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The many faces of Terrorist AU
Since I went on about not outlining and not committing oneself to a certain version of events, and the time and interest necessary to actually see a project through multiple true rewrites that don't lean too heavily on the previous drafts, here are the extant drafts of what's probably the longest-lived project of mine: "Terrorist AU". For fun.
Take 1: Untitled, file called "aisenebombers.odt". I don't exactly recall when I first wrote part of this, but I think it was 2007 or 2008. I recall the first scene coming in one brilliant wonderful rush of inspiration -- and then I couldn't continue it, although I tried, poking at it slowly for a long time. My last edits to this file, according to openoffice, are from 2011.
“Give me that,” the smaller one mumbles, seizing the bottle from the older man. He holds the bottle to his lips and took a deep quaff, the dark glass rim glinting by streetlight. When he lowers it, he take a shuddering breath, waiting for the burn of alcohol to seep from throat to stomach, stomach to blood, blood to mind. They should've brought something stronger, he thinks. Faster. In needles maybe. The crawl of the alcohol, osmosis from outside to in, as slow and stagnant as the air in his lungs. I need an injection. I can't believe. I can't believe this is. It's been too fast.
Sixteen years, what is sixteen years? Suddenly all of these sixteen years are floating within him, solidified, ambition and struggle and hate, memories in energy energy to matter standing on the doorstep of the closed trinket shop across from the brightly-lit plaza of the Gallia Embassy. He sees it suddenly like an apparition. Not made of steel and stone. Something weaker. Weaker than flesh. He wishes to dash the bottle across the sidewalk. But that would alarm the guards. Ruin their mission. When the elder chose him he praised his self-restraint. You are – you understand what we live for – one of us and someday – you are my favorite and you'll come with me on our last – you'll be very valuable – this will be our surest mark on the world and it will bring the apocalypse upon them. His fingers tremble on the bottle. “You can take this back with you.”
The elder accepts it but says, “I won't be going back.” Silent question. “I told you. This is our last. You think I'd let you go alone?” Does that mean he wishes to accompany him into death, he wonders, or – more likely – that he isn't trusted with so grave a task? He scans the elder's face for a sign. There is none. But ... no being should be trusted alone with a thing like this. He understands. He runs a hand across the slender but heavy packages beneath his suit, beautiful bags of nitroglycerin he made himself, warm against him like a winter coat. Don't trip, the elder had warned him with a laugh.
The historic clocktower they cannot see gives a deep ring. They wait in silence and count the number of strikes, as they had for the last few hours. Nine. The reception would begin in thirty minutes. One more alert, a single-strike on the quarter, and they would go in. In the waiting time, they silently reflect on themselves. The papers brand them as religious terrorists, but he does not pray. The elder uses the Tenets of Yune to attract the cannon fodder, but now it is just two, both unbelieving, both with sights only on the justice of their triumph. There is not room for doubt, has not been room for doubt for years. Thinking this way is not dangerous.
He thinks the embassy building is too beautiful. It is made of the blood and tears of the enslaved, yet glows softly in night lights, beige stone and steel-rimmed windows. On the first floor there is even a concert hall – he thinks to himself that he would've liked to hear the concert tonight, one of Stravinsky's suites, he's not sure which but he's not picky, but he wouldn't have time for the concert, that's a fantasy for another life – and on the fifth, a balcony. He looks up to that balcony. Though important in their operations, he wonders what it would be like to be on that balcony in the daytime, gazing over the inappropriately beautiful landscape of Begnion. He wonders if he'd see the subtle entrance to the tunnels into Grann, the hospitals they visited for supplies, the alleys where he grew. He then remembers the shadow the embassy cast in the hours earlier. The balcony faces away from all these things. It sees only Begnion's false beauty.
Dong. They go.
They climb up the fire escape on the nearby skyscraper and he hovers on the roof of the trinket shop while the elder secures the ropes. They don't speak, but he hears the elder's voice from their first mission – Nervous? – and his mumbled sounds that failed to form words, and then the taste of acid and a hint of stale bread, his lunch. His chuckle. That was eight years ago. Yet every time they go, he hears the elder's voice. Nervous? Yes. Always. He is composed this time, his anxiety present only in the beating of his pulse. The elder hands him the first rope, silently admonishing, Don't crash. He takes the rope and glides across easily, landing feet-first on the balcony. The elder follows. They examine each other and quietly approve of their gentlemanly appearance.
“Good evening, Soan Valke,” he says in perfect formal Gallian. A code name.
“How do yew do, Soren Odin?” the elder replies with a slight accent. A code name and his only name.
“Mouth more open on you,” he tutors briefly, returning to their desert tongue.
“I cannot understand you.” In Gallian, the hint of a smile on his face.
“Are you an immigrant, Mr. Valke?” The elder had always praised his linguistic talent. Some time ago, he had been selected to carry out one of many vapid, small, but dangerous missions. It quite quickly became clear, however, that it would be a waste of this youngster's talent. How often could they obtain one who could conjure such a perfect deception? His promise only grew as he aged. He said in native street-tinged Daeinese, for the sake of irony: “The lowborn have no place here.”
“They verily don't,” the elder, still in Gallian. “Swiftly, now.”
---
It was one of those endless meetings at which diplomats spoke, leaders nodded, and they served the good of humanity while dropping mixed-bloods into the dustbin.
From the balcony, they trail along the wall of the dark, empty ballroom to the illuminated exit. They had studied blueprints; from here they would enter a hall, and they would part. He doesn't know what the elder's role would be on this mission. They have always been told exactly enough. Soren would turn left, follow the hall to the stairwell and work his way down to the coat room to find identities carelessly left behind. With that he would work his way into the reception, in the midst of the Gallian diplomats, the Begnion senators... the Empress. He would put a spot of glue on his palm and a coin on that glue, and he would unbutton the top few buttons of his suit and reveal the other coin just over his heart, and in one arc he'd strike a single blow to his chest.
He doesn't dwell on what comes next. He will have struck a blow against the aristocracy. That is what comes next.
They come to the hallway. They nod and part.
He passes the elevators without a thought, comes to the stairs right where they were marked in the blueprints and halts. Right there in capital letters reads the sign, in Gallian and Begnionese:
FIRE ESCAPE ONLY
ALARM WILL SOUND IF DOOR IS OPENED
His heart begins to pound in his chest. They have contingencies, always contingencies, but with the hope that they would not be forced to use them. He traces his steps back to the elevator. He smooths his hair and straightens his back as he presses the down button. He knows Yune is not listening but he silently pleads with her anyway that the elevator would be empty. The diplomats should be at the concert. It's not an unreasonable hope.
The numbers above the left side descend to five, and with a ring the doors roll open. It's not empty; his pulse speeds as he calmly strolls inside, nodding in polite response to the broad-shouldered man. 1 is already lit.
He barely has time to question his recollection (Is the coatroom on the floor called G?) when the man tries to make conversation. “I hope I haven't missed all of it,” he says in Begnionese, with a thick Crimean accent. “I forgot to change the time on my watch. Can you believe that?”
He notices that the man has a card strung about his neck with his name, picture, and position – Ike Gawain, Ambassador (Crimea). Then that would be his goal, in the coat room. The elevator was a mixed blessing. “Hmm,” he grunts in disinterested response, like a Begnion senator might do. The other man takes the hint and falls silent as the elevator soon finishes its descent.
Soren leaves the elevator first, swiftly and with a sense of purpose. The lobby is beautiful, thick red carpet and gold fleur-de-lis walls, cast in soft light from shaded lamps. No time to dwell on either beauty or luxury – his eyes search for the entrance to the coat room. There, by the door – only watched by a single guard, a woman to his surprise, absentmindedly looking at the frescoes on the opposite wall.
“I'd forgotten my identification in my coat pocket,” he says, affecting a sheepish grin. The guard gives a murmured, “Okay,” suspecting nothing, likely not thinking of him at all as she continued to keep her gaze on the frescoes. The elder was right – the forgetfulness of senators and diplomats had made their practices lax. He slips into the coatroom and brushes his fingers against pockets, scans for purses and bags. The heat builds, and his heart races as time passes. He glances now and then to see if the guard suspects something; she doesn't. Finally he finds a pass in a pocket that once belonged to Pelleas Carreau, Ambassador (Daein),
[The story was supposed to go something like this: (to my dim recollection)
Soren meets Ike for some reason I was still arguing with myself about -- I think my last plans involved them meeting at an awkward reception that Soren couldn't seem to find a way out of while looking for a good exploding spot -- and for some reason that must have been clearer to my teenage self, Ike says something that shakes Soren's confidence in his world-view and Soren follows him back up to his room (?? idk.). I think he also sees Stefan slipping out or something indicating that he never meant to die with him on this mission. Very shaken, Soren contrives some excuse for Ike to leave the building before detonating.
I stopped trying to make it work in 2011 because by then I had gotten a fairly bad taste in my mouth about the melodramatic storyline I was trying to shove on such a serious topic.]
Take 2: Lost to time? I can't be bothered to find the manuscript, which I think I may not have typed up. I wrote just a few paragraphs in the beginning of 2012 in a math class, about Soren waking up with a headache and thinking that the day was kind of a shit day for such an important one, and Micaiah being their seer. I think it was similar in Take 1 in some fundamental ways, including that the Grann terrorists' mission was supposed to be roughly the same for about the same reasons. It could be described as being rather like Take 1 except with the logistics of the organization re-thought-out, and without the Ike angle.
Take 3: Titled "What you are." Radically reimagined and fused with budding thoughts I had about Branded identity, vaguely inspired by the Moscow Theater Crisis. In which Stefan takes hostages to get the shitty system to fucking listen to him, Soren doesn't care, Micaiah tries to help and can't believe Soren doesn't care, and also Ike and Soren are fucking on the side I guess. I only mention that last part because it's the only relevant part I ever wrote out, despite theoretically being interested in all that other stuff. Last modified August 2012. I think I was trying to write this for the "Unity and Division" prompt at fe_contest (for which I eventually wrote A Terrycloth Mother instead with no regrets).
At the start of the week, Soren had woken twenty minutes before his usual Monday alarm at the sound of a queen in heat. A tepid breeze wafted in through the window. Soren easily detached himself from Ike's sticky skin and slid out from the covers. He closed the window and turned on the central air, drowning out the caterwauling in the process.
“Seventy degrees,” came Ike's groggy voice from the bed.
“I know,” Soren reassured him. “Remember, seventy-five when I get back.”
“It'll be warm enough to take off your suit, promise.”
As he made his way into the kitchen, he noticed the opened bag of kibble by the pantry and bent over to clip it shut. “And no stray animals, unless you're planning to put that alley cat out of its misery.”
“I'm not bringing her in. – Hey. We're still getting a dog, right?”
“You need to look over that list of breeders I gave you.”
“We can just make a pit stop at the Humane Society.”
“A large dog can live up to ten years. It''s worth putting thought into it.”
The mumbled reply from the bedroom was inaudible, but Soren didn't ask for clarification as he flit between a teapot and a jar of coffee beans. The coffee, he left brewing in the machine as he checked his briefcase and his reflection before striding out the door.
By the afternoon, they had received a call: the Kirsch Center for the Arts had been captured by extremists.
“They claim to be GRANN,” said his supervisor, Zelgius, referring to the racial separatist group that had lately been on the rise. “They offer no proof of this, but their demands are what one would expect from that organization.”
[the rest of the story goes here :P and I had also apparently written out a dramatic last line, which I shall share with you:]
In the dark of night, he heard the alley cat crying for something it needed but didn't understand.
Take 4: Similar to Take 3, except Micaiah and Stefan were screwing during college and Soren is in the CIA, and the presentation is completely different and Micaiah-centric. This time rather than Micaiah confronting Soren, Soren confronts Micaiah. But thematically it's still about their divergent relationships to Branded identity. No official title, document titled "terroristau_takeamillion.odt". Last modified December 2012.
Monday.
“They won't let us leave,” he said into his phone. He'd turned fifteen last month; his voice had dropped and he hated that it was cracking wildly now, just another bit of weakness made apparent while hell came down around him. “Mom, they've got guns, they won't let us leave.”
---
Two Tuesdays before.
“How long has it been since Sienne U?”
“Seven years?” Stefan offered as a guess. “Long enough for you to win yourself a seat in the state legislature, I see.”
Micaiah smiled a little and looked down into the parting foam in her coffee. “I've been fortunate. The people came out in droves to support my campaign.”
“Some say you'd make a good governor.”
“I think Balberith's doing a fine job,” she said. “I wouldn't fight him for the ticket. The party doesn't need that.”
“Just speculation.” Stefan dipped a bit of biscotti into his own cup, taking a nibble. “You do very well. People respond to you. They listen. I only wonder what you'll do with that.”
“Pardon?”
His eyes wandered to the back of her right hand, tastefully covered by a tapered sleeve.
“I wonder if you'll help us.”
---
Monday, later.
Micaiah was sitting up straight in her chair, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, watching her interrogator pace back and forth beyond the desk. He was short, she noticed, with a boyish set of features; both facts that kept her from feeling quite so intimidated.
But it wouldn't do to underestimate him. If he had made it into the CIA despite his heritage, that only spoke for the acuteness of his ability.
“Could you tell me why I'm here, Inspector?”
“I'd be interested to know,” he said very carefully, “if you could help us defuse the Mainal Hall Crisis.”
“I don't know of any way I could help. I would, if I could.”
“Fortunately,” he said, “you can.”
---
Monday, earlier.
“Hey, Micaiah? I think you want to see this.”
She twirled her pen in her right hand, bill manuscript held in her left, as she entered the kitchen. She heard the TV – “by a terrorist organization. Officials say that they are attempting to negotiate” – before she saw it, Sothe with a spoon forgotten in one hand, boldface caption on the screen (500 HOSTAGES BEING HELD IN MAINAL HALL) comically similar to any other headline, like PUPPY RESCUED FROM CHILLY DEATH or STUDENTS FIGHT HEART CANCER.
“They keep talking about Branded rights,” Sothe said.
And in that moment she knew what had happened.
---
A Monday eight years ago.
“You are the most” – she kissed him – “fascinating man” – and kissed him again – “I have ever known.”
I still rather like the central thematic idea behind the third and fourth take, and I wouldn't entirely discount writing it at some point in the future. But I think the likelihood of that is low enough -- and the chances of the concept changing radically on me is high enough -- that I don't mind sharing these.
It's probably worth noting that I hadn't gotten terribly far into any of these on paper, despite having thought it out well enough in my head and occasionally talking through the story in IM windows. That might play some role in my willingness to take its central concepts and go in a totally different direction with them.
Take 1: Untitled, file called "aisenebombers.odt". I don't exactly recall when I first wrote part of this, but I think it was 2007 or 2008. I recall the first scene coming in one brilliant wonderful rush of inspiration -- and then I couldn't continue it, although I tried, poking at it slowly for a long time. My last edits to this file, according to openoffice, are from 2011.
“Give me that,” the smaller one mumbles, seizing the bottle from the older man. He holds the bottle to his lips and took a deep quaff, the dark glass rim glinting by streetlight. When he lowers it, he take a shuddering breath, waiting for the burn of alcohol to seep from throat to stomach, stomach to blood, blood to mind. They should've brought something stronger, he thinks. Faster. In needles maybe. The crawl of the alcohol, osmosis from outside to in, as slow and stagnant as the air in his lungs. I need an injection. I can't believe. I can't believe this is. It's been too fast.
Sixteen years, what is sixteen years? Suddenly all of these sixteen years are floating within him, solidified, ambition and struggle and hate, memories in energy energy to matter standing on the doorstep of the closed trinket shop across from the brightly-lit plaza of the Gallia Embassy. He sees it suddenly like an apparition. Not made of steel and stone. Something weaker. Weaker than flesh. He wishes to dash the bottle across the sidewalk. But that would alarm the guards. Ruin their mission. When the elder chose him he praised his self-restraint. You are – you understand what we live for – one of us and someday – you are my favorite and you'll come with me on our last – you'll be very valuable – this will be our surest mark on the world and it will bring the apocalypse upon them. His fingers tremble on the bottle. “You can take this back with you.”
The elder accepts it but says, “I won't be going back.” Silent question. “I told you. This is our last. You think I'd let you go alone?” Does that mean he wishes to accompany him into death, he wonders, or – more likely – that he isn't trusted with so grave a task? He scans the elder's face for a sign. There is none. But ... no being should be trusted alone with a thing like this. He understands. He runs a hand across the slender but heavy packages beneath his suit, beautiful bags of nitroglycerin he made himself, warm against him like a winter coat. Don't trip, the elder had warned him with a laugh.
The historic clocktower they cannot see gives a deep ring. They wait in silence and count the number of strikes, as they had for the last few hours. Nine. The reception would begin in thirty minutes. One more alert, a single-strike on the quarter, and they would go in. In the waiting time, they silently reflect on themselves. The papers brand them as religious terrorists, but he does not pray. The elder uses the Tenets of Yune to attract the cannon fodder, but now it is just two, both unbelieving, both with sights only on the justice of their triumph. There is not room for doubt, has not been room for doubt for years. Thinking this way is not dangerous.
He thinks the embassy building is too beautiful. It is made of the blood and tears of the enslaved, yet glows softly in night lights, beige stone and steel-rimmed windows. On the first floor there is even a concert hall – he thinks to himself that he would've liked to hear the concert tonight, one of Stravinsky's suites, he's not sure which but he's not picky, but he wouldn't have time for the concert, that's a fantasy for another life – and on the fifth, a balcony. He looks up to that balcony. Though important in their operations, he wonders what it would be like to be on that balcony in the daytime, gazing over the inappropriately beautiful landscape of Begnion. He wonders if he'd see the subtle entrance to the tunnels into Grann, the hospitals they visited for supplies, the alleys where he grew. He then remembers the shadow the embassy cast in the hours earlier. The balcony faces away from all these things. It sees only Begnion's false beauty.
Dong. They go.
They climb up the fire escape on the nearby skyscraper and he hovers on the roof of the trinket shop while the elder secures the ropes. They don't speak, but he hears the elder's voice from their first mission – Nervous? – and his mumbled sounds that failed to form words, and then the taste of acid and a hint of stale bread, his lunch. His chuckle. That was eight years ago. Yet every time they go, he hears the elder's voice. Nervous? Yes. Always. He is composed this time, his anxiety present only in the beating of his pulse. The elder hands him the first rope, silently admonishing, Don't crash. He takes the rope and glides across easily, landing feet-first on the balcony. The elder follows. They examine each other and quietly approve of their gentlemanly appearance.
“Good evening, Soan Valke,” he says in perfect formal Gallian. A code name.
“How do yew do, Soren Odin?” the elder replies with a slight accent. A code name and his only name.
“Mouth more open on you,” he tutors briefly, returning to their desert tongue.
“I cannot understand you.” In Gallian, the hint of a smile on his face.
“Are you an immigrant, Mr. Valke?” The elder had always praised his linguistic talent. Some time ago, he had been selected to carry out one of many vapid, small, but dangerous missions. It quite quickly became clear, however, that it would be a waste of this youngster's talent. How often could they obtain one who could conjure such a perfect deception? His promise only grew as he aged. He said in native street-tinged Daeinese, for the sake of irony: “The lowborn have no place here.”
“They verily don't,” the elder, still in Gallian. “Swiftly, now.”
---
It was one of those endless meetings at which diplomats spoke, leaders nodded, and they served the good of humanity while dropping mixed-bloods into the dustbin.
From the balcony, they trail along the wall of the dark, empty ballroom to the illuminated exit. They had studied blueprints; from here they would enter a hall, and they would part. He doesn't know what the elder's role would be on this mission. They have always been told exactly enough. Soren would turn left, follow the hall to the stairwell and work his way down to the coat room to find identities carelessly left behind. With that he would work his way into the reception, in the midst of the Gallian diplomats, the Begnion senators... the Empress. He would put a spot of glue on his palm and a coin on that glue, and he would unbutton the top few buttons of his suit and reveal the other coin just over his heart, and in one arc he'd strike a single blow to his chest.
He doesn't dwell on what comes next. He will have struck a blow against the aristocracy. That is what comes next.
They come to the hallway. They nod and part.
He passes the elevators without a thought, comes to the stairs right where they were marked in the blueprints and halts. Right there in capital letters reads the sign, in Gallian and Begnionese:
ALARM WILL SOUND IF DOOR IS OPENED
His heart begins to pound in his chest. They have contingencies, always contingencies, but with the hope that they would not be forced to use them. He traces his steps back to the elevator. He smooths his hair and straightens his back as he presses the down button. He knows Yune is not listening but he silently pleads with her anyway that the elevator would be empty. The diplomats should be at the concert. It's not an unreasonable hope.
The numbers above the left side descend to five, and with a ring the doors roll open. It's not empty; his pulse speeds as he calmly strolls inside, nodding in polite response to the broad-shouldered man. 1 is already lit.
He barely has time to question his recollection (Is the coatroom on the floor called G?) when the man tries to make conversation. “I hope I haven't missed all of it,” he says in Begnionese, with a thick Crimean accent. “I forgot to change the time on my watch. Can you believe that?”
He notices that the man has a card strung about his neck with his name, picture, and position – Ike Gawain, Ambassador (Crimea). Then that would be his goal, in the coat room. The elevator was a mixed blessing. “Hmm,” he grunts in disinterested response, like a Begnion senator might do. The other man takes the hint and falls silent as the elevator soon finishes its descent.
Soren leaves the elevator first, swiftly and with a sense of purpose. The lobby is beautiful, thick red carpet and gold fleur-de-lis walls, cast in soft light from shaded lamps. No time to dwell on either beauty or luxury – his eyes search for the entrance to the coat room. There, by the door – only watched by a single guard, a woman to his surprise, absentmindedly looking at the frescoes on the opposite wall.
“I'd forgotten my identification in my coat pocket,” he says, affecting a sheepish grin. The guard gives a murmured, “Okay,” suspecting nothing, likely not thinking of him at all as she continued to keep her gaze on the frescoes. The elder was right – the forgetfulness of senators and diplomats had made their practices lax. He slips into the coatroom and brushes his fingers against pockets, scans for purses and bags. The heat builds, and his heart races as time passes. He glances now and then to see if the guard suspects something; she doesn't. Finally he finds a pass in a pocket that once belonged to Pelleas Carreau, Ambassador (Daein),
[The story was supposed to go something like this: (to my dim recollection)
Soren meets Ike for some reason I was still arguing with myself about -- I think my last plans involved them meeting at an awkward reception that Soren couldn't seem to find a way out of while looking for a good exploding spot -- and for some reason that must have been clearer to my teenage self, Ike says something that shakes Soren's confidence in his world-view and Soren follows him back up to his room (?? idk.). I think he also sees Stefan slipping out or something indicating that he never meant to die with him on this mission. Very shaken, Soren contrives some excuse for Ike to leave the building before detonating.
I stopped trying to make it work in 2011 because by then I had gotten a fairly bad taste in my mouth about the melodramatic storyline I was trying to shove on such a serious topic.]
Take 2: Lost to time? I can't be bothered to find the manuscript, which I think I may not have typed up. I wrote just a few paragraphs in the beginning of 2012 in a math class, about Soren waking up with a headache and thinking that the day was kind of a shit day for such an important one, and Micaiah being their seer. I think it was similar in Take 1 in some fundamental ways, including that the Grann terrorists' mission was supposed to be roughly the same for about the same reasons. It could be described as being rather like Take 1 except with the logistics of the organization re-thought-out, and without the Ike angle.
Take 3: Titled "What you are." Radically reimagined and fused with budding thoughts I had about Branded identity, vaguely inspired by the Moscow Theater Crisis. In which Stefan takes hostages to get the shitty system to fucking listen to him, Soren doesn't care, Micaiah tries to help and can't believe Soren doesn't care, and also Ike and Soren are fucking on the side I guess. I only mention that last part because it's the only relevant part I ever wrote out, despite theoretically being interested in all that other stuff. Last modified August 2012. I think I was trying to write this for the "Unity and Division" prompt at fe_contest (for which I eventually wrote A Terrycloth Mother instead with no regrets).
At the start of the week, Soren had woken twenty minutes before his usual Monday alarm at the sound of a queen in heat. A tepid breeze wafted in through the window. Soren easily detached himself from Ike's sticky skin and slid out from the covers. He closed the window and turned on the central air, drowning out the caterwauling in the process.
“Seventy degrees,” came Ike's groggy voice from the bed.
“I know,” Soren reassured him. “Remember, seventy-five when I get back.”
“It'll be warm enough to take off your suit, promise.”
As he made his way into the kitchen, he noticed the opened bag of kibble by the pantry and bent over to clip it shut. “And no stray animals, unless you're planning to put that alley cat out of its misery.”
“I'm not bringing her in. – Hey. We're still getting a dog, right?”
“You need to look over that list of breeders I gave you.”
“We can just make a pit stop at the Humane Society.”
“A large dog can live up to ten years. It''s worth putting thought into it.”
The mumbled reply from the bedroom was inaudible, but Soren didn't ask for clarification as he flit between a teapot and a jar of coffee beans. The coffee, he left brewing in the machine as he checked his briefcase and his reflection before striding out the door.
By the afternoon, they had received a call: the Kirsch Center for the Arts had been captured by extremists.
“They claim to be GRANN,” said his supervisor, Zelgius, referring to the racial separatist group that had lately been on the rise. “They offer no proof of this, but their demands are what one would expect from that organization.”
[the rest of the story goes here :P and I had also apparently written out a dramatic last line, which I shall share with you:]
In the dark of night, he heard the alley cat crying for something it needed but didn't understand.
Take 4: Similar to Take 3, except Micaiah and Stefan were screwing during college and Soren is in the CIA, and the presentation is completely different and Micaiah-centric. This time rather than Micaiah confronting Soren, Soren confronts Micaiah. But thematically it's still about their divergent relationships to Branded identity. No official title, document titled "terroristau_takeamillion.odt". Last modified December 2012.
Monday.
“They won't let us leave,” he said into his phone. He'd turned fifteen last month; his voice had dropped and he hated that it was cracking wildly now, just another bit of weakness made apparent while hell came down around him. “Mom, they've got guns, they won't let us leave.”
---
Two Tuesdays before.
“How long has it been since Sienne U?”
“Seven years?” Stefan offered as a guess. “Long enough for you to win yourself a seat in the state legislature, I see.”
Micaiah smiled a little and looked down into the parting foam in her coffee. “I've been fortunate. The people came out in droves to support my campaign.”
“Some say you'd make a good governor.”
“I think Balberith's doing a fine job,” she said. “I wouldn't fight him for the ticket. The party doesn't need that.”
“Just speculation.” Stefan dipped a bit of biscotti into his own cup, taking a nibble. “You do very well. People respond to you. They listen. I only wonder what you'll do with that.”
“Pardon?”
His eyes wandered to the back of her right hand, tastefully covered by a tapered sleeve.
“I wonder if you'll help us.”
---
Monday, later.
Micaiah was sitting up straight in her chair, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, watching her interrogator pace back and forth beyond the desk. He was short, she noticed, with a boyish set of features; both facts that kept her from feeling quite so intimidated.
But it wouldn't do to underestimate him. If he had made it into the CIA despite his heritage, that only spoke for the acuteness of his ability.
“Could you tell me why I'm here, Inspector?”
“I'd be interested to know,” he said very carefully, “if you could help us defuse the Mainal Hall Crisis.”
“I don't know of any way I could help. I would, if I could.”
“Fortunately,” he said, “you can.”
---
Monday, earlier.
“Hey, Micaiah? I think you want to see this.”
She twirled her pen in her right hand, bill manuscript held in her left, as she entered the kitchen. She heard the TV – “by a terrorist organization. Officials say that they are attempting to negotiate” – before she saw it, Sothe with a spoon forgotten in one hand, boldface caption on the screen (500 HOSTAGES BEING HELD IN MAINAL HALL) comically similar to any other headline, like PUPPY RESCUED FROM CHILLY DEATH or STUDENTS FIGHT HEART CANCER.
“They keep talking about Branded rights,” Sothe said.
And in that moment she knew what had happened.
---
A Monday eight years ago.
“You are the most” – she kissed him – “fascinating man” – and kissed him again – “I have ever known.”
I still rather like the central thematic idea behind the third and fourth take, and I wouldn't entirely discount writing it at some point in the future. But I think the likelihood of that is low enough -- and the chances of the concept changing radically on me is high enough -- that I don't mind sharing these.
It's probably worth noting that I hadn't gotten terribly far into any of these on paper, despite having thought it out well enough in my head and occasionally talking through the story in IM windows. That might play some role in my willingness to take its central concepts and go in a totally different direction with them.