rj_anderson | Fic Tease!

You heard right, I've actually got some writing done these last few days. It's slow going, but I'm enjoying it, and the story seems to be coming together rather well, I think.

From the opening scene:

"So our intel was right," said Vaughn, sounding stunned. "But that's insane, it's crazy. How could Rambaldi, or even just one of his followers, have gone to Australia in the fifteenth century?"

"I don't know," said Sydney. She crouched and began running her hands over the carving, feeling the oily smoothness of the limestone beneath her fingers. "Wait, I've got something. The center of the eye symbol -- it's loose. There's something under it --"

"Thank you," said a cool, British-accented voice from behind her. "That will be quite sufficient."

Sark. Sydney leaped to her feet and whirled, ready to fight, but her reaction came a second too late. ...

Some time later:

Irina stopped short and looked back. Her mouth was set, and her eyes smoldered. "You were right to come to me with this," she said in a low voice. "But I can only tell you a little, a very little."

"You mean you don't know, or you can't say?"

"I gave my word that I would not speak about -- what I know. Not to anyone, not under any circumstances. But I can give you a name. A man who knows about these kinds of Rambaldi artifacts, and who may be able to help you get it back from Sloane." ...

And:

Sydney's trained eyes sized him up in a glance: mid-to-late forties, tall and wiry, with aquiline features and a complexion that suggested he spent most of his time indoors. He wore a closely fitted, oddly archaic-looking suit in unrelenting black, and his dark hair nearly brushed his shoulders. For little more than a second his eyes raked the room; then his gaze locked on hers and the thin lips flattened. A waitress approached him timidly, but he dismissed the girl with an brusque wave and stepped over to Sydney's table.

"You are not Irina Derevko," he said, in a silky voice that nonetheless managed to convey a significant amount of menace.

"I never said I was," replied Sydney, returning his cool appraising look with one of her own. He had buttoned his high-collared frock coat all the way to the top, which made it impossible for him to be carrying a gun anywhere above his ankle. And the slight bulge in his right sleeve was too long and thin to suggest any conventional weapon. But even so, her muscles were tensed and ready: if he made any sudden movements, one kick would bring the table over on top of him, and another would take him down. He had been an agent once, after all. ...

Yes, I know I'm insane.