POI Previews
Shared Spirits
“A good portion of what I do is psychological. I’m just one man, with a handful of devotees and a few dozen followers; I couldn’t have achieved a fraction of what I’ve done if people weren’t afraid of me. And bullets aren’t nearly as intimidating as explosions, or fire, or poison.”
Strange Bedfellas
Anthony snuggled him in a little tighter, tucking his chin in behind Harold’s shoulder, and murmured right into his ear. “Drive for a few hours, connect via app, give some meg the weekend of his life. ‘City alph seeks country meg’—you know. Romantic fantasies and all. Don’t need to worry about them stalking me back to the city, and they don’t need to worry about the social complications of hookups in a small town.”
Put that way, it’s obvious—and prudent.
(Upcoming Marconi Fic)
This was originally meant to be a Gift Fic, but I couldn’t get it together in time. I did get a couple pages written, and since it’s meant to be a short piece and has a definite ending I’ve already conceived of, it’ll likely show up during another round of Gift Fics.
They’d aimed their threats at him instead of Elias, which had been amusing enough; they clearly hadn’t known what they were dealing with, and were amateur enough that they couldn’t even read the body language of boss vs. bodyguard.
Of course, that had made him underestimate their threat level, which was how he’d gotten blindsided. Stupid. But he can be mad at himself later.
With one hand against the wall, Anthony struggles to his feet. He puts his feet as close as he can and tightens the zip tie, then puts his heels together and ducks into a crouch; the zip tie snaps on the first try, and he’s free. Still slightly groggy, but that’s probably the concussion, and there’s not much he can do about that now.
A quick check tells him that Elias isn’t seriously injured, though he does appear to be out of it—most likely drugs, but at least he’s breathing fine. His hands and feet are likewise tied. If he was awake, he could probably manage the same steps to get free, but Anthony isn’t about to leave him vulnerable that long.
Five Moments of Interest
“Should’ve just let me keep talking,” Zoe says, her voice a bit strained. “He would’ve backed down; I had enough leverage.”
“Yeah, well, sorry for not trusting your talents when a drug runner’s got a gun in your face.”
Zoe holds back for a moment, looks around. “West—three blocks,” she says, and as they turn onto the street she straightens up, doing her best to walk as if she’s not injured. “And do you honestly think I never deal with potentially lethal situations? The most powerful men in the city come to me for advice, and that’s everyone from the politicians to the drug lords.”
As they wait at the crosswalk, Joss grins morbidly. “I suppose I should feel lucky that you’re not in bed with Elias yet.”
Zoe chuckles. “Taught me five variations of solitaire and how to make a mean marinara. And I don’t sleep with clients—hard limit.”
Truths Unwhispered
With Sameen, it was all sparks and fire and flowing energy merged into glorious sequences of combat or banter or sex, the kind she happily flashed back to in the quieter moments, or that gave her the strength to keep moving when her own energy was all but gone. Those moments were treasures, but they weren’t the only kind of “in love” she knew.
And, again, her mental model of “love” was highly suspect, but she understood that you could love someone, and want the best for them, and be willing to die for them, without being in love with them. But surely that was a baseline: There were three people in her life that she loved unreservedly, that she’d known less than five years and yet would instantly surrender her life or her sanity to save.
Her feelings for Sameen, for Harry, for the Machine… the way she fixated on them, the way her thoughts were never very far from any of them… the way that their conversations felt more like communion, and she never got weary or bored while in their company… the way that she never grew out of the desire to share with them, more and more and more of herself, her inner world, as much as she could risk without driving them away… never stopped wishing that she could go all the way, reveal her whole self, laid open on the table for them to examine, as if she could ever dare to be that open, or trust that they wouldn’t turn on her…
This wasn’t just normal love. She was in love with these people. Because this couldn’t be anything less.
On the Other Side of the Mirror
This piece got drafted before certain changes happened, so it's possible it won't survive the rewrite. But I find the exchange quite interesting:
Shaw shook her head. “The alternative explanations aren’t exactly kid-friendly, Harold.”
Harold found it a little difficult to trigger a swallow, but eventually managed. He breathed some more; Shaw stayed silent, still looking at him.
When long minutes passed without Harold managing to put together anything like words, Shaw backed away a little, out of his line of sight, perhaps thinking it might be easier that way. Another minute passed in silence.
Finally, Shaw said, in her inimitable flat affect, “Did John have to watch?”
Harold struggled with the urge to sob, aware that half his face was trembling with the effort.
Shaw gave him the time to compose himself, and then some. And people told her she had no bedside manner, Harold thought once he had some objectivity again.
“Okay,” she said, finally, drawing out the word as if she needed that much more time to think. “First things first: Whoever did this to you, are they still an immediate danger we ought to be on alert for?”
Harold squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, wincing at the twinge in his neck. “I… I don’t think so. They made their point.” We’ll just have to wait until John can communicate to figure out what point that is.
The Many Kidnappings of Harold P. Finch
Although I don’t have the next part of Buying Time written (I’m actually kinda stumped on what the next scene is supposed to be; very much playing it by ear), I do have notes as to future “episodes,” and I’m much looking forward to the possibility of writing the one where Finch gets captured while tailing Marconi. When Elias shows up, Finch is convinced that John is dead and they’re going to kill him next, and all Elias’s assurances feel like lies.
But, the piece I’ve actually got rough-drafted a bit is much later—it’s for the chronologically earliest episode, RAM:
“Most people wouldn't admit to that. Especially knowing what I just did to a traitor.”
“I think I know what you're trying to determine, and I don't care to prolong the inevitable. Am I a threat to national security, just by being alive, knowing what I know? Yes, because the secret must not get out. I can't even tell you enough of it for you to make your own judgment call about its necessity. There are many who would want it, if they got the slightest inkling that it existed. They'd want me, in the hopes of prying it from my head, and I'm not foolish enough to think that I could resist their techniques for long. My only defense is staying hidden, and, well, I've not only compromised that by my own actions, but trusted in the wrong man, and consequently let slip to certain parties that there's a secret they would pay dearly for. It's only a matter of time before someone finds me.
“So you see, the question you're trying to ask is, would killing me be the best move to protect national security? And the answer would be yes. It is the only way to ensure that the secret never gets out. I have no final requests, and I trust you'll make it a clean kill.” He sits there, trembling, aware of nothing so much as her silent presence behind him.
Suddenly, he blurts out, “Wait!” And before he can reconsider the possible fallout of letting this slip, he adds, “There’s… there are people who would recognize me, if my photo appeared in the paper. If you could… if you could disfigure my face enough, or destroy my body to avoid that eventuality… I would be grateful.”
Unseen Things
“Who’s SuitedNightjar?” Will asks, his casual weight on the back of her chair tipping her slightly off-balance.
Not more than the question does, though. Wide-eyed, she turns to stare at him.
“You can—wait. What all do you see on the screen?”
He blinks, then shrugs and looks closer. “‘I try not to miss them, but it's difficult not to focus on what I’ve lost. You and Elias are a most necessary balm for my very sanity. By the way, he’s invited us to a game night on Friday, just the four of us; shall I accept?’ ”