I DIDN'T KNOW WHERE ELSE TO PUT THIS D:

[Edie]

DISCLAIMER!

This is an in-class writing I did on Wednesday. Rather than write the poem the prompt originally called for, I wrote a prose piece about a vaguely AU Rian and Theo (who, you will notice, remain unnamed). Since the elements required were a female relative, something green, something dead, and a kitchen setting, this necessitated some creative choices on my part. Specifically, the decision to write it from Rian’s perspective. However, my attempt at Rian’s voice has come off more like Theo’s voice imitating Rian, which I suppose can only be expected. ANYWAY. This one’s for you, Mimi, and I hope you don’t think it too awful.

Scowling at kitchen maids and avoiding cats as if they were the rodents they chased: this was how the prince made his entrance. True, his frowns might be directed at someone else in a different setting, but the haughty curve of his lip and the steely glint in his eye would remain unchanged. This demeanor was crucial to his persona as royalty—visiting, courting, or otherwise. Without it, he’d just be another spineless womanizer incapable of making any decisions that did not meet the approval of everyone in the whole bloody population. And no one wanted that.

“Leave,” he barked hoarsely at the stunned help, who seemed only too happy to comply. He made a great effort to stand upright and silent until they did. Once the kitchen was cleared out, however...the prince would have let out a groan of relief as he sank to his knees, if his current state of wellness allowed for anything other than great, hacking coughs. Handkerchief. He needed his handkerchief, otherwise he’d end up spitting out blood onto the already discoloured floor. And if he couldn’t clean it up before someone entered the kitchen

—like someone was now, if the creaking of the door was any indication—

then his secret would be out, and he might as well be dead now.

He clamped a hand to his mouth; his eyes watered, but could still see well enough to notice the bottom of a woman’s gown. Bugger all. Of everyone who could have possibly encountered him, was it truly necessary for fate to choose a woman?

A rustle of fabric indicated the intruder had sunk to her knees, an impression confirmed when the green of her dress sharpened and came into focus. Hmm. How many women at this whimpering, feminine court wore green? To his knowledge, only—

“Prince?”

—only her, he realized. Cool hands tipped his face up, giving him a view of a youthful yet remarkably intelligent face. The usual droll look in her harsh eyes had been replaced with one of concern. It was not an expression he had ever wanted to have directed at him by one of the fairer sex, but given the circumstances...it could be worse.

“Countess,” he mumbled as clearly as he could from behind his hand. He could feel the nausea rising with every attempt at a measured breath he took. “So father let you out of your house, hmm?”

“Had little choice in the matter,” she countered. “Wouldn’t do for public opinion if the people knew his majesty refused to let his bastard attend her own dear mother’s funeral, now would it?”

He barely heard the Countess’s words; another fit was coming on, and though she was too clever to shriek like a girl at the sight of blood, his sister was one of the few people who would truly care if he was dying or not.

Oh, hell.[/size]

[Mimi]

ooc; really lazy. not want to start own topic, here is AU Future!Rian if he didn't die c: so, BE GRATEFUL HE DIED(WILL DIE) D:

Rian entwined his fingers with his bed mate’s, taking some twisted pleasure from hearing her squeal whether from pain or pleasure. But he wouldn’t stop. Not until he was done. …What was she? The third one that night? Hm, he found it curious that he could still keep count; after all these years, he doubted that even his Queen took notice of when he came to their bed and when he didn’t. After all these years…had he grown at all, he wondered somewhere in the back of his mind as his left hand trailed the girl’s thigh, eliciting a satisfactory shiver that felt almost therapeutic against his inflamed body. A groan, and he quickly pressed his lips against hers, almost violently; he hadn’t called for her to hear his own name dribble from her tawdry lips. He hadn’t called for conversation or mindless banter. This was purely carnal, and even then…

Once it was over, Rian lay silently, twisting the girl’s bright red hair through his digits and listening to her blissful sighs as they trailed across his chest and dissipated into the chill night air. Night? But no, early morn; the purple and blue-ish hue reflecting into the room was enough to attest to that. Rian sighed, his arm leaving the girl’s backside to curl behind his head, and involuntarily shivered. Curious. Was it from the sudden exposure of the brackish droplets dotting his sinewy skin to the air or…or what? Mayhap from the emptiness. Emptiness? he questioned, raising an eyebrow in the dark at his own strange thoughts. Of what? His bed? Surely not.

It’d been a long while since he’d last seen Christian. Christian? Now how had he happened upon that subject? Rian groaned quietly, drawing a hand over his face and paused at the virile facial hair that now so lovelily colored his once smooth jowl. Once smooth – hm. How long ago had that been? Ten years? Twenty? Time had blurred together for him from that time when he was nothing but the male bitch to his Father’s military whoring needs to the time he ascended the throne, the men he’d sent to the gallows, the women he’d bedded, and – oh dear god – the children he’d sired! Bastard and none alike. Rian groaned again, pressing his hands further against his face as though that would solve anything; yes, just press a little harder and the reality would disappear.

A knock at the door.

“Yes?” Rian called, his tone thoroughly languid, and his hand numbly moved back into the mess of red hair splayed over his golden sheets and pillows. “Come in.”

“Your Royal Silian Highness,” the young man - a twig really - cried immediately when he pressed the door open even an inch, and in the same moment, he’d fallen down, supplicating, onto his knees. Rian was amused but…not like he once was by these things. There was a twinge behind it, much like the amusement derived from watching a tragedy-made-comedy. There was fear in his eyes and voice and the way his hands couldn’t properly grip the carpeted floor. For goodness’ sake, man! Carpet! And anger broiled to the surface. What was it that he feared so much? The King’s wrath? Or the hundred lashes the King had given him the week before? Or the week before that?

Gah! Idiotic esquire deserved more than that. Rian gradually rose from his position, leaning back on his elbow as he apathetically regarded the man.

“What is it?” he asked, surprised to find his tenor so much deeper than it used to be year before…Years before! Ha! Sentimentalism, was this the product of old age?

Rian rubbed the filth from his eyes and reconsidered the servant who still hadn’t spoken. “What is it, man? Speak up before I’ve you beheaded.”

That seemed to work.

“The Queen is requesting an audience with you.”

Rian blinked. “For what?”

The servant blinked, lifting his tawny head up the first time. “Why, the funeral preparations for the Duke of Wentworth, of course. A-After all, he was a close friend of Your Majesties, was he not?”

A scowl lit up on the King’s face at which the servant quickly lowered his eyes to the ground. Stupid bitch. She’d known his involvement in the Duke’s death, and now she dared to ask for his assistance in the preparation of his pyre?

With the slightest wave of his hand, and the air already livid with his irritation, the King dismissed the servant who speedily swung the door shut. Then for the second time, Rian was left in the dark – semi-dark – with only his whore to keep him company. Rian swung his legs over the side of the bed and paused for the briefest moment to listen again to the steady sighs of the Marchioness.

He moved to the bureau and the showy mirror that sat upon it which he never even bothered to look into. Surely, his countenance had changed, and today, like all the others, he considered to glance briefly into it to see how much only to shy away from the idea as his eyes fell down to the line of rings that he daily put on and nightly took off. He head tilted ever so slightly to the side as he considered them. His father’s rings.

Grown? Rian scoffed. Yeah, sure.

[/size]

[Edie]

DISCLAIMER!

This right here is another story I wrote for Creative Writing. The prompt was to take a poem or song and transform it into a story, either through literal or more subtle allusions. The song I chose was November Spawned a Monster by Morrissey; though it is again about Theo and Rian, I do my best (futile, but best) to assure you that I am capable of writing other things. Which. Um. I may or may not share here. ANYWAYS. A fun fact is that it was completely impossible to write dialogue betwixt the two, until I just typed it out as if it were the IC C-Box. I suspect I'm a little crazy. >< But. My teacher seemed to enjoy it, and I think y'all will appreciate the more subtle story points better than my class did. Who her parents were exactly seemed to confuse them, but yeah. Enjoy?

Theo could count the number of times someone had made physical contact with her since Mother’s death on one hand. There was the incident at the funeral, when the minister attempted squeezing her shoulder comfortingly, before he—presumedly—remembered who she was, and scurried off. Then only a few weeks later, Daddy dearest had personally told his steward to escort her out of the throne room, after she had apparently made an imprudent comment to the Lysian ambassador regarding her illegitimate status, his country’s subservient position to hers, and the surprising correlation between the two. She had remained untouched since then, as the chambermaids seemed unwilling to give any more aid than was slightly less than strictly necessary to the Silian King’s verbose little chit of a girl, until today. Indeed, until the news had traveled down through the royal, proverbial grapevine that she was to be married to some Count, and it was crucial that she look presentable for when she met him.

As the women had gossiped amongst themselves and attempted to make her look demure, charming and beautiful—three adjectives prized amongst female nobility, and three adjectives one would never use to describe the girl—she had silently pondered why no one seemed to think it strange that her engagement and wedding should occur whilst she was scarcely more than twelve. Did not most fathers wait until their little girls stopped resembling little girls and began their transformation into young ladies before deciding on a husband? She knew Mother would have demanded an explanation. Mother had been a woman with a title, stature, and respect, none of which were entirely diminished after her reluctant liaison with His Majesty; those who were her inferiors had no choice but to heed her, and others were obligated to listen, at the very least. Yet Lady Sybil Zaccone had died three months ago, and her bastard brat was left with no protection more substantial than vague pity and detached sympathy, neither of which she could expect anyone to act upon.

Regardless. The fact remained Theo did not resemble an impending bride t’all, even if one were to disregard her youth. She had the regrettable fortune to possess an appearance composed entirely of straight lines and sharp angles, save for her thoroughly freckled face, which was still round and plump like a small child’s. She was slim to the point of resembling a boy rather than her own fair sex, and her long hair was decidedly dark and decidedly straight, both traits that made styling it neigh impossible. Perhaps if she laughed, as other little girls were wont to do, then she might attract some favourable attention; however, her icy eyes crackled with intellectual awareness, and her mouth was used more for quips and smirks than giggles and smiles. What type of man would be so utterly foolish as to willingly wed one such as herself?

Later that evening, as she made her way back through the halls and in the direction of her room, the Zaccone girl unfortunately knew the answer to such a query. She had been primped and fussed over and generally tarted up to the point where she no longer resembled herself but some rather contrived baby doll—then the King’s aids had come and whisked her off to meet her future husband (taking care not to get too close, lest risk coming into contact with her) at a brisk pace her small legs had very little chance of keeping up with—and the doors had opened, and she had hesitated briefly upon entering, a hesitation Daddy dearest was only too observant to note; he had snapped his fingers at her, and she had uncharacteristically flinched at the sudden noise, only to freeze when she heard the chuckling—chuckling that, by all means, should have been unrecognizable and foreign, yet t’was a sound she was only too well acquainted with (one did not spend the entire twelve years of one’s life completely oblivious to the mocking tones laughter took on when others referred to one’s birth, now did one?) and her attentions had focused on the source of this incomprehensibly familiar sound, focused upon the Count, and Theo could see her own D-Da-Father in the man, a recognition she could not—did not—want in a partner and she knew what all this talk of marriage was for and why her age was not so much a concern but a—favourable—benefit...

Her hasty footsteps came to a halt, and the lass shuddered. If Mother was here...but Mother was not, and would never be again, so there was no point in concerning herself with such trivial wantings, now was there? Shakily, she leaned against the wall, before sliding completely to the ground and pulling her bony knees close to her chest. She inhaled deeply, then let her breath out in a long hiss. She couldn’t—couldn’t let this affect her so. Silians weren’t supposed to express emotion, least of all the King’s children—legitimate and otherwise.

The castle was understandably dark at this time of night; as such, one should not have been able to see the daughter of the late Lady Sybil, folded in and pressed against the wall as she was. However, given the pale, frothy fabric of her gown and the clarity of the moon, it was possible for one possessing exceptionally keen eyesight to notice the child. The Prince was not such a being, but his visual perception was fine enough and his royal scrutiny developed to the point where he managed to take notice of the other occupant of the hall before completely passing her by.

Thus he paused, blinked, and inquired, “Theo?”

She resisted the desire to lift her head; to do so would involve revealing she was in a state of distress her half-brother, of all people, was incapable of appreciating. “Rian.”

“Are you—are you crying?” the young man asked, the slightest trace of disgust in the question, his otherwise blank expression marred by a subtle frown.

“Of course not,” she snapped, in fury and self loathing. “Don’t be ridiculous, it doesn’t suit you.”

His frown deepened into a scowl as he crouched closer to the girl. “No need to be cross with me, dear,” he replied in a tone not too dissimilar to hers. “I’m only asking after your well-being—isn’t that what siblings are supposed to do?”

Theo looked up, her eyes narrowed but devoid of tears. She knew better than to do something so thoroughly feminine as cry in front of him. The two glared at each other in the semi-darkness for a moment, before she turned her head and burst into tense laughter. “What, care about each other?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow mockingly. “Oh, yes, certainly. Just like how fathers are supposed to protect their little girls, not sell them to the highest—nay, first bidder. But. Here we are.”

She chuckled once more, and chanced a look back at Rian. The face he was making—all testy aloofness and cool empathy—was enough to silence her and utterly. He wet his lips, and said carefully, “Ah. You’ve met the Count, I take it.”

The girl nodded slowly, angered and shamed he could still see through her so clearly. “Indeed. What do you think of him?”

He leaned against the wall, considering; she wasn’t so far gone into her self-involved, existential crisis that she did not notice he kept a healthy distance betwixt them. And really, why shouldn’t he? At sixteen he could kill a man, handle diplomatic matters, and be implicated in scandals with noblewomen—it was for the best he learn caution around his bastard of a sister.

“Do you want my honest opinion?” he asked finally, surprising her with the wryness in his tone.

She scoffed. “Do I ever express a desire to hear otherwise?”

“True,” the young man responded, smirking. “Well. I believe him to be a conniving, horrible lecher of a man, more suited to be partnered with Father than you.”

She smirked right back, and replied faux-demurely, “Are you implying you’re sorry for me, Rian?”

The Prince flinched, and she repressed a giggle. He did so hate being caught feeling, now didn’t he? “Now who’s being ridiculous?” he asked of her sternly. “Merely saying I don’t believe this marriage to be in your best interest.”

“Then stop it,” she said, quietly but crisply.

He sighed wearily, neigh as if he had been expecting such a reaction, and ran a hand through his pale hair. “Theo, love...you know I can’t.”

“True,” she yawned delicately, studying his profile in the darkness. “Will you be at the wedding, at least? I’d like at least one other person present who dislikes it even partially as much as I do.”

His reply came after a measured moment of hesitation. “Of course I will.”

“Ta ever so.” The girl stood, frowning at her gaudy apparel briefly, before turning back to her half-brother. “What happens now?”

Out of respect—for decorum, surely—he rose as well, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. He seemed to consider her query, though it was difficult to really tell with Rian. “Why, you go to bed, like a good little girl should, and dream things will be better in the morning.”

Forgetting herself, she stepped forward and asked with a twinge of desperation, “Will they?”

He did not restore the distance between them; rather, the Prince chose to lift her chin with his forefinger and study the girl’s face. She would never be a great beauty, that much was apparent; yet perhaps she could be pretty when she was grown? When that occurred, could she forget the hardships she had faced as the Silian King’s pawn? Could she forgive himself for the role he played in her destruction?

Shaking his head to clear his mind of such thoughts, he gently kissed her forehead, too wrapped up in atypical displays of affection to notice her eyes widen and her sharp intake of breath. “Good night, Theo.”

“Good—good night, Rian.”[/size]

[Edie]

DISCLAIMER!

Consider this an apology for not being around the past week or so and proof I write non Sleep Dep pieces. This is a piece I wrote after my friend told me a story that basically amounts to she's had a coherent dream narrative about her and David Bowie every night for a month. An example she used was going antiquing. My reaction (of course) was IWANNAGOANTIQUINGWITHDAVIDBOWIE and thus this piece was born. Enjoy, and please accept my apologies! <3

At the flea market, one October afternoon, Mister Bowie discovers Something Rather Grand.

“What is it?” I inquire, wrinkling my nose slightly.

His thrilled expression fades. “What d’you mean, what is it?”

“I’d like to hear your description of it; perhaps it will makes the item seem less daft.”

Bowie peers down at the largish shadow box. “It’s—It’s a butterfly collection,” he pronounces after a moment.

“A dead butterfly collection?” I attempt to clarify.

“I would think so—don’t see them fluttering about in there, do you?”

“Mmm.” I cock my head and pretend to consider the object. “We’re not getting it.”

“What?” the rocker yelps, his mismatched eyes widening. “Why not? It’s brilliant, it’s meaningful, it’s aesthetically profound—”

“It’s going to clash with my Warhol prints.”

He waves a hand airily. “Everything clashes with your Warhol prints, Edie, that's the point."

“Really? I could’ve sworn Andy was more interested in commercializing art or something of a similarly greater importance than clashing with everything,” I snap, crossing my arms.

He chuckles at my outburst, which in turn makes me realize this was the sort of reaction he had wanted. I nudge him with my hip. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Which you quite enjoy.”

“Granted,” I sigh dramatically, making us both giggle.

The woman behind the counter glares at us. “Are you two interested in buying the butterfly collection or not?”

I look at Bowie; Bowie looks at me. The woman jingles her love beads impatiently. Finally I direct my attentions away from the coked up, orange haired Englishman and towards this fine bohemian vendor of quality antiques. “No thanks, ma’am,” I reply in a tone of insincere cheer, turning towards the stalls we’ve yet to visit today.

The Thin White Duke follows me, slumping as he walks. I swear, if he wasn’t such a sensationalist, I’d imagine he was close to tears.

I take his hand; it always comes as such a surprise, how bloody freezing it always seems to be. Like mine.

“C’mon, Dave,” I say gently. “I’ll let you drag me to the Kubrick memorabilia section this time."

He squeezes my hand. “Promise not to complain?”

I roll my eyes. “Of course not.”

“God, you’re awful,” he chuckles.

“Which you quite enjoy.”

“Granted.”[/size]

[Edie]

DISCLAIMER!

We just finished reading The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury in my Science Fiction Lit class, and my teacher assigned us the task of writing our own 'Martian chronicle'. I had problems coming up with an idea, so after a while it was just, "oh, fuck it, let's put Theo and Rian in space and see what happens." Which is interesting enough, but the fact our previous novel had been Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, the tone took a turn for the Philip K. Dick side of Sci Fi. Which is sorta weird, mashing up Bradbury and Dick. Plus the ending's too abrupt, throwing in a bit of Poe thar. ANYWAY. Enjoy.

If I knew you were coming, I would have baked a cake

When she heard the knock on the door of her pre-assembled, Oregon pine house, Theo was ready to inform Mrs. Hathaway that she, too, was all out of sugar, or express her condolences that Mr. Driscoll had been unsuccessful in acquiring funding for his expedition to Deimos, or any other statement of that trivial, mundane variety she had grown accustomed to making in the past four years. Yet as insignificant as her conversation these days were, she took comfort in her isolation. Her desire for normalcy was the whole reason she had relocated, after all, and she now had more of that than she had ever wished. Which was just as well: if one could not find tranquility on Mars, then it was unlikely one ever would.

So, smiling a charming smile, the young woman opened the door, only to have her prepared, pleasant greeting catch in her throat at the sight of her visitor. The man stood stiffly, firmly upright, and was dressed in heavy, dark coloured clothing at total odds with the fashions and the heat. A hat covered his hair, tinted glasses concealed his eyes, and a scarf was wrapped tightly around his face: all this meant that she could not tell precisely who he was, but her horrorstruck reaction implied that, at least subconsciously, she recognized him. And since none of her neighbors had the—imagination to dress in such senselessly ominous attire, the assumption was this was a man she had known whilst on Earth, which further implied her hard won regularity was soon to be snatched away.

He was the one to break the silence. Though still muffled by his scarf, he enunciated as clearly as was possible, “Hello, Theo.”

“Who are you?” she demanded, twisting behind the door for protection. “What d’you want?”

He did not respond immediately, but instead slumped in a way that indicated she had hurt him. “Can I come in?”

“You didn’t answer my question,” the young woman replied coolly. “Do I know you?”

“Might I come in?” he pressed further.

“You’ll wake the baby.”

This seemed to throw him. “It’s Rian,” he said finally, irritably. “Now let me in.”

Theo’s eyes widened; tranquility was clearly no longer an option on this planet if he was whom he said he was. Hesitantly, ever so reasonably hesitantly, she asked, “How did you find me?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m here, aren’t I? Damn it, Theo—” he reached up with one gloved hand and scratched under his hat. “I won’t ask you again.”

The glasses meant she couldn’t tell if he was really looking at her or not; this seemed important, crucial somehow. Yet eventually, she did step out from behind the door. “Hello, Rian,” she said, quirking a brow. “Won’t you please come in?”

He stepped past her without a word, into the coolness of her standard issue Martian residence. Once inside, he began moving briskly through the quaint, monochromatic rooms, shedding his layers and dumping them artlessly on the California red wood floors. Trailing after him and picking up his clothing, she inquired, “What are you doing?”

“Looking for this baby,” he responded curtly; though his coat, gloves, jacket, and tie had been removed, his scarf, glasses, and hat remained.

She rolled her eyes. “There is no baby.”

Rian stopped abruptly, so suddenly she bumped into him. Though their collision was minor, their contact minimal, he reeled as if the young woman had deliberately, forcefully shoved him, and began hacking.

“What’s the matter?” She tried to touch him, but he spun out of reach.

“Nothing,” he wheezed between coughs. “Nothing...nothing to do with you. “Why—” he leaned against her metal couch “—why did you. You say there was a baby?”

Kneeling on the floor, Theo firmly grasped his scarf; weakly, he attempted to push her hands away. “To try and dissuade you from entering. Will you be removing this or should I?”

“Don’t, please—”

She began unwinding the thing, despite his increasingly callow protests. With that certain sort of detached curiosity, she asked, “How’s Christian?”

“Dead,” he sighed, matter of factly.

“Oh.”

This didn’t surprise her—true, the boy’s general charm had for the most part kept him safe from the quarrels that had so broken Rian and her, but such traits meant little when one’s planet is falling apart. Had she not already made her peace with never seeing Christian again, perhaps she might feel some sense of loss. Then again, perhaps not.

He had wrapped the scarf many, many layers thick; the dark fabric continued to pile up no matter how viciously she pulled. His ragged breaths, however, were gradually becoming more audible. “And Jemmy?” she continued.

The man shifted position, his keens bent and his back pressed against the couch. “Also dead. As is Darin. And Rosaline. Your mother, my mother, Father, your hus—”

“Is anyone left?” Theo interrupted.

He shrugged. “You are.”

“I don’t count, I’ve been on Mars.”

“Well, I am. But I shouldn’t count.”

The young woman paused; she was nearing the end of the scarf, and the closer she got to finishing, the fabric was becoming damp and slightly sticky.

Carefully, she inquired, “What d’you mean, Rian?”

“What do I mean?” he repeated, with a mirthless chuckle. “What do I mean? Tell me—how old am I?”

“You’re twenty six,” she replied automatically. “You’re four years older than I am, always have been.

Laughing again, Rian tugged at the last of his scarf and ripped off his glasses. The sticky substance—as she had expected—was blood: it moistened his cracking lips, reddened his grayed, flaking skin. His eyes were too big, too filmy, and didn’t blink enough as he stared at her.

“No lies, sweetheart,” he cautioned, his voice dry and low now that it was unmuffled. “How long have I existed; that is, how. Old. Am. I.”

Fingering the discarded scarf, she murmured, “Seven years, two months, and nine days old. Don’t ask me the hours or minutes, I don’t know that much detail.”

He nodded, shaking loose some of his discarded skin. “And I certainly do look it, don’t I?”

Theo smiled, brittlely and too brightly. “When did you find out?”

“Shortly after you left,” he responded pleasantly. “When Father decided he wasn’t going to bother waiting for me to...expire, and had me buried.”

“Yes, that sounds like him. And when you didn’t? Expire, that is.”

“Had my coffin transferred to the attic. Typical Father.” The man shrugged, removing his hat. His hair was so colourless, so wispy, that it seemed she could make a wish and blow it all away with one puff.

Gingerly, she scooted next to him, observing his sporadic twitches, his biological glitches. “Why did you come here, Rian?” she asked.

“I should be dead,” he replied, tearing at his skin. “Four years, that’s all I was supposed to have.”

“I know.”

“Is that why you left when you did?”

After a moment the young woman nodded, rubbing her temples. “That’s—one reason, yes. I didn’t want to watch you die.”

His too wrong eyes struggled to focus on her. “Then what are you doing now?”

“You came here,” she reminded him bitterly. “This isn’t my fault.”

“I know.”

They continued to sit there, silent save for his ragged breathing. The sun cast shadows about the room as the day went on, and there was a knock on the door at some point; but they made no move to answer it, and eventually the would-be caller went away. The moons came up, and she had just remembered poor Mr. Driscoll when he murmured, “Theo?”

“Mmm?”

“I have nowhere else to go.”

She hesitated, searching for the right words; finding none, the young woman leaned forward and—gently, sweetly—kissed her android of a half-brother.

“You know what this means?” she whispered into his biologically manufactured ear.

“What?”

“If you’re staying,” Theo insisted quietly, resolutely, “then it’s best you learn empathy.”

Rian sighed painfully. “I was afraid of that.”[/size]

[Mimi]

ooc; alright, so this is a random piece inspired by a movie we watched in apush today the title of which I am too lazy to go onto google and search up. yeah, that lazy x3 but er, it was about alice paul during wwi and her fight for the enfranchisement of women with patrick dempsey and shiz. good movie-- i definitely recommend it (: i know we already have a 1920s section, but this is kinda even more au than that? x3 colin here is a prostitute turned factory worker turned suffragist, darin a stevedore/union organizer, rian a gov't worker/politician, and christian a journalist with the washington post.

---

"Darin, just drop it, a'ight?"

"C'mon, quit being such a damn stick in the mud."

"Oh, funny, mud. Haha." The young African American pulled his cap lower over his eyes, his lips curled in a half-smirk, half-scowl, as he swung a sidelong glance to the erect youth strutting beside him and backpedaling now in a show of playfulness.

Darin casually slipped his hands into his woolen pockets. "We'll just hand out some pamphlets."

"Pamphlets? Really? Pamphlets are gonna get people to go on strike with ya? Ha! You're kiddin' yourself, kid."

"Hey, third pay cut this month. I know I ain't the only one sick 'n tired of it." Darin regarded his companion coolly, gauging for a reaction. A troubled air overcame the dark-skinned youth as he readjusted his stained and creased cap, pulling it up and back down further over his hazel eyes as if trying to hide from Darin's scrutiny.

"Aw, just drop it, Darin. You know yer the only one who's sick 'nough to actually do somethin' about it. ...'Sides, the Federation dun even like us colored men."

"That's not true. Plenty of the guys like ya." Darin inadvertently glanced away as he said it - one of his few uncontrollable poker tells - and the negro quickly picked up on it. A spiteful retort simmered in the back of his throat, about to erupt into a full blown tirade, when a hand shot out, and Darin found himself flailing for his balance.

"Hey, what was that for!" Darin asked indignantly, pivoting about on his left foot and in the direction of -- ah. Darin chuckled under his breath.

"Will ya look at that?"

"Suffragists, don't cha know?" Darin asked with a suggestive raise of the brow. "C'mon, let's go have a lil' fun."

"Oh, oh I don't know, Darin. We're gonna be late, 'n --"

"Oh c'mon. Just a minute."

"Says da one complain' about them pay cuts!"

Darin only shrugged lightheartedly in response as he swerved to the left, approaching the most ragged looking of the bunch of purple, gold, and white-bearing ladies.

"Heya, sweetheart. Looks kinda heavy for ya. Need a man to carry that there banner?" Darin teased, his eyes glancing over the big bold words that called for presidential recognition then back to the pale face that stared out - unforgiving and harsh - beneath a finely feathered hat.

"Excuse me, sir? I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to step to the side. You're in the shot--"

"Who needs these women on the front page anyways, mr. photographer? 'Sides, I think they've been causin' 'nough trouble for mr. wilson as is," Darin retorted, refusing to take his eyes off the tired face before him that, strangely, was becoming more and more familiar like a torn page from a long forgotten fairy tale.

Christian sighed as he lifted his head from back out under the dark covering and frowned. The worry lines reappeared on his forehead, and he halfheartedly swept the sleeve of his jacket across them as if to erase. He sincerely felt for these women, and he did wish pedestrians wouldn't harass them so. In this political climate, wouldn't be long before an arrest would be made, and Christian would be saddled with the task of writing the article for it.

"If you please, sir, I really am on a tight schedule, and I do need to take this pic--"

"Eh, you can wait your turn," Darin interrupted the second time, and in a quieter tone as if imparting a secret, "So, what about it, sweetheart? What d'ya say to grabbing a Coke with me and blowin' this sidewalk joint, eh?"

Colin scoffed and looked away with an incredulous expression, incredulous at the gall some idiot men had.

"Sure, when women get the vote, I'd be more 'n happy to take you up on that offer."

Her eyes stared straight at Darin with a hard glint in them that told of many years hard work and mistreatment, much of which her fellow suffragists knew nothing about, and she intended to keep it that way.

Darin's gaze, however, seemed to soften with something reminiscent of recognition. He paused. "Do I... know you? I do, don't I?"

At the same time, fear crept into Colin's, and she quickly turned away. "I don't know what you mean, but if that's all you have to say, I'd rather you'd step outta the way and let the gent'man take our picture."

Darin did step back as though the physical action would help him step back in time, and he tapped his chin in mock contemplation while his lips took on a roguish shape. "Yeah, yeah, I do 'member ya. You're that, lemme see, that --"

"HEY! Watch where you're walking, imbecile."

Rian roughly pushed back against the dark-haired youth's shoulder as it grazed his coat and, with a look of disgust, brushed off the spot before continuing forward.

"Mr. President!"

Rian rolled his eyes as Wilson tipped his hat towards both the suffragists and the two men with as effervescent of a smile as he could muster before the entire congregation of black-suited men passed through the gates, and they shut with a high-pitched squeaking of the hinges.

"Suffragists," Rian muttered, his tone saturated with disgust and contempt as his long strides bore him further and further from the insufferable women.

Wilson remained quiet a moment. "They'll tire out, Mr. Felcotti. You'll see. No need to worry yourself over the matter; we've bigger issues at our door step," he rumbled and touched upon the lid of his black stove pipe hat reassuringly.

Rian respectfully inclined his head. "Certainly, Mr. President."

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