Wish me luck, ya’ll! (We’ve established that ya’ll is acceptable, since I live in the Midwest, right?) I signed up (by which I mean my sister, Cris, signed me up and told me afterwards) for the 100 day Author’s Challenge in the hopes that it will give me the competitive streak I need to get Part IV of my FNAF fanfic series finished before Part III concludes. The goal is to write 1000 words each day for 100 days, so I will be adjusting my WIP widget up there in the upper right-hand corner of the screen accordingly. I seriously doubt there’s 100k words left in Part IV, but if not, I’ll get a great head start on Part V! So, once again, wish me luck, ya’ll!
I start Monday, officially, so for tonight, ya’ll (the more I say that, the less confident I am that I’m using it correctly) can support the new chapter of Children of Mammon, up on fanfiction.net and archiveofourown.org! I know that a lot of you are probably getting tired of me urging thus-far-disinterested parties to give it a chance, but honestly, every single Saturday, I get messages from readers who finally broke down and started reading, and as long as that keeps happening, I’m afraid I’m going to have to keep saying stuff like, “If you’re still undecided, maybe this excerpt will change your mind!” Because you never know…maybe it will?
Foxy was made to be a pirate and over the years, he had found that the pirate attitude had a lot of useful applications in his day to day life. For example, a proper pirate never left his cabin without a cutlass on his hip and he didn’t just draw it for a serious fight. Roar through town with your blades out at every opportunity was the pirate way. Can’t catch the waiter’s eye to pay your check? Wave a cutlass. Forgot your keys and the missus locked the door? Open it with your cutlass. Can’t decide whose turn it is to carve the turkey at Thanksgiving? The honor goes to the bloke who brought the cutlass.
In short, the more the enemy saw you as a cutlass-waving brute, the less effectively she was able to defend against the hidden dagger, which in this case was Foxy’s rarely-wielded yet finely-honed power of persuasion. Another duel, one fought with words instead of swords. And if that didn’t work, he’d bring out the swords again. That had been fun.
So Foxy played out his last hours, telling all his old stories and singing all his old songs, while mentally rehearsing quite a different role. At long last, the more conventional fireworks started going off outside, the usual harbinger of the end of Ana’s work-day. This time, she kept going, using up every ray of sunlight while she had it, although she cut back on the hammering.
Restless as he was, Foxy found himself wondering what she looked like up there…sunlight all glowing red and gold in her dark hair…sweat making her skin shiny and her clothes sticky-tight…
It didn’t make the time go by any faster, but it passed a damn sight pleasanter.
The sun went down. The restaurant closed. Foxy stood in the bow of his ship for fifty-eight minutes more and listened to boots thumping back and forth on the roof. At ten, Foxy’s joints unlocked, but Ana, bless her steadfast little heart, kept working, so Foxy settled himself in the bow of his ship to wait.
The silence snuck up on him. It occurred to him only after he’d heard it, or hadn’t heard it, for a while that Ana might be done working at last. Foxy sat up at once, only to settle reluctantly back again. Wouldn’t do to have her walk in and find him listening for her at the door. Disinterest could be a potent lure. He’d learned that watching the Purple Man, but that didn’t make it less true.
And before much longer, the door to the East Hall creaked open.
Foxy rotated an ear in that direction, but didn’t hear Freddy’s footsteps. “WHO GOES THERE?” he called, smiling because he already knew.
“It’s me,” said Ana.
“Expected ye sooner.”
“Oh, am I keeping you up past your bedtime, Captain?”
“Might b-b-be I’m keeping ye up past yers.”
“Let me worry about that. We had a deal, you and me. You owe me some answers. But we need to make it quick,” she said, pulling the curtain open and climbing onto the stage. “Bonnie thinks I’m in the shower. Where are you?”
“On d-d-deck. Come aboard.”
She didn’t move, not right away, but after a moment or two, he heard her mutter, “Better than his cabin,” and then he heard her on the gangplank. Not the thump of her boots, though; the pad-pad-pad of little bare feet. She’d had the shower first, he thought, and turned his head just as she stepped onto the deck, her wet hair hanging loose all down her back and past her hips, wearing a shirt with a bat clutching a bottle of rum on it and some underbritches cut high on the thigh and not a blessed thing more.
“My eyes are up here, Captain,” she said dryly.
“Hold-d-d the rigging, luv, I’m getting there.”