Author's notes:

Let's look at the dynamics of a table-top role-playing game; this is where the comparison to writing serial fiction shines (I hope.)

The plot is controlled by one person, the game-master. The characters are each, individually controlled by separate players. Yes, I'm sure some have played where they controlled more than one, but I'll ask those players how much of their character's 'headspace' they experienced.

'Headspace' is simply that feeling of, "I know this person so well, I am thinking like them," at least in this context. I'm sure there are others, and I'm sure they don't apply.

Headspace is not just stating, "He killed my father, he needs to die," it's knowing if the character will dishonour himself, leave or betray his friends, suffer pain, suffer humiliation, or even become that which he targets, all in the name of the goal.

Headspace is simply another way for saying "the character stopped being flat and started being believable, metaphorically real in my mind." This applies to protags and antags, though not as much for the antags, as the game-master has to split attentions between the plot, the setting, the antags, and making sure the players are having fun.

This is still all "Duh!" stuff. Anything creative comes to life over time. The key difference in role-playing games is that the protags' and antags' headspaces all under the control of separate people.

It's like a Ouija board: with eyes closed, I push here, you push there. With enough people pushing, some directly opposite, others at an angle, the 'cursor' goes in some direction, but not necessarily one anyone predicts.

So it is with writing serial fiction. In most novels, I expect the author to have a hard and fast goal. The characters exist to serve that goal, and characterization (a fancy but shorter name for "they become filled out after starting out flat") is burden.

In serial fiction, I had the basic sketch of a plot when I started this: people who can draw sexual energies from others, and can utilize that energy in inobvious ways. He fights for the girl. He wins. Cue music, clean theater.

Over time, those characters come to life in my mind. The headspace isn't as strong. I can't and don't get the same depth of headspace because I'm split between the current cast of four (and others may join, the story is just starting.)

But, they are alive in my mind. Each has a distinct personality, or at least one or two prominent personality traits. And they're pushing the story around, sometimes in directions I didn't want it to go. Sian choosing to go with Marc to the club, for example. I wanted Sian to go run to Callan, but felt that wasn't right.

So she chose Marc.

(Those of you just joining here, start with Callan and Sian 1)



Sian left the Aberdeen and clambered into Evander's car. "Thanks for coming so fast, 'Vander. Let's get out of here."

"That was fast, Sian. Was it good--" he said,his voice twinged with scorn.

"Zip it, 'Vander. Zip it, okay? Just..." she buried her head in her lap, fingers interlaced behind her neck. Whatever words following were muffled by her body, her legs.

"Why are you crying, Si? What happened up there?" He dropped all umbrage, and reached his hand out to hug her.

She lifted her head a little, still curtained by her hair, still flanked her by arms. Enough so she could be heard, nothing more. "I'm not fucking crying. Just drive, will you?"

"Your seat belt..." He changed his hand's course to the buckle.

"I'll pay the goddamn ticket. Just..." She gulped some air. "Just drive, please?"

===

Evander closed his eyes, pinched his brow. "Wait, all of that was real?"

Sian nodded, dabbing at her reddened eyes with a damp washcloth.

"Whoa. I mean, whoa. I could handle the TMI before, when we thought it was like a drug trip. But this..." he shook his head.

"I think I wanted it to be drugs, too." She blew her nose on the washcloth. "What am I going to do?"

"You mean what are--"

Sian leaned so far forward she almost fell off Evander's sofa. "No, I mean 'I.' Not 'are.' 'Am.' Me. You're not part of this. No one's brought you up yet. Please, 'Vander, this some seriously messed up stuff, and... and..."

"'And' what, Si?"

She looked at the rag pooled in her lap. "I don't think you can handle it," she whispered.

Evander stood up. "This ain't middle school, Si. I can fight my own battles now."

Sian just looked at him. And looked. They stared at each other. Long seconds passed. Then, as one, both broke out into laughter. Loud guffaws filled the room.

Evander managed to get his breath back first. "All right, all right. I needed your help back then. But I can hold my own now."

"Not against Cal you didn't." She couldn't help but smile, remembering the one-sided exchange of blows.

"No, but you said I don't have to worry about him."

She paused. Something nagged at her. "When you he asked you to leave, why did you?"

"Huh? I dunno. He just made sense, I guess. I could see you from the car, and you looked like you needed some privacy. TMI, yanno?"

"You didn't feel zombie-fied, did you?"

"No, I-- he didn't. Please say he didn't."

She nodded. "Sorry, 'Vander. He did. And it was subtle, really slick. Scary slick. It's like when I was with Marc. It just felt... natural. Wanting to let him touch me, have me..." She shivered. "--And all that. I know, I know. TMI."

Evander shrugged on his jacket. "I'm hungry. Let's go. I'm buying."

===

His chicken-fried steak froze in mid-air. "Wow, Copper River Salmon? You know how expensive that is?"

With a nod, she said, "His Chateaubriand was more. I saw the room service menu."

"Okay, I'm flattered. You left Mr. Mondo-Mind-Control and his room service dinner for me and IHOP." He smiled, but his attempt to effect cheer on Sian failed.

"Like I could eat after that. Or now." She nudged a blueberry from one waffle divot onto another.

"So what's your plan, Si?"

The person at the next booth turned and faced them. "Her plan is to stay by me, of course," Marc said, eyes hard. "Oh, no, please, don't stand up on my account. But do move over, little one."

The words geysered in her lap. Warmth pooled there, spread and melted her legs, chilled her belly, and set her heart aflame. Her head mustered anger and outrage, but was swarmed by the feeling of safety, of belonging. "Please... don't do this to me again."

But she did slide over.

"Good girl."

Again, her heart sang at his praise. A tiny knot of sanity railed against the sweep of afterglow. With exertions obvious, she gasped, "How'd you find me?"

"I Marked you, girl. With my seed, planted deep in your belly, I Claimed you. I Named you, little one. I Presented you to the Outer Circle. They recognize you as mine, now. No one else dare Claim you, but many will want you. You have a heart that is so strong, a spirit so rich. They all will glare at us in envy."

He paused, then extended his hand to Evander.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

"Evander MacAllister, Sir."

"Good lad. Good breeding in you. Sian and I have much to talk about, matters of a delicate matter."

He smiled. "Yeah, she and I call it TMI. Too much information. Better I not know."

"Yes, indeed. Smart, very smart. Evander, I've a favor to ask you: could you be so kind as to excuse us for the evening?"

Evander slid out of the booth, saying, "Sure. Hey, Si, if you need a ride back after this, just call me, 'kay?"

"She won't, my boy. She's ridden in my car before."

"Oh, that's right. She told me."

"I see. Hm, we may have more to discuss that I initially thought. I apologize, Evander. Could I prevail upon you to grace us with your company some more?"

He sat back down. "Only if I'm not a fifth wheel. You know, in the way?"

"Oh, you won't be, I promise."

Her eyes fighting to focus, Sian managed to croak a "No, please."

"What was that, my pet?" She felt the onrush of intimate excitation abate a touch, enough for her to speak, not enough for her to move.

"I just wanted to spend one last night with him. Just one night. Please, don't do anything to him."

"One last night? How touching. And then, my little one?"

Sian felt the tsunami of ecstasy grow to sweep her away. That small speck of self-identity watched the encroaching wall of pleasure. It was already surrounded by the roiling seas, unable to move.

"And then she comes with me, Marcarius." Callan's voice cut through the dreamland.