Self-positivity ask! Show off some of your favorite bits of writing. It can be from a WIP or a published work, but go ahead an show off and be proud of your amazing work!
Oh my, thank you so much for asking, Nonny! I’ve spent the entire evening thinking about this, too, looking through so many things - posted/WIPs/fanfic/original works, etc. It’s taken me a while to narrow it down.
I think I’m going to go with parts of two different pieces, but are in the same story series focusing on my Caleb Shepard. The first is a section out of Don’t Turn Around. The second is part of a chapter posted this week for Young & Proud.
I love these two stories - for the plot/character development, for the character himself, but mostly for the amazing betas who push me for every last ounce even if I’m not sure I want to be pushed that far!
There is a moment of silence; no sound, not even Anderson’s fingers on the keys to input information. “You keep calling him that,” the commander says after a moment as he sets the pad aside. He adopts a position similar to Caleb’s, hands folded together, his chin resting on top. “Why is that?”
Caleb tilts his head to meet the dark, discerning gaze focused on him. His does not waver. “Athair? It means ‘father.’”
“Ahhh.” The eyes soften in understanding matched with a smile at his lips. “Did he tell about when we served together?”
Caleb catches the chain in his hand with the medallion and pushes himself to his feet. He throws his right arm out to steady himself against the back edge of the bench as the shuttle wobbles yet again, but he nods. “He mentioned it last night. It’s … strange to think of him that way.”
His eyes are caught by the landscape flying beneath them out the virtual windows. The direction they are traveling becomes clear. A hint of unease flutters in his chest. East. Athair, you said to trust him … but we seem to be heading straight into the lion’s den … Does he know about the Greystones and their connection? Caleb draws his lower lip between his teeth and rolls it back and forth. Are we heading to London? If nothing else, we are heading to England, we have to be. Athair, did you know about this?
“Connor and I fought side by side during the First Contact War,” Anderson explains. “He saved my life once – more than once – and several of the others in our unit, too.”
It takes a moment for the words to penetrate, but when they do, Caleb stiffens and looks back over his shoulder at the man. Are we talking about the same man? “You are saying that Athair killed people?”
Anderson nods. “It was a time of war, son, and long before Connor took to the cloth. We all had to at one time or another. It was either that or be killed. Remember that.” A small smile curves his lips. “Or, if it eases your mind, think of it more as he ‘persuaded’ the enemy that their choice of target was incorrect.” He shakes his head while taking up the datapad once more. “Either way, we lived, they didn’t, and Corporal Connor O’Bannon now spends his days finding his peace and redemption as … what was it you called him?”
Anderson grunts in affirmation. “He’s a good man, don’t think I don’t know that.”
Caleb swallows past an unexpected tightness in his throat and drops onto the seat beside the window. “Aye.” He tilts his head to rest against the bulkhead as the view before him gives way to the open waters of the Irish Sea. Beside him, his fists tighten … and a small metal disc bites into his palm. Startled – he’d forgotten he held it - he looks down at it again, stares at the face of St. Senan. Athair, guide me … He flips the chain around his hand, clockwise first then counterclockwise. Unconsciously, his left knee starts bouncing up and down. “He saved my life, too,” he says after a moment, “several times over.”
“Did he, now?” There is more than just a hint of curiosity in the commander’s voice.
The shuttle bounces hard, once, and in that moment the chain strikes Caleb’s cheek. He reacts on instinct, turning his face away from it so that it misses his eye. The biting sting on his cheek is enough to know the hit probably left a mark. But it serves as a wakeup call of sorts. Sliding the chain over his head, he drops the disc beneath the collar of his t-shirt then turns toward Anderson.
A couple of miles from the target, they pause to reassess the area. Coats surveys the terrain with a pair of binoculars; he is spotter for this test. “There,” he murmurs, pointing slightly to the west. “Elevation isn’t too bad, decent cover, enough space to zig zag our way in.” He hands the viewfinder over to Caleb. “What d’you think?”
Caleb nods his agreement after making his own assessment. “Aye, sounds like a plan.”
They take their time moving forward. The trick is to get in, hit the target, and get out without detection. No hint of movement. No sign of their presence. They’re dressed in their field gear and have taken all basic precautions they can, but Caleb still has a few tricks up his sleeve from his Reds days they can put to use.
“What’s this?” Coats asks as Caleb hands over a tube-shaped piece of metal.
Caleb huffs and reaches back for it. “If you’re so thick you can’t recognize a sniper rifle suppressor…”
Coats’ eyes narrow and he yanks his hand back. “Didn’t say I didn’t recognize it, did I? What’s wrong with the ones we were issued?”
Caleb shrugs, a simple yet subtle motion. “This one is improved, shall we say?” Tapping on his omni-tool, he waves it over Coats left arm. “This’ll help too, give us a bit longer with our tac cloaks.” Before he moves away, he gives Coats a long, hard look straight in the eyes. “There’s a few tricks the Greystones never caught onto that we can use to our advantage this time out…”
They are in the best position with the best chance of success. It’s time to put the plan into action.
