WIP Meme! Because, let's face it, I am constitutionally incapable of letting this one go by without participating.
From misspamela: Post a random sentence (or three whole paragraphs) from every WIP you're currently working on, even if it's very short. Then invite people to ask questions about your WIP. With any luck, you'll get talking about writing, and the motivation to take that WIP one step closer to completion will appear as if by magic!
Naturally I am going for the "three whole paragraphs" option. Feel free to ask questions! Even if they are more of a comment than a question.
"Her name is Jenny," he said, without looking at Robbie and sounding rather like he was reporting what he'd learned from a witness. "We talked on my birthday, but that's been months now. I haven't seen her in person since Christmas. I don't know if she--"
Finally Hathaway's endurance seemed to snap; he opened the door and got out without another word, leaving Robbie to trail after him, trying furiously to work out what they were hurrying into. Birthday and Christmas sounded like dutiful familial obligation--Jenny could be a sister or a cousin. Hathaway would have been more formal in speaking or referring to anyone of an older generation. But if the relationship were purely dutiful, why had so little rattled Hathaway so badly?
As he pushed through the front door of the café in Hathaway's wake, Robbie was working out the familiar awful scenarios: Jenny was a runaway, plus or minus unsuitable boyfriend. She was probably on drugs, might even have fallen into prostitution, and her unexpected appearance on Hathaway's doorstep might be the last chance anyone had to help her before--
Arkady shut the drawer and sat down beside him on the edge of the bed, frowning a little. "I've never really seen the point. I mean, sex is already fun. It's sex. I don't know what you'd need toys for."
Aral was startled into a laugh and said, "I don't know whether to be flattered or concerned at your lack of forethought."
Arkady gave him an assessing up-and-down look and said confidently, "There are meds for that, and even if they're contraindicated for whatever reason there are fingers and mouths and your voice and everything else. I'd rather have you, not some piece of plastic."
Nate looked exactly like Brad always pictured him: exhausted in the full life-in-a-combat-zone sense of the word, used up and without hope of resupply. He was red-eyed and underweight.
He'd let his hair grow out, though, and he was wearing a Dartmouth t-shirt. His appearance screamed civilian, but despite his departure from the grooming standard he looked basically neat and clean.
He didn't look at all surprised to see Brad. Puzzled, like he didn't know what Brad wanted--which was fair, because Brad didn't either--but not surprised to see him standing there.
This entry was originally posted at http://dira.dreamwidth.org/606873.html. There are currently comments there.