Daring Do and the Ring of Fire
1
Watch the Presses
Daring Do sat alone on a polished wooden stool, her wide, rose eyes a blur as they darted all around the enormous newsroom.
Three desks over to her left, sat a kind faced, plump woman, pleasantly working her way through a sizable heap of letters, parchments, and envelopes piled next to her. Her typewriter occasionally added a small ‘ding!’ of its own to the various noises filling the room when she would finish a line of one of the delightfully sassy responses ‘Miss Lonelyhearts’ was famous for.
I could do that.
Daring thought to herself.
It can’t be too difficult, telling people to break up in every other letter.
The typewriter dinged again, signifying Miss Lonelyhearts’ response to a young schoolboy, in which she explained to him why telling his teacher she was ‘cool’, probably wasn’t the quickest way to her heart.
Daring’s gaze fell upon a wizened old man, who was frowning at the memory of a particularly dreadful meal he’d been subjected to at ‘Seabiscuit’, the latest seafood restaurant to come to the Big Apple. He purposefully composed his negative review, sealing the eatery’s doom.
Critic.. You get to try new food every night for free... I might be able to live with that.
A handsome, tanned man sitting behind a desk with TRAVEL stamped on it was leisurely describing the multitude of scantily-clad things to do while visiting the Hawaiian Islands at this time of year.
I’d be useless there..
Daring mused.
I’ve never been anywhere.
Daring’s fascinated smile steadily grew wider as she observed more news people at work. The chorus of typewriter clicks, pen scratches, and paper shifts were like music to her. Growing up during wartime, Daring was one of the few children to actually take an active interest in the world around her. She turned to the newspaper to read about the issues arising and being settled both in the warring countries, and the world. Soon enough, this fascination spread beyond what was being said in foreign conference rooms. She would spend hours, sometimes days in her room, filling her mind with thoughts and ideas about the wonders of the world, both the well known, and the hidden. The war had long since been over, and now, fresh out of college, Daring finally had her chance to become a journalist, and make some discoveries of her own.
She glanced over to where the cartoonist usually sat, and was somewhat disappointed to see an empty desk. Reading the adventure comics was one of the highlights of her old newspaper marathons. She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the man sauntering up to her.
“Excuse me, miss?”
The question broke through her occupied mind, making Daring jump. She whipped her head around to face the source of this disturbance, quickly trying to regain her composure.
“Yes! Hello! ..hi!”
She said, standing up and extending her hand.
“Daring Do, graduating class of ‘49, Auburn University... Hi.”
The words sort of puked themselves out of her mouth. Daring swore inwardly at her stupidity, but kept smiling what she hoped was an engaging, confident smile.
The young man smirked at the panicked expression on the new girl’s face, but heartily shook her hand nonetheless. He was tall, and somewhat wiry. His glasses sat fittingly on his long nose.
“With a greeting like that, you can only a new applicant. Here to shadow one of the columnists, are we?”
Daring frantically wracked her brain for a way to redeem herself.
“Actually, I’m late for an interview with Mr. Roland about that journalism position that just opened up.” She said, her voice leveling itself. She looked down at his hand, raising an eyebrow.
“And with ink streaks like that on your hand, you can only be the cartoonist.” She said, looking up at him triumphantly. He seemed impressed.
“An observant new applicant. That’s a welcome change.”
He released her hand and self-consciously began rubbing off the ink stains.
“George Larson. Very nice to meet you, Ms. Do. Sorry for bothering you. I was working on tomorrow’s comic when I-”
“That comic being ‘Captain McCoy and the Pirates of the Void?’”
Daring interrupted excitedly. She had been a long time fan of the swashbuckling adventures of McCoy and his crew of robot skeletons. George faltered a bit, but smiled at her enthusiasm.
“Uh, yes! I’m glad to meet a fan. Glad to know I’m not just filling out the space between the crossword and the jumble. But, uh, anyway. I saw you just sitting here staring at everybody. I figured someone would have come over to help you by now. Didn’t you say you were late?”
Daring opened her mouth to respond, but only managed let out a sort of embarrassed chuckle.
“Uh, right.. About that. I was being led to Mr. Roland’s office by someone, but I just sort of.. gave him the slip. I just wanted to watch you all at work for a minute. Or ten.”
George raised an eyebrow and rubbed the base of his neck.
“‘Gave him the slip’?”
He asked, again finding himself impressed by this strange girl and her talents.
“Not many folks manage get by our new security guys... Not that many have tried. They’re an awfully-”
His sentence was interrupted by one of the new security guards lumbering past them, bringing with him an impressive stench of citrus and bad cologne. Daring’s eyes flicked up to his face. Instantly, she realized this was a terrible idea as his piercing, grey eyes bore mercilessly into hers. She betrayed no sign of fear on her face, but she swallowed a little, and gripped the straps of her bag a little tighter.
All six and a half feet of him seemed to tense as he stared at her.
After a second that felt extraordinarily like a week, he worked the muscles in his face into what he had been told was a seductive, enticing grin.
The men who had told him this were famous for being filthy, filthy liars.
Daring awkwardly shuffled away from him a bit, biting her tongue and tensing up herself. The guard’s face snapped back to its usual, goonish expression, and he stalked off to the bathrooms to cheer himself up by gnashing his teeth at whatever unlucky intern chose this time to take his cigarette break.
“...Large bunch.”
George finished, wringing his hands nervously as he watched the guard leave.
Daring narrowed her eyes as she studied the hulking man’s back. The little gears in her head began spinning as she tried to comprehend him even being there.
“What would a newspaper need with a bunch of gorillas in hats for security?”
She asked, her tone serious and calculating. George began rubbing his neck again.
“Well-”
“The one I left behind was bigger than that one. Smelled the same too. Do they just all like oranges?”
“They-”
“His two front teeth were bronze and silver.. Is it really that easy to be hired here?”
Daring finally turned back to George, who was now very invested in a speck of ink on his shoe.
He looked up at her when he seemed allowed back in the conversation and grinned.
“Well, let’s go find out. To Mr. Roland’s office on the fiftieth?”
He said, his eagerness to change the subject very apparent in his voice.
Daring was somewhat disappointed at his lack of interest in the topic, but gave a small smile.
“Excellent idea, Mr. Larson.”
*
The elevator ride up to the fiftieth floor was an interesting one. George, glad to discuss something other than the glaring issue of the football team serving as their guard staff, told her about his plans for the future adventures of the Captain and his crew, and gave her a few hints on getting on Mr. Roland’s good side quicker. Unfortunately, these hints fell on deaf ears. Daring was too preoccupied with dealing with the mixture of anxiousness and curiosity forming in her stomach. She made a mental note to ask Mr. Roland about this once they’d properly met. Had she had been listening to George’s tips, she would have known that questioning the way he ran his paper was decidedly not one of them.
The atmosphere on the fiftieth floor was much different than the charming chaos of the one they’d left. The columnists sat silently, hunched over in their seats. They typed out their articles quickly and immaculately, making sure there was no mistakes that might incur the wrath of their Editor in Chief.
Their precaution was totally unnecessary, as there was a Staff Editor there, just as eager to make sure everything was perfect. He sat spiritless at his desk, gradually wearing out the ‘A’ key and cursing the idiots who seemed to have forgotten about him.
In spite of the overall gloom and apprehension hanging in the air, Daring marveled at them regardless
“This isn’t where they write the obituaries, is it?” She asked, referencing the mood.
George smirked.
“No, we keep them on the sixth floor. Up here is where all the real reporters work. Far from us lowly entertainers below. They’re usually a much more interesting folk, but things are a little tense up here ever since Mr. Roland and the mayor had their little spat.”
Indeed, the reporters heads began to pop up above the dividers between their desks so they could get a better look at the lunatic who dared to speak in the warzone.
Daring tilted her head.
“Spat? Really? What about? Did it have anything to do with the-”
“ALIENS?!”
A harsh voice made everyone in the room jump. A woman in her mid-twenties with a victory roll haircut stood behind her desk.
She brought her fist down hard on the smooth, wooden surface, upsetting her little SECRETARY nameplate. She pointed a long, painted nail at George and snarled.
“You want aliens in the strip?!” She barked at him, completely ignoring the stares she was attracting.
George ran forward, holding up his hands. He tried in vain to shush her, but she ignored his pleas. Instead, she pulled down his glasses with a finger and looked him right in the eye.
“I’ve been helpin’ you write that friggen comic for almost five years, George Larson! And not ONCE have we ever stooped so low as to have a god damn UFO come up and-”
The woman looked down at a notepad on her desk that George had given her that morning to look over.
“‘Replace half the crew with alien duplicates and send ‘em all to the moon’!”
She read in her thick New York accent.
“I oughta give you a black eye for even thinkin’- were you drunk or something?”
George was frantically flailing, trying to quiet her down.
“Debbie! Debbie! Sweetie! Please! Okay! I’m sorry! I’ll change it! Okay!”
“No! It ain’t ‘okay’, George! I’ve put too much damn work into this to watch you sink it with your- your- Saucermen from Mars!”
The woman called Debbie frowned at him, sticking her lower lip out a little. George adjusted his glasses hurriedly and glanced back at Daring, who was watching the scene with clear amusement.
He cleared his throat.
“Well, Debbie. Sweetie. Darling. Sugar. What should it be? If the aliens aren’t any good, then what?”
Debbie scowled at him, but appeared noticeably softened by the slew of nicknames.
“Well.” She began, importantly.
“I think it’d be perfect if the boys found an island where there’s a giant ape runnin’ around, kidnapping girls, climbin’ buildings, and swattin’ down pl-”
“King King.”
Both George and Debbie looked at Daring, who had decided to join in on the conversation.
“..What?”
Debbie asked, narrowing her eyes at her.
“King Kong. Your idea? It’s King Kong. But, with pirates. Which, thinking on it, might actually be an improvement. But I doubt the boys at Universal would approve.”
Debbie and George stared at her, George’s eyes wide, Debbie’s barely more than slits.
“And who’s this one? Your new co-writer?” She asked, pointedly.
George swallowed. “Debbie Remi, meet Daring Do. She’s here for an interview with Mr. Roland.”
Daring approached the desk and extended her hand, still smiling.
“Glad to meet you, Debbie Remi.”
Debbie looked at her the way an irritated mountain lion might look at a hyperactive chiuaua.
She suddenly took on a very secretary-esque manner as she spoke.
“Mr. Roland is currently unavailable. He’s far too busy with other, more pressing issues. If you’d like to make an appointment, I could make a note of it.”
Her heavy, city accent disappeared as she recited her well-practiced rejection message to Daring, who frowned slightly.
“That’s not what you said over the phone.”
“What?”
“I called here to try and set up an interview about a week ago. You picked up, and together we set one up for today. Sorry, I didn’t recognize you with that accent.”
Daring’s hand remained suspended in the air between them, though Debbie had still yet to shake it. The secretary blinked, looking at Daring with a look of dawning comprehension on her face.
“..You were the-”
“I was the one who asked about your nail polish.”
“...’The kind that a girl in the business should use’.”
Debbie said, quoting what Daring had said to her during their conversation over a week ago.
Daring grinned and held up her other hand, showing off her dark, mahogany painted nails.
“Great choice, by the way. This color does make me feel like ‘A bombshell in high heels’. You’re clearly a woman of impeccable taste. Including your taste in movies.”
She winked. “George is a lucky guy. When’s the wedding?”
Both George and Debbie’s eyes fell upon the diamond engagement ring on the secretary’s finger. All of the journalists craned their necks to get a look at it too. They had all become thoroughly interested in this girl’s introduction. George beamed at Daring, obviously impressed. Debbie blinked again, and finally accepted her hand. She shook it, her ruby red lips forming into a grin.
“How ‘bout I let him know you’re in, Ms. Do?”
“Future-Mrs.-Larson, that would be fantastic.”
The rest of the staff all finally exhaled. A collective sigh of relief. No one had even managed to talk Debbie down like that before, let alone a kid Daring’s age.
“You’re alright, Daring Do.” Debbie said, sitting down and switching on the intercom.
“I certainly try.”
Debbie smirked and pressed a small, red button.
“Mr. Roland-”
“18th of December.”
Came a man’s voice. The sighs let out by the writers were all sucked back into their lungs at the sound. George whipped his head around and started when he saw the source. Debbie looked back too, raising her eyebrows in surprise.
Daring directed her attention to the voices owner as well, and found herself straightening up at the sight of John Devon Roland, Editor in Chief. His tall, healthy frame seemed to fit the doorway we stood in perfectly. His hair and mustache were both greying, but in an undeniably classy way. His tie hung loosely around his neck, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing surprisingly muscular arms. He looked down his long, pointed nose at Daring, welcome glint hidden in his experienced brown eyes.
“The wedding is on the 18th of December, if Ms. Remi’s relentless chatter about it is correct.”
He said, still studying Daring.
“One thing you learn fast if you want to stay in this world. Remember what people chatter about.”
He shot the staring writers a look and at once they all returned to work. Daring watched him in awe, unable to stop herself from smiling in admiration. Roland looked back at her, and inclined his head back into his office.
“Now, in my office. Let’s talk about newspapers.”
Daring Do and the Ring of Fire
2 - Interview with a Muckraker
2
Interview with a Muckraker
The entirety of the back wall of the Editor-in-Chief’s office was made of glass. The mid afternoon sun cautiously crept through the gaps in the blinds, and sparingly illuminated random sections of writing on the papers covering the desk. As she took her first steps into the office, Daring again found herself scanning the room, drinking in every last detail with stars in her eyes. Mr. Roland shut the door behind her once she had entered. The sharp snap it made called Daring back to earth somewhat harshly. Coming to a stop in the middle of the room, Daring gripped her bag’s shoulder strap and felt all of her earlier confidence drain from her.
Slowly, she turned her head to look at him. John Devon Roland had been a part of Daring’s life since the day she’d first picked up a newspaper. He was one of the reporters responsible for exposing the abysmal conditions of both the meat packing factories, and of the actual meat itself, and a damn good journalist to boot. Daring loved reading every one of his articles and editorials, forming a sort of one-sided mentor/mentee relationship with this young, intrepid commentator.
This now sixty-three year old intrepid commentator, in whose office she now stood frozen, walked past her silently and looked wearily at a photo on his desk.
The two stood there in awkward, intimidating silence as Daring attempted to collect herself. It had taken some effort not to salute and beg for an autograph when she’d first laid eyes on him. Recognizing that this man held the key to her landing her dream job and the importance of impressing him were now of a massive importance.
“...So which one of your parents was it?”
Daring was somewhat taken aback at the question. She didn’t fully understand what he meant, but she immediately assumed it was somehow relevant.
“I’m sorry?”
Roland grunted quietly and scratched his mustache with his thumb.
“You’re a little darker than most people who come to visit me, Ms. Do. Not much, but enough to stand out against the rest.”
He turned around and looked at her, his expression unreadable.
“Either you’ve just come back from a sun heavy vacation in the caribbean, or one of your parents contributed a drop of genetic ink to your skin tone. So I ask again:
Which one of your parents was it?”
Daring shifted slightly. It wasn’t so much the question that stood out to her, the ‘issue’ of her complexion had often come up before in college. But rather the way it was asked. It was true, she hadn’t seen any non-whites working in the building on her way in, and even the slightest inclination of black relatives was still a cause for alarm amongst the more closed minded individuals.
She had been prepared for the topic to come up, even prepared a little argument for why it wasn’t an issue even in the slightest, but the way he had immediately brought it up and the maddening lack of inclination of which side of that argument he was on threw her off spectacularly.
Roland was waiting for an answer, and Daring wasn’t about to let something as superfluous as an old man’s prejudice stop her.
“My father, sir. He met my mom in London during the Great War.”
“Did he stick around when you came into the picture?”
“He moved to Ballymena to be with her.”
“English?”
“American.”
“Mother?”
“English.”
“Yourself?”
“Born during a vacation in Bruges, raised in Ireland.”
“You a citizen?”
“I have three separate passports in my bag.”
“When did you immigrate?”
“The day after I graduated high school.”
“Where’s your accent?”
“Back home with my parents.”
It was coming easy now. Daring was answering his questions as quickly as he was asking them.
“Good grades?”
“I flunked chemistry in 11th grade. Knocked my GPA down to a 4.2.”
“What college did you go to?”
“Auburn University. BA in Journalism.”
“When’d you graduate?”
“Last week.”
Mr. Roland smirked and stood up straight, a satisfied expression on his face. It had been a while since he had such a rapid interview with someone, but never before with a potential applicant.
“You aren’t much for wasting time getting things done, huh?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I sleep in every Sunday.”
Daring found herself straightening up some as well. The atmosphere in the room had shifted. Some sort of mutual respect was beginning to form between the two of them. Or at least, that’s what Daring hoped was going on. It certainly was on her end.
Mr. Roland lit up a cigarette and took a short, well-practiced drag.
“I’d offer you one, but you don’t seem the type.”
Daring nodded.
“And what sort of type do I seem like, Mr. Roland?”
“You seem like the first interesting person I’ve met in a very long time. I do admire your dedication to getting the job. Even more the fact that you’re succeeding.”
A little fireworks display exploded for a millisecond in Daring’s brain.
“What set you on this path in the first place? Thinking about all the people who must’ve been trying to stop you going anywhere sets my teeth on edge.”
There was a flash of something dangerous in his eyes as he continued working on his cigarette.
With her renewed confidence settling her nerves, Daring told him everything. When her love of news and adventures began, how she’d managed to find an American newspaper in Ireland, how she’d managed to accidentally immigrate into Spain when she was ten, everything.
Roland had noticeably softened to her as Daring’s stories went on. Despite his new, slightly friendlier demeanor, he still managed to remain an imposing and intimidating man. Daring couldn’t help but admire how His decades of experience had shaped him.
Eventually, as he took his seat behind his desk and offered her the chair opposite.
“Alright kid. You’ve impressed me. Lord knows we need journalists with a modicum of talent.”
Daring couldn’t stop herself from smirking triumphantly.
“You think I have potential, then?”
She knew the answer, but hearing him say it would be a massive ego stroke.
Roland clearly picked up on this and, smirking, ignored her. He opened his mouth to say something else, but he was cut off by the sharp, sudden ring of his desk phone.
Roland frowned at it, as if mentally willing it to burst into flame. Even with Daring’s help, for she was doing the exact same thing, the phone remained unmelted, and just as loud as before.
Scowling, he picked it up.
“Roland.”
He answered, curtly.
This was not going to be a pleasant conversation.
His brow furrowed, and his jaw set so quickly and so firmly, it could have stopped a train.
Daring noted both, and began to stand up to leave. Roland, not looking in her direction, held up a hand to halt her, then pointed back down at the chair.
Daring had to stop herself from letting out a “Yes sir, sorry sir.” as she sat back down.
The editor’s expression darkened as the person on the other line continued. They seemed to have reached their point for calling in the first place, because Mr. Roland quickly stood up from his chair.
“WHAT?!”
He barked into the receiver.
The voice on the other end was audible now, and there was a new, high-pitched edge to it.
“It’s good for me! Having the people see that I can follow through on my promises could be the difference between me getting re-elected or not!”
“Wrong! Publicity is the difference! Gene, you’ve been a pain in my ass ever since you took office, then you go and flood my security staff with your little project convicts-”
“It is vital to establish a sense of unity amongst th-”
“Shut up, Gene.”
He casually said to the Mayor.
“Your little assimilation platform made sense before all the damn gangs started popping up, but keeping it going after-”
“What was I supposed to do?! You’ve been digging up everything on me you can find! You’re so hell bent on getting me out of office I-”
The Mayor let out an exasperated gag-like sound, which translated as a glitch of static over the phone.
“I’m desperate! It isn’t my fault they all think security jobs are their last resort!”
Roland growled.
“I’ll bet that wasn’t planned...”
“Jon, I’m sorry. I am. But the next dozen are being released on Friday, and I would appreciate it if you could run a story on it.”
“Why should I? Like you said, I’m out to get you.”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll be directing them to your paper.”
Daring raised her eyebrows at this.
American politics at work.
She thought, smiling softly to herself.
Roland gripped the phone and sighed mightily.
“If a single one of them even fish one of my papers out of the trash, the city will suddenly become very aware of the nature of your nocturnal proclivities.”
“You have my word.”
“Let’s hope it’s still worth something come November.”
An impressed silence followed the click of the phone on the receiver.
Daring watched Roland carefully, biting her tongue to stop herself from bombarding him with questions and praise.
“Knock it off.”
He said, pointing at her, his gaze still fixed on the phone.
“Knock what off, sir?”
“Holding back your questions. You’re a journalist now. Unless someone’s giving their full confession very, very quietly, you never stop asking questions.”
Daring grinned.
Mr. Roland ran a hand through his white hair.
“He’ll get a story. He’s just traded his next term for it. Ms. Do?”
He said, the ambitious glint of a much younger man flashing in his eyes.
“Sir.”
“I want you find out everything you can about the convict re assimilation policy. I tried to gather info on it when he first introduced it, but his people memorized the faces of all of my journalists and barred them from his office.”
Daring grinned and straightened up.
“This might be huge, sir. Are you sure a neophyte such as myself c-”
“You’re my new start student, and the only person I’ve interacted with who knows what the word ‘neophyte’ even means.”
They both smiled at each other as if they’d known each other for years.
Daring stood up from her chair, and Roland did the same.
She extended her hand.
“I’ll try not to let you down, sir.”
Roland grasped her hand firmly and shook, smirking.
“Drop the modesty act, it doesn’t suit you.”
A symphony of pride and accomplishment swelled in her brain as Daring confidently replied:
“Never has.”