E Nomine – Espiritu Del Aire
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The Scion Suit – 10
When Carol reported to the bunker the next morning, Lambert wasn’t there – to make it worse, the two armed guards turned her away. She spent the day bumming around base, jittery at the thought of the Suit sitting all alone without her.
The day after was a replay of the same scene, and annoyed that she couldn’t properly sulk in front of an audience, Carol snapped at Holmes to get off her back and leave her alone. He repeated that he was assigned to escort her, which made her even more irritable. She spent the day hiding in her room.
By the end of the third day, her nerves boiled over; she couldn’t take it anymore. She stormed to Lambert’s office, half expecting to discover that he was vacationing in the Bahamas without giving her any notification, so it surprised her when she flung open the door and saw him sitting behind his desk.
“What’s going on?” she demanded, venting her pent-up frustration. “You said that I was fine, but we haven’t done any training in the Suit since I went on that mission. What the hell?”
“Sit down, commander,” he growled indistinctly, not bothering to look at her as he poured himself a glass out of a blue-tinted bottle. Carol gaped as she pulled out a chair.
“Are you drinking, captain?” she asked.
“Correction: I am getting drunk,” he replied.
“I don’t see how that could possibly be constructive. I’ve been reporting to the bunker every morning for days, and you’ve been letting me down. I thought that our training would go much more smoothly from now on, and that I would finally make you proud, and yet you just suddenly drop out like it doesn’t matter. So, seriously, what the hell?”
“That,” Lambert pointed at her. “It’s because of that. Irritability and aggression. We already lost MSG Hartmann because no one paid attention, and now you’re exhibiting personality changes as well. If I had the authority, I would decommission the Suit altogether.”
“My personality is not changing; you’ve just never seen me angry before,” Carol spat, then shied at sound of her own voice. She was jonesing for certain, but being inside the Suit made her feel like she was more herself. If she was changing, it was to her true nature.
“Commander…” Lambert took a moment to nurse his glass. When he spoke again, his voice sounded even less articulate than it had before, “Do you know how long we’ve had the Suit? The military found it when you were… still in diapers, I’d bet. Do you know why we didn’t start piloting it until the last few years?”
“No, sir,” she replied, crossing her arms and leaning back. She didn’t want to waste time on chitchat, but Lambert was too inebriated to notice or care.
“We had to study it. We had to reverse engineer ammo for it. Bullets don’t form out of thin air, you know.” He chuckled to himself. “The first man to climb inside was terrified that he was going to die, but his bravery was inspiring. You have any idea how often I think about him and wish I was more like that?”
“No, sir,” Carol grumbled.
“MSG Hartmann paid a price for using the Suit. I think that it’s too fundamentally alien to work with human brains, and we should lock it away for good. But you see, the General-” Lambert pointed up at the ceiling “-doesn’t want to do that. The fact is, commander, we’re losing. It’s a closely guarded secret, but our situation is a clusterfuck right now, and everyone is hoping that the Suit will carry us singlehandedly to victory.”
“Is that why you’re getting drunk?” Carol tried to keep her voice sharp, but she wasn’t feeling it anymore. Lambert seemed too pensive and pathetic to berate.
“Yes, ma’am, it is. It worries me that your psychological profile has changed so drastically. The Carol I started with couldn’t have killed a mouse without mourning it, but now look at you: I’ve seen grown men cry after their first kill, but your reaction was to have dinner. You were a completely different person.”
“Captain, I just…” Carol struggled to figure out what she wanted to say. “I need to pilot the Suit. I don’t think you understand what it’s like for me.”
“Maybe I understand too much.”
Lambert poured himself another glass, and Carol watched him drink in silence for a moment. A thought came to her out of nowhere, and compelled by curiosity, she asked, “Did anyone figure out those numbers I read to you on the first day?”
“They’re dates, commander,” Lambert snorted.
“Obviously. I just wondered if we learned anything about them.” Carol couldn’t explain why she felt an urgent need to know, other than it was somehow personally significant to her in some way.
“They’re interstellar dates. Now, get outta here, you’re interrupting my meditation time.” Whatever mood had possessed him before, was gone now. “Enjoy your vacation, ’cause eventually I’ll be forced to reunite you with your real body, whether I like it or not.”
Carol stood slowly, studying Lambert closely. “You remember that?” she asked quietly.
“I sure as hell do. Now, git!” He grabbed a book and threw it at her, missing by a wide margin but his point was made. Carol scampered out the door.
She wished she had kept her mouth shut.
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Finding Beauty in the Ordinary: A Writer’s Journey
I’ve always believed that a talented enough writer could turn the topic of drying paint into a fascinating read, but there’s something that I didn’t quite realize until my late 20s:
You have to be the sort of person that sees the beauty in drying paint in the first place.
This is on the “no duh” side of epiphanies, but frankly, it’s not how I was taught to live.
I was raised on the “go to college, get married, spend the rest of your life balancing work and family” formula. Occasionally someone would advise to stop and smell the roses, but you weren’t supposed to notice the veins of color in the petals, or compose metaphors to describe the scent. You definitely weren’t supposed to study the thorns in great detail either.
Did I lose you? Do you understand?
I rebelled when I was 20. I don’t mean that I went to wild parties or did anything stupid; I’ve always been far too introverted for rambunctious crowds, and too conscientious for short-sighted acts. I went to the park late at night to play on the swing set and feel the cool summer air play through my hair. I danced in rainstorms. I fell madly in love with the simple things, like listening to crickets or watching a candle flame dance. I engaged.
And no one understood. How could they? I was surrounded by people who spent their entire lives dissociated from their experiences, and they just didn’t know what to do with me. I was labeled ‘weird’ and left at that.
Being a talented writer isn’t just knowing the mechanical skills, it’s an entire way of living. It’s being unafraid to see the world like no one else does. It’s embracing both the pleasure and the pain. When you, as a person, live a life of passion, it will automatically permeate your writing.
That’s one of the reasons why I feel so driven to write: I want to share how I experience life in a way that others will understand. I want to offer more than what can be seen on the surface.
Metaphorically speaking, I want to express the beauty I see in drying paint.
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Writing for readers
At some point during the writing process, you have to start thinking about your readers.
I don’t mean you should sellout and introduce a teenage vampire who spends all day angsting about how much he hates himself, and all night getting spanked in the local underground BDSM scene, before being chosen to participate in a deadly game of wits and survival. Yuck. No.
When you chat with someone face-to-face, it’s considered polite to speak clearly and audibly, and to continually read the other person’s cues to make sure they aren’t growing bored by your rambling. When you’re done, you say goodbye instead of just walking away.
Writing should be approached with the same considerations. While it’s much harder to work without a present audience yawning and glancing at their cell phones, it’s good to empathize with imaginary readers and place yourself in their shoes, so to speak.
Continually ask yourself questions like:
“Is this sentence clear or do I need to reword it?”
“Is this part boring?”
“Are my transitions smooth or jarring?”
“Does this paragraph flow when I read it out loud, or is it choppy?”
“Is the end too abrupt?”
Etc, etc, etc.
Your readers are your best friends; they’re the ones who appreciate a part of you that even your parents don’t know about (at least for many of us writers, lol). Don’t take them for granted. Be a gracious host and make sure that they’re having a good time.
If you know someone you trust who fits your target audience, go ahead and use them as a beta reader. Watch them read. Pay attention to their facial expressions and body language. While they may say that something is good, a wrinkled brow and down turned mouth will tell you that there was something unsatisfying, but they might not be able to articulate it. Don’t take it personally, just think about how to make it better. I promise you that it’s a good feeling to come back with the improved version and watch someone gush over something they were previously “meh” about.
While it’s good practice to write the first draft for yourself, be in the habit of rewriting the last one for your readers. They have the power to set you down and dismiss you forever, so don’t lord your ego over them. Be nice and considerate, and show some appreciation.
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WP – Henchman
[WP] You were one of the henchman for the villain facing off against the spy hero. You were knocked out while fighting the hero, and wake up after it’s all over.
My head hurt.
It felt like something was pressing against my skull as I slowly propped myself up, so I took off my helmet and tossed it; however, the sensation remained with a dull ache. Rubbing my eyes, I looked around blearily.
Looked like I had been one of the lucky ones. There were a few other guys lying in the hallway not far from me, riddled with bullet holes. I recognized Jacob among them, and immediately felt bad for the pretty young wife he had left behind. Hadn’t I told him that this was not a suitable career for a family man?
The silence led me to guess that it was all over. Our boss was probably a smear of strawberry jam by now, and his arch-nemesis was off screwing some girl he had met along the way. I staggered to my feet and leaned heavily against the wall, cursing the intensity with which my head pounded.
I thought again about Jacob’s wife. She’d probably appreciate hearing the news from a friend, and likely needed a shoulder to cry on. I wondered what sort of career would be suitable for a family man, and if I should turn my life around. Without the boss, there wasn’t anything left to hold me here.
The number of bodies made me blanch. I had seen many of those faces talking and laughing over lunch just a few hours ago, and now they stared lifelessly at nothing. The hypocrisy of heroes is what inspired me to follow the boss in the first place, and I hated what had become of our organization.
I don’t know what it was with those guys that made them think that being a spy was a license to ruthlessly murder whoever they wanted. I stepped over George, who had bragged about his new puppy over coffee. He had been a nice guy. I was really growing to hate Mr. Hero now.
Finding the boss cinched it in my mind. Jacob’s wife was going to have to find someone else to comfort her, because I had greater things to do – I was probably too old for her anyway. I just couldn’t let that much suffering go unavenged, not when so many hopes and dreams had been abruptly ended so pointlessly.
Unlike our boss, I wasn’t going to build a family organization first. I didn’t care about making money or providing jobs, I just wanted revenge. I didn’t care if I was going to spend the rest of my life in a prison cell as the result of it either.
I was going to kill Mr. Hero.
And that was that.
Side note: I’m posting the prompts a week after I write them, so I know what sort of fallout my story achieved. This week my brain feels like an empty peanut butter jar (gee, I wonder why, lol), so I’m going to skip out for now.
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The Scion Suit – 9
The morning greeted Carol with a pounding headache, dry lips, and sluggish muscles. She had never been hungover before, and she wondered why on earth anyone would continue getting drunk after experiencing it just once. No matter what was said, she was going to stick with her single glass of moscato in the future.
Holmes looked only slightly better than she felt, with dark circles under his eyes. She met him with a simple “Hello,” then continued on her quest for breakfast. He had grown accustomed to her ignoring him whenever she wanted the semblance of solitude, and didn’t attempt any conversation. In fact, he was relieved when she made a beeline for the coffee, and knowingly passed him the first cup.
“Fun night, huh?” Holmes said after a few minutes of sipping in silence. “Well, maybe not so much for you, but I had a blast.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Carol replied. “Lambert took me home last night.” It was an uncharacteristic thing for her to imply – the result of having spent so much time around the military’s sense of humor – but it was worth stepping out of her comfort zone to see the way the young soldier’s mouth dropped.
“Wow, he must have been way more drunk than he let on!” Holmes exclaimed.
Carol punched him in the arm.
Appearing as if in response to their summons, Lambert entered the cafeteria and quickly located them. He distractedly handed Carol a large water bottle as he consulted his little notebook. She was surprised to discover it wasn’t water; it was something slightly sweet, and slightly fruity, and slightly salty, but instead of revolting her, drinking it felt strangely good and helped ease the ache in her muscles. The captain wasn’t the slightest bit affected by the previous night, and Carol tried to recollect how many glasses she had seen him drain. It had been more than she had.
“Commander, you have a doctor’s appointment in thirty minutes,” Lambert said.
“What for?” she asked.
He rapped his knuckles against the top of her head. “Full physical, plus brain scans. We want to keep a close eye on how the Suit is affecting you.”
“Too bad you didn’t do that for MSG Hartmann, huh?” she said flippantly, annoyed that he had aggravated her headache. Lambert didn’t react, but from the way his mouth pressed into a tighter line, she suspected she had gone too far.
“We need to leave right now if we’re going to get there on time. Move, commander!” Lambert barked.
Carol regretted her spiteful comment. She had the feeling that Lambert had intended to give her some extra time to care for her hangover, but instead she had provoked him into rushing her. From the look in his eyes, she wouldn’t even be allowed to finish her coffee.
The captain continued, “Holmes, you won’t be needed. You’re on leave for today.”
“Yes, sir!” Holmes grinned, and Carol noticed his hand subconsciously brush his pocket. He was going to spend all day chatting with his girlfriend. She found oddly relieving that he had a personal life, unlike herself – or, she guessed, Lambert.
Lambert took Carol to the hospital. He was horrendously out-of-place in the waiting room, and paced around impatiently like a nervous cat until they were called. A nurse brought Carol to a curtained alcove, where she donned the customary gown while Lambert stood stiffly outside, and then led her to an exam room.
The doctor performed a routine physical, then she was led to another wing where all the high-tech machinery was kept. For the next few hours, technicians subjected her to one scan after another. She didn’t mind – most of it was lying still, and it was nice to relax her fatigued body.
When the technicians were finished, she was told that she was dehydrated and they wanted to put her on fluids, so a nurse led her to a private room and helped set her up in bed with an IV. Carol was asleep as soon as she closed her eyes.
Lambert had slipped away to attend to outstanding duties on base, then returned to the hospital to consult the doctor privately. “All the results are normal so far,” the doctor said, pulling up images of Carol’s brain on a computer screen. “Except we did find one anomaly: there’s something in her brain stem, about a quarter of an inch in diameter.”
“Do you know what it is?” Lambert asked, frowning at the section that the doctor had highlighted on the scan. It was hard to make out, but there was definitely some sort of spot in the picture.
“Not without cutting her open for a look – but, given its location, that would likely kill her,” the doctor explained. “It could be a tumor, but…” He trailed off, seemingly unwilling to complete the thought. “None of the scans gave a clear picture; we can’t even tell how long it has been there.” He looked at the paperwork on his clipboard before continuing, “I can tell you one thing though: the EEG revealed that it’s sending electrical signals to the rest of her brain.”
“This is classified information,” Lambert said slowly. “Carol does not need to know.”
“Yes, sir. We kept her detained like you asked, but she’s ready to go at anytime.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
A nurse woke Carol and told her that it was time to leave. She dressed in her regular clothes and went out to the entry way, where Lambert was waiting for her. He was unusually polite, and even held open the car door as she climbed inside, causing Carol to break into a cold sweat. There had to be something seriously wrong with her.
It took her several minutes to work up the nerve to ask in a tiny voice, “Is it terminal?”
“No, Carol, you’re completely fine,” Lambert muttered in reply, keeping himself unnaturally focused on driving.
“Something has to be going on,” she pressed. She knew Lambert well enough to know it was extremely atypical for him to behave this way. How he said her name was too abstracted, and lacking any of his usual condescension. Lambert’s face darkened slightly, but he didn’t give in to her nagging.
“It’s been a long day, commander. Now leave it.”
They returned to base in silence.
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Inspiration
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Matchbox 20 – Downfall
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The Scion Suit – 8
Carol reluctantly pried herself from the Suit after returning to base, knowing that she would lose the sense of detachment that the help system provided her. Internally she kicked and screamed at letting go of the giant metal body to once again become her tiny self, and the frazzled nerves that plagued her every thought and action.
The inevitable debriefing was tedious, with more paperwork than she expected, as well as a recorded Q&A session. Lambert had wanted her to transfer the Suit’s onboard surveillance onto a flash drive, for someone to review on a later date, and Carol surprised herself by executing the task effortlessly.
When Carol was given her freedom, she went straight to the canteen with Holmes, though she didn’t talk to him. It bothered her that she was starving after she had killed several dozen people, but the emotions that had crippled her that very morning had become a distant memory – they belonged to a different Carol. It was as if the effects of the help system were lingering in her mind, keeping her sane even outside of the Suit. She ate enough to make up for the meals that she had skipped.
Lambert intercepted her as she was heading back to her room, with Hartmann in tow. He insisted that they all go out for drinks, pulling rank on Carol to negate her protests about wanting to rest alone. So, all four of them went out to the nearest dive. She didn’t know why Hartmann had to come along – perhaps because he belonged to the military camaraderie, and having shared a small part in the mission, he was now also sharing in the celebration.
Carol had to admit that her grudge against Hartmann was a personal emotion that no one else shared, and they saw the cast he wore as punishment enough for his mistake. She hoped that under the influence of alcohol, he wouldn’t try anything violent against her.
“C’mere and sit down, commander,” Lambert grinned as he pulled out the chair next to him, almost sounding light-hearted. “How does it feel, now that your cherry has been popped?”
Carol’s face burned bright red. “Captain,” she said reprovingly, “that is not an appropriate thing to say.”
The three men around her burst into laughter.
“It’s because you’ve had your first successful mission out in the field,” Holmes explained, wiping tears out of his eyes. “Carol, you’re a hoot.”
“She needs booze to work that stick out.” Lambert put an arm around Carol’s shoulders, giving her a strong whiff of his deodorant, and pointed to Holmes. “Go get us whisky, and lots of it.”
“No. No.” Carol shook her head. “I don’t drink anything that burns… Champagne would be nice though.”
Again, all three men burst into laughter.
“Commander,” Lambert almost purred into her ear, tickling her skin. “Today, you are one of us; today, you will drink like us.”
Holmes returned a few minutes later with glasses and a bottle labeled Jameson. Lambert poured a generous amount and set the glass in front of Carol, ordering, “Down the hatch!”
Everyone was watching her expectantly, waiting on her before touching their own drinks. Reluctantly, Carol picked up the glass and put it against her lips, the fumes burning her sinuses already. She took as big of a gulp as she could manage, then coughed as her face twisted up and a shudder ran through her. They laughed uproariously, and in turn downed their own drinks.
“You know, Carol, I expected you to be a sobbing mess right now,” Lambert mused, pouring everyone a second round, including Carol who hadn’t even finished her first. “Yet you are still coherent and on your feet. I have to say, I’m proud of you.”
“What’s that ‘help system’?” Hartmann asked, breaking his silence. He was different from what he had been a couple of weeks before, and only distractedly fingered his second glass as he studied Carol. “I’ve been piloting the Suit for ages, and I’ve never come across it. Sure made all the difference for you, though.”
Carol shrugged then shook her head in an effort to refuse the whisky that Lambert was pushing on her. “I don’t know. I just stumbled across it, that’s all.” Her resistance wasn’t that strong, however, because just watching everyone else drinking in the bar caused her to cave. Her reaction was even stronger when she swallowed than it had been the first time. She did not like whisky; it was already affecting her head.
“You know, the first moment I saw the commander here, I thought to myself,” Lambert spoke in a contemplative tone, and Carol suspected he was a philosophical drunk – he was going through whisky faster than anyone else. “That’s not a woman… that’s a mouse!” he finished, and everyone roared with merriment, including Carol. It wasn’t that she thought it was particularly funny, but more because the combination of alcohol and joviality was sweeping her up out of her control. “And it’s true!” Lambert slapped the table. “Carol is the most mousey person I have ever even heard of. She looks exactly like one too.”
“Well, you, captain, are a mean bully, and I do not like you,” Carol replied haughtily once she managed to get ahold of herself, causing everyone else to howl more.
“You’re blooded now, Carol.” Lambert chuckled. “You have my sincerest apologies for that, but it had to be done.”
“What about you, MSG Hartmann?” Carol’s head was really swimming now. “I don’t remember what you told me about you. With the hospital, I think.”
Despite all the whisky and laughter, Hartmann’s voice was sober when he replied, “They couldn’t repair all the nerves in my hand. I’m lucky that I didn’t lose it, but I’ll be partially paralyzed for the rest of my life.”
“I’m not sorry. That’s what you get for trying to hurt me,” Carol answered, then felt horrified at how bluntly she had spoken. She really didn’t like whisky – it was hitting her too hard. She tried to soften her voice, but her tongue slurred more instead, “What did you say about your brain?”
“I have decreased blood flow to my prefrontal cortex, while my amygdala has gone haywire,” Hartmann replied.
“I have no clue what an amygdala is,” Carol snickered. “I’m not that smart. I know that you’re not supposed to say that about yourself, but I’m really not. I barely graduated high school.” The booze was making her blab too much, so she drank even more to stop herself from feeling embarrassed.
“It means he’s unfit for duty, but it’s not his fault,” Lambert cut in. “MSG Hartmann will be given a medical discharge when the time is right.”
“Does that make me a bad person? ‘Cause I hate you.” She was really feeling dizzy now.
Hartmann shrugged, so Lambert replied, “Yes, commander, it does. MSG Hartmann dedicated his life to serving our country to the best of his abilities, and in reward he has to return as a disabled veteran with only one functional hand and a damaged brain, because no one knew the Suit had side effects. If you had a heart, you’d forgive him.”
Carol didn’t reply. The fuzziness in her head was rapidly dropping down to her stomach, and she felt herself turning green.
“Bathroom is over there,” Lambert pointed with his thumb. Carol got up and ran.
As she hunched over a toilet, trying hard to get past the funky smell of urine and deodorizer, she thought about what the captain had said. She didn’t want to let go of her grudge, but because she saw the wisdom in his words, she decided that she was going to hate him for it too. At least until she got it out of her system.
Sometime later, Lambert fetched Carol out of the bathroom and drove her home, though he didn’t provide any explanation about where Hartmann or Holmes had gotten to. Once on base, he carried her piggyback to her room, and let himself inside where he sat down on the edge of her bed.
“You can let go now. We’re here,” he said softly.
She dropped back onto her mattress and giggled. “Captain,” she said thickly, speaking through the taste of vomit that still clung to her tongue. “The Suit… it’s the real me. Not this…” she pinched her upper arm and pulled at her skin. “…thing. I just thought you should know.”
Lambert walked to the door, then paused, staring at her with hard, calculating eyes. “Goodnight, commander,” he said, and left.
By Autumn Rain 