Writing: Flashes of Maeve

    I excel at scraping in at almost the last moment. Here's to hoping the habit does not become a lifetime trend.

    (Tell me if the Arial font works or if the Trebuchet is preferred. My writing is all done in Arial and I just realized that Blogger has it as a font option.)

    As the title might suggest, this is just going to be a short, blips post for Maeve Copeland/D'Araignes, from my side project Artifice. Right now, it's hard to recall if I've ever posted something of her before, though I likely have. She's one of the easier characters to write (it's all the angst in her story, probably) so I only have 16k words in my "maeve-samuele extra" document. 

    There are time skips. Unstated, but still present. And a small author's note, for giggles. The line of events aren't difficult to follow, with the selection of scrawls chosen for this post. But, all the same, drop me a line if something's unclear.


    Samuele was relieved when the councilman and his wife moved on. He appreciated the loyalty of his people, but it didn’t mean he enjoyed conversing with all of them at length. Especially Councilman Blake, who believed if he argued his points long enough, he would make a difference on a decision that had been made months past.
     It made his head pound.
     Left in peace for a few moments, he drained part of the bubbling liquor in his glass, savoring the tart sweetness of the champagne. As had been happened more and more frequently of late, his gaze meandered over the crowd, searching for a familiar figure.
    Yvonne had dressed Maeve in a swath of ocean-toned colors that made her stand out even in this large gathering of dignitaries and government figures. Dark hair tucked up behind her ear on one side, the rest left to hang in a wave of curls.
    The effect had been both enchanting and enticing in a way that still threw him off balance. 
    Spotting his wife across the room, Samuele watched as she nodded her farewell to a man he recognized to be a prominent lawyer—one of those who’d been invited out of necessity. If he’d had any say in the matter, Samuele would’ve left him off the guest list for the sole fact that he was known to be something of a rake. 
    Maeve moved away before anyone else could claim her attention. The champagne flute in her hand looked untouched from this distance and the crystals sewn into the fringes of her dress sparkled with her every moment. 
    She drifted to the bay windows lining the ball room, all closed tight for security, but still affording a generous view of the gardens outside. There was a near imperceptible slump to her shoulders before she realized that her posture had slipped and corrected herself.
    For a moment, Samuele wanted to go to Maeve and tell her that they could leave for home. He wanted to see that faint relief in her sapphire bright eyes and be able to tuck her hand into the crook of his arm and walk with her out to the car. To be able to get out of his tie and help her escape the confines of her dress and spend the remainder of the evening in bed with Maeve reading beside him.
    Even as the thoughts formed in his mind, he knew they couldn’t just leave. They had duties, a commitment to be here. Attempting to dismiss the thoughts from his mind, Lord D’Araignes returned to conversing with his guests, counting down the minutes of the following hour and a half until they could bow out.

//

    Samuele accessed his personal email, agitated but taking his seat anyways. Yvonne’s words had left a hollow pit in his gut that told him he would need the support of his chair.
    She—I received an email, my lord. Just now. Automated. She wanted me to tell you to check your email. Or—or someone else wanted her to tell you that.
    The reminder that she might have been taken, to be used against him, the most effective of threats—no one had stood in his way as he’d made tracks for his office.
    There was no need to ask himself why she might’ve sent word to her assistant about the communique. She knew how he was, that the last place he would be in these hours would be at his desk.
    But here he was, at her behest, and there was her name—Maeve, my Maeve—at the top of his inbox on an untitled email.
    He didn’t question the link within, didn’t stop to think what might be inside, just clicked on through and waited for the video to buffer.
    Maeve’s face blinked into existence on the computer screen. Samuele paused it to reach for the sound, glad he’d thought to close his office door before attending to this task. The last thing he wanted now was to be interrupted.
    The room behind her was unfamiliar until she shifted position and he could see that it was one of the studies buried deep within the palace. 
    It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense, and the ruler had to force down the near panic strangling him.
    She wasn’t being held hostage, she’d made this video herself, in secret, in their home. To send to him.
    “Samuele—Lord D’Araignes—I don’t know how I should address you, now.” Her blue eyes were watery even from the start, flickering away from the camera to check her surroundings. The video had been taken on her phone, or one gotten for this specific purpose.
    Her ragged breath came through the speakers for his monitor. 
    “There is no way to begin apologizing for what you’re about to know, my Lord. I should be gone almost a day, by now. I know that you’re ripping apart the country, looking for me.”  
    She paused.
    “Don’t look. You won’t find me.”
    “I was not kidnapped nor was I coerced. I left of my own free will, Sam—Lord D’Araignes.” Maeve bit her lip, glancing elsewhere again.
    Samuele forced his clenching fists to relax, but was unable to help the unnatural tightness of his frame, the tension building in him. The pit in his gut had deepened beyond imagination. Not you, Maeve. Please. 
    “Your minister of defense will have told you about a man named Iago. A powerful shadow that no one has been able to find. Iago made me into Maeve Copeland five years ago, Samuele. Iago pulled the strings so that I would be one of the candidates for you to marry. I’ve been one of his assets for the entirety of my adult life. Of my own will.” Her sapphire bright gaze was broken in a way he’d never witnessed before.
    Samuele recognized the shock in himself, in the way that what she was explaining wasn’t sinking in. Yet.
    On the video, Maeve stopped to collect herself in a way he was familiar with. That quiet pause while she gathered her thoughts. How much had she been able to cover up with that seemingly insignificant habit?
    “Samuele, you won’t believe a word I say from here on out, when you process all of this, but I have to say it anyways. I—love you. I love you, and I’m not supposed to. Iago knows and he will try kill you for it.
    “I will not let him. There’s—there’s someone who should help me. Even if not, I left to find Iago and end him. This is the most I can do to make this up to you. You’re going to make yourself believe that everything between us was a lie. I know you will.
    “But you have to know, Samuele. You have to know that it was an act at first, that I dreamed about what Iago would do to you, but not anymore. Not in a very long time. Iago did not order me to take that bullet for you. I was the one who told you that I loved you that morning at the beach house. Me. Maeve. Not Iago.”
    He remembered that morning in aching clarity. The fear making his heart pound, expecting the worst, that she couldn’t handle his world, that she was leaving him. Only for the tears to fill her eyes as she told him she loved him.
    It hadn’t made sense then, why she had trembled in his arms as she’d whispered the words to him. Why her laugh when he didn’t turn her away had been on the verge of a sob.
    Now it did. Both their lives were forfeit because of it. 
    Maeve in the recording looked at her watch, drawing in a breath through parted lips that had been against his more times than he could count. Quirked in a quiet smile. Pressed together in annoyance. 
    Lying with every breath.
    “I have to meet you for dinner soon. Riza and Yvonne will be wondering where I am.” Her sapphire bright gaze returned to the camera, to him, weary, resolved, resigned. “You’re going to be angry with me, Samuele, and I deserve it. But don’t take it out on anyone else. Don’t hate yourself for loving me.”
    There were seconds left. Samuele didn’t want it to end, didn’t want this to be real, to be true. Not her, not her, not her. All his life, he’d been taught to be wary of newcomers in his life, of those who might be out to deceive him. He could tell friend from foe within hours.
     And she had deceived them all.
    “This is goodbye, Samuele. ...My Samuele. I wish you knew how much there is I want to tell you. But there isn’t time and it won’t make a difference soon anyways. Just know this—I will do everything in my power to save your life and end Iago’s. My loyalty and devotion is yours, even if it kills me. And I love you.”
    There was a space, a breath, a heartbeat of time where she was looking right at him, unguarded and open in a way he had only seen a handful of times.
    The video went black and Maeve was gone.
    
    When the anger and the betrayal overwhelmed, when the disbelief and heartbreak warred for dominance, Samuele D’Araignes had only one thing about his wife that he knew with certainty. 
    She was his.
    (Later, that would be all that mattered.)

//

(a.n. IT'S SO ANGSTY AND CLICHED I LOVE IT and i am so sorry)

//

    Maeve retook her seat in the battered leather chair, pulling her legs up to lean them against the armrest. Her eyes had returned to their vivid shade of blue, hair curling around her shoulders. It was shorter than before, but Riza had to fight through the emotion of seeing her Lady as she remembered her.
    And judging by the way Yvonne clasped her hands together until her knuckles turned white, the eddies of feeling were of similar strength for her as well.
    The silence held steady for what felt to Riza a lifetime.
    Maeve was the first to break it, first with a quiet breath, then, “What did you hear? About what happened.”
    Riza bit her lip. The D’Araignes family had attempted to keep it quiet. Sudden background problems brought to light that required the Lady’s absence for some time had been the cover story. But then the list had come in, forcing corrupt members of the government into the light, with Maeve Copeland among their number.
    Who had leaked it was still a mystery, but the media storm had raged for months. The royal family had closed ranks and refused to speak to the press about anything pertaining Maeve’s involvement in the matter.
    Yvonne gathered herself first. “There was uproar. The list you sent got into the hands of the media. You were the frontrunner of the government conspiracy. The only thing that tempered it was when news came in of other countries receiving similar lists.”
    A pained smile crossed the former Lady’s lips. “I had a feeling. I—was removed from the goings on of the world for a while and when I came back.” She shrugged. “The fallout held little appeal. It’s good, though. The people deserved to know the truth.”
     “And are you going to come back now?” The former fashion coordinator voiced what Riza was thinking, no inflection in her tone, just simple inquiry.
     Even three years later, even after the betrayal, it was still hard to break through that barrier of ruler and subordinate that had existed between them for an almost equal length of time. The many things she wished to say, had longed to say for so long, she couldn’t.

//

    In the end, the decision was taken from her hands.
    It was late, dark, when she walked home after a private, late evening lesson. Her thoughts were invested in both her work and what Yvonne had challenged her with the prior evening, scarce allowing her to take stock of her surroundings.
    She glanced back and forth before stepping into the road to cross to the mini mart, but the car’s headlights were off and the noise from a nearby nightclub covered up the churning of its motor.
    There was only a moment between noticing the vehicle veering towards her and the impact, during which she was able to process the relief that she hadn’t revealed her presence. That Samuele would not have to lose her all over again, in so much more of a horrific way.
    The crunch was sickening, the weightlessness disorienting, the landing the final blow.
    Maeve slipped away before the pain could register.

    The beeping was what woke her again. That steady, sharp beep... beep... beep indicating her heart still beat in her chest, still kept her alive.
    There was no tube down her throat, which was a relief. Her mouth was dry, her body numb. She had enough experience to know that wasn’t a good sign—there was no telling how much morphine was in her system right now, keeping the pain at bay.
    Letting that sift through her hazy thoughts, Maeve turned her attention to what she remembered. Her smiling student, still recuperating from a sprained ankle but longing to dance. Going home. The sound of her bones grinding together. Then black. And nothing.
    Careful to take shallow breaths, she let her eyes open a slit, relieved that the overhead lights were off. Her head was listed to the left, towards the entrance to the room. There was no familiar thickness on her eye—her contacts had been removed. No sunshine painted the sterile walls, which told her it was either late or very, very early.
    Her attention drifted. The curtain pulled across the window in the closed door. The silence. Then took in the state of her body, realizing her left leg was elevated in a swing, that her knee was bandaged and in a brace, immobilizing it.
    Maeve did not need a doctor to tell her that the damage was severe enough that she would never return to working at the dance studio—if she ever walked without support again.
    There was no agony or devastation over this realization, just a mild pang in her chest. She’d had so much ripped away from her during her life that this just went onto that list. Dancing had been rewarding, but not a true passion. She would just move to the next cover screen after she got out of the hospital.
     Drawing in a breath—and wincing when her body seemed to grind in protest, although she felt none of the pain of it—Maeve’s gaze continued on from her injuries, to the rest of the room. There was no light peeping around the heavy curtains, confirming her conclusion of it being night hours. 
    Then she caught a glimpse of black pants from her peripherals. And followed them up to a white, wrinkled button-up shirt. And then up to his face. 
    The morphine kept her from overreacting, from jerking, or even gasping. Her senses were too dulled for that, her mind too sluggish. Maeve wasn’t surprised, though. It wasn’t hard to draw the lines, to connect Yvonne to this.
    She let out a long, slow sigh, letting her head settle in his direction. 
    Samuele hadn’t changed much. Three years, and all he had to show for it was a shorter haircut and a few more lines creasing his face. The dark circles beneath his eyes told her he’d slept badly for the last several days, which was probably why he was able to sleep like the dead in a hospital chair with his head leaning back against the wall.


    And because I'm so nice and generous and totally not awful at writing and posting that writing, here's a short Jaz/Renner AU that I did.... in space.


    He was one of the only commanders on the protection force for one of the most prominent planets in the system with a spotless record and she was the best smuggler and scammer this side of the Icarian Belt, neither facts which mattered all that much currently. 
    “I cannot believe that I am stuck in jail for a week with you,” Jasmine groaned, cursing her luck and for thinking she could get away with skirting in Xitar’s space lanes without prior authorization. 
    The only bright side of the ordeal was that she’d dropped off her illicit cargo before her infraction, and would only be in the slammer seven days, instead of the far heftier sentence that was attached to contraband trafficking.
    Her silent companion, Renner Mason, did not voice his agreement with her statement, instead contemplating the apoplectic fit that his superior in the force and his father would have when they realized he’d put a mark on his whitewashed career chasing a mere smuggler. Though the spark to her direct gaze and the knowing curve of her smirk at times made him think maybe she was worth the smear in his record to spend a week in her company, waiting for her to slip up about herself. 
    The woman let out a long, drawn out sigh, turning her head  to eye the man across the cell from her with a critical eye. After a moment, O’Haire remarked in a dead serious tone, “You’re a lot hotter than your cousin made you out to be.”
    Ren closed his eyes and searched for the hard-earned patience that he’d cultivated for most of his life. Forget any opportunities the occasion might present. 

    This was going to be a week from hell.


    They make me giggle. A lot. 

    So that's about it that's worth anyone's while. Moving across the United States and driving 5,400+ miles really takes it out of me.

    As a general announcement, I have no NaNoWriMo plans this years, unless I come down with scarlet fever in the next twenty four hours and have delusions of grandeur, in which case, someone stop me. There's more important stuff to be done this month then putting 50k towards an unknown project, which, as my cousin said today, "that's impossible". Or something to that effect. It is a lot of words.

    But, I might have something new out eventually; a couple of posts of pictures from our roadtrip. Did anyone know that Montana is a freaking beautiful state? Yeah. Also, I got some shots of the Air Force Academy Chapel while we were visiting that I'm going to share.

    And... that's about it. For the moment. Life's crazy. The usual. Shoutout to anyone who actually read all of this and is still even reading this blog. You're amazing.

    Thanks, peeps.

    Ad astra per aspera.
    To the stars, through difficulty.

Writing: Sarris + "bringing her home"

    It is not June yet, okay? I'm still ahead of the deadline. This is going to be a lame post, but it's a post and it counts, okay? I also might have to go to work in forty minutes and have to eat, do my hair, brush my teeth, and finish getting my snack together. Short post.

    Long story short, I'm in Alaska (again), I'm working 1-8pm, five days a week, our internet is not in our house yet, and I've been reading a lot of books.

    Yeah. That's about it. It's been a busy few months of travel. Once again.

    My writing scribbles have meandered all over story ideas, but I liked this scrawl best that I did over this last week. Hopefully you guys do too.

    Original storyline, just by the way. Since it's so confusing with the four some different storylines and I get turned around every once in a while as well.


    Sarris found herself wide awake despite not having slept in almost two days. The starliner thrummed around her, as soothing and constant as the sleepy warmth pressed to her front.
    It felt like events had not stopped slipping past faster than she could almost comprehend. Two days ago she had been returning home to an empty apartment and an aching pain in the wake of visiting Tara—again.
     Now she glanced down and wondered that the past forty-eight hours weren’t anything more than a dream. That she would wake up in an empty bed, reaching for the only constant in her life, only to find him gone.
    Downy blond curls were stark against the gray of Sarris’ uniform jacket, softening the military edge in a way no smile could. Quiet breaths left the child in her arms as she slumbered.
    At six months old, Ruusan was just beginning to take an interest in the world, and was sleeping through the night on a somewhat regular basis. Not that it would’ve made a difference.
    The Warrior had been struck by the vivid blue of her eyes from that first moment on the side of the road after dragging the crying child from the burning wreck of her parents’ streamer.
    Letting her head settle back, Sarris stared at the illume casting faint light over the rows of seats, the low setting telling that their destination, Sinjaro Kahn, was in the late hours of night. Sleeping now would be in the passengers’ best interest.
    She hadn’t commed Novarr any details beyond asking him to meet her at home tomorrow, or the earliest he could get away from his current job.
    This wasn’t something she would be able to talk about, could make a decision about, without being able to see him, to grip his hands with hers and see the truth of his own choice in his eyes.
     Ruusan could and would change everything. Already had. Even if they didn’t keep her, even if they committed her as a ward of the bureau on Norsha’ac, Sarris knew there would be no going back now. Not after memorizing the weight of the child in her arms, the pitch of her cry, the gentle scent that clung to her hair and skin after a bath.
    It was burned into her mind as deep as Gogam, as her time with the Force, as the people who meant everything to her.
    No, there was no return from here. And Sarris didn’t care, as she laced her fingers together over Ruusan’s back, her eyes closing. She knew that she wouldn’t get much rest, but it was worth it to at least try. There was no telling when Ruusan would awaken. Or what the next few days would hold, for that matter. She would need every moment of respite she could manage.

    //

    Sarris knew that the only thing Novarr would read on her face and in her eyes would be strain, so she grabbed his hands, hoping the contact would help him understand.
    “You’re really starting to freak me out here, Sar,” his voice was strained, brows at an odd angle as he attempted to keep at least a hint of a smile on his features. His fingers were tight around hers with rising tension.
    The words stuck in her throat, as easy as they should’ve been, but she didn’t know what to say anymore.
    Staring into the concern in his gaze, the Warrior struggled. She didn’t do well conversing even within normal parameters, let alone when it came to an issue of this magnitude.
    “Her name is Ruusan,” Sarris murmured at last. Her name almost got stuck, came out as a whisper. “She’s six months old, Norsha’acite, and her parents are both dead. Killed in a streamer accident.”
    Novarr was uncomprehending, a frown crowding out his failing attempt at a smile, and he rubbed agitated circles around her knuckles with his thumbs. “What about her, Sar? I need details here, babe.”
    “Next of kin waived their claim, she was going straight to a bureau-operated home, Novarr.” Sarris was unfamiliar with the desperation crawling beneath her skin. It was wishful, devastating, craving, unthinkable, nothing like she’d ever known.
    Her hunter, her Novarr, waited, knowing to give her time, to allow her to work past her barriers and speak, perhaps already thinking he knew where this was going.
    “I—“ Sarris paused, closed her eyes. “She’s here. I brought her home with me. She’s asleep in our bed right now.”
   It might have been amusing in any other situation, with any other circumstances. Novarr stopped functioning, frozen, staring at Sarris.
    She let him process, her attention on their conversation, but every sense tuned to the small noises of their apartment. Waiting for that familiar cry to come.
    It would be weeks before her usual sleeping schedule returned. Before her senses dulled again from razor sharp awareness, at a level she hadn’t seen in years.
    Since her first years off Gogam, struggling with the blood that had soaked her.
    “We… have a baby?” Novarr’s dawning comprehension made warmth spread through Sarris’ fingertips.
    Drawing in a breath, she explained in low tones, “If that’s what we want. I have temporary custody because of my dual status as a Warrior that’s acknowledged by both Kahn and Uhric. It allows some space to maneuver legally.” Away from the emotion of the situation, her tongue loosened, thoughts flowing with more ease.
    Not that it made a difference what she said now. Novarr wasn’t attending again, just smiling, a goofy expression she didn’t see on him often. His good humor was usually more focused, not an uncontrolled reaction like now.
    “Her name is Ruusan?” He checked, squeezing her hands at odd intervals.
    Sarris blinked at him. Nodded once. “Yes. Ruusan Armstrong.”
    “And her family doesn’t want her?”
    “No.” That was the part of this she couldn’t understand. How Ruusan’s grandparents had walked into that security station where Sarris had waited with their granddaughter, and had turned their backs on her. Had signed all the forms to give up their rights without looking at her twice.
    It had made her burn with anger. That they were so willing, so eager, to be rid of Ruusan. Of her blue eyes and golden curls, her sweet giggles and priceless babbling.


    Short but sweet, I hope. Unfinished, as with all my projects. But it hit me during church last week and I ran with it. This is a phase of their lives I never really got around to writing out, just put a mental marker in with an idea of events and moved on to bigger fish.

    Baby Ruu is so. adorable. Just so you know. One of those babies that makes you think, "I wouldn't mind having kids after all" because she's just precious and a sweetheart and. Yeah.

    I've gotta run now.

    Thoughts?

    Ad astra per aspera.
    To the stars, through difficulties.

PSA + Writing: Anomaly, Not Prodigy

    Going for a record-breaking four posts in the span of just a couple weeks. Although this one isn't just more scribbles.

    I, against my better judgement and probable eventual mental breakdown, am aiming to attempt NaNoWriMo again this year. The project, as you might have assumed by my recent rash of posts, will be (retitled) Anomaly, Not Prodigy. How far I will get I have no idea, because there is a whole bunch of schoolwork I have to do as well.

    But, we shall see what occurs, ne?

    For those curious about following my progress, here's the link to my NaNo page for Anomaly, Not Prodigy, complete with synopsis and Novel Excerpt (that is liable to change). Seeing as NaNo starts tomorrow, the rest of my day is going to be world development cramming and whipping up a few more new characters and just generally attempting to have things as ready as possible.

    http://nanowrimo.org/participants/siani-delaney/novels/anomaly-not-prodigy

    Wish me luck.

    Now for the second portion of this post. I wanted to upload some more writing in case I don't get hardly anything up in November, although if I do manage to scrawl some decent stuff for Anomaly, Not Prodigy, you guys may get a sneak peek at what I hope becomes my next completed novel. (Fingers crossed so hard.)

    This bit is another from my 18 page, Jaz + Renner document that took up much of my attention last week. Spoiler alert but Jaz has just learned that the man who single-handedly trained her into the soldier that she is today, has been killed. His name is Min and she doesn't not take the news of his demise well. Ren is the one to intervene.

    To be on the safe side I'm going to give a slight content warning for brief, mild language (most edited out) and thematic elements. 

    And this scene is subject to change in the near or maybe somewhat far future. Since it's come to my attention that writing Jaz late at night means that she turns out kind of bipolar and since she's not... yeah. Anyways.

    Monsoon season. 

    Never ending rain.

    Always soaked through. Perpetual squishing in her boots.

    Four laps around the path, splashing through puddles, lungs burning.

    Drop at the start line. Thirty push-ups. Back on her feet.

    Run. Fast lap, slow lap. Easy run to a full-out sprint.

    It was late afternoon but it looked like dusk with the heavy cloud cover.

    Rainwater dripped into her eyes, caused her hair to cling to her face, her neck. Jaz flicked strands of auburn back, feeling her tied up hair swing to and fro with her movement.

    Her everything was on fire but she was numb. 

    Not him, not him, not him, not him. The rhythm matched the tempo of her feet as she fled an invisible foe.

    She took the curve too fast, her tennis shoes finding a water-slicked spot and then she was unbalanced, sliding across the spongy surface. Jaz went down hard, wrenching her knee to the side and then gasping in pain when her shoulder and head impacted with almost as much force.

    The rain didn’t slow. Lungs heaving for breath to deal with the pain, Jasmine curled in on herself. Get up. We’re not done yet.

    Roll onto stomach. Shove upwards. Get your good leg under you. Shake it off. Keep going.

    Her knee buckled. Jaz almost went down again, but compensated, panting for breath as she doubled over, hands on her thighs. 

    Jade-green eyes squeezed shut to keep water from streaming in. 

    This wasn’t happened. This hadn’t happened. He would still be there. She’d walk in the bar and he’d wave her over and ask about her missions. His dark eyes would reserve judgment until she’d filled him in and then he’d nod and say “you’re doing well” or “good work” or—or—

    Jaz start a stumbling run again, pain ricocheting through her leg and she didn’t care. She didn’t care. She didn’t care.

    “The Chief Commander agreed that, in the absence of your teammates, one-on-one training would be beneficial to your improvement.”

    “Flicker. As far as you can. Go.”

    “Again.”

    “Again.”

    “Stop. Sleep. We’ll do more tomorrow.”

    “Take the target. I will be here.”

    “You’ve gotten stronger. Go farther.”

    “You’re late. Don’t let it happen again.”

    “You want to be an elite—act like it.”

    “Again.”

    “Use your instincts. Don’t think. React. Come again.”

    “You think you’re that good? Prove it.”

    “Again.”

    “Remain conscious. Losing awareness now will ensure your death and that would be troublesome to me.”

    “How many times have I told you? Pay attention. You want to be the best, then you learn how to protect yourself so you don’t burden your teammates.”

    “Again.”

    “Tell me about your teammates.”

    “Again.”

    “Tell me about your family.”

    “Again.”

    “You have come very far, Jasmine. Good work.”

    She dropped, catching herself with her hands and bent toes inside her shoes. Down. Up. Down. Up. Hard shove off, hand clap, down. Up. Down. Up. Hand behind back, other centered beneath her. Down. Up. Down. Up.

    It’d been last week. He’d caught her in the hall of headquarters last week, curious about her schedule.

    “Sorry, sensei. I’m slated to head out for an investigation at the south border tonight, but I’ll be back in five days and I’ll find you at the Tipping Point so we can catch up.”

    “Very well. Be careful.”

    Idiot. Idiot. Telling her to be careful when she was doing a routine inspection and then—

    Jaz held herself on the up of her push-up, jaw clenched against the way her arms were turning to jelly, trembling from the strain she was putting them under.

    Dead. Dead. Dead, dead, dead.

    Dead like Mio. Dead like Levi. Cold. Stiff. Lifeless. Dead.

    Jaz struggled to get back on her feet. Her knee would be in no condition for anything in a few hours and she didn’t care. She’d been confined to the city-state until further notice anyways. 

    Blast Whitecourt.

    The joint was already stiffening. It protested when the soldier started to run again, breaths coming in jagged gasps, from physical pain, from devastation, from exhaustion, from defeat, from despair.

    Jade-green eyes blinked to keep the pouring rain from blinding her. First curve, straight stretch. 

    She wouldn’t cry. Didn’t know how she could—not after Mio and Levi.

    Why bother. Why bother. What’s the point, if they all die?

    I hate you, Min. I hate you. I hate you. You weren’t supposed to leave. You were more of a dad than anybody else has ever been to me in this city. You saw me for my potential, not for my roots. 

   Second curve, straight stretch, headed back towards the start line. Three more laps. A form in one of their black uniforms, face a pale splotch through the inclement weather, waiting for her.

    Jaz continued her limping run, drawing in a lungful of air through her nose, letting it out through her lips, trying to stem off the stitch forming in her side. 

    It was Renner. Always Renner. Aristocratic features drawn, hands in his pockets.

    “What.” She went down to do her push-ups, arms almost buckling. If she couldn’t run, she’d do this instead.

    “I just got back. Whitecourt told me.” His boots scuffed across the spongy track and he crouched down at her side.

    Jaz didn’t spare him a glance, gaze trained on the ground. Up. Down. Up. Down. Don’t stop. Can’t stop. Don’t stop. Can’t stop. Down. Up. Down.

    “Stop.” There was that voice again, the one that meant Ren wasn’t kidding around. “Jasmine, stop.”

    It went ignored. “What do you want, Mason?” She knew the reversion to his last name would throw him and that would buy her time to finish and get back up to run. Renner was predictable, to her. 

    Ren broke her expectations, this time. There was an irritated huff, then Jaz watched him stand up in her peripherals, and was caught unawares when a heavy boot was planted between her shoulder blades.

    Jaz tried to lock up in time to keep from collapsing, but was too off guard, her senses too dulled by exhaustion and grief to react in time. Ren applied pressure and she buckled, her arms giving out and she hit the ground—again.

    Her earlier impacted shoulder complained against the rough handling.

    Turning her head so she wouldn’t drown, Jaz heaved for air before making to get up again. 

    Ren shoved her back down, merciless. 

    “Get off my blasted case, Mason,” she spat between pants, using her able arm to shove herself away from Renner’s foot and onto her back. 

    Not her brightest idea. Raindrops splattered against her exposed face, blinding in their intensity. Respite came in the shape of Renner Mason leaning over her, his jaw set.

    “No. Get up. You’re going home.” Hard. Unflinching. Adamant.

    “I’m not done.” Sparked temper, unhidden anger.

    “The hell you are. Get on your feet, O’Haire. That’s an order.” Ren reached down to grab her by the collar of her jacket, reminiscent and yet not of a reversed situation years ago, and pulled her up.

    Jaz’s body refused to fight anymore, and all she could manage was to latch onto his wrists, her head lolling backwards at the sudden change in position. Ren dragged her closer, she tried to backpedal, and he just tugged her back again. 

   “Stop. Fighting.” He clipped off the words, dark eyes narrowed. Dangerous. Not someone to cross.

    She couldn’t have been accused of being that smart. “You don’t know anything, Mason. Now get your hands off me.”

    “No. Because the moment I do is the moment you go back trying to kill yourself.”

    Pain burned through her but Jaz only let it fuel the fire. “Did you ever think that maybe right here is where I need to be, Mason? That this is how I deal?”

    “Only those with no one left deal this way. You are not alone.” A small shake punctuated Ren’s heavy tone, as if he were attempting to shake his version of sense into her. 

    Now it wasn’t just pain kindling embers in her chest, but her eyes smarted. “Don’t talk to me about loss, Mason.”

    Thin lips let out a hissing breath and Ren’s fingers tightened further in her jacket. “Listen to yourself, Jasmine. This is not you.”

    “Maybe this is me, you’ve just been too oblivious to notice it in all your fascination with the runt of the pack,” Jaz sneered, bitter, lashing out in the only way she had left. “The little mongrel that Daddy said you weren’t allowed to play with. Ever think of that with that genius brain of yours? Maybe you didn’t care because why should you? The daughter of the drunk and the whore, the only one to not put you on a pedestal.”

    Stop. Stop talking. Stop.

    Ren slapped her.

    The air left her lungs at the blow, head turned from the low force of it. She swallowed, then found her face brought back around by cold fingers grasping her chin. Jade-green eyes flickered upwards.

    “If you,” the temperature felt like it dropped when Renner posed the words to her, deadly calm and his eyes frigid. “Dare to insinuate that you are only a fascination to me again, you will find yourself alone, Jasmine O’Haire.”

    That killed any remnant of fight left in her. Jaz felt like a cork had been pulled and now her every wayward emotion was emptying from her with a speed that made her already shaky legs impossible to stand on.

    Renner’s hold on her jacket was released as he grabbed her upper arms, keeping her upright. The ice had disappeared—that was a scare tactic she did not need to see from him again anytime soon—and her longtime friend was there to support her.

    “You need to go home,” Ren murmured, helping her regain her feet. 

    Jaz nodded, tremulous, deflated, ready to drop again at a moment’s notice, and clung to his arms, needing the grounding effect just feeling him there brought.

    Not gone. 

    Not yet.

    “You can’t go anywhere.” Jaz lifted her head to plead with him, jade-green eyes shadowed in her grief. “You can’t go anywhere, Ren. I can’t—not again. Not anymore than this.”

    Ren pushed back one response, then shook his head. “I will do the best I can.”

    And that was it. She knew that would be all he would give her, because they both knew what their line of work meant, how dangerous it was.

    How many losses there were, even in times of peace.

    “I will carry you. You are not strong enough to flicker and you’ve injured your knee.” The business-like tone was chosen to draw her from her thoughts, distract her.

    Jaz wanted to kick up a fuss. The retorts were there, ready to be used, but she couldn’t get her brain to connect to her tongue. So she just sagged in Renner’s supportive grip, awaiting whatever decisions he came to.

    Just like he had done with her, when his own grief had propelled him to her door.

    Rain continued to pour down around them. Fitting, considering, but she wished it would stop. 

    Maybe if the sky would stop crying, then she could do so instead.

    I ended up liking this scrawl quite a lot, myself, although I mentioned Ren's rough handling to my sister and she did that disapproving brow pinch and said that there had to be a more chivalrous way for him to handle the situation.

   Unfortunately for her, chivalrous and gentlemanly is one of the first things on the list of "This Will Not Work When it Comes to Jasmine O'Haire". Even more so when she's in this state of mind. 

    At any rate, this will be October's last post, and I do hope to see you all in November, to update you on my NaNo progress if nothing else. 

    Thank you for reading! 

    Ad astra per aspera.

    To the stars, through difficulties.

Writing: Abnormality, Not Prodigy + Introducing Ren

    I guess this project is going to remain "Abnormality, Not Prodigy" for the next while, until another stroke of (hopefully better) genius strikes me. Suggestions are always welcome, if you happen upon an easier variation that doesn't clog up the mouth so much.

    So, a short post, just as a heads-up. I created a new character to weave into Jasmine "Jaz" O'Haire's story. And I love him to pieces. Because he's amazing and turned out to be just what Jaz needed if she were ever to settle down. Which she does, spoiler alert. 

    This scrawl is liable to change in the future as I work out the kinks in the timeline and Jaz's reactions to certain changes in her life. And if I probably didn't make it clear, this is Renner and Jaz's first meeting.

    In a hospital, of course.


    Jaz was quiet—displeased, unhappy, sulky—as the orderly wheeled her into her new hospital room. Seventy-hours in intensive care had gotten her to a point where they were comfortable with moving her to a regular room. 
    She was mad. Mad she’d let that guy close, mad she hadn’t realized the knife had been laced with poison, mad her team had had to carry her sick, feverish body back to Busan, where she’d been promptly admitted to a sterile prison and chained to one bed or another by her own weakness.
    It took her a minute to realize that the other bed in the room—the one nearer the window that was letting streams of bright sunshine in to paint the floor and brush the walls—was occupied. But there was no time to study her new roomie because her wheelchair came to a halt beside her newest cage. 
    “Alright, up we get,” the orderly was a middle-aged man, who, while pleasant, took way too much satisfaction from doing his job. He slid his arms under hers and used the positioning to hoist her up onto her feet, cautious of the IV taped to the skin of her forearm.
    Jaz could do very little to even help keep her upright. The poison had been fast acting and merciless. It’d ravaged through her and the doctor had said that she was lucky that she’d gotten to them when she had. Having to throw her own strength into flickering home had only sped the toxin’s effects.
    He maneuvered the wheelchair out of the way with one foot, bracing his arm around her back to support her while flipping the covers back. Jasmine sagged back against him, face burning with shame at being unable to do something so simple as stand. The final humiliating blow was when he scooped her up—bridal style—to deposit her with care amongst the starched sheets.
    It was mortifying, she was mortified, and knew it would show, which made nothing about her situation easier to handle. 
    Orderly Matt just smiled, pulled the blankets up to her collarbone, and went about connecting her to the heart-rate monitor. The IV bag was transferred from the rod on the wheelchair to a wheeled stand beside the monitoring devices, the appropriate cords being shifted and plugged in.
    The young soldier sat in stiff silence until he finished, jade eyes fixed on a spot on the opposing wall.
    “The doctor will be by to check on you later.” Was his closing remark as he left, taking the wheelchair with him and making sure to close the door behind himself.
    Jaz lifted a shaking hand to drag it over her face, struggling to sit up. They’d been gone two months and she’d already almost gotten herself killed trying to prove herself to her new team, despite her placement with them only being temporary. Her anger caved in to exhaustion, loneliness welling up in its wake.
     The tube for her IV drip dragged across the folds in her covers as she wrapped her arms around her legs and leaned her forehead into her knees, tremors whispering through her body, mocking her weakness. 
     She was stronger than this, she knew she was. She’d made it so far without them and she was going to do it again. Becoming special forces was something she had decided to do, something that she would have to do on her own strength. 
    Zack and Dan not only had potential, but a pedigree to match. They had been chosen to receive special training because of it. 
    Jaz wasn’t special, she didn’t have the same blue blood as most, but she would become the best that she could be. It would just take a bit more time and determination for her.
    Lifting her head with a steadying breath, Jasmine blinked the slight moisture from her eyes. And glanced towards the window. And startled to find a gaze trained on her profile. Then Jaz felt like hitting herself upside the head for forgetting about her roomie.
    It only took her a moment to sort through who he was, jade eyes taking in unkempt black hair and equally dark eyes before placing him in her memories. Two years ahead of her class, from a very wealthy and very old family, known for being well ahead of his own age group. Renner Mason, in all his… pale, pained, somewhat pathetic glory.
    “Wow.” First word in her head, not necessarily her first choice of things to actually say. 
    Her roomie’s expressionless visage shifted into a frown.
    Jaz blinked, then shrugged. “Sorry. I’m surprised they put commoners with the nobility. I might give you poverty, you know.” She said poverty as a seven-year-old might say “cooties” and took some pleasure out of the line that appeared between his brows.
    Because flummoxing one of Busan’s top minds could only be a bright spot in her day. Maybe even her week, considering how said week had been going for her thus far.
    “…Busan General does not discriminate based on monetary status.” Renner was still frowning—at her, no less—as if he had no idea what she was talking about.
    Jaz snorted. “Keep telling yourself that, Captain Mason.”
    He blinked, but didn’t ask how she knew his name. Jaz suspected he got it a lot, as accomplished a soldier as he was.
    “We haven’t met.” Statement, not a question.
    Guessing that perks like sharp memory came with being a smart person, the woman shrugged. “Nope. My class was two years behind yours.”
    “Aa.”
    “Yup.”
    Silence.
    Jaz fought her grin as long as she could, then turned her head to lay it on her arms so she could watch him and not have to expend energy at the same time. “Tyro O’Haire, sir.”
    One brow rose, but dark eyes didn’t flick towards her this time. “It’s a pleasure.” Bland, bored, whatever emotion was the farthest from pleased.
    It wasn’t silent treatment, which was a good start. Though she did have experience with his type. Zach was a watered down version of Renner Mason and his big, bad, silent guy routine. Or, had been. Who knew what having pure, uninterrupted exposure to Dan for five years would do to him.
    Snorting to herself, jade-green eyes wandered around the plain hospital room. There was a cluster of blooming flowers in a glass vase next to Mason’s bed, on the far side from her. She wondered who’d brought them then settled her gaze on the sunlight that was creeping onto the foot of her bed.
    A catnap sounded very appealing all of a sudden.
   Reaching behind her with care, Jaz snagged her pillow and tossed it to the opposite end of her bed before crawling over to lay down on her back. She preferred sleeping on her side, but there was no lesser evil to turn her back to right at the moment. Renner Mason and the large windows to her right, the door into the room on her left. 
    So she chose the middle ground, where she could see both directions in her peripherals, and let her exhausted body relax in preparation for sleep.
    Renner was noiseless on his side of the room and between the quiet and the warmth of the sunbeams caressing her skin, Jasmine slipped into unconsciousness in minutes.


    At this point and for the next while, the best way to characterize their relationship is to say that Jasmine flummoxes Renner. In a good way. She's just very far removed from the society and standards that he grew up with.

    New Terminology Note: Jaz introduces herself as "Tyro O'Haire". Tyro is defined as "a person who has just started beginning or doing something: a beginner or novice" (Merriam-Webster Dictionary). I have described Jaz as a soldier, but didn't want to adhere to the traditional ranking system. Thus, the terms Tyro, Elite, Primary Elite, Captain, Commander, and Chief Commander have been added to this story world to describe different ranks in Busan's Special Forces. Don't worry, I'll go into it in depth again at another point down the road. 

    Why no, I didn't just come up with half of those ranks right this minute, why do you ask?

    At any rate, let me know what you think, yeah? I ended up quite liking Ren as a character, even if he is less than a week old. He's a refreshing new face to add to the renovated versions of all the other characters and is a challenge to figure out how to write to boot. Again, in a good way.

    This bit, if you're curious, takes place just a few months after Zach and Dan leave Busan to receive specialized training, the details to which I will expound upon at a later date. As a result, Jasmine is set adrift in the ranks, having no team to continue training with. She gets bounced around from team to team for a while until a month or two after this scribble, at which point she gets picked up by a Primary Elite by the name of Min who becomes her one-on-one teacher for a rather grueling nine-some months.

    But that's another chapter in Jaz's life. 

    Three posts though! This is a record-breaking streak for this year and I am rather heartily pleased with myself, if I do say so myself.

    Hope all is faring well for you guys. Don't forget that I don't bite (too hard) and that comments or critiques are always welcome.

    Ad astra per aspera.
    To the stars through difficulties.

Writing: Abnormality, Not Prodigy

    I feel rather pleased with myself at the moment. I added a whole new tag to my tagging system on my blog.

    Sad, right?

    Here I am, though, with the obligatory once-a-month post. I was hoping this was the second one this month and was going to make vague allusions to the possible end of the world because there were two blog posts in one month, and then realized this was the first. So. Never mind with that.

    As for the title, the kinks are still getting worked out. That was the first thing that popped into my head when I sat down and scrawled down five pages one evening for Jaz.

    Yes, we're going back to Jaz. But this time, back to the beginning. 

    Truth be told, I am really pleased with all the background development that occurred during the course of writing these segments earlier this month. It's a bit more summary than I usually write, because I was aiming for quantity and not detail. 

    Before we begin, I would like to note a content warning for somewhat mature themes. Nothing too major, but it's better safe than sorry, ne? Also, this is just a portion of what I wrote, because I didn't want to leave it as a total cliffhanger. Not that it was the worst one I've pulled, but still. I'll see how this goes over then post more.

    Let's go, then, and you can leave your confused questions in the comments afterwards, as my brain is rather scattered today.


    She wasn’t yet thirteen when the yearly trials rolled around. She didn’t know if she had a snowball’s chance of making it past even the preliminary round, lacking not only the gender, but the pedigree and public face that usually came with those who made it into the final fifty candidates. 
    Jasmine had to push her hung-over and malnourished father out of bed and from there to the bathroom. She hadn’t explained it to him. She wasn’t planning on it. All that was needed was his presence and his name, and if she got him sobered up enough, then he would be able to provide both. 
    This was her only chance. If she couldn’t get through this and make something of herself, then she may as well just give up and follow in either of her parents’ footsteps right now, because there would be no other options. She had more street smarts than book schooling and that lack meant that she would never receive a penny of financial aid to continue her schooling. She could work for the money, but the positions available to her would mean working for years—maybe even a decade—just to scrape up enough for the first few years of higher education.
    Plus, the entity that was the elite force of highly trained soldiers that protected their city-state of Busan had been her hero since she’d been small. Well, smaller. She wasn’t much more to look at at almost-thirteen than she’d been at seven. 
    The trials were a big thing for Busan—probably were no matter what city-state one was in. The streets that she’d grown up running through were alive with activity, festooned with banners and flags. Anyone who had a uniform was wearing it, and everyone else was dressed up to the nines for the occasion.
    Jaz got her uncooperative auburn hair up in a high pony-tail, made sure there was no dirt on her face or hands, and tugged on a too-large shirt and cropped off pants that she’d been saving for this day alone. They weren’t new, but they were clean, and that was what mattered right now. 
    Her stomach, empty since early yesterday evening, churned despite that fact. She’d only been able to manage water, her nerves were so bad. This wasn’t done. What she was attempting didn’t happen. It wasn’t a case of “no one in history” but it was still going to be difficult for her to even get a foot in the door. Busan’s societal rings were far more lax than other city-states, but there were tendencies and prejudices not easily overcome, and considering how many candidates would come from families with innate abilities going back centuries… Jasmine O’Haire, daughter of a drunk and a prostitute, had her work cut out for her. 

//

    Jaz hurried along at her father’s side, having to pull him along by the arm while trying to keep his attention long enough to tutor him in what she needed him to do. Get them in the front door, present the official documents held tightly in her free hand, put his name and hers down on the dotted line, and then let her do the rest. The cold flask in her back pocket, hidden beneath the long hem of her black shirt, was his incentive. 
    Nobody paid them much attention as they wound their way through the gathering crowds early that morning, following the path that Jaz had stalked out four or five times over the past three days. Only a third of the masses of people would end up in the actual audience for the physical portion of the evaluation later in the day. Most were just taking the opportunity to escape work for a day and celebrate with their friends. 
    When they neared the testing building outside the city walls along with a small trickle of other people, Jaz steered them right. Candidates had an alternate entrance than those who were coming to watch. Now they got some looks. Her father’s halting stagger combined with her significantly less decorously attired appearance made them stand out.
     Jaz just held her chin a bit higher and made sure to straighten her back. She had a right to be here, just as much as any of these other candidates. She had not only the capability, but the desire to perform and perform well today.
    Maybe not as well as everybody else was going to, but they had a leg-up in that their families would’ve been grooming them for it since a young age. Jaz had had only herself and the offhand comment of a black-ops captain to push her to try and manifest an ability she could feel in the pit of her stomach, the tips of her fingers.
    There was a strength inside of her, one that Jaz had never dreamed she’d have, and she was determined to unlock it, even if she had to go head-to-head with every privileged and gifted kid her age. 

    The academics were the difficult part. 
    After making it through the initial identity check and verification, whereupon she had found a side door to let her father out after slapping the alcohol into his hand, it was onto the educational examination. But because her nerves had gotten her out the door so early, Jaz found herself ushered into an empty classroom, instructed to sit at any desk she wanted, and was left alone. 
    Over the following hour and a half and a twenty minute nap at the beginning, other candidates trickled in. Jasmine had taken a seat next to the far wall, two rows from the end. The rest of the examinees—mostly boys who eyed her with either curiosity, disdain, or disinterest—filled in the rest of the space. 
    Jaz knew that the volume of these trials meant there were likely to be three or four other classrooms just like this one that would be filled to capacity. 
    Almost two hours after her initial arrival, one man and one woman entered the room, he carrying a stack of folders and she with a clipboard under her arm. The conversations that had been carrying on ceased in seconds as everyone became aware of the two proctors.
    It took work for Jaz to keep from shrinking in her seat. She knew she stood out like a sore thumb. She wore her poverty as those around her wore their fortune. No doubt, all their mothers had spent hours fussing that morning, combing hair, fixing pants, cleaning off that last vestige of breakfast.
    Jaz had no mother to do that for her and felt the loss badly as the expressionless adults surveyed the classroom. The girl could’ve sworn that the graying woman’s gaze rested on her for a beat longer than it did the boy ahead of her or behind her. 
    The instructions were simple. They would all get a folder, and they had exactly fifty minutes to answer, solve, and fill out the contents. Those caught cheating would be escorted out immediately. There was to be no conversing, no movement, until the time was called. Then pens were to be dropped and their papers returned to the folders to be retrieved by the proctors.
    Jaz wondered what happened if you threw up on the floor while the uniform-clad male started to walk through the rows and place a single gray folder on each desk followed by an equally non-descript pen.
    The proctors then each took a seat at the head of the class and the woman just said, “Begin.”
    Then the mad scramble to survey the contents of the files began and the race was on.
    Every day of missed schooling weighed more heavily on Jasmine’s shoulders in those fifty minutes than she’d ever known them to. There was so much she didn’t know, so much she could only guess at an answer for. The study help that the little old man on the corner had given her when she’d whispered in his ears that she was going to enter the trial was the only thing that kept her from drowning. Those long afternoons crouched in his alley, writing in the dirt, on the walls, came back to her and Jaz tried to recreate those moments as she wrote. Removing herself from the tension in the room was the only way to manage a clear thought.
    All too soon, the woman called, “Finish.”
    Jaz dropped her pen on the edge of her desk and watched it clatter to the floor. Relieved to have it so far out of reach and thus temptation, she shuffled her papers into her folder, closed it, and then held it in her once more sweaty palms to be picked up by the male proctor. 
    After their written tests were received and transported from the room, another, younger woman came into the room and proceeded with an oral exam. Jaz hadn’t been expecting that and had to endure snorts and titters when she stumbled over her words. 
    Her face burned when she was allowed to sit down again and she had to remind herself why she was there. 
    If she wanted to make something, someone of herself, this was it. This was her chance. If she didn’t succeed here and now, she might not be past the age-range next year, but her spirit would be broken. She wouldn’t be able to make herself endure this a second time. 
    An image of her mother’s heavy make-up and her father’s drunken haze flashed before her eyes. Jasmine sat up straighter. Forced herself to look straight ahead. She was not them. She would not be them. 
    She couldn’t be them. 
    That weakness wasn’t in her and Jaz refused to let herself fall prey to the idea that it was.
    It went better, after she built up her own courage again. 
    The following lunch hour proved a curious experience. She got the sense that it was another test, and remained wary of what was going on around her, while many of the other candidates got caught up exchanging remarks with each other about the trials thus far. 
    Jaz did have the slight advantage of her stomach still being too knotted to eat much anyways, ending up munching on the end of a loaf of bread and taking in a glass of water. This left her time to watch the comings and goings of the proctors. She watched the two that had led her class’ written examination, keeping an eye on their whereabouts. No one she’d talked to had had quite an idea of what happened in here and so she wanted to be prepared for anything. 
    If it was a test, they were never let in on it. They continued to physical examinations after that, filing through a small office for a ten minute session with an experienced doctor in groups of twenty. Jaz found that, while she was quickly learning the faces of the proctors that were in constant attendance, the appearances of her fellow examinees was lost almost as soon as she caught sight of them. There were too many, too similar, in her opinion.
    The majority was mentally filed away in the same folder anyways. Rich, proud, talented.
    Which Jaz didn’t really hold it against them, it did set them apart. 
    No one tried to address her directly, but there were whispers about who she might be, where she was from, that she ignored. Jaz did try to keep track of how many other girls there were, and was disheartened to only count five others among the countless candidates. They took only a cursory interest in her in return. 
    The physical capability was the next portion and at least this Jasmine felt good about. She’d spent her entire childhood running, hiding, ducking, and climbing, for fun, to escape trouble, or just to flee. The reason didn’t matter. It just meant that maybe she’d get a slight advantage over her blue-blood compatriots because she had real-life application of skills they had—hopefully—only groomed in controlled training sessions.
    There was no rule against preparing for the trials if you were planning on entering. Strength was gained over time and foresight was a valuable tool. Those who were weak of mind and body would wash-out eventually, one way or another.
    Jaz kept to the back of the groups she found herself in, remained watchful of everything that happened around her. There was a distant awareness of growing sound that echoed through the cavernous rooms she found herself in. 
    They were all gathered at what must’ve been the halfway point, just before the physical trials began. The names called were to stand and move towards a nearby door, where they would be escorted out to their waiting parents and guardians. If you were called, you hadn’t made the cut. 
    Jasmine sat with her fingers clenched together, knowing the starting letter of her surname would mean she was going to have to wait to know whether or not she continued into the half of the trials.
    The air was tense, strained, as one name after another was called. It felt like they were going to dismiss everyone, so many stood up, though in reality, it probably wasn’t very many. The real cuts would occur after the next portion of testing, where they decided whether or not you had enough raw talent to be worth the time.
    Jaz had almost gnawed through her lower lip when the final name was called and she’d made it through to the next phase. The urge to shout in relief was easy to curb, because she knew that it just got harder from here.
    Taking in a shaky breath, she kept focused on the proctor standing on the platform at the head of the room, waiting for their next directive. 


    Little Jaz is just... adorably earnest. So different from the confident woman we see she grows into.

    It was impossible to miss, but I did incorporate a new aspect into the story world as a whole. The "flicker" technique that Jaz is more than a little excited to realize she possesses is similar to a watered-down form of teleportation. Less spontaneous disappearing and reappearing and more instantaneous opening of a passageway through space that they "step" through and come out on the other side in a different spot than before. It creates the illusion of teleportation, but flickering requires more bodily movement.

    As you could tell, it is also not an easy technique to master. Jaz, being our spunky heroine, possesses some innate talent for flickering, but others were barely able to flicker a few feet, and some not at all. It takes a chunk of stamina to flicker and it requires consistent, aggressive training to keep the ability in "good working order", for lack of better terminology.

    To give a brief explanation of the title, if you haven't guessed it already, Jaz is going to learn quite quickly that, despite her before-stated innate ability to flicker, she is not a prodigy. She is not going to get special treatment--not in the good way, at any rate. She is an abnormality, coming from the gutters and making it through the trials. A variable in the statistics, a blip on the radar. Thus, an abnormality, not a prodigy. Anomaly, not a genius.

    So yes. I haven't come back to this cycle through Jaz's childhood quite yet, but I look forward to doing so because she meets some pretty awesome people on her path through life. Mostly her mentor dude, who is... fantastic, but you get the idea.

    Her love life is still something of a gray area, though. Which bums me out. Haydn's okay, but I'm not sure I see her ever working something out with him. We'll have to see.

    Anyways. You know where the confused questions go. 

    Thank you for reading and, as always, your patience means the world to me!

    Ad astra per aspera.
    To the stars, through difficulty.