I own nothing...not literally. But I do not own anything to do with The 100 and this is simply a breeding ground for my imagination.
Pen, paper and a smile. These are the three things my father assured me were the key to a successful career in journalism. "But you're a Yank in a corrupt nation, so all you'll need is a low head, a .9mm and a large back pocket". Besides from being politically incorrect, my dad was a dreamer. A dreamer living vicariously through his one and only daughter.
He had pushed me in to an Ivy League, he pushed me in to picking a journalism major and he pushed me in to conforming to the American Dream of a mediocre on-and-off again job and a mortgage free apartment by the time I was 26. My only act of defiance happened when I was 2 years in to my career and a scouting agency picked up on my work in animal cruelty with the likes of SeaWorld and many local "Zoos". Basic stories with a large, unforgiving audience.
Being scouted at my age is everything a freelancer could want. It gives you the opportunity to earn big bucks and gain the stability you're told about by successful, Prius-driving adults. Normally, the weight of this pressure would crush me, but, this opportunity came with a catch. I was being talent hunted by a company that was situated 15,000 kilometers away in Pretoria, South Africa. I had no interest for the job itself, but the different culture and prospect of finally fleeing the nest was too good to pass up.
So, I packed up my things and began a whole new life on a completely different continent. Liberating, right? Not so much. Four months in and I'm spending my first Valentines day in South Africa alone, completing Visa paperwork and mindlessly typing a thought provoking story on a local dog shelter whilst encased in the three dull walls of my cubicle.
"Sparky was abandoned in December and needs someone with a large garden and preferably other dogs to put a 'woof' over his head!". I slurped my soda and grimaced, mainly because even at 9pm the humid atmosphere turned a chilled drink in to a lukewarm surprise within minutes, but also because of these damn puns this godforsaken place had me writing. I'm not a pun girl, I'm witty and gritty. I once wrote a story on the mistreatment of alley cats in suburban Michigan that made my own mother weep.
I had written several articles here with similar badly-executed wordplay's and skippable story lines. All of which received a begrudged nod from my editor, Frank. Frank was a typical scornful middle aged white mine in South Africa. He mixed casual racism with vague hints of sexual harassment and only referred to me as "Hick" or "Seppo". Two words I learned to be basic slang for "American". He made me work late nights and early mornings because God knows when he might need his coffee, and he made me write crowd-pleasing stories about fuzzy things where the words "bundle" and "helpless" were used more times than I'm proud of.
So far my social life was lacking and my romantic prospects were limited to the man who sold pretzels at lunch and often commented on what a wonderful "shape" I had. I experienced one glorious night out with Patty from HR and a bunch of her mishap friends who toured me around many dimly lit bars in the city centre and got so drunk that 7/10 of them began crying. Ever since that night I am forced to pass Patty in the hallway and remind her that I had the most amazing time and we must do it again soon. I often ponder the thought of having a late house-warming party for my co-workers and few friends but then I remember that the extortionate rent prices have cornered me in to a one-bed apartment above a deli that's three doors down from a known crack house. If this is the South African Dream then I'm living it to it's fullest.
"Yes Frank?" I mumbled as I slowly peaked in to my editor's poor excuse for an office. I was shocked to be greeted by two well dressed people crowded around Frank's skip-rescued desk. This was unusual as I have became accustomed to the sight of my boss in a haze of Marlboro smoke and the formidable sight of his bulging belly resting comfortably on his mountains of paperwork. The office was clean, the air was clear and the tone was serious.
"Hi Clarke, this is Mr Davenport and Ms Huckle from the board." Frank brightly remarked. I had no idea who or what the board was, I just had a sense it was important and I was in a tonne of trouble.
"We're here to speak to you about an upcoming feature piece that the City Press would like you to report on, has Mr Cuthbert informed you of this?" the uptight lady in the ill fitting power suit questioned.
"Ah, well, no not quite. I felt I would leave the briefing to the professionals" Frank joked. A joke that was ignored respectfully by the room.
"Well Miss Griffin, whilst we understand you are new here, we have read your previous pieces about animal protection and would like you to run a large cover story that will span over the space of several months.." Mr Davenport said in a monotone voice that suggested he really didn't care about the specific details of this briefing. Pulling out a few sheets that had been haphazardly scribbled on until the white of the page was barely visible, he gestured for me to take a seat. I was unsure whether I was in trouble or this was my big break. The tone of the room shifted from uncomfortable to bored and it was making my already nervous demeanor shine brighter than ever before.
"The reason we have chosen you for this case...story is because the piece in question is a fellow American and we feel you have the best chance of finally getting her to cooperate with us as a newspaper". The way Mr Davenport emphasizes the word "finally" made me think that I was their last ditch attempt for this article which both offended and scared me.
"Clarke, a woman named Lexa had been keeping a wild lion captive for 4 years. She is a difficult woman who refuses to speak to any outsiders and resists the attempts of many nature conservationists and often, poachers to reach both her and the lion. All we have is her address and name. We don't even know her age or surname for Christ's sake. We need you to spend time with this woman, get to know her and her story. We want her to come across in a positive light to our viewers and hopefully aid her current law battle involving her...'pet'." The woman, who's name I had already forgotten, continued.
"We have typed out a go-to list of the things we would like the gain from this story and details of how we feel you should approach Lexa" Frank interrupted.
"This is all...yeah, I appreciate the opportunity. I will try not to let you down. Thank you" I breathed, overwhelmed and still registering the fact that they clearly chose me for this piece due to my heritage and American twang. Scanning over the "How-to-write-a-sensitive-article" sheet I had been provided I excused myself from the office and flung myself back in to my cubicle.
This was my first real story, it was a guaranteed three months of solid work with continual pay. From the sheet it appeared I would have to make the thirty minute journey everyday from my apartment to just outside of Broederstroom. The map seemed to be mostly dirt track and Lexa's location seemed to be a series of directions and basic guessing. It was the type of journalism I had been dreaming of. Person-to-person interface with a happy ending. And a lion? This would make me famous.
I packed up my few office home comforts as I was assured I wouldn't be back here for quite some time and headed home, ready for a long weekend of research and preparation.
I googled the story and found nothing. I googled the name and found nothing. This was a completely blank canvas and I could paint it whatever way I wanted. My only contact with Frank over the weekend had been a short message saying they had rented me a 4x4 for my consistent travelling and the dusty terrain and that I should be careful around this girl, she had been nothing but hostile to the previous journalists who had attempted to interview her, one even sustaining a rubber bullet warning shot.
Fear didn't run in my family. My father was an Ex-Vet who told tall tales of Israeli ransacks during Operation Nickle Grass and his duties during the 1970's as a soldier with his wings. My mother was just that, a mother. She had a difficult upbringing and devoted herself to my needs as a grubby child and a moody teenager. Most importantly, she put up with my father. I was a "late in life" baby and the world revolved around me. I was put in to every after school program and given private tutoring in almost all of my subjects.
"Griffins are top guns" my father would always joke, and having heard the news of my upcoming story, he proudly told his poker pals that his daughter was a continental front-page journalist who was making it in the heart of South Africa. Everyone's optimism spurred me on and lead me to be confident and determined whilst driving to my first day of my big break.
Dust trailed my truck as I sped through the increasingly deserted area. This is what amazed me about Pretoria. The inner city was so bustling it could be mistaken for a capital, yet a mere few miles driving and you reach a grass-less stretch of land that could be snapped and put straight on a postcard for safari trails. Houses were few and the majority of dwellers looked relatively self sufficient. It was a different way of life, a life I was willing to embrace for he foreseeable future.
After 3 hours of driving in circles I was tired, frustrated and convinced that Lexa's existence was all a fictitious hoo-ha that was created to 'break-in' the new girl. That's when I saw it, the lion. He was lazing on a front porch as if he were a small puppy that was exhausted after a long day chasing it's tail. It's paws were the size of my head and from one long yawn I could see a perfectly large set of teeth that would rip in to me for fun. I slowly began to open my door whilst maintaining sight of the large beast when all of a sudden my door was slammed shut, looking round I saw a woman with a vacant expression with her hand pressed firmly against my door handle.
"Hi...I'm looking for Lexa. I'm from the City Press. We contacted you about the possibility of having a journalist come visit you to help your case with the federal government against the captivity of an endangered species...and well, you agreed so here I am..." I nervously chuckled whilst frantically trying to push the sweaty strands of blonde out of my face.
"I suggest you stay in your truck." the American accent was refreshing, I picked up a hint of Chicago with a large side of "get the fuck off my property".
"Can I come inside, maybe speak for a little? I brought some snacks because I wasn't sure if you needed anything and I've been taught to be a good guest and-"
"Reverse and go home,Yankey. Unless you want my shotgun barrel to blow your tires so you can stay stranded here and enjoy the local wildlife and their dietary habits, reverse and go home." the short brunette retorted in one long breath.
"I'm...I'm sorry. I just need to ask you some questions. I'm on your side." I pleaded.
Without a word, the woman walked towards the porch and with the lion in tow she shut the door with a clear emphasis on the 'bang' of the wood against the screen. I assumed this was my queue to follow and gingerly disembarked from my truck, just as I was close enough to get a picture of the shabby little shack I heard the top window open above me and the oh-so-familiar clicking of a shotgun. Looking up, the barrel was pointed at my truck, one swift movement and my headlamp was gone. "BANG" another shot rang out and my other headlamp shattered in the distance. Panicking I screamed and ran before the barrel could be pointed in my direction. Making it safely back in to the 4x4 I pushed the stick in to reverse, slammed on the accelerator and left a cloud of dust in front on me as I scurried away. Once my heart rate had slowed to a non-dangerous rate I parked up, with the shack in the distance, breathing heavily and weighing out my next move. She was scary alright. Not in stature, but in presence. Her face was hardened but she looked no older than 23. I had dealt with more threatening subjects in my career, however none with a killer aim and a god damn lion as a door stop.
I was coming back. I had to come back. This whole scenario intrigued me more than anything I'd ever reported on. The nature of this girl made me crave to know more. My safety concerns were pushed to the back of my mind by the prospect of being the first to conquer the parameter of this journalistic gold-mine. So I set off to my apartment, accepting the fact that I would spend my night thinking about how to tackle this situation, but knowing I wasn't about to give up because of a silly shotgun.