To Be Made Broken

Several Days of Writing

2004-11-21T13:20:00.000-08:00

GAH! Haven't uploaded in a super-long time. Well, here's some of what I've been doing.

Chapter Two: In Which Girls Are Reminded Why Boys Drool

There was something about feeling the different textures of the street that were very good for getting one to think.

Something inside her liked the shadows too, liked the slinking darkness that could be wrapped around you for a coat. That little something also preferred walking to riding in the car, since dependance on anything other than your own two feet was held in much disregard. The thick smell of city, a sort of melting pot of urine, body odor and freedom. Strange, to be considered free with the heady press of buildings on your person and the lack of sky except a small smear above.
Streets were known well and her movements were sure, steady. It was that strange time when you never really thought. When the mind wandered and never focused and if you recalled back, there was no iota what passed through your skill. No matter how hard she tried, Julia focused on nothing, watching the huddled masses file by and the call of pigeons overhead. A stray dog began to growl at her, but ran away when she came too close. Animals didn’t like her much, other than housecats, and even then, they only curled around her feet and licked her ankles.
Several marks marred the map of the city in her hand, some circled in red and others in blue, green the undecided. These were the warehouses to be checked, seeing which would most benefit their cause. The best ones were those with basements, or steel walls, or lots of cages. The worst were broken down, perforated walls, a lack of anything stable. Problem was, the ones in the first category were usually in use. Julia frowned; if only the Comitisus were less prejudice against their own selves. Ara had a few facilities that would be perfect, if only the Comitisus allowed themselves to be around others. But they wanted isolation, removal, denial. At least it gave her a job.
She looked up at the first warehouse, highly unimpressed. It was big, enormously so, but she already noticed the missing shingles, the peeling paint, and an abundance of unwashed jekylls. And the jekylls themselves were to thank for the removal of mental hospitals that left all the others homeless. Really - they didn’t know how to take care of each other.
Inside fairly resembled what she thought it would: decimated, unkempt, and wholly unsuitable for their purposes.
Julia sighed. How had she managed to get this job anyway?
The next warehouse was slightly better, but there was a large gaping hole in the back right corner where rats had started a metropolis. They’d scurried when she had approached. Julia kicked at the droppings and cardboard, frowning when the hole was discovered, and crossed off the warehouse. There were two cages near the front that would’ve been useful, but the hole would allow potential jekylls and, of course, not help noise control.
Five streets later, Julia realized she was being followed.
It wasn’t the most abnormal thing. After all, she was a young woman in the city in an isolated place: she’d done this before. Four times she had dealt with boys who didn’t think and four times they’d rethought and labeled her unattainable. She wasn’t very pretty, this side of average with a scar tilting her left eye, but the glide of her walk and the air of her presence made them come. It was rather ridiculous. Julia didn’t grant herself with that much credit: boys were silly and they thought rape was the best venue. So she walked calmly, not changing speed, tucking the map into her back pocket and flexing her fingers. Normally, she wouldn’t switch just for a jekyll, but if he pursued her enough, then it would be necessary.
Ahead, a warehouse that couldn’t be used by Ara (it belonged to Samson & Heidelberg Jewelers, Samson being a shifter and unable to risk his business) situated itself nicely for usage. She’d corner the jekyll in there, determine whether he truly wanted this to occur, then proceed to scare and/or injure him. This was growing less and less exciting. Why couldn’t she just look at the warehouses in peace?
Ducking under the low beam that marked the entrance of the warehouse, Julia glanced behind her. But only shadows marked the man and there was nothing to be seen. She maneuvered past the ‘fridges directly in front so that provided a barrier - another obstacle that the man could see as a way to turn back. The echoing footsteps told that he was still following. Julia pushed away the low freezer that blocked the entryway to the basement. It was heavily enforced with steel walls, formerly a bunker during the Cold War, and there no one would manage to interrupt. Or least, no one would leave to tell her secrets.
The door clanged as it closed, a loud click making the automatic lock enforce. But Julia had gotten out of the warehouse too many times before with the door locked and when the man was unconscious, she’d be able to again. The shadows welcomed her as they were apt to do, and she slipped into one of the corners to watch as the man came into the central light.
He was handsome. Julia frowned at that, rather perturbed that particular thought had been the first to show up in her mind. There were far more interesting things about him that his looks. For one, he carried a dark red satchel casually over his shoulder. It wasn’t very large, but then most men weren’t privy to carrying around anything, much less a red satchel. Not only was he well-dressed in a collared grey shirt and pinstriped slacks, but the clothes were in good condition; definitely not a factor common in the boys Julia’d dealt with before. His face was clear of emotion and his eyes were so green she could tell from the corner, a bright sort of phosphorescence that bleached out the rest of him. Clean lines on his face, an elongated one as though it had spent too many days stretching forward, but somewhere in the prominent cheekbones and rakish scar down the left cheek, there was a foreboding sense that jekylls were unaware of. Some poor jekyll girl would trip over herself to speak with him, but a shifter would know better and shy away. Julia stood straighter, wary, playing in the darkness.
“I’m not a jekyll.” She wanted to say that this was obvious, but really, she hadn’t even guessed until she had gotten a good look at him. Which was very unusual. Dangerous.
“I know.”
“But you didn’t. You’re wondering why. Don’t protest; I’ve had it happen too often not to see it for what it is.” His voice was a smooth balanced cadence, condescending, but naturally so.
“Then tell me why.” His eyebrows raised, feet turning in her direction but no movement.
“That’s it? Immediate concession? No arguing?”
“Do you want me to fight?” It was said a little testy, and Julia clamped her mouth shut. Definitely something wrong about this.
The man spread his hands, shifting his satchel. “Of course not. But there tends to be a little more arguing. Oh, you’re feline. That makes more sense; always cool and aloof.”
So he knew what she was. Most could sense the animal, though people tended to guess wrong in her case. Still, there was nothing from him. The dangerous scent, of course, the strong smell that wafted through the air was too familiar. His animal was lost. She couldn’t, for the life of her, get any sort of sense. He shifted his weight around, making the room seem smaller, and finally set his satchel on the ground.
“My name is Julia Decandeux,” she said finally. Her body was in shadows and while it was customary to go out and meet him, to bend their heads together and rub cheeks as an acknowledged feline shifter would do, Julia couldn’t take the final step. He didn’t smell. At all.
“Solomon.”
“Are you an 80s pop star? You only get a first name?”
“Come out into the light.” And that was a bad sign. When the person whom you were questioning changed the subject, it was not a question they wanted to answer. Julia shook her head, though he couldn’t see it, and pressed the tips of her fingers against the cool steel wall.
“You’re avoiding my question.”
“I merely think that if you knew my last name, you’d be less inclined to speak with me.”
“There’s not a name out there that would make that true.” He sighed heavily, the movement shifting his long brown coat. If only she knew his animal, she could shift and determine how much safer that would be. But both in this form, they were on fairly equal grounds.
“Poen. Solomon Poen.”
“No.” And it was impossible. The Poens were the last great line left with shifters, last of the five bloodlines that had emerged when the shifters first began. There was no empirical evidence as to why the other four had disappeared, but there were many legends, tales, epic poems and anything of the sort that lent to an explanation. The families were not spectacularly named, the suffix -poena with prefixes from one to five, but the names had been lost, just as Primopoena’s had been. Some of the more myth-believing shifters had spread the tale of the evil that had corrupted the four other families, while the Primopoena had remained pure, tossed their lot in with the jekylls. The other four had been washed out at the next full moon, when the overrunning jekylls killed everything not their own. Awash in jekyll scent, the Primopoena was saved. The rest were slaughtered in the last time jekylls had known of the shifters. And so the Primopoena, or the Poen, was the last remaining family. They could choose their shape, if they were only partially blooded, and even shift the animal if full. All Poen traffic came through Ara headquarters, since the BS held ideas that did not correspond in the slightest to the ancient family line. She’d been in headquarters all day and there hadn’t been the indication that a Poen was passing through town. Much security measures were taken when a Poen passed, for their kind was limited and the BS would do whatever it could to make them dead. After all, having the oldest family as an advocate for your side did well to convince others of that cause.
“Yes. And this is why I didn’t want to tell you. Ara, aren’t you? Contego Parilitas? If I looked under your hair, would I find the symbol?”
“All Poen traffic goes through Contego Parilitas. Otherwise, they run the possibility of being subjected to Cruor Macula, which shares none of the beliefs held by the Poens.” Quoted, neatly, from the Ara handbook that someone had jokingly sent office-wide, but true nonetheless. Solomon was grinning, and his teeth were crooked in an oddly straight way.
“I avoid telling people my last name. Causes things like this. I am Poen.” He breathed deeply, spreading his arms toward her. “And I am Cruor Macula, the Blood Stain, the Bull-Shit, as you Ara like to call it. I do not follow the ideals of my father and the rest of my family.”
A chill went through her, made her arms come up and cross over her stomach, nausea. Cruor Macula, the bull-shit, BS, as he said, were those who opposed the Ara. They were cruel, hated jekylls, vied for their own benefits and wanted total genocide of jekylls. They had no interest in letting the jekylls see the good side of shifters, or in repairing the ties between the two species. They only wanted power, only wanted land, only wanted blood. If they hadn’t, why the name Blood Stain? But Poens believed in equality, they believed in living with the jekylls, not decimating them.
“I’ve never heard of a Solomon amongst the Poen.” Truth, not nearly as strong as she had wanted it, but it made her feel better. After all, the Poen name was widely known and if someone wished to impersonate a family member, all they would need was to say so.
“Black sheep, you know. No one wants to mention me since I’m with the Stain. Not very uplifting for the ego, I must say.”
“Prove it.”
“Prove it? What do you want me to do? Shift a few times? I thought the Ara knew everything about the Poen line. We can change our shape a few times a year, not arbitrarily. It’s not a shirt.”
“I can’t get an animal from you.”
“Of course not. I smell like them all, that’s why. You’d get a headache in the other form. Feline? What big cat? Not a lioness, more aloof, perhaps a leopard?” It made sense, because that was what had been bothering her. He smelled like them all. He smelled like every predator she’d bristle against in a meeting hall and every prey she rubbed against at a diner. Everything contained therein and he couldn’t be lying with that smell.
“Not a leopard,” she said faintly, watching. If maybe she moved around the side she could get to the door and lock him inside. A rogue Poen had, for all the years of shifter history, never been before. What had caused such a change? Maybe he was rebellious, hating his family, switching sides merely because his family was with Ara.
“Change for me, Miss Decandeux. I can shift as well if you wish.”
“I- no!” The request was oddly intimate; changing shape was as natural as breathing - there was no need to hide it or deny it. Her gradual moving along the wall led her close to the stairs, and the cool air from the narrow hallway blew reassuringly along her back.
“Come into the light. I’m not a threat to you, Miss Decandeux. Not to a shifter.” He stood facing away from her, but for shifters, the direction didn’t matter much. Fighting had been learned early on and the senses were easy to align to a certain object. If the object were sentient, then all the more simpler.
All that was required to leave was to slide the security card through the slot by the door. After that, she’d be free to leave. But there was the possibility that this Poen would follow her, that he would do whatever his following her earlier had been for. Therefore, in a conclusion that came to its basic end: incapacitate the man.
Using the wall as a push off, Julia launched forward and tackled the Poen, knocking him off his feet. If she could get to the inside of his thigh and pinch up near the groin, it would paralyze him from the hips down. Only for a bit, and in about twenty minutes, he would start to get the feeling back and be able to walk. By then, she’d be back at headquarters, reported in, and they’d have figured a way to deal with the rogue Poen.
They wrestled, her trying to shove him down to the floor so that she could wriggle her hand to his thigh. He was surprised, only slightly, but still allowed her to have his shoulders pinned before he could even react. Slow reaction times - came from the lack of a definite animal. The canines would battle with the eagles and what would you need more, smell or sight? She was a cat, fingers arched like claws and stronger than most fingers, skin tingling like whiskers with too much feeling and enough sensory input to tranquilize an elephant. But the Poen got his ground and he flipped her over his shoulder, slamming her into the ground and sending her pack flying, until it smashed against the wall. She grimaced; hopefully the camera wasn’t broken.
The flip had put her underneath his legs, so that she could easily reach up and grasped at his leg. A jerking, and he either knew what she was doing or could only fathom something else that needed protection and he tripped over her sprawled body, landing hard on the ground. Then, quickly like she could be and he couldn’t, Julia pinched the nerve and sighed when his straining hips froze.
“Good bye Poen.” Julia walked calmly to her bag, picked it up, and headed up the stairs to the door on top. The security card was somewhere in her pack, carefully wrapped in cloth to prevent scratching. Her hand searched the bag wildly, she glanced back occasionally, but mostly struggled for that familiar card. She found it, and snatched it up. Quickly unwrapping, Julia opened her palm to see shards. Her mouth dropped.
Broken. The card was broken. Not even in half, but tiny pieces that would never make a full card again. A ghost fluttering to the ground and the parts chimed when they spilled across the floor.
“That’s not good, is it?” And she jumped, which she never did, and pressed her body tightly against the closed locked door. The Poen stood directly in front of her, too close, arms folded behind his back. “I presume, and hopefully falsely, that those,” he said, pointing down, “are the remains of the card? One we probably need to leave?”
“The only way to leave... how did you-?” Her palms were cold.
“Basic anatomy. The Stain makes it mandatory that its members know intricate anatomy of both their forms. To prevent occurrences like these, actually, or any other injuries that could possibly be obtained. Pretty irresponsible of the Ara not to.”
“Oh.” Oh. Well at least the BS took care of its members. Julia had thought that the BS was more warmongering and not into the nurturing aspect. Of course, there was a likely possibility that the Poen was lying. Even that thought felt wrong. A Poen lying? Poens didn’t lie. But Poens were not on the side of the BS either. A famous obsessive inspector once said “the world is inside out; the world is upside down.” Indeed.
“Was that the only way out?” Her head felt heavy; Julia rubbed the bridge of her nose.
“Yes. The door locks from the outside. Steel walls.” He knocked on the wall, making a thick echoing sound.
“Who the hell would do that?”
“Used to be a war bunker. Some jewelers bought out the basement several years back and rigged it like this. Can’t prop the door open or the alarm will go off, can’t unlock it from the inside without the security card and code.”
“All that, but they left the door unlocked?”
“It was behind a giant freezer in the back of the warehouse.”
“And how did you manage to get card and code?” He was asking too many questions.
“One of the jewelers is a shifter. His partner knows and they allow Ara to use the basement sometimes.” She didn’t say so, but the reason the partners couldn’t let the Ara use the warehouse for shifting was because they couldn’t risk their business. They had much too much at stake, profusely apologetic.
“And there’s no way out.”
“None. But,” she hesitated, looking over him, before conceding with a roll of her eyes. “But Ara knows when I planned to check in, and if I don’t check in within five hours of that time, they’ll start a search for me. It won’t take that long.”
“When had you planned to check in?”
“Five.” He sighed, too loudly, and leaned against the nearest wall.
“Quite a long time from now. And five hours on that is ten. So at ten in the evening, your group will start looking for you. Perhaps. If they don’t write it off as you possibly having gone home for the night and fell asleep before you managed to call in.” Her mouth didn’t comment, but oh how she wanted to bite out some tersely. What to bite, and how to make it terse, though, were both things that rarely crossed her mind. Strange.
“It’s very likely we will be spending the evening here.”
“If only. And I suppose we’re doomed to starvation, hypothermia, and eventually eating the flesh off each other’s bones?”
“Really, there’s no need to get that dramatic. This is a war bunker, after all, and a storage for the extra things Ara had. Our only excess is blankets and dried food. We’ll be fine. I doubt we’ll be subject to cannibalism.” He had too much emotion and yet not enough. He said things with the air of an experienced actor, but never let anything beyond the bright shield of his eyes. She could make out more features, now that he was near. Sharp, high cheekbones, a thin mouth, and a shock of straight red hair. Not even orange, as was typical, but the red of dyed corn syrup and lacquered nails. Strange to look at, strange to speak, and her liking went less and less of him.
Finally, she maneuvered past him and went down the stairs to the large box with the Ara symbol on it. There should be blankets, food, or flyers in this one. She hoped for blankets, but the biggest possibility was flyers. Politicians seemed to accept the shifters without any hesitation, asking who was liberal, who was conservative, how they would affect the vote. Mr. Delgado, head of Ara, hadn’t thought to mention that they’d been voting for many years now, and that just because the politicians acknowledged their presence didn’t mean they simply blinked into existence.
Ripped off the top and, of course, it was flyers. They were too bright to look at, neon in pinks, yellows, blues, and her eyes were watering. Julia closed the lid, searched around for another Ara crate.
“This one has blankets in it,” he called, holding the lid of a crate. She wanted to protest, but what would she say? ‘Hands off, BS scum!’ Not hardly.
“Good. Take three out for me and as many as you need. We can put them back in the morning.” It took three more crates until she found the one with dried food in it. The layer was thinner than she’d hoped, and underneath were many cans that she couldn’t hope to open, but this would do for the night. She put all the lids back on the crates, arranged the food in alphabetical order on the floor, and stopped. There was... nothing else to do. They had to wait there. For many, many hours. Alone. Together.

Today's Writing

2004-11-02T01:24:00.000-08:00

Planning to write 2000 words a day. Here's today's batch!

To Be Made Broken
Chapter One: In Which Normalcy Dies A Tragic Death

In a day that had started out bright and cheerful, it seemed inevitable that she was going to die.

Oh not die die, as in the whole destruction of soul and the decimation of body thing. That would’ve been hell. Instead, the never-ending line of problems, highly asinine in their content, would drive her to suicide. Really. If Shannon came up again and asked whether the hot candy pink nail polish matched the slightly hot cotton candy pink baby tee, Julia was going to shoot someone.

She could do it too. There was a gun around here in someone’s desk, though the person whose desk it was had to be fairly uncertain. However, she was an investigator, at least of some sorts, and she could find the means to that very glorious end.

There was no hunt, though, for a gun or any other punishments when Shannon came back over with candy apple pink nail polish. Crimson red would most definitely not go with her outfit. But Julia smiled, laid her hand over Shannon’s, and told her that the shades only had to be similar, they didn’t have to fit exactly. Shannon, eyes alight, bounced away. Watching Queer Eye for the Straight Guy had its benefits.

Her desk was not forthcoming with any activities to distract her from, well, anything. There was a flyer in the upmost corner proclaiming the benefits associated with voting for this particular faceless member of the community. A permanent coffee ring marked the upper right corner. Hmm, that was peculiarly empty, devoid of the sheer sustenance for anyone between the ages of fifteen and, err, eighty-five. She liked to think that she was particularly obsessed with the stuff. After all, no one much had a coffee machine at home anymore, given the Starbucks that snaked its tendrils into every available crevice. And even some that weren’t.

The desk was also ridiculously organized. Sure, there were stacks of paper, but the paper was all facing the right way and meticulously arranged in order of importance and relevancy to each other. Her pens, pencils, paper clips and other various office equipment that were rarely used but somehow necessary anyway were stored neatly in the ugly holder Zeke had given her for Christmas. The poor boy would be in trouble if he ever found himself a girlfriend. Julia pulled open a drawer and was partly disgusted to find that it too contained neatly arranged rows and clearly labeled folders.

"I’m OCD."

"Yes, and talking to yourself is not helping either." She would’ve jumped, but she’d heard him coming several moments ago and any sort of violent reaction was merely overkill.

"When did this happen?"

"Oh you’ve always had it. You’re the only one who puts your reports into bullet points. I’m lucky if I can get notes scribbled on a napkin from anyone else."

She glared, or at least attempted, and folded her arms. "You’re lying."

"Look here," he said, gesturing to the coffee cup ring. "There aren’t any other rings. You always put your coffee cup in exactly the same place."

And, sure enough, it was true. "This is very disturbing."

"How do you think it makes the rest of us feel? Caroline’s come into my office twice almost in tears that you had organized her desk."

Julia opened her mouth for protest, but found that in the wake of veracity, she couldn’t.

"Any known cures?"

"Probably involve several nights imbibed with a healthy amount of some highly expensive alcohol. Maybe a severe blow to the head?"

"I’ll look into it."

"You should. Unnerves the hell out of me. Next time, try to write a report on a paper towel. Maybe even a McDonald’s one so I know you’re eating."

"Boss-"

"Shut up Can-do. Get back to work. Oh." He reached inside the voluminous sleeves of his and pulled out an envelope. "Someone forgot that the internet exists and sent you a letter. When’d you get a first name?"

She grabbed it and placed it neatly beside the letter holder than was empty, but shiny. "Know who it was from?"

He shrugged, folding arms. "Dropped off in the mailbox. Who knew we had one? Anyway, open it somewhere isolated so you don’t kill the rest of us if it’s deadly. And get to work Can-do."

"It’s candeax! With a De in front!" But he’d turned and stalked back to his office already, the mess he’d made of Bob’s desk a sign. Julia picked up the envelope and examined it. Looked fairly normal: no markings, no smudges, even typed lettering. Hmm, perhaps that wasn’t normal. On request, Julia went outside the building and to the back alley, where she lifted open the back of the envelope with a letter-opener.

She read it, sighed, and tossed the letter into the trash.

Apparently, if she subscribed to three magazines, she was the recipient of one million dollars.

The hubbub of the interior hadn’t quieted, and people still roamed quite freely. You would think that no one had a desk anymore. Julia wove through expertly, used to the chaos that tended to envelope the Ara headquarters. In fact, it would be an odd day when there wasn’t something flying overhead or the shrieking giggles of someone flirting with Adrian Paris again. She dodged a flying paper ball, not even flinching, and returned to her desk. Miraculously, it had been spared in the chaos and she had a sinking feeling that that was because of her slight tendency toward making things immaculate. She needed to get that checked out. Why hadn’t she noticed it before?

Someone’s hand grabbed her arm and she was halfway to her fist in their face when she realized that it was Zeke and he had realized his own mistake. She curbed the impulse; her hand flopped awkwardly between them and Zeke smiled. He really was a cute kid, with perpetually ruffled light brown hair, perfectly hazel eyes and a few dimples that were sure to sway anyone to his cause. If she hadn’t known him since he was thirteen, Julia could’ve fallen for the kid. But he was four years her junior, and that was only physically. A coltish and exuberant seventeen, Zeke Tobin was very unlike his brother Felix, a calm and unaffected fifteen that was actually uncomfortable to be around. Zeke jumped on her desk, scattering a stack of political flyers; Julia winced.

"I’m in love." Julia started shuffling the papers into a reasonable pile.

"Again?"

"Why do you say again like that? Why don’t you accept the purity of my love for what it is Jules? You never believe me!"

"Did you just call me Jules?"

"I’m seventeen - get over it." He flopped further on the desk, so that his splayed arms actually hung off the edge. Pained wrinkles lined his forehead. "She’s beautiful Jules. I’ve never met anyone so wonderful. The stars leapt from their perch to dance in her eyes and the moon turned away at the beauty of her skin."

"I can’t believe you actually just said that." If he wasn’t going to move, she would just have to move him. He grumbled a bit when she pulled several sheets from under his back.

"Why do I get the feeling that you aren’t taking this seriously Julia? Don’t you understand? I’m in love!" She grabbed his collar and yanked him up.

"Zeke, this is the fifth girl you’ve been in love with since the beginning of the month. Forgive me for being a little skeptic."

"We’re soulmates!"

"Is she hot?"

His mouth fell open and then Zeke wasn’t as adorable as he normally could be. Julia smiled to herself, taking advantage of his immobility to put anything else that he could wreck into her drawers. Another weekend spent straightening out all this mess!

"I... I don’t see what that has to do with anything."

"What’s her name Zeke?" Again, stunned silence. It’d be comical, if it wasn’t typical. But his composure was regained and the hopeless romantic living in his head snapped out of it.

"Soulmates don’t need names! When your soul reaches out and grasps the second part of itself, it doesn’t need a name to put on it! I’d have a name for god sooner."

Julia sighed, sitting down so that she could look up at him. He was so earnest, too, too earnest, eyes fever-bright and teeth too white in a smile not tainted with disillusion. Some god had been cruel in making Zeke: much too pretty in curls and much too delicate in soul. He was going to get her killed one day. The thought made Julia shiver and she shook it from her head.

"Who is she?"

The smile faded a bit, eyebrows in a quirk. "What?"

"Tell me about her Zeke." But she had startled him with the absence of mockery and he pulled away, arms coming to hold himself.

"Uhm, it’s nothing Jules. She’s just," he laughed, shook his head, "just some girl. You know me. There’ll be a different one tomorrow."

He was leaving, already, so quickly and she hadn’t nearly had enough time to talk to him and see his innocent face some more. The desperation in making him stay startled her; usually she was most desperate to make him leave. But it had been in the smile, the way the dimple curved just under his cheek and that’s where Bryan had had a dimple too.

"Zeke - don’t go. Come back here, I’ll ridicule you properly. I promise." Sullen, as only he could be with a pouty lip and dimples reversed. She motioned to her desk, disheveled and debauched, where he could sit again and ramble about some girl he’d forget in a month’s time. He appeared to contemplate, tilting his head and shifting his weight, before launching (for it could only be described as such) onto her desk.

"Well, she’s blonde. Not ditzy blonde Jules. Alright, well, not really ditzy blonde. And she’s really pretty, like delicate, like fragile. She needs one of those stickers, like the ones they put on boxes."

He’d started talking about her shoes, having worked from gorgeous head down to slim shapely legs and finally down to her shoes. They hadn’t even been to her voice or personality (if there was one), and it had been entirely too easy to tease Zeke, she hadn’t even really had to try, when Boss showed up. Homer Wurthers, as he was alternatively known, was a tall strong-looking man the color of well-stained henna and just the right amount of light to his deep-set eyes. Boss of the Ara headquarters, at least while Delgado was away, Wurthers was mostly known as simply Boss: few underlings knew his real name. If he hadn’t, literally, been endowed with ears of an eagle, or err, however that metaphor worked, the kids would’ve called him Nex, or slaughter. All this was hardly factual, since Boss had to be one of the kindest men working in Ara, and he only liked to frighten the little kids so he could laugh about it later. Maybe Boss did have a bit of a sadistic streak...

"I see you’re working hard Can-do."

Zeke fell off the desk.

"Decandeux, and always working hard Boss. That’s why I get paid the minimum wage, isn’t it? To sit here and shuffle through political flyers. I think this candidate might not be an arrogant asshole, but he is a politician." She held up the neon saffron flyer right next to Boss’s cheek, who raised an eyebrow.

"This kid here’s a bad influence on you Can-do. Now you’re being insubordinate. Kid," he said, looking down at Zeke. Zeke was already fairly small, being too slender for boys and high fluttery cheekbones, but the hulking mass of Boss made him look dwarfed. Boss rarely called people by their real names. If he did, you either had no good nickname, or you were extremely high on the command chain. "What are you supposed to be doing?"

Zeke flushed along high cheekbones. "Shelving more copies of 'Are The Shifters Among Us?' at the libraries in town. I came back to get some more."

"Seems you need to get right on that."

"Yes sir - I mean Boss - I mean. Okay. Right away." And he scampered off, tail between his legs if he’d been able.

"And you, Can-do?" Julia made sure everything on her desk was in the right place, or as right as it could be, and hefted her pack over her shoulder. It was heavy with a camera, loads of film, and a lunch just to be sure.

"Just leaving Boss. Checking to see if there are any available warehouses to store the Comitisus during their months. Some look promising down at the waterfront."

Boss folded his arms, looked her over, nodded. "Get to it. And don’t forget your cell."

"As if I could."

Though Ara provided cars for all their workers if needed, Julia preferred to walk.

(( err, that's not much a cliffhanger. Oh well)

MC Intro

2004-10-20T20:34:00.000-07:00

Julia Decandeux
20
Dark brown hair
Hazel eyes
5'8"
Growing up with both parents, both of whom are sweet loving parents that now live in the countryside in France, Julia knew everything there was to know about being a 'shifter and lived peacefully with her family. When she got older, she decided she wanted to help out the shifters and started working for the group Ara.

Early on, Julia was partnered with a leopard shifter named Bryan Chance. Eventually, Julia and Bryan start to fall for each other and end up in an engagement. However, a chance accident on the way out for food kills Bryan. Hurt, but not devestated, Julia learns to grow beyond his death and works almost normal now.

An encounter with someone from the opposing political organization leaves Julia confused and disoriented after spending so many years forgetting her emotions. The upheaveal leads her to attempt something that shouldn't be done.

Julia is the MC of "To Be Made Broken" and she's a very different character for me. Usually, my characters are very 'fiery' and 'feisty.' It'll be a new experience to deal with Julia, who is at heart a calm patient person. Err - it might prove too difficult!