Marbles Chapter 2 (DC SI)

Chapter two. Typically in a story, these are both a little easier and a little harder. At this point, you've established, typically, the premise, setting, and at least some of the principal characters. Preferably a little of all three but at least two of them. If you're a bit hackish you usually only have one.

That lets you focus a little bit more on the narrative, but then the problem is keeping an actual direction for your story. This is why I suggest outlines: you need structure if you want to write a cohesive story.

After the meditation, I wound up taking an unfulfilling nap, ate some crackers, and found myself taking the metro to my new shiny job. "So, you're the new guy, huh?" Said my new boss after giving me a look over, skepticism apparent in his expression, the pair of us sitting in a dimly lit office with yellowing, cigarette smoke stained walls. Guy was older: mid-fifties was my best guess. The guy had a belly, a big old Santa Claus beer gut. His face was a five o'clock shadow with a grey, fuzzy pornstar stache. His hair wasn't. "Right, they said your name was Mister Byrd?" He says, the corner of his mouth. "Gotta say, when I saw that you had changed your legal first name to Mister made me think you'd be more of a Mr. T type," He noted.

"Sorry to disappoint," I said, keeping my expression easy. I had a pretty decent poker face. Side effect of bottling my childhood traumas all my life: I was a master at repression. Weirdly, a very good skill to have in Gotham. It meant that my slight distaste for this guy didn't come through. "Only thing me and BJ Barracus have in common is an unfondness for planes: in my case because they keep deciding to have engine trouble with me on em," I continued, giving a 'what you gonna do' shrug, causing the guard to let out a chuckle.

"A Team, huh? Didn't know anyone remembered that show," He said, expression shifting into an easy grin. Success.

See, the thing with comedy is, it's 70% delivery. Most people aren't that hard to amuse if you make sure to tell your joke with the right energy and body language, even if the joke is something as simple as 'hey, remember (thing)?'. The rest of it was knowing your audience and knowing just enough to surprise them. Sure, if you wanted to be a good comedian, you needed more- a lot more- but you didn't need to be a comedian to make people laugh, you just had to be a funny guy. 

This guy was older: probably not old enough to have seen the show in his prime as it aired, but that still left re-runs. The reference to the inestimable Mr. T increased his odds of being aware of the A Team, which back in my home universe for the record was a way bigger deal: our version starred the guy from Taken AND the guy from Limitless in its reboot movie.

Add a bit of self depreciation and all you need is a punchline. It's gotta be short, snappy, and surprising, and nothing was as surprising as 'plane crash survivor'. And ain't that a mixed blessing if I ever heard one: sure, I mighta had my plane crash with me as the only survivor in a universe that wasn't my own, but at least it gave me a punchline I can use to make people laugh.

(Really stretching the concept of a mixed blessing with that one, but hey, best to try and look on the bright side of life. Or death in this case, but potato tomato.)

Anyways, me literally explaining the structure of a joke (Take notes, Joker, maybe you'll finally get someone to actually laugh) aside, my response to his statement was to give a light chuckle of my own immediately: the former handful of paragraphs do not represent my actual thoughts at the time, so thinking them only cost now me time. Instead, all then me was thinking was 'wow, thank god, I got him to laugh', which takes a lot less time to think and a LOT less time to write. "What can I say, big classic of the fans," I said, my brain catching up to me a second too late.

This is the problem when your brain runs a bit too fast: you get outta synch with what you're actually saying. Thankfully, the guy took this as a joke, giving another Sensible Chuckle. "Alright, real funny guy. You remind me of another guy who used to work here a few years back. Anyways, names Ollie Werner: I'm your supervisor. How much did the Agency tell you about what you'll be doing here?" He asked, leaning forward, and resting his hands on his desk.

"That I'd be working as a night guard. I assume that means that I scare off any teens or small-time crooks, call the cops for any actual problems," I stated blandly, and the expression on Ollie's face shifted: I had impressed him. With the joke, I had established affinity. With this sentence, I had afforded myself a small modicum of respect.

"Huh. Most people I've interviewed about this job, they usually think they get to be rentacops that go chasing down bad guys like a buncha cow-boys," He said.

"Or the A-Team," I noted, and he chuckled.

"You work security before by any chance?" He asked inquisitively, curiosity in his eyes.

"Nah, used to know a few people who worked in the industry," I said. The benefits of a wide internet circle. Okay, so, to make a long story short for those who don't get it: the vast majority of guards aren't actually supposed to engage with dangerous criminals. You basically exist to keep trouble makers out: for anything serious enough to warrant a gun, you stay back and call the cops. Trying to be a cowboy put the company at liability, see. Especially since you have zero law enforcement power: the most you can usually do is a citizens arrest or forcibly escort someone from the premises.  "Sides, they want me to risk my life, they'd need to pay me at least more than minimum wage. Not, like, a lot: I'd settle for a dollar over, y'know?" It's all basically just theater: the job exists to make people feel safe and intimidate undesirables who might encroach, like homeless looking for a dry or warm place to ride out a snow storm, or drug addicts looking for a place to shoot up.

Another chuckle. Another rush of validation. "Heh. You're alright, Byrd," He said, giving a big grin. "Y'know, you remind me of another guy who used to work here a few years ago: guy had the same kinda smartass energy you got going on," He commented, leaning back, before reaching into his desk and fishing something out. "Alright, here's your security badge," He said, sliding a card across to me, which I picked up and looked over: it was one of those little laminated keycards, kinda like the ones press members wear to identify themselves, complete with a little pin to keep it on your shirt. "We'll have to mail you the uniform.

 "Glad to hear it, thanks: means I can put my first check towards a nice luxury: I'm thinking a nice beer," I said, standing up. "So, seeing as you asked me to start tonight and I've already established my credentials, what say we skip the rest of orientation and let me get started, that way I can start justifying my pay?"

Ollie shrugged. "Alright, fine enough: I got two other guys working tonight, so I'm willing to let you work the easy shift: the plant has some docks. They mostly get used to move stuff to the harbour, but occasionally some people meet under the docks to shoot up and, ah, Ace Chemical feels it would be irresponsible to enable people trudge through the parasite infested waters of Gotham Bay."

That entire paragraph was a lie, for the record, and it wasn't a good one. First of all, people will shoot up in a lot of places, but underneath the soggy docks wasn't one of them. To this day I still don't get why he lied about that part: Later on I learned it was actually drug dealers they had an issue with. Small time stuff, mostly weed which somehow in the year of our lord 2031 was not legal.

(Apparently, one of the many people who DARE convinced marijuana was the devil was Bruce Wayne.)

Second, Gotham Bay isn't parasite infested: the chemicals would kill them long before they became an issue. This one I kinda get: Ace Chemical had only recently dodged illegal dumping charges, if word got out that people playing around their dock all came up with leukemia for aforementioned dumping it'd be really bad publicity.

I said I got it. Never said I sympathized. 

"Alrighty boss," I said, giving a nod. "Last thing, where do I clock in?"

After I had gotten the location of the place I was expected to clock in and out yet, a small wall panel in the offices that ran Kronos.

Like all other times I had used Kronos since crossing over, it was the same number: 67495. I have no concrete evidence for why this was, but my prevailing theory is that the way your universe works is different than mine in subtle ways as well as the obvious. See,  in my universe, getting the same set of numbers repeatedly out of what was supposed to be a random string was such low astronomical odds that it happening twice would be considered insane, let alone the seven or eight times it had happened over here.

Anyways, I started walking along the back of the plant, near the docks. The smell was wretched: fun fact, 90% of the shit that Ace made could be used to make smilex. What the comics and games and movies never mentioned is that smilex smells like absolute shit. Like, absolutely rancid. I barely have a sense of smell and the few times I've had the displeasure of sniffing smilex fumes, it nearly made me throw up.

This was liquid smilex I'm talking about, to be clear. The gaseous stuff I've never been exposed to, thank fuck: a small sniff and you start rictus-ing. I had seen it happen to a few people: it wasn't pretty.

Those two paragraphs were for those of you who live in Metropolis, a shinier city thats shittier than Gotham because at least we don't have Lex fucking Luthor: that fucking bald-head is one of the FEW people I consider worse than the Joker, and the fact absolutely nobody had ran him over is something that will always bother me.

Note to self, look into feasibility of running down Lex Luthor in my car. Back to the narrative though: so, I was walking along the docks, doing my best to keep my stomach settled from the stench. Occasionally, I would shine a light under the docks, these long, rickety things that hadn't been up to code twenty years ago. Empty.

Empty.

People. "Hey, whoever you are, you better scram," I said, staring down the three guys who were looking at me in surprise, all of them in dark hoodies: two of them white, the last one that kind of dark skinned where you can't really tell the specific ethnicity other than 'brown': probably mixed-race. "You don't gotta go home but you can't stay here: bosses orders."

The three of them looked at each other awkwardly, trying to have a silent conversation. I sighed. "Look, I'm not here to bust you: you want to shoot up, that's your perogative. But   you can't do it at Ace Chemical," I said, gesturing at the water. "Besides, the waters a fucking health hazard: for christ sake, you wanna do blow, do it somewhere other than under the dock of the fuckin' smilex company. Find a closed down metro or condemned apartment building: you'll thank me in ten years when you don't have joker-leukemia."

"...Fuck, is that a thing? I don't want no clown blood cancer man," One of them, a fella with blonde hair with sunken eyes: guy looked skinny, wasting, and he definitely had a bit of a tremor. My immediate thought was either meth or epilepsy. If it was the former, he had probably been doing it for a few years: not enough to really destroy his body yet, but you could tell the damage was setting in.

"Shut the fuck up Carl, let me handle this," One of them said, puffing his chest out and drawing a gun from his waistband. This one had curly red hair, freckles, and looked a little older than the aforementioned Carl, albeit probably healthier. Probably a more recent addict, I guessed, but who knows, he coulda been the dealer. "I dunno who the hell you think you are, but unless you want to get a cap, I suggest you mind your own fucking business, Holmes."

"'Holmes'?" I said, deadpan. "Don't try to use hood language dude, you're about two shades too pale for it to look cool: it just makes you look like a fake as fuck white dude," I said, causing him to falter, not knowing how to proceed. "Now seriously, leave: this is getting old."

"My guy, I have a gun," He sputtered. "I- What- Do you WANT to get shot or something, man? You got some kinda death wish? Fuck off!" He said, attempting to regain some measure of control.

"No," I replied blandly, putting my spare hand in my pocket as I continued to shine the light on them. "First off, if you think a GUN is gonna frighten me, I'm gonna assume you aren't a Gotham native." Also, the safety was on and he was holding it sideways, well away from his body. This guy had never fired a gun, and if he had his aim was crap. I liked my odds: if these guys didn't seem like complete mooks, I mighta been worried. "Second, what do you think is gonna happen if people hear gunshots? You think they aren't gonna check? How confident are you that you didn't leave any evidence lying around?"

"Chazz, I think he has a point: I don't wanna get a murder rap for some weed-"

"I wouldn't worry man, I don't think Chazz has good enough aim to hit me: if I did, I'd probably be way more worried," I noted, raising an eyebrow even as Chazz continued spluttering, face going red. "Also, fucking WEED, Chazz? You'd threaten someone with a gun over fucking weed? What are you, a fucking cop? I thought at least that you were selling coke or meth."

"H-hey man, fuck you-" He said, lowering his gun.

"Sorry, you aren't my type. Really flattered though: really validates me, y'know?"

Guy number three let out a chuckle, causing Chazz to give him a betrayed look. Crooks: no loyalty. Giving a swallow, he raised his gun, his nerve clearly gone at this point. "Sh-shut the fuck up!" He snarled.

"Once more the answer is no. Now seriously, scram, or else I'm gonna have to radio my supervisor," I said, giving a little wave.

"You wouldn't fucking dare," Chazz said, seething. "Now shut the fuck up or I swear I'm gonna-"

"Hey Ollie, I got three trespassers here," I said, holding the walky-talky Ollie had given me to use. "They're conducting some kinda drug deal. Gotta guy named Chazz, ginger guy, freckles, looks to be mid thirty, guy named Carl whose blond, and a third guy whose mostly been quiet," I continued, taking a small bit of satisfaction from the look on the druggies faces. See, I have this character flaw: any time someone says I won't do anything, that I'm too scared, that I wouldn't dare, etc, I have a tendency to out of spite do that exact sort of thing.

For an example, back a few years ago, before the plane crash that stranded me here, me and my sister had an argument. There was a dog we had gotten when we were teenagers: after she moved out, that dog became my whole fucking world, man. Whenever I felt bad, the dog'd try to cuddle right up on me. Whenever I went to bed, she always tried to sleep next to my feet. Whenever I went outside, she always followed me. I fed this dog, took care of this dog, and majority trained her.

My sister wanted to try and take the dog away from me even after I told her fuck no: she had apparently decided she missed the dog. We got into an argument: she said the dog was hers too. I pointed out it hadn't been her dog for years. She said she was taking her anyways. I told her that if she tried to take my dog, I'd hit her car with a rake.

(I used to have a temper problem and threatening to take my dog may have triggered me a bit. Didn't help that I was going through a year shitty enough it landed me in a looney bin for a week or two.)

Anyways, she said, and I quote, "You won't do shit,".

We had a pretty hefty rake. Enough to leave a good dent or two in it. Anyways, one fist-fight later, once everything had calmed down, we both reconciled, and I paid for the damage to her car, and she appologized for threatening to take my dog.

I don't know whether its pride, spite, or something else, but the best way to get me to do something is to try and tell me I won't do it. It's not even conscious most of the time: in the rake example, I had only realized what I was doing when I was bringing the rake down on the hood of the sedan.

The drug dealers had a big gaping look of shock on their faces as they stared at me like fishes caught out of water. "Anyways, they have a gun," I said, casually. "You wanna call the cops or should I?"

"Byrd, what the fuck-" Came the voice on the radio, only to be interrupted by a gunshot grazing my side, causing me to immediately drop, letting my flashlight fall to the docks, giving me a view of three panicky drug dealers running away through knee high beach sludge as fast as they could.

"Was that a fucking gunshot?!" Came the voice of my supervisor. "Byrd, you alive?" He said, and in the background, I could hear shuffling. "Fuck, lemme find my cellphone-"

I meanwhile was clutching at the shallow cut on my side, breathing slowly as my body shook, the realization that I had almost fucking died hitting me like a ton of bricks. Me and my stupid reflexive need to spite people nearly got me killed.

Good going brain, great job, real good example of why I kept you around.