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Date Posted: 11:00:56 04/04/05 Mon
Author: Diane
Subject: Okay
Never Beta's before, but I'd like some honest feedback about the first four chapters I've written of a new story. Thanks.
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Okay - Chapter 1 -- Diane, 11:02:02 04/04/05 Mon
“Okay, Daddy.”
Two words. His son had said two words in the last 48 hours. That had been at the railway station as they boarded the train in Munich. He had told Adam to take his hand, and Adam had responded, “Okay, Daddy,” and done so. He had not spoken a word since.
Michael studied the small boy sleeping in the seat beside him as they waited in their new car for the ferry that would take them from Yarmouth, Nova Scotia to Bar Harbor, Maine. He frowned. Adam had slept a lot on the international flight to Paris, and then to Halifax. Not the sleep of a tired boy who needed to catch up on his rest, but the sleep of a child who has withdrawn, like a turtle into its shell, waiting patiently until everyone and everything unpleasant just went away.
He knew that they needed to talk, and soon. He could not risk taking Adam to a licensed therapist, but he knew the dangers of letting the events of the last week stew inside the child without release. Adam’s ready acceptance of “Daddy-back–from-the-dead” worried Michael, and he wondered what other thoughts were floating around in Adam’s mind. Was he waiting for Elena to come back as well? What did he remember of his kidnapping? Did he see the murder of Mr. Jones on the bridge? Did he understand why they were moving so far away and so quickly? And what about Nikita?
He closed his eyes painfully. What about Nikita? Was their kiss in the train station truly the last time they would ever see each other? He still couldn’t take in the enormity of her sacrifice for him and Adam. To permanently ally herself with an organization that she had loathed in every way from Day One. From which she had escaped, but returned to, for him. And then he had treated her like crap. He wouldn’t look beyond Section to see how much he was hurting her—how much she was dying inside each day. No wonder she accepted the job with Center. Then she set him free with a lie. They both knew it. And they both knew he would come back to her. It could have worked. It would have worked. Except for Adam.
No lies this time. At least not from Nikita. She told him she loved him. He told her he loved her. That part was true. He also promised that when Adam didn’t need him anymore, he would return for her. Would he? He looked again at Adam, who stirred uneasily on the seat next to him as Michael put the car in gear and drove slowly onto the ferry. Adam didn’t wake, but returned to his troubled sleep. When would Adam not need him? When he was sixteen? Eighteen? Twenty-one? Thirty? Retired? And would Nikita still be waiting for him? Would he be able to find her if she was? Section One had already moved from Paris to Munich three years ago. What if it moved again? He no longer had Birkoff on the inside, and couldn’t risk opening communications even if he did.
Michael parked the car and unbuckled his and Adam’s seatbelts in preparation for moving to the lounges on the upper decks. When he begin to lift Adam out of the passenger’s seat, the boy came alive with fists of fury. “No!” he screamed lashing out. “Let me go! I want my Mommy!” It was several moments before Michael could fully wake Adam and calm him down, then Adam turned his head into Michael’s chest, wrapped his small arms around his father’s neck, and went back to sleep. Michael was deeply disturbed. Things were worse than he has imagined. He would take Adam up to the bar, get some ice for the black eye he was sure Adam had given him, and then they would talk. Really talk.
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first things first -- sk, 00:17:37 04/10/05 Sun
I can't offer to beta this -- I don't have the time right now, but I did want to say that this line made me smile:
"her standard solution to every fashion problem, a hat"
Just in general -- you seem to have a pretty good handle on your style and who your version of these characters are. My fast suggestion, always, is that you read your work out loud (not in your head, but really out loud) to yourself -- it will reveal a lot about pacing, phrasing, vocabulary, etc.
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Thanks! -- Diane, 12:45:44 04/10/05 Sun
I try to do that; I catch a lot of boo-boos that way, too!
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Okay, just a few quick things. -- Shanola, 20:20:53 04/12/05 Tue
A few things jumped out at me. =P
You wrote:
He knew that they needed to talk, and soon. He could not risk taking Adam to a licensed therapist, but he knew the dangers of letting the events of the last week stew inside the child without release.
Well, *why* can't Michael take Adam to see a licensed therapist? Surely, Michael has created new identities for himself and his son. Is there another reason?
Later in that paragraph you write:
Was he waiting for Elena to come back as well? What did he remember of his kidnapping? Did he see the murder of Mr. Jones on the bridge? Did he understand why they were moving so far away and so quickly? And what about Nikita?
Um, so, what about Nikita? I mean, I don't follow how Michael would naturally think of Nikita in the middle of his concerns regarding Adam. I found the transition rather jarring.
Okay, in the last paragraph here, you've got Michael taking Adam to a bar so he can get some ice. A bar? That threw me. I admit, I've never been on a big ferry like that, but surely Michael could get ice from someplace other than a bar? I dunno...I guess I just equate the word 'bar' with sleezy beer joints or something!LOL
I'm curious to see what happens with Adam.
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Re: Okay, just a few quick things. -- Diane, 22:42:46 04/13/05 Wed
You wrote:
He knew that they needed to talk, and soon. He could not risk taking Adam to a licensed therapist, but he knew the dangers of letting the events of the last week stew inside the child without release.
Well, *why* can't Michael take Adam to see a licensed therapist? Surely, Michael has created new identities for himself and his son. Is there another reason?
* * *
Because Adam is a six-year old, and because what he needs to talk about is his witness of a murder, his kidnapping by terrorists, and other things Michael probably doesn't want him talking about, new identity or not.
Later in that paragraph you write:
Was he waiting for Elena to come back as well? What did he remember of his kidnapping? Did he see the murder of Mr. Jones on the bridge? Did he understand why they were moving so far away and so quickly? And what about Nikita?
Um, so, what about Nikita? I mean, I don't follow how Michael would naturally think of Nikita in the middle of his concerns regarding Adam. I found the transition rather jarring.
* * *
Just transitioning to the next paragraph. I didn't think it was that jarring, but I suppose I could move that line to the beginning of the next paragraph and make some minor changes.
Okay, in the last paragraph here, you've got Michael taking Adam to a bar so he can get some ice. A bar? That threw me. I admit, I've never been on a big ferry like that, but surely Michael could get ice from someplace other than a bar? I dunno...I guess I just equate the word 'bar' with sleezy beer joints or something!LOL
* * *
That scene is based on actual experience.I took that ferry from Maine to Nova Scotia. There was a large screening room on the lower deck where a movie was playing, slot machines all over deck two, and the top level (with windows) was a bar/lounge that served food and was open to families. I could rename it a lounge if that sounds better.
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Okay - Chapter 2 -- Diane, 11:08:04 04/04/05 Mon
“This is ridiculous,” Nikita snapped at herself as she pulled the brush through her hair so quickly at crackled with static electricity in the dry air. “Michael was gone for almost a year, and you were fine. Now he leaves for two days and you’re falling apart.” She set the abused brush down on her dresser and stared herself in the mirror. This time was different, and she and her reflection both knew why. He wasn’t coming back this time. No ifs, ands, or maybes. Possibly not for years. Probably not ever.
She stared at her reflection. Geez, that woman looked like hell. Her cheeks were sunken, she had dark circles under eyes, and her chin-length hair was flying every which way. Nikita applied more powder, and her standard solution to every fashion problem, a hat. She checked her reflection again. Good thing Michael wasn’t her to see her looking like this. She smiled wryly. From now on, Michael was out of the equation entirely. She was Operations, damn it, and she’d better look damned good because the job required it. She freshened her lipstick, grabbed her keys and bag off the kitchen counter, and left her apartment to drive into Section.
Nikita knew eventually she would have to move into the Tower, but she was delaying the moment by having the entire edifice redecorated. After all, Paul had been there nearly 30 years; the place obviously needed fumigation. She had been very specific with Housekeeping what look she was going for, and even gave them sketches for the kitchenette and bedrooms. No one on the staff had blinked an eye, but she knew what they were thinking: ‘We’ve got ourselves a real wacko this time.’ Nikita didn’t care. Her father may have forced her into a position she didn’t want, but Center couldn’t change her personality. She wouldn’t let them break her. She hadn’t yet, and it wasn’t going to happen. Of, course, she had had some help in the past, but she has grown stronger over the last seven years, and learned to stand on her own two feet. She never really got to know her father, but in some perverse way, she wanted to make him proud of her.
She sauntered in passed Munitions, swinging her bag and humming. “Hiya, Walter!” she called out gaily.
“Hiya, Su-, uh,” he stumbled. Since Nikita had become Operations, he was still confused as to how well their previous easy banter would be received.
“Su-gar,” she enunciated slowly, then winked as she headed over toward Comm.
“Hey, Jason. Anything on the pad this morning?”
“Not a thing, darlin’” he drawled, giving her a long, appraising look.
“That’s ‘Ni-ki-ta’” she corrected him for the first time today.
“Whatever you say, darlin’” he fired back with a smirk.
She slapped him upside the head and ignored his startled “Hey!” as she approached Quinn.
“Anymore news on the splinter group of Black Storm you located in Ankara?”
“No,” Quinn answered in a clipped tone, then realized that Nikita had just given her full credit for locating the terrorists by herself. “They’ve been ominously quiet, I’m afraid,” she continued in a friendlier manner.
“We’ve got our team in place. Let me know if they make a move.”
“Yes, ma’am,” responded Quinn efficiently, before she returned to her screen.
Nikita sighed. The “You can call me Nikita” speech could wait for another time. She knew Quinn was on edge. Nikita had not picked a second-in-command yet, and she knew that Quinn desperately wanted the job. She also knew that she and Quinn did not have a good working relationship. Nikita and Jason got along well, but he was not as qualified as Quinn. Nikita pondered the decision as she ascended to the Perch. The only one in Section she really trusted to be her second was Walter, but he wasn’t a tactician, and she couldn’t possibly imagine him interrogating someone in the White Room! No, Center was sending over three candidates from different sections today for her to interview; they expected her decision in three days. Yep. In-house dynamics were going to be a little interesting for a while.
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Sorry about posting the entire chapter above. Oops! -- Diane, 11:13:03 04/04/05 Mon
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Hey, Diane -- Shanola, 19:54:59 04/12/05 Tue
Since the second chapter is posted here, I've gone ahead and removed the one you accidently posted in the open. =P
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Hmm. -- Shanola, 20:32:45 04/12/05 Tue
Okay, I have some issues with this version of Nikita. I think her character did change over the course of the show. Too many things happened to her for it not too. Yes, I can agree that she will be the eternal optimist, but I have a hard time seeing her accepting/insisting on the extreme casualness with the members of Section. She sort of breezes into Section all smiles and wants to be everyone's best friend. I think that by the time Nikita took over Section, she could feel the weight of her world. I think she was naive, yes. But I can't see her this light-hearted.
Plus, her staff will soon rebell against her, if they are allowed to treat her in this manner.
JMHO, of course.
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Re: Hmm. -- Diane, 22:49:15 04/13/05 Wed
This is still her first couple weeks as Operations, and I think she *is* still in her fantasy world; probably still in shock. She still hasn't quite assimilated that she had a father, who is now dead and left her in this mess, and that Michael is gone and she has to figure it all out on her own. In ensuing chapters, she learns what it takes to run the place pretty quickly.Showing a bit of the old Nik to compare her to the new. I've got 24 chapters set down, now--she has changed immensely, and not particularly for the better (maybe for the better of Section, though).
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Okay - Chapter 3 -- Diane, 11:09:59 04/04/05 Mon
For the first time ever, Michael let Adam drink a large Pepsi. He was counting on the caffeine to keep him awake long enough for them to talk. So far, it seemed to be working. Adam had never been in a bar before, and the rows of bottles behind the counter fascinated him. Michael explained how the bartender kept the foam from overflowing the beer mugs, hoping to start a dialogue. It worked. Adam started to ask another question when Michael leaned back in his chair and said nonchalantly, “I quit my job the other day.”
“You did?” Adam seemed marginally interested.
“Yes. That’s why we’re moving to Canada.”
“Are you going to sell things there instead of Europe?” Adam asked, becoming bored. He yawned.
Michael looked around the room dramatically, leaned forward, whispered conspiratorially, “Can you keep a secret?”
That piqued Adam’s interest. “Yes,” he answered hesitantly.
“I mean it Adam. This is a really big secret.”
Adam looked at him and snapped, “I’m not a kid anymore, Dad. I’m six. I know how to keep a secret.”
Michael kept his face a blank mask, though he wanted to burst out laughing. Adam reminded him so much of Nikita at that moment. “Okay,” he agreed, beckoning Adam closer. “I never was a business man. I never sold stuff. I was just pretending.”
“What did you do really?” asked Adam, taking the bait.
“I was a Super-cop,” Michael said solemnly.
“Dad-dy!” Adam said, irritated, pushing back from the table.
“I’m totally serious, Adam. I worked for a place that caught the baddest of the bad guys.”
“Do you have super powers?” asked Adam skeptically.
“No,” said Michael, shaking his head. “I’m a real person. Just like you.”
“But you came back from Heaven,” Adam persisted.
Michael took a deep breath. This was where it was going to get dicey. “I need you to pay close attention, Adam.” The boy nodded. “I never went to Heaven. I just pretended.”
Adam was adamant on this point. “No. I saw you in the ground. Me and Mommy and Nikita said prayers and everything.”
“That wasn’t me, Adam. That was an empty box.” Adam shook his head. Michael took his hands. “I need you to be very grown up Adam, and listen to every word I say. Can you do that?”
Adam nodded his head, brown eyes locked into green.
“Your grandpa, Mommy’s daddy, was a very, very bad man. That’s why he left Mommy when she was so little. So he could go do very bad things.”
“What kind of bad things?” whispered Adam.
“Things where lots and lots of people died. Even children. Grandpa didn’t care. He was evil, Adam. The company I worked for wanted me to help Mommy find Grandpa so we could stop him from doing bad things. Do you understand?”
“The Super-cops.”
“Yes,” Michael replied in relief. He was getting through. “Do you remember when Mommy got real sick, and had to go to the hospital?” Adam looked confused. Michael prodded him. “Nikita stayed with you, then you spent the night with the LeClerc’s.” Adam’s face cleared, and he nodded.
“Mommy wasn’t really sick. We tricked Grandpa so he would come to the hospital to see her. When he did, the Super-cops shot him.”
“But they shot you, too!” Adam protested. “Mommy said you got real sick and died, but I saw it on the news. It said you and Grandpa both got shot!”
“It looked like we did,” Michael confirmed, stroking Adam’s black hair, trying to calm the agitated boy, “but the bullet that shot me wasn’t real. It was just pretend. We had to make Grandpa’s people think I was dead, so they wouldn’t find out I was a Super-cop. So they wouldn’t try to hurt you or Mommy. That’s why I had to go away.” He pulled Adam into his lap. “It broke my heart, Adam, not seeing you and Mommy, but I had to go away and hide to keep you safe. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do.”
Adam was weeping openly now. “Was-was Mommy a Super-cop, too?” has asked hesitantly, already knowing the answer.
“No, Adam. Mommy really died in a car accident. She really is in heaven “ After a moment, he added, “The man who hit her died, too.” He didn’t know why he felt Adam had to know that.
Adam looked at Michael solemnly. “Did you kill him?”
Michael was floored. Adam wanted him to have killed the man who killed his mother. “That’s not how it works, Adam,” he answered, shaking his head. “Super-cops only go after really evil people that no body else can get.”
“He was evil,” pronounced Adam. “He killed Mommy.”
“He wasn’t evil, Adam,” said Michael sadly. “He was drunk.”
“What’s ‘drunk’?”
“I’ll explain that another time.” He ordered another coffee and another Pepsi from the bar. He and Adam were far from finished.
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Whoa! -- Shanola, 20:49:49 04/12/05 Tue
Okay, I don't know what to say here. I can't believe that Michael would trust this type of information to a six year old. I just cannot buy it. Adam would spill it in a heartbeat. That's what kids do. And this kind of information could get Michael and Adam killed.
I can see Michael wanting to explain things to his son, but I think Michael is experienced enough to realize that he has to come up with a clever, tight, cover story that even Adam will believe.
I would suggest that you rethink this scene entirely.
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Re: Whoa! -- Diane, 22:56:54 04/13/05 Wed
Aww, I like the part where he tells Adam he was a super-cop, and Adam askes if he has any super powers. I think that's a perfectly valid six-year old question.
I will rethink the scene, but Michael has to explain some of the reasons for recent events, particulary his miraculous return from the dead, why the bad men had Adam, and why they have to move to Canada.
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Yes, but... -- Shanola, 05:54:08 04/14/05 Thu
If Michael can't trust what Adam would tell a therapist, who is legally bound to keep the information confidential, why would he feel he could Adam with the this information, leaving him open to tell every other kid he meets? I mean, really. What kid wouldn't run around telling his friends that his dad was a Supercop?
Yes, Adam asking his dad if he had any super powers is a valid six year olds question. Maybe you can find a way to work it into a different conversation. I just can't believe that Michael would tell Adam so much of the truth. It's not in his character. He's been a Section Operative for so many years that he knows better. Plus, he is trying to hide from Section. Why would he risk exposing such confidential information?
I can understand that Adam needs to deal. I just think Michael would come up with a better cover story to explain it all to Adam.
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See "Elena's Death" below.. -- Diane, 19:23:50 04/14/05 Thu
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Chapter 3 - Alternate Version -- Diane, 13:19:42 04/16/05 Sat
Does this work better?
Okay – Chapter 3
For the first time ever, Michael let Adam drink a large Pepsi. He was counting on the caffeine to keep him awake long enough for them to talk. So far, it seemed to be working. Adam had never been in a bar before, and the rows of bottles behind the counter fascinated him. Michael explained how the bartender kept the foam from overflowing the beer mugs, hoping to start a dialogue. It worked. Adam started to ask another question when Michael leaned back in his chair and said nonchalantly, “I quit my job the other day.”
“You did?” Adam seemed marginally interested.
“Yes. That’s why we’re moving to Canada.”
“Are you going to sell things there instead of Europe?” Adam asked, becoming bored. He yawned.
Michael looked around the room dramatically, leaned forward, whispered conspiratorially, “Can you keep a secret?”
That piqued Adam’s interest. “Yes,” he answered hesitantly.
“I mean it Adam. This is a really big secret.”
Adam looked at him and snapped, “I’m not a kid anymore, Dad. I’m six. I know how to keep a secret.”
Michael kept his face a blank mask, though he wanted to burst out laughing. Adam reminded him so much of Nikita at that moment. “Okay,” he agreed, beckoning Adam closer. “I never was a business man. I never sold stuff. I was just pretending.”
“What did you do really?” asked Adam, taking the bait.
“I was a Super-cop,” Michael said solemnly.
“Dad-dy!” Adam said, irritated, pushing back from the table.
“I’m totally serious, Adam. I worked for a place that caught the baddest of the bad guys.”
“Do you have super powers?” asked Adam skeptically.
“No,” said Michael, shaking his head. “I’m a real person. Just like you.”
“But you do,” Adam reminded him. “You came back from Heaven!”
Michael took a deep breath. This was where it was going to get dicey. “I need you to pay close attention, Adam.” The boy nodded. “I never went to Heaven. I just pretended.”
Adam was adamant on this point. “No. I saw you in the ground. Me and Mommy and Nikita said prayers and everything.”
“That wasn’t me, Adam. That was an empty box.” Adam shook his head. Michael took his hands. “I need you to be very grown up Adam, and listen to every word I say. Can you do that?”
Adam nodded his head, brown eyes locked into green.
“Grandpa died in the hospital, Adam. Not me. Another super-cop shot Grandpa because he was one of those really, really bad guys.”
“But they shot you, too!” Adam protested. “Mommy said you got real sick and died, but I saw it on the news. It said you and Grandpa both got shot!”
“It looked like we did,” Michael confirmed, stroking Adam’s black hair, trying to calm the agitated boy, “but the bullet that shot me wasn’t real. It was just pretend. We had to play make-believe so that no bad guys would hurt you or Mommy if they came to look for me.
“But if you’re a super-cop, why didn’t you stay and protect us?” cried Adam plaintively. “Why did you make me and Mommy think you died? Mommy cried every day! She didn’t think I knew, but I did. She said I was the man of the house and I had to be strong and be a big boy. But it was a lie! YOU lied! You went away and didn’t come back, but you were hiding from us the whole time! I hate you!”
Adam climbed down from his chair and tried to slip away. Michael grasped him around the waist and waited till he had stopped struggling before pulling Adam firmly against him. He wouldn’t sit in Michael’s lap, but he wasn’t squirming to get away anymore, so Michael took that as a sign to continue.
“I had to go away, Adam. The bad guys knew I was a super-cop now, and if I came home, they might have tried to come after me and accidentally hurt you and Mommy.” His voice grew softer, and Adam leaned against Michael’s chest. “It broke my heart, Adam, not seeing you and Mommy, but I had to go away and hide to keep you safe. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do.”
“Did Mommy know Grandpa was bad?” Adam asked softly, finally buying into the story.
“No, she didn’t. It would have been dangerous if she knew.”
Michael pulled Adam slowly onto his lap. The boy was weeping openly now. “Was-was Mommy a Super-cop, too?” has asked hesitantly, already knowing the answer.
“No, Adam. Mommy really died in a car accident. She really is in heaven. He ordered another coffee and another Pepsi from the bar. He and Adam were far from finished.
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Okay - Chapter 4 -- Diane, 11:11:28 04/04/05 Mon
Nikita examined the three files in front of her. The candidates all had strengths and weaknesses but, on the surface, seemed evenly matched. She tried to read between the lines.
Joan Evard. 42. 5’10”. 160 lbs. With Section 12 years. Good marks in profiling; excellent trainer. Not much field experience. Has been at three different Sections. I wonder why?
Kendrick Lockett. 48. 6’3”. 190 lbs. With Section 23 years—last 10 in Spec. Ops. Excellent marks in all areas. A note in his file caught her eye: “Has problems with authority figures.” She smiled. They might get along just fine.
Megan Little. 26. 5’7”. 125 lbs. With Section 7 years. Has experience in profiling and in cold ops. Also a trained Valentine Op. Not sure that’s the kind of distraction Jason needs, she thought with a smirk.
Nikita placed the files aside and raised her hands in the air, stretching her weary back. Quinn chose that moment to knock at the door. “Enter,” she called out. Finally, some action. She felt like her butt was growing permanently attached to her chair.
To her surprise, Quinn entered with a tea tray and tea pot full of Oolong tea, just what Nikita had been thinking about. “Quinn you read my mind,” she said, smiling broadly. Quinn smiled back.
“I was making some for myself, and I knew you preferred tea to coffee, so I thought you might—“
Her eyes fell on the files from Center, and her demeanor immediately grew frosty.
“Here,” she said, setting down the tray none too gently and leaving without a word. “Thank you!” Nikita called out to an empty space. She shook her head. That girl seriously needed a renewal course in Sucking-up 101.
* * *
Joan “Call me Joanie” Evard had short dark hair and tortoise-shell glasses with thick lenses. After about 10 minutes, Nikita understood why Joanie had been transferred to so many Sections—the woman never shut up! Her mock profiles and sims were good, and it was obvious she could break anyone in the white room simply by virtue of her being there, but Nikita knew that they could never work together. She thanked Joanie for coming, told her she’d let her know, and spent another 15 minutes trying to get her out of the office.
Ken Lockett was reserved but friendly; the type who could put anyone at ease or on guard with just a look. He had dark silver hair and piercing dark eyes that chillingly reminded her of Madeline. He passed his tests with flying colors, and she noted that he worked well under pressure. She asked him why he wanted to leave Spec. Ops., and his face closed shut. At first, she didn’t think he was going to answer. He finally said, “No one really wants to be in Spec. Ops. I just happen to be good at it. I’ve done my time.” Nikita let her mind drift for a moment and thought about Jurgen, wondering if he really enjoyed playing mind games all day. She looked at Ken, and by the expression on his face she knew he thought he had blown the interview. She thanked him for coming, and he took her hand and looked her straight in the eye as if the job were already his. Nikita liked that. He didn’t dwell on things.
Megan Little was blonde and thin, and young and inexperienced. She failed her mock sim; her mock profile was mediocre, and she had no concrete ideas about what to do to make Section One more effective. Nikita wondered what Center was thinking when they sent her file. Not only was she vastly under qualified, she has shown up in jeans and chewing bubble gum. Was this some sort of payback for Nikita’s first day in Section? And not be snarky, but though Megan was cute, she was nowhere close to being Valentine material in Nikita’s opinion. Nikita skipped Megan’s tour of the building and had Jason show her out. He came to Comm back bragging that he had gotten her phone number. Maybe there was a purpose to her visit after all!
* * *
Nikita curled up in the bed in her apartment, basking in the sent of lavender candles. She wanted to read the additional material Oversight had sent over on Kendrick Lockett. She skipped over the usual physical statistics, education, previous jobs, and went straight to his conviction record. What she read chilled her. He had murdered a child.
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Okay. -- Shanola, 20:57:38 04/12/05 Tue
She felt like her butt was growing permanently attached to her chair.
*snark* LOL I laughed at this line. =P
Just a few quick things.
Wouldn't Nikita have read Kenrick Lockett's conviction record before she interviewed him? I found that rather odd.
Hmm...also, you've got a lot of 'telling' but not a lot of 'showing'. Instead of telling us that Megan Little is blonde and thin and chewing bubble gum, why not write a little bit of Nikita's interview with her and show us?
Am I making sense? It's been a rather long time since I've beta read, so I could be screwing this up!LOL Let me know if I've completely confused you, okay?
Keep on writing. =P
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Re: Okay. -- Diane, 23:10:13 04/13/05 Wed
Wouldn't Nikita have read Kenrick Lockett's conviction record before she interviewed him? I found that rather odd.
* * *
Their entire files weren't sent, just basic resume stuff.
Hmm...also, you've got a lot of 'telling' but not a lot of 'showing'. Instead of telling us that Megan Little is blonde and thin and chewing bubble gum, why not write a little bit of Nikita's interview with her and show us?
* * *
Yeah, I kinda rushed through those. Actually Joanie and Megan (and Ken) are my classmates at school; we're all going back to get our elementary ed certificates. Ken, I like. Joanie and Megan, not so much.
Am I making sense? It's been a rather long time since I've beta read, so I could be screwing this up!LOL Let me know if I've completely confused you, okay?
* * *
Not confused at all! Also willing to listen to all suggestions--not promising to take them all. :D
I really labored over the scenes between Michael and Adam (the story continues in Ch. 5), walking a fine line between the truth and 6 yr old need-to-know. The kidnapping would weigh heaviest on his mind right now, so Michael would have to give him some sort of valid explanation about what led up to that and why they are now free.
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Re: Okay. -- Shanola, 05:57:29 04/14/05 Thu
Are you sure the kidnapping would weigh heaviest on Adam's mind? What about his mother's death? That seems pretty heavy to me.
And you don't have to take any of my suggestions...but I'm glad you are reading them and haven't responded in anger to my honesty. =P
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Elena's death -- Diane, 19:18:31 04/14/05 Thu
It's not made clear in the series how long Elena has been dead and Adam has been in foster care. He knows that his father died two years ago, so is familiar with the process. I'm not trying to imply he is *okay* with it; just that he's been there done that.
I think seeing Ops shot and being held by the Collective, not to mention seeing his dad back from the dead, has to have his head in a whirl.
Maybe my Adam is more mature than canon, but he's had to deal with a lot over the last two years. I have dropped the part about the drunk driver, though.Adam can know what his father was, but doesn't need all the details of what he did.
I never get angry. :D I may disagree with you, and/or ask someone else's opinion (until they get it right LOL), but I'm moving forward with my story. That's why I put the foundation on this board; I want it to be solid.
I'm still very much a newbie, and I want to get it right. I've seen some beautifully written stories on the boards, as well as some poorly done crap; I'd like to avoid being a member of the latter group.
I read every suggestion/comment I get, and will do my best to either justify or modify what I've written. Some things I will defend to the death, so we'll just have to work around them. Thanks for continuing to read my blather!
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My thoughts -- Persephone, 20:04:16 04/14/05 Thu
I also have a little trouble believeing that Michael would tell Adam so much. Whose to say that he and Adam haven't talked it out already. We don't have to know what the two of them said to each other. It might be a good way to introduce new readers to the situation, but here most of us already know what happened. If you'd really like to get into Adam's head a little and feel he can't go to a therapist in the story, why not have Michael act as his therapist? He doesn't have to explain what happened, just deal with how Adam felt about everything. Just a thought.
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Interesting idea -- Diane, 20:28:49 04/14/05 Thu
Maybe looking at from a six-year old's POV? Sliding over the whole "Grandpa" thing.I'll have to see what I can come up with.
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Chapter 4 - Alternate Version -- Diane, 17:40:34 04/16/05 Sat
Okay – Chapter 4
Nikita examined the three files in front of her. The candidates all had strengths and weaknesses but, on the surface, seemed evenly matched. She tried to read between the lines.
Joan Evard. 42. 5’10”. 160 lbs. With Section 12 years. Good marks in profiling; excellent trainer. Not much field experience. Has been at three different Sections. I wonder why?
Kendrick Lockett. 48. 6’3”. 190 lbs. With Section 23 years—last 10 in Spec. Ops. Excellent marks in all areas. A note in his file caught her eye: “Has problems with authority figures.” She smiled. They might get along just fine.
Megan Little. 26. 5’7”. 125 lbs. With Section 7 years. Has experience in profiling and in cold ops. Also a trained Valentine Op. Not sure that’s the kind of distraction Jason needs, she thought with a smirk.
Nikita placed the files aside and raised her hands in the air, stretching her weary back. Quinn chose that moment to knock at the door. “Enter,” she called out. Finally, some action. She felt like her butt was growing permanently attached to her chair.
To her surprise, Quinn entered with a tea tray and tea pot full of Oolong tea, just what Nikita had been thinking about. “Quinn you read my mind,” she said, smiling broadly. Quinn smiled back.
“I was making some for myself, and I knew you preferred tea to coffee, so I thought you might—“
Her eyes fell on the files from Center, and her demeanor immediately grew frosty.
“Here,” she said, setting down the tray none too gently and leaving without a word. “Thank you!” Nikita called out to an empty space. She shook her head. That girl seriously needed a renewal course in Sucking-up 101.
* * *
Joan Evard was pleasant and outgoing, with short dark hair and tortoise-shell glasses with thick lenses. “Call me Joanie,” were her first words to Nikita. After about 10 minutes, Nikita understood why Joanie had been transferred to so many Sections—the woman never shut up! She talked incessantly while working on her mock profiles and sims and, although her scores were good, her lack of concentration on any one thing at a time made Nikita a nervous wreck. Joanie’s cheery demeanor didn’t impress Nikita as being suited to the White Room, either. She quickly came to the conclusion that they could never work well together. She thanked Joanie for coming, told her she’d let her know, and spent another 15 minutes trying to get her out of the office.
Ken Lockett impressed Nikita as being reserved but friendly; the type who could put anyone at ease or on guard with just a look. He had silver hair and piercing dark eyes that chillingly reminded her of Madeline. He passed his tests with flying colors, and she noted that he worked well under the pressurized conditions she had imposed.
She asked Ken he wanted to leave Spec. Ops., and at first she didn’t think he was going to answer. He finally said, “No one really wants to be in Spec. Ops. I just happen to be good at it. I’ve done my time.” Nikita let her mind drift for a moment and thought about Jurgen, wondering if he really enjoyed playing mind games all day. She looked at Ken, and by the expression on his face she knew he thought he had blown the interview. She thanked him for coming, and as he took her hand he looked her straight in the eye as if the job were already his. Nikita liked that. He didn’t dwell on things.
Megan Little was a bit of a shock. Blonde and thin, she was also young and inexperienced. She also arrived for her interview in jeans and chewing bubble gum. Was this some sort of payback for Nikita’s first day in Section? She failed her mock sim, and her mock profile was mediocre at best. When Nikita asked about her ideas to make Section One more effective, Megan looked at her, surprised, and shrugged. It was obvious she had taken no time to prepare for the interview and now that she was here, was not taking it seriously. Nikita wondered what Center was thinking when they sent her file. She skipped Megan’s tour of the building and had Jason show her out. He came to Comm back bragging that he had gotten her phone number. Maybe there had been a purpose to her visit after all!
* * *
Nikita curled up in the bed in her apartment, basking in the sent of lavender candles. She wanted to read the additional material Oversight had sent over on Kendrick Lockett. She skipped over the usual physical statistics, education, previous jobs, and went straight to his conviction record. What she read chilled her. He had murdered a child.
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Re: Chapter 4 - Alternate Version -- Shanola, 18:18:16 04/20/05 Wed
To be honest, I only noted one or two changes. I think this chapter will work, though. =P
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Re: Chapter 4 - Alternate Version -- Diane, 18:39:32 04/22/05 Fri
You asked me to do more showing; less telling. I tried.
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Okay - Chapter 5 -- Diane, 18:06:15 04/16/05 Sat
Michael waited until Adam had finished half of his Pepsi and polished off an entire bowl of honey-roasted peanuts before he attempted to continue the conversation. He was a bit concerned that all of this unaccustomed sugar might make Adam wired, but anything would be preferable to the lethargy that had filled his previous days.
“Ready, Adam?” Michael prodded.
Adam put on his ‘I’m-about-to-get-a-shot’ face and took Michael’s hand.
“The other Super-cops hid me so well that I didn’t even know Mommy had died, and that you were alone. I came to get you then, but you had moved.”
Adam nodded, remembering.
“My Super-cop friends were looking for you, but some bad guys found out who I was, and they wanted to find you, too.” Adam’s eyes grew huge. Things were finally starting to make sense.
“You were playing in a park, with your car. The car rolled into a parking garage.” Adam shut his eyes. Clearly, he remembered this part vividly. Michael continued in a soft, steady voice, stroking Adam’s hand reassuringly. “The Super-cops and the bad guys found you at the same time. They both called to you, but they were both strangers, so you stayed where you were. That was the right thing to do, Adam.” Adam opened his eyes and looked at his father, who seemed very sad. “But the bad guys beat the Super-cops that time, and they took you away where I couldn’t find you.”
“A Super-cop got shot,” recalled Adam, seeing Operations lying on the cement in a pool of blood.
“Yes, he did,” confirmed Michael, not denying what Adam clearly remembered.
“What the bad guys really wanted was the boss of all the Super-cops. They said they would give you back if I would give the boss to them.”
“You traded the boss
“This is the most important part Adam. I really need you to listen carefully because it involves you, me, Nikita, and the boss of the Super-cops, and the reason we had to leave Europe.” Michael didn’t know how much more of this Adam could take. He had to wrap things up quickly.
“We tricked the bad guys,” Michael went on. “The boss was old, and tired, and very, very sick,” he improvised. “He told Nikita that if she would be the new boss, he would trade himself for you, and you and I could get away from the bad guys for good.” He made sure Adam was following him. He was. “When you and the old man crossed the bridge together, he wasn’t the boss anymore. He wasn’t even a Super-cop! We fooled them!”
Adam’s eyes lit up. “And you were alive again, and I ran and ran, and you hugged me!” He climbed from his seat and jumped joyously into Michael’s arms. “We fooled them all!” he shouted with glee.
Michael sighed in relief. Apparently, Adam was never aware of the assassination of Mr. Jones by the Collective. One less thing to deal with.
“And now you can marry Nikita and we can live happily ever after,” Adam said in a sing-song voice, smiling up at Michael while holding his father’s face cupped in his hands.
Michael wrapped his much larger hands around his son’s small ones. “That’s the sad part, Adam. Nikita can’t come live with us. She’s the boss of the Super-cops now. She has to stay there.”
Adam was dismayed. “For how long?”
“Probably forever.” Michael heard his own voice break, and he ducked his head so his son wouldn’t see the moisture forming in his eyes. When his voice was steady again, he looked down at his son, who held his trembling bottom lip between his teeth, tears silently coursing down his cheeks. Again, so much like Nikita.
“Nikita made a promise, Adam. She promised to be the boss, and she has to do that in Europe.”
“Then why can’t we stay with her?” Adam persisted.
“Because the bad guys still want me. They know they got tricked. They won’t know where to find me if we live in Canada.”
Adam thought this through. “Can we visit her?” he asked, hope waning. “Can she visit us?”
Michael buried his face in Adam’s hair. “I’m afraid not, son.”
Adam was silent for several moments. Suddenly he blurted out “That sucks!!”
Michael’s head whipped up and a chuckle burst out. “Where did you pick that up?”
“At school.”
“Well, drop it before you start at your new school. Which reminds me. We have a whole lot of things to memorize before we get to Montreal.”
“What kind of things?”
Just then, there was announcement made that the ferry from Nova Scotia had reached Bar Harbor, Maine. All non-US and non–Canadian passengers needed to have their passports ready.
“Daddy, I need my passport!” Adam cried anxiously, quite sure he hadn’t seen it in his carry-on bag.
“No you don’t, Adam. You’re Canadian. Here’s your birth certificate. Hold on to it.”
Adam perused the document. “But that’s not my name,” he protested in confusion.
Michael automatically went into mission mode. “It is now, and you were born in Montreal. Don’t speak unless one of the customs officers asks you anything, and then act like you don’t speak English. Only speak French.”
Panic was written all over Adam’s face. Michael sighed and remembered that he was a father, not a Cold Op, and he had put Adam through entirely too much already for one night.
“Here,” he said, removing the document from Adam’s sticky fingers. He picked Adam up and slung him over his shoulder. “Close your eyes and stay fast asleep, no matter what you see or hear, until I tell you it’s okay. All right?”
“Oui, Papa.”
Michael walked over to the chain link fence where a row of customs officers separated him from his car and the United States. He was planning to drive south along the coast, then through northern New England before crossing the border again in New York. It would give him a chance to bond with Adam again, while practicing for their roles as Michel and Adam Samuelson.
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Chapter 5 - Read this one intead, please -- Diane, 18:10:59 04/16/05 Sat
Michael waited until Adam had finished half of his Pepsi and polished off an entire bowl of honey-roasted peanuts before he attempted to continue the conversation. He was a bit concerned that all of this unaccustomed sugar might make Adam wired, but anything would be preferable to the lethargy that had filled his previous days.
“Ready, Adam?” Michael prodded.
Adam put on his ‘I’m-about-to-get-a-shot’ face and took Michael’s hand.
“The other Super-cops hid me so well that I didn’t even know Mommy had died, and that you were alone. I came to get you then, but you had moved.”
Adam nodded, remembering.
“My Super-cop friends were looking for you, but some bad guys found out who I was, and they wanted to find you, too.” Adam’s eyes grew huge. Things were finally starting to make sense.
“You were playing in a park, with your car. The car rolled into a parking garage.” Adam shut his eyes. Clearly, he remembered this part vividly. Michael continued in a soft, steady voice, stroking Adam’s hand reassuringly. “The Super-cops and the bad guys found you at the same time. They both called to you, but they were both strangers, so you stayed where you were. That was the right thing to do, Adam.” Adam opened his eyes and looked at his father, who seemed very sad. “But the bad guys beat the Super-cops that time, and they took you away where I couldn’t find you.”
“A Super-cop got shot,” recalled Adam, seeing Operations lying on the cement in a pool of blood.
“Yes, he did,” confirmed Michael, not denying what Adam clearly remembered.
“What the bad guys really wanted was the boss of all the Super-cops. They said they would give you back if I would give the boss to them.”
“You traded the boss?” Adam asked skeptically. Even at six, he knew something was wrong here. You don’t just give up your teammates that easily, especially the team captain.
“This is the most important part Adam. I really need you to listen carefully because it involves you, me, Nikita, and the boss of the Super-cops, and the reason we had to leave Europe.” Michael didn’t know how much more of this Adam could take. He had to wrap things up quickly.
“We tricked the bad guys,” Michael went on. “The boss was old, and tired, and very, very sick,” he improvised. “He told Nikita that if she would be the new boss, he would trade himself for you, and you and I could get away from the bad guys for good.” He made sure Adam was following him. He was. “When you and the old man crossed the bridge together, he wasn’t the boss anymore. He wasn’t even a Super-cop! We fooled them!”
Adam’s eyes lit up. “And you were alive again, and I ran and ran, and you hugged me!” He climbed from his seat and jumped joyously into Michael’s arms. “We fooled them all!” he shouted with glee.
Michael sighed in relief. Apparently, Adam was never aware of the assassination of Mr. Jones by the Collective. One less thing to deal with.
“And now you can marry Nikita and we can live happily ever after,” Adam said in a sing-song voice, smiling up at Michael while holding his father’s face cupped in his hands.
Michael wrapped his much larger hands around his son’s small ones. “That’s the sad part, Adam. Nikita can’t come live with us. She’s the boss of the Super-cops now. She has to stay there.”
Adam was dismayed. “For how long?”
“Probably forever.” Michael heard his own voice break, and he ducked his head so his son wouldn’t see the moisture forming in his eyes. When his voice was steady again, he looked down at his son, who held his trembling bottom lip between his teeth, tears silently coursing down his cheeks. Again, so much like Nikita.
“Nikita made a promise, Adam. She promised to be the boss, and she has to do that in Europe.”
“Then why can’t we stay with her?” Adam persisted.
“Because the bad guys still want me. They know they got tricked. They won’t know where to find me if we live in Canada.”
Adam thought this through. “Can we visit her?” he asked, hope waning. “Can she visit us?”
Michael buried his face in Adam’s hair. “I’m afraid not, son.”
Adam was silent for several moments. Suddenly he blurted out “That sucks!!”
Michael’s head whipped up and a chuckle burst out. “Where did you pick that up?”
“At school.”
“Well, drop it before you start at your new school. Which reminds me. We have a whole lot of things to memorize before we get to Montreal.”
“What kind of things?”
Just then, there was announcement made that the ferry from Nova Scotia had reached Bar Harbor, Maine. All non-US and non–Canadian passengers needed to have their passports ready.
“Daddy, I need my passport!” Adam cried anxiously, quite sure he hadn’t seen it in his carry-on bag.
“No you don’t, Adam. You’re Canadian. Here’s your birth certificate. Hold on to it.”
Adam perused the document. “But that’s not my name,” he protested in confusion.
Michael automatically went into mission mode. “It is now, and you were born in Montreal. Don’t speak unless one of the customs officers asks you anything, and then act like you don’t speak English. Only speak French.”
Panic was written all over Adam’s face. Michael sighed and remembered that he was a father, not a Cold Op, and he had put Adam through entirely too much already for one night.
“Here,” he said, removing the document from Adam’s sticky fingers. He picked Adam up and slung him over his shoulder. “Close your eyes and stay fast asleep, no matter what you see or hear, until I tell you it’s okay. All right?”
“Oui, Papa.”
Michael walked over to the chain link fence where a row of customs officers separated him from his car and the United States. He was planning to drive south along the coast, then through northern New England before crossing the border again in New York. It would give him a chance to bond with Adam again, while practicing for their roles as Michel and Adam Samuelson.
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Re: Chapter 5 - Read this one intead, please -- Shanola, 18:28:39 04/20/05 Wed
Okay, I still have issues with the fact that Michael is being so open with a six year old, son or not. Obviously, you are holding firm to that scene and unwilling to change the basic premise.
We shall have to agree to disagree on this.
I think I need to read a few more chapters before I can comment further. I need to see more of the story structure. I'm not sure where you are going with this and I think I need to.
If that's a problem, let me know and I'll back away and let someone else beta for you. =P
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Re: Chapter 5 - Read this one intead, please -- Diane, 18:48:48 04/22/05 Fri
I know you don't like it, but it means a lot to me. I did some major rewrites to both chapters 3 and 5 (mostly 5); cutting a lot out and trying to let Adam lead some of the conversation. Is Ch 3 at least a bit more palatable than it was?
I'll post the next four chapters. BTW, I *loathe* ch 6, but I don't how to fix it. It sucks, so feel free to slice and dice.:)
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Okay. Please give me a few days, as the weekends are rather busy for me. -- Shanola, 07:22:11 04/23/05 Sat
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Okay - Chapter 6 -- Diane, 19:00:09 04/22/05 Fri
Nikita couldn’t get past the first line in Ken’s file. Convicted of the murder of a child. Third Degree. Nikita thought that meant not premeditated, but she wasn’t sure. He was also convicted of battery and assault of a minor child that resulted in the child being in a paraplegic state for the rest of his life.
She flipped back to the front page. Ken was an excellent student in high school, and was a few credits short of an elementary education degree with a minor in special education. All of his student teaching evaluations had been excellent. Never married, he volunteered as a mentor in the Court Appointed Special Advocacy program, and had been a foster father himself several times, twice to children with special needs.
Nikita turned back to the coverage of his trial. He just didn’t seem the type, but she knew first-hand that looks could be deceiving. From what Section had uncovered, it seems as though a young girl, 13, with severe Cerebral Palsy, was sitting in her wheelchair in the park waiting for a ride home. She was sitting near the basket ball courts. Two boys, both just weeks short of 18, allegedly kicked over her chair, knocked her on the ground, and proceeded to lift her skirt, preparing to rape her. Ken stumbled upon the scene, picked up the first kid by his ankles, slung him over his head and into the wall of the school. The boy later died of his injuries. Ken picked up the second youth in the same method and tossed him over his back, letting him hit the concrete. His neck was broken. Ken helped the girl pull herself together, put her back in her chair, and waited with her until her parents came. There was a phone nearby, but he made no effort to call for an ambulance.
Friends of the two boys testified in court that Ken had raped the girl, and beat the two kids who tried to stop him, killing one and breaking the neck of the other in the process. Unfortunately, the girl was unable to testify in her own behalf, as her flailing arms and garbled speech could not be interpreted, even by her parents. When asked who hurt her, she pointed to Ken. When asked who saved her, she pointed to Ken. When asked who hurt the two boys, she pointed to Ken. He had no other witnesses, and the victim’s testimony was concluded to be inadmissible. The five boys who had testified on the boys’ behalf (even though two of them were never even in the park that night) refused to recant their testimony, and the judge was forced to find Kendrick Lockett guilty of Murder in the 3rd Degree of a Minor child, and Battery in the 1st Degree of a Minor child. There were no rape charges filed.
Ken was sentenced to prison without the possibility of parole. He spent the first six months in isolation. Child killers are not popular in prison, regardless of how old the “child” is and what the circumstances surrounding the crime might have been. After that, he “committed suicide” in prison and was brought to Section, where he excelled in all areas—except Valentine training. Nikita shrugged. Not everyone was suited to be a Valentine Op., including herself.
Putting Ken’s file aside, Nikita was pretty sure she had made up her mind. The “child” he had murdered had been an almost-adult thug would-be rapist. He deserved what he got. If that’s what really happened. She would get all the gory details from Ken tomorrow. She hadn’t found anything else in this police file other than a couple of speeding tickets and heck, who didn’t have a couple of those?
She would give him the grand tour tomorrow, starting with Walter, then the Gym, then the briefing room, then the Chief Tacticians office. She knew she couldn’t avoid Comm. for ever, and eventually he and Quinn would meet, but she could put it off as long as possible couldn’t she?
* * *
Ken thought if he had to endure one more story about Joanie and her nephew’s Ripley’ Believe It Or Not teeth, he was going to offer to be put into abeyance. Yes, the waiting was bad, but the company he was keeping was worse. Between Merry Sunshine and the Vapid Valley Girl, he thought he might actually lose his mind. He was both startled and gratified to hear his cell ring, and have Jason ask him to meet Nikita in the Perch at 10 this morning.
“Why you?” mused Joanie. “I interviewed first, I’m first alphabetically . . .”
:But I’m older and I’m taller,” explained Ken with a straight face as he went to take his shower.
“And he can write his name in the snow,” chipped in Megan, the first conversation she had contributed to in the last 24 hours.
“Are you serious? Do you think she just wants a guy?” inquired Joanie anxiously.
“Oh, she wants a guy, all right,” confirmed Megan, “but it’s not Kendrick.”
“Well, who is it? persisted Joanie. “Who’s the guy she wants?”
Megan crawled back into bad and got comfortable while she tried to decide whether to not to give the oh-so-obvious answer. Had the woman never heard of Magnificent Michael? Unfortunately for Joanie, Megan was in a bitchy mood this morning. “Maybe if you’d shut up once in a while and listen to someone else talk, you might learn something.”
She truly enjoyed the look for surprise and hurt on Joanie’s face before she pulled the covers up over her head and went back to sleep.
* * *
Nikita asked Ken to tell her about the conviction that let him to being recruited by Section. He told her very politely to read his file. He had no way of knowing that Nikita had been brushed off by the best. “I want to hear it in your own words,” she persisted. Ken took a deep breath and proceeded to recount, almost word-for-word, the news story rendition of the incident. Nikita put her hand on his arm to stop him.
“Look at me, Kendrick,” she commanded. He did, and found clear blue eyes boring into brown. It was as if she was trying to see into his soul, and it unnerved him more than just a little. He wasn’t used to being on this side of the interrogation. “I want you to close your eyes, and tell me exactly what you saw and exactly what you were thinking at that moment.”
Ken closed his eyes. It was fall--the air was chilly. He had taken a short-cut through the park to reach his apartment more quickly. He heard two men laughing loudly. It was not with pleasure. Then he saw the wheelchair on its side, the top wheel spinning crazily. Ken had worked with special needs kids for years, so he ran to see what he could do to help. Then he saw the girl, or rather, her legs. She was flopping around on the asphalt, wildly, desperately, trying to avoid these men. Both of them had their pants undone—it wasn’t a difficult leap to the logical conclusion. The first kid swung at Ken, who ducked down and grabbed the kid by the ankles. With strength he didn’t know he had, he picked him up and whirled him around his head, then let him fly. The sound of the kid crashing into the building and though windows never registered, because Ken had gone after the second kid. He picked him up and tossed him backward over his 6’3” frame. The kid was trying to zip up his pants, and didn’t put his hands out to break his fall. His neck snapped.
Ken pulled the girl’s skirt back down over her thighs, and gently lifted her back into her chair. He asked if the boys had hurt her in a private spot; she said no, then burst into tears. By the time her parents came, she was incoherent. Her father ordered Ken to move away from her, and called the police and an ambulance. Ken never said a word in his defense. He *had* committed the crimes of which he was accused. He knew he would never be allowed to work with children again, and he felt as though his life had no purpose anymore. At least in Section, he could help to bring down the child killers who deserved to die.
He looked at Nikita, who was looking back at him with a smile on her face. He had told her what she wanted to hear. In truth, she wanted to cry for him, but she kept repeating Michael’s mantra in her head: “Show no weakness. Show no weakness.”
Nikita stood and held out her hand. “Let me introduce you to the other key players of Section One.” Ken ignored her hand, but stood and followed her out of the office.
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A few things. -- Shanola, 20:20:39 04/29/05 Fri
A few things jumped out at me here.
First, you told the incident of Ken's trial twice, which was repetitive. You may want to combine those two 'telling's into one scene.
Second, if the girl had severe cerebral palsy and couldn't talk, why in the hell was she left alone in a park?? There are people with cerebal palsy that come to my mall once a week and for every person confined to a wheelchair, there is someone with them. Always. At least in the mall. I can't imagine a young girl like that being left alone in a park to wait on a bus. Also,you were inconsitant in her characterization, because she can't communicate well enough to be understood in court, but she can say "no" when Ken asks if she was injured.
Not sure why all the candidates were hanging out together, waiting for Nikita to call them. I got the feeling that they'd had seperate interviews and that an entire night had passed. Why would they be hanging out together waiting for Nikita to pick someone? That was rather odd.
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Re: A few things. -- Diane, 21:09:27 04/29/05 Fri
I told you I hate this chapter. I wanted to get Ken off the hook in Nikita's eyes by having the "child" he murdered being a 17 year old thug. I hate the backstory I came up with. I may redo the whole thing.
I see your point about the three candidates hanging together. Actually, I just needed a filler scene there. I'll think of something else.
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Okay - Chapter 6 - Alternate Version -- Diane, 12:07:29 04/30/05 Sat
Nikita couldn’t get past the first line in Ken’s file. Convicted of the murder of a child. Third Degree. Nikita thought that meant not premeditated, but she wasn’t sure. He was also convicted of battery and assault of a minor child that resulted in the child being in a paraplegic state for the rest of his life.
She flipped back to the front page. Ken was an excellent student in high school, and was a few credits short of an elementary education degree with a minor in special education. All of his student teaching evaluations had been excellent. Never married, he volunteered as a mentor in the Court Appointed Special Advocacy program, and had been a foster father himself several times, twice to children with special needs.
Nikita turned back to the coverage of his trial. He just didn’t seem the type, but she knew first-hand that looks could be deceiving. From what Section had uncovered, it seems as though a girl, 14, with a broken leg, was sitting in her wheelchair in the park near the shelter, waiting for a ride home. Two boys, both just weeks short of 18, allegedly kicked over her chair, knocked her on the ground, and proceeded to lift her skirt, preparing to rape her. Ken stumbled upon the scene, grabbed the first kid, and slung him over behind him and into the wall of the shelter. The boy later died of his injuries. Ken picked up the second youth by his ankles and tossed him over his shoulder, letting him hit the concrete. The kid was trying to zip up his pants, and didn’t put his hands out to break his fall. His neck snapped. Ken helped the girl pull herself together, put her back in her chair, and waited with her until her parents came. There was a phone nearby, but he made no effort to call for an ambulance.
Friends of the two boys testified in court that Ken had raped the girl, and beat the two kids who tried to stop him, killing one and breaking the neck of the other in the process. Unfortunately, the girl was unable to testify in her own behalf, as the event had traumatized her so that she would not speak, nor even point when asked who had hurt her. Ken had no other witnesses. The three teens who had testified on the boys’ behalf (even though none of them was ever in the park that night) refused to recant their testimony, and the judge was forced to find Kendrick Lockett guilty of Murder in the 3rd Degree of a Minor child, and Battery in the 1st Degree of a Minor child. There were no rape charges filed.
Ken was sentenced to prison without the possibility of parole. He spent the first six months in isolation. Child killers are not popular in prison, regardless of how old the “child” is and what the circumstances surrounding the crime might have been. After that, he “committed suicide” in prison and was brought to Section, where he excelled in all areas—except Valentine training. Nikita shrugged. Not everyone was suited to be a Valentine Op., including herself.
Putting Ken’s file aside, Nikita was pretty sure she had made up her mind. The “child” he had murdered had been an almost-adult thug would-be rapist. He deserved what he got. If that’s what really happened. She hadn’t found anything else in his police file other than a couple of speeding tickets and heck, who didn’t have a couple of those? She would give Ken a chance to tell his side of the story tomorrow. If he was who she thought he was, she had found the person she was looking for.
* * *
For the most part, the candidates had been isolated while at Section, but this particular morning found them all in the Section commissary. Ken thought if he had to endure one more story about Joanie and her nephew’s Ripley’ Believe It Or Not teeth, he was going to offer to be put into abeyance. Yes, the waiting was bad, but the company he was keeping was worse. Between Merry Sunshine and the Vapid Valley Girl, he thought he might actually lose his mind. He was both startled and gratified to hear his cell ring, and have Jason ask him to meet Nikita in the Perch at 10 this morning.
“Why you?” mused Joanie. “I interviewed first, I’m first alphabetically…”
:But I’m older and I’m taller,” explained Ken with a straight face as he went to answer the summons. .
“And he can write his name in the snow,” chipped in Megan, the first conversation she had contributed to in the last 24 hours.
“Are you serious? Do you think she just wants a guy?” inquired Joanie anxiously.
“Oh, she wants a guy, all right,” confirmed Megan, “but it’s not Kendrick.”
“Well, who is it? persisted Joanie. “Who’s the guy she wants?”
Megan’s wheels turned while she tried to decide whether to not to give the oh-so-obvious answer. Had the woman never heard of Magnificent Michael? Unfortunately for Joanie, Megan was in a bitchy mood this morning. “Maybe if you’d shut up once in a while and listen to someone else talk, you might learn something.”
Megan truly enjoyed the look of surprise and hurt on Joanie’s face before she left the table and sauntered back to her quarters.
* * *
Nikita asked Ken to tell her about the conviction that led to his being recruited by Section. He told her very politely to read his file. He had no way of knowing that Nikita had been brushed off by the best. “I want to hear it in your own words,” she persisted. Ken took a deep breath and began to recount, almost word-for-word, the news story rendition of the incident. Nikita put her hand on his arm to stop him.
“Look at me, Kendrick,” she commanded. He did, and found clear blue eyes boring into brown. It was as if she was trying to see into his soul, and it unnerved him more than just a little. He wasn’t used to being on this side of the interrogation. “I want you to close your eyes, and tell me exactly what you saw and exactly what you were thinking at that moment.”
It was fall--the air was chilly. He had taken a short-cut through the park to reach his apartment more quickly. He heard two men laughing loudly. It was not with pleasure. Then he saw a wheelchair on its side, the top wheel spinning crazily. Ken had worked with special needs kids for years, so he ran to see what he could do to help. Both of the thugs had their pants undone—it wasn’t a difficult leap to the logical conclusion. The first kid swung at Ken, who quickly dispatched both him and his partner.
Ken stayed with the girl until her parents came. By that time, she was hysterical, her speech was incoherent. Her father ordered Ken to move away from her, and called the police and an ambulance. Ken never said a word in his defense. He *had* committed the crimes of which he was accused. He knew he would never be allowed to work with children again, and he felt as though his life had no purpose anymore. At least in Section, he could help to bring down the child killers who deserved to die.
He looked at Nikita, who was looking back at him with a smile on her face. He had told her what she wanted to hear. In truth, she wanted to cry for him, but she kept repeating Michael’s mantra in her head: “Show no weakness. Show no weakness.”
Nikita stood and held out her hand. “Let me introduce you to the other key players of Section One.” Ken ignored her hand, but stood and followed her out of the office.
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Okay - Chapter 7 -- Diane, 19:02:05 04/22/05 Fri
Despite Michael’s efforts to point out the beautiful scenery along Maine’s rocky coast, it was clear that Adam was starting to drift again. He’d had a good night’s sleep, yet he kept trying to curl up into a ball and withdraw again. Desperate measures were needed.
Michael flipped though the stations on the radio until he found one playing disco. He cranked it and sang along in a falsetto.
“Shake your groove thang
Shake your groove thang,
Yeah, yeah!
Show ‘em how to do it now!
“Shake your groove thang
Shake your groove thang,
Yeah, yeah!”
His crazy singing and head bopping gave Adam the giggles.
“What’s the matter?” Michael demanded in mock seriousness. “Your daddy has a beautiful singing voice.”
“You sound silly,” Adam pointed out.
“I do not!” Michael defended himself. “You just don’t appreciate the finer points of disco.”
Just then the DJ announced a two-hour BeeGees marathon. Okay. Michael actually liked the BeeGees. He could do this.
“Well you can tell by the way I use my walk
I’m a woman’s man, no time to talk”
Adam hooted with laughter.
Michael breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief and sang on.
* * *
By the time the disco station was breaking up, Adam was hungry and Michael’s throat was raw. They pulled into a Dairy Queen and went inside. Michael ordered two cheeseburgers and an iced tea. Adam begged his dad for a Pepsi. Michael considered for a moment, then consented. He’d already corrupted the boy with pop—what could one more hurt?
Over chocolate sundaes, Michael approached the subject of Adam’s new birth certificate.
“When we get to Montreal, we’re going to have to do a lot of pretending,” he informed Adam seriously.
Adam wasn’t sure if they were still playing or not. “What kind of pretending?” he asked, grinning.
His father’s face was serious. “Supercop pretending.”
Adam looked at him warily. “I thought the bad guys were all in Europe,” he pointed out.
“They are,” Michael assured him, “and we want to keep them there so the people who are still Supercops can catch them.”
“What do we have to do?”
“We have to change our names.”
“For how long?” Adam queried.
“For a long time,” Michael responded. “Maybe for always.”
Adam took a moment to digest this. “What else?”
“We have to pretend we were born in Montreal, and that we are Canadian, not French.”
“Mommy, too?”
“No, Mommy was English. That’s why we lived in Europe for so long. We came home because she died.”
“What about the bad guys?” persisted Adam.
“We don’t know anything about any bad guys. I was never a Supercop.”
“What were you?” asked Adam, clearly confused.
Michael sighed. “I know this is hard to understand, son, but we have to do a lot of pretending now, just like I did when I was a Supercop.”
“But you just said—“ protested Adam.
“I know what I said,” Michael explained patiently. “I was pretending. We have to pretend I was never a Supercop, and that we don’t know any bad guys. And that you and I are Canadian and we were born in Montreal, but we lived in France until Mommy died. Do you understand?”
Adam nodded hesitantly. “I think so. Is my name Adam Samuelson?”
“Yes,” smiled Michael, relieved.
“But I’m just pretending, right?” Adam was trying to keep things straight in his head.
Oh, God. Michael wished so much that he didn’t have to do this to Adam, or that he at least had Nikita here to help him. She was so good with him.
“We’re pretending today,” he began slowly, “but soon the things we’re pretending must become real, and the real has to be forgotten.”
“Everything?” cried Adam in dismay. “What about Mommy?”
“You can always remember Mommy,” Michael reassured him. “She really was English, and she really did die in Europe. You never have to forget Mommy.”
“What about Nikita?” Adam persisted, sniffling. Michael didn’t answer, but Adam knew the truth when he looked up at his father’s face. He got out of his seat and climbed into Michael’s lap, where they just sat and held each other. They would never speak of Nikita again.
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Okay - Chapter 8 -- Diane, 19:15:47 04/22/05 Fri
Nikita’s first stop was Munitions. “Hey, Walter!” she called back into his inventory room.
Walter’s gravelly voice floated back from seemingly out of nowhere. “Be with you in a minute, Sugar.” Nikita smiled at Ken’s lifted brow.
Walter emerged, wiping his hands on the thighs of his pants. Shit! The one time he let his guard down and the boss-lady was being official. He wondered how much trouble he was in.
Ken wondered what a retired Hell’s Angel was doing working in munitions, but he kept his face neutral and his opinions to himself.
Walter removed the navy rolled handkerchief from around his head, wiped his still sweaty hands, and quickly retied the bandana. He pulled his long gray hair back and quickly knotted it into a ponytail. Who was this new guy in the suit, and what was he to Sugar?
“Walter, I’d like you to meet Kendrick Lockett. He’s one of the applicant’s for Michael’s old position.” She and Walter both knew she meant ‘and Madeline’s,’ but the less often her name was mentioned, the better.
“Ken,” said the suit, reaching forward to take Walter’s hand. Good grip, the older man noted. Not afraid to look you in the eye, either.
“So, Ken, where do you come from?” said Walter conversationally.
“Spec. Ops.” Silence. Okay, so he’s not a talker, thought Walter. I can live with that.
“What’s you favorite beer?”
Ken smiled. “Coors.” Interesting, Walter mused. Drinks American beer in Germany. “But I don’t drink anymore,” he added.
“Let me introduce you around before Walter totally corrupts you,” said Nikita with a smile. She put arm out for Ken to take. He ignored it. Nikita looked at Walter, who shrugged. Nikita just raised her brow and started walking toward Comm., with Ken following behind.
Quinn was not in sight, much to Nikita’s relief. “Jason, I’d like you to meet Ken Lockett. He’s one of the candidates for Michael’s position as Head Strategist and Chief Tactician.”
Jason rolled back lazily in his chair to ‘scope out the competition.’ Taller than Nikita. Hell, taller than Michael. Older than Michael, too, if you went for that type. But could the dude profile? Could he run a mission on site? So far, Jason had yet to be impressed. He flashed Ken a quick “Hey,” then turned his attention back to his screen.
Nikita was visibly annoyed. “What are you working on, Jason?” she asked stiffly.
“Nothin’ much. Just breakin’ a few codes.” His hands drifted lazily over the keyboards.
At least he hadn’t called her ‘darlin’’. “Maybe Ken could help you out for a while. I have some things to do in the Perch.”
“Why not?” said Jason agreeably. He’d been putting on a show for the dude—slacking off to look like the job was s-o-o easy. In truth, as soon as Nikita left, he intended to return to warp speed.
“Where do you want me?” asked Ken.
“Uh, over there’s fine,” said Jason, gesturing to an empty work station. “Just don’t touch anything.”
“How can I work if I don’t touch anything?” asked Ken patiently.
Great. A know-it-all.
“Fine,” said Jason tersely. “Work on this for a while,” purposely shooting him the most difficult encryption—the one that had been giving him the most trouble all morning. When he checked on him a few minutes later, Ken’s tall frame was bent over the keyboard, working slowly and methodically. Jason allowed himself a grin. Newbies!
After about 10 minutes, Jason heard Ken asking him to come look at something. He wasn’t about to help Nikita’s new fair-haired boy. Let him crash and burn on his own. “Uh, I’m kind of busy here, Ken,” he shot over his shoulder, hands flying over his keyboard.
Quinn, who was returning to her post, stopped to see what Ken, whom she first thought was a trainee, needed.
Immediately recognizing the code Jason had been struggling with, she cried out, “You broke it! Well done!”
Jason stopped what he was doing and rolled to Ken’s side, flummoxed. “How did that happen? What did you do?” he demanded.
Ken shrugged. “I ran it through a Delta Four pattern, then recycled. It wasn’t that hard.”
“But you’re not cleared for a Delta Four. I’m head of Comm., and I’m not cleared for a Delta Four!
Ken lowered his voice. “Yeah, that was the tough part. Some of those firewalls were a bitch. Getting through them without setting off an alarm was a little tricky.”
Jason just sat there, slack-jawed.
Nikita descended from the Perch, having spotted Quinn. She dreaded this moment. “Quinn, have you met Ken Lockett?”
“Not officially,” she said, smiling warmly. “Welcome to Comm.”
“That may be a bit premature,” said Ken with a shrug.
“Ken is interviewing for my Second-in-Command,” said Nikita. Well let’s call it what it is. She held her breath. She half expected Quinn to throw a fit right there in Comm., but Ken was better than either she or Jason, and she knew it. She also knew that Ken would have had to pass rigorous tests in sims and profiling to have made it this far, and she conceded defeat.
“I don’t think so,” Quinn said, her smile not as wide but still as genuine. “Welcome to Section One.” She extended her hand to the better man.
“Thank you,” said Ken quietly, taking it. He looked at Nikita, who shrugged.
“Welcome to Section One!”
Ken smiled.
“I’ll still have to have it approved by Center, but I don’t see a problem,” said Nikita. “How soon can you wrap things up and prepare to move in?”
“Give me four hours notice,” was his quick response.
“Well, then,” said Nikita, clearly pleased, “let me make some phone calls. After that, how would you like to do a little sparring?”
Ken lifted his eyebrows. He hadn’t done much sparring in Spec. Ops, only as part of his weekly fitness routine, and rarely as a combatant. He figured Nikita would probably wipe the floor with him, but what the hell. He needed to get in shape quickly if he was going to be out in the field again anytime soon.
“Okay,” he agreed, “but take it easy on the old man, all right?”
Nikita giggled. Ken couldn’t believe his ears. A Section head who actually *giggled*. “You’ve got a deal. See you in the General Gym in about . . . an hour?”
“I’ll be there,” promised Ken, “in full body armor.”
Nikita giggled again. Ken wasn’t kidding.
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Re: Okay - Chapter 8 -- Shanola, 20:26:32 04/29/05 Fri
You are skipping POVs in this chapter. Each line is an inner thought from a different character. I'd suggest streamlining this into one character's head. It'll be less confusing for the reader that way.
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Re: Okay - Chapter 8 -- Diane, 21:11:57 04/29/05 Fri
I see what you mean. I'll have another go it.
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Okay - Chapter 8 - Altered Version -- Diane, 12:22:46 04/30/05 Sat
I didn't make a lot of changes, but see if this helps.
Nikita’s first stop was Munitions. “Hey, Walter!” she called back into his inventory room.
Walter’s gravelly voice floated back from seemingly out of nowhere. “Be with you in a minute, Sugar.” Nikita smiled at Ken’s lifted brow.
Walter emerged, wiping his hands on the thighs of his pants. Shit! The one time he let his guard down and the boss-lady was being official. He wondered how much trouble he was in.
If Ken wondered what a retired Hell’s Angel was doing working in munitions, he kept his opinions to himself.
Walter removed the navy rolled handkerchief from around his head, wiped his still sweaty hands, and quickly retied the bandana. He pulled his long gray hair back and quickly knotted it into a ponytail. Who was this new guy in the suit, and what was he to Sugar?
“Walter, I’d like you to meet Kendrick Lockett. He’s one of the applicant’s for Michael’s old position.” She and Walter both knew she meant ‘and Madeline’s,’ but the less often her name was mentioned, the better.
“Ken,” said the suit, reaching forward to take Walter’s hand. Good grip, the older man noted. Not afraid to look you in the eye, either.
“So, Ken, where do you come from?” said Walter conversationally.
“Spec. Ops.” Silence. Okay, so he’s not a talker, thought Walter. I can live with that.
“What’s you favorite beer?”
Ken smiled. “Coors.” Interesting, Walter mused. Drinks American beer in Germany. “But I don’t drink anymore,” he added.
“Let me introduce you around before Walter totally corrupts you,” said Nikita with a smile. She put arm out for Ken to take. He ignored it. Nikita looked at Walter, who shrugged. Nikita just raised her brow and started walking toward Comm., with Ken following behind.
* * *
Quinn was not in sight, much to Nikita’s relief. “Jason, I’d like you to meet Ken Lockett. He’s one of the candidates for Michael’s position as Head Strategist and Chief Tactician.”
Jason rolled back lazily in his chair to ‘scope out the competition.’ Taller than Nikita. Hell, taller than Michael. Older than Michael, too, if you went for that type. But could the dude profile? Could he run a mission on site? So far, Jason had yet to be impressed. He flashed Ken a quick “Hey,” then turned his attention back to his screen.
Nikita was visibly annoyed. “What are you working on, Jason?” she asked stiffly.
“Nothin’ much. Just breakin’ a few codes.” His hands drifted lazily over the keyboards.
At least he hadn’t called her ‘darlin’’. “Maybe Ken could help you out for a while. I have some things to do in the Perch.”
“Why not?” said Jason agreeably. He’d been putting on a show for the dude—slacking off to look like the job was s-o-o easy. In truth, as soon as Nikita left, he intended to return to warp speed.
“Where do you want me?” asked Ken.
“Uh, over there’s fine,” said Jason, gesturing to an empty work station. “Just don’t touch anything.”
“How can I work if I don’t touch anything?” asked Ken patiently.
Great. A know-it-all.
“Fine,” said Jason tersely. “Work on this for a while,” purposely shooting him the most difficult encryption—the one that had been giving him the most trouble all morning. When he checked on him a few minutes later, Ken’s tall frame was bent over the keyboard, working slowly and methodically. Jason allowed himself a grin. Newbies!
After about 10 minutes, Jason heard Ken asking him to come look at something. He wasn’t about to help Nikita’s new fair-haired boy. Let him crash and burn on his own. “Uh, kind of busy here,” he shot over his shoulder, hands flying over his keyboard.
Quinn, who was returning to her post, stopped to see what Ken, who she had first thought was a trainee, needed.
Immediately recognizing the code Jason had been struggling with, she cried out, “You broke it! Well done!”
Jason stopped what he was doing and rolled to Ken’s side, flummoxed. “How did that happen? What did you do?” he demanded.
Ken shrugged. “I ran it through a Delta Four pattern, then recycled. It wasn’t that hard.”
“But you’re not cleared for a Delta Four. I’m head of Comm., and I’m not cleared for a Delta Four!
Ken lowered his voice. “Yeah, that was the tough part. Some of those firewalls were a bitch. Getting through them without setting off an alarm was a little tricky.”
Jason just sat there, slack-jawed.
* * *
Nikita descended from the Perch, having spotted Quinn. She dreaded this moment. “Quinn, have you met Ken Lockett?”
“Not officially,” she said, smiling warmly. “Welcome to Comm.”
“That may be a bit premature,” said Ken with a shrug.
“Ken is interviewing for my Second-in-Command,” said Nikita. Well let’s call it what it is. She held her breath. She half expected Quinn to throw a fit right there in Comm., but Ken was better than either she or Jason, and she knew it. Quinn also knew that Ken would have had to pass rigorous tests in sims and profiling to have made it this far, and she conceded defeat.
“I don’t think so,” Quinn said, her smile not as wide but still as genuine. “Welcome to Section One.” She extended her hand to the better man.
“Thank you,” said Ken quietly, taking it. He looked at Nikita, who shrugged.
“Welcome to Section One!”
Ken smiled.
“I’ll still have to have it approved by Center, but I don’t see a problem,” said Nikita. “How soon can you wrap things up and prepare to move in?”
“Give me four hours notice,” was his quick response.
“Well, then,” said Nikita, clearly pleased, “let me make some phone calls. After that, how would you like to do a little sparring?”
Ken lifted his eyebrows. He hadn’t done much sparring in Spec. Ops, only as part of his weekly fitness routine, and rarely as a combatant. He figured Nikita would probably wipe the floor with him, but what the hell. He needed to get in shape quickly if he was going to be out in the field again anytime soon.
“Okay,” he agreed, “but take it easy on the old man, all right?”
Nikita giggled. Ken couldn’t believe his ears. A Section head who actually *giggled*. “You’ve got a deal. See you in the General Gym in about . . . an hour?”
“I’ll be there,” promised Ken, “in full body armor.”
Nikita giggled again. Ken wasn’t kidding.
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Okay - Chapter 9 -- Diane, 19:26:29 04/22/05 Fri
It was February when Michael and Adam reached Montreal. They had made the most of their leisurely drive through New England, getting to know each other again, catching up on what they had missed, and solidifying their new personae.
The first thing they did when they moved into their new home was get a cat. Michael had always felt guilty for making Nikita give up her kitten, and he didn’t want a dog to remind him of Elena and Watson. The cat Adam chose from the shelter was a female tabby, spayed, about two years old. Adam wanted to name her Nikita, but bit his tongue before the words came out. Thinking of one of his favorite books, he asked his father innocently, “Can we name her Madeline?”
“No!” was his father’s gruff and immediate response. Adam was visible startled, and nearly dropped the cat. “I’m sorry, Adam,” said Michael, immediately contrite. He whispered softly in Adam’s ear “’Madeline’ was one of the bad guys.”
Adam nodded maturely. He understood completely. “Um, Michelle?” he tried again.
Michael laughed. “But that’s my, remember? People might call out ‘Michelle,’ and I wouldn’t know if they wanted me or the cat!”
“Oh, yeah,” said Adam, blushing at his blunder. He thought hard. “Josephine?” he asked hopefully.
I am in Hell, thought Michael. He took a deep breath and asked Adam, “Who was the prettiest girl in your whole school?” He had wanted to avoid any ties to France, but they weren’t getting anywhere this way.
Adam’s cheeks were tinged with pink as he scraped the toe of one boot against the tile floor of the shelter. He muttered something into the cat’s fur, but Michael couldn’t understand him. “Quoi?” He asked Adam to repeat himself. Adam’s cheeks grew pinker.
“Mirabela,” he muttered quickly.
“That’s a beautiful name,” agreed Michael, breathing a sigh of relief. “Shall we call her ‘Mirabela,’ or just ‘Bela?’”
“’Mira’” Adam responded quickly. “Her name is ‘Mira.’”
* * *
Michael had moved Adam’s birthday up by six months, so he would be entering Grade 2, not Grade 1, of the private and exclusive boys’ school that Michael had selected. The only area where Adam was behind was penmanship, and he could work on that at home with Michael. He was also trying to accustom Adam to the sound and nuances of Québécois French, which was quite different from the Parisian French in which he was fluent. Adam spent the first two weeks at home watching television all day. His cover story that he had been living in France would excuse his accent, but Michael wanted to make sure he could understand his teachers and classmates.
Michael couldn’t use any of his old Section contacts to maintain his old cover as an art dealer, so he was going to depend on his actual talent as an artist to support his small family. He was actually a very talented painter and sculptor, and the name ‘Samuelson’ opened many doors in the large Jewish art community.
* * *
The first day of school, Michael waited with all the other mothers, fathers, and drivers here to pick up their children at 3:15. The bell finally rang, the front doors open and the school regurgitated what seemed like hundreds of thousands of screaming kids, although Michael knew there were less than 300 hundred students in the entire school. He looked anxiously for Adam, but all the boys had the same uniform: navy cap, navy blazer with the school crest, white dress shirt with a charcoal gray tie, navy knee-length shorts, gray knee socks, and black shoes. Even his backpack had to be either dark gray or black (Adam’s was black), but Michael thought he could at least pick him out by his hockey stick.
When all the other cars had left, and Michael was beyond starting to panic, Adam came walking slowly out of the building, dragging his backpack and hockey stick behind him. He threw his things in the back seat, buckled his seatbelt, and faced forward, ready to go home. Clearly, he was not in the mood to talk.
Michael didn’t say a word as they pulled out of the parking lot, but when he pulled in the Dairy Queen, he asked Adam, “Do you have too much work in there to do, or do you have time for me to eat a marshmallow sundae? I’ve been craving one all day.”
For an answer, Adam unbuckled his seatbelt and held the door for his father as they walked up to the service counter together. “Let’s see,” Michael said, pretending to peruse the menu, “I’ll have one marshmallow sundae—“ Adam was tugging on his sleeve—a pleading look in his eyes. “Make that *two* marshmallow sundaes with chocolate ice cream, one coffee, and one small Pepsi.” Adam looked up at his father, who was wearing his ‘do-not-argue-with-me-on-this-one,-son’ face, and left to collect their spoons, straws, and napkins. He knew his dad liked his coffee black. He had tasted it once. Blech! Mommy put three sugars and three creams in hers, and it still tasted nasty. He preferred tea, like Nikita. But Nikita didn’t exist anymore. That was old life. This was new.
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Re: Okay - Chapter 9 -- Shanola, 20:31:36 04/29/05 Fri
I'm not sure I can comment on the chapters you've got about Michael and Adam. You've painted them in a way that is very foreign to me. I think I shall refrain from commenting on those chapters, until I know more about where the story is headed.
Do you have the rest finished?
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Re: Okay - Chapter 9 -- Diane, 21:18:33 04/29/05 Fri
I'm still writing, but I can post the next few chapters.
Re Adam: We never really saw him after age four, and only knew that he was a precocious, happy kid who loved his dad. The Michael I'm wtiting in the beginning is more like the one Adam would have known as Daddy, not the Section Michael.
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Hey, Diane. -- Shanola, 18:50:21 05/01/05 Sun
I'm heading out of town this weekend. I don't know that I'll be able to beta read until after I get back! I'm sorry. I'm just really pressed for time!
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That's cool! -- Diane, 19:57:26 05/01/05 Sun
Whenever it's convenient for you. I'll be here, :)
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Okay - Chapter 10 -- Diane, 21:28:39 04/29/05 Fri
It was only Ken’s superior reach and better-than-average reflexes that kept him from being a mere grease spot on the mat. Nikita’s sparring was phenomenal. Even after two weeks of rigorous training, he clearly had a lot of work yet to do if he simply wanted to keep from being massacred by his boss. He was almost embarrassed to go to the men’s locker room to hear Section’s opinion of his lack of fighting skills. To his surprise, the guys were fairly charitable.
“Hell, I’d never have had the nerve to go up against Nikita, even before she was Operations!” exclaimed one of the men. He extended his hand to Ken. “Jennings,” he said by way of introduction, “and this here’s Snow,” gesturing over his shoulder, “and back in the corner there is Finnegan.” A tall redhead raised his hand.
“You’re all cold ops?” Ken ventured.
“That’s right,” answered Snow proudly.
“Have any of you sparred with Nikita before?” Ken asked.
A long pause and some murmuring before Finnegan’s voice rang out, “Shit, no, man. Now just suicidal!
The other ops all laughed, and Ken smiled.
“Since she was promoted to Level Two, the only one who’s ever beaten her is Michael,” pronounced Jennings. The other ops nodded in agreement with the smaller man. “And even then, he took a fall or two,” he added. “Not often,” he quickly amended, “but once in a while.”
“Their matches were almost a thing of beauty,” added Snow. The others turned to look at him. “Well, they were. Especially considering how they felt about each other.”
Ken picked up his gym bag. “See you later,” he called as he left the locker room, leaving them to own opinions and arguments.
Of course, he knew about the legendary Michael Samuelle. Even Spec Ops didn’t live in a vacuum. Michael was a prodigy. The best this; the best that; the best everything. Now and again, someone like that comes along. It just happens. Ken was not jealous. He felt no need to try to uphold Michael’s impossibly high standards. He listened to Michael’s exploits, and tried to learn from them. He would just do the best job that he was able.
He had always shut down, though, or walked away from, rumors about Michael’s and Nikita’s personal connection. Ken had been hoping for an administrative position in Section One for years—he didn’t really care whose. He didn’t need gossip of personal relationships to cloud his judgment and keep him from achieving his goal. Ken was not ambitious to the point of stepping on other people; he just wanted has path to be clear and uncomplicated. His wait had paid off.
Michael Samuelle was gone. Some said set free; some said cancelled. Not his problem. Madeline was dead—that had been confirmed. Ken’s path was clear, and he had been chosen. He would work side-by-side with Nikita. He would not let her down.
* * *
Megan Little was meeting with the members of Center. Gone were the jeans and bubble gum. Her blonde hair was swept back into a professional hairdo, and she was wearing a charcoal gray business suit with a red “power” blouse.
“So you were the one who made sure that Mr. Lockett was selected for the position?”
“It wasn’t difficult,” replied Megan, lifting her chin. “Once I confided to ‘Joanie’ that Nikita likes a long, gossipy chat, the job was pretty much his.”
“Good work, Ms. Little. You may go now.”
Megan stood firm. “You are still considering my request for transfer from Oversight to Center?” she asked calmly.
“Of course.”
Megan Little, satisfied with the empty promise, was ushered out and returned to the secretarial pool at Oversight. She was no threat to Center, but they did not expect to see her again.
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Okay - Chapter 11 -- Diane, 21:38:14 04/29/05 Fri
Adam did not like his new school, though he would never burden his father with this problem. The other boys did not tease him about his accent--they ridiculed him and mocked him endlessly. They grabbed his backpack and threw it on a high shelf where he couldn’t reach it. They stole his lunch. The fact that he was the smallest boy in class and already fluent in English with no trace of an accent pissed them off.
There were no spots available on the intramural hockey teams, and no one wanted him on their team for street hockey during recess or after school.
And now, as Easter drew near, the boys would shoot him murderous looks and taunt him for being Jewish. Adam was confused. He didn’t even know he was Jewish. He asked his father about it the first day this had happened. Michael had smiled, winked, and said, “It’s just pretend.” Great.
* * *
Michael’s paintings were beginning to sell, and a small, new newspaper, “Scoop” got the exclusive on the opening of the gallery where some of this art would be shown. Michael had wanted to avoid publicity, but he didn’t want to have to hide away with Adam forever. It wasn’t healthy. Besides, he had cut his hair quite short, was sporting a full beard, and would speak only Québécois French; he bore little resemblance to the man for whom the Collective was looking.
He and Adam sported matching tuxedoes, and only stayed for half an hour. Adam pretended severe shyness and refused to speak—his accent was still too Parisian. Besides, the only things they had to eat were calamari, stuffed mushrooms and artichoke hearts. Had these people never heard of peanut butter or mini-weenies?
* * *
The next morning, Adam informed his father that he was much too sick to go to school. Michael was concerned. They had been out a little later than usual, but Adam had seemed fine. With hurried steps, he walked to Adam’s room and threw open the door.
“No!” shouted Adam. “Don’t come in! I have an infekteeus dyseez.”
Michael was perplexed until he saw a medical journal on Adam’s nightstand. Apparently, Adam had taken some time to prepare for this one.
“What infectious disease do you have, Adam?” asked Michael, his voice full of concern.
Adam flopped back on his pillow listlessly. “I have the Ebola virus.” He’d read all night, and this looked like one that could keep him out of school for months.
Michael quickly ducked his head and put a hand over his mouth. A coughing fit covered his laughter. “Do you have a fever, Adam?”
“I’m sure I do,” came the quick response. Stupid book. Every disease in there said you had to have a fever, but it never explained what a fever was. Well, if he was gonna have Ebola, he might as well have a fever, too.
“Adam,” Michael said, shaking his head as he walked into the room and sat on the edge of Adam’s bed. “you do not
“How do you know?” Adam asked suspiciously.
“Because you don’t live in Africa, and you aren’t bleeding from your eyes, ears, mouth and rectum.”
Gross! thought Adam.
“My diagnosis is that you don’t want to go to school today. Am I right?”
Adam rolled away from his father and looked at the far wall.
“Won’t your friends miss you if you skip school?”
Adam snorted.
Michael turned Adam over so he could see him, so he could really look in his face. My God. Why had he not noticed before? The boy had visibly lost weight, and there were dark shadows under his eyes that hadn’t just popped up from last night.
“Do you have any school friends, Adam?”
Adam slowly shook his head from side to side.
Michael’s voice dropped even lower. “Has it been pretty rough on you?” Again, Adam turned his face to the wall. He didn’t want to make things harder on his daddy than they already were. Michael patiently turned Adam back over to face him again. There were tears in Adam’s eyes. “Do you hate your school, Adam?”
For an answer, Adam simply sat up and hugged his father fiercely. Michael could feel his son’s small body shake with silent sobs. Michael wanted to cry himself. Six weeks, and Adam hadn’t said a word.
“Well, today is Wednesday. Why don’t we go pick up your things, and we’ll take the rest of the week off. I’ll make a few phone calls, and we’ll find a better school for you, okay?”
“B-But what if we can’t, Daddy? What if every single kid at every single school still hates me?” It was clear that Adam’s concern was very real to him.
“Hate you?” scoffed Michael. “You, Adam Samuelson, are the most loveable kid in the world. I should know. I made a mistake when I picked out the last school. It was my fault, not yours. I’ll do better this time. I promise.”
“Do we have to go back to my old school?” asked Adam plaintively.
“Yes—just to return your books and pick up your gym shoes and things. I bet those bozos will be so jealous when they see you strolling in there wearing jeans. And I bet none of them are having lunch at Dairy Queen.
Adam wiped his face. “I bet not,” he concurred, almost grinning at his dad’s use of the word ‘bozos.’ He never remembered had dad being this funny when he was little.
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Okay - Chapter 11 Read this one, please -- Diane, 21:41:27 04/29/05 Fri
Adam did not like his new school, though he would never burden his father with this problem. The other boys did not tease him about his accent--they ridiculed him and mocked him endlessly. They grabbed his backpack and threw it on a high shelf where he couldn’t reach it. They stole his lunch. The fact that he was the smallest boy in class and already fluent in English with no trace of an accent pissed them off.
There were no spots available on the intramural hockey teams, and no one wanted him on their team for street hockey during recess or after school.
And now, as Easter drew near, the boys would shoot him murderous looks and taunt him for being Jewish. Adam was confused. He didn’t even know he was Jewish. He asked his father about it the first day this had happened. Michael had smiled, winked, and said, “It’s just pretend.” Great.
* * *
Michael’s paintings were beginning to sell, and a small, new newspaper, “Scoop” got the exclusive on the opening of the gallery where some of this art would be shown. Michael had wanted to avoid publicity, but he didn’t want to have to hide away with Adam forever. It wasn’t healthy. Besides, he had cut his hair quite short, was sporting a full beard, and would speak only Québécois French; he bore little resemblance to the man for whom the Collective was looking.
He and Adam sported matching tuxedoes, and only stayed for half an hour. Adam pretended severe shyness and refused to speak—his accent was still too Parisian. Besides, the only things they had to eat were calamari, stuffed mushrooms and artichoke hearts. Had these people never heard of peanut butter or mini-weenies?
* * *
The next morning, Adam informed his father that he was much too sick to go to school. Michael was concerned. They had been out a little later than usual, but Adam had seemed fine. With hurried steps, he walked to Adam’s room and threw open the door.
“No!” shouted Adam. “Don’t come in! I have an infekteeus dyseez.”
Michael was perplexed until he saw a medical journal on Adam’s nightstand. Apparently, Adam had taken some time to prepare for this one.
“What infectious disease do you have, Adam?” asked Michael, his voice full of concern.
Adam flopped back on his pillow listlessly. “I have the Ebola virus.” He’d read all night, and this looked like one that could keep him out of school for months.
Michael quickly ducked his head and put a hand over his mouth. A coughing fit covered his laughter. “Do you have a fever, Adam?”
“I’m sure I do,” came the quick response. Stupid book. Every disease in there said you had to have a fever, but it never explained what a fever was. Well, if he was gonna have Ebola, he might as well have a fever, too.
“Adam,” Michael said, shaking his head as he walked into the room and sat on the edge of Adam’s bed. “you do not have the Ebola virus.”
“How do you know?” Adam asked suspiciously.
“Because you don’t live in Africa, and you aren’t bleeding from your eyes, ears, mouth and rectum.”
Gross! thought Adam.
“My diagnosis is that you don’t want to go to school today. Am I right?”
Adam rolled away from his father and looked at the far wall.
“Won’t your friends miss you if you skip school?”
Adam snorted.
Michael turned Adam over so he could see him, so he could really look in his face. My God. Why had he not noticed before? The boy had visibly lost weight, and there were dark shadows under his eyes that hadn’t just popped up from last night.
“Do you have any school friends, Adam?”
Adam slowly shook his head from side to side.
Michael’s voice dropped even lower. “Has it been pretty rough on you?” Again, Adam turned his face to the wall. He didn’t want to make things harder on his daddy than they already were. Michael patiently turned Adam back over to face him again. There were tears in Adam’s eyes. “Do you hate your school, Adam?”
For an answer, Adam simply sat up and hugged his father fiercely. Michael could feel his son’s small body shake with silent sobs. Michael wanted to cry himself. Six weeks, and Adam hadn’t said a word.
“Well, today is Wednesday. Why don’t we go pick up your things, and we’ll take the rest of the week off. I’ll make a few phone calls, and we’ll find a better school for you, okay?”
“B-But what if we can’t, Daddy? What if every single kid at every single school still hates me?” It was clear that Adam’s concern was very real to him.
“Hate you?” scoffed Michael. “You, Adam Samuelson, are the most loveable kid in the world. I should know. I made a mistake when I picked out the last school. It was my fault, not yours. I’ll do better this time. I promise.”
“Do we have to go back to my old school?” asked Adam plaintively.
“Yes—just to return your books and pick up your gym shoes and things. I bet those bozos will be so jealous when they see you strolling in there wearing jeans. And I bet none of them are having lunch at Dairy Queen.
Adam wiped his face. “I bet not,” he concurred, almost grinning at his dad’s use of the word ‘bozo.’ He never remembered had dad being this funny when he was little.
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Re: Okay - Chapter 11 Read this one, please -- Shanola, 19:33:12 05/18/05 Wed
Only one thing.
Adam doesn't know what a fever is but he has no problem with the word 'rectum'? I found that hard to believe. Plus, most kids who are school age have been sick a few times and have had their temps taken by Mom. Why wouldn't Adam know what a fever was?
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Re: Okay - Chapter 11 Read this one, please -- Diane, 19:56:02 05/19/05 Thu
Adam doesn't know what a fever is but he has no problem with the word 'rectum'? I found that hard to believe. Plus, most kids who are school age have been sick a few times and have had their temps taken by Mom. Why wouldn't Adam know what a fever was?
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I can leave out 'rectum.'
I didn't know what a fever was until middle school--my mom always (incorrectly) called it a 'temperature.' But I see your point. Would the scene lose any of its cuteness if I took that bit out?
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Re: Okay - Chapter 11 Read this one, please -- Shanola, 19:14:26 05/20/05 Fri
No, I don't think it would lose anything by taking it out.
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Okay - Chapter 12 -- Diane, 21:56:11 04/29/05 Fri
Ken was fitting in well, thought Nikita as she looked over his 60 day Eval. True, he was no Michael, but then who was? At least he was no Madeline, either. Nikita shivered.
His profiles were excellent, though not nearly as aggressive as Michael’s, and Section’s numbers were still up. Ken could run sims and reconfigure profiles as needed from Section or onsite in the van. He had not yet led a team, but Nikita still had concerns about his physical abilities. For an average 48-year old man, they were incredible, but for a cold op, just average. He spent nearly all his downtime working out in the gym or the weight room, trying to undo the damage that 10 years of a desk job had wrought.
As if he had read her thoughts, Ken appeared at her office door. “May I speak to you a moment?”
“Certainly,” replied Nikita, ushering him in. “Would you care for some tea?” she asked, pointing to a nearby lounge chair.
“No. Thank you.”’
Ken wasn’t one to beat around the bush. Nikita knew something was up.
“Is there a problem?” she asked, craning her neck to see his face clearly.
“I wish not to spar with Snow any longer.” Silence.
“For what reason?” asked Nikita, curious. Snow was an all around nice guy. She couldn’t imagine that he could have a problem or personality conflict with anyone. Though he was smaller physically than Ken, Nikita had chosen him specifically because he was a sparring coach, and she thought things were coming along nicely between them.
Ken didn’t answer her question. He repeated,” I wish not to spar with Snow any longer.”
“Snow is one of our best sparring coaches,” Nikita said evenly. “If you can’t give me a valid reason, I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to consider your request.”
Ken blinked and looked straight ahead. “Thank you for your time,” He turned to leave.
“Oh, and Ken,” Nikita added, almost as an afterthought.
“Yes,” he replied without turning around.
“There’s a hostile in White Room 3. See what he knows about Caracas.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“Thank you.”
I guess that’s what his file meant by ‘has trouble with authority figures,’ mused Nikita.
She knew that Snow had just left on a mission and would be in Prague for several days. She left a message that she wanted to speak with him upon his return.
Nikita switched her monitor to White Room 3. She didn’t enjoy interrogations, though she wasn’t as disgusted as when Madeline and the Torture Twins were alive. Her first official act as Operations was to order the cancellation of Henry and Elizabeth. They were sick, sick people, and surveillance tapes showed that their torture continued long after a subject had broken.
Ken’s technique was very different from Madeline’s He never smiled. His piercing dark eyes locked onto yours, and you couldn’t look away. The first few moments were a staring contest, which Ken always won. Then he would whip a small PDA out of his breast pocked and make some notes, muttering, “Um-hm. um-hm. That’s good. Um-hm. Then he would face the hostile for the first time and smile. Actually, he’d smirk. Then he’d pace off the room in measured steps. He would do this several times in relation to the door. He got out the PDA again. “And you are how tall? He’d asked, disinterestedly. The hostile always told him. He wrote this down in his PDA and put it back in his breast pocket.
“The machine I need is being used right now, so if you don’t mind waiting a bit--? Ken would ask, all concerned. By this time the hostile was usually totally confused. No one had even asked him a question yet. Suddenly, the White Room, and seemingly the entire building, was plunged into blackness. “Damn power surge,” would come Ken’s disembodied voice. “Happens every time they use that machine. Oh, don’t worry. I’ll make sure it’s fully charged again before it’s your turn. I’ll be back in a few.”
With that, he would close the White Room door and set his wristwatch alarm for 5 hours.
His mind games were much more effective than Madeline’s cold smile. He could often get what he needed with a broken finger and sodium pentothal. The “machine” was actually a heart monitor, which could be used for electroshock of necessary. Not once had Section had to resort to Henry and Elizabeth’s little yellow cases.
After Ken had set the wheels of this particular interrogation in motion, he went to his Section living quarters, which were actually Madeline’s old ones. He’d not done a thing to change them and the rooms still screamed “Bordello!” The furniture was black oak. Everything else was red. Velvet curtains, upholstery, bed spread, table cloth and linens; even the walls were red flocked with red velvet. Oh, the things he could have learned from reading *her* psych file. There was a humidor on the bedside filled with Cuban cigars. Ken didn’t want to know.
In fact, he didn’t want to know anything about anyone unless it directly impacted their performance numbers. That was the main reason he want to removed from Snow’s tutelage. Snow was a major gossip, and his favorite topic was the tragic love story of Michael and Nikita. As much as Ken had tried to block out, he knew that Michael had been Nikita’s trainer/mentor, that he nearly self-destructed when he thought she was dead, that they went on a Valentine mission where things really hated up (tapes still available—see Simon), that when Michael’s blood cover mission was over he tried to kill himself and Nikita saved his life, etc. etc. etc.
Ken finally had to put his hand over Snow’s mouth to keep him from saying another word. “Look,” he told the younger man, “I’m just as romantic as you are, but these are people you know. I‘ve figured the least we can do is stay out of their personal lives.
Snow was like a dog with a bone. “So you know there was something more between them, too. I wonder what the real story is. Who would know? Davenport is dead, but I bet Walter will crack for a few shots of whiskey!”
It was at this point that Ken had walked into Nikita’s office. What kind of answer was I supposed to give her? Because all Snow wants to talk about is when, where, how often, and in what position? I don’t think so. He shook his head.
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Re: Okay - Chapter 12 -- Shanola, 19:49:49 05/18/05 Wed
Why is it important that Ken be physically able to lead teams in the field? I don't recall Madeline ever doing that. So why should Ken?
Also, I would think that if Ken were to ask to quit sparring with Snow, he'd have already come up with a proper reason/response, instead of just repeating his request.
You named and then cancelled the Torture Twins because Ken is SOOOOOO much better at interrogation than they or Madeline *ever* were. Sorry but this screams "MARY SUE" to me. And Ken uses the exact same technique on every person brought in? And it works the same way for every one? Totally not believable.
Also, not buying that Madeline's quaters would scream "Bordello!" with red velvet this and that. I am just not buying that. Look at her office and the way she dressed to get some idea of her style. Also not buying the fact that Ken left everything the exact same. We saw in the beginning of S2 that Section removed everything that once belonged to a Section 'employee'. Why wouldn't they do the same for Madeline?
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Re: Okay - Chapter 12 -- Diane, 19:50:53 05/19/05 Thu
Why is it important that Ken be physically able to lead teams in the field? I don't recall Madeline ever doing that. So why should Ken?
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Ken replaced Michael in addition to Madeline, so he would be leading teams.
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Also, I would think that if Ken were to ask to quit sparring with Snow, he'd have already come up with a proper reason/response, instead of just repeating his request.
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I was trying to show his inability to communicate effectively, especially with a delicate subject. It does come up in Chapter 14 why he is upset with Snow, and Nikita finds out--it's because Snow talks incessantly about Michael and Nikita's sex life. If you can help me to illustrate this in a better way, I'm all ears (or all fingers, as it were lol).
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You named and then cancelled the Torture Twins because Ken is SOOOOOO much better at interrogation than they or Madeline *ever* were. Sorry but this screams "MARY SUE" to me.
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I had the torture twins cancelled because they were sick, and Ken's technique is vastly different from Madeline's, not necessarily better. It's easier for Nikita to watch because it' not as difficult to watch without the yellow cases. How can I make this less Mary Sue-ish?
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And Ken uses the exact same technique on every person brought in? And it works the same way for every one? Totally not believable.
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I only showed him using the technique once, but I did imply it was his usual M.O. I see what you mean. How can I write this to show that this was his most effective, but not his only, means of obtaining information?
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Also, not buying that Madeline's quaters would scream "Bordello!" with red velvet this and that. I am just not buying that. Look at her office and the way she dressed to get some idea of her style.
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I actually read this in a fanfic somewhere, and the image never left my mind. I do see your point, though. I'll have to work on this.
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Also not buying the fact that Ken left everything the exact same. We saw in the beginning of S2 that Section removed everything that once belonged to a Section 'employee'. Why wouldn't they do the same for Madeline?
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I didn't figure the 'gutting of apartments' treatment went for the executives as well. As far as Ken not changing anything, he's just not the type to make waves. He lives where he's told. The style of his surrounding doesn't interest him. If you truly think I should 'gut' Madeline's apartment, I could have Ken living in extremely Spartan quarters. In Chapter 14, I have Nikita giving him a hard time about his furnishings (the red velvet bordello look); I could change this to her just making him spruce up his place a bit. Would that help?
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Re: Okay - Chapter 12 -- Shanola, 19:30:12 05/20/05 Fri
I was trying to show his inability to communicate effectively, especially with a delicate subject. It does come up in Chapter 14 why he is upset with Snow, and Nikita finds out--it's because Snow talks incessantly about Michael and Nikita's sex life. If you can help me to illustrate this in a better way, I'm all ears (or all fingers, as it were lol).
I think the problem is that you don't have him answer at all, just repeat his request. Maybe a lame answer would be better; "I don't like his technique" or "Snow hasn't been able to teach me anything", or even "I have my reasons". Up to you, though.
As for having the torture twins cancelled because they were sick...I disagree with that. I think they were very effective and after all, we never did learn what they do with those yellow cases. I think Nikita would be pretty stupid to eliminate such an effective tool because she felt they were 'sick'. If she was going to do that, she'd eliminate Section itself and be done with it.
How can you make Ken less Mary Sue-ish when describing his interrogation style? Don't compare so thoroughly to Madeline or the TT. You could also say that he chose to use this particular method for that particular SOTW. The way that it is written, you are totally dismissing Madeline's technique as silly and ineffectual, when in fact, she was extremely effective. I have a difficult time believing someone would step in and be more effective. Different, yes, okay. But not better. You see?
I could better believe that Ken would live in gutted quarters rather than Section leaving Madeline's apartment the way it was. After all, I would think that the very first thing they would do is to clear everything out and then go over it carefully to make sure there were no leaks/bombs hidden away. Think of Section as a big corporation: if the head of the IT dept suddenly says he's leaving, many times they are escorted from the building to make sure they don't take anything that doesn't belong to them. Granted, Section is a bit more extreme, but Madeline could potentially do more damage to them. See?
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You've given me some good ideas -- Diane, 20:12:11 05/20/05 Fri
I'll work on the Chapter 12 rewrite this weekend. I still don't like Henry and Elizabeth, so I just won't mention them. Perhaps this terrorist is just a wuss, which is why this particular technique of Ken's works on him.
I see your point on the reason behind needing to gut Madeline's quarters--especially if she thought her evaluation might not be stellar. She is just vindictive enough to wreak a whole lotta havoc.
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Okay - Chapter 12 - Rewrite -- Diane, 12:26:50 05/22/05 Sun
Ken was fitting in well, thought Nikita as she looked over his 60 day Eval. True, he was no Michael, but then who was? At least he was no Madeline, either. Nikita shivered.
His profiles were excellent, though not nearly as aggressive as Michael’s, and Section’s numbers were still up. Ken could run sims and reconfigure profiles as needed from Section or onsite in the van. He had not yet led a team, but Nikita still had concerns about his physical abilities. For an average 48-year old man, they were incredible, but for a cold op, just average. He spent nearly all his downtime working out in the gym or the weight room, trying to undo the damage that 10 years of a desk job had wrought.
As if he had read her thoughts, Ken appeared at her office door. “May I speak to you a moment?”
“Certainly,” replied Nikita, ushering him in. “Would you care for some tea?” she asked, pointing to a nearby lounge chair.
“No. Thank you.”’
Ken wasn’t one to beat around the bush. Nikita knew something was up.
“Is there a problem?” she asked, craning her neck to see his face clearly.
“I wish not to spar with Snow any longer.” Silence.
“For what reason?” asked Nikita, curious. Snow was an all around nice guy. She couldn’t imagine that he could have a problem or personality conflict with anyone. Though he was smaller physically than Ken, Nikita had chosen him specifically because he was a sparring coach, and she thought things were coming along nicely between them.
Ken didn’t answer her immediately, then quietly stated, “I have my reasons.”
“And they are…?” asked Nikita, raising an eyebrow.
“Personal,” Ken returned tersely.
“Snow is one of our best sparring coaches,” Nikita said evenly. “If you can’t give me a valid reason, I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to consider your request.”
Ken blinked and looked straight ahead. “Thank you for your time,” He turned to leave.
“Oh, and Ken,” Nikita added, almost as an afterthought.
“Yes,” he replied without turning around.
“There’s a hostile in White Room 3. See what he knows about Caracas.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“Thank you.”
I guess that’s what his file meant by ‘has trouble with authority figures,’ mused Nikita.
She knew that Snow had just left on a mission and would be in Prague for several days. She left a message that she wanted to speak with him upon his return.
Nikita switched her monitor to White Room 3. She didn’t enjoy interrogations, though she wasn’t generally as disgusted watching Ken as she was when watching Madeline, or the formidable duo of Henry and Elizabeth. Ken’s opening gambit was very different from Madeline’s He never smiled. His piercing dark eyes locked onto yours, and you couldn’t look away. The first few moments were a staring contest, which Ken always won.
Nikita waited to see which technique he would use this time. Aah. “The Machine.” This meant he expected an easy break. She turned off her monitor, knowing what would happen next.
Ken would whip a small PDA out of his breast pocked and make some notes, muttering, “Um-hm. um-hm. That’s good. Um-hm. Then he would face the hostile for the first time and smile. Then he’d pace off the room in measured steps. He would do this several times in relation to the door. He got out the PDA again. “And you are how tall?” He’d asked, distractedly. The hostile always told him. He wrote this down in his PDA and put it back in his breast pocket.
“The machine I need is being used right now, so if you don’t mind waiting a bit--?” Ken would ask, all concerned. By this time the hostile was usually totally confused. No one had even asked him a question yet. Suddenly, the White Room, and seemingly the entire building, was plunged into blackness. “Damn power surge,” would come Ken’s disembodied voice. “Happens every time they use that machine. Oh, don’t worry. I’ll make sure it’s fully charged again before it’s your turn. I’ll be back in a few.”
With that, he would close the White Room door and set his wristwatch alarm for 5 hours, leaving the hapless victim in total darkness.
Quite often, his mind games were more effective than Madeline’s cold smile, which was a good thing, since Ken could never hope to emulate it. He could often get what he needed with a broken finger and sodium pentothal. If “The Machine” ruse (it was actually a heart monitor which could be used for electroshock if necessary) was not going to work, and Ken could usually tell from intel and observation, he would resort to one of Madeline’s methods, which he had studied diligently. After all, she had been the Queen of interrogations. But even Ken hated watching the proceedings when he had summon help in the form of Henry and Elizabeth and their little yellow cases.
After Ken had set the wheels of this particular interrogation in motion, he went to his Section living quarters, which were actually Madeline’s old ones. The only room left in tact had been the kitchen, complete with dishes and cooking utensils. There was a bare, king-sized mattress on the bedroom floor, and a goose-necked reading lamp. Other than buying a pillow and bed linens, he’d not done a thing to change the apartment. The living room and dining room were complete bare, as was the room he assumed had been her office. From what he had heard of Madeline, he couldn’t imagine that she’d had a den. After watching her interrogation tapes, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know anything about her personal life at all.
In fact, he didn’t want to know anything about anyone unless it directly impacted their performance numbers. That was the main reason he want to be removed from Snow’s tutelage. Snow was a major gossip, and his favorite topic was the tragic love story of Michael and Nikita. As much as Ken had tried to block out, he knew that Michael had been Nikita’s trainer/mentor, that he nearly self-destructed when he thought she was dead, that they went on a Valentine mission where things really hated up (tapes still available—see Simon), etc., etc. etc.
Ken finally had to put his hand over Snow’s mouth to keep him from saying another word. “Look,” he told the younger man, “I’m just as romantic as you are, but these are people we know. I figure the least we can do is stay out of their personal lives.
Snow was like a dog with a bone. “So you know there was something more between them, too. I wonder what the real story is? Who would know? Davenport is dead, but I bet Walter will crack for a few shots of whiskey!”
It was at this point that Ken had walked into Nikita’s office. What kind of answer was I supposed to give her? Because all Snow wants to talk about is when, where, how often, and in what position? I don’t think so. He shook his head.
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Okay - Chapter 13 -- Diane, 22:04:19 04/29/05 Fri
Adam was amused at how many boys in his class wanted to talk to him after they had seen his picture in the paper. They probably didn’t even know his first name until the gallery opening. He didn’t care. His dad had gone to the office to pick up his transcripts and they were out of there!
The headmaster was distraught when Michael told him he was withdrawing Adam from school. Even though the term was nearly over, that still required a healthy refund of Adam’s tuition, money which with the school was loathe to part. The headmaster fed him stories about needing to wait for signatures and auditors and accountants, but Michael gave him his best “Section stare” and walked out 15 minutes later with a check in his pocket.
Adam could hear several of the boys calling to him through the window as he and Michael walked back to the car. “Bye, Adam!” “We’ll miss you!” Adam rolled his eyes, looked at his father and grinned. He felt like he had just been released from prison.
The school that Michael and Adam decided on together was Ste. Anne’s, a small, co-ed academy, run by Benedictine nuns. The curriculum was just as challenging, and the lessons were all in French, but the nuns would not tolerate the kind of abuse that Adam had become accustomed to at his previous school. The uniform was different, but the Mother Superior told Michael that Adam could finish the term in the uniform he owned now.
Her main concern was that Adam was Jewish, as many of their lessons revolved around the Catholic doctrine, and knowledge of catechism was mandatory. Michael explained that he was Jewish, but that Adam, though not baptized, had been raised in the Catholic faith. This was actually true about Adam, as Elena had been a devout Catholic, and had taken Adam to Mass with her every Sunday as well as every Holy day. This seemed to satisfy Sister Lucille.
Adam’s acceptance into Ste. Anne’s was celebrated at Dairy Queen, with chocolate marshmallow sundaes and large Pepsis. Michael observed that Adam was developing quite a sweet tooth, and made a mental note to schedule a dental check-up in the near future. In the meantime, he could deny him nothing. Adam was adapting to his forced new life so much better than Michael had hoped, and had asked so little in return. His one request was that he asked God to bless Nikita in his nightly prayers, and even this was done in silence, but Michael knew what Adam was asking for. Michael usually prayed along with him. God bless Nikita.
* * *
Michael began to teach Adam Tae-Kwan-Do. Adam had taken Karate lessons as a toddler, but more for the “cuteness” factor than for a means of actual self-defense. Michael wanted Adam to be able to take care of himself in case the need ever arose. He was also considering teaching Adam how to shoot, but this was a long was down the road, he hoped.
Adam did well in his lessons. He had inherited his father’s natural grace and athletic abilities, and progressed quickly through the different steps and maneuvers. Michael made sure he took his fair share of falls, as well. He wanted to make sure Adam knew that his opponent might be every bit as well trained as he—probably more so. He was cautioned him never to let his classmates know that he was being tutored in self-defense. Adam just rolled his eyes (a habit that Michael was beginning to find annoying). He knew the rules of the “game” well enough by now.
* * *
“Michel’s” next exhibit was to feature some of his sculptures. One in particular he had been working on for some time. He had begun with two oblong pieces of clay; one a honey-peach in color—the other a dark brick red. The end result was phenomenal. Though abstract, the piece clearly showed two lovers entwined after having made passionate love. The effect was both sensuous and chilling. The clay figures were intimate, yet disembodied. Together, yet still apart. Rémy, Michel’s agent, was aghast when Michael put a Not For Sale ticket on the piece at the last moment. What was he doing? This piece alone would bring in over $50,000, and that was only because Michel was still relatively unknown. But Michael remained firm. The sculpture, which he had christened “Stolen Moments,” was not for sale. Ever.
The showing went well. Several of Michel’s paintings and sculptures sold, but the unnamed Not For Sale piece was the talk of the evening. Leona Vigneault, the art critic from “Scoop,” kept pushing Michael to talk about it. The plump redhead considered his reticence a challenge. She even went after Adam, who knew no more than she did and besides, kept his face stuffed with mini-weenies.
Leona wasn’t an ace reporter for nothing. “How old are you?” she asked Adam, becoming all maternal.
“Seven.”
“And how long have you lived here in Montreal?”
Adam shrugged.
Like pulling teeth. She tried one more time.
“Where do you go to school?”
“In town.”
They were definitely hiding something. She might be an art critic now, but those investigative genes never die.
“Do you have one of your daddy’s cards?” she asked sweetly.
Adam trusted her about as far as he could throw her and, considering her girth, he knew that wasn’t far. “Of course,” he complied, and handed her one from his breast pocket.
Michel Samuelson. Artist. Represented by Rémy Girard. Girard Galleries. The gallery’s address and phone number. Nothing more.
She would check for a link between the gallery owner and the famous Québécois actor, but she didn’t expect to find one.
“Does your daddy have a phone number where I could reach him?” she asked, making a last-ditch effort.
“Leave a message at the gallery. He checks in,” was Adam’s succinct reply.
* * *
Adam told Michael about his conversation with the art critic on the way home. Michael told Adam he had handled the situation correctly. When Adam was in bed, he pulled up the files he had compiled on all of the “Scoop” reporters, particularly Leona Vigneault. No one dangerous, he concluded; just nosy.
He climbed into bed, pulling all the covers up over his nude form in the still brisk spring air. Though he willed himself not to, he knew he would dream of Nikita tonight. Was that good or bad? He wasn’t sure anymore.
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Okay - Chapter 14 -- Diane, 22:13:02 04/29/05 Fri
Nikita felt his warm breath on her neck, and smelled the faint traces of coffee. He must have brewed himself a cup before climbing back into bed. She would tease him about being a junkie some other time, when she didn’t feel so completely and incredibly relaxed. Her legs were entangled with her, weighing her down, and his right arm was thrown carelessly over her waist, drawing lazy circles on her stomach. She stifled her smile, not wanting him to know she was awake. Wanting this moment to last forever.
He wasn’t fooled. He was poised over her right ear, doing incredible things with his tongue, when the shrill of her alarm clock brought her back to reality. He wasn’t here. He never was. He had never been in this room in the Tower, let alone in this bed. As if in confirmation, Nikita looked down at her pearl blue satin nightgown. She certainly wouldn’t have been wearing that if Michael were here. He had confessed once that his favorite color was blue, so all of her new nightwear was blue. Not that he would ever see any of it. She allowed herself a 10-second pity party before getting out of bed and preparing for work.
She wondered if Michael ever thought about her the in the ways she thought about him. She hoped not. She hoped he and Adam had been able to move on. Start new lives. Put the past behind them. She knew the thoughts she was having were not healthy, but she didn’t care. They were all she had left, and until they faded away of their own accord, she would continue to indulge in them.
* * *
Ken had been here four months, now, and had led his first mission. They’d had one more operative injured than had been profiled, but that was due to rookie op field error, something even Michael couldn’t have prevented. She buzzed Jason and asked where Ken was; she wanted to congratulate him. As she had expected, he was in one the private gyms, sparring with Snow. She switched her monitor to watch his progress, and she did not like what she saw.
Ken’s movements were controlled, but he was angry. Livid, she would say. The two men changed positions, and she could see Snow’s mouth moving a mile a minute. She turned on the audio.
“—and anyone who walked by could see Michael had swept all of his stuff from the desk to the floor, and they were both red-faced and straightening their clothes. Obvious Interruptus, if ya know what I mean.” He winked.
Ken’s fist came out of nowhere and laid Snow flat on the ground. He put his foot solidly on Snow’s chest to keep him from getting up. His voice wasn’t raised, but Nikita could hear every slowly measured word from her office.
“When I want to know the details of Operation’s sexual exploits, I’ll rent the DVD. In the meantime, for the last time, keep your big mouth shut, or I will hurt you. Is that clear?
“Ah, yes sir,” replied Snow from his prone position on the mat. Ken turned and stalked out of the gym without another word.
Nikita turned from her monitor, dazed. She had no idea the old gossip had resurfaced. Or perhaps it had never gone away in the first place. She needed some advice. She called Walter and asked him to meet her in the Perch in 10 minutes.
As she strode through Comm., she heard the tail-end of Jason’s statement.
“—and laid him out flat. Just like that!”
“Then it seems to me this is an issue between Ken and Snow, and you need to keep your nose out of it,” replied Quinn, her eyes never leaving her monitor.
“Thank you, Quinn,” said Nikita, and Quinn’s head jerked up in surprise. “I just wish more people in Section felt the way you do.” Nikita finished her stroll to the Perch, and Quinn went back to her keyboard, pleased.
* * *
“Walter,” she began, “do you remember that time, a few years ago, when I was trying to kill a moth on the ceiling of Michael’s office?” The old man grinned. He knew where this was going. “Michael got pissed because I accidentally knocked all his junk on the ground, and then I tripped in those stupid f**k-me shoes Madeline made me wear and he caught me and I almost pulled the arm off his favorite suit.”
Walter picked up the story. “Then Birkoff walked in and it looked like you two had just done the wild thing on Michael’s desk.” He laughed. “It seemed like everyone in Section happened to be standing outside Michael’s door at that moment.” He let out another belly-shaking chuckle.
“Well I’m glad to see you find the entire incident so amusing,” sniffed Nikita.
“Sugar, if I hadn’t known for a fact that you two weren’t speaking at the moment, I’d have almost believed it myself. I set the record straight everywhere I could, but a story like that one takes a long time to die.”
“Apparently, it’s not dead,” mumbled Nikita, sliding down her chair in a very non-executive-like manner. “I heard Snow repeating it to Ken in glorious living color just a few minutes ago. It seems he’s been bringing Ken up to date on all of our exploits, real or imagined, since I joined Section.”
“If it’s Snow, then he’s the only one, Sugar,” said Walter reassuringly. “If the gossip wheel was turning, I’d have heard it. Ken’s a nice kid. No wonder he decked Snow for talking trash.”
Nikita raised her eyebrow. Walter was in-the-know.
“Get Ken another sparring partner, don’t put Snow on any of his teams, and your problems are solved. I’m sure everyone else has learned to ignore Snow by now.” He stood, as did Nikita. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Whoa,” warned Walter. “I feel another rumor coming on!” Nikita grinned, and Walter left the Perch.
* * *
Nikita met Ken in his office. “We have a few things to discuss,” she began. Ken offered nothing in return. “The first, and most important, is your Section living quarters.”
“My living quarters?” echoed Ken.
“Oh, come on,” she said in amusement. “The only thing missing right now is a sign showing hourly rates!” A corner of Ken’s mouth turned up. Nikita was not far off the mark.
“”I’m going to have someone from Housekeeping come up in the next half hour. Be thinking about what you want: what colors, what styles, what fabrics. If you want a bigger or smaller bed, or you don’t like the color of the wood, get rid of it. Same for the dining room table. As I recall the kitchen was rather nice; I don’t think Madeline ever stepped foot in there. But you do what you want.
“Thirty minutes?”
“Yeah,” grinned Nikita. “Doesn’t give you as much time to be as wishy-washy as I was.” Her looked sobered. “One more thing. I’m cancelling your sparring sessions with Snow.”
She waited for Ken’s response, but there was none.
“I believe you’ve learned all that he can teach you as a coach. You need to actually spar with an opponent to fine-tune your technique. There are matches and scorings posted daily—yours included. I would suggest you select someone slightly better than you but similar in height and weight to begin with. I look forward to seeing your progress.”
“Is that all?” asked Ken.
“That’s it,” said Nikita. “Thirty minutes,” she reminded him as she walked out the door.
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Okay - Chapter 15 -- Diane, 22:19:57 04/29/05 Fri
Michael’s head lay between her breasts. He nipped and sucked first one, than the other. He couldn’t get enough of her. His erection lay hot and heavy between them, her hands fisted in his long, silken curls, holding him close to her body. He slid down her torso, licking and kissing every inch—their bodies slick with sweat. She directed his mouth where she needed it to be, and he did not disappoint her. He lapped and suckled her honey sweetness, until neither of them could stand it anymore. He rose on his knees to where her body begged him enter. Nikita called out to him.
“Daddy?”
Michael’s eyes flew open. He was alone, damp with perspiration, his breathing ragged.
“Daddy?” Adam tried again, this time knocking on the bedroom door. Michael answered in a voice he hoped sounded like his.
“What do you need, Adam?”
“Can I watch cartoons this morning?”
Michael rolled over onto his back, trying to relieve this pressure of what still throbbed between his legs.
“You know the rules, Adam. Public Television or Animal Planet.”
He listened to Adam’s retreating footsteps, and contemplated what to do about his own problem. He hadn’t jerked-off since he was fourteen, and wasn’t about to revive that old habit now. He made his was out of the tangled sheets and into the shower stall, where the icy pellets hit him like fragments of an AK-47. He had dreamed about Nikita all night—his sheets must be a mess. Or not, considering the pain he still in.
After nearly twenty minutes of torture, he was finally able to slip into a pair of sweatpants and a Montreal Canadiennes t-shirt. He fixed himself a mug of coffee, and went to sit beside Adam, who was totally engrossed in a program about the mating habit of reptiles. Terrific.
“What are Bert and Ernie up to?” he asked, hoping Adam would change the channel.
“I already know about the number 3 and the letters K and W,” Adam reported. He turned to look at his father. “Don’t you think ‘Sesame Street’ is a little lame for someone going into Grade 3 next autumn?”
Lame. He would have to file that one away under Adam’s growing slang vocabulary.
“Let’s turn off the TV and practice your penmanship.”
“Now?” whined Adam. “It’s summer break.”
“And I still can’t read a word you write,” prodded Michael.
“I can’t read a word you write,” returned Adam, “and you’re doing okay.”
Michael ignored him and brought out a pad of penmanship paper. “Write your name in your best cursive writing,” he commanded. Adam took the pencil in a death grip, and with tongue nearly bursting through his cheek, did as his father asked.
Michael inspected his finished work. “That’s ‘Adan,’ not ‘Adam,’” he pointed out. Adam shrugged. Michael pointed to the spirally drawing where the ‘S’ should be. “What’s that?”
“It’s an ‘S,’” Adam said defensively.
“We’ll have to work on that one. And here’s ‘n’ instead of ‘m,’ again. I recognize an ‘l,’ but I can’t read anything else on this paper.”
“Cursive is hard,” Adam muttered.
Michael gave Adam a one-armed hug. “I know it is—especially when everyone else learned it at school and you missed that part. But you’re so bright, Adam. I know that you can catch up and even pass those Grade 3’s by the time school starts.”
“Pass them?” Adam asked skeptically.
“If you want to,” Michael replied nonchalantly. He knew Adam’s IQ had tested in the 170 range, but he had no intention of pushing him further than Adam wanted to go. Michael just wanted him to be aware of all of his options.
“Here.” Michael took Adam’s notepad and letter guide and wrote ‘Adam Samuelson in his very best cursive writing, which wasn’t bad when he put some effort into it. On the second page, he wrote ‘Mirabela.’ “See if you can get these two pages done, and then we’ll go do something special. Don’t hurry and make sloppy mistakes. Every word has to be right. Deal?”
“Deal,” confirmed Adam. Dairy Queen was no longer considered ‘special,’ so he couldn’t wait to see what his father had in mind. Oops. Three humps on the ‘m’.
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By the way -- Diane, 20:00:55 05/19/05 Thu
Have I thanked you lately for sticking with me on this? I know you don't 'like' my Michael, but I appreciate your checking for grammatical, stylistic, punctuation errors, etc., anyway. I'm going to wait until I hear back from you before I attempt the chapter 12 rewrite. You brought up some very valid points, and I'm not sure how to rework them.
Thanks again,
Diane :)
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Re: By the way -- Shanola, 19:16:15 06/01/05 Wed
Hey, Diane.
Just wanted to let you know that I'm heading out of town for a week or so. I'll drop a note here when I get back and beta some more.
Cheers! =P
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Re: By the way -- Diane, 21:01:33 06/07/05 Tue
I'll be out of town (IN MONTREAL MEETING ROY!!!) until the 13th if you get back before then. Please feel free to delete the chapters that are good to go; I really feel like I've hogged the whole board.
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Rewrite of Chapter 3 -- Diane, 12:27:47 06/04/05 Sat
I took all references to the Vaceks. See if it is more palatable to you now. I'm trying to redo Chapter 5 as well, but I'm having difficulty, as I can't decide what details can be sacrificed.
Okay – Chapter 3
For the first time ever, Michael let Adam drink a large Pepsi. He was counting on the caffeine to keep him awake long enough for them to talk. So far, it seemed to be working. Adam had never seen a bar before, and the rows of bottles behind the counter fascinated him. Michael explained how the bartender kept the foam from overflowing the beer mugs, hoping to start a dialogue. It worked. Adam started to ask another question when Michael leaned back in his chair and said nonchalantly, “I quit my job the other day.”
“You did?” Adam seemed marginally interested.
“Yes. That’s why we’re moving to Canada.”
“Are you going to sell things there, now?” Adam asked, becoming bored. He yawned.
Michael looked around the room dramatically, leaned forward, whispered conspiratorially, “Can you keep a secret?”
That piqued Adam’s interest. “Yes,” he answered hesitantly.
“I mean it Adam. This is a really big secret.”
Adam looked at him and snapped, “I’m not a kid anymore, Dad. I’m six. I know how to keep a secret.”
Michael kept his face a blank mask, though he wanted to burst out laughing. Adam reminded him so much of Nikita at that moment. “Okay,” he agreed, beckoning Adam closer. “I never was a business man. I never sold stuff. I was just pretending.”
“What did you do really?” asked Adam, taking the bait.
“I was a Supercop,” Michael said solemnly.
“Dad-dy!” Adam said, irritated, pushing back from the table.
“I’m totally serious, Adam. I worked for a place that caught the baddest of the bad guys.”
“Do you have super powers?” asked Adam skeptically.
“No,” said Michael, shaking his head. “I’m a real person. Just like you.”
“But you do,” Adam reminded him. “You came back from Heaven!”
Michael took a deep breath. This was where it was going to get dicey. “I need you to pay close attention, Adam.” The boy nodded. “I never went to Heaven. I just pretended.”
Adam was adamant on this point. “No. I saw you in the ground. Me and Mommy and Nikita said prayers and everything.”
“That wasn’t me, Adam. That was an empty box.” Adam shook his head. Michael took his hands. “I need you to be very grown up Adam, and listen to every word I say. Can you do that?”
Adam nodded his head, brown eyes locked into green.
“Grandpa died in the hospital, Adam. I didn’t.”
“But you did!” Adam protested. “Mommy said!”
“It just looked like I did,” Michael confirmed, stroking Adam’s black hair, trying to calm the agitated boy, “but it was just pretend. I was really on a secret mission. The Supercops had to play make-believe so that no bad guys would hurt you or Mommy if they came to look for me.
“But if you’re a Supercop, why didn’t you stay and protect us?” cried Adam plaintively. “Why did you make me and Mommy think you died? Mommy cried every day! She said I was the man of the house and I had to be strong and be a big boy. But it was a lie! YOU lied! You went away and didn’t come back, but you were hiding from us the whole time! I hate you!”
Adam climbed down from his chair and tried to run away. Michael grasped him around the waist and waited till he had stopped struggling before pulling Adam firmly against him. He wouldn’t sit in Michael’s lap, but he wasn’t squirming to get away anymore, so Michael took that as a sign to continue.
“I had to go away, Adam. The bad guys knew I was a Supercop now, and if I came home, they might have tried to come after me and accidentally hurt you and Mommy.” His voice grew softer, and Adam leaned against Michael’s chest. “It broke my heart, Adam, not seeing you and Mommy, but I had to go away and hide to keep you safe. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do.”
Michael pulled Adam slowly onto his lap. The boy was weeping openly now. “Was-was Mommy a Supercop, too?” he asked hesitantly, already knowing the answer.
“No, Adam. Mommy really died in a car accident. She really is in heaven.” Michael ordered another coffee and another Pepsi from the bar. He and Adam were far from finished.
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Re: Rewrite of Chapter 3 -- Shanola, 19:22:37 06/23/05 Thu
This looks okay.
One small thing: You may want to replace the word Pepsi with something more generic, like soda.
As for rewriting Chapter 5 and having trouble because you don't know what you can sacrifice...be brave and chop it all to heck! Sometimes, when we chop the things we *think* we need, the story becomes stronger.
It's hard. Geez, don't I know it!LOL Recently, I chopped the entire ending off a piece and rewrote it. In the end, I only used about two lines from the original. But the story worked much, much better.
Besides, there is always the paste button! Paste the pieces in a Save file for security if you need to, but don't be afraid to chop!
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Re: Rewrite of Chapter 3 -- Diane, 17:48:35 07/01/05 Fri
I'll take yet ANOTHER look at Ch 5; it's been awhile since I've read it--maybe a new angle will mysteriously appear.
As to the Pepsi thing, I'm a confirmed Pepsiholic, and Pepsi is kind of my 'mark' in all my stories, both archived and outlined. I have Michael and Adam visit Dairy Queen simply because they serve Pepsi there!
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