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Writing through the Genres - my class 2013

 
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2/15/2013 2:44:54   
Eukara Vox
Legendary AdventureGuide!


Commentary Thread

Slice of Life
Overjoyed

"Come on Tara, really, it's not any different than what you do on stage in drama class!" Kendel begged the young woman across the lunch table.

"I don't know, Kendel. I mean, in drama I am acting out written scripts by people who are acknowledged masters. This... This is nothing like that! It's so--"

Kendel put his fork down and shook his head. "Unscripted?" He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. "You can't tell me that the great Tara Wordwroth is afraid of a little unscripted acting!"

Tara narrowed her eyes and took a bite out of her roll, rather viciously. No, Kendel, I'm not. I just don't see the point in this... thing you are so in love with. It makes no sense!

"Oh come on! Just come with me tonight. If you come tonight and you don't like it, I will never bother you about it again." He smiled.

Once she was finished chewing, she sighed, avoiding Kendel's eyes. "Promise? You will leave me alone if I go?"

"Cross my heart, hope to die!" Although Kendel was trying to maintain a serious face, it wasn't working very well.

Tara burst into laughter and waved her hand. "Fine, fine, I will come tonight. But, don’t' expect me to do anything."

A look of triumph crossed Kendel's face. "Of course not. I merely asked you to come. But, I bet you will be in the thick of it by the time we close up for the night."

"We shall see about that," Tara scoffed. She stood up with her tray and headed for the drop-off. Kendel watched, satisfied, and continued his meal.
~ ~


Tara walked up to the building with an attitude of aloofness. She was here only because Kendel asked her to be there. She still didn't understand why he was so fascinated with this style of game play. It seemed so very juvenile to her. This was the kind of thing one did as a child, in the backyard, with the neighbourhood kids.

Before she could knock on the door, it opened up as if an invisible hand gently pushed it. The illusion was effective, but only made her groan slightly. A young woman, dressed in green robes looked out from behind the door and examined her carefully.

"I daresay, my lord, that we have a naysayer in our midst. Should I let her cross the threshold?"

Tara rolled her eyes, but waited, as it seemed it was what she was supposed to do.

A familiar voice called out from within the house. "Do not let the lass's strange garments sway you to think ill of her. She is of a foreign land and must be present to learn of us and our ways, so that she may take a positive report back to her lord."

At that moment, Tara nearly turned around. This was beneath her. She still didn't know why she gave in. It wasn't like Kendel was being completely obnoxious about her coming around and watching their gameplay. But, for some reason, she was compelled to say yes. And now, she was regretting it. This was ridiculous.

"Well, do I get to come in or what?"

The young woman glared at Tara for a moment, then stepped aside. "You may enter. Be careful, lest a stray spell come your way. The Oroku are upon us and to be captured by one will mean certain death."

Shaking her head, Tara entered, ignoring the young woman, who was clearly not a drama student. She looked around at the main room of the house, unimpressed. Surely, there would be more to this. The room looked like a normal living room of a college apartment. Some kingdom...

Kendel entered the room, wearing gear that was meant to look like a knight's armour. Tara didn't think he did too bad, given the fact he had no artistic, nor theatre background. It passed, barely, for the goal he had intended. But, there was no denying it, he was not a noble knight. Perhaps a roughshod knight of a small kingdom in dire straits, but not a servant of a mighty king.

"My lady!" Kendel said in a smooth, if rough, English accent. He bowed, deferring to her. Sneaking a mischievous look, he winked at her before standing upright again. "How do you fare this night? Hopefully, you were not assaulted by an Oroku mercenary?"

Tara stared at Kendel, who assumed she would respond in kind. "I fare fine, Kendel. I met no one on the way here."

"Kendel? Who is this Kendel? Perhaps a knight who has stolen your heart?" The question elicited laughter and Tara felt her face burn in embarrassment. "I am Sir Jorwain, Knight of Syntilly, servant and guard to his lordship, King Discint." He bowed again.

Looking around, Tara knew this night was going to take forever and groaned. If anyone heard her, they ignored her. She was so disdainful of what she was about to watch, she was unaware of the other seven people who had gathered to play that night.

She was escorted into the back room, where they usually took their breakfast. It had been cleared, crude props erected and the back door propped open to reveal the small backyard, low-lit and empty. She shook her head. How can they play under such conditions? Surely this is the worst set anyone ever played on?

Kendel escorted her to a chair, set just outside the door in the yard. She pulled out her notebook and began to write out her notes, documenting every piece of prop and decoration, every step they took to give the "setting" authenticity. Shaking her head, she grimaced at the cruel surrounding they had set up for themselves. The costumes were a mismatch of materials, and she set about sketching them and noting how they could be improved.

Kendel and his friends played out their game for hours as Tara wrote out her assessment of the situation. She shook her head, groaned, and tapped her notebook as they seemed to ignore the crude surroundings and equipment. Kendel was going to have a field day with Kendel tomorrow when she went over everything he needed to do in order to have a proper session.

At the end of the night, Kendel, as Sir Jorwain, escorted her to the front door. He bid her good night, in his crude accent and bowed. She turned, exited the house and turned to speak, only to find the door already shut. Taken aback, she stood there for a while, her mind blank.

Finally, realising the door wouldn't open with Kendel here smiling, she left the small porch and headed back to her dorm. "Well, at least I have my notes. Kendel and I will have much to go over."
~ ~


"Oh come on! You cannot be serious, Tara!"

"What? You invited me over. What else did you think I would do?" Tara looked at Kendel incredulously. She fingered the edge of her notebook, not sure what was wrong.

"What did I expect? I expected you to, I don't know, participate, not take notes on how you think we were doing it wrong!" Kendel's voice was low, his eyes actually looking hurt.

Tara blinked. "Participate? In your play? Really, Kendel, me participate in your little game like some elementary kid fresh off a fantasy novel? I am a serious theatre student. What you were doing..."

Kendel stood up, his face fallen, his features setting forth an aura of sadness. "Don't, Tara. Just, don't. I would have thought more highly of you than to do nothing more than come in order to ridicule me and my friends in something we enjoy. I wanted to share something with you that I found enchanting and fantastic. I should never have said a word to you."

The young man left the table stiffly, leaving Tara sitting alone. She watched him leave and didn't understand. How did he think she would fit into their play date? They could offer her nothing of value, nothing that she could take with her. She had other things to do, lines to memorise, styles to learn and playwrights to analyse.
~ ~


Tara watched Kendel from afar. He hadn't talked to her in a week, since she presented her ideas on how to make his game more successful. To make matters worse, her theatre teachers were being stupid. She hated using such crude ways of describing others, but there was no other way to describe them.

The last hour had been horrible. Mid-term evaluations were in full force, and her meeting with her professors had been a disaster. She had done everything right, her grades were superior, yet they acted as if she had no idea what she was doing. It baffled her how inept they were acting. She was the one who wasn't taking her part seriously? She was the one who didn't understand the parts she played?

Tara knew everything about those parts, even the details the badly assigned "directors" had forgotten. If anything, it was she who was surrounded by people who had no idea what they were doing. It was infuriating to sit there and have them tell her that she was close to being culled from the program.

They had no idea what they were talking about. Prior to admission into the university, she had several directors compliment her on her acting skills and interpretation techniques. She was given praise for her ability to look into a character and pull out emotion, thought, movement. How dare the staff here tell her they were ready to throw her out of their program.

Kendel stopped to talk to a girl who looked familiar. As she squinted in the sun to see the girl better, she realised that this was the same girl who wore the green robes that night. She was dreadful at acting out a spell cast. And yet, she was the one laughing with Kendel.
~ ~


Tara found herself several blocks from her dorm, and didn't really understand how she got there. She was upset, that was definite. The last several days had been one bad experience after another. Professor after professor in the theatre department had pulled her aside, informing her if she didn't get herself back on the right path, they would be dismissing her at the end of the semester.

What am I doing wrong? I know everything about acting. I know everything about style, technique, stage and film presence, stage and set... Yet, they are insisting I do not belong! She heard the sound of laughter, and it infuriated her even more. No one should be able to enjoy the night if she couldn't.

She marched over to the house the sounds were coming from and paused. It looked familiar, yet she couldn't place it. The voices were coming from the back and the sound of a battle rang in the air. Blinking, she walked along the fence that ran alongside the perimeter and halted once she was in the back.

Tara knew where she was. It was Kendel's house, or more appropriately, the PlayHouse. She remembered how she had applied to be a part of this group, thinking it was theatre, instead, learned it was for some nerdy LARP group house. But at the moment, the only place on the planet that didn't seem to be unhappy was here.

A slat in the fence was worn and weathered, giving her about an inch of viewspace. She sat down and settled in for the night. She watched them speak, sing and laugh and cringed at their inexperienced voices and body language. She pulled her notebook out, determined to take notes about why it was they were so darn happy. Pen ready, she watched them carefully, noting a wrong move here, and badly placed piece of dialogue there.

Eventually, though, her pen stopped writing and Tara forced herself to really observe them. She watched them, and though their acting was terrible, they moved as one. The story the group was enacting was actually interesting. They moved as if they truly believed they were who they were dressed as.

She was drawn in and hours went by before they ended for the evening. She let out a breath, as if it had been held the entire time. It was well after Sir Jorwain returned to being Kendel that she got up from her spot. Body aching and stiff, Tara walked back to her dorm room, her mind a confused jumble of thoughts.
~ ~


Hesitant, she returned to the place along the fence several times over the next few weeks. Something about it pulled her in and she couldn't resist it. Her professors no longer mattered, nor their threats. She took the roles she gave them, recited the lines they demanded and created the sets they dreamed. She did what was asked, but her mind was always on Kendel.

Every night they played, they smiled, they messed up, they bumbled over their lines. Sometimes the story didn't make sense or didn't progress as they seemed to want it to. Despite that, they pushed on and dealt with it. She watched as they changed with the flow, adapted and produced. She watched them smile. She watched them laugh. For the first time ever, Tara wanted that too.
~ ~


"Why are you always so happy?!" she blurted out from behind Kendel.

"Excuse me?" He turned around, looking into her troubled eyes. He had noticed something was bothering her. He had heard rumours that the favoured Tara Wordwroth had fallen from grace in the theatre department. It had killed him to not reach out to her, but how Kendel had felt after the last time they spoke, he didn't have the heart to.

"I... I don't understand. You are always so happy, so carefree. You don't care about what is there, or how it shouldn't work. You just keep going. You just... You just keep laughing! Why?"

Kendel watched as tears fell down her cheeks. He felt helpless as his friend was having an emotional meltdown. People passed by them, staring. But, it didn't seem like Tara cared, which was odd. Appearances meant everything to her.

"Why don't you come with me and we can go somewhere to talk."

Tara shook her head. "No. I've have tried and tried to understand. How is it that you can have so much fun amidst such terrible conditions? How can you smile while those around you get it all wrong? What makes what you do in the PlayHouse backyard so much better than what I do on stage!?"

Her elevated voice drew attention, yet she didn't care. Her mascara ran with her tears and she didn't wipe it away. This was not the Tara he knew. Kendel had no idea who this woman was.

"I don't know, Tara. We aren't trying to impress an audience. We aren't trying to one up each other. We are just trying to tell a story as best we can with what we have." Kendel placed a hand lightly on Tara's shoulder and guided her away from the public view. "We just want to lose ourselves, for one night, and escape the world around us."

"It's not fair! It's not fair! Why do you get to be the one having fun acting? You aren't even an actor! You are a stupid ecology major who is going to spend his life behind machines and analyzing data, away from crowds, away from stages." "She shrugged her shoulder, part of her wanting to pull away from him, but the other acknowledging this was her best friend. She had thought it would feel better to confront him, but it only felt worse. "It's just not fair."

She ran, ignoring the person her shoulder slammed into, causing her to stumble. She ignored Kendel's voice, as he called out to her to get her to come back. And, above all, she ignored her heart and mind's attempt to get her to see reason.
~ ~


Outside the fence again. Just like the other nights, each one running into the next. She didn't care about her classes anymore. She didn't care about the professor's concern over her well-being. What she didn’t know was they were afraid they had caused this and had alerted the campus nurse and psychologist. Those around her were alerted to watch her carefully.

All she wanted to do was watch them.

None of it made sense. None of it should have made sense. Yet, every night she watched, their role playing game became more real than any play or movie she had ever seen. Their characters were more believable than any she had portrayed. And their stage, more beautiful than the imagination of Spielberg.

And she wanted it, too.

She cried. She cried because she was on the outside. She cried because she was left out. She cried because they knew a happiness she only pretended to know. She cried because she was ruined. Done for. She cried because inside, she was dying and there was nothing left.

She didn't hear the approaching footsteps while her face became more and more soaked with tears. She was a mess, yet didn't care. And yet, out of nowhere, a sword was put in front of her.

"I think this suits you, Tara."

The voice was feminine, barely discernible. The spell caster, the girl who slayed the chimera three sessions ago and nearly lost her life doing so. The voice she had mocked, the character she had laughed at.

Tara reached out and touched the wooden sword. The paint was chipped, the blade beaten and worn. She looked up over her shoulder and saw a smile.

"Perhaps, you would like to play?"

Tara hung her head. "Why would you want to play with me?"

"Because, Tara, there is always room for another warrior at the table of King Discint, sovereign of Syntilly. You will have much to learn, but I daresay, you will be a hero yet."
~ ~


The final had been over for a week, yet the grades hadn't been posted. Most of the theatre majors were anxious about the results, since the exam determined who stayed in the program and who was sent packing. Many found solace alone, for being with the others only made them suspicious and cranky.

Tara lay in the grass, looking up at the night sky. The stars were bright that night, brighter than any other night that week. "Sir Jorwain, do you see the stars tonight? Perhaps a portent of things to come?"

"Hrrumph, Lady Serenity, you know how I feel about portents! They are stars! Jots of light that create fancies in the minds of dreamers." Sir Jorwain grumbled.

The spell caster giggled. "I say, Lady Serenity, the stars mean more than our learned Knight implies. A decision will be made this night. One of import and one of destiny."

Lady Serenity turned her face from the stars and looked at Morgaith. "Destiny, Spellcaster? What destiny, and for whom?"

Morgaith pondered for a bit, then looked back at Lady Serenity. "A destiny sought, but seen through new eyes. A destiny of success, but with a shining light."

Lady Serenity smiled slightly and sighs. "Morgaith, Sir Jorwain, such a destiny would be good. But, I daresay, the journey would take the path of the spirits and show hardship."

Sir Jorwain rolled onto his side and looked at his partner in adventure. "Aye, but in the end, all is well and the heavens rejoice and the world anticipates wonder."

Lady Serenity looked at Sir Jorwain and Morgaith, smiling. She looked up at the stars again. She had had it all wrong. She had lost the most important thing, the most treasured possession that she could ever have. The forgotten treasure had nearly cost her everything. Her path was set straight, her mind set on the future with wonder and friendship. And her notebook was recycled long ago.

"I think, my comrades, there is a sound off to the right of the path. Perhaps, the Oroku have found us!" Lady Serenity gripped her sword, rolled to her feet, and disentangled her legs from the old dress she wore, which at the moment shone with gold and silver threads in her mind.

Sir Jorwain, Morgaith and the rest of their group jumped to their feet and sought out the Oroku, crying out epitaphs and curses upon the enemy.

And Tara was overjoyed.

< Message edited by Eukara Vox -- 2/27/2013 1:54:14 >
AQ DF MQ AQW Epic  Post #: 1
2/22/2013 0:50:28   
Eukara Vox
Legendary AdventureGuide!


Fictional Autobiography
Weeping of the Sea
by Tajna Vox

Too many steps, too many bricks upon this road I have passed in my tiresome journey to the edge of the world as I know it. I have known hunger some days, thirst others, yet I continue to beat this worn and weary path that thousands have taken before me. In my more lax moments I wonder why any of them did. Then I snap out of the delusion that other people actually matter.

Yes, I chose this.

My journey actually started here, near the sea in a small part of a soulless king's land which my father ruled and loved. I sat by his side when his people came for help and hope, watching him dispense both with steadfast courage and optimism. I watched him gaze into my mother's eyes when he thought no one else saw. But the people saw... I saw... and it made a difference. For if a man can love his wife, his daughter, as my father loved us, then surely that man can lead a people with the same love.

They loved him. And he loved them. He loved them more than any ruler before, or dare I say, ever to come. He walked among them, his pride in his people nearly bursting him at the seams. Sometimes I wondered just how his clothing kept all of him inside when he beamed at his people.

He walked the docks. The tired, creaking, splintering docks. The docks that had seen generation after generation of men and women pull in the heavy-laden nets of a good day's catch. Wood that had been soaked in the blood of the great predators of the sea... those maws of razor sharp teeth that could have taken the largest man in town and sliced him clean through in one bite.

I played on those docks. Silly games that small children play while adults worked in the burning sun. They watched over me as if they were my father and mother. Many a times I was rescued at the last moment by a hand as I nearly plunged over the side in my daydreaming walks. But they never admonished me. The fishermen and women said that such dreams of the sea, near the sea, were the dreams that made life grand.

I remember once, my father in his official dress, helping a family pull in a net that was near bursting while one of the king's men looked on in horror. Imagine, touching one of the people that broke their backs for the kingdom. Nay, they broke no back for the king...they broke their backs for my father.

That night, the fisherman's wife cooked a feast for my family and the king's official. Fried, baked, grilled...smoked...ah, smoked fish. That, if anything, was the feast for a king. My father heartily dug in, sampling everything. He drank the ale poured for him, he sung the seafarer songs... And smiled every moment. That family, that fisherman's family stood proud that night. It was as if we had been welcomed home. But the king's man... He sat off to the side, picking at his food. He snubbed the ale and watched my father disdainfully.

Arrogant, pompous fool. He had no idea what he was missing. He had no idea what life was like on the outer reaches of the king's land. This was life, sir. This was how life should be. Not like that stuffed up palace in the highlands where laughter is lost as soon as the eyes lay on the outer grey walls. Life was not a rigid, choreographed dance that slips through time unannounced. Life was not what your king presumes upon the people.

Life is what my king, my father, lives.

Lived. I hate reminding myself that the word is now representative of the past. Has it been that long? Has lived been in my vocabulary for so many years? Has it been the representative of a life that was cut short by a man's greed and self-preservation for this long? I hate him. My father told me that hatred fuels energy best left to the currents of the sea. That way, it is carried out beyond our reach so that we can live lives of grace.

My grace was stolen in a fit of cowardice and sacrifice.

But my father is not here anymore. His smile is not reflected in the waves that crashed upon our shores. His laughter is not heard above the tumultuous pounding of the water on the rocks near the bay. His worn and rough hands no longer pull at nets too heavy to bring in. And his eyes... His eyes will never see the sun rise over the horizon, the light's trail, newly revealed, sparkling towards his bay, his kingdom, his family.

No, they won't. He stood fast in the end. He paid, out of the king's ransom, for the supplies to fortify the ships and repair the firmament. To hell with the king and his greed, I heard my mother tell him one night. His silent confirmation that he, too, held that belief. The king had done nothing... Why did he deserve anything from them?

He didn't.

I remember my father taking a ship out to sea to clear his thoughts. We all went with him, the gentle rocking of the waves tempting me to sleep. My father, though, could not sleep. No, he sailed out there to get away long enough to feel the solitude of the world that had given all of us life. He knew what I did not. The sea would never be ours again.

He penned letters out there. Letters that begged the king to help. He implored the king to send reinforcements when darkness pressed inward, threatening our shores and forests. He sent estimates to the king, showing him just how large the force was that threatened our borders. But he, in all his splendor and glory, did not respond.

The most powerful man in the known world could not muster enough energy in one finger to point his commanders in our direction to save us.

No.

I always wondered... Had he seen the shores of milky white sands, would he have cared more? What about the hot springs in the cove west of town, where the ache of a day's hard work is taken from you... Would he have cared? He never laid upon the beach in the evening as the water lapped lazily at the sand. He never hauled in a catch at the end of the day, felt the pride for doing a honest day's work. He never...

And he sacrificed us because of it.

I remember the frenzy of fisher boats, now disguised as warships. But I knew that was not what they were. We all did. But we still reinforced the wood and pitch anyway. It was odd to see our once tranquil docks swarming with townspeople. What should have been a frenzy of joy was a cacophony of panic. You could see it in their faces, hear it in their voices.

My father's voice was loudest and it was steadfast and strong. He would be the people's strength. He would be their refuge. He would not abandon them to the waves and swords of the oncoming blackness, the consuming darkness that gnawed at the soul. He was not a pampered prince. He was a man... A real man who knew how to rule. The king...is a king by name. My father is a king by love.

The sea was hurting that day. I felt it in my very inner being. The waves crashed as if trying to break everything apart. It blasted the coastal caves, roaring through the passages, lamenting what was to come. I heard it cry that day. Most would have described the sea as angry, but I knew it was grieving. Pray to whatever you consider holy that you never hear the sea weep. It will haunt your soul until you die.

They came in hoards, bearing down on us as if we were a small animal in the way of the marching insects of the forest. Their ships tore through our humble fisher boats. Men, my father's men, fell before the marauders, their swords cleaving skulls and rending limbs. The sea tried to fight for us that day. I know it did, but there is only so much the moon allowed it to do before pulling it away.

Our people fought bravely. The sea called to them, as if sending its strength to the people it loved so dearly. I heard its pain as if was torn from the men and women who had taken care of the foaming waves and wine dark depths all these years. The gulls joined in its song of grief and I knew in that instant...

I wouldn't see my beloved sea, nor my beloved family, again.

My father stashed me in a secret tunnel just off his and my mother's chambers. He told me to flee, to tell the king. But I stayed. I stayed and watched as the vampire warlord ripped my mother apart, forcing my father to watch. And then, with eyes as brilliant as lush grass, I watched the warlord descend upon my father and snuff out his life while fortifying his own.

I wanted to scream. I now understood the sea's grief, the sea's pain. I understood why it so violently cried for my family and people. It knew exactly what was coming to our shores. Moreso than we ever imagined. The vampire warlord knew I was there, yet could not find me. And as I trembled in that dark tunnel, his eyes seeking me out, I heard the cries of my people in the streets weakly call to me.

I am so sorry... So very sorry I was not strong enough, my people.

It was then that I ran, when I knew I was not strong enough. I ran through the darkness, taking in every cry, every painful sob that followed me. I will keep you safe, I will hold onto you until you will be avenged. I ran until I could run no more and then, on my 6 year old knees, crawled until fresh air assaulted my nose.

I collapsed on the outskirts of a small army of King's fighters in camp. They were right there... Right there! And just a half day's run by my tired, grieving feet was a place of wonder being destroyed for all eternity. Finally able to get their attention, I told them our story. Most listened half-heartedly, others not at all. Only one man spoke, and his words... Such haute words were not wasted on me.

"We know, child. We are here to make sure no one gets into the king's forest. Though, the vampires don't generally venture this far inland."

Those words were seared into my mind and heart that day. The cries and pain that I carried from my home and city wrapped around the soldier's words and ripped them to shreds. The king had sent men to secure the royal forest, but not to save us. I left in a trance, my innocence finally obliterated. The king was no king.

A real king does not let his people suffer and die while he sits on his backside, his gluttony outweighing his conscience.

I pause, yanked out of my memories as the smell of salt tingles my nose. I run as fast as I can, my now twenty-four year old legs much faster and stronger than my six year old ones were. I come upon a rise and look down at the once proud bay of Songrereigh. The shells of homes still stood, though the sea has been trying to reclaim them. I don't blame it at all. It's where our hearts lie, why not our bodies and livelihoods?

The sea stills, and I swear it is for me. The glass smooth surface shines, reflecting the moon's rays. And then, suddenly the water laps at the sands, calling me home.

Yes, my beloved sea. I am home. I am here to make things right. And you, you will fight beside me.

The tumultuous sound of waves pounding on the rocks near the bay echoes up to me as I descend the path. You will have your vengeance, great water, and I will have mine. And together, they will all be vindicated. He will pay one hundred times over for his crimes.

And once again, Songrereigh will be free.
AQ DF MQ AQW Epic  Post #: 2
4/11/2013 23:27:50   
Eukara Vox
Legendary AdventureGuide!


Mystery and Science Fiction
Hunting the Hunter
Co-written with Kellehendros

Impera hated the interstellar flights aboard the standard cruisers. They were advertised to be perfectly attuned to the needs of all races, but that was an untruth. The needs of most humanoids, maybe, but her people, the Tarbh Nathrach, were not comfortable aboard these vessels. The back of the seats pressed against her wings painfully, there wasn't enough leg space, and there was absolutely no atmospheric conditioning. It didn't matter how much scented pheromone one put on, it never really masked a person's true smell. Currently, according to her calculations, approximately seventy-five percent of the passengers had some strange notion that the essence of blooms made them more acceptable.

The last time she had traveled via Nicholbeck Liners, she had submitted a formal complaint. They had assured her in honey-coated words they were looking into it. It had been ten intergalactic years since that complaint. Inefficiency was annoying.

The exit from the wormhole was jarring, even with the warning from the captain. Impera grumbled, catching a few looks aimed at her from other passengers. It felt as if she was the only person who expected precision and professionalism from the ship’s crew. Was it so much to ask for a smooth exit? It seemed to take an unusual amount of time to dock, keeping Impera’s senses on edge. Surely, the issues she was called in to investigate hadn’t spread to the port. If so, this planet’s inability to contain its crimes and infractions needed to be evaluated by the Galactic Prime. She flipped open the small screen on her primary right wrist and entered a note for later. Someone would hear about this.

The announcement to exit the ship came and Impera hurried off. She had a job to do, and if her initial reports indicated anything, it was that this one wasn’t done. High priority hit, selective, efficient and completely by surprise. A dozen hitmen fit that profile so far, which she already had downloaded into her wrist processor. As she entered the commons, Impera saw the Head of the Nichle Planetary Security waiting for her. She examined him as she approached. He was already on her list of wasted time.


Sabarel stared off the roof evenly, looking down into the plaza below. The golden pupils of his eyes slipped back and forth, taking a moment to gauge the buildings around the open space. This would do. It was by no means a perfect vantage point, but if he knew anything it was that finding the perfect vantage point was both impossible, and sure to result in discovery. Discovery invariably lead to conflict, and conflict was to be avoided at all costs.

He was not, to be honest, afraid of conflict. Bloodshed was his business, after all. It was simply that open conflict was... inefficient. Sabarel took a last look around the roof. Yes, this would do, it would do nicely. Kneeling, he slung the black bag off his shoulder and opened it, drawing out the tools that would be necessary for the task ahead.


“I am very well aware of the implications that I have stated, quite openly and clearly. Take it how you decide, Commander Gist, but the facts are the facts. The Chancellor of Bordek was killed, quite easily, while your patrol stood by outside his door.”

The commander sputtered as he struggled to keep up with Impera’s long stride. “My men were doing their jobs. This assassin was a magician. I cannot help that.”

Impera spun around, halting the entire procession and looked down into the commander’s face., towering over him “Your men were not doing their jobs. Had they been doing their jobs, at least one would be dead, another wounded and the chancellor would be alive.” She blinked her compound eyes as her skin registered the levels of hormones flooding his body. Anger, humiliation... and a taste of frustration wafted off of him. “There is no such thing as magic, Commander. There is but sleight of hand, illusion, and perfect science. What you call magic is merely what you do not understand.”

“I have the surveillance footage on my wrist processor. I’ve already looked over it several times.” She continued to move towards the room the chancellor’s body still lay in. “There were no guards on the balcony, nor were there any guarding the windows. I am surprised, Commander, that such little protection was afforded a man who was so highly valued in the underground as dead.”

They paused in front of a door. The commander fumbled with his ID to open the door for the group. Impera sighed and tapped a single line of code into her wrist processor, opening the door. Still one of the fastest in the Prime.


The first task was to secure a perimeter. From the bag came a small, clinking package of black silk. Sabarel placed it on the roof and stood, tail swishing back and forth as he raised one booted foot and drove it down hard, heel first, on the package. There was a muted crunching as the fragile glass of the package gave under the concerted pressure, shattering into fragments. A scaled hand reached down, lifting the package, claws tearing the black silk open and scattering the the broken glass back and forth before the door that lead back into the building. There were a hundred other methods he might have used to give himself warning, should someone come onto the roof while he was watching the plaza, but Sabarel preferred glass. It was an old method, generally shunned in favor of infrared beams, contact pads, or even localized tremor detectors. Sabarel had found, over the years, that glass was best. It did not require batteries, or sound systems, or even attention beyond normal hearing. Glass had the additional benefit of being easily overlooked, and even easily dismissed, by overworked guards doing a final security sweep. Beyond climbing the sides of the building, or dropping down from the air, the door was the only way onto the roof. A good choke point.

He straightened up, inspecting the work for a moment, before turning his gaze back towards the edge of the building. Sabarel sidled to the side, taking in the view of the plaza and surrounding buildings as he moved along the roof, settling on a location he was satisfied with after a moment. Going back down to one knee, he drew a marker from a pocket, making a small dot on the roof. Stretching, he made a second dot before him, almost touching the raised lip of the roof, and then a third dot to his left, creating a long, isosceles triangle with its tip aimed at the plaza. Sabarel stood again, taking a long moment to stare down into the plaza from his chosen vantage point before nodding to no one in particular.


Looking at the scene, it was a wonder how this man was so important. Chaos ruled the quarters, and it was not from the assassination. It was from the slovenly, hedonistic behaviour of the occupant. Sitting down on a chair brought in from the outside, the woman set her case in front of her. Her primary hands worked a touch screen computer she drew from her case, while her secondary hands worked with an electronic drawing pad.

Impera began to diagram everything, from the position of all the entrances and exits, to the arrangement of the furniture, with her secondary hands. Her primary hands were quickly connecting to the infrastructure of the PlanetNet, code being typed rapidly as she looked around. Periodically, she would stand and walk around, her compound eyes reflecting the various lights. Angle was everything, mathematics her evidence.

She blinked and paused. An odd...blip on the PlanetNet coding. She diverted all her attention to the code work, the drawing pad hugged to her thorax by the secondary arms. She could hear the commander in the background, speaking rapidly. An argument ensued, but Impera ignored it. Something about this was exceptional. The code looked familiar, yet the changes made set up loops and channels that only funneled her hacking skills to places she wasn’t interested in.

Commander Gist held up his hand and stared at Impera. He never understood her kind. Always in another world, thinking on a level no one understood. Tarbh Nathrach were odd people. It didn’t help she was a six foot tall bug. He knew the dragonflies on Terra that she resembled... or they resembled her. Apparently the jury was still out on that one.
He knew she had found something by the way she worked her touch screen. She, he had heard, was the best at what she did. Investigative researcher, but also hacker of superb ability. Having a hacker here made him uneasy, mostly because of what it implied. There was a deeper issue than just the death of a chancellor.


Location marked, Sabarel turned to preparations for an emergency exit. A cutting tool and a coil of synthrope emerged from the bag. He knelt once more, running the edge of the laser cutter along the raised lip of the roof, shearing away a section of the metal lip and revealing the structural girders beneath. A careful adjustment to the cutter produces a wide, hot beam, and a slow, practiced application of the tool created a perfect hole through the center of the otherwise solid girder. Sabarel threaded the long, thin strand through the hole, looping the end back on itself and through the hole several times. Coiling the remains of the synthrope up, he carefully stored it in the empty space between two of the support girders revealed by the removal of the lip. Another adjustment to the cutter produced a thin, weak beam, unable to cut much of anything, but just hot enough to activate the synthrope, which expanded, fibers meshing together to grip metal and its own strands with a tenacity that would only yield to a concerted effort of a professional with a heavy-duty deconstructor.

Task completed, Sabarel gently refitted the cutaway section of metal facing to the rest of the roof, examining it for a moment before applying the laser cutter again. His clawed hands manipulated the tool delicately, heating the metal just enough to create a thin surface connection along the cuts. To the unobservant, it would appear that the metal lip was all still a single piece, if a bit weathered in one spot. Hopefully he would not need the contingency, but it was better to have it than be without.

Sabarel shifted over to the bag, drawing out three slender rods. He left them atop the bag for a moment, turning and laying on his stomach inside the triangle he had created earlier. The position left his line of sight straight into the raised lip of the roof. Here the laser cutter proved useful again, and Sabarel used the tool to carefully cut away a six inch section of the lip entirely, lifting the now free metal facing up and away to create a clear line of sight from the rooftop to the plaza, and more importantly, from his position to the room he wanted to see. Satisfied, Sabarel returned the metal facing to its original position. It would remain there until he was ready to act.

He turned back to the bag, drawing out a long, slender case. It opened after the moment it took the scanner to recognize his handprint, and sample a drop of blood. Sabarel ran a gentle hand over the dismantled form within the case, the slightest of smiles tugging at the corner of his reptilian lips. The weapon came together smoothly in his practiced hands, and why not? This was simply another way to praise the Black Lady. The dance of death had many stages, and this too was part of it, one as essential as any other.

Sabarel settled the weapon gently within the demarcated area, and rose to one knee, reaching out and taking the rods in hand. He gave the first rod a gentle twist, extending a miniature drillpoint that began to hum softly as it activated. Holding the rod carefully, he pressed it to the surface of the roof at one of the marks, causing the drill to bite and burrow in several inches. The procedure was repeated for each rod, leaving Sabarel in the middle of a triangle now marked out by a series of ten-inch rods. He touched the tip of the first rod gently, twisting the top open and pressing a button. All three rods opened, a series of small vanes dropping open as a gentle hum emanated from them.


Impera stood staring at one window, perfectly still. Out of all the windows, she stared at one.

“Why is she just staring at the window? She has TWO computers in her... hands, has been hacked into the system for hours and she just stands there staring at the window.” Commander Gist looked at another officer, bewildered. “One of the greatest minds in our universe and she is enjoying the view while we have a murdered chancellor on the floor.”

“Perhaps if you were not relying on less than optimal developmental characteristics, you would have the forethought to look at that which is not as obvious.” Impera moved three inches to the left and stood still, staring at the window.

The other officer looked at Commander Gist. “I think... I think she just called you an idiot.”

“Shut up.” Commander Gist growled and moved to stand beside Impera to see what she saw was so intent on analysing. Though try as he may, he couldn’t see what she saw.

“Based on the initial reports of the PlanetNet security task force, the position of the chancellor when he fell and the angle in which the bullet is lodged in his body, one must conclude that you are all looking for the wrong things. All the wrong things.”

Her air of superiority irked him. She spoke as if he was an idiot. But, he had been warned. Ignoring all the documents and all the profiles of her people was a big mistake. Perhaps he should have read more. Now he was stuck with her.

“Okay, so you say we are looking at this all wrong. Care to enlighten us?” Commander Gist barked, unintentionally harsh. Yes, he was perturbed, but his tone was not supposed to have been so gruff.

Impera moved to the window. “Taking your frustration out on me is not productive, Commander Gist. It is not my fault that you are not able to see things like I do. It’s not your fault either. The path of development selects for those it chooses, and bestows gifts on those deserving. You are destined to have only what you have. Nothing more, nothing less. As for enlightenment, unless you are aiming towards a spiritual perception of events, I cannot enlighten you in the strictest sense of the word. I can, however, show you where your error lies.”


The air around Sabarel seemed to flicker, and then, to an outside observer, the lower half of the kneeling man simply vanished. He reached out, pulling his bag into the triangle with him. The movement was too fast for the energy field’s ability to compensate, creating a blurry smear out motion where Sabarel moved through the field, but once he settled the bag and case beneath himself and went still, the illusion of empty space was perfect. The humming of the rods was easily lost in the background noise of the city, and though the triangle was a little cramped, Sabarel was used to discomfort, and settled in to wait, rifle laying next to him.

He removed himself. It was not hibernation, it was not self-hypnosis, and it wasn’t true absence. If he heard a noise, or had some sixth-sense premonition of danger, he would be back to himself instantly. Sabarel simply closed his eyes, and stepped away from himself, leaving his body behind, waiting. In three hours, his eyes would open, and it would be time to move. Until then, he could contemplate, follow his thoughts wherever they led him, and consider. That consideration led him to her. The scientist had been on his mind lately. It was distracting. It made hearing Her voice hard. It made him... inefficient.

Sabarel’s eyes opened. Judging by the shift in the light, it was precisely three hours from when he had closed his eyes. It was time. One hand lifted slowly towards the segment of metal facing to draw it away, only to freeze. Glass tinkled and crunched beneath boots. Only Sabarel’s eyes moved, catching sight of the man from the corner of his gaze. Heavy tread, breathing elevated, bulky impact armor. Guardsman. That could be problematic.

“Go check the roof Jensen, might be someone hanging around Jensen.” The guardsman grumbled, shuffling across the roof, paying no attention to the glass beneath his boots. “Ruddy barker probably left hours ago. Probably inside with a nice cold glass. But where am I? On a stupid roof. Not my fault reception can’t account for everyone leaving.”

Sloppy. Sabarel continued to watch the complaining man, but only out of the corner of his eye. Even humans could feel eyes upon them. He moved slowly as the guardsman strolled up to the edge of the roof, peering over. Sabarel lifted the section of metal out of the way, giving him a clear view from the roof to the building he wanted. Setting the metal aside, he cautiously shifted his rifled, bracing it atop his case and picking out the correct room.

“Jump off the roof then? Ruddy waste of my time.” The guardsman turned his back to the wind, placing him looking towards Sabarel as he lit up a cigarette.

Sabarel held still, half his attention on the guardsman, and half on the building. He would have to take the shot, even with the guardsman there. Gently, he worked the rifle’s slide, chambering a round. Any moment now...


“Come here, Commander Gist.” Impera approached the glass until her face was nearly pressing against it. “What do you see?”

The commander obeyed, and at the moment, did so to help himself gather control over his own emotions. Inside, he was screaming the best and worst obscenities at the woman in front of him. The nerve she had insulting me as she does. Who on earth was capable of working with such a woman! I would love to meet this person and ask them how they managed to do it and not kill her. “What am I looking at?”

Pointing at the very small hole in the window, she continued speaking. “When I was looking into the security coding of this room, I saw a curious blip in the programming. For a moment, something changed. Now, of course, the common eye wouldn’t have seen it, and I daresay only the original creator of this code would have seen it aside from me, but there was a broken line of code. A systematic subroutine that was supposed to deliver a command was notched to only deliver what looked like the correct command, when in fact, it was really a spliced heterogenous sub-correlation command to divert a minute amount of energy elsewhere when that particular routine was enabled.”

“Um... okay. So that means?”

“It means, the security mandate in the code to make this glass become as solid as a metallic wall in the event of a breach was tampered with using a code that made the transition move from precise and orderly to just a millisecond off in coordination. Enough time for a well trained assassin to shoot your chancellor. This very small hole is what is left of the entry point of the bullet.”


There. The security glass of the building activated, an electric charge rippling through the building’s glass skin. Molecules realigned, becoming rigid, stronger, able to resist heavy weapon fire. The changed rippled down the building like a wave, changing the security glass from clear, reflective blue to a hard, matte black that was impossible to see through. All but for one window.

One window didn’t change, or at least, it didn’t change immediately. For a split second the entire surface of the window rippled, the charge running through the security glass to trigger the change at a fraction of its proper strength. The target was already in his sights, Sabarel’s finger was already resting lightly on the trigger. He mouthed a silent prayer to Her, and then gently stroked the trigger.


Impera’s secondary hands went to work, entering code rapidly, as she rested one of her primary hands alongside the entry. “All the assassin had was one shot. Any more would lose the element of surprise, but he had to have known how to use the break in code. He wasn’t just opportunistic, he was intelligent, resourceful and extremely good at what he did. Only the best was asked for this job.”

“You say ‘he’ with great conviction, Impera.” Commander Gist raised an eyebrow. “I know your list has three women on it as strong suspects.”

She paused, but didn’t respond. Instead, she enabled her computer to project an image onto the glass, simulating the shooting. “As you can see, the single bullet, which was found in the chancellor’s body, is bigger than this hole, which undoubtedly caused much of your people’s confusion and left this piece of evidence unfounded. To the lay person, this makes no sense. But, physics and the order of science will actually support my theory.”

The officer from before walked up and looked at the scene. “The bullet penetrated the shielding, at just the right moment to be let through, and the hole is the result of where the shield closed around the bullet as it passed through, until the molecules lined up and set.”

Commander Gist stared at the underling.

“Precisely, sir. Commander Gist, why is this man not doing something more than menial officer duties?” She looked at officer with what looked like a smile on her face. “You name and rank?”

“Third officer, second rank of the PlanetNet Five. Obsidian Dawson, Ma’am.”

“If I remember correctly, that is the lowest rank possible. Either you are brand new, sir, or you have been overlooked, and horribly so. Anything else to your eye?” Impera looked at the officer with a light appraisal.

As if bolstered by her comments, Officer Dawson straightened his back. “The slug is a .300 magnum, and old. I would say the assassin actually used a very old rifle, not a modern one. Again, the shield would have recognised more modern arms. I have a rifle that would use this very same caliber if it weren’t so old and wretched.” He stepped closer. “If your projection is correct, the assassin came not from inside, as was assumed, but that building.” He pointed to a building off to the side, slightly higher than the one they stood in.

“My projection is not wrong. Commander, has anyone looked for security absences?” Impera spoke but her eyes were on her touchscreen, working, while her secondary hands hugged her abdomen. Something was wrong in her eyes, but only one person in the universe would have recognised it. And he was precisely why she was worried.


Even the guardsman could not ignore that. The shot rang out sharply, echoing back from the buildings nearby. Sabarel was already moving, a blur of motion as he burst up from the field, dropping into a spin, his tail flashing out and taking the guardsman at the knees, sending him toppling to the ground with a crash.

He had to give the guardsman credit, the man had heart, if not necessarily skill or smarts. The guard rolled to his feet, buzz baton snapping out as he came back at Sabarel. Sabarel ducked a wild swing, and sidestepped another, arm snapping out and grabbing the guard’s wrist. A twist bent the arm back, causing the baton to fall to the ground, and a turn of Sabarel’s hips transferred the guard’s forward momentum over a leg, sending him to the ground. A fist blurred out, checking a hair at the very last moment, slamming into the guard’s throat. Cartilage crackled, and the man gasped as his larynx was hammered out of position, obstructing his breathing.

Sabarel rose, ignoring the downed guard, fighting down the urge to kill the man as he walked to the side of the building, kicking the weakened metal aside to get to his emergency escape plan. He knelt, casting the rope over the side of the building, and then rose, walking slowly back to the guard. The man scrabbled at his throat, wheezing in pain as he fought to breathe. Sabarel knelt again, tilting his snout to one side, observing the guard with reptilian eyes. His nostrils flared slightly, scenting. Surprisingly gentle, Sabarel drew the weakening man’s hands aside, and then with a hard heel thrust, hammered the man’s larynx back into position. His voice was a soft, sibilant hiss as the guard gasped in relief. “The Lady says that today is not your day to die. I suggest you remain here for now and recover. If you attempt to follow or stop me, I will kill you.”

Turning, Sabarel rose, ignoring the feebly moving man, who was more intent on his regained ability to breathe than stopping anyone, and walking to his gear. Sabarel twisted, hand blurring out and jamming a needle into the guard’s neck. The man siezed, gasping, and then going slack. A gentle pair of fingers on the carotid told Sabarel that the man was out but alive. Scopolamine, along with a mix of sedatives. The guard would be out for hours, and the cocktail would erase his short-term memory.

Sabarel turned, rising again and crossing the roof. He tapped the top of each rod, activating their overloads. It was a shame to lose them, but he did not have time to pry them out of the roof, and he would have to move quickly. There may have been more guards. He slung his rifle across his back, leaving behind the bag with its assortment of cheap tools, and the case he had used to sneak the rifle through customs. Clipping the synthrope to his suit harness, he slid over the edge of the roof, and rapidly down to the ground below.


Moving away from the pair, Commander Gist rejoined the other group. He relayed what Impera had discovered, meeting a mix of disbelief and admiration. He wasn’t satisfied. She had avoided his inquiry about her emphatic use of “he”. It was as if a part of her already knew who it was, yet she wasn’t talking. And then, that lowborn officer Dawson interrupted her, giving her a way out. He may not be a super genius like her in the academic world, but she wasn’t a super genius in his. She was flawed, just like everyone else, and she was hiding something.

Officers were dispatched from the outside to search the building both Dawson and Impera singled out. Within minutes, a security officer was reported as downed, throat heavily bruised, alive but left without memories of the previous hour or so before he lost consciousness.

“So, you were right. We also found a few things at the site where the assassin had set up shop. A lot of broken glass was scattered, as if it were an alarm system. Another device of some sort,-”

Impera interrupts, the screen’s glow lighting her face. “Was found embedded into the buidling’s infrastructure. Yes, I am seeing that report. Also, the guard was drugged with a compound of amnesiac and sleep medications. That is a great amount of information. It definitely narrows the pool of possibilities.”

Trying desperately hard to not blow up at Impera, Commander Gist swallowed and took three long breaths. He hated hackers, but this... “Yes. And you very obviously indicated that this was a man earlier. Does that narrow it a bit more?”

Looking up abruptly, she blinked and paused. Yes, it did, she thought. More than I like. “I am still convinced that this was done by a man. I have two suspects, one which has a higher probability of being guilty than the other. Nevertheless, I shall submit both names.”

A Galactic Prime major approached her. “Miss Impera, what are the two names?”

“Seamus Declaran.” She looked out the window and towards the place where the assassin had set up. “Sabarel Sislen.”

“Good gods...” The major shook his head. “Neither is good news and neither means this is the end...”

All Impera could do was look, as if sweeping the scene with a final glance. She knew exactly who it was.


Hours had passed. He should be well on his way by now. Transit was waiting for him, purchased discreetly for a handful of untraceable certified credit chips. Still, rumor was often the best source of knowledge leaking from official channels. Sabarel had returned to the scene, or at least, to the roof of another building overlooking the plaza. Rumor had it that a high level specialist had been called in to examine the scene. If some analyst was going to pick the area into pieces, Sabarel wanted to get a look at him or her. A picture of the specialist’s face, with some cred chips and a good hacker, could get him an idea of what kind of chase he could expect. Leaning against the chest-high parapet of the building, Sabarel rested his rifle over his arm, staring through the scope and sweeping over the hit site and firing position. He paused, stepping back, the rifle lowering. It was her, the scientist. His voice was a soft whisper, wicked away by the wind.

“Impera...”

This changed everything.

< Message edited by Eukara Vox -- 4/11/2013 23:32:04 >
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