Immersion Assignment

Prankster Dragons:

Dragons live in caves, away from the prying eyes of the world, often guarding gold and gems. They are ancient creatures, extremely wise and intelligent from having seen the world change around them. Sometimes the wisest creatures are also the most devious. Instead of using brute force, fire, and flame to protect their wealth, some dragons have become something of professional pranksters. Melting walls to create mirror mazes in their caves, hiding in piles of gold waiting to jump out, placing elaborate traps around chests filled with treasure purely to frighten, but not harm treasure seekers. It’s surprisingly effective.

Clumsy Spies:

Spies are typically adept at blending in to their surroundings. James Bond was in some ways the antithesis of what a spy should be, standing out like a handsome, but sore thumb, often with little regard for his environment or collateral damage. Like a bull in a china shop, the newest 00 agent Lames Wand, is extraordinarily clumsy, often speaking openly about his mission, and can be seen wearing his MI6 Class of 2012 t-shirt. His cavalier attitude towards the job allows him to get through otherwise impossible situations – many believing him to be a dunce will chalk it up to idiocy, and don’t mind that he is “just looking for the bathroom” or “accidentally tripping alarms” in high security areas.

An introverted, intellectual, under-confident author:

A tiny attic room with slanted rafters, dimly lit with only a single bulb chain-pull lamp hanging from the ceiling. A window on each side, blinds drawn shut. An antique, hand-me-down desk is pushed up against one wall, accompanied by a brass colored steel office chair with green cushions, offset on a braided wool rug. A hound sleeps nearby, curled on an old college sweatshirt, a mangled penny loafer under one paw. Coffee stains form a chaotic design across the unfinished wood, with an unwashed mug as its centerpiece. Another mug, emblazoned with repeating text “Their, They’re, There.” sits further back against the wall, full of cigarette butts. Papers are strewn across the desktop, manuscripts marked in red, with illegible notes filling the margins. Crumpled papers litter the floor near a metal trashcan, more missing than inside. A bobble-head figurine with white hair and a white jacket resides next to a can of lighter fluid and a half-full book of matches. A Corona typewriter sits in the middle of the desk. The cursor in empty space, with only one word, “The…”

visible above the roller.

An aggressive, paranoid, garbage collector:

Both windows are up, the passenger-side handle is tied tight with a reflective vest, “City of…” visible along one side. Snack wrappers and empty beer cans fill the small space behind the front seats. Yesterday’s newspaper lays open across the instrument panel with random words circled and crossed out. Under the steering wheel is an off-market radio scanner, a sticky note stuck to the front showing frequencies for various departments. A small mannequin made from recycled components, the head of Baby Sinclair and the body of Stretch Armstrong sits buckled-in on the passenger seat. Frayed wires stretch out from beneath the glove compartment, a damaged geo-locator in pieces on the floor. Photographs taken with a long-focus lens are scattered on the dashboard, furtive shots of the locals with names and notes written on the back. One titled “Don’t believe his lies.” rests face down.

A bored, social climbing wannabe, secretary:

A faux-wood desk sits alone in the corner near the boss’s office. A bowl of fun-sized candy with “Help Yourself!” taped along the front sits on the edge next to a Joke-a-Day calendar. A pencil holder hides several bottles of brightly colored nail polish and a tangled pair of earbuds. A Cosmopolitan Magazine with pages rabbit-eared sits tucked in between papers in a file organizer. The top drawer is half-open, full of pens, paperclips, and a rainbow of Tyvek wristbands. The shelf behind the desk has pictures of family. One shows a woman covered in mud crossing the finish line at a local obstacle race, another has the same woman hugging a celebrity. Next to the filing cabinet sits two designer pairs of shoes, heels and flats, seemingly unused.

An washed-up, bitter, retired cop:

The couch’s cushions are sunk and worn, by the armrest a pillow and blanket are thrown into a pile. Manila folders labeled with names and locations rests next to a container of General Tso’s, chopsticks sticking out. On the coffee table in front of the couch a series of photographs showing blood splatter adorning an otherwise white wall is tucked under a pile of unopened mail. The mantle above the fireplace has a flag box, nearby are several picture frames turned face down. The coat rack by the door holds an empty leather holster, a black watch cap, and a beige trench coat with a small bottle of whiskey peeking out of one pocket. Above the television sits a poster of Mayor Gunderson’s smiling face from last year’s election, a crude target drawn in black and pockmarked with holes, a switchblade stuck in his forehead.

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