Feedback wanted!

Hey all!

Writing has official re-commenced.  Oh man.  This is exciting.  :D

After reading Writing the Breakout Novel by Donald Maass, some of my story was overthrown.  I had to jettison Skain's negativity and pathetic-ness (say goodbye to the chapters I posted earlier) and rework my romance a bit.  (Plus, my Te function continually keeps finding plot-holes that I absolutely have to cover up, which means plot rework, plot rework, plot rework, re-outlining, scrapping arcs, and creating arcs galore.)

Anyway, I was having some fun this evening, testing Skain's entrance out.  If you happen to pass by this corner of the internet, please read this and let me know your thoughts on Skain!  My goal is to make him more likable.  Hit or miss?

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Prologue IV: Skain

“All right, ladies, break time!”

Shrike stands outside of the boxing ring, his tattooed arms folded.  In one hand, he waves a crisp sheet of paper; in the other, a fresh cigarette is burning slowly.

Lowering my gloved fists, I pull off my helmet, shaking my sweaty hair away from my scalp.  Antony, my sparring partner, sucks on and spits out his mouthpiece and asks, “What’s up, Shrike?”

“Heinrich sent a letter,” Shrike replies, “for Skain.  Seems like it’s finally about to hit the fan, and they need all hands on deck.”

I step forward, yanking off my gloves between my knees and taking the letter from Shrike.  Heinrich hasn’t contacted me over the last half decade for anything more important than my birthday.  No updates, no mention of future plans, only rare comments on my training.

Why is he suddenly talking now?

  With damp fingers, I unfold the sheet of ivory cotton paper and skim the black printed words.  Antony reads over my shoulder out-loud.

“‘Skain,

“‘The police force in Twainside is soon to begin a project that has been seven years in the making.  Via these letters, we are assembling our high-potential cast from your individual locations to create a special operations task force.  You will be joining a group of five other young men and women as their leader.  Arrangements have been made for your arrival on Friday at 1730.  Plan accordingly.

“‘Your father, Heinrich.’

  “Hey, look at that” Antony remarks, elbowing me with a grin and pointing at Heinrich’s closing, “He still thinks of you as his son.”

I don’t retort.  Partly because I’m too blasé about being adopted to feel any residual shame.  But mostly because I’m distracted as I re-read Heinrich’s brief letter over and over again, emphasizing different sections each time: ‘Twainside’, ‘our high-potential cast’, ‘Friday at 1730’.

  That’s in just two days, I think, feeling a knot form suddenly in my stomach, Will I be ready by then?

I push back my discomfort as best as I can and duck out of the ring, beginning to shelve my boxing gear in silence.  Behind me, Shrike and Antony tell me that they’re going upstairs to get cleaned up, and I raise a hand briefly in acknowledgement.  After a second, the basement door clicks closed, and I’m alone.

For seven years, I’ve known that this day was going to come.  I knew this day was going to come, and I imagined its form in all sorts of ways.  The police would finish their planning, and I would be recalled to the city, maybe put under public eye or hidden as a secret weapon.  Then, back at home, I would fight for Heinrich’s cause, waiting, waiting to see his smile.  Not because I’m starved for attention and want a father’s love, but because I genuinely respect Heinrich, and I want to see him succeed.

  I’ve spent seven years bracing and preparing myself for now.

  Yet, now is here.

And I feel annoyingly vulnerable.

Am I enough?  Has seven years been enough time?

  Bad memories begin to resurface without my permission.  Random stuff about a raised, manicured backhand, angry crying, and a lot of trouble-making and hell-raising.  I shake my head as I rummage through the basement’s mini-fridge for an unopened water bottle and push those bad memories back too.

  Shrike always told me: “Wrong place to go, Skain.  I’m spending every day filling your brain with everything you need to know to conquer on that urban battlefield.  This won’t be like the orphanage.  You’re top of the pyramid now.  No one will touch you unless you let ‘em.”

  And he’s right.  I’m nineteen and independent and pretty much untouchable.  But I still sometimes can get mentally and emotionally stuck in my trapped, controlled days as an eleven year old orphan.  Bad habit of mine.

  Whatever, I think, letting out a sigh of contentment as I pour cold water down my throat.  Friday is in two days.  I have plenty to do in terms of travel preparations before then.

  Besides, whether Shrike is right or wrong about my current aptitude and whether Heinrich wins or not, I’ve been single-mindedly focused on this moment for seven years, and I have no intention of letting it slip out of my grasp.

  I have too many people to prove wrong, too many people to prove right.

  Ready or not - I’m coming.

~ ~ ~

Write on!

Clove