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Thread: Assignment 4 - Papers and People

  1. #1
    FrostySOTF's Avatar Ice in My Veins
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    Default Assignment 4 - Papers and People

    This week is a 2 part assignment which will also be referenced in the future, I want you to create a character, said character can be male/female, based off of anybody/nobody at all, just make a character and give me an obscene amount of details.

    Part 2 - Give your creation a job, look around in the newspaper or online for open jobs nearby if you need inspiration, can be any modern-day job and I want you to give me a day in the life of said character.

    Best of luck!

    -Frosty

  2. #2
    DeanE555's Avatar Libertus
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    Default Re: Assignment 4 - Papers and People

    Hi Frosty! Good to see were still going.
    One question though... Introduce the character via a story-like description or through a data sheet like-

    Name:

    Age:

    Hair color:

    ...

  3. #3
    FrostySOTF's Avatar Ice in My Veins
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    Default Re: Assignment 4 - Papers and People

    That can work make sure to include a lot of detail, hobbies, favorite color, favorite drink, if he prefers low cut jeans and so forth, can be done as a list, however is easiest for you

  4. #4
    Alwyn's Avatar Frothy Goodness
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    Default Re: Assignment 4 - Papers and People

    Here's my assignment 4.

    Interview with Police Constable Gurmukh Singh

    Interview with Police Constable Gurmukh Singh for The Duty – the Magazine for London’s Finest (Metropolitan Police Service Staff Newsletter) October & November edition, 2015

    Hello, Constable Singh. Why did you join the Metropolitan Police?


    I’m proud to be a Londoner. I’m proud of my family history, too. My grandfather was a police officer in Amritsar in Punjab, in north India. You probably know about the partition between India and Pakistan in 1947, when the countries became independent from Britain. It was a turbulent time. A lot of Sikhs and Hindus who lived in lands which would belong to Pakistan tried to cross into India. Many Muslims living in area which would be part of India wanted to reach Pakistan. Millions of people left their homes – it was a huge migration. There were riots, hundreds of thousands of people lost their lives. Amritsar, where my grandfather lived, was right in the middle of it. My family still have his diary. Some of the police officers he was serving with were injured in the riots. My grandfather was a new officer, like me, he had never experienced anything like this. He wrote in his diary that his wife was afraid that he would not live to see their son grow up. But he stayed on duty.

    What happened to him?

    The final entries in his diary show that his police unit was helping Muslims to escape the area. As the days went on, some of his colleagues disappeared. He thought that they had been killed for helping Muslims. The diary just stops. My family believes that he was murdered. He died for the religious freedom of others, a bit like the ninth Guru in Sikhism, Guru Tegh Bahadur, who gave his life for the religious freedom of Hindus in the 17th century. My grandfather is a hero to me. Because I love London, and because my grandfather inspires me, I joined the police.

    Could you tell us about your earliest memory?

    I remember my Mum and Dad taking me to the gurdwara – that’s our temple, in the Sikh community - when I was little. There is a row of old paintings of Sikh officers who served in the British Army during the colonial period along one wall. I was fascinated. I couldn’t stop looking at them. My Dad had to physically pick me up to make me leave! It’s a bit embarrassing, really.

    Could you tell us about your name – why you came to be called Gurmukh?

    Well, it’s a long story.

    I think our readers would like to hear it. One of your colleagues told me there’s quite a story behind it.

    Yeah, it’s quite a story. Everyone’s heard of the Battle of Thermopylae, right? The one where 300 Spartans fought a million Persians? For Sikhs, the Battle of Saragarhi was our Thermopylae. There was a small village on the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan, it was called Saragarhi. The village was mid-way between two British forts. The British Army had set up a small signalling post in the village. On 12 September 1897, 10,000 Afghans arrived in the village. They were taking part in an uprising against the British. They wanted to break the line of communication between the two forts. There were 21 Sikh soldiers defending the signalling tower.

    Really? 21 men against 10,000?

    Yeah. You see why we call it our Thermopylae.

    And one of the 21 men was called Gurmukh?

    Right. Gurmukh was a sepoy, a private soldier, one of the 21 men.

    How do people today know what happened back then?

    Because of Gurmukh Singh. His job was to send signals to the nearest British fort, so they knew what was happening. When Gurmukh signalled to Fort Lockhart that the signalling tower was under attack, the British commander replied that he could not send help, at least not immediately. The Afghans told the soldiers that their position was hopeless and they should surrender. You can imagine how they felt, outnumbered, with no immediate hope of rescue. They must have been tempted to give up – wouldn’t anyone?

    But they didn’t surrender, presumably?

    They didn’t surrender. The Army expected them to hold that tower and that was what they were determined to do. They took up positions on the stone walls around the tower. There were loop-holes which the defenders could shoot through.

    Loop-holes?

    Yeah, loop-holes were originally holes in a defensive wall, not technicalities that lawyers use to get people out of trouble. Like arrow-slits in a castle which the defenders used to fire bows through, right? Loop-holes are like arrow-slits.

    What happened?

    Obviously, the men defending the tower had a big advantage. They were firing through the loop-holes. The tower was on a rocky ridge, so the attackers were attacking uphill, trying to hit defenders who were protected by the stone walls. The defenders were holding their own. Bhagwan Singh was the first of the defenders to die. The attackers tried to break through the tower’s gate, but the tower had plenty of loop-holes with a good field of fire covering the gate. Eventually the attackers broke through the wall of the tower. The sergeant commanding the defenders, Ishar Singh, told his men to fall back while he defended the breach alone. He died to buy time for his men to fall back to a safer position. When the attackers broke through, Gurmukh Singh was the last man alive. As he lay dying, Gurmukh Singh is said to have shouted the battle-cry “Bole So Nihal, Sat Sri Akal”.

    What does it mean?

    The first part means that whoever utters the next phrase will be happy or fulfilled. The second part, Sat Sri Akal, can be translated in different ways – it can mean ‘God is truth’ or ‘truth is eternal.’ Sikhs use this phrase, Sat Sri Akal, as a greeting.

    Obviously you have an interest in history. It sounds like your family and your Sikh faith are very important to you.

    Yes I do! Yes, they are an important part of who I am.

    Could you talk me through a typical day?

    I’m on the night shift, so I’ll say something about a typical night! When I can, I go to the gurdwara just before I start my shift, to meditate for a while. I start work at 11 pm. The team I belong to meet in the briefing room, so that we know what has been happening during the previous day. When our Sergeant has briefed us, he gives us our assignments. On the night I’m thinking of, I was assigned to a patrol car with an experienced officer – I’m relatively new.

    The night was quiet, at first. Just after 1 am, we stopped to get some coffee and something to eat. It’s typical that, just when you stop to get a bite to eat, something happens. We had a call on the radio. We were called to deal with an incident in the Accident & Emergency Department of the local hospital. A guy had come in for treatment with a minor injury. The medics had taken care of him and it was time for him to go. But this guy was very drunk. He refused to go. He wanted to follow the medics around. He wasn’t violent, just belligerent and irritating, he kept trying to wind people up. He kept trying to follow the medics, then he tried to nick my colleague’s radio. At one point he grabbed my beard. It was just one of those times when you need to keep calm and keep being assertive, no matter what the other person does to provoke you. After we walked him out of the hospital, we stayed behind for a while in case he came back.

    A while after that, at about 3 am, we had another call. Police officers nearby had been called to a flat, a neighbour had heard screams. The officers had called for backup. The police officers stayed with the victim while my team pursued the suspect. We had to move fast, it’s easy for a suspect to escape into a maze of back streets. Then we had another radio call from the police officers who were with the victim. The suspect had doubled back and he was right outside the victim’s flat.

    The police officers on the scene were inside the flat, talking to the victim, when the suspect pounded on the door and demanded to be allowed in. The officers could see the suspect through the window. He waved a knife around while shouting threats and then started kicking the front door. We arrived very soon after that. He had not yet broken down the front door, but it would only been a matter of time. In a moment like that, you have to remember your training and trust your team. The suspect’s eyes were wild and he looked ‘out of it’, we were very careful around him while my colleague arrested him. We took him back to the station, of course. We looked up the suspect on the police database. We found that the local housing association had obtained a court order, one of the new Injunctions to Prevent Nuisance or Annoyance, against the suspect a few weeks beforehand. The court order meant that this guy was not supposed to go anywhere near the victim’s house. I wrote a report to send to the housing association so that they were aware of the incident, we work closely with them in our local crime reduction partnership.

    After that, things were fairly quiet, just routine. We patrolled the streets, on the lookout because we had a report that a group of drug dealers were trying to establish themselves in the neighbourhood. Of course, before our shift ended, we reported to the Sergeant on the night’s events, so that could brief the day shift.

    Sources and notes
    - The actual name of the actual staff newsletter of London’s Metropolitan Police Service is The Job. Obviously, this not an actual interview from The Job. I used The Job as a source, it is here

    - This story uses real historical events, including the Battle of Saragarhi, here

    - I used Tom Gaymore’s blog, in which he reports on observing a Metropolitan Police Emergency Response Team in action, to provide authentic details, here.
    Last edited by Alwyn; August 02, 2015 at 11:43 AM.

  5. #5
    Darkan's Avatar Senator
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    Icon4 Re: Assignment 4 - Papers and People

    Assignment 4 is up!

    Vasily
    Vasily was born in a small village more than sixty years ago, the third child out of five, four of which were girls, to a fisherman and his wife, who would often times sell the fish at the local market. Life hasn't always been easy, well, it’s mostly been hard, by anyone’s standard, but, as Vasily would say, “Life’s as easy or as hard as you make it.”

    The first thing you would notice about him, and you couldn't really miss it, is his impressive height, a little over 2 meters, towering over everybody in his village. The second most obvious thing is his long, black beard, which he’s never shaved but has always kept in impeccable condition. Though he is sixty something years old, not a grey hair stains the raven black of his beard, nor his hair, which falls down almost to his broad shoulders, for that matter. His face is rather round, but due to the amount of facial hair you can’t really notice unless you pay close attention. His forehead is surprisingly smooth for a man of his age, though crow feet-like wrinkles can be seen at the corners of his eyes, whose colour changes according to his mood. When he is calm, which is most of the time, his eyes are sky blue and clear as crystal, though when he gets mad they change colour to a murky green, giving the impression that you can drown in them. I’m going to tell you a bit more about his reactions when he gets angry a bit later though. His eyebrows are almost as bushy as his moustache, a perfect balance between the two features and his nose is as straight as a nose can be, with small nostrils that sometimes inflate as he breathes in, but not always. He can move them at will as well, which he often does when he plays with his young granddaughter. He has thin lips which, he told me, “In a woman is a sign of her being a she-devil”, if you tend to believe these types of folk sayings. He also has a scar across his left cheek, starting under his eye, near the nose bridge and going left toward his jaw, stopping just shy of his left earlobe. Maybe strange for his overall height, but Vasily’s neck is actually short, not that you could actually see it.

    His body is well built in spite of his age, though I guess physical work had and still has a big part to play in this. With a broad chest and broad shoulders, as I’ve said, Vasily isn’t muscular in the way body builders would be, but his strength is quite impressive. When you shake his giant hand you almost don’t even notice yours any more, and although a strong hold, his handshake is both vigorous and gentle. I once saw him picking up a small kitten – he absolutely loves cats – and in his palms it looked like a miniature toy rather than a living animal. Vasily’s nails are perfectly trimmed and always clean. He told me he is especially careful, as his father had a type of hand fungus that caused his nails to blacken and fall one by one. Nowadays you can easily cure said problem, which wasn't the case in the past, but Vasily still cleans his fingers and fingernails consciously every morning and every evening. His legs are long, obviously, and his walk is as you would imagine it to be, with each step slowly following the previous, as if where one puts his foot is of significant importance. I don’t think I've ever seen him running, or in a hurry. Sometimes he stops in the middle of the road just to watch children playing, or maybe a flock of geese waddling by.

    If you saw Vasily around the village, you probably wouldn't think much of him. His clothes are rather old and raggedy, patched here and there with whatever was available. He usually wears a yellowish brown sweater (yellowish due to age) and long, black trousers that clearly were never meant for his stature. His footwear is as old as he is, probably, and as worn as the rest of his clothes. His black hair is almost always hidden under a regular straw hat, though in colder days he changes it for one of the traditional woollen ones everybody wears. Now don’t get me wrong, his clothes might be old, but I’ve never seen them dirty, as Vasily takes excellent care of them. As I said, this is his usual attire, though on any and all festivities you will see him in completely different clothes. His white or sky blue traditional silk shirts are quite impressive, with many motifs such as red poppies, black birds or golden thread, just to name a few. I gather these shirts can be quite expensive “in the city”, considering they are handmade by the women in the village.

    As you can rightly guess, his nature is as calm as is his step, but mind you, if you got on his bad side, there’s hell to pay. He doesn't particularly like arguing and mostly, if he realises there’s no way to get to you, he politely takes his leave and never mentions that particular subject ever again. As he once told me “Why should I discuss something with someone if they don’t want me to?” If he’s the one in the wrong – although that rarely happens, not because he knows everything, but he never speaks about what he doesn't know – he is the first to admit it and he would say something along the lines of “you live, you learn.”

    That’s not to say he will just stand there and take insults as if it’s what one must do. Although he’s kind of immune to general insults, he does not accept you saying bad things about any member of his family, be it immediate or not, nor his boat. If that happens, and I’ve seen it happen just once in all the time I was there, oh boy. Honestly, never in my life have I heard so many curses and invectives as Vasily uttered that day. Cursing about everything, from that poor man’s dirt in his yard to the roof on his house all the way up to the day he was born, at which point Vasily raised his long arms, with massive, clenched fists, towards the sky. That was the first and only time I heard “Your poor mother should have emptied her bowels instead of giving birth to you.” He then opened his huge palms as if apologising for what he had said and walked away.

    Now I don’t want you to make the wrong impression about Vasily. This is not who he is, at all, and that particular phrase was uttered because the man he was arguing with had tried to “borrow” Vasily’s boat without telling him and obviously, this you cannot do.

    To give you an idea about who Vasily is, I will tell you what his daily routine is, if we can speak about a routine in the life of a fisherman, for that is what Vasily is. There are actually two types of days for Vasily, three if we count the holy festivities, so I’ll tell you about them as best I can.

    The first type of day is when he goes fishing. Keep in mind that he doesn't just go fishing in the morning and comes back home in the evening, he usually goes fishing for somewhere between one and two weeks at a time. He always wakes up at five in the morning. He takes the parcel of food his wife usually prepares for him the day before and heads up to his boat by the river. He told me he has some preferred fishing grounds, but sometimes it can take up to three days to find a new spot. He never goes fishing alone and one time he invited me to go with him. I am still dumbfounded about how he was able to row, yes, row the boat for almost an entire day, taking just short breaks to drink water. Whenever I offered to row for a bit he would just tell me he’d let me as soon as his arms got tired, but that didn't happen.

    Vasily doesn't talk much when he’s fishing. I looked at him and it was perfectly clear that starting a conversation with him would be pointless. He did warn me beforehand though:”If you want to come with me, keep in mind we have to catch fish.” I understood and respected that. When he is in his boat, whether in the middle of the river or hidden away in some undergrowth, Vasily is clearly at home. He connects with the environment in a way I've never seen anyone do. If he stumbles upon a wild duck nest he apologises, if he sees a wild boar on the banks of the river he tells it he doesn't want to intrude and whenever he catches young fish he kisses them, tells them to grow and throws them back in the water. He thanks the ones that he keeps for feeding him and his family.

    Now, when Vasily is home, things change. The first time I saw him return from a fishing trip, and always after that, it was astounding. Can you imagine this giant of a man, two cats perched on each of his shoulders and him feeding them fresh fish? As soon as he enters the front gate, his three year old granddaughter jumps in his arms and buries her tiny hands and face in his fish smelling beard, laughing and asking a million questions at the same time and Vasily always has a treat for her, either Turkish delight or chocolate, candy or sour bonbons. He laughs every time she tries one of those and squints her eyes. That is when you can see happiness, real, honest to God happiness in his blue green eyes. I haven’t mentioned it before, but his eyes are the same colour as the river. They’re clear blue when he’s happy but when he’s mad they take on this murky green hue that makes you feel like drowning.

    When Vasily is home, he wakes up at the same hour and after getting water from the well to wash his face and hand, he starts either mending his rods and nets or cleaning fish and smoking it. Later, at about seven in the morning he prepares breakfast for his granddaughter, always a large cup of tea and three slices of bread with butter and jam. Then he wakes her up, takes her on his shoulders and they both have breakfast in the yard, all the while telling her stories. He then starts working around the house, preparing things for the market or repairing something, working in the vegetable garden and no matter which of these he does do, he always sings. By God, how he loves to sing. He sings of girls who dream to get married, of young men who've left home, he sings about fishermen being lost, never coming back. At about eleven is when he goes to the village center to talk to other men who gather there, whether about the crops, livestock or catches they had or whether one of them needs help with building a barn, repairing his boat. That’s kind of the news center of the village. He then comes home for lunch, which he insists should be eaten at one in the afternoon, no later. He then takes his granddaughter and then he reads to her. He loves reading and has many books, ranging from child stories to legends and myths all the way to the likes of Dostoevsky. He does love Russian writers because, as he once said, “the Russian people finds happiness in the deepest of sorrows and sorrow in the highest of happiness.” Just to be clear though, Vasily is not Russian.

    Until dinner time Vasily keeps busy, feeding the animals and watering the trees, talking to each one as he does so. I would be almost inclined to believe he considers them part of his family, though he never shies away from sacrificing one to cook it...thanking it just as he thanks the fish he catches. After dinner, he usually goes to sleep. If the weather allows it, he sometimes sleeps in the yard, on a few sheepskins thrown on the bare ground, under the stars.

    Although life hasn't been especially easy for Vasily, he told me he wouldn't change it for anything in the world.
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  6. #6
    DeanE555's Avatar Libertus
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    Default Re: Assignment 4 - Papers and People

    Well, here's mine:

    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    He is ready to strike his target, one clean cut and everything will be over
    "It is time to pay for your sins!"
    "Come and get me then!"
    He jumps and slashes his opponent's belly in a magnificent *Ring* sound! Wait a sec… a *Ring* *Ring* *Ring*

    With a small yawn, Alexander Miller, or simply "Alex" wakes up. Still tired, he reaches for his phone to turn off the alarm while letting out a silent murmur of 'Blat', a habit acquired from his mother who emigrated during the 70's from St. Petersburg, Russia in exchange for a few bags of wheat.
    It is 5:50 AM, still a few hours before he has to go to work. Alex goes to the bathroom/shower for his "daily piss" as he likes to call it and begins with his morning routine.

    He fills half of his kettle with water and press the switch to power it, now he goes back to the bathroom/shower ready to brush his teeth and get rid of this awful taste in his mouth. After brushing his teeth he looks up in the mirror and sees once again a man in his late 20's with a slightly stronger than average build. He moves his hand across his bright brown, short hair and thinks he might need to go to the barber soon. He looks in his reflections' eyes, trying to figure out they are green or brown yet again and thinks how his father always called them "tiger eyes".

    The kettle lets out a squeal and Alex snaps back to reality. He pours hot water into a mug filled a spoon of sugar and Earl Gray tea bag. The hot beverage sends away any sleepy thought in an instant.

    Going back to his "room" which is a bed and a small cabinet at the middle of the left wall of a 2 room apartment, Alex picks his phone and goes to Youtube, selecting his playlist which consists of Creedence hits… Alex has a wide and weird taste of music ranging from traditional folk songs to the latest Jpop hits but Creedence always makes him lively and energetic, especially when it starts with "Fortunate son" what he calls his "theme song" ever since he first heard it as a kid while watching Forrest Gump.

    With Fortunate Son rocking the room, Alex begins his daily work out:

    First he stretches for five minutes, making sure he is still flexible, then he picks up his Bokken and practice swings. Then it is time to work on various Aikido techniques, basic and advanced as one. He didn't earn his first Dan black belt for lazing around and maybe will soon earn his second. Martial arts always interested Alex starting with boxing in junior-high, learning Krav-Maga as part of his IDF service and continuing in Aikido when he entered university.
    Alex had an apparent talent for whatever martial art he got into…

    Some push up and squat sets are up next and after it another set of Bokken swings. Then he finishes with another minute or two of stretching. Now all sweaty, he turns off his playlist and sits on the floor next to his wall and leans against it. Alex meditates as much as he can, which is usually 10 to 15 minutes. Then it is time for his morning 'shave and shower' as he calls it.
    When 'shave and shower' time is over, Alex goes to his kitchen part of the apartment and picks up a peach yogurt and some ingredients for a sandwich, this time its tomato, mustard and a Salami sausage of some sort.
    While eating his daily breakfast, Alex sits by his computer and checks his Gmail and Facebook accounts. If he has enough time, Alex will watch an episode of an anime of his choice, varying between the current season, those on his "Watch it someday" list, or an old favorite if he feels nostalgic.

    When he finishes his breakfast, usually around 8:40 AM, Alex leaves his apartment and sets off to his job as a junior engineer in an electronics company, sure, you never dream about having this type of job as a kid, especially if you come from a kibbutz in the middle of the Negev like Alex, but aside from martial arts, Alex had also a knack for electronics, Graduating with honors from a technical school and even serving as his units' field electronics expert during his active service in the IDF intelligence wing.
    After his 3 year active service, the IDF financed his studies which ended with him earning a second degree of software and hardware engineering. By this time, the IDF reached for him yet again and gave him his job in the military industry.

    Sure it wasn't a dream job, but the pay is good, he has a company car and his future was secured… Oh and it also meant no more reserve conscript warrants for him, the military industry needs its engineers alive and well after all!
    He liked this last advantage the best because Alex thinks he won't be able to fight again… the last war left some scars in his soul when he saw two of his comrades die in an operation went wrong, one of them a friend of his since childhood.

    The ride there is usually packed with traffic so even the short distance between his rented apartment in Herzilia to where the IMI is can take 15 minutes and on a bad day even half an hour. When he arrives at the gates, he shows his ID and wait for a few minutes for the guard to confirm it, 'security can never be too tight in a place like this' he knows so it doesn't bother him.

    His work usually includes checking a certain electric circuit or a certain software, whatever his boss, the project leader, tells him. He works there for only 8 months so he won't get to do the serious stuff, like programming or inventing ideas for a while.

    After ten hours of work with only a break for lunch at the local cafeteria, Alex returns to his apartment. This time it takes around 10 minutes because the traffic is not as bad at that time.

    On a weekday, Alex will probably watch some anime and play some games on his computer, usually GTA V or some Mass effect 3 multiplayer. With his paycheck, he managed to save for a good gaming computer in around 3 months which is quite fast considering the prices. On a week day he will also make himself a dinner made of an instant cup noodle, Szechuan or beef flavored, whatever he pulls out from his cupboard.

    On a weekend Alex will still make himself a cup noodle for dinner but instead of spending the evening in front of the computer he will go out into the city partying at a nightclub or drowning his sorrows at a bar. Herzilia is filled with both so it is not hard to find a good spot around there. Usually he will even be lucky enough to find a girl to spend the night with, that was his only company beside his mates from work. Most of his friends were still living in the Negev so he sometimes felt lonely but his thought usually brushed off his mind fast.

    On a weekend anything could happen so talking about it as a routine would be quite hard, though, on a weekday Alex will usually be around his computer up to 10 or 11 PM, then he will go to his refrigerator, grab a glass and drink a shot of Vodka. Then Alex will brush his teeth, put on an old tee-shirt and take his pants off and will go to the bathroom/shower for his "nightly dump". Then, Alex will lay down in his bed and fall asleep. Just another day passes…



    On another note, I like how you thought about it as an interview Alwyn, A story and a character description all in one go. Anyways... I only read it over loosley but it seems quite interesting (I didn't know Britian has still some colonies in India...). Will probably go over it tommorow and see what the whole story is about.

    -Edit-

    Just saw yours Darkan (for some reason I don't think I've seen your name in this course posts... guess my memory's kaput...) Will go over it tommorow as well, but from the looks of it mine is the most boring around here... Well! No point crying over spilt milk, I hope everyone got to send theirs in time and that all is good!
    Last edited by DeanE555; August 02, 2015 at 09:02 AM.

  7. #7
    Alwyn's Avatar Frothy Goodness
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    Default Re: Assignment 4 - Papers and People

    I like your characters, Darkan and DeanE555

    DeanE555, thank you! Britain has not had colonies in India since India became independent in 1947. My character was often talking about events in 1897 and 1947 in his interview (as he is interested in history) which could have confused you - sorry! I don't think your writing about Alex is boring, I thought that the details such as Alex's father saying that he has '"tiger eyes" and Alex's enjoyment of his old favourite anime episodes were touching and authentic, they helped to make the character seem real for me.

  8. #8

    Default Re: Assignment 4 - Papers and People

    Emma
    She sat with her hand supporting her face, staring blankly but intently at the whiteboard. The science teacher paced in front of the class, confident in his speech, a nerdy humour in his words as he side-tracked himself with witty notes and commentary every few words. The majority of the class watched on with fascination, closely following his every word, laughing obediently at his jokes, the rest in complete boredom, staring out the window as the cliche for bored teens dictates. Emma sat with appearance of that of the bored section of the class but her brain secretly processed every word he said, thought upon what was being said, went on mini-tangents of its own, scoured the other parts of the brain for relevant information, made a pun or innuendo every now and again that made her laugh a bit too loud, re-process it again and then come to a summary of what was actually important and what wasn’t. That was the magic of Emma’s brain.

    “Emma?”

    “Oui.” She replied in a Burgundian accent a Burgundian would be jealous off. Oh yeah, she spoke fluent French. No one laughed though, no one dared laugh at Emma. It wasn’t that she was too weird to laugh, too nerdy to laugh at or some sort of unlucky social outcast. No, her popularity made her untouchable.

    “How would we calculate an object’s weight on a different planet given only the object’s weight on Earth and the gravitational pull of the other planet, assuming of course, that Earth’s gravitational acceleration is equal to approximately ten.” Easy, she thought almost aloud, honestly, is this grade ten stuff? Yes, the girl who found the physics question too easy and who spoke fluent french was popular. She’d always been, though. She was the aristocracy of popular kids. She’d always been one and no matter her ineligibility or whether, on the inside, she identified as ‘cool’, she couldn’t be kicked out or exiled. Anyway, everyone loved Emma, the boys wanted to be with her and the girls wanted to be her.

    “Find the mass of the object by dividing the weight by Earth’s gravitational acceleration and then, multiple the mass by the gravitational acceleration of the other planet.” She flashed a smile at the end, too easy, it read. Her smile wasn’t large or bright, but it was enough of a twinkle of white, a small glimpse of what was going on in her mind, to hook people, boys and girls alike.

    “Good.” The science teacher replied, smiling, not surprised at Emma’s correct answer nor in any way bitter that it was correct. The question was mainly a way to get some breathing time for him and to bring Emma back for a bit. Science class continued on for another half another before the shrill of the bell greeted children with an end to what some of them viewed as an hour of misery. Emma mindlessly chatted with her friends on the way out of class, thanking the science teacher, Mr Bow, just before she left. She had perfected the task of talking while thinking, so much so that no one suspected a thing. Conversations went by, topics on boys, gossip, news headlines, complaints about teachers. English was next, always interesting, mused Emma, in some way or another.

    Emma’s musing proved wrong this time, much to Emma’s surprise as English went by tediously and without importance. A substitute filled in for their regular teacher and, realising she was way above her head as soon as she walked in, decided to kill the student’s desire for knowledge or discussion by issuing standard question after question until their souls were long gone and their spirits demolished. Such was the evil that were substitute teachers.

    Twenty minutes of recess went by without any drama or real importance. Her group of friends- Anna, Isabel, Kate and Hope- were a tight-knit bunch as well as being the prettiest and, by extension, most popular girls in the year. Recess was spent outside, Australian schools not having a cafeteria to sit in and so they spent it often under this one particular tree, an imported oak, as the sporty boys played rugby on the field in front of them, shooting them glances every now and then, strutting around like peacocks in shorts a tad too tight and short.

    Third period, history, involved a lot of absorption of fact after fact. Unless you were Emma and then you spent it chatting with Hope about topics neither of you were particularly interested in but neither of you could be bother talking about things that actually interested you.

    “Do you girls want to play netball or play with the men and play basketball?” The limping PE teacher asked, unaware, or perhaps all aware, of the offensive, misogynistic content of his question.

    “What?” Exclaimed both Emma and Hope as well as a few of the girls who had overheard it. The boys who had heard tried to hold back their laughter, exchanging glances equating to ‘wtf’ and ‘did he really just say that’.

    “I was just trying to get a reaction out of you.” Chuckled the PE teacher, by this stage quite obviously unaware of what he had actually just asked.

    “Sure, we’ll play basketball.” Emma replied, defiant and angry. While calm most of the time, Emma had a habit of being quick to temper.

    By the end of the game, Emma had scored eight of the fourteen points scored by her team, Hope another three and the PE teacher was left looking quite humiliated yet still oblivious. Lunch centred around the outrage over his question and was forty minutes of ranting, mockery and laughter at his astonishingly backwards thinking. Emma despised the PE teacher for a lot of reasons, the main ones being his tendency to repeat stories in class, go on long tangents which ended in nothing gained for anyone and his casual racism and sexism. Maths, as should be expected from a subject about something as uncontroversial as numbers and algebra, finished with no sort of controversy and the last bell of the day unleashed a torrent of kids out of the various classrooms and the school, releasing nearly eight hundred kids onto the streets of Sydney’s inner west. Most quickly hopped on their desired bus, some dawdled in front of convenience stores, some roamed the streets and a select few suffered the worst punishment imaginable to a school student and remained behind in detention as the school went from busy and bustling to eerie and near-abandoned.

    Emma walked briskly home, with a jazzy spring in each step as she removed herself from the outside world and plunged into that of the roaring twenties and the Jazz age, courtesy of her noise-cancelling earphones and her jazz playlist on Spotify.

    “But ohhhh,” she sang silently, “if we call whole thing off then we must part.” She imagined herself not walking down the streets of the inner suburbs of Sydney but standing right next to Louis Armstrong in a small jazz club in New York. “And ohhh, if we ever part then that might break my heart.” Her eyes sparkled as she was enlivened by the music. Her differently coloured eyes, one blue like the Aegean sea, the other a bright green like grassy meadows on a summer’s day, must have surely been those that Romeo praised when he said “Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven’s having some business do entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return.”

    “So if you like pyjamas and I like pyjahmas,” she clicked her fingers in time with the music, “I’ll wear pyjamas and give up pyjahmas.” She glanced behind her and to the side. No one, she observed. “For we know we need each so we better calling the calling off off.” She sung without a care. “Let’s call the whole thing off.” And just like that she reached her house, a small townhouse, wedged between two other townhouses. But first impressions can be, and often are, deceiving and the pink door, a relic of Emma’s pink phrase, opened up to a long hallway that kept going in the same way that shows like Lost keep going and going and going. She tap danced her way down the hall way, despite having no real experience in actual tap dancing, until she reached the carpet-covered stairs, which waltzed up with ease, singing as loud as her voice could go. She flung open the door to her bedroom, jumped on the bed and ended the song. “Let’s call,” she sung brilliantly and vibrantly, “the whole thing off.” And with that she ripped out the earphones, stripped down and then only realised that she didn’t quite know where her work outfit was. Clothes went flying as she rummaged through previously, slightly neat piles until she recovered her orange top and pants, waving them in the air with a celebratory “found them!” She cocked her head as she stared into the mirror at herself. She fidgeted around with her bra, playing with her breasts for no real reason whatsoever. They were bigger than most of the girl’s her age. She was skinny, not fit-through-a-crack skinny but the sort of skinny which made you neither worry for her health nor wish she was any skinner. Her arms were not twigs but were actually muscular, not gym-obsessed, testosterone-filled adolescent male muscular but the result of years of semi-professional water polo. No one could say anything but that she was attractive, extremely attractive. Emma smiled at herself, a warm smile instead of an arrogant, brattish, I’m-prettier-than-everyone-else smile. Once clothed, she picked up her handbag, nothing expensive but still relatively chic, tossed in some requirements, phone, earphones, purse, hairbrush, small journal and walked off to work.

    Emma worked at a small, locally-run green grocer on the main street of the inner-west suburb of Rozelle. The green grocer was located in a long stretch of cafes, other small grocery stores, chic boutique fashion stores, more cafes, cosmetic stores, small bookstores and more cafes. The owner was a kind, old Italian man who spoked English with a typical Italian accent, though it only made you adore him more.

    “Ciao bella.” He greeted Emma with, as he usually did. She giggled and blushed in return, always vulnerable to his old charm.

    “Bongiorno, Enrico.” She replied in her best Italian accent; she was better at French. “How are you today?”

    “Still old and still ugly.” He smiled.

    “Don’t be mean, you’re not that old.” She joked back as she threw her handbag under the cashier. “Many customers today.”

    “The old faithful as usual and some semi-regulars.” He replied, a little deflated. The old faithful included many of the area’s old, Italian residents and other pensioners, most good friends or family friends with Enrico. They were counted on to be there every day or every other day unless they had been hospitalised or passed away. “We can’t beat the big supermarkets.”

    “Yes we can.” She said with a beaming smile. “They don’t have authentic Italian charm like we do.” She placed her work cap and messed around with its placement and her hair until her chestnut curls flowed flawlessly from it.

    “I swear, you are mine own daughter reborn.” He exclaimed as he often did. “You look just like her!” She blushed again.

    The next two hours went by as they normally did at the grocer, as she scanned items and worked the cashier, helped the elderly and disabled picking produce and unpacked apple after apple. At the end, she said bye to Enrico, pulled off her cap to let the rest of her hair free. Once home, she flicked through the day’s newspaper, trying to control her anger at the current set of incompetent politicians, watched a bit of French YouTube to keep up her fluency, read a bit of F. Scott Fitzgerald, messaged, texted, Snapchatted and Skyped her friends, played with her dog, Monster, watched some comedy television, ate dinner, with compliments to her parents, took a nice, long bath, continued to message her friends and at last, after all these things and more were complete, thought about going to sleep.

    Thought about going to sleep.

    Author's note The song Emma sings to-https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J2oEmPP5dTM


    Very unedited, will try and get to it tomorrow as well as reading everyone else's.
    Last edited by Merchant of Venice; August 04, 2015 at 01:04 AM.

  9. #9
    DeanE555's Avatar Libertus
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    Default Re: Assignment 4 - Papers and People

    Alwyn-Sorry if this colony thing came as somewhat ignorant... if there is something I don't know it is Hindu history, and even about british colonial history I know quite little (the most they teach us here in Israel is about your mandate here... well history classes in Israel are mainly about the holocaust and the British mandate along the settelment so everything else I have to learn myself...)
    I liked Gurmukh's story, although I couldn't quite get what was going on that last part...
    as for a reply to my Alex... it's been a while since a "me" based character got on an adventure in my scripture so... he is pretty much based on me... I thought it was boring because I was too rash when sending it: always after writing something I think of all the ways I could've wrote it better the second after I "published" it but these feelings are MUCH more stronger this time... I know I could have wrote more about Alex' character but I do not know if it was laziness or pressure from the deadline...

    Darkan-I LOVED Vasily, the most that I know about baltic culture other than Russia is what my mother tells me... and it is usually not pretty... (Russian born and raised in St. Petersburg are usually considering themselves "the best" of mankind, especially those who were raised during the golden years of communism...)
    Vasily, even if a little clean-freak sounds like what I'd like to be (aside the fact I'm more like 1.60 meters...), I even had a teacher once who reminded me of Vasily so you can see why I feel really bonded to him.
    Just one question for last: Is Vasily based about one of the northen or eastern native tribes in Russia ("Chukcha" as my mom calls them) or more about the villages around the black sea? The closest relation I have to a tribe is the fact my grand grandmother was a Tatar and I always find myself intrigued by tribal cultures, be it Gallic,Germanic,Arab,Ainu or native americans so I'd like to do a little investigation of my own if it is OK with you?

    Mechant of Venice-Yours was seen and bookmarked for tommorow... Arividacie! (that's how you say that right?)
    BTW, read the prologue of "Way Of The Bow" and already facinated... are you still working on it?

  10. #10
    FrostySOTF's Avatar Ice in My Veins
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    Default Re: Assignment 4 - Papers and People

    Grading soon, gave extra time on this one as it's almost 2 assignments

  11. #11
    Darkan's Avatar Senator
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    Quote Originally Posted by DeanE555 View Post
    Just saw yours Darkan (for some reason I don't think I've seen your name in this course posts... guess my memory's kaput...)
    Your memory's fine, I just got a late invite to the course. I will hopefully finish the first 3 assignments by the end of the week.

    Quote Originally Posted by DeanE555 View Post
    Just one question for last: Is Vasily based about one of the northen or eastern native tribes in Russia ("Chukcha" as my mom calls them) or more about the villages around the black sea?
    The character is mostly based on my fiancée's grandfather, though he passed away before I could meet him, but from what she's been telling me he was quite an interesting man, though I added stuff from other people as well. My fiancée and I currently live in Romania, by the Black Sea, but her ancestors apparently left Russia (somewhere around Moscow, she told me) over 200 years ago due to religious reasons. Basically they didn't want to accept reformation or the Julian Calendar, just to give an example.
    [DLV 6.2 AAR] - The Danish House of Hen - updated 20/08/18 - on hold
    [King of Dragon Pass AAR] - The Drakkar Saga - updated 14/04/18 - on hold
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  12. #12

    Default Re: Assignment 4 - Papers and People

    Just fixed mine up a bit and read everyone else's. Great work I must say to everyone. I really liked the interview style of your story, Alwyn, and the history was interesting. I liked Vasily's character as well, Darkan, and the charm of the story really spoke to me. I absolutely loved reading about the small village life and Vasily seems like someone I would rather like to meet. I thought the mundane nature of Alex's life in your story, Dean, was important in giving it a grounded feel and the small touches like the song he listened to or the anime he watched or the death of his childhood friend made for good reading.

    And to answer your question Dean, yeah Way of the Bow is definitely still continuing, I'm going to finish it even if it will be another three years. I took a break from writing because of RL stuff but by the time you make it through to the most recent chapter I should have the next one up, it's already half finished or so.

  13. #13
    Alwyn's Avatar Frothy Goodness
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    Dean E555, you don't need to apologise, I imagine every country teaches history with a different focus. Thank you for letting me know that Gurmukh's interview could have been clearer at the end, I agree. I know what you mean about posting something and then thinking Now I can see several ways to make this better!

    I agree with Merchant about Darkan's character of Vasily as well as the grounded feel of Alex in DeanE555's story. Merchant, Emma's character seems incredibly real and the story of her day is beautifully written.

  14. #14
    DeanE555's Avatar Libertus
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    Default Re: Assignment 4 - Papers and People

    Merchant of Venice, Emma's story was a good read, but trust me this kid won't say this science stuff is that easy after her first test! (god knows I did, and oh my, how wrong I was... barely finished school with an 80 average: around B- or B...) Anyways! I like how Emma, like my Alex is pretty much centered on your-every-day-someone... but I can sense that beyond this perfect persona and happy-go-lucky life you introduced us lies a dark secret of some sort...
    Should I have not been so rash to finish my story and get it over with this week, I believe my final version would be similar to yours (in build that is... content were all different as you'd expect...)

  15. #15
    Darkan's Avatar Senator
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    Well, since Frosty said this particular assignment will be referenced in the future, we might get a chance to further develop the characters...or mercilessly crush their existence... Who knows?
    [DLV 6.2 AAR] - The Danish House of Hen - updated 20/08/18 - on hold
    [King of Dragon Pass AAR] - The Drakkar Saga - updated 14/04/18 - on hold
    Participate in the TotW!!! PARTICIPATE!!!
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  16. #16

    Default Re: Assignment 4 - Papers and People

    A wide range of characters here and it was interesting to read about the different ones.
    Darkan, I really loved your character of Vasily and how simple yet wonderful his life was.
    Alwyn, I liked your approach and it was really interesting to read about the stuff in India.
    Dean, your story had a really grounded mundane feel to it. It was great to read about the routine stuff Alex did each day. It gave it a really realistic feel.
    Merchant of Venice, Emma's story reminds me of my experiences in High School it is very true to life.

    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 


    Desmond Hayford was a middle-aged teacher. Not so happily married with five children. As a child he had always dreamed of being a teacher. I guess his dreams came true though not in the way he wanted them to. He had always been too serious and cynical but this got worse as he aged. His hobbies mostly revolve around reading old books. I think the only way you could truly understand the man would be to get in his head for a day. No day in particular, just one of the normal days of his life...

    Desmond Hayford awoke from a dreamless sleep to the unrelenting sound of his buzzing alarm. Oh great another day, he thought bitterly as he dragged himself from the bed and over to the bathroom. After relieving himself, he washed his face and examined himself in the mirror. He wasn’t getting any younger he mused. His hair had been jet black only nine years ago. That was before he had had children. Now his hair was fast turning gray. Best not to think about it he decided as he went back into his bedroom to get changed. His wife dragged herself out of bed. She was a wreck. The newest member of their family, a baby boy aged one, had kept them up for most of the night. Of course now that the morning had come he was fast asleep. Desmond left the room as his wife stumbled over to the bathroom. He checked the time on a cuckoo clock that hung from the wall. It said that it was nearing seven but Desmond had learned the hard way that it was unreliable at the best of times. His wife insisted they keep the clock as it had belonged to her late father. As far as Desmond was concerned the bitter old man had just left them the clock as a final punishment. As he walked past it the clock struck seven and the ugly little bird that emerged every hour pocked his head out and offered a cacophony of squawks. He shuddered and kept walking to the kitchen. Here he found a more reliable modern clock he had bought last year. It told him the true time was a quarter past seven. He quickly drained a glass of orange juice and headed back up the house to wake the children. The house was far too small for a family of seven, with only two bathrooms and three bedrooms. He had been saving for a new house but he was the sole supporter of the household since his wife had given up her job to raise the children and his job, as a teacher in St. Bruno’s Institution didn’t pay particularly well. He went into his twin son’s room first. They were aged eight and quickly rose from bed, brimming with enthusiasm for the day ahead. Next he went to his daughter's room, they were aged six and five. Similar to their brothers they got up out of bed cheerfully. He returned to the kitchen and began eating his traditional butter on toast for breakfast. He enviously watched his sons as they wrestled on the floor and wondered did he have as much energy as them when he was their age. If he had where had it gone? His wife emerged into the kitchen. She had showered but still looked fatigued. She promptly began getting the kids ready for school. He said a hurried goodbye to his children, gave his wife a passionless kiss on the cheek and hurried out the door.

    He would have been glad to be free from the noise of his house if he didn’t posses the knowledge that worse awaited him at work. It was still only twenty to eight but he worked in an inner city school and traffic was bad at this time of the morning. It took him the best part of an hour to drive to work. While driving he tuned into the same radio station he listened to every morning. They were mostly playing “Modern trash”, which was the name he had given to all songs from the past twenty years but there were a few classics from his youth that gave him a moment’s happiness.

    Desmond arrived at the school at half eight. Classes didn’t start until nine but he was glad he was early, it meant he could park his car in a space covered by CCTV cameras. He didn’t trust the area the school was located in and he especially didn’t trust the students. One disgruntled teenager had slashed the tires of Desmond’s colleague Ernest Reed’s car, in frustration after he had been suspended. Desmond walked to a nearby corner shop where he bought his usual cup of coffee and newspaper. He then hurried to the staff room to relax for a few minutes before the carnage began. At five to eight he hurried up to his classroom. It was located at the far end of the third floor, so it was a long walk. Desmond was convinced the principal had given him that room just to annoy him. Desmond taught English and History. He had once loved both these subjects and had been eager to try to teach others to love them also. But that was when he was a young naive college student. Before he ever taught a class or had children of his own. He took a quick stroll about his classroom to make sure everything was in order. The desks were covered in writing and crude drawings. There were many offensive messages addressed towards him. It irked him, as he knew he would never be able to find the people who wrote them.

    His first class was English with students who were still in their first year. That meant they were still slightly intimidated by him and he was able to get some work done with them. After that he had a history class with students in their third year. These veterans knew exactly what they could get away with. The girls sat in the corner talking endlessly while the boys flung pieces of paper across the room. Once Desmond would have shouted at them endlessly, trying to make them do their work but over the years the students had weathered him down. Now mostly he just sat back and taught the class to the one or two people who were bothered to listen. His students knew that he wasn’t bothered to give out to them for most things but they also knew that he still had a sharp temper when provoked. As a result a tacit agreement had developed between them. So long as the teenagers didn’t cross a line he wouldn’t punish them. It made him a poor excuse for a teacher but there were plenty worse in the school. At his lunch break he went down to the staff room and ate his lunch with Ernest Reed. Ernest was the closest thing Desmond had to a friend. The two of them shared a pessimistic view towards everything in the world. Ernest was a small man in his early fifties with messy gray hair. It always cheered Desmond up to spend time with him, as he seemed to be the only man alive more wretched and miserable than himself. They shared their woes, taking it in turns to offer complaints about their families and their students. After lunch Desmond had more classes to teach. Two more English classes then a History class. They were all dull and uneventful. The students talked and he sat at the front of the class droning on about something no one seemed to care about. He was thankful that he didn’t have any serious incidents with the children.

    When the bell rang to signal the end of the day, Desmond was relieved to find that he didn’t have any after school responsibilities. He knew he should head home to spend time with his family but an hour to relax was so rare. His wife would assume he was staying back after school anyway so there was no reason to disillusion her. He drove over to a park he used to visit with his family when he was a child. He remembered rolling down the hill with his sister and playing football with his father. Those days seemed a lifetime ago. Now his parents were dead and his sister had moved to Australia. He sat on a park bench reading a copy of Charles Dickens’ masterpiece David Copperfield. Despite how dreary his life seemed reading a good book always bought him a moment’s respite. He got carried away, turning page after page. Suddenly he realized that it was six o’clock. He hurried back to his car making a quick phone call to his wife. He offered her some lame excuse about a teacher meeting he had forgot to tell her about. She didn’t sound impressed. When he got home his family had already had dinner. “Mommy is very mad at you.” His elder daughter told him with big eyes and a very serious tone. His daughter hadn’t lied to him and for most of the night she treated him coldly. After he had eaten his dinner he did his best to play the role of the dutiful father, since he was feeling guilty. He made sure his children did their homework, played with them for a bit and then sent them to bed. His younger daughter asked him to read to her but by that stage he was exhausted and sent her to bed with a promise that he would the next night.

    Desmond sat in front of the television with his wife after they had finally managed to get all the children into bed. After a brief exchange of disinterested small talk, they sat in a gloomy silence. Desmond flicked from channel to channel declaring each program to be rubbish. He went up stair to his bedroom and began reading again. His wife soon joined him. She was reading some trashy modern romance novel. They turned the lights off before eleven. The couple hadn’t made love for four months. Desmond lay awake for a while wondering what had happened to his life. When the clock struck eleven he decided he had best try and get to sleep. He had a busy day ahead of him. It would doubtless be the exact same as today.

    The game.

  17. #17
    Alwyn's Avatar Frothy Goodness
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    Thanks, mr_president! I like your story, you pack in a lot of well-chosen details to create a character who comes across as very real.

  18. #18
    Iron Aquilifer's Avatar Protector Domesticus
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    Default Re: Assignment 4 - Papers and People

    Character
    Name: Daniel Colin Speed
    Appearance: Average height and build. Due to his line of work, she often changes her appearance, from a simple haircut to an entire body change, including plastic surgery.
    Titles: Mr
    Social Security Number: 464-42-791
    Zodiac: Pisces
    Birth Date: 21 March 1968
    Birth Name: Samantha Angelina Connor
    Birth Place: St Margaret’s Chapel
    Birth Weight: 8Ibs 5oz
    Birth Length: 50cm
    Manner of Birth: Result of rape – normal pregnancy
    First Word(s): Bad
    Death Date: 7 August 2002
    Age at Death: 34
    Death Place: Eiffel Tower, Paris
    Resting Place: unmarked grave
    Manner of Death: poisoned food
    Last Words: Tell my mother
    Priorities: self-preservation
    Motivation: self-preservation
    Accomplishments: faked their own death; served in the CIA
    Greatest Achievement: formed a black ops organisation
    Failures: forming a strong bond with her mother; reuniting with his mother
    Biggest Failure: allowing the black ops to turn rogue
    Self-Confidence: confident in their own abilities; less confident when forced to deal with emotions
    Traumas: parental abuse; firefights; attempted assassinations
    Embarrassments: surgical scarring
    Worries: death; dishonour; betrayal; failure
    Soothers: American-style pancakes with Maple syrup, bacon and whipped cream
    Instigators: Mention and/or thought of her mother; news reports
    Earliest Memory: being dragged to church
    Fondest Memory: her first holiday with Fiona Chalmers
    Worst Memory: visiting her mother’s grave
    Favorite Dream: first night with Fiona Chalmers
    Worst Nightmare: being awake during surgery
    Desires: retire to a farm with his family
    Wishes: transgender president of the United States of America
    Regrets: turning her back on Fiona
    Secrets: that he is not actually dead
    Confidantes: his dog, Rufus
    Soft Spots: animals
    Cruel Streaks: paedophiles; anti-LGBT activists
    Musical Instrument: none
    Quirks: adds cheese and hot sauce to soup; eats icecream with a fork; uses a pocketwatch; uses left hand as if it were the dominant
    Dominant Hand: right handed
    Catchphrase: “It has to be done”
    Autograph: Blunt lettering
    IQ: 129
    Known Languages: English; French; German; Afrikaans; Italian; Egyptian Arabic
    Lures: power; positions of influence; items which her enemies value
    Manias: Pyromania
    Memory: Very good
    Phobias: insects
    Savvies: playing the idiot or vulnerable victim
    Ineptities: “rocket science”
    Temperament: Melancholic
    Hobbies: Painting
    Pet Peeves: Poor grammar
    Intellectual Characteristics
    Logical-Mathematical: reasonably savvy with her maths
    Spatial: pretty good imagination
    Linguistic: very good
    Bodily-Kinesthetic: well-trained
    Musical: has an ear for sounds
    Interpersonal: trained to a high standard
    Intrapersonal: not very well

    “Alright, send a team to bring her in.”

    He was having a bad day. A long day. First the embassies, a dozen charred husks which had formally contained flesh and blood of his agents were now stored in the coolers of a morgue. If it hadn’t been for his sources, then he would have been caught in the blast himself. Then I would really be dead, and that casket could be filled with its rightful occupant. Not that his mother would have wanted it to be so.

    “Of course sir.”

    Then the eight o’clock flight from Amsterdam to Dublin crashed in to the A9 with four more names to be deleted from the databases. Their deaths had caused him to forgo lunch, the salad handed off to one of his guards to be done with as they saw fit.

    “Do not mention that I will be overseeing.”

    “Of course sir,” went the reply, distracted.

    She had better be willing to cooperate. He had already handwritten twenty-two letters of condolence, using twenty-two different pens and twenty-two different writing styles, signing with twenty-two different names. He had the Chinese government to thank for six of them, killed as they attempted to smuggle weapons to support a Tibetan resistance cell. Lies upon lies.

    “Group leader is asking for specifications.”

    “He has full discretion. Take as many men as he needs, as many guns. We are not the only ones looking for her.”

    “Very good sir.”

    It has to be done. They were hitting him hard, across all theatres at once. It was as subtle as someone screaming in to a megaphone. Even then, he was powerless to stop it. In the end, he had only so many willing to wage such a war.

    Dinner had been a dry salad while he waited on the building being cleared, eyes remaining low despite the tinted windows of his car. During such a time as he was being forced to live, one could never be too careful.

    “They are on their way sir.”

    “Do you think that she can help us?”

    “She will be a valuable asset sir.”

    He accepted that, not in the mood to press. She is because I say she is. In many ways, he could not allow himself to think otherwise. To do so would be to admit that he was scared, and that was something he could never do. They can smell fear.

    “And will they get to her before us?”

    “I am afraid that I cannot say, sir.”

    His night consisted of strategy. Like a general he surveyed the battlefield, removing lost pieces and drawing attack lines which spanned continents. Strongholds on every side were marked out like synthetic mountains from a chess-set, webs of red and blue and green silk marking out the networks which were in every sense, his footsoldiers. For hours he had contemplated his reaction if the map was every covered in a single colour.

    I could retire then.

    “Do you believe that we have a chance, if this gets any worse?”

    It was as if his aide had just swallowed his tongue in a futile attempt to refrain from answering.

    “Do we have a chance Fraser?”

    “We always have options, sir.”

    Submit. Reconcile. Flee. They were the options the younger man spoke of. Unacceptable options. He had not given up when his mother called him Devil-spawn. He had fought in church and school and while he was under the knife. He fought in the field and behind a desk. He had killed to be the man he was always meant to be.

    “I want updates on the team’s progress.”

    “Of course sir.”

    In amongst the wargaming he caught a moment to call home, going through the motions of selling yet another lie. Pleasantries were exchanged, blunt sentences rolling off of the tongues of the two adults as they settled in to two very different nights.

    “What is wrong?”

    “They got to her first. We could not get anything usable out of her wife.”

    Leaning back, Colin peered down at his map, the globe stretching out across the entire floor, miniatures and counters in their hundred a mosaic of a war as bloody as one fought between nations. Submit. Reconcile. Flee. Give it up. Give it up now. His mother’s words rang in his ears. Did you cry when I died? Was it the salt of sadness or joy, that your horrible little devil-girl had finally gone to hell?

    “Find her.”

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