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Authors: Playing for Keeps [html]
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villains, or, apparently, shit. There was shit on her pants and shoes.
"They took him, Keepsie, they took Ian, what are we going to do?"
Michelle said. “They’ve gone too far this time!” "Come on, Michelle, calm down, it'll be OK," Peter said, still pulling both women along by their elbows. "Keepsie, I believe you live closest, can we go to your apartment?"
Her apartment. They couldn't go to her apartment; it was locked. Her bar was locked; they couldn't go there either. They couldn't go anywhere. She felt Peter's hold tighten on her elbow.
"Keepsie, you have to hold it together, I can't take care of both of you,"
Peter said, desperation seeping through cracks in his usually calm voice.
Keepsie shook her head. No one had barricaded her apartment -she'd locked it herself. "Right, sorry, yeah, let's head back to my place. We can, uh, wash up." She lifted one leg and then the other, grimacing at the foul splatters covering her sneakers and her jeans.
Still feeling as if she were acting in a movie, moving stiffly through blocking set by a director, she helped Peter urge the enraged Michelle down the street. Other people on the street were the actors who took their cues and turned their heads to stare at them: a concerned, well-dressed man, a furious tall woman with cornrows and a Keepsie Branson, the star of the show who was horribly miscast by a woman who couldn't for the life of her remember her lines.
Michelle had calmed down to grumbling by the fourth block and was only fuming in silence by the time they got to Keepsie's apartment.
Keepsie tried the door and found it locked. She stood there dumbly for a moment, staring at the door, feeling the fear and helplessness well up inside her again.
"Do you have your keys?" Peter asked.
Keys. Of course. Keepsie searched her jacket pockets and found the keys. She tried three before coming to the one that opened her apartment. She led the way inside and looked around. It was her place; it looked like the set where she pretended to live her life, secure in her hubris that the Academy could never hurt her. She was too small, too below the radar, too insignificant.
Anyway, they couldn’t take anything away from her.
Peter was talking. Why was he always talking? "-I mean, you were already going to give it to them, now it seems the way is clear. You can give them the device and get your bar back. They are only doing this to intimidate you. And maybe we can get Ian back if you negotiate right."
Keepsie looked for her cue card. Keepsie the character was supposed to agree with him, take the easy way out. Giving the device back was the obvious choice, as Peter said. And it was what she was going to do anyway. It might get Ian back. Keepsie the character would get her bar back and go back to work, cowed and ready to live in a city run by those who considered her a second-rate citizen. Her lines were on the cue card, and the stage manager in her head had started prompting her with a loud and desperate whisper. The dawning realization came to her that it was time for improvisation.
"No."
"I'm sorry?" Peter said, confused.
"No. I'm not going to give it to the heroes."
"But -why?"
Her words were coming faster and easier now. "They are bullies. Bullies and manipulators and thugs and, as Ian said, assholes." The stage manager gave a horrified gasp and the cue card holder checked the cards, flipping through them to find the right spot in her lines, but Keepsie was beyond them.
"The villains have been straight with me, the heroes haven't. The villains have treated me with respect, something I've never gotten from the heroes."
"Keepsie," Peter said, "they are called villains for a reason. They have hurt people, caused city-wide destruction, I've seen it with my own eyes!
Doodad kidnapped you, for God’s sake!"
"And still I can't find it in my heart to root for the heroes. The villains have never hurt me. The heroes have."
"Awesome," Michelle said, slapping her hands together.
"They took him, Keepsie, they took Ian, what are we going to do?"
Michelle said. “They’ve gone too far this time!” "Come on, Michelle, calm down, it'll be OK," Peter said, still pulling both women along by their elbows. "Keepsie, I believe you live closest, can we go to your apartment?"
Her apartment. They couldn't go to her apartment; it was locked. Her bar was locked; they couldn't go there either. They couldn't go anywhere. She felt Peter's hold tighten on her elbow.
"Keepsie, you have to hold it together, I can't take care of both of you,"
Peter said, desperation seeping through cracks in his usually calm voice.
Keepsie shook her head. No one had barricaded her apartment -she'd locked it herself. "Right, sorry, yeah, let's head back to my place. We can, uh, wash up." She lifted one leg and then the other, grimacing at the foul splatters covering her sneakers and her jeans.
Still feeling as if she were acting in a movie, moving stiffly through blocking set by a director, she helped Peter urge the enraged Michelle down the street. Other people on the street were the actors who took their cues and turned their heads to stare at them: a concerned, well-dressed man, a furious tall woman with cornrows and a Keepsie Branson, the star of the show who was horribly miscast by a woman who couldn't for the life of her remember her lines.
Michelle had calmed down to grumbling by the fourth block and was only fuming in silence by the time they got to Keepsie's apartment.
Keepsie tried the door and found it locked. She stood there dumbly for a moment, staring at the door, feeling the fear and helplessness well up inside her again.
"Do you have your keys?" Peter asked.
Keys. Of course. Keepsie searched her jacket pockets and found the keys. She tried three before coming to the one that opened her apartment. She led the way inside and looked around. It was her place; it looked like the set where she pretended to live her life, secure in her hubris that the Academy could never hurt her. She was too small, too below the radar, too insignificant.
Anyway, they couldn’t take anything away from her.
Peter was talking. Why was he always talking? "-I mean, you were already going to give it to them, now it seems the way is clear. You can give them the device and get your bar back. They are only doing this to intimidate you. And maybe we can get Ian back if you negotiate right."
Keepsie looked for her cue card. Keepsie the character was supposed to agree with him, take the easy way out. Giving the device back was the obvious choice, as Peter said. And it was what she was going to do anyway. It might get Ian back. Keepsie the character would get her bar back and go back to work, cowed and ready to live in a city run by those who considered her a second-rate citizen. Her lines were on the cue card, and the stage manager in her head had started prompting her with a loud and desperate whisper. The dawning realization came to her that it was time for improvisation.
"No."
"I'm sorry?" Peter said, confused.
"No. I'm not going to give it to the heroes."
"But -why?"
Her words were coming faster and easier now. "They are bullies. Bullies and manipulators and thugs and, as Ian said, assholes." The stage manager gave a horrified gasp and the cue card holder checked the cards, flipping through them to find the right spot in her lines, but Keepsie was beyond them.
"The villains have been straight with me, the heroes haven't. The villains have treated me with respect, something I've never gotten from the heroes."
"Keepsie," Peter said, "they are called villains for a reason. They have hurt people, caused city-wide destruction, I've seen it with my own eyes!
Doodad kidnapped you, for God’s sake!"
"And still I can't find it in my heart to root for the heroes. The villains have never hurt me. The heroes have."
"Awesome," Michelle said, slapping her hands together.
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