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Oct. 14th, 2005 11:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vaznettiPrompt 20: colorless
Alias/Angel
It's cold here: steep hills under a low gray sky. Sark tightens his gloved hands on the wheel and waits for the shepherd to clear his flock out of his way. Only a little further, now. He's followed this trail halfway around the world. He can afford to wait a little longer.
The road hugs a dry stone wall on one side, and falls steep away on the other; the last sheep goes over the edge and Sark's away. Maybe he doesn't want to wait, after all. One hairpin turn, then another. It's started to drizzle, and what light there was is dim by the time he sees the dirt road leading to the house he wants. He'll be observed, but there's no help for that. He expects that he could force the man he's come to see to speak to him, if he has to. He hopes he won't have to.
Yellow light spills from a slate gray house, same stones as the wall he's been following. He turns off the ignition, takes his gun from its holster, clicks off the safety. Everything he's heard has confirmed that the man is dangerous, and there aren't many left to talk. He keeps the bulk of the Land Rover between himself and the house, and waits a long moment. No sign from inside, which doesn't mean he hasn't been seen. No point standing around in the rain, he thinks. Turn up the collar of his coat, check the safety of his gun, and then there's nothing for it than to put one foot in front of the next.
He makes it to the door unscathed, lifts his hand, knocks. The rain is getting harder, but he steps back into it when the door opens.
The man before him doesn't look like he cheated death less than a year before: he doesn't have the excitement that brings. His hair is dark and his eyes are covered by thin glasses; the cant of his hips suggests to Sark that he favors his left leg. "If you've come to kill me," the man says, "don't bother." No gun in his hands, which doesn't mean he doesn't have one in easy reach, but Sark takes the risk and slides himself through the door. He finds himself in the cottage's whitewashed kitchen.
"Mr. Pryce," Sark begins. Pryce is watching him as if he doesn't care whether Sark stays or goes. "Or do you prefer Wyndam-Pryce?" No response. "I understand that you're an expert in certain kinds of occult documentation."
"You want me to read a prophecy for you," Pryce says. "No. Go away."
Sark moves his gun hand slightly. Pryce's eyes follow the motion. "That isn't an option," he says.
Pryce shrugs and turns away to pour himself a glass of whiskey. "Merely as a matter of curiosity, who sent you? The Watchers? Wolfram and Hart?"
"I'm here of my own accord," Sark says.
"Mm." Pryce takes a healthy swallow. There are empty glasses and bottles scattered around the kitchen, Sark sees. "I should warn you that the gun won't work. She did something to me, before she-- Before the end."
"I suppose that you can still feel pain?" Sark asks.
Pryce turns to face him: his eyes are dark and his face is without color. "Every fucking minute," he says, with great precision, and drains his glass.
End
I think that these pieces will end up being a set of series of linked drabbles. So there will be more of this universe, written to a different prompt.
Alias/Angel
It's cold here: steep hills under a low gray sky. Sark tightens his gloved hands on the wheel and waits for the shepherd to clear his flock out of his way. Only a little further, now. He's followed this trail halfway around the world. He can afford to wait a little longer.
The road hugs a dry stone wall on one side, and falls steep away on the other; the last sheep goes over the edge and Sark's away. Maybe he doesn't want to wait, after all. One hairpin turn, then another. It's started to drizzle, and what light there was is dim by the time he sees the dirt road leading to the house he wants. He'll be observed, but there's no help for that. He expects that he could force the man he's come to see to speak to him, if he has to. He hopes he won't have to.
Yellow light spills from a slate gray house, same stones as the wall he's been following. He turns off the ignition, takes his gun from its holster, clicks off the safety. Everything he's heard has confirmed that the man is dangerous, and there aren't many left to talk. He keeps the bulk of the Land Rover between himself and the house, and waits a long moment. No sign from inside, which doesn't mean he hasn't been seen. No point standing around in the rain, he thinks. Turn up the collar of his coat, check the safety of his gun, and then there's nothing for it than to put one foot in front of the next.
He makes it to the door unscathed, lifts his hand, knocks. The rain is getting harder, but he steps back into it when the door opens.
The man before him doesn't look like he cheated death less than a year before: he doesn't have the excitement that brings. His hair is dark and his eyes are covered by thin glasses; the cant of his hips suggests to Sark that he favors his left leg. "If you've come to kill me," the man says, "don't bother." No gun in his hands, which doesn't mean he doesn't have one in easy reach, but Sark takes the risk and slides himself through the door. He finds himself in the cottage's whitewashed kitchen.
"Mr. Pryce," Sark begins. Pryce is watching him as if he doesn't care whether Sark stays or goes. "Or do you prefer Wyndam-Pryce?" No response. "I understand that you're an expert in certain kinds of occult documentation."
"You want me to read a prophecy for you," Pryce says. "No. Go away."
Sark moves his gun hand slightly. Pryce's eyes follow the motion. "That isn't an option," he says.
Pryce shrugs and turns away to pour himself a glass of whiskey. "Merely as a matter of curiosity, who sent you? The Watchers? Wolfram and Hart?"
"I'm here of my own accord," Sark says.
"Mm." Pryce takes a healthy swallow. There are empty glasses and bottles scattered around the kitchen, Sark sees. "I should warn you that the gun won't work. She did something to me, before she-- Before the end."
"I suppose that you can still feel pain?" Sark asks.
Pryce turns to face him: his eyes are dark and his face is without color. "Every fucking minute," he says, with great precision, and drains his glass.
End
I think that these pieces will end up being a set of series of linked drabbles. So there will be more of this universe, written to a different prompt.
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Date: 2005-10-16 01:04 am (UTC)