- Invitation Status
- Look for groups
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Preferred Character Gender
- No Preferences
- Genres
- Modern Fiction, Sci-Fi & Fantasy, Historic/Period. I'm quite versatile and open. More prone to original content than fandoms, though base inspiration is welcome.
You have no business meddling with this.
No, no - that wasn't entirely fair. Of course he wasn't sure anyone would expect him to be fair on this. Please do not contact me about this again. Too simple. I don't care if you visit, but I don't want to see you. That wasn't right either; give an inch and she'll take a mile. He couldn't very well say any of this in a message, nor did he really wish to come across so dramatic no matter how angry it did make him.
"Coffee?"
But he didn't want to talk to her in person either.
The waitress leaned in to pour without waiting for an answer, expecting the usual.
"No," Thomas finally croaked, snapping out of a daze, "Sorry." He moved to pull the mug away and she tilted the carafe upwards without splashing a drop, the weight of her upper body settling sinuously back on her hips. She pursed her lips and they stared at one another for an extended moment.
"Juice, then?" she was forced by the silence to ask, her voice thick and low, gesturing with the carafe.
"Water's fine," he said, feeling it was somehow a poor answer, like all of his internal conversations with imaginary versions of people he knew. "Two, though, please," he remembered.
She responded monosyllabically, " 'Kay," and shuffled off, her shoes scuffing along the tile floor.
Tom hunched over the table a bit, the full weight of his forearms resting on the cool metal surface. He tapped his thumbs together impatiently. According to the time on his wrist, he was still early. Truth be told, he'd hoped they would both be early so that he could leave sooner, but now he'd have to wait with only himself to blame. His leg bounced absently, the heel of his shoe clacking the tile floor every other tap or so.
Through the window, daytime waned. No direct light hit the lower levels and the city lit up for evening, but a familiar hazy orange hue dripped down from sunset hitting glass and metal far above the street. The diner was only moderately busy - far past lunch and not quite dinner. Thomas stopped bouncing his leg when he made eye contact with a prickly looking woman at a two seater in the wide aisle. The door opened from the street, scraping the tile gently, and he looked up expectantly, but it still wasn't Catlow.
He focused his mind on the task before him, pushing down the quagmire of his present personal life and its inane conversations. He leaned over sideways and from his coat pocket pulled a small tablet, which brightened automatically in hand. He rubbed the thing against his pant leg to clear away the smudges and cradled it in one palm as he scrolled through notes with the other index finger. It wasn't long, however, before square one reared its ugly head once more and he was reminded that he personally saw no correlation in any of the data that led to this new task force in the first place. And why put resources towards damage of property cases when there was murder afoot elsewhere in New Angeles? That was the common rhetoric among the police force, anyways.
In data, a clone was a clone, a piece of property. In the physical world, though, a clone was...serving him water with more enthusiasm than he deserved, even if it was pushing product.
"Two H2Os - perfect with a krill-cake special, y'know," the waitress said, delivering the two glasses of likely over-chlorinated water. "It's enough for two, I promise."
"I'm just gonna hold off for my friend," he said quietly.
She nodded sagely, turning on her heel, "Just think about it, hon."
In the physical world a clone was almost human - just not human enough. He found himself staring at the void the waitress had inhabited moments before, beyond which he met the stiff glare of a still pricklier looking woman. His leg ceased bouncing a second time. He hadn't realized when it started again. Sorry, he mouthed diffidently, on the verge of murmuring, but nothing came. He rotated in his seat, looking back at his small tablet.
No, no - that wasn't entirely fair. Of course he wasn't sure anyone would expect him to be fair on this. Please do not contact me about this again. Too simple. I don't care if you visit, but I don't want to see you. That wasn't right either; give an inch and she'll take a mile. He couldn't very well say any of this in a message, nor did he really wish to come across so dramatic no matter how angry it did make him.
"Coffee?"
But he didn't want to talk to her in person either.
The waitress leaned in to pour without waiting for an answer, expecting the usual.
"No," Thomas finally croaked, snapping out of a daze, "Sorry." He moved to pull the mug away and she tilted the carafe upwards without splashing a drop, the weight of her upper body settling sinuously back on her hips. She pursed her lips and they stared at one another for an extended moment.
"Juice, then?" she was forced by the silence to ask, her voice thick and low, gesturing with the carafe.
"Water's fine," he said, feeling it was somehow a poor answer, like all of his internal conversations with imaginary versions of people he knew. "Two, though, please," he remembered.
She responded monosyllabically, " 'Kay," and shuffled off, her shoes scuffing along the tile floor.
Tom hunched over the table a bit, the full weight of his forearms resting on the cool metal surface. He tapped his thumbs together impatiently. According to the time on his wrist, he was still early. Truth be told, he'd hoped they would both be early so that he could leave sooner, but now he'd have to wait with only himself to blame. His leg bounced absently, the heel of his shoe clacking the tile floor every other tap or so.
Through the window, daytime waned. No direct light hit the lower levels and the city lit up for evening, but a familiar hazy orange hue dripped down from sunset hitting glass and metal far above the street. The diner was only moderately busy - far past lunch and not quite dinner. Thomas stopped bouncing his leg when he made eye contact with a prickly looking woman at a two seater in the wide aisle. The door opened from the street, scraping the tile gently, and he looked up expectantly, but it still wasn't Catlow.
He focused his mind on the task before him, pushing down the quagmire of his present personal life and its inane conversations. He leaned over sideways and from his coat pocket pulled a small tablet, which brightened automatically in hand. He rubbed the thing against his pant leg to clear away the smudges and cradled it in one palm as he scrolled through notes with the other index finger. It wasn't long, however, before square one reared its ugly head once more and he was reminded that he personally saw no correlation in any of the data that led to this new task force in the first place. And why put resources towards damage of property cases when there was murder afoot elsewhere in New Angeles? That was the common rhetoric among the police force, anyways.
In data, a clone was a clone, a piece of property. In the physical world, though, a clone was...serving him water with more enthusiasm than he deserved, even if it was pushing product.
"Two H2Os - perfect with a krill-cake special, y'know," the waitress said, delivering the two glasses of likely over-chlorinated water. "It's enough for two, I promise."
"I'm just gonna hold off for my friend," he said quietly.
She nodded sagely, turning on her heel, "Just think about it, hon."
In the physical world a clone was almost human - just not human enough. He found himself staring at the void the waitress had inhabited moments before, beyond which he met the stiff glare of a still pricklier looking woman. His leg ceased bouncing a second time. He hadn't realized when it started again. Sorry, he mouthed diffidently, on the verge of murmuring, but nothing came. He rotated in his seat, looking back at his small tablet.
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