See What Sticks

Okay, this is your story. I get that. You’re the writer, the creator and all that. But I’m the protagonist. The main character. The one the story is all about. So we need to talk.

*

I stop in front of the door to Room 451. I can tell it’s supposed to be locked, but the splintered jamb and inch of darkness showing tells me it isn’t any more.

Pushing back my fedora, I scratch my head, glance up and down the dimly lit hallway, taking in the faded wallpaper and worn carpeting. This case has already been one for the record books, and it keeps getting worse.

The crime scene was a mess, the worst I’ve seen in all my years as a detective. The kind of thing that drives a man like me to a lifelong dependence on liquid comfort, if you take my meaning. The state of the body… I can’t imagine who would do that to another human being. Or at least I don’t want to.

But solving it is my job, and all the clues led here, to a cheap apartment in a lousy part of town.

Only I’m clearly not the first one here…

I twitch my trench coat back, clearing the way to my holstered revolver. Just in case. Then I carefully nudge the door open with the toe of my shoe, one inch at a time.

When no shot rings out, I push it the rest of the way open, and slip inside, careful not to remain in the opening, silhouetted by the light in the hallway, for more than a second.

There’s definitely something off about this place, but before I can nail it down, there’s the sound of rapid footsteps, and a large form lurches out of the darkness—

*

Why are you stopping? What was wrong with that? I’ll admit, I was on edge. I want to see what happens next. Oh, I’m “too cliched.” The tough-talking, hard-bitten, alcoholic detective has been done too often. Fine. Try something more original, then.

Command: Delete.

*

I stand in the hallway outside Room 451, trying to see past the poor lighting, cheap wallpaper, and worn carpeting. I hate places like this, so different from the nice suburban neighborhood I call home. It’s tiresome and depressing, just like everything about this case.

I could barely bring myself to look at the crime scene photos. I simply can’t imagine what could make someone do something like that. I don’t want to imagine it. I just want to get this investigation out of the way.

Well, this is perfect. The door is broken, the lock smashed clean away from the jamb. I wonder if someone forgot their key?

Or… or maybe someone forced their way in? What if… what if they’re still in there?

I glance over my shoulder. Maybe I should call in some backup? Or just come back some other time?

*

That’s enough. I get that you don’t want me to be a stereotyped hero, but please don’t make me into a vacillating wimp. I mean, who wants to read about a protagonist who gets cold feet every time he thinks he’s in danger? You’re writing a noir detective thriller, after all.

What? Is that the problem? The setting and tone are all wrong? You want to try something different?

Wait a sec… I think I know what’s going on here.

Command: Delete.

*

My PDA Wayfinder leads me to the door to Private Resident Quarters 451. I pause, glancing up and down the corridor, the dim, flickering lightbars barely illuminating the buckled deck plating and stained, scuffed bulkheads. This part of Europa Orbital Habitat 217 has seen better days.

But it’s where my official inquiry into Reported Criminal Incident 983422 has led me, and I’m nothing if not a dutiful Cyborg Investigation Unit. However disturbing the human in me found the crime scene to be, the precision-crafted law enforcement machine in me will see justice served, no matter how many common organics I have to vaporize to do so.

My optical sensors detect an anomaly: the codepad for this Resident Quarter has been tampered with, the lock disabled.

Someone—or something—has been here ahead of me.

Or, perhaps, is still here.

This fills me with a sense of… anticipation. Excitement.

Activating my integrated Matter Disruptor, I interface with the door controls, and the portal slides open.

*

Wait, wait, wait, I’m confused here. Am I a detective, a law enforcement officer? Or am I some sort of killing-machine bounty hunter, out for blood?

And about the new setting. Well, sure, a sci-fi angle can be great and all that…

Oh, right. I remember. This is all a writing exercise, isn’t it? You're in one of those workshops, just firing off ideas, throwing everything at the wall to see what sticks. Well, I for one won’t—

Command: Delete.

*

I hesitate at the doorway to the Master Mage’s storeroom, torn by indecision. I clutch the key in a sweaty grip, and cast a quick glance back down the passage. Nothing but the dusty stone, streaked with grime and niter, greets my anxious gaze.

I know I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t even be contemplating this. Stealing from the Master Mage is madness, a crime for which there can be only one punishment. But this no trifling matter. My best friend stands accused of a crime he didn’t commit, facing at best a lifetime in a cold, dark cell. To clear his name, I must win the Sorcerer’s Quandary, and claim as my boon a Truthsayer Crystal.

And to do that, I need the secret and forbidden knowledge hidden in this room. It’s taken me days find key, and time grows short. I must do this now, or I’ll lose my chance.

But as I fumble for the keyhole, the door moves, swinging inward with a groan. Impossible, I think. There is only one key, and I have it. How could someone be here already?

Once again, I look over my shoulder. The hallway is still silent and empty, dimly lit by flickering torches. I can still turn back, forget about all of this….

Then I square my shoulders. No. NO. I’ll not abandon my friend to his unjust fate.

Taking a deep breath, I push the door farther open, and slip through the gap.

Once on the other side, however, I realize that I’ve made a grave mistake, as the very darkness before me begins to churn and writhe…

*

Well. That’s a switch, all the way from noir detective thriller to young adult fantasy, but it’s got real potential…

Hey, I was talking. You can’t just keep rewriting me. I’m a protagonist! I’m the mover and shaker of the story! Don’t I have some say in what kind of story I’m—

Oh. You’re keeping this one? Finally found something you like?

Okay. We’ll see if this sticks.

Command: Save.