Story 1, Section 1
Apr. 7th, 2011 06:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gabbyncat(posting because Gabby hasn't)
Link to Plot Outline
Seventh lap. He was doing well. Those trainers really had made things easier. Maybe the advertisement had been true. The salesman was definitely still a bastard. Half-way round. Someone was watching him. It wasn’t just lack of modesty - the stadium was empty apart from the woman making her way over to the finish line, and she was definitely watching him. As he approached her, he evaluated. Young-looking. Younger than him, anyway. Tall, though. Dark hair scraped back into a knot at the back of her head. Raincoat, fairly classy-looking, but figure-hiding. Shame. Coming up on her now.
“Mr. Porter?” she held out a hand as he passed. He raised his, holding up his index finger. One more lap. Then he could proudly claim to have run two kilometers every day for the past... day. Starting from halfway round, he started picking up the pace, his strides widening, the track tearing away beneath him, the air barely even pausing in his lungs before being crushed out, the music drowned out by the whistling and the heaving, and coming round the final bend, his toes were hurting, and his lungs were killing him. But he looked incredibly cool. He tore past the woman, unable to stop, veered off the track, and promptly collapsed into the scrappy turf, unable to breathe in for long enough to fill his lungs again. His eyes were screwed tight shut, and he was trying to force everything out of his mind except the last strains of whatever he was listening to. Something loud. So loud he didn’t hear her approach. When he opened his eyes, she was standing over him, smiling. Her lips were moving. He clawed his left ear-phone out (rhythm guitarists didn’t matter).
“‘Saviour of Crown Estate travels at 10mph’”... no. ‘Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s the saviour of the Estate’” She appeared to be talking to herself.
“Sorry, but,” Alex paused to gasp in air, “Who the fuck are you?”
“Harry Moss, freelance investigative journal. I heard about your campaign, wondered if I could ask you some questions.”
“So you came.” Coughs, hacking and painful. “To watch me run?”
“Your address is off the register.”
Alex smirked and held out a hand. Harry raised an eyebrow and pulled him to his feet.
“Alright. I’ll get changed and all that, meet you out front when I’m done. You can interview me over coffee.”
“Where? I don’t know the area - any good cafés?”
He laughed at this.
“No cafés in this area, unless you want a fry-up. Not even a Starbucks. No, it’ll have to be my place.”
Link to Plot Outline
Seventh lap. He was doing well. Those trainers really had made things easier. Maybe the advertisement had been true. The salesman was definitely still a bastard. Half-way round. Someone was watching him. It wasn’t just lack of modesty - the stadium was empty apart from the woman making her way over to the finish line, and she was definitely watching him. As he approached her, he evaluated. Young-looking. Younger than him, anyway. Tall, though. Dark hair scraped back into a knot at the back of her head. Raincoat, fairly classy-looking, but figure-hiding. Shame. Coming up on her now.
“Mr. Porter?” she held out a hand as he passed. He raised his, holding up his index finger. One more lap. Then he could proudly claim to have run two kilometers every day for the past... day. Starting from halfway round, he started picking up the pace, his strides widening, the track tearing away beneath him, the air barely even pausing in his lungs before being crushed out, the music drowned out by the whistling and the heaving, and coming round the final bend, his toes were hurting, and his lungs were killing him. But he looked incredibly cool. He tore past the woman, unable to stop, veered off the track, and promptly collapsed into the scrappy turf, unable to breathe in for long enough to fill his lungs again. His eyes were screwed tight shut, and he was trying to force everything out of his mind except the last strains of whatever he was listening to. Something loud. So loud he didn’t hear her approach. When he opened his eyes, she was standing over him, smiling. Her lips were moving. He clawed his left ear-phone out (rhythm guitarists didn’t matter).
“‘Saviour of Crown Estate travels at 10mph’”... no. ‘Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s the saviour of the Estate’” She appeared to be talking to herself.
“Sorry, but,” Alex paused to gasp in air, “Who the fuck are you?”
“Harry Moss, freelance investigative journal. I heard about your campaign, wondered if I could ask you some questions.”
“So you came.” Coughs, hacking and painful. “To watch me run?”
“Your address is off the register.”
Alex smirked and held out a hand. Harry raised an eyebrow and pulled him to his feet.
“Alright. I’ll get changed and all that, meet you out front when I’m done. You can interview me over coffee.”
“Where? I don’t know the area - any good cafés?”
He laughed at this.
“No cafés in this area, unless you want a fry-up. Not even a Starbucks. No, it’ll have to be my place.”