For all those who don't know, madrigal is not a girl's name, it's a type of music. To quote Wikipedia - a secular vocal music composition, usually a partsong, of the Renaissance and early Baroque eras. I'm not sure now why I picked it, as it was over 10 years ago. I like early music, anyway.
My writing names are either Miao Shou - one of my characters, how incestuous is that? - or Alex Sweeney. Which is my actual name.
I live in the UK but my heart sometimes strays across the pond to NYC. And environs ;)
This picture I've got here is a work in progress. The character is Matt Lakowski and the background is Mr Hankey, but that's not why I rendered it. I rebuilt Matt, he used to be M3 and is now M4. Yeah, I'm cutting edge here, I'll move onto Genesis next millennium.
I wasn't sure the texture I'd used worked with him so I rendered him - he's come out looking hardly any different from the original M3 version. He looks better actually.
I wanted him for a bigger picture I'm doing with a car in it and a detective that he's working with in the book I'm writing at the moment. And a decent background. It's taking a while. One of the problems I've got is police uniform, this one is an old one for Hiro that I scaled and parented to him.
Okay, you're probably bored now. My work here is done. :D
My page on Gay Authors - there's a story I'm writing there, (serial thriller) link on the left somewhere :
Here is the text that goes with my picture, Who's Sitting in My Chair?
Matsumoto wasn’t so pleased when he got upstairs to the detectives’ squad room. His desk was occupied by a large blueprint that several of the other detectives were leaning over.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“We think the Pedros might have an armory in the sewers.” Marino, Francini’s partner turned to Matsumoto. “An informant told the lieutenant.”
“An informant might just think it’s funny to see a lot of cops wading ass-deep through shit,” Matsumoto said, lifting the edge of the blueprint so he could get a notepad and pens from his desk. “Oh, yeah, I forgot. That’s situation normal.”
“Who shot your bluebird of happiness?” Marino asked. “You’re usually Mr Sunshine around here.”
“Bad day,” Matsumoto said. “Where is the lieutenant, anyway?”
“Talking to the new IT guy,” Marino said. “Dr Sinclair. Gonna get our databases into shape and drag us into the twentieth century.”
“Now that everybody else has left it.” Matsumoto looked around for a place to work. Every desk was full with detectives, their suspects, their food, their files and papers. But if the IT specialist was in with the lieutenant, that meant his office would be empty.
Matsumoto let himself into the newly refurbished room and sat down at the desk, switching on the PC.
A noise outside the door made him look up, but it was just someone bringing in a group of youths whose prominent features were torn clothing and bruised faces. Matsumoto hoped that they had inflicted the damage on each other. The department could do without being sued for police brutality.
One of the young men peeled off from the group and came into the room Matsumoto was using. He stopped in the doorway, staring at the detective.
Matsumoto’s phone sounded just as he was about to tell the youth to keep moving. He made a shooing gesture instead and answered it.
“Matsumoto?” he said, not recognising the number that came up.
“It’s Danny,” a voice said.
“Danny Eaglewing. You almost arrested me.”
“Oh, yeah. Nice to hear from you,” Matsumoto said, not really meaning it. He didn’t think he had time for a date right now. Besides, the man who’d left the group of arrestees was now in the room with him and had closed the door. What was he doing? He didn’t seem to be armed – unless you counted several piercings and some aggressively spiked hair.
“I wondered if you wanted to, you know, do something,” Danny said.
“Um, I’m at work,” Matsumoto said, watching in some consternation as his intruder settled himself on the edge of the desk, regarding Matsumoto with what looked like deep interest. “I might be here for a while.”
“Don’t you have to eat?” Danny said. “We could have dinner – I could come by and pick you up. In a cab.”
“Well, I suppose...” Matsumoto wasn’t sure what he supposed. What he wanted to do with Danny wasn't dinner. How did he deter him without putting him off for good? Why was this stranger looking at him so intently?
“I’ll see you soon.”
Matsumoto stared at his phone.
“Shit.” he said.
“What the?” he said as he noticed the screen in front of him. A dialog box was asking him for a password.
“Let me get that for you.” The other man slid off the desk and typed rapidly on the keyboard.
“Just a minute,” Matsumoto began, then fell silent as a loading screen came up. At least he thought it was – he’d been expecting Windows.
“What’s Ubuntu?” he asked.
“Linux,” the man replied. He seemed about to go on but the office phone rang. Matsumoto reached for it. The other man got it first.
“Sinclair,” he said. “What? Yes. I debugged it myself. No. Yes. Oh, does he? Well tell him I’ll write it in Scratch next time, maybe he’ll have better luck with that.”
He put down the phone and turned to an open-mouthed Matsumoto.
“Who on earth did you think I was?” he asked.
“Uh –” Matsumoto didn’t like to say he’d thought the man was a gang member who’d been brought in for questioning. Close up he looked older and he was clean and unbruised. “You’re Dr Sinclair,” he said.
“Obviously,” Sinclair said. “And this is my office. That’s my desk, that’s my chair, that’s my computer. Everything in this room is mine.” He raised an eyebrow at Matsumoto who wondered uneasily if he was included in that everything. “You can call me Billy. Nice to meet you, Detective Matsumoto.”
“You know who I am?” Matsumoto was doing his best not to be unnerved by this unusual man. It didn’t help that he seemed to be growing more attractive the longer Matsumoto looked at him. He really needed to spend some quality time with somebody. Anybody.
“I know who everybody is,” Billy said. “I could list all the things I know about you, but let’s just take it as a given that there’s nothing you need to tell me. I may, however, ask you questions in the interest of initiating conversation.”
“Are you English?” Matsumoto attempted to change the subject. Sinclair had an unusual accent and he was trying to place it.
“No. But I studied at Oxford,” Billy said.
“And you’re working – here?” Matsumoto said.
“Surprising, isn’t it?” Billy said. “All that work, all that money, all that intellect – just so I can end up having rude alpha males come into my office and use my equipment without so much as a by-your-leave.”
“I’m sorry.” Matsumoto realised he’d gone too far. The improvement in the precinct’s IT capabilities was the lieutenant’s pet project and he wouldn’t be happy to find one of his detectives had pissed off the man who was going to implement the changes. “I just – I wanted to find out – my desk was – it’s been a really bad day. Can I make it up to you somehow?”
“I like fish,” Billy said. “And I like Italian. You know Il Pescatore?”
“The restaurant?” Matsumoto said. “What, I’m buying you dinner?”
“What a generous offer.”