Zoo City Grey, now with editing!
Nov. 24th, 2011 09:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gryphonseggOkay, at this point I am making up Zoo City fusions for everything except My Little Pony (and I considered even that before deciding that it wouldn't be possible to do in a non-parody way that left both sources recognizable). Here's the one I wrote for Kansan Entrails-Surrealist Dreamer, transplanting her characters into Zoo City-- warning for racism and homophobia in the backstory. Up next, supervillains, hat-obsessed mercenaries, and multiple attempts to merge worldbuilding with ATLA.
Janet had done some checking on the address Faizah gave her. The perpetually mid-renovation building on the outskirts of Zoo City had once been a mid-range hotel, back when that entire section of Johannesburg was seeing better days. Now the owner charged weekly rates for the rooms that still had reliable plumbing in the attached bathrooms and made deals with “selected immigrants” on a case-by-case basis for the less desirable rooms. It wasn’t advertized, but the owner and manager had a mysterious benefactor who insisted the property be run as a safe place for people who faced persecution because of their orientation.
Janet felt very, very odd coming here. This was a place where she could let her guard down about men hitting on her and about people turning against her because she was lesbian. At the same time, she knew that people who lived here had survived much worse than she had. Zoo City was home to some of Johannesburg’s poorest residents. Although the apartheid laws had been struck down when she was a child, Janet knew that white South Africans like herself still controlled a disproportionately large amount of the country’s wealth. White people didn’t have to live in places like Zoo City unless they were convicted criminals or junkies at rock bottom. Zoo City had a high immigrant population too—refugees from countries too impoverished or war-torn for Janet to feel comfortable imagining, some of them from countries where homosexuality was illegal, maybe even punishable by lifelong imprisonment or execution if mob violence didn’t get you first. Janet didn’t know how she was going to find the audacity to ask people in this building to help her. But she had to, if Faizah was right about this being her best chance of finding Angel.
As Janet reached for the door, it opened from the other side. A cute brown-skinned woman in grease-stained workman’s clothes asked, “Did Faizah send you?”
“Uh . . .” Janet fumbled guiltily for a good opening. “She said you know someone who can help me find my brother. I . . . I can pay . . .”
“Good. You must be Janet. Come on in.” The cutie-pie waved Janet into the foyer and unlocked the door leading into the lobby. “My name’s Kwame, by the way. Yes, that’s usually a boy’s name. I know just the person you need. I presume Faizah told you to bring something that belonged to your brother?”
Janet opened a manila envelope full of photos and drawings to show Kwame. “These are all our family pictures and some sketches he drew.”
Kwame nodded approvingly. “That’s perfect.”
The former hotel lobby was full of faded, mismatched furniture and a haphazard obstacle course of boxes, perches, scratching posts, and potted plants, presumably for the benefit of Animals. A Wild Dog dozed under a droopy fern. A Warthog watched Janet warily, and a Serval surveyed the room imperiously from atop the battered front desk. Someone with a lot of burn scars was crouched behind the desk, singing softly to a Hedgehog. A very old woman sat on a very old couch, making some sort of clothing. A Hyena rested at her feet. In the middle of the room, on top of a pile of rugs, an androgynous person who couldn’t have been a day older than twenty was rolling around with a big, fluffy Dog.
Normal, law-abiding people were expected to feel fear and loathing of the Animalled. Janet herself was used to despising people who had done something bad enough to attract an Animal, but in this situation, she believed compassion was more appropriate. These are my people, she thought, persecuted in ways I’ve been lucky enough to avoid because of my color and where I was born. None of them seem dangerous or mean, and I should help them in any way I can, even if they had to make terrible choices to escape from intolerable situations.
A young man who could have blended in with the crowd in half the seedy bars in Johannesburg swaggered out of the one working elevator. A Cobra was draped across his broad shoulders. He and Kwame exchanged greetings as the women passed him on their way to the elevator.
“Our landlady doesn’t judge,” Kwame said as the doors closed.
“Oh, no, I wasn’t . . .!” Janet had to admit, if only silently to herself, that she had been judging. Some proponent of equality and freedom I am! One second I’m all about claiming everybody who gets discriminated against for their orientation as one of ‘my people’ regardless of race, nationality, or color, and the next second I’m thinking like someone who believes gay people and black people can be acceptable only as long as they look harmless.
Kwame moved on like someone who had been over that a long time ago. “Nobody matching your brother’s description has been seen around here. He would have been noticed fast and remembered for a while.” The elevator stopped on the third floor. The two women got out and nearly tripped over a gigantic Python. Janet froze, her stomach roiling in horror.
An extremely large and irate woman came barreling down the hall. “Where’s James?” she demanded. “That fool didn’t feed Maggs like he said he would!”
“He left an hour ago,” said Kwame. “Go ask Mrs. De Groot if that deal on the sheep is still open.”
“I suppose I must,” the big woman said grumpily, holding the elevator doors open for the Python to coil itself inside. “Merci, Kwame. Au revoir.”
“Au revoir, Malika! Au revoir, Maggs!” Kwame called out cheerfully. She turned back to Janet as if there had been no interruption. “The person you need can be hard to deal with, but don’t you worry. He’ll find your brother, and if he’s reluctant, well, some of us who know how to handle him won’t mind pushing him a little to help out a young kid like that.”
There was a bend in the corridor up ahead. Janet heard the two men arguing before she could see them. She didn’t know the language, but the tones they took with each other made it obvious they were disagreeing heatedly. Kwame spoke loudly in French before she turned the corner. The arguing pair fell silent.
The men standing in the middle of the corridor were both quite dark-skinned, and both of them had some scarring, likely from a blade. The similarities ended there. The one with close-cropped hair and plain clothing glared hard at Janet. If looks could kill, that one would be an anti-tank mine, she thought, hesitating awkwardly in mid-stride. The other one, slightly shorter and dressed in vibrant blues, reds, and greens, had long, curly hair that was trying to escape from a hair-tie with dangling beads. He smiled brightly as if he were determined to make up for the other’s withering glare. A Vulture stood on the floor between them, moving its wings as if to shoo the two humans apart.
“Excuse us for intruding,” said Kwame. “This lady is here to see Torrid about the missing boy Faizah told us about earlier.”
The man with the killer glare said something harsh in a language Janet didn’t recognize. Kwame spoke sharply to him in what sounded like his own language.
“How do you speak our language?” he demanded of Kwame.
“I learned it from you,” said Kwame, nonplussed.
“You’re a fast learner,” said the determinedly cheerful man.
The other man muttered angrily and glared at Janet again, but the Vulture tugged on his pants leg and persuaded him to stomping back to his room.
“I apologize for my companion’s rudeness.” The man who hadn’t left with the Vulture let the forced brightness of his smile dim to something more wistful. “Our people lost much under colonialism and have not recovered from its effects. There is also the ongoing damage to our ancestral lands by Western corporate interests to consider, and the role of white foreign agitators in inciting the anti-homosexual movement. Of course a young woman like you cannot be to blame for those things, but Andrew . . .” The smile failed completely. “Andrew would rather strike at the nearest target right away than hold back until he finds the correct one.”
Janet was consumed with awkwardness. “I’m sorry,” she said while her mind flailed. “I, um, I would certainly never support anti-homosexual anything.” She was relieved when Kwame spoke up and saved her.
“This is Elijah. He’s one of the best bastard-wranglers I’ve ever seen.”
“Kwame!” said Elijah.
“I asked him to come with us in case Torrid is in one of his moods.”
“I’m sure I can get more money if--” Janet began.
Kwame shook her head and started off down the hall. “Torrid doesn’t always respond to money. If he did, he could afford a nicer place.” Elijah and Janet followed Kwame to room 337, where she stopped and knocked insistently on the door. “Hey, Torrid, it’s Kwame. I have Faizah’s friend with me. Open up and let’s get started.”
The only sound from inside the room was a faint, jazzy strain of music from a low-quality recording. Kwame pounded on the door. “I know you’re in there. I can hear your old man music playing. Open the door.”
Elijah stepped up to take his turn at the door. “Torrid, it’s a missing child case. You’d better open this door right now.”
A god-awful screech drowned out the jazz. After forty-five seconds, the door opened and a Peacock stuck his head out. Elijah leaned down to pet the Animal before entering wreck of a room on the other side.
Empty bottles and second- and third-hand books covered every available surface, including one of the two beds and part of the bed that still had sheets. The old tape player and older record player were on the floor next to the plain wooden desk. Upon the desk, books had been stacked and then cassette tapes and vinyl records stacked on top of the books. A tall, lanky man with light brown skin and red hair was kicking a pile of clothes into the bathroom. He briefly, carelessly glanced at Janet and asked, “So that’s the white lady who lost her son?”
“He’s my brother,” said Janet. Tears overcame her unexpectedly and unstoppably. “He’s thirteen years old. His name is Angel.”
“Of course it is,” said Torrid.
Janet got a picture out of the envelope. “Just take a look. At least tell me if you’ve seen him.”
“You know you’re capable of much more than that,” Kwame pressed. “Give her a location.”
“Fine,” said Torrid. “The location costs R200.”
“Torrid,” Kwame said reproachfully.
“She can afford it,” said Torrid. “My fees are on a sliding scale.”
“That’s fine,” said Janet. “I’m not here to waste time haggling.” She handed Torrid the picture, then the whole envelope.
He stuck his hand in the envelope and pulled out Angie’s sketches and one of the blurrier pictures. He fanned them out in the clear space on the bed and began tracing his fingertips over the pictures in repetitive, roundish pattern. Janet observed the movements out of curiosity even though she would never be able to duplicate Torrid’s results. He was using his mashavi, which came with his Animal and couldn’t be taught to anyone who didn’t have one. Even if Janet did get Animalled someday, it wasn’t likely that she would get the same shavi as Torrid. Before Angel’s disappearance, she would have pushed the thought to the back of her mind in disgust, but now, when she thought of what might happen to him or might have already happened and what she might do to the person or persons responsible . . .
She willed that thought away and looked around the room for another Animal. The Peacock didn’t suit Torrid at all. Elijah had moved some books out of the way on the other bed and sat on the edge with the Peacock beside him. With his taste for vibrant colors and his profusion of curls, Elijah was a much better match for that Animal than a scruffy probable drunk like Torrid.
The envelope hit the floor. At the sound, Janet’s full attention jerked back to Torrid, who was swearing softly and staring at a photo of Angel. “What is it?” she demanded. “What do you see?”
“I need a drink,” Torrid said hoarsely. He started to open the desk drawer.
The Bird screeched angrily.
“Shut up, Bird!” Torrid growled.
“Where is my brother?” Janet asked grimly, the lump of dread inside her turning to anger.
“I’ll take you there after I get a little extra courage in me,” said Torrid. “That’ll cost extra, by the way. We’ll talk about how much later.”
The Peacock berated him as nothing else on Earth could. Maybe it was Torrid’s Animal after all.
“Torrid, please,” said Elijah.
“WHERE?” Janet all but screamed.
Torrid did scream. “FINE!” He slammed the drawer shut. “I’ll do my best sober, responsible, upstanding citizen impersonation. Let’s go rescue that kid before he ends up a fucking zoo like me.”
Janet had done some checking on the address Faizah gave her. The perpetually mid-renovation building on the outskirts of Zoo City had once been a mid-range hotel, back when that entire section of Johannesburg was seeing better days. Now the owner charged weekly rates for the rooms that still had reliable plumbing in the attached bathrooms and made deals with “selected immigrants” on a case-by-case basis for the less desirable rooms. It wasn’t advertized, but the owner and manager had a mysterious benefactor who insisted the property be run as a safe place for people who faced persecution because of their orientation.
Janet felt very, very odd coming here. This was a place where she could let her guard down about men hitting on her and about people turning against her because she was lesbian. At the same time, she knew that people who lived here had survived much worse than she had. Zoo City was home to some of Johannesburg’s poorest residents. Although the apartheid laws had been struck down when she was a child, Janet knew that white South Africans like herself still controlled a disproportionately large amount of the country’s wealth. White people didn’t have to live in places like Zoo City unless they were convicted criminals or junkies at rock bottom. Zoo City had a high immigrant population too—refugees from countries too impoverished or war-torn for Janet to feel comfortable imagining, some of them from countries where homosexuality was illegal, maybe even punishable by lifelong imprisonment or execution if mob violence didn’t get you first. Janet didn’t know how she was going to find the audacity to ask people in this building to help her. But she had to, if Faizah was right about this being her best chance of finding Angel.
As Janet reached for the door, it opened from the other side. A cute brown-skinned woman in grease-stained workman’s clothes asked, “Did Faizah send you?”
“Uh . . .” Janet fumbled guiltily for a good opening. “She said you know someone who can help me find my brother. I . . . I can pay . . .”
“Good. You must be Janet. Come on in.” The cutie-pie waved Janet into the foyer and unlocked the door leading into the lobby. “My name’s Kwame, by the way. Yes, that’s usually a boy’s name. I know just the person you need. I presume Faizah told you to bring something that belonged to your brother?”
Janet opened a manila envelope full of photos and drawings to show Kwame. “These are all our family pictures and some sketches he drew.”
Kwame nodded approvingly. “That’s perfect.”
The former hotel lobby was full of faded, mismatched furniture and a haphazard obstacle course of boxes, perches, scratching posts, and potted plants, presumably for the benefit of Animals. A Wild Dog dozed under a droopy fern. A Warthog watched Janet warily, and a Serval surveyed the room imperiously from atop the battered front desk. Someone with a lot of burn scars was crouched behind the desk, singing softly to a Hedgehog. A very old woman sat on a very old couch, making some sort of clothing. A Hyena rested at her feet. In the middle of the room, on top of a pile of rugs, an androgynous person who couldn’t have been a day older than twenty was rolling around with a big, fluffy Dog.
Normal, law-abiding people were expected to feel fear and loathing of the Animalled. Janet herself was used to despising people who had done something bad enough to attract an Animal, but in this situation, she believed compassion was more appropriate. These are my people, she thought, persecuted in ways I’ve been lucky enough to avoid because of my color and where I was born. None of them seem dangerous or mean, and I should help them in any way I can, even if they had to make terrible choices to escape from intolerable situations.
A young man who could have blended in with the crowd in half the seedy bars in Johannesburg swaggered out of the one working elevator. A Cobra was draped across his broad shoulders. He and Kwame exchanged greetings as the women passed him on their way to the elevator.
“Our landlady doesn’t judge,” Kwame said as the doors closed.
“Oh, no, I wasn’t . . .!” Janet had to admit, if only silently to herself, that she had been judging. Some proponent of equality and freedom I am! One second I’m all about claiming everybody who gets discriminated against for their orientation as one of ‘my people’ regardless of race, nationality, or color, and the next second I’m thinking like someone who believes gay people and black people can be acceptable only as long as they look harmless.
Kwame moved on like someone who had been over that a long time ago. “Nobody matching your brother’s description has been seen around here. He would have been noticed fast and remembered for a while.” The elevator stopped on the third floor. The two women got out and nearly tripped over a gigantic Python. Janet froze, her stomach roiling in horror.
An extremely large and irate woman came barreling down the hall. “Where’s James?” she demanded. “That fool didn’t feed Maggs like he said he would!”
“He left an hour ago,” said Kwame. “Go ask Mrs. De Groot if that deal on the sheep is still open.”
“I suppose I must,” the big woman said grumpily, holding the elevator doors open for the Python to coil itself inside. “Merci, Kwame. Au revoir.”
“Au revoir, Malika! Au revoir, Maggs!” Kwame called out cheerfully. She turned back to Janet as if there had been no interruption. “The person you need can be hard to deal with, but don’t you worry. He’ll find your brother, and if he’s reluctant, well, some of us who know how to handle him won’t mind pushing him a little to help out a young kid like that.”
There was a bend in the corridor up ahead. Janet heard the two men arguing before she could see them. She didn’t know the language, but the tones they took with each other made it obvious they were disagreeing heatedly. Kwame spoke loudly in French before she turned the corner. The arguing pair fell silent.
The men standing in the middle of the corridor were both quite dark-skinned, and both of them had some scarring, likely from a blade. The similarities ended there. The one with close-cropped hair and plain clothing glared hard at Janet. If looks could kill, that one would be an anti-tank mine, she thought, hesitating awkwardly in mid-stride. The other one, slightly shorter and dressed in vibrant blues, reds, and greens, had long, curly hair that was trying to escape from a hair-tie with dangling beads. He smiled brightly as if he were determined to make up for the other’s withering glare. A Vulture stood on the floor between them, moving its wings as if to shoo the two humans apart.
“Excuse us for intruding,” said Kwame. “This lady is here to see Torrid about the missing boy Faizah told us about earlier.”
The man with the killer glare said something harsh in a language Janet didn’t recognize. Kwame spoke sharply to him in what sounded like his own language.
“How do you speak our language?” he demanded of Kwame.
“I learned it from you,” said Kwame, nonplussed.
“You’re a fast learner,” said the determinedly cheerful man.
The other man muttered angrily and glared at Janet again, but the Vulture tugged on his pants leg and persuaded him to stomping back to his room.
“I apologize for my companion’s rudeness.” The man who hadn’t left with the Vulture let the forced brightness of his smile dim to something more wistful. “Our people lost much under colonialism and have not recovered from its effects. There is also the ongoing damage to our ancestral lands by Western corporate interests to consider, and the role of white foreign agitators in inciting the anti-homosexual movement. Of course a young woman like you cannot be to blame for those things, but Andrew . . .” The smile failed completely. “Andrew would rather strike at the nearest target right away than hold back until he finds the correct one.”
Janet was consumed with awkwardness. “I’m sorry,” she said while her mind flailed. “I, um, I would certainly never support anti-homosexual anything.” She was relieved when Kwame spoke up and saved her.
“This is Elijah. He’s one of the best bastard-wranglers I’ve ever seen.”
“Kwame!” said Elijah.
“I asked him to come with us in case Torrid is in one of his moods.”
“I’m sure I can get more money if--” Janet began.
Kwame shook her head and started off down the hall. “Torrid doesn’t always respond to money. If he did, he could afford a nicer place.” Elijah and Janet followed Kwame to room 337, where she stopped and knocked insistently on the door. “Hey, Torrid, it’s Kwame. I have Faizah’s friend with me. Open up and let’s get started.”
The only sound from inside the room was a faint, jazzy strain of music from a low-quality recording. Kwame pounded on the door. “I know you’re in there. I can hear your old man music playing. Open the door.”
Elijah stepped up to take his turn at the door. “Torrid, it’s a missing child case. You’d better open this door right now.”
A god-awful screech drowned out the jazz. After forty-five seconds, the door opened and a Peacock stuck his head out. Elijah leaned down to pet the Animal before entering wreck of a room on the other side.
Empty bottles and second- and third-hand books covered every available surface, including one of the two beds and part of the bed that still had sheets. The old tape player and older record player were on the floor next to the plain wooden desk. Upon the desk, books had been stacked and then cassette tapes and vinyl records stacked on top of the books. A tall, lanky man with light brown skin and red hair was kicking a pile of clothes into the bathroom. He briefly, carelessly glanced at Janet and asked, “So that’s the white lady who lost her son?”
“He’s my brother,” said Janet. Tears overcame her unexpectedly and unstoppably. “He’s thirteen years old. His name is Angel.”
“Of course it is,” said Torrid.
Janet got a picture out of the envelope. “Just take a look. At least tell me if you’ve seen him.”
“You know you’re capable of much more than that,” Kwame pressed. “Give her a location.”
“Fine,” said Torrid. “The location costs R200.”
“Torrid,” Kwame said reproachfully.
“She can afford it,” said Torrid. “My fees are on a sliding scale.”
“That’s fine,” said Janet. “I’m not here to waste time haggling.” She handed Torrid the picture, then the whole envelope.
He stuck his hand in the envelope and pulled out Angie’s sketches and one of the blurrier pictures. He fanned them out in the clear space on the bed and began tracing his fingertips over the pictures in repetitive, roundish pattern. Janet observed the movements out of curiosity even though she would never be able to duplicate Torrid’s results. He was using his mashavi, which came with his Animal and couldn’t be taught to anyone who didn’t have one. Even if Janet did get Animalled someday, it wasn’t likely that she would get the same shavi as Torrid. Before Angel’s disappearance, she would have pushed the thought to the back of her mind in disgust, but now, when she thought of what might happen to him or might have already happened and what she might do to the person or persons responsible . . .
She willed that thought away and looked around the room for another Animal. The Peacock didn’t suit Torrid at all. Elijah had moved some books out of the way on the other bed and sat on the edge with the Peacock beside him. With his taste for vibrant colors and his profusion of curls, Elijah was a much better match for that Animal than a scruffy probable drunk like Torrid.
The envelope hit the floor. At the sound, Janet’s full attention jerked back to Torrid, who was swearing softly and staring at a photo of Angel. “What is it?” she demanded. “What do you see?”
“I need a drink,” Torrid said hoarsely. He started to open the desk drawer.
The Bird screeched angrily.
“Shut up, Bird!” Torrid growled.
“Where is my brother?” Janet asked grimly, the lump of dread inside her turning to anger.
“I’ll take you there after I get a little extra courage in me,” said Torrid. “That’ll cost extra, by the way. We’ll talk about how much later.”
The Peacock berated him as nothing else on Earth could. Maybe it was Torrid’s Animal after all.
“Torrid, please,” said Elijah.
“WHERE?” Janet all but screamed.
Torrid did scream. “FINE!” He slammed the drawer shut. “I’ll do my best sober, responsible, upstanding citizen impersonation. Let’s go rescue that kid before he ends up a fucking zoo like me.”
