Model Spotlight Series: Briggs
Name Origins
Briggs came out of the Briggs, New York, factory. This factory feeds directly into the MMA, boxing, and other fighting industries. Briggs models are quick and adept fighters with lightning-fast reflexes. They've been genetically altered to do combat or other less-violent tasks as well, like circus entertainment, for example. If a model is a Briggs, they likely have the attitude that comes with the fighting territory. They perceive no challenge as too great with the proper training.
The Entertainment Industry of the Future
With the advent of models, the safety nets in the fights quickly fell away. Being second-class citizens who could be, essentially, recycled, polli are less concerned about the loss of life, so many Briggs models die in the fighting rings. In fact, this is so common that it's considered an honorable way to leave the industry. A Briggs fighter who lives to be older than thirty is highly uncommon.
However, the circus arts industry ballooned and expanded as Briggs models took on more extravagant stunts for their circus director owners. This isn't alluded to in any of my novels, but I've thought about it a lot. I may write another novel about a circus character. Not to date myself too much, but I was a huge fan of Carnival when it was on HBO way back!
Otherwise, there aren't many jobs that Briggs is trusted with. They're stubborn and tenacious, which means that they make poor servants generally, and they don't tend to follow rules. They respect only the physical challenges that test their limits and those who help them develop those skills. This is by design, as Briggs were also psychologically modified, more successfully than the Abernathys.f
Meet the Briggs
The most prominent Briggs model is Amanda, who you might recognize as the mother of one essential (crucially important) character in my Virtual Wars series. The novel she is featured in hasn't come out yet, so I can't get too much into it. But there are a few Briggs who make other appearances as well.
Amanda Briggs
Appearances: Inertia and Momentum (currently being edited)
Personality:
Amanda lives up to her name as a fighter. She never gives up on what's important to her, whether it be her proper bunk in the room she shares with three other models or the emotional slug-fest that is her relationship with her one-time best friend, Jennifer Caldwell. Amanda lives to win, and until a pivotal event shakes her from the foundation, she also insists on self-sufficiency.
Background:
Amanda is a loner and doesn't play well with others. She was sent to Emergent Biotechnology headquarters after a fierce fight ended her mixed-martial-arts career. If she hadn't been in New York, and if there hadn't been a stay on Reclamations, that might have been the end of Amanda's story. But that particular confluence of events meant that she arrived at headquarters to do work she wasn't trained for: cleaning. Monotonous, pointless cleaning. She briefly had a roommate, Jennifer, who she could confide in but was forced to turn informant, costing them their close relationship.
Stephen Briggs
Appearances: Evasion and Defiance, Solitude and Retaliation (not out yet, but for the pre-revamp version, you can get Human Pride)
Personality:
Stephen is stubborn but kind. He always steps up when friends need him and sometimes even when they don't. In that regard, he's like Larken Marche (protagonist of the Virtual Wars series). But he's not like Larken because he's also pining after his friend and roommate, Samantha Caldwell. However, he knows that the relationship won't work. This makes him moody at times, and he slips into brooding occasionally because he knows what he can't have.
Background:
Stephen works in a cafe in the city. His owners bought him to get him out of the industry. They treat him more as a friend than a model, an unusual relationship that allows him to command his own time as long as he shows up for work. This isn't a problem for Stephen because he has a passion for coffee, and working in a coffee shop is his calling.
If one doesn't count the fact that he's also aligned with the Siblings of the Natural Order, he and Samantha live in an abandoned USPS building just outside of Seattle, Washington. For him, it's a choice to be near her, and he leverages his freedom to do so. Friendly, amiable, and a little bit of the jealous type, he tries to do good but doesn't always succeed.
Other Notable Briggs:
Joseph Briggs is a security escort for Larken Marche and Dandelion Lemaire in the 4th Virtual Wars book (unpublished).
Author Connection
I like a short story about the Briggs that I wrote as part of a Reedsy challenge a while back. It actually features Amanda Briggs. I'll include the intro in just a moment so you can see. It's called Ms. Barnett's Favorite, and if you want, you can read it in a minute. This short story more or less explains what I love about Briggs. As all characters an author creates come from within, I'll also regale you with a story about my past.
When I was in middle school, there was a time when we were in Physical Education, learning about different ring sports. I weighed half of nothing, and there was a kid there, Dimitri, who apparently had been taking boxing lessons for a while and knew what he was doing. When the coach asked us if we wanted to box, I raised my hand immediately. It was pretty ugly. I got knocked down multiple times with a quick punch to the head. But…as would be both a quality I love about myself and something that's gotten me into trouble over the years…I kept getting back up. Over and over again, this happened, and as I was the only one willing to step into the ring, the coach let me keep at it until, eventually, even he had to grimace in pain and stop it.
I wasn't ready to stop.
This unfortunate (or fortunate) trait of mine seeped into my Briggs characters. Each one is unique, of course, but they all have that vein of stubborn pride that doesn't allow them to stay down. I can think of no better example of this than Amanda Briggs, the protagonist of my second novel in the Virtual Wars series, as she does battle with her aggressor. This is an excerpt from "Ms. Barnett's Favorite." Remember, Ms. Barnett is none other than Christine Hamilton Barnett, Bodhi's unrequited love interest from book 2 of my Reality Gradient series (which is currently a Finalist for the CIBA award). Without further ado, here's the first part of Ms. Barnett's Favorite, first published on Reedsy as part of their weekly writing contest.
Ms. Barnett's Favorite (Scene 1)
I expect nothing from you, and I want nothing from you.
I exist to serve, and I have been given my job - a respectable one cleaning halls and rooms. It's not much, but it's better than a model could usually expect. Mornings, I wake and take a shower. It's probably not the same kind you take. The one I take involves stripping naked and standing before dazzling lights as the instant sanitization lasers stab at me like a thousand tiny pinpricks. I'm careful not to open my eyes - I don't want to go blind like the last girl did.
She just wanted to see the pretty lights.
Afterward, in a rush of acupuncture-induced endorphins, I clothe myself. Again, it's not like you're used to, probably. I'm not as big as my clothes, and I don't have many - just a tunic that ties around my waist and makes it over one shoulder. It keeps slipping down if I'm not careful, but there's nobody to complain to about that. Of the four others who share every room that I do, none of them can change it. They prepare for work as I do.
The tiny room eventually births me into a cluttered hallway of the cacophony of others like me, some bent in old age, but they're not that old, are they? People like us don't get that old; we "retire" early. I check my body then - still young, still firm in the right places, loose in others. It's not my time yet, so I enter the flow of traffic.
As I said, I don't want anything from you, least of all your attention. But you give it anyway, don't you? Because for you, I am only a thing.
I navigate the hallway with care, staying close to the wall, keeping my eyes forever pointed downward toward the floor. That's where you find me and how you find me. You stop in front of me.
"You're a hot one, aren't you?"
I don't respond because what could I say that would deliver me from the situation? My heart races with fear - you interpret my anxiety as awe from your presence when it is only the physiological response of self-preservation.
I do the math before I respond.
"Excuse me, sir."
That's a response, but it's not an acknowledgment. We've been through this dance before, and the following words from your mouth I could quote verbatim.
"What kind of way is that to say hi?"
At this point, I could change it, I suppose. I could greet you with the kindness that you don't reciprocate or even pretend to. I could ask you about your day or the weather, but in that too-bright hall of lights and shadows, where currents of workers like me move in silent unison, flowing like particles around your obstruction, I don't change my mind.
You, whom I don't want, and whom I don't need, and to whom I don't matter anyway, will treat me with courtesy.
We've done this dance too.
"Did I miss your greeting, sir?"
The words sting, and I don't have to look to know that your face is now scrunched up. Your green eyes that could be beautiful are so filled with hate that all the beauty fades. I peak up at you and try to gauge what my future will be. Another night in behavioral reconditioning, perhaps? We'll see, and I'd be lying to say that I'm not afraid because I. Am. Terrified.
"When I speak to you, you return the courtesy," you say, probably knowing that I will ignore you and try to walk away. I do. You grab my arm so hard that you will leave bruises on top of the other bruises that never seem to heal.
"Listen to me, shill. I give the orders, and you obey."
Your face lowers into mine, and you practically shout the words. I heard you the first time, but you need to feel strong and in charge. You need to impress the others who still flow by, now with more effort as some slow to stare. Both you and I know that no one will intervene when you strike me, and nobody does. Nobody stops when I fall.
"You will learn. Your place is there."
You spit on me. That's new. Usually, you kick me, but maybe you're being kind. My sides still hurt from the last time, and the medical examiner said that my ribs had been broken at least once. Perhaps someone told you about it, and you didn't want to be bothered with a justified work stoppage.
Probably just as well. I know better than to wipe the spit off of my face, but I don't even whimper. I stare at you, and our eyes meet. We understand each other. You are the boss, and I am the slave, but you don't stop there. You understand in my unflinching gaze that I'm not broken yet. You see in my vacant stare that spirit still lurks beneath, and it grates at you. I can see it happen, that moment you slip from the man who wants to make an example of this woman who confronts him to this man who must demolish the woman who defies him.
That's when your hand raises, and I don't mean to - I don't.
Sometimes, though, sometimes….sometimes my body wants to defend itself. And, from my prone position on the floor, my left-hand raises defensively.
It's too late.
I realize when I see the bars stamped across the inside of my wrist that my arm has raised itself. In defiance, I will drop it because all that is going to do is make you angrier. And sure enough, I now see blood in your eyes. It will be a trip to the hospital for me, and maybe - I'm not sure what will happen to you. Does anything ever happen to you?
That's all I have time to think before the punch lands. You swung past my defensive arm, and I didn't block. I didn't even try, hoping that maybe landing one good punch would be enough, but here you are again, now with the left hand.
Finally, the maddening traffic flow stops as others blatantly look on.
When you're done, and your anger is sated, and you have proven your status, one which was never really in question, I lay barely breathing. It hurts to breathe, and when I like my lips, I can taste blood.
