if that's the only criteria I expect acceptance of my Sonic the Hedgehog sheet before I've even posted it
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Watch out.
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL NOW, WE'RE JUST GETTING STARTED
Most Recent Posts
Cue my 12-page essay detailing the minutae of Camelot's court in 1100's Briton.
Character I've never seen before in one of our comics games ☑
Diving into a mythology I've never considered using for inspiration/reimagination ☑
Writing in a perspective I'm not sure I've ever written in ☑
Yeah, we're moving different in this one lads
Diving into a mythology I've never considered using for inspiration/reimagination ☑
Writing in a perspective I'm not sure I've ever written in ☑
Yeah, we're moving different in this one lads
Location: New York
I
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I wake up when it's already far gone the first rays of morning light breaking through my window and for a brief and fleeting moment feel a sense of peace as wakefulness washes over me; and then I hear my phone vibrating next to me on the nightstand as a call comes through, and as I roll over to check it my gaze sweeps past a small photo of Dad framed on the shelf, and my serenity is sucked out of the room with an audible 'pop' and replaced with a viscous malaise and a whirling storm of grey misery inside my head. The number calling me is a New York number but not one I recognize so I ignore it, rolling back onto my stomach, squeezing my eyes shut, sinking my body into the mattress, and willing unconsciousness to pull me under once again; but I can't. I need to piss.
The phone's ringing again when I come out of the bathroom. I take a few steps across the room, shivering in the open air in nothing but my boxer shorts; it's the same number again. I can't imagine anyone has anything important to tell me that requires back-to-back calls, but I google the number out of curiosity and the result freezes me to the spot and furrows my brow hard. It's a Manhattan law firm, and a pretty prestigious one at that.
A hundred worst-case-scenarios push through my mind like a hurricane. Debts I'd forgotten I had piling up and come to collect; powerful rich people I'd not realized I'd hacked off arriving to payback a grudge; court orders and subpoenas I'd unwittingly breached now here to haul me off to jail; sharks that had circled Dad before he died now hunting me down, smelling fresh blood in the water. I look out the window down to the street. It doesn't look like a long enough drop to do the job, and I can't risk a broken leg or two and an ambulance trip and a hospital stay. I can't afford any of that.
The phone stops ringing and goes to voicemail, and this time, whoever's on the other end actually starts leaving a message. Before my nerves can get the better of me again, I pick up.
"Hello?" I answer, my voice hoarse from a couple days of not actually talking to anybody, and more than a little shaky from the chill and my still-racing heartbeat. I hear a slight startle from the caller for my interruption of their voicemail, and then brief sounds of shuffling papers.
"May I speak to a Mr. Whitman, please?"
"Speaking."
"Mr. Dane Pendragon Whitman?" The voice on the other end clarifies, and I wince slightly. It has always been an embarrassing middle name.
"Yes, speaking." I confirm again.
"Good morning, Mr. Whitman. My name is Thomas Nichols, and I'm calling from Latham & Watkins. I'm a solicitor; is now a good time?"
I sit on the edge of the bed, gathering my sheets up around my shoulders around my bare torso to stave off the chill, rubbing my thighs with my free hand to soothe the goosebumps.
"I'm a little busy," I lie, "what's this about?"
"I understand, Mr. Whitman, I'll try not to take up too much of your time. It's in regards to your grandfather's estate."
I pause again, puzzled. I never knew either pair of my grandparents; Dad was estranged from his father even before we left England for good, and any connection to my mother's side of the family walked out when she did. Since I was six, it had only ever been me and Dad, and for nearly a year now, it's only been me.
"Mr. Whitman?"
I break out of my fugue.
"Sorry. I don't know any of my grandparents. I certainly don't know about any 'estates'. Are you sure you have the right person?"
There's the sound of paper again, and then Thomas Nichols rattles off practically every legal identifier that could be applied to my person, all of which I confirm one data-point after another with an onbvious tone of stunned surprise and not a small amount of incredulity.
"We're very thorough here, Mr. Whitman." Thomas says, in a way that indicates that's as close as I'm getting to an apology for some nebulous and strange legal professional having quick-fire access to every possible item of personal data that could be catalogued about me.
"Clearly." I reply, in a way that indicates the apology is not accepted. I hear him sigh, and honestly that just winds me up.
"It may be easier to do this in person, Mr. Whitman. Are you able to make time this afternoon and visit my office? I assure you, it is in your interests."
I'm sure he meant for that last bit not to sound ominous and vaguely menacing, but he failed all the same. Still, I look at the time; it's just crawling up to noon, and today is a Thursday, and I'm unemployed. Yes, I have time - I'm just not sure I want him to know that. I tell him to hang on while I check my diary, and make a deliberate racket of moving about my apartment rifling through assorted stationery and discarded rubbish.
"I can move some things around and be with you for three." I say, trying to convince myself as much as Thomas Nichols.
"Three works perfectly, Mr. Whitman. Thank you very much. My assistant will be happy to receive you when you arrive. Looking forward to meeting you later on."
He hangs up, and I take a moment to repeat his part about his assistant in a mocking tone of voice while jawing a fake mouth open and shut with one hand, and then I set about finding a clean pair of jeans and trying to remember if I even own a shirt.
I'll be frank; I found the Latham & Watkins office building to be gaudy, or at least the front of it - gold-plated, or something to look like gold, a grand revolving door and their name emblazoned in impactful black font stamped above it. It was emblematic of the version of New York I didn't like: glittery lights and impossibly tall buildings and people in suits swapping made up parcels of companies for obscene wealth; like the Bronx or Melrose or East Harlem didn't exist. Like the average New Yorker wasn't some guy eking out a living waiting tables for tips and standing in line for the food bank every other Sunday.
I pushed the thoughts from my mind before they darkened my mood irretrievably, and pushed through the revolving door at the same time, entering a well-lit lobby blanketed in a quiet calm, interrupted only by the soft 'ding' of an elevator or a phone-call being taken. Directly ahead of me was a reception desk, and the receptionist behind it waited for me in a well-practiced and subtle way that let me know I was certainly expected and ready to be received, but only at my leisure and there was no rush or obligation to approach quickly. I did anyway.
"Mr. Whitman?" She asked, before I'd even thought about opening my mouth to introduce myself. I closed my flapping jaw and nodded. She smiled warmly like my arrival was the defining moment of her day.
"Thomas' office is on the fifth floor; the elevators are just behind me on the left-hand side. I'll let his assistant know you've arrived and he'll await you just as you get off."
I mutter a thanks, not really sure I have anything else that needs saying, and she smiles again and goes back to her computer in a well-practiced and subtle way that let me know the interaction was over and I was expected on the fifth floor post-haste. The elevators were behind her on the left-hand side, and I leant against the back wall of the lift as I ascended, crossing my arms and tapping my foot, irritated but not really able to articulate why or what with.
Thomas Nichols' assistant did indeed await me just as I got off; I'd barely planted one foot past the door when he was already upon me, clarifying my identity and hoping my journey wasn't too strenuous and thanking me for making the time to attend in-person. I waved away his platitudes, finding the crisp air of corporate politeness cold and unpleasant, and mostly eager to get whatever new wrinkle to my creased life this was out in the open. He guided me quickly down the corridor and back to what was clearly his desk, several dirty mugs littering his workspace next to a laptop and a small calendar. There was a small sofa opposite the desk, and I automatically moved to take a seat, only to be stopped short.
"No need, Mr. Whitman. Thomas is ready for you now - you can head straight in." He explained with a plastered smile, gesturing at the door next to him. I nodded and pushed through the door without any further delay.
"Mr. Whitman," Thomas Nichols opened with, standing up from his chair and moving toward me to take my hand in a firm grasp and deliver a solid shake. He's a lot younger than I expected him to be - we probably share an age bracket, if not a tax bracket - and well-dressed, African American with a navy suit that fits him snug and complements his eyes. I can smell his cologne. He smells nice. He catches me scrutinizing and I clear my throat, looking away. "A pleasure to meet you in person. Please, take a seat. I trust you didn't have any difficulties getting here? We appreciate you coming in person."
He gestured to a sleek-looking chair on the other side of the desk to his own, and I plopped down into it ready to hear the spiel.
"You said this was in my interests?" I replied, bored of the copious pleasantries I'd already endured and keen to get on with it. I was also hungry, and there was a decent deli a block from here.
"Direct to business - I like it. Yes, it is. As I mentioned on the phone, this is all in regards to your grandfather's estate."
"And as I said, I don't know any of my grandparents or their estates, so if you could explain...?"
Thomas shifted slightly, clearly holding onto some uncomfortable news. I just looked at him until he said it.
"I'm afraid to inform you Mr. Whitman that your grandfather passed away late yesterday afternoon."
He pauses, clearly wanting to give me 'space' to 'process', and we just stare at each other for a couple seconds. I'm half expecting him to carry on, but he doesn't, and eventually I just say:
"Okay. So what's this about his estate?"
Thomas clears his throat and takes a stapled sheaf of papers into his hand from in front of him on his desk. He holds it up slightly and skims over the first page before returning his gaze to me.
"Mr. Garrett-"
"Mr. Garrett?" I ask, and Thomas falters awkwardly.
"Uh- your grandfather. Nathan Garrett."
"Huh." I say, and Thomas starts to say something, thinks better of it, and continues.
"Mr. Garrett has stated clearly in his will that upon his death, the entirety of his estate - all stocks, bonds, liquid finances, property and land - will be passed down, after due tax and duties are paid, to his closest living descendent." Thomas puts the paper down and looks at me. "Now, I am to understand your father, a Mr..." more paper-shuffling, "'Ewan Whitman', is deceased?"
My face flashes hot. Thomas notices and his expression immediately falters and flips to one of mortification. I take a moment to let the knife slink through me and control my features, and then clear my own throat and nod, inviting him to carry on with only the slightest wobble in my voice. Thomas smiles a thin, apologetic smile.
"Well, um...that would make you, Mr. Garrett's closest living descendent. And therefore the recipient of his estate as laid out in his will."
I nod slowly, taking this in, slightly feeling like I'm being set-up.
"And, uh, how...much? Would this estate come to?"
Thomas flips through a couple pages of the stapled sheaf and looks back to me.
"Well, it's primarily Appleby Castle in Cumbria and the surrounding grounds - roughly 27 acres - and all current furnishings therein, and then once we've liquidated stocks and options as per your grandfather's instructions, after levying appropriate taxes and duties and, naturally, our fees, I would reasonably estimate..."
He paused for an unbearably long time, and I watched him squint and re-read his papers as he did some quick internal math.
"...$184.7 million. Give or take."
He looks over at me as I faint and slump forwards out of my seat.
When I come to a few moments later, Thomas Nichols has laid me flat on my back and has prepared a glass of water. I look around the room and spot his assistant leaning in through the slightly-ajar door and when he notices me noticing him, he blushes and quickly ducks out. I push myself up and sit on the floor, take a sip from the glass, and try to soothe my heartbeat. I fail.
"Apologies, Mr. Whitman. I probably should have expected the news would be rather shocking."
I look up at him as he kneels next to me, completely dumbfounded and not wasting a single second trying to hide it.
"I think 'Dane' will be fine given the circumstances, Thomas." I say, letting him take my hand to help me up. His skin is very soft.
"Please, 'Tom'. It's not everyday I get to tell someone they're soon to be a multi-millionaire." He replies, cracking a very charming grin as he makes the joke.
"Multi..." I whisper softly, and feel myself getting light-headed again. I put an arm out to steady myself, and Tom is quick to lend me his shoulder before we guide me back into the chair as a team.
"How, um, how soon?" I ask when my head's stopped spinning. There's a microsecond of a wince from Tom and my heartrate spikes again.
"Now, that is the one...wrinkle. There's only two stipulations to what is otherwise one of the most incredibly straight-forward wills I've ever had the pleasure of handling."
I raise a single eyebrow.
"Not that your grandfather's death is a pleasure." He's quick to clarify. "My apologies. I deal with a lot of...conflict, in most of my cases. It's a welcome relief to deal with one so simple."
I nod in understanding. "So what are these 'wrinkles', then?"
Tom goes back to the papers.
"Well, the most pertinent is that no part of your set inheritance is to be released to you until, and I am quoting directly, "they have proven themselves worthy to live as Camelot lived". That is to say, no monies will be transferred, no furnishings relinquished, and you will be turned away from the Appleby grounds and considered trespassing until such a time the property is released to you."
"What. The fuck. Does that mean." It's all I can bring myself to say. I am simply agog. This feels like one big joke, and in mighty poor taste. I get an immediate sense of perhaps why Dad cut ties with him long before I was born. Tom smiles sympathetically, my reaction obviously not unexpected.
"Mr. Garrett has left detailed instructions with his solicitors - us - as to how such a quality is determined."
"Okay. And they are?"
"Per Mr. Garrett's instructions, we are not at liberty to divulge that information to you."
I go red. I go very red, and my fists ball up, and I start coming up with expletives best delivered from the angry side of a pointed finger and things I can smash up in this stupid fucking tasteless rich-person beige-nightmare high-rise office and that window is definitely high enough up-
"Mr. Whitman- Dane- it might be prudent to hear out your grandfather's second stipulation." Tom hurriedly says, trying to cut off my fury before it boils over; my nose scrunches and I push my index fingers into the corners of my eyes and I take one very long, deep breath.
"Do go on, Tom." Come my words through gritted teeth.
"No part of your set inheritance is to be released until you have been deemed 'worthy'...except one very singular and specific artefact in your grandfather's possession that, I am lead to understand, has been in your family for centuries, and is also described by Mr. Garrett in his will as being "the key to unlocking a virtuous heart and noble spirit"."
Despite it all, I am utterly intrigued. I have an unshakeable feeling of being puppeted like some dancing marionette on strings, jingling and jangling about for the amusement of some rich dead asshole - a rich dead asshole who is, apparently, my Grandad - but the word 'artefact' excites me in a schoolboy way, like I've been given my own chance at playing Indiana Jones, and it might hold something of the family history I'd otherwise been completely removed from up until now, and also $184.7 million is $184.7 million. If this thing was the 'key', then I can sure as hell find the 'lock'. I calm myself down, letting go of my momentary apoplexy.
"Okay. Where is it?"
Tom looks at his watch.
"I should think it would be with you shortly, if it hasn't already arrived. Your grandfather was quite clear in that other arrangements would be made for its delivery, that he assures are quite foolproof. I suppose FedEx isn't for everybody, is it?" He cracks a joke again, chuckling weakly. I stand up.
"Thanks, Tom. I'm going to...go find it. Whatever it is. Thank you for your time, I think?"
"Yes, it's all rather odd, isn't it?" Tom says, standing with me and showing me to the door. He clicks at his assistant and points to me when he looks up, making silent orders to escort me back down to the lobby. "Take my card. As soon as you've figured out Mr. Garrett's wrinkle, you give me a call, day or night. I wish you the best of luck, Dane."
I give Tom and his assistant one final set of half-hearted thanks, and then as soon as my feet hit the pavement outside the office building, I sprint toward the nearest subway station.
The phone's ringing again when I come out of the bathroom. I take a few steps across the room, shivering in the open air in nothing but my boxer shorts; it's the same number again. I can't imagine anyone has anything important to tell me that requires back-to-back calls, but I google the number out of curiosity and the result freezes me to the spot and furrows my brow hard. It's a Manhattan law firm, and a pretty prestigious one at that.
A hundred worst-case-scenarios push through my mind like a hurricane. Debts I'd forgotten I had piling up and come to collect; powerful rich people I'd not realized I'd hacked off arriving to payback a grudge; court orders and subpoenas I'd unwittingly breached now here to haul me off to jail; sharks that had circled Dad before he died now hunting me down, smelling fresh blood in the water. I look out the window down to the street. It doesn't look like a long enough drop to do the job, and I can't risk a broken leg or two and an ambulance trip and a hospital stay. I can't afford any of that.
The phone stops ringing and goes to voicemail, and this time, whoever's on the other end actually starts leaving a message. Before my nerves can get the better of me again, I pick up.
"Hello?" I answer, my voice hoarse from a couple days of not actually talking to anybody, and more than a little shaky from the chill and my still-racing heartbeat. I hear a slight startle from the caller for my interruption of their voicemail, and then brief sounds of shuffling papers.
"May I speak to a Mr. Whitman, please?"
"Speaking."
"Mr. Dane Pendragon Whitman?" The voice on the other end clarifies, and I wince slightly. It has always been an embarrassing middle name.
"Yes, speaking." I confirm again.
"Good morning, Mr. Whitman. My name is Thomas Nichols, and I'm calling from Latham & Watkins. I'm a solicitor; is now a good time?"
I sit on the edge of the bed, gathering my sheets up around my shoulders around my bare torso to stave off the chill, rubbing my thighs with my free hand to soothe the goosebumps.
"I'm a little busy," I lie, "what's this about?"
"I understand, Mr. Whitman, I'll try not to take up too much of your time. It's in regards to your grandfather's estate."
I pause again, puzzled. I never knew either pair of my grandparents; Dad was estranged from his father even before we left England for good, and any connection to my mother's side of the family walked out when she did. Since I was six, it had only ever been me and Dad, and for nearly a year now, it's only been me.
"Mr. Whitman?"
I break out of my fugue.
"Sorry. I don't know any of my grandparents. I certainly don't know about any 'estates'. Are you sure you have the right person?"
There's the sound of paper again, and then Thomas Nichols rattles off practically every legal identifier that could be applied to my person, all of which I confirm one data-point after another with an onbvious tone of stunned surprise and not a small amount of incredulity.
"We're very thorough here, Mr. Whitman." Thomas says, in a way that indicates that's as close as I'm getting to an apology for some nebulous and strange legal professional having quick-fire access to every possible item of personal data that could be catalogued about me.
"Clearly." I reply, in a way that indicates the apology is not accepted. I hear him sigh, and honestly that just winds me up.
"It may be easier to do this in person, Mr. Whitman. Are you able to make time this afternoon and visit my office? I assure you, it is in your interests."
I'm sure he meant for that last bit not to sound ominous and vaguely menacing, but he failed all the same. Still, I look at the time; it's just crawling up to noon, and today is a Thursday, and I'm unemployed. Yes, I have time - I'm just not sure I want him to know that. I tell him to hang on while I check my diary, and make a deliberate racket of moving about my apartment rifling through assorted stationery and discarded rubbish.
"I can move some things around and be with you for three." I say, trying to convince myself as much as Thomas Nichols.
"Three works perfectly, Mr. Whitman. Thank you very much. My assistant will be happy to receive you when you arrive. Looking forward to meeting you later on."
He hangs up, and I take a moment to repeat his part about his assistant in a mocking tone of voice while jawing a fake mouth open and shut with one hand, and then I set about finding a clean pair of jeans and trying to remember if I even own a shirt.
I'll be frank; I found the Latham & Watkins office building to be gaudy, or at least the front of it - gold-plated, or something to look like gold, a grand revolving door and their name emblazoned in impactful black font stamped above it. It was emblematic of the version of New York I didn't like: glittery lights and impossibly tall buildings and people in suits swapping made up parcels of companies for obscene wealth; like the Bronx or Melrose or East Harlem didn't exist. Like the average New Yorker wasn't some guy eking out a living waiting tables for tips and standing in line for the food bank every other Sunday.
I pushed the thoughts from my mind before they darkened my mood irretrievably, and pushed through the revolving door at the same time, entering a well-lit lobby blanketed in a quiet calm, interrupted only by the soft 'ding' of an elevator or a phone-call being taken. Directly ahead of me was a reception desk, and the receptionist behind it waited for me in a well-practiced and subtle way that let me know I was certainly expected and ready to be received, but only at my leisure and there was no rush or obligation to approach quickly. I did anyway.
"Mr. Whitman?" She asked, before I'd even thought about opening my mouth to introduce myself. I closed my flapping jaw and nodded. She smiled warmly like my arrival was the defining moment of her day.
"Thomas' office is on the fifth floor; the elevators are just behind me on the left-hand side. I'll let his assistant know you've arrived and he'll await you just as you get off."
I mutter a thanks, not really sure I have anything else that needs saying, and she smiles again and goes back to her computer in a well-practiced and subtle way that let me know the interaction was over and I was expected on the fifth floor post-haste. The elevators were behind her on the left-hand side, and I leant against the back wall of the lift as I ascended, crossing my arms and tapping my foot, irritated but not really able to articulate why or what with.
Thomas Nichols' assistant did indeed await me just as I got off; I'd barely planted one foot past the door when he was already upon me, clarifying my identity and hoping my journey wasn't too strenuous and thanking me for making the time to attend in-person. I waved away his platitudes, finding the crisp air of corporate politeness cold and unpleasant, and mostly eager to get whatever new wrinkle to my creased life this was out in the open. He guided me quickly down the corridor and back to what was clearly his desk, several dirty mugs littering his workspace next to a laptop and a small calendar. There was a small sofa opposite the desk, and I automatically moved to take a seat, only to be stopped short.
"No need, Mr. Whitman. Thomas is ready for you now - you can head straight in." He explained with a plastered smile, gesturing at the door next to him. I nodded and pushed through the door without any further delay.
"Mr. Whitman," Thomas Nichols opened with, standing up from his chair and moving toward me to take my hand in a firm grasp and deliver a solid shake. He's a lot younger than I expected him to be - we probably share an age bracket, if not a tax bracket - and well-dressed, African American with a navy suit that fits him snug and complements his eyes. I can smell his cologne. He smells nice. He catches me scrutinizing and I clear my throat, looking away. "A pleasure to meet you in person. Please, take a seat. I trust you didn't have any difficulties getting here? We appreciate you coming in person."
He gestured to a sleek-looking chair on the other side of the desk to his own, and I plopped down into it ready to hear the spiel.
"You said this was in my interests?" I replied, bored of the copious pleasantries I'd already endured and keen to get on with it. I was also hungry, and there was a decent deli a block from here.
"Direct to business - I like it. Yes, it is. As I mentioned on the phone, this is all in regards to your grandfather's estate."
"And as I said, I don't know any of my grandparents or their estates, so if you could explain...?"
Thomas shifted slightly, clearly holding onto some uncomfortable news. I just looked at him until he said it.
"I'm afraid to inform you Mr. Whitman that your grandfather passed away late yesterday afternoon."
He pauses, clearly wanting to give me 'space' to 'process', and we just stare at each other for a couple seconds. I'm half expecting him to carry on, but he doesn't, and eventually I just say:
"Okay. So what's this about his estate?"
Thomas clears his throat and takes a stapled sheaf of papers into his hand from in front of him on his desk. He holds it up slightly and skims over the first page before returning his gaze to me.
"Mr. Garrett-"
"Mr. Garrett?" I ask, and Thomas falters awkwardly.
"Uh- your grandfather. Nathan Garrett."
"Huh." I say, and Thomas starts to say something, thinks better of it, and continues.
"Mr. Garrett has stated clearly in his will that upon his death, the entirety of his estate - all stocks, bonds, liquid finances, property and land - will be passed down, after due tax and duties are paid, to his closest living descendent." Thomas puts the paper down and looks at me. "Now, I am to understand your father, a Mr..." more paper-shuffling, "'Ewan Whitman', is deceased?"
My face flashes hot. Thomas notices and his expression immediately falters and flips to one of mortification. I take a moment to let the knife slink through me and control my features, and then clear my own throat and nod, inviting him to carry on with only the slightest wobble in my voice. Thomas smiles a thin, apologetic smile.
"Well, um...that would make you, Mr. Garrett's closest living descendent. And therefore the recipient of his estate as laid out in his will."
I nod slowly, taking this in, slightly feeling like I'm being set-up.
"And, uh, how...much? Would this estate come to?"
Thomas flips through a couple pages of the stapled sheaf and looks back to me.
"Well, it's primarily Appleby Castle in Cumbria and the surrounding grounds - roughly 27 acres - and all current furnishings therein, and then once we've liquidated stocks and options as per your grandfather's instructions, after levying appropriate taxes and duties and, naturally, our fees, I would reasonably estimate..."
He paused for an unbearably long time, and I watched him squint and re-read his papers as he did some quick internal math.
"...$184.7 million. Give or take."
He looks over at me as I faint and slump forwards out of my seat.
- - -
When I come to a few moments later, Thomas Nichols has laid me flat on my back and has prepared a glass of water. I look around the room and spot his assistant leaning in through the slightly-ajar door and when he notices me noticing him, he blushes and quickly ducks out. I push myself up and sit on the floor, take a sip from the glass, and try to soothe my heartbeat. I fail.
"Apologies, Mr. Whitman. I probably should have expected the news would be rather shocking."
I look up at him as he kneels next to me, completely dumbfounded and not wasting a single second trying to hide it.
"I think 'Dane' will be fine given the circumstances, Thomas." I say, letting him take my hand to help me up. His skin is very soft.
"Please, 'Tom'. It's not everyday I get to tell someone they're soon to be a multi-millionaire." He replies, cracking a very charming grin as he makes the joke.
"Multi..." I whisper softly, and feel myself getting light-headed again. I put an arm out to steady myself, and Tom is quick to lend me his shoulder before we guide me back into the chair as a team.
"How, um, how soon?" I ask when my head's stopped spinning. There's a microsecond of a wince from Tom and my heartrate spikes again.
"Now, that is the one...wrinkle. There's only two stipulations to what is otherwise one of the most incredibly straight-forward wills I've ever had the pleasure of handling."
I raise a single eyebrow.
"Not that your grandfather's death is a pleasure." He's quick to clarify. "My apologies. I deal with a lot of...conflict, in most of my cases. It's a welcome relief to deal with one so simple."
I nod in understanding. "So what are these 'wrinkles', then?"
Tom goes back to the papers.
"Well, the most pertinent is that no part of your set inheritance is to be released to you until, and I am quoting directly, "they have proven themselves worthy to live as Camelot lived". That is to say, no monies will be transferred, no furnishings relinquished, and you will be turned away from the Appleby grounds and considered trespassing until such a time the property is released to you."
"What. The fuck. Does that mean." It's all I can bring myself to say. I am simply agog. This feels like one big joke, and in mighty poor taste. I get an immediate sense of perhaps why Dad cut ties with him long before I was born. Tom smiles sympathetically, my reaction obviously not unexpected.
"Mr. Garrett has left detailed instructions with his solicitors - us - as to how such a quality is determined."
"Okay. And they are?"
"Per Mr. Garrett's instructions, we are not at liberty to divulge that information to you."
I go red. I go very red, and my fists ball up, and I start coming up with expletives best delivered from the angry side of a pointed finger and things I can smash up in this stupid fucking tasteless rich-person beige-nightmare high-rise office and that window is definitely high enough up-
"Mr. Whitman- Dane- it might be prudent to hear out your grandfather's second stipulation." Tom hurriedly says, trying to cut off my fury before it boils over; my nose scrunches and I push my index fingers into the corners of my eyes and I take one very long, deep breath.
"Do go on, Tom." Come my words through gritted teeth.
"No part of your set inheritance is to be released until you have been deemed 'worthy'...except one very singular and specific artefact in your grandfather's possession that, I am lead to understand, has been in your family for centuries, and is also described by Mr. Garrett in his will as being "the key to unlocking a virtuous heart and noble spirit"."
Despite it all, I am utterly intrigued. I have an unshakeable feeling of being puppeted like some dancing marionette on strings, jingling and jangling about for the amusement of some rich dead asshole - a rich dead asshole who is, apparently, my Grandad - but the word 'artefact' excites me in a schoolboy way, like I've been given my own chance at playing Indiana Jones, and it might hold something of the family history I'd otherwise been completely removed from up until now, and also $184.7 million is $184.7 million. If this thing was the 'key', then I can sure as hell find the 'lock'. I calm myself down, letting go of my momentary apoplexy.
"Okay. Where is it?"
Tom looks at his watch.
"I should think it would be with you shortly, if it hasn't already arrived. Your grandfather was quite clear in that other arrangements would be made for its delivery, that he assures are quite foolproof. I suppose FedEx isn't for everybody, is it?" He cracks a joke again, chuckling weakly. I stand up.
"Thanks, Tom. I'm going to...go find it. Whatever it is. Thank you for your time, I think?"
"Yes, it's all rather odd, isn't it?" Tom says, standing with me and showing me to the door. He clicks at his assistant and points to me when he looks up, making silent orders to escort me back down to the lobby. "Take my card. As soon as you've figured out Mr. Garrett's wrinkle, you give me a call, day or night. I wish you the best of luck, Dane."
I give Tom and his assistant one final set of half-hearted thanks, and then as soon as my feet hit the pavement outside the office building, I sprint toward the nearest subway station.
BabsxKara yuri yesssssssssssssssssssss
You ain't have to call me out like that man
its broken banner
Oh, not again. Try it now?
Man, we are getting all the fun concepts for this one.
Where's @Roman with Sonic?
With the teaser for 4 dropping today it is tempting but one of those where I'm not sure I could write the characters authentically enough to do them justice. I am cooking some other bits and pieces and might come back with something I've never done before - watch this space.
Hi gang, I've been battling trying to get in the groove and the more I plan and think and ultimately write, the less confident I am in the idea and to be quite honest the less interested in it I am. What began as a couple reinventions of Mad Hatter and the Ten-Eyed Man turned into something more ambitious but I fear not anything that had proper legs, or at least not that I can get under me.
In seeing the creative and fun things others are bringing to the table I want to go back to the drawing board and find something I really feel invested in and inspired by, because ultimately 'Gotham Nights' isn't that, for me at least. With that said, I'm going to withdraw Gotham Nights at this point and return to the conceptual stage to find something that really gets me worked up, in the same way my original run of Absolute Hellblazer back in Worlds Collide did, and brings an excitement back to writing for me.
In seeing the creative and fun things others are bringing to the table I want to go back to the drawing board and find something I really feel invested in and inspired by, because ultimately 'Gotham Nights' isn't that, for me at least. With that said, I'm going to withdraw Gotham Nights at this point and return to the conceptual stage to find something that really gets me worked up, in the same way my original run of Absolute Hellblazer back in Worlds Collide did, and brings an excitement back to writing for me.
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