Xmas Fic: Inc. Brett-centric and evil!Sparx. Unfinished. For Sarah Frost.

I know… It’s not quite finished :( but it is turning out to be a very long story. Am glad to have gotten this much done to be honest.

Anyway this is for you, Sarah, Anna’s and Xin’s are coming up. Here’s the beginning of a potential multiparter fic.

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Sarah's challenges: Fulfilled by Scarab (Brett-centric and evil!Sparx),


“One week before Pitfall! was to be released, I only gave you one life to play the whole game. I was experimenting with that concept as sort of the ultimate challenge.” – David Crane

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Prologue.

It’s like something out of one of those mortal movies she used to watch in between bouts of saving-the-world-as-they-barely-knew-it. She’s always liked those. The dark streets and starless sky, no moon, and she’s far back in the alleyways now, far away from the light of the street. If it weren’t for her sword glowing, she wouldn’t be able to see her hand in front of her face. Any minute now somebody could leap at her in the dark and give her a chance to show them what happens when you mess with a CIG.

Kinda cool.

And nobody knows she’s here anyway. She’s sure of it.

She THINKS she’s sure; anyway… mortals don’t usually come here this time of night, do they? Lancaster’s not a bad city in the daylight, but people don’t like to be out at this time. Especially not now. Someone once said to her that mortals don’t even trust the ground under their feet anymore.

She kind of gets why.

‘Are you coming or not?’

She doesn’t answer. Usually her response to that would be a sharp retort or something. No sweat, she’s all over it. Not now, though. Not this evening. No time for that. Get in, get out, go somewhere else. No questions asked. Back in the academy (she grunts under her breath. Academy. Yeah, right.) Whenever she’d needed this kind of favour, Ace had a name for it. He’d called it their—

‘…Light bulb call.’

She jumps and swears under her breath. She still doesn’t say anything.

‘I understand that was his name for it, was it not? Childish banter. A foolish game you once took seriousness in. supposedly, at least. Hasn’t it been a while since you heard it?’

Yeah. Yeah it’s been a while. Not that HE has any right to say it. No right at all. She staggers on something in the darkness of the alley. It’s probably a bin or a hubcap. Whatever it is, she kicks it out of the way. It’s metal, shining and reflects the light of her sword. It hits her eyes and the light’s so bright it makes her grimace.

‘Ow.’

‘A Light bulb call then, Sparx. No questions asked, on either count. You get what you want, and so do I. Do we understand each other?’

Sparx swallows. ‘That’s the plan.’

‘So you do talk. That’s good.’

‘Yeah, I talk. Just not to you. Lets get this over with.’

This time it’s the voices turn to stay quiet. Whatever. She doesn’t care. She knows where to go now, so it’s not like she needs help. It’s not like he’s BEEN help this far anyway. If he had been then maybe they wouldn’t—

—What’s that?

The sword is up again. And this time it’s to protect her. Whatever it is it’s coming up fast. She can’t see anything. It’s too dark and the light from her sword isn’t much of a substitute. All around her there’s silence. Here, the alley breaks off into three separate pathways and she’s standing at a crossroad, flanked by trash cans and overhead washing lines that she hadn’t noticed until now. She blinks. Surprised. People actually LIVED down here?

No time to think about that now, though. Freaks to deal with. Three pathways close together. One (hopefully JUST the one) nasty Zoar-knows-what that could be skulking around in any one of them, and only one sword.

And by the sound of it, it’s not just mortals who can live in the worst of places.

‘What are you doing, Sparx?’

‘What’s the matter, you worried about me?’

Damn, where is it?

Um… yeah… there’s a gap here… look would you rather have an all out gap or just a slight lack of

Where’s it coming from?

It used to be a minion. Or a freak. Or something, anyway. Used to be. Zoar knows what it’s supposed to be now, but it sure as hell doesn’t look like any minion she’s ever fought.



‘Keep your head on, will ya? I’m dealing with it!’

Okay, so she was wrong when she said NOBODY knew she was here.

‘What’re you doing?’

‘Change of plan,’ she snaps, sending a charge of energy racing up the sword.

She hits it hard, ramming it with her left shoulder and it staggers and topples


…Yes… yes it’s not finished. Muchas apologias, it shall be done in time for new years I promise you.

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One: ???.

The sky is playing up again. Its indigo blue this evening, and with shards of grey and purple breaking the clouds like backwards lightning. Something clatters in the street, scaring a cat out of an alley outside of the flat window. Brett Ramirez didn’t know what, and he didn’t have time to wonder. You get used to the sky changing, after a while.

The clock on his taskbar says eleven p.m. It looks like he lost track of time again.

He’s always doing that. Usually he doesn’t notice how late it’s getting until the only thing giving off any light in the room is the computer screen and the radio starts playing the late evening classics when chances are noone else in town is listening.

He takes off his reading glasses, knowing Suse’ is probably going to kill him if he doesn’t leave for home soon. It’s her play tomorrow evening, her first performance. She’s never had a speaking part before and now the whole thing’s got her in a panic. And then there’s the meeting with his agent and the Viridium Publishing Group in exactly eleven hours and forty-five minutes time… Forty-four minutes time… Forty-four and a half…

Nervous? No, he’s not nervous… not really. Rod’s assured him there’s nothing to worry about. Just that they needed to do some editing for his final chapters before they go to press…

…The final chapters that didn’t actually exist yet, but…

Great. No pressure. It’s not like he hasn’t been a little late before.

Anyway, he’s not sure if he’ll be ready to sleep for a while. He scrolls back over the last twenty pages, errors highlighted in green and red all the way through. No wonder his editor’s always so tetchy. He knows he never pays as much attention to grammar as he should. Just the story. The story’s what’s the most important, right? The grammar can all be fixed later.

His story. Well, his perspective on someone else’s, anyway. Several “someone’s”. Everything he’s written down feels… simplified compared to what really happened. There’s still too much to say.

Maybe he shouldn’t be doing this…

Maybe it’s too late to be thinking that maybe he shouldn’t be doing this.

Maybe he should just stuff the publishers and… no. No, he couldn’t do that.

Damn it. All this stuff he’s got to say, a novelisation featuring eyewitness account of the story that had every newspaper in Conestoga Hills – no, more like every newspaper in over half of the United States– buzzing for six months, and they’re worried about his grammar?

Okay. No problem, though. He’ll work it out. Eventually.

Damn it, how the heck is he supposed to work this out?

This isn’t like his historical fiction novel –when he was talking about something he wanted to understand. Or the romances –that’d been… fun, and Suse had loved them, and so had he, really, though he’s not sure if he’d ever have written them if it hadn’t been for meeting her. (In truth he wouldn’t have cared if the rest of the world had hated them, so long as she understood.) Or the critical-guides to local tourist attractions. All those letters and stories where he knows everything that’s going to happen and everything felt. And this is a different kind of story. This is one that happened in real life and where he really wasn’t in control of… well, of anything at all. He can only write this story the way he’d seen it happening. What did he know about the rest?

You can write a story with just one POV. Harriett Smith –pseudonym “A. K. Barnaby”, the writer who just joined the agency from Milwaukee– did that. She said it made things simpler and let you get more in touch with the protagonist. But Brett never does it that way. He’d rather mix it up, look at things from different perspectives. Sure, you could write a whole book and just focus on one person and do fine, that’s easy enough, but it’s not like you’d really have the whole story. Because what one person means isn’t necessarily what someone else thinks it means and what they think might be something completely different to what the author wanted them to…

Anyway, Brett prefers the less direct approach, because stories are about people, and Brett understands people. He knows how they think. But he can’t exactly judge them when he doesn’t have any facts to back them up. Nor would he want to. Nobody can do everything all on their own.

And when not all of them are the kind of beings most humans would consider calling “people”…

Well, actually, he probably knows a lot more than he gives himself credit for.

The thing that really bugs him is that this whole thing is 80% publicity stunt. He doesn’t like that, but Roderick said it was a good idea. He needs promotion if the books are going to sell. And Rod knows what he’s talking about, most of the time, right?

‘Brett, the story’s asking to be written. What with all the to-do there was back then and the papers covering it up and everything, people want to know. They want to know what REALLY happened. And you can tell them, Brett. You were there. You saw it happen. First hand witness. All the things they’ve tried to keep covered up, you’ve seen it in action. They can’t hide from the facts forever, right, Ramirez?’

‘Yeah… yeah, I guess. But—’

‘So we’ll do it, right? Give the public what they want. Give the people a story, kid, one they won’t forget. Besides, “The Southampton Trials Report” could use the advertising.’

He’s not sure why Rod’s so eager about it all but maybe he’s right. Maybe people deserve to know the truth.

‘Yeah. Well… them and me both, I guess.’

Brett knows Rod trusts him to know “what the public wants”. He calls Brett “his golden boy” whenever he’s not in the room. And sometimes even when he is. It’s no secret. Brett’s the youngest addition to a company that’s twenty-five years in the making. And the ladies love a guy who writes romance. That’s what Rod said anyway.

He probably should’ve stuck to that. Romance he can do.

It’s pitch black out there. Probably cold. The weather’s been weird these last few years. The two floors below him are still being rebuilt after the hurricane that came in from the west coast in 2006. He should go home now, before Susie starts to worry.

Not yet, a voice tugs at his brain. She knows just where you are, and you already called her three times earlier. Lets not go home yet.

Brett looks back at his computer screen. What had REALLY happened? If he knew all that, then this thing would probably have been three times as long…

He needs to know more. All that stuff he’s supposed to have seen but didn’t understand. What’s the point of describing something if you can’t even explain it yourself? What’s the point of telling a story if you don’t have all the answers? There |are too many loose ends he needs to tie up. Too many holes.

Luckily, he knows some people who might be able to fill them. And then some. If he can get them to talk…

If it’s RIGHT to get them to talk.

He checks the time exchange between here and Lancaster City. Then he picks up the phone.

This is a bit from later on in the story (I don’t write in continuity) which really begins to show up Sparx’s ever changing colours and Brett’s rather scary encounter with the aforementioned :P. I’m not going to spoil the story and tell you exactly what it is that drives Sparx off the edge, but it’s an arduous process anyways.

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She doesn’t WANT to do this. Not really.

Does she?

She… should he even be calling it that? It’s not real, is it? It’s just some clever hologram that just happens to have a sharp looking… sword thing pointing at his throat and an angry look in her eyes.

No way. Not her. He’s played a couple of her levels before. He remembers what she’s like, sort of. He saw how she acted in a couple of the cut scenes. She’s spunky, and brave, and she knows how to fight but she doesn’t…

No. It’s not right. Not this. It can’t be…

‘…Mark…’

He makes himself speak. Or something makes him, and he’s not sure what it is, exactly. He knows that’s dangerous… there’s pink energy lancing up and down the sharp point at his throat and he’s already got a fairly good idea of how badly it’ll hurt if she shoots. ‘Mark… c’mon, man, stop this.’

O-kay… that was supposed to come out sounding kind of… louder than it did. Braver. Mark looks at him worriedly. No, not worried – scared. Really scared. He’s still standing at the console near the wall and keeps glancing at the door like he’s expecting someone to appear. He doesn’t say anything.

Damn it, why won’t he SAY anything?

‘C’mon, kid,’ she snaps. Brett doesn’t remember her sounding like that. But then he can’t remember a lot of the stuff she used to say. He starts to wish he hadn’t skipped all those clip scenes. ‘Can you hurry it up already?’

‘I’m trying…’ Mark’s pressing buttons. He doesn’t seem to know exactly what he’s doing. What IS he trying to do? Brett gets a sinking feeling in his stomach. Does he really want to know?

‘So try faster, already!’

‘I CAN’T, you try getting into this thing!’

Brett shifts his feet. She must sense it, because the blade suddenly turns sideways against his throat. His back touches the wall. ‘Don’t move.’

‘…He’s not going to hurt anyone.’ Sparx glances at Mark briefly. Brett’s glad for the break. That look in her eyes is freaking him out. ‘I mean… look, you can put the sword down.’

She doesn’t believe him. Or if she does… well, she has a weird way of showing it. ‘Yeah. Right. That’s what you said about the Harpix.’

Mark takes a deep breath. He’s beyond scared now. ‘Yeah, the Harpix that was eight feet tall and breathing molten electricity at us…’ he pauses. ‘He’s just a human.’

‘Oh, yeah and this is just the time for getting all sentimental, Mark.’

I'm excited. :D I don't know exactly what's going on in the fic, but I'm excited indeed. :D Superlative writing style. I love this muchly.

*feels proud*

It's gonna get better (I hope) just wait ;)

Niiiice. :D

Oooo very, very nice. :D Will be waiting for more. ;)

Really like that bit for some reason. :)

Yes, notice his rather distant/impersonal use of the term "human"? There's a point to that. ;)

Oooo? *looks* OOO! *sits and waits for more*

Yes, my tenses are all over the place aren't they? They'll be corrected when I proofread the finished piece (and actually decide which tense to go with) but for now, thought you'd like to see this other clip from the xmas fic... well, actually what I mean is I thought you might like to rip this to bits before it goes too far and I don't know how to stop.

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Brett hasn’t taken his eyes off Mark for the last ten minutes and luckily Mark is distracted by the flow of info charging across a nearby computer screen that Brett had thought was broken, and hasn’t noticed Brett looking, otherwise he’d probably think it was kind of creepy. But then, this is Mark, and when has he ever been that ordinary? Brett’s not totally sure what it is he’s looking for. Proof, he supposes. Proof that that’s really Mark there and this isn’t just some weird shapeshifter trick. Explanations as to why he’s here at all and what the hell is going on.

Mark Hollander. Striker for the soccer team back in middle school. Great with his crosses. Not so good at giving explanations for running off in a hurry to God-knew-where after every game. Even that time when they were all booked in for pizza when the end-of-season match was over. Why’s he letting this happen?

Mark always had this thing about promising to give explanations. “Someday”. And someday hadn’t come once yet.

‘Um... what is all that stuff?’

‘Haven’t got a clue,’ Mark almost smiled, staring at the screen. ‘Some stuff Chuck put together,’ he added, noticing Brett was unconvinced. ‘He’s trying to find…’ he stops himself, was if he’s not quite sure how to say it. or maybe just not wanting to. Brett shudders.

‘This… this isn’t right, man.’

‘Right? Heh!’ the Rat stops chucking things out of a nearby trunk and grunts. ‘What would you mortals know about right, kid? S’not like you never killed nobody.’

‘Yeah, for your information, Rat, he hasn’t. He’s never had to.’ Mark actually says something to him at last. He sounds so sure of that. Brett feels his insides twist, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s probably not a good idea to say anything.

‘Heh. Yeah, right,’ the Rat struggles from inside the trunk. There’s something huge in there that he’s trying to get out. Mark shakes his head, glancing pointlessly at the ceiling, the way he used to with Heather whenever she annoyed him and…

Brett reminds himself not to think about stuff like that. He twitches as he gazes at the Rat, still fighting with whatever’s inside the trunk. His hands clench into fists – something they don’t do very often. Damn it, they have to talk already. He needs to know what’s happening.

‘Mark, look… Aren’t… aren’t you a little…’ he can’t think of the word. Confused? Freaked?

‘Yeah,’ Mark smiled a little. ‘Yeah, Brett, I’m completely weirded out. You sort of… get used to it. Eventually.’

Brett stares at the Rat as it mutters and grumbles and the lid of the trunk suddenly slams down on the creature’s head. There’s a birdlike squawk as it struggles to get out. It’s almost funny, actually. He doesn’t know how he’s ever going to get used to anything these days. How can it work this way? That… that thing is one of the bad guys. It’s got the creepy little leer and everything.

And Sparx…

It IS Sparx, he’s tried to tell himself it’s not real. Some big joke. Only he knows it’s not, and maybe he’s known something like this was coming for longer than he realised he knew. What’s with her? Sparx is one of the good guys. And she shouldn’t threaten him and hurt him and stick a sword against…

Damn.

‘…They’re the only ones left, Brett.’ Mark says eventually.

‘What? Wait… the only ones…’ he pauses. Then he finally he starts putting together the pieces he had all along. ‘You.. .you mean, Ace Lightning…’

‘And Random Virus.’ Mark nods. ‘And Lady Illusion. And all those others. Even the little ones. You know, the ones that didn’t actually do anything except… well what the game told them to do, I suppose.’

Brett nods. He tries to pretend he understands why Mark is looking at him the way he is.

‘And you know what? We’re the ones that killed them. All of them. Except for Sparx, and… and that guy.’ He looks up at the trunk, still rattling away in the corner.

‘So… so why’re they still here?’ Brett asks quietly. ‘Why just them two, I mean… it can’t all be gone, can it?’ he’s not even totally sure what “It” he’s talking about. But they have to come from SOMEWHERE, right? They didn’t just… pop out of nothing. They can’t have.

‘No. But most of it is, I think. I'm not sure. I just know that we destroyed it, and we can’t let that happen again. You get that, don’t you?’

Brett starts to nod. Then stops. ‘I… um… no, not really man. I mean…’

Mark sighs. ‘I don’t know… It’s just a long, long, crazy story, Brett… it’s hard to explain. Heck, I don’t know if I can make sense of it all myself.’

Brett waits for a moment, remembering. Actually, he’s getting kind of scared again. Because this is getting just too weird for him to handle. He’s pretty sure he’s gotten wrapped up in something really, really bad here, and a criminal record hanging over his head would definitely not bode well for his college education, and as for killing people?

Okay, now he's just beyond freaked. Now he's in serious terror mode. He has a to swallow a few times before he can say anything.

‘…Try.’ He says.

Oooooo. :blink: Stop teasing us with little bits and pieces! *dies* :P

Ditto H. :P