I watched My Neighbor Totoro, today, which I think may influence this quite a bit. Miyazaki's films often put me in a nature/spirit sort of mood. Once again, I'm not going anywhere, just messing around.
***
The air smelled like dirt. Maggie scrunched up her nose. Wet dirt, and growing things. She took another deep sniff, and decided she actually liked it. It smelled like a forest should.
Maggie stepped along the trail, slowly and carefully, one foot in front of the other. Indians walked like this, she'd learned somewhere. She imagined herself as a member of a hunting party, following in the footsteps of the person in front of her. Breathing through her nose, she listened for the sound of the leaves underneath her feet.
Loud and raucous laughter came from down the trail and Maggie frowned, pausing; she looked up. She'd fallen behind her classmates. Mrs. Kravitz had stressed that they needed to keep together, but she hadn't noticed. The boys were taking all her concentration to keep in line--Maggie watched as she shushed them, and looked at the group bunched around her. Her hair was coming out of her bun, and Maggie almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
Maggie shook her head and looked back down at her feet. She started walking again. Left foot, right foot. Her imaginary quiver of arrows bumped against her back with every step. Their party was stalking a herd of deer, and she listened to the sounds of the forest. A rustle in the bushes. A bird call overhead. Her head snapped up and she watched the bird flit above her, across the trail and into the trees where it disappeared in the leaves.
Turing her attention back to her feet, Maggie suddenly noticed the quiet. She had been listening intently for some time, but one sound was missing--that of her classmates. She looked up the trail, which rose before her, but there was no one there.
Maggie picked up her pace, clambering over the tree roots to reach the top of the rise. The trail sloped away from her, winding down into a gully, before turning out of sight. No classmates. No teacher.
Thinking back to the map they'd been shown at the start of the hike, Maggie grinned. In her mind's eye she could see the different trails, squiggly lines of red, yellow and blue making their way through the green expanse. They had taken the red trail, but Maggie remembered noticing that it crossed paths with the longer blue trail. She must have missed the intersection while watching her feet, and taken the wrong fork.
Well, the blue trail had to end back at the park's entrance like the others. Maggie continued on, reveling in the knowledge that she was alone. She breathed deeply, looking all around her. Every leaf on the ground, every twig on a tree, every bird trill and every breeze in the canopy seemed sharp and clear. It was like she was the only person in the world.
It was not long that she came to the tree. Not a tree, like the others. The tree. As soon as she saw it, Maggie new it was special. Big, and obviously old, it made the other trees around it seem like young little saplings. Slowly she walked up to it and put her hand on its trunk. The bark was rough, and damp. On an impulse, she wrapped her arms around it in a hug. She guessed it would take four more of her to get all the way around.
"Quite a beauty, isn't he?"
Maggie gasped and whirled around. She stared. It was like an illustration from one of her books had come to life--an Indian was stepping out of the bushes on to the trail behind her. He smiled at her.
"Who are you?" Maggie was somewhat distracted--was he really wearing moccasins? was that a real bow?--so the question was the first thing that came to mind.
"A guide," he said simply, a smile tugging at his lips.
Maybe he was a guide for the park, like the actors at historical villages. Deciding that made sense, Maggie relaxed. "Why did you call the tree 'he?'"
The guide walked over and lay his hand on the bark, as Maggie had. "Well, this is a special tree. They say a spirit of a man lives in it."
Maggie craned her neck and looked up into its branches. "Does he protect the forest?"
"In a way," the guide replied. He chuckled. "Yes, I suppose that is a good way of saying it. He watches over the forest, and the people and animals who live in it."
Maggie thought about this. "Does he help them?"
"Sometimes. He might, for example, help a lost girl find her way home." His eyes crinkled as he said this, like Uncle's Will's did, and Maggie knew he was teasing her.
"I'm not lost," she declared. "I just took a different trail."
"Well, then. Shall we?" The guide motioned to the trail, and they started down it together, side by side.
The walked in silence for a minute or two, but soon Maggie had to satisfy her curiosity. "So who is the spirit?"
"Hm?" The guide looked at her. "There are many stories. One is of a great warrior, who died underneath the tree's boughs after saving his village. Another is of a wise man, a shaman, who lived a long life serving his people and the forest. It is said that when he died of old age his spirit remained in the tree, to continue his work."
After a pause, Maggie spoke again. "I think it must be lonely."
"Why do you say that, little girl?" He seemed amused, for some reason.
"Well, people don't live in the forest any more. Mrs. Kravitz said that the Indians moved on when the Europeans came." Maggie nearly said "except for you," but didn't think it was polite to pry.
"Ah... yes, it is true the People are gone. Perhaps he is lonely." The guide sounded a bit sad, but he smiled at her. "But it is only a story, after all."
Maggie nodded.
***
Hm. I think the voice changed somewhere in the second or third paragraph. Gotta work on that. I'm also not happy with the way I'm expressing things at the moment (it lacks description, for one), and I ran out of steam before the end. But I'm enjoying myself, so I won't stress about it. ^_^
Monday, March 2, 2009
Sunday, March 1, 2009
I'm back~
It's been over four months, but I'm back. After finishing 30 Days I lost momentum, and I've decided the best way to get that back is to start writing every day again. I don't plan on a particular time span--it might be 30 days, it might be 3 months, it might be a year. Who knows.
Since there's less structure this time, I'm going to worry less about missing days. If I'm tired or busy, there's always tomorrow. The only excuse I won't allow is lack of inspiration. What the hell is this writer's block, anyways? We'll have no more of that. ^_^
This is nothing in particular--no idea where it will go, if anywhere. I'm just trying to get back into writing in general.
***
The house began as a few lines drawn in the margins of Anne's math homework. A simple floor plan, it wouldn't have seemed much to anyone else. There was a bathroom, a small bedroom, a kitchen with an eating nook, and a sitting area.
A small house, just big enough for a single person to live in (and perhaps a cat). No sharing the bathroom during the morning rush, no sitting cramped at the kitchen table, elbows knocking. Oh, and no snoring through thin walls.
The paper itself was turned in the next day. It was returned graded (13/15), and later lost, but the lines remained in Anne's memory. That summer when she visited her grandfather she spent hours reading on his front porch, relaxing in the warm breezes. A few mental strokes added a porch, and a few curves a hammock.
Apartment life during college added small things--a clothes washer, a desk. The book shelves she had imagined in the sitting area grew bigger, as did her imagined closet.
Several years later, as Anne lay next to Mark late one night, she made the bedroom large enough for a queen-sized bed. She moved the bathroom, erasing lines and drawing others, and fit in a nursery next door. Closing her eyes, she thought that yellow was a nice color for the walls. Or perhaps green.
Far too soon, though, there was no need for a larger bed and a larger bedroom to accommodate it. A few lines made short work of the bedroom, and in the nursery it was easy to make the cot a sofa bed, the changing table a desk. Easy to draw the lines, at least; harder to erase the lines that had come before them. She never could get rid of their ghosts left by her eraser.
The night Anne was phoned by the hospital, she added a building to her house. Unable to sleep on the unexpected flight, she imagined it to stave off her worry. A stone's throw from the main house... She listed the things it would have. A kitchenette, an accessible bathroom with rails and a seat in the tub, a bedroom with no obstacles for tripping. The last was foremost in her mind.
Early the next morning, when she entered the room and saw her dad in the bed, and her mother sleeping in the chair next to him, she moved the building closer.
***
Well, it's a short start, and I don't know how to end it, but that doesn't matter. I like the concept, but at the moment this is more of an outline than a story. Ah well~ ^_^
Since there's less structure this time, I'm going to worry less about missing days. If I'm tired or busy, there's always tomorrow. The only excuse I won't allow is lack of inspiration. What the hell is this writer's block, anyways? We'll have no more of that. ^_^
This is nothing in particular--no idea where it will go, if anywhere. I'm just trying to get back into writing in general.
***
The house began as a few lines drawn in the margins of Anne's math homework. A simple floor plan, it wouldn't have seemed much to anyone else. There was a bathroom, a small bedroom, a kitchen with an eating nook, and a sitting area.
A small house, just big enough for a single person to live in (and perhaps a cat). No sharing the bathroom during the morning rush, no sitting cramped at the kitchen table, elbows knocking. Oh, and no snoring through thin walls.
The paper itself was turned in the next day. It was returned graded (13/15), and later lost, but the lines remained in Anne's memory. That summer when she visited her grandfather she spent hours reading on his front porch, relaxing in the warm breezes. A few mental strokes added a porch, and a few curves a hammock.
Apartment life during college added small things--a clothes washer, a desk. The book shelves she had imagined in the sitting area grew bigger, as did her imagined closet.
Several years later, as Anne lay next to Mark late one night, she made the bedroom large enough for a queen-sized bed. She moved the bathroom, erasing lines and drawing others, and fit in a nursery next door. Closing her eyes, she thought that yellow was a nice color for the walls. Or perhaps green.
Far too soon, though, there was no need for a larger bed and a larger bedroom to accommodate it. A few lines made short work of the bedroom, and in the nursery it was easy to make the cot a sofa bed, the changing table a desk. Easy to draw the lines, at least; harder to erase the lines that had come before them. She never could get rid of their ghosts left by her eraser.
The night Anne was phoned by the hospital, she added a building to her house. Unable to sleep on the unexpected flight, she imagined it to stave off her worry. A stone's throw from the main house... She listed the things it would have. A kitchenette, an accessible bathroom with rails and a seat in the tub, a bedroom with no obstacles for tripping. The last was foremost in her mind.
Early the next morning, when she entered the room and saw her dad in the bed, and her mother sleeping in the chair next to him, she moved the building closer.
***
Well, it's a short start, and I don't know how to end it, but that doesn't matter. I like the concept, but at the moment this is more of an outline than a story. Ah well~ ^_^
Monday, October 27, 2008
Locution Contest: All Children, Except One
My latest story written for a Locution contest. This time the prompt was to take a first line from another work, be it story, movie, song, etc, and use it as your first line. I chose Peter Pan.
***
Locution, Issue 3
***
Locution, Issue 3
Monday, August 25, 2008
Locution Contest: Robyn's Hoods
So, long time no see, eh? ;} In the end, it seems I haven't managed to start Roux's 30 Days of Editing. I still want to do it, but I felt that, despite the first 30 days, I didn't really have enough to edit. Plus, editing's hard. ^_^
This latest piece was written for a contest on Locution. The prompt was to write a modern myth, taking a myth, legend, fairytale, or folktale, and setting it in the present or the future. I chose Robin Hood, and this is a result.
I had a lot of fun writing this. I also found it a lot easier to write than previous contests, probably due to the 30 days challenge. Most of it was written in just one day, which is quite a feat for me.
I may just write some more. I think there may be some potential here, provided I get over my block with editing.
***
The guard took a sip of his coffee before setting it down. He turned to the array of CCTV screens and Robyn silently willed him to drink some more. She tried to remember the good doctor’s reassurances that simpler plans were best, but it was hard; after several minutes of waiting her heart had now found a new home somewhere in her throat.
Robyn checked her watch, ignoring Alana as she shifted in her seat, tapping a fingernail on the metal table. John was a comforting, solid presence on her right, silent as he watched the rest of the café clientele. This late at night there weren’t many people out, but there were workers coming off their shifts, hungry for a late-night snack, and others coming on, in need of preemptive caffeine to keep them awake until morning.
After much thought they’d chosen the café for several reasons. Its view was one; from her seat at the window Robyn could see across the road and into the foyer of the bank where the guard sat at his desk. It also made the current part of their plan that much easier; this particular guard was a regular at the café, and it was amazing what one could achieve with a simple sleight of hand.
The guard yawned and reached for his coffee. Robyn grinned. Several gulps later and his head lolled back, mouth open wide. He probably snored.
“Ready to go?” Her companions nodded and they rose to leave. Robyn dropped a few bucks onto the metal tabletop, and then they were gone.
Around the back of the bank Robyn couldn’t help feeling excited. So far everything was going to plan, and whatever was in that stuff the doctor gave them, it worked like a charm. She said so to Alana and John.
Alana rolled her eyes. “Yeah, great. One guard down. Now we’ve just got the cameras, pick-proof locks, silent alarm, and the rest of the guards to worry about.” She stopped in front of a plain metal door and took a small electronic device out of her rucksack. With its cable connected to the lock, numbers on the screen started cycling through combinations.
“Well, our man John Little can take them on, can’t you, big guy?” Robyn slapped him on the back. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. This was normal; John didn’t talk much, though when he did, you listened.
“Okay, so John knocks out the guards,” said Alana. “But you know who’s stuck with the rest? Me.”
The device beeped, and inside the door a bolt clunked open.
Robyn slung an arm over Alana’s shoulder. “That’s because you’re the best there is. Alana Dale—hacker extraordinaire.”
Alana couldn’t stop a smile from flitting across her lips. She pushed the door open. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
The corridor was dim. Alana tapped into the security system and turned off the cameras and the silent alarm. With that taken care of, they found the nearest office. Apparently, while the system was impossible to hack from the outside, any computer inside the bank would do. Robyn didn’t really understand all the hi-tech stuff, but she trusted Alana to know what she was doing.
John stood at the door and Robyn took a place behind the desk, watching as Alana logged on to the computer and started to work, humming a tune softly. Her gloved fingers flew across the keys.
“Damn,” she whispered.
“What is it?” Robyn peered over her shoulder.
“The transfer.” Alana gestured impatiently at the screen. “It’s not here. Someone changed the schedule.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the transfer we planned to reroute isn’t going through tomorrow. It can happen sometimes; Midas Inc must have decided to change the day to discourage—well, to discourage people like us.”
John cleared his throat and they both turned to him. He peered through the crack in the door, one eye on the room and one eye on the corridor. “Guard changes in a few minutes,” he said. “We need to go now, before they find our sleeping friend.”
“Okay. Okay,” said Robyn, running a hand through her hair. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, but that’s okay. Alana, are there any other transfers scheduled for tomorrow?”
Alana searched the records. “Yeah, one. Fifty million dollars from a company called Tri Corp, to be transferred to some unnamed account.”
“Sounds fishy enough to me. You said this bank has a lot of crooked customers?”
“Yeah, but we can’t know anything for sure. For all we know, we could be robbing from someone legit.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Robyn,” John said. “We said we’d only rob from the rich and corrupt. Doing this when they could be legit is just too risky. We can’t make a mistake on our first job.”
Robyn looked from John to Alana. “But the odds are against it, right?” she asked. “What’s the point of planning this and coming away with nothing? We know this bank is rotten. Isn’t that enough?”
John just shrugged and turned back to watch for guards. Alana made a face.
“Fine, I’ll do it.”
It took less than a minute for Alana to change the number of the account the money was to transfer into. There was only one final thing to do—leave a calling card. Robyn slipped it under the keyboard and followed the others out the door. They would both think it too risky, but somehow she forgot to mention it.
The next morning found them back at their hideout. It was in the rough part of town, known as Barnsdale to the locals, a labyrinth of poky, rowhouse apartments and abandoned warehouses. It was in one of these warehouses, on Watling Street, that Robyn and her friends made their home.
Robyn was dozing in her bunk when Will Scarlet climbed up the ladder and rudely disturbed her. He’d been annoyed that she hadn’t picked him to come on the first job, and she thought his temper had finally flared as a result. As it turned out, he was angry for a somewhat different reason.
“What,” he asked, thrusting a newspaper into her hand, “Is this?”
Robyn stared at the headline blearily. She read it once, then blinked several times. She read it again, but sadly the words were still the same.
“Shit.”
“‘Shit’ is right! In what universe, exactly, does ‘Tri Corp’ sound like ‘Midas Inc’?”
Robyn sighed and looked past Will’s scowling face. Alana was at her computer, looking forlorn. John sat nearby, pointedly ignoring the scene as Doctor Saffiya Djaq bandaged his arm. They’d run into a bit of trouble on the way out of the bank, but he would be fine.
A door slammed open and Robyn jumped. John reached for his gun, but relaxed when he recognized the intruder. A blur of a boy slid to an abrupt stop at the foot of the bunk bed, breathing heavily. “Robyn, Robyn,” Much wailed, “Is it true?” A tear threatened to leak down his cheek, and Robyn resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
Much Miller had found them like a stray puppy, and like a stray puppy he just couldn’t take a hint. He fancied himself one of the gang, but at 10 he was much too young, and much too small, and much too Much to be of any use. Alana encouraged him, to Robyn’s dismay, and the rest of them just observed him with faint amusement.
“It is true,” she explained to Much, though more for Will’s benefit, “But it was a mistake. We thought Tri Corp were bad guys. We didn’t know the money was going to charity. So we’re going to fix this, okay?”
Much sniffed and nodded.
“Why don’t you go over and help Alana research Tri Corp and this charity?” Robyn said.
The boy scampered over to Alana’s den of electronics, where he bounced on the balls of his feet in excitement. Alana smiled.
Robyn turned her attention back to Will. He was still frowning, but past experiences told Robyn he would soon cool off. Which was good, because she would need his support if they were to sort this mess out.
“Mind if I read this?” she asked, holding up the newspaper. “Then we can start to plan.”
“Fine,” said Will grudgingly. He jumped to the ground and stalked away, leaving Robyn to the paper.
Last night, around one o’clock in the morning, three thieves broke into Doncaster Bank and stole 50 million dollars. They incapacitated one guard with a barbiturate, and two other guards were assaulted when the thieves made their escape.
The police say this was an unusual crime, in that no money was stolen from the vault. Instead the thieves hacked into the bank’s computer system and redirected a transfer that was going to be made the next day. The money belonged to local company called Tri Corp, and was destined for a city charity.
At this time the police say they have only a few leads. One is a card left by the computer that police suspect was hacked. On it is a robin, a red-chested songbird native to Britain. Lately there have been rumors of a female thief known only as “Robyn,” and although police have yet to name her a suspect they say the connection is suspicious.
“These thugs, these hoods, need to know they can’t cross us,” says Sheriff Nottingum. “If this ‘Robyn’ is involved, we’ll find her.”
The police say they have been unable to trace the transfer, and ask that anyone who has information about the money or the perpetrators to call the station. Tips can be anonymous, but Tri Corp has offered a $100,000 reward for any information that leads to the return of their money.
Well, Nottingum had made the connection. Robyn would have been surprised if he hadn’t, but now the job had gone sour this posed a problem. Taking credit for stealing from crooks and giving to charities was one thing. Being blamed for stealing from a charity was a different one entirely.
Robyn folded the paper and hopped down from her bunk. She walked over to see how Alana was getting on.
“Find anything?” she asked.
Alana shook her head. “Not really. I’ve checked news articles about both the charity and Tri Corp, and only one implied something might be going on. The rest say nothing but good things, about both the organizations.”
“Who wrote the article? What did it say?”
“Let me see.” Alana clicked her mouse. “It was written by a Marian Fitzwalter. In it she claims that Tri Corp’s books are fishy, but she couldn’t back it up. The paper retracted the story a few days later. Why, do you think she was onto something?”
“Maybe. Can you look into their financial records?”
Alana cracked her knuckles and grinned. “Have I ever let you down?”
Robyn patted Alana on the shoulder, leaving her to her work as Much watched on with wide eyes.
Doctor Djaq had finished bandaging John’s wound and was putting her supplies away when Robyn joined them.
“Thanks, doctor. For that stuff you gave us, and for this.”
The doctor frowned. “Just be careful, Robyn. If I hear you’ve had a fight with the Sheriff and got yourself hurt, I might not be able to help. There are only so many laws I’m prepared to break.”
Robyn put a hand over one of the doctor’s and smiled. “Don’t worry about me so much,” she teased.
“Ha, worry!” Doctor Djaq lips quirked into a wry smile, but she sobered quickly. “What are you going to do? The public will be against you from the very beginning.”
“Well, first I’m going to have a little chat, maybe make a new friend.” Robyn looked at Will and John. “Want to come along, you two?”
Marian Fitzwalter, it turned out, lived in a house on Leaford Lane. The garden was neat, with rose bushes lining the path to the door. The door was blue, and it had a brass knocker. Robyn stood on the step, with Will and John behind her, and rapped the knocker twice.
It was still morning, but a Saturday, and luck was with them. A woman opened the door and peered out. She had dark, shoulder length hair and silver-rimmed glasses.
“Miss Fitzwalter?”
“Yes, but I’m sorry; I’m really not interested in whatever it is you’re selling.”
“Oh, no! We’re not selling anything. I came to talk to you about a story you wrote on Tri Corp and their financial situation.”
Robyn got a quick glimpse of Miss Fitzwalter’s eyes widening before the door slammed in her face. She knocked on the door again.
“Miss Fitzwalter, I don’t mean any harm. My name’s Robyn, and I just wondered if there was anything behind your suspicions. I—I have an interest in seeing Tri Corp discredited.”
The door slowly opened a crack. “Are you the Robyn everyone’s talking about?”
“Maybe.” Robyn shifted on the step. “Look, if I get you some information that proves Tri Corp is crooked, will you get it printed?”
“I can try.” The door opened a bit more. “If you are who you say you are, how come you don’t already know what they’ve been up to?” she asked. “You stole from them, didn’t you?”
“Well, let’s just say that wasn’t part of the plan.”
Miss Fitzwalter agreed to do her best to get the story printed, and Robyn, Will, and John, returned to Barnsdale. Much had gone home to his mother, but Alana was still glued to her computer screen.
Robyn pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. “How’s it going?”
“You’ll see,” promised Alana. She hummed a bar of music, then looked up. “Oh, before I forget, they’ve named us.” She waved at the TV nearby. A woman reporter stood in front of Doncaster Bank, microphone in hand. The sound was off, but subtitles crawled along the bottom of the screen. “They took your name and Nottingum’s quote about hoods, combined them, and came up with Robyn’s Hoods,” she scoffed.
Robyn pretended to think about it. “Oh, I don’t know. I kind of like it. What do you think, Will?”
Will laughed. “Us, hoods? If they ever catch us, they’ll be in for a surprise. Still, it does sorta have a ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“Aha,” exclaimed Alana. “I’ve found something. Take a look at this, Robyn.” She pointed at a bunch of numbers on the screen, and explained. “The charity that money was supposed to go to was a fake. They’ve done something like this before. See this? They donated ten million a year ago, and got a tax break. But since the charity doesn’t technically exist, they pretended the charity bought goods from them with the money. They doubled the money, just with a little bit of paperwork.”
“Where did the money end up?”
“Offshore accounts, it looks like. But that doesn’t even really matter. This proves they were up to no good.”
“That’s great. Not only are they discredited, but this also means the money we stole was dirty. Can you get that to Marian Fitzwalter?”
“No prob.”
“Here that, boys?” Robyn called to John and Will, grinning. “Problem solved.”
The next day, Sheriff Nottingum was sitting in his office reading his morning paper when there was a knock at the window. It was opened before he could move, and in clambered a woman dressed in green. He started to call out for help, but the gun trained on him convinced him otherwise.
“Enjoying your paper, Sheriff?” The woman smirked and snatched the newspaper from his hands. She shook it flat dramatically. “I particularly like the headline: ‘TRI CORP INVESTIGATED FOR FRAUD,’ although LOCAL CHARITIES RECEIVE ANNOYMOUS DONATIONS; DONATIONS TOTAL 50 MIL, ROBIN CARD MAILED TO EACH’ is quite nice, too.”
“Who are you?” the Sheriff demanded. “What do you want?”
“Isn’t it obvious? The name’s Robyn, and I just wanted to get acquainted; that’s all. I think we’re going to be seeing quite a lot of each other from now on.”
This latest piece was written for a contest on Locution. The prompt was to write a modern myth, taking a myth, legend, fairytale, or folktale, and setting it in the present or the future. I chose Robin Hood, and this is a result.
I had a lot of fun writing this. I also found it a lot easier to write than previous contests, probably due to the 30 days challenge. Most of it was written in just one day, which is quite a feat for me.
I may just write some more. I think there may be some potential here, provided I get over my block with editing.
***
ROBYN’S HOODS
The guard took a sip of his coffee before setting it down. He turned to the array of CCTV screens and Robyn silently willed him to drink some more. She tried to remember the good doctor’s reassurances that simpler plans were best, but it was hard; after several minutes of waiting her heart had now found a new home somewhere in her throat.
Robyn checked her watch, ignoring Alana as she shifted in her seat, tapping a fingernail on the metal table. John was a comforting, solid presence on her right, silent as he watched the rest of the café clientele. This late at night there weren’t many people out, but there were workers coming off their shifts, hungry for a late-night snack, and others coming on, in need of preemptive caffeine to keep them awake until morning.
After much thought they’d chosen the café for several reasons. Its view was one; from her seat at the window Robyn could see across the road and into the foyer of the bank where the guard sat at his desk. It also made the current part of their plan that much easier; this particular guard was a regular at the café, and it was amazing what one could achieve with a simple sleight of hand.
The guard yawned and reached for his coffee. Robyn grinned. Several gulps later and his head lolled back, mouth open wide. He probably snored.
“Ready to go?” Her companions nodded and they rose to leave. Robyn dropped a few bucks onto the metal tabletop, and then they were gone.
Around the back of the bank Robyn couldn’t help feeling excited. So far everything was going to plan, and whatever was in that stuff the doctor gave them, it worked like a charm. She said so to Alana and John.
Alana rolled her eyes. “Yeah, great. One guard down. Now we’ve just got the cameras, pick-proof locks, silent alarm, and the rest of the guards to worry about.” She stopped in front of a plain metal door and took a small electronic device out of her rucksack. With its cable connected to the lock, numbers on the screen started cycling through combinations.
“Well, our man John Little can take them on, can’t you, big guy?” Robyn slapped him on the back. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. This was normal; John didn’t talk much, though when he did, you listened.
“Okay, so John knocks out the guards,” said Alana. “But you know who’s stuck with the rest? Me.”
The device beeped, and inside the door a bolt clunked open.
Robyn slung an arm over Alana’s shoulder. “That’s because you’re the best there is. Alana Dale—hacker extraordinaire.”
Alana couldn’t stop a smile from flitting across her lips. She pushed the door open. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
The corridor was dim. Alana tapped into the security system and turned off the cameras and the silent alarm. With that taken care of, they found the nearest office. Apparently, while the system was impossible to hack from the outside, any computer inside the bank would do. Robyn didn’t really understand all the hi-tech stuff, but she trusted Alana to know what she was doing.
John stood at the door and Robyn took a place behind the desk, watching as Alana logged on to the computer and started to work, humming a tune softly. Her gloved fingers flew across the keys.
“Damn,” she whispered.
“What is it?” Robyn peered over her shoulder.
“The transfer.” Alana gestured impatiently at the screen. “It’s not here. Someone changed the schedule.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the transfer we planned to reroute isn’t going through tomorrow. It can happen sometimes; Midas Inc must have decided to change the day to discourage—well, to discourage people like us.”
John cleared his throat and they both turned to him. He peered through the crack in the door, one eye on the room and one eye on the corridor. “Guard changes in a few minutes,” he said. “We need to go now, before they find our sleeping friend.”
“Okay. Okay,” said Robyn, running a hand through her hair. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, but that’s okay. Alana, are there any other transfers scheduled for tomorrow?”
Alana searched the records. “Yeah, one. Fifty million dollars from a company called Tri Corp, to be transferred to some unnamed account.”
“Sounds fishy enough to me. You said this bank has a lot of crooked customers?”
“Yeah, but we can’t know anything for sure. For all we know, we could be robbing from someone legit.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Robyn,” John said. “We said we’d only rob from the rich and corrupt. Doing this when they could be legit is just too risky. We can’t make a mistake on our first job.”
Robyn looked from John to Alana. “But the odds are against it, right?” she asked. “What’s the point of planning this and coming away with nothing? We know this bank is rotten. Isn’t that enough?”
John just shrugged and turned back to watch for guards. Alana made a face.
“Fine, I’ll do it.”
It took less than a minute for Alana to change the number of the account the money was to transfer into. There was only one final thing to do—leave a calling card. Robyn slipped it under the keyboard and followed the others out the door. They would both think it too risky, but somehow she forgot to mention it.
The next morning found them back at their hideout. It was in the rough part of town, known as Barnsdale to the locals, a labyrinth of poky, rowhouse apartments and abandoned warehouses. It was in one of these warehouses, on Watling Street, that Robyn and her friends made their home.
Robyn was dozing in her bunk when Will Scarlet climbed up the ladder and rudely disturbed her. He’d been annoyed that she hadn’t picked him to come on the first job, and she thought his temper had finally flared as a result. As it turned out, he was angry for a somewhat different reason.
“What,” he asked, thrusting a newspaper into her hand, “Is this?”
Robyn stared at the headline blearily. She read it once, then blinked several times. She read it again, but sadly the words were still the same.
50 MILLION STOLEN FROM TRI CORP
MONEY INTENDED FOR LOCAL CHARITY
MONEY INTENDED FOR LOCAL CHARITY
“Shit.”
“‘Shit’ is right! In what universe, exactly, does ‘Tri Corp’ sound like ‘Midas Inc’?”
Robyn sighed and looked past Will’s scowling face. Alana was at her computer, looking forlorn. John sat nearby, pointedly ignoring the scene as Doctor Saffiya Djaq bandaged his arm. They’d run into a bit of trouble on the way out of the bank, but he would be fine.
A door slammed open and Robyn jumped. John reached for his gun, but relaxed when he recognized the intruder. A blur of a boy slid to an abrupt stop at the foot of the bunk bed, breathing heavily. “Robyn, Robyn,” Much wailed, “Is it true?” A tear threatened to leak down his cheek, and Robyn resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
Much Miller had found them like a stray puppy, and like a stray puppy he just couldn’t take a hint. He fancied himself one of the gang, but at 10 he was much too young, and much too small, and much too Much to be of any use. Alana encouraged him, to Robyn’s dismay, and the rest of them just observed him with faint amusement.
“It is true,” she explained to Much, though more for Will’s benefit, “But it was a mistake. We thought Tri Corp were bad guys. We didn’t know the money was going to charity. So we’re going to fix this, okay?”
Much sniffed and nodded.
“Why don’t you go over and help Alana research Tri Corp and this charity?” Robyn said.
The boy scampered over to Alana’s den of electronics, where he bounced on the balls of his feet in excitement. Alana smiled.
Robyn turned her attention back to Will. He was still frowning, but past experiences told Robyn he would soon cool off. Which was good, because she would need his support if they were to sort this mess out.
“Mind if I read this?” she asked, holding up the newspaper. “Then we can start to plan.”
“Fine,” said Will grudgingly. He jumped to the ground and stalked away, leaving Robyn to the paper.
50 MILLION STOLEN FROM TRI CORP
MONEY INTENDED FOR LOCAL CHARITY
MONEY INTENDED FOR LOCAL CHARITY
Last night, around one o’clock in the morning, three thieves broke into Doncaster Bank and stole 50 million dollars. They incapacitated one guard with a barbiturate, and two other guards were assaulted when the thieves made their escape.
The police say this was an unusual crime, in that no money was stolen from the vault. Instead the thieves hacked into the bank’s computer system and redirected a transfer that was going to be made the next day. The money belonged to local company called Tri Corp, and was destined for a city charity.
At this time the police say they have only a few leads. One is a card left by the computer that police suspect was hacked. On it is a robin, a red-chested songbird native to Britain. Lately there have been rumors of a female thief known only as “Robyn,” and although police have yet to name her a suspect they say the connection is suspicious.
“These thugs, these hoods, need to know they can’t cross us,” says Sheriff Nottingum. “If this ‘Robyn’ is involved, we’ll find her.”
The police say they have been unable to trace the transfer, and ask that anyone who has information about the money or the perpetrators to call the station. Tips can be anonymous, but Tri Corp has offered a $100,000 reward for any information that leads to the return of their money.
Well, Nottingum had made the connection. Robyn would have been surprised if he hadn’t, but now the job had gone sour this posed a problem. Taking credit for stealing from crooks and giving to charities was one thing. Being blamed for stealing from a charity was a different one entirely.
Robyn folded the paper and hopped down from her bunk. She walked over to see how Alana was getting on.
“Find anything?” she asked.
Alana shook her head. “Not really. I’ve checked news articles about both the charity and Tri Corp, and only one implied something might be going on. The rest say nothing but good things, about both the organizations.”
“Who wrote the article? What did it say?”
“Let me see.” Alana clicked her mouse. “It was written by a Marian Fitzwalter. In it she claims that Tri Corp’s books are fishy, but she couldn’t back it up. The paper retracted the story a few days later. Why, do you think she was onto something?”
“Maybe. Can you look into their financial records?”
Alana cracked her knuckles and grinned. “Have I ever let you down?”
Robyn patted Alana on the shoulder, leaving her to her work as Much watched on with wide eyes.
Doctor Djaq had finished bandaging John’s wound and was putting her supplies away when Robyn joined them.
“Thanks, doctor. For that stuff you gave us, and for this.”
The doctor frowned. “Just be careful, Robyn. If I hear you’ve had a fight with the Sheriff and got yourself hurt, I might not be able to help. There are only so many laws I’m prepared to break.”
Robyn put a hand over one of the doctor’s and smiled. “Don’t worry about me so much,” she teased.
“Ha, worry!” Doctor Djaq lips quirked into a wry smile, but she sobered quickly. “What are you going to do? The public will be against you from the very beginning.”
“Well, first I’m going to have a little chat, maybe make a new friend.” Robyn looked at Will and John. “Want to come along, you two?”
Marian Fitzwalter, it turned out, lived in a house on Leaford Lane. The garden was neat, with rose bushes lining the path to the door. The door was blue, and it had a brass knocker. Robyn stood on the step, with Will and John behind her, and rapped the knocker twice.
It was still morning, but a Saturday, and luck was with them. A woman opened the door and peered out. She had dark, shoulder length hair and silver-rimmed glasses.
“Miss Fitzwalter?”
“Yes, but I’m sorry; I’m really not interested in whatever it is you’re selling.”
“Oh, no! We’re not selling anything. I came to talk to you about a story you wrote on Tri Corp and their financial situation.”
Robyn got a quick glimpse of Miss Fitzwalter’s eyes widening before the door slammed in her face. She knocked on the door again.
“Miss Fitzwalter, I don’t mean any harm. My name’s Robyn, and I just wondered if there was anything behind your suspicions. I—I have an interest in seeing Tri Corp discredited.”
The door slowly opened a crack. “Are you the Robyn everyone’s talking about?”
“Maybe.” Robyn shifted on the step. “Look, if I get you some information that proves Tri Corp is crooked, will you get it printed?”
“I can try.” The door opened a bit more. “If you are who you say you are, how come you don’t already know what they’ve been up to?” she asked. “You stole from them, didn’t you?”
“Well, let’s just say that wasn’t part of the plan.”
Miss Fitzwalter agreed to do her best to get the story printed, and Robyn, Will, and John, returned to Barnsdale. Much had gone home to his mother, but Alana was still glued to her computer screen.
Robyn pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. “How’s it going?”
“You’ll see,” promised Alana. She hummed a bar of music, then looked up. “Oh, before I forget, they’ve named us.” She waved at the TV nearby. A woman reporter stood in front of Doncaster Bank, microphone in hand. The sound was off, but subtitles crawled along the bottom of the screen. “They took your name and Nottingum’s quote about hoods, combined them, and came up with Robyn’s Hoods,” she scoffed.
Robyn pretended to think about it. “Oh, I don’t know. I kind of like it. What do you think, Will?”
Will laughed. “Us, hoods? If they ever catch us, they’ll be in for a surprise. Still, it does sorta have a ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“Aha,” exclaimed Alana. “I’ve found something. Take a look at this, Robyn.” She pointed at a bunch of numbers on the screen, and explained. “The charity that money was supposed to go to was a fake. They’ve done something like this before. See this? They donated ten million a year ago, and got a tax break. But since the charity doesn’t technically exist, they pretended the charity bought goods from them with the money. They doubled the money, just with a little bit of paperwork.”
“Where did the money end up?”
“Offshore accounts, it looks like. But that doesn’t even really matter. This proves they were up to no good.”
“That’s great. Not only are they discredited, but this also means the money we stole was dirty. Can you get that to Marian Fitzwalter?”
“No prob.”
“Here that, boys?” Robyn called to John and Will, grinning. “Problem solved.”
The next day, Sheriff Nottingum was sitting in his office reading his morning paper when there was a knock at the window. It was opened before he could move, and in clambered a woman dressed in green. He started to call out for help, but the gun trained on him convinced him otherwise.
“Enjoying your paper, Sheriff?” The woman smirked and snatched the newspaper from his hands. She shook it flat dramatically. “I particularly like the headline: ‘TRI CORP INVESTIGATED FOR FRAUD,’ although LOCAL CHARITIES RECEIVE ANNOYMOUS DONATIONS; DONATIONS TOTAL 50 MIL, ROBIN CARD MAILED TO EACH’ is quite nice, too.”
“Who are you?” the Sheriff demanded. “What do you want?”
“Isn’t it obvious? The name’s Robyn, and I just wanted to get acquainted; that’s all. I think we’re going to be seeing quite a lot of each other from now on.”
THE END?
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Day 30
I did more of a critique on Mimir's Well, but didn't get to anything else today. I feel that's a bit of a cop out, but I think waiting another day to finish would probably be worse.
Huzzah, I'm done? ^_^
I shall begin Roux's challenge in a few days, I think. Perhaps every other day, with new writing on the off days. I've quite enjoyed writing so often, even if it doesn't amount to much.
Huzzah, I'm done? ^_^
I shall begin Roux's challenge in a few days, I think. Perhaps every other day, with new writing on the off days. I've quite enjoyed writing so often, even if it doesn't amount to much.
Monday, July 14, 2008
One more day!
One more day and I shall have finished. I wrote a bit more of a critique on Roux's Mimir's Well (to be finished and posted tomorrow), but I thought my final day should have something creative. So, until tomorrow. ^_^
(Yeah, I know, silly of me to put it off one more day. I have a habit of getting distracted... Grar.)
(Yeah, I know, silly of me to put it off one more day. I have a habit of getting distracted... Grar.)
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Day 29
Bugger. I just realized I meant to continue my critique of Mimir's Well today. Hmph.
Anyway, I wasn't going to post this, but then I thought I would so you folks know I'm not slacking. It's Harry Potter fanfiction, so please bear with me. ;)
***
With that over and done with he returned to his studying. He located a spare bit of parchment and a quill and pot of ink, set them up on his desk, and sat down. At the top he wrote “Mental Landscape.” He thought for a moment, the tip of the quill hovering above the parchment, then started to write.
Environment must be either familiar or easy to fix in my mind. Hogwarts, maybe? No, too complicated. Perhaps an aspect of Hogwarts, like Gryffindor Tower. But it must be a place/environment in which I can imbue aspects with emotions and memories. I suppose I could hide things in my trunk. But what would the defensive and distracting elements be?
Something familiar… what about Quidditch?
Harry stopped and read the last sentence. It had just been a passing fancy, but as he thought it over it began to have more appeal.
Defensive element: Bludgers imbued with anger and negative emotions. If I’m in these mental landscapes, I could direct them with a bat towards the attacker.
Harry frowned in thought. In the margins he scribbled: Would the attacker show up in the landscape? He flipped through the book to a description of one person’s mental landscape. It seemed like an attacker would show up as some sort of entity, so Harry wrote a bolded YES underneath his scribble.
Distracting element: the Snitch, imbued with whatever I want the attacker to know—unimportant things, or misleading memories and emotions.
The book said that distracting elements worked well if they were either large or bright and shiny, or both. The Snitch, while shiny, was small, but if he directed it to fly around his attacker’s head it should work. That only left the protective element. Deciding to continue his theme, Harry returned to his parchment.
Protected element: the Quaffle, imbued with anything I don’t want the attacker to see. I can hold it myself, or maybe lock it in the Quidditch trunk.
Leaning back in his chair, Harry reread the parchment. Satisfied that it was at least a good place to start, he folded it twice and slipped it into his book. Having whispered “Grawp” to its spine he set it aside and moved to his bed. Once sitting comfortably, he closed his eyes and tried to imagine the feel of his Firebolt underneath his hands, the sound of the wind rushing past his ears, and the distinct glint of the Snitch.
Concentrating was difficult; the sound of a car honking several streets over jolted him out of the landscape, and not long after a cramp in his foot brought him out again. Gradually, though, he got a feel for it, and soon he had managed ten minutes of flying around on the pitch in search of a Snitch. It felt amazingly real, and Harry smiled, thinking it would have been a cool skill to have during some of the most boring of Binn’s lectures.
The book said it would be a while before the mental landscape would be strong enough to imbue with emotions and memories, and even longer before he’d be able to defend himself without falling into the visualization completely, but for the first time Harry felt he had a chance at mastering Occlumency. He snorted. Even if it didn’t get rid of his visions, a scenario he didn’t want to contemplate, it would be worth it just to prove Snape wrong.
***
Probably doesn't make any sense, since it's in the middle of Chapter Two, and an AU story to boot (it disregards books 6 and 7). Ah well. ^_^
Anyway, I wasn't going to post this, but then I thought I would so you folks know I'm not slacking. It's Harry Potter fanfiction, so please bear with me. ;)
***
With that over and done with he returned to his studying. He located a spare bit of parchment and a quill and pot of ink, set them up on his desk, and sat down. At the top he wrote “Mental Landscape.” He thought for a moment, the tip of the quill hovering above the parchment, then started to write.
Environment must be either familiar or easy to fix in my mind. Hogwarts, maybe? No, too complicated. Perhaps an aspect of Hogwarts, like Gryffindor Tower. But it must be a place/environment in which I can imbue aspects with emotions and memories. I suppose I could hide things in my trunk. But what would the defensive and distracting elements be?
Something familiar… what about Quidditch?
Harry stopped and read the last sentence. It had just been a passing fancy, but as he thought it over it began to have more appeal.
Defensive element: Bludgers imbued with anger and negative emotions. If I’m in these mental landscapes, I could direct them with a bat towards the attacker.
Harry frowned in thought. In the margins he scribbled: Would the attacker show up in the landscape? He flipped through the book to a description of one person’s mental landscape. It seemed like an attacker would show up as some sort of entity, so Harry wrote a bolded YES underneath his scribble.
Distracting element: the Snitch, imbued with whatever I want the attacker to know—unimportant things, or misleading memories and emotions.
The book said that distracting elements worked well if they were either large or bright and shiny, or both. The Snitch, while shiny, was small, but if he directed it to fly around his attacker’s head it should work. That only left the protective element. Deciding to continue his theme, Harry returned to his parchment.
Protected element: the Quaffle, imbued with anything I don’t want the attacker to see. I can hold it myself, or maybe lock it in the Quidditch trunk.
Leaning back in his chair, Harry reread the parchment. Satisfied that it was at least a good place to start, he folded it twice and slipped it into his book. Having whispered “Grawp” to its spine he set it aside and moved to his bed. Once sitting comfortably, he closed his eyes and tried to imagine the feel of his Firebolt underneath his hands, the sound of the wind rushing past his ears, and the distinct glint of the Snitch.
Concentrating was difficult; the sound of a car honking several streets over jolted him out of the landscape, and not long after a cramp in his foot brought him out again. Gradually, though, he got a feel for it, and soon he had managed ten minutes of flying around on the pitch in search of a Snitch. It felt amazingly real, and Harry smiled, thinking it would have been a cool skill to have during some of the most boring of Binn’s lectures.
The book said it would be a while before the mental landscape would be strong enough to imbue with emotions and memories, and even longer before he’d be able to defend himself without falling into the visualization completely, but for the first time Harry felt he had a chance at mastering Occlumency. He snorted. Even if it didn’t get rid of his visions, a scenario he didn’t want to contemplate, it would be worth it just to prove Snape wrong.
***
Probably doesn't make any sense, since it's in the middle of Chapter Two, and an AU story to boot (it disregards books 6 and 7). Ah well. ^_^
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
