Being careful about the title. It isnt so much, I don't think, that I have too much info, although if that is the case, please shout... No, it has been put to me 
that I have a tendency to say my characters are going to do something, then stop to drop a bit of info, and eventually my characters carry out the planned action. This is, i think, one such excerpt, and i would love views on that (plus anything else) and any tips to make it smoother.
Catherine walked up the steps of the GC headquarters in Belfast city centre. Set amongst the rubble, the buildings around it either destroyed or ripped down, its metal exterior shimmered in the sun. It was incredible: in only three weeks the peacekeepers had stopped the riots and started to rebuild the city centres and housing estates. Mind you, being able to put up a building in less than half an hour made it a bit easier, but even so…
She pushed against the glass doors with their ringed planet insignia, not sure whether it was the new building or the prospect of a job – a proper one with a professional contract – that gave her hope. Nor did she care.
She walked into the reception area and wasn’t surprised to see a bot behind the desk; the GC appeared to have one for every purpose. It made her angry - there were plenty of people she knew who’d kill for the job - but she swallowed it; once passes were arranged, jobs would be made available to everyone. She tightened her hand around her own pass; as a professional, she’d had a Zelotyr-issued one already in place when the virus had been released.
A wave of dizziness – anxiety, the doctor said – washed over her and she put her hand out, steadying herself against the wall. It was because of her Zelotyr pass that she and Jeff had been given one of the first new houses. Otherwise, they’d still have been living down at his mum’s when the rioters went in search of the new houses, the ones for the privileged. She bit down, forcing her tears back. He was gone, and it wasn’t like she was the only one mourning someone. In fact, it was both the biggest blessing and hardest thing to bear in New Belfast, that everyone understood how hard life was and exuded the same grief themselves. She walked to the receptionist – bot; they might want her to think of them as people, might have given them arms and legs and odd human-like metal faces, but they bloody weren’t – and smiled. “I have an appointment to see Captain Carter.”
The bot’s propulsors flared and it turned to a filing cabinet, rifling for something. A moment later, it handed a handful of papers to Catherine. “Fill in name, age, pass details, who you are here to see, how long for, purpose of visit.”
Catherine sighed. Who programmed them? The door to the street opened and she turned to see a Twilex padding across the reception room, its canine head amplified by a mane. It stopped in front of her, lifted its front paws and fixed her with its eyes. She froze.
“Good afternoon.”
The translator unit made its voice sound odd, especially when the original growls and yelps could still be heard under the words. She nodded, glanced at the weapons unit strapped across its chest, and gulped. It extended a front paw to her, its claws elongated and jointed, resembling fingers. She reached hers out, touched it briefly and pulled back.
“Hello,” she managed.
The Twilex dropped back onto all fours and padded up a stairwell in the corner. She finished filling in the papers, her hands shaking, and handed them back to the bot.
that I have a tendency to say my characters are going to do something, then stop to drop a bit of info, and eventually my characters carry out the planned action. This is, i think, one such excerpt, and i would love views on that (plus anything else) and any tips to make it smoother. Catherine walked up the steps of the GC headquarters in Belfast city centre. Set amongst the rubble, the buildings around it either destroyed or ripped down, its metal exterior shimmered in the sun. It was incredible: in only three weeks the peacekeepers had stopped the riots and started to rebuild the city centres and housing estates. Mind you, being able to put up a building in less than half an hour made it a bit easier, but even so…
She pushed against the glass doors with their ringed planet insignia, not sure whether it was the new building or the prospect of a job – a proper one with a professional contract – that gave her hope. Nor did she care.
She walked into the reception area and wasn’t surprised to see a bot behind the desk; the GC appeared to have one for every purpose. It made her angry - there were plenty of people she knew who’d kill for the job - but she swallowed it; once passes were arranged, jobs would be made available to everyone. She tightened her hand around her own pass; as a professional, she’d had a Zelotyr-issued one already in place when the virus had been released.
A wave of dizziness – anxiety, the doctor said – washed over her and she put her hand out, steadying herself against the wall. It was because of her Zelotyr pass that she and Jeff had been given one of the first new houses. Otherwise, they’d still have been living down at his mum’s when the rioters went in search of the new houses, the ones for the privileged. She bit down, forcing her tears back. He was gone, and it wasn’t like she was the only one mourning someone. In fact, it was both the biggest blessing and hardest thing to bear in New Belfast, that everyone understood how hard life was and exuded the same grief themselves. She walked to the receptionist – bot; they might want her to think of them as people, might have given them arms and legs and odd human-like metal faces, but they bloody weren’t – and smiled. “I have an appointment to see Captain Carter.”
The bot’s propulsors flared and it turned to a filing cabinet, rifling for something. A moment later, it handed a handful of papers to Catherine. “Fill in name, age, pass details, who you are here to see, how long for, purpose of visit.”
Catherine sighed. Who programmed them? The door to the street opened and she turned to see a Twilex padding across the reception room, its canine head amplified by a mane. It stopped in front of her, lifted its front paws and fixed her with its eyes. She froze.
“Good afternoon.”
The translator unit made its voice sound odd, especially when the original growls and yelps could still be heard under the words. She nodded, glanced at the weapons unit strapped across its chest, and gulped. It extended a front paw to her, its claws elongated and jointed, resembling fingers. She reached hers out, touched it briefly and pulled back.
“Hello,” she managed.
The Twilex dropped back onto all fours and padded up a stairwell in the corner. She finished filling in the papers, her hands shaking, and handed them back to the bot.
