Okay, this is where I've settled down to the opening scene of IC2, but I've made quite a few changes.
I don't intend to do a 'previously in IC' - I hate those, and I'd prefer to have the story work without needing it - plus, I really want to have the impetus that telling the complete story, with all its hang ups and history, in the now.
So, for those who've read IC (a quick tip for those new to critiquing - keeping the title out of your critique makes it harder for people to track it when you publish), does this feel like a good place to start. Enough new in it to keep interest but enough of a catch up?
For those new to IC, are you completely lost? I realise I haven't actually named the place or city here - it's Belfast - but does that matter?
--------
Neeta crouched in the darkness, the house cold around her. Under her feet the carpet gave a sour stench that should have turned her stomach, but actually gave comfort. It was the comfort of being home, she guessed, as much as anywhere had ever been her home.
Returning to North Belfast had brought some of her old sharpness back, too – the moment she’d entered its den of streets, she’d found herself moving more easily, with less fear. The red bricks, for all their cracks and age, felt more solid. Wind whistling through broken panes brought her skin prickling to life. The sound of something creaking on the roof – an aerial to pick up long-lost television channels, perhaps – felt natural. All of those had grounded her, although none as sharply as being in this house, in this street, with its memories closing around her.
It was from here that she’d commanded her gang of street urchins. Here that she’d given the order, on that hideous final night, to send them off into the darkness. From this window, she’d watched them be butchered by the Zelo. She’d stormed down the stairs, bristling with knives, a catapult, every street weapon she’d had, out to the final fight with the aliens. She’d stepped over Billy’s body – Billy, the littlest of them all, orphaned when he was only seven and now dead on her doorstep at nine. She’d strode down the drive, ready to take on the Zelo, the world, ready to kill as her team had been killed, to destroy and be destroyed. There had been so much killing it made her sick, even as she embraced the broken person the invasion had turned her into. She’d rebuilt her life through the gang and now they were under attack and it felt like her own body was being torn apart.
“Neeta!” Ciara had yelled from behind her. Neeta had swung in time to see her number two, the best friend she had ever had, struggling to hold off a Zelo that was twice the size of her. Neeta ran forward only to realise – too late, it had all been too late; she’d been a bloody fool who hadn’t seen this attack coming, who’d thought she was beyond danger, untouchable, Neeta-Sastry-the-street-fighter – that Ciara wasn’t calling for help. She’d been calling to warn Neeta.
A hand grabbed her wrist, twisting it so that one knife fell, bonelessly, to the ground. She turned on heel, ignoring the ripping pain in her shoulder, and kicked backwards, but she was off balance, and then she was off her feet, on the ground, the shiteater above her. The alien slammed onto her, pinning her to the ground. Her nostrils were full of the stench of sh*t and the screams of her team were all around her as she sank into blackness.
She’d woken in custody, the police having broken up the trouble – long after her team were dead, and the Zelo disappeared. A street fight, the police said, ignoring her accusations about the Zelo, assuming she was putting the blame where it wasn’t, trying to get them all off. None of the rest of her gang were there, and she remembered Billy, and Ciara’s screams, and her heart had placed them out of her mind’s reach, where her family were already filed under Can’t-Go-Back.
A new sound from downstairs brought her back to this night, not that. Her hands were tight clasped, her breathing shallow. A stealthy scuffle came from beyond the door, followed by footsteps on the staircase. It could be the police, come to fetch her. But caution had always been her defence: a few months of relative calm hadn’t removed her natural wariness. Let them enter the darkened room where she waited, let them show themselves first.
She faced the door. The handle went down. She drew herself to her full height, expecting Peters or Carter to appear, disgusted at her for running out on them. The door opened a crack and Neeta reeled back, gagging at the stench of sh*t and darkness that told her everything.
The door crashed against the wall. A Zelo ducked its head to fit beneath the frame. An adult, its skin a moving shield of scales that gave no easy target, excepting one small area between its eyes, where some scales were missing, leaving a thin crescent. Where its mouth should be, there was a gaping maw. She’d seen the alien kill before, knew the speed it could attack with, and how hard it was to damage.
Damage? Who was she kidding? With what, and how? She skittered backwards, out of range.
“We have come to collect you.” The alien’s fake-human tone was too flat to reveal any emotion. Assuming they even felt emotion. “Carter sent us.”
“You’re a liar.” Neeta retreated, not taking her eyes off the Zelo. Memories of the past crowded around her, and it was all she could do to keep breathing, to not give into the rising panic. Ciara’s screams. Billy’s body. Her parents, dead in the street. “You were here, on the last night. I know your markings. I remember them.”
She remembered everything.
A curtain rose in the breeze, spooking her. She pushed it away, too hard, too strong, adrenalin all through her. The curtain pole clattered down, making her flinch away, and the alien took its opportunity to attack, barrelling towards her, stunning her – even now, after all the time she’d fought them – with its speed.
She crouched and grabbed the pole. She threw it, javelin like, aiming for between its eyes. This was how she’d always had to fight the aliens, tooth and claw, with whatever came to hand. The curtain pole hit, true and hard, knocking a single scale to the floor.
But the alien had slowed, surprised at the attack, and she had a chance. She bounded onto the window sill, almost overbalancing in the glass-less window. The yard below was empty. No police or army. No help from anywhere. The alien tried to grab her, to pull her back, to do who-knew-what and she thrust herself forward, through the window frame. She’d rather die than be taken.
She landed with a crash that threatened to cave in the roof of a playhouse that had broken her fall. Where was the child whose place it had been? Alive, with her life changed? Or dead? There was no way to know – but today, at least, her playhouse might save another.
She scrambled over the roof. Shouts came from behind her. The aliens were quicker than her, relentless hunters. She had nothing except her knowledge of these streets. She’d been brought up not two roads away, in the house where she’d nursed her dying grandmother.
She clambered onto a wall skirting the garden, and then jumped down, landing on her hands and knees. She pushed up and sped down the next alley, taking the corner at a skid. She could hear the hunt behind, but didn’t look back. If they caught her she was doomed. Wasting time to check wouldn’t help.
Down another alley. Around a corner, almost hitting a dustbin whose rattling would surely have given her away. She got her bearings from the remains of a pre-invasion supermarket, bypassing its open car park to dash through the shattered front door of a house. She raced down its empty hallway and out the back door, into the garden.
She skidded on the muddy path, arms out for balance, mouth open in a silent yell. This was what it had been like during the invasion. Every night, outrunning curfew, aliens, the police. Every night, heart drumming with fear. Every night, alive not dead like so many.
The end of the garden gave way without warning, soft mud betraying its lack of solidness. Neeta stifled a yell and threw herself forwards, landing in a creek that wound along the bottom of the street. Water came over her boots, making her gasp at the cold. She splashed along, getting in and out on alternate sides, until she picked up a second creek that criss-crossed hers before a final, wider, stretch of river came into place. This one tracked the old railway line, leading to a bird sanctuary there was no longer any need for – the invasion had brought wildlife back like nothing else could have – and beyond it a park. Once there, she could go anywhere – back to Belfast by a different route, inland to Newtownabbey, or up the coast towards Carrick, Larne and beyond.
She dared a look back. There were no aliens in sight, but that didn’t mean she was safe. The Zelo would be remorseless their hunting. She set off and, as she ran, she flung back her head and laughed. Bring it on.
I don't intend to do a 'previously in IC' - I hate those, and I'd prefer to have the story work without needing it - plus, I really want to have the impetus that telling the complete story, with all its hang ups and history, in the now.
So, for those who've read IC (a quick tip for those new to critiquing - keeping the title out of your critique makes it harder for people to track it when you publish), does this feel like a good place to start. Enough new in it to keep interest but enough of a catch up?
For those new to IC, are you completely lost? I realise I haven't actually named the place or city here - it's Belfast - but does that matter?
--------
Neeta crouched in the darkness, the house cold around her. Under her feet the carpet gave a sour stench that should have turned her stomach, but actually gave comfort. It was the comfort of being home, she guessed, as much as anywhere had ever been her home.
Returning to North Belfast had brought some of her old sharpness back, too – the moment she’d entered its den of streets, she’d found herself moving more easily, with less fear. The red bricks, for all their cracks and age, felt more solid. Wind whistling through broken panes brought her skin prickling to life. The sound of something creaking on the roof – an aerial to pick up long-lost television channels, perhaps – felt natural. All of those had grounded her, although none as sharply as being in this house, in this street, with its memories closing around her.
It was from here that she’d commanded her gang of street urchins. Here that she’d given the order, on that hideous final night, to send them off into the darkness. From this window, she’d watched them be butchered by the Zelo. She’d stormed down the stairs, bristling with knives, a catapult, every street weapon she’d had, out to the final fight with the aliens. She’d stepped over Billy’s body – Billy, the littlest of them all, orphaned when he was only seven and now dead on her doorstep at nine. She’d strode down the drive, ready to take on the Zelo, the world, ready to kill as her team had been killed, to destroy and be destroyed. There had been so much killing it made her sick, even as she embraced the broken person the invasion had turned her into. She’d rebuilt her life through the gang and now they were under attack and it felt like her own body was being torn apart.
“Neeta!” Ciara had yelled from behind her. Neeta had swung in time to see her number two, the best friend she had ever had, struggling to hold off a Zelo that was twice the size of her. Neeta ran forward only to realise – too late, it had all been too late; she’d been a bloody fool who hadn’t seen this attack coming, who’d thought she was beyond danger, untouchable, Neeta-Sastry-the-street-fighter – that Ciara wasn’t calling for help. She’d been calling to warn Neeta.
A hand grabbed her wrist, twisting it so that one knife fell, bonelessly, to the ground. She turned on heel, ignoring the ripping pain in her shoulder, and kicked backwards, but she was off balance, and then she was off her feet, on the ground, the shiteater above her. The alien slammed onto her, pinning her to the ground. Her nostrils were full of the stench of sh*t and the screams of her team were all around her as she sank into blackness.
She’d woken in custody, the police having broken up the trouble – long after her team were dead, and the Zelo disappeared. A street fight, the police said, ignoring her accusations about the Zelo, assuming she was putting the blame where it wasn’t, trying to get them all off. None of the rest of her gang were there, and she remembered Billy, and Ciara’s screams, and her heart had placed them out of her mind’s reach, where her family were already filed under Can’t-Go-Back.
A new sound from downstairs brought her back to this night, not that. Her hands were tight clasped, her breathing shallow. A stealthy scuffle came from beyond the door, followed by footsteps on the staircase. It could be the police, come to fetch her. But caution had always been her defence: a few months of relative calm hadn’t removed her natural wariness. Let them enter the darkened room where she waited, let them show themselves first.
She faced the door. The handle went down. She drew herself to her full height, expecting Peters or Carter to appear, disgusted at her for running out on them. The door opened a crack and Neeta reeled back, gagging at the stench of sh*t and darkness that told her everything.
The door crashed against the wall. A Zelo ducked its head to fit beneath the frame. An adult, its skin a moving shield of scales that gave no easy target, excepting one small area between its eyes, where some scales were missing, leaving a thin crescent. Where its mouth should be, there was a gaping maw. She’d seen the alien kill before, knew the speed it could attack with, and how hard it was to damage.
Damage? Who was she kidding? With what, and how? She skittered backwards, out of range.
“We have come to collect you.” The alien’s fake-human tone was too flat to reveal any emotion. Assuming they even felt emotion. “Carter sent us.”
“You’re a liar.” Neeta retreated, not taking her eyes off the Zelo. Memories of the past crowded around her, and it was all she could do to keep breathing, to not give into the rising panic. Ciara’s screams. Billy’s body. Her parents, dead in the street. “You were here, on the last night. I know your markings. I remember them.”
She remembered everything.
A curtain rose in the breeze, spooking her. She pushed it away, too hard, too strong, adrenalin all through her. The curtain pole clattered down, making her flinch away, and the alien took its opportunity to attack, barrelling towards her, stunning her – even now, after all the time she’d fought them – with its speed.
She crouched and grabbed the pole. She threw it, javelin like, aiming for between its eyes. This was how she’d always had to fight the aliens, tooth and claw, with whatever came to hand. The curtain pole hit, true and hard, knocking a single scale to the floor.
But the alien had slowed, surprised at the attack, and she had a chance. She bounded onto the window sill, almost overbalancing in the glass-less window. The yard below was empty. No police or army. No help from anywhere. The alien tried to grab her, to pull her back, to do who-knew-what and she thrust herself forward, through the window frame. She’d rather die than be taken.
She landed with a crash that threatened to cave in the roof of a playhouse that had broken her fall. Where was the child whose place it had been? Alive, with her life changed? Or dead? There was no way to know – but today, at least, her playhouse might save another.
She scrambled over the roof. Shouts came from behind her. The aliens were quicker than her, relentless hunters. She had nothing except her knowledge of these streets. She’d been brought up not two roads away, in the house where she’d nursed her dying grandmother.
She clambered onto a wall skirting the garden, and then jumped down, landing on her hands and knees. She pushed up and sped down the next alley, taking the corner at a skid. She could hear the hunt behind, but didn’t look back. If they caught her she was doomed. Wasting time to check wouldn’t help.
Down another alley. Around a corner, almost hitting a dustbin whose rattling would surely have given her away. She got her bearings from the remains of a pre-invasion supermarket, bypassing its open car park to dash through the shattered front door of a house. She raced down its empty hallway and out the back door, into the garden.
She skidded on the muddy path, arms out for balance, mouth open in a silent yell. This was what it had been like during the invasion. Every night, outrunning curfew, aliens, the police. Every night, heart drumming with fear. Every night, alive not dead like so many.
The end of the garden gave way without warning, soft mud betraying its lack of solidness. Neeta stifled a yell and threw herself forwards, landing in a creek that wound along the bottom of the street. Water came over her boots, making her gasp at the cold. She splashed along, getting in and out on alternate sides, until she picked up a second creek that criss-crossed hers before a final, wider, stretch of river came into place. This one tracked the old railway line, leading to a bird sanctuary there was no longer any need for – the invasion had brought wildlife back like nothing else could have – and beyond it a park. Once there, she could go anywhere – back to Belfast by a different route, inland to Newtownabbey, or up the coast towards Carrick, Larne and beyond.
She dared a look back. There were no aliens in sight, but that didn’t mean she was safe. The Zelo would be remorseless their hunting. She set off and, as she ran, she flung back her head and laughed. Bring it on.
