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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Reynard" data-source="post: 9368627" data-attributes="member: 467">I LOVE this part of the design process, when I am discovery writing and finding the thing.----------Test VignetteThe Delivery    Henry threw himself to the ground and covered his head with his arms. He had lost his helmet somewhere between jumping off the back of the transport truck and rushing toward the oil fields of Lima, Ohio. He did not take aim with his rifle. He knew it was useless. Mostly, he prayed. Or tried to. The screams of his fellow Ohio National Guardsmen as they died drowned out his prayers.    The tripod turned its triangular head slowly. There was no beam of horrible light from its face, but its gaze brought burning death nonetheless. Those soldiers who had not taken cover simply combusted, screamed, and fell as the invisible heat beams of the monstrous machines arced across the oil field. All around, oil wells exploded into flame along with Henry’s fellow soldiers.    There he lay, face buried in the dirt, sobbing against the screams, praying for salvation or maybe just a quick death, at the very center of a conflagration only Hell itself could possibly rival. His own back burned as his wool jacket burst into flame and melted itself into his skin. “Mama,” was all that escaped his lips.    And yet he lived.----------    Henry limped across the yard, yelling and waving his arms as he did so. Few people took notice, but among those that did was Dabney, the truck driver. “What?” yelled Dabney. “If not here, where?”    Henry threw up his hands. “How the hell should I know, Dab! If it isn’t for the shop, I don’t want it in my yard.”    Dabney leaned his bulk out of the window of the truck cab and shook his fist. His walrus-like mustache quaked as he yelled, “They said bring it to you, so I'm bringing it to you!”    “Who said?” demanded Henry, now at the side of the truck. He reached up with a muscular, scarred arm and grabbed Dabney by the collar.    “I don’t know! Whoever signed the delivery!”    A few minutes later, they were in one of the warehouses. Henry was sure to scoot the laborers out and close the doors behind him. There were too many curious folk around these days, and no matter how little he trusted Dabney, he trusted his day workers even less. Ever since the war, the yards were full of spies.    It took some doing -- and swearing -- for he and Dabney to get the large crate unloaded from the back of the truck. It was stamped with a large burnt symbol, something like a five pointed star that Henry did not recognize but guessed was trouble.    “Well, ain’t you going to open it?” asked Dabney.    “Hell no.”    ‘Why not?”    “You were hired to bring it here, to me, right?”    “Right.”    “Were you hired to make sure I opened it up?”    “Nope.”    “Well, there’s your reason, then. I didn't even know it was coming, and whatever it is, I don’t want any part of it.”    Dabney mopped sweat from his fat brow and cocked an eyebrow at Henry. “Aren’t you curious, though?”    “Not even a little bit,” said Henry. He lifted himself up into the truck cab quickly -- too quick for Dabney to complain. He came down with a stack of papers. He sorted through them until he found the one he was looking for and pulled a pen from his shirt and signed the form. He shoved the handful of papers into Dabney’s hands and said, “There. You’ve delivered the damned thing and I have signed for it. Now get lost.”    Dabney argued for a bit more but Henry would not move and finally the fat man had to drive his truck out of the warehouse, his curiosity unsatiated.----------    Henry flexed his shoulders. The deep burns scars on his back resisted and pain shot through him. He flexed again. Pain was good. It kept you sharp.    He sipped from the flask he always carried but almost never drank from. He stared at the crate in the dim lantern light. He did not know what it was but he did not like it one bit. He ran a shop at a steel mill. Why was it here? Why was it addressed to him?    As Henry took another swig he heard the doors of the warehouse creek open -- even though he had definitely set the bar on them. He slipped the flask back into his pocket and picked up the heavy crowbar he had definitely not intended to use to open the crate.    He stood and gripped the bar. “Shift’s over, boys. Get on home,” he warned the darkness.    The figure that entered the pale glow of his lantern was not one of his laborers, or even one of the sneak thieves that prowled the yard at night looking for scraps to steal. It was a woman, dressed in a gown of all things, wearing a veil that sparkled like it was made of pearls and gossamer.    “You lost, ma’am,” he said with menace and warning in his voice.    “No, Henry James,” she answered in a voice that at once made Henry’s heart race and his skin crawl. “I am here to see you. More importantly, I am here to see you open that.” By the time she was done speaking she was just feet from Henry, well within reach of his crowbar had he meant to swing it. She showed no sign of tension or fear in her posture.    “Oh yeah,” he said with his best attempt at bravado. “I think it was delivered by mistake. I didn’t order it.”    “Surely not,” she said with a hint of a smile in her voice. “I ordered it for you, and I would very much like to see you put it on.” There was something more in her voice then, something frightening and arousing and disconcerting.    This close, Henry could see her face through the strange veil. Her skin was porcelain and her eyes were black. Something in her thin smile suggested a predator, like a hunting cat. Her eyes darted to the crowbar. “You should use that. You could open the crate, or my skull. What do you think would serve you better?”    Henry had no answer to that. He swallowed, which took more effort than he expected, and nodded. Turning, he shoved the flat wedge of the crowbar into the gap between the crate’s lid and side. After a few grunts of strain and pain as his burn scars stretched with the effort, the lid cracked and popped open.    As he reached to pull the lid from the crate, she reached out a hand and touched his arm. Her skin was cold and seemed to crackle or vibrate with an energy that stopped Henry cold. “Once you open it, you can’t go back,” she said.    Henry peered through the veil into her black eyes. He did not see anything in them, but the memories of that day in Lima, the fire and the screams and the prayers, came back to him. He could have died there. He should have died there. In a way, he had died there.    “Never one for looking back,” he said. She released his hand and he pulled the lid of the crate with all his might.    “Is that what I think it is?” he said, peering inside as he held the lantern high.    “What do you think it is?”    “It is one of their frames, the things they used to get around on Earth because they were soft and weak.”    “You’ve seen one before?”    “Yeah,” Henry grunted. “In the war.”    She smiled at him and again he felt the contradiction between arousal and terror. “You are almost right. It is one of their frames, but it has been modified.”    “Modified?” he asked, peering closer. Even as she explained, he could see it.    “Altered, to fit not one of them, but one of you. You, in fact, Henry James.”    “Me?”    “Indeed,” she answered, her voice almost a song but one out of harmony. “For you to wear as we continue the war.”    “The war is over, lady.” he said it immediately, intensely, desperately wanting it to be true.    “No,” she said, once again placing her hand on his arm. “It isn’t. Not for us, and certainly not for you.”    Henry stared at the machine in the crate, understanding how he would wear it and what strength and speed he would gain doing so. “Not over,” he muttered.    “No,” she said, “not yet. Perhaps, not ever.”    Something deep inside Henry shifted, an acknowledgement that was equal parts mourning and rage, but he nodded anyway. “Okay,” he said.</blockquote>

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