A Tale of Heroism - Prologue
Title: A Tale of Heroism
Chapter: Prologue
Fandom: Whose Line is it Anyway
Genre: Slash
Pairing(s): Brad/Ryan
Warnings: Some cursing and violence
Disclaimer: Don't own Whose Line. Not making money from this.
A/N: AU. This is basically just to get my writing muse back, therefore it might not be the most masterfully crafted work of art ever. I'll continue to write this until I run out of ideas, or I think of a satisfactory ending, whichever comes first.
This is set in the future, but it is, in essence, a western. Think Firefly without the spacecraft.
X-posted to sherwood_stiles, wl_fanfiction and wliialove.
-----
The heat from the torches scalded Brad's face as he was chaperoned through the angry mob. His boots scraped against the wooden platform; the noose hung ominously before his eyes; shouts of 'scum' and 'traitor' resonated around the valley. He tried one last time to struggle his way out of the leather shackles that adorned his wrists, though he knew it was futile; even if he had the use of his hands, the gun he operated with said hands had long been confiscated, and he would be recaptured within seconds. The only reconciliation Brad could comfort himself with was the good cause he was sacrificing himself for.
For decades, the world had been at war due to an explosion in immigration. Vastly different cultures living side by side in foreign environments caused unspeakable tension, and the ensuing war was inevitable. People would pick fights based on anything; colour, race, religion, gender. Some groups became protective to the point where they couldn't trust their own side, and annihilated themselves. Defense became the buzzword. If you weren't protected, you were as good as dead.
For this reason, the small, southern town of Harlinville, where Brad lived, had been working on a superweapon that was essentially a very big gun that could blast the living shit out of the neighbouring towns at a moment's notice. Most agreed that, for a town with an average annual income of $8,000 that's main export was grain, it was a ridiculously foolhardy project to take on. But it was in Sheriff Davis' nature to be foolhardy, not to mention trigger-happy with his antique Smith & Wessons, so very few complained.
Brad Sherwood, ever the peace-seaker, did complain. Via a bullet through the chief engineer's throat. A direct consequence of which was the situation he was currently in.
His eyes darted frantically about for some hint of escape. A loose floorboard, a small piece of rope, a carelessly discarded revolver that he could pick up and fire with his feet, anything. All he could see were the accusatory glares from his fellow citizens and former friends, and the blinding glow of their torches. Before he could come up with a plan that didn't involve several consequetive miracles, the rope was around his neck, burning a red mark onto his skin. Resigned, Brad took one last breath of fresh air and looked up to admire the sky. It was a beautiful deep blue, and the stars were shining brightly, and there was a man pointing a gun at his head.
Brad did a double-take. It was unmistakable; on the roof of the bar opposite was a tall, sandy-haired man in an entirely black outfit pointing a gun at his head. Brad wasn't sure he relished the thought of being shot in the head, until he realised he was going to be hanged anyway. Being shot in the head would most likely be quicker and less torturous. Unless the mysterious gunman missed and only wounded him - then he'd be shot in the head and hanged, and Brad was confident that he didn't relish that thought.
In the corner of his eye, he saw Sheriff Davis give a small nod. The floor beneath Brad's feet gave way, and he fell a short distance until the rope tautened. A split-second later a shot rang out. Brad heard the townspeople screaming and felt a sheer pain on his left side.
Then he neither heard nor felt anything.
.x.Sess.x.
Chapter: Prologue
Fandom: Whose Line is it Anyway
Genre: Slash
Pairing(s): Brad/Ryan
Warnings: Some cursing and violence
Disclaimer: Don't own Whose Line. Not making money from this.
A/N: AU. This is basically just to get my writing muse back, therefore it might not be the most masterfully crafted work of art ever. I'll continue to write this until I run out of ideas, or I think of a satisfactory ending, whichever comes first.
This is set in the future, but it is, in essence, a western. Think Firefly without the spacecraft.
X-posted to sherwood_stiles, wl_fanfiction and wliialove.
-----
The heat from the torches scalded Brad's face as he was chaperoned through the angry mob. His boots scraped against the wooden platform; the noose hung ominously before his eyes; shouts of 'scum' and 'traitor' resonated around the valley. He tried one last time to struggle his way out of the leather shackles that adorned his wrists, though he knew it was futile; even if he had the use of his hands, the gun he operated with said hands had long been confiscated, and he would be recaptured within seconds. The only reconciliation Brad could comfort himself with was the good cause he was sacrificing himself for.
For decades, the world had been at war due to an explosion in immigration. Vastly different cultures living side by side in foreign environments caused unspeakable tension, and the ensuing war was inevitable. People would pick fights based on anything; colour, race, religion, gender. Some groups became protective to the point where they couldn't trust their own side, and annihilated themselves. Defense became the buzzword. If you weren't protected, you were as good as dead.
For this reason, the small, southern town of Harlinville, where Brad lived, had been working on a superweapon that was essentially a very big gun that could blast the living shit out of the neighbouring towns at a moment's notice. Most agreed that, for a town with an average annual income of $8,000 that's main export was grain, it was a ridiculously foolhardy project to take on. But it was in Sheriff Davis' nature to be foolhardy, not to mention trigger-happy with his antique Smith & Wessons, so very few complained.
Brad Sherwood, ever the peace-seaker, did complain. Via a bullet through the chief engineer's throat. A direct consequence of which was the situation he was currently in.
His eyes darted frantically about for some hint of escape. A loose floorboard, a small piece of rope, a carelessly discarded revolver that he could pick up and fire with his feet, anything. All he could see were the accusatory glares from his fellow citizens and former friends, and the blinding glow of their torches. Before he could come up with a plan that didn't involve several consequetive miracles, the rope was around his neck, burning a red mark onto his skin. Resigned, Brad took one last breath of fresh air and looked up to admire the sky. It was a beautiful deep blue, and the stars were shining brightly, and there was a man pointing a gun at his head.
Brad did a double-take. It was unmistakable; on the roof of the bar opposite was a tall, sandy-haired man in an entirely black outfit pointing a gun at his head. Brad wasn't sure he relished the thought of being shot in the head, until he realised he was going to be hanged anyway. Being shot in the head would most likely be quicker and less torturous. Unless the mysterious gunman missed and only wounded him - then he'd be shot in the head and hanged, and Brad was confident that he didn't relish that thought.
In the corner of his eye, he saw Sheriff Davis give a small nod. The floor beneath Brad's feet gave way, and he fell a short distance until the rope tautened. A split-second later a shot rang out. Brad heard the townspeople screaming and felt a sheer pain on his left side.
Then he neither heard nor felt anything.
.x.Sess.x.