..and the last one.
This was my attempt at setting a story in D.C. (or, technically, Arlington.) It almost worked...
All the poor weak sods in the kennel, and he got to be the science project they hauled cross the great nation to show off to the big dogs. Prove Walsh and her soldier boys were making a difference, that's what he was supposed to do. Look all sad-sack while they prodded at him, let them feel like the big men who had defeated the monster.
Except he wasn't having it.
The whole shindig had started with a conversation he overheard between the general - a stuffed-shirted prat if he had ever seen one - and the farmboy, Finn, as Spike crouched in his cell, gingerly rubbing the incision in his skull with one finger.
"Hostile 17, sir?," Finn had asked. "We only recently performed his surgery, I'm not sure that he-"
"Let me be very precise with you, Agent," the general said. "We need to demonstrate the success of this project immediately, if you want funding to be renewed. Seventeen is the most notorious monster in this place; he has hundreds of documented kills reaching back 120 years. There is academic scholarship about him. That's the kind of record that will impress the men in D.C., not some pimply kid who got a little more than he bargained for from a pretty girl last fourth of July."
"But sir-"
"Are you questioning my judgment, Finn?"
A sheepish note came into the boy's voice, and Spike could almost hear the bow of his head. "No, sir. Hostile 17 will be sedated and ready for travel at 0500 tomorrow morning."
"Thank you, Agent Finn."
And the next morning the boys came in with the restraints and the big needles - very brave they were, braver still when their groups were larger - and, oops-a-daisy, Spike was locked in a large metal box and loaded onto an airliner bound for the east coast.
He didn't even resist them too much. He hadn't been to D.C. since Nixon was inaugurated, and rather fancied playing the tourist. He just needed to find the right time to make his move.
And sure enough, once they shuttled him into the Pentagon, they stuck him into a rather pathetic cell, guarded only by a 19 or 20-year-old with a Marine haircut.
"Excuse me - excuse me-," Spike said, making his voice intentionally weak, adding in a bit of William's accent. "Might I have a cup of water?"
"There's a sink in your cell," the guard said, dully.
He pulled a face. "I know, but I was wondering -might I have a bit from your bottle?" He gestured to the Evian on the small table next to the guard's chair. "The faucet's water doesn't taste very good."
"No can do," the guard said, turning back to his magazine.
"Look, do you know what they're saying about me in there," Spike said, gesturing to the closed doors of the meeting room. "They're saying I'm a vampire. Isn't that the most absurd thing you ever heard? I can't believe they're abusing me in this-"
"My brother got killed by a nest of vamps out in Cleveland," the guard said. "You ain't fooling me, Hostile 17."
Oh. "Then it won't surprise you when I do this," Spike said, rushing the bars of his cell in full game face, snapping at the air and pressing against the cell door with all his strength until the metal, incrementally, bent. It wasn't much, but it was enough to get the guard out of his seat and on the intercom to call for reinforcements.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Who knows, maybe posting all this will prod me to finish something.
All the poor weak sods in the kennel, and he got to be the science project they hauled cross the great nation to show off to the big dogs. Prove Walsh and her soldier boys were making a difference, that's what he was supposed to do. Look all sad-sack while they prodded at him, let them feel like the big men who had defeated the monster.
Except he wasn't having it.
The whole shindig had started with a conversation he overheard between the general - a stuffed-shirted prat if he had ever seen one - and the farmboy, Finn, as Spike crouched in his cell, gingerly rubbing the incision in his skull with one finger.
"Hostile 17, sir?," Finn had asked. "We only recently performed his surgery, I'm not sure that he-"
"Let me be very precise with you, Agent," the general said. "We need to demonstrate the success of this project immediately, if you want funding to be renewed. Seventeen is the most notorious monster in this place; he has hundreds of documented kills reaching back 120 years. There is academic scholarship about him. That's the kind of record that will impress the men in D.C., not some pimply kid who got a little more than he bargained for from a pretty girl last fourth of July."
"But sir-"
"Are you questioning my judgment, Finn?"
A sheepish note came into the boy's voice, and Spike could almost hear the bow of his head. "No, sir. Hostile 17 will be sedated and ready for travel at 0500 tomorrow morning."
"Thank you, Agent Finn."
And the next morning the boys came in with the restraints and the big needles - very brave they were, braver still when their groups were larger - and, oops-a-daisy, Spike was locked in a large metal box and loaded onto an airliner bound for the east coast.
He didn't even resist them too much. He hadn't been to D.C. since Nixon was inaugurated, and rather fancied playing the tourist. He just needed to find the right time to make his move.
And sure enough, once they shuttled him into the Pentagon, they stuck him into a rather pathetic cell, guarded only by a 19 or 20-year-old with a Marine haircut.
"Excuse me - excuse me-," Spike said, making his voice intentionally weak, adding in a bit of William's accent. "Might I have a cup of water?"
"There's a sink in your cell," the guard said, dully.
He pulled a face. "I know, but I was wondering -might I have a bit from your bottle?" He gestured to the Evian on the small table next to the guard's chair. "The faucet's water doesn't taste very good."
"No can do," the guard said, turning back to his magazine.
"Look, do you know what they're saying about me in there," Spike said, gesturing to the closed doors of the meeting room. "They're saying I'm a vampire. Isn't that the most absurd thing you ever heard? I can't believe they're abusing me in this-"
"My brother got killed by a nest of vamps out in Cleveland," the guard said. "You ain't fooling me, Hostile 17."
Oh. "Then it won't surprise you when I do this," Spike said, rushing the bars of his cell in full game face, snapping at the air and pressing against the cell door with all his strength until the metal, incrementally, bent. It wasn't much, but it was enough to get the guard out of his seat and on the intercom to call for reinforcements.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Who knows, maybe posting all this will prod me to finish something.