(Replying here to keep workshop together, hope that's okay.)

Subject: (Replying here to keep workshop together, hope that's okay.)
Author: doctorlit
Posted on: 2013-10-16 06:14:00 UTC

Five prompts, eh? I happen to have exactly five planned-but-mostly-unwritten agents! Eeeeeeeexcellent.

Only a couple done right now; more to come as I find the time to write them.

1. Late for an important event . . .

The four sat down in the warmly lit study, as the servant closed the doors behind them. As Bruce began to pour a cup of tea for his master and each visitor, Johnathan sighed and declared, “It's getting chillier and chillier every night!”

“That does tend to happen in Massachusetts in autumn, Johnathan.” Edward, never smiling, rested his head in his hand as he leaned further into his seat, ignoring the glares from Edward's wife.

“I only hope Tabitha gets here soon,” Edward's mother croaked. “It's not like her to be late, and it's much too cold for a lady to be outside by herself.”
* * *
Tabitha Queens did not feel cold; she felt, in fact, as though her sides would burst with all the heat she had worked up running. She slowed only slightly to turn as she reached another intersection between two streets, barely lit by gas lamps that flickered in the cold night. Immediately upon starting down this new street, she spun around and continued running back to the previous one, in response to the scrabbling sounds already approaching from that direction.

She should have known these streets. She had walked from her home to Ophelia's numerous times in the past two years, yet this night, she had somehow become lost. No way she turned had led to a familiar path. Now, she may as well have been in London instead of Boston, as though a whole new set of streets had been
highways in
hiding inside the buildings and under the cobbles, waiting for someone overly confident and foolish to wander in at just the right time.

Just the right time for the things with the red eyes that glowed in the night to find her.
* * *
“Rather shocking, the whole business about that painter.” Edward casually tapped the charred matter from the end of his cigar into an ashtray on the end table next to his chair.

Ophelia continued, her arthritic hands shaking. “That artwork was so morbid! I nearly fainted after seeing two paintings. How an American gentleman could have such a morbid fancy. Oh!”

“But what was in the paintings to be so alarming?” asked Josephine as Bruce refilled her teacup.

“Oh, monsters! Awful, awful monsters . . .”

“Oh, madam,” said Johnathan, “I've seen fantastical portraits of monsters before. They—”

“This was different!” The strength in Ophelia's voice made even Edward turn to look at her, his usual frown deepening slightly. She continued, “You said, 'portraits of monsters,' and that's it, precisely! It was like a portrait, so . . . so . . . the muscles, the sinews, the sweat, even . . . it looked as though Richard Pickman had drawn the beasts from life.”
* * *
Tabitha stumbled into a slightly larger intersection, slightly better lit. Her skirts were now ragged from being stepped on too many times, and Tabitha was quite ready to eschew propriety and tear the bulky thing straight off. Let the red-eyed creatures be distracted by finding it. She would do the same to her long, brown hair, too—she had been certain that any moment something would grab it from behind and pull her back into the dark.

A renewed scratching behind her made Tabitha aware she had stopped running. She moved as quickly as she could into the light in the center of the open roads. She heard a ship's bell toll nearby—could I really have run that close to the harbor?—and took in her new surroundings, searching for news means of escape. The walls and street here were terribly cracked and broken; it seemed impossible that anywhere in Boston could have been neglected by repair work long enough to reach this level of degradation. She noticed with relief the dark, muscled figure of a man hunched underneath one of the gas lamps.

“Sir!” she called, her voice pitched high from adrenaline. “Sir, help! Flee! There are wild beasts in the streets!”

The man stood up and turned around. Tabitha halted so quickly that she fell to her knees and hands. The black silhouette before her was only superficially that of a man. Muscled arms and legs ended in clawed toes and fingers. A canine head transfixed her gaze with glowing red eyes. In one hand, the figure held a shattered human tibia, dripping with rotten, grey marrow.

Marrow which also dribbled from its toothy muzzle.

Later, Tabitha wouldn't even remember getting back to her feet. She would only remember the ghoul throwing its head up, opening its mouth and howling, except not really howling, but making a high-pitched, whining giggle. Other ghouls answered as Tabitha ran pell mell towards the docks, ready to plunge into the deathly cold water to avoid the red eyes that now peered from every shadow, every corner, every rooftop.

She forced herself to keep going, even as she scraped against and bounced off of the close-set buildings in the tight alleyway that led to the waterfront. She emerged on the dock, startling two musket-bearing men with tri-cornered hats and red coats (unfortunately, she wouldn't remember that later, either; otherwise, she might have realized how odd it was) and finally reached the end of the wharf, new panic setting in too late to stop her from careening towards the sharp rocks below.

She instead tumbled down a small flight of steps, crying out as one of the stair's edges cut into her knee. She opened her eyes, and immediately looked around the new street for more of the ghoulish creatures. The creak of a door opened behind her.

“Tabitha?” Johnathan smiled warmly as Tabitha Queens turned to face her companion. “Are you quite all right? You nearly missed tea!”

2. Responding to criticism . . .

The Floating Hyacinth regarded the agent sitting on the other side of her desk. Not visually, of course. Even if she had eyes, her view would be obscured by the water droplets condensed on the side of the tank that housed her body. Nonetheless, much could be observed about a human by examining its thoughts.

In this case, the waves of cold that reached the Flower's mind indicated the agent was probably leaning back against the back of the chair, arms crossed defiantly over his chest. Beneath that obvious, conscious emotion of resentment was the sensation the Hyacinth had learned to identify this particular individual by: the grey, dull feeling of flatness in his mind, the disinterest with which he met most tasks that didn't appeal to him. This was how the Hyacinth could imagine his messy and unkept hair, the expressionless stare in his face. Along with that flat apathy, however, was a spike of energy in the center, the resentment at being called away from what did interest him. That spike flared up briefly, making the Hyacinth aware of the impending outburst before he began to speak audibly.

“Did you call me away from my RC to actually talk to me, or were just planning on letting me sit here staring at your aquarium until my next mission?” demanded agent Paul.

I may just do that, if only to see if it improves your performance on it.

Paul scoffed—the Flower felt it as the spike of resentment flaring up, pointing directly at her mind this time. “My performance does NOT need any improvement.”

On the contrary, agent Paul, Legal has sent me several displeased memos detailing inconsistencies in some of your recent charge lists.

“Enlighten me.”

Simply put, you are charging Sues and Trolls with charges that are not charges.

“Bullcrap. I see a mistake, I point it out. There's nothing wrong with that.”

Well, let's just take a look at some of these . . . mistakes, shall we? A laminated sheet of paper that had been floating in the water on the Hyacinth's left side floated closer to her. It seems that three missions ago, you charged a Misty replacement with 'having a Dewgong use Icy Wind.'

“The fic was set in the first generation. Icy Wind didn't exist back then.”

The date has the fic being written after the Icy Wind move was released.

Confusion—like bubbles drifting out of Paul's mind—drifted into the Hyacinth's perception. “It doesn't matter!”

You also charged that same replacement with 'still only having a Wartortle.'

“All her other Pokémon evolved in the mid-level thirties. The Wartortle was the only one that didn't follow suit, even though it evolves at level thirty-six.”

I'm given to understand that trainers can have their Pokémon wait to evolve.

“What idiot would do that?” Paul made a spitting noise with his lips. “Certainly not a gym leader.”

On a similar note, this last mission, you charged a Sue—Kamanita Tohjo—with 'having a Monferno use Flame Wheel at level fourteen.'

“It happened right after it evolved from Chimchar,” Paul explained. “Chimchar evolves at fourteen, and Monferno doesn't learn Flame Wheel until nineteen.”

I think that was just a bit of artistic license.

“Well, it's not acceptable.”

The Floating Hyacinth said nothing to this.

After a few moments of silence, Paul went on. “Pokémon is all about numbers. If authors can't get the details right, I'm going to charge them for it.”

The Pokémon anime frequently plays fast and loose with all of that and more.

“Well, the anime is stupid. That's why I don't accept it as canon.”

Your job, agent—our job—is to enforce that canon. Not to enforce piddling details from strategy guides.

The Hyacinth could feel Paul's irritation swelling—that one spike of resentment was swiftly being joined by others. “That's what the canon is! That's how it works!” He stood up and slammed his hands palms down onto the desk. “Why isn't Vania here? She was on these missions; she should be getting chewed out too!”

I am well aware of who writes the charge lists when you and your partner are in the Pokémon continuum, agent. In fact, Vania has requested more missions into musicals and other stage productions lately. I think I'll honor that request for a while, see if some time away from Pokémon improves your judgment when collecting charges.

Paul sneered. “At least make it other video games. I have no interest in wasting my time on any dorky crap like that.”

You WILL do your job as instructed, agent. The Floating Hyacinth's mental presence suddenly flooded around Paul's mind, making her intentions very clear indeed. Or you can transfer to All-Purpose and let Legal bother the Foxglove Official about your shenanigans. Better yet, go home, and save the whole PPC the trouble.

The frustrated spikes representing Paul's thoughts abated for just a bit, replaced with uncertainty. “You wouldn't send me back. You're too understaffed.”

Let me assure you, an agent of your caliber can and will be replaced. With ease.

The spikes returned, ballooning into a full spiny ball of fury. Paul grabbed at the desk, barely restraining himself from trying to flip it. He spun around, and finding the chair blocking his way, lashed out with his leg and kicked it over and across the floor. Then he marched out of the room and through the Hyacinth's door.

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PC's Workshop/Advice/Thing: Characters by PoorCynic on 2013-10-12 15:27:00 UTC Reply

I've seen this issue come up on the Board time and time again: hopeful writers presenting would-be that fail to meet the standards of the PPC in their bids for permission. It's a tricky thing, trying to make a good character without falling into a few pitfalls. So, as I mentioned wanting to try my hand at a few workshops in my return message, I decided to start off with character creation. I'l begin with a few tips and tricks of my own and conclude with a writing challenge for all of you.

NOTE: The following is geared mostly towards making PPC agents, but can be applied to creating characters for works outside of our little group as well.

The Premise

Typically when one creates a new character, one has at least a basic idea of what said character is going to be like. It can usually be parsed out into a short and simple description, like "lazy and reluctant upper-class soldier" or "aggressive gamer girl." Those lines are good places to start, but you should never get too attached to them. You might find yourself taking the character in a different direction as they become more developed. If said direction seems like a good one, then you should pursue it to its end.

Notice how neither of the descriptions mentioned in the previous paragraph said anything about appearance. That should be your last concern when making a character. If you've ever made a model car or figure, then you know to never paint it first. Plus, you might find something in the fleshing-out process that affects the look of your character. That's where Laura's broken nose came from.

Fleshing It Out

A simple line is all very well and good for a background character with one or two bits or dialogue, but agents need more. That means you need more. The best way I've found to flesh out a character is to free-write them into very short scenarios -- drabbles, if you will. The first thing that comes to your mind regarding how your character would react? Write it down. The nature of their reaction can aid in shaping their personality. Using this new aspect of your character, write another random scenario drabble. Repeat the process until you feel like you've got a good grip on what this character is all about.

You should also know as much about your character's past as possible. What events shaped them in their childhood? In high school? In college? Did they even pursue an education? What's their family like? And so on and so forth. I'm not saying create a timeline (although that might help you), but you might want to consider writing short stories about some of those major events. The best way to know your characters is to write about them.

From Elsewhere and Elsewhen

Obviously, the nature of the PPC means that agents can be from just about any piece of fiction to have ever come into existence. If you're going to make an agent from another reality, then you should bone up on the various aspects of said reality. That goes double if you're making a character from a continuum that you know is popular amongst the community you're writing for, like Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter for the PPC. Fans can be, well, fanatical about the little details.

At the very least, you should comb through any specific wikis relating to the nature of your character. I'm not the biggest fan of the Halo series -- played parts of some of the games and read a few of the novels -- but I looked up everything I could on Haloverse AIs when creating Cornelius.

Making a character with powers -- magic, metahuman abilities, chi, or whatever -- is a bit more complicated. I'll get into the nuances of that in a follow-up post.

Find Their Voice

A good character has something distinctive in their voice that sets them apart. It might be something big, like an accent or a verbal tic, or small, like what specific words they choose. A lot of swear words might indicate a coarse character who doesn't care what other people think. Strictly structured speech can reflect an equally structured mind. Basically, if you're writing or reading back-and-forth dialogue between two people without descriptors like 'he said' or 'she said,' you should be able to tell who is who based on how and what they say without having to look back at the beginning of the conversation.

The Final Details

Keeping everything you've learned about your character throughout this process in mind, you can finally get to work on their overall look. Constantly ask yourself questions throughout this process. How does the character move? How do they walk? Are there any familiar gestures they use? Do they smoke? Do they drink? Do they have tattoos or piercings? Anything that can reflect on the nature of your character should be considered at least for a moment.

You should consider the hairstyle and clothing choices of character as reflective of how they are, and not how you think they should be. I wrote Danny as being a somewhat serious-minded lover of literature, so I put him in the sweater-shirt-tie combination. Gremlin the athletic street thug would obviously have clothing aimed at free movement as well as a few tattoos. The only reason she would wear something even remotely formal would be for flirtatious reasons.

Your Challenge

Take a character -- it can be a concept you've had brewing in your mind or a pre-existing figure, although I would prefer the former -- and pick one of the following scenarios to write a few paragraphs on.
[Character] is late for an important event.
[Character] is helping a friend with a favor.
[Character] is going through their morning routine.
[Character] has suffered some momentary setback.
[Character] is responding to criticism.
Did that help you understand your character a bit better, or perhaps uncover some part of them you didn't know about? (You can see why I now prefer you use a concept rather than a character you already know.) Read and critique other entries as well, just because. I put it to you, PPC!

Have fun and good writing to you all. Stay tuned for future workshop/advice/things in the future!

PoorCynic

Morning Routine by the Irish Samurai on 2013-10-19 00:02:00 UTC Reply

Theodore was awake before his alarm went off, and as such was able to swing himself out of bed and shut the clock up before it had finished its second beep.

He moved from his bed to the door in near total darkness, grabbed his dressing gown from the hook it was hanging on, and walked out into the main area of the RC. He advanced cautiously into the living room, groping along the wall for the lightswitch – while his bedroom floor was perfectly safe to navigate in darkness, the same could not necessarily be said of the shared areas.

The lights came on, revealing a typical RC. Like many others, it was furnished in a somewhat haphazard manner - although the typical look of an RC could be summarised as ‘whatever we found that we wanted’, leading to an inevitable clash of styles, in this case there seemed to be a deliberate theme of contrasting technology. An ornate grandfather clock kept time next to a top of the line 3D TV, and various other odds and ends were a mix of archaic and high-tech.

The floor was mercifully free from hindrances such as discarded clothing and takeaway wrappers – either his partner had returned unusually sober, or hadn’t made it back yet. Faint sounds of snoring as he passed the door to the other bedroom indicated the former.

He had a light breakfast of orange juice and toast, before dressing in sweatpants and a vest; ready for his morning run. He left his RC and went out into the DIA wing: Central was pretty quiet, but that was hardly surprising considering that his alarm was set to go off a couple of hours before the early shift began. Theodore nodded to the few night shifters still around, and headed out into the rest of HQ.

He paid no attention to where he was going, running with his head down – he hated having his morning run interrupted, and deliberately ignored his surroundings, in case he saw something that he’d have to take official notice of.

One he’d worked up a good sweat, not to mention a gnawing hunger, he quickly made his way back to his RC. DIA agents seemed to be less affected by HQ’s notoriously difficult to navigate corridors, probably thanks to Legal.

When he got back to his RC, he wasn’t exactly surprised to see that the door to his partner’s bedroom still hadn’t been opened, in fact, if volume of snores was anything to go by, he was sleeping even deeper than when Theo had left.

He stripped out of his sweat-stained clothes and showered, in water so hot he could only just stand it, steaming up the small bathroom till it seemed foggy. The mirror had steamed up, but a brief press of his finger against the touch sensitive panel in the corner of the glass and it instantly cleared. As far as Theo was concerned, some aspects of modern/future technology were nothing short of miraculous, but then there were other times when the old ways were best.

Grey eyes regarded him momentarily, before he looked away to gather his shaving tools. Modern shaving foam was paired with an antique cut-throat razor, and he began working with careful and deliberate motions, eyes closed, relying on the feel of the blade gliding over his skin.

When he was finished, his skin was completely smooth, and he regarded himself critically in the mirror before washing up. His hair, a similar colour to his eyes now that he’d turned forty, was getting a little long and unruly by his standards, and he made a mental note to get it cut sometime soon.

Refreshed and clean, he headed out into the kitchen again, and fixed himself a heavier second breakfast of cold meats, cheese and bread. The smell of brewing coffee, from hand-ground beans, pervaded through the RC.

While Theodore was finishing his second breakfast, a beeping from elsewhere in the rooms indicated his partner was getting up, although the number of slaps and thuds suggested that he was having difficulty finding the ‘snooze’ button, and would likely be late to start again.

With his breakfast finished, and the small amount of washing up it had generated done, Theodore poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and moved over to his writing desk. The desk was relatively clear: a notepad and old fashioned fountain pen were on the left, and a tablet computer was on the right. Between them was a framed ferrotype, showing an image of himself and beautiful young woman – his sister, long dead now, killed by the same Assassins that had recruited him. It served as a daily reminder of why he’d joined the DIA, and not the DMS or one of the other Action Departments.

He gave his sister a moment of silence, raising his coffee in salute to her – she’d always drunk more of the stuff than he did anyway, before turning to the business of the day. He made a note about visiting his barber on the pad, while waiting the few seconds for the tablet to power up, then began flicking through his e-mails.

A few were personal, but the majority were work related. A black market shipment of Bleeprin had turned out to be nothing more than sugar pills, resulting in several hyperactive agents spending the night in the DIA ‘cells’, actually repurposed RCs, until they were calm enough to be let out.

While he was reading and replying to those that needed it, every ten minutes or so his partner’s alarm went off, followed by the thuds of an at best half-awake person trying, and failing, to find the snooze button again. This continued until the grandfather clock chimed, at which point Theodore knew he had to get ready to leave.

He went back into his room and dressed in pinstripe trousers, a white shirt with black sleeve garters, and a black waistcoat – his usual attire when on duty.

There was still no sign that his partner would be up any time soon, so he grabbed his tablet and lever-action shotgun and headed out into DIA Central. The weapon may have seemed like overkill for a patrol officer, but like other aspects of Theodore’s life, his weapon of choice was a study in contrasts. The antique weapon was typically loaded with high-tech Tazer rounds, allowing him to take down a flamethrower crazy Agent relatively safely, both for him and them.

He made his way to his desk, hoping that it would be free – the DIA had to be ready to respond to events at any time, day or night, and so worked in shifts and hot-desked. Fortunately on this day his predecessor hadn’t overrun, and had even finished with enough time to tidy up and clear away properly.

Theodore slid into the still warm seat, secured his shotgun in a rack at the side, then clipped his tablet into the docking station. He unlocked his drawer, one of four identical ones that were part of the desk, and took out his stationery and the reports he was working on. The last thing that he took out was his nameplate, which he placed on the corner of the desk, angled so that anyone walking down the aisle could see his name: T. Shacklemore.

Author's Note:
I've had ideas for writing a DIA Agent for a while now, but didn't really do anything about it. This seemed like a perfect oppourtunity to take the idea further, and I have to say that I found it very useful for coming up with his character - I've got half-completed Interlude involving Theo actually interacting with some other agents, and notes for some more stuff that I can do with him. I don't think I'd normally have such detailed plans at this early stage.

So thanks, PoorCynic, for posting this workshop - I look forward to seeing what other topics you cover.

While on the subject of this workshop in particular, I would just add that most agents come in pairs - when developing ideas for agent characters, it's probably a good idea to think about them in terms of interactions with their partner, as well as purely as individuals (and yes, I realise that my piece featuring a single agent does somewhat undermine the point I'm trying to make). Think about where their attitudes/outlook might be similar, and where they'll be completely different - just a little bit of extra advice for anyone thinking about their first agent pair.

Good work by Hieronymus Graubart on 2013-10-20 13:27:00 UTC Reply

I seem to know Theodore Shacklemore quite well already, and although there was no direct interaction, I got some ideas how his partner and their relationship might be. I specifically noticed that Theo made no attempt to make his partner get up in time, and I expect to find out whether he doesn’t care or had bad experiences in a future story.

I know that this cannot be edited here, but in case you want to post it again elsewhere:

One he’d worked up a good sweat,
You meant "Once", right?

showing an image of himself and beautiful young woman
There is an "a" missing between "and" and "beautiful".

HG

Thanks, by the Irish Samurai on 2013-10-21 15:01:00 UTC Reply

I'm glad you think it worked. It was interesting trying to characterise his relationship with his partner without the partner actually being present.

Yup, I will probably be posting this as an actual Interlude at some point, or using it as the intro to a longer piece (it'd be a waste of Theo's characterisation if I didn't do something with him now), so thanks for pointing out those mistakes.

Addendum: Powered Characters by PoorCynic on 2013-10-16 02:34:00 UTC Reply

Wizards. Superhumans. The gifted. Whatever you'd like to call them. Crafting characters with special abilities is a task with a few special hurdles of its own. It's not that powers themselves make a character a Sue or Stu; even the most powerful heroes and villains can be balanced and well-crafted characters. It is, however, easier to create a Sue or Stu with powers if written poorly. As such, there are a couple things to keep in mind during the character creating process.

Knowing Their Limits

Whenever I make someone with special abilities, I make sure to give them clear(ish) limits on what they can do. It's too easy to allow the limits of someone's power to creep up over time as the threats escalate. The Dragonball series is a prime example of such a phenomenon taking place, as is Silver Age Superman.

There are two kinds of limits I use: physical and mental. Physical limits are just as they sound. The character in question can't use their power in certain ways, or if they do they run the risk of hurting or killing themselves. Mental limits are things that a character could do with their power but don't because it violates their personal code. The psychic who doesn't read other people's minds because it's an invasion of privacy. Mental limits are obviously easier to push past, but doing so might open up an entirely new can of worms. Maybe they become wracked with guilt. Maybe they start questioning the rest of their moral code and start on their way to the Dark Side (so to speak).

For example: I used both physical and mental limits when creating Gremlin. She has the ability to manipulate electricity and electrical fields, which by itself could have a pretty broad application (electromagnetism, weather manipulation, technopathy, and so on). I put a physical block on her by making her ability a subtle and unflashy one. She can't hurl lightning bolts or fly or anything like that. At most, she could manipulate existing electrical phenomena. I wrote an (as of yet unpublished) interlude where she 'pulled' the electrical arc out of a stungun and was able to shape it into a marble-sized bit of ball lightning. Even then, doing so caused electrical burns to her hand. That's pretty much as showy as she can get.

Her mental limit is a bit more interesting. I decided when refining Gremlin for the PPC that she could, with a great deal of focus and effort, manipulate the natural electricity in creatures she happened to be touching. That is, she COULD but WOULDN'T. Despite being a thief and something of rebel, Gremlin isn't a psychopath. Puppeting someone around by their own nervous system, tightening their muscles so hard that their tendons tear and their bones break, stopping their heart with a thought: those are the acts of a lunatic. It's invasive, brutal, and horrifying. The only way I could see Gremlin doing something like that was if her life (or someone she truly cared about) was in imminent mortal danger. Even then, she'd definitely not be okay afterward.

Limits don't just apply to things like superpowers. Certain types of magic might require personal risk or sacrifice, like blood magic or bartering with a demon. Maybe learning certain spells means you can't learn others, in the vein of classic D&D. Chi techniques might require mediation and adhering to strict personal vows like chastity or solitude.

Limits. Know 'em. Get 'em. Use 'em.

The Most Important Rule

Characterization always takes precedence over the power. ALWAYS. If you want to make a metahuman because you think that someone with a certain power would be cool or awesome, you're doing it wrong. Ask yourself if this character really needs a power or an ability.

A method I will sometimes use is I will craft a version of my intended powered character sans powers. The World Prime version of that individual, as it were. Then, knowing what I do about their character from that process, I add in a power. An origin story, as it were (if such a concept applies).

You shouldn't be afraid of creating characters with powers, nor should you automatically be suspicious of OCs with them. It might be easier to slip down the path into Sue or Stu-dom, but it's not a given. The most important thing to remember is to make them a real character, and not just a set of cool abilities.

PoorCynic

Powered Characters by Storme Hawk on 2013-10-16 21:41:00 UTC Reply

I'm currently (for the umpteenth time) in the process of writing a bit of original fiction, it's about the emergence of superheroes into a society much like our own only more xenophobic. Basically there are two teams of seven that the story will focus on, the Guardians and The Beta's (second-gen Guardians). Whilst the Guardians are a firmly established idea in my head the Beta's are relatively new, and its only in this incarnation of the story that there will actually be seven of them (opposed to 5 the rest of the times they've appeared) however I'm trying to work on a power for the seventh member of them that doesn't seem to overpowered but also ties quite nicely into the pool of powers the team has as a whole (being Perfect Vision (the ability to see fine through Fog, Fire, Liquid, Darkness but not Solids), Fog Generation and Manipulation, Rock Manipulation, Hydrokinesis, Wing Generation and (thereby) Flight, Super strength and Rock hard skin). I'm trying not to be too influenced by either Generic superpowers or heroes from either DC or Marvel comics, making it harder for myself I know, but I don't want to write a story that has a Superman rip-off in it.

I suppose what I'm really asking is that a) do you (and by you I mean person reading this) think that the combination of powers above or even any one power is too prone to become Sue's or Stu's (each person is separated by a comma) especially considering that with the world they're in it's more likely that there opponents will outnumber them but be normal humans? and b) what power would you add to that group that is not only different to them but would work with the above powers as well?

I feel like you've missed my point. by PoorCynic on 2013-10-18 21:11:00 UTC Reply

Or maybe I just didn't communicate it well enough. It's not necessarily the powers that make a character a Sue or Stu, it's how well or poorly they're written. It would be easy to call Superman a Marty Stu with all his powers. And he can be at times, but that's not because of all the powers. It depends on the skill of the writer behind Superman.

All you've given me is a list of powers. That means nothing to me. What are the characters using those powers like? How do they live their lives? Why should I care about them? The character should come first. Not the power.

(Replying here to keep workshop together, hope that's okay.) by doctorlit on 2013-10-16 06:14:00 UTC Reply

Five prompts, eh? I happen to have exactly five planned-but-mostly-unwritten agents! Eeeeeeeexcellent.

Only a couple done right now; more to come as I find the time to write them.

1. Late for an important event . . .

The four sat down in the warmly lit study, as the servant closed the doors behind them. As Bruce began to pour a cup of tea for his master and each visitor, Johnathan sighed and declared, “It's getting chillier and chillier every night!”

“That does tend to happen in Massachusetts in autumn, Johnathan.” Edward, never smiling, rested his head in his hand as he leaned further into his seat, ignoring the glares from Edward's wife.

“I only hope Tabitha gets here soon,” Edward's mother croaked. “It's not like her to be late, and it's much too cold for a lady to be outside by herself.”
* * *
Tabitha Queens did not feel cold; she felt, in fact, as though her sides would burst with all the heat she had worked up running. She slowed only slightly to turn as she reached another intersection between two streets, barely lit by gas lamps that flickered in the cold night. Immediately upon starting down this new street, she spun around and continued running back to the previous one, in response to the scrabbling sounds already approaching from that direction.

She should have known these streets. She had walked from her home to Ophelia's numerous times in the past two years, yet this night, she had somehow become lost. No way she turned had led to a familiar path. Now, she may as well have been in London instead of Boston, as though a whole new set of streets had been
highways in
hiding inside the buildings and under the cobbles, waiting for someone overly confident and foolish to wander in at just the right time.

Just the right time for the things with the red eyes that glowed in the night to find her.
* * *
“Rather shocking, the whole business about that painter.” Edward casually tapped the charred matter from the end of his cigar into an ashtray on the end table next to his chair.

Ophelia continued, her arthritic hands shaking. “That artwork was so morbid! I nearly fainted after seeing two paintings. How an American gentleman could have such a morbid fancy. Oh!”

“But what was in the paintings to be so alarming?” asked Josephine as Bruce refilled her teacup.

“Oh, monsters! Awful, awful monsters . . .”

“Oh, madam,” said Johnathan, “I've seen fantastical portraits of monsters before. They—”

“This was different!” The strength in Ophelia's voice made even Edward turn to look at her, his usual frown deepening slightly. She continued, “You said, 'portraits of monsters,' and that's it, precisely! It was like a portrait, so . . . so . . . the muscles, the sinews, the sweat, even . . . it looked as though Richard Pickman had drawn the beasts from life.”
* * *
Tabitha stumbled into a slightly larger intersection, slightly better lit. Her skirts were now ragged from being stepped on too many times, and Tabitha was quite ready to eschew propriety and tear the bulky thing straight off. Let the red-eyed creatures be distracted by finding it. She would do the same to her long, brown hair, too—she had been certain that any moment something would grab it from behind and pull her back into the dark.

A renewed scratching behind her made Tabitha aware she had stopped running. She moved as quickly as she could into the light in the center of the open roads. She heard a ship's bell toll nearby—could I really have run that close to the harbor?—and took in her new surroundings, searching for news means of escape. The walls and street here were terribly cracked and broken; it seemed impossible that anywhere in Boston could have been neglected by repair work long enough to reach this level of degradation. She noticed with relief the dark, muscled figure of a man hunched underneath one of the gas lamps.

“Sir!” she called, her voice pitched high from adrenaline. “Sir, help! Flee! There are wild beasts in the streets!”

The man stood up and turned around. Tabitha halted so quickly that she fell to her knees and hands. The black silhouette before her was only superficially that of a man. Muscled arms and legs ended in clawed toes and fingers. A canine head transfixed her gaze with glowing red eyes. In one hand, the figure held a shattered human tibia, dripping with rotten, grey marrow.

Marrow which also dribbled from its toothy muzzle.

Later, Tabitha wouldn't even remember getting back to her feet. She would only remember the ghoul throwing its head up, opening its mouth and howling, except not really howling, but making a high-pitched, whining giggle. Other ghouls answered as Tabitha ran pell mell towards the docks, ready to plunge into the deathly cold water to avoid the red eyes that now peered from every shadow, every corner, every rooftop.

She forced herself to keep going, even as she scraped against and bounced off of the close-set buildings in the tight alleyway that led to the waterfront. She emerged on the dock, startling two musket-bearing men with tri-cornered hats and red coats (unfortunately, she wouldn't remember that later, either; otherwise, she might have realized how odd it was) and finally reached the end of the wharf, new panic setting in too late to stop her from careening towards the sharp rocks below.

She instead tumbled down a small flight of steps, crying out as one of the stair's edges cut into her knee. She opened her eyes, and immediately looked around the new street for more of the ghoulish creatures. The creak of a door opened behind her.

“Tabitha?” Johnathan smiled warmly as Tabitha Queens turned to face her companion. “Are you quite all right? You nearly missed tea!”

2. Responding to criticism . . .

The Floating Hyacinth regarded the agent sitting on the other side of her desk. Not visually, of course. Even if she had eyes, her view would be obscured by the water droplets condensed on the side of the tank that housed her body. Nonetheless, much could be observed about a human by examining its thoughts.

In this case, the waves of cold that reached the Flower's mind indicated the agent was probably leaning back against the back of the chair, arms crossed defiantly over his chest. Beneath that obvious, conscious emotion of resentment was the sensation the Hyacinth had learned to identify this particular individual by: the grey, dull feeling of flatness in his mind, the disinterest with which he met most tasks that didn't appeal to him. This was how the Hyacinth could imagine his messy and unkept hair, the expressionless stare in his face. Along with that flat apathy, however, was a spike of energy in the center, the resentment at being called away from what did interest him. That spike flared up briefly, making the Hyacinth aware of the impending outburst before he began to speak audibly.

“Did you call me away from my RC to actually talk to me, or were just planning on letting me sit here staring at your aquarium until my next mission?” demanded agent Paul.

I may just do that, if only to see if it improves your performance on it.

Paul scoffed—the Flower felt it as the spike of resentment flaring up, pointing directly at her mind this time. “My performance does NOT need any improvement.”

On the contrary, agent Paul, Legal has sent me several displeased memos detailing inconsistencies in some of your recent charge lists.

“Enlighten me.”

Simply put, you are charging Sues and Trolls with charges that are not charges.

“Bullcrap. I see a mistake, I point it out. There's nothing wrong with that.”

Well, let's just take a look at some of these . . . mistakes, shall we? A laminated sheet of paper that had been floating in the water on the Hyacinth's left side floated closer to her. It seems that three missions ago, you charged a Misty replacement with 'having a Dewgong use Icy Wind.'

“The fic was set in the first generation. Icy Wind didn't exist back then.”

The date has the fic being written after the Icy Wind move was released.

Confusion—like bubbles drifting out of Paul's mind—drifted into the Hyacinth's perception. “It doesn't matter!”

You also charged that same replacement with 'still only having a Wartortle.'

“All her other Pokémon evolved in the mid-level thirties. The Wartortle was the only one that didn't follow suit, even though it evolves at level thirty-six.”

I'm given to understand that trainers can have their Pokémon wait to evolve.

“What idiot would do that?” Paul made a spitting noise with his lips. “Certainly not a gym leader.”

On a similar note, this last mission, you charged a Sue—Kamanita Tohjo—with 'having a Monferno use Flame Wheel at level fourteen.'

“It happened right after it evolved from Chimchar,” Paul explained. “Chimchar evolves at fourteen, and Monferno doesn't learn Flame Wheel until nineteen.”

I think that was just a bit of artistic license.

“Well, it's not acceptable.”

The Floating Hyacinth said nothing to this.

After a few moments of silence, Paul went on. “Pokémon is all about numbers. If authors can't get the details right, I'm going to charge them for it.”

The Pokémon anime frequently plays fast and loose with all of that and more.

“Well, the anime is stupid. That's why I don't accept it as canon.”

Your job, agent—our job—is to enforce that canon. Not to enforce piddling details from strategy guides.

The Hyacinth could feel Paul's irritation swelling—that one spike of resentment was swiftly being joined by others. “That's what the canon is! That's how it works!” He stood up and slammed his hands palms down onto the desk. “Why isn't Vania here? She was on these missions; she should be getting chewed out too!”

I am well aware of who writes the charge lists when you and your partner are in the Pokémon continuum, agent. In fact, Vania has requested more missions into musicals and other stage productions lately. I think I'll honor that request for a while, see if some time away from Pokémon improves your judgment when collecting charges.

Paul sneered. “At least make it other video games. I have no interest in wasting my time on any dorky crap like that.”

You WILL do your job as instructed, agent. The Floating Hyacinth's mental presence suddenly flooded around Paul's mind, making her intentions very clear indeed. Or you can transfer to All-Purpose and let Legal bother the Foxglove Official about your shenanigans. Better yet, go home, and save the whole PPC the trouble.

The frustrated spikes representing Paul's thoughts abated for just a bit, replaced with uncertainty. “You wouldn't send me back. You're too understaffed.”

Let me assure you, an agent of your caliber can and will be replaced. With ease.

The spikes returned, ballooning into a full spiny ball of fury. Paul grabbed at the desk, barely restraining himself from trying to flip it. He spun around, and finding the chair blocking his way, lashed out with his leg and kicked it over and across the floor. Then he marched out of the room and through the Hyacinth's door.

There is nothing to add to what PoorCynic said. by Hieronymus Graubart on 2013-10-20 13:37:00 UTC Reply

I just want you to know that me not commenting until now, like I did for the other participants, doesn’t mean that I didn’t like your stories. It just means that I’m not good at positive feedback.

HG
Very nice. by PoorCynic on 2013-10-18 21:49:00 UTC Reply

I really enjoyed both of these stories.

The "late for an important event" fic put me in mind of both Lovecraft and a horror tabletop RPG called Deadlands. The juxtaposition of the people in the study and Tabitha running through the streets was very well done. Each of the characters had some little detail about themselves presented to the reader: Edward never smiles, Ophelia's arthritis, and so on. I assume Tabitha is the planned-out character?

The "responding to criticism' fic strikes me as something that could stand in the PPC all by itself. Not only could, but should. We don't typically see the kinds of agents who adhere so strictly to one version of the canon; agents that considered even the slightest deviation for the purposes of entertainment wrong. It's an interesting concept that I really want to see more done with.

I like the back-and-forth between the Hyacinth and Paul. It's sharp and to the point.

One minor thing: "...the things with the red eyes that glowed in the night" struck me as being a bit awkward in its structure. If she can see that the eyes are red at night, doesn't that already indicate that they're glowing?

I hope my tips and prompts helped you get a tighter grip on your characters. Nice work!

Sorry for late responses! by doctorlit on 2013-10-25 08:00:00 UTC Reply

(And also sorry for posting after the topic has rolled off the front page. I know it's semi-frowned upon, but after spending most of my work shifts this past week working on these, I wanted to show something for it.)

I pulled a rather stupid on that first prompt. I really should have posted a note on that one, because it does indeed take place (partly) in the Lovecraft universe, and the ghouls are the canon ones from the same. So, uh, those belong to Lovecraft. >_> And yes, Tabitha is the future agent there.

Paul is basically an antagonist in Vania's past. He'll show up a bit in flashbacks. He is not a nice guy, not a very good PPC agent, but not actually evil, either. Just a bit . . . tunnel visioned.

Now for another! I had this character designed as a one-of with no real backstory; just an experiment with putting an over-the-top, grandiose 60s comic villain into a protagonist's role as an agent. When I started writing this . . . man, there was a WHOLE WORLD lurking just behind him. I may need to write more there now!

has suffered some momentary setback . . .

Even those as great as I must still suffer through the occasional moment of ignominy! What matters is using them as steps towards a greater purpose. As an example, let me speak of one particular crime I committed on my home world; some time before Doctor Dimensional's experimentation led to my current station as a PPC agent.

There I stood, in the lobby of the biggest bank in Metroburg City; Master Maximus, resplendent in my usual costume. Great white boots and gloves, to represent the power I wielded against the world, and to show how it dirtied me whenever I interacted with it! My purple suit—the color of royalty, for when one is Master, others must learn to recognize that Mastery at a glance! My black crown and tie, to indicate my absolute dominion over the common—”

What? Yes, I'm well aware it's the same thing I'm wearing right now. I'm describing myself to set the scene in Metroburg First National, to help understand why the employees and other citizens there that day were cowering before me, shivering on the floor on ducked behind their little desks. My regalia was only part of it, however; in addition to my intimidating costume, I had brought along a very particular sort of device, shaped more like a box than a proper laser gun. I had nonetheless bluffed the tellers into surrendering the collection of gold bars housed inside the banks' vaults. I say bluffed, you see, because my plan and the machine were both useless until after I had secured the gold.

Once I obtained my prize, however, I explained to the sniveling peasants around me that my device was a fear ray, then demonstrated its purpose. I dropped several bars of gold inside the aperture in the top, and it radiated a shockwave of blue energy. Well, of course, the crowd cowered away. (You can't spell “cowered” without “crowd,” after all.) I began to make a show of throwing gold into the machine, loudly proclaiming that the city outside those walls was degenerating under a fugue of terror.

As I had expected, a band of the so-called “superheroes” who constantly trouble my efforts eventually arrived on the scene. Fortunately, my arch nemesis, La Desperada, was absent that day. I had only to deal with some of the lesser pests: the Pauper Prince, a mere street brawler in patched-up rags; Mr. Fugu, an old fishmonger who utilized toxic balloon fish to—even I must admit—ingenious purpose; and Pixel Staff, the only one with any real sort of power.

They entered through a back window; I had intentionally come alone to ensure unguarded access to the bank. Mr. Fugu said something in Chinese, and I responded by announcing my fear ray plot, then making a big show of dropping the last bricks of gold inside it.

Pixel Staff and the Pauper hesitated, wondering if unnatural fear was already seizing control of their hearts. Mr. Fugu, however, charged at me (I always assumed he could understand English. Perhaps not?), wielding a wooden pole with balloon fish at either end, dried and preserved to deadly solidity. I easily blocked his blows with the wind pulse generators in my gloves. The other two heroes quickly joined us. We skirmished; I won't bore you with the details.

Eventually, one of Pixel Staff's 8-bit fireballs hit my machine (I had allowed myself to be driven away from it, you see). It was obliterated in a blue, electrical flash . . . Now that I think about it, the floor tiles underneath the machine vanished along with it . . . At the time, I assumed they had simply been destroyed in the explosion, but knowing what I do now about plotholes and the true nature of Doctor Dimensional's experimentation . . . Interesting!

But back to my tale! After the destruction of my device, I gave a bit of the old “Curses!” and the “How can this be?” for the heroes' sakes. The MCPD then entered and led me away in chains.

Failure? It may sound as such to a lesser individual, I suppose. But there are as many ways out of Metroburg prison as there are in. Being arrested was only a temporary setback—a delay, really, which I had practically planned for anyway. It made for an excellent distraction, a satisfactory ending to the scene. No one suspected the true epilogue: you see, when I got out, I had waiting for me at home all those gold bars the teleporter had sent there.

Nice reminiscence of the comics I read during the sixties, by Hieronymus Graubart on 2013-10-25 19:56:00 UTC Reply

but as usual I’m only responding to report a mistake:

shivering on the floor on ducked behind their little desks.
You meant "or", right?

HG

Indeed, I did. Thank you! (nm) by doctorlit on 2013-10-25 20:41:00 UTC Reply

The last two! Again, sorry for post-front page posting. by doctorlit on 2013-10-25 08:09:00 UTC Reply

going through their morning routine . . .

She awoke to pitch darkness. She slid her body through the contours of her rough, stone shell, wriggling her tentacles as they exited the shell's opening into the light of the room outside. She dabbled the tips of the tentacles in the salty water filling her home, a blue plastic pool meant for human children to play in.

Her movement in the water made small waves splash against the scales of the wading pool's other occupant. “Karp!” he said, waking up. “Magikarp!”

A couple of yards away, their trainer sat on a bean bag chair on the floor, playing on a Game Boy Advance. When he heard their voices, he put the game down and got up to walk to the pool. “Good morning, Magikarp!” he said, smiling. “Good morning, Omanyte!”

The trainer pulled two small bottles from a little cardboard box next to the pool and sprinkled fish flakes and hermit crab feed into the water for his two Pokémon. Magikarp swam to one pile of flkaes and began repeatedly opening his mouth next to it, letting water pour in and pull the food with it. Omanyte reached out with her tentacles and began pulling the little pieces of crab food into the mouth at the center of her ring of tentacles.

While they ate, their trainer rubbed Omanyte's shell and Magikarp's head, watching them. Omanyte could still feel him petting her through her shell, even though it was made of fossilized rock. Omanyte and Magikarp loved their trainer. He always took care of them; feeding, cleaning, or just paying attention. The Pokémon even got to go on missions with him and his partner a lot, since they mostly went to the Pokémon universe.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

Omanyte withdrew back into her shell as the noise started, and Magikarp flailed around in the water. Their trainer tried to calm them with whispered words while his partner moaned and got out of bed. She walked over the large computer that gave them missions and hit a large button to stop the sound.

“Good morning,” she said quietly.

After a few moments, the trainer grunted in response while he got up. He crossed to the equipment rackfor the Poké Balls his Pokémon stayed in.

“Sorry, Paul,” said Vania. “This is a Hairspray mission. No Pokémon today.”

Paul spun around and glared at Vania. “That stupid Hyacinth! How does she expect me to level up my Pokémon if she keeps sending me to these namby-pamby emotional worlds where I can't battle anything?”

Vania sighed. “I really doubt she cares, Paul. Leveling up Pocket Monsters isn't her job.” She looked at him over her shoulder and narrowed her eyes. “Or yours.”

Paul walked over and stood over the seated Vania. “I decide what I do with my life. No one else.” he slowly reached over her shoulder to hit the portal button.

After the humans left, Magikarp began to swim in distressed circles. But Omanyte stayed calm. She knew Paul would be back soon. He was never very nice to his partner, but he was always nice to his Pokémon.

And they loved him very much.

helping a friend with a favor . . .

Somewhere inside PPC HQ—it's useless to give directions; just don't think about it—is a game room to put even Chuck E. Cheese's playlands to shame. Skiball, mini basketball hoops (not to be confused with any species of mini), sit-in racing games and shooting games with built-in plastic guns. (The very large ball pit was frequently closed due to damages sustained from violence perpetrated therein.) A hallway to the left (or sometimes right) led to the console party games. Another hallway (usually to the right, but sometimes left) led to the arcade.

Classic machines--Pacman, Primal Rage, Dr. Mario . . . and the pinball machines. A collection spanning the histories of multiple worlds, with licensed themes both known and unknown to World One. There were rare, out-of-production tables, some acquired from unpublished continua. Wooden machines from the eighteenth century. Tables from alternate universes bearing bizarre magitech, clockwork and biologically augmented technology. Even a copy of SCP-1825 in a side room of steel-reinforced generic surface, that only admitted one player at a time.

With such a span of complexity, frequent shutdowns were inevitable. DoSAT understandably disliked dedicating time to repairing leisure devices, and so, repairs boiled down to whatever the attendant agents could manage.

They couldn't always manage—as in the case of the Humpty Dumpty. The model was the first pinball table to include flippers operated electrically rather than manually.

But today, the machine had no power.

Regular players and a small cluster of arcade attendants gathered around the antique device. The battery was freshly purchased and portalled in from the late 1940s, and should have had a full charge. Yet no lights lit, no buzzers buzzed. The machine would dispense no pinballs upon insertion of a nickel.

An attendant unlocked the front of the case, but neither the coins nor the balls were jammed. Some of the stronger players gently tilted he machine first one way, then another. But no change came. It seemed that all the attendants and all arcadesmen couldn't get Humpty back working again.

Whispers began from the back of the crowd, by the entrance from the main game room. The crowd began to part as something approached the group immediately near Humpty Dumpty. As the something drew near, the whispers became more coherent.

“It's the wizard.”

“The wizard!”

He had a long white beard and dark, sun-tanned skin. He wore spectacles and a pointy black hat. His robes were purple, with game-related symbols covering them—video game icons, the suites of playing cards, chess pieces. He wore a tie, shaped like a flipper from a pinball table.

The attendants stood aside to make way for their most frequent and dedicated patron. He stepped up to Humpty Dumpty. He skipped all the tests previously performed by others—if the fix was easy, it would have already been done. Instead, he peered down through the glass at the playing field.

Beneath the bumpers and flippers, he saw the familiar images. At the bottom, multicolored stars next to holes denoting different point values. Humpty Dumpty himself balanced next to the 10,000-point hole. Higher up, near the top of the machine, the images of two armored, mounted knights appeared ready to begin jousting, lances held at the ready. The right-side knight's horse was draped in a red and gold cloth, looking like a member of Gryffindor house. The left-side knight could have been standing for Slytherin, except that his horse wore green and gold, not quite completing the coincidence.

The left-side knight also sported a tail.

The wizard moved around to the left side of the machine and tapped very gently on the glass just above the green knight. “Come out of there,” he said. “There are people waiting to play.”

Flying out of the cartoon drawing came the form of a mini-Discord. It passed directly through the glass screen, laughed and disappeared in a puff of smoke. (One agent present would later discover his toenails had been painted bleen.)

The wizard turned and left through a cheering and applauding crowd of PPC agents. He didn't smile. He had planned on staying to play, but now he only wanted to leave.

The called him the “Pinball Wizard.” Well, he certainly enjoyed pinball. Was rather good at it, he had to admit.

But the miniature Draconequus' magical antics had reminded him once again that he was no true wizard.

(Pokémon belongs to Nintendo and Game Freak. Discord belongs to Lauren Faust and Hasbro. SCP-1825 belongs to . . someone named Fantem, apparently.)

Another reminiscence. by Hieronymus Graubart on 2013-10-25 20:24:00 UTC Reply

No, I never played Pokémon, but my daughter did. So I know something about it, but unfortunately not enough to decide whether flkaes is a typo or a brand of fish flakes in the Pokémon universe.

She walked over the large computer that gave them missions
There is probably a "to" missing (although I like the image).

He crossed to the equipment rackfor the Poké Balls
There’s a space missing.

The called him the "Pinball Wizard."
The who or what? You may need a "y" there. Also, the punctuation looks wrong? Shouldn’t the full stop go before the quotation mark?

At least one person read and enjoyed your stories, because I was not on the Board for this whole week and had to start catching up on the second page.

HG

Glad I gave you something to enjoy, then! by doctorlit on 2013-10-25 20:52:00 UTC Reply

Thank you for the typos. Just goes to show rushing is bad for writing!

Thank you for writing this! by VixenMage on 2013-10-15 20:45:00 UTC Reply

This is a really helpful, coherent guide on character-writing! Thank you for putting it together, these are really useful suggestions. I was going to start replying to the challenge, but I've got mostly NaNoWriMo characters bouncing around my head right now, and the remaining Starships & Sorcery ideas are unlikely to wind up as agents. I may put the whole thing down in Google Drive for reference in further writing, though, if you don't mind - it's an awesome reference for character-building in any 'verse.
Ten years hence by Hieronymus Graubart on 2013-10-15 14:32:00 UTC Reply

“Pygmalion!”

The old man looked up from the battered hardback edition of Hermione Granger and the Inter-Species Treaty. “Androia,” he croaked, “I didn’t hear you knock.”

“Your hearing is getting as bad as your eyesight,” shouted Androiaavata, shoving the door shut with her heel while she still kept her eyes on the man. “Plug your device in! I yelled enough at you while we were partners, I don’t need to continue this!”

“It’s nice to have some quite while reading.” The ex-agent fumbled for the ear plugs of his hearing aid. “Now, what are you doing here?” he inquired. “When I retired, I didn’t expect to see you ever again.”

“I was busy with all this Hermione Granger badfic and a new partner who doesn’t have a clue. But didn’t you imagine that I am kind at heart? I cannot just abandon you, that’s not how you made me.”

The wheel-chair creaked as the old man, whose name was not Pygmalion, moved uncomfortably. “Lots of what I imagined never came true,” he muttered.

Androia stepped forward and cowered to meet his gaze at eye level. “This is because you allowed your dark side to take over your imagination. You tried to occupy me, and I couldn’t have this. But you also gave me the strength to fight back. And after all we’ve gone through together, you’re a kind of friend. I got a day off and came here to do you a favor.” For the first time, the old man smiled. Never before had she called him a friend. And he was not blind yet. Of course he had noticed that she was not wearing the black uniform. So this was not just a two minutes visit between assignments.

The young woman stretched, stepped aside and swirled around to make her long skirt fly. “How do I look? Good enough for taking you out?”

“Get yourself a mirror, there’s no sense in asking me. Since I created you, I would never admit that you are less than perfect – in any aspect. So what’s the plan?“

Androia’s face went blank for a moment, but then the ‘any aspect’ got to her, and she broke into a broad smile. “The movie comes out tonight,” she said, winking at the book in her friends lap. “We’ll go to the cinema.”

“That’s not a favor,” grumbled the old man. “You know that I never liked any of these movies.”

“I know that you want to see it anyway, so you can rant about what they got all wrong this time.” Androia grabbed the wheel-chair’s handlebar. “Let’s have some fun and spork the hell out of them!”

_________________________________________________________________________

Author’s notes:
Like Joanne K. Rowling, I wrote the epilogue in advance, so that I know where I want to take these two. Now I have to write them an origin story which is better than: In an AU, Bad!Hieronymus snatched Androiaavata out of the World of Warcraft realm where he had created her. She lived with him, because she had no other place to go, but it was not quite like he had imagined it. In an attempt to overcome his frustration, Bad!Hieronymus wrote fanfiction about how it should have been. Unfortunately he had told Androia that he intended to write them both into the PPC, so she looked it up and she wasn’t enthused. Then they both fell through a plothole and were in the PPC.

Since they still aren’t in the PPC and I don’t even have permission, I don’t know which date ‘ten years hence’ is based off. I assume this may happen in about 2030 HST.

I deliberately avoided to show where this happens, because I don’t know this either. Is there a retirement home for agents in New Caledonia?

Some thoughts. by PoorCynic on 2013-10-18 21:25:00 UTC Reply

The overall tone between the two agents seems pretty casual despite their not apparently having seen each other in some time and not being on spectacular terms. Plus, the paragraph that starts "Androia stepped forward..." feels a bit too expository; something of an 'as you already know' moment.

Still, the characters seem interesting and I like that you started with the ending first. I'd be quite interested to see how you develop them from here (once you obtain Permission, of course).

This is great advice. by Neshomeh on 2013-10-14 17:50:00 UTC Reply

I've never been good about using prompts—I like to RP to flesh out new characters when possible—but these are pretty good ones. Not only do you have to think about how the character would behave in the situations listed, you have to think of what the character would consider an important event, or a setback, or criticism, or worth doing as a favor or first thing in the morning. Even if I don't get around to writing anything down, I'll be thinking about these for a while. {= )

~Neshomeh
Thank you! by Autumn_68 on 2013-10-14 11:54:00 UTC Reply

This will surely be of great use to me when I write a story next time.

~Autumn
I'm doing some for a couple of my potential agents. by Ailavyn Siniyash on 2013-10-14 05:08:00 UTC Reply

It's taking awhile, though.
This is quite nice. by Storme Hawk on 2013-10-13 17:08:00 UTC Reply

I'm going the extra mile and doing two. One for my (gender-bent) Time Lord Alter-ego who may end up as an Agent eventually and the other for my character who will be my first Agent once I have Permission.

Heh, yeah, sorry about that. by Huinesoron on 2013-10-15 09:14:00 UTC Reply

I think it's the 'e' at the end of your name that threw me off... if you'd like, I can rewrite the story the Supporter appears in to make her male. Or, if you like, I can write a new story in which 'she' regenerates into 'he'. There's a bit of that going round, after all.

Or I can leave it! Up'a you.

hS

Don't worry. by Storme Hawk on 2013-10-15 14:15:00 UTC Reply

I'm quite alright with the Supporter being a girl. I'm starting to build up a character for her that wouldn't quite if she was male. But thanks anyway.

ThatÂ’s great ! by Hieronymus Graubart on 2013-10-13 12:51:00 UTC Reply

I’m not sure whether I will find the time to take the challenge, but you should know that I copied your advice to my hard drive to make use of it when I do work on my future agents.
The Librarian's Morning by Desdendelle on 2013-10-12 20:42:00 UTC Reply

In which he discovers what walking though plotholes can lead to.

The (first) Librarian is, apparently, my Time Lord alter-ego; since I've decided to stop writing Anebrin as an Agent, I've been toying with the idea of having him succeed Anebrin as Agent!Des' partner, and this piece can be a part of his introduction. Maybe.

Good, but... by PoorCynic on 2013-10-18 21:20:00 UTC Reply

Not exactly what I was looking for when I asked for someone's 'morning routine,' as Hieronymus mentioned. Still, did you find this useful? Did you learn anything about your character by writing this?

Also, one quibble. Luxury seems somewhat out of character considering her background and past appearances. She's been serving as a Bad Slash agent since 2001 HST. I can't believe that she's so dim as to not know what a TARDIS is. But maybe that's just my take on her.

Well... by Desdendelle on 2013-10-20 20:19:00 UTC Reply

Yeah, it helped. It evolved from 'morning routine' to 'morning not!routine' while I was writing it, and lots of stuff just popped up - The Librarian hating being touched, the fact that his tablet has an admittedly unimaginative name and can speak, his manner of speech...
Also, re: Lux: there's no specific point of time for this... quibble? so it might as well be from, Iunno, 2001 HST or whatever. Another option is that she's Distracted By The Sexy or something.

Unfortunately I donÂ’t know much about Time Lords. by Hieronymus Graubart on 2013-10-15 20:08:00 UTC Reply

Do they never sleep?

Is "Tablet" the tablets name?

So the Librarian’s morning routine is to leave the library to go to his room, fall through a plot hole and be glomped by Luxury? No, I probably got this wrong. Falling through the plot hole is when this deviates from the usual morning routine.

You may want to reconsider this sentenc, it sounds odd: Thoughts chased each other in his brain, colliding with each other and forming new ones.

This looks like a good start for a new agent. I hope to see more of him.

HG, who is in the wrong time at the wrong place, so no spell check is available here.

Answers by Desdendelle on 2013-10-15 21:49:00 UTC Reply

Yes, Time Lords sleep.
"Tablet" is indeed the tablet's name - I'm not sure whether it's sentient, has an AI, or just has automated voice functions.
Obviously, falling through a plothole into HQ and being glomped by Lux is not part of the Librarian's morning routine, which mainly consists of stumbling from the library to his bed (he's a night owl with a tendency to stay up all night researching things and sleep at day... unless he's needed by his compatriots, that is).