Interaction Challenges
Interaction challenges require a character to guide or inspire other characters. For example, convince a guard that you’re important by spouting what you’ve gathered about local politics.
“You know Lord Harrington?” the guard asks, eyebrows rising to wrinkle his forehead and pulling himself straight.
Or gain crucial information by engaging a local villager in gossip.
I lean in and whisper. “I heard something even more intriguing.” It’s the truth, not that it matters after I locate the tunnel.
Take charge or lead through a crisis or significant change.
I take a deep breath and tell the woman stepping out of the car to call 911. She barely has her phone out before slumping down, her face gone white as the center line. I take her phone and dial. Minutes later, sirens rise in the distance. Don’t move, I tell the boy, …
“Help’s on the way, and I’m going to stay with you. Tell me your name. What’s that? On the curb—your bicycle’s on the curb. There has been an accident. I need you to tell me your name.”
Persuade a merchant to trade information needed in exchange for a valuable item you possess.
In the “Amber Pendant” adventure, the protagonist must navigate a bazaar merchant’s cunning to secure a treasure that could unlock medical secrets. The merchant uses amber pendants to lure and upsell buyers.
The protagonist uses a ruse to mislead the merchant into thinking she wants the pendant with the bug. She wants the one with the flower. This involves engaging with the merchant and manipulating the conversation to achieve the desired outcome.
Amber Pendant
The Sandstands, 1953
The soft clinks of antiques in the merchant’s stall are lost to the merchant hawking wares in the bustling bazaar. He clutches an amber pendant, its entrapped insect a testament to prehistory.
An amber pendant encased an insect, the merchant hawked as prehistoric. Paining him to sell the ancient prize, yet thought the bug worthless inside.
“For only ten credits,” he proclaims, his voice feigning regret for the sale, yet certain the bug inside is nothing more than that.
Every day, he pitches the pendants to lure a prospect to a sale of greater value. I’ve watched the pattern and know he’d never sell this talisman.
I step closer, what must appear as a pale figure swathed in linen and keen intent.
Accept the offer.
“I’ll take it,” I say, closing the space of sale between me and the merchant.
Interest flickers like a flame in the merchant’s eyes. His fingers toy with the pendant string, the insect swinging to the rhythm of potential profit.
“No dance of prices?” His surprise is genuine, his grip on the pendant tightening reflexively.
A scarfed buyer desires the amber and offers full price, no haggling. Which intrigues the eager merchant to offer it, for the story of his novel pendant.
I fix my eyes upon the amber.
Convince him.
“None needed. Within your stall lies a specimen that might rewrite medical texts. A creature thought vanished, its secrets strong against modern ailments.”
My words, layered in promise, dangle like the amber pendant.
Unless mistaken, medical implications. It may hold the key to cure many today. Then, the full price is not nearly enough, the merchant thinks, tightening his grasp.
Delight dissolves into greed as fast as the pulse in his throat.
“That wisdom inflates its price. A full purse is but a pittance for such purpose,” he declares, the pendant now caged in his fist.
Insist upon the sale.
A half-smile tempers my response. “We agreed on a price. Honour the deal,” I say, balancing reproach and understanding.
Reluctantly, he concedes, handing me the other amber pendant, one with flowers inside, delicate yet dim. A peace offering to his greed.
A bargain’s a bargain, after a fashion. You may have another for free. Handing over another pendant, one with small, dull flowers inside it.
Accept the floral pendant.
I take the floral amber, nodding with reluctant gratitude.
Turning from the stall, I merge with the flow of the bazaar, my step light, the merchant still holding his coveted prize up high. Yet all he holds is a bug and burgeoning doubt about a ruse.
Leave, and quickly.
It was the flower that I was after, counting on the merchant’s greed. Smug until realization struck—that in his hands is just a bug.
My hands hold victory. The flowers are keys to doors hidden from a man blinded by the obvious.
The market flows like a river around a stone.
The canonical challenge in “Show of Hope” is interaction, although there are dilemma points. The protagonist must make critical decisions based on conversations with the driver and the reactions of other passengers, influencing their perceptions and actions.
- Admit being a decoy?
- Hand over the case?
- Keep up the pretense?
Focusing on interactions and the protagonist’s decisions in response to those interactions, “Show of Hope” engages the reader in navigating complex social dynamics and making critical choices that drive the narrative.
Show of Hope
Caldwell, 2022
Today’s performance, the East Street line. To my surprise, it’s running on time.
Recent protests and a show of force; peace out my peeps, the truth is worse.
Back of the bus and sit on the edge,
My medical case, a treasure chest to conniving eyes, I’d have to pass.
or flash the driver my courier’s badge.
Plexiglass cage behind the driver, a seat some call The Lone Survivor.
Its own side exit, if that need be, made for those who carry vaccine.
The driver asks if I am a decoy,
Driver leans forward, desperate to hear. A blank expression’s my only answer.
the kind’a of question I’d rather avoid.
The trials fail, it mutates again. I’m holding out hope of holding hope in.
This isn’t a run as much as parade, couriers dispatched and put on display.
The driver pulls over, a wall to the side. “I’ll take that case, now you don’t mind.”
Open the door, hand over the case,
Riders turn rioters, that’s why this cage; hard-learned lessons of past rampage.
or stay in place, keep silent and wait.
“Last Warning,” mace can pressed to door, “my family is ill, can’t take any more.”
We’re all afraid, I start to explain. “Don’t gimmie that crap’a feel my pain.”
Trigger the case and hand it over,
A ruse of force as empty as the case, blue dye would envelop the driver’s face.
or ignore the threat, feign composure.
Silence on silence, the driver retreats. The bus starts moving. His plea repeats.
Keep up a pretence of greater good,
A tool for others, mongers of hope, riding for show, a placebo to cope.
or just admit the mission’s a ruse.
I ride to exhibit control and compassion so the devil you know is less than imagined.
The “Last Heist,” is a third example of the interaction challenge. The success of a bank heist hinges on the protagonist’s ability to interact effectively with other characters. There is interaction to distract the security guard, intimidate yet reassure the bank teller, and coordinate the getaway with Jack, the driver. Interaction creates tension and suspense, as each carries the risk of failure.
Last Heist
Alora City, 1988
The Alley
I stand in the shadows, the cold biting at my fingers. The First National Bank looms ahead, a fortress of glass and steel. The street is bustling with people, their faces blurred by neon lights reflecting off the wet pavement.
The plan is simple: get in, get the money, and get out. But simple has a way of becoming complicated.
Introduce yourself.
I’m a seasoned thief known as “The Ghost,” planning my last heist before retiring. You’d think I’d reconsider the odds: slower reflexes, better security defences.
Or maybe prison is a form of retirement. At least there, you get three meals daily and a roof over your head.
Survey the scene.
To the south, the entrance to the bank. The alley continues to the north.
My partner, Jack, is waiting with the getaway car. Not here, but near. He’s probably listening to some New Wave music to calm his nerves.
Check your pockets.
I can feel the weight of the note in my pocket: “Hand over the money, and no one gets hurt. Also, have a nice day.” A touch of irony in a world that’s anything but nice.
Go north.
North is a dead end. Are you trying to confuse me? There’s just a dumpster and some stray cats.
South it is, toward the bank, hoping my luck holds out longer than my last relationship.
Bank Lobby
The lobby is a cathedral of commerce, with marble floors reflecting the greed and opulence of the place. Security guards stand at their posts, their eyes glazed over with boredom. The tellers move like robots, unaware of the storm about to hit.
Have a look around.
I see a teller behind the counter. The other must have gone on break.
There are security guards near the entrance. Is that guy … is he picking his nose? Classy. I thought this heist was more literary.
Distract the guard.
I approach the guard, trying to look casual. “Hey, you have the time?”
He looks at me, confused. “Uh, yeah, it’s 10:45.”
I nod, pretending to check my watch. “Thanks, man.” He goes back to his comic book, a study in self-distraction.
Hand the note to the teller.
My hands are steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. She reads it, her eyes widening in shock. I almost hear her thinking, “Why didn’t I call in sick today?”
Tell her to stay calm.
No, I flip over the note. “No one gets hurt if you do as I say.” This way, she can’t detect my voice. She nods, head still down, but sneaks a peek.
Her hands are steady as she loads the bag with cash. Seconds stretch like cliché hours.
Describe what you see.
As I said, the teller is filling the bag with cash. The security guards remain oblivious. One of them is reading a comic book. It must be a great issue or a slow day.
Wait … the teller. Is that who I took to the high school prom? It’s been ten years, but … what if she recognizes me, even with the beard?
Wait as patiently as possible.
My ex-prom date continues to fill the bag. I continue to stress that she will recognize me. I tap my foot, trying to look nonchalant.
I can’t help but think about past heists, the risks I’ve taken, the people I’ve frightened. This is my last job, my chance to walk away and start fresh.
What are you carrying?
Nothing. I brought a bag, and the teller filled it with lots of money. I hope I didn’t bring the grocery bag with the hole in the bottom.
Take the loot bag.
It’s heavy with cash. I move towards the exit, my steps measured, my breath steady. I hope the bag holds together long enough to get out of here. No guards move. No silent alarm. Maybe she’s letting me go. It was a great prom date.
The Street
I blend into the crowd, my heart pounding with the thrill of success. The plan is working, but the hard part is yet to come. I need to make it to the safe house, a nondescript apartment, where my partner waits with the getaway car.
Scan the area.
The street is bustling with people. The safe house is a couple blocks south. I see a hot dog vendor. Maybe I’ll grab a bite of street meat like a local.
Let me see what you have.
Cash—a bagful. It’s heavier than expected. I should have worked out more. No street sausage today.
Take another route.
Sure, just in case. It’s better not to run into anyone with questions. Explaining this would be awkward. I head east, blending into the crowd. The streets are busy, but I manage to avoid any suspicious looks.
Safe House
I slip inside, the door closing with a soft click. The hallway is dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of sweat. I climb the stairs, each step echoing in the silence.
Jack, waiting at the top of the stairs, looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Worry will do that to a person.
Tell him about the teller.
He rolls his eyes. “Must be your charm. Anyway, we’re set,” he says, a look of urgency spreading across his face. “Let’s get out of here.”
I nod, hoping the car starts on the first try.
Basement
Jack takes the wheel. The engine roars to life, a beast awakened from slumber. We race through the city, the streets a blur of lights and shadows. The plan is working, but the city is a beast that never sleeps.
Show me the money.
I am carrying nothing—just a sense of impending doom. The cash is stashed in the trunk, inside the spare tire.
Jack drives; I’m riding shotgun. Not literally. This was a weaponless heist.
Head to …
The Bridge
As we approach, a police car appears in the rearview mirror, lights flashing. My heart skips a beat, the thrill of the chase mingling with the fear of capture. Jack’s grip tightens on the wheel. His eyes focus on the road ahead.
Grab the dash to hold on.
“Hold on,” Jack says, his voice steady despite the tension. He takes a sharp turn, the tires screeching in protest. I grip the dashboard, hoping we don’t end up in the river.
The Alley
The police car overshoots, its momentum carrying it past the entrance. I hold my breath.
The police car reverses, its lights scanning the alley. I remain still, my breaths shallow, my heart pounding. The car moves on, its siren fading into the distance.
Look around to be sure.
The alley is dark and quiet. The police car is gone. But others will be back. I can’t believe we pulled it off. Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket.
Check on Jack.
“You okay, dude?”
Jack turns to me, a grin spreading across his face. “More than okay. We did it,” he says, his voice declaring triumph. I nod, the weight of the heist lifting from my shoulders.
Over the Bridge
The city is a blur of lights and shadows in the rearview mirror. I glance at Jack, and he nods. We did it. Now, it’s time to disappear.
