after Tim when he has episodes
- lives in the village though has serious suspicions about the way it works and exists
Jeremy ‘Jerry’ Winter
- Rattle
- naturally polite and somewhat shy but actually has really strong personality
- has pretty idealistic view on fighting crime, hates the illegal business the Agency keeps and wants to quit
- Ted’s date for two weeks. Then disappears to reappear after 1,5 years.
- was wounded once and spent a week in a coma, has a number of scars around his left shoulderblade
Joseph Peter Stone
- the coach
- worked for the Agency, then quit, then came back
- very tall
- at first easily annoyed by Lewis
(not casted yet :)
Extracts:
- What’s with the coffin? - asks Lewis when he first sees Eight. He stands in the training area and stares at the car, frowning mournfully.
- H-0-8, - Bernie even manages to say it proudly, - not Miss World, I know, but runs like gazelle.
- I don’t need gazelle, - Lewis gestures keeping his hands in his pockets and stretching the jacket on his stomach, - I need a thing that won’t let anyone blow my head off before I get to the place.
- Me too, - I echo. Lewis makes a face letting me know that the remark was unnecessary.
- She won’t - Bernie answers with a bit less confidence, not moving his gaze from the car.
Lewis doesn’t move his gaze either. He reaches to the holster, pulls out the gun, accurately takes aim and fires, right at the car.
***
...Lewis tells me this, distracted from the chips, using pieces of potato to draw something with ketchup on his plate. Maybe he does miss the days when he was a bit more chatty after all. Bernie almost went to jail for some-blah-blah-hacking of some-blah-blah-databases, then proudly sold his soul to the government, though it turned out that the government sold it's soul to Bernie. Now he lives in a nice cute cottage and drives nice cute Porche. (When Lewis says 'Bernie' you can barely hear the R). I guess, he found it all on the internet. Of course there's still an option of Lewis going and asking his cop-friends, but I seriously doubt that Lewis has any friends to ask.
***
...I'm not saying that Bernie is a bad person. But when he walks into the room, there's instantly too much of him. He talks a bit too loud, wears clothes a bit too bright, hummers songs, runs up to you to take pictures. And you just have to make a face and smile to the camera, which is exhausting. But it's a nice training still.
***
For some reason I decide that he's going to die right here.
Lewis answers, offended:
- McJess, give me some rest. I'll just lie down for a minute and get up then, - he opens his left eye and looks at his ruined shirt, - oh, shit.
- Exactly, - I nod.
- You're a butcher, - he snorts.
- I apologized, - I answer curtly and kneel to get my shoulder under his arm to help him get up, - move your ass already.
Lewis gets up slowly, his clothes covered with dust, wet hair falling on his face. My right sleeve too, becomes slightly wet with his blood, and, unlike his black shirt, mine, white, also gets the colour. With every step Lewis leaves one more cherry-red stain stamped on my back or shoulder.
- You know, Bernie is almost screaming in my earpiece here, - he says, - I'm considering killing the guy.
- Agreed, - I answer and we keep walking, past the grey cube of the house, across the wide yard covered with sand, down the road to the car.
Bernie stares at us from Eight for a few seconds, then swallows unchewed gummy bear, licks his lips neurvously, blinks. Stares again. Lewis waves his hand near my ear, sarcastically cheerful, then leans on my shoulder again.
- Heloooo, deeear!
Bernie obviously doesn't get the message.
Finally he gets out of the car and helps me walk Lewis to the door. Lewis falls on the backseat, starts ripping off his sleeve with his left hand, makes two bands, holding one corner of it with his teeth, and accepts help only to have his right forearm bandaged.
On our way back Bernie drives, nervously shoving gummy bears in his mouth in rainbow-coloured handfulls.
- So, where are the ducks? - I remark.
- I already ate those, - Bernie murmurs, - you know, I had two theories here. a) you were joking again. b) you were dead.
- We managed to do both.
There's two hours drive to the hospital.
Lewis, lying in the backseat and staring at the glass ceiling, finally asks:
- Guuuys? Anyone has anything to smoke?'
***
We’re lying on a flower-patterned couch in Jerry’s flat. I’m on my back. He’s on his back. My knees are on the arm of the couch, sneakers hanging down and touching the side of it. His knees are on the arm of the couch, sneakers hanging down and touching the side of it. Top of my head touching the top of his head. Bet it looks like a piece of ancient architecture.
My relationship with Jerry is mulled wine - sweet fruit juice with a bitter hint of guilt and spices of professional killing. Jerry’s best ability is to make you forget the guilt part. It’s not that he’s a great psychologist. He’s just… Jerry.
He says:
- I’m leaving tomorrow.
- For how long?
- Couple of weeks, maybe a month. We’re having a raid in Europe, lots of stuff to be done.
In the city the night air always has a color. A playing mix of yellow, orange, window lights, softened by blinds, reflected in the snow and turning into pastel.
Jerry whispers:
- You have that look about you sometimes, like you will just stand up and walk away. And will never come back.
I ♥ comments.