Sample Platter - AIM Example - Mark Cohen/Roger Davis (Rent)
ME: If this were some kind of movie, Mark might have made a move involving a switchblade pointed in Roger's direction. But outside of the movies, he had always been terrified of it. His luck, if he got the blade out, he'd cut himself with it. Instead he ignored his friend's protest and collected the few offending items into one arm as he made his way for the closet. Resting next to Roger's guitar was a box filled with a few loose sheets of music and a couple notebooks. He emptied those onto the floor of the closet and dumped the knives and lighters in. "It's not yours anymore."

sailed: His head thumping with the speed of it, Roger skidded into the hallway, against the wall in front of Mark. He snatched at Mark's wrist again, pulled in a fast, steadying breath before he could protest. "You can't hide it with me right here, asshole. Put it back." And if he somehow managed to, Roger would just tear everything apart on principle, to find it again.

ME: Mark stiffened when Roger grabbed him, but left their arms hanging in the air for a moment before he made any movements. Breaking free of the grasp, he shifted the box to tuck it under one arm and headed right back towards Roger's room. Now, he was Scared. Paranoid. But with good reason, maybe. Roger was desperate and, worse, creative.

He set the box down in the closet again, but just in front of legs, where he knew he could keep Roger away from it, for the moment. Most of his friend's clothes were in a pile on the floor, but there were still a few shirts and coats that hung on wire hangers. He yanked the clothes off of those and dropped them into the box. What else? Box in hand again, he made a dash for the bathroom and stole Roger's razor from off the sink counter. "Who said anything about hiding?" he all but sneered, pushing past his friend as he came back towards the living room.

sailed: Roger had a brief mental impression of Faye Dunaway screaming "NO MORE WIRE HANGERS," while he watched Mark with an angry sort of confusion that wouldn't even let him keep dashing around to try and stop the other man. He just stared, like it was appalling. It was appalling. This was over the top, stupid, because even if every single knife and piece of glass and shiny metal object was somehow removed from the flat, there was still the entire world. It was spite, it had to be spite. Mark had to be doing it to piss him off.

"What the fuck is the matter with you?" He demanded again, from the hallway. It wasn't too dramatic, really - he was still half slumped against the wall. "It's not the only -" he cut off, as Mark went past him. He scurried after. "Give it back! I swear to God," he said, "I'll knock you the fuck out."

ME: Stopping near the window, Mark glanced almost hopelessly towards the kitchen. Did he need the silverware? The microwave oven? Shit, the coffee mugs. He closed his eyes. No, those were things he could keep Roger away from. Things he was going to keep Roger away from. Along with just about everything else in the apartment. He pushed the window open and stepped out onto the fire escape. "Go ahead," he said. He didn't care what Roger wanted to do to him, just as long as he wouldn't do it to himself. Disappearing for a moment, he climbed down a few flights of stairs and tossed the box in the general direction of a dumpster below.

sailed: "Fuck you!" Roger yelled, but he didn't make it any farther than leaning out the window. He bit back a flurry of angry, hot tears that he could feel burning behind his eyes. The worst part wasn't Mark being unreasonable. The worst part wasn't how stupid and futile an effort it was. The worst part wasn't even quite that Roger knew he would fall over if he tried to chase Mark down the fire escape and deck him.

The worst part, really, was that he knew, deep down, that he was only angry because he knew Mark gave a shit. Roger told himself no one cared what he did because it was what he wanted. If no one cared, everything would be so much easier. It wouldn't matter if he dropped off the face of the earth, how many people he screamed at, how much damage he did to himself. If Mark would just stop caring, his life, he thought, would be so much better. He smashed his fist against the window frame, snagging a knuckle on a splintered fringe of wood. He didn't care. He sucked the blood off, gave the wall a kick with his heel that almost knocked him over, and stomped back towards his room.

ME: Mark made a speedy ascent just in time to see Roger disappearing around the corner, predictably towards his room. "Don't think," he shouted, chasing the other man down the hallway. "Don't think for a minute," he continued, in-between attempts to catch his breath, clinging to the doorframe for support, "that I'm gonna leave you alone, now." Standing straight again, he braced himself for that hit Roger had promised him.

sailed: It didn't come. Reputation for picking fights or not, Mark would have to really wrack his brain to try to come up with a time when Roger had ever really lashed out at one of his friends, even if he threatened to. He hadn't. (Although he had once hit Collins when the other boy pulled him off a classmate in their last year of high school.)

Roger just stomped the rest of the way into his room and collapsed on his bed with his forehead in his palm. "Fuck you," he said again. "Go away."

ME: Mark hated to be repetitive, but for the second time, he ignored the command and pressed onward into Roger's room. He said nothing as he stomped in, once more towards the closet. Nudging the door open again with his foot, he lifted the guitar case and held it out so Roger could see. "I'm taking this," he said, through gritted teeth and a few stray tears. "You have to earn it back."

sailed: Roger's head snapped up from his hand. He looked over at Mark with more distress than before, as his bleary eyes focused on the thing in his hand. He shook his head. "No," he said, hoarsely, straining to sound reasonable, over the fear of what it would be like if he was under surveillance and robbed of the one outlet he had that wasn't destructive. "You can't take that."

ME: "Why not?" Mark shouted, pulling it back in case Roger was going to make a grab for it. It was dangerous to be so close with the guitar in one hand, but Mark shoved his friend's shoulder. Hard. "You don't care, you're just gonna die." His voice cracked and a little sob escaped between thoughts. Turning on his heel, he went for the door again.

sailed: Against what scrap of better judgment he had, Roger stood up again and wobbled after Mark. "What are you gonna do with it? You better put it somewhere safe." It was a big object, Roger reasoned with himself. It would be the easiest of easy things to find. Mark had to sleep sometime. He also had to leave the apartment sometime. Roger stuck his knuckle back in his mouth, and then in his pocket. "Give it back," he tried again.

ME: On the contrary, Mark planned to stay awake forever and never leave. But he was only thinking of leaving the guitar in his own room. Not the most secure of places. "I swear to God, Roger, if you try to take it back, I'll throw it away, too," he yelled, before Roger could finish. A good delivery, but mostly an empty threat. Roger might know so, too, but right now, it didn't matter. Very little, at all, did. "You don't deserve it anymore."

sailed: "I didn't do anything to you!" It was probably the last yell Roger had saved up. All the stomping around, the kicking things, the screaming uselessly, it was finally occurring to his body that it was the opposite of going home and resting, like he was supposed to do. The only thing he was really equipped to do. He wobbled against Mark's doorframe.

ME: Yes, you did, Mark wanted to say, but couldn't. "You go lie down," he instructed, in the cold, angry voice he might have expected to hear his dad use when grounding him. "You're supposed to be resting." If Roger hadn't been standing where he was, he would have gotten a face full of the door. Mark left it alone, though, and moved further in to rest the guitar case next to his bed.