The story I'll probably never finish, but enjoy writing sometimes

[AlienGirl]

"THE SMALL FIERCE BIRDS"

ONE

Huge leaves arc in an umbrella above her head. Sunlight filters through them in vein-dappled green and gold. She crouches, perfectly still, hidden in the thick underbrush. Occasional breezes stir the foliage, and the cheery noises of all the busy small animals surround her; a cicada whirrs his dusty mechanical call in the distance, and is answered by something screeching from a tree. It is a peaceful, beautiful day, and Wren is doing what she does best. She is watching.

The view from this hillside is even better than the topo map had suggested. For the past three days, Wren's been marvelling at that, at how clearly everything downhill can be seen, how close it is when she holds the scope to her eye. She can look at the unlocked windows, can see the visitors--they are few, she has seen one man visit twice and one messenger from town bring a package, which the lady she's nicknamed Mrs. Farmer signed for--and, of course, she can see the modestly affluent farm-house, with its open, inviting veranda.

Right now the veranda is unoccupied. From here Wren can clearly see the rustic wooden rocking chair, the knitted lap-blanket folded on it, the book propped open on the little table. All the homey touches disgust her: she feels her throat tighten, her bile rise, and she reminds herself, Breathe slow, one in hold two one out, slow breath means slow heart and fast reflexes.

There's a crackle in her ear. "Status?" the crackle asks.

She toggles the talkback with her tongue and subvocalizes back, "All good, Hum'bird, still status yellow. Hold till my green and not before." Wren knows he heard the tension, and she is glad he can't see her face reddening: she was being unprofessional, not good, when she practically had to beg to get to the front of this job.

It's not Wren's first job, but it is her first time leading the team. Hummingbird, a tall, baldheaded refrigerator of a man whose name was chosen for absurdity, usually has point based on experience and skill. Wren regards Hummingbird with an abstracted awe: she knows a little about his career in the last war (though he will not tell her the stories, and she has learned what she knows from asking around) and she's seen him in action, but he is reticent and distant, and does not hug.

Wren's mind briefly wanders through the rest of the team. There's Kestrel, second-youngest and just out of the Army, scary-accurate with a rifle, who knows esoteric complicated things about beauty and romance. Kestrel looks like a movie star when she dresses up to go out to clubs. Pelican, the pilot, is short and wiry. He can drive or fly anything and fix it if it breaks. Pelican is an inveterate pessimist, but Wren is darkly amused by his morose commentary on the state of the world and the certainty of failure. Best of all for a late-night chat or a moment of reassurance--even a hug--is Finch, sly sidewise Finch whose skill as a document analyst and artist is something of a legend: they say if you give him a napkin and a pencil, he'll give it back as a passport from anywhere. Her family, her team. The thought of them calms Wren, centers her, and she feels her jaw unclench.

[AlienGirl]

1. continuing...

TWO

Wren will always regret missing out on the big fish, the job where Hummingbird built his career. She has read every available account, pored over the microfiche, and solicited stories from everyone who was there--everyone but Hummingbird himself.

The big fish had been during Wren's incapacitation. People who didn't know liked to call it other things, but in Wren's mind it was always "the incapacitation," nothing permanent, not a sickness, merely an injury followed by inconvenience. The time during the incapacitation was, to Wren, the Nothing Time: an empty spot in memory bounded on one side by pain, confusion, and horror, and on the other side by the frustratingly slow toil of recovery.

Wren the complex neurocircuitry it took to make lips and tongue form words, to coordinate the limbs and the

[AlienGirl]

3. TWO (let's try not to fall asleep on the keyboard this time...)

TWO

Wren will always regret missing out on the big fish, the job where Hummingbird built his career. She has read every available account, pored over the microfiche, and solicited stories from everyone who was there--everyone but Hummingbird himself.

The big fish had been during Wren's incapacitation. People who didn't know liked to call it other things, but in Wren's mind it was always "the incapacitation," nothing permanent, not a sickness, merely an injury followed by the inconvenience that always attends physical healing. The time during the incapacitation was, to Wren, the Nothing Time: an empty spot in memory bounded on one side by pain, confusion, and horror, and on the other side by the frustratingly slow toil of recovery.

Wren remembered the process of regaining control over the complex neurocircuitry it took to make lips and tongue form words, to coordinate limbs. She remembered the incredible sense of triumph at the first time the noises she could make were properly shaped: that had been the first task, cranial nerves are so close to the brain where the real action is, and it had only taken a month or so of daily constant practice. Took a few weeks, lots of unformed utterances and blubbering--but it showed everyone, it did, that she would prevail against the incapacitation; and from that first sentence onward, the pros working on her rehabilitation went into high gear. Strength exercises, coordination practice, balance, fine motor, gross motor. Now, six years since she pushed those first words over her tongue, she's fine. Better than fine, and finally taking point in the mission. If they succeed--and she will, she knows, she must--it'll be even bigger than the big fish. It'll be, like, shark-sized.

A fly settles on Wren's head, and she has the presence of mind not to brush at it, even though it annoys her out of her fleeting daydream about how sweet this is going to be. She has to keep focus.

[sybylla]

2. Looks like a nice start.

The sense that you enjoy working on it comes through.

[AlienGirl]

4. THREE

Wren's looking down the scope again. Even though the rifle was custom-built for her, it's still heavy enough that her arms ache a little when she holds it up. Through the scope she can see all the details. The blanket: she wonders who knitted it? What book is it that is propped open? She squints toward the title, but the lettering is just not big enough. She moves the focus ever so slightly: now she sees the door, still closed. That door is the entrance to the monster's lair. She could just hold the bead here, at chest-height on the doorway, and when it opens--!

--But no, she can't. That is absolutely certain. As much as she thinks she likes the idea of sniping the target, this one's too big, he has to be brought alive. Besides, she knows better than anyone that killing him would only be letting him get away entirely.

Wren moves the scope so she can see the book and the chair again. She imagines that old horror rocking there, drinking a lemonade and reading while all of the green life of the forest teems generously, not aware that the forest itself ought to spit him out as something too poisonous for such a lush and living place.

There's movement. The door!

[AlienGirl]

5. THREE, re-written (minor changes to wording)

Wren's looking down the scope again. Even though the rifle was custom-built for her, it's still heavy enough that her arms ache a little when she holds it up. Through the scope she can see all the details. The blanket: she wonders who knitted it? What book is it that is propped open? She squints toward the title, but the lettering is just not big enough. She moves the focus ever so slightly: now she sees the door, still closed. That door is the entrance to the monster's lair. She could just hold the bead here, at chest-height on the doorway, and when it opens--!

--But no, she can't. That is absolutely certain. As much as she thinks she likes the idea of sniping the target, this one's too big, he has to be brought alive. Besides, she knows better than anyone that killing him would only be letting him get away entirely.

Wren moves the scope so she can see the book and the chair again. She imagines that old horror rocking there, drinking a lemonade and reading while all of the green life of the forest teems generously along these hillsides, not aware that the earth itself ought to spit him out as something too poisonous for such a lush and living place.

There's movement. The door!

[AlienGirl]

6. FOUR

Wren watches the door open in adrenaline-slow time. Still, she keeps her breathing normal as the accursed thing steps into sight: And there it is, is this a man? She clenches her jaw again, knowing but not caring that Hummingbird will notice the change in her transmission. She watches the monster:

He is an ordinary man, of ordinary dimensions and some advanced age. He does not walk with the confidence of a younger man; he is slightly furtive, and one side droops a little. He is clothed in ordinary trousers and an ordinary buttoned-up shirt that may have been elegant when it was purchased. No weapons visible, but Wren expects him to have a pistol hidden--ankle holster, maybe? Wren can see the obvious weak points, and in a flurry she visualizes exactly how a hand-to-hand attack would need to go: she can take him off balance on the weak side, get him to the floor, and his neck will be exposed for at least fifteen seconds before he'd think to protect it, she could, she could even...

The old man yawns, paces, and then he makes his mistake and turns around.

That's the moment. Wren practically yells, "Green!" as she explodes into action. She runs like a silent waterfall downhill, through the forest. She is as quiet as a jaguar through the gardens, up the pole on the side of the house, and then she's IN! She slams something man-sized onto the wooden floor of the veranda, then trains her rifle on her prey.

The old man is blubbering. His mouth contorts as he says, "Why?"

Wren looks the monster straight in the eyes. She keeps her grip tight-TIGHT on the rifle, and hears, reassuringly, the thuk-thuk-thuk of backup coming in. Wren holds the gaze until the old man blinks.

"Because you murdered me," she says, finally.