#all three scenes aligned in my head and I was compelled to get the books and type these up aghajkfsjf

[mozart-the-meerkitten]

Time for another obscure character comparison post! This time through excerpts from each story.

Connecting thread: a sad, traumatized man who just wants to go home to his family and thinks he’s a coward but is just out there doing insanely brave things like rescuing girls from crazy people who are trying to kill them.

           Suddenly, Slarb’s growl was cut short. Trembling, Leeli opened her eyes and saw the Fang’s claws clutching desperately at an arm locked tight around his throat.            She couldn’t see the person’s face, only a tuft of white hair sticking up from behind Slarb’s shoulder- but the arm around Slarb’s throat had a dirty knitted sock pulled up to the elbow.            Slarb’s black eyes wheeled in their sockets as he scratched and dug into the socked arm, but it did no good. The arm held firm. Slarb staggered backward and turned away from Leeli, revealing lanky Peet the Sock Man, who was either brave enough or foolish enough (and maybe both) to attack a Fang barehanded, or sock-handed, as it turned out.            Peet’s eyes were squeezed shut as he hung on desperately to the thrashing Fang. Slarb’s teeth were bared and oozing with yellowish venom, but his movements were slowing down.            Leeli began to hope that just maybe she would live to see her family and Nugget again. Peet was grunting, straining to keep his grip on the twisting beast; though blood was soaking the sock where Slarb’s claws were digging into Peet’s forearm, he showed no sign of pain.            Slarb spun around, so fast that Peet’s feet flew out behind him. The Fang lurched this way and that, his tail whipping the underbrush. Finally he fell first to one knee and then to the ground, unconscious.            Peet lay on top of Slarb, gasping for air. After a moment, he loosened his grip and carefully slid his arm out from under the creature’s neck. When Peet saw Leeli, he relaxed and stood up, brushing himself off as if embarrassed Leeli was still crouched down in the brush at the edge of the trees, looking warily at her rescuer.            “Thank you,” she said timidly. “That was very brave.”

-The Wingfeather Saga book one: On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness by Andrew Peterson (tv show based on the book coming December 2nd!)

 *

           “Well how about it?” inquired Dustfinger, taking a step back. “Do you dare come in here with me, or would you rather go on hitting little girls?”            Basta stood there motionless, like a child whose ears have been suddenly and unexpectedly boxed. Then he seized Meggie’s arm and dragged her toward him. She felt something cold on her throat. She didn’t have to see it to know what it was. Her mother screamed and pulled at Dustfinger’s hand but he only held it higher in the air. “I knew it!” he said. “What a coward you are, Basta! You’d rather put a knife to a child’s throat than venture in here. Of course if Flatnose were here to back you up, too, with his broad back and his great fat fists- but he isn’t. Come along, you’re the one with the knife! I’ve got nothing but my hands, and you know how I hate to misuse them for fighting.”            Meggie felt Basta’s grip relax. The blade was no longer pressing into her skin. She swallowed and put a hand to her throat. She almost expected to feel warm blood, but there was none. Basta pushed her away so hard that she stumbled and fell on the damp, cold floor. Then he put his hand into his pants pocket and brought out a bunch of keys. He was panting with rage like a man who had run too far and too fast. Fingers trembling, he put the key into the lock of the cell. Dustfinger watched him, his face impassive. He gestured to Meggie’s mother to step back from the grating and retreated himself, nimble as a dancer. You couldn’t tell from his scarred face whether he was afraid or not, but the scars looked darker than usual.            “What’s that for?” he said, when Basta came into the cell and held out his knife. “You might as well put it away. If you kill me you’ll spoil Capricorn’s fun. He won’t forgive you for that in a hurry.”            Yes he was afraid. Meggie could hear it in his voice. The words were spilling out of his mouth a little too fast.            “Who said anything about killing?” growled Basta as he closed the cell door behind him.            Dustfinger retreated as far as the stone coffin. “Am you were thinking of adding a few more decorations to my face?” he was almost whispering. There was something else in his voice now- hatred, scorn, rage. “Don’t expect it to be so easy this time,” he said softly. “I’ve learned a few useful tricks since then.”

…

           “I’ll cut your filthy fingers off if you try to touch me!” yelled Basta, his face red with rage. “Every one of them, and your tongue into the bargain.” He lunged with the knife again, cutting through the air with the bright blade, but Dustfinger avoided it. He was leaping around Basta faster and faster, ducking, retreating, advancing, but suddenly he found that his fearless dance had trapped him. He had only the bare wall behind him now, and the grating cutting off his retreat to the right- and Basta was coming straight at him.            At that moment Meggie’s mother raised her hand. The stone hit Basta on the head. Astonished, he spun around, looked at her as if trying to remember who she was, and put his hand to his bleeding face. She never knew how Dustfinger did it, but suddenly he had Basta’s knife in his hand. Basta was staring at its familiar blade in amazement, as if he couldn’t grasp the fact that the faithless thing was pointing at his own chest.

-Inkheart, by Cornelia Funke

 *

Tillman had knocked the white ironstone bowl off his tray, shattering it on the tile next to him. “I told you!” he yelled, swinging his feet off the bed, and kicked at the shards to make room to stand. “I said they were here!”

Belle wasn’t sure whether the bowl being sent to the floor was purposeful or an accident, but it had to be cleared up either way, before he cut his feet on it. “Stay right where you are,” she said. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I don’t take orders from your kind,” Tillman said, fixing her with that severe look again.

Turning back to Captain Gold, she sighed, giving him a smile. “I’ll be right back - I’m going to clean up before he and Gardner can start something over it.”

Belle took the tray from the end of the bed and sat it on the floor so that she could place the broken pieces on it. Tillman squatted down next to her, apparently having snapped out of it and deciding to help. “Thank you,” she said. “Be careful, don’t cut yourself.” At least ironstone didn’t shatter to virtual sand as some china did. She concentrated on picking up the small fragments he’d scattered, and he reached for a larger piece.

Before she knew it, he’d hauled her to her feet, holding her against him with an arm wrapped in an iron grip around her chest and upper arms, pressing the point of the ironstone shard to her neck.

Belle pulled at his forearm on instinct. “Lieutenant Tillman!” she cried, and she heard running footsteps. “Lieutenant Tillman, it’s all right, it’s Nurse French! You know me!”

“I know damn well what you are, and you’re no nurse,” he snarled near her ear.

Rummond’s heart pounded so hard against his ribs that his breastbone ached. He’d been watching Belle; it was difficult to take his eyes off of her. Tillman moved so fast, though, he hadn’t even time to get a word out before she’d been grabbed up in a hostage hold.

He knew he couldn’t have gotten across the aisle quickly enough, but as soon as Tillman turned and Rummond was out of the Lieutenant’s line of sight, he slipped from the far side of his bunk and crossed to the other side of the ward, where he could move more quickly without being seen.

“Crazy bugger thinks she’s a German,” Lieutenant Booth snorted as his bunkmate snuck away.

Belle vaguely knew as more and more people gathered. Other nurses and orderlies dared get closest, their voices muddled as they all tried to talk to Tillman, each thinking they could talk sense into him. Her ears hummed and she felt lightheaded and too hot, and she knew it was adrenaline, but that didn’t help to clear her whirling thoughts. She had been in dangerous situations since becoming a nurse, but this was the first to threaten her so directly, and terror grew in the pit of her stomach.

“Lieutenant Michael Tillman! Let her go!” Dr. Whale barked above the other voices, and Belle zeroed in on him. Dr. Hopper stood next to him, face blanched, and Ruby stood on the other side. Graham stood beside Dr. Hopper, his hands raised, and Belle couldn’t hear what he said over everyone else, but he looked frightened. Well, at least she wasn’t overreacting to her situation, then.

Some of the patients were hovering at mid-range, most keeping a few feet back from the staff, and she saw worry in their faces, as well. Dr. Glass watched from the ward doors with an almost neutral expression. She didn’t see Captain Gold, though. She should have been able to see him on his bed when she shifted her eyes that way, but he was gone. If she could only see him, see the look on his face, she thought she might be better able to gauge just what kind of trouble she was in. She felt as if his face would give her the truth.

Jefferson whispered, “What are you doing?” as Rummond passed. Rummond swatted a hand in his direction, giving him a look sharp enough to quiet him immediately in return for the question.

He crept between the beds at the far end of the room and made himself as small and low as he could as he moved back up the other aisle. Less than half the length of the room away. He slowed himself to silence the pat of his bare footsteps.

“No one would believe me! And look where we are now!” Tillman ranted, shaking her.

“Lieutenant,” Belle said, praying she could calm him long enough for his delusion to break, or for something to stop him. “I know it feels real, but I promise you-”

“Shut up!” he snapped, shaking her again.

Belle clenched her eyes shut, feeling the piece of ironstone move on her skin. When she opened them again, Tillman had turned enough that she caught movement in the reflection of the window beside his bed. She saw just enough to tell her who it was. Captain Gold.

She could have sobbed, though whether in relief that someone was making an effort to do something or in fear for him, she couldn’t be sure. Tillman was easily fifty pounds heavier than Captain Gold, and if he turned the shard on the other man…

“It’s all right,” she continued, hoping to distract Lieutenant Tillman and keep him from noticing the reflection. It was right in front of him - he only needed to look that way to see. “If you’ll just let me go, we can finish cleaning up the bowl, and perhaps you can talk with Dr. Hopper? I’m sure he-”

“Shut your mouth!” he yelled right behind her ear, digging the shard harder against her neck, and she choked back a cry when she felt the sharp point puncture her skin.

Tillman stood against the side of his bunk, and Rummond could see there was no way to get between. He would have to go over top, and that would mean a very narrow moment during which he could do anything before Tillman knew he was there.

His lungs burned when he held his breath to cut off that sound, as well, and he stepped between Tillman’s bed and the one to the left of it. With his knees at the edge of the mattress, he leaned, putting all of his weight on his good foot, and lunged. He had his hands on Tillman before the springs squeaked, wrenching the hand holding the piece of broken ironstone to force it as far away from Nurse French’s skin as he could.

Belle felt herself yanked backward, and for a second she feared Tillman had done it, slit her throat. But then she heard, “Drop it, boy. Drop the weapon,” in a low voice, somehow dispassionate and chilling at once, almost as near her ear as it was to Tillman’s, and it made her skin crawl. It took a very long beat of her heart to recognize that Captain Gold had gotten to them.

Rummond snaked his hand in behind Tillman’s arm across Nurse French’s chest, wrapping his hand around the Lieutenant’s wrist from the inside with a vice grip. With a sudden push stronger than the pulling hold Tillman had on her, Rummond gave her room to get away, and she took it.

When the grip on her loosened, Belle dropped away, hitting her knees hard enough to bruise, her hands flying to her neck. Graham rushed in to get her, pulling her up and away, and she was surrounded by he, Ruby, and Dr. Hopper as they saw blood and tried to check her. She turned among their hands, trying to see what happened between Captain Gold and Lieutenant Tillman.

Tillman twisted his hand, trying to cut his attacker’s arm, but found himself held at the wrong angle to accomplish it. “I won’t be held prisoner again!” he shouted, fighting. “I’ll kill myself first!”

“Graham, help him!” Belle pled, pushing his hand away from her neck and urging him toward the patients who were still the center of spectation.

The adrenaline in Rummond’s system was waning, and he wasn’t strong enough to hold onto Tillman without its help. He felt his muscles beginning to tremble. To his relief, Humbert knelt one knee on the mattress and Gardner overshadowed them on the window side, each taking one of the Lieutenant’s arms, and he could let go. He scrambled backward off the bunk, just keeping his footing as he put the piece of furniture between himself and Tillman.

-Better to Face the Bullets by @ishtarelisheba

how did it ever get into their heads that they’re cowards

[sinagrace]

Iceman’s been back on my mind lately. It started with the internet rumor that Shia Labeouf was being considered to play the role of Bobby Drake in a Marvel Cinematic Universe version of the X-Men. My DMs and @Mentions on social media were a mixture of intense reaction and then asking my take on who would make a great Bobby Drake (for the record: in my head I always saw him as a younger Antoni Porowski with a theater background, ‘cuz playing the funny guy with a vulnerable streak requires serious acting shops). My mind went back to the time of BC, when I was doing a lot of touring, and answering this very question because of my work on the Iceman book at Marvel. One thing led to another, and I decided to take a trip further down memory lane to look at my favorite volume of the series: Amazing Friends. Now, I know I’ve spent equal amounts of time publicly stating what a gift working on Iceman was, while also calling out the challenges that came with the experience, but the third volume really was a pure blessing. I was able to take every valuable lesson I learned as a writer, and apply it to telling a story that would be interesting to one person: Me. I’ve been a lifelong X-Men fan, I live and breathe comics, so my own expectations for a return to the series seemed like the only ones to really worry about meeting/ surpassing. The first two volumes had been so bogged down by rotating editors, complex continuity, company-wide events, multiple artists… The third volume was my chance to focus on what an Iceman series was outside of so much context. All that mattered was challenging myself to do an X-Men story that focused on the aspects of the franchise I felt were valuable and relevant, meaning: excuses to have Emma Frost be an asshole and finding an opportunity to make fun of Kitty Pryde’s haircut. Before moving on from Marvel, Axel Alonso made time to call me for a pep talk about the series. I wanted to get the series extended, and he wanted to help me succeed with the ten issues he could commit to. First, he offered an eleventh issue to give me more time on the stands. He took a look at everything I had planned, and basically told me to restructure with an eye for ramping up the pace. My writing background comes from prose and essays/ think pieces… both of which are methodical and provide some allowance from the reader to really take your time and set up the world before diving into the meat. That’s not the case with comics. You gotta work fast. Especially in today’s market, there is less and less room for a retailer to say, “give it two volumes, because shit starts really coming together by the third trade.” That was literally my speech for hooking people on such iconic series as Invincible, Fables, and Strangers in Paradise. Nowadays, every single issue is not a brick to be laid down as foundation so much as a bullet in your gun. Conflicting imagery, but that’s the point. Axel told me to think about the Big Moments in my life and sort out how to inject the mutant metaphor into it and make the most compelling comic book story I could. This was epic advice that I took with me into the new arc, but I struggled a bit with what could be bigger than the “coming out” storyline in volume one. Love was off the table because I wanted to keep Bobby single and ready to mingle. Death was off the table too, because my editor felt like we’d done enough with Bobby’s parents in the first two volumes. Upon looking at my own life, and considering the stuff me and my friends were dealing with, I landed on something a bit more reflective than LIFE or DEATH. I wanted to focus on that moment when a gay guy looks outside of himself and realizes the folks around him may not have it so easy. After everything we’ve been dealing with this summer, Iceman’s “big issue” of the arc feels oddly prescient. Bobby Drake had to reconcile his accidental complicit role in keeping the Morlocks down, and he has to investigate new approaches to being a better ally to those who don’t want to or can’t live under the protection of the X-Men. I used the Morlocks to allegorically speak to the issues that the trans/ NB community face today. Considering that trans folks are facing higher rates of homelessness and murder than other members of the LGBTQIA+ community, all I needed to do was find a perfect villain to treat the Morlocks as “lesser-than.” Cue Mister Sinister, who I wrote as particularly Darwinist with a major flair for interactive theater. While Amazing Friends definitely is the most fun I’ve had working on the book, it was also full of the heaviest shit I’ve written about. I’m so grateful that my editor let me use Emma Frost for a story about the trauma of gay conversion therapy with her brother Christian, but I’m still annoyed he wouldn’t let me put her in a sickening Givenchy outfit for her reveal. Similarly, creating the Madin character required that I chat with several mental healthcare professionals and members of the NB community to respectfully portray them as a resilient and fleshed out hero. I included personal lessons that I learned from years of the therapy (the sandcastle / sea image, a Jay Edidin fave moment). My editor and I weren’t always aligned, but we definitely were on each other’s side. He understood what I was trying to do and asked questions when something flew over his head, and he even had the good instincts to stop me from going too heavy handed with the ending. My original idea for the arc’s finale was to have Bobby become permanently scarred in his fight with Sinister, where he’d have a cool ice gash running across his face or something, a la Squall from Final Fantasy 8. The goal was to show Iceman stripping himself of his ability to pass as non-mutant to save the Morlocks, but the Mutant Pride fight scene being a stand-in for the Stonewall Riots kind of already made enough of a statement. Plus, no one in editorial wanted to deal with remembering to track his scar in other books. At first I tried to balk at his point of view, but when I looked over my original notes for the series, the point was to focus on optimism and hope. Giving Bobby a permanent scar and emphasizing the notion of sacrifice was too bleak a message for a series wherein the hero carbo-loads hoagies while riding an ice scooter and mutant drag queens emcee local festivals. Of course, the crowning achievement of the series… my mutant drag queen :) I’ve witnessed a lot when it comes to the world of pop culture and myth-making, and I 100% believe that you can’t plan the success of something. I’ve seen bands forced into breaking up because labels spend six figures failing at making listeners connect with an album. I witnessed firsthand how The Walking Dead was built from relatively humble beginnings as a buzzy cable drama into a literal international phenomenon over the course of its first three seasons. Everyone hopes for the best, but you never know how something will land with audiences. When the Shade character took off, I was truly astounded. Things I posted on Instagram while half-asleep became official quotes on major news sites. Queens and cosplayers were interpreting her like Margot Robbie had unveiled a new Harley Quinn lewk. The impact was so legit and immediate that we had to jump in and give Shade a proper Marvel hero alias, to truly welcome her into the X-Men canon. Hence the name change to Darkveil. (Funny story: I tried to fight hard for Madame X as an alias, but CB didn’t want another Agent X / “X-Name” character. Three months later, Madonna announced the Madame X album. Phew!) There was a time where I felt uncertain that the folks in charge at Marvel would bring Darkveil into any stories outside of the ones I wrote. My understanding was that Hickman was like the Cylons and had A Plan-- one that didn’t include her character. I made peace with my contribution to the Marvel Universe being contained, but then someone on social media pointed out that Darkveil showed up in an issue of Marvel Voices. After breaking down and reading Hickman’s House of X, I saw that his Plan was one of endless possibilities, and that he was moving EVERY character into new and dynamic places. I have hope now that he sees the possibilities with Darkveil, and takes advantage of her and all of her many body pouches. Amazing Friends really is my favorite thing I’ve done for the Big Two. I made a lifelong friend out of artist Nate Stockman (DC, please hire us for a Plasticman book), and I got to run a victory lap with the most encouraging and supportive readers out there. It was worth every dreadful conversation, every shitty thing a person said to me online, and all of the fun nonsense that goes into being creative for a living. Being stuck at home in quarantine has given me a lot of time to reflect on the gift that my career to date has been, and I feel so grateful to be where I am today. Other people may groan when they have to talk about something they’ve moved on from, but not me. I made people happier, I got to work with my favorite characters at Marvel, and and I'll say it again: it’s a frickin’ gift to make people move from your work. So, I will engage every tweet or message asking me my thoughts about who should play Bobby Drake in the Marvel Cinematic Universe… I’ll just never have a good answer.

[miss-spooky-eyes]

Riddle (Part II)

My Imperial Agent Devinahl’s backstory continues, and doesn’t get any happier.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions of child abuse and child prostitution (in this part); emotionally abusive adults; ableist language. It is not fun.

NOTES: All names by the Star Wars name generator; all Star Wars universe mistakes by me. I do not own the Star Wars universe.

The type of riddle poem described by Sifter does exist, but from medieval France, not Alderaan; and it’s spelled ‘devinalh’, not ‘devinahl’. I switched the spelling when I created this OC, not knowing I would eventually feel compelled to write this ...

Part I: Stanza

PART TWO: GELLA

Her name is Gella Marogan, and she is Doctor Korpil's best.

The name 'Gella' sounds like a kind of flower they have on Draavi Prime, and Doctor Korpil likes to make use of this. 'Our littlest flower,' he will call her, laying a paternal hand on her hair as he beams at the men and women standing around them; she is the smallest of his children, if not the youngest. 'Our smallest miracle.'

She knows, when he does this, how to nestle into his side as if shy, and look up through her eyelashes at the faces smiling down at her. Good for half a million at least, or so Doctor Korpil tells her.

She has been at the clinic for years, and she understands many things now that she did not when she first joined the other children.

She always knew that Draavi Prime was a hospital world, famous for the medcenters and surgeons and clinics of its capital city. Now she understands that it’s a rich world, too, because unlike some of the other hospital worlds, Draavi Prime isn't part of the Republic, merely affiliated with it. This means that people from the Republic, from the non-aligned worlds and even from the Empire can come there for treatments which are banned in the Republic - extreme cosmetic surgeries, experimental therapies, risky augmentation techniques; you can get anything done on Draavi Prime, if you have the credits.

Even the Empire's attempts to take the system, which have systematically devastated the outer planets but have yet to reach Draavi Prime, haven't stopped a percentage of the wealthiest people in the galaxy coming to the city in search of remedies, therapies, enhancements, and it's on these people that Doctor Korpil preys.

She has learned much of this from the other children, once she was finally allowed to join them. It's important to Doctor Korpil's plans that the clinic looks like the happy haven for refugee children his brochures promise, and so they are well fed, lavished with toys and books, allowed to spend hours playing in the courtyard; even given lessons in the well-appointed classroom, although the 'teachers' are the clerks that monitor Doctor Korpil's computers, and when there are no visitors, the children are mainly left alone to educational software. She learns, eats, plays and laughs with the rest, all of them with metal implants gleaming somewhere on their faces or prosthetics on their bodies.

Gella is particular friends with a plump boy named Mithus, whose implants are thick and bulky and wrap round the back of his neck, and a tall girl named Tay, who has a prosthetic arm.

These aren't their real names, of course. No child who has got as far as the public areas of the clinic would ever dream of saying their real names.

Their number shrinks and grows, but there are generally less than fifteen of them, although more children come to the clinic every month. Few of them reach the public areas, though. Mithus has whispered to her that some children's implants don't take, or their brains can't handle the added stimulus. Tay thinks it's more likely that they don't get through 'the office'. Gella keeps her own counsel. She's getting good at that.

She understands now why Doctor Korpil would have taken her from the camp even though she was healthy, why he told that lie about Larbec Syndrome (she looked it up on the learning computers, just to be sure, and of course there is no such disease). It can’t be easy, finding children who are suitable for his purposes.

It's taken her some time to learn the full extent of Doctor Korpil's scam. It has three layers.

First, there is the charity. Scarcely a week goes by that Doctor Korpil isn't invited to attend a reception or speak at a gala about the work he does with the poor refugee children, and often begged to ‘bring some of your little angels as well'. With so many rich people on Draavi Prime, undergoing lengthy, boring treatments or waiting for surgeries, there are plenty of these events, held in ballrooms and elegant salons and rooftop gardens, with crowds of men and women dressed in their elaborate best, ready to feel that they are doing something for the less fortunate.

Doctor Korpil takes some or all of the children, dressed in the nicest clothes the charity can buy for them, and they stand with him as he gives an eloquent address about his charity, explaining how the children with him were the lucky few he'd been able to save from the refugee camps, suffering from injuries or conditions brought on by the devastation the war had rained on their worlds; how he had used his knowledge and resources to enable them to see, hear, walk, play and be full members of society again; how he wishes he could do more for the many, many children (for more refugees arrive on Draavi Prime every month or so) but is limited by lack of funds ...

Doctor Korpil is usually presented with a large credit cheque by the organizer of the event at this point, but there's more to be done; after his speech, the children are expected to circulate through the room, each of them carrying a small basket. They are allowed to tug plaintively at the sleeves of military officials talking intensely to bureaucrats; to allow senator's wives and Republic officials and society matrons to sweep them into powdered, scented embraces; to answer the questions and give their names and tell their stories. Anything for a credit chit or a promissory note dropped in the basket.

Gella is so good at this game, which is not after all so different from what she did at the refugee camp, that once her tears get a planetary governor's wife to strip off her entire flamegem bracelet and toss it into the basket. When they got back to the clinic, Doctor Korpil lifted her and spun her around for that. 'Little flower, I knew it when I first saw you - you're worth your weight in jewels!'

This is partly why Doctor Korpil is so picky about the children he takes; he doesn't want anybody unpleasantly disfigured, nobody maimed in a way that can't be fixed with a shiny prosthetic. He likes small, pretty children with holo-genic implants that don't cover up their big, sad eyes. It's why he likes Gella.

Doctor Korpil doesn't rely on the generosity of the rich people, though. Far from it. That's where the second layer comes in.

Most of the children, like Gella, have some sort of facial implant. Gella has long since learned to narrow her focus so that, although she can hear and see more than human ears and eyes should be able to, she only perceives what is in a 'normal' range, to keep her brain from being overloaded by stimuli.

But just because she isn't consciously aware of hearing something doesn't mean her implants aren't picking it up. As the children circulate through the crowd, smiling pleadingly and holding up their baskets, their implants hear and record what is being said above their heads, by wealthy and influential and important men and women seizing a moment to discuss something important, barely even aware of the presence of the charity children except as a tug on the sleeve and an instinctive response to stuff a credit chit into the basket. Gatherings that do not allow commlinks or personal datapads for the sake of privacy and security ushered in Doctor Korpil and his children, and stood back to let them leave again, their little baskets full of generosity and their little heads full of information.

Gella and the rest are barely aware of what they have heard, but their implants have recorded it all, and back at the clinic, Doctor Korpil's clerks comb through it. The children agree don’t know exactly what the clerks look for, but they agree between themselves that it must be scraps of information let fall or indiscretions hinted at too heavily, any fragments of data they can piece together to get to something compromising or valuable. They do not know what exactly Doctor Korpil does with whatever he learns; does he sell that information to the Republic? To the Empire? Both, depending on what he's learned? Gella is certain, however, that at least some of it is used for blackmail. Because of what she knows about the third layer of Doctor Korpil's business.

Some of the children never learn about the third layer. Most do.

Gella does, less than a year after joining Doctor Korpil's children, when a Republic senator's aide in florid dress, with a row of decorations on his sash, takes her by the hand and steers her out of the crowded reception room they are in, telling her he has a treat for a good little girl. Puzzled, but not wanting to upset Doctor Korpil by offending a guest, Gella obediently followed him until she realized that they were crossing the lobby towards the elevators. Not wanting to go with him, but not wanting to cause a scene, she managed to bump into a decorative table and drop her basket, spilling credit chits across the floor, which gave her an excuse to burst into noisy tears. Staff converged on them to pick up her basket and the spilled chits, and in the confusion, Gella was able to slip her hand free from his sweaty paw and tearfully beg for Doctor Korpil until the senator's aide had no choice but to take her back into the reception room.

In the speeder on the way back to the clinic, when Doctor Korpil asked her what the fuss had been about, she told him.

Before she has finished telling him, he is shaking his head sadly, and her mouth goes dry, because this is exactly the way that he used to shake his head in the office as he lifted the silvery device and pointed at her. He lifts his hands, and she can't stop herself from flinching, but although she is sure he notices, he gives no sign of it. He unbuckles the safety restraint, and lifts her into his lap, cuddling her against him.

'Dear Gella,' he says sadly, and although he is only speaking to her, she knows his words are meant for all the children in the transport. 'Did you forget what I told you?' He taps very gently against her implant with one finger; the thunder in her ear is deafening. 'I will always know where you are. Nothing can happen to you that I don't know about.' He ducks his head to smile at her. 'Did you forget, silly girl?'

Next time that she, or any of them, find themselves being taken away from a party by a grown-up, Doctor Korpil continues, they should go. Go right along with that grown-up and do whatever they say. These are rich and important people, after all, and if they want to make a fuss of the children or play with them privately, then there's nothing wrong with that, not when Doctor Korpil knows exactly where they are and what is happening to them. It's not as if Doctor Korpil is going to let anything bad happen to his little flowers, is it? He beams around the inside of the transport at all the faces upturned to him, while one hand strokes Gella's hair.

So the next time a grown-up tries to take her out of the restaurant which is hosting this particular gala and upstairs to his apartment, Gella goes with him, docile, hand in hand. And it's just like Doctor Korpil said. She has only been there a few minutes when the door to the suite bursts open and in comes Doctor Korpil, two of his clerks at his heels, gathering Gella up and clasping her close to his side while he storms at the rich man, demanding to know what he thinks he's doing, threatening, condemning, while the rich man sweats and pleads and bemoans. Gella hides her head in Doctor Korpil's jacket, a show of fear and trust which also means she doesn't run the risk of ruining anything by making the wrong expression at the wrong time, while Doctor Korpil slowly allows the rich man to make him less angry. By the time they leave the suite, Gella still clasped firmly to Doctor Korpil's side, the rich man's clothes are stained with sweat. The two clerks stay behind, to supervise the credit transfer. 

'See, little flower?' Doctor Korpil says fondly to her as they stand in the elevator, his hand stroking her hair again. 'I told you, nothing can happen to you that I don't know about.'

This happens twice more, with different grown-ups in different buildings but Doctor Korpil still bursting in just the same way, and then one day it's the same Republic senator's aide who started it all who draws Gella aside, his hand shaking as he holds hers and steers her out of the reception room. Gella follows him quietly this time, and smiles encouragingly at him when he fumbles with the key to the suite, and sits where he tells her and folds her dress neatly on a chair when he tells her and doesn't realize until it's almost over that Doctor Korpil isn't going to come this time.

After that, she never knows whether Doctor Korpil will come or not. Sometimes, it's unassuming people she'd never have picked out who get to play their games with her without interruption, because they have offered Doctor Korpil something that's somehow worth more than what they would pay him to keep quiet about being caught red-handed doing ... the things they do. It's better not to say it, even to yourself, the older children whisper to the younger ones, under cover of the shouts and screams of playtime in the courtyard. Doctor Korpil knows everything that happens to you, doesn't he? He wouldn't let anybody hurt you, would he? Not with all that precious metal in your head. So if he lets something happen to you, it stands to reason that thing isn't really hurting you, doesn't it?

Gella whispers this, in time, to other, smaller children, her hand stroking their hair.

She still opens the door in her head to the secret room when she's alone at night, but these days, more and more, she finds that she doesn't want to be inside that room with Mother and Father and Scerra and the old man from the camp and the rest of them. She imagines, instead, a new room, still with yellow walls, but everything else white: The floors, the ceiling, the curtains. There is only one thing in the room: A bed, as clean and white and empty as the rest of it. The room has no door. No one else can get in. This is where she goes, on those nights. Long before the nurses are finished sponging her down or running the scanners over bruises and sprains, she is safely curled up in that clean white bed, in that empty room.

Time passes, and it's easiest just to be Gella, grateful Gella, and let everything else - the refugee camp, the office sessions, the things that happen in the private rooms - be as far away and unimportant as the Empire and the Republic and their distant battles in the sky.

Still, Gella has a new fear now. She is getting older, and there are no children older than fourteen among Doctor Korpil's little miracles. Being so small helps - at twelve, Gella looks ten at most - but she knows that the years of being malnourished in the refugee camp won't save her forever. Teenagers are no good for Doctor Korpil's purposes; he needs them as little and unthreatening as possible. One day, Tay is gone, her room empty and blank as if she had never lived in it; soon there is another child who sleeps there, cuddling the toy bantha that used to be Tay's.

They do not need to be told not to ask the adults where their friends go. But in corners of the playground, under cover of the noise of a music lesson, or between mouthfuls at mealtimes, they exchange theories, rumours, whispers. Some of the children think that Doctor Korpil simply sends the children back to their parents; others cling to the idea that the older children are adopted by rich families; Gella does not know whether to be scornful of those children who need to delude themselves so badly, or jealous that they can apparently do so successfully. Most of the others whisper about slavery, brothels, prostitution, but this seems, to Gella, as unlikely as the idea they would simply be allowed to return to their families; it's as if the other children have forgotten one of the first things that Doctor Korpil told them, about the price of their implants and the upkeep they require. Brothel owners and slave traders can get the bodies they require without having to pay for ones with metal parts which require expensive maintenance.

This is why Gella, unwillingly, believes the worst whispers that pass from child to child. Two things make them valuable: Their youth and smallness and ability to loosen a rich person's purse-strings by one method or another on the one hand, and the metal and machines bonded to their bodies on the other. When they lose the first, doesn't it make the most sense that Doctor Korpil would simply salvage the second, and attach it to another, more useful body?

Whatever was left over, she doesn't think it would be very valuable to anybody.

Gella cannot help noticing familiar-looking components in some of the implants and prosthetics the new arrivals sport. She tries very hard not to recognize parts of Tay's prosthetic arm, now attached to a freckled boy who says his name is Eskol. Those are Stanza's thoughts, not Gella's; but she needs to be Stanza now in order to be Gella, she needs to be as smart as she can, to be as good as she can at what Doctor Korpil wants her to do.

She concentrates, studying the names and faces of the rich and powerful people at their parties, targeting the ones who are most generous or who seem to have the most valuable secrets, drifting and weaving in their direction as she circulates through the lavishly-decorated rooms; remembering the ones who pull her aside, too, or who are waiting for her in those private places, the games they like to play, the way they like to begin and end. The Empire take Draavi 3, and Draavi 2, and there is talk above her head of a blockade; now the rich people cannot leave the planet, but it only makes them more determined to enjoy themselves, to congregate at their parties, to give away great handfuls of credit chips as if they can keep themselves safe by pretending hard enough. Gella understands; she is pretending, too, as hard as she can. Pretending that as long as she can still return to Doctor Korpil with her basket stuffed full, as long as he still strokes her hair and calls her his flower as they take the speeder back to the clinic at the end of the night, she is safe. She will be safe.

Gella is at a party at the Fixeve Tower Hotel when it happens. It is a special reception for Doctor Korpil, to recognize and support his work, held in the penthouse reception rooms of the tallest building in the city with floor-to-ceiling windows that command a spectacular view. While Doctor Korpil introduces his little miracles to the gathered dignitaries and has holos taken shaking hands with planetary governors and Republic diplomats and wealthy businessmen, Gella is a hundred floors down, in the bedroom of a private suite in the hotel with a man that she has been brought to before, a man with a pristine white moustache who wears sky-blue robes embroidered with gold.

And that's why Gella lives.

Because as the white-haired man is unfastening her dress with shaking hands and telling her about his own daughter, there is a flash of light from the windows and a sound like tearing concrete that rips through Gella's implants and straight into her brain. In the last split second before the ceiling comes crashing down, the man, moving with a speed she would not have believed possible, grabs Gella and pulls her to the floor beneath him, rolling both of them underneath the massive desk that stands against the wall. And then there is just shaking and shuddering and the tearing sound, and then blackness.

Later, it is the light shining in her eyes that wakes her. It is dark and she doesn't know where she is, but there is a thin beam of light, wavering and bobbing around, disappearing behind shapes she doesn't recognize. Gella coughs; her mouth is full of dust. She makes the loudest noise she can.

There is the faint sound of a startled voice; the light returns, shining in her eyes again. The voice is closer. Gella tries to move; everything hurts and her legs feel like they are on fire with the heavy weight lying across them. She cannot look behind her to see what it is. A second beam of light joins the first, and as they bob and sweep, she begins to understand; she is still underneath the desk, but cannot crawl out from underneath it even if she could move, because there is what looks like a mound of rubble blocking the way, with only small gaps here and there allowing the light to shine through.

The light from torches; she can see hands now, hands in heavy black gloves, pulling at the rubble, trying to clear it away. Through the widening gap, she sees a face, streaked with dirt and sweat. Gloved fingers push up the heavy helmet, marked with the Imperial crest; eyes meet hers.

'Blast me,' she hears him say, 'there's a child in here.'

It takes the Imperials maybe an hour to clear a big enough gap. Two of them, the two that first found her, do the work of painstakingly clearing the rubble without shifting anything which might cause whatever is above them to collapse. Behind them she can see other indistinct shapes, other blurry faces, watching anxiously as they try to prise away enough debris to get Gella out. They talk to her, in voices which are meant to sound reassuring, but she can hear the fear. She lies quietly and waits, gathering her strength, and when they finally clear a big enough space, she lifts her arms silently.

The rescue workers grab her arms and pull; Gella squirms and kicks, trying desperately to free her legs. It's a dark and cramped struggle, twisting in the tiny space beneath the desk, but eventually she manages to wriggle one leg free, then the other, and the Imperials start to pull her out through the small gap. As they do, Gella manages to turn her head and look back, knowing what she will see; the warm weight on her legs was indeed the white-haired man who had pulled her under the desk. As the beams of light from the wrist torches the Imperials are wearing flicker and sweep, she sees that there is something dark trickling from the corner of his mouth, which is moving soundlessly, but his eyes are open. They meet hers, silently pleading.

With a final heave and a painful scrape of skin, she is out into the dark musty air, and one of the men is carrying her, staggering and sliding, across more rubble towards where the door used to be, where more rescue workers are waiting with torches and anxious faces. As he puts her down, medics kneel around her, one of them feeling her shaking arms and legs while another tilts a canteen of water gently towards her lips. She swallows and coughs as the man who carried her kneels down, too. 'Is there anybody else in here?' he asks her, his dirt-streaked face intent but his voice gentle. 'Was there anybody in here with you?'

She shakes her head.

The rescue worker sighs and pats her comfortingly on the shoulder. 'You're a very brave girl.' Then he raises his voice. 'That's it for this floor, people - let's get out of here before the rest comes down.'

Gella doesn't look back as she is carried away.

*

She doesn't know what her name is now.

When the rescue workers pulled her out of the wreckage of the hotel, she told them, without thinking, that her name was Gella Marogan, so that's what is written on the ID bracelet fastened around her wrist, and that's what the screen above the bed displays, and that's what the doctors and nurses call her on the sunny ward where she has been taken. But it doesn't take her long to realize how stupid that had been. Gella Marogan does not exist outside Doctor Korpil's clinic; she has no parents, no documentation, no refugee number. No explanation for the expensive implants wrapped around her ears. It will not take them much checking before they discover that she is not who she is supposed to be.

And they will check. Gella lies in her hospital bed and watches the holo-news; the Empire has taken Draavi Prime, and after all the years of fighting in the outer system, they have done it with little bloodshed. Just one surgical strike from orbit, levelling a single block. Most of the planet's highest-level officials, as well as most of the most influential Republic citizens on planet, had been at the Fexive Tower Hotel; they had all been killed, and in the confusion, the Empire had taken over, smoothly and efficiently and with minimal resistance. Now, so the holo-news said, they were setting about to restore everything that had been wrong on Draavi Prime, putting it all back in order. The refugee camps, overcrowded with starving, diseased people, were being reorganized, the refugees treated and cured and fed. The hospitals that had catered exclusively to the insatiable appetite of the galaxy's wealthiest inhabitants for cosmetic surgeries were now being used to treat the sick and injured. The Empire was putting everything back in order.

Sooner or later, that will mean Gella, too. Once all her injuries are healed, they will want to put her neatly in her place. But her only place was at Doctor Korpil's clinic, and Doctor Korpil is dead, along with most of his aides.

She will have to go back to being Stanza Tuain, and that prospect, once so dearly longed for, now within arm's reach, is dry and sour in her mouth. How can she explain what Stanza Tuain is doing here, in this hospital bed in the capital city, with machines in her head that make her a walking holo-recorder? How can she tell anyone why she was in that private suite and not at the party with the others? What if they decided someone had to pay for all the things Doctor Korpil had done, and she was the only one left who could be punished?

She could run. No one now is monitoring the signals from her implants; those frequencies are buried in the rubble of the Fixeve Tower Hotel. It would be so easy to slip out of the ward, out of the hospital and into the streets now patrolled by Imperial soldiers. But where would she go? She doesn't even know if her parents and Scerra are alive; the news has said that the casualties in the refugee camps in the last few months were astronomical.

Besides, if she did find her parents ... Gella absently touched her implants, feeling along the edges where the metal was fused to her skin.

If she did find her parents, she would have to tell them. Everything. And it would all stop being locked up safely in the different rooms in her mind, and spill over, and become real.

It doesn't help that being in the hospital - the texture of the sheets, the colour of the lighting, the sounds, the smells - reminds her irresistibly of that first nightmare spell in the clinic, the restraints, the pain. It makes her dizzy and sick, her head feels burning hot, something crawls underneath her skin. Just as she had used Stanza's pain and fear to help her become Gella, she now uses the same pain and fear to her advantage; crying, shaking, screaming when they try to ask her too many questions, so they largely leave her alone. But it cannot last. Her days of being left alone are numbered as surely as her injuries are healing.

Gella lies curled in her bed and stares at the wall, pleading silently for someone to tell her who she is supposed to be.

*

'Her name is Devinahl.'

Gella gasps and leaps to her feet, spinning around to face the speaker with her hands flying behind her back; she had been so absorbed that she had not heard anybody come in. Behind her, the little creature she had been kneeling to pet gave its own trill of alarm, or perhaps indignation; it darts between Gella's feet and across the thick carpet, all six legs rippling and its long, soft feathers flattening. It ran up the wall like a lizard until it reached a shelf; grasping the underside with five clawed feet, it rotated its head back towards Gella and trilled again.

'I didn't mean to startle you,' the woman said. She was a distinctly average-looking person, dressed in a grey Imperial military uniform that seemed somehow blanker than usual; her tightly-curled black hair was swept across her brow and tied in a knot. Her dark skin was lined at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth; her face seemed somehow familiar.

'I'm sorry, I - they brought me here from the hospital and I was waiting and I - I heard -' All Gella's fear, momentarily deadened by the surprise and intrigue of discovering the strange little creature basking in the sun beneath the window, had returned in full force.

'There's no need to apologize. To me or to Devinahl.' The woman crossed the room to where the little creature was hanging from the shelf and uttering her trilling sounds, and held out her arm, extending one finger. The creature hissed. 'Now, that's not polite,' the woman chided.

Despite all her fright at being taken from the hospital and brought to this building, this office, Gella couldn't stop herself from watching the creature; she had never seen anything like it. With a long body, six legs and a blunt-nosed head on a short neck, it was shaped something like a lizard; but it was covered with downy feathers, intricately patterned in shades of blue and silver, that gave way to short fur at its lengthy tail, which wound and gripped like a monkey's. Beneath a shock of bright orange feathers on each of its six feet, those feet were clawed and had pads like paws; and no lizard had big, pointed, furred, tufted ears.

'Don't bother asking me what she is,' the woman said, apparently reading Gella's mind. 'Everybody does, and I don't know what to tell them.' She crooked her finger and the creature rubbed its cheek against it, giving a softer trill. 'The trader who sold me her egg spun me a tale about bringing it back from an expedition into Wild Space, and swore blind that she would be six metres long two months after she hatched. That was nine years ago, and she hasn't grown a centimetre for eight and a half of them.' The little creature, apparently recovering from its unwelcome alarm, hooked one clawed paw around the woman's finger and swung out from the shelf, her tail wrapping around the woman's forearm as she hung upside down as she had done from the shelf.

The woman turned back towards Gella, the creature dangling, apparently comfortably, from her arm. 'She only eats once every two months, won't drink anything except for substances so alkaline it should immediately calcify her internal organs, and every so often - if she likes you - she will sing something that sounds startlingly like Devonian opera, and I don't mean that as a compliment.' She stroked the creature's furry tail gently with the tip of one finger where it coiled around her arm. 'The Imperial Science Division has no record of anything remotely similar, and when they said that the only way to discover more about her was to dissect her, I decided it was best if she remained a mystery. That's why I named her Devinahl. You can pet her, if you like.'

Tentatively, Gella reached out as the woman extended her arm, and stroked the creature's head. Its long ears swivelled, apparently independently of each other, and it gave another of those trills, but this one lower-pitched.

'Do you know what a devinahl is?' the woman asked as Gella petted the creature, rubbing its ears and stroking its feathered back.

Gella shook her head.

'It's a type of riddle poem that was popular on Alderaan about twenty-five centuries ago. The poet would make elaborate paradoxical statements in rhyming verse around a central theme and the listeners were supposed to guess at the theme or idea that linked all the seemingly nonsensical statements - "devinahl" literally means "guess poem". I thought it would be an appropriate name for my little riddle.'

The creature, apparently growing bored with being petted, suddenly swung itself upright on the woman's arm and ran lightly up it to her shoulder, across the back of her neck and on to the other shoulder before launching itself into space. Gella gasped, startled with what seemed like a suicidal leap, but more orange feathers suddenly seemed to fan out from around each of the creature's six paws, buoying it as it sailed through the air in a graceful arc to land on the desk. It did not pause, but ran with the same sinuous, rippling motion across the desk to the opposite edge where it launched itself into space again, this time landing on the drapes where it swarmed upwards towards the top before stopping and seemingly curling up vertically, showing no discomfort as it dangled its body, wrapped into a knot, from four of its six feet, claws fastened securely in the drapes.

'Looks like the next person to have this office will have to replace the curtains,' the woman sighed. ‘They were extremely ugly, to be fair.’

The woman’s smile is warm and broad, inviting Gella to share the joke, but Gella cannot do much more than give a small, automatic smile in response.

‘Don’t mind about Devinahl,’ the woman says, crossing the floor to the desk, going to seat herself behind it. ‘She's a temperamental little thing, but she does like to curl up in people's laps if they're sitting still.'

Gella took the hint, and sat down in the chair across the desk from the woman. An alarming number of datapads were stacked in neat piles across its surface, but there were no holos or ornaments; just like the room itself was richly furnished, but with a curious blankness, as if anything personal had been removed. Probably the woman had had everything chosen by the previous owner taken away, but she had replaced it with nothing of her own.

'Now,' the woman said, and Gella looked back at her; she was still sure she had seen her face somewhere before, but could not remember where. 'I must apologize for keeping you waiting - not just because I was late for this meeting, but for the length of time you have been kept waiting for this interview to happen at all. I'm sure that, with your history, being in the hospital was not a comfortable experience for you.'

Gella stiffened, panic flooding her.

'Yes,' the woman said gently. 'It will probably save a great deal of time if I tell you now that I know a great deal about you, Stanza Tuain, and the things that have happened to you.' The blood was thundering in Gella's ears, but her implants still picked up every word perfectly as the woman went on. 'I know that you are the eldest daughter of Edson and Hosha Tuain, and that you lived in the Dragemef Grasslands refugee camp after your family was forced to flee Draavi V. I know that Doctor Kiran Korpil separated you from your parents on some pretext and brought you to his clinic in the city, where he gave you a new name along with a set of implants that served a variety of functions - none of them medically necessary. I know that Doctor Korpil exploited you, and the other children like you, to illegally obtain funds from the wealthy patrons of this hospital world, through a fraudulent charity, blackmail and prostitution.'

'How.' The word stuck in her throat and came out strangled, barely above a whisper. She licked numb lips and tried again. 'How -?'

Again, the woman seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. 'Not from Doctor Korpil himself, I promise you. He and most of his aides were killed instantly when the surgical strike on the Tower Hotel was made. Along with,' she added more quietly, 'all of "his" children. You would have been killed too, had you not been on a much lower floor of the building. Even then it would be considered highly improbable for you to have survived.'

Her last words hinted at something that Gella did not understand, but it did not matter, because she had remembered. 'I know you!'

The woman raised her eyebrows. 'Excuse me?'

'I know you.' Amidst all the confusion and the welter of emotions, Gella clung to the momentary triumph of having finally pinned down the elusive recollection. 'I mean, I've seen you. At the - the parties. One last month, at the Aquilla Ballroom. You were wearing blue. And then once before, at the Nabeshin. You had a headdress on.'

'Very good,' the woman said softly. 'I wondered if you might have a knack for remembering faces. Yes, I have been stationed on Draavi Prime for some time now.'

'Stationed - ?' Gella knew she should be playing this differently, but she was too panicked, and right now anything, even demanding answers, was better than listening to the woman talk about Stanza Tuain and the things that had happened to her in those even tones. 'Who are you? How do you know these - these things?'

The woman held up a hand, and despite the warring emotions currently flooding her, Gella noticed for the first time that unlike most of the Imperial officers she had seen in this building, the woman was not wearing gloves. 'I will answer your questions to the best of my ability, and I won't lie to you, but I would like you to be calm and listen to me, Stanza.' It was the second time she had said the name and, just as it had the first time, it pinned Gella to her chair with an icy needle made of terror.

'Now.' The woman sat back in her chair, considering Gella. 'You asked me who I am. That's a very difficult question for someone like me to answer. To the men and women of the Imperial forces tasked with securing this planet -' she waved a hand at the door - 'I am known as Major Lapis Dar. But that is not my real name, any more than Gella Marogan is yours. As for my real name ... let us say that I don't enjoy being addressed by it, any more than you like it when I call you Stanza. Names, real and unreal, are a very tricky business, as you've already learned. For now, you can call me Sifter.'

'Sifter,' Gella repeated blankly.

'It's a ... designation ... that means a great deal to a handful of people spread across the galaxy, and nothing at all to everybody else. Like anybody's true name.' The woman smiled at the look of confusion on Gella's face. 'Tell me, do you know what an "intelligence service" is?'

'It's ... spies. And secrets.'

The woman's smile broadened. 'Well put.' She glanced up at the curtains, where Devinahl was unwinding herself. 'An intelligence service is something every government in the galaxy has - even the former government of Draavi Prime. Its task is simple: To gather and interpret information about what the enemies of its government are doing. I work for Imperial Intelligence, and it is to them - at least, the sufficiently highly ranked among them - that I am known as Sifter.' She held out her arm as Devinahl made her way headfirst down the curtains.

Gella frowned, watching as the little creature leapt nimbly on to the woman's arm, her tail wrapping around it again. 'And they sent you here.'

'Naturally,' There was the faintest trace of - something - in the woman's voice, but when Gella's eyes flew to her face, it gave nothing away. 'As the Empire's quest to conquer Draavi Prime entered its closing stages, I came to this planet in the guise of a wealthy Republic citizen seeking medical treatment for an obscure condition. I blended in with the rest.' She folded her arm back into her chest, cradling the creature, stroking it with her other hand. 'I wanted to know who the most important people on Draavi Prime were, and understand the best way for the Empire to take over the planet with minimal resistance. In the course of my investigations, I came across Doctor Kilpore and his ... charity. It did not take too long to understand the true nature of his "clinic", at least in broad outlines. Nor to see that what passed for a government on this world, and its Republic allies, chose to ignore the obvious, because the most powerful among them were either living in fear of what Doctor Kilpore could reveal about them if he chose, or were too busy indulging in what the doctor had to offer. Or both.'

'You told them.' The knowledge had arrived in Gella's brain unbidden, but complete, and she could not stop herself from saying it out loud. 'You knew who would be at the Fixeve for the party. You told the - the ship in orbit to destroy the hotel and kill all those people.'

'Yes, I did,' the woman - Sifter - said, just as calmly as she had said everything else, still stroking her pet. 'I learned as much as I could about the structure of this planet's society, and everything I learned told me that most of this world's real executive power had been usurped by a small handful of citizens obsessed with their own interests. Knowing that, it was clear that a surgical strike which removed a high concentration of those individuals would essentially paralyse the planet for a few crucial hours - hours the Empire could use to move in and take control of key centres of power.'

Gella did not say anything. It felt like her mind simply had too much to process, and had shut down.

'I could have made a different choice, of course,' Sifter continued. 'I could have recommended that the Empire proceed with a more conventional invasion. Engaged the orbital defense platforms, landed troops in the grasslands outside the capital city, let them establish camps and fight their way inwards, sector by sector. The Empire would have prevailed, of course, but only after weeks - perhaps months. Time in which millions would have died, and not just soldiers. They had already cut the food shipments to the refugee camps to the bare minimum; how long do you imagine they would have gone on shipping anything at all to the camps once the shortages really started to bite?'

Mother. Father. Scerra.

'I chose the deaths of a few thousand corrupt and selfish individuals over the suffering and loss of millions,' Sifter went on. 'Because of my work, I knew precisely when and where the Empire could strike to remove those least likely to value the lives of their people, with the least loss of life to those people. Now, instead of fighting in the streets, there are Imperial patrols combing the wreckage for survivors, Imperial teams exposing what this society kept hidden so that it can be put right.'

'But the others.' It came out as a whisper again. Gella cleared her throat, tried once more. 'The other children -'

‘I know.’

‘They didn’t deserve that!’

‘I know,’ Sifter said again, gravely, meeting Gella’s eyes squarely. ‘They didn’t deserve anything that had happened to them. But it was the only way to accomplish the mission – and perhaps, if they had chosen, they might have opted for a quick death.’

‘They w-wanted to g-go home!’ Gella burst out.

‘Perhaps that’s what they thought they wanted, when they were living at the clinic and doing Doctor Korpil’s bidding,’ Sifter said gently. ‘But now there is no clinic, and they have no option but to go back to their families – well, they might feel that anything was better than that. Looking their families in the eye and knowing that their parents, their siblings, knew everything that they had done? Knew how those extra rations in the camps had been paid for? Can you imagine what that would do to those parents, those families?’ She learned forward, allowing Devinahl to uncoil out of her arms. ‘Maybe the children would have wanted a way out rather than having to cause so much pain to the people they loved. We’ll never know, I suppose.’

There was silence in the office except for the faintest clicking of the creature's claws as she stretched and sauntered across the surface of the desk towards Gella, stopping and giving an enquiring trill. Automatically, Gella took her hands from her lap; Devinahl took it for an invitation and leapt lightly on to her knee. Gella could feel the little claws pressing into her clothes, but not painfully so, as the creature investigated her lap, before giving another satisfied-sounding trill and settling her warm, soft weight down against Gella's abdomen, curling herself up into a tight, feathered ball.

'What about the nurses?' Gella asked eventually. 'Everybody else at the clinic?'

'I had a team secure Doctor Kilpore's clinic and the remaining personnel almost as soon as the initial strike took place. Between questioning those who remained and looking through the doctor's files, all my suspicions were confirmed.' Sifter adjusted the cuffs of her uniform tunic one by one. 'I imagined that my investigations would provide only restitution for the dead, and ammunition with which to go after those who had allowed all these travesties to occur. But then I heard that a young girl, with no apparent family or friends but with some very unusual and expensive facial implants, had been rescued from the wreckage of the hotel, and it was not very difficult to piece together the story of Stanza Tuain and Gella Marogan and see that they were one and the same. Doctor Korpil's security precautions always relied on the premise that nobody with any power or authority would come looking, you see.'

There was another long silence as Gella stroked the creature in her lap and the woman watched from across the desk.

'What about my family?' Gella asked eventually; she thought she tasted blood in her throat.

'Your father and mother and sister are alive,' Sifter told her quietly. 'Mortality rates at the Dagemef camp were above sixty per cent, but Edson, Hosha and Scerra Tuain were able to survive. They seem to have been able to trade some of their extra rations for other useful supplies, extra credits that bought them some protection even when things were at their worst.' She smiled her warm smile. ‘You saved them.’

'What will happen to them now?' Gella asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sifter shrugged. 'I'm sure you've seen the broadcasts. Imperial peacekeeping forces are even now reorganizing the camps, ensuring that there will be sufficient food and medical supplies and shelter for all the displaced people. Your family will be much better looked after under our regime, I assure you. But they are still not Imperial citizens, nor citizens of Draavi Prime in their own right. They will have to remain in the camp until a place for them to settle can be found.' She gave Gella a reassuring smile. 'Still, I'm sure they will be delighted to have you back.'

Gella felt something cold settle into the pit of her stomach. 'I'm going ... back? To the camp?'

Sifter raised her eyebrows. 'Isn't that what you want?'

Gella looked away, avoiding Sifter's eyes, focusing instead on the creature curled up on her lap, and on trying to get her voice under control enough to ask the question. Despite her best efforts, it still shook as she asked, 'Will they ... know?'

'About Doctor Korpil, and the things he made his children do?'

Gella nodded.

'I'm afraid everyone on this planet will know,' Sifter said gently. 'It's important that the people of Draavi Prime come to understand the kinds of crime and corruption that their government, and their government's friends in the Republic, were willing to allow to flourish under their regime. I know an investigative team are working on an exclusive holo-broadcast about Doctor Korpil's clinic as we speak.'

Gella swallowed hard against the bile rising in her throat. She could see it so clearly: The looks on people's faces when they heard about all the things that had happened to Doctor Korpil's children. The broadcast would not leave out the things that had happened in the private rooms; maybe they would even find out about the office. Mother and Father and Scerra would know how their extra rations had been paid for all those years. Gella Marogan would be gone forever and only Stanza would be left. She left cold sweat running down her back at the thought. It would be Stanza Tuain who had done all those things, and everybody would know.

'What about -' it came out as a croak; Gella swallowed and tried again. 'What about my implants?'

The thought had been just forming in her mind that if her implants were removed, it would be easier to hide. But Sifter was shaking her head, and the hope died before it had even finished unfurling. 'I have spoken to the doctors who examined you, and they all agree. There was nothing wrong with your hearing or your eyesight before the implants, but after four years of continuous use, your optic and auditory nerves have become accustomed to the additional stimulus, your neural pathways have been reconfigured ...' Sifter spread her hands, an expressive gesture. 'You now need the implants to help you see and hear. If they were removed, it's almost certain that you would become partially or completely blind, and certainly deaf. That's if you survived the initial neural trauma of the severed connections.'

Gella's mouth was dryer than ever; this was something she had not thought of. 'But the implants - they need adjusting every few months. The doctor said so.' Sifter gave a confirming nod. 'My - my parents - they can't pay for that, even if someone in the camp could do it ...'

She trailed off, looking hopefully at Sifter, waiting for the woman to offer some suggestion, some solution.

The woman simply leaned back in her chair and met Gella's gaze, impassively.

Gella swallowed again, her arms tightening around Devinahl. Sifter didn't have anything more to say; she was finished with Gella, and that meant Gella was finished.

She steeled herself to do it, to get up off the chair and walk away and start the journey back, back to her family, back to the camp. But just as she had tensed to rise, Sifter spoke again, not as if there had been a pause of several minutes between her last statement and this one, but as if she was continuing her thought.

'Of course, there is one other option.'

Gella sank back on to the chair. 'What is it?'

'You could come and work for me.' Gella's arms tightened convulsively around Devinahl, and the little creature shrieked in protest. Sifter held up a hand. 'I don't mean prostitution, and you will not be subjected to any form of abuse. I am not another Doctor Korpil.'

She relaxed her arms slowly; Devinahl squirmed out from under them and leapt off her lap and on to the desk, streaking over to swarm up Sifter's arm to her shoulder once more. 'Then what ...?'

Sifter pursed her lips, once again searching Gella's face intently with those fathomless dark eyes. 'There are those in Imperial Intelligence,' she said slowly, 'who believe that the work most vital to protecting the Empire can and should be done by those we have explicitly designed and programmed to fulfill those functions.' Gella frowned as Sifter went on. 'And there are those, like me, who believe that there is still a place for the organic, autonomous field agent; the man or woman on the spot who can be flexible, inventive, creative, finding ways to carry out their orders that even those who issued those orders could not have anticipated. I believe that so strongly, in fact, that I have spent much of my career seeking out and recruiting remarkable individuals to be those agents.'

'You ... want me to join Imperial Intelligence?'

Sifter smiled. 'Not quite yet. Let's say that I think that you have some unusual and promising qualities, which I would like to nurture.'

'What qualities?'

'Well, for one, you're a very good liar. Your experiences over the past few years have given you an almost intuitive understanding of how to appear unthreatening, and go unnoticed. You come already equipped with some top-of-the-range implants which enhance your intelligence-gathering abilities, and which could potentially be modified to enhance other physical attributes as well. And - forgive me - you will not be missed. As far as anyone on this planet is concerned, Stanza Tuain died along with Doctor Korpil and the rest of his children in the Fixeve Tower Hotel. The hospital staff know you as Gella Marogan, who never existed; and only a small handful of Imperial personnel, who will have no interest in pursuing the subject, have any idea that a child survived the demolition of the hotel. You could board my starship and leave this planet with me today, and leave poor little Stanza Tuain behind forever. This, for my purposes, is extremely convenient.' Sifter shrugged. 'I told you I would not lie to you.'

'What would you do with me?' Gella asked.

'Oh - educate you, mainly. Teach you various skills. Put you to work at the same time, if it can be done. I think you'll find it stimulating.' Sifter absently stroked the long tail of Devinahl where it curled around her neck. 'You'll be under my protection until you reach adulthood. Then, if you wish to join Imperial Intelligence, you will find yourself perfectly suited to do so. And if you don't - well, you can make your own way in the galaxy. Or come back here, if you like.'

'What about my parents?'

'They already believe that their daughter is dead. I simply won't disabuse them of that impression.'

'No, I mean -' Gella searched for the words. 'Can you ... look after them?'

Sifter raised her eyebrows. 'It could certainly be arranged for them to receive Imperial citizenship. They would be able to leave the camp, move to the city, access all the benefits Imperial citizens enjoy in healthcare, education, housing, employment ... Would that be sufficient?'

'It would,' Gella said slowly. 'If I said yes.'

Sifter simply leaned back in her chair and continued to stroke Devinahl's tail, watching Gella.

Gella tried to think clearly, to picture her parents' faces, to make up her mind whether she could trust Sifter. But it was hard to concentrate. What came into her mind was not any of the things Sifter had said: It was the face of the white-haired man with the moustache, the blood leaking from the corner of his mouth, the look in his eyes, as she looked back beneath the desk. He had taken her into that room to ... to do those things, but when the tower fell, he had pushed her under the desk, saved her before himself. It frightened her that both those things could be true.

It frightened her that she had left him to die.

'There's one other quality I recognised in you,' Sifter said quietly, watching her. 'One last reason I want you. You're a survivor, Stanza.' Gella flinched in spite of herself. 'You were taken from your family and placed in a situation where the worst things that can be done to a person were done to you, over and over again - and yet here you sit, free and alive, and your tormentors are dead, or facing their punishment. The Empire needs that determination. It needs that strength.'

Still Gella didn't say anything.

'Your family loves you. They will always love you, and care for you, and hold you in their hearts. But they will always see you as a victim. No matter how much they love you, they will always see you as the wreckage of what their daughter might have been.' Sifter twisted Devinahl's tail around her finger, still watching Gella. 'The life I offer you holds no love, no warmth, no safety. Nothing but loneliness and danger and fear. But I can promise you that I will only ever look at you to see your strength. And I can ensure that the galaxy sees it too.'

Gella had nothing to say.

Sifter leaned across the desk, Devinahl riding on her shoulder, eyes intent on Gella. 'What is it,' she asked, 'that you want?'

She looked back at the woman across the desk, and let the words come from deep inside her.

'I want to be nobody.'

A smile, deeper than any she had seen so far, curved Sifter's lips. 'I think that can be arranged.'

[nikihawkes]

Title: Polaris Rising

Author: Jessie Mihalik

Series: Consortium Rebellion #1

Genre: Science Fiction Romance

Rating: 2/5 stars

The Overview: A space princess on the run and a notorious outlaw soldier become unlikely allies in this imaginative, sexy space opera adventure—the first in an exciting science fiction trilogy. In the far distant future, the universe is officially ruled by the Royal Consortium, but the High Councillors, the heads of the three High Houses, wield the true power. As the fifth of six children, Ada von Hasenberg has no authority; her only value to her High House is as a pawn in a political marriage. When her father arranges for her to wed a noble from House Rockhurst, a man she neither wants nor loves, Ada seizes control of her own destiny. The spirited princess flees before the betrothal ceremony and disappears among the stars. Ada eluded her father’s forces for two years, but now her luck has run out. To ensure she cannot escape again, the fiery princess is thrown into a prison cell with Marcus Loch. Known as the Devil of Fornax Zero, Loch is rumored to have killed his entire chain of command during the Fornax Rebellion, and the Consortium wants his head.. -Goodreads

The Review:

I feel compelled to start with a disclaimer that I don’t normally pick up books with romance as the main draw, preferring instead stories that also include a mix of world-building, characters, plot, and external conflicts. Romances tend to just focus on the relationship, and I was hoping that one set in space would require a lot more attention paid to all the other elements I enjoy. Surprisingly, it actually had a good balance, and because of that I enjoyed it more than most from the genre, but overall I don’t think the type of story is my cup of tea, and my rating reflects that.

Don’t get me wrong – I love romance in books, but only when it’s not the sole focus. In this case, where the love story was front and center, I found myself not on board with how it played out. It was kind of insta-lovey. The declarations of love came without a satisfying series of events to back it for my personal tastes. I always want to be able to see why characters fell in love through some poignant moments, and that was missing for me. For a book mostly about the romance, the romance needs to have more substance to win me over.

Honestly though, I knew what I was getting myself into. And for what it was, it did have a nice balance of action and love scenes. The plot was even decent – bringing in an external conflict that at least kept my attention until the end, even if it was a tad repetitive. I can’t help but think other readers are going to enjoy it a lot more than I did because it definitely has some merit.

Series status: It’s currently planned as a series, but I don’t believe I will be reading on… it’s just not for me.

Recommendation: Although this might not be my genre, I think it was a decent story that fans of romantic sci-fi will gobble up. The banter between the main characters reminded me of Ilona Andrews’ writings, which is always a good thing. Venture in expecting a good mix of action and lovey-dovey moments.

Other books you might like… more:

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Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet by Becky Chambers

Grimspace by Ann Aguirre

Fortune’s Pawn by Rachel Bach

Stardoc by S.L. Viehl

Burn for Me by Ilona Andrews

by Niki Hawkes

Book Review: Polaris Rising by Jessie Mihalik Title: Polaris Rising Author: Jessie Mihalik Series: Consortium Rebellion #1 Genre: Science Fiction Romance Rating: … 571 more words

[zippdementia]

Part 20 Alignment May Vary: The Red Eye Watches You

Welcome to the ongoing adventures of Abenthy, Karina (Seeker of Callax), and Tyrion, as they hunt for the fabled Tomb of Haggemoth in order to save Abenthy’s friend Zennatos, to find and bring to justice Karina’s old commander who betrayed her, and to create an epic song for which Tyrion will forever be remembered. Last time they were about to leave the newly rejuvinated desert of Thud with their bounty from the Grey Tomb and head for Celaenos, a monastery of good knights where, in a library, there are to find their last clue to the location of Rori Rama, the final resting place of Haggemoth.

As GM, I’ve pulled back on rolling for random sea encounters. We are late in the adventure now, and there is good momentum built up. To throw in another encounter will, at best, slow us down and, at worst, accidentally kill the party, which is something that at this point I’d like to reserve for the remaining two main locations, not some random fight against a sea siren.

I was, in reading the possible encounter list, intrigued by one of the possibilities: a friendly bronze dragon. Encounters with dragons are going to be a big part of Red Hand of Doom and I thnk this would be a nice lead in to that. Also, Bronze Dragons are enamored with rare and unique treasures and as it happens Karina is carrying around the Rod of Storms.

The Dragon slides into the water, its gigantic body pushing through the water with slow deliberation. In only a couple strokes, it is at the Ghost Ship (now named Tywin’s Vengeance) and only now do the adventurers realize how truly huge the creature is. It leans in close, its head tilted so that one gigantic eye, large as a horse cart, stares at Karina.

“I smell the magic on you, little one,” he says.

The Rod of Storms is a cursed legendary item, one of a kind, meant to give Udo the Grey control over the weather. With it, he altered the atmosphere of the green land of Arctavia, slowly transforming it into the desert of Thud. He never had full control over the Rod, though, and it comes with a heavy curse, ensuring that any who carries it will never be free of the damp and the cold. In addition, using the Rod is difficult and can backfire, releasing powerful uncontrolled lightning, wind, and thunder magics. Only a legendarily powerful mage could hope to control it... or something which had direct communion with the weather, like a Bronze Dragon.

Karina is not fully aware of the Rod’s curse, but she does remember the warning in Udo’s tomb: “Beware the Rod of Storms, I created it but was never its master.” I decide this is an interesting opportunity for her to steer the course of the game. The Bronze Dragon, Sauros, wants to trade the location of one of its treasure stashes for the Rod of Storms. Meta-game, the decision is this: keep the Rod of Storms and both the power and risk that comes with that, or trade out a very powerful weapon for the promise of future riches (which I will create as a side adventure at some point after they find the Tomb of Haggemoth).

Karina chooses to give up the Rod. It’s the safest choice, actually, and gives me a little more control over the adventure, as the Rod is one of those wild card items that can turn the tides massively either in favor of or against the players. It forces bad weather, too, which can affect future scenes. On the downside, it is always fun to play with legendary items and tons of side adventures can come out of the mahyem they cause. For a little fun, and to share my pain, I give Karina a flaw: Having given up this powerful item, she feels its loss palpably, and believes she has made the wrong decision. She becomes obsessed with finding another powerful item like it, to replace its loss.

Sauros gives one more cryptic clue before departing. He tells Abenthy that there is a Red Eye watching over him greedily, that the Eye symbolizes great power and a dire destiny, and that Abenthy can learn more at the Monastery.

With that, the players move on to Celaenos.

Shackles of Gold

The Island of Celaenos is a rather austere, craggy piece of land jutting sharply from the ocean. There is barely enough vegetation to support the goatherds who live there and the place has a shabby, drab air about it. There is a small rocky harbor and a single impoverished village. Looming over the harbor On a nearby hill is the fortified monastery of Celaenos, where the Knights of Celaenos dwell. Their flag—a black field with a Red Half-moon and two stars—can easily be seen by any approaching ship. The harbor has a tiny dock, which can only be approached by Jollyboat or Dinghy. There are two tatty-looking vessels in the harbor, and one of them looks familiar to the players who have encountered the Ratzotto pirates before.

The people of the village respect and fear the Knights of Celeanos, and they are generally furtive and close-mouthed around strangers. The Knights are putatively in control of the island, but it is rare for them to ever leave their monastery.

The players make their way to the monastery, Karina using her magic to disguise herself as a tall Amazonian woman. They gain admittance to a vestibule which—with the doors closed behind and in front of them—seems like a deathtrap. Above them, through a glass window, two knights stare solemnly down at them. They wear white half capes, capes which cover only their right side, leaving the red and black doublet underneath visible. The crossbows they hold and the swords on their backs are of the finest make.

“Who are you? Why do you come here?”

The voice comes from a newcomer to the room. Opening the door and speaking before even fully entering the room is a young, blonde knight. His eyes, a bright blue color, hold no love or joy in them, and he stares at the players suspiciously, waiting for their answer.

This is Dickon, and he will come to play a strong role in what happens to the party at Celaenos. For now, after hearing they wish to use the library, he begrudgingly takes them to the Abbott. The Abbott, a powerfully built knight named Mordekai who looks younger than fifty years of battle hardened life would usually leave a man, is friendly and eager to banter with the party. His mood shifts, though, when they mention Zennatos.

“Scum. Thieving scum,” he hisses.

Turns out, the book that began this whole quest was stolen by Zennatos from the Celaenos monastery. The book had a curse on it, and this is what has compelled Zennatos to find the Tomb of Haggemoth, for only by doing so can he be cured. Not only is Mordekai not inclined to help anyone associated with Zennatos, he also warns that the quest for Haggemoth rings of a cursed, evil, thing:

“Think about it. A quest that is started by reading a cursed book, compelling good men to die for cursed men, sending them to a place rumoured to exist, to a tomb of a powerful mage, one who was banished from his own people... what sort of creature, tell me, would lure good men to their deaths?”

While they are debating this. A servant comes in, and Karina happens to recognize the bracers she wears: the same ones, at least from the look of them, that Rose used to control her servants back in Ottoman’s Dock. Karina bristles and accuses the Abbott of keeping slaves. 

Aaaaaaand... shit. It kind’ve goes downhill from there. The Abbott, as might be expected, does not appreciate being accused of slavery by strangers who are known associates of a thief. The party, for their part, is vastly suspicious based on seeing the pirate ship in harbor and the bracers, but willing to concede that a conspiracy could be going on under the Abbott’s nose. Abenthy uses his powers to try and detect evil on the man, gain some insight into his motives, but the Abbott only exudes an aura of good. 

The end result is that the Abbott refuses them access to the library, but says he will consider their words, and will send a verdict for them in three days. Dejected, the party heads to the only inn in town.

Cover Bands Suck

“How about some music?”

Tyrion looks around at the few sullen customers in the rugged tavern, the wood exuding the smell of sea, salt, and stale ale, and decides that livening up the place can only gain them favor. He gets up from the party’s table and heads to the corner of the barroom, passing three disheveled men with familiar Rat Tattoos on their necks.

“This is a cover of an old song, hope you know it, hope you like it!” he says in a chipper voice, and begins to play.

The Ratzottos are not impressed. They almost immediately begin calling out expletives and taunts, challenging him to “play faster!” or “play better!” and “cover bands suck!” Finally, one of them picks up a full bottle of rum and chucks it across the room.

And I roll a critical hit.

The bottle karoooms off of Tyrion’s head with a dramatic spray of blood. The music ends in a haphazard jangle of notes and piratey “yar har hars!” Tyrion is nearly killed, taken down to one hit point. And then all hell breaks loose.

Abenthy launches himself at the pirates, fists out and slamming into flesh. He takes on two at once: one a scraggly scrapper who first threw the bottle, the other a hook-handed man who uses his disability as a boon, scratching and clawing with his metal hook. A third, a hulking black man with a braided beard, charges him from the side. Karina tries to launch into combat as well by getting fancy with parkour (one of her flaws), but only succeeds in dramatically flinging herself unceremoniously over the bar and into a shelf of bottles. 

The tide turns when Tyrion uses his dissonant whispers to send the scrapper into a fit of brain bleeds, breaking his spirit and turning him into a slobbering mess. Abenthy uses COMMAND to halt the other two, and Karina puts the icing on the cake—trying to be dramatic again, she flourishes her blade, accidentally rolls a critical hit, and tears out hook hands’ eye. After this, the pirates are ready to talk under the influence of Abenthy’s Zone of Truth. What they learn distresses them.

Seems that these pirates are part of a slave ring being run from within the monastery. No mention is made of the Abbott, instead it seems that a man known as “The Seneschal” is behind the slave ring and coordinates it from within a secret cave underneath the monastery, accesible from the sea. And in three days, they are to meet the Seneschal there and prepare for “a special shipment.” Three days... the significance of the number does not escape the attention of the group. Three days is how much time the Abbott gave them before a promised response to their problem. Seems like someone has overheard of this and decided to act first.

Abenthy rewards his informants with a trip to hell—murdering the pirates and sending their souls to a master he himself does not fully understand. But this time, it feels more right than ever, like he was meant to do this. Karina and Tyrion look on, nervously, not altogether comfortable with their friend’s newfound bloodlust.

Then the players prepare for sleep, feeling that they have enough information to get the drop on their foes, not realizing how powerful the evil is that targets them, not knowing they are already one step behind in a game being played out by experienced schemers.

Next week, Weave a Song for Me.

[gaiabamman]

Get the whole book on Amazon for $3.99 ^_^ 

Thank the Lars, Min’s skill does not really rewind time, because my day couldn’t have been any longer. I endured eighty-four broken fingers, six broken femurs, a ruptured stomach and even three cardiac arrests. I wasn’t able to heal any of them.

I feel a million years older, but I don’t fear pain anymore. Knowing it will not kill me, the sudden searing sensation is nothing compared to the fear of endless cold and hunger I endured during my childhood. Nonetheless, Min looks exhausted, and I feel worse.

Lethal, as always, looks mostly pissed. He did not manage to scratch me, but I’m not even sure he tried. He says, amused, “Hey, Dumb, are you sure you got any skills at all? Maybe we can return you.”

Ghost chides, “Lethal, it’s her first day. It doesn’t matter that she’s almost your age.”

I say, “Get me a biosimulator, Ghost. I’ll show you what I can do in a lab.” Lethal walks away without even acknowledging any of us, and Ghost shakes his head, eyes lingering on his back. “Biosimulator?” I ask again.

“Yeah, right. I mean, no. Nala, read first a little bit about Cursoi culture, and then we’ll see if you still have questions.”

He fishes out of his tunic’s pocket a tiny, ancient looking text. Maybe it’s even older than Gray’s Anatomy. The cover is supple, dark leather embossed with a gilded horizontal eight: the symbol of infinity, split in two identical halves by a vertical line.

I take it as delicately as I can. “A book? Why not hyperspace?”

“We cannot risk hacking. The less is known about us the better, but we do have a few copies.”

I can see why he’d rather not have me do research.

Just then the alarm goes off. Brain says in my head, Foyer. Hold back and observe. Stay beside either Min or Lethal. Either of them will keep you safe.

As if I’d feel safe with the psycho who crushed my organs all day. I’m exhausted. I can’t believe we have another mission now. I want to cry, and even more so I’d like to sleep. Yet, I’m running down the hallway, losing ground on everyone else. By the time I get to the foyer, Apprentices are already gathered there, scowling at me.

I hate my life.

Ghost yells, “You know your orders! Dime, let’s go!”

And in the blink of an eye, we’re gone.

-------------------

We appear on a high floor in the Freedom Skyreacher. I can tell by the shops and the view out of the big windows, Cerulean Crests and all. I can see two giant holo-screens being smashed as an angry mob is going at each other’s throat. I glue myself to Min, but everything happens within seconds.

“Bonking Lunarites!” someone screams. “Terrorists! All terrorists!”

A guy drops, people wobble confused, holo-screens go back to being whole, normal activities resume, and we blink back in the foyer.

“What the Merc just happened?” I blurt.

Min laughs. “Routine. I only knew my orders, but my guess is that Drama identified the main culprit, some fanatic either for or against Crash, I promise. Browser found if he had any intel, Lethal killed him, Zera erased everybody’s memory of any accident, Emo made everyone happy, and I brought the scene back to damage free, or as damage free as it was one minute and ten seconds earlier.”

My mouth is open. “What happened to the body?”

Min nods toward a tall guy with long, smooth, black hair, and almond shaped eyes, a bit like mine. “Vulture took care of it. He accelerates decay. A lot.”

Gross.

After the report confirming Min’s assessment, I can’t wait to go crash at my place, possibly to learn a bit more about Cursoi thanks to the little black book Ghost gave me, heavy in my pocket.

--------------------

I settle in the hammock strung beneath my nest. The sun drips like liquid fire from the boughs and lianas, tinging the grass orange. The stridulations of grasshoppers fill the late afternoon. It smells like the burning logs that are popping a few yurdas from me. I open the book, and the breeze ruffles its old, greasy pages.

Apparently Cursoi lived for eons among humans, unaware of their own nature, and typically estranged because of their gifts or unsettling aura.

Oh. So it wasn’t me? I keep reading.

Early on during the Dark Ages that preceded space colonization, a Carlo Teofrati rescued a Louise Cligné, who had been found guilty of witchcraft, after making flowers blossom in an orchard. He kept fire from burning her at the stake.

Talk of a hot romance.

Back then, Cursoi had lifespans comparable to humans, and Carlo and Louise were quite old for their time. Nonetheless, they became sexually involved, quickly becoming obsessed with each other.

Eeeeew!

At first, they thought their high energy level was the effect of falling in love, but soon they realized that not only had they stopped aging; they were getting younger.

Louise theorized they must be different from other humans. In spite of previous marriages, they both had been barren. Yet, Louise got pregnant well in her sixties, and it became apparent they might be part of a different species altogether, which she named Cursoi: the cursed ones.

I feel you, Louise. I take a bite of a trad-apple, careful not to stain the book.

Carlo and Louise set out to find other sterile outcasts with special skills, gathering the first Unit ever. The task was arduous, because during the Dark Ages humans were still isolated geographically and displayed distinctive physical features similar to Cursoi.

Whoa! Humans were hot!

In an effort to level differences due to separate cultural backgrounds, nicknames took root. Louise and Carlo became Lymph and Fire.

Lymph observed that, once gathered, Cursoi tended to engage in promiscuous sexual behaviors, at least according to human standards. They engaged in sex frequently and with different partners, males or females, often at the same time.

Dung! I close the book, feeling my face on fire. Am I even supposed to read this stuff? For school? I take a deep breath and open the book again, trying to move past my dancing hormones, visualizing the passage a little too graphically.

The first generation of Cursoi, including Lymph and Fire, carried a sense of shame and guilt with them. Conversely, Cursoi born within the Unit and away from human influence dealt with sex as they did with eating, studying, and playing. It came naturally to them and it helped build strong bonds and friendships. Older Cursoi that abstained, because of their human beliefs or religion, aged at human rates and died within a human lifetime. Cursoi that indulged in their instincts aged much slower and lived up to a few hundred years.

Holy cow! How old is Brain, then? Am I aging at the speed of light?

Cursoi started nurturing their skills rather than suppressing them. Lymph observed that skills developed at puberty and aligned with the inclinations of each Cursoi.

It makes sense. I wanted to be a curer, and I healed Seria. But what about Vulture? And Lethal? A shiver runs down my spine, thinking about what inclinations a very young Lethal might have had to end up crushing people’s innards. Bonking psycho. An image of him running a hand over his forehead, pushing back his sweaty hair, fills my mind. I shake my head and snap it back to the book.

Within a couple of generations, it became apparent that Cursoi pregnancies were possible only after fifty years old, and even then no more than two or three babies were ever delivered by one woman. Fertile Cursoi were referred to as Masters, and sex before fifty was renamed merging, since it was just as important, but had nothing to do with procreation.

So, Ghost is at least fifty! Whoa! He must do lots of merging—nevermind, let’s not go there. I shake my head, trying to dismiss the disturbing thoughts about what Ghost might do in his private time.

Masters raised and trained young Cursoi gathered in Units. After skills manifested at puberty, Cursoi were named Apprentices and assigned to specific locations based on the skills of the Unit. Around fifty, once they were fully trained and developed, they became Masters. Cursoi above one-hundred years old became Elders, playing important leadership roles within Cursoi Units.

Within a thousand years, Cursoi grew from abject outcasts into a threatening force. Cursoi were peaceful and kept to themselves, but were perceived as a threat and attacked by the 132nd President of the United States and his allies under the premise of conniving against freedom and harboring weapons of mass destruction. The conflict, known as the Sixth World War, was a blood bath that lasted three minutes and twelve seconds, during which Cursoi took out all major world leaders.

Cursoi did not care for ruling or human politics, but they needed to ensure Earth was safe for their own survival. They also had an interest in relative human wellbeing, since most of them enjoyed the variety humans provided for their merging needs.

Oh my Lars, that’s disgusting!

Therefore, Cursoi Elders organized the election for the first United Terrestrial Democracy. The president was voted by Cursoi and humans alike, and Cursoi became sacred peace enforcers, bound to protect the president. Units became self-contained military societies, under the orders of one Elder, typically a telepath who could coordinate missions with ease. Obedience was engrained in young Cursoi toddlers from birth.

Which might explain why I don’t feel as compelled to go along with this dung. Also, the darn book says nothing about why or how Cursoi are the way they are. This is just lore.

Nala!

I hear Drama’s voice in my head and I close the book, leaving for later the appendix describing the lives of famous Cursoi. What now? I wonder. It’s funny how I know that Drama is in the park. That’s where the call came from. I just know it without being able to explain it. I crawl off my hammock to reach him. I am drained, but seeing Drama might be a great pick-me-up.

-------------------

The grass in the park looks purple in the dusk, and a long wooden table illuminated by paper lanterns stretches above it, with two crowded benches on either side. Only the Apprentices in my Unit are here. Other Cursoi may use other sections of the dimension. Younger Apprentices keep to themselves.

Lethal, Drama, Dime, Zera, Emo, Min, Browser, Kino, and a bunch of other Cursoi I haven’t met yet, are all sitting around the table. Lethal laughs, and I swear fireflies stop to watch. Drama instantly turns to me, his face a mask of fury, which is completely unjustified by the hatred I feel for the bonking angel face. Is Drama jealous?

“Of this idiot? Not at all,” he answers my unspoken question. He scoots to make room for me and I sit beside him, trying to act like our skin touching does not send me reeling. He seems to relax against me, and I wonder if the Libre glowing golden in his glass helped.

Is he drunk?

He mutters in my ear, “He’s a jackass, and you know it. And I know you know it.”

Lethal apparently heard, because he turns to us and asks, “Does she, now?”

“I sure do,” I growl. I hated Lethal to begin with, and as much as he just did what he had to, the afternoon didn’t exactly make me warm and fuzzy.

Lethal smirks. “Whatever, Dumb. Given that your skill is nonexistent, I’d say puberty didn’t quite hit you yet.”

Drama cringes. “How many bones crushed?”

I shake my head, but I know he knows, first because he can feel it, and second because I’m afraid all Cursoi go through the same training.

“What’s wrong with him?” I whisper.

Drama shrugs. “He was a cool kid. We were friends, but then puberty hit and… Lethal happened.”

“Whoa. Really? Ever take a peek in his head?”

“Not if I can avoid it. It’s hell in there.”

I can only imagine.

On my other side, Min pours me a cup of Libre and raises his to me. “Say what you may, but the little one was badass. She took her broken bones like a champ.”

Did I?

“Little one? Did you see her fat ass?” Lethal snarls.

“Oh, you noticed?” I reply, furious, because I starved for most of my life and yet my hips are so wide I could send him to Neptune with one bump.

Drama laughs at my thought. He leans closer to my ear and whispers, biting his lower lip in a way that is way too sexual to be allowed in public, “I looove your fat ass, Nala. It’s my new favorite thing.”

“Are you drunk?” I ask.

He clinks my cup with his. “Maybe.”

“What if there’s a mission?”

He answers, “Emo will clear the Libre right out.”

Emo, whom I noticed is never too far from Drama, winks and hiccups, spreading her gaze over Drama and me. She licks her lips, and I look away, trying not to think about her merging with Drama.

I try to swallow my jealousy, but I do sound snappy when I ask, “Whatever. Why did you call me here?” I am full of hope and fear, staring at my untouched Libre.

Drama leans his head on my shoulder, and I’m surprised he does not start to purr like a cat. “I missed you. Just wanted to hang out.”

Yeah, right. Even if I lost my mind and suddenly decided to merge with Drama, I’m pretty sure I’d be arrested for drunk rape. It might be worth it though.

“I hope you find out,” he says and winks.

Holy Lars.

I shake my head, rolling my eyes, trying to keep my thoughts in check. I’ve never been able to afford Libre. I look at the ripples the glowing liquid forms on the inside of the smooth surface of my cup, and I take a small sip. It’s warm and sweet, yet quenching like water. I gulp more. “So, what were you and Lethal arguing about?”

“He’s just a weirdo,” Drama says. “He won’t merge with guys, only girls.”

“Really?” I whisper. “That’s even stranger for a Cursoi.”

He nods. “So you learned some lore, huh? It’s not natural. Also, he thinks Cursoi are a superior race—”

“It’s obvious that we are!” Lethal snaps.

“Oh my Lars,” I say. “It’s like hearing Crash drool all over himself, except he thinks he is the best.”

“He’s all right,” Lethal says. “Too bad he’s human.”

“The end justifies the means? Really?” Drama says.

“Isn’t that what we do, as soldiers? Don’t we slaughter for the greater good?” Lethal retorts.

“You, maybe,” I reply.

“Yeah, because someone has to do the dirty work for everyone else to enjoy their bonking freedom and their balmy skills!”

I hate that he’s right, but Drama switches gears. “Crash denies pollution. He wants to blast Venus and Mars to prevent immigration to Earth!”

Lethal rolls his eyes, taking a swig of Libre. “Oh, come on, he just said it to get votes. No one’s getting blasted.”

That causes me to lose it in zero point one seconds. “Oh, really? I thought people liked him because he just says it like it is!”

“Oh, go bonk yourself! At least I’m not a hypocritical idealist!”

“Forget him,” Drama says, shaking his head. “Like I said, he’s a weirdo.”

I drain my cup of Libre, and it’s starting to get to my head.

Drama says, “Drinking on an empty stomach? Not wise. If you need insta-food, or Libre, or clothes, or anything else for that matter, just will them in front of you.”

“Really? Is this some innate Cursoi skill? Because I willed food a lot in my pre-Cursoi life.”

Drama laughs, “I wish. It’s a perk of the place. Courtesy of Dime.” He nods toward Dime, raising his glass to him, but Dime doesn’t even notice, lost as usual in one of his reveries.

I realize Lethal is still scowling at Drama and me, his brow knitted together.

Drama says, “Yes, Lethal. I like her. A lot.”  

I did not hear the question, likely in Lethal’s head, but I quiver, warmth building up in my core. The feeling must be too much for Drama, because he jolts, then looks at me, his eyes darkening.

He brings his head back down to my shoulder and says, “Wow, your feelings are as addictive as Emo’s tricks.”

Am I jealous? I drain my second Libre and will more into the cup, thinking I might just do something stupid tonight.

[taharai]

Steps to Film Financing Movie Deal Come To Fruition

Every independent filmmaker I have ever met has started out with a script, that is, after the idea, the book, or short story has been running through their heads for months, sometimes years. But after premiering the movie and it’s short-lived film fest tour, the indie movie is usually shelved. That’s what everybody thinks happened to my movie, Spyderwoman now Hybrid, the series and what has happened to most Indies.  But in my case, my movie is not finished, I’m adding a scene in the far future and making it into a series.  Transformation is part of the beauty of writing. However, I don’t want to repeat the same mistake.  Next time, I’m just going to do it the right way.

What makes a film get a movie deal?

Make sure the story is attractive, that you have an attached actor with at least a B rate attached to the movie, you’ve checked the SAG Producer’s agreement for your budget, and you have a letter of intent from a distributor.  Don’t forget to create a business and marketing plan, that includes business reports, analytics reports, budget, and promotion strategy.  All of it is part of a good pitch. That one summary and logline that just kills it.

Spend some time sharpening your presentation skills and start looking for venture capitalists, angel investors, film funding venture capitalists advisors, and strategize your capital raising campaign.  If your efforts fail, make improvements on your package and try again.  Make a different package.

Step 1. The film screenplay, or script, is the intellectual property where it all begins. Make sure it shines.

Indie scripts usually are not well formatted by industry standards even using Final Draft software; it may lack strict visualization in the action lines, too much irrelevant description, not enough succinctness, telling instead of showing, passive voice, longer than 4 lines of dialogue in some cases, and what is worse, it may lack a good setup. That’s to be expected of indies who haven’t got the practice or the CW/FILM MFA.  We indies realize Hollywood doesn’t always follow the guidelines. But with superb editing and special effects,  “do it in post” is becoming the norm. So why should indies have to follow the rules?

Hollywood may produce movies with two pages of monologue, plot holes, sexist ethnic stereotyping, (all kinds of stereotyping), rehash the same storyline a million different ways (Cinderella)  and still manga to sell millions of tickets at the Box Office.

The Indies World is Revolutionizing

The time has come for Indies. The world is paying attention to new and exciting topics of interest. People can relate to different ways of looking at things, people, and places can appreciate less stereotyping, and more inclusiveness in “film.”  Enough of us can appreciate different cultures to make a difference in the lives of indie filmmakers.

Recently, we’ve seen how new age and more diverse movies have made it to the top as in the case of Moonlight, the film that caused an uproar at the Academy Awards when it garnered the Oscar for best feature of the year in 2017.   Here’s my advice when it comes to polishing a script and making it into a tool for attracting funding from venture capitalists:

Follow screenplay writing guidelines and rules unless there is a compelling reason not to.

If audiences paid attention to every big budget or Blockbuster movie plot instead of being hypnotized by the sound and images, they would often see all the above-mentioned sins of scriptwriting as taught by Screenwriting schools in the US. I’ve only attended two and have a total screenplay writing MFA for film, but that has only made me open my eyes to “Story.”

Even when Hollywood does put out bad movie plots, oversimplistic, or senseless.  I bet at least four out of ten times, the story plot will be good enough, and sometimes even superb and subtle. There’s talent too in high places, not just after effects, tech skills and lots of marketing $$$.

What makes a good film?

“Story” is what really defines a good film, at least in my opinion.  I can’t stand vapid shootings, fist fights, explosions, or car chases that lack real gumption.  However, the face of a highly paid actor like Robert Deniro in one such scene will make us look twice and give some credibility to the splurge of high-level special effects spent to attract the action/adventure male audience between 25 and 45.

If we look into the plot, we’ll realize it’s just another mafia movie that stereotypes everyone.  But people are hypnotized by it and don’t care to make any sense of it.

On the other hand, a poorly formatted script can be polished to become a phenomenal script when the story has grit.  Not that indies shouldn’t have to learn the skill of standard formatting, but if the story is sound, the script can be polished to have a perfect setup, an inciting incident, and follow a plot arc along with the key characters’ arc that will take the viewer straight to the summit after three turning points before closing with a golden brooch. “Story” makes the difference. Whether it’s a comedy, romance, sci-fi, or all three at once.

An Indie Destiny

What is sad to watch is that after making a tremendous sacrifice of time, money and even family,  after the premiere we start wondering who is going to purchase the film and where it can be shown.  We start searching for ways to get a return on our investment (ROI), create a buzz, or raise the money to promote.

For many filmmakers, the end of the movie comes right after the film festival is over, even if you got first prize.  Unless it’s Sundance, (my favorite because Paul Newman is my childhood favorite actor) or the Berlin Film Festival, to name just a few of the top ten film fests in the world, your film won’t land a movie deal. Why? It’s not because it’s no good.  It’s because you didn’t follow the right steps.

Step 2. THE FILM BUSINESS PLAN

The Breakdown of a Script

Every indie learns to “breakdown” a film screenplay on their own.  Breaking down a script is all about organizing like things, a skill learned in kindergarten.  Of course, if you get fancy and use highlighters it’s even better. You can assign categories for each one of the scripts elements and when you think about what to do with it a bit you will figure out that getting things done by location saves time and effort and money.

Of course, there are expensive software programs like Entertainment Partner’s Movie Magic Budgeting & Scheduling.  If you learn to use these tools, your presentation will look much better.

The guerilla filmmaking way is to start calling all your friends and have them donate some of the things you need.  Get your team together and come up with locations that won’t cost you any money.  Call the locations, vendors, equipment rental places, go shopping for wardrobe, invest in makeup and applicators.  Get a first aid kit, tons of cases of water, and make sure you label everything with your production company’s name.

Figure the number of days and hours shot at each location, the cost per location and voilà, you have a budget.  If you want to take advantage of tax incentives keep all your receipts and present them to the State to get your rebate.

The budget shown to venture capital investors, angel investors, banks, and philanthropists needs to be based on comparisons between similar films.

The Film Marketing Plan

Target a specific audience on social media, TV, Radio, send out press releases, run ad campaigns, use Search Engine Marketing to keep the film in the public’s eye tied to keywords, actors, and storyline.

What’s the distribution plan? VOD? Theatrical? National and international marketing and distribution.

How will you maximize exposure and sell more movie tickets? Include marketing film merchandise such as action figure toys, video games, fashion lines, artwork, and soundtracks.

What organizations, national and international will your film be aligned with, environmentalist, religious, new age, liberal, LGBT community, or conservative, or liberal?

Step 3. SHOW YOUR TEAMWORK SKILLS

Who are your team members?

Include bios, pictures, reels, trailers, portfolios, and interviews.

Include actors and public figures that support the movie.

STEP 4. The EXECUTIVE SUMMARY – Frist Impressions Count

A film’s executive summary is an overview of all the film’s creative and business endeavors. It’s actually the first document presented to investors.  If they don’t like it, if you are not convincing enough, if the overall plan doesn’t make business sense, if it doesn’t prove its return on investment capabilities, and is not persuasive, no one will read the rest of the plan.

Pitching includes the logline, plot summary, and the business overview.  Especially crafted, the front page says it all in a nutshell. Use your words carefully, be enthusiastic, give value, solve a problem.

Success is not the work of chance alone, it’s being prepared when chance calls and turning the light green. Don’t just shoot blanks out in the dark. Target your capital investor by type and history. Have a plan, start following these steps and let’s talk about distribution next time. Stay tuned.  BTW, I’m looking for a cinematographer, director and editor to come onboard. Students and hobbyists are welcome.  To apply,  just join my email list or message me on social media. I’m Angela Terga pretty much everywhere.

Thanks for reading.

      Take the Mystery Out of the Film Financing Landscape Steps to Film Financing Movie Deal Come To Fruition Every independent filmmaker I have ever met has started out with a script, that is, after the idea, the book, or short story has been running through their heads for months, sometimes years.

[disc-golf]

4 Types of Content That Will Electrify Your Personal Brand

So I guess that social media thing is more than just a fad, huh?

The 2018 Global Digital Report found that nearly 3.2 billion people are using social media around the world—a 13% increase from the year before. Access to information via these channels is so pervasive that entrepreneurs need to ensure the images they project to the world are beneficial to their businesses.

Indeed, it’s important for up-and-coming business leaders to remember that customers don’t buy from faceless corporations; they buy from people. And people have reputations. Just think about the impact former Uber CEO Travis Kalanick had on his company. Six months ago, with Kalanick at the helm, Uber saw its reputation plummet. But public perception rose again when Dara Khosrowshahi took over and introduced a slew of initiatives, including new policies surrounding sexual harassment proceedings.

Removing Kalanick as the face of Uber gave the brand a chance to press reset. Clearly, a leader’s reputation can either help or harm the bottom line. When you’re the image of your business, you become a media personality—for better or for worse—so the brand you develop on social media and in the press needs to appeal to your audience.

The question is: How do you do that?

Different Platforms, Different Voices

Your personal brand needs to have a consistent voice with one core message. Look at Instagram’s own account: The social media platform shares stunning photos taken by its users. The theme? Unique stories that showcase the platform’s potential. It’s obvious after even five seconds of scrolling.

The No. 1 mistake people make with personal branding efforts is failing to define their mission or theme; they don’t clearly answer the question, “What am I doing on this platform?”

The No. 2 mistake is not sticking to that mission or theme. In the social sphere, where attention is transactional, predictability is currency. If I connected with you for a specific reason and you fail to make good on it, the connection loses value and is either lost or ignored.

Here’s how I manage the themes of my own brand: On Facebook, you’ll find the sarcastic, thinking-out-loud version of me. My Twitter is reserved for more personal topics: kids, parenting, and sports. Want to talk about business, marketing, or the digital sphere? Head over to my LinkedIn. I use my Snapchat to advocate for my hometown (#SpokaneDoesntSuck). And on Instagram, I muse about my spiritual journey.

If you want to cultivate a successful personal brand, you need to make similar decisions. How many platforms will you use, and what will be the theme of each? Is there a global theme? If your theme is broad (“I’m a 30-something on a journey of understanding”), you can post varying types of content. If your theme is more specific (“I’m an industry expert with a strong opinion”), your content should have a narrower focus.

Still not sure what kind of content is right for your personal brand? Start by building a “fort” of topics: family, occupation, recreation, and thoughts. Align these four categories with specific social channels, and you’ll start your journey to a delightful personal brand loved by peers, colleagues, and customers alike. Here’s a deeper look:

1. Family

Nobody wants to see a personal profile that’s just a company billboard—not you, not me, and not your stakeholders. A business-only social media presence will feel inauthentic to everyone involved. Show people you’re a real human. One of my wife’s friends, a photographer, has a Snapchat account documenting her young son’s antics. At the end of the day, her customers don’t follow her to see what she’s eating for dinner. We want to see baby Frank put the cat in the bathtub.

If you have hang-ups creating content, there’s an easy solution: Don’t try too hard. Capture what’s real. This requires a level of vulnerability. “Include your kids in social media” isn’t written in stone anywhere—Gary Vaynerchuk and Sonia Simone don’t post about their kids despite massive followings, for example—but a well-rounded brand includes a personal component.

Just make sure you have boundaries in place. Know what you will NOT feature, and be sure you stick to your guns on it.

2. Occupation

I use a framework of three content types when teaching people how to make professional posts about their industries, careers, or businesses: sunshine, science, and sales.

Sunshine content shines a light on other people. Maybe that’s an appreciation post. Maybe you’re simply telling your followers what you’re grateful for. Shine some light on your employees for doing great work, or praise a customer for an achievement.

Science content is a look behind the scenes. How do you get it all done? How does your successful company stay running?

Sales content is generally a call to action (CTA) for your audience members. Let them know when you have a sale on the way. Running a cool promotion? Let your followers know. At most, though, no more than 20% of your posts should be business-related calls to action. And when your personal brand fire is really burning, you’ll attract customers without a issuing a CTA.

3. Recreation

Posting about your hobbies and the ways you de-stress is another way to attract followers. Love to run? Share some shots of the trail. Are you a history buff? Post about the most recent book you’re reading. These posts allow members of your network to relate to you. You can accomplish a lot on even one platform (say, Facebook). Write a post about your family, go live after a business meeting (FYI, Facebook Live maximizes organic reach), and invite connections to join your triathlon group.

A great personal brand feels like an organic extension of your life rather than part of a to-do list. Including hobbies in your content mix shouldn’t require a massive routine change. That’s important because you don’t have an hour to spend planning epic content. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.

4. Thoughts

In all likelihood, you became a business leader because you have a cocktail of valuable (and interesting) experiences—in life, in your industry, in the world. People respect thought leaders with original, compelling insights. As you’re cranking through the day, don’t be afraid to share your work-related musings, best practices, successes, and failures. Social media is all about micro-moments, so don’t be afraid to “write tight” and post as a thought occurs to you.

Think about the respectable social celebrities you know who have gained traction. Even if you don’t agree with their opinions, if those opinions are authoritative, respectfully worded, and communicated consistently, you’ll remember their platforms. Follow this model by embracing your experience and sharing your unique, compelling, and respectful thoughts.

#

There’s no question: Leaders’ personal brands have an impact on the success or failure of their companies. Be the type of leader that attracts all the right digital attention for all the right non-digital reasons. Start by establishing your theme and the type of content you want to post (and where you will post it), then let your personal brand grow alongside your business.

Make time for fun social media engagement with a daily routine…

Sign up now to get our FREE Morning Routine guide—the #1 way to increase productivity, energy, and focus for profitable days. Used by thousands of fitness, business, and finance industry leaders to leapfrog the competition while making time for the people who really matter. Learn more here.

The post 4 Types of Content That Will Electrify Your Personal Brand appeared first on Early To Rise.

[techbrossgq-blog]

YouTube TV survey: Not a distinct advantage out of the door, however it could be soon Utilizing it is simple, yet it doesn't offer different levels or applications for some platforms.

YouTube TV is currently accessible in two or three urban communities the nation over, denoting Google's initially push into the live-TV gushing business sector. Many line cutters' ears livened up when the administration was declared; it gives around 40 channels to $35 every month, including all significant communicate systems and a cluster of games channels. Be that as it may, while the underlying response was sure, we now have a clearer picture of what YouTube TV offers and the upsides and downsides of picking it over another live-TV spilling administration.

On cell phones

The YouTube TV application for iOS and Android is the place all the enchantment happens. It's accessible for iOS gadgets running iOS 9.1 and up and Android telephones running Android L (5.0) or more up to date, and any PC with a program (YouTube suggests Chrome, obviously). You can likewise pillar the substance to a Chromecast or Android TV. There are no independent applications for Android TV, Roku, Amazon Fire, or Apple TV, however as indicated by a YouTube representative, bolster for Android tablets is coming "soon."

The application itself is insightfully laid out. The landing page of the iOS application is a mishmash of substance, with scrollable merry go rounds loaded with various livestreams and recommendations for new shows or games to watch and record. This is the range that will change in the event that you have more than one individual utilizing your YouTube TV enrollment. One $35-per-month participation permits up to six separate logins (yet just three concurrent streams), so the mechanized substance proposals will change from client to client in light of what they watch. At the base of the landing page lies the menu with Library, Home, and Live choices, and at the top is an amplifying glass look catch alongside your own Google account avatar.You'll invest a considerable measure of energy in the inquiry field, as it's additionally home to the application's just perusing highlights. I wish there was a different peruse tab, yet YouTube stuffed everything into the hunt territory. You can scan for a particular show, organize, sports group, and the sky is the limit from there, yet when you tap the amplifying glass, you likewise get a cluster of easy routes to discover what you need. The top-most accumulations are classifications and systems, so in case you're in the inclination for a satire or know you need to watch an ABC appear, you can undoubtedly discover it without really looking utilizing particular catchphrases.

This additionally gives an approach to find new substance without the assistance of YouTube's calculations, which propose content for you in view of what you've as of now viewed. For instance, I've truly appreciated ABC drama appears, yet I haven't viewed numerous in the previous couple of years. Heading off to the ABC arrange tab under the inquiry apparatus demonstrates to me a profile page of all the substance ABC offers on YouTube TV. Additionally in the pursuit perusing page are "slanting" and "famous" merry go rounds, alongside group classes for games and different classifications that could help you discover something to watch.

In spite of the fact that the pursuit page is valuable, the fundamental menu holds your recorded shows and all live TV content. The Library tab is the place you'll discover every one of the shows you've recorded utilizing YouTube TV's DVR benefit. One enrollment gives you boundless hours of DVR recording and boundless stockpiling. Recorded shows will remain in your library for nine months before they're consequently erased. Your Library is helpfully composed into recorded shows, films, games, and occasions, and there's likewise a tab where you can see booked recordings or the freshest substance that will be recorded in the coming days.You can arrange that substance promote when you pick a segment: I sorted my recorded TV demonstrates in order, however you can likewise sort by "drifting," "most mainstream," and "top of the line." Tapping on a show will give you a chance to browse recorded substance and different scenes that are accessible on-request. In any case, there's an admonition: as The Wall Street Journal revealed, a few systems have a concurrence with YouTube TV that compels you to watch promotions on DVR content. In any case, it's in fact not DVR content—these assentions say that if the system offers an on-request scene of a similar scene you're set to record, you'll be demonstrated the on-request form instead of the DVR variant. You can't skip advertisements when watching on-request content, so it winds up appearing as though you're being served unskippable promotions on DVR content.

Ars contacted YouTube to get more data on this weird run the show. "Some of our system assentions oblige us to appear on-request content over a DVR recording when the on-request form is accessible," a YouTube representative told Ars in an email. "For those system understandings, this as a rule applies to network arrangement programming, which makes up a little rate of the programming accessible on YouTube TV."

The organization likewise said it has arrange bargains set up that support DVR content over on-request content. Each system arrangement is distinctive, and we don't have a rundown of the systems that support on-request substance and promotions. The vast majority of the shows I recorded wound up playing as on-request content with promotions, and along these lines, I at first couldn't see a contrast amongst DVR and on-request content in my library. YouTube disclosed to us that you can differentiate between the two by a little banner and a portrayal by the scene saying whether it's "recorded" (DVR) or "discharged" (on-request).

Regardless of the clarification, it's a baffling circumstance, particularly when Playstation Vue gives you a chance to skip advertisements on any recorded DVR content. Sling TV gives you a chance to do likewise, yet its DVR administration is still in beta. DirecTV Now is the main administration that doesn't have a cloud DVR, despite the fact that it has on-request content. It's an abnormal issue to manage, yet YouTube likely expectations having the best DVR abilities will counterbalance the on-request, unskippable promotion takeover with some system content.Recorded and live substance stacks rapidly in the YouTube TV versatile application, and I never had any spilling issues when utilizing it on my iPhone 6S Plus. The video quality is auto-aligned, however you can pick the quality you need, from 144p to 1080p, while observing live TV. Tapping the video player raises quality and shut inscription settings, and a report catch to inform YouTube TV of unseemly substance. The gushing quality on cell phones is great, particularly considering how rapidly live TV starts playing and how rapidly you can continue watching a stream from interruption.

The Live tab is pleasantly laid out also, demonstrating channels alongside the current on-air program. As you look down, each system's livestream fills the top third of the page, letting you basically stare at the TV without sound turned on. This gives you a see of what's as of now on that channel, which is immaculate in the event that you've seen about each scene of Law and Order: SVU and have no issue skipping particular scenes when they're on TV. You can likewise limit the live-TV window into a little bar at the base of the page while you're watching it, giving you a chance to peruse unreservedly without stopping a show.

As an energetic YouTube watcher, I wish the YouTube TV application incorporated more with YouTube itself. You can't look for YouTube recordings or makers in the TV application, nor would you be able to watch that free substance in the application. There is one merry go round called "Shows on YouTube" that surfaced on my landing page and included serial shows from outlets like Awesomeness TV, Buzzfeed Video, and Cosmopolitan.com.

On show data pages, there's likewise a "related on YouTube" tab where you'll discover short clasps from the show itself, interviews with the show on-screen characters, and other comparative recordings that are accessible on YouTube that you can watch in the YouTube TV application. That is pertinent substance, so credit to YouTube TV for at any rate including it. Notwithstanding, I got no outcomes when I looked for Markiplier on YouTube TV. The committed YouTube portable application hasn't changed, and it shows up the organization needs to keep the two universes isolate for the time being. Going ahead, I trust YouTube weds YouTube and YouTube TV all the more, especially to pull in more youthful clients by making it as simple as feasible for them to watch their most loved YouTube and TV content in one place.On your TV

Apparently the most exceedingly terrible piece of YouTube TV is what a limited number of TV frameworks it bolsters. As of now, you can just watch content on a TV by utilizing an associated Chromecast or by utilizing Android TV. Contenders like Sling TV and Playstation Vue have numerous more TV choices, including Roku, Apple TV, and Amazon Fire TV applications. DirecTV Now just has an Amazon Fire TV application, however that is as yet one more choice than you have with YouTube's service.YouTube TV doesn't generally have a TV interface, since you're throwing content from a cell phone or portable PC to your Chromecast. That may bump for a few—it was for me following quite a while of not utilizing my original Chromecast—but rather YouTube TV's portable interface is truly natural regardless of how you're utilizing it. While video is playing on your TV, despite everything you control everything—including playback, rewind, and stop—from the portable application. Substance will play on the TV until you either delay it or pick an alternate show to watch, and it will switch instantly.

I didn't have significant issues utilizing an original Chromecast with YouTube TV, however it was ease back to stack new substance. It regularly took five to 10 seconds for the show I flew up on my TV, regardless of on the off chance that it was live, on-request, or DVR content. I additionally encountered some stammering at limits: the sustain would solidify for a few moments and restart at introductory stacking and after business breaks. It's surely not a consistent ordeal, but rather I was grateful that I could utilize the Chromecast I've had for a considerable length of time by any means.

I grabbed a refreshed Chromecast (however not the 4K-skilled Chromecast Ultra) to perceive how the experience contrasted. Stacking live or on-request video on another Chromecast is no less than five seconds speedier than on the old model, and livestreams have less snapshots of pixellation brought on by association issues.

[char27martin]

Writing Voice: 4 Tips for Tailoring Your Distinctive Voice

The following is an excerpt from WD Books’ new release, Writing Voice: The Complete Guide to Creating a Presence on the Page & Engaging Readers. It originally appeared in Writing With Quiet Hands by Paula Munier.

As an agent, I get very excited when I find a writer with a great voice because I know that it’s easier for a writer to learn structure than to discover her truth. I often meet talented writers who have yet to sell their stories because they have yet to find their voice—or they are fighting the truth about their voice.

Part of my job is helping my clients recognize their authentic voice and tailor it to the best commercial project for them. Let me tell you four stories about four very different clients—and how they developed a distinctive voice, used that voice to tell great stories, and got published in the process. Each story offers a different voice lesson for the perceptive writer.

All writers bring a unique set of skills to their work: One author might write outstanding characters, while another might dazzle with dialogue. You don’t have to master every aspect of the craft in order to succeed, but the one quality required of every writer is a compelling, original voice. Your voice, which is often difficult to define and even more difficult to master, can transform your writing from pedestrian to powerful.

In Writing Voice: The Complete Guide to Creating a Presence on the Page & Engaging Readers, you’ll discover effective instruction and advice from best-selling authors and instructors like Donald Maass, Adair Lara, Paula Munier, Dinty W. Moore, James Scott Bell, and many others, plus exercises, techniques, and examples for making your prose stand out, be it fiction or memoir. You’ll learn how to explore the unique way you write, study the distinctive styles of other writers, understand the importance of word choice, develop the right voice for your genre, craft excellent narration that keeps your readers coming back, choose the proper voice for your nonfiction, and more.

1. Reveal Yourself: A Cop’s Story

When I first became an agent, I was overwhelmed by queries; my first week on the job I got more than one thousand queries from writers I didn’t know, and the numbers have grown exponentially ever since. I needed an intern. (As it turns out, I always need an intern.)

I got a call from a professor friend of mine who also writes popular traditional mysteries for St. Martin’s Press. She had an MFA student who was looking for an internship. She warned me that this was not your typical grad student but rather a middle-aged writer who’d spent thirty years as a homicide detective for the Oakland Police Department. I was thrilled because (1) I represented a lot of crime fiction writers who would benefit from a cop’s perspective on their work, and (2) I’m a sucker for a good police procedural.

His name was Brian, and he rocked. He read my queries, he edited my clients’ work, and he finished his thesis, which just so happened to be a police procedural. I liked it and offered to represent him and his work. But first he had to refine his voice.

For Brian’s voice was his selling point, the leverage I needed to pitch his work when I shopped it. Cops who can write are few and far between, so when I find one, I sign him—or her—right up. But voice is a two-edged sword: Brian’s experience on the force informed every word he wrote and gave his prose a confidence and authority born of that experience. All good. But not enough. What was missing in his story was how he felt about that experience. Readers would love his cop hero—but they would love him more if they got to know more about his heart—and not just his head.

This wasn’t easy for Brian, who, like most cops, kept his feelings close to his bulletproof vest. I knew he thought I was making a big deal out of nothing. But he did what I asked (another reason I like working with former law-enforcement and military personnel, as they actually listen to me and follow my advice). He beefed up his protagonist’s inner life, and I shopped the series. Within short order, I got Brian a three-book deal. (Look for the Matt Sinclair series, by Brian Thiem, wherever you buy your books.)

The only real significant revision request from his editor: Beef up the inner life of his hero even more. (I love being right. And I love Brian.)

VOICE LESSON #1: Readers respond most to emotional honesty in a writer’s voice. Don’t be afraid to reveal yourself.

In The Writer’s Guide to Beginnings, author and literary agent Paula Munier shows you how to craft flawless beginnings that impress agents, engage editors, and captivate readers. You’ll learn how to develop the big idea of your story and introduce it on page one, structure opening scenes that encompass their own story arc, kickstart your writing with effective brainstorming techniques, and introduce a compelling cast of characters that drive the plot. You’ll also examine best-selling novels from different genres to learn the secrets that experienced writers use to dive straight into a story.

With thorough examinations of voice, point of view, setting, dialogue, and conflict, this book is a must-have tool for luring your readers in with your opening pages—and convincing them to stick around for the ride.

2. Remember Who You Are: A Novelist’s Story

I’ve known Meera for many years; we met decades ago when we were both beginning writers in San Jose. We hung out at writers conferences and participated in writers workshops and read our work aloud to each other in writers’ groups. Meera was one of the most interesting people I knew; originally a farm girl from Missouri, she’d traveled the world in search of enlightenment. When I became an acquisitions editor for a mind/body/spirit imprint, I sought out Meera to write books for the new line—and she made a career for herself as the author of nonfiction titles, wonderful how-to books on the secrets of living an authentic life.

She wrote fiction, too—fabulous stories starring the exotic people and places she’d met on her travels. While technically proficient, these stories fell flat on the page. Meera was imitating the voices of other cultures, other customs, other writers—and drowning out her own voice in the process. In the meantime, she moved to the country and settled on a little farm she called the Henny Penny Farmette in Northern California. She started blogging about her chickens, bees, and goats.

Her blog was a big hit—and the ammunition I needed to convince her to write a novel set on the Henny Penny Farmette. She’d found her fictive voice right there on the farm. (Of course, she’d never lost it; she used it when writing nonfiction. But her love of other cultures and faraway lands blinded her to it in her own storytelling.) She wrote the first in a traditional mystery series set on the farmette—and I got her a three-book deal. (Look for the Henny Penny Farmette mystery series by Meera Lester wherever you buy your books.)

VOICE LESSON #2: If you’re having trouble finding your voice, start close to home. The truth is often right under your nose.

3. Listen to the Sound of Your Own Voice: The Historian’s Story

When I first moved to Massachusetts, I had no writer friends, and even though I was working at a publishing house with book people, I missed hanging out with writers. (Editors are not the same as writers, though I love editors—especially editors who are also writers.) So I joined the online chapter of Mystery Writers of America and started interacting with the other members online.

There I bonded with fellow Rainer Maria Rilke–fan Brian Thornton, who was from the Northwest (and not the same Brian who writes police procedurals—my world is full of great writers named Brian). We became fast friends and met in person several times at writers conferences. Brian, a history teacher by day, even wrote a couple of great history-related nonfiction books for me while I was an acquisitions editor.

But what Brian really wanted to do was publish fiction. We exchanged some stories for critique. I read Brian’s modern private-eye novel and one of his historical mystery stories. I told him that he should focus on historical fiction, as his historian’s voice seemed better suited for it. Commercial historical fiction is not easy to write; only people who are passionate about it and can make it relevant to the modern reader succeed. The good news is that if you can write solid historical fiction, you can usually get published. So I wasn’t at all surprised when Brian sold his first piece, a historical short story, to Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Now he’s working on a historical mystery—and now I’m an agent—so here’s hoping that he lets me shop it when he’s ready. (Did I mention that I love being right?)

VOICE LESSON #3: Capitalize on your voice’s strengths. Not only can this help refine your work, it can help you sell it.

Every fiction-writing guide offers its own set of beliefs, techniques, and methods for crafting a novel, developed from the values a particular instructor deems necessary for powerful prose. But while writers might disagree over showing versus telling or plotting versus pantsing, none would argue this: If you want to write strong fiction, you must make your readers feel. The reader’s experience must be an emotional journey that aligns with your characters’ struggles, discoveries, and triumphs.

That’s where The Emotional Craft of Fiction comes in. Veteran literary agent and expert fiction instructor Donald Maass shows you how to connect readers—viscerally and emotionally—to your characters and your story. You’ll learn how to create an emotional response through showing and telling, develop a moving narration style, understand reader expectations for a character, and more. Readers can simply read a novel … or they can experience it. If you want to give your readers an experience, start by conjuring vivid, authentic emotion on the page.

4. Do Not Confuse Voice with Plot: The Artiste’s Story

Sometimes I’m so bowled over by a writer’s talent that I ignore the lack of market potential for the work and sign the writer anyway. That’s what happened when I read Richard’s writing for the first time. Richard’s talent was obvious, and I wasn’t the only one who thought so; he’d been celebrated for his brilliant short stories. But he’d yet to break into commercial fiction with his novels.

Richard’s work was überdark—and überdark is not an easy sell. Even your True Detective stories have some (wan) light at the end of the dark tunnel of prose. I warned Richard about this, and he did some revision as requested, but he resisted my appeals to explore his not-so-darn-dark side. Eventually I caved—and I sent out the novel as it was to all the editors I knew who loved dark material. One by one they passed, saying it was just too dark, even for them. But if he wrote anything else, they’d love to see it.

I didn’t give up. (I hate giving up.) I knew that we just needed to find an editor who’d fall in love with Richard’s work the way I had. And I’m happy to say that we did; it took two years, but finally I got Richard a two-book deal with a Big Five house.

Unsurprisingly, the editor wanted a little (wan) light at the end of the dark tunnel of prose. Richard balked. The editor called me, and I called Richard. Richard was worried about “compromising his voice.” But voice really had nothing to do with it. If he found an audience, he couldn’t risk engaging them with his compelling voice only to lose them at the end of the story by refusing to make a slight shift in plot from a “so dark you can’t see” ending to a “dark but not so dark you have to slit your wrists” ending. I explained to him that the first page sells the book and the last page sells the next book. He didn’t have to change his voice; he just had to rethink the emotional impact of the ending on his reader. Leaving a bad taste in the reader’s mouth—no matter how beautiful the voice—is not the way to build an audience. (Richard Thomas’s novel Disintegration debuted to great reviews and endorsements by such literary lights as Chuck Palahniuk, Irvine Welsh, Chuck Wendig, Paul Tremblay, and more.)

VOICE LESSON #4: Voice is how you tell the story—it’s not the story itself. Be sure that you don’t compromise the emotional impact of your story to protect what you mistakenly believe is your voice.

About the Author:

Paula Munier is Senior Literary Agent and Content Strategist at Talcott Notch Literary Services. She began her career as a journalist, and along the way added editor, acquisitions specialist, digital content manager, publishing executive, author, and writing teacher to her repertoire. Paula is the author of several books, including Plot Perfect: How to Build Unforgettable Stories Scene by Scene. Her first mystery series debuts with Spare These Stones in 2018 (St. Martin’s Press).

The post Writing Voice: 4 Tips for Tailoring Your Distinctive Voice appeared first on WritersDigest.com.

from Writing Editor Blogs – WritersDigest.com http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/there-are-no-rules/excerpts/writing-voice-lessons