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letterbladeAgain, this is pushing gen. Only with the added thing of, well, not consensual.
I mentioned Andrea's a mess, right?
*****
New York City, the Upper East Side, spring of 1968
It hadn't rained at the funeral.
Andrea Stark had stood straight and stiff as a board, head to toe in black, just seventeen as the two coffins glided slowly by, and it hadn't even rained. Early April afternoon sun. Three days ago the drunk driver had come around the corner and swerved and--
She waits out the crowd. Hollow-eyed. Acquaintance after acquaintance coming by, expressing their condolences, are you going to be all right, dear? Three days ago the drunk driver had come around the corner and swerved and--
It's not like she'd particularly liked them. Hated her father more than once. Mom was all right. But they were just gone in a moment out of the blue, and it hadn't even rained, and she stands there as the wake winds up, turning gears in her head.
When enough people are gone, she goes upstairs to the study. Takes off her heels. Stands at the big oak table with her hands on it.
The door opens behind her.
It's Ty Stone from school, in an impeccable black suit. He hands her two white lilies. He's holding a big envelope in his other hand.
"What are you doing here?" she asks. Turns the lilies over in one hand. Crushes the stems a little between her fingers.
"We need to talk about the will," he says. Pulls up a leather-padded chair. Drops the envelope on the table and sits. The clock on the mantle starts to chime midnight.
"What about it?" She hadn't even thought about it until he says it. They're dead, sure, her parents are dead. But everything's going to go on the way it has. It's Fifth Avenue, for fuck's sake, it always goes on the way it has. "What do you have to do with it?"
"Do with it? I'm in it, Andy."
She just stares at him.
He opens the envelope, slides out a few papers. "Personal fortunes distributed to assorted trusts, of course, dozens of assignations, but primarily to Tiberius Stone. Executive control of Stark Industries, again, Tiberius Stone."
Three days ago the drunk driver had come around the corner and swerved and--
"What?"
"I'll need you to sign this."
She keeps staring at him. "Stop fucking around."
"I'm not fucking around." He slides one of the papers across. Fully executed. Signed. Sealed. "Pull up a chair. There's a bit to go through."
"What did you do?" Her throat is so tight that her voice sticks, low and hoarse. Schoolboy pranks. He'd played schoolboy pranks on her for three years because she was a year younger and a girl and still beat him at everything. Damn sore loser, but a decent guy under it all. But this--
"Me?"
"What the fuck did you do, Ty?" She screams it. She fucking screams it. It's been three days and she's barely said a peep and now it comes screeching out of her so sudden she shakes with the force of it.
He doesn't flinch.
"This is your father's last well and testament, Andy." His voice is calm, even. She hates that fucking nickname. "Are you saying that I'd lie to you about this? Please. Get your head out of your mad engineer cloud for a moment and pull up a chair."
She looks at him for a long moment. Pulls up a chair.
He slides over a neatly stapled document. Two copies. "As I said, please sign this."
She slaps one copy on the table, picks up the other with the edge of it in her fist, crumpling. "I'm reading it."
"Feel free."
He goes to the liquor cabinet, looks over his shoulder for a moment as if to see whether she's reading, and pours himself a glass of scotch. Comes back slowly. Sits. Watches.
She finishes reading the agreement--agreement, hell, she thinks, it's a fucking contract--and sits back, feeling sick.
"I don't have to sign this." She isn't sure of it. Hates legalities. Nonlinear hydraulics flow makes more sense than this crap.
"No, you're right, you don't." Ty smiles sharply and lifts his glass. "You have the option to refuse, as long as you accept the consequences."
"Which are?"
"You'll be locked out of the company and your inheritance. This includes salary, research, lab access, property--everything. You'll be penniless and alone, Andy."
Three days ago the drunk driver had come around the corner and swerved and--
"You can't do that." She expects the room to blow up. She expects the room to blow up, or every atom in it to spontaneously decay, or maybe there's going to be a portal opening to another dimension because this, this is too much. The world is not working right anymore.
"Of course I can. I hold all controlling interests." He leans back slowly, crosses his legs, a show of comfort. "You didn't really expect your father to leave his company and his fortune to a girl, did you?"
"You. Are." She stops. She can't even find words. She looks back down at the contract. Every invention, signed over to Stork Industries--well, Stone, now, she supposes. No rights, no control. A stipend, everything else held in trust until she's thirty. A bullshit auxilliary board position with no authority, not even a proper seat. She'd be Ty's secretary. Secretary and uncredited idea mill.
"And if you sign, I'll neglect to factor in the assorted property damage caused by your experiments, or the cost of materials you've incurred at company expense over the years. Of course you have the option to refuse. I wouldn't interfere with your freedom, even if you are a minor, though I'd have to release guardianship of you if you did refuse--you'd be in the foster system or an orphanage, but only for a year. Still, you deserve better."
"I don't deserve any of this shit you fucking bastard--"
She cuts herself short. He's just looking at her. Grabs a handful of documents, looks through them, and he's not bullshitting this. He's not bullshitting a word of it. Her friend and her father have yanked her whole life away from her--
"Andy. Please. I don't want to see you on the streets. I don't want to have to throw you out."
She just looks at the table. Looks and it and looks at it, and knows there's no damn way she'll make it out there alone. No way at all. Her father had taken her out, once, when she was littler, to the poor neighborhoods; she'd seen the street people; and everything else she'd seen was Fifth Avenue, never changes.
She feels like a coward. She feels like it's the first time the silly boy has won. But.
Bad or worse.
Slowly, she signs. Andrea Calanthe Stark, April 2, 1968. He points to the other copy; she signs again.
He smiles, leans over the table, countersigns.
She fees like she's going to throw up all over his shirt. Instead, she takes his drink. It burns her lips and throat--her first hard liquor--and she bites back her coughing and swallows, hard.
He looks slowly up at her, pries the drink of out of her hand, and murmurs, "One more thing."
One hand clutching the front of her dress, one hand pinning her chin, and then he's kissing her.
She grabs at his shoulder, makes one pathetic, muffled squeak against his mouth, and bites.
He pulls back, loosens his grip, and looks at her.
"Andy," he says softly. "It's going to be different now."
*****
This post is part of the Fanfiction Frenzy for Planned Parenthood, which is![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wired_lizard's outing for Day of Blogs, and has raised $235 so far. Like what you see? Please consider donating!
I mentioned Andrea's a mess, right?
*****
New York City, the Upper East Side, spring of 1968
It hadn't rained at the funeral.
Andrea Stark had stood straight and stiff as a board, head to toe in black, just seventeen as the two coffins glided slowly by, and it hadn't even rained. Early April afternoon sun. Three days ago the drunk driver had come around the corner and swerved and--
She waits out the crowd. Hollow-eyed. Acquaintance after acquaintance coming by, expressing their condolences, are you going to be all right, dear? Three days ago the drunk driver had come around the corner and swerved and--
It's not like she'd particularly liked them. Hated her father more than once. Mom was all right. But they were just gone in a moment out of the blue, and it hadn't even rained, and she stands there as the wake winds up, turning gears in her head.
When enough people are gone, she goes upstairs to the study. Takes off her heels. Stands at the big oak table with her hands on it.
The door opens behind her.
It's Ty Stone from school, in an impeccable black suit. He hands her two white lilies. He's holding a big envelope in his other hand.
"What are you doing here?" she asks. Turns the lilies over in one hand. Crushes the stems a little between her fingers.
"We need to talk about the will," he says. Pulls up a leather-padded chair. Drops the envelope on the table and sits. The clock on the mantle starts to chime midnight.
"What about it?" She hadn't even thought about it until he says it. They're dead, sure, her parents are dead. But everything's going to go on the way it has. It's Fifth Avenue, for fuck's sake, it always goes on the way it has. "What do you have to do with it?"
"Do with it? I'm in it, Andy."
She just stares at him.
He opens the envelope, slides out a few papers. "Personal fortunes distributed to assorted trusts, of course, dozens of assignations, but primarily to Tiberius Stone. Executive control of Stark Industries, again, Tiberius Stone."
Three days ago the drunk driver had come around the corner and swerved and--
"What?"
"I'll need you to sign this."
She keeps staring at him. "Stop fucking around."
"I'm not fucking around." He slides one of the papers across. Fully executed. Signed. Sealed. "Pull up a chair. There's a bit to go through."
"What did you do?" Her throat is so tight that her voice sticks, low and hoarse. Schoolboy pranks. He'd played schoolboy pranks on her for three years because she was a year younger and a girl and still beat him at everything. Damn sore loser, but a decent guy under it all. But this--
"Me?"
"What the fuck did you do, Ty?" She screams it. She fucking screams it. It's been three days and she's barely said a peep and now it comes screeching out of her so sudden she shakes with the force of it.
He doesn't flinch.
"This is your father's last well and testament, Andy." His voice is calm, even. She hates that fucking nickname. "Are you saying that I'd lie to you about this? Please. Get your head out of your mad engineer cloud for a moment and pull up a chair."
She looks at him for a long moment. Pulls up a chair.
He slides over a neatly stapled document. Two copies. "As I said, please sign this."
She slaps one copy on the table, picks up the other with the edge of it in her fist, crumpling. "I'm reading it."
"Feel free."
He goes to the liquor cabinet, looks over his shoulder for a moment as if to see whether she's reading, and pours himself a glass of scotch. Comes back slowly. Sits. Watches.
She finishes reading the agreement--agreement, hell, she thinks, it's a fucking contract--and sits back, feeling sick.
"I don't have to sign this." She isn't sure of it. Hates legalities. Nonlinear hydraulics flow makes more sense than this crap.
"No, you're right, you don't." Ty smiles sharply and lifts his glass. "You have the option to refuse, as long as you accept the consequences."
"Which are?"
"You'll be locked out of the company and your inheritance. This includes salary, research, lab access, property--everything. You'll be penniless and alone, Andy."
Three days ago the drunk driver had come around the corner and swerved and--
"You can't do that." She expects the room to blow up. She expects the room to blow up, or every atom in it to spontaneously decay, or maybe there's going to be a portal opening to another dimension because this, this is too much. The world is not working right anymore.
"Of course I can. I hold all controlling interests." He leans back slowly, crosses his legs, a show of comfort. "You didn't really expect your father to leave his company and his fortune to a girl, did you?"
"You. Are." She stops. She can't even find words. She looks back down at the contract. Every invention, signed over to Stork Industries--well, Stone, now, she supposes. No rights, no control. A stipend, everything else held in trust until she's thirty. A bullshit auxilliary board position with no authority, not even a proper seat. She'd be Ty's secretary. Secretary and uncredited idea mill.
"And if you sign, I'll neglect to factor in the assorted property damage caused by your experiments, or the cost of materials you've incurred at company expense over the years. Of course you have the option to refuse. I wouldn't interfere with your freedom, even if you are a minor, though I'd have to release guardianship of you if you did refuse--you'd be in the foster system or an orphanage, but only for a year. Still, you deserve better."
"I don't deserve any of this shit you fucking bastard--"
She cuts herself short. He's just looking at her. Grabs a handful of documents, looks through them, and he's not bullshitting this. He's not bullshitting a word of it. Her friend and her father have yanked her whole life away from her--
"Andy. Please. I don't want to see you on the streets. I don't want to have to throw you out."
She just looks at the table. Looks and it and looks at it, and knows there's no damn way she'll make it out there alone. No way at all. Her father had taken her out, once, when she was littler, to the poor neighborhoods; she'd seen the street people; and everything else she'd seen was Fifth Avenue, never changes.
She feels like a coward. She feels like it's the first time the silly boy has won. But.
Bad or worse.
Slowly, she signs. Andrea Calanthe Stark, April 2, 1968. He points to the other copy; she signs again.
He smiles, leans over the table, countersigns.
She fees like she's going to throw up all over his shirt. Instead, she takes his drink. It burns her lips and throat--her first hard liquor--and she bites back her coughing and swallows, hard.
He looks slowly up at her, pries the drink of out of her hand, and murmurs, "One more thing."
One hand clutching the front of her dress, one hand pinning her chin, and then he's kissing her.
She grabs at his shoulder, makes one pathetic, muffled squeak against his mouth, and bites.
He pulls back, loosens his grip, and looks at her.
"Andy," he says softly. "It's going to be different now."
*****
This post is part of the Fanfiction Frenzy for Planned Parenthood, which is
wired_lizard's outing for Day of Blogs, and has raised $235 so far. Like what you see? Please consider donating!![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: Jul. 27th, 2008 01:29 pm (UTC)Obviously it can wait until you recover from the 'thon.
no subject
Date: Jul. 28th, 2008 10:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: Jul. 29th, 2008 12:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: Jul. 27th, 2008 04:10 pm (UTC)Just donated $20.
[EDIT] Er, no, having trouble donating online, they're choking on something to do with my credit cards or address, possibly not setup for international addresses? Will keep trying.
no subject
Date: Jul. 29th, 2008 12:26 am (UTC)And thank you very much for the pledge, and aflack for the donation issues! I don't know where you are (I mean, I assume Australia, but
no subject
Date: Jul. 29th, 2008 01:19 am (UTC)Re. donation: I live in Australia (and all my bank accounts and credit cards are Australian), but am here visiting my LDR partner who is yes, in Woburn. 8-)
Hmm, the Australian arm doesn't even have a website that exists.
However I tried with a *third* credit card and it worked fine, so false alarm! Must've been something with my card (or their site) since I put in my Australian address and it didn't have a problem this time.
re: Stars - Andrea Stark signing over
Date: Oct. 27th, 2008 07:32 pm (UTC)This bites way more than the other
I don't agree with Palin candidate, but I'm hearten to see that the comments at CBC slams the focus on her wardrobe budget, because hey, how much did the men spent on /their/ wardrobe? Pick on her the way you'll pick on a man, her policies.