Dialogue

Context: SGA

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” Rodney said, keeping his voice as calm and patronizing as he could manage.

“Darling,” Elizabeth said through gritted teeth, “you’d best start giving a damn soon, or our guests may think us inhospitable.”

No one had expected some crazed conspiracy theorist nuts to explode into Rodney’s living room while Atlantis’s senior command was having a planning session - and very nice dinner party at Major Lorne’s hand - but now there was pretending to be done.

“Where is he?” the lead gunman asked. He had pale skin and pale eyes and looked like he didn’t see nearly enough sun.

“The person you’re looking for, Dr. Daniel Jackson, has never been to this house, and I doubt he ever will be here in the future,” Elizabeth said, and Rodney snorted derisively.

For a man who was terrified of rats offworld, his ability to be snarky when guns were in play was astounding.

“Then give us Dr. Meredith McKay. Where is she?” the second gunman asked. By contrast, his face was tanned and weatherbeaten from many long hours in the sun.

John looked at Rodney. Rodney shook his head minutely.

The second gunman turned his weapon on Teyla. “You. You’re Meredith McKay?”

“I am not as brilliant as Dr. McKay,” Teyla said, serenely.

“But you know who she is? Where she is?”

“I do not know where she is,” Teyla said, which was not exactly a lie.

“Do you know how to reach her?”

“I do not have her telephone number,” Teyla said, which was the truth.

“Wow,” one of the other gunmen said, forking up a mouthful of the garlic mashed potatoes. “These are really good.”

“Please,” Elizabeth said. “We’re just having a dinner party. We aren’t the people who can get you what you want.”

Lorne said, “They’re real mashed potatoes, not out of a box.”

The gunman actually set is gun down and sat down at the table - in Lorne’s seat - and started serving himself dinner.

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at Rodney. What now?

Ronon punched the first gunman in the head, and chaos exploded. Teyla, Ronon, John, Lorne, and Elizabeth managed to overpower the gunmen, disarm them. Ronon, Teyla, and Lorne got them all backed into a corner, hands raised in surrender, while John put in a call to the SGC. They needed backup immediately.

“Next time,” Elizabeth said to Rodney, “please do try to give a damn when armed gunmen crash into your house.”

“Their demands were stupid, and I didn’t give a damn about those,” Rodney said, and he handed Elizabeth her plate of food and a fork. “But I did give a damn about, you know, maintaining our cover.”

Which was that they were having a nice dinner party and nothing more.

“Gone with the Wind? Really?” John asked once his phone call was done.

“I was improvising,” Rodney protested. “Improv is harder than people think it is.”

“Totally,” one of the gunmen said. He sounded young.

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

Writing Exercise: Dialogue

Famous Lines

Dialogue isn't exclusive: characters may say the same things, but mean something entirely different in the context of the scene. Pick one of the below famous lines from literature and film. Then start a scene by having a character say it. Develop the scene that follows in 500-600 words and see where it takes your characters.

• "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.
• "I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse."
• "Made it, Ma! Top of the world!"
• "You're gonna need a bigger boat."
• "Oh, don't let's ask for the moon. We have the stars."

Setting

Context: TJ Hammond, from Political Animals. Recovering drug addict. Attempted suicide once. Grew up in the White House. Really struggled when he came out. Gifted pianist. Also, my messy living room.

The first thing TJ noticed when he stepped into the small den was the piano. Baby grand, Kimball, natural wood color. The poor thing was left open all the time, the strings and innards coated in dust, the extreme ends of the keyboard coated in dust as well. A corner of the piano had been chipped, probably during transportation. Several music books were open on the music stand, as well as some taped-together sheet music. Something in Korean called Beautiful. A couple of old protestant hymn books. Beside them was bafflingly, a jar with moss and a plastic unicorn in it. There was more than one pianist in this house, or the pianist had very eclectic taste in music.

There was a drum kit beside the piano, the drum throne closest to the window. The drums were dusty but the heads and cymbals weren’t; someone played often. TJ had often regretted being the only musician in his family; he always made music alone.

The carpet and walls were dull beige, but the couches were red-and-green plaid. Whoever had decorated the place had acquired pieces with little thought to a decorating theme, had probably acquired the pieces used and as needed. The loveseat had a case for an electric bass spilled across it, and a couple of amps were shoved into the corner. A dusty guitar case stood against the opposite wall; it looked like it hadn’t been used in a while.

The wooden end table beside one of the couches was covered in books, pens, and a tissue box. Someone was reading a psychology journal about serial killers and suffering from a cold.

The room was decorated sparsely, two pictures hung on two of the walls, a third wall dominated by a massive circular clock that read the wrong time - someone had neglected to change it during the last time change.

The room, however, looked comfortable. Lived in. A blanket was bundled on one edge of the couch, a laptop open on the arm of the couch. A yoga mat was rolled up in the corner. TJ wondered, if he’d grown up in a house like this, small and poky and plain, but filled with music and books and softness, privacy, where he could bundle up and lose himself in what he loved, if he’d have turned out better.

Not a drug addict.

Not a coward who tried to kill himself.

Someone worth loving.

He pushed those thoughts aside, crossed the room to the piano, pulled the bench out, and leaned in, peered at the sheet music. Tested it out.

The song was beautiful indeed.

Writing Exercise: Setting

Room

Write a description of the room you are in from the point-of-view of a character in your work-in-progress. If the character is from another time or place, so much the better. What would the character notice first? What would she find odd? What would she love about the room? What would she dislike? Go beyond describing the physical space and capture her attitude about what she sees. Let her be snarky or wax poetical. Whatever captures her emotions about the space.

Establishing the background

Context: Rodney doesn't know that John's dad is a High Storm Commander in the Maelstrom (basically a high ranking officer in their city's militia) and has a lot of money

Concrit: Is this good? Like, at all?

~

John waved the scroll in front of Rodney's face in an attempt to distract him.

"Stop that. I need to concentrate."

John hopped up and took a seat on the empty part of Rodney's worktable. "You and I both know that dagger isn't for anyone in particular. Or at least anyone important. After all, you haven't hired me to be your bodyguard yet."

Rodney gritted his teeth, put his tools down and looked up at John. He was giving Rodney a smarmy look because of course he was.

"What's on the scroll?"

John shrugged. "You sure? A minute ago you weren't interested -"

"Please," Rodney snapped, his voice full of unnecessary venom, "Stop. And tell me why you're here."

Instead of giving him an answer, John handed him the scroll. Rodney unrolled the parchment and read the title of the document out loud.

"Petition to Form a Free Company..." Rodney's voice drifted away as he quickly scanned the few details John had already filled in. When he got to the bottom, he saw the fee required to submit the petition and chuckled cheerlessly.

"So much for that." He rolled the scroll back up and handed it back to John. John didn't take it, and instead just stared at him.

"What?" Rodney asked. "There's no way."

John's brow furrowed. "What do you mean there's no way? Of course there's a way. We get two more signatures, I think we can easily convince Teyla and Ronon -"

"I don't mean finding two more people to sign the petition! I'm talking about the money, John!"

A few people turned their heads toward the commotion inside the Blacksmith's Guild. Rodney cleared his throat and lowered his voice.

"I'm good at what I do, but there is no way that I can come up with fifteen thousand gil. That's ludicrous. I can barely pay you to be my bodyguard."

John frowned. "I can get the money."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "How? The fishing in La Noscea can't be that good."

John hopped down from Rodney's worktable and dusted himself off. He turned back toward Rodney, a grim look on his face.

"I want to show you something."

Rodney motioned towards the unfinished dagger in front of him. "I can't, I need to finish this -"

"Please," John said, his voice barely audible.

Rodney blinked at John's sudden show of sincerity. He stood up from the table and put his supplies away, eyeing his fellow blacksmiths with a cold look, as if daring them to go rooting about in his things. He motioned for John to lead the way and John did so silently.

The cool night air felt good on Rodney's face as the two of them stepped outside. John still hadn't said anything more, but he started walking across the bridge toward the Aftcastle, so Rodney followed. They crossed the courtyard until John suddenly stopped short in front of Maelstrom Command, the beating heart of Limsa Lominsa's Grand Company.

John stood in front of the bridge leading toward the Maelstrom's open gate, but didn't take another step. Rodney stood next to him, unsure of what was happening. John had never mentioned anything about the Maelstrom before.

John pointed toward a large bulletin board off to the side that was covered with morale-boosting posters, encouraging citizens of all Eorzea to pledge their allegiance to the Maelstrom.

"On that board, you'll find a list of all the high-ranking officers in the Maelstrom. I want you to go look at the Storm Commanders list and tell me if you see anything interesting."

Rodney raised an eyebrow, giving John an incredulous look. "Me? Why can't we both go look? Why can't you just tell me -"

"Just go look. And meet me at the Aftcastle's Aetheryte over there when you're done."

John walked away before Rodney could argue any further.

"This is ridiculous," Rodney muttered to himself. He rolled his shoulders back, straightened his spine, and crossed the bridge toward the Maelstrom headquarters.

"I'm not interested I'm not interested I'm not interested," Rodney whispered to himself as he approached the board, anxious that a Maelstrom underling would try to offer him a sales pitch on joining up. He found the list of high-ranking officers, saw Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn's name at the top of the list. He glanced through the long list of names until he found the Storm Commanders.

He didn't have to look much longer. His name was at the top of the list.

Patrick Sheppard. Storm Commander and father of John Sheppard.

Rodney turned away, saw John standing in the blue glow of the Aetheryte. Rodney walked back toward John and stood at his side, saying nothing. After a few minutes, John tugged on Rodney's sleeve.

"I tell a better story when I'm fishing. Come on." He grabbed Rodney's hand and they both touched the Aetheryte to teleport them to Fisherman's Bottom.

~

John cast his line into the water. Rodney looked out to the horizon, smelled the salty air, and wondered just how much John was about to tell him.

He wouldn't admit it, but Rodney wanted to know everything there was to know.

"I joined the Maelstrom as soon as they'd take me. I knew it was what Dad wanted, especially after my brother ran off to the Garlean Empire."

Rodney's eyes widened at that detail, but didn't want to interrupt. John sighed, reeled in a little, and continued.

"I climbed up the ranks. Made it all the way up to Storm Sergeant First Class. Dad was grooming me to be an officer but...I didn't want it. I wanted my life to be more than just following Merlwyb's lead. So I quit. And instead of running off and joining up with someone else's cause, I stayed here. Took odd jobs. Joined the Fishermen's Guild. That really pissed the old man off. One son a traitor, and one son a lowly adventurer."

Rodney took a deep breath. John still hadn't gotten to the matter at hand.

"So what does this have to do with the free company petition? The money?"

"Oh, got a bite!" John jumped up and started reeling in his line, fighting against what turned out to be nothing but a Lominsan anchovy.

Rodney laughed out loud, and kept laughing as John put away his fishing supplies, tossing the anchovy back into the sea.

"I'd like to see you do better."

"Hey, I make swords for a living."

John smiled. "Is that all you want to do? Make weapons?" John cocked his head to side, giving Rodney a knowing stare.

Rodney shook his head. "No. It's not."

John took the free company petition back out of his bag and handed it to Rodney. "Then sign. And we'll go to Ul'dah."

"But the money -"

John put his forefinger to Rodney's lips to hush him. "I can get the money. My dad will gladly pay fifteen thousand gil to get me out of Limsa Lominsa for good. Or, at least for a while."

Rodney took a quill out of his bag and signed the petition, handed it back to John. John nodded, stood up, and started walking back down the dock with bag in hand.

"John?" Rodney called to him, watching him go.

"Yeah?"

"Why me?"

John grinned. "Because you were born to do magic."

Establishing the background

Context: SGA Steampunk AU, Rodney doesn't know John is Dave Sheppard's brother

Looking for concrit: too much infodump?


"I thought the whole point of your revolutionary engine is that it's more energy-efficient than any engine on the market." John wasn't perched on the edge of Rodney's workbench for once, stood with him and the rest of the Atlantis team just inside the doorway of the lab.

"It is, if you consider the net energy requirements and expenditures in the design," Rodney said. "What makes my engine so energy-efficient is that it's - it's almost like a human body. Once you get past the start-up cost, which is pretty massive, it more or less keeps itself going."

"Like what Janus wrote of," Radek said.

"What Janus wrote of but never left detailed notes on and that no one has ever come close to," Rodney said, a little peevishly.

Radek rolled his eyes, took off his spectacles and cleaned them on the hem of his jacket.

"Great. So let's fire it up," John said. "You said Sheppard's breathing down your neck, Elizabeth's breathing down your neck - as much as Elizabeth ever does anything aggressively - and this one hurdle will solve all of our problems. I get to fly. You get that prize from the Royal Guild of Arts and Sciences. Radek has enough money to keep him in a lifetime supply of kolaches. Miko can take her sail design elsewhere, go back to star diving. And Kavanagh will finally get out of your hair."

It was Teyla who said, "It is not that simple. The initial expenditure of energy is massive, is it not? Humans are perfect machines, capable of reproducing and forming their environment around them to meet their needs. But in their early years, they are completely vulnerable. They spend their first few months utterly dependent on another human being, if not their first few years."

She was the only one of them who was a parent or anything close to it.

"Are you saying you can't do it?" John asked. He fixed Rodney with a look that was far more serious than any Rodney had seen on his face before.

"If I had more time I could figure it out," Rodney said. "But I don't have time. Sheppard's patience is at an end, and there are other external pressures." He very deliberately did not look at Teyla when he spoke.

John was a soldier, believed in saving all he could, in leaving no person behind. If he knew of Teyla's predicament, he'd do something rash.

"Then what's your plan?" John pressed.

"Janus created a device to power his automatons. It could provide the initial delivery of energy we need to get the system up and running. It would fit in the space, and it would convert the energy in such a way that we wouldn't just be setting off a powder keg in the engine furnaces," Rodney said, because he knew how John's mind worked.

"Janus's notes on all of his greatest inventions are incomplete," Miko said.

"I managed to fill in some of the gaps on his automaton designs," Rodney said. "This piece - it amounts to the automaton's heart - will get us what we need. We just need this piece."

"How the hell are we going to find this one piece of an automaton that we're not even sure still exists, if it even existed at all?" Radek asked.

"Other pieces of Janus's legendary designs have been found," Rodney said. "We have to try. We need this engine up and running."

Really, Teyla needed this engine up and running. Rodney didn't care if Sheppard and Elizabeth were mad at him. He was used to people being mad at him.

Radek said, "We should ask for help. I will send a message to Dr. Carter." He started for the pigeon coops.

Miko said to Ronon, who'd been watching the entire exchange silently, "Come on. I'll show you where some of Janus's works are archived."

Ronon nodded and followed her to the door, handed her her hat and draped her shawl across her shoulders, held the door open for her, followed her out. Strange. He rarely cared about Earth-style manners and deportment.

John swept for the door. He almost crashed into Kavanagh, who was just coming into the workshop.

"Hey," Kavanagh said.

John grabbed his shoulder. "You're coming with me."

Evan emerged from the corner. "I'll help," he said.

He always helped.

Rodney said, "Come on. I have a lot of Janus's works."

Evan nodded and followed him. Rodney knew they'd be awake late into the night.

Writing Exercise: Setting

Establishing The Background

Think of some information your readers will need to learn to understand the story. This could be technical information or character backstory. Now write an argument between two characters in which you use conflict to share this information.

Belated Happy Birthday, Madness!

Mal's birthday story

"You know, Nurse Ratchet, some quality reading material could make both of our lives better."

Rose swam back to consciousness slowly, confused by a man's voice. It was Major Lorne or Colonel Marshall. Where was she? What was going on? Then her surroundings came into focus - white ceiling, machines beeping, gray curtains. She was in the infirmary. Dr. Frasier stood over her. 

"How are you feeling, sergeant?"

There it was, the inevitable penlight in the eyes. Rose frowned and squinted. "Like I was at the bottom of an Unas dog-pile, ma'am."

Dr. Frasier smiled. "Glad you have a sense of humor, sergeant."

It was Major Carter who said, "When you're feeling better, Sergeant Edwards, I think Dr. Jackson wants a detailed report from you about the recreation habits of juvenile Unas."

Dr. Frasier turned. "Major?"

"Sergeant Edwards was stationed at the naquadah mine worked by the Unas and overseen by SG-11," Carter said. "Apparently the Unas are now comfortable enough with a human presence to allow us to interact with their children."

Dr. Frasier blinked. "Oh. So when you said --"

"Juvenile Unas are bigger than a fully-grown adult human," Rose said, "and Major Lorne apparently played football at the Air Force Academy."

From the other side of the privacy curtain, a man said, "Carter, do you have any comics?"

Carter's face lit up before she smoothed her expression into one of patient exasperation. "I'll be with you in one moment, sir."

Oh. Colonel O'Neill was in the other bed. Had SG-1 been off-world? Nothing too terrible could have happened if Dr. Jackson was still alive. "I'm fine," Rose said, "if you need to see to Colonel O'Neill --"

"He's fine," Dr. Frasier said calmly. "Dr. Jackson brought him plenty of reading material."

"Reports are not reading material," O'Neill said.

"They need to be done, sir," Carter said. She started to turn, but Dr. Frasier caught her arm. 

"Sergeant Edwards has been through a lot, tackled by multiple Unas," Dr. Frasier said. "With these fractured ribs and other bruised bones, she's going to be on light duty for a while, and I probably need to run a few more scans about her injuries."

Rose frowned. "What did they tell you about my injuries?"

"Colonel Marshall told me you fell near the mines." Dr. Frasier exchanged a significant look with Carter.

"I did fall near the mines," Rose conceded. "But half a dozen young Unas fell on top of me. Major Lorne evaded tackling, however."

Dr. Frasier raised her voice and cooed, "You poor thing. Unas are terribly fierce. Let's get you back in for some X-rays, and then say, Major Carter, are you busy?"

Carter looked confused, but she said gamely, "Not especially, why?"

"After Sergeant Edwards is done with tests, I think she needs some especial looking after," Dr. Frasier said. "I think Cassie left her copy of Life in my office. We could play a few rounds."

Carter blinked, and Dr. Frasier nodded in the direction of the privacy curtain - and who lay beyond it.

Ah, Carter mouthed. "Sounds good. We haven't had a chance to have some good old girl bonding in a long time."

"Excellent! Now, about those scans..."

An hour later, Rose was back in her hospital bed, and Dr. Fraiser and Major Carter had pulled up the adjoining cot to sit on. A food tray was between them, and Carter was setting up the Life game board. On the other side of the privacy curtain, O'Neill was whistling loudly and rustling his paperwork too much to possibly be getting any work done.

Rose decided to go to college, and Dr. Fraiser and Carter decided on careers right away. Fraiser became a hairdresser and Carter became a teacher while Rose racked up student loans to become...an astrophysicist. Carter giggled when Rose turned over the card, and Frasier cracked up.

O'Neill rustled his paperwork loudly and pointedly.

"Maybe I should have gone to medical school," Frasier muttered.

Carter shook her head. "No, think of all the student loans."

"And that's why I'm in the Air Force," Frasier said. She landed on a marriage square. "Oh hey! I can get married. Again. And not to a jerk. Who should I marry?"

"Daniel," Carter said. "Alien women love him. You've already got an alien daughter. Should work, right?"

"Daniel it is," Fraiser said, and put a little spouse in her car.

There was a sound of wordless outrage from the other side of the curtain. Carter and Frasier exchanged grins.

Rose said, in a low voice, "Isn't that kind of...well...Dr. Jackson –"

"Is a civilian and not subject to regulations regarding fraternization," Fraiser said loftily but just as quietly. "Your turn, Sam."

Carter also landed on the marriage square. "Hah! I also get a spouse. That means a second income. Who should I marry?"

"Teal'c," Rose said instantly. "Your kids would be super tall."

"Done," Carter said, and this time the outrage on the other side of the curtain might have been what the hell? before it was smothered.

And then Rose landed on the marriage square as well. "Me too! I bet we were all bridesmaids for each other."

"Definitely," Fraiser said. "So, who are you going to marry?"

Rose mused for a moment. "Jonas Quinn was pretty cute."

From the other side of the curtain all three ladies heard a muttered, "Fer cryin' out loud."

"Excellent choice." Frasier beamed. "And hey! Kids. I get - ooh, twins. Two boys."

"What are you going to name them?" Sam asked.

Frasier raised her voice deliberately. "Daniel Junior, obviously. And...George, after General Hammond."

Rose nodded. "Very nice. What about you, Major?"

"I haven't gotten any children yet." Carter moved her car a couple of spaces. "But if I did have them...I'd name a boy Jacob Mark, after my father. And I'd name a girl...after myself! Samantha Junior."

"Carter," O'Neill said, "you can't name your daughter after you."

"Sure you can, ma'am," Rose said. "Women did it all the time historically. Elizabeth would be the mother and her daughter would be called Lizzy or Betsy or Beth until she became an adult and married and had a new last name." She cleared her throat and added, "With all due respect, Sir."

The privacy curtain twitched aside. "How come no one wants to marry me or name their kids after me?" O'Neill arched an eyebrow at them.

"Whoa."

Rose turned.

Dr. Jackson stood in the doorway, hands raised in a gesture of surrender. "If this is a bad time, I can come back later."

"On the contrary, Dr. Jackson," Frasier said smoothly, "we were just finishing up. Sergeant Edwards is well enough to be interviewed by you if you like."

Dr. Jackson sidled closer and saw the game board set up between the two cots. "Ah. Now it all makes sense. Who'd you marry, Sergeant?"

"Jonas Quinn," Carter said, "but don't worry, Fraiser married you."

Dr. Jackson raised his eyebrows at Frasier, who grinned and nodded in O'Neill's direction, and a smirk crossed Dr. Jackson's face ever so briefly. "Of course. Although, Jonas Quinn? Really, Sergeant? I'd think Corporal Edwards on SG-13 might have something to say about that."

"Indeed he might." Adam appeared in the doorway. He nodded at the others in the room. "Colonel O'Neill. Major Carter. Dr. Frasier. Dr. Jackson. Sergeant Edwards."

"At ease, Corporal," O'Neill said. "Your wife is fine. She was just colluding with Dr. Frasier and Major Carter to torture me while I'm injured."

Carter looked surprised. Had she not known Rose was married? Frasier knew, of course, since she had access to Rose's medical file and Adam was listed as her next-of-kin.

Fraiser finished boxing up the game and stood up. "Have a seat, Adam. It sounds like Rose has a fun story to tell."

O'Neill pushed aside his paperwork. "Do tell."

Rose sighed. "So, Major Lorne played football at the Air Force Academy..."

Everyday Dagaz: Chemists

"Well, I'll be."

Michael heard surprise, anger, and a hint of fear in Fiona's voice. He turned, followed her gaze. "What?"

"Keith O'Connor, in the flesh."

Irish name. Michael scanned the crowd. He didn't see anyone who looked like a former IRA compatriot of Fiona's, but she didn't look like a former IRA figther herself. No one looked particularly combat-ready, either. Fiona was always combat ready. Even in bed.

"He hasn't aged a day."

Michael scanned the crowd again. There, at the shaved ice shack, were two teenage boys. One had light brown skin and tightly-curled back hair, a guitar slung over his back. The other hand pale, freckled skin, glossy red hair, and an electric five-string bass slung over his back. He threw his head back, laughed at something the other boy said, and he had classic Irish features, the high cheekbones and thin lips. 

"The wannabe emo rockers?"

Fiona nodded. She reached up, tugged her shades down to perch on her nose to cover her opportunity to stare. "The ginger. I'd know him anywhere."

The kid was slender, wearing a faded punk-rock t-shirt, with the sort of wiriness Michael associated with running or swimming. "What was he?"

"A chemistry student," Fiona said.

Improvised explosives expert, she meant. 

"What's he doing in Miami?"

"I have no idea. Last I checked, he was dead."

The teenage girl at the shaved ice shack handed both boys their treats, and they pocketed their change, turned to go. Fiona had stared too long and too hard. The redhead turned toward them and paused. Recognition crossed his face, and he caught his friend's shoulder, shoved, hurried him toward the sidewalk where a couple of skateboards were propped up against the low wall of a planter.

Michael called out, "Hey Keith, long time no see."

If looks could kill, Keith would have been dead, and his friend would have been a murderer.

But Keith bit his lip and sighed, shook out his shoulders, and started toward them.

"I don't know you, sir, but I do know you." He lifted his chin at Fiona.

"Keith," Fiona said. She looked him up and down, lip curled in disdain. "Still so...juvenile."

Keith winced. "Still so acrimonious."

"No one likes a traitor."

Keith lifted his chin. "Family first, wasn't that our motto? Turned out half of my family was on the other side of the barricade."

"Really," Fiona said, "you haven't aged a day."

"Aye. And neither have you."

Up close, Keith and his friend were definitely teenagers. 

Michael said, "What brings you to Miami?"

Keith tugged on the strap of his electric bass. "Battle of the bands."

"I didn't realize you liked music," Fiona said.

Keith shrugged. "There was a lot we didn't know about each other. I played cello in the school orchestra and me mam was a Prod. You fell in love with an undercover CIA agent."

Michael raised his eyebrows. "I thought you didn't know me."

"Knowing of someone isn't the same as knowing them." Keith shrugged. "So...we have to be at soundcheck. No snitching, ho foul, right?"

"Wrong," Fiona said. "My brother's dead because of you."

"On the contrary - your brother's dead because a British soldier shot him. My own brother is alive because of me - no thanks to you." Keith raised his snow cone in salute. "You had a gun at his head."

"He was a Prod."

"He was eleven," Keith said flatly. He leaned in, his voice low and dangerous. "If you want to play the 'who was worse game', I can defeat you roundly. Believe me." And he said something in rapid, rolling Irish.

Fiona went pale. "I didn't mean to. I was sorry. I didn't know --"

"And I did. You'd have done the same in my place." Keith straightened up. "So...enjoy your stroll along the beach. We're going to win a battle." He turned and walked away, toed his skateboard flat, and hopped on. His friend did the same, and they quickly vanished into the crowd.

"What was that about?" Michael said.

"I was wrong. He's not a teenager anymore." Fiona sighed, tossed her head. "Call Sam. I want mojitos."

Hallelujah - Rufus Wainwright

If Silas had paid more attention in music theory, he'd have figured out how to play the song sooner. The chord progression - at least part of it - was in the first verse, "The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift". Chords had numbers. Pretty much every song could be broken down into a chord progression. Most pop songs were I-V-vi-IV. And if Silas had listened to Ms. Dempsey and learned which chords corresponded with which numbers, he'd have had the song figured out weeks ago instead of the night before his performance in front of the entire class.

He hated math. He wanted to be an artist and musician because they were the opposite of science, which required math. Lots of math. Math was awful.

And apparently math had invaded his music.

Silas stared at the chart at the back of his mother's dance journal (she was a lawyer and had a freakin' journal for her dance notes) and wondered if she'd taken great pains to memorize the strings of numbers (four-chord pop, five-chord doo-wop, twelve-bar blues). Mom was amazing at memorizing things, which was why she'd survived law school and still made other lawyers cry. But she was a good musician, too. Dad would pick up his bass, Mom would sit at the piano, and she'd just...play the blues. Or a pop song. Or an old-school doo-wop song. She and Dad would switch chords effortlessly, grinning at each other, bobbing to the beat, but keeping in perfect synch. How did Dad know when to switch? How did he know what to switch to? Dad was a scientist. Had he also memorized the numbers?

Silas stared at the various offerings of chord progressions and sheet music that Google had splashed across his tablet screen. Four chords. That was all. If he'd figured out the first chord and listened to the lyrics in the first verse...bam. He'd have figured the song out weeks ago.

Silas sighed and placed his hands on the keys, hoping his tablet would stay propped up against all the books of sheet music Mom left piled on the piano stand. Then he began to play.

Half an hour later, Mom swept in through the front door. Her keys jangled as she tossed them into the basket on the counter just inside the kitchen door. Silas kept playing doggedly, determined not to lose the chord progression (thank heavens it was so repetitive).

Mom began to sing along, but it wasn't a verse Silas had ever heard before. She sang as she roamed the house, performing her daily after-work ritual (shoes kicked under the table in the mini-foyer, purse on the table, jacket hung up), her voice fading and rising as she moved from room to room.

She stepped into the den and paused.

"Oh. I thought you were Dad home from the lab early."

"I need to know this for school tomorrow. It's the recital," Silas said.

Mom patted him on the shoulder. "Good luck."

"Thanks." Silas kept playing, fumbled a chord transition. Sighed. "How did you figure this song out?"

"Dad did it by ear, years ago. We used to sing it together all the time. You could've asked him for help." Mom smiled fondly at the memory.

"It's a four-chord song. Did you have to do the math, too?"

"Math? No." Mom huffed. "We go to law school because we're bad at math. Dad was always better at musical theory than me. I play what sounds good to me. Turns out what sounds good can be expressed mathematically, which is handy when you're doing improv with a group of strangers. But don't think you're stuck with the math." She ruffled Silas's hair and sang another verse.

Even though it all went wrong, I'll stand before The Lord of Song with nothing on my tongue but...Hallelujah.

Reflection 1

"As a rule, I can't stand books written in first person. Present tense is a deal-breaker for me." I sipped my tea.

Coby raised her eyebrows. "And yet you read Divergent."

"I wanted to give it a try before the movie. Borrowed it from the library. I heard the third book alternates POVs and they're virtually indistinguishable from each other. Sign of less-than-stellar writing."

"The Fault in our Stars wasn't written in present tense."

I nodded. "I was really hesitant when I flipped to the middle - like I do, to see if I like the style regardless of the hook of the opening line - and it was first person."

"What is it about first person that annoys you so?"

"Usually the person has no personality. I get it - the author wants her young readers to project themselves onto the tabula rasa of the protagonist. Not my thing." I sipped some more tea, winced when it scalded the roof of my mouth. "But I liked the dialogue, so I flipped back to the beginning and, well, the narrator was a person. Had a personality. I cared about her as well as the people she cared about. The voice was alive. If I ran into that girl on the street, I'd know her as soon as she opened her mouth. That's how I like first person writing. And I don't feel like I see it enough. Not to mention, my preferred young adult authors tend to stick to third person limited."

"Did it ever occur to you that you hate first person because you hate writing about yourself?"

"Yes, and I'm working on that."

"Fault in Our Stars. Would you read it again?"

"I would."

Lake of Fire - Nirvana

Dying on the Third of July was key, or so Lupe had heard. At least, it was key if she had to spend her time in the lake of fire known as purgatory, floating in an endless haze of burning agony. After all, people got to come back on the Fourth of July, watch the fireworks, and saunter heavenward. Rehabilitation complete. Burning for a day or a few hours or a year - a year on earth, if not a year in the lake - was adequate punishment for anything a smart, determined, creative, and gleeful girl could get up to in one lifetime.

So when Lupe stood atop the space needle, Seattle spread out below her, a bowl of glittering starlight shot through with the illuminated arteries of city traffic, she knew that 11:59 PM on the Third of July was a really, really good idea. Just thirty more seconds, she'd step forward, and there.

Only one minute on the lake.

She hadn't accounted for her little sister Maria, tenacious and earnest-faced, scrambling after her.

"Lupe, no, don't do it. A girl like Sylvia? She's not worth it. Spoiled white girl didn't know how good she had it with you." Maria inched across the slippery surface. Her hair and skirt billowed in the wind. Everything was windy so high up. Everything was flowing, moving. Peaceful.

Lupe curled her hands into fists. "What are you doing here? It's dangerous up here."

"You're up here, and you're fine." Maria sat down a safe distance from the edge, knees pulled up to her chest, and gazed at Lupe with wide brown eyes. "You're fine, right?"

Lupe thought of Sylvia, spread out on her red satin sheets, golden blonde hair mussed from passion. Lupe thought of the skinny redheaded girl beside her, one hand curled over her, possessive. Smug.

Fireworks shot skyward beside her, and she started violently. The world beneath her feet swayed. She yelped, arms pinwheeling, and her heart skipped several beats.

But she regained her balance, stepped back. Eased down beside her little sister. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just wanted a good spot to watch the fireworks."

"It's higher here," Maria said, "but not as good a spot as that one table next to the basketball court. There's a snow cone shack there. And a taco truck."

Lupe wrapped her arm around Maria's shoulders. "Yeah. You need to eat all the tacos you can get, or you'll end up a shrimp like me."

Maria laughed and nuzzled against her. "Happy Fourth of July."

Living on the Fourth of July. That was key.

Everyday Dagaz: Linguists

The thing about working in a close-knit community like Stargate Command was that people got to know each other. Jack recognized the faces of the low-level guards who kept an eye on the elevator on the first floor (they had no clearance and no clue what went on so far down below). Jack recognized the marines who came in and out, the scientists and support staff. He recognized them all because he was a nice guy, because he was observant, and because he wanted to be sure there wasn't a foothold situation going down in his base. Given how close-knit Stargate Command was, it wasn't uncommon to run into comrades while out on the streets in Colorado Springs. Admittedly, recognizing the girl in the fluffy white tennis skirt as the sergeant who always brought Jack his paperwork was a little difficult, but Jack learned to smile and wave. He was a commanding officer. It improved troop morale if the lower ranks felt known and recognized by their commanding officer. Jack was pretty sure he'd recognize that little white skirt anywhere.

 So when Jack was standing in line at a Starbucks trying to remember the name of that fruity concoction Sam liked, he wasn't too surprised when someone said, "Hey, surprise seeing you here." 

He turned around, ready with a morale-boosting smile and wave, and then he froze. He was pretty sure the supermodel pretty boy standing in front of him wasn't one of the troops at Stargate Command. In fact, the way he was wearing his platinum-blond hair long and parted down the middle like some throwback to a nineties boyband guaranteed he wasn't from Stargate Command, because that haircut certainly wasn't regulation. Jack liked to think he'd remember someone with such electric blue eyes, too.

 But then Daniel said, "Hey! Dylan! What brings you to Colorado Springs?"

 Dylan shrugged. "On my way to Fashion Week in LA. Just got done in New York. Thought I'd drive myself, take the scenic route." 

Hah. Jack was right. Kid was a supermodel. Or maybe a designer?

 Daniel's face lit up. "That's wonderful. Still modeling, huh?"

"Still working on my dissertation about functional Enochian." Dylan smiled.

 Several women in the vicinity sighed. Jack resisted the urge to sigh for an entirely different reason. "What brings you to Colorado Springs, though?" Dylan looked Daniel up and down. "And what's this - hitting the gym? Military haircut? What happened to the geek I know and love?"

"Working as a civilian contractor with the military, actually. Analyzing artefacts accidentally disturbed during foreign operations," Daniel said, and wow, guy was a smooth liar. Jack narrowed his eyes. Had Daniel lied to him about something in the recent past? Like remembering when he was ascended?

"I heard a crazy rumor that you'd died," Dylan said. 

Daniel ducked his head, blushed. "Just a rumor." And there - he was a terrible liar. Dylan furrowed his brow, and then he stepped closer, said something totally gibberish. Except it wasn't gibberish, because Daniel replied in the same gibberish. Dylan arched an eyebrow and tried another language, which Daniel matched. Jack wasn't much of a linguist, really only had a little Arabic and Spanish to his name, but for the next five minutes, Daniel and Dylan chased each other through at least a dozen different languages. The game finally ended when Dylan gave up on a language Jack strongly suspected Daniel had picked up on an alien planet, and both men laughed.

"You've picked up some new ones since we spoke last," Daniel said.

"So have you." Dylan clapped Daniel on the shoulder. "It's so good to see you again, especially after those horrible rumors. I'm in town for two more nights. We should have dinner. Bring your friend." Dylan turned his dazzling Hollywood smile on Jack.

 Jack raised his eyebrows. "Who, me? Sorry. I'm pretty limited to English."

"We'll speak English just for you," Dylan promised.

"I'd love to," Daniel said, "but I'm probably going out of the country to visit a dig site."

Dylan pouted. The women in the vicinity cooed. "Next time we cross paths, then. Dinner's on me. I know government pay is crap."

"Next time," Daniel agreed. The girl at the cash register called for Jack to place his order, and the prospect of imminent caffeine distracted him from Daniel and his suspiciously pretty friend. By the time Jack had ordered for himself and fumbled through Sam's order - soy milk, caramel - Daniel had ordered his coffee and Dylan was gone.

On the way out to the truck, Jack had to ask. "Who was that guy?"

"Old friend of mine from LA. We did linguistics together. Guy's a natural. Mother was Norwegian, so he grew up bilingual. Gave him a crazy head start over the other kids in the program."

"You were in college together?" Jack called the boy's face back up in his memory. "How old was he?"

"Regular college student age, actually," Daniel said. "It was uncanny. He hasn't aged a day."

"I'll say." Jack fished into his pocket with his pinkie and dragged out his keys. "You drive. Sam'll kill me if I spill her drink."

Daniel nodded. "Sure thing." He accepted the keys and trotted around to the driver's side door. Jack hovered beside the passenger door, waiting for Daniel to unlock it. Daniel had gone to college with a supermodel. Who knew.

Everyday Dagaz: teachers

The new biology teacher, Mr. Basanov, was hopeless. Amelia sat at the front of the classroom and watched him duck his head, avoiding students' gazes while he pretended to rifle through his stack of notes. Amelia was by no means a queen bee, but she was popular for a reason. She was good at reading people. And she heard, loud and clear, the tale told by every twitch of his hands, bunch of his shoulders.

After the bell rang and the door was closed, the students settled down. There were several new teachers this year. Amelia had heard that Mr. O'Neill, the new teacher, was smokin' hot. 

Mr. Basanov lifted his head, cleared his throat. "Good morning. This is ninth grade biology." He paused. "Since none of you have bolted from the room, I presume you are all in the right place."

"Don't you mean assume?" That was Trevor Conley. He walked the fine like between class clown and class bully. "You know what they say about assuming."

Mr. Basanov blinked, taken aback, then averted his gaze. "Let's start with roll call."

He was tentative with the pronunciations but did better than some teachers, accepted nicknames a little too passively. Then he scooped up the stack of syllabi. It was the first of many for Amelia. 

They were blue and photocopied and stapled neatly. Mr. Basanov had worried the edges of the first one with his nervous fidgeting and the sides were curled and creased. 

He thrust the stack at Trevor, who grinned and leaned back, didn't take it. 

"Take one and pass it on, please," Mr. Basanov said. He held the papers out again. 

Trevor reached out. Mr. Basanov tried to hand the papers to him, but Trevor closed his hand into a fist at the last second and the papers hit the floor. Mr. Basanov flinched and knelt, started scooping them up. 

Trevor kicked some papers out of his reach. "You know our names, but we don't know yours. That's not fair."

"I'm Tobias - I mean. You probably shouldn't call me that. I'm Mr. Basanov." He scooped up some more papers. He might have been cute, if Amelia were into skinny, pale men with sharp features, vulpine dark eyes and fluffy, disheveled dark hair. He looked too young to be a teacher. That was probably because he was the same age as actors who played teenagers on TV. 

"Tobias," Trevor said, emphasizing the sibilance of the last syllable. "You were a nerdy, unpopular kid in high school, weren't you?"

Mr. Basanov's response was muffled from below desk level. "I was."

"How did that work out for you?"

"Well --" Mr. Basanov popped up onto his feet, mess of papers in hand. He began straightening them with long, graceful fingers. "One day after school a group of football players attacked me with a baseball bat. Terribly cliché. Put me in the hospital. And then one day after school they were torn apart by a pack of wolves and now here I am, your biology teacher." He handed the stack of syllabi to Trevor, whose mouth was hanging open. "Take one, pass them on."

Trevor obeyed. 

Amelia watched Mr. Basanov for the rest of class, the don't-look-at-me hunch to his shoulders, the don't-notice-me dart of his gaze, the don't-hit-me of his posture, and wondered if there wasn't something else beneath. 

At lunch, she saw him with Mr. O'Neill, supervising the chaos of the cafeteria. Amelia and her friends had staked out the table closest to the teachers' regular post so she could get her fill of looking at Mr. O'Neill. Tall, lean, ice-blond, blue-eyed, with a face Pygmalion would have died to carve and died again to animate, the new art teacher was stunning. 

He was, also, apparently friends with Mr. Basanov. 

"You actually told them that?"

"I told you, I was never meant to be a teacher, or any other authority figure."

"What did they say?"

"Nothing."

"Man, if you get reported on the first day --"

"I won't get reported. It's not like I told them I can turn into a wolf and I took the first chunk out of the running back."

"Good point."

Verdi

The most disconcerting thing about humans was the way they consumed nutrients. Opening their gaping mouths and shoveling in food, sucking noisily at water, their throats constricting - it was quite appalling to witness. 

Verdi knew she was in the minority about her opinion, given that she was one of only a handful non-humans in her high school, but she found lunch time disturbing and would rather spend it outside. 

She liked to sit behind the school on the bleachers, head tipped back and leaves unfurled to capture as much sun as possible, and revel in the quiet. She also had a basin full of water into which to dip her feet, and she could relax, free of others' staring.

The one human whose company she could bear for extended periods of time was Asa. He was blind, dark-haired, and golden-eyed, like a flower himself. 

Verdi reached up and ran her fingers through her leaves experimentally. With summer coming on she'd start getting petals in. She'd have to ask Asa for his advice as to colors. He knew the names of many colors. 

"Hey, you're the alien chick, right?"

Verdi opened her eyes. A girl stood at the bottom of the bleachers where Asa usually sat. The girl was broad and stocky, dressed head-to-toe in black. Black was most efficient for absorbing sunlight. Verdi's leaves were black in winter. 

"If by 'alien chick' you mean extra-terrestrial, yes. Otherwise, no."

"Your name is Verdi, right? Even though you're not green at all."

"Verdi wrote very pleasing music," Verdi said of her human namesake. "You are incapable of expressing my personal identifier."

"What kind of language do plants even speak?"

"You cannot pronounce or hear colors, I am told." Verdi shrugged. "What is your name, human chick?"

"Austin," she said. "My name is Austin."

"Hello, Austin."

"I see you sitting out here every day. Don't you get lonely?"

"I am obtaining nutrients, the same as the rest of you. And I am not always alone."

"I've never seen you eat." Austin shifted from foot to foot. "I thought you might need someone to talk to. About your problem."

"Problem?"

"With not eating."

Verdi sighed. "I find eating repulsive, if you must know. It does not mean I find all humans repulsive. But that one act is quite unpleasant to observe."

"But you need to have some food, right?"

"Why, when I have sunlight and water?" Verdi lifted one foot and wiggled her toes to demonstrate.

Bright red spread across Austin's face. "Oh! Um. I didn't realize -- I was really bad at biology. I'll leave you to your, um, absorbing."

"Thank you for speaking to me, Austin," Verdi said. "Perhaps we shall speak again." She watched Austin hurry back into the school building and, as an afterthought, turned one of her petals the same color as Austin's face had been. It was a pleasing shade. Humans were more like flowers than they knew.

Dagaz/WW Crossover

Leo sat just to Jed's left at the head of the conference room table. He scanned the faces of the other men and women seated at the table, all career military leaders and advisors, all decorated and well-respected, intelligent and prepared. They all looked terrified.

"So our only option is to, what, just let them keep on slaughtering their own people?" Jed demanded.

"The resources it would take --" one general began.

Another shook her head. "The international relations we would be straining --"

"What makes their people less worth our military protection than our people?" Jed asked.

One young man at the other end of the table, so low-ranking he wasn't even seated, cleared his throat. All gazes fixed on him. He was a good soldier and didn't even flinch.

"If you really want to do this without spending our military forces or causing an international incident, there may be another option."

Jed raised his eyebrows, cast a glance at Leo, but Leo could only offer a minute shake off his head; he had no clue what the young major was referring to.

The young man reached into his pocket and drew out a business card, slid it down across the table. Jed caught it and turned it over, and Leo leaned in to peer at it. There was no name, just a phone number. An international number.

"What is this?" Jed asked.

"They're freelancers," the young man said.

Jed's jaw tightened. "You mean mercenaries. What will this cost me?"

"You'll have to ask them," the young man said.

Jed scanned the other faces at the table. "Why do none of the rest of you know about this?"

The two generals exchanged pained expressions.

"It's a last resort for us. They rescued Harper, so he knows them. But --" The woman shook her head. "It's very last resort."

"What did they want from you?" Jed asked.

"To shut down an old military weapons testing program from the sixties that was basically defunct anyway." She pressed her lips into a thin line.

Jed turned to the man. "And you?"

"Access to some old Civil War service records."

Leo watched the gears turning in Jed's mind. Neither of those requests sounded particularly dangerous, although he suspected there was more to the defunct military weapons testing program than the lady general was letting on.

"So I just…call this number?" Jed picked up the card.

"It's a video conference line," the lady general said.

Jed took a deep breath. "It couldn't hurt to ask."

The lady general rose up. "I'll set up the connection, and then everyone else will need to clear out of the room."

"This is something out of a spy movie," Leo muttered.

"If something's too good to be true," Jed murmured back.

Once the line was ringing and the video conference was set, all of the uniforms shuffled out of the room, including the young man who'd given them the information in the first place.

Only Leo, Jed, and the two general remained.

Despite having seen far too may action and spy films, Leo wasn't sure what to expect of a mercenary team so secret not even the president knew about it (and Jed was probably stewing about that fact as the line rang). Leo certainly didn't expect to see four male models in cammo gear sitting on ammo boxes playing a game of cards while a fifth model adjusted the camera and tapped the mic.

"Hey, we have an American number coming in," the dark-haired, dark-skinned man said. He spoke with a smooth British accent, upper-crust and well-educated. "English mode, lads."

He settled back so they could see the rest of him. He looked barely older than twenty-three and had Indian features, dark eyes and a white-toothed smile. Like the rest of his compatriots, he had military-short hair. Judging by the expanse of green foliage around them, they were in a jungle, perhaps South American, since it didn't look like any jungles he remembered from Vietnam.

Several languages were being bandied about the card game, none of which were English, but as soon as the man whistled, the cards were abandoned and six young men were crowded into the frame, peering at whatever screen.

"Isn't that --?" the blond one began.

"Aye," said the redheaded one. He had an Irish accent. "The American president."

Another dark-haired one - pale-skinned, with an Eastern European cast to his features - tilted the camera up a smudge. "What we can we do for the esteemed POTUS?"

"Are you aware of the situation in Kundu?" Jed asked.

"Tobias? Gabriel?" the British-Indian one said, glancing over his shoulder.

What happened next was bizarre. The curly-haired boy grabbed the Eastern European boy by the shoulder, and both of their faces went slack, their eyes distant.

"How'd you get this number?" the Irish one asked.

"One Major Harper suggested you might be able to assist us," the Lady General said, and when the Irish one saw her, he smiled.

"Well, hello again, General Mullally. And you, General Ostroff."

Ostroff nodded his greeting tersely.

Tobias and Gabriel came back to the present with twin gasps of breath, their eyes bright with horror. They exchanged a wordless look with their leader, and his expression turned grim.

"Kundu," the British-Indian one said. "Horrible situation. You're hesitant to send troops in, I assume?"

"The international relations ramifications are more than a little troubling," Jed said.

The British-Indian chuckled. "Spoken like a true politician. So you want us to go in there and fix things, then?"

"How can you fix them?" Leo asked.

The young man shrugged. "How would you prefer - mercenary strike? Dissension in the ranks? Populace revolt? Natural causes toppling the leader and an imbecile replacing him?"

Jed blinked. "You can just - go in there and take care of the problem however you want?"

"We're the best," the British-Indian said.

This was too much like a spy movie.

"What would you want for payment?" Jed asked. "Because no one does anything for nothing."

"That's not true, and also terribly cynical," the British-Indian said. "But you're right - our jobs come with a price." He glanced over his shoulder at the others. "Who's up next for a little clean-up? DJ? Keith?"

The blond and the Irish one shook their heads.

"What about Christian? Wait - where is Christian?"

A crashing through the undergrowth startled everyone. Leo flinched, momentarily thrown back to a jungle in Vietnam.

All five young men reacted instantly, armed with guns and knives and spread out in a defensive position so fast it was almost inhuman. Leo blamed it on the delay in the connection.

"Easy," another young man said. "If I were trying to ambush you, would I have made so much noise? I got that fish Tobias asked for, and some local herbs and spices. I think we deserve a nice meal after a job well done."

"Put the fish over there," the Eastern European once said, and Leo guessed he was Tobias, but he was confused because the young man's voice was familiar. Leo could only see his cammo pants and boots.

The young man tied the fish to a low-hanging bough, leaving them swinging and lifeless in the breeze, like Billie Holladay's strange fruit. Then he hunkered down with the others.

"We have a new client, then?"

"We're negotiating terms," the British-Indian one said. "Gabriel got scrubbed clean on both lives, so who's next? DJ and Keith say they're both clear, so I think that just leaves you."

The young man shuffled into position with the others, and when he finally looked into the camera, Leo's throat closed.

"Corporal Little?"

The young man - strawberry-blond, freckled, pixie-faced and compact - had served with Leo in Vietnam. Or the young man was a spitting image of the boy who'd dragged him, wounded and dying, away from the wreckage of his fallen helicopter. But the way the young man's eyes widened in recognition at the name was uncanny. Perhaps he was a relative?

The British-Indian sighed. "Christian. You know someone on the other end of this call?"

"Leo?" Jed asked.

Christian scrubbed a hand over his face. "I - yeah. Remember, I did a tour in Vietnam while you were busy sleeping your way through French diplomats?"

"I reckon this means Christian's the one who needs scrubbing next," Keith drawled, amused.

The British-Indian man grinned at the camera. He looked completely unruffled. "All right. In exchange for cleaning up the mess in Kundu, you need to locate the service records of one Corporal Christian Little - he served in Vietnam - and destroy them. Remove any traces of him from the system, carve his name off the monument if you have to."

Leo gaped. "Little? How? You haven't aged a day!"

"It's why we're the best at what we do," the British-Indian man said. "So, do you agree to our terms?"

"We can do that," Ostroff said. He glanced at Jed. "Mr. President?"

"Let me get this straight." Jed leaned forward. "You --" He pointed at the Christian -- "served in Vietnam with Leo? I'm supposed to believe that? You look like one of the punks from those boybands Zoey used to listen to."

"No one ever suspects a boyband boy of being a soldier," Christian said, shrugging one shoulder.

"Do you accept our terms?" the British-Indian man asked again.

Jed looked ready to ask more questions, interrogate Christian - and it really was Christian, all blue eyes and soft southern drawl - but then he reined himself in. "Yes."

"Then what are yours?"

"Peasant revolt," Jed said. "Let the people save themselves."

The British-Indian man glanced over his shoulder at Tobias. "You have something Kundunese to work with?"

"I can modify Gabriel a little," Tobias said. He reached out and grasped Gabriel's shoulder, and his face went slack, distant again. Leo and the others could only stare in wonder, confusion, awe, horror as Gabriel's skin darkened, his face twisted and morphed, and then Gabriel was gone and a native Kundunese man sat in his place, wearing Gabriel's clothes and Gabriel's amused expression.

Tobias lowered his hand. "Look authentic enough?"

"For now," the British-Indian man said. "We'll borrow a couple of actual natives once we land." He peered into the camera. "Give us seventy-two hours, and you'll have your peasant revolt. I'll send someone by to check the Vietnam Memorial."

And the connection cut out.

"That was bizarre. And insane. Does anyone else feel like they've gone insane?" Jed asked.

Mullally scrubbed a hand over her face. "Every time I talk to those boys. Every time."

"Who are they?" Jed asked.

"People we're systematically wiping out of our records," Ostroff said. "But wait, and watch. They always hold up their end of the bargain."

Leo stared at the blank screen where his former comrade's face had been moments before.

Sure enough, on the news that night, reporters were talking excitedly over footage of a citizen revolt against the military coup, strategically-planted homemade bombs followed by a wave of civilians armed with guns and machetes, and by the next morning, the coup was over.

Ostroff ordered someone down to the Vietnam memorial.

Seventy-two hours after that unbelievable phone call, Leo stood in front of the black granite wall, searching for Christian Little's name. There was a smooth blank spot where it should have been.

"I figured you'd be here," Christian said.

Leo spun around.

In person, Christian was just as Leo remembered, short and slender but leanly-muscled, only this time he was wearing jeans and a jacket instead of an army uniform, and he looked like an ordinary tourist instead of a seasoned soldier or a world-changing mercenary.

"How is this even possible?" Leo asked.

"The same way a peasant revolt against a military coup in Kundu was possible." Christian jammed his hands into his pockets, the gesture boyish, nervous. "I told you my rescuing you wasn't a big deal. You risked your life for this country. Me - I risked bullet wounds and pain. But not my life. Never my life."

"You still saved me."

"Looks like I made the right decision," Christian said. "Now, forget about me, all right? It's the only way I can get my work done."

"What is it you do?"

"Same as I did when you first met me. I'm a soldier. I fight."

"Why?"

"Because it's who I am." Christian smiled. "Good luck, Leo. Take care." Then he turned and walked away.

Just Say It

DJ was halfway out the window and up onto the roof to stare out at the lights in Victoria harbor when he saw it, the faintest glint of it, taped to the edge of the windowsill. It was a slender paper packet, white enough to blend in with the paint. When he peeled it away from the wall and turned it over, he saw it was guitar strings. Brand new guitar strings, to replace the ones he'd broken learning to play that dreadful song with the jumping chord hammers and with the chorus it was almost impossible to hear, "Go now, you are forgiven." But he ducked back inside and grabbed his guitar, levered it carefully up onto the roof, and he sat with it across his knees as he restrung it, the harbor lights dancing across the steel like a thousand wandering stars.

When Celia finally climbed the final heights of the roof - how she made it through the leafy boughs below without making a sound, he'd never know - DJ had the thing tuned and was picking out a low melody. He glanced up, saw her crouched in the shadows, and immediately he shifted into the chords of a familiar song, a little Elliot Smith.

Cellia sank down next to him and sang the chorus of Miss Misery, and he heard what she couldn't say in proper words, felt it when she ducked in for a kiss.

Thank you.

For not giving up.

When she pulled back and curled into his side, he reciprocated the only way he knew how, with skittering notes and jumping chord hammers, and he tried to accept what she'd been trying to tell him for so long.

"Go now, you are forgiven."

What He was Grateful For...

Patient note:

     Joseph has been attending mandatory counseling session for three months now. As it is November and close to Thanksgiving I will try to get him to open up to things he is grateful for.

I closed my file and looked up at Joe as he came in the door. Slunk in was more like it, shoulders hunched forward and a slightly sour expression on his face. I had tried calling him Joseph, but he adamantly refused to answer to it.

I watched with a carefully smooth expression as he took a seat across from me and folded his arms across his chest in a defensive way. I could tell today's session would not be an easy one. We continued to sit in silence a few moments as I watched him, and he watched me, fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt.

"So Joe," I began, and I saw him tense automatically, "you have been coming to me for three months now." I could see him stifle a sigh and roll his eyes. I knew he would rather be anywhere than in therapy. All of them would rather be anywhere but here. "Tell me, do you think this is helping?"

Joe sat in stubborn silence, staring a hole into the carpet. I uncrossed and crossed my legs as I let him think.

"It will be Thanksgiving in a few days," I began again, "do you have any plans? Are you and the team going to get together?" I knew it would needle him, maybe enough to get him talking.

Joe's head jerked up at the mention of Thanksgiving and he looked at me, his clear eyes seemed to pin me to my chair.

"What on earth do I have to be grateful for?" he asked incredulously,  "What do any of us have to be grateful for? All of us except Steve have lost their family. We were recruited to this work without truly knowing what we were getting into. We get sent from hell hole to hell hole putting out fires around the world. For what? We put our lives on the line day in and day out for people who don't even know we exist. And David is dead. Tell me, councilor" his voice dripping with sarcasm  "just what do you think I should be grateful for?"

I looked at him for a long moment as he sat gripping the arms of the chair. "Can you think of nothing at all?" I asked quietly.

Joe seemed to look inwards for a while. Finally, though he seemed not to be aware that he was speaking, he said, "I'm grateful for Steve, Mark and Bryan. They are my family now."

I held back a sigh of relief at the words. "Anything else?" I quietly prodded.

"I'm grateful for my cat Kent. David let me keep him," Joe mumbled, his eyes moist, "I'm grateful for Jen, for all that she did for me after my brother died. I'm grateful for fast cars that help dull the pain. I'm grateful for..."

I sat quietly as Joe slowly began listing things he was grateful for.

Project Assignment: Gratitude

Why yes, it is November, and everyone is extra grateful this time of year, and our characters should be too. If you already have characters, how do they show gratitude? What do they do for Thanksgiving (if they even celebrate it)? How do they say thank you? If you don't have characters, go ahead and make something up to throw into the mix. 500 words. One week. I realize Nanowrimo has claimed primacy on this month, and I've been a super slacker to boot, but go with it. :)

I feel awful about never participating. Everything I feel like writing, though, is ruminations on teaching, and not very relatable. Teaching is just my whole life right now.

Here's a response to poetry, something new: not mine, but my new favorites. Nagi...what do they say about lawyers?

What Teachers Make
by Taylor Mali
He says the problem with teachers is
What’s a kid going to learn
from someone who decided his best option in life
was to become a teacher?
He reminds the other dinner guests that it’s true
what they say about teachers:
Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.
I decide to bite my tongue instead of his
and resist the temptation to remind the dinner guests
that it’s also true what they say about lawyers.
Because we’re eating, after all, and this is polite conversation.

I mean, you’re a teacher, Taylor.
Be honest. What do you make?

And I wish he hadn’t done that— asked me to be honest—
because, you see, I have this policy about honesty and ass-­‐kicking:
if you ask for it, then I have to let you have it.
You want to know what I make?
I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.
I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional Medal of Honor
and an A-­‐ feel like a slap in the face.
How dare you waste my time
with anything less than your very best.
I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall
in absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups.
No, you may not ask a question.
Why won’t I let you go to the bathroom?
Because you’re bored.
And you don’t really have to go to the bathroom, do you?
I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:
Hi. This is Mr. Mali. I hope I haven’t called at a bad time,
I just wanted to talk to you about something your son said today.
To the biggest bully in the grade, he said,
“Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don’t you?
It’s no big deal.”
And that was noblest act of courage I have ever seen.
I make parents see their children for who they are
and what they can be.
You want to know what I make? I make kids wonder,
I make them question.
I make them criticize.
I make them apologize and mean it.
I make them write.
I make them read, read, read.
I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful
over and over and over again until they will never misspell
either one of those words again.
I make them show all their work in math
and hide it on their final drafts in English.
I make them understand that if you’ve got this,
then you follow this,
and if someone ever tries to judge you
by what you make, you give them this.

Here, let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:
Teachers make a goddamn difference! Now what about you?

To be of use

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

--Marge Piercy