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Date Posted: 19:01:12 01/12/04 Mon
Author: Madison
Subject: pt 4 revamp
In reply to:
Madison
's message, "Newish Story" on 14:23:50 01/10/04 Sat
In the next four weeks, I adjusted to my new life in Section. My schedule was tight, and I was exhausted all the time. I started every morning at five, and I ran five miles and weight trained. At least, I was supposed to be working up to running five miles. I was at two. After breakfast I would work with my tutors on high school stuff, like French and German and world history and algebra and geometry and geography. I worked with either Birkoff or Walter in the afternoons, and then James and I would work on profiling for an hour. I also spent two hours with Madeline every day, usually. She was occasionally too busy, and those days I coveted. The lessons from her made me ill; they were downright dangerous.
Psychological profiling was all about messing with people’s heads, and the “deportment” lessons were really about putting my features at their best seductive advantage. I was a jeans and tee shirt kind of girl in a sexy Gucci kind of world. Not that I didn’t like playing dress up, I could be Cinderella every day, but that’s all it was. It wasn’t me and it never would be.
After Madeline messed with my head, I ate dinner and then James and I sparred. We fought, no holds barred: I worked out all my frustration with his silence and he corrected my technique. Because after his heated and soulful regret on my first day, he had said nothing of any consequence beyond my training. It drove me bananas. So I punched and kicked him really hard, and he put me on the mat every ten seconds. It was not so fun, and it was suicide.
I hurt a lot.
My life went on life like that. I was on a strict timetable, in order to graduate with flying colors from material to operative in just under than two years (apparently, being an almost-high school graduate got you a slightly accelerated track, in the Section-doesn’t-need-to-teach-you-your-ABCs kind of way). But what was Section, and Madeline more to the point, going to do with a just-seventeen-year-old fully trained operative? An excellent question. I pondered that one a lot, because it made the kind of sense that didn’t make sense, any way you sliced it.
About twice a week, James and I played chess in his office after our sparring sessions. I curled up (as best I could) in his stiff office chair with a large canteen of hot and overly sweet tea while James ran circles around my pawns. After each checkmate, he would explain what I had done wrong and I would take scads of notes and study them incessantly. It was an all-consuming and all-distracting obsession; I wanted to beat James at chess.
I always lost. My competitive nature suffered many scrapes, and the only cure was a deafening win.
One particular evening, I was lounging while James annihilated my rooks and queens, and he made an announcement: “Your numbers in German are unsatisfactory.”
“They are not,” I quickly objected, moving my pawn forward, even though I knew it would be taken.
“They are. You have been here three months and you have barely reached two-percent proficiency. That is unacceptable.” James took my pawn. “Check.”
I glared at the chessboard. I could have sworn he was at least five moves away from check, and there he was: in a position to beat me. I had to repress the growl of frustration. “So I have a serious mental block against German. It’ll be fine in two years anyway. I’m not worried…. Now how did you get there?” I exclaimed, referring to his rapidly ascending queen.
“Your blasé attitude is not helping. Until your numbers drastically improve, you will spend time every night in this office studying, as well as your world politics. They’re not coming along as well as I’d like,” James said.
“You’re joking. When am I supposed to sleep?” I asked.
“When you can explain the current Croatian political situation in flawless German. Checkmate.”
I swore as I stormed out of the room. Since when were my academics a problem? I thought viciously. I was a picture perfect student, which mostly meant I knew how to write algebra formulas and French verb conjugations on my desk without the teacher seeing before tests. And Section was hardly the lowest common denominator education I was accustomed to in my under-funded and over-crowded public school. Section’s version of high school was challenging, to say the least. Harder than the advanced algebra class my ego had squirmed into in eighth grade. And I had to take first year algebra twice. Damn James, I thought, for trying to keep me off balance, just as I was finally gaining my equilibrium.
I arrived in James’s office the next evening in a fury of anger. I sat down in the chair and glared at him. James silently started to set up the chessboard. He took the first move and I ignored it.
“Erika,” he said, I could hear the frustration in his voice. “Are you going to cooperate tonight? We are supposed to be discussing current events.”
“I have a headache. Is that current enough for you?”
“Smart aleck answers will not get you anywhere with me. I can wait you out.”
“Please do,” I said, daring him to wait out my legendary stubbornness. So we sat in silence, staring at each other in silent challenge. Five minutes passed, then ten, then thirty. Every time I felt my resolve weakening, I thought of my home, what Section had taken from me; then I barreled down the hatches and send more negative vibes in James’s direction.
Our silent standoff at the OK-Corral lasted for ninety minutes. “You are dismissed, Erika,” James finally said. I launched myself out of the chair, triumphant in victory. When I reached the door, James continued. “If this ever occurs again, I will report it to Madeline and you will have to explain your actions to her. Tomorrow, I expect you to be prepared and cooperative.”
I felt deflated. I wasn’t so triumphant after all. I left the room and sulked my way back to my quarters, mostly to sleep but partly to prepare for the next blow to my ego and self worth. And that came sooner than I expected.
I was in Madeline’s office, minding my own profiles, when Madeline handed me a PDA. “Please take this to Systems for me. Be back in three minutes.”
It was a challenge. I hated when she played on my competitive nature: it usually ended badly. I took the PDA, headed out of the office and down the hallway that led to Systems. I soon began to run. I should explain I was not wearing shoes that could be considered conducive to running. I was wearing somewhat dainty and high heeled but sturdy stilettos that slid at every misstep I took. I focused on the floor in front of me, trying not to fall with every step. I rounded a corner that was to the left of me then:
Smack, bang, thud.
The smack was me running into something, the bang was the PDA hitting the cement, and the thud was me falling on my ass, and my wrist. I felt the pain of the fall shoot through my arm. I started to swear, a long line of vulgarities that started pouring out of my mouth. It was hat always happened when I was injured, I swore instead of crying. I gently cradled my injured wrist in my other arm, and attempted to stand up. Then I looked up, to see what exactly I had run into. There was a man standing in front of me, apparently taking in the scene I had created. I recognized him immediately, Michael, from my first day, the one with the woman who had known all about me.
Thought number one: he knows who I am. Thought number two: Why did I have to run into a person? Why couldn’t it have been a wall? Oh, the inhumanity of it all!
“You’re Erika,” Michael said. I think he recognized me too.
“I fall on my butt, I’m not suffering from a head injury. I do remember my name!” I exclaimed. “Listen. I’m really sorry about this. I was trying to get to Systems and…” I started to apologize profusely.
“You are injured. You need to go to Medlab,” Michael said, cutting me off.
I pulled myself up and teetered on the stilettos. I kicked them off, exclaiming “Damn shoes!” I then went to find the PDA, frantically turning to see where it had landed.
“Are you looking for this?” he asked me calmly, showing me the PDA.
“Yes. I need to take that to Systems. Madeline…” I tried to explain.
“Madeline can wait. You require medical attention.”
“But, I really need to go to Systems. I..” I picked up the detested stilettos with my non-injured hand and dangled them from my fingertips. “Really, I’ll be OK.” I tried to step around him, and he blocked me. “Can I have the PDA now?” I asked impetuously.
“No. You will report to Medlab immediately,” Michael insisted. “Give me the shoes.”
I knew I wasn’t going to get out of this. I reluctantly and carefully handed him the stilettos. Michael called over another operative and told him to take the PDA to Systems for Madeline, and as the operative scurried off to do his bidding, Michael proceeded to grab my elbow and march me to Medlab. I protested the entire way there, prattling on and on, mostly to see if I could ruffle his cool and annoyingly calm exterior and make him feel the frustration I was.
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part 5 -- Madison, 19:03:21 01/12/04 Mon
My arm had been x-rayed before James and Madeline arrived to assess the situation. I was sitting on a gunnery with my arm propped up on a tray. I was so pumped full of painkillers I couldn’t feel a thing (I doubted that if I had suddenly been sliced with a knife I would have felt the coldness of the metal blade), but I was lucid enough to see the worry etched on James’s face. Michael stood at attention (he did not say a word after explaining what had happened) while the doctors fixed me. I was attempting to garner a reaction out of him by making ridiculous faces, all guaranteed to win any pre-adolescent staring contest. I got nuthin’ outta Mikey.
“What happened?” James demanded, the second he was in hearing distance.
“I, ugh…” I searched for the words to explain my infinitely embarrassing predicament. “I was going to Systems on an errand for Madeline in lethal and highly dangerous shoes….” I began.
“You weren’t looking where you were going, were you?” James cut in.
“You try getting to Systems in a minute and a half from Madeline’s office in four inch stilettos!” I vehemently protested. “You probably couldn’t walk three steps without…” I stopped before I said something I knew I would regret. “Anyway, I turned a corner and um, ranina’im,” I spat out quickly, indicating Michael with my head.
“You ran into Michael?” James asked.
“Right,” I said. I felt my face flame with embarrassment. I always turned beet red when I was embarrassed, the kids in elementary school used to make it a sport to see how red they could make me turn. To this day, the words “she’s blushing!” makes my face resemble a tomato.
“Erika, you certainly have a way…” James suddenly looked like he was going to burst into laughter. My face flamed hotter.
“Well, Erika, I do hope you’re feeling OK,” Madeline interjected.
“Yeah, painkillers can do wonderful things,” I said cheerfully. “Hooray for modern medicine!”
The doctor came in at that moment, and plastered my x-ray films on one of those light-up boards. “Erika, it appears the left bone in your wrist has sustained a small fracture. But the prognosis is good, after six weeks in a cast it should be as good as new. You’re lucky you’re so young, with your medical history. I’ll be back in a moment to fix you up.”
“Don’t I get to pick the color of the cast? I asked hopefully, I was fancying a magenta one.
“No, we only have white,” the doctor said, almost sadly. I wondered if he remembered when he could offer colored casts to injured children.
“Thank you, doctor,” Madeline said in way of dismissal. “I hardly think this is new to you, Erika,” she continued.
“No. I think this is number six,” I said.
“Number six of what?” James asked.
“Did you not read that part of my profile?” I asked; I was dumbfounded James didn’t know. “I’ve broken my arm five, well, now six, times, and my collarbone and my finger. It’s kind of a bad habit.” I said matter-of-factly. “I have a cast collection.”
“Like the doctor said, you’re lucky you’re young and heal easily,” James said.
At that moment, the tall blonde woman I’d last seen walking with Michael sprinted into the room, looking more than distressed. “Michael! They told me I could find you here. Are you all right?” She looked worried, was more like it, about Michael.
“I’m fine, Nikita. I was just escorting Erika to Medlab. Was there something you wanted?” Michael said, calmly. But something flew between them, and it looked like something similar to what flew between James and me, only hundreds of times more intense. Michael looked like he knew exactly what Nikita was going to do, and wasn’t surprised at all when she did.
Relief briefly flooded Nikita’s expression, but a mask soon replaced any emotion. “Yes. I wanted to discuss the Simm we ran yesterday, regarding the mission,” she said, suddenly business-like.
“My office,” Michael said. “Erika, I hope you feel better.”
“Thanks, I will,” I replied.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Erika,” Nikita said.
“Same here,” I said.
“Thank you for taking care of her, Michael,” James said.
“It was no problem.” And with that, Michael and Nikita left Medlab, deep in another hushed conversation.
Madeline seemed to be deeply disturbed by what had just happened, and I thought it was about Michael and Nikita. I silently prayed that I would never be the cause of one of those looks, it was frightening. She looked like one of her meticulously planned profiles had been thwarted, and I knew that it drove her nuts when I merely profiled a fake mission incorrectly. I could tell there was something going on with Michael and Nikita, if the whispers I pretended not to hear from Walter and Birkoff, along with Nikita’s performance, were any indication, Madeline was not too happy about it.
The doctor soon came back and applied a surprisingly light, and starkly white, fiberglass cast to my arm. I was then allowed to return to my room to sleep off the painkillers I had been given. My room was no longer the minimalist nightmare it was when I arrived. Walter had helped me out a bit, but I had scads of posters of brightly colored famous artwork on my walls, my favorite being “Starry Night” by Van Gogh. James had given me a stereo to listen to music, as a reward for good behavior (I’m not really sure what of my behavior was considered good, but I wasn’t going to protest). I begged CDs off anyone who would listen, and had procured a small but diverse collection of music to listen to. Madeline, despite her disapproval of fiction, indulged me with the occasional novel. I was still accumulating the classics, but I was thinking of requesting a Harry Potter book next for fun. I picked up where I had left off in “A Tale of Two Cities” and curled up on the hard mattress, but soon fell into a deep sleep.
I was awoken hours later; I did not notice the time, by the beeping that usually indicated that someone wanted my permission to enter. I hauled myself out of bed, and drowsily punched in the access code, one I knew almost everyone but me had the override sequence to. The door slid open, and I looked up to see who would come in.
“Hello, Erika,” Nikita said brightly, letting herself into my quarters. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Colorful, but intelligent.”
“Thanks,” I said. I was awed by Nikita when she was up-close. She was bright and blonde beauty where I was dark and dishwater. She had an air about her, like she was still optimistic despite the harsh realities of Section. “Was there anything in particular you wanted?” I asked, trying not to sound as cold as the question inherently was.
“Yes. I want to apologize for what happened in Medlab. You seemed embarrassed.”
“Yeah, it was a whole load of ‘let’s humiliate Erika’ fun,” I remarked. “But it’s cool. Just the whole situation was, well, a disaster.”
“How did that happen?” Nikita indicated my arm.
“You don’t know!” I let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank heavens, that’s the worst part! But I kinda ran into Michael.”
“You ran into Michael?” Nikita burst out into fits of giggles.
“It’s not funny!” I protested. But I could not deny its laughablity; I dissolved into hysterics myself. I broke my arm by running into someone. That was funny.
“Michael didn’t scare you too much, did he?” Nikita asked, after out laughter had died down. “He can be intimidating, and pretty intense, sometimes.”
“Michael? No, except for the ‘you will do as I say’ tone. I have a feeling not too many people ignore that.”
“No. He’s a pretty respectable bloke in here. But I’d trust him with my life,” Nikita said. “Michael made me.”
“Like James is going to make me?” I commented. “Into a guilt-free killer?”
“That’s one way to look at it,” Nikita said. “I saw it that way for a long time. But then I got smart; James just wants you to survive.” She sighed. “I never thought Section would sink so low as to recruit another innocent, without even framing her for murder first.”
I heard the catch in her voice. “It happened to you, didn’t it?” I said. “Section framed you for murder so they could recruit you.”
“Never said I had proof. It conveniently disappeared. But I should go, I’m supposed to be a brain-washed Section robot now.”
“OK. See you later, Nikita.”
“Yes,” Nikita’s Section-like mask fell back into place. “Walter was right about you. You’re a real five percenter.”
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I'm going to make a few general comments real fast. -- Shanola, 20:51:02 01/16/04 Fri
First, let me say that you've got some nice wording here and there. I feel as though I'm watching a butterfly flapping his wings to build strength. I think you have the tools you need to grow into a good writer.
But I have serious reservations about the main character in this particluar piece. Why would Section kidnap an innocent 15 year old? She's six feet tall, so it couldn't be because they thought she'd be able to blend into a crowd.
Yes, we've seen in canon that Birkoff was in Section from a baby and Greg Hillenger was brought into Section as a teenager. But Birkoff wasn't living on the outside and Greg brought his ultimate recruitment upon himself. If you recall the ep featuring Greg, Section didn't ask for his help lightly, not in the beginning. At first, they were against it. He was a last choice.
So, yeah, I'm having serious reservations about why on earth Section would recruit a teenager.
And you've got her down as a 15 year old but honestly, I haven't ever met a 15 year old as mature as Erika. Not in America anyway. Maybe in Europe. But in America, or even Canada, I think teenagers are allowed to be children for a long, long time. I know I was. I had no idea about the world as a larger place, not when I was 15. That came later, during college. I'm not saying someone who lived on the streets or was raised on welfare or had a really tough life wouldn't be mature at fifteen. I think many of them are. Many girls are raising babies at fifteen or making money for themselves, however they can.
But your character feels as though she was raised upper middle class and I just can't buy her maturity.
I keep wondering which Horatio Hornblower you want her trainer to look like. I have the feeling you mean Ian Guffold from the A&E versions but there were some Horatio Hornblower movies made back in the fifties and the character in the book is even more different then the old movie version. My advice? Avoid comparing your characters to movie stars. I think it complicates things.
Hmm....though that's not to say you can't make *any* comparasion to movie stars. Something like, "His eyes reminded her of Paul Newman's baby blues" works somewhat (okay, yeah, I know, I made that up on the spur of them moment and it aint a great sentence but go with me here!LOL)...um, yeah. Anyway, that sort of comparision works better for me than saying, "He looked just like Paul Newman." Because I remember Paul Newman as youngish, then older, and now older still. Which look were you going for? See what I mean?
But I see a lot of good in your writing. I see *potential*, which is very cool.
I'm going to try to find time (and I have to go *look* for it, because it keep running out on me, damnit!) to go through and beta each piece you've posted. Give me a few days, though, okay? I've got a busy, busy schedule for the next few days.
Thanks for posting here, too, btw. I don't feel comfortable posting critiques on the storyboards but I think it's terrific when people really want to improve their writing. =P
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Can I mention.... -- Madison, 07:03:34 01/17/04 Sat
Thanks very much for responding, but there are a few things I'd like to briefly argue....
1) What teenager doesn't have a celeberty crush? It was a small detail I put in to characterize her as a teenager, and I did mean the Horatio from the A&E versions.
2)I was very tall in high school, and I'm trying hard not to make Erika a mimi-me, and kids who are tall (sometimes, but not always) are expected by socitety to act their height, not their age. And kids who are teased (which I've briefly alluded to, but might make more clear in the future)have to handle much more in a more mature way... hence Erika's seeming over-maturity. And I'll admit mature 15-year-olds are very rare in the US, they're not non-existant.
But really, thanks heaps for responding, I really, really
appreciete it. Madison
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Hmm... -- Shanola, 18:22:15 01/17/04 Sat
I wasn't trying to imply that teenagers don't have celebrity crushes. You are writing from Erika's POV, and that's fine. But you as the author should also keep in mind the larger audience who may not know who Horatio Hornblower is. I love HH. I own the DVD's. I own the books and have read them several times. One of the outstanding characterists of HH in the books is his paunchy belly, which he absolutely hates but can't do anything about. He's also started to lose his hair, which he also hates. And he is completely tone deaf. When I think of HH, I think of those facts first. When Erika said he looked like HH, I immediately thought Balding and Paunchy belly, can't dance because he can't hear music....and I do not think that's what you are going for. Too late for me, though, because now James is balding with a paunchy belly and he'll never, ever dance because he is comepletely tone deaf.
See?
What I would suggest instead is to have Erika note his physical description, on the off chance someone hasen't ever seen the HH movies, and then have her conclude he looks a little like HH in the movies.
Example:
A man walked in the door. He had brown hair that leaned towards curls, brown eyes and sharp features. I imediately thought of the actor who played Horatio Hornblower in the televised movies.
Do you see how that gives the reader a reference to go with even though the reader may not have any idea who HH is?
As for point two...I've known young people who are very tall for their age. They *still* act like annoying teenagers from time to time.
Erika says she is very tall and somewhat clumsy, but I don't see her act self-conscious about that at all. In fact, I don't see any self-consciousness about her at all. She stands brazenly up to Madeline. "Tell me why you think I'm pretty. And be truthful."? I can't believe any fifteen year old would say that. They'd be more likely to say, "Really? You think I'm pretty? Why?"
I guess it's the word choices you've made for Erika. They don't reference to any teenaged tempo I've ever read. I love Young Adult books. I think Vivian Vande Velde is a goddess and everyone should read her works, teenager or not. I think great literature is written in the genre. And yet, even the most mature teenaged characters in those books are not as mature as Erika.
In order for Erika to avoid being a Mary Sue, I need to see her vulnerabilities. I need to see her as a complicated human who is struggling to find her way, wether she knows it or not. There is a fine line to being mature, and many adults still have a hard time walking it. Teenagers are still trying to learn how and sometimes swing wildly one way then the other, much like the balance bar a tightrope walker carries. I need to see her learn to control her emotions.
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Re: Hmm... -- Madison, 09:56:33 01/18/04 Sun
I see your point... and I'm tryng to make Erika act her age, u say, and walk that fine line without being Mary Sue.
And about HH- um, when I started the re-write of this story, I had just seen the reruns of the movies on A&E, and it's been ages since I read the books, so I will clairfy that... and I'm sorry you now have a less than flattering image of James because that was NOT my intention. (honestly!!!)
look for a repost and I'd love to know what you think
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