November 12, 2005

Trick and Tyler

Trick is wearing her usual violet shades when I arrive, and her uniform black Kevlar high boots and flat cap. Her short spiky hair is so black, and her face so pale, if it weren’t for the slash of red across her lips she’d be monochrome. And of course, the purple-lensed sunglasses.
“Low-down Tyler?” she demands, and seeing the look on my face, she knows it's good news.
“We got him.” I say. “We got that sick son of a bitch and there’s no way he can wriggle out of it this time.”
“Warehouse outside the old breakers docks, up by Iris.”
“Dark side of the moon? I like it.” Her eyes go nova.
“I thought you would.” She licks her lips at the thought of what we’re about to do. This way she can leave her badge at home. That’s how the saying goes; “The law only reaches as far as the sunlight.”

The engines of my shuttle barely whisper as we touch down in the old breaker’s yards. It’s freezing as usual; no sun means no light, no heat, just the electric fires spitting and hissing on the end of their posts. On the edge of my sight I see Trick blowing out, and laughing silently at the clouds of breath rising like steel air. She has an odd sense of humour that one.
“Excited?” she asks, checking her gun is cocked and loaded, but doesn’t wait for an answer. Ice-covered towers of metal, dead ships, their guts spilling out, covered in oil that oozes like blood, line the path to the warehouse out back. She has a face on her like eating chocolates: delicate, expensive truffles. She fires once, and the doors shatter, splinters flying like deadly rose petals.

He’s sitting behind a desk, and there are two of his friends standing in the shadows. Trick has three slugs of lead in one of them before he can even reach for his weapon. The other one fires back, but only has the chance to hit the door frame before I get one in his eye. He goes down crying blood. Trick stalks over to the first. He’s bleeding all over the bare boards. She kicks him in the balls, watches as he squirms, then finishes the job. In all this time, the guy behind the desk has barely flinched. Either he’s cleverer than I thought, or he doesn’t know what’s coming.

He’s a weedy little rat, eyes covered in that white paint, silver space-boy suit, thinks he’s so damn cool playing with the big guns doesn’t know what he’s doing, and would never have come here if he didn’t think here he was beyond the law. But he’s made a mistake. He made a mistake way back when he thought Lesley Delaney looked a nice bit of a thing one night in some seedy space bar serving cheap-ass battery acid and rocket fuel to drink. He made a mistake when he didn’t listen to her say she had a girlfriend. He made a big mistake when he drugged, raped and murdered her. And he made the biggest mistake of his life when he ran to the dark side to get away from the law, because now Trick doesn’t have to wear her badge and haul him in. Her bed’s been awful cold these last few weeks, and if she hasn’t been getting her kicks there she’s going to get them somewhere else.

The fucker flinches when she turns that gun on him though. Hell, you’d have to be insane not to flinch if some crazy bitch in black Kevlar is pointing a magnum between your eyes. It’s her favourite gun that. She calls it Nemesis. I call it a big fuck-off piece of metal. Anyone who gets in her way would call it trouble, only they generally don’t have much chance. This guy isn’t going to get a chance at all. Trick took Lesley’s death hard.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know why we’re here.” She says.
“Why not?” Jesus, he’s trying to be clever. I’m going to enjoy watching this.
“Ooh, you’re so sharp,” she says, “Watch out I don’t cut you.” Yeah, she’s a twisted little bitch is Trick.
“If you’re looking for a confession…”
“Don’t really need one,” I say, lighting up a fag. “We’ve got three witnesses fingered you for the murder. And this being the dark side, we don’t need any more evidence than that to laminate your brains on that wall behind you.” I take a long drag, pausing dramatically. “’Course, actually, we don’t even need that.”
“But you’re cops!” he yells
“What, and you think we aren’t people as well?” I ask, “With our own personal feelings and vendettas and girlfriends?” light begins suddenly to dawn on him.
“She was your…?” he points wordlessly, and with that half-sentence condemns himself.
“No.” Says Trick. “She was mine.”

She takes her time with him. It’s only when I remind her that we can’t be safe here for too long and we have to be back on shift in an hour that she finally puts a bullet where it counts. Not that it matters. I think he’d been dead in his own mind for a long time before she finished him.
“Job well done.” She says as she comes out of the warehouse, cleaning the blood off her glasses.

- 2 comments by 1 or more people Not publicly viewable

  1. hey, i take it this is for your satelite 15 project.

    i think you really manage to get across the feeling of the action in the dark and the harsh, sharp language certainly gives it that 'noir' feel.

    my only criticism would be that it feels distinctly american and although thats probably more of a criticism towards the genre you're emulating, im not sure you do anything unexpected with this story.

    13 Nov 2005, 10:59

  2. Not convinced by this one. The hard boiled style seems forced, and the characters cardboardy.

    15 Nov 2005, 19:13

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