Behaviour Challenges
Behaviour challenges require a character to observe and act on subtle and overt behaviours. For instance:
Pay attention to reactions and interactions to assess a character’s knowledge or motivation.
In the surreal “Blood Moon,” a bus rider becomes entangled in secrets about a boy connected to a notorious bomber. Two cops (who might be government agents or accomplices of the bomber or even aliens—it’s open to interpretation) monitor the protagonist, seemingly to find out what he knows about a boy and the bomber. Mr. Round Hat and the bus lady observe the subtle and overt behaviour of Harkness to gauge what he knows and whether he will talk, closely observing his actions, reactions, and possibly his interactions with others.
Blood Moon
Foxglove County, 1988
The Bus
With a quick glance at the full moon, I step onto the bus and stoop to pick up a piece of cloth. Smudged lipstick, a message in the handkerchief.
We are watching you!
What kind of cheap joke is this? It must be booze or the damn moon.
Scan the crowd to see who’s watching.
I refuse to give the prankster the satisfaction of looking … oh, well, what the hell. A man in a trench coat is sprawled out on the back seat. A woman in a pillbox hat seems overly interested in her gloves.
Shove the hanky into a pocket.
No thanks. I don’t want to carry a prank hanky in my windbreaker. I’d rather ask the nearest person if they dropped it.
“Eew! That is certainly not mine—and I’ve never seen you on this bus before.”
The patron reaches for the emergency chord.
The bus driver catches this in the rearview mirror, looking like he’s had enough. “Remind yourselves you’re adults and act like it—sit down and keep to yourselves.”
You could write a snarky reply on the hanky.
A tempting thought, that, but nothing with which to write. “Excuse me, ma’am, may I borrow your lipstick.”
Startled, she will reach for the emergency chord, and then there’s that business with the grumpy driver.
For goodness sake, just throw the dirty thing back on the floor.
Yeah, let the cleaners find it. I flick it away.
“Wipe?” a voice cuts in. The woman in white gloves and a pillbox hat, her back to me, offers disinfecting wipes.
“Pardon?” I grunt.
“For the hanky,” she says, still facing away.
I take the packet and mutter a thanks.
“They’re for me, really,” she says, smearing on her lipstick, looking in a tiny mirror.
My head starts spinning, the floor coming up fast. I try to steady myself.
Go lie down at the …
Back of the Bus
Someone was stretched out here before. It’s empty now but covered in some kind of fluid.
If you are sick, ask the driver to pull over.
I stagger forward, but the exit seems to slide farther away with each step.
Sit down before you fall down.
I slump beside the tissue woman, hoping for some sense, but my brain is mush.
“Better?” she asks.
“Not by a long shot. Will I wake up?” I mumble before everything goes black.
Jail
I come to behind bars and see a green shirt. Round hat, like highway patrol.
The gal from the bus is here, now in uniform. She looks at me, deadpan—then whoosh, she is right there on the other side of the bars.
“Harkness, talk to me. Help me understand,” she says, softer now. “I’m a stranger here in your even stranger land.”
I blink hard. She’s holding something that glows, not a marble, but like the damn moon. Then she just walks off, returning with a male cop and a manila folder. Mr. Round Hat.
“Back of the cell,” he says.
I do and stumble into a metal seat, much like on the bus. And there it is again …
The feeling of the floor rushing upward?
Slight nausea, but I’m okay.
The officer, holding a glowing marble?
Marbles, moon. There might be a connection, but there is nothing in his hand.
I stumble back and find another hanky under the seat. Lipstick again:
Say nothing about the boy!
He doesn’t notice, but she sees me fold it into my pocket.
“You’re free to go. Next time, don’t sleep it off on taxpayer expense.”
I move forward—to an open palm.
“One thing, who is the boy?”
They both stare at me, waiting.
Say something to ease the silence.
“My jacket? I have a windbreaker.”
He points with his chin, and they stand aside.
Discharge Desk
The packet of my effects is as I expect, except for a …
Classic cat-eye marble.
Why might I be expecting a marble? Finding another cryptic handkerchief message wouldn’t surprise me, but none this time.
There is a legal-size manila folder with my things, like the one the officer held.
“Yours?”
“Not mine,” I say, but what did I know anymore? I take it anyway.
A photograph of a boy, seven or eight; otherwise, the folder is empty.
The male officer approaches. “Again, who’s the boy?”
I have no idea.
“Your folder, you took the folder. First thing, you open it to the photo.”
I look at the door. “Am I free to go?”
“You aren’t being held here, but we can help if there is a problem. Is there a problem, Harkness?”
I shake my head.
The Street
I walk home; the bus can go to hell. That kinda day.
Oh, there’s a problem, officer. I’m not sure what it is, but I am sure you’re not telling your deputy—or accomplice, whatever she is.
Apartment
Gerald, my cat, is waiting, hungry. A quick pull on the can’s tab, and there’s dinner. Mine also comes with a pull tab.
I take off the jacket and notice the hanky. Different one, different words.
Hide the boy!
I toss it down the trash chute as the elevator dings. Two women and two boys exit, like the kid in the photo. They take the stairs. Odd.
Gerald darts past me into the open elevator.
Follow them up the stairs.
Following them feels creepy and likely useless.
Enter the elevator and go up a flight.
By the elevator, I’d arrive before they do. Standing there might raise suspicion.
Catch the cat.
Holding Gerald, I’m just some guy exiting the elevator. But I don’t need the ruse, they’re already entering a flat above mine.
Back in my place, I think about it. Why didn’t they take the elevator to their floor? Maybe somebody isn’t tall enough to reach the right button.
Nightmares wake me. Monsters, the old movie kind. Not all; one is a childhood memory, a living monster.
I shake it off and go for breakfast at The Fork & Spoon, is a diner a block over.
The Diner
There is an unmarked police car at the diner, ‘Police’ barely visible on the side. Inside, I find …
Another hanky, this one under the counter?
Thankfully, not another hanky—and no marble or moon or twins. Inside, I find Mr. Round Hat, the male cop.
I sit at the counter, my usual, and nod at Frank with two fingers up. A peace sign for the number two platter. Also, my usual.
The cop tosses a photograph down the counter with a bartender slide. I catch it.
Examine the contents.
The connection is instant.
It is the monster made real from my dream—the one who blew up the federal building when I was a kid. The building where my mother worked.
“I think you recognize him.”
Everybody recognizes him, and I recognize that I’m being tailed. I turn from the photo to my breakfast.
“The photo of the boy in your folder. See any resemblance—that you?”
Tell him it wasn’t your folder.
“I know that, Harkness. And I know you see the resemblance.”
I see it. It is not a picture, more like a printout from a smartphone. Then it becomes clear that …
The boy is the bomber’s child? No, there is no evidence to suggest the bomber had a child.
The boy is the bomber as a child? Not likely, the photo quality isn’t a match for the bomber as a child.
The boy could be the bomber.
The kid in the folder looks like the bomber. I squint. One child of two, shown on his own, escaped after capture.
“This comes to you, how?” he asks, but my mind is foggy.
My turn to blink and stare. No idea how. He nods like I’d said something clever.
“What if somebody hired you to protect the boy—or you’re related? We’ve been watching you,” he says.
So said the hanky.
“Why would they want to keep you in the dark? And what is this?”
He holds out …
A packet of disinfecting wipes.
I am obsessed with germs. It’s like being somewhere foreign.
WAIT, wait. I’m lost. Who is Harkness?
I’m an ordinary person who finds a handkerchief with a cryptic message on a bus. This sets off events that shift between real and surreal.
The officer (Mr. Round Hat) and his deputy (the woman from the bus) are law enforcement figures, but their exact nature is ambiguous. The glowing marble and their behaviour suggest they might not be entirely normal.
Aliens? Members of a secretive society? All I know is they’re monitoring me, possibly because of my connection to the boy and the bomber.
The bomber blew up a federal building, causing significant destruction and loss of life—my mother. The photo of the boy and the cryptic messages suggest a deeper connection between the bomber, the boy or boys, and me. The boys could be the bomber’s children or younger versions of individuals involved in the plot.
The handkerchief messages indicate that the boys are important and must be protected or kept secret. Or the officers are testing whether I can keep a secret.
I might have a connection to the boys, possibly as a protector or someone with a shared past. The photo in the manila folder suggests I might recognize or need to find the boy.
So you’re really not just some guy?
Well, there’s room for interpretation. The cops could be otherworldly. They could be part of an agency monitoring me for my connection to the bomber and the boys.
But, yeah, I might have a personal stake in the mystery, possibly related to my past or a hidden role in protecting the boys.
Right now, Mr. Round Hat is holding out something.
A blood-red handkerchief?
A handkerchief would be better than this. He holds out a blood moon marble. It glows, and my memory blanks. He chuckles and bows his head. Still holding the marble, and turns to the kitchen.
“Told you he’d talk.”
The woman on the bus, the deputy, steps out. She takes the marble. In the palm of her hand, it glows like the moon, and the floor wants to rush me.
“Will I wake?” I whimper, hearing myself from a distance.
“You’ll never …” she starts, and I dream of the moon.
Snippets
Other examples of the behaviour challenge follow.
To discover a hidden project, observe how frequently characters visit a specific room.
> Watch for a pattern.
I watch from the air vent, a shadow to the shadows. The workers move like clockwork, each one a cog in the machine. But it’s the ones with the red caps that catch my eye. Millwrights. They’ve been in and out of that room three times in the past hour.
Red bumper caps. They’re the mechanics, the ones who keep the gears turning. If there’s a problem, they’re the ones fixing it. I squint, noting the subtle exchanges and the quick glances. They’re hiding something, and I need to know what.
> When it’s clear, make a move.
The room they keep entering is tucked away in a corner, half-hidden by stacks of crates and the haze of dust and sweat. I wait, patience a thin thread stretched tight. Finally, the last red cap exits, wiping his hands on a rag, looking around like a man with something to hide.
When the area is clear, I slip inside, the door creaking like my bones having sat too long. The room is dim, the air thick with the scent of oil and metal. Tools are scattered on a workbench, and in the corner, a large mechanism sits, half-disassembled.
Footsteps echo outside, and I freeze, the wrench slipping from my fingers and clattering to the floor. The door swings open, and a red cap steps in, eyes widening in surprise.
Mediate a conflict between colleagues to ensure the success of a project.
> Separate ‘what’ from ‘why.’
Talking with both of you separately, I understand what each of you wants and why you want it. I’ve combined your lists of the reasons why. Let’s set aside positions (‘what’) and focus on reasons (‘why’).
> Explain how it works.
I’m going to tell you my plan. Your job right now is to work together, like judges—judging my plan, not each other. For each step, tell me if it doesn’t meet a ‘why’ on the combined list. If all the whys are met, everyone wins. No compromise.
Assess how closely people stand to others to gauge social dynamics that might reveal alliances.
> Take stock of how the court works.
The court is a triage for minor offences. Some plead to a lesser offence, pay, and are on their way. Some wish to have their say. My neighbour is well on his way but wants to make a point. I reluctantly agreed to appear in his stead since I was in the truck. The mattress snapped the bungee tie-downs and landed in the road. An opportunist pulled over, screaming that it damaged his luxury sedan.
> Identify the ‘power behind the throne.’
The magistrate—I notice they address her as “your worthship” not worship—consults with the woman beside her, not the prosecutor. A clerk? When there’s a break I will speak with her. Why has this case been pushed to last on the docket? Unless it isn’t just a fee for an unsecured load. The sedan arrived on the scene damaged. The guy’s here—why? Did anybody check the camera at the gas station where he last filled up?
