Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, ruled by a single… rule? To use the prompt word and keep it to six sentences in length.

OK. We know you’re anxious to get into this, our next installment in the as-yet, unnamed co-written serial story. But a little overview will, we promise, go a long way towards having you finish this Six with a sense of anticipation for the next, rather than dread of getting caught up in a story that, while intriguing, makes you feel like it’s 11:30 Thursday night before your trig final.

So: here is the link to Tom’s most recent contribution: DeNite’s Move.  And below is our contribution to the serial story. We strongly recommend you read Tom’s first.

This week’s prompt word:

FORGE

Ignoring the superhero’s offer of a hand, Rue DeNite folded herself out onto the four-inch ledge and followed her sodium-vapor shadow along the side of the building, the brisk night air refreshing; clear of the choking miasma of adrenaline, testosterone and disappointment, the calm she felt was in total contrast with an earlier time in her life when rage ruled her response to a world indifferent to her efforts to recover the only decent thing in her life.

Ignoring the forty feet of eternity to her right, Rue reached down, tore the soles off her fishnet stockings and repeatedly clenched her toes on the rough concrete-and-pigeon-shit surface of the ledge; she laughed, the scene from an old movie, ‘Die Hard’, coming to mind, complete with a subtitle, ‘Sure, but can you remember all your passwords‘; the moment was cut short when she heard:

“What’s wrong, are you all right out there and why’s this taking so long?”

The voice of her new bff, Dee-Appostrophe, pushing her on a metaphorical shoulder convinced Rue to forge ahead and, after negotiating a right angle turn that brought her to the target window, decided to take a cigarette break; that her ‘accomplice’ might get more stressed, that’d serve as a hazardous duty bonus.

Lighting up, Rue played through a variety of scenarios to follow breaking into the vault; she was surprised how Rocco, her ‘bodyguard’, was growing on her, in a ‘Of Mice and Men’ / Lenny sort of way and dismissed the idea of using him as a stalking horse; decent driver or not, the poor guy’d end up collateral damage in the event she found it necessary to alter any unspoken assumptions Dropped A might have regarding their relationship.

Going along with the plan to steal from Lou was, of course, a non-starter; the club owner may have put her in her current peril, but he’d also saved her life; flicking her cigarette into the dark night, the dancer turned business-liaison turned soon-to-be-erstwhile burglar smiled, “Then again, my birth mother didn’t raise no dummies.”

Feeling the tendrils of her past begin to metastasize, the young woman with a killer body and the soul of a failed poet cut a hole in the last window on the left, crossed the room and opened the door for an increasingly impatient superhero.

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