Sense of place challenge, 1
Feb. 18th, 2005 01:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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kristen_k2, spican and muridae_x, Krycek in New Haven. I couldn't bring myself to send him to Yale, and I'd like spican to attest that I really can write Krycek stories that are not grim as death.
Untitled XF piece, by Vanzetti
He turned the corner and the city changed: dingy downtown office buildings and a half-empty mall behind him, and before him an expanse of trees and grass and a church of red brick and white paint like something off a fucking postcard. Beyond that, some kind of stone tower looming over the park, against the bright blue fall sky. Keep out, Krycek thought, that's not for you. He walked toward it anyway, noticing the stores getting fancier the closer he got to the college. Up Chapel Street, past Church and Temple: the city fathers sure hadn't spared much invention on naming their streets. And here he was at the corner. College Street. Of course.
A left turn would take him to the bar where he was supposed to meet his client: The Anchor, just like the old man had described it. He could see the dark glass in the window and the neon sign. That was the smart thing, since he was early: get a feel for the place, make sure there wouldn't be any surprises. On his right the stone walls of Yale rose up, gray-brown rough blocks like some kind of gothic fortress, with honest-to-god ivy growing at the bottom and bars on the street-level windows. Krycek wrinkled his nose and crossed the street. There was some kind of cafe right in front of him at the corner, glass windows and the menu up on a chalkboards and it all looked just a little too healthy for a man like him. Men like him didn't eat in places with windows like that, and anyway, he could smell good coffee somewhere nearby.
The coffee-smell was coming out of a little shop, just a storefront, really, with room for a counter and a couple tables and an old fashioned copper roasting machine shifting and turning the beans as they grew darker. He would happily have stood there, breathing deeply and watching the patterns the beans made and thinking of nothing at all; instead he joined the line inside, listening to the kids in front of him, students, probably, as they placed their orders. By the time he got to the front he knew to say, "small house, no room," hand over his money and get a smallish cup of black coffee. He'd never figured out people who couldn't blend in wherever they were.
It was good coffee. He might come back here someday, and thought he'd try to remember the name of the place. Willoughby's. He grimaced. No way in hell.
Yale was right in front of him as he walked out, and something--the sunlight, the free time, the good coffee--made him think, what the hell. He crossed the street and walked along the long wall, the college on one side and the park on the other. There had to be a way in along here somewhere, and sure enough, here it was. An open gate and arched passage right underneath that tower he'd seen. It was dark and a little cold and he shrugged off the feeling that the place was trying to keep him out. There was a door on the right that probably led to some kind of security post, and across from that a little linoleum foyer with an elevator, carved out from the stone and looking as out of place as he felt. Then he was out in the open again, inside the fortress now.
More trees and grass, this time with stone building pressing in around them, and crowded compared to the park outside: bicycles chained up against a wooden railing, a shaggy haired blond kind playing with a shaggy-haired dog, three more kids throwing a frisbee around. Two girls sitting at the foot of a tree right across from him, one with bright red hair and a bright red skirt and the other Asian, a round face, round glasses and an old denim jacket. A cluster of students walked past them on a flagstone path, words like "Durfee" and "Stiles" tossed in among the regular English; they headed for one of two low red-brick buildings standing in the middle of the block, just to his left as if the campus, the whole city maybe, had grown up around them.
Someone not far away was playing the violin. The light fell dappled through leaves just on the verge of changing and Krycek caught his breath, something bitter at the back of his throat, and not from the coffee. He'd already taken a step backward when the red-haired girl shrieked and jumped to her feet, waving her arms around her head. He froze, mouth half-open, hand reaching back for his gun--and wouldn't that have been a disaster--when he realized that the other girl was laughing.
"It's only a bee," she said.
"A wasp!" the first girl insisted. "A wasp in my coffee and... damn." She looked down at the ice and milky coffee scattered over the grass at her feet. "I hate them."
"It's because they know winter is coming, and they're all going to die. And because you put, like, way too much sugar in your iced coffee."
Another step backwards and Krycek was under the shadow of the tower, back in the cool, slightly damp air. That would explain the shudder he couldn't quite repress. Winter is coming, and they're all going to die. He rolled his shoulders as he stepped back out into the street; there was a contact to meet and no time to waste sightseeing. He'd been stupid to forget it.
END
I wanted to put Dee in, just for Kristen, but this was a good end-point.
I'll figure out a title later on; this is (pretty obviously) without beta, and so please do point out errors or inconsistencies. And Krycek doesn't always know the name of things.
kristen_k2, spican and muridae_x, Krycek in New Haven. I couldn't bring myself to send him to Yale, and I'd like spican to attest that I really can write Krycek stories that are not grim as death.Untitled XF piece, by Vanzetti
He turned the corner and the city changed: dingy downtown office buildings and a half-empty mall behind him, and before him an expanse of trees and grass and a church of red brick and white paint like something off a fucking postcard. Beyond that, some kind of stone tower looming over the park, against the bright blue fall sky. Keep out, Krycek thought, that's not for you. He walked toward it anyway, noticing the stores getting fancier the closer he got to the college. Up Chapel Street, past Church and Temple: the city fathers sure hadn't spared much invention on naming their streets. And here he was at the corner. College Street. Of course.
A left turn would take him to the bar where he was supposed to meet his client: The Anchor, just like the old man had described it. He could see the dark glass in the window and the neon sign. That was the smart thing, since he was early: get a feel for the place, make sure there wouldn't be any surprises. On his right the stone walls of Yale rose up, gray-brown rough blocks like some kind of gothic fortress, with honest-to-god ivy growing at the bottom and bars on the street-level windows. Krycek wrinkled his nose and crossed the street. There was some kind of cafe right in front of him at the corner, glass windows and the menu up on a chalkboards and it all looked just a little too healthy for a man like him. Men like him didn't eat in places with windows like that, and anyway, he could smell good coffee somewhere nearby.
The coffee-smell was coming out of a little shop, just a storefront, really, with room for a counter and a couple tables and an old fashioned copper roasting machine shifting and turning the beans as they grew darker. He would happily have stood there, breathing deeply and watching the patterns the beans made and thinking of nothing at all; instead he joined the line inside, listening to the kids in front of him, students, probably, as they placed their orders. By the time he got to the front he knew to say, "small house, no room," hand over his money and get a smallish cup of black coffee. He'd never figured out people who couldn't blend in wherever they were.
It was good coffee. He might come back here someday, and thought he'd try to remember the name of the place. Willoughby's. He grimaced. No way in hell.
Yale was right in front of him as he walked out, and something--the sunlight, the free time, the good coffee--made him think, what the hell. He crossed the street and walked along the long wall, the college on one side and the park on the other. There had to be a way in along here somewhere, and sure enough, here it was. An open gate and arched passage right underneath that tower he'd seen. It was dark and a little cold and he shrugged off the feeling that the place was trying to keep him out. There was a door on the right that probably led to some kind of security post, and across from that a little linoleum foyer with an elevator, carved out from the stone and looking as out of place as he felt. Then he was out in the open again, inside the fortress now.
More trees and grass, this time with stone building pressing in around them, and crowded compared to the park outside: bicycles chained up against a wooden railing, a shaggy haired blond kind playing with a shaggy-haired dog, three more kids throwing a frisbee around. Two girls sitting at the foot of a tree right across from him, one with bright red hair and a bright red skirt and the other Asian, a round face, round glasses and an old denim jacket. A cluster of students walked past them on a flagstone path, words like "Durfee" and "Stiles" tossed in among the regular English; they headed for one of two low red-brick buildings standing in the middle of the block, just to his left as if the campus, the whole city maybe, had grown up around them.
Someone not far away was playing the violin. The light fell dappled through leaves just on the verge of changing and Krycek caught his breath, something bitter at the back of his throat, and not from the coffee. He'd already taken a step backward when the red-haired girl shrieked and jumped to her feet, waving her arms around her head. He froze, mouth half-open, hand reaching back for his gun--and wouldn't that have been a disaster--when he realized that the other girl was laughing.
"It's only a bee," she said.
"A wasp!" the first girl insisted. "A wasp in my coffee and... damn." She looked down at the ice and milky coffee scattered over the grass at her feet. "I hate them."
"It's because they know winter is coming, and they're all going to die. And because you put, like, way too much sugar in your iced coffee."
Another step backwards and Krycek was under the shadow of the tower, back in the cool, slightly damp air. That would explain the shudder he couldn't quite repress. Winter is coming, and they're all going to die. He rolled his shoulders as he stepped back out into the street; there was a contact to meet and no time to waste sightseeing. He'd been stupid to forget it.
END
I wanted to put Dee in, just for Kristen, but this was a good end-point.
I'll figure out a title later on; this is (pretty obviously) without beta, and so please do point out errors or inconsistencies. And Krycek doesn't always know the name of things.
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no subject
Date: 2005-02-18 10:14 am (UTC)Ohhhhh, man, forget Krycek: I feel like I am there. I would give ANYTHING to be able to walk into
The Womb, as we used to call itThe Anchor and have a beer in a tiny juice glass. *wistful sigh*I loved the details of all of this, particularly the violin in the background. There was ALWAYS a violin being practiced somewhere on Old Campus!
I can come back later to do a full beta, if you like. The only things I caught on the first read, were: 1. Does Willoughby's open onto the main gate of Old Campus? I thought the only way visitors could get in was through the big gate facing the green on College Street. AFAIK, there isn't an open access over by Vanderbilt.
2. If he does come in from the College Street entrance, the door to the Yale Police department is on the left, and there isn't any doorway on the right.
Heh, never thought my years of working at Yale, and specifically working on Old Campus, would EVER come in handy for fandom! ;-)
no subject
Date: 2005-02-18 10:29 am (UTC)You called it the Womb? We called it the Skanker. Did we already bond over Dee?
no subject
Date: 2005-02-18 11:58 am (UTC)Yes, I believe we did bond over Dee. Mama Dee!
She's long retired, you know. As is Andrea, and of course Bob. But there's still the same group of regulars at the bar!
no subject
Date: 2005-02-18 01:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-18 10:51 am (UTC)But what really worked for me was Krycek walking through this normal, idyllic place observing it as though it were an alien world, the hint of wistfulness tugging at him as he pretended to fit in, and the shocking, abrupt reminder that this is not his life and he can't even forget himself for a few minutes. Winter is coming, and they're all going to die. That gave me shivers. And I love how you introduced that thought.
I can indeed attest that you can write a Krycek story that isn't grim as death, although this story isn't quite that story. *g* (On that note, I promise to get the beta for the other story to you next week.)
no subject
Date: 2005-02-18 11:51 am (UTC)No rush on the other story--since I'll be away from home and might not be online much. but I'm glad I sent it off to you, so that at least someone else has evidence that it's not all doom and gloom.
no subject
Date: 2005-02-26 11:14 am (UTC)camille
no subject
Date: 2005-02-27 02:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-18 11:32 am (UTC)Spotted one typo:
"a shaggy haired blond kind playing with a shaggy-haired dog" I think you meant kid?
no subject
Date: 2005-02-18 11:53 am (UTC)Also thanks for catching the error. And I think regularizing my use of the hyphen would not be a bad thing, there.
no subject
Date: 2005-02-18 02:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-18 05:07 pm (UTC)I really wasn't expecting the way this ended--i was hoping for something a bit lighter. But I like this.
no subject
Date: 2005-02-18 03:39 pm (UTC)The only glaring error I saw on a first reading - "kind" instead of "kid" - has been mentioned already.
The image of Krycek going for his gun by reflex when the girl squeals has me laughing. A clash of worlds and cultures. And that "Winter is coming, and they're all going to die" is such a gloriously ominous portent of doom. Do you have any ideas about when exactly this might be set?
no subject
Date: 2005-02-18 05:16 pm (UTC)I'm glad the setting seemed real. Usually I just rely on a few details to sketch in the scene--referring to real things is a bit more difficult. As for the question of when this is set, I'm not sure. When I started it out I thought it might be relatively early, but by then end I think it's probably pretty late--certainly post RatB.
no subject
Date: 2005-02-18 04:53 pm (UTC)And why wasn't Krycek listening to the Nields? ;)
no subject
Date: 2005-02-18 05:17 pm (UTC)As for the quiz, I got Penelope, which is pretty telling. What about you?