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❝ A man's at odds to know his mind cause his mind is aught he has to know it with. He can know his heart, but he don't want to. Rightly so. Best not to look in there. It ain't the heart of a creature that is bound in the way that God has set for it. You can find meanness in the least of creatures, but when God made man the devil was at his elbow.❞
- ᴄᴏʀᴍᴀᴄ ᴍᴄᴄᴀʀᴛʜʏ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴍᴇʀɪᴅɪᴀɴ
title: tbd.
relationship type: either m/m or m/f. happy to hear pitches for both
keywords: neo-noir, morality, memory loss, government conspiracies, slice of life, hurt/comfort, slow burn, redemption
fictional influences: drive (2011), the winter soldier, the bourne series, the man from nowhere (2012)
plot outline:
The man who lives in apartment 411 is a model tenant as far as his landlord is concerned. He's quiet and clean and he pays his rent by the year - in cash. The slumlord who owns the rundown apartment building is happy to accept his money and not ask questions, which is exactly why he'd chosen this place.
He works as a mechanic during the day, although as a worker with basically no documentation, he's paid under the table and horribly exploited as a result. He doesn't say anything, just keeps his head down and his thoughts to himself. If one cared to look, they might see that he was running away from something. But most people are too wrapped up in their own struggles to notice such a thing. They don't see the scars under his clothes, or the significant amount of lean muscle hidden by slightly baggy outfits. The man keeps to himself and avoids confrontation, seemingly immune to the demands of pride or machismo.
Your character is the neighbor in an adjoining apartment, a single parent (mother or father, doesn't matter) with a small child - or an older sibling acting as sole caretaker. They're the only person who has ever been kind to the man, bringing him cookies when he'd first moved in. Basically the only person who smiles at him. The relationship starts out small - saying hello in the elevator. He fixes their car for free. They bring casseroles. He bonds with their child. Both of them are wounded and slow to trust, but they do. Their brief interactions become the highlight of his otherwise staid life. YC thinks he's a little odd and very reserved, always declining to talk about himself. Still, they think he's a nice guy - especially because he's nice to their kid. That wins a lot of points, especially in a rough building like theirs.
But YC is also in trouble. The nature of this trouble could be anything you like: an abusive ex with mob ties? or they were forced to take loans from the only source available to them: the sharks, and now they owe a lot of money to some very bad people. I'm happy to take ideas. And there's always the matter of his past, because the bill always comes due at the end. He knows any accidental happiness was bound to be fleeting, because there are some very dangerous people who want him caught - or barring that, neutralized.
random scene ideas:
- mc loses his shit and murders someone fairly brutally in front of yc (because that person had hurt yc). yc is pretty understandably upset at being covered in blood
- yc patching mc up, maybe stitches or relocating limbs, yc telling him him he'd better not die in his living room
- tons of hurt/comfort, that's the name of the game here
- very remorseful 5 hour showers mc will sometimes take, like lady macbeth trying to wash out the bloody nightmares
- becoming fugitives from the law and going on the run. disguises! car chases! let's go
Writing sample:
Obviously this is a new story idea, but here's a sample from a slightly different character I've written - a violent vigilante. It's sort of thematically applicable, I guess.
I
The man drifted in and out of consciousness, his head lolling forward limply, his eyes bleary and his face streaked with blood. The bindings around his arms and chest stopped him from being able to fully drop to the floor. Lysander watched him for a few moments before he sped the process along by delivering a sharp slap to his cheek. His victim jerked to life, crying out in pain - but his eyes were wide open now. Good.
"Tell me."
He's been asking the same question for the better part of an hour. At first, the responses were fairly typical: fuck you, go to hell, I'm not telling you shit.
Next came the screaming. Lee, always one to think ahead, had soundproofed this little room with the best material money could buy. Even if any sound escaped, he'd made sure that there would be no one around to hear. In one hand, he held a pair of jeweller's pliers - intended to be used in creating beautiful things and put toward a far more sinister purpose.
Several of the mobster's fingernails already littered the concrete floor, spattering it with blood. He had passed out from shock and pain, but now he looked at Lee with eyes driven feral by agony, showing their whites.
"I-I don't know his name! They never told me a name!" he cried out, his voice cracking underneath the strain. Lee paused in his ministrations, letting the momentary reprieve speak for itself. He judged that the torture had gone on long enough - the man was clearly breaking down.
In the end, he gave up the information. They always did. The human mind can only withstand so much, and Lee was good at pushing them to that limit. Once he'd corroborated their information, he always came back with his sharp knife flashing in the fluorescent lights of his makeshift kill room.
This one had tried to plead for his life. "Listen, I got kids! Please. Please don't do this." Lee had looked down on him, his dark eyes utterly pitiless. This man had spent the last twenty years preying on the soft underbelly of this city, targeting the most vulnerable among them.
"They're better off without you."
He raised the knife.
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Lee had thrown up after his first kill, right there on the cold floor beside his victim. That had been a long time ago, and it felt like a lifetime. He often wished that he'd been born a psychopath, if only because everything in his life would be easier. His post-murder ritual was different every time - sometimes he hit the gym or the firing range. Tonight, it was a bar.
He didn't go out often, but the fancy had struck him tonight. He sat at the end of the bar with a drink in front of him - an old-fashioned, his favourite cocktail. The room was dimly lit and packed with carousers, but Lee was happy enough to watch. This was the closest he got these days to a genuine human connection, watching others live their mundane, law-abiding lives.
Eventually, he noticed someone watching him and turned to get a better look. It was a strikingly beautiful young woman, and their eyes met across the room. Lysander raised his glass and gave her a crooked smile, hardly expecting anything to come from such a random interaction.
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