Short Story Contest #7 - Space Opera

[idodik]

Bahahaha, I've just figured out an awesome idea and I'm going to figure out how can I get on with it. Wish me luck!

 

[RiotZ]

Hmmm I think I must enter this awesome contest.

Edit: Entering...

 

[idodik]

Okay! I have a quick WIP of my entry...

Industry of POrtable Detachment

Industry of POrtable Detachment
That's what it said on the entrance to the giant space station where Steve Johnson was starting to work in. That's strange, he thought, I drive for three hours in my turbo space car from my meteorite home to a space station that looks like a giant shopping mall, only to start working in a facility that sounds like an intergalactic police department.
He got out of the car and onto the entrance platform, and before going to the reception inside the station he clicked his keys, causing his car to vanish into nothingness. Stupid car, he thought, if I would have added 5000$ to get the better model he would have gotten a cooler sound effect when phasing it out. That was the only thought that occupied his barely capable mind when he walked into the station, checked in for the first time and headed for his new desk, wherever it was.
Clearly, Steve is no effective individual in his everyday life, nor is the family he does not have, yet when he slumped into the bar one evening to fill his intestines with Galactic Jellyfish Ooze, a man who worked at the Industry noticed him and had a very unusual feeling… After all, people who truly fit working at the Industry are found only one in a million, which in other words is very common.

 

[RiotZ]

It says it has to be written in the third person. If another person in the story is telling the story, is that still considered third person? Or is that like fourth person?

Anyway I have a WiP on the way...

WiP

Romulus
It was the eve of Christmas 2209 that an estranged writer discovered the long lost tale of Captain Romulus Turbine. He was a down-on-his-luck writer out for a night of drinking and procrastinating. When he walked into the bar and sat down, he dropped his notebook on the bar table. The bartender walked over and asked with a whisper,
“The usual?”
“That’d be fine.”
He said. The bartender brought him a beer, and the writer sat quietly swallowing away his inhibitions and worries. He was on his second beer when a woman walked in, hair like golden silk, breasts like ripe melons, eyes glittering gleefully… And the short-mini skirt.
“What chance would I have?”
He thought to himself,
“Probably none.”
He was persuaded to continue his path to slow suicide, from his point of view, drinking was his only skill set. He sat there for at least an hour, before a strange old man came walking in. He sat down to the writer’s left on one of the bar stools, and got a pint of brandy. While he was sitting there guzzling down that pint, the writer was scribbling in his notebook, ideas for his next novel. He was deep in a constructive process when he began to think to himself,
“This is it, the next big thing!”
When suddenly the old man nudged him and asked,
“What are ye’ writing there son?”

“Like it’s any of your business,”
He grunted back. The old man pulled away quickly and continued gulping down his brandy.
“I’m sorry… I’m drunk, I think…”
The writer said,
“…I’m just scribbling down ideas…”
Both of them sat there for a while, quiet, and drunk, witlessly weeping the night away. It was about fifteen minutes later when he nudged the writer again and asked,
“Did ye’ ever hear the tale of Captain Romulus Turbine?”
He said no and the old man grabbed a hold of his shirt and pulled him close. The rest of the pub thought he was starting a bar-room brawl, but the worst he was capable of was to breathe on the customers.
“Well, son, take a seat,” he said.
“I’m already sitting,” The writer replied.
“Oh, right…”
“…that ye’ are…”
“Well, grab hold of yo’r britches this is a long adventurous story, with turns and twists…”
“With all the…Nooks, and uh… Oh yes, crannies.”
The old man began to delve into the story. Every word he spoke carried a torrent of brandy flavored spit onto the bar table.
“It was Christmas 43 years ago when Romulus was a Captain on the ship, ‘The Hammer of Dawn’. He was sitting in the officer’s quarters with his fellow officers, talking about daily life in the United Nations Armada. As he was sitting there a strange occurrence struck, the Commodore came to the doorway and called him. The Commodore pulled him away from door to the quarters and quietly gasped,
“At ease Captain…”
“…It’s time to assemble the officers.”
Confused by the statement Romulus recited the Commodore’s statement,
“Assemble the officers? What is going on?”
“The orders have changed; there’s been a hijacking near Auspex…”
Said the Commodore,
“…we are the only ones equipped to handle it.”
The disciplined officer that he was, Romulus reframed from showing his immense anger, as it was the eve of Christmas, he hoped to be with his family on the joyous occasion. With his dissatisfaction concealed, Romulus said to the Commodore,
“The officers will be informed.”
Romulus turned the corner and told his officers the saddening news. As they all prepared, grabbing clothes from suitcases they’d so eagerly packed, pulling resources for an unexpected exodus to the space above Auspex. As a once eerily quiet ship began to come alive again, Romulus grew more and more eager to hear of their assignment. On the bridge the Admiral and Commodore were in discussion,

 

[HINDYhat]

It says it has to be written in the third person. If another person in the story is telling the story, is that still considered third person? Or is that like fourth person?

Wiki says that would be actually be first person, but I don't really know for sure.

 

[Avator]

Nope, because then it wouldn't be third person anymore. A more accurate way to describe third person would be to avoid anything that refers to him-/herself. So I, we, us, our, my, etc. are all forms in which it's being told in first person. So if the character is part of the story, there will be some point at which he will refer to himself, otherwise he's no part of the story, which makes it a first person tale.

 

[RiotZ]

Nope, because then it wouldn't be third person anymore. A more accurate way to describe third person would be to avoid anything that refers to him-/herself. So I, we, us, our, my, etc. are all forms in which it's being told in first person. So if the character is part of the story, there will be some point at which he will refer to himself, otherwise he's no part of the story, which makes it a first person tale.

But the person telling the story doesn't describe himself, he describes someone else in third person. The beginning of the story is in first person. Read my WiP to know what I mean.

 

[Avator]

If it would've been some sort of flashback to support the general story's setting, it would've been debatable, but I think this is focusing too much on the present to be considered third person. You should PM TWIF about this to check.
Luckily, it's very easy to turn first person stories into third person if it needs to be done. The other way around is a little more annoying as some have experienced in the last contest

 

[RiotZ]

If it would've been some sort of flashback to support the general story's setting, it would've been debatable, but I think this is focusing too much on the present to be considered third person. You should PM TWIF about this to check.
Luckily, it's very easy to turn first person stories into third person if it needs to be done. The other way around is a little more annoying as some have experienced in the last contest

Already contacted TWIF he doesn't seem very active, he'll probably end up coming online the deadline date when my story is finished, and say "This isn't third person!"

 

[Grey Nightmare]

It says it has to be written in the third person. If another person in the story is telling the story, is that still considered third person? Or is that like fourth person?

Anyway I have a WiP on the way...

WiP

Romulus
It was the eve of Christmas 2209 that I discovered the long lost tale of Captain Romulus Turbine. I was a down-on-my-luck writer out for a night of drinking and procrastinating. When I walked in I sat down, and dropped my notebook on the bar table. The bartender walked over and asked with a whisper,
“The usual?”
“That’d be fine.”
I said. He brought me a beer, and I sat quietly swallowing away my inhibitions and worries. I was on my second beer when a woman walked in, hair like golden silk, breasts like ripe melons, eyes glittering gleefully… And the short-mini skirt. “What chance would I have?” I thought to myself, “Probably none.” I was persuaded to continue my path to slow suicide, drinking was my only skill set. I sat there for at least an hour, before this strange old man came walking in. He sat down to my left on one of the bar stools, and got a pint of brandy. While he was sitting there guzzling down that pint, I was scribbling in my notebook, ideas for my next novel. I was deep in a constructive process. I thought to myself
“This is it, the next big thing!” When suddenly he nudged me and asked,
“What are ye’ writing there son?” I grunted back,
“Like it’s any of your business.” He pulled away quickly and continued gulping down his brandy.
“I’m sorry… I’m drunk, I think…” I said,
“…I’m just scribbling down ideas…”
We sat there for a while, quiet, and drunk witlessly, weeping the night away. It was about fifteen minutes later when he nudged me again and asked,
“Did ye’ ever hear the tale of Captain Romulus Turbine?”
I said no and he grabbed a hold of my shirt and pulled me close, I thought he was starting a bar-room brawl, but the worst he did was breath in my face.
“Well, son, take a seat,” he said.
“I’m already sitting,” I said
“Oh, right…”
“…That ye’ are…”
“Well, grab hold of yo’r britches this is a long adventurous story, with turns and twists…”
“ With all the…Nooks, and uh… Oh yes, crannies.”

That would be first person narrative, sorry =/

 

[RiotZ]

That would be first person narrative, sorry =/

Pfft easy to change. I've only written like a paragraph and a half.

*METAMORPHOSIS COMPLETE*

Working Title

Romulus
It was the eve of Christmas 2209 that an estranged writer discovered the long lost tale of Captain Romulus Turbine. He was a down-on-his-luck writer out for a night of drinking and procrastinating. When he walked into the bar and sat down, he dropped his notebook on the bar table. The bartender walked over and asked with a whisper,
“The usual?”
“That’d be fine.”
He said. The bartender brought him a beer, and the writer sat quietly swallowing away his inhibitions and worries. He was on his second beer when a woman walked in, hair like golden silk, breasts like ripe melons, eyes glittering gleefully… And the short-mini skirt.
“What chance would I have?”
He thought to himself,
“Probably none.”
He was persuaded to continue his path to slow suicide, from his point of view, drinking was his only skill set. He sat there for at least an hour, before a strange old man came walking in. He sat down to the writer’s left on one of the bar stools, and got a pint of brandy. While he was sitting there guzzling down that pint, the writer was scribbling in his notebook, ideas for his next novel. He was deep in a constructive process when he began to think to himself,
“This is it, the next big thing!”
When suddenly the old man nudged him and asked,
“What are ye’ writing there son?”

“Like it’s any of your business,”
He grunted back. The old man pulled away quickly and continued gulping down his brandy.
“I’m sorry… I’m drunk, I think…”
The writer said,
“…I’m just scribbling down ideas…”
Both of them sat there for a while, quiet, and drunk, witlessly weeping the night away. It was about fifteen minutes later when he nudged the writer again and asked,
“Did ye’ ever hear the tale of Captain Romulus Turbine?”
He said no and the old man grabbed a hold of his shirt and pulled him close. The rest of the pub thought he was starting a bar-room brawl, but the worst he was capable of was to breathe on the customers.
“Well, son, take a seat,” he said.
“I’m already sitting,” The writer replied.
“Oh, right…”
“…that ye’ are…”
“Well, grab hold of yo’r britches this is a long adventurous story, with turns and twists…”
“With all the…Nooks, and uh… Oh yes, crannies.”
The old man began to delve into the story. Every word he spoke carried a torrent of brandy flavored spit onto the bar table.
“It was Christmas 43 years ago when Romulus was a Captain on the ship, ‘The Hammer of Dawn’. He was sitting in the officer’s quarters with his fellow officers, talking about daily life in the United Nations Armada. As he was sitting there a strange occurrence struck, the Commodore came to the doorway and called him. The Commodore pulled him away from door to the quarters and quietly gasped,
“At ease Captain…”
“…It’s time to assemble the officers.”
Confused by the statement Romulus recited the Commodore’s statement,
“Assemble the officers? What is going on?”
“The orders have changed; there’s been a hijacking near Auspex…”
Said the Commodore,
“…we are the only ones equipped to handle it.”
The disciplined officer that he was, Romulus reframed from showing his immense anger, as it was the eve of Christmas, he hoped to be with his family on the joyous occasion. With his dissatisfaction concealed, Romulus said to the Commodore,
“The officers will be informed.”
Romulus turned the corner and told his officers the saddening news.

 

[Avator]

I doubt TWIF would do what you mentioned before for 2 reasons:
1) Hes a good host
2) He got an entry of his own, so he can't afford to stay off that long

I told you it was easy to fix that issue.

 

[Zeatherann]

Hmm... Maybe I could judge this one.

 

[Brambleclaw]

Gonna see if i have time to make a draft xP sounds fun

 

[Wandering Soul]

Here's my WIP for my entry entitled 'VALKYRIE'

WIP

She was walking through a field carpeted with various colors of flowers. The sweet fragrance of the flowers floats into her mind as she takes each step towards her favorite tree atop the field. As she reaches the base of the aged but sturdy canopy tree, she laid her back against its solid trunk and slowly lowers herself to sit. While overlooking the colorful field of flowers, a gentle breeze flew through her. She stretches her arms open and closes her eyes. As the breeze continues, she inhales it and felt in peace by the powerful aroma of flowers the breeze carries. While silently continues enjoying this moment of tranquility, she heard a familiar voice…

‘ATTENTION! WE WILL BE LANDING AT OUR DESTINATION IN 30 MINUTES!’

She opens her eyes and she saw only the ceiling of her cabin. “Damn! Why did you wake me up when I’m in the middle of a peaceful dream?” As the room lights up, she changes into something more suitable to the environment of their destination. ”You did set me to alert everyone when we are approaching our destination, Captain,” voice the ship’s Artificial Intelligence, Memory. “What’s the ship’s status while I’m asleep?” she asked. “So far it’s stable and there’s no sign of any hostility towards us ever since the last expedition,” replied Memory. “Good! Make preparation for repairs as soon as we landed,” she ordered.

...

 

[Zak17]

Would very much like to judge!!!

 

[Avator]

You just created an account and this is your very first post on this entire site, and think anybody here can rely on you to be a fair judge?

Yea, I don't think so...

 

[RiotZ]

You just created an account and this is your very first post on this entire site, and think anybody here can rely on you to be a fair judge?

Yea, I don't think so...

Zomg I lol'd.

 

[Gausslander]

I'm at 2,500 words and I'm only about half-way in. I didn't think I'd get this invested into this thing. However, it's shaping up nicely, and I've made a unique twist that I don't think anyone would really see coming.

 

[Brambleclaw]

Some music for inspiration http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XK4kz2G9ipY

 

[Gausslander]

Alright, when I said final WiP before final product, I lied. I've written 2,000+ more words, and I this is definitely the final WiP as I'm going to end it soon.

it's called A Fair World, by the way.

A Fair World, Acts 1-3

INTRODUCTION

In a fair world, Fred would be the one making the decisions in upper-management; mistakes would be treated loosely and forgiveness would be dealt out more commonly than pink slips. But in this world, Fred had a smoking habit that seemed to worsen with each passing day. Fixing commercial-class engines was hard work, especially with the added pressure of having expensive cargo transports depending on their running smoothly.

It was a typical Saturday in open space; Fred had gotten a little careless and dropped a cigarette into a small pool of ship fuel during his rotation. The fire scorched a sub-unit of a commercial-class engine, and rendered it useless and beyond repair. After the panic of the crew had subsided and the fire had been doused, Fred was summoned to the overseer’s office.

“Just give me another chance to make it up to you,” Fred pleaded. Craig, the dark-skinned overseer of the repair bay, considered nothing of the sort.
“You’ve had more chances than most get. I’ll give you until tomorrow afternoon to be packed and ready for transport.”
“Don’t do this, Craig! It’ll be years before I can get a gig like this again. Listen to me, I’m begging you, I’ve lived and worked with you on the Terra Platform for three years now—“
“—this isn’t up for discussion; especially not with a man who can’t be bothered to buy a goddamned nicotine patch, for god’s sake!” Fred had heard this all before, but the last time he had an argument about his smoking habit Craig had threatened to flush him out an airlock, so he decided to let it be.
“I wish we had ended this differently, because I know I’m the best damn repairman you’ve got and you’re going to need me if you expect to get these engines out in time for the next cargo haul.”
“The best, yeah, of course,” Craig laughed.
“When your uncle recommended you like a prime rib at a steakhouse, I was interested because I thought you had potential. It took… it took about a year after the accident before I realized what would become of you.
“Truthfully, I wish I would’ve ended this sooner.”

The discussion hadn’t gone in Fred’s favor. It seemed odd having to return to Terra, maybe it was the connections he had made with some of the crew aboard the platform, or how he could maneuver around the bay blind-folded if he had to, or that he knew if he left now, he would be leaving behind a part of his life that he could never get back.

PART 1 – ACT 1

As if losing his job wasn’t enough, after the engagement was over all of the vendors aboard the Terra Platform were given strict instructions not to sell nicotine-based products to the low-and-behold Fred Kirby. While walking the green mile back to his quarters, Fred remembered his life on Terra, what he had learned, and why he had left.

About the time Fred started working on the platform it became apparent to him he hadn’t any family left; he was an only child when his parents had died in the Terra confederacy. He had spent most of his life living and working with his uncle. When he was old enough, his uncle hired him to begin working in his citizen-class ship bay, adjusting fuel lines and bolting down metallic plates until he could be trusted outfitting engines. Eventually, Fred had outdone his uncle. Much like a blacksmith’s apprentice must make his masterpiece before exceeding in rank; the lowly-repairman had begun refitting engines with the precision and speed of an entire crew.

Things were going smoothly and his work had become his one-and-only passion. His uncle had taught him everything he knew, and from his example he had become a master of his art. His uncle was proud, and sent him on a pilgrimage to the Terra Platform when he was nineteen. They gladly hired him after watching him repair a civilian-class engine faster than their overseer did when he worked the line.

After a year had passed he felt truly comfortable in his new home. He had a sense of belonging, and the pressure did him some good. He was fit from lifting engine parts for examination and repair every day.

But everything changed when his uncle died. It was from there that things had begun to go downhill. He embraced living above Terra, though; he felt above all of his problems, above all of those who he loved and cared for. He felt like a ghost, present and unseen; from then on, he liked the idea of being an unknown entity.

After awhile being away from it all wasn’t enough. He thought of life as useless, meaningless, even, and took up smoking as a result. He liked the taste, the smell, and the way others looked at him when he used. He felt intimidating, worthless, and wasted, someone others would deter from being with. He didn’t want to make any connections he wouldn’t be able to keep; he’d made that mistake too many times before.

PART 2 – ACT 1

Fred threw his clothes into his workbag like bin-boys sift through trash, and then squished his bag down so everything would fit. He was packed and ready to leave, to head back to what he once-called ‘home’.

He dreaded walking to Shipping and Stationing. It was a trek he hadn’t made since he got there three years ago. Once he got there he packed his things aboard the commuter transport and swung around to the cockpit. The driver was a drunkard pilgrim with red hair and beard. He paid little attention to Fred when he passed by the cockpit.

“I’m Fred.”
“Lose your job, Fred?”
Fred paused. This driver was blunt, and he hadn’t given the commuter business any information as to why he was leaving the platform.
“…yes,” he replied, hesitantly.
“I bet you fucked up real good and proper to get kicked out of here,” the driver laughed, adjusting the crotch of his pants. Fred angrily climbed into his seat, which was cramped and uncomfortable. There were four chairs in the back, but he decided to take the co-pilot seat for a proper view.
“Do you like your job?”
“Can’t say that I do,” the driver replied. He was flicking switches and pulling levers all over his control panel, it looked so alien to Fred.
“I don’t understand the first thing about flying, but I’ve fixed commuter engines all my life—a thousand-fucking-times-over.”
“Well, I’m sure your poppy’s proud.”
The trip wasn’t short, but there was little dialog between the mechanic and pilot. They landed without conflict, and the pilot reminded Fred to ‘take his shit out of the back’ as he left.

Terra wasn’t as green or inviting as the name would suggest. The entire planet was covered in massive construction bays and industrial cities. Fred grew up here, and he knew the area well.
“Eh, Highlander!” Fred yelled at the pilot.
“Got any cigs on you?”
“Believe it or not I’m out of favors for your sorry arse. Now get the hell out of here.”

Fred walked the streets of Terra before he reached his old home where he lived with his uncle. It was a small, humble shanty—especially now when it was dwarfed by looming skyscrapers and military-class construction bays. Another family had moved in during him and his uncle’s absence. It reminded him of something his uncle had said a long time ago, when they tried to kick them out of their home.
I built this house with my hands, and my time, and my blood! I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the ‘people’s government’ get their hands on it!

It took him half a decade in court to get them off his back, something about tax codes and regulations. Not really anything Fred had much knowledge of. In fact, the more he thought about what he knew, the more he realized how little he actually did know.

Fred continued down the street that lay out in front of him for quite some time after stopping at his old place. He kept thinking about his life on Terra prior to the platform. He remembered a pink-lipped girl named Sammie, who never even gave him so much as a handy after two months of expensive dating and needless complimenting. After a few more regretful thoughts about relationships and schooling, he tried to remember his parents, but he found it difficult. He didn’t remember their faces, and they didn’t keep any photographs around for fear of the government ‘seeding them out’. All he remembered about them was their voices, when they told him not to worry, and that they loved him more and more after each passing day. There was irony in his memory of them however; the more they loved him the less he remembered them at all.

PART 1 – ACT 2

Vladimir wasn’t a man that anybody wanted to fuck with, but he was a man that would fuck with just about anybody. At one point in his adolescence, he got in a fight with a bully at school. Before it was all-said-and-done, he had bitten off the bully’s finger, and had chewed it into a bloody pulp.

Twenty-odd years after that case of petty-crime and playground cannibalism, he had become an irreplaceable asset of the Terra Confederacy; his job was to deal with unwanted people, mostly government agents and reporters. He specialized in making people ‘disappear’, and his methods were completely unknown to everyone but him. That’s why most people inside the Confederacy called him Vlad the Magician.

At the time of Fred’s arrival on Terra, Vlad was following orders to pursue and dispose of several possible undercover government agents as well as any notable members of either the government or pro-government citizenry. Surprisingly, Vlad was more than compliant to follow orders given to him by Confederate leaders; in fact, he quite liked being a part of the Confederacy. They considered themselves anarchists, people who wanted to make life hard for those who complied with the government and those who followed their lead—everything about them inspired Vlad to channel his deadly energies and keep focused his otherwise unstable mind.

While maneuvering the streets in search of his targets, he was bumped into by a man in a long suit-jacket. He recognized the man—he was a writer for a government-owned newspaper called ‘The Daily Judgment’. Vlad quickly headed into a nearby alleyway so as not to be seen.

Vlad had been following the reporter for several blocks, always letting him have about a hundred-yards leeway, before he found himself in a position to strike. The reporter was about to pass by an abandoned residence, and the only would-be witness was faced away from both him and his would-be victim.

He emerged from the shadows behind the reporter, and fastened his pace to reduce the distance between him and his target, making little noise while doing so. He had spent years learning to control his heart-rate and had built up a good-amount of endurance as to not run out of breath too easily, thus giving away his position.

When he was about twenty-yards away, he darted behind the abandoned house the reporter had passed not-too-long-ago, and emerged on the other side ready to kill. The reporter was caught off-guard, and by the time he noticed the man leaping after him his fate had already been sealed.



PART 2 – ACT 2

The reporter awoke to find himself tied to a chair with a gag in his mouth. He panicked, shaking violently in place, trying to free himself.
“Stop it,” said Vlad. He had noticed him struggling and had begun maneuvering toward him from behind. The reporter had tried to scream but his voice was so muffled only quiet whimpering emerged from his lips.
“I don’t like to have to repeat myself. So I’ll just let you know that if you keep trying to scream I’ll pull out one of your eyes and dangle it in front of you.”
The reporter immediately silenced himself, and closed his eyes tightly at the thought of them being plucked out of his skull.
“Good.
“Now, I’m going to take this gag off you. Do I have your word you won’t scream for help when I do?”
The reporter nodded and opened his weeping eyes so he could look at his captor. Vladimir had an ‘X’-shaped scar on his forehead, and his left ear was badly malformed.
“What do you want from me?” the reporter asked.
“Oh no… it’s not about me. It’s about the government.”
“What? You work for the government?”
“Do I look like a fascist to you, you ignorant fuck!” Vlad yelled, striking the reporter across the face with the back of his hand.
The reporter coughed-up blood and he began to bobble his head.
“Look at me. Look at me!” Vlad yelled, grabbing the reporter’s head in his hands.
“Remember what I said about repeating myself?” Vlad pushed the reporter’s head back towards the chair and reached for his pants pocket, pulling out a carpenter’s knife.
“No, please!” The reporter pleaded, once again shutting his eyes tightly as though his lids would stop steel from parting his eyes from his head.
“Please?” Vlad laughed.
“Are you begging me now? Good. It’s nice to know that I have your attention.
“There’s a man by the name of Anders Manchester, you’re going to write an article about how he’s exploiting the lower-class, and you’re going to accuse him of the murder of Joanne Elise.”
Elise was a city-council member, who had secret connections to the Confederacy, but that many people idolized. She had a large amount of support among the lower class, and her loss was devastating both to the poor people of Terra and the Confederacy.
“Wait… you’re going to let me go?”
“Would you rather I pluck your eyes out first?” Vlad smiled. Rarely did he let his subjects go, but when he did he found he enjoyed breaking them down to see their true nature. The reporter said nothing but kept his eyes shut tight.
“Now I’m going to untie you. If I found out you told anybody about what happened here, I’m going to find you and rip out your right eye. Then I’m going to make you listen as I chew it, slowly. Then, I’m going to spit whatever’s left of it all over whatever nice new outfit it is you’re wearing that day.
“Oh, and you might want to change your pants before you start writing. If you’re anything like the other reporters I’ve dealt with, I’d bet a dollar you’re carrying a diaper’s load of shit in your pants right now.”

ACT 2 – PART 3

Vlad sat in a Confederate safe house; he was engaged in conversation with one of the Confederacy’s leaders, Jacobs.
“I suppose you’ve heard of the Kirby incident,” assumed Jacobs.
“It’s one of the reasons I joined,” explained Vlad.
“So I’ve heard. When they were killed amidst rioting in the People’s Square, the Confederacy really took off. They became the face of our movement that we so desperately needed.”
“Those were truly deplorable times,” Vlad felt it was a good idea to sympathize with victims of the early-days of the Confederacy. Truth was, he only knew of the incident because it was around that time that the movement became violent, and that violence was what truly brought him to the Confederacy’s doorstep.
“Well, as crucial as their death was to our cause, we may have something much, much bigger on our hands.
“Their only son, Fred Kirby, arrived on Terra yesterday morning.
“Problem is he was raised by his seemingly pro-government uncle—“
“—real issue here is me not knowing why you’re briefing me on the job of a fucking fence,” Vlad interrupted.
“You’re not recruiting him, magic-man. I need someone who can follow him without being seen, someone who can find out whether or not we can trust him. He checked into Hotel Fahreed last night, chances are you can find him there.
“He’s a smoker and he’s out of a job on the Platform, chances are he’s looking for money and drugs. Persuade him to talk to you if you can. I’ve seen you in action; I know you can break a man down to his very core. That’s why I keep you around—that’s why I’m calling on you now.”
You don’t understand, Jacobs. Vlad thought to himself. You need me a hell of a lot more than I need you.


ACT 3 – PART 1

Fred was sitting at the bar of the Fahreed Hotel, pondering where he should start as far as interviewing for a new job. He thought of the government ship-bays where his uncle used to work, or maybe he’d reapply at the military-class ship bay on the Platform. Either way, he knew he’d have to get back into repairing engines; it was all he knew, all he was any good at.

“Can I have something… strong?” Fred asked the bartender.
“Well, this is a bar,” replied the bartender.
“I want something different, though
“I want something that will make me think everything’s great, like nothing’s wrong.”
“Ah, I think I know what you’re getting at. Hold on,” the bartender went into the back of the bar and disappeared from view for a few minutes. At one point Fred thought of getting up and leaving, but then caught a glimpse of the bartender preparing his drink. He had poured some juice into a flask, added some olives that disintegrated within seconds, and began pouring in a mixture of strong bottled drinks that he couldn’t recognize. The bartender frequently passed in-and-out of view, grabbing different ingredients from shelves and burrows all around the bar.

“Here you are, my specialty,” the bartender handed Fred his drink. It was the color of the ocean, and something about that relaxed him.
“Thank you,” Fred reached for his wallet, but was interrupted by the bartender.
“—no, it’s on the house, my friend.”
“Oh, thanks again,” Fred motioned away from his wallet and gave the bartender a thumbs-up. Then he wrapped both hands around the flask—as it had no handle—and lifted it to his lips. As he tasted it, he became transfixed. It tasted of all the fruits of the earth, and the more he drank the less he cared about the events that had scarred him in his life. His discussion with Craig had become a joke, his uncle’s death had faded from memory and he felt like a new man. With every passing moment, he remembered more of the good, and forgot more of the bad.

“This is fucking incredible,” remarked Fred.
“Yeah, I get that a lot. I put in some Terra Extract, just for you.”
“Terra Extract, huh? That’s some good shit.”

 

[RiotZ]

I might be MIA a few days I hope I can finish before the 30th.

Edit: Okay, I rewrote the entire story from the beginning, about one thousand words just in the last hour. I'm stuck, and taking a break, so here is a new WiP.

WiP

It was the eve of Christmas 2209 that an estranged writer discovered the long lost tale of Captain Romulus Turbine. Down on his luck essentially without work, he was out for a night of drinking and procrastinating. When he walked into the bar and sat down, he dropped his notebook on the bar table. The bartender walked over and stared at him with an uncomfortable pause,
“The usual?” asked the bartender.
“That’d be fine, Butch.” The writer replied.
The bartender sat the beer down to the writer’s left, and returned to his work. The bar was shanty, the wooden floor boards creaked with every step or bump. A small tube television hung behind the bar table, it was set to channel 91-01, GNI, the Global News Initiative. The ticker scrolled across the bottom of the screen, listing off the week’s most notable events,
“Meteor showers devastate Los Angeles region…”
“… US Army Corps of Engineers reports Exodus I is complete.”
On the actual screen, Frederick Deinzer, Chairman of The United Nations Space Force, and former Fleet Admiral, was speaking to the public outside the new UN Headquarters in Munich.
“Today is a day that deeply saddens me, today, scientists have confirmed, that in fifteen to twenty years, our world’s atmosphere, will no longer be livable-“
Before the speech was over the bartender switched to a different channel. He went into one of his usual rants,
“That’s a bunch of shit, I was born here I’m goin’ t’ die here,” he exclaimed.
Inside the bar, you could hear the sound of roaring engines, shuttles from the local star port taking off. The outside was dimly lit, the sky was red and orange, and clouds were few. The ground was nothing but a warm dust, which sifted from dune to dune. Some people believed the government had become corrupt, Communist even, they said, Capitalist fundamentalism is what put us here. Anarchists rallied together in local towns and cities constantly, stirring up trouble in any possible way they could.
The bar was lively, the bartender had set the television to channel 12-06, the Entertainment Sports Program, people were watching and cheering the local sports team. All the while, the writer sat silently on the corner bar stool, writing into his notebook. Not far from where he was a sitting, two stools between them, sat a strange old man, with a long gray beard, with patches of white spread throughout. His bald head was partially covered, by an old sailor cap. He had a glass of whisky at his left and a bowl of peanuts to his right.
The rest of the crowd didn’t stand out particularly, though there was a woman of excellent beauty sitting several bar stools down from the old man. Long blonde hair, like golden silk, breasts like ripe melons, and denim jeans, cut off near her hips. She was sitting next to a man; a muscular man, of momentous physique.
The old man took interest in the writer; looking over he saw him writing. As time passed, and the sports game began to die down, the old man continued to spare a look over at the notebook, and its owner. The bartender was sitting down under the television, reading a book, entitled, A Tale of Two Cities. Relaxed, and lying back in his chair, slightly slouched, he was not disturbed by the noise. As he was flipping to the next page, the old man asked for another whisky. The bartender got up from his seat with a shrug, and brought the man another whisky. The old man began to inquire about the writer,
“Hey, do you know that guy?” he said as he nodded toward the writer.
“Yeah, he’s a regular here,” the bartender whispered back.
The bartender returned to his seat, and continued reading his book.
All the while, the old man, began to move his whisky and his bowl of peanuts to the section next to the writer. He sat down with a crash, rattling the floorboards.
“What are ye’ writing there son?” he grunted,
The writer replied with a stutter,
“What?” “…Why, what do you want?”
“Ye’ are writin’ down notes in a bar, what literature was written in such slums,” said the old man, with a sound of distaste in his voice.
“Look, I don’t know you, and you’re bothering me, I can’t write, with some drunken old man bothering-“
“I’m not drunk,” the old man exclaimed,
“…and I’ve forgotten more about life, and its stories than you will ever know.”
He continued with ferocity,
“You want to hear a story?”
“A story about fear, triumph, and ecstasy, something too real to make up in some fairy tale world,”
“I’ve lived too long, to know the tale, and let it die with me,” he said as he banged his glass on the table.
The writer tried to contain what appeared to be, yet another scene caused by over-abuse of alcohol at The Admiral’s Quarters.
“Calm down, calm down,” said the writer,
“What is the story about?”
The old man downed another whisky, slammed it on the table, and turned to the writer, with a certain eeriness.
“The tale… of Romulus Turbine,”
“…and the story of his dangerous, adventurous life,” said the old man.
The writer grabbed his pen, and flipped to an empty page in his book.
“Okay well, let’s hear it,” he said.
“It was the eve of Christmas 43 years ago when Romulus was a Captain on the ship, ‘The Hammer of Dawn’. He was sitting in the officers’ quarters with his men, talking about daily life in the United Nations Space Force. He and three other officers, two Petty Officers, and one Lieutenant, were all sitting at a round table, playing cards, and conversing. The officers’ quarters, as it sounds, was reserved for officers on break from their vigorous schedule. The lockers were empty on nearly every part of the ship the entire crew was awaiting the end of their tour, Christmas day. It was near
“At ease Commodore…” said Romulus.
“…The Admiral and Vice Admiral are awaiting you on the bridge, Captain,”
Romulus paused for a moment, and realized this was the moment he’d been waiting for it was time to get debriefed.
“I’ll head right up,” Romulus replied.
On the bridge the Admiral and Vice Admiral were in discussion,
“I don’t give a damn how much time you’ve clocked Leavy!”
“When duty calls it’s time to man up…”
With a fierceness only rivaled by a Grizzly bear, the Admiral continued to tear into Vice Admiral Leavy,
“…If you’re not mentally equipped to handle this mission I’ll have to find someone else.”
Leavy with a sigh of relinquish, he gasped,
“My apologies Admiral, it is not my place to question your judgment.”
The Admiral accepted his yield, and waved him off to continue his duties. The Admiral turned from facing the door to the bridge, to face the spectacle that was space. Glass windows lined the entire middle half of the bridge, with small metal pillars between them. The bridge had two rows of computers on each side that controlled various things, from engine output, to the long range sensors. At the very front of the bridge, there were two sets of chairs and computers on each side of the Admiral’s seat and prospectus hive mind, a computer designed to show the ship’s status. From the prospectus the Admiral could make assessments and order his subordinates to the left and right to make necessary modifications.
After his conversation with Leavy, the Admiral sat in his chair with a mug of coffee in his left hand, and a cigar in his right.
“Plot course to Auspex,”
He said,
“It’s going to be a long ride.”

Tune in next time to ESP.

 

[idodik]

Ah leave it, I have a ton of real life stuff going on... It'll be a miracle if I finish the story in time.

 

[Gausslander]

Final Entry - In a Fair World

Acts 1-4

IN A FAIR WORLD

And, as it so happens, this is my 2,000th post. It was a pleasure writing this, and I hope others can enjoy it as I have.

INTRODUCTION

In a fair world, Fred would be the one making the decisions in upper-management; mistakes would be treated loosely and forgiveness would be dealt out more commonly than pink slips. But in this world, Fred had a smoking habit that seemed to worsen with each passing day. Fixing commercial-class engines was hard work, especially with the added pressure of having expensive cargo transports depending on their running smoothly.

It was a typical Saturday in open space; Fred had gotten a little careless and dropped a cigarette into a small pool of ship fuel during his rotation. The fire scorched a sub-unit of a commercial-class engine, and rendered it useless and beyond repair. After the panic of the crew had subsided and the fire had been doused, Fred was summoned to the overseer’s office.

“Just give me another chance to make it up to you,” Fred pleaded. Craig, the dark-skinned overseer of the repair bay, considered nothing of the sort.
“You’ve had more chances than most get. I’ll give you until tomorrow afternoon to be packed and ready for transport.”
“Don’t do this, Craig! It’ll be years before I can get a gig like this again. Listen to me, I’m begging you, I’ve lived and worked with you on the Terra Platform for three years now—“
“—this isn’t up for discussion; especially not with a man who can’t be bothered to buy a goddamned nicotine patch, for god’s sake!” Fred had heard this all before, but the last time he had an argument about his smoking habit Craig had threatened to flush him out an airlock, so he decided to let it be.
“I wish we had ended this differently, because I know I’m the best damn repairman you’ve got and you’re going to need me if you expect to get these engines out in time for the next cargo haul.”
“The best, yeah, of course,” Craig laughed.
“When your uncle recommended you like a prime rib at a steakhouse, I was interested because I thought you had potential. It took… it took about a year after the accident before I realized what would become of you.
“Truthfully, I wish I would’ve ended this sooner.”

The discussion hadn’t gone in Fred’s favor. It seemed odd having to return to Terra, maybe it was the connections he had made with some of the crew aboard the platform, or how he could maneuver around the bay blind-folded if he had to, or that he knew if he left now, he would be leaving behind a part of his life that he could never get back.

ACT 1 - PART 1

As if losing his job wasn’t enough, after the engagement was over all of the vendors aboard the Terra Platform were given strict instructions not to sell nicotine-based products to the low-and-behold Fred Kirby. While walking the green mile back to his quarters, Fred remembered his life on Terra, what he had learned, and why he had left.

About the time Fred started working on the platform it became apparent to him he hadn’t any family left; he was an only child when his parents had died in the Terra confederacy. He had spent most of his life living and working with his uncle. When he was old enough, his uncle hired him to begin working in his citizen-class ship bay, adjusting fuel lines and bolting down metallic plates until he could be trusted outfitting engines. Eventually, Fred had outdone his uncle. Much like a blacksmith’s apprentice must make his masterpiece before exceeding in rank; the lowly-repairman had begun refitting engines with the precision and speed of an entire crew.

Things were going smoothly and his work had become his one-and-only passion. His uncle had taught him everything he knew, and from his example he had become a master of his art. His uncle was proud, and sent him on a pilgrimage to the Terra Platform when he was nineteen. They gladly hired him after watching him repair a civilian-class engine faster than their overseer did when he worked the line.

After a year had passed he felt truly comfortable in his new home. He had a sense of belonging, and the pressure did him some good. He was fit from lifting engine parts for examination and repair every day.

But everything changed when his uncle died. It was from there that things had begun to go downhill. He embraced living above Terra, though; he felt above all of his problems, above all of those who he loved and cared for. He felt like a ghost, present and unseen; from then on, he liked the idea of being an unknown entity.

After awhile being away from it all wasn’t enough. He thought of life as useless, meaningless, even, and took up smoking as a result. He liked the taste, the smell, and the way others looked at him when he used. He felt intimidating, worthless, and wasted, someone others would deter from being with. He didn’t want to make any connections he wouldn’t be able to keep; he’d made that mistake too many times before.

ACT 1 - PART 2

Fred threw his clothes into his workbag like bin-boys sift through trash, and then squished his bag down so everything would fit. He was packed and ready to leave, to head back to what he once-called ‘home’.

He dreaded walking to Shipping and Stationing. It was a trek he hadn’t made since he got there three years ago. Once he got there he packed his things aboard the commuter transport and swung around to the cockpit. The driver was a drunkard pilgrim with red hair and beard. He paid little attention to Fred when he passed by the cockpit.

“I’m Fred.”
“Lose your job, Fred?”
Fred paused. This driver was blunt, and he hadn’t given the commuter business any information as to why he was leaving the platform.
“…yes,” he replied, hesitantly.
“I bet you fucked up real good and proper to get kicked out of here,” the driver laughed, adjusting the crotch of his pants. Fred angrily climbed into his seat, which was cramped and uncomfortable. There were four chairs in the back, but he decided to take the co-pilot seat for a proper view.
“Do you like your job?”
“Can’t say that I do,” the driver replied. He was flicking switches and pulling levers all over his control panel, it looked so alien to Fred.
“I don’t understand the first thing about flying, but I’ve fixed commuter engines all my life—a thousand-fucking-times-over.”
“Well, I’m sure your poppy’s proud.”
The trip wasn’t short, but there was little dialog between the mechanic and pilot. They landed without conflict, and the pilot reminded Fred to ‘take his shit out of the back’ as he left.

Terra wasn’t as green or inviting as the name would suggest. The entire planet was covered in massive construction bays and industrial cities. Fred grew up here, and he knew the area well.
“Eh, Highlander, got any cigs on you?” asked Fred.
“Believe it or not I’m out of favors for your sorry arse. Now get the hell off my ship!”

Fred walked the streets of Terra for sometime before he reached his old home where he lived with his uncle. It was a small, humble shanty—even smaller now that it was dwarfed by nearby looming skyscrapers and military-class construction bays. It seemed another family had moved in during him and his uncle’s absence. It reminded him of something his uncle had once said a long time ago, when they tried to kick them out of their home.
I built this house with my hands, and my time, and my blood! I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the ‘people’s government’ get their hands on it!

It took him half a decade in court to get them off his back, something about tax codes and regulations. Not really anything Fred had much knowledge of. In fact, the more he thought about what he knew, the more he realized how little he actually did know.

Fred continued down the street that lay out in front of him for quite some time after stopping at his old place. He kept thinking about his life on Terra prior to the platform. He remembered a pink-lipped girl named Sammie, who never even gave him so much as a handy after two months of expensive dating and needless complimenting. After a few more regretful thoughts about relationships and schooling, he tried to remember his parents, but he found it difficult. He didn’t remember their faces, and they didn’t keep any photographs around for fear of the government ‘seeding them out’. All he remembered about them was their voices, when they told him not to worry, and that they loved him more and more after each passing day. There was irony in his memory of them however; the more they loved him the less he remembered them at all.

ACT 2 - PART 1

Vladimir wasn’t a man that anybody wanted to fuck with, but he was a man that would fuck with just about anybody. At one point in his adolescence, he got in a fight with a bully at school. Before it was all-said-and-done, he had bitten off the bully’s finger, and had chewed it into a bloody pulp.

Twenty-odd years after that case of petty-crime and playground cannibalism, he had become an irreplaceable asset of the Terra Confederacy; his job was to deal with unwanted people, mostly government agents and reporters. He specialized in making people ‘disappear’, and his methods were completely unknown to everyone but him. That’s why most people inside the Confederacy called him Vlad the Magician.

At the time of Fred’s arrival on Terra, Vlad was following orders to pursue and dispose of several possible undercover government agents as well as any notable members of either the government or pro-government citizenry. Surprisingly, Vlad was more than compliant to follow orders given to him by Confederate leaders; in fact, he quite liked being a part of the Confederacy. They considered themselves anarchists, people who wanted to make life hard for those who complied with the government and those who followed their lead—everything about them inspired Vlad to channel his deadly energies and keep focused his otherwise unstable mind.

While maneuvering the streets in search of his targets, he was bumped into by a man in a long suit-jacket. He recognized the man—he was a writer for a government-owned newspaper called ‘The Daily Judgment’. Vlad quickly headed into a nearby alleyway so as not to be seen.

Vlad had been following the reporter for several blocks, always letting him have about a hundred-yards leeway, before he found himself in a position to strike. The reporter was about to pass by an abandoned residence, and the only would-be witness was faced away from both him and his would-be victim.

He emerged from the shadows behind the reporter, and fastened his pace to reduce the distance between him and his target, making little noise while doing so. He had spent years learning to control his heart-rate and had built up a good-amount of endurance as to not run out of breath too easily, thus giving away his position.

When he was about twenty-yards away, he darted behind the abandoned house the reporter had passed not-too-long-ago, and emerged on the other side ready to kill. The reporter was caught off-guard, and by the time he noticed the man leaping after him his fate had already been sealed.

ACT 2 - PART 2

The reporter awoke to find himself tied to a chair with a gag in his mouth. He panicked, shaking violently in place, trying to free himself.
“Stop it,” said Vlad. He had noticed him struggling and had begun maneuvering toward him from behind. The reporter had tried to scream but his voice was so muffled only quiet whimpering emerged from his lips.
“I don’t like to have to repeat myself. So I’ll just let you know that if you keep trying to scream I’ll pull out one of your eyes and dangle it in front of you.”
The reporter immediately silenced himself, and closed his eyes tightly at the thought of them being plucked out of his skull.
“Good.
“Now, I’m going to take this gag off you. Do I have your word you won’t scream for help when I do?”
The reporter nodded and opened his weeping eyes so he could look at his captor. Vladimir had an ‘X’-shaped scar on his forehead, and his left ear was badly malformed.
“What do you want from me?” the reporter asked.
“Oh no… it’s not about me. It’s about the government.”
“What? You work for the government?”
“Do I look like a fascist to you, you ignorant fuck!” Vlad yelled, striking the reporter across the face with the back of his hand.
The reporter coughed-up blood and he began to bobble his head.
“Look at me. Look at me!” Vlad yelled, grabbing the reporter’s head in his hands.
“Remember what I said about repeating myself?” Vlad pushed the reporter’s head back towards the chair and reached for his pants pocket, pulling out a carpenter’s knife.
“No, please!” The reporter pleaded, once again shutting his eyes tightly as though his lids would stop steel from parting his eyes from his head.
“Please?” Vlad laughed.
“Are you begging me now? Good. It’s nice to know that I have your attention.
“There’s a man by the name of Anders Manchester, you’re going to write an article about how he’s exploiting the lower-class, and you’re going to accuse him of the murder of Joanne Elise.”
Elise was a city-council member, who had secret connections to the Confederacy, but that many people idolized. She had a large amount of support among the lower class, and her loss was devastating both to the poor people of Terra and the Confederacy.
“Wait… you’re going to let me go?”
“Would you rather I pluck your eyes out first?” Vlad smiled. Rarely did he let his subjects go, but when he did he found he enjoyed breaking them down to see their true nature. The reporter said nothing but kept his eyes shut tight.
“Now I’m going to untie you. If I found out you told anybody about what happened here, I’m going to find you and rip out your right eye. Then I’m going to make you listen as I chew it, slowly. Then, I’m going to spit whatever’s left of it all over whatever nice new outfit it is you’re wearing that day.
“Oh, and you might want to change your pants before you start writing. If you’re anything like the other reporters I’ve dealt with, I’d bet a dollar you’re carrying a diaper’s load of shit in your pants right now.”

ACT 2 – PART 3

Vlad sat in a Confederate safe house; he was engaged in conversation with one of the Confederacy’s leaders, Jacobs.
“I suppose you’ve heard of the Kirby incident,” assumed Jacobs.
“It’s one of the reasons I joined,” explained Vlad.
“So I’ve heard. When they were killed amidst rioting in the People’s Square, the Confederacy really took off. They became the face of our movement that we so desperately needed.”
“Those were truly deplorable times,” Vlad felt it was a good idea to sympathize with victims of the early-days of the Confederacy. Truth was, he only knew of the incident because it was around that time that the movement became violent, and that violence was what truly brought him to the Confederacy’s doorstep.
“Well, as crucial as their death was to our cause, we may have something much, much bigger on our hands.
“Their only son, Fred Kirby, arrived on Terra yesterday morning.
“Problem is he was raised by his seemingly pro-government uncle—“
“—real issue here is me not knowing why you’re briefing me on the job of a fucking fence,” Vlad interrupted.
“You’re not recruiting him, magic-man. I need someone who can follow him without being seen, someone who can find out whether or not we can trust him. He checked into Hotel Fahreed last night, chances are you can find him there.
“He’s a smoker and he’s out of a job on the Platform, chances are he’s looking for money and drugs. Persuade him to talk to you if you can. I’ve seen you in action; I know you can break a man down to his very core. That’s why I keep you around—that’s why I’m calling on you now.”
You don’t understand, Jacobs. Vlad thought to himself. You need me a hell of a lot more than I need you.

ACT 3 – PART 1

Fred was sitting at the bar of the Fahreed Hotel, pondering where he should start as far as interviewing for a new job. He thought of the government ship-bays where his uncle used to work, or maybe he’d apply for the military-class ship bay on the Platform. Either way, he knew he’d have to get back into repairing engines; it was all he knew, all he was any good at.

“Can I have something… strong?” Fred asked the bartender.
“Well, this is a bar,” replied the bartender.
“I want something different, though
“I want something that will make me think everything’s great, like nothing’s wrong.”
“Ah, I think I know what you’re getting at. Hold on,” the bartender went into the back of the bar and disappeared from view for a few minutes. At one point Fred thought of getting up and leaving, but then caught a glimpse of the bartender preparing his drink. He had poured some juice into a flask, added some olives that disintegrated within seconds, and began pouring in a mixture of strong bottled drinks that he couldn’t recognize. The bartender frequently passed in-and-out of view, grabbing different ingredients from shelves and burrows all around the bar. Finally he returned to Fred with his concoction.

“Here you are, my specialty,” the bartender handed Fred his drink. It was the color of the ocean, and something about that relaxed him.
“Thank you,” Fred reached for his wallet, but was interrupted by the bartender.
“—no, it’s on the house, my friend.”
“Oh, thanks again,” Fred motioned away from his wallet and gave the bartender a thumbs-up. Then he wrapped both hands around the flask—as if it had no handle—and lifted it to his lips. As he tasted it, he became transfixed. It tasted of all the fruits of the earth, and the more he drank the less he cared about the events that had scarred him in his life. His discussion with Craig had become a joke, his uncle’s death had faded from memory and he felt like a new man. With every passing moment, he remembered more of the good, and less of the bad.

“This is incredible,” remarked Fred.
“Yeah, I get that a lot. Just between you and me, what really does it is the Blue Extract.”
“Blue Extract, huh? Sure beats the hell out of tobacco.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” the bartender laughed and wiped his brow with a towel. He had thick eyebrows and wrinkled features. His thick black moustache mirrored his thick head of hair; he looked like he had had some time to figure out what he was doing behind the bar.
“Do you—“
“—no, I quit four years ago,” interrupted the bartender.
“Oh. Good for you.”
“Yeah, thanks,” the bartender laughed.
“So, what’s your name, anyway?” asked Fred.
“My name’s Clyde, what’s yours?” the bartender was now cleaning a flask with the same towel that he had used to clean his brow.
“Fred, my name’s Fred.”
“Glad to hear it. Listen, if you want to quit, you should get in contact with my supplier, her name’s Sammie, she’s big into the Blue Extract business. Just tell her Clyde sent you, she’ll know what to do.”
“Where can I find her?”
“She works out of home, about three blocks from here in a red condominium, you can’t miss it.”

ACT 3 – PART 2

“Wow, I really didn’t think it’d be you,” said Fred as he walked into the condominium.
“Yeah, I know, right? Long time, no see,” answered Sammie. They had dated before in high school, but there had never really been too much between them. She was a cute blond and was a talented dancer back-in-the-day.
“So, you’re here for the Blue Extract, right?”
“Yeah, just so happens that Clyde sent me.”
“Oh my peach-muffin is always sending me customers.
“Oops, don’t tell him I said that. You see… he doesn’t like people to know we’re together, he says it’s bad for business,” Sammie held her hands in front of her like a shy schoolgirl, which turned Fred on completely—but alas, she was taken.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Fred hated himself for saying that. It was something he wanted to take back right after the words had been vomited from his mouth like bad spaghetti. He hated cheesy catch-phrases.
“Right… so, I’ll go get it for you. Do you want to smoke it, inject it, or digest it?”
“I’d like to smoke it, thank you.”

Sammie had brought him a large bag of Blue Extract, which looked like small blue flower-pedals smashed into a bag. She had warned him about smell of it, which could cause you to give you a dangerous unfiltered high if it was snorted in too large of a dose. Then she explained that she’d only take payment in cash, regrettably Fred didn’t have enough cash on hand, but Sammie said she knew he was good for it.

Fred hid the extract underneath his clothes, but found it was impossible to mask the smell of sweet-roses drifting from the bag. It was captivating, really. The more he smelled it the more at-peace he felt, so much so that he barely knew he was walking at all. Then, Fred looked down at the pavement below him, and saw that there was Blue Extract pouring out of his now split-open bag.

“Hey, you, stop right there!” said an approaching policeman.
“Don’t you fucking move!” screamed his partner.
Clyde emerged from the hotel to see what all the noise was about, only to see his referred partner-in-crime being surrounded by policemen.

ACT 3 – PART 4

Vlad emerged from the Fahreed Hotel with his carpenter’s knife in hand. Vlad immediately leapt toward Clyde like a tiger pouncing after its prey.
“What the fuck—“
Clyde was interrupted by a knife in the eye, and he emitted a terrifyingly-loud scream. Vlad tried to cleanly pry the knife from Clyde’s eye socket but mistakenly took the entire eye with it, and was forced to begin stabbing the his stomach with what now looked much like a sharp eye-ball kebab. After slaying the would-be witness, Vlad delved into the darkness of a nearby alley.

“Lord have mercy,” muttered Fred.
Suddenly Vlad emerged from an alley behind the officers and leapt toward them. He had the same blood-covered knife in hand, and half of Clyde’s eye remained dangling from the blade. One of the guards immediately fired at Vlad and narrowly missed. Before he could get another shot off, however, he had sliced through his throat with his trophy-knife. The guard fell to the floor clinching his bleeding windpipe and kicking at the pavement in a desperate manner. The other guard, shaken from his partner’s death, anxiously reached for his side-arm. Vlad quickly sliced at the back of the guard’s neck three times in rapid-succession, causing the officer’s head to lean and dangle forward before finally snapping off and hitting the floor as his body followed suit.

Fred began to run, pouring a trail of Blue Extract in his wake.
“You won’t be too hard to find, Fred!” Vlad yelled after him, smiling.
“Your bad habits are going to catch up with you!”

FINAL ACT

Fred had run in least three blocks down when he heard Sammie’s screams. He couldn’t turn back now, though, he had to get out there.

Vlad leapt in front of Fred, unarmed, and smiled at him. Fred immediately turned around and ran through a nearby alleyway, leaping over boxes and even climbing over a chain-link fence before emerging on the other side, assumingly safe from harm. Fred stopped to catch his breath, and saw no sign of his would-be killer.

“Don’t move,” Vlad held a knife to Fred’s throat, and his head was so close he could feel the spittle spew from Vlad’s lips as he spoke.
“Make it quick,” Fred’s entire body tensed up, tear began to form in his eyes and he felt a primal rage brewing inside of himself.
“Easy enough,” Vlad moved the blood-soaked blade from Fred’s throat, securing it safely in his pocket.
“Oh, and don’t thank me now,” Vlad said.
“But I just saved your life.”
“Oh yeah, how’s that?” before Vlad could reply Fred had landed a haymaker to his face, which dropped him to the floor without a moment’s hesitation.
“Fuck!” Vlad spat blood on the ground as he got up. Fred began to run once more, only now knowing he had a head start. He quickly headed into a nearby alley, found a door and then burst into it like a burning man through a skyscraper window. He found himself in a busy pizzeria, and as he ran through the building the kitchen staff cleared in front of him in fear. Once he had exited from the restaurant, he found himself on a busy street. To his left he could saw a Shipping and Stationing building, and immediately began running toward it.

Fred reached the Shipping and Stationing building, but it was locked. They were apparently closed.
“Fuck me!” Fred grabbed his head in his hands in frustration. Then, he looked around for something that could break through glass. He found a sizable rock and picked it up in both hands, and then tossed it into the ‘S&S’ window, shattering it.
“Stop running, shithead!” Fred heard Vlad yell from behind him.
“Shit!” Fred yelled as he climbed through the broken glass window.
The lights in the building immediately turned on as he climbed inside. There was a single ship here—the same type of ship that brought him to Terra from the platform.
“Okay… okay… now I got to fly the fuck out of here.”
Fred tried to remember everything he could from his trip with the pilot, but all he could think of was what an asshole he was.
“Shit, think!” Fred was in the cockpit now, trying to decide what to do, and how to do it.
“Alright, I think I turn this…” Fred turned a knob that had a different speed acronym on each spoke: ‘KM/SS/LS/FTL’.
“Good! You’re getting there buddy, come on, hang in there!” Fred had turned the knob to KM, the lowest speed setting, and then thought of what to do next.
“What the fuck are you doing in that commuter? What do you think you’re going to do, fly away?” Vlad had climbed through the windows moments before, and was now covered in blood streaming from his now-broken nose.
“Fuck!” Fred tried frantically to get the ship to start, but even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to land it.
“Get out of the cockpit. Now” Vlad stabbed his dagger through the glass windshield, leaving cracks and splinters where Fred would have seen the stars pass him by.
“Okay. You know what, you win,” Fred got out of the cockpit with his hands behind his head.
“Good. Now stay the fuck there.” Vlad went around to the back of the commuter. He saw that the engine wasn’t operational; it had several missing components and a leaking fuel line.
“The engine’s busted. That’s why you didn’t make your getaway, kid,” Vlad was furious, but a little relieved to have caught up with his target.
“I can fix it. I can fix the engine,” Fred walked to the back of the commuter and inspected the parts as Vlad watched.
“Good. Fix it so we can fly out of here. Together,” Vlad smiled. It still hadn’t occurred to him that Fred had no idea who he was or what his intentions were.
Fred worked silently, fixing the engine and using spare parts from around the garage and industrial-strength tape for the fuel line. After about ten minutes time, the ship was operational.
“Get in the passenger seat. I’ll fly, not that I’ll be able to see a fucking thing—but that doesn’t matter, really, I know the way to where we’re going,” Vlad sat down in the driver’s seat.
Fred hesitated, and looked down at the engine. It was ready and fully operational.
This is my only chance, Fred thought to himself. This is it, this is all I’ve got.
Fred removed the Stabilizing Unit from the engine, and walked to the passenger seat.
“Good. Sit down,” Vlad commanded. Fred sat down and buckled himself in, his eyes shut tight, and tears coming to his eyes.
“You remind me of somebody,” Vlad laughed. Fred knew what was going to happen. But in his heart he felt it was better than being stabbed to death.
“Take us up,” Fred said, looking out his passenger window at the brightly-lit garage he had just worked in.
“You don’t need to be worried, Fred, I’m with the Confederacy. Which, I was trying to tell you before you broke my fucking nose.”
“Why should I give a damn who you work for? You just killed an innocent man and two policemen!” Fred looked at Vlad furiously.
“He should’ve known better than to get in a man’s way.” Fred was stunned. He was flying with a hired-killer and a sociopath.
“My job is to bring you to Confederate high-command. From then on you will be taking orders from Jacobs. I’m just a lowly henchman, if you can believe that.“
“Oh, that actually sounds like a lot of fun. It’s too bad you’re going to be dead when we get there.” Fred smashed Vlad’s head against the command console, splattering the windshield with his blood. Vlad slowly recovered, then fell back, unconscious. As the ship quickly descended toward the city below, Fred leaped out of the passenger-side of the commuter and landed hard on a high rooftop.

The ship exploded, blowing up an entire building and sending several on-lookers running out onto the streets, destined to burn to death.

Fred lay nearly motionless, croaking on a solid concrete roof. He had fallen nearly twenty feet onto his back, and he’d never felt better.
"Adrenaline... I think I might've found my new addiction," Fred rolled over onto his back and gazed up into the stars. Much as they were
the only orbs lighting up the night-time sky, the ignited men running amok in the streets were, in essence, their own and only lights in which
to see. Fred pondered whether or not he'd ever work on the platform again, and as he saw it loom into view in orbit, he could almost feel
his comeback. He'd go back, work harder than ever, and not have any need for drugs. Because now, he didn't care much about anything.
Not even himself.

 

[RiotZ]

Final Entry - In a Fair World

Acts 1-4

IN A FAIR WORLD

And, as it so happens, this is my 2,000th post. It was a pleasure writing this, and I hope others can enjoy it as I have.

INTRODUCTION

In a fair world, Fred would be the one making the decisions in upper-management; mistakes would be treated loosely and forgiveness would be dealt out more commonly than pink slips. But in this world, Fred had a smoking habit that seemed to worsen with each passing day. Fixing commercial-class engines was hard work, especially with the added pressure of having expensive cargo transports depending on their running smoothly.

It was a typical Saturday in open space; Fred had gotten a little careless and dropped a cigarette into a small pool of ship fuel during his rotation. The fire scorched a sub-unit of a commercial-class engine, and rendered it useless and beyond repair. After the panic of the crew had subsided and the fire had been doused, Fred was summoned to the overseer’s office.

“Just give me another chance to make it up to you,” Fred pleaded. Craig, the dark-skinned overseer of the repair bay, considered nothing of the sort.
“You’ve had more chances than most get. I’ll give you until tomorrow afternoon to be packed and ready for transport.”
“Don’t do this, Craig! It’ll be years before I can get a gig like this again. Listen to me, I’m begging you, I’ve lived and worked with you on the Terra Platform for three years now—“
“—this isn’t up for discussion; especially not with a man who can’t be bothered to buy a goddamned nicotine patch, for god’s sake!” Fred had heard this all before, but the last time he had an argument about his smoking habit Craig had threatened to flush him out an airlock, so he decided to let it be.
“I wish we had ended this differently, because I know I’m the best damn repairman you’ve got and you’re going to need me if you expect to get these engines out in time for the next cargo haul.”
“The best, yeah, of course,” Craig laughed.
“When your uncle recommended you like a prime rib at a steakhouse, I was interested because I thought you had potential. It took… it took about a year after the accident before I realized what would become of you.
“Truthfully, I wish I would’ve ended this sooner.”

The discussion hadn’t gone in Fred’s favor. It seemed odd having to return to Terra, maybe it was the connections he had made with some of the crew aboard the platform, or how he could maneuver around the bay blind-folded if he had to, or that he knew if he left now, he would be leaving behind a part of his life that he could never get back.

ACT 1 - PART 1

As if losing his job wasn’t enough, after the engagement was over all of the vendors aboard the Terra Platform were given strict instructions not to sell nicotine-based products to the low-and-behold Fred Kirby. While walking the green mile back to his quarters, Fred remembered his life on Terra, what he had learned, and why he had left.

About the time Fred started working on the platform it became apparent to him he hadn’t any family left; he was an only child when his parents had died in the Terra confederacy. He had spent most of his life living and working with his uncle. When he was old enough, his uncle hired him to begin working in his citizen-class ship bay, adjusting fuel lines and bolting down metallic plates until he could be trusted outfitting engines. Eventually, Fred had outdone his uncle. Much like a blacksmith’s apprentice must make his masterpiece before exceeding in rank; the lowly-repairman had begun refitting engines with the precision and speed of an entire crew.

Things were going smoothly and his work had become his one-and-only passion. His uncle had taught him everything he knew, and from his example he had become a master of his art. His uncle was proud, and sent him on a pilgrimage to the Terra Platform when he was nineteen. They gladly hired him after watching him repair a civilian-class engine faster than their overseer did when he worked the line.

After a year had passed he felt truly comfortable in his new home. He had a sense of belonging, and the pressure did him some good. He was fit from lifting engine parts for examination and repair every day.

But everything changed when his uncle died. It was from there that things had begun to go downhill. He embraced living above Terra, though; he felt above all of his problems, above all of those who he loved and cared for. He felt like a ghost, present and unseen; from then on, he liked the idea of being an unknown entity.

After awhile being away from it all wasn’t enough. He thought of life as useless, meaningless, even, and took up smoking as a result. He liked the taste, the smell, and the way others looked at him when he used. He felt intimidating, worthless, and wasted, someone others would deter from being with. He didn’t want to make any connections he wouldn’t be able to keep; he’d made that mistake too many times before.

ACT 1 - PART 2

Fred threw his clothes into his workbag like bin-boys sift through trash, and then squished his bag down so everything would fit. He was packed and ready to leave, to head back to what he once-called ‘home’.

He dreaded walking to Shipping and Stationing. It was a trek he hadn’t made since he got there three years ago. Once he got there he packed his things aboard the commuter transport and swung around to the cockpit. The driver was a drunkard pilgrim with red hair and beard. He paid little attention to Fred when he passed by the cockpit.

“I’m Fred.”
“Lose your job, Fred?”
Fred paused. This driver was blunt, and he hadn’t given the commuter business any information as to why he was leaving the platform.
“…yes,” he replied, hesitantly.
“I bet you fucked up real good and proper to get kicked out of here,” the driver laughed, adjusting the crotch of his pants. Fred angrily climbed into his seat, which was cramped and uncomfortable. There were four chairs in the back, but he decided to take the co-pilot seat for a proper view.
“Do you like your job?”
“Can’t say that I do,” the driver replied. He was flicking switches and pulling levers all over his control panel, it looked so alien to Fred.
“I don’t understand the first thing about flying, but I’ve fixed commuter engines all my life—a thousand-fucking-times-over.”
“Well, I’m sure your poppy’s proud.”
The trip wasn’t short, but there was little dialog between the mechanic and pilot. They landed without conflict, and the pilot reminded Fred to ‘take his shit out of the back’ as he left.

Terra wasn’t as green or inviting as the name would suggest. The entire planet was covered in massive construction bays and industrial cities. Fred grew up here, and he knew the area well.
“Eh, Highlander, got any cigs on you?” asked Fred.
“Believe it or not I’m out of favors for your sorry arse. Now get the hell off my ship!”

Fred walked the streets of Terra for sometime before he reached his old home where he lived with his uncle. It was a small, humble shanty—even smaller now that it was dwarfed by nearby looming skyscrapers and military-class construction bays. It seemed another family had moved in during him and his uncle’s absence. It reminded him of something his uncle had once said a long time ago, when they tried to kick them out of their home.
I built this house with my hands, and my time, and my blood! I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the ‘people’s government’ get their hands on it!

It took him half a decade in court to get them off his back, something about tax codes and regulations. Not really anything Fred had much knowledge of. In fact, the more he thought about what he knew, the more he realized how little he actually did know.

Fred continued down the street that lay out in front of him for quite some time after stopping at his old place. He kept thinking about his life on Terra prior to the platform. He remembered a pink-lipped girl named Sammie, who never even gave him so much as a handy after two months of expensive dating and needless complimenting. After a few more regretful thoughts about relationships and schooling, he tried to remember his parents, but he found it difficult. He didn’t remember their faces, and they didn’t keep any photographs around for fear of the government ‘seeding them out’. All he remembered about them was their voices, when they told him not to worry, and that they loved him more and more after each passing day. There was irony in his memory of them however; the more they loved him the less he remembered them at all.

ACT 2 - PART 1

Vladimir wasn’t a man that anybody wanted to fuck with, but he was a man that would fuck with just about anybody. At one point in his adolescence, he got in a fight with a bully at school. Before it was all-said-and-done, he had bitten off the bully’s finger, and had chewed it into a bloody pulp.

Twenty-odd years after that case of petty-crime and playground cannibalism, he had become an irreplaceable asset of the Terra Confederacy; his job was to deal with unwanted people, mostly government agents and reporters. He specialized in making people ‘disappear’, and his methods were completely unknown to everyone but him. That’s why most people inside the Confederacy called him Vlad the Magician.

At the time of Fred’s arrival on Terra, Vlad was following orders to pursue and dispose of several possible undercover government agents as well as any notable members of either the government or pro-government citizenry. Surprisingly, Vlad was more than compliant to follow orders given to him by Confederate leaders; in fact, he quite liked being a part of the Confederacy. They considered themselves anarchists, people who wanted to make life hard for those who complied with the government and those who followed their lead—everything about them inspired Vlad to channel his deadly energies and keep focused his otherwise unstable mind.

While maneuvering the streets in search of his targets, he was bumped into by a man in a long suit-jacket. He recognized the man—he was a writer for a government-owned newspaper called ‘The Daily Judgment’. Vlad quickly headed into a nearby alleyway so as not to be seen.

Vlad had been following the reporter for several blocks, always letting him have about a hundred-yards leeway, before he found himself in a position to strike. The reporter was about to pass by an abandoned residence, and the only would-be witness was faced away from both him and his would-be victim.

He emerged from the shadows behind the reporter, and fastened his pace to reduce the distance between him and his target, making little noise while doing so. He had spent years learning to control his heart-rate and had built up a good-amount of endurance as to not run out of breath too easily, thus giving away his position.

When he was about twenty-yards away, he darted behind the abandoned house the reporter had passed not-too-long-ago, and emerged on the other side ready to kill. The reporter was caught off-guard, and by the time he noticed the man leaping after him his fate had already been sealed.

ACT 2 - PART 2

The reporter awoke to find himself tied to a chair with a gag in his mouth. He panicked, shaking violently in place, trying to free himself.
“Stop it,” said Vlad. He had noticed him struggling and had begun maneuvering toward him from behind. The reporter had tried to scream but his voice was so muffled only quiet whimpering emerged from his lips.
“I don’t like to have to repeat myself. So I’ll just let you know that if you keep trying to scream I’ll pull out one of your eyes and dangle it in front of you.”
The reporter immediately silenced himself, and closed his eyes tightly at the thought of them being plucked out of his skull.
“Good.
“Now, I’m going to take this gag off you. Do I have your word you won’t scream for help when I do?”
The reporter nodded and opened his weeping eyes so he could look at his captor. Vladimir had an ‘X’-shaped scar on his forehead, and his left ear was badly malformed.
“What do you want from me?” the reporter asked.
“Oh no… it’s not about me. It’s about the government.”
“What? You work for the government?”
“Do I look like a fascist to you, you ignorant fuck!” Vlad yelled, striking the reporter across the face with the back of his hand.
The reporter coughed-up blood and he began to bobble his head.
“Look at me. Look at me!” Vlad yelled, grabbing the reporter’s head in his hands.
“Remember what I said about repeating myself?” Vlad pushed the reporter’s head back towards the chair and reached for his pants pocket, pulling out a carpenter’s knife.
“No, please!” The reporter pleaded, once again shutting his eyes tightly as though his lids would stop steel from parting his eyes from his head.
“Please?” Vlad laughed.
“Are you begging me now? Good. It’s nice to know that I have your attention.
“There’s a man by the name of Anders Manchester, you’re going to write an article about how he’s exploiting the lower-class, and you’re going to accuse him of the murder of Joanne Elise.”
Elise was a city-council member, who had secret connections to the Confederacy, but that many people idolized. She had a large amount of support among the lower class, and her loss was devastating both to the poor people of Terra and the Confederacy.
“Wait… you’re going to let me go?”
“Would you rather I pluck your eyes out first?” Vlad smiled. Rarely did he let his subjects go, but when he did he found he enjoyed breaking them down to see their true nature. The reporter said nothing but kept his eyes shut tight.
“Now I’m going to untie you. If I found out you told anybody about what happened here, I’m going to find you and rip out your right eye. Then I’m going to make you listen as I chew it, slowly. Then, I’m going to spit whatever’s left of it all over whatever nice new outfit it is you’re wearing that day.
“Oh, and you might want to change your pants before you start writing. If you’re anything like the other reporters I’ve dealt with, I’d bet a dollar you’re carrying a diaper’s load of shit in your pants right now.”

ACT 2 – PART 3

Vlad sat in a Confederate safe house; he was engaged in conversation with one of the Confederacy’s leaders, Jacobs.
“I suppose you’ve heard of the Kirby incident,” assumed Jacobs.
“It’s one of the reasons I joined,” explained Vlad.
“So I’ve heard. When they were killed amidst rioting in the People’s Square, the Confederacy really took off. They became the face of our movement that we so desperately needed.”
“Those were truly deplorable times,” Vlad felt it was a good idea to sympathize with victims of the early-days of the Confederacy. Truth was, he only knew of the incident because it was around that time that the movement became violent, and that violence was what truly brought him to the Confederacy’s doorstep.
“Well, as crucial as their death was to our cause, we may have something much, much bigger on our hands.
“Their only son, Fred Kirby, arrived on Terra yesterday morning.
“Problem is he was raised by his seemingly pro-government uncle—“
“—real issue here is me not knowing why you’re briefing me on the job of a fucking fence,” Vlad interrupted.
“You’re not recruiting him, magic-man. I need someone who can follow him without being seen, someone who can find out whether or not we can trust him. He checked into Hotel Fahreed last night, chances are you can find him there.
“He’s a smoker and he’s out of a job on the Platform, chances are he’s looking for money and drugs. Persuade him to talk to you if you can. I’ve seen you in action; I know you can break a man down to his very core. That’s why I keep you around—that’s why I’m calling on you now.”
You don’t understand, Jacobs. Vlad thought to himself. You need me a hell of a lot more than I need you.

ACT 3 – PART 1

Fred was sitting at the bar of the Fahreed Hotel, pondering where he should start as far as interviewing for a new job. He thought of the government ship-bays where his uncle used to work, or maybe he’d apply for the military-class ship bay on the Platform. Either way, he knew he’d have to get back into repairing engines; it was all he knew, all he was any good at.

“Can I have something… strong?” Fred asked the bartender.
“Well, this is a bar,” replied the bartender.
“I want something different, though
“I want something that will make me think everything’s great, like nothing’s wrong.”
“Ah, I think I know what you’re getting at. Hold on,” the bartender went into the back of the bar and disappeared from view for a few minutes. At one point Fred thought of getting up and leaving, but then caught a glimpse of the bartender preparing his drink. He had poured some juice into a flask, added some olives that disintegrated within seconds, and began pouring in a mixture of strong bottled drinks that he couldn’t recognize. The bartender frequently passed in-and-out of view, grabbing different ingredients from shelves and burrows all around the bar. Finally he returned to Fred with his concoction.

“Here you are, my specialty,” the bartender handed Fred his drink. It was the color of the ocean, and something about that relaxed him.
“Thank you,” Fred reached for his wallet, but was interrupted by the bartender.
“—no, it’s on the house, my friend.”
“Oh, thanks again,” Fred motioned away from his wallet and gave the bartender a thumbs-up. Then he wrapped both hands around the flask—as if it had no handle—and lifted it to his lips. As he tasted it, he became transfixed. It tasted of all the fruits of the earth, and the more he drank the less he cared about the events that had scarred him in his life. His discussion with Craig had become a joke, his uncle’s death had faded from memory and he felt like a new man. With every passing moment, he remembered more of the good, and less of the bad.

“This is incredible,” remarked Fred.
“Yeah, I get that a lot. Just between you and me, what really does it is the Blue Extract.”
“Blue Extract, huh? Sure beats the hell out of tobacco.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” the bartender laughed and wiped his brow with a towel. He had thick eyebrows and wrinkled features. His thick black moustache mirrored his thick head of hair; he looked like he had had some time to figure out what he was doing behind the bar.
“Do you—“
“—no, I quit four years ago,” interrupted the bartender.
“Oh. Good for you.”
“Yeah, thanks,” the bartender laughed.
“So, what’s your name, anyway?” asked Fred.
“My name’s Clyde, what’s yours?” the bartender was now cleaning a flask with the same towel that he had used to clean his brow.
“Fred, my name’s Fred.”
“Glad to hear it. Listen, if you want to quit, you should get in contact with my supplier, her name’s Sammie, she’s big into the Blue Extract business. Just tell her Clyde sent you, she’ll know what to do.”
“Where can I find her?”
“She works out of home, about three blocks from here in a red condominium, you can’t miss it.”

ACT 3 – PART 2

“Wow, I really didn’t think it’d be you,” said Fred as he walked into the condominium.
“Yeah, I know, right? Long time, no see,” answered Sammie. They had dated before in high school, but there had never really been too much between them. She was a cute blond and was a talented dancer back-in-the-day.
“So, you’re here for the Blue Extract, right?”
“Yeah, just so happens that Clyde sent me.”
“Oh my peach-muffin is always sending me customers.
“Oops, don’t tell him I said that. You see… he doesn’t like people to know we’re together, he says it’s bad for business,” Sammie held her hands in front of her like a shy schoolgirl, which turned Fred on completely—but alas, she was taken.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Fred hated himself for saying that. It was something he wanted to take back right after the words had been vomited from his mouth like bad spaghetti. He hated cheesy catch-phrases.
“Right… so, I’ll go get it for you. Do you want to smoke it, inject it, or digest it?”
“I’d like to smoke it, thank you.”

Sammie had brought him a large bag of Blue Extract, which looked like small blue flower-pedals smashed into a bag. She had warned him about smell of it, which could cause you to give you a dangerous unfiltered high if it was snorted in too large of a dose. Then she explained that she’d only take payment in cash, regrettably Fred didn’t have enough cash on hand, but Sammie said she knew he was good for it.

Fred hid the extract underneath his clothes, but found it was impossible to mask the smell of sweet-roses drifting from the bag. It was captivating, really. The more he smelled it the more at-peace he felt, so much so that he barely knew he was walking at all. Then, Fred looked down at the pavement below him, and saw that there was Blue Extract pouring out of his now split-open bag.

“Hey, you, stop right there!” said an approaching policeman.
“Don’t you fucking move!” screamed his partner.
Clyde emerged from the hotel to see what all the noise was about, only to see his referred partner-in-crime being surrounded by policemen.

ACT 3 – PART 4

Vlad emerged from the Fahreed Hotel with his carpenter’s knife in hand. Vlad immediately leapt toward Clyde like a tiger pouncing after its prey.
“What the fuck—“
Clyde was interrupted by a knife in the eye, and he emitted a terrifyingly-loud scream. Vlad tried to cleanly pry the knife from Clyde’s eye socket but mistakenly took the entire eye with it, and was forced to begin stabbing the his stomach with what now looked much like a sharp eye-ball kebab. After slaying the would-be witness, Vlad delved into the darkness of a nearby alley.

“Lord have mercy,” muttered Fred.
Suddenly Vlad emerged from an alley behind the officers and leapt toward them. He had the same blood-covered knife in hand, and half of Clyde’s eye remained dangling from the blade. One of the guards immediately fired at Vlad and narrowly missed. Before he could get another shot off, however, he had sliced through his throat with his trophy-knife. The guard fell to the floor clinching his bleeding windpipe and kicking at the pavement in a desperate manner. The other guard, shaken from his partner’s death, anxiously reached for his side-arm. Vlad quickly sliced at the back of the guard’s neck three times in rapid-succession, causing the officer’s head to lean and dangle forward before finally snapping off and hitting the floor as his body followed suit.

Fred began to run, pouring a trail of Blue Extract in his wake.
“You won’t be too hard to find, Fred!” Vlad yelled after him, smiling.
“Your bad habits are going to catch up with you!”

FINAL ACT

Fred had run in least three blocks down when he heard Sammie’s screams. He couldn’t turn back now, though, he had to get out there.

Vlad leapt in front of Fred, unarmed, and smiled at him. Fred immediately turned around and ran through a nearby alleyway, leaping over boxes and even climbing over a chain-link fence before emerging on the other side, assumingly safe from harm. Fred stopped to catch his breath, and saw no sign of his would-be killer.

“Don’t move,” Vlad held a knife to Fred’s throat, and his head was so close he could feel the spittle spew from Vlad’s lips as he spoke.
“Make it quick,” Fred’s entire body tensed up, tear began to form in his eyes and he felt a primal rage brewing inside of himself.
“Easy enough,” Vlad moved the blood-soaked blade from Fred’s throat, securing it safely in his pocket.
“Oh, and don’t thank me now,” Vlad said.
“But I just saved your life.”
“Oh yeah, how’s that?” before Vlad could reply Fred had landed a haymaker to his face, which dropped him to the floor without a moment’s hesitation.
“Fuck!” Vlad spat blood on the ground as he got up. Fred began to run once more, only now knowing he had a head start. He quickly headed into a nearby alley, found a door and then burst into it like a burning man through a skyscraper window. He found himself in a busy pizzeria, and as he ran through the building the kitchen staff cleared in front of him in fear. Once he had exited from the restaurant, he found himself on a busy street. To his left he could saw a Shipping and Stationing building, and immediately began running toward it.

Fred reached the Shipping and Stationing building, but it was locked. They were apparently closed.
“Fuck me!” Fred grabbed his head in his hands in frustration. Then, he looked around for something that could break through glass. He found a sizable rock and picked it up in both hands, and then tossed it into the ‘S&S’ window, shattering it.
“Stop running, shithead!” Fred heard Vlad yell from behind him.
“Shit!” Fred yelled as he climbed through the broken glass window.
The lights in the building immediately turned on as he climbed inside. There was a single ship here—the same type of ship that brought him to Terra from the platform.
“Okay… okay… now I got to fly the fuck out of here.”
Fred tried to remember everything he could from his trip with the pilot, but all he could think of was what an asshole he was.
“Shit, think!” Fred was in the cockpit now, trying to decide what to do, and how to do it.
“Alright, I think I turn this…” Fred turned a knob that had a different speed acronym on each spoke: ‘KM/SS/LS/FTL’.
“Good! You’re getting there buddy, come on, hang in there!” Fred had turned the knob to KM, the lowest speed setting, and then thought of what to do next.
“What the fuck are you doing in that commuter? What do you think you’re going to do, fly away?” Vlad had climbed through the windows moments before, and was now covered in blood streaming from his now-broken nose.
“Fuck!” Fred tried frantically to get the ship to start, but even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to land it.
“Get out of the cockpit. Now” Vlad stabbed his dagger through the glass windshield, leaving cracks and splinters where Fred would have seen the stars pass him by.
“Okay. You know what, you win,” Fred got out of the cockpit with his hands behind his head.
“Good. Now stay the fuck there.” Vlad went around to the back of the commuter. He saw that the engine wasn’t operational; it had several missing components and a leaking fuel line.
“The engine’s busted. That’s why you didn’t make your getaway, kid,” Vlad was furious, but a little relieved to have caught up with his target.
“I can fix it. I can fix the engine,” Fred walked to the back of the commuter and inspected the parts as Vlad watched.
“Good. Fix it so we can fly out of here. Together,” Vlad smiled. It still hadn’t occurred to him that Fred had no idea who he was or what his intentions were.
Fred worked silently, fixing the engine and using spare parts from around the garage and industrial-strength tape for the fuel line. After about ten minutes time, the ship was operational.
“Get in the passenger seat. I’ll fly, not that I’ll be able to see a fucking thing—but that doesn’t matter, really, I know the way to where we’re going,” Vlad sat down in the driver’s seat.
Fred hesitated, and looked down at the engine. It was ready and fully operational.
This is my only chance, Fred thought to himself. This is it, this is all I’ve got.
Fred removed the Stabilizing Unit from the engine, and walked to the passenger seat.
“Good. Sit down,” Vlad commanded. Fred sat down and buckled himself in, his eyes shut tight, and tears coming to his eyes.
“You remind me of somebody,” Vlad laughed. Fred knew what was going to happen. But in his heart he felt it was better than being stabbed to death.
“Take us up,” Fred said, looking out his passenger window at the brightly-lit garage he had just worked in.
“You don’t need to be worried, Fred, I’m with the Confederacy. Which, I was trying to tell you before you broke my fucking nose.”
“Why should I give a damn who you work for? You just killed an innocent man and two policemen!” Fred looked at Vlad furiously.
“He should’ve known better than to get in a man’s way.” Fred was stunned. He was flying with a hired-killer and a sociopath.
“My job is to bring you to Confederate high-command. From then on you will be taking orders from Jacobs. I’m just a lowly henchman, if you can believe that.“
“Oh, that actually sounds like a lot of fun. It’s too bad you’re going to be dead when we get there.” Fred smashed Vlad’s head against the command console, splattering the windshield with his blood. Vlad slowly recovered, then fell back, unconscious. As the ship quickly descended toward the city below, Fred leaped out of the passenger-side of the commuter and landed hard on a high rooftop.

The ship exploded, blowing up an entire building and sending several on-lookers running out onto the streets, destined to burn to death.

Fred lay nearly motionless, croaking on a solid concrete roof. He had fallen nearly twenty feet onto his back, and he’d never felt better.
"Adrenaline... I think I might've found my new addiction," Fred rolled over onto his back and gazed up into the stars. Much as they were
the only orbs lighting up the night-time sky, the ignited men running amok in the streets were, in essence, their own and only lights in which
to see. Fred pondered whether or not he'd ever work on the platform again, and as he saw it loom into view in orbit, he could almost feel
his comeback. He'd go back, work harder than ever, and not have any need for drugs. Because now, he didn't care much about anything.
Not even himself.

Wow, that was great...

 

[Brambleclaw]

Agreed was a good read only a few points though:

"Fixing commercial-class engines was hard work, especially with the added pressure of having expensive cargo transports depending on their running smoothly"
This sentance doesnt make sense after the comma. Just reads really oddly.

Citaton might be need but "flush him out an airlock" Shouldn't that be an him out of an airlock? or is it fine as it is?


Also i have a concern about the exact genre of this story due to the fact that a steretypical "SPACE OPERA" is on a "LARGE SCALE" and can or usually includes "Distant romance"

While this seems more like a sweet anecdotal story http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Space_opera Should probably help you

I love the ending xP "Adrenaline the new drug addiction"

Otherwise great enjoyable read keep the good work xP
P.S GRAMMA NAZI

 

[Gausslander]

Agreed was a good read only a few points though:
"Fixing commercial-class engines was hard work, especially with the added pressure of having expensive cargo transports depending on their running smoothly"
This sentance doesnt make sense after the comma. Just reads really oddly.

I purposefully made it a run-on sentence so it'd flow more quickly, and get the reader on with the story. Also it's not really that important. But, I see your point.

Also i have a concern about the exact genre of this story due to the fact that a steretypical "SPACE OPERA" is on a "LARGE SCALE" and can or usually includes "Distant romance"

Key word: Stereotypical.

Nah, I had the same concern truthfully. I decided to have small aspects of space travel just for more interesting story-telling, but the story could've been made in modern day--which I guess is one of the better things about it.

I love the ending xP "Adrenaline the new drug addiction"

Thanks, I wish I could've made the story longer, but, alas, it could've been dragged out for another 30 pages for backstory. I originally had it setup where Fred was arrested by the police inside the safe house, like they raided it and found him covered in blood and in possession of Blue Extract. But, I decided the action would be better suited to end in a chase scene than another interrogation scene, as I already had one of those.

 

[RiotZ]

I purposefully made it a run-on sentence so it'd flow more quickly, and get the reader on with the story. Also it's not really that important. But, I see your point.



Key word: Stereotypical.

Nah, I had the same concern truthfully. I decided to have small aspects of space travel just for more interesting story-telling, but the story could've been made in modern day--which I guess is one of the better things about it.



Thanks, I wish I could've made the story longer, but, alas, it could've been dragged out for another 30 pages for backstory. I originally had it setup where Fred was arrested by the police inside the safe house, like they raided it and found him covered in blood and in possession of Blue Extract. But, I decided the action would be better suited to end in a chase scene than another interrogation scene, as I already had one of those.

You should have continued it imo. D:
Still well within contest's end.

 

[Gausslander]

Well, why have it any longer than it needs to be? And so far I'm the only one who's submitted, and I know I'm probably going to get docked for not having blue and purple space orcs running amok on Terra, but I don't really care too much for alien species--especially not biped aliens who have the ability to speak english.

 

[RiotZ]

Well, why have it any longer than it needs to be? And so far I'm the only one who's submitted, and I know I'm probably going to get docked for not having blue and purple space orcs running amok on Terra, but I don't really care too much for alien species--especially not biped aliens who have the ability to speak english.

Yeah, I agree 100%, I tried not to make my story to cliche. You can't really get a good story out of Space Opera, it needs some tweaking, and most people didn't submit exactly as it is supposed to be in the rules.

So I hope you and I don't get nerfed.

@Avator, I told you TWIF would go MIA, I haven't seen him yet. Also the contest host can't submit, it's against the rules.

 

[Grey Nightmare]

So how many entries do we have so far? 2?
5 Days from the deadline? Interesting.

 

[GunSlinger]

Extention?

 

[Grey Nightmare]

I would vote no, people were given adequate time, if they didn't manage it well they don't really deserve to win - Yeah I know real life gets in the way but I just think it's a little unfair if you postpone it so many weeks and someone enters and wins who didn't actually meet the deadline - In a real contest that wouldn't happen ;o

The person whose story is late might be better, but it's late - They've had more time. The person whose actually met the deadline is a bit hard done by in that situation :/

There's still time to write 2k from scratch - So I'm sure we'll get enough entries before the 30th!

 

[GunSlinger]

Do they still accept entries even though its a few hours late?

 

[Avator]

@Avator, I told you TWIF would go MIA, I haven't seen him yet. Also the contest host can't submit, it's against the rules.

You should really be a little more aware of stuff. As Gausslander posted before you: he's the only one who has submitted so far. So a conclusion that anyone who has not posted their final work yet isn't going to make it, is a poor one.
Also, hosts ARE allowed to join contests. The ones who are NOT are the judges, because they have to judge fair for everyone. Hosts are practically nothing more than the people who made the contest thread. No reason to ban them from entering.

 

[Brambleclaw]

Yeah, I agree 100%, I tried not to make my story to cliche. You can't really get a good story out of Space Opera, it needs some tweaking, and most people didn't submit exactly as it is supposed to be in the rules.

Yeh thats the sad part . Space opera is just bad Science fiction :L

WIP xP

SPACE OPERA
THE AZURE MIST :L
By Retards.inc ._.

1.

The black corridor gave a groan as he was lifted up the last step and dragged forwards into the darkness that came towards them like an all-consuming mist. The only sounds that could be heard in the vacant ghost of a ship were the muffled footsteps of the lonesome guards and the scuffing on his legs upon the cold steel. The metal above often gave a clicking sound at irregular intervals while the twists and turns to new corridors blurred together to form one single unending track. Time slipped by and the large men slowly began to give off groans and grunts pertaining to the one hundred and eighty pounds of dead weight which they had be hauling for so long across the dead metal. Despite this their faces were vacant as they gazed on into the empty space ahead of them.
After some matter of time, which he could neither count nor give a reasonable estimate, the two men released his arms and let him sloop to the ground. He could do no more than look up towards the men. Every other function of his body was incapacitated from the horrendous pain which shot through him in waves of utter torture. Blood dribbled from his nose to add to the crimson red layer that had formed, replacing what had been skin once. One of the guards kicked him in the side while the other was opening the metal door. The kick hit him like rock, but too weak to even keel over in the agony he just fell back, as what ever was left of inside ruptured into a red mush. Pain scorched him and threatened to tear him apart.
A high ringing sound pierce his ears as he lay there in a slump.
The door infront of him doubled in vision and he saw it move. His sight was so out of focus that he was not sure in which way it moved but either way it had opened, and he was soon back on his journey through the black pit than engulfed them. They dragged at his arms pulling on his tendons and over time it felt as if they had loosened from their sockets.
Slowly a small beam of blue light came into vision as his head sunk back into his shoulders. The light burned in his iris and he had to squint to block out the light. It seared his pupils and he finally gave up and relaxed his neck to that his head dropped forwards looking towards the ground. The navy beam pierced the ocean of black like a cold steel arrow of the night.

They dragged him on further down the hall and took another right. His legs battering on the ground loosely like a log on a chain. His keepers took another right and one dropped his right body letting it sloop to the ground. A metalic ring could be heard before an eery screech as metal pierced along the surface of the floor indenting a line of scratch marks in the solid metal frame. The guard receded placing both hands upon him once again pulling on his twig like arms. They both then hauled him inside the one of his left kicked him again this time in the head. His gaze blurred and dizzyness mixed with the hazyness of fatigue crept towards him. Life seemed to empty from him as everything mixed with the darkness. The blue beam was not visible from this precipice. His captors closed the door behind him, or was it infront of him? He could not tell either way. Time lapsed an horrific screech filled his mind and then sudden blackness as one last jolt of pained struck through his skull.



2.

Rain cascaded heavilly down like meteorites of the burning sun. The sky opened in its greyish shade of green in a violet twilight and sung its hymnfull tune as rays glittered reflecting of the light to create the Aurora borealis. Countless thousands now stooped in the low fields of Sethilca to look at the majestic grace of such godlike spirits. Colours quivered and dashed around mixing in a mixture of rays and the sight behold was that of a lifetime experiance. The lights conjoined and split performing a pantomine, for its audiance. Acting out the story of stories. Alone abadonment and a great journey followed as it conveyed each emotion with a single colour. Beyond the azure sky of wonder it lead to a sweet frost glade, past the tundra's and up half a scraggy mountain side. A small fire gave warmth to its surroundigs as it nesetled down in a small patch of Silver moon grass.
A light shadow flickerred beside the flame which seemed to lick at the cold air.
"So O'Conner what do you think of Teros", a man stepped from behind a rock carrying with him a heavy sack, using his two long arms to hold it in place while his shoulder and back took the weight, he gently dropped it to the ground.

 

[Amargaard]

Only two entries? Then I'll enter and write the shortest shortstory you have ever seen and get third place without competition! Muahahahahaha >

Shortstory WIP:
Hi.

 

[RiotZ]

Only two entries? Then I'll enter and write the shortest shortstory you have ever seen and get third place without competition! Muahahahahaha >

Shortstory WIP:
Hi.

There are four entries I believe.

 

[Amargaard]

Note, it was a joke :b

 

[Miss_Foxy]

Interesting contest, I'll be observing

 

[Avator]

Here's a new WIP.

Wip #2

“...and St. Chrea protected this place with faith alone, without harming a single man. Life is a sacred thing and he taught us that. This is why we dedicated this place, this cathedral, to the sacred St. Chrea. Ezaran.”
“Ezaran”, the crowd repeated.
The horns started playing their music and the crowd bowed their heads as they left the cathedral in an orderly fashion. The priest who just finished his prayers stayed at his pedestal to watch the sea of light blue cowls slowly flow through the doors.
When the last of the crowd were out of sight, a new man entered, dressed in long light blue robes like the people who just left. He got on his knees and made some gestures with his arms, although hidden in long, wide sleeves. After a small pause, the man reached out to the statue that was placed next to the door. The statue was of a scaled reptile with a book in his left hand and his right hand clamped around an amulet hanging on his neck. The statue itself was bronze, but was dressed in leather robes like the priest’s. The man gently touched the statue’s head with a similar scaly hand and then touched his own. He slowly stood up and walked to the pedestal where the priest still hadn’t moved.
“Oulteza Damien, the Gathering requests your presence. I have already summoned the other Oulteza’s, so they will probably be there by now.”
“Thank you”, the priest replied. “I will be there shortly.”
The man bowed his head and left the large room just as calm. The priest mumbled his prayers and then looked up from under his bright white cowl to gaze upon the marvelous architecture of the ceiling. A glimpse of a small, blue head revealed itself and its small eyes could only just peek under the cloth covering to see the authentic drawings that hung above him.
“Ezaran…”
He closed the book on the pedestal, stored it under his robes and left the now empty halls.

“Ah, Damien, welcome.”
Damien entered a room carved out of a mountain wall. He was no longer the only one dressed in bright white robes. In fact, the dozens of people that had already gathered had the same clothing. Damien kneeled by the statue at the door, spoke his prayers and touched the cold, bronze head. He then joined his brethren in the room and the meeting could begin.
“Oulteza’s of the Codex, welcome to the 53rd Gathering”, one of the hooded men said. “I’m sure all of you are wondering why I summoned you.”
Unlike most crowds that would start whispering their guesses and expectations, this group stayed completely calm, waiting for the man to continue.
“I have been blessed with a vision from St. Chrea himself. He has shown me our future in Ascension. And he has given me the gift to share it with you today.”
He raised his four-fingered hands and rays of light hit the statue behind the preaching man. This statue was of the same man as the one at the entrance, only thrice the size and it stood with its arms raised as if it were embracing the air. The light reflected to various corners in the room, where it in turn was all reflected to the middle of the room. The group of priests now took new places with the assembly of light as new the centre of attention.
It slowly began to dim, until out of nowhere the shape of an energized orb appeared. The energy visibly flowed all over the room until it seemed to burst out. For a second, every corner was illuminated with the brightest light, but none of the faithful priests backed down or covered their eyes. When the lights slowly faded away, the vision vanished into thin air as well. For the first time since the Gathering started, some priests acted different than others. Some were stunned, while others had a small satisfied smile on their faces. The man who raised his arms now lowered them to continue his speech.
“As you’ve all seen, the day of Ascension is coming. After many centuries of faith, we will finally be closer to the Gods to live in harmony. However…” he said with a small pause, “…this gift comes at a price.”
All priests were calm and focused again to hear the news.
“We have searched and found the location where the Ascension will start. It is deep within the Meyi system, where the Boalans live. We must not allow these unbelievers to interfere with the Gods’ plans.”
He took his time to look at every priest and proceeded.
“The Meyi system must be cleansed in order to let the Gods carry out their plan. It is clear what our objective is, that is also why I have called this gathering. As Oulteza’s, you must spread the word and keep faith high with all our inhabitants. In the upcoming weeks, we will prepare the armies to make an interstellar journey and clear out the system. It is our duty to accompany them on that journey and keep them on the path that will lead us to victory and harmony. You will all be informed a week before departure which platoons you will support. May the Gods help us through our upcoming ordeal. Ezaran…”
“Ezaran…” the Oulteza’s replied.
They left the room to go home with a goal in sight.

“Oulteza Damien.”
The same man that entered the Cathedral of St. Chrea a few weeks ago presented himself at the doorway of Damien’s hut.
“Ah, Nera, come in.” Damien said when he noticed who called for him. “I assume you’ve got the list?”
“Yes”, Nera replied. “And I’m sorry to say you weren’t the luckiest with your assigned platoons.”
“Come now, it doesn’t matter where I’m assigned. I join them, whoever they are, to protect them as much as they protect me. It is not the vehicles or type of weapons we use that will aid us. It is the favor of the Gods. Please, make yourself comfortable.” He said, gesturing to the chair by the dinner table.
Nera took the seat and watched Damien walk out of sight to his kitchen.
“Would you like a cup of gib juice? It’s really good.” he called from behind the wall.
“Sure, that sounds like it would hit the spot.”
A bit later, Damien returned with 2 small cups filled with some thick red goo and placed them on the table.
“Cheers.” he said as he raised his cup.
“Cheers.”
After both of them took a sip, Nera got a long list from under his robes and laid it out on table.
“That’s your name right there.” He said when pointing somewhere near the top of the list. “12th to 18th armored infantry.”
Damien tilted his head a bit to take a better look at the list.
“That means you’ll be jumping head first to clear the anti-aircraft platforms. Those platforms are patrolling around the flagship Merogin. That’s our goal. It is as big as a small planet and if we can take it over, we will have given them a blow they won’t be able to recover from. Victory would be assured then.”
“So how would we reach those platforms if they attack our ships with it?” Damien asked.
“The platoons will be shot out in pods at high speed. Their anti-air defenses won’t be able to hit an object moving that fast. When the pod is close enough to a platform, it’ll deploy its brakes automatically. The landing won’t be soft, but everyone inside will be safe and ready for combat as soon as it opens.”
“Wait, if the pods can’t be hit by their anti-air defenses, why…”
“Why don’t we land right on the Merogin?” Nera finished his sentence. “First of all, there are not enough pods to land the entire infantry. Second of all, we would have no vehicles whatsoever. And lastly, with the units that we could get ship-side by pod, we would be overwhelmed in minutes.”
Damien leaned back, taking it as a valid reason to avoid that tactic.
“Don’t worry. After the anti-air platforms are taken over, our ships can get in position. You and your platoons will be picked up again and dropped on the Merogin.”
“And what is our job there?” Damien asked.
“You need to take all eyes off the stealth team, led by Oulteza Vema-Oganim that will be brought in a few miles away from the main battlegrounds.”
Damien looked up from the list and kept staring emotionless to Nera for a few seconds. Then he replied. “We’re the bait?”
“No, no, no.” Nera quickly rectified. “You will be fighting just the same as all other platoons will and you still act like your priority is to take over the Merogin. You will however have to move parallel with the stealth team to give them constant covering.”
“Alright. Where do they go and where should we go?”
Nera seemed more relaxed as he pulled out another piece of paper and laid it over the list on the table. When he unfolded it, a map crawling with roads and marks revealed itself.
“This is where you will be dropped.” Nera said when he pointed at a mark labeled DAM. “You will go through these streets towards the control room.”
His finger slid over the map by a red line and ended up at a big black point marked as CR.
“Oulteza Vema-Oganim’s stealth team will land here in a pod, so they won’t be detected landing. With the battle elsewhere, the Boalans won’t notice them.” He said when his finger went down and right to a mark labeled VO.
From there, a purple line went all the way up, past the CR mark to an open area without a label.
“And what do they do when they reach their destination?” Damien asked.
Nera smiled and said: “They will assure victory.”
It still made little sense to Damien, but if it was important for him, Nera wouldn’t be so cryptic. Besides, that was info for Vema-Oganim’s platoon. He had all the info he needed.
“So” Nera said. “Anything else you’d like to know?”
Damien shook his head, after which Nera folded up the map and list so he could store it under his robes again.
“Well then. You will be picked up here in 7 days around 15:00, so you will be moved to the gathering area where you will meet your platoons and start your journey.”
He took a last big sip of his gib juice, placed the cup back on the table and saluted Damien as he walked to the doorway.
“Have a nice day.”
“You too.” Damien replied.

 

[Gausslander]

That's a very solid Sci-fi story.
The dialogue reminds me of the old Battlestar Galactica
Probably more theme-fitting than my submission.
I'm thinking of adding an epilogue to mine, which
would explain Fred's days aboard the platform and
his new behavior that has developed since the
chase scene.

 

[Dragonson]

Ere's a WIP containing the part of the story that i wish for you guys to know of before i'm pretty damn sure i wont be changing it.

 

[Brambleclaw]

One thing may i ask when posting your wip please post it as a hidden tag part of a post or as a Plain text.

For the people who do not have Word :L Ty

 

[stonneash]

i will like to judge!

 

[Avator]

i = I
will = would
stonneash = no judge material

I thought 3 people without skill being turned down would be enough to understand the formula of how someone can qualify to even ask for a judge position...

 

[Dragonson]

One thing may i ask when posting your wip please post it as a hidden tag part of a post or as a Plain text.

For the people who do not have Word :L Ty

Open Office. Does everything that words does, except better.
And well, i can convert it into a plain text when finished, but for now i'm posting it as i'm writing it.

 

[Brambleclaw]

i = I
will = would
stonneash = no judge material

I thought 3 people without skill being turned down would be enough to understand the formula of how someone can qualify to even ask for a judge position...

Oaky Msetir If yuor scuh a gmamr Nzai tehn i popsre meylsf as a jdgue

(If your first language is english then you should be able to read that 100% Otherwise your a mental retard---P.S Discovered by Cambridge nerds)


No dragonson i dont have word so i meant put as PLain text because i cant read word documents. I have used both Word 2010 before and Office . I personally prefer Word :L

 

[Avator]

Poor Cambridge nerds. English is my second language and even with multiple grammar errors in that anagram, I know what it says

 

[Jazztastic]

Brambleclaw would be a good judge for this contest. His diction extends the bounds of mortal men, containing such a plethora of words as to bedazzle all spectators. But yeah I like him as a judge.