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A series of short stories tied to the Drawing Board. Basically, I'm turning my notes and abandoned segments into their own little archive. I'll get "Drawing" up and offer a link when I can. so you can read both tales back to back but right now this is part place holder part introduction...
Each story is going to have it's own tone/genre and ranking warnings so please read the tab to each story to be properly forewarned.
(he was also a man who was the byproduct of paranoid and greed)
Who managed to keep it together enough to live his life
(even if the life he was living wasn't really his own)
Who just focused on getting through the 9 to 5
(and had four escape plans on hand just in case something in that 9 to 5 tried to kill him)
Really, he was a simple man, with simple pleasures
(who never stopped lying, to himself and everyone around him)
Who’d seen too much, done too much, and needed certain medications to cope
(Not that he could tell anyone any of that… until pushed into a corner… and then he did)
An appointment was like a date, without the possibility of getting frisky at the end of it.
In short a ton of pressure with no positive outlook, still, it was a necessary function. Anxiety meds weren’t going to pass themselves out. And black market pills were too much of a gamble. While he had the means, via an identity, funds, (and nerves) Feng was going to go the safe route.
For as long as possible.
He picked a therapist off the grid, as much as he could get. She worked from her own home, turned her living room into a place to meet patients, and he’d picked a time when he knew her neighbors were at work.
“So before we get into the nitty-gritty of why you’re here I was wondering… how would you describe yourself?”
Well, since the Shrink had been so kind to ask.
(Because she had to, Doc’s couldn’t just pass out pill on demand, more the shame)
Feng would say… he was a simple man of simple pleasures…
(What he wouldn’t say was that denial was also his mother tongue. It was also the main filter in his head. And he’d justify what most considered a colossal flaw by stating the little white lies were what kept you sane.)
“Simple pleasures?”
( He wheeled off a suitable reply while remembering how bad his whole “white lies” line went. The fallout was he’d had to take a week off from work, cut off a fake identity, shuffle his funds, and move … it’d been a hell of a week that luckily hadn’t ended with him having to deal with a body, either disposal or him being turned to one… but it’d been a near thing.)
“A man in my field can’t really handle too many complexities… you know?”
(While work was complicated he was simple. See? He was like most men, doing his nine-to-five. Getting enough to get by, and perhaps scraping a little off the top to get ahead.)
“Can you describe your duties and obligations… let me understand the complexities of your work?”
(Certainly, he had a lie a million…)
Feng gnawed on his lip. Deciding which one, and finding it he rolled his shoulder, the familiar burden of choosing done was like five pounds off his shoulders and despite all his training, he couldn’t quite shake the tell that told him he’d made up his mind.
“You ever work in ‘mon rehabilitation… for shadow ‘mon?”
(Her confirmation that she’d only worked with human relations, was pro-human even, wasn’t a shocker. He’d researched her top to bottom before coming in. Checking her over to make sure she had no ties to Interpol. Once sure she was safe he’d called and made an appointment… A bout of nerves had made him cancel.
Five times in a row.
He’d paid the fees to keep this doc and this was lucky appointment attempt number six. He’d forced himself in every step, through a mess of nausea and way too much sweating)
“I can’t say I have… though I expect a man in that field… well there are stereotypes…”
(Of the calm cool collected trainer? Feng knew them. Been them once upon a time.)
“Really, couldn’t have told me.” Feng tried a smile, it felt more like a grimace and inspired the woman to wince a little bit.
Ah well, win some lose some.
“Suffice to say It’s a multi-tiered and complicated job and some of the ‘mon… well they benefit from a gentler touch than a stereotypical trainer.”
(Despite the scorn it was a misdirection. He used a gentler touch, therefore he could be classified as gentle, and not dangerous. It was the start of a seed to plant in the woman’s mind… And if it were wreathed in snark… well all the better because it’d make it feel more genuine.
Well the snark would be genuine.)
She was humming, a one tone out of tune note that made Feng want to cringe. He could feel her building up to a curve ball, and he wasn’t surprised by her dishing out a shocker.
“And what ‘mon are you presently paired with? That you’re ah syncing with to help it though it’s… experiences.”
(Shit, curiosity! It was benign, but still, shit and hell fire he hadn’t made a script for this)
Which lead to the honest, blurted “A manectric, named him Janus.”
Another hum, more ominous than the first, followed by a wry, “Interesting name.”
(Knowledgeable of the mythology, he lied. Obscured the tell. Wheeled out a tale about how it was named after some cool character in a game he’d liked as a kid.
He’d never played a game in his life… when he was younger he’d been above it all. Now, the thought of losing made something in him shake.)
“Is talking about your work making you uncomfortable?”
(Nah lady, I normally just baste myself in my own juices for shits and giggles. Really, a la BO is all the rage.)
Feng creaked out an affirmative noise that was taken as an opportunity to fetch some water. Small mercies. Really, he sipped and stewed and tried to remember what a panicky heartbeat didn’t feel like, and tell his body to aim for that. Figured the fucker had to pick up pace to spite him and his thoughts started spinning like bidoofs trapped in little wheels.
“What do you do outside of work Mr. Charlston?”
(I look up really weird names for giggles… or rather I put off name research for alias’ and then while binge drinking spin around in the liquor aisle and pull a name off of that)
“Charity.”
(Considering who he worked for… he and his skimming were a little like robin hood. Without the green tights and feather-topped cap and slew of merry men. Still, he was taking from “the man” or rather a group of men with dubious intents. He was neither dubious nor shady about his intents. He’d got a nice house in each region, paid them off with the money garnered from his last heist, and was ear deep in a little renovating. Sprucing up the home in this region because why not?)
That answer got him a raised eyebrow. Feng managed a small smile, more relief for anticipated than anything else, and folded into habit. He’d even picked a local charity with a hush-hush workers list –a support group for the various ex’s, other-halves, and immediate family of TEAM escapees-. His present project, a pretty Italian girl who’d gotten away from her ex, a ROCKET Exec.
He was more than understandably torn about continuing services for the gal… She was so pretty and vulnerable... He hadn’t done anything, but there’d been a few thoughts in his head… and maybe that’s why he’d had such an acute uptick in symptoms lately.
“I’m simple... see… “Feng blew out a sigh. Shifted a bit in his seat. There was no couch here, just two chairs and a table. The only decorations were on the walls, the table was bare except the lady with her notes and pen, and him with… nothing. The layout was part of why he picked her, a break from typical.
(And the longer he stayed the more it reminded him of a prison visitor’s center… and that realization right now was making is skin creep)
“And my present extra circular is adding a level of complication that’s… hard to deal with.”
(It wasn’t as if Sal was interested in anything besides his own hide. Still, a man could dream about a certain Silver Fox among the TEAM if he wanted to even if he was expressing it was this roundabout sham)
Ah well, you took what you could as you could.
Simplicity and all that.
The woman clicked her pen, a nervous familiar “one-two” beat that made Feng’s ears prick.
“You are aware that any crimes, illegal activity…”
“Lady, she ain’t underage,” He wasn’t that kinda monster, sheesh, get with the program woman! “And nothing’s happened… Just… It’s just wishful thinking and I know it. But my brain doesn’t like that, makes me all jittery not getting what I want.”
“So… being denied… is a trigger for your anxiety?
How she phrased it felt a bit like a noose being slung around the neck. And looking back there might have been a few tells in other lines. Thin lips pressing into a line, Feng rolled over every word and inflection and realized he might have scattered too many tells. After all, people weren’t things, people weren’t projects. He’d had moralistic asses tell him that from day one. Not that any of it stuck. Still, he understood enough of the program to ape it. Normally.
(It’s just that… he was off his game… the dreams were back. And he couldn’t mention them to her. It would be a one-way ticket to medical incarceration.)
(Thanks but no thanks.”
“I beg your pardon?”
(Welp, so much for filters working.)
“No thanks. “ He bit out. “For that bit of branding.”
(He’d always had a smooth tongue in his head, it helped him get out of jams even when the Bid’s were rolling around in his head. Their dead little brown forms not spinning things but getting spun.)
“Branding?”
(He was not going to be able to look at a freaking washing machine for a week, thanks sub-con for that wonderful mental tangent.)
“You know, as an asshole. I’m feeling the love here...” Slumping into his chair, all to better brace for the upcoming weight of a choice, Feng snorted. Leg jiggling as he mulled over options.
“Look I’ve had this feeling my whole life. It’s not new.” Just so much worse since Geo-. He winced from the name, even in his head. And his flinched for reals. “I’ve tried all the tricks. Meditation, lowering what stressors I can, talk therapy.”
The last had required an abduction because his secrets had been seething. Screaming to get out. And no one could know and be able to tattle to the police. So he’d played on the Florence Nightinggale effect. He’d busted the man up, in disguise, then let his Mane’ “scare” him off… It’d been a bit fun to swap costumes, ditch the old TEAM uniform and “stumble” upon the guy and play hero.
Maybe it’s why coppers did it, the rush.
Regardless he hadn’t called for paramedics, he had taken the guy home to stitch him up. It hadn’t held, the bastard he’d caught had been canny. Pretending he was smitten even.
The end result was a few good talks, a brief knife fight when the guy wanted to check out, and a good grasp on the man’s office policies.
Because talking about himself got boring after a while. Feng decided to try generosity on for size. He’d encouraged share and share alike and all that. Sheer stupid luck had left Feng with an unlimited access to his ‘sripts until the body had been found and the old Doc’s accounts had been shut down.
He could do it again.
Feng considered the pretty lady across from him while he weighed the pros and cons.
(She didn’t have a clue)
“I’m sorry...but I’m trying to grasp where you jumped from… me assuming you were an asshole in any of this?”
Credit given where credit was due. The lady turned statement into a question like a champ.
Her expression screamed it was a confirmation, the little mew of distaste wrinkling her nose to the ridged line of her straight back were warning signs.
Scraping his hands down his pants, Feng smiled. Bracing done, he rolled his shoulders, another weight down and out.
He decided, he didn’t want to talk to her. She was just too judgy.
(Still, let it be said Feng was not a fair man.)
“Look. Ignoring my status as a morally questionable man who might be preying on a mentally weak girlie back at the Center… Because you obviously aren’t taking me at my word that I’m not … The usual ain’t working. Nothing’s working except the pills that dull it. So I’m here humbly askin’ for you to help me help myself so I can keep helping other people.”
(Altruism all around, win-win for everyone)
And if she heard the bit of the threat in his tone, well good. It was like he wasn’t coming back. She’d either help him, or not. And it wasn’t like he was out of pills, just low. He could foist another identity, play a bit of fraud, and get into another office.
No problem.
Settling his hands on the edge of the table he tapped an upbeat tune while the Doc’ considered …something.
“I believe that we should talk a bit about this, before we go the medical route.”
“I’ve been on this stuff for five years-”
(You know since the world nearly ended and all that courtesy of that freaking bastard Lysandre.)
“-and I’m runnin’ low Doc-“
The woman’s eyes flicked down, consulting the paper at the top of the pile
(As if it mattered. As if paper would shield her.)
Feng’s hands picked up a softer tap and a quicker beat. It was utter nonsense. The tune he was aiming for was lost in a rush of nerves.
“You failed to show up five times preceding this appointment, with a two-month wait period between each… so tell me how you’re not out? Because anti-anxieties are tightly controlled in this Region, in all Regions….”
Yeah yeah, addictions… The whole addiction pandemic. Feng as familiar. But Feng also wasn’t addicted.
Oh, he’d tried, skipping addiction to go straight to death. First with drink. He’d burned through an identity that route sinking some poor saps college funds on the strongest cheapest crap to ever have been fermented. Swilling drinks so concentrated they were literally poison. And nothing.
On a whim, he’d taken up with the harder stuff. And while he got the feel-good effects helped a tiny bit, the end result was nothing.
Noting except pukes and shakes. His hangovers once bad, scaled up to monstrous. Even worse they came right on the heels of the ecstasy, sometimes so close together he had both at once.
(Let’s just say giggly vomiting was a thing of nightmares and let it go at that)
“I’m not addicted.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You look in the mirror pretty thing? Your face is doing plenty talking even if your moth ain’t.”
His fingers were starting a low-grade burning they were tapping so fast. Soft nothing, the pace was brutal and his wrists were starting to join in the pain shebang.
“Look… last chance here. Just give me the pills, fill out the script as I tell you.. or I‘m gonna tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“How this all started. What made me.. like this… and it’ll come with visuals and you aren’t going to like it.”
And smug that he was delusional, certain that she’d be able to get away, there was a table between them, thinking Feng’s twitches were a druggie's twitch, and it meant lack of coordination. The woman tipped her head. So very very sure she was safe.
(Never knowing she was so very very dead)
And she took the bad option.
(Well he had warned her, fairness and all that, so no reason to feel guilt.)
Even if he did so anyway.
XXX
There was a rainbow burning behind his eyes when he blinked. And you’d think, “oh pretty”, except it wasn’t.
Not when the colors were solid blocks that crept between your eyelashes and made you see despite the scrunching of lids. Despite the hands thrown over your face. To spite the screams.
They made you see in solids when you weren’t seeing at all. They speared into your brain, coiled around your neurons and gila and you had to open your eyes …
(Part in Legend guided impulse part in a mad attempt, a prayer really, Feng opened his eyes in the hope that the colors would spring away. That his sclera would be springy enough to make them bounce back….)
But it wasn’t and he saw.
Everything was as it was in its prime.
The grass at its greenest, spearing through the steel plates of the room. The metal at it’s shiniest, freshly minted and put up. Except there’d been an explosion and it was both on the wall and on the floor. The sky through the attendant hole was its bluest, even as the metal blocked it out. Feng could see through metal, and stare up at the sky and the sun which he knew was setting. Lysandre had wanted to usher the new world order during sunset to close the door on the old, in a celestial sort of way.
But now the sun was high in the sky and at its brightest even as the horizon beyond was doing the whole sunset thing in spades.
And Feng’s TEAMmate, his Scrafty, to Feng Manetric, who died in that explosion that had (not) ripped a hole in the ceiling was healthy and whole.
And that was a miracle, a wonder, a joy. It should have been a celebration. The Boss’ plan had worked…
Except the FLARE grunt was speared through by debris. He had healed around that debris. Legs crushed but whole underneath the weight of a fallen ceiling that was both down and not.
Seconds ago the world was ending, and the man had been mercifully dead.
Now he was alive, and screaming his head off.
And Feng had expected to join him.
In death, not the screaming.
Because Kalos’ chosen one was a freaking ten-year-old. A ten-year-old with a Delphox who’d been raised to win at every cost, and the fox-thing was witchy enough to suck air from every adjacent room to fuel her fires. The air’d been stale before and it was getting harder to breathe by the second.
Not going to die like that, or live like that, forever suffocating, Feng scrambled over the body that wouldn’t stop screaming, over debris, until he was high enough to crawl out of the hole that wasn’t.
Once out he looked back and found the hole sealed. No screaming, no burning. The world was perfect.
If you like nature that was.
Every scratch of civilization was wiped away. Green grass as far as the eye could see… gently rolling hills. It was a LOTR escapist fantasy given life. All you needed were a pack of Wooloo to roll by and some short people with Galarian accents to top it off.
Everything was perfectly fake.
The grass was wrong, not living, but plastic without the synthetics.
Caught in its apex moment, it never moved beyond that. Even as Feng walked over it the grass didn’t bend, just flowed to the side or some other impossibility. Breathing the air felt like an act of sacrilege, like the sky might shatter around each breath to preserve itself… and to that thought… that maybe he should breathe gently… not too deep (not at all) Feng felt his legs buckle.
He crashed down on nothing because crashing was flawed see, so it wasn’t allowed even as he did it. He fell until he hit nothing, and he screamed himself back into the real world and all its nitty-gritty flaws. Honking cars, and screaming people, the rainbow was gone and the world was gloriously imperfect once again.
And below, behind, a Grunt was screaming.
Perfectly healed among all the imperfections left behind in a disaster.
Without looking Feng unshipped his gun and shot into the hole, it took three shots and luck held when something down below splatted and the screams stopped.
Hopefully, it’d hold. Feng wasn’t sure, but it was a hope, a mercy…
And in that imperfect silence, Feng had the worst panic attack in his life. A screaming, head banging, all stops pulled out sort of thing that’d only ended when he’d been tranked and collared by the local authorities.
XXX
His hands had gone stone still come tales end. He’d gone over the good bits, the escape, him being on the run, life number two… and confessing that this wasn’t life number two anymore… more like life fifteen.
She’d been perfectly silent the whole time. Which was flattering, she even tolerated his cliché ending like a champ.
"Short version, I stood on the edge of psychedelic doomsday from a Rainbow Deerling that was supposed to be passing out eternal life. Instead, I gotta watch the edges of reality do a twisty turny dance. The life that Xerneus left behind was fake, glossy, like a potted plant. All artificial vibrancy but wrong. And that wrongness moved into my head and it’s all I see now.
So if I’m a little high-strung… well that’s why and that’s why I want the freakin’ script.”
She swallowed, and with a whimper met his eyes.
“You understand that you just confessed to mass identity fraud, murder, and to being a member of Team FLARE…”
Her voice was shrill, and to that Feng smiled.
“You’re assuming I care about Genova protections, and that that I’m gonna keep my hands off of you because you’re a medic.”
Silence and that horrible clatter as her features twisted into horror but to Feng’s eyes, they were perfect and pristine, locked forever in that moment of looking just right even if he knew (could see) that it wasn’t.
His last words to her came out, pity soft, despite all his years.
“You really should have just written the script.”
(After all, he’d warned her, wasn’t his fault if she hadn’t listened.)
He pulled out Janus’ pokeball with a shrug, lips locked in a rictus grin, and with a flick of his fingers summoned his Manectric.
The house didn’t stand a chance.
XXX
Chip was a clingy drunk, Sal a stoic one… They’d made an impromptu bar in some back storage room at Dim Sun’s base and gotten into the good stuff. Or rather some stuff some rookie Grunts had swindled and thought they’d hidden from the bosses. And, well, they had hidden them from the Executives so they weren’t half wrong. A radio bweeped between the trio, illuminating it’d steel tile square and making the empty bottles glow somewhat sinister from its red light.
The news had been rattling on, and Chip, the nerd, had suggested a little game. A round of who-done-it, in real time, the options being, TEAM, chance, Legend, or dumbass.
You had to explain how and why in two minutes after the broadcast was done, during the commercial break, and if you lost you had to take a shot, if you won the smucks who were internet surfing to get up data to debunk you had to take a shot and tell a dirty little secret.
It was getting a bit ridiculous come round five,
(Last round Chip had confessed he still slept with a teddy bewear, Sal’d confessed to killing two of his cousins and a niece over the course of his criminal career, and his last loss Feng’d given a G rated version of his Legend encounter)
You’d think such hardened criminals would have a higher tolerance, but they were shooting with Everclear so stupid was guaranteed.
Feng might have swapped the bottles when no one was looking so he could get mildly buzzed while his TEAM mates got utterly plastered…
Made getting blackmail more fun.
“Come on man what’s his name?” Sal barked, and that stiff posture was starting to slump. Slump or not where and how Sal say gave Feng a fine view of old silver foxies fine fine ass
But only if he slumped into Chip. Which Feng was doing, and Chip was taking advantage of the moment to wrap his arms around Feng like a freaking octillery.
“Not tellin’” Chip whined. Snuggling hard. And funny enough it was helping Feng’s nerves a little bit.
Maybe he’d try compression therapy or something later.
For now… “Come on, I met Mr. Rainbow sparkly apocalypse asshat donkey, you know my damage, what’s yours?”
“Ung.”
Mature, they were all mature adults, but only in that alternate reality that overshadowed the real world for Feng. And only sometimes even there.
Chip smacked him a few times; a sorta Heimlich maneuver without the choking and Feng rolled his eyes and shook Chip. Part so he couldn’t pass out and part to make him stop hitting.
“FIIIINE. I named ‘em Susie… Stop shaking… why’s the world spinning… your spinning…”
“No, you are.” Because petty and small, sign up Feng for that, please.
“Really?” Sal chuckled and hey double bonus, fun times, and something to taunt himself about when he had certain dreams at night. “Just gonna twist the knife with him like that?”
“You’re spinning like a top, tip-top at midnight….” Feng sang, tried to, poorly. So maybe a “little” buzzed was an understatement.
“Noooo…” Chip whimpered, the man regressing to toddlerhood.
“You are both fuckin’ children.” The Italian drawled, black eyes twinkling. “And you’re a fricking bastard.” Snagging the bottle Sal tipped it up, in a toast that flaunted its title and then some.
“Yep.”
“I’m keeping this.”
“You do that.” Feng drawled… then to Chip he crooned. “Spinning out over a Godiva sea…”
“Hate you sooo much….”
Then Chip tried to hit Feng and hit himself instead, and that was it for the night. Chip went limp, plopped against Feng, and Sal, tossing down one last shot, clicked the radio off. Killing the transmission about a “freak electric fire” downtown.
“That corner, that’s mine, and if any of you get near it or me before I recover from my hangover, I’ll shoot you dead.”
Fair. Even though using a gun on someone would be absolute murder for the victim as well as the shooter considering how smashed they were going to be. Well, how smashed Chip and Sal were going to be. Feng’d play along… or perhaps just jack the volume up by accident to let them squirm.
Well hot dang. Despite very much feeling like I came in in the middle of something, I felt that I understood what was going on. You started with a lot of vagueries and slowly wound it up into a lot of understanding and detail. I got a good feel for things.
How does he expect to get his script now?
Gosh that would certainly be a hell of a thing to deal with! I'm interested in how this group came together as well, how these criminals formed what seems to be a Leverage-type group. Do they all have this sort of history to them?
Well hot dang. Despite very much feeling like I came in in the middle of something, I felt that I understood what was going on. You started with a lot of vagueries and slowly wound it up into a lot of understanding and detail. I got a good feel for things.
How does he expect to get his script now?
Gosh that would certainly be a hell of a thing to deal with! I'm interested in how this group came together as well, how these criminals formed what seems to be a Leverage-type group. Do they all have this sort of history to them?
Yeah you did pop into the middle of mr. Jittery's apointment so definitly the middle of something to put it mildly...
Oh feng has his ways. And like nine other fake identities he can use to con his way into getting what he wants. Hes just having a bad day this appointment. Though worse comes to worse... Black markets a thing.
When time permits i plan on popping all the casts tales up. Then tossing up the revised drawing board so once everyones all squared up you can see everyone on thier worst day ever (dim suns fall). But yeah every named character has one chapter min detailing thier histories.
