quigonejinn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
quigonejinn) wrote2006-08-28 05:17 pm
quigonejinn) wrote2006-08-28 05:17 pm
Entry tags:
8th and Naboo.
God knows that Star Wars needs more shitty fic like a hamster needs two assholes, but I've been writing a lot of other-setting HH stuff, and uh. Poo runs downhill! :D
Here is a story about Old Republic City: there was once a hotel on the corner of 8th and Lombard. On the southeast corner, it had a room with blue walls. Much of the hotel was, in fact, decorated in the theme of water, and in front of the building, there was a fountain with gold at the bottom.
...
Oliver Knightsley did not come back to the room until one o'clock. Down in the lobby, the night porter had already turned down the lamps in the lobby. The valet had fallen asleep at his station, and the three table lamps had retreated under their shades. The carpet was darker by a shade or two. The ends of the hallways slipped a bit more into shadow. Memory lived in these corridors, after all.
When the door was opened for him, Knightsley found that the setup had not change dthere, either. The curtains were still drawn; it was still dim. Jansen had poured himself a bit of Scotch from his hip-flask; a glass of it was on the coffee table, and after closing the door behind Oliver, Jansen went back to it. The lady was just coming out of the bathroom.
"We're as safe as it'll get," Oliver said. "I talked to the boys downstairs, and I found all the exits."
The lady went and sat on the sofa, one hand laid laid flat on her peach-colored knee. She wore lounging pajamas of heavy silk embroidered with black lotus buds and shot through with gold. The radio played something twittery, and she was looking at the radio.
"You like Goodman, Miss?" Knightsley asked.
"Not in situations like these," the girl said, tonelessly. She had fixed herself among the pillows and cushions on the davenport as though she had never left, and her voice was strange, oddly flat, too.
Knightsley glanced over at Jansen, who appeared to be absorbed in alternaely studying the pattern of the wallpaper opposite him or the bottom of his glass of scotch. Through the twittering of the radio, there was the sound of the city coming through the windows.
"It's not good music to cry over," the girl added. "It's not music to do anything to, in fact.
"I should be with my people."
Oliver rocked back on his heels and looked at her eyes. Strange, deep eyes. Even in the dimness of the room, it was possible to see the gold flecks in them. In that way, they matched her clothes, and she looked like a queen sitting there with her cushions, looking at the radio and keeping her face perfectly measured.
It was like a mask. Again, Oliver looked at Jansen.
...
Later, the girl went to the window. She had promised Jansen that she would not lift up the shades; she just wanted to stand somewhere different for a while. She just wanted to be near a window, and Jansen had made her promise to keep her hands folded behind her back. "As a guard against temptation, Miss," he had said.
Now, he kept an eye on her while speaking to Oliver.
"Did anyone see more of the man in black?" He was keeping his voice quiet, pitched for two, but his voice was deep. It rumbled a little anyways, and the miss pretended not to hear them. She looked very small against the deep blue curtains.
Oliver shook his head. "I looked. Asked, too. Nobody has had the least hint of him." He put his hand in his pocket to see if there was a cigarette left. There wasn't, of course.
"Perhaps we lost him."
Expressions showed themselves surprisingly easily on Knightsley's face. He was still young. "I don't think we did, Chief."
"You had a bad feeling about this from the start."
Oliver blushed for he was not only young, but very young, and he remembered what Jansen had said to him about it. Now, Jansen was giving him a kind, almost indulgent look, and to change the subject, Oliver said:
"A man with a face like that, you'd think that he would be rememebred."
There was more silence. The girl was keeping her hands behind her back, but she had begun to sway a little in time to the music from the radio. It almost looked like she was dancing with the curtains. A fine-looking girl, really. Oliver would have been tempted in the time before her daddy got himself elected.
"I'll stand first watch outside the door," Jansen said, finally, after watching Oliver. His face was still kind, and when Oliver opened his mouth to protest, Jansen drew his jacket back a little and rested his hand on his hip. That was where he kept his gun. "Stay here with the girl. Rest."
...
There was no rest. On the radio, Goodman turned to King Yellow. Outside, it began to rain. Oliver knew from the sound on the windows, like nervous fingers tapping at glass, and eventually, the little boy crawled out from under the wardrobe where he had been sleeping and came over to the girl. He held his arms out, and when she lifted him -- strong girl despite her size -- he crept into her lap and went back to sleep, his face turned into her stomach.
He was almost half as large as she was, and his hair stuck up in the back where he'd had to turn his head flat in order to fit under the wardrobe.
"There's a guest bed in the closet," Oliver said.
"I think the room frightens him. It reminds him of water; he's not used to so much of it."
Her voice sounded more natural now, and indeed, the night looked dark outside. This was a classy hotel, set high and away from the city. When it was dark inside, it was dark. No neon signs. No reminders, only lights set in buildings enough to make them look like stars, and the light through the cracks of the curtains was clear and white. The rain made the flock on the wallpaper look like it was moving, and from the look of him, the boy wasn't used to something so classy.
The girl began to pet the boy's hair, to caress his shoulder.
"Is he your son?" Oliver said while taking off the handkerchief that he'd thrown over his knee to keep the boy from seeing the gun.
"Only a friend," the girl said. She kept stroking his hair, and the boy turned in his sleep, making a contented noise.
Through the radio, one of King Yellow's performers sang about angels. They rose, it seemed, from sand.
...
"I should be with my people."
"You father is paying us to take you back to them."
"But there are only two -- " There was a funny tone in her voice, and Oliver turned from the peephole that he'd used to make his quarterly check on Jansen, sitting guard outside with his gun put away in his pocket. She was biting her lip; the boy was still in her lap.
She asked questions. Later, she asked whether it was good policy for Jansen to pour such tall Scotches for himself while on the job, and Oliver told her that if she watched close, she could see that Jansen never drank any of it. Jansen had been dry for a dozen years. He liked to pour the Scotch out and just study it. To think back when he used to drink it, to skirt the line. To tempt himself.
"Some like dames. Some like drinking."
It was unsaid, but it was clear. Jansen likes to pretend that he breaks rules.
The rain continued.
...
In the end, it was Oliver who turned and walked away after finishing the call. He put the phone down. He went across the entrance lobby, down the shallow steps and out of the hotel. He walked softly, carefully, like a man carrying the sick, then got into the car that was waiting at the front.
When he looked in the rear, she was sitting there, and the boy was clinging to her arm. There was a cut on his cheek from the glass had cut him. The girl cradled her right hand to her chest. When the man finally came, it had been through the window. Nobody expected it, and Oliver did not know how the man had tracked them, but the girl produced a tiny pistol that Oliver had not known she possessed. A decent shot. It passed through the sleeve of the man's coat and made a hole.
He was lying face-down in the fountain, now. He had fallen after Oliver shot him; the water had turned pinkish, and Oliver called the boy to come and sit with him up front.
"Be quick," he said. "That's the police."
"I'll do everything in my power to reward you," the girl said. Her voice was natural. She sounded sad, but also proud. After all, she was as good as back with her people now. "Anything."
The sirens had become loud loud, and Oliver pulled away from the curb quickly. The girl turned to look at them out of the rear window.
Perhaps she wanted to see how close the police were; perhaps she wanted to look at the hotel one last time, but Oliver, for his part, refused to look. While he drove, in fact, he unrolled the window by his side so that he could pretend it was rain on his cheeks.
...
Here is a story about Old Republic City: there was once a hotel on the corner of 8th and Lombard. There was a fountain in front of it with gold at the bottom, but for a young man named Oliver Knightsley, there was only ever grief in the room that looked like water.
The Raymond Chandler short story that I've stolen so extensively from is, of course, "I'll Be Waiting." The plot lined up too well with elements of The Phantom Menace -- the girl in need of protection, the betraying of trust, the death of a mentor figure, etc. King Yellow is a reference to another Chandler non-Marlowe story.
Chunks of the opening scene are lifted directly from "I'll Be Waiting, including the lobby bits at the end. I swear, it's all because I wanted to do this meta about how much deeper Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan's relationship goes than what you find in most detective stories. I wanted this to be kind of fanfiction for "I'll Be Waiting," too, because I just love the elegance of that story.
Also, because I want to be a HP BNF, too. XD
Here is a story about Old Republic City: there was once a hotel on the corner of 8th and Lombard. On the southeast corner, it had a room with blue walls. Much of the hotel was, in fact, decorated in the theme of water, and in front of the building, there was a fountain with gold at the bottom.
...
Oliver Knightsley did not come back to the room until one o'clock. Down in the lobby, the night porter had already turned down the lamps in the lobby. The valet had fallen asleep at his station, and the three table lamps had retreated under their shades. The carpet was darker by a shade or two. The ends of the hallways slipped a bit more into shadow. Memory lived in these corridors, after all.
When the door was opened for him, Knightsley found that the setup had not change dthere, either. The curtains were still drawn; it was still dim. Jansen had poured himself a bit of Scotch from his hip-flask; a glass of it was on the coffee table, and after closing the door behind Oliver, Jansen went back to it. The lady was just coming out of the bathroom.
"We're as safe as it'll get," Oliver said. "I talked to the boys downstairs, and I found all the exits."
The lady went and sat on the sofa, one hand laid laid flat on her peach-colored knee. She wore lounging pajamas of heavy silk embroidered with black lotus buds and shot through with gold. The radio played something twittery, and she was looking at the radio.
"You like Goodman, Miss?" Knightsley asked.
"Not in situations like these," the girl said, tonelessly. She had fixed herself among the pillows and cushions on the davenport as though she had never left, and her voice was strange, oddly flat, too.
Knightsley glanced over at Jansen, who appeared to be absorbed in alternaely studying the pattern of the wallpaper opposite him or the bottom of his glass of scotch. Through the twittering of the radio, there was the sound of the city coming through the windows.
"It's not good music to cry over," the girl added. "It's not music to do anything to, in fact.
"I should be with my people."
Oliver rocked back on his heels and looked at her eyes. Strange, deep eyes. Even in the dimness of the room, it was possible to see the gold flecks in them. In that way, they matched her clothes, and she looked like a queen sitting there with her cushions, looking at the radio and keeping her face perfectly measured.
It was like a mask. Again, Oliver looked at Jansen.
...
Later, the girl went to the window. She had promised Jansen that she would not lift up the shades; she just wanted to stand somewhere different for a while. She just wanted to be near a window, and Jansen had made her promise to keep her hands folded behind her back. "As a guard against temptation, Miss," he had said.
Now, he kept an eye on her while speaking to Oliver.
"Did anyone see more of the man in black?" He was keeping his voice quiet, pitched for two, but his voice was deep. It rumbled a little anyways, and the miss pretended not to hear them. She looked very small against the deep blue curtains.
Oliver shook his head. "I looked. Asked, too. Nobody has had the least hint of him." He put his hand in his pocket to see if there was a cigarette left. There wasn't, of course.
"Perhaps we lost him."
Expressions showed themselves surprisingly easily on Knightsley's face. He was still young. "I don't think we did, Chief."
"You had a bad feeling about this from the start."
Oliver blushed for he was not only young, but very young, and he remembered what Jansen had said to him about it. Now, Jansen was giving him a kind, almost indulgent look, and to change the subject, Oliver said:
"A man with a face like that, you'd think that he would be rememebred."
There was more silence. The girl was keeping her hands behind her back, but she had begun to sway a little in time to the music from the radio. It almost looked like she was dancing with the curtains. A fine-looking girl, really. Oliver would have been tempted in the time before her daddy got himself elected.
"I'll stand first watch outside the door," Jansen said, finally, after watching Oliver. His face was still kind, and when Oliver opened his mouth to protest, Jansen drew his jacket back a little and rested his hand on his hip. That was where he kept his gun. "Stay here with the girl. Rest."
...
There was no rest. On the radio, Goodman turned to King Yellow. Outside, it began to rain. Oliver knew from the sound on the windows, like nervous fingers tapping at glass, and eventually, the little boy crawled out from under the wardrobe where he had been sleeping and came over to the girl. He held his arms out, and when she lifted him -- strong girl despite her size -- he crept into her lap and went back to sleep, his face turned into her stomach.
He was almost half as large as she was, and his hair stuck up in the back where he'd had to turn his head flat in order to fit under the wardrobe.
"There's a guest bed in the closet," Oliver said.
"I think the room frightens him. It reminds him of water; he's not used to so much of it."
Her voice sounded more natural now, and indeed, the night looked dark outside. This was a classy hotel, set high and away from the city. When it was dark inside, it was dark. No neon signs. No reminders, only lights set in buildings enough to make them look like stars, and the light through the cracks of the curtains was clear and white. The rain made the flock on the wallpaper look like it was moving, and from the look of him, the boy wasn't used to something so classy.
The girl began to pet the boy's hair, to caress his shoulder.
"Is he your son?" Oliver said while taking off the handkerchief that he'd thrown over his knee to keep the boy from seeing the gun.
"Only a friend," the girl said. She kept stroking his hair, and the boy turned in his sleep, making a contented noise.
Through the radio, one of King Yellow's performers sang about angels. They rose, it seemed, from sand.
...
"I should be with my people."
"You father is paying us to take you back to them."
"But there are only two -- " There was a funny tone in her voice, and Oliver turned from the peephole that he'd used to make his quarterly check on Jansen, sitting guard outside with his gun put away in his pocket. She was biting her lip; the boy was still in her lap.
She asked questions. Later, she asked whether it was good policy for Jansen to pour such tall Scotches for himself while on the job, and Oliver told her that if she watched close, she could see that Jansen never drank any of it. Jansen had been dry for a dozen years. He liked to pour the Scotch out and just study it. To think back when he used to drink it, to skirt the line. To tempt himself.
"Some like dames. Some like drinking."
It was unsaid, but it was clear. Jansen likes to pretend that he breaks rules.
The rain continued.
...
In the end, it was Oliver who turned and walked away after finishing the call. He put the phone down. He went across the entrance lobby, down the shallow steps and out of the hotel. He walked softly, carefully, like a man carrying the sick, then got into the car that was waiting at the front.
When he looked in the rear, she was sitting there, and the boy was clinging to her arm. There was a cut on his cheek from the glass had cut him. The girl cradled her right hand to her chest. When the man finally came, it had been through the window. Nobody expected it, and Oliver did not know how the man had tracked them, but the girl produced a tiny pistol that Oliver had not known she possessed. A decent shot. It passed through the sleeve of the man's coat and made a hole.
He was lying face-down in the fountain, now. He had fallen after Oliver shot him; the water had turned pinkish, and Oliver called the boy to come and sit with him up front.
"Be quick," he said. "That's the police."
"I'll do everything in my power to reward you," the girl said. Her voice was natural. She sounded sad, but also proud. After all, she was as good as back with her people now. "Anything."
The sirens had become loud loud, and Oliver pulled away from the curb quickly. The girl turned to look at them out of the rear window.
Perhaps she wanted to see how close the police were; perhaps she wanted to look at the hotel one last time, but Oliver, for his part, refused to look. While he drove, in fact, he unrolled the window by his side so that he could pretend it was rain on his cheeks.
...
Here is a story about Old Republic City: there was once a hotel on the corner of 8th and Lombard. There was a fountain in front of it with gold at the bottom, but for a young man named Oliver Knightsley, there was only ever grief in the room that looked like water.
The Raymond Chandler short story that I've stolen so extensively from is, of course, "I'll Be Waiting." The plot lined up too well with elements of The Phantom Menace -- the girl in need of protection, the betraying of trust, the death of a mentor figure, etc. King Yellow is a reference to another Chandler non-Marlowe story.
Chunks of the opening scene are lifted directly from "I'll Be Waiting, including the lobby bits at the end. I swear, it's all because I wanted to do this meta about how much deeper Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan's relationship goes than what you find in most detective stories. I wanted this to be kind of fanfiction for "I'll Be Waiting," too, because I just love the elegance of that story.
Also, because I want to be a HP BNF, too. XD
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You write AUs so strongly, I think because you don't forget who the characters really are, but you let them be shaped by the surroundings as well. I hope that makes sense. I am slow this morning. -.-
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I keep listening to songs and thinking, "This would be a great SPN vid song!" ;_;
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I keep listening to songs and thinking, "This would be a great SPN vid song!" ;_;
Ahaha! <3 I think it's a sign from your subconscious that you should make one. :>
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Ooh...
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