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White Savior Narrative
He parked his car with his need for answers rising from the pit of his stomach like vomit.
His car was a hardtop ’65 Chrysler coupe, black, with whitewall tires. He needed to know if the benefit of many could be leveraged on his own anonymous redemption. If betraying the principles of the saved could make up for saving them in the first place.
The car parked behind him was a white Ford Mustang coupe. He frowned at it once.
Shutting off the motor, he wiped his broad, square face with a towel. His sweat running in trickles through his eyebrows and the electric puff of his white beard. The burnt brown of his otherwise-milk skin contrasting with his suit, making him look like a farmer in town on a business trip.
His ID stated his name as Guy de la Roy. Given his reasons for being here, he supposed that someone in the Travel Agency had a sense of humor to appreciate his mission without compromising him. Even now, far away from the blood-drinking of his youth, he felt, in this circumstance, that he carried a better identification under his left arm: A faded and scarred tattoo. From when Roy came, such a thing could be removed in seconds. He kept it. His tattoo showed an odal rune with the word RAHOWA encircling it. Its position matched the style of the blood group tattoos employed by the ancient Waffen-SS organization.
He picked up a canvas case from the passenger side before exiting and slamming the door shut behind him. As he pocketed his keys, his blunt fingers touched the surface of the cold metal tube that also lay in his pocket. He shivered and pressed an actuator, feeling a hiss as the tip of the splinter extended. He remembered his lessons from the instructors at the Travel Agency barracks in the former Maryland. The splinter would be gray-white, ceramic in appearance, the exposed tip more blunt than the sharp end still concealed.
He walked upstairs to reap.
Ms. Brewer, the landlady of the rooming house in which he now stood, said that, yes, Mr. John Willard was indeed in room 5B. Roy, claiming himself to be a friend, left his ID with her, and said he would be back to pick it up later.
He walked to room 5B, knocked twice, then stood back. His fingers fully drawing out the splinter and holding it in the open, below the range of the door’s peephole.
The door opened, and there he stood. Black hair and eyes, thin nose, a slash for a mouth. All Roy’s questions stilled before the coming terminal action.
Roy asked, “Mr. James Ray, correct?”
A flash of surprise, yanked away by suspicion.
Roy gave him no chance to ask. The splinter arcing through the air in a lazy whirl at the flick of his wrist. It passed into Ray and closed its entry wound behind itself before so much as a droplet of blood could spurt out. Roy dropping his case, stepping forward, hard hands bearing down on Ray’s mouth and throat, shoving him backwards, shifting to grip his upper arms and gently lay him on the room’s bed. Ray soundless, dying in a storm of nanotechnology and targeted cellular collapse.
Roy saw Ray’s light go out. He closed Ray’s eyes and covered him up. Then, after retrieving his case, he walked over to a green bundle sitting on the room’s table. Pulling out the rifle inside, Roy disassembled it and placed the gun and its box of ammunition inside his own case.
Leaving the room, Roy walked back to the landlady and explained that his friend Mr. Willard had, in light of feeling unwell, decided to take a nap. Roy told her that he would be back in a day. She simply handed him back his ID and wished him a pleasant afternoon.
Back in his car, Roy took a breath like he had not breathed in forever. No sweat on his face.
Divergence established. The answers would come now. If he lived long enough.
6:02 p.m. of April 4, 1968. Heavenly shades of night falling.
The black Chrysler purring down Mulberry Street. Looking through the passenger window, for the only time in Roy’s life, seeing him, in person, dark suit and brown skin and brown eyes, standing on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel. Alive.
Roy looked away before their eyes might possibly meet.
He turned the wheel, left Mulberry Street, began driving south.
His car was a hardtop ’65 Chrysler coupe, black, with whitewall tires. He needed to know if the benefit of many could be leveraged on his own anonymous redemption. If betraying the principles of the saved could make up for saving them in the first place.
The car parked behind him was a white Ford Mustang coupe. He frowned at it once.
Shutting off the motor, he wiped his broad, square face with a towel. His sweat running in trickles through his eyebrows and the electric puff of his white beard. The burnt brown of his otherwise-milk skin contrasting with his suit, making him look like a farmer in town on a business trip.
His ID stated his name as Guy de la Roy. Given his reasons for being here, he supposed that someone in the Travel Agency had a sense of humor to appreciate his mission without compromising him. Even now, far away from the blood-drinking of his youth, he felt, in this circumstance, that he carried a better identification under his left arm: A faded and scarred tattoo. From when Roy came, such a thing could be removed in seconds. He kept it. His tattoo showed an odal rune with the word RAHOWA encircling it. Its position matched the style of the blood group tattoos employed by the ancient Waffen-SS organization.
He picked up a canvas case from the passenger side before exiting and slamming the door shut behind him. As he pocketed his keys, his blunt fingers touched the surface of the cold metal tube that also lay in his pocket. He shivered and pressed an actuator, feeling a hiss as the tip of the splinter extended. He remembered his lessons from the instructors at the Travel Agency barracks in the former Maryland. The splinter would be gray-white, ceramic in appearance, the exposed tip more blunt than the sharp end still concealed.
He walked upstairs to reap.
Ms. Brewer, the landlady of the rooming house in which he now stood, said that, yes, Mr. John Willard was indeed in room 5B. Roy, claiming himself to be a friend, left his ID with her, and said he would be back to pick it up later.
He walked to room 5B, knocked twice, then stood back. His fingers fully drawing out the splinter and holding it in the open, below the range of the door’s peephole.
The door opened, and there he stood. Black hair and eyes, thin nose, a slash for a mouth. All Roy’s questions stilled before the coming terminal action.
Roy asked, “Mr. James Ray, correct?”
A flash of surprise, yanked away by suspicion.
Roy gave him no chance to ask. The splinter arcing through the air in a lazy whirl at the flick of his wrist. It passed into Ray and closed its entry wound behind itself before so much as a droplet of blood could spurt out. Roy dropping his case, stepping forward, hard hands bearing down on Ray’s mouth and throat, shoving him backwards, shifting to grip his upper arms and gently lay him on the room’s bed. Ray soundless, dying in a storm of nanotechnology and targeted cellular collapse.
Roy saw Ray’s light go out. He closed Ray’s eyes and covered him up. Then, after retrieving his case, he walked over to a green bundle sitting on the room’s table. Pulling out the rifle inside, Roy disassembled it and placed the gun and its box of ammunition inside his own case.
Leaving the room, Roy walked back to the landlady and explained that his friend Mr. Willard had, in light of feeling unwell, decided to take a nap. Roy told her that he would be back in a day. She simply handed him back his ID and wished him a pleasant afternoon.
Back in his car, Roy took a breath like he had not breathed in forever. No sweat on his face.
Divergence established. The answers would come now. If he lived long enough.
6:02 p.m. of April 4, 1968. Heavenly shades of night falling.
The black Chrysler purring down Mulberry Street. Looking through the passenger window, for the only time in Roy’s life, seeing him, in person, dark suit and brown skin and brown eyes, standing on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel. Alive.
Roy looked away before their eyes might possibly meet.
He turned the wheel, left Mulberry Street, began driving south.
Several sentences in here felt subtly wrong to me. I feel like I should know who James Ray is, but I don't. Roy/Ray felt needlessly confusing to me; why not call him Guy? Pleasant enough time-travel adventure on the surface. I feel like it's reaching for deeper meaning, but I can't grasp it at all.
>>Not_A_Hat
I didn't understand it at all either, so I looked it up--looks like James Ray assassinated MLK on April 4, 1968.
I didn't understand it at all either, so I looked it up--looks like James Ray assassinated MLK on April 4, 1968.
I guessed the significance, but yeah, I had to look up James Ray also to be sure (and wade past the sauna guy). Even after that, though, I still don't get the 'Guy de la Roy' humor.
Other than that, quite a straightforward story. The first sentence came on a bit strong, but other than that the descriptions were serviceable, and nothing really pulled me out of it.
Other than that, quite a straightforward story. The first sentence came on a bit strong, but other than that the descriptions were serviceable, and nothing really pulled me out of it.
I'll second that Ray/Roy is a really rough thing to do even in a longer story where I have time to get used to the MCs identity. Here I lost track really fast.
I think the story's arc is... troubled. Not that the action doesn't arc well or the like, but the emotional arc. Basically, I forgot about the fact that Roy was conflicted about halfway into the story because, well, he basically carries out the job without worrying after the first two paragraphs, which creates the question of what the story is actually about: is it about whether the greater good is indeed good, is it about how time travel divergences might work, or is it just about some guy stop the assassination of MLK? The arc on the former two don't really play out well, is the problem.
I'm also not entirely sure about the Guy de la Roy joke either, which is annoying me because I feel like something about it is nagging in the back of my head and I just can't figure out what it is.
Car detail is actually a bit weird. Basing observation on characterization (e.g. the guy is big into cars so he notices them) is a good, standard 3rd person trick, but I'm not sure that was the intent here since we never otherwise get much impression about the main's interest in cars?
I think the story's arc is... troubled. Not that the action doesn't arc well or the like, but the emotional arc. Basically, I forgot about the fact that Roy was conflicted about halfway into the story because, well, he basically carries out the job without worrying after the first two paragraphs, which creates the question of what the story is actually about: is it about whether the greater good is indeed good, is it about how time travel divergences might work, or is it just about some guy stop the assassination of MLK? The arc on the former two don't really play out well, is the problem.
I'm also not entirely sure about the Guy de la Roy joke either, which is annoying me because I feel like something about it is nagging in the back of my head and I just can't figure out what it is.
Car detail is actually a bit weird. Basing observation on characterization (e.g. the guy is big into cars so he notices them) is a good, standard 3rd person trick, but I'm not sure that was the intent here since we never otherwise get much impression about the main's interest in cars?
He parked his car with his need for answers rising from the pit of his stomach like vomit. Wow – I mean, did you angle for a comic effect, because that’s what this elicits in me, a juxtaposition of two completely unrelated clauses into the same sentence (“He landed on the moon with his mouth watering at the sight of the cake”).
He needed to know if the benefit of many could be leveraged on his own anonymous redemption. Why use that clunky, passive construction? (“He needed to know if his own anonymous redemption w/could benefit to many.”)
His sweat running in trickles through his eyebrows and the electric puff of his white beard. You lack a verb here. This is not a sentence, just a fragment (besides “sweat running in trickles” is strange — does sweat run or trickle?).
Even in Romance languages, Guy de la Roy doesn't make sense. Roy is an old spelling of French roi, but roi is masculine, so it should be “du Roy” (> Duroi). Roy as a common name doesn't exist neither in Italian nor in Spanish. So: beats me.
I agree with the strangeness of bearing hard on car details, all the more than cars play absolutely no role in the main story.
Besides – yep – the time traveller that alters the past. A bit time-worn, don’t you think? :P [Cf: Bradbury’s Sound of Thunder.]
He needed to know if the benefit of many could be leveraged on his own anonymous redemption. Why use that clunky, passive construction? (“He needed to know if his own anonymous redemption w/could benefit to many.”)
His sweat running in trickles through his eyebrows and the electric puff of his white beard. You lack a verb here. This is not a sentence, just a fragment (besides “sweat running in trickles” is strange — does sweat run or trickle?).
Even in Romance languages, Guy de la Roy doesn't make sense. Roy is an old spelling of French roi, but roi is masculine, so it should be “du Roy” (> Duroi). Roy as a common name doesn't exist neither in Italian nor in Spanish. So: beats me.
I agree with the strangeness of bearing hard on car details, all the more than cars play absolutely no role in the main story.
Besides – yep – the time traveller that alters the past. A bit time-worn, don’t you think? :P [Cf: Bradbury’s Sound of Thunder.]
So this is... an ex-Nazi vampire armed with nanotech going back in time to save MLK? Interesting crack idea. Unfortunately it's obscured much more than it needs to be, so I spent most of the time confused and not really absorbed in what was going on. >>Monokeras
and >>AndrewRogue cover it nicely, and I'll add "the burnt brown of his otherwise-milk skin" as another point of confusion.
Even with trying to keep myself on MAXIMUM TWIST GUARD, the nanotech comes out of nowhere. I thought the device was going to be something vampire-related, a fang or wooden stake kind of deal. Is the guy even a vampire? If not, the reference to blood drinking really threw me.
And... even knowing the twist and rereading, it's not a terribly interesting story as presented. Seems to be of the school that rides or dies on the suspense of not knowing exactly what's going on.
Intriguing ideas, maybe the most potential of the round, but troubled execution. Somewhere in the middle pack for me... probably winding up a bit above average, we'll see. Thanks for writing!
and >>AndrewRogue cover it nicely, and I'll add "the burnt brown of his otherwise-milk skin" as another point of confusion.
Even with trying to keep myself on MAXIMUM TWIST GUARD, the nanotech comes out of nowhere. I thought the device was going to be something vampire-related, a fang or wooden stake kind of deal. Is the guy even a vampire? If not, the reference to blood drinking really threw me.
And... even knowing the twist and rereading, it's not a terribly interesting story as presented. Seems to be of the school that rides or dies on the suspense of not knowing exactly what's going on.
Intriguing ideas, maybe the most potential of the round, but troubled execution. Somewhere in the middle pack for me... probably winding up a bit above average, we'll see. Thanks for writing!