Post a Scene

[krn]

thanks evcake - it was one of those scenes that write themselves. I was always happy with it. Too bad it's in the middle of a story that I'm not happy with. Who knows, maybe I'll get back to it someday. For now, the MU is taking point - I've actually got that story laid out - now I just need to write it.

[Kevin Thomas Riley]

Very nice and insightful little story there, krn!

[ginamr]

K. Here's a scene from a coming story in my VS6 series:

Scene from 6.04--Station Salem One

Station Salem One—Armory
March 2nd, 2156—1321 hours

Trip frowned as he noticed that several capacitors in the weapons grid were burnt out. Upon closer inspection, he realized that they were at very crucial places.

“Hey Malcolm!” Trip shouted. “Come take a look at this!”

Reed appeared at his side not a moment later with his hands covered in grease. Trip grinned and tossed Reed the rag that lay by his side. Reed caught it and nodded his thanks before wiping his hands and dropping to one knee beside Trip. Reed frowned in dismay, reaching out a now-clean hand to grip the side of the conduit as he moved forward to get a closer look.

His eyes widened. “Bloody hell!” he cursed.

Trip nodded. “I know. With them bein’ burned out where they are, I’m surprised that the short out didn’t take this whole room with it.”

Reed’s brow furrowed. “Why didn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Trip replied, shaking his head. “I need ta know what caused the short in the first place ta even give ya an educated guess.”

“Is it possible that the capacitors weren’t installed fully and therefore didn’t carry the full charge?” Reed queried.

Trip sighed, running a hand through his hair. “But if they weren’t carrying the full charge, the capacitors shouldn’t have burned out.”

Reed grimaced. “It looks like we’ve got another mystery on our hands and something tells me that we’re not dealing with a prankster.”

[Emberchyld]

Here's a scene out of a fic that I currently have on pause-- I didn't like the way it was going. (this uses Sonya, one of my "Below Decks" characters) Maybe I'll revisit in a few weeks:

There were the formal weekly Engineering staff meetings—these were full of assignments and project updates and at least one debate on engine capabilities. And then there were the monthly informal but “mandatory” mess-hall meetings that Commander Tucker had instituted a while back when he thought the team could use a forum to kick back and let off steam. These meetings usually involved pie, margaritas, intense brainstorming sessions, and at least one debate on engine capabilities (albeit, typically more lively than the formal meetings, and more so as the meeting wore on).

Other divisions on the ship considered the engineers lucky. The science staff described their own meetings as a cross between watching sap run and paint dry (or watching sap based paint drying.) Tactical was run with so much British efficiency that everything was incredibly predictable, down to the exercise drills. Were this high school, the engineers would have been, in essence, the “cool kids.”

And Sonya Callahan lately felt like the geeky hanger-on in the cool group. There were a group of ensigns arguing with Tucker about antimatter flow theory (a bit raucously, she admitted, thanks to the round of shots that had preceded the discussion), and here she was, a fluids specialist, sitting in a corner and nursing her virgin chocolate martini. A year ago, maybe she would have burst in and torn down Alex’s flawed theory, but now… now she was just tired.

Sonya downed the last of her martini and was getting up to leave when she noticed Tucker disentangle himself from the group and make his way over to her. “Thought I’d check n’see how you’re doing, Sonya. You’ve been awfully quiet lately.”

She shrugged and poked at the remains of her strawberry shortcake with her fork. “Not much to say. It’s just been a long week.”

He chuckled. “Tell me about it. I think we’ve all earned vacations after that last core rebuild.” Tucker then nodded towards the still-debating group. “Now, c’mon and join us. We could use your opinion on increasing the flow. And I’m positive we’ll have a breakthrough after the next round of Andorian ale.”

Sonya gave him a wan smile. “Actually, I think I’ll call it a night, if,” she paused, studying her senior officer’s face, “of course, that wasn’t an order, sir.”

Tucker shook his head. “No order, just an invite.” He stood to head back to his original seat. “G’night, Ensign.” Tucker easily inserted himself back into the debate and Sonya could hear him say as she left the mess hall, “Woah, guys, let’s <i>try</i> to respect the basic laws of Physics here, okay?”

[CX]

Don't take this the wrong way, but she seems a bit Mary Sue-ish. While it might be interesting to see familiar characters from an unfamiliar perspective, you wouldn't want your OC to outshine your main character or to be the unnoticed one that suddenly does some outstanding thing that stuns everyone and gets them noticed. It's a bit cliched. BUt that's my opinion, and I'm hardly a professional writer in any sense of the phrase, and that's also without seeing the rest of the story.

[blacknblue]

Yep. You can't judge anything without seeing it in context. It is a good thumbnail sketch of the character. Obviously she has something on her mind, probably trouble at home, or something haywire in her love life, or health problems, etc. Nicely put together. But like CX said, there's no way to really judge the overall picture until we see it in context of the whole story. I don't know that I would go so far as to call it Mary Sue-ish, since I am guilty of writing some pretty force OCs myself. But you gotta know who they are and why they are there before you can evaluate them. The description is well written though.

[Rigil Kent]

Bwah ha ha ha ha! Here's a scene from my ongoing Divergent Paths fic. Recognize the inspiration?

=/\=

The rain was ice cold as it trickled down his back.

Jon stood silently before the closed casket, his expression as bleak as the sky overhead, and tried to pay attention to the service. The priest droned on, his words jumbled nonsense that didn't make any sense. Archer blinked, and suddenly, Phlox was the one giving the last rites. Lightning crawled across the sky, as if in response to the doctor's words, and rain fell in heavy sheets, blocking out Jon's view of the casket. He opened his mouth to speak...

...and was suddenly in decon. The hum echoed loudly in his ears, and the intensity of the blue lights was too much. Raising a hand to shield his eyes, Jon realized that he was wearing his Starfleet uniform.

And it was bloody.

He tried wiping the crimson off of the uniform's sleeves, but the stain seemed to grow with each passing second. His boots were suddenly soaked, and Jon could feel the blood rising up his legs. Desperately, he tried to reach the door release, but found only smooth metal in its place. The blood was past his knees now, and still climbing. Glancing around, he froze at sight of the two people standing across decon, staring at him.

Trip and T'Pol were exactly like he last saw them, with the subcommander wearing her white uniform instead of the usual brown one, and Trip in the desert duty uniform. Neither spoke as they stared at him, and Jon screamed for help but no sound emerged from his mouth. The blood was now above his waist, and he again tried to implore his two senior officers to help him. Somehow, they seemed immune to the rising tide of crimson.

Suddenly, the blue lights of decon flashed, and, to Jon's horror, the skin on the faces of his two friends began to burn. Apart from a single sad look that they shared, the two barely reacted as muscle and sinew and bone was slowly incinerated. Archer tried to look away, but his body ignored him. The blood climbed above his chest, and he could smell the stench of seared flesh. I'm sorry! he tried to shout as Trip and T'Pol dissolved away into dust, but the blood choked him as it climbed over his chin. He could taste it now, sharp and bitter and reeking of pain.

It tasted like death.

[blacknblue]

You are one macabre sucker.

[Emberchyld]

Don't take this the wrong way, but she seems a bit Mary Sue-ish. While it might be interesting to see familiar characters from an unfamiliar perspective, you wouldn't want your OC to outshine your main character or to be the unnoticed one that suddenly does some outstanding thing that stuns everyone and gets them noticed. It's a bit cliched. BUt that's my opinion, and I'm hardly a professional writer in any sense of the phrase, and that's also without seeing the rest of the story.

Oh, I agree. That's why this fic was shelved-- it was walking too close to the edge. I think I'd like to save this scene and a few others, perhaps, but it'll take a bit of work to re-plot it.

I find it particularly difficult to write for the NX-01, trying to balance what you know would happen in "real life" without turning characters into Mary Sues. With the larger Enterprises, you know that the main cast wouldn't interact much with lower rank crew members, but this Enterprise is so small that I'm not exactly sure how to write some of the interactions.

On one hand, I think of the NX-01 like the US office of my division vs the division of the company that I used to work in... we have a slightly larger group of employees than the crew vs. the other division, which is about similar in "size" as 1701-D. In my division, the President of the company knows me by name and what I'm working on and the VP of R&D knows me and all of my coworkers fairly well (while in the other division, the VP probably would have been, like, "Who?", 'cause I was a tiny cog in this huge machine, just like the little ensigns and red shirts on all of the other ships). There are so few of us that you can't help but know everyone's personal lives and, professionally, we all have to step up and sometimes do things that are higher level than our title, or do something that only our personal fortes can do (uhm.. like we have a few guys who know molding really well, so they chime in for that, or I'm known as the "creative" one who gets all of the wierd problems). So, it's a real dilemma when I throw in an OC. It helps that I usually stick to my "one fic per OC, unless it's a cameo" rule, but sometimes... stuff gets scrapped.

So, how do y'all balance this?

[Rigil Kent]

I don't worry about it.

Seriously, every single OC can be called a Mary Sue by someone somehow. The definition has gotten so out of whack, that it covers pretty much every character who wasn't on the show. As long as my OCs have a specialty, and act in a consistent and believable manner, then I don't pay attention to whether they're a "Mary Sue" or not. Admittedly, I do go out of my way to keep them from outshining the already established characters unless their specialty calls for it (i.e. my ex-black ops MACO tactical officer is a much better shot than either Trip or T'Pol, but that'd be expected.)

You are one macabre sucker.

Well, it's better than a nonsensical wet dream and abruptly being told that there is some sort of (nonexistent) sexual tension between Archer and T'Pol.

[CX]

I find it particularly difficult to write for the NX-01, trying to balance what you know would happen in "real life" without turning characters into Mary Sues. With the larger Enterprises, you know that the main cast wouldn't interact much with lower rank crew members, but this Enterprise is so small that I'm not exactly sure how to write some of the interactions.

I suppose you could watch that Lower Decks TNG episode for inspiration.

[CX]

Thought I'd give you all another tease for FND's upcoming Season 1.5. Unfortunately there isn't much I can really post other than that scene I posted up a while ago because anything else might spoil it for you, but I think this will do.

INT. ENTERPRISE – CAPTAIN'S MESS

We focus on a coffee pot as a hand lifts it and pours the dark, steaming liquid into two nearby cups. The hand pulls the coffee pot back, and we PAN to reveal its owner, CAPTAIN JONATHAN ARCHER. He has a smile on his face as he pours himself a cup of coffee.

ARCHER
Coffee does tend to make the mornings go a little more smoothly.

He puts the coffee pot down and we change angles to see his audience, JUNIOR LIEUTENANT HOSHI SATO and ENSIGN TRAVIS MAYWEATHER. Mayweather smiles at Sato as she tentatively smells her steaming cup.

SATO
(looking skeptically at her cup)
I never have seen the big draw of coffee. I'm more of a tea person myself.
(beat, with a slightly sour look)
It certainly does have a strong odor to it.

Archer and Mayweather share a chuckle at that.

ARCHER
I don't think I've gone a morning without it.

Archer takes a sip from his cup.

MAYWEATHER
Coffee is actually a pretty big trade item, Captain.
(beat, off Archer's interest)
Boomers usually keep a pretty big stock of it and offer it at almost every trade negotiation. In some places it's more valuable than gold or platinum.

Mayweather takes the opportunity to take a swig as well.

ARCHER
(genuinely surprised)
Really? I wouldn't have thought that aliens would be very big on coffee.
(beat, thoughtful)
Who were usually your biggest buyers?



MAYWEATHER
I can only really speak for Horizon, sir, but the Deltans and the Denobulans seemed to be our biggest coffee buyers.

ARCHER
I guess I never really noticed if Doctor Phlox was drinking it or not. Usually I don't see him in the mess hall.

SATO
I saw him in there one morning before the morning rush. I didn't notice if he was drinking anything, though; I was in a hurry that morning.
(beat, looking at her cup again)
I guess if aliens can drink this then I can give it the old college try.

Archer and Mayweather watch intently as Sato takes a drink from her cup. Her face scrunches up immediately with her disgust, but she swallows what's in her mouth nonetheless.

SATO
Yuck!
(beat, wry)
I think this must be an acquired taste. Or maybe a lack of taste.

Mayweather and Archer share another laugh.

MAYWEATHER
(smiling)
At least you gave it a try.

[CX]

My first informal writing assignment for my Creative Writing class for the theme "The Things That They Carried"

Trip pulled his Starfleet issue duffel out of the closet by its loose straps and placed it gently on the bed he'd slept in for the last week. As trying as the week might have been with its early mornings and the ever present tension between T'Pol and her mother, there was still a small emptiness within him as he realized he'd probably never return to the place of his lover's birth.

His face soured as he thought of the wedding he'd just seen, not that he needed a reminder of why he was leaving a full week earlier than he'd planned. He tried not to think of the sadness he'd seen in T'Pol's eyes, just before the wedding, before she'd given herself away to a man he knew she didn't love, and who he suspected had blackmailed her into marrying him. Trip's head tightened and heat radiated from behind his eyes. Koss.

Bastard just couldn't accept that she'd turned him down.

He'd talked T'Pol out of marrying that damn architect over a year ago, back when Koss's parents had threatened to call off the betrothal unless she returned to Vulcan to marry their son. She didn't want to marry him then, and he could tell that she didn't want to marry him now, but he'd still had to watch the woman he now knew for certain he loved marry another man, a man who barely even seemed interested in being married. Why else would he let T'Pol return to Enterprise right after their little week-long honeymoon?

Trip practically tore his shirts from their hangers as he grabbed a handful of them out of the closet. He didn't even bother to fold them as he stuffed them into the duffel. He could barely even stand to look at the wild tropical patterns on them. He'd only even brought them because he knew it'd drive T'Pol nuts to see him wear them, especially on Vulcan. He'd never worn them, and he'd never wear them again. But he'd still have to carry them, one last time.

He took a little more care with the few polo shirts he'd spent the bulk of his time here wearing. The course cotton felt strange somehow as his fingers brushed over it. The material had kept him relatively cool in the heat of the desert planet, wicking his sweat away and letting his skin breathe, even out on the lava plains when T'Pol had told him that she was going to marry Koss. Trip gently folded the polos into neat rectangles, just as he'd learned to do with his uniform shirts back in Starfleet training, before they, too, were stuffed into the soft-sided bag with his ship's logo on it.

He gave his underthings much the same treatment, and couldn't help but remember hazel eyes watching him as warm hands brushed over his skin, shedding the blue clothing and his modesty from his body. That was when he came closest to letting the tears escape from his swollen eyes. He stopped for a moment, and waited for the pressure behind his eyes to go away, for his throat to begin working again, and for his chest to stop heaving.

This was why he had to leave now. The flight back to Enterprise, his home, would be that much more difficult for him if she was there to constantly remind him of what he was losing.

Finished packing, Trip hefted the bag over his shoulder, and lamented to himself, not for the first time, of just how much heavier things were on this alien world. The duffel bag was a good twelve kilos heavier on Vulcan than it would have been on Earth. The thinner air didn't help matters either, but it didn't keep him from quietly making his way out of the door, carrying more than the weight of the bag as he left this place behind him.

[CoffeeCat]

awe, CX, your going to make me cry. *sniff*

[evcake]

So sad...