Bay 12 Games Forum

Finally... => Creative Projects => Topic started by: CJ1145 on March 31, 2011, 10:16:35 pm

Title: CJ's personal project, "The Color of War is Gray" OR "Pretentiousness Incarnate"
Post by: CJ1145 on March 31, 2011, 10:16:35 pm

So yeah, I'm writing a sci-fi story. There's a whole ton of background I've got set up, but I don't have time to write it right now, so I'll just leave the first two chapters (a combined total of 4500 words  :o ) and go. Any criticism, comments, or praise would be appreciated.

Spoiler: Chapter 1 (click to show/hide)

Space. A word with a thousand meanings, each conveying an emotion, a most primal nature. But at the moment, the meaning it conveyed most was "emptiness". The galaxy, known by a thousand names of its own, was checkered and split between hundreds of factions; each a different color, a nature bestowed upon them by fate to play. If one was to look down from the top of the galaxy, they would see a tight cluster of stars in what appeared to be near the center of the galaxy, drifting lazily northeast. This cluster's color was red, the color of blood, and of rust. Well-fitted to the types of men there.   
         This was the home of the Galactic Commerce Guild. To a stranger they seemed perfect, an entire system-spanning nation dedicated to the regulation of the galactic economy. To those more familiar, they were a very grim joke. The cluster's residents were indeed the regulators of the economy, but there was good reason for the centuries-long recession that gripped all of civilization. The Guild was heavily privatized, and led by a council of thirteen. Each councilor's company, in addition to the basic resources, tightly held a planet containing a precious resource that none of the others had access to. In theory, this was to balance the factions, and promote cooperation. The councilors tended to have other ideas.
         Though there was no official military among the Guild, each councilor employed a private military company to enforce the rule within their territory. They were also used in more covert missions, making quick strikes on other councilor's planets to steal their resources. A much preferable option to trading or, worst of all, paying for it. These isolated raids had a nasty habit of escalating, leading to private wars, carrying on in full force until one councilor was dead. Their next of kin would then replace them, and lead their companies from there. Most often, they would pick up the blood feud where it was left off.
         This brings us to the original point. The year was 7,808 PS or Post-Sundering, the first interstellar war. After a particularly vicious skirmish with the McCaine clan, a death had occurred among the councilors for the first time in two decades. Albus Amagai, age 112, was murdered when Cloud mercenaries--the traditional soldiers of the McCaine--stormed his private yacht. When he attempted to resist, a knife was slipped between his ribs, and he was killed in a matter of minutes. News spread fast, and the other councilors began to wonder who they would replace Albus with. Their mutterings were the sole subject of many council meetings.
        Do you think it might be Lucius? No no, Lucius was killed in a turbine accident two months ago, haven't you heard? Well, maybe it will be Dask then. All three of you are insane; the only one with any experience is Martha, so she is the obvious choice. You daft bastard, where do you get off saying things like that when your men murdered her not two nights ago!?
         Council meetings tended to be loud affairs.
         However, the man for the job, as decided by Albus himself through his will, was not any one they would have guessed. For, almost twenty years before, the Amagai councilor recognized that his time was likely not long. Though he had no way of knowing just how long he would last, he assured himself that assassins would start making attempts shortly. So, in secret, he conducted an experiment precisely to avert the power vacuum that would follow his demise. He had the advantage, in that no one guessed the means of his plan, even if they were to discover the purpose.
         To the public eye, the Amagai's capital planet of Heaven's Gate has only one unique resource. A naturally-occurring metal known as amagium. Tougher than diamonds, but extremely malleable under sufficient heat, amagium is often used in top of the line starships for armor plating, and the personal armor of highly valuable persons and their guards. But unbeknownst to any but the councilor himself, Heaven's Gate held a second precious resource. Deep in the caverns that run underneath the planet lives a species of giant worm, with highly strange blood. The ooze it leaks has special properties which, when mixed with a special blend of chemicals, creates a soup capable of creating and sustaining tissue. The Amagai clan had the means to create the perfect cloning vats.
         With a bit of his own tissue, and that of a woman randomly chosen from the populace, Albus grew his very own son in the vats. With all of his knowledge, and the body of a young man, this heir would be the perfect councilor. Diplomatic, cunning, intelligent, and entirely ruthless. And when Albus was murdered, the time came for the young man to step up.
On August 15th that year, the monthly council meeting was called. The 12 veterans arrived into the ceremonial Council Chamber, a pure white room with bright blue lights, the brightness designed to keep everyone awake and focused; an attempt that failed miserably. Thirteen luxurious chairs hung from the ceiling in a perfect circle around a plain white table, useful only for the passing of documents and gossiping notes. As soon as they had all arrived, they began their usual ritual, bickering about the choice of the Amagai heir, only to stop and gaze in fascination at the 13th member they had just noticed among them. He was tall, and had broad shoulders, though his waist was slightly thinner than a man's his size would normally be. His muscles were well developed-- a feature nearly unheard of among the frail members of the clans-- and showed a bit even under his gray tunic. His face was cold, with eyes half-open, and an expression of extreme boredom looming within them. Without a word, he walked to the seat belonging to the Amagai councilor and sat down in silence.
         One of the other councilors, a fat old man named Silas Bargo, sputtered at the boy's impudence and demanded that he stand up and explain why he dared to sit in a seat reserved for councilors. With a sigh, the young man stood up, and rotated his shoulder before speaking. His voice was smooth and low, but with a youthful tone underneath it.
         "My name is Darius Amagai. I am the new councilor for the Amagai clan."
   To say that the response of the councilors was surprised would be a grave understatement. The cacophonic volume of their shouting in previous meetings was dwarfed by the ear-piercing protests that arose now.
   “Imposter!” They shouted. “There IS no Darius Amagai!”
   Though the young man calmly worked to ease the tension, councilor Bargo would have none of it, and immediately called for the guards. The mention of summoning guards was all it took to quiet the others, for the guards had not been summoned to remove a visitor in their lifetimes. It would certainly be a novel experience. They waited with bated breath for what seemed like several minutes. This is because it was several minutes, and no guards had arrived yet. Bargo had a look similar to bewildered, spoiled puppy on his face, as if he had been denied a promised treat. He opened his jowly maw to call for them again, but there was no need; the door to the chamber opened in a swift hiss, and two men stepped in. But they were not the gold-armored Vipers that usually guarded the chamber. These men wore olive green armor, shined to perfection; the very latest model of amagium-plated combat armor. These men belonged to Darius; the councilors realized this about the time they had two assault rifles painting their faces with targeting lasers. But with a wave of Darius’s hand the men lowered their weapons, and settled for scowling at the timid bureaucrats from the side.
   “Please, could we all just settle down for a moment?” Darius insisted.
   “What did you do with my Vipers?!” shrieked an old woman by the name of Melissa Staunt. Her beehive hair and excessive makeup was quite possibly the funniest thing Darius had seen in his short life, though if it truly amused him only he knew. His face remained stoic. He did, however, make a frustrated sigh.
   “Your precious mercenaries are enjoying a relaxing trip back to their homes, funded by the Amagai Corporation.” replied the young councilor. “Considering that we were lacking in guards, I decided I could post men of my own for the duration of the meeting.”
   “That’s insane, and more importantly completely at odds with the traditional order!” the woman spat back. “The Staunt’s Vipers guard this chamber daily for the rest of the year! The Amagai do not have their turn for another decade! The pattern has been set in stone for centuries, and you dare to challenge it?”
   “I do apologize, madam.” Darius quickly stated, with a bow to accent the low-key insult. “I suppose, if you wish, I could simply send my Badgers off, leaving twelve old and wealthy characters with an unknown, possibly hostile man in his physical prime. Does that sound fair enough?” Staunt reconsidered her stance and immediately withdrew the protests. But another man spoke up, this one considerably younger than the rest.
   He was a dark-skinned, stout man, a bit rotund, and in his finest suit. His face was clean-shaven and had an air about it that seemed skeptical at the very best. His name was Vincent Layton, an adopted member of the Layton clan, aged 50, and the second newest councilor if Darius was to be counted among them. He spoke an octave above the others, in a voice that grated with his figure.
   “You expect us to just believe that some heir we’ve never even heard of has come out of the blue to conveniently claim his deceased father’s place? We’re going to need a little proof before we start trusting any stranger with hired help to walk through this door.”
   Darius allowed himself a bit of a smile at this question. “I wouldn’t ask you to; take a look at these.” He went back to his seat and flipped open a small console full of various buttons available to any councilor who sat there. He pressed a round green one, and in response the very ceiling of the chamber opened up. From it a rack full of files and documents descended, placed there by Darius that very morning. The young would-be councilor leaned over and hovered his hand over the files, muttering to himself as he sought out one in particular. Finally his hand snapped, snatching up a small sheet of paper, which he carefully handed to Councilor Layton. “These should be all the proof I need.”
   The councilors, one by one, observed the page, and to their dismay found it to be legally binding. It was written in the same handwriting as that of Albus Amagai, and indeed it did declare that his supposed son Darius was to take control of the clan. At the very bottom of the page, a round blob of green ink registered itself as the stamp of Albus, a customized stamp that only he knew the full intricacies of, and was intended as a signature for a council member. It was a proud lion, a long extinct creature from earth, its proud and majestic mane stretching down its back and along its flowing tail, its wings unfurled in an imposing manner, and a jet of fire escaping its open mouth. Its emerald fur seemed to shine in the bright light of the chamber, and hypnotized the members of the council. As if in a trance, they handed the sheet back and silently nodded.
   Yes, yes, definitely the son of Albus. I knew it from the start. Don’t start that again, you daft fool! I really should have recognized that nose, come to think of it…
   With a raise of his hand, Darius cut off the chattering councilors, and beckoned them to their seats. In short order everyone was seated, and waiting for the new member to join them. Darius leaned back gently into his chair, crossing his right leg over his left and folding his fingers together. “Now that I’m comfortable, let’s begin.”

Spoiler: Chapter 2 (click to show/hide)

The lights of the room dimmed slightly, as a Badger fiddled with the controls by the door. The Badgers were the long-standing mercenaries loyal to the Amagai clan. Fierce and armed to the teeth, they are notorious throughout the galaxy for their ability to track down any target, and eliminate in a glorious display of firepower. Their practically impervious amagium armor certainly did nothing to quell their bravado.
   “Well then, Councilor… Amagai.” said Bargo, his lips in visible pain as he relinquished the title to the newcomer. “I assume you were at least briefed on the process of these meetings?”
   “Oh, most assuredly.” Darius replied. “I am completely up to date on the mechanics of these meetings. I am merely waiting for a briefing on the state of the economy.”
   “Not much to be said.” A frail old voice responded. Councilor Orville Smitt, the oldest member of the council and senior member, pulled out a thin sheet of paper and placed it on the table. In an instant, a display read it and projected the information on displays for the others to read. A financial report for the quarter was all to be found there, and to call it disappointing would be an understatement that was disappointing in itself. Over the last two decades, the recession that gripped the galaxy had finally been addressed, and was being worked through by a series of reforms brought about by Albus Amagai, and the newcomer Vincent Layton. These reforms were held up only by their combined influence, and with Albus dead they fell through quickly.
   The falling out showed in the report, which stated in a calm and businesslike manner that approximately 40% of galactic population was living below the poverty line. Darius stumbled over that number, and went back to check it again. Forty percent, his eyes did not lie. Nearly half of the galaxy was living in a state not fit for animals. He stood up in a flash, startling the councilors only slightly, for they were far too busy being terrified by the Badgers, who had lifted their rifles they moment their commander stood, waiting for a target to be given.
   “Wait a minute, surely this is some sort of mistake.” he said, his eyes reading that number again. “Forty percent? Surely this must be some kind of mistake, have the numbers always been this high?”
   “High?” asked Councilor Smitt, seemingly confused by the boy’s own confusion. “Councilor Amagai, the numbers have not been this low for as long as… well, for as long as I can remember! Your father did some amazing work, boy; er, costly, but amazing nonetheless.”
   Darius felt his lip quiver a bit. He felt… anger? No, his life out of the tube had been short, but he had already felt anger, and this was not it. A deep weight was on his chest, and his mind scrambled with what felt like static. He could not concentrate on anything but that number. Forty percent. He felt wronged; a great injustice had been done here, he could feel it. He looked at the councilors sitting around him, the fat fools bickering over their territories like children fighting over toys, while every day untold billions, perhaps trillions suffered for their foolishness. He had been in that council for ten minutes, and already he could tell how broken the system was, down to its very core. In his heart he knew that something had to change. A new system was needed, but what?
   If more matters of importance came up in that meeting Darius did not hear them, all he could focus on, all that even entered his head was that number, and one solitary line: How do I change the system? Hours passed as if they were minutes. Councilors argued, they insulted, and they squabbled as they were prone to do, but after an extended time all business was concluded. In a curt gesture, they stood and bowed to each other, and left. Darius had not moved, still sitting in his chair, leaning forward, and staring across the table. The empty seat sat still for but a moment, before it rose into the ceiling. The chair belonged to Councilor Layton. In his mind, Darius was already formulating a plan.
   “Sir?” asked one of the Badgers, anxiously standing by the door. “The shuttle is here, would you like to leave?”
   Darius nodded silently, realizing for the first time that he had been still for so long. He quietly exited the room, and the Badger closed the door behind them, sealing the chamber until the next meeting; though if Darius had his way, that would not happen for a very long time.
   The pair, guard and councilor walked down a narrow corridor. Darius took the time to stare out the windows to his right. The vast expanse of space greeted him, the stars above and the surface layer of a swirling blue gas giant below them. The council met aboard the Tower Shield, an ancient space station built at the founding of the Guild around the planet Omnibus IV, the afore-mentioned gas giant. Its labyrinthine corridors and lack of advanced defenses hinted at its ancient nature, but the greatest clue was the color. The modern clans each had their own preferred color schemes, gaudily splashing them wherever they could possibly go; but the Guild of old had more reserved tastes. The Tower Shield was a dull gray, making it nearly impossible to make out against the dark background of space. Some speculated that this was meant to make it harder to detect, but other scholars with more common sense asked why that would be so when it orbited a bright blue planet, against which it would stick out like a sore thumb.
   But before Darius could exposit further within his mind, the hallway abruptly turned to the left, leading into a docking bay where an olive green shuttle awaited. Two Badgers stood guarding the loading ramp, at the foot of which stood a rather brutish looking individual. Everything that the frail councilors were not, this man had a stern, scarred face that demonstrated his years of faithful service on the front lines. His battle armor was nearly as decorated, with dings, scratches, dents, and a peculiar claw rake across the torso marring its olive surface. His closely-cropped sandy hair was all but gone in a solitary patch, where a revolting bite wound had scarred. He saluted as Darius approached, as did the Badgers under his command, but with a wave of the councilor’s hand he stood at ease.
   “I assume the meeting went as well as you had hoped, Mr. Amagai?” asked the man. Darius could do nothing but shake his head and sigh.
   “It’s Councilor Amagai now. And no. Not so nearly as well as I’d hoped. Let’s get on the shuttle, Bill, I’ll tell you about it on the way.”
   Bill, full name William Kraft, was the commander of the Carthan Protection and Reconnaissance Company, otherwise known as the Badgers, and the first friend that Darius had made outside of the cloning vat. The two walked onboard the shuttle together, Bill listening intently as Darius explained the situation to him. After the long and information-filled story, all Bill could do was nod silently, as he rolled an unlit cigar around in his mouth.
   “That’s rough, sir. ‘Course, things are rough all over these days. But if you ask me, what you’ve gotta do’s obvious, and I think you know it.”
   Darius looked at him disbelievingly. “You can’t possibly mean that I take control of the council?”
   “I do, sir.” affirmed the mercenary leader. “An’ don’t try telling me you can’t. Been alive for less than a year, you’re already the smartest man I know, and hell, that ain’t counting the fact you’ve got the resources of a whole clan at your feet, not t’ mention me an’ the Badgers.”
   Darius shook his head, still skeptical of his friend’s faith. “I can’t involve your men, Bill. There’s likely little money to be found in this venture.”
   “So? Pay my boys in heads an’ they’ll follow you just as far, and wit’ twice the fervor. Ain’t had a good scrap in years, none of them other mercs is brave enough to face a Badger in a fair fight. Give us a war an’ we’ll give you a throne.”
   Darius stared as Bill extended his hand, his face an eager and devilish grin. After a moment the Amagai boy returned the handshake, a little smirk of his own shining through his stoic demeanor. “All right, you’ve convinced me, Bill. I’ll try, but I can’t do this alone, and there’s more to a war than how many soldiers I can throw at it. There’s the matter of diplomacy, and politics. Luckily enough, I know where we can start.” he pounded on the door to the pilot’s section of the shuttle. “Set course for Valhalla! We need to have a word with Councilor Layton!”
   The pilot on the other side nodded, though to whom she was not quite sure. The agile little ship flipped through the air and began to hurtle through space in the opposite direction it had been going a moment before, its rear engines swelling as a bright blue energy gathered within them. A minute later, and the hyperdrive activated in full force, the shuttle disappearing in a blink.
   Not a minute later, the same blink returned to normal perception, in an entirely different system. They rested on the fringes of an asteroid field now, though the pilot distanced the shuttle quickly before Councilor Amagai realized how close they had come to certain death. The direction they were headed in now led them to a brown, dead-looking planet, surrounded on all sides by metal shrapnel and debris. This was Valhalla, capital of Layton territory and home to the councilor Vincent himself. Once the bustling trade capital of all Guild space, it was now practically abandoned by the other clans, after a violent McCaine raid tore their various stations to shreds, leaving the space around Valhalla a practical minefield. No trade ship larger than a private freighter dared to enter that space. By luck, the small Amagai shuttle was the perfect size to squeeze through the deadly flotsam, and make its way down into the planet below.
   As the shuttle entered the atmosphere, it became apparent that the brown color was not the vegetation itself, but a smog that choked the very planet of all color. Valhalla was not just a trade center, but also the greatest manufacturer of vehicles and machinery in all of Guild space; nearly all ships, cars, and appliances in that quadrant of the galaxy could find their roots here.
   The trip lasted nearly an hour, as the shuttle weaved its way through millions of busy aerial cars zipped along the skyways to and from work, slowly making its way towards the residence of Vincent Layton. It was nearly impossible to miss once they had found it.
   The estate, for it could only be called an estate, covered thousands of acres easily, and was made up of dozens of inter-connecting buildings with underground tunnels and elevated walkways to get pedestrians from location to location. Bill made an impressed whistle as he viewed the place. He muttered something about “rave spot of the millennium”, but Darius paid little attention to his friend’s jokes. He was focused on diplomacy now, and all the lessons his father had ever implanted in his ran through his head.
   The shuttle touched down on a rooftop platform, and opened up to reveal a half-dozen guards in crimson armor waiting for them. The Layton’s own mercenaries of choice, the Hellions awaited the guests. Darius and Bill exited the shuttle without a response, but when the other guards attempted to step out the Hellions raised their weapons. A single crimson-clad guard stepped forward and mindlessly barked out an order from Councilor Layton himself, that only two-man parties could enter his estate at any given time. Bill responded by telling the guard, whom he referred to as “Chuck”, that his boss was terrible at showing two fine ladies such as themselves a good time. One rifle-butt to the head later, a quieter Bill followed Darius inside.
   The interior was dimly lit, but tastefully decorated in warm colors, as if it were a particularly high-quality university hall. The Amagai representatives were directed onto a moving trail along the floor. They stepped aboard, and were rapidly carried through the building. They paid little attention to the trip, however. Darius stared at Bill for a moment, until the veteran became uncomfortable and asked him why he was staring.
   “Chuck?” responded the young councilor.
   “What about him?” responded the veteran.
   “Just who was he, exactly?”
   “Chuck’s how I got the claw marks.”
   Darius was intrigued at how this could have taken place, but before he could inquire further the trail suddenly stopped. They found themselves at a massive set of double doors, opened wide to reveal a luxurious office, as dark and crimson as the rest of the building. The walls were decorated with numerous portraits of past Layton councilors, all mysteriously wearing what appeared to be the same tan trench coat. A fireplace crackled to the side, next to which was a large mahogany desk. And behind that desk sat a large figure, whom Darius recognized as Councilor Layton himself. He was reading something off the top of a stack of papers, only to glance up and recognize the pair. His demeanor quickly shifted into an almost jovial state.
   “Oh, Darius! Come in, come in!” he gestured to a pair of seats in front of his desk, which the two guests quietly took. Vincent was practically beaming as he greeted them. “I have to say, you performed fantastically this morning! I don’t know why your father never told me about you, but I’ve gotta say he picked the right heir!”
   Darius gave a polite smile in return, though his drooping eyes made no change. “Thank you for the kind words, Councilor Layton; but in fact, since you mentioned my father I felt we should get straight to business. My friend William and I have come here because we know that you were one of Albus’ most outspoken supporters in his policies and, well, we felt we could come to you with a bit of a proposition.”
   “A proposition? As in a business proposition? What’d you have in mind?” asked Vincent, leaning forward a bit to show they had his full attention. Darius wrapped his lips into a thin smile around his glowing teeth.
   “I suppose you might call it an alliance.”

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Vector on April 01, 2011, 01:01:01 pm

I think you need a better hook.  Basically, if the first sentence is just "Space," I'm not going to read it.  Not because I dislike science fiction, but because that simple idea of "Ooh, space" doesn't grab me anymore.

As they say, the closer you get the problem to the first sentence, the more your reader has to be interested in.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Supermikhail on April 01, 2011, 02:16:18 pm

Well, that about "Space ooh" was bullshit. I went away from the forums for some time, read some good literature, or literature that no one begs you to criticise, or literature with more than a thousands words to read... and had some good night's sleep, and took up an exercise schedule. I want to say that stuff reads much clearer these days. And at least the first paragraph is readable.

If you allow for a brief digression, the longer I give feedback, the more difficult it becomes to define what characterizes good literature. You know, I used to go to all those writing blogs - yep, they give sound advice - advice that'll help you to sell your story. But does the quality of being sold make your story good? I mean the general public will suck on anything that's big and shiny...

On that profound note, I'd like to ask the author, what motivated him to write this story? Does he hope to give anything? Or to get? What's the goal? I liked the first paragraph, then I started slipping away. I'd call it, you take too much for granted. Namely, for me the Guild was a pretty vague entity, and all that stuff happening or being described in the second paragraph touched upon too lightly to be comprehensible, too quickly to involve. Yeah, and you probably should get rid of "a very grim joke" - it's words which don't really mean anything without context, which comes afterwards... I guess I'll remember some blog advice - each word should have it's place and meaning, and reason, and something...

I'll skim. You should put quotation marks around all dialogue, including "Do you think it might be Lucius?" Confusing.

A few logic slips. First, I think you meant "a knife was slipped between his ribs, and he was dead in minutes". Or maybe without "and he was..." at all. Technically, we can guess how it concluded.

I didn't understand why there's all that bullshit with cloning. If there was a woman that was ready to bear a child to Albus Amagai, why couldn't they do it naturally? I didn't read Ch.2, did soul of the father get transfered into the son? Otherwise, brains can't be cloned. And anyway, that adamantium and the Arrakis worm are kind of too obvious "hommages". So far they don't achieve anything except for the geek value and sounding silly.

Well, in general, with rought spots, the writing comes out as decent "teenage novel" kind. That's definitely for a certain demographic. And the demographic is around this forum. I don't get it.

Oh. Also. Spellcheck is your friend, and you may want to check out this nifty tool (http://editminion.com/) (which was introduced to me on this very forum by either user Fishbreath or Willfor, or somebody else with a similar two-syllable name, anyway).

If I call this good writing, I know I'm going to be called on it. But it's regular teenage writing. With pretty rich language, I think, or at least fancy.

Now, to actually make some use of my feedback, the thing you want to do is to completely ignore it and keep on trucking. I see where you're at, and pretty much nothing will do you much good here other than practice. I said my piece.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: CJ1145 on April 01, 2011, 03:42:46 pm

Quote from: Vector on April 01, 2011, 01:01:01 pm

I think you need a better hook.  Basically, if the first sentence is just "Space," I'm not going to read it.  Not because I dislike science fiction, but because that simple idea of "Ooh, space" doesn't grab me anymore.

As they say, the closer you get the problem to the first sentence, the more your reader has to be interested in.

I had trouble thinking of quite what to start it off with. I wanted to make it clear from the beginning that the galaxy was divided, but also that paragraph was something of a vehicle to introduce the first major faction, and introduce a color theme. The color of red, like blood was important to the Guild, as it's a hereditary organization, but also of rust, to symbolize that it is an ineffective and crumbling system, thus the need for change. If you have any better ideas I'm open to them, that's why I posted this here.

Quote from: Supermikhail on April 01, 2011, 02:16:18 pm

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Well, that about "Space ooh" was bullshit. I went away from the forums for some time, read some good literature, or literature that no one begs you to criticise, or literature with more than a thousands words to read... and had some good night's sleep, and took up an exercise schedule. I want to say that stuff reads much clearer these days. And at least the first paragraph is readable.

If you allow for a brief digression, the longer I give feedback, the more difficult it becomes to define what characterizes good literature. You know, I used to go to all those writing blogs - yep, they give sound advice - advice that'll help you to sell your story. But does the quality of being sold make your story good? I mean the general public will suck on anything that's big and shiny...

On that profound note, I'd like to ask the author, what motivated him to write this story? Does he hope to give anything? Or to get? What's the goal? I liked the first paragraph, then I started slipping away. I'd call it, you take too much for granted. Namely, for me the Guild was a pretty vague entity, and all that stuff happening or being described in the second paragraph touched upon too lightly to be comprehensible, too quickly to involve. Yeah, and you probably should get rid of "a very grim joke" - it's words which don't really mean anything without context, which comes afterwards... I guess I'll remember some blog advice - each word should have it's place and meaning, and reason, and something...

I'll skim. You should put quotation marks around all dialogue, including "Do you think it might be Lucius?" Confusing.

A few logic slips. First, I think you meant "a knife was slipped between his ribs, and he was dead in minutes". Or maybe without "and he was..." at all. Technically, we can guess how it concluded.

I didn't understand why there's all that bullshit with cloning. If there was a woman that was ready to bear a child to Albus Amagai, why couldn't they do it naturally? I didn't read Ch.2, did soul of the father get transfered into the son? Otherwise, brains can't be cloned. And anyway, that adamantium and the Arrakis worm are kind of too obvious "hommages". So far they don't achieve anything except for the geek value and sounding silly.

Well, in general, with rought spots, the writing comes out as decent "teenage novel" kind. That's definitely for a certain demographic. And the demographic is around this forum. I don't get it.

Oh. Also. Spellcheck is your friend, and you may want to check out this nifty tool (http://editminion.com/) (which was introduced to me on this very forum by either user Fishbreath or Willfor, or somebody else with a similar two-syllable name, anyway).

If I call this good writing, I know I'm going to be called on it. But it's regular teenage writing. With pretty rich language, I think, or at least fancy.

Now, to actually make some use of my feedback, the thing you want to do is to completely ignore it and keep on trucking. I see where you're at, and pretty much nothing will do you much good here other than practice. I said my piece.

Wow. Lot of stuff to cover here. It's reasonable stuff and I understand where you're coming from, but I'd like to at least make my intentions clear on the muddier areas.

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On that profound note, I'd like to ask the author, what motivated him to write this story? Does he hope to give anything? Or to get? What's the goal?

I guess, to tell a story? Ever since I was about 12 I've had this basic idea in my head for a story, about an intergalactic war. I never finished it entirely, because I'd read it through and see how juvenile it was, and start from scratch. But more recently, I've wondered, how did that war start? This story is something of a prologue to the story I really want to tell, a set-piece, meant to explain the world the war takes place in over the course of a novel. So, I guess it's something of an experiment as well, a story meant to let me flex my writing muscles and try to see what does and doesn't work in my storytelling style. But I also wish to entertain while I do this.

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Namely, for me the Guild was a pretty vague entity, and all that stuff happening or being described in the second paragraph touched upon too lightly to be comprehensible, too quickly to involve.

I recognize that I gave very little description of the Guild, but I was hoping to make their function and their inner-workings apparent over the course of a story. Sort of a "show, don't tell" approach. But I'm entirely novice at this, so my idea might be misguided, obviously.

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I'll skim. You should put quotation marks around all dialogue, including "Do you think it might be Lucius?" Confusing.

Among my friends this is the most consistently criticized paragraph. The thing was not meant to be a single line from a single character, but a jumble of various gossiping and shouts that demonstrate how chaotic these meetings were.

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I didn't understand why there's all that bullshit with cloning. If there was a woman that was ready to bear a child to Albus Amagai, why couldn't they do it naturally? I didn't read Ch.2, did soul of the father get transfered into the son? Otherwise, brains can't be cloned. And anyway, that adamantium and the Arrakis worm are kind of too obvious "hommages". So far they don't achieve anything except for the geek value and sounding silly.

Amagai went for cloning for two reasons. One was because it was entirely unexpected. Not only was cloning entirely unexpected, thus allowing him to keep his heir safe until he came of age, it also allowed him to hand-craft his son, and make up for his own physical shortcomings. It also allowed him to imprint whatever education he wished on him, without outside influences. And no, Albus is a posthumous character, Darius is an independent individual.

As for the "homages", yeah, maybe they were a bit gratuitous. But I needed a justification beyond "magic space ooze" for where he managed to make an otherwise unheard of cloning formula, and I figured I might as well give a bit of a nod to a novel far better than mine while I was at it. The adamantium was an unintentional reference, but looking back I can't see how I missed it.

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Well, in general, with rought spots, the writing comes out as decent "teenage novel" kind. That's definitely for a certain demographic. And the demographic is around this forum. I don't get it.

Well, I am 17... but I'd like to improve my skills, as teenage writing is not necessarily my preferred demographic. Of course, when I heard teenage I think Twilight, and I'm desperate to distance myself from that monstrosity as much as possible.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Supermikhail on April 02, 2011, 03:44:48 am

Er, I was thinking of a more traditional teenage demographic - mystery and horror stories. Felt there.

You've probably realized in the process of writing your reply that you shouldn't have needed to explain stuff to me, a reader, in correspondence. There's intended mystery, and there's the reader going "This is bullshit".

About quotation marks again. They have very little to do with creativity. They are a convenient sign to show the reader that someone's talking. It doesn't matter if that's a lot of people, but you don't want to unnecessarily confuse the reader. You can enclose each line in "", and separate from another one with - . Thus they'll still be jumbled together into a single paragraph, but much more readable.

About reasons. There is the thing with wanting to tell a story which is that "tell" implies a recipient. So you need to think who you intend your story for. You can't please everybody. With some ironing out, it can do for a teenage sci-fi... novel. If you aim at general public, with whom those writing blogs I spoke about are concerned, well, you'll have to work a bit more. Starting with kind of controversial dialogue tags topic which blog writers just "love".

Yeah, and don't forget to check out that thing I linked.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: CJ1145 on April 03, 2011, 10:07:48 pm

Well, I was thinking about what you told me Supermikhail, and I also checked out that site. Very useful. I edited the first chapter to explain a little more about just what the Guild was, fixed the quotation issue, and changed around a few other things.

Spoiler: Revised Chapter 1 (click to show/hide)

Space. A word with a thousand meanings, each conveying an emotion, a most primal nature. But at the moment, the meaning it conveyed most was "emptiness". The galaxy, known by a thousand names of its own, was checkered and split between hundreds of factions; each a different color, a nature bestowed upon them by fate to play. If one was to look down from the top of the galaxy, they would see a tight cluster of stars in what appeared to be near the center of the galaxy, making a lazy drift to the northeast. This cluster's color was red, the color of blood, and of rust. Well-fitted to the types of men there.   

This was the home of the Galactic Commerce Guild. For as long as anyone could remember, the Guild had been there, an entire cluster whose residents existed only to watch and maintain the balance of the galactic economy. No one alive could remember when they were founded, or by whom; all the documents from that era had been scattered to the corners of civilization, the information hidden from those who sought it. To a stranger they seemed perfect, an entire system-spanning nation dedicated to the regulation of the galactic economy. To those more familiar with them, they seemed to be a particularly grim joke. The cluster's residents were indeed the regulators of the economy, but there was good reason for the centuries-long recession that gripped all of civilization. The Guild was privatized, and led by a council of thirteen, the council seats being a hereditary position inherited by the councilor's declared heir within his "clan". Each councilor's company, in addition to the basic resources, held a planet containing a precious resource that none of the others had access to. In theory, this was to balance the factions, and promote cooperation. The councilors tended to have other ideas.

Though there was no official military among the Guild, each councilor employed a private military company to enforce the rule within their territory. They were also used in more covert missions, making quick strikes on other councilor's planets to steal their resources. It was a much preferable option to trading or, worst of all, paying for it. These isolated raids had a nasty habit of escalating, leading to private wars, carrying on in full force until one councilor was dead. Their next of kin would then replace them, and lead their companies from there. Most often, they would pick up the blood feud where it was left off.

One of these feuds in particular was one that would come to be of note among all of civilization, a single act that would live on in infamy as the turning point of history. The year was 7,808 PS or Post-Sundering, the first interstellar war. After a particularly vicious skirmish with the McCaine clan, a death had occurred among the councilors for the first time in two decades. Albus Amagai, age 112, was murdered when Cloud mercenaries--the traditional soldiers of the McCaine--stormed his private yacht. When he attempted to resist, a knife was slipped between his ribs, and he was dead in minutes. News spread fast, and the other councilors began to wonder who they would replace Albus with. Their mutterings were the sole subject of many council meetings.

“Do you think it might be Lucius?” “No no, Lucius was killed in a turbine accident two months ago, haven't you heard?” “Well, maybe it will be Dask then.” “All three of you are insane; the only one with any experience is Martha, so she is the obvious choice.” “You daft bastard, where do you get off saying things like that when your men murdered her not two nights ago!?”

Council meetings tended to be loud affairs.

However, the man for the job, as decided by Albus himself through his will, was not any one they would have guessed. For, twenty years before, the Amagai councilor recognized that his time was likely not long. Though he had no way of knowing just how long he would last, he assured himself that assassins would start making attempts shortly. So, in secret, he conducted an experiment precisely to avert the power vacuum that would follow his demise. He had the advantage, in that no one guessed the means of his plan, even if they were to discover the purpose.

To the public eye, the Amagai's capital planet of Heaven's Gate has only one unique resource. A naturally-occurring metal known as amagium. Tougher than diamonds, but extremely malleable under sufficient heat, amagium is often used in top of the line starships for armor plating, and the personal armor of highly valuable persons and their guards. But unbeknownst to any but the councilor himself, Heaven's Gate held a second precious resource. Deep in the caverns that run underneath the planet a curious chemical resided in massive reservoirs. The chemical had special properties which, when mixed with several others, creates a soup capable of creating and sustaining tissue. The Amagai clan had the means to create the perfect cloning vats.

With a bit of his own tissue, and that of a random woman chosen from the populace, Albus grew a son in the vats. With all of his knowledge, and the body of a young man, this heir would be the perfect councilor. Diplomatic, cunning, intelligent, and entirely ruthless. Most important of all these factors was that this son would be hidden, an asset that the other councilors would not know of until he was already among them. This secrecy was well-chosen, as the son was grown with no outside influence for almost twenty years, in which time Albus instilled his mind with everything a successful councilor would need to know. By chance, twenty years passed before this son would need to be woken from his slumber.

On August 15th that year, the monthly council meeting was called. The 12 veterans arrived into the ceremonial Council Chamber, a pure white room with bright blue lights, the brightness designed to keep everyone awake and focused; an attempt that failed miserably. Thirteen luxurious chairs hung from the ceiling in a perfect circle around a plain white table, useful only for the passing of documents and gossiping notes. As soon as they had all arrived, they began their usual ritual, bickering about the choice of the Amagai heir, only to stop and gaze in fascination at the 13th member they had just noticed among them. He was tall, and had broad shoulders, though his waist was slightly thinner than a man's his size would normally be. His muscles were well developed-- a feature nearly unheard of among the frail members of the clans-- and showed a bit even under his gray tunic. His face was cold, with eyes half-open, and an expression of extreme boredom looming within them. Without a word, he walked to the seat belonging to the Amagai councilor and sat down in silence.

One of the other councilors, a fat old man named Silas Bargo, sputtered at the boy's impudence and demanded that he stand up and explain why he dared to sit in a seat reserved for councilors. With a sigh, the young man stood up, and rotated his shoulder before speaking. His voice was smooth and low, but with a youthful tone underneath it.

"My name is Darius Amagai. I am the new councilor for the Amagai clan."

To say that the response of the councilors was surprised would be a grave understatement. The cacophonic volume of their shouting in previous meetings was dwarfed by the ear-piercing protests that arose now.

“Imposter!” They shouted. “There IS no Darius Amagai!”

Though the young man worked to ease the tension, his calm demeanor prevailing throughout, councilor Bargo would have none of it, and called for the guards. The mention of summoning guards was all it took to quiet the others, for the guards had not been summoned to remove a visitor in their lifetimes. It would certainly be a novel experience. They waited with bated breath for what seemed like several minutes. This is because it was several minutes, and no guards had arrived yet. Bargo had a look similar to bewildered, spoiled puppy on his face, as if he had been denied a promised treat. He opened his jowly maw to call for them again, but there was no need; the door to the chamber opened in a swift hiss, and two men stepped in. But they were not the gold-armored Vipers that usually guarded the chamber. These men wore olive green armor, shined to perfection; the most recent model of Amagai combat armor. These men belonged to Darius; the councilors realized this about the time they had two assault rifles painting their faces with targeting lasers. But with a wave of Darius’s hand the men lowered their weapons, and settled for scowling at the timid bureaucrats from the side.

“Please, could we all just settle down for a moment?” Darius insisted.

“What did you do with my Vipers?!” shrieked an old woman by the name of Melissa Staunt. Her beehive hair and excessive makeup was quite possibly the funniest thing Darius had seen in his short life, though if it truly amused him only he knew. His face remained stoic. He did, however, make a frustrated sigh.

“Your precious mercenaries are enjoying a relaxing trip back to their homes, funded by the Amagai Corporation.” replied the young councilor. “Considering that we were lacking in guards, I decided I could post men of my own for the duration of the meeting.”

“That’s insane, and more importantly completely at odds with the traditional order!” the woman spat back. “The Staunt’s Vipers guard this chamber daily for the rest of the year! The Amagai do not have their turn for another decade! The pattern has been set in stone for centuries, and you dare to challenge it?”

“I do apologize, madam.” Darius quickly stated, with a bow to accent the low-key insult. “I suppose, if you wish, I could simply send my Badgers off, leaving twelve old and wealthy characters with an unknown, possibly hostile man in his physical prime. Does that sound fair enough?” Staunt reconsidered her stance and immediately withdrew the protests. But another man spoke up, this one considerably younger than the rest.

He was a dark-skinned, stout man, a bit rotund, and in his finest suit. His face was clean-shaven and had an air about it that seemed skeptical at best. His name was Vincent Layton, an adopted member of the Layton clan, aged 50, and the second newest councilor if Darius was to be counted among them. He spoke an octave above the others, in a voice that grated with his figure.

“You expect us to just believe that some heir we’ve never even heard of has come out of the blue to conveniently claim his deceased father’s place? We’re going to need a little proof before we start trusting any stranger with hired help to walk through this door.”

Darius allowed himself a bit of a smile at this question. “I wouldn’t ask you to; take a look at these.” He went back to his seat and flipped open a small console full of various buttons available to any councilor who sat there. He pressed a round green one, and in response the pristine ceiling of the chamber opened up. From it a rack full of files and documents descended, placed there by Darius earlier that morning. The young would-be councilor leaned over and hovered his hand over the files, muttering to himself as he sought out one in particular. Finally his hand snapped, snatching up a small sheet of paper, which he carefully handed to Councilor Layton. “These should be all the proof I need.”

The councilors, one by one, observed the page, and to their dismay found it to be legally binding. It was written in the same handwriting as that of Albus Amagai, and indeed it did declare that his supposed son Darius was to take control of the clan. Nearer to the bottom of the page, a round blob of green ink registered itself as the stamp of Albus, a customized stamp only he knew the full intricacies of, and was intended as a signature for a council member. It was a proud lion, a long extinct creature from earth, its proud and majestic mane stretching down its back and along its flowing tail, its wings unfurled in an imposing manner, and a jet of fire escaping its open mouth. Its emerald fur seemed to shine in the bright light of the chamber, and hypnotized the members of the council. As if in a trance, they handed the sheet back and nodded, muttering to one another.

“Yes, yes, definitely the son of Albus.” “I knew it from the start.” “Don’t start that again, you daft fool!” “I really should have recognized that nose, come to think of it…”

With a raise of his hand, Darius cut off the chattering councilors, and beckoned them to their seats. In short order everyone was seated, and waiting for the new member to join them. Darius leaned back gently into his chair, crossing his right leg over his left and folding his fingers together. “Now that I’m comfortable, let’s begin.”

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Supermikhail on April 04, 2011, 02:13:44 am

Okay. Yes, the beginning is now easier to grasp, but... As you said that teenage demographic is not for you, I'm going to get down dirty.

"You daft bastard..." It's pretty hard to take this sentence seriously, at least on this forum. I don't know if it doesn't sound childish somewhere else.

Bad choice of words - "he assured himself that assassins would start making attempts shortly". Maybe it would be better - and more sane - to say "suspected", "foresaw"?

A new thing about adamantium... I mean, amagium. Assuming a somewhat realistic universe, every stable chemical element has been discovered. Which implies that amagium is an alloy. What prevents competitors from buying a sample of amagium and reverse-engineering the composition? Especially if it's an advanced civilization - they don't even need to be able to cut it.

Issue with cloning potion - "curious chemical" mixed "with several others" sounds a bit like "wizard did it". At least either the chemical or the mixture could have a scientifically-sounding name. After all, you don't need to worry about the readers stealing the formula. ;)

With homages to Dune, I've got this idea - the thing with Dune was, the spice was an organic compound - there's a lot more variation and possibility for new compounds among organics than inorganics. It was produced by a living creature - natural compounds are always hard to synthesize, due to the complexity of the natural synthesizing system (which has been refined for millions of years). The spice had paranormal qualities - and it's this thing with paranormal - nobody can tell for sure if they exist or not, and certainly no one can say what they can or cannot do. The thing with your worms was that it's already been done (not very exciting to read). You don't want to treat science too lightly, and especially if it comes as a gimmick on the first page. And you don't want to treat a gimmick lightly. If you go with a natural cloning compound, you could think about how it could be useful in the nature of Amagai's planet. Not easy at all, but such is the life of a writer.

Which makes me think that the secret of Darius Amagai could stay secret for the readers, too, for added intrigue. You know, it could be another mystery to be uncovered in the course of the story.

How do you imagine him rolling his shoulder before talking? Well, it's certainly possible to do, but it would as certainly look stupid. Even, you know, cracking his neck wouldn't be cool because, as you've said, he is surrounded by frail old men, and this demonstration of physical power wouldn't be appropriate, either for a good character among evil ones, or the other way around.

"This is because it was several minutes, and no guards had arrived yet." It would sound better replaced by just "But no guards arrived." First, "this is" qualifies as a tense shift, second - it's just a simplistic sentence among otherwise pretty lofty style.

"Bargo had a look similar to bewildered, spoiled puppy on his face" - Bargo had a look of a bewildered, spoiled puppy. Well, you just don't say it like this. Or maybe it's a matter of conciseness.

"the funniest thing Darius had seen in his short life" - I wouldn't say that twenty years is so emphatically short.

"The Staunt’s Vipers are supposed to guard this chamber daily for the rest of the year!" Or something. They aren't guarding anymore.

"That’s insane, and more importantly completely at odds with the traditional order! The Staunt’s Vipers guard this chamber daily for the rest of the year! The Amagai do not have their turn for another decade! The pattern has been set in stone for centuries, and you dare to challenge it?” Consider this sentence without the dialog tag (which wasn't good anyway, because, as they say, try to talk in spits in real life).

The reaction of the councilors to the Darius's proof is a bit comical. At least provide a sample of the writing that made them so meek. - A more logical response would be a resentful confirmation of the fact that the paper has indeed been made with accordance with legal procedure (or however you should say it) and has Albus Amagai's signature. Something more sci-fi would involve blood analysis, or Albus announcing his will via a hologram (and they certainly could use a lawyer; or some sci-fi figure of that order). And even after that among such furious people there could be someone who would prefer to storm out of the council chamber calling the will a scam. Or something like that. It's unfortunately kind of hard to identify who's on which side there. For example Darius - a dashing rouge, or a cunning villain, or a clever messiah...

Chapter 2 for a good measure.

...Nevermind. Darius is definitely a messiah, but there's no indication of how he and Albus became this way. 40% below poverty line isn't just a number. These are people, and apparently for a long time they've been content with the situation. There must be an explanation, like a rich top supported by the military keeping the lower strata at bay, which then must be a legal situation. But if it was one of the core fields of Albus's work how come he failed to enlighten Darius on it?

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: CJ1145 on April 04, 2011, 07:38:24 am

Quote from: Supermikhail on April 04, 2011, 02:13:44 am

Okay. Yes, the beginning is now easier to grasp, but... As you said that teenage demographic is not for you, I'm going to get down dirty.

"You daft bastard..." It's pretty hard to take this sentence seriously, at least on this forum. I don't know if it doesn't sound childish somewhere else.

It was meant to sound silly. The council is made up of some very childish, bratty people. They're intended to come off this way.

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Bad choice of words - "he assured himself that assassins would start making attempts shortly". Maybe it would be better - and more sane - to say "suspected", "foresaw"?

I used the word "assured" because he ended up basically lying to himself. Assassins did end up coming, but it was twenty years after he first began to become paranoid about them.

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A new thing about adamantium... I mean, amagium. Assuming a somewhat realistic universe, every stable chemical element has been discovered. Which implies that amagium is an alloy. What prevents competitors from buying a sample of amagium and reverse-engineering the composition? Especially if it's an advanced civilization - they don't even need to be able to cut it.

I know, it's pretty much adamantium. But I doubt it would end up being called that unless the man who discovered it happened to be complete nerd. By chance it was an Amagai that discovered it, who was proud enough to name it after his clan. The reason it is exclusive to the Amagai clan, and certain parts of the Guild, is because it is tightly controlled. They are responsible for trade, legal and otherwise, both in and out of their cluster, and are therefore able to keep a close eye for any amagium that is being exported to an unauthorized buyer.

Of course, that is not to say that certain other civilizations are not producing it on their own. Amagium is a highly precious resource, but it is only unique within that cluster. Throughout the entire galaxy it is more common. The Amagai worry more about whether the other clans have it than if some group they'll likely never meet face to face has it.

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Issue with cloning potion - "curious chemical" mixed "with several others" sounds a bit like "wizard did it". At least either the chemical or the mixture could have a scientifically-sounding name. After all, you don't need to worry about the readers stealing the formula. ;)

Yeah, replacing the worms made it sound even more conveniently magical than before. That's pretty much a stand-in until I think of a better sounding name.

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With homages to Dune, I've got this idea - the thing with Dune was, the spice was an organic compound - there's a lot more variation and possibility for new compounds among organics than inorganics. It was produced by a living creature - natural compounds are always hard to synthesize, due to the complexity of the natural synthesizing system (which has been refined for millions of years). The spice had paranormal qualities - and it's this thing with paranormal - nobody can tell for sure if they exist or not, and certainly no one can say what they can or cannot do. The thing with your worms was that it's already been done (not very exciting to read). You don't want to treat science too lightly, and especially if it comes as a gimmick on the first page. And you don't want to treat a gimmick lightly. If you go with a natural cloning compound, you could think about how it could be useful in the nature of Amagai's planet. Not easy at all, but such is the life of a writer.

Thanks for the advice, I'll think about that.

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Which makes me think that the secret of Darius Amagai could stay secret for the readers, too, for added intrigue. You know, it could be another mystery to be uncovered in the course of the story.

That is also a good idea. I'd have to think about how I could work out the sudden appearance of Darius, but do-able I think.

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How do you imagine him rolling his shoulder before talking? Well, it's certainly possible to do, but it would as certainly look stupid. Even, you know, cracking his neck wouldn't be cool because, as you've said, he is surrounded by frail old men, and this demonstration of physical power wouldn't be appropriate, either for a good character among evil ones, or the other way around.

He isn't really trying to be intimidating there, he's just kind of stretching a bit before he talks. I guess a better way to explain it would be he is kind of rotating his arm at the shoulder.

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"This is because it was several minutes, and no guards had arrived yet." It would sound better replaced by just "But no guards arrived." First, "this is" qualifies as a tense shift, second - it's just a simplistic sentence among otherwise pretty lofty style.

Entirely my bad, I read a Terry Pratchett novel recently, and my writing style sort of gets influenced by the latest couple of books I read, so those sorts of things sneak in.

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"Bargo had a look similar to bewildered, spoiled puppy on his face" - Bargo had a look of a bewildered, spoiled puppy. Well, you just don't say it like this. Or maybe it's a matter of conciseness.

Maybe. I guess I was just trying to convey how spoiled the councilors were. That seemed the best analogy to me.

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"the funniest thing Darius had seen in his short life" - I wouldn't say that twenty years is so emphatically short.

Actually, he's only spent about 6 months out of the cloning vat so far. I planned to do a flashback later to explain how he got to where he was from there.

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"The Staunt’s Vipers are supposed to guard this chamber daily for the rest of the year!" Or something. They aren't guarding anymore.

I guess it makes more sense in my mind to have it the way I do, but the closest to a justification I can make is that she refuses to accept that this has just happened.

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"That’s insane, and more importantly completely at odds with the traditional order! The Staunt’s Vipers guard this chamber daily for the rest of the year! The Amagai do not have their turn for another decade! The pattern has been set in stone for centuries, and you dare to challenge it?” Consider this sentence without the dialog tag (which wasn't good anyway, because, as they say, try to talk in spits in real life).

Tried it just now, and yeah it does look better.

Quote

The reaction of the councilors to the Darius's proof is a bit comical. At least provide a sample of the writing that made them so meek. - A more logical response would be a resentful confirmation of the fact that the paper has indeed been made with accordance with legal procedure (or however you should say it) and has Albus Amagai's signature. Something more sci-fi would involve blood analysis, or Albus announcing his will via a hologram (and they certainly could use a lawyer; or some sci-fi figure of that order). And even after that among such furious people there could be someone who would prefer to storm out of the council chamber calling the will a scam. Or something like that.

This was intentional. The council is meant to be portrayed as ineffectual, and this was one of the bigger hints. The fact that they're all so convinced by a single stamp actually becomes a major plot point in just a couple of chapters. They're not really meant to be this clever group of evil bureaucrats, they're a bunch of bumbling idiots who are so caught up in their own power struggles they can't even do their jobs properly.

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It's unfortunately kind of hard to identify who's on which side there. For example Darius - a dashing rouge, or a cunning villain, or a clever messiah...

Like I said, at the moment there's not really a side that could be designated as good or bad. The councilors are stupid and petty, yes, but there are proactive members among them and they aren't purposefully ruining the economy. They just can't properly manage it.

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Chapter 2 for a good measure.

...Nevermind. Darius is definitely a messiah, but there's no indication of how he and Albus became this way. 40% below poverty line isn't just a number. These are people, and apparently for a long time they've been content with the situation. There must be an explanation, like a rich top supported by the military keeping the lower strata at bay, which then must be a legal situation. But if it was one of the core fields of Albus's work how come he failed to enlighten Darius on it?

Darius does definitely appear to be the ultimate good guy in chapter 2, but I'm trying to tone that down in the following chapters. He has the best interests of the galaxy at heart, but while he is the protagonist I have no intentions for him to be the hero.

Albus happened to be a good person, one of few in the council. He saw how bad the situation was, and began to work to fix it. The many years he served did indeed see improvement, which is also why the people of the galaxy have been so complacent for the last century. As for the situation with the poverty line before that time, even if the people were able to organize enough to try and reach the Guild, they would have to go through their private military companies, each with enough firepower to take on anything that could be scrounged up by them for a fight. There may have been uprisings in the past, but they are irrelevant here.

Darius does not know about it because his education was not fully complete. Albus intended to instill him with everything, but he was killed before it could be completed. Darius was taught most of what he needed to know by Albus, but he didn't learn about the current situation in the galaxy beyond his immediate focus: the council.

Spoiler: Coincidentally, Chapter 3 (click to show/hide)

        Councilor Layton could not help but grin in delight as the word “alliance” was mentioned. The politics of the Guild were as fluid as water, wars beginning and ending over consistently trivial reasons. But alliances were solid, like rock; a pact between councilors was formed for life, to collaborate for the betterment of both their guilds. Alliances were few and far between in the last several generations.

   “An alliance? Oh, you are your father’s son!” squealed the councilor, as he vigorously shook the youth’s hand. Darius attempted a smile, but it appeared awkward and forced when next to the beaming face of Vincent.

        “Indeed I am, Councilor Layton.” said Darius in a humble tone, bowing his head in recognition. “But I must admit, you are rather quick to trust me; you seemed far more skeptical at the meeting.”

        “All I needed was proof, boy, proof! Oh, and what proof you gave! A stamp from your father may as well have been a video of him declaring you his one true heir. Besides that, I cannot hold ill will towards the son of half of the greatest venture in Guild history! Your father’s work was vital in improving the state of the economy, if you ask me! It’s a rather sorry state of affairs, if you want my opinion.” The large man stood up, and before Darius could intervene the elder councilor was waltzing about the room, ranting and raving.

   “It’s the Guild’s job to manage the economy effectively, to bring prosperity to everyone! But instead we all focus on ourselves; it’s a system of greed and corruption! But your father, Albus, he was a visionary, absolutely inspiring! Under his leadership and mine we were leading the galaxy into a new golden age!”

   While Layton spoke, Darius and Bill were engaged in a silent conversation of their own, consisting of Bill thinking of new and violent ways to silence the councilor, only to be shot down by a disgusted Darius. After several minutes of this, Darius heard the councilor winding down.

   “Oh, but with Albus dead it’s all gone so far downhill, my boy. I fear all the work we’ve done will be for nothing.”

   “Not necessarily.” interjected the Amagai youth, abruptly standing up to ensure he would not be ignored in favor of another long-winded speech. He turned and approached the councilor, coolly speaking as he came. “My father was a visionary, but his vision did not go far enough. He raised me to be everything he could not be, and I have fulfilled his wish. I come to you with a proposition, a plea for help. With your resources combined with mine, we have the power to change the system in its entirety, and lead civilization into prosperity it has not known in millennia.”

   The expression on Layton’s face was practically euphoric. Each of his hands grabbed one of Darius’ shoulders and shook him vigorously. “Oh, Darius! Do you really think we could do it?”

   “I know we could.” Darius responded, his eyes open wide for the first time the councilor had seen. There was a spark in those eyes, a bright fire that let the elder catch a glimpse of the passion inside of Darius. “I can lead us there, but I need your backing every step of the way; do I have it?”

   “You have it, Amagai, you have it!” Layton shouted in joy. “Just tell me what your first step is, and my clan will be behind you every step of the way.”

   “Don’t be so quick to trust, Councilor Layton.” Darius insisted, pushing him back to give himself space. “When I tell you my plan you may wish you had never asked. Do you still wish to hear it?”

   “Tell me, boy, tell me.” Layton said, his face a mix of concern and extreme interest. “You’ve hooked me now, don’t try and tell me I can’t listen to what you have to say.”

   Darius nodded, and took a deep breath. “You said yourself, Councilor, that the system we operate on now is broken. Rusted and corrupted by selfish politicians and bureaucrats. My father was well-intentioned, but he was wrong; this system cannot be repaired through any means. What we need is an upheaval, a new order to start from scratch. We must usurp the council.”

   Councilor Vincent Layton’s eyes were opened so wide their shock almost managed to distract from his mouth, agape by a wide margin. He stammered for a moment, trying to think of something to say. “I-I… usurp the council? That’s unheard of! The Guild has ruled for thousands of years, and no one has ever even tried it! It’s foolhardy, insane!”

   Before Layton could go further Darius reached forward with an arm and firmly grabbed Vincent’s shoulder, shaking him a bit. “It is extreme, but you must understand my position. You and I both saw the horrible state things are in. Forty percent of the galaxy is below the poverty line, Councilor Layton; I believe we have reached the threshold where extreme action becomes necessary! We have two highly trained mercenary companies whose sole goals are to guard resources and commit petty theft and, if they’re lucky, a hit every thirty years. Shouldn’t we use them to do what they were intended for, to act as a military extension of our clans’ wills?”

   Layton shook his head and disbelief and stepped away from Darius, walking out to the window behind his desk. He stared out at the estate, the vast complex stretching out in every direction to the horizon. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, he turned around, his face solemn. “I don’t like admitting it, Darius, but you’re right. Something has to change, and in a society where change is brought about by murder, that may very well be our best shot. What would you suggest as our first course of action, partner?”

   Layton walked back over to Darius, and confidently thrust out his hand. Darius took it and shook, the unsigned agreement been councilors sealed. “We begin with the other councilors, Vincent. Some are worthy of recruiting to our cause. But others must be dealt with swiftly, and without remorse. Can you do that?”

   Layton smiled calmly at the suggestion. “You’re looking at the most skilled covert operations commander to be adopted into the clans in centuries. You’re asking me to play a child’s game. Who’s our target?”

   “Targets, actually.” Darius corrected. Bill, who had been silent until now, stood and approached the pair with a data pad full of information on the various councilors. “My father’s treasure trove of information.” Darius explained to Layton. “I’ve used it to compile a list of the councilors that we could recruit, and those who need to be eliminated.”

   “I assume Bargo’s the big target?” Layton asked, his chipper demeanor now subdued as he talked about more serious business.

   “No.” Darius replied flatly. “Bargo may be greedy, but he is influential, and he has access to vital resources. We can buy him, and his influence will pull most of the other clan leaders toward us. There are only two that must be dealt with through force.”

   Two pictures appeared on the data pad, one an old woman with beehive hair and a frail looking old man with a kindly smile.

   “This must be a mistake.” Layton replied, staring in confusion at the old man’s picture. “Melissa Staunt is too stuck in the old ways to join us, I understand that, but what harm could Smitt possibly be to you?”

   “It’s not him that bothers me, it’s his age.” Darius explained. “As the oldest member of the council, his age guarantees he won’t be long for this world. Even if we managed to get him on our side, it’s highly possible that he could die the very next morning and appoint an heir that just so happens to despise us, and has access to whatever we’d shared with his predecessor. It will be more beneficial if we kill him now, and replace him with someone more sympathetic to our efforts. I assume you know who I mean?”

   “Oliver Smitt.” Bill interjected, cutting off Layton before he even had a chance to consider the question. On the data pad the picture of a young boy, barely even at the age of maturity, smiling goofily into the camera that had taken his photo. A short-cropped head of bright red hair greeted the viewer in a striking manner, and freckles dotted the boy’s face.

   “The kid’s a dreamer.” Layton said to no one in particular as he examined the photo. “Always asking questions his tutors didn’t like to hear, from what I understand. Just the sort of idealist you’re looking for, partner.”

   “Precisely.” Darius confirmed. “There is no need for you to make any more conjectures, Councilor Layton, for I already have it set up.”

   The Amagai youth approached Layton’s desk and beckoned Bill, who pulled out a stack of papers full of information. While most civilians had moved on to the more convenient digital forms of information storage, the Guild had grown fond of old-fashioned paper, which was easy to protect due to the limited amount of copies, and easy to dispose of should it become irrelevant or compromised. These papers detailed a markedly elaborate plan to handle the assassination and coronation attempts.

   Darius would make a solitary visit to Councilor Smitt that night on the pretense of acquainting himself with his fellow councilors. While there, he would shift the conversation to the choice of Smitt’s heir and attempt to influence him to pick Oliver, should he not already be chosen. After he left, the hit would begin. Two teams of mercenaries led by Bill and one of Layton’s men would storm the building, dressed in the armor of the Staunt’s Viper mercenaries and murder the eldest councilor. The overt nature of the mission, while flashy, served a deliberate purpose in that the false Vipers would be easy to recognize. This would sew distrust among the other councilors towards Melissa Staunt, undermining her own position and allowing Darius to recruit the young Oliver to his side. Layton looked over all of this in a sense of near awe.

   “You’ve handled yourself well here, Darius. Your first assassination and you’ve already got a plan worthy of your father! Albus would have been so proud of you, boy, I just know it!”

   Darius blushed a bit, embarrassed by the constant praises of Layton. “Thank you for the kind words, Councilor, but my father’s approval is of little concern to me right now. All that matters is carrying on his work to the best of my ability.”

   Layton nodded and affirmed this, ensuring Darius that he understood what he meant. “So, when can we begin?” the elder man asked.

   Darius nodded politely and walked to and out the door, followed closely by Bill. “We’ve already begun, Councilor.”

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Supermikhail on April 04, 2011, 09:05:55 am

O-okay. I can't remember when I read a comedy last time. Maybe never. You're saying that the councilors are comical characters? That's kind of poorly conveyed. I actually thought it was just bad writing and was going to get on it next time. Well, and the humor doesn't work. The beginning, which sets us into mood, is just too somber. After this beginning you expect the Guild members to be cruel and manipulating, not simple and incompetent. How do they wage their wars? And, well, you don't automatically achieve a humorous effect by saying that a character has a squeaky voice or wears funny clothes. Also, if the Amagai are so cunning and other members are so stupid, why hasn't the Guild been taken over by the Amagai, or dissolved and replaced by "the Amagai administration economics branch" or something? If you've got answers to these questions, you probably should have included them into the text from the start.

About shoulders? Albus should have explained to Darius that diplomacy starts from the toes of your boots. Rolling one's shoulders is definitely a display of physical strength and an attempt to intimidate. He probably shouldn't have done that, now that I better understand your intentions.

Quote from: CJ1145 on April 04, 2011, 07:38:24 am

Quote

"Bargo had a look similar to bewildered, spoiled puppy on his face" - Bargo had a look of a bewildered, spoiled puppy. Well, you just don't say it like this. Or maybe it's a matter of conciseness.

Maybe. I guess I was just trying to convey how spoiled the councilors were. That seemed the best analogy to me.

I meant you shouldn't say "look similar to" it's a) too long and clumsy, b) metaphors (or comparisons, a bit rusty on literature terms here) just don't work like that. You simply say "Bargo looked like a bewildered, spoiled puppy". "similar to" is just clumsy.

Why did Darius spend only 6 months out of the cloning vat? What's the point of the cloning vat if it, apparently, slows down development. In that time Albus could have had a real child and trained him in the ways of the ninja, so that Darius would conceal himself actively. And at the same time Albus would have more time to teach Darius important stuff.

Re: Chapter 3. If he knew what must be done, why couldn't Darius eliminate whoever he wanted at the council meeting, concidering he had sent all but his own guards away?

And shouldn't Layton take a bit more persuading. In my opinion he agrees too easily. Darius could be more eloquent. He basically makes a single point - 40% below poverty line. However strong a point, you don't go to court with only one.

Also, I don't think storing information on paper makes it more secure than if it were stored in a digital form. If someone wanted it badly, they could sneak in and photograph it.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: CJ1145 on April 04, 2011, 02:57:24 pm

Well, I think I have miscommunicated here. I do not intend the council to be "funny", they are not meant to be "comical" as much as "comically inept".they're ruthlessly cunning in politics and espionage, but are so caught up in it their work in the economy is less.

They wage their.wars in various ways. Some prefer covert assassinations. Others, such as the twice-mentioned McCaines, are nore openly violent and militaristic.

And the Amagai were not ever naturally superior. Albus just happened to see an advantage and seize it. If he'd raised a normal son he might have become distracted or influenced by the world around him. Inside the tube Albus could teach him whatever he wanted. But since this was the first time the cloning process had been performed teaching him took a very long time, as there was no known way to speed the process up. I'll edit the chapters at another time and try to make this clearer.

As for chapter 3, Darius could not just have them killed because, simply, it wouldn't work. There would still be the extended families controlling their respective mercs. Darius could not fight them all, so he decided to coerce them instead.

Layton believes Darius simply because he wants to. Albus was his closest ally, and he wholeheartedly believes that any child of Albus is worth trusting. There is also a lot of cultural meaning to an alliance in the Guild. Have you seen the movie Highlander? In it, even the foulest most unscrupulous characters refuse to fight on holy ground. That is how sacred an alliance is to them. Most people would not break such a partnership, but the councilors literally cannot.

The paper thing, if you want, could be perceived as more inept practices of the Guild, or you could also view the necessity of hiding documents from a society so advanced that wireless hacking of electronics would be as trivial as making toast.

I don't mean to sound rude at all here, and I'm on a phone so quoting individual sections is beyond my means, but I'm just trying to explain what goes on in my head as I write this stuff.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Supermikhail on April 04, 2011, 03:49:30 pm

Didn't see anything rude. ;)

You know, what goes on in your head is exactly what we want to read here. At least I do. Or how you (and writers in general) translate into the heads of your characters. I'd much rather Darius overexplained his motivations (at least in the first draft), than I had to wonder what exactly the author meant here.

I get the cultural thing - the not-complete-humannes of the society is visible, but the rough spots overshadow it a bit. Also, similar to Dune, you could want to put more emphasis on the cultural aspects in the beginning, intermingling exposition with actual events. You kind of jump in as if it's Star Wars, and I expect to find the simplicity of Star Wars, but glimpses of not-so-starwarsy stuff confuse me. Kind of ironic how I first praised your "Space" beginning, as it might look similar to the Star Wars title roll. Of course, you may employ this as a trick slowly submerging the reader into the story, but consider Highlander (which I, being a devout Queen fan, am bound to have seen at least once) - most of the strange things are pretty much patiently explained in the first scene - medieval sword-masters with super-human abilities chasing each other throughout eternity, and aiming for only one cause of death - decapitation. I don't remember if Connor says anything about "only one" in the first fight. You, well, bring very little of the significant stuff into the beginning. Amagium and worms (or chemicals) don't seem to play a major part; Albus comes into the action already dead; intimidating military forces of the rest of the Guild are dealt with peacefully and promptly at the start of the council. What seems to continue into the rest of the story is only the political structure of the cluster, but even it is too weak to hold against Darius.

By the way, you don't want to make your antagonist(s) weak - if you intend to make the Guild members the antagonists. It's not interesting to read about a strong noble character overpower weak corrupt ones. You generally need to at least have the odds even. Although, we're only 3 chapters in, so I'm not going to play a precog here. Just passing ideas and suggestions that might be useful.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: CJ1145 on April 04, 2011, 04:43:56 pm

Quote

You know, what goes on in your head is exactly what we want to read here. At least I do. Or how you (and writers in general) translate into the heads of your characters. I'd much rather Darius overexplained his motivations (at least in the first draft), than I had to wonder what exactly the author meant here.

I get the cultural thing - the not-complete-humannes of the society is visible, but the rough spots overshadow it a bit. Also, similar to Dune, you could want to put more emphasis on the cultural aspects in the beginning, intermingling exposition with actual events. You kind of jump in as if it's Star Wars, and I expect to find the simplicity of Star Wars, but glimpses of not-so-starwarsy stuff confuse me. Kind of ironic how I first praised your "Space" beginning, as it might look similar to the Star Wars title roll. Of course, you may employ this as a trick slowly submerging the reader into the story, but consider Highlander (which I, being a devout Queen fan, am bound to have seen at least once) - most of the strange things are pretty much patiently explained in the first scene - medieval sword-masters with super-human abilities chasing each other throughout eternity, and aiming for only one cause of death - decapitation. I don't remember if Connor says anything about "only one" in the first fight. You, well, bring very little of the significant stuff into the beginning. Amagium and worms (or chemicals) don't seem to play a major part; Albus comes into the action already dead; intimidating military forces of the rest of the Guild are dealt with peacefully and promptly at the start of the council.

That's all true, and I'm considering adding more to work it all in, but it'll probably end up doubling the chapter length. Not that I'm complaining.

Quote

By the way, you don't want to make your antagonist(s) weak - if you intend to make the Guild members the antagonists. It's not interesting to read about a strong noble character overpower weak corrupt ones. You generally need to at least have the odds even. Although, we're only 3 chapters in, so I'm not going to play a precog here. Just passing ideas and suggestions that might be useful.

Actually, the Guild are not the main antagonists of the story. I intend for them to be fully dealt with by the time the first quarter of the story is over. The story isn't so much about Darius rising to power, but how that rise to power (and the rise of another, yet to be introduced character) ends up sparking a massive conflict.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Supermikhail on April 04, 2011, 07:02:39 pm

Okay. Hey, I actually didn't read the second chapter after I discovered Darius was a strange hero. Caught up on that now. So, Darius's ignorance we've kind of figured out. Why is Bill so surprised at the 40%? He's a veteran. He's supposed to have seen a lot.

Also, you do some weirds things with some words. I noticed "energy" and "smog" with the article "a" as if countable. They, well, sound weird, even if they could be countable in some cases. But not in those. Smog probably couldn't be countable in any case.

The culture appears more prominent in the second chapter, with descriptions and conduct. However, I think the dialog could use more show-don't-tell. "Bill responded by telling the guard, whom he referred to as “Chuck”, that his boss was terrible at showing two fine ladies such as themselves a good time. One rifle-butt to the head later, a quieter Bill followed Darius inside." This set of sentences makes a person imagine the dialog in the same voice that's been setup by the starwarsy descriptions. However, if voiced directly, the way these lines were spoken could show more of the culture, speech patterns.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: CJ1145 on April 05, 2011, 07:50:55 pm

I've been writing more, and editing. I have four chapters done so far, so I'll post them all in a group. Keep in mind, Chapter 1 is only changed from the last draft by adding a bit more backstory about Albus and the Guild itself, and Chapter 2's only major change was making Bill's line actually quoted to him, which I think does look better.

Spoiler: Chapter 1 (click to show/hide)

Space. A word with a thousand meanings, each conveying an emotion, a most primal nature. But at the moment, the meaning it conveyed most was "emptiness". The galaxy, known by a thousand names of its own, was checkered and split between hundreds of factions; each a different color, a nature bestowed upon them by fate to play. If one was to look down from the top of the galaxy, they would see a tight cluster of stars in what appeared to be near the center of the galaxy, making a lazy drift to the northeast. This cluster's color was red, the color of blood, and of rust. Well-fitted to the types of men there.   

This was the home of the Galactic Commerce Guild. For as long as anyone could remember, the Guild had been there, an entire cluster whose residents existed only to watch and maintain the balance of the galactic economy. No one alive could remember when they were founded, or by whom; all the documents from that era had been scattered to the corners of civilization, the information hidden from those who sought it. To a stranger they seemed perfect, an entire system-spanning nation dedicated to the regulation of the galactic economy. To those more familiar with them, they seemed to be a particularly grim joke. The cluster's residents were indeed the regulators of the economy, but there was good reason for the centuries-long recession that gripped all of civilization. The Guild was privatized, and led by a council of thirteen, the council seats being a hereditary position inherited by the councilor's declared heir within his "clan". Each councilor's company, in addition to the basic resources, tightly held a planet containing a precious resource that none of the others had access to. In theory, this was to balance the factions, and promote cooperation. The councilors tended to have other ideas.

Though there was no official military among the Guild, each councilor employed a private military company to enforce the rule within their territory. They were also used in more covert missions, making quick strikes on other councilor's planets to steal their resources. It was a much preferable option to trading or, worst of all, paying for it. These isolated raids had a nasty habit of escalating, leading to private wars, carrying on in full force until one councilor was dead. Their next of kin would then replace them, and lead their companies from there. Most often, they would pick up the blood feud where it was left off.

One of these feuds in particular was one that would come to be of note among all of civilizations, a single act that would live on in infamy as the turning point of history. The year was 7,808 PS or Post-Sundering, the first interstellar war. After a particularly vicious skirmish with the McCaine clan, a death had occurred among the councilors for the first time in two decades.

Albus Amagai was an anomaly. For as far back as history was recorded, the councilors had been at best greedy and unscrupulous, and at worst monsters who would commit atrocities to fill their own purses. Yet, for every hundred councilors historians were hard-pressed to find a single one who could be called effective. Many were excellent diplomats, or cunning leaders, or heartless manipulators, but there were precious few who took their job as regulators of the economy seriously. Albus was one of those few, an addition to the council that went unnoticed from his arrival at age 33, until the day he rose to glory thirty years after.

The galaxy at that time was not in a healthy state. The recession had brought countless billions into poverty, and the poor began to outnumber the rich by staggering amounts. The gap between them was so great, that the lower classes began to whisper among themselves, “Why are they in charge? We are the many, what’s stopping us from taking their wealth for ourselves?” These thoughts spread, until it seemed like rebellion was the only option, as the galaxy prepared to strike against its negligent regulators.

But Albus had seen their plight, and for the first time in eons a councilor felt sympathy for the less fortunate. In the face of total annihilation, he worked calmly and with expert diplomacy. He made alliances, brokered deals, and in a matter of years had reformed nearly the entire economic policy of the Guild. Employment increased across the galaxy, and the poverty level lowered significantly. The populace, their need for change sated for the moment, returned to a more docile state. These reforms would have continued to grow, until economic prosperity was brought to all. But it was not meant to be

Albus was murdered at the age of 112 when Cloud mercenaries--the traditional soldiers of the McCaine clan--stormed his private yacht. When he attempted to resist, a knife was slipped between his ribs, and he was dead in minutes. News spread fast, and the other councilors began to wonder who the great Albus Amagai had chosen as his heir. Their mutterings were the sole subject of many council meetings.

“Do you think it might be Lucius?” “No no, Lucius was killed in a turbine accident two months ago, haven't you heard?” “Well, maybe it will be Dask then.” “All three of you are insane; the only one with any experience is Martha, so she is the obvious choice.” “You daft bastard, where do you get off saying things like that when your men murdered her not two nights ago!?”

Council meetings tended to be loud affairs.

However, the man for the job, as decided by Albus himself through his will, was not any one they would have guessed. For, twenty years before his untimely demise, the Amagai councilor recognized that his time was likely not long. Though he had no way of knowing just how long he would last, he assumed that assassins would start making attempts shortly. So, in secret, he conducted an experiment precisely to avert the power vacuum that would follow his demise. He had the advantage, in that no one guessed the means of his plan, even if they were to discover the purpose.

To the public eye, the Amagai's capital planet of Heaven's Gate has only one unique resource: a naturally-occurring metal alloy known as amagium, so named by Gareth Amagai, the first councilor of the Amagai clan. Tougher than diamonds, but extremely malleable under sufficient heat, amagium is often used in top of the line starships for armor plating, and the armor of highly valuable persons and their guards. But unbeknownst to any but the councilor himself, Heaven's Gate held a second precious resource. Deep in the caverns that run underneath the planet was a species of creature unlike any other. Albus was the first to discover them; a species of worms that fed on the amagium, their strange digestive systems leaving behind a fluid that he could not identify. He experimented with it, and to his surprise found that when diluted in water and with sodium dissolved within, the fluid became highly regenerative, growing and repairing any tissue placed within. Albus was fascinated by its potential as a healing solution, but looked even further, at the bigger picture. If it could repair tissue, it could likely be used to grow it as well. Albus, a man with no sons of his own, found this to be a practical godsend. The Amagai clan had the means to create the perfect cloning vats.

With a bit of his own tissue, and that of a random woman chosen from the populace, Albus grew a son in the vats. With all of his knowledge, and the body of a young man, this heir would be the perfect councilor. He would be diplomatic, cunning, intelligent, and entirely ruthless. Most important of all these factors was that this son would be hidden, an asset that the other councilors would not know of until he was already among them. This secrecy was well-chosen, as the growing process was not an easy one. With many potentially fatal errors to consider, and a lack of speeding the process, Albus spent twenty years growing his son within the vats, teaching him whatever he could, molding him to be the perfect replacement. But, mere months before completion, Albus met his fate at the hands of the McCaine clan, leaving behind his child to carry on before his education was complete.

On August 15th that year, the monthly council meeting was called. The 12 veterans arrived into the ceremonial Council Chamber, a pure white room with bright blue lights, the brightness designed to keep everyone awake and focused; an attempt that failed miserably. Thirteen luxurious chairs hung from the ceiling in a perfect circle around a plain white table, useful only for the passing of documents and gossiping notes. As soon as they had all arrived, they began their usual ritual, bickering about the choice of the Amagai heir, only to stop and gaze in fascination at the 13th member they had just noticed among them. He was tall, and had broad shoulders, though his waist was slightly thinner than a man's his size would normally be. His muscles were well developed-- a feature nearly unheard of among the frail members of the clans-- and showed a bit even under his gray tunic. His face was cold, with eyes half-open, and an expression of extreme boredom looming within them. Without a word, he walked to the seat belonging to the Amagai councilor and sat down in silence.

One of the other councilors, a fat old man named Silas Bargo, sputtered at the boy's impudence and demanded that he stand up and explain why he dared to sit in a seat reserved for councilors. With a sigh, the young man stood up, and rotated his shoulder before speaking. His voice was smooth and low, but with a youthful tone underneath it.

"My name is Darius Amagai. I am the new councilor for the Amagai clan."

To say that the response of the councilors was surprised would be a grave understatement. The cacophonic volume of their shouting in previous meetings was dwarfed by the ear-piercing protests that arose now.

“Imposter!” They shouted. “There IS no Darius Amagai!”

Though the young man worked to ease the tension, his calm demeanor prevailing throughout, councilor Bargo would have none of it, and called for the guards. The mention of summoning guards was all it took to quiet the others, for the guards had not been summoned to remove a visitor in their lifetimes. It would certainly be a novel experience. They waited with bated breath for what seemed like several minutes. This is because it was several minutes, and no guards had arrived yet. Bargo had a look similar to bewildered, spoiled puppy on his face, as if he had been denied a promised treat. He opened his jowly maw to call for them again, but there was no need; the door to the chamber opened in a swift hiss, and two men stepped in. But they were not the gold-armored Vipers that usually guarded the chamber. These men wore olive green armor, shined to perfection; the most recent model of Amagai combat armor. These men belonged to Darius; the councilors realized this about the time they had two assault rifles painting their faces with targeting lasers. But with a wave of Darius’s hand the men lowered their weapons, and settled for scowling at the timid bureaucrats from the side.

“Please, could we all just settle down for a moment?” Darius insisted.

“What did you do with my Vipers?!” shrieked an old woman by the name of Melissa Staunt. Her beehive hair and excessive makeup was quite possibly the funniest thing Darius had seen in his short life, though if it truly amused him only he knew. His face remained stoic. He did, however, make a frustrated sigh.

“Your precious mercenaries are enjoying a relaxing trip back to their homes, funded by the Amagai Corporation.” replied the young councilor. “Considering that we were lacking in guards, I decided I could post men of my own for the duration of the meeting.”

“That’s insane, and more importantly completely at odds with the traditional order! The Staunt’s Vipers guard this chamber daily for the rest of the year! The Amagai do not have their turn for another decade! The pattern has been set in stone for centuries, and you dare to challenge it?”

"I do apologize, madam.” Darius quickly stated, with a bow to accent the low-key insult. “I suppose, if you wish, I could simply send my Badgers off, leaving twelve old and wealthy characters with an unknown, possibly hostile man in his physical prime. Does that sound fair enough?” Staunt reconsidered her stance and immediately withdrew the protests. But another man spoke up, this one considerably younger than the rest.

He was a dark-skinned, stout man, a bit rotund, and in his finest suit. His face was clean-shaven and had an air about it that seemed skeptical at best. His name was Vincent Layton, an adopted member of the Layton clan, aged 50, and the second newest councilor if Darius was to be counted among them. He spoke an octave above the others, in a voice that grated with his figure.

“You expect us to just believe that some heir we’ve never even heard of has come out of the blue to conveniently claim his deceased father’s place? We’re going to need a little proof before we start trusting any stranger with hired help to walk through this door.”

Darius allowed himself a bit of a smile at this question. “I wouldn’t ask you to; take a look at these.” He went back to his seat and flipped open a small console full of various buttons available to any councilor who sat there. He pressed a round green one, and in response the pristine ceiling of the chamber opened up. From it a rack full of files and documents descended, placed there by Darius earlier that morning. The young would-be councilor leaned over and hovered his hand over the files, muttering to himself as he sought out one in particular. Finally his hand snapped, snatching up a small sheet of paper, which he carefully handed to Councilor Layton. “These should be all the proof I need.”

The councilors, one by one, observed the page, and to their dismay found it to be legally binding. It was written in the same handwriting as that of Albus Amagai, and indeed it did declare that his supposed son Darius was to take control of the clan. Nearer to the bottom of the page, a round blob of green ink registered itself as the stamp of Albus, a customized stamp only he knew the full intricacies of, and was intended as a signature for a council member. It was a proud lion, a long extinct creature from earth, its proud and majestic mane stretching down its back and along its flowing tail, its wings unfurled in an imposing manner, and a jet of fire escaping its open mouth. Its emerald fur seemed to shine in the bright light of the chamber, and hypnotized the members of the council. As if in a trance, they handed the sheet back and nodded, muttering to one another.

“Yes, yes, definitely the son of Albus.” “I knew it from the start.” “Don’t start that again, you daft fool!” “I really should have recognized that nose, come to think of it…”

With a raise of his hand, Darius cut off the chattering councilors, and beckoned them to their seats. In short order everyone was seated, and waiting for the new member to join them. Darius leaned back gently into his chair, crossing his right leg over his left and folding his fingers together. “Now that I’m comfortable, let’s begin.”

Spoiler: Chapter 2 (click to show/hide)

The lights of the room dimmed as a Badger fiddled with the controls by the door. The Badgers were the long-standing mercenaries loyal to the Amagai clan. Fierce and armed to the teeth, they are notorious throughout the galaxy for their ability to track down any target, and eliminate in a glorious display of firepower. Their nigh-impervious amagium armor certainly did nothing to quell their bravado.

“Well then, Councilor… Amagai.” said Bargo, his lips in visible pain as he relinquished the title to the newcomer. “I assume you were at least briefed on the process of these meetings?”

“Oh, most assuredly.” Darius replied. “I am completely up to date on the mechanics of these meetings. I am merely waiting for a briefing on the state of the economy.”

“Not much to be said.” A frail old voice responded. Councilor Orville Smitt, the oldest member of the council and senior member, pulled out a thin sheet of paper and placed it on the table. In an instant, a display read it and projected the information on displays for the others to read. A financial report for the quarter was all to be found there, and to call it disappointing would be an understatement that was disappointing in itself. Over the last two decades, the recession that gripped the galaxy had finally been addressed, and was being worked through by a series of reforms brought about by Albus Amagai, and the newcomer Vincent Layton. These reforms were held up only by their combined influence, and with Albus dead they fell through quickly.

The falling out showed in the report, which stated in a calm and businesslike manner that approximately 40% of galactic population was living below the poverty line. Darius stumbled over that number, and went back to check it again. Forty percent, his eyes did not lie. Nearly half of the galaxy was living in a state not fit for animals. He stood up in a flash, startling the councilors only a little, for they were far too busy being terrified by the Badgers, who had lifted their rifles they moment their commander stood, waiting for a target to be given.

“Wait a minute, surely this is some sort of mistake.” he said, his eyes reading that number again. “Forty percent? Surely this must be some kind of mistake, have the numbers always been this high?”

“High?” asked Councilor Smitt, seeming to be confused by the boy’s own confusion. “Councilor Amagai, the numbers have not been this low for as long as… well, for as long as I can remember! Your father did some amazing work, boy; er, costly, but amazing nonetheless.”

Darius felt his lip quiver a bit. He felt… anger? No, his life out of the tube had been short, but he had already felt anger, and this was not it. A deep weight was on his chest, and his mind scrambled with what felt like static. He could not concentrate on anything but that number. Forty percent. He felt wronged; a great injustice had been done here, he could feel it. He looked at the councilors sitting around him, the fat fools bickering over their territories like children fighting over toys, while every day untold billions, perhaps trillions suffered for their foolishness. He had been in that council for ten minutes, and already he could tell how broken the system was, down to its core. In his heart he knew that something had to change. A new system was needed, but what?

If more matters of importance came up in that meeting Darius did not hear them, all he could focus on, all that even entered his head was that number, and one solitary line: How do I change the system? Hours passed as if they were minutes. Councilors argued, they insulted, and they squabbled as they were prone to do, but after an extended time all business was concluded. In a curt gesture, they stood and bowed to each other, and left. Darius had not moved, still sitting in his chair, leaning forward, and staring across the table. The empty seat sat still for but a moment, before it rose into the ceiling. The chair belonged to Councilor Layton. In his mind, Darius was already formulating a plan.

“Sir?” asked one of the Badgers, standing by the door. “The shuttle is here, would you like to leave?”

Darius nodded in silence, realizing for the first time that he had been still for so long. He quietly exited the room, and the Badger closed the door behind them, sealing the chamber until the next meeting; though if Darius had his way, that would not happen for a very long time.

The pair, guard and councilor walked down a narrow corridor. Darius took the time to stare out the windows to his right. The vast expanse of space greeted him, the stars above and the surface layer of a swirling blue gas giant below them. The council met aboard the Tower Shield, an ancient space station built at the founding of the Guild around the planet Omnibus IV, the afore-mentioned gas giant. Its labyrinthine corridors and lack of advanced defenses hinted at its ancient nature, but the greatest clue was the color. The modern clans each had their own preferred color schemes, gaudily splashing them wherever they could possibly go; but the Guild of old had more reserved tastes. The Tower Shield was a dull gray, making it nearly impossible to make out against the dark background of space. Some speculated that this was meant to make it harder to detect, but other scholars with more common sense asked why that would be so when it orbited a bright blue planet, against which it would stick out like a sore thumb.

But before Darius could exposit further within his mind, the hallway abruptly turned to the left, leading into a docking bay where an olive green shuttle awaited. Two Badgers stood guarding the loading ramp, at the foot of which stood a rather brutish looking individual. Everything that the frail councilors were not, this man had a stern, scarred face that demonstrated his years of faithful service on the front lines. His battle armor was nearly as decorated, with dings, scratches, dents, and a peculiar claw rake across the torso marring its olive surface. His closely-cropped sandy hair was all but gone in a solitary patch, where a revolting bite wound had scarred. He saluted as Darius approached, as did the Badgers under his command, but with a wave of the councilor’s hand he stood at ease.

“I assume the meeting went as well as you had hoped, Mr. Amagai?” asked the man. Darius could do nothing but shake his head and sigh.

“It’s Councilor Amagai now. And no. Not so nearly as well as I’d hoped. Let’s get on the shuttle, Bill, I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

Bill, full name William Kraft, was the commander of the Carthan Protection and Reconnaissance Company, otherwise known as the Badgers, and the first friend that Darius had made outside of the cloning vat. The two walked onboard the shuttle together, Bill listening intently as Darius explained the situation to him. After the long and information-filled story, all Bill could do was nod silently, as he rolled an unlit cigar around in his mouth.

“That’s rough, sir. ‘Course, things are rough all over these days. But if you ask me, what you’ve gotta do’s obvious, and I think you know it.”

Darius looked at him disbelievingly. “You can’t possibly mean that I take control of the council?”

“I do, sir.” affirmed the mercenary leader. “An’ don’t try telling me you can’t. Been alive for less than a year, you’re already the smartest man I know, and hell, that ain’t counting the fact you’ve got the resources of a whole clan at your feet, not t’ mention me an’ the Badgers.”

Darius shook his head, still skeptical of his friend’s faith. “I can’t involve your men, Bill. There’s likely little money to be found in this venture.”

“So? Pay my boys in heads an’ they’ll follow you just as far, and wit’ twice the fervor. Ain’t had a good scrap in years, none of them other mercs is brave enough to face a Badger in a fair fight. Give us a war an’ we’ll give you a throne.”

Darius stared as Bill extended his hand, his face an eager and devilish grin. After a moment the Amagai boy returned the handshake, a little smirk of his own shining through his stoic demeanor. “All right, you’ve convinced me, Bill. I’ll try, but I can’t do this alone, and there’s more to a war than how many soldiers I can throw at it. There’s the matter of diplomacy, and politics. Luckily enough, I know where we can start.” he pounded on the door to the pilot’s section of the shuttle. “Set course for Valhalla! We need to have a word with Councilor Layton!”

The pilot on the other side nodded, though to whom she was not quite sure. The agile little ship flipped through the air and began to hurtle through space in the opposite direction it had been going a moment before, its rear engines swelling as a bright blue energy gathered within them. A minute later, and the hyperdrive activated in full force, the shuttle disappearing in a blink.

Not a minute later, the same blink returned to normal perception, in an entirely different system. They rested on the fringes of an asteroid field now, though the pilot distanced the shuttle as fast as possible, before Councilor Amagai realized how close they had come to certain death. The direction they were headed in now led them to a brown, dead-looking planet, surrounded on all sides by metal shrapnel and debris. This was Valhalla, capital of Layton territory and home to the councilor Vincent himself. Once the bustling trade capital of all Guild space, it was now practically abandoned by the other clans, after a violent McCaine raid tore their various stations to shreds, leaving the space around Valhalla a practical minefield. No trade ship larger than a private freighter dared to enter that space. By luck, the small Amagai shuttle was the perfect size to squeeze through the deadly flotsam, and make its way down into the planet below.

As the shuttle entered the atmosphere, it became apparent that the brown color was not the vegetation itself, but a cloud of smog that choked the planet itself of all color. Valhalla was not just a trade center, but also the greatest manufacturer of vehicles and machinery in all of Guild space; nearly all ships, cars, and appliances in that quadrant of the galaxy could find their roots here.

The trip lasted nearly an hour, as the shuttle weaved its way through millions of busy aerial cars zipped along the skyways to and from work, slowly making its way towards the residence of Vincent Layton. It was nearly impossible to miss once they had found it.

The estate, for it could only be called an estate, covered thousands of acres at least, and was made up of dozens of inter-connecting buildings with underground tunnels and elevated walkways to get pedestrians from location to location. Bill made an impressed whistle as he viewed the place. He muttered something about “rave spot of the millennium”, but Darius paid little attention to his friend’s jokes. He was focused on diplomacy now, and all the lessons his father had ever implanted in his ran through his head.

The shuttle touched down on a rooftop platform, and opened up to reveal a half-dozen guards in crimson armor waiting for them. The Layton’s own mercenaries of choice, the Hellions awaited the guests. Darius and Bill exited the shuttle without a response, but when the other guards attempted to step out the Hellions raised their weapons. A single crimson-clad guard stepped forward and mindlessly barked out an order from Councilor Layton himself, that only two-man parties could enter his estate at any given time, according to proper conduct. Bill stepped up to the guard and looked him up and down.

“Gotta say, Chuck, your boss could learn some manners. Two fine ladies like us show up at your door, and all you can tell ‘em is a bunch of horseshit about conduct?”

Though the guard Bill referred to as Chuck did not respond verbally, he did smack Bill with the butt of his rifle, and pointed the pair inside. They entered, the veteran silently cursing to himself.

The interior was dimly lit, but tastefully decorated in warm colors, as if it were a particularly high-quality university hall. The Amagai representatives were directed onto a moving trail along the floor. They stepped aboard, and were rapidly carried through the building. They paid little attention to the trip, however. Darius stared at Bill for a moment, until the veteran became uncomfortable and asked him why he was staring.

“Chuck?” questioned the young councilor.

“What about him?” responded the veteran.

“Just who was he, exactly?”

“Chuck’s how I got the claw marks.”

Darius was intrigued at how this could have taken place, but before he could inquire further the trail stopped. They found themselves at a massive set of double doors, opened wide to reveal a luxurious office, as dark and crimson as the rest of the building. The walls were decorated with numerous portraits of past Layton councilors, all wearing what appeared to be the same tan trench coat. A fireplace crackled to the side, next to which was a large mahogany desk. And behind that desk sat a large figure, whom Darius recognized as Councilor Layton himself. He was reading something off the top of a stack of papers, only to glance up and recognize the pair. His demeanor quickly shifted into a jovial state.

“Oh, Darius! Come in, come in!” he gestured to a pair of seats in front of his desk, which the two guests quietly took. Vincent was practically beaming as he greeted them. “I have to say, you performed fantastically this morning! I don’t know why your father never told me about you, but I’ve gotta say he picked the right heir!”

Darius gave a polite smile in return, though his drooping eyes made no change. “Thank you for the kind words, Councilor Layton; but in fact, since you mentioned my father I felt we should get straight to business. My friend William and I have come here because we know that you were one of Albus’ most outspoken supporters in his policies and, well, we felt we could come to you with a bit of a proposition.”

“A proposition? As in a business proposition? What’d you have in mind?” asked Vincent, leaning forward a bit to show they had his full attention. Darius wrapped his lips into a thin smile around his glowing teeth.

“I suppose you might call it an alliance.”

The maximum character limit has been exceeded with all four, so I'll need to double-post.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: CJ1145 on April 05, 2011, 07:51:37 pm

Spoiler: Chapter 3 (click to show/hide)

Councilor Layton could not help but grin in delight as the word “alliance” was mentioned. The politics of the Guild were as fluid as water, wars beginning and ending over consistently trivial reasons. But alliances were solid, like rock; a pact between councilors was formed for life, to collaborate for the betterment of both their guilds. Alliances were few and far between in the last several generations.

“An alliance? Oh, you are your father’s son!” squealed the councilor, as he vigorously shook the youth’s hand. Darius attempted a smile, but it appeared awkward and forced when next to the beaming face of Vincent.

“Indeed I am, Councilor Layton.” said Darius in a humble tone, bowing his head in recognition. “But I must admit, you are rather quick to trust me; you seemed far more skeptical at the meeting.”

“All I needed was proof, boy, proof! Oh, and what proof you gave! A stamp from your father may as well have been a video of him declaring you his one true heir. Besides that, I cannot hold ill will towards the son of half of the greatest venture in Guild history! Your father’s work was vital in improving the state of the economy, if you ask me! It’s a rather sorry state of affairs, if you want my opinion.” The large man stood up, and before Darius could intervene the elder councilor was waltzing about the room, ranting and raving.

“It’s the Guild’s job to manage the economy effectively, to bring prosperity to everyone! But instead we all focus on ourselves; it’s a system of greed and corruption! But your father, Albus, he was a visionary, absolutely inspiring! Under his leadership and mine we were leading the galaxy into a new golden age!”

While Layton spoke, Darius and Bill were engaged in a silent conversation of their own, consisting of Bill thinking of new and violent ways to silence the councilor, only to be shot down by a disgusted Darius. After several minutes of this, Darius heard the councilor winding down.

“Oh, but with Albus dead it’s all gone so far downhill, my boy. I fear all the work we’ve done will be for nothing.”

“Not necessarily.” interjected the Amagai youth, abruptly standing up to ensure he would not be ignored in favor of another long-winded speech. He turned and approached the councilor, coolly speaking as he came. “My father was a visionary, but his vision did not go far enough. He raised me to be everything he could not be, and I have fulfilled his wish. I come to you with a proposition, a plea for help. With your resources combined with mine, we have the power to change the system in its entirety, and lead civilization into prosperity it has not known in millennia.”

The expression on Layton’s face was practically euphoric. Each of his hands grabbed one of Darius’ shoulders and shook him vigorously. “Oh, Darius! Do you really think we could do it?”

“I know we could.” Darius responded, his eyes open wide for the first time the councilor had seen. There was a spark in those eyes, a bright fire that let the elder catch a glimpse of the passion inside of Darius. “I can lead us there, but I need your backing every step of the way; do I have it?”

“You have it, Amagai, you have it!” Layton shouted in joy. “Just tell me what your first step is, and my clan will be behind you every step of the way.”

“Don’t be so quick to trust, Councilor Layton.” Darius insisted, pushing him back to give himself space. “When I tell you my plan you may wish you had never asked. Do you still wish to hear it?”

“Tell me, boy, tell me.” Layton said, his face a mix of concern and extreme interest. “You’ve hooked me now, don’t try and tell me I can’t listen to what you have to say.”

Darius nodded, and took a deep breath. “You said yourself, Councilor, that the system we operate on now is broken. Rusted and corrupted by selfish politicians and bureaucrats. My father was well-intentioned, but he was wrong; this system cannot be repaired through any means. What we need is an upheaval, a new order to start from scratch. We must usurp the council.”

Councilor Vincent Layton’s eyes were opened so wide their shock almost managed to distract from his mouth, agape by a wide margin. He stammered for a moment, trying to think of something to say. “I-I… usurp the council? That’s unheard of! The Guild has ruled for thousands of years, and no one has ever even tried it! It’s foolhardy, insane!”

Before Layton could go further Darius reached forward with an arm and firmly grabbed Vincent’s shoulder, shaking him a bit. “It is extreme, but you must understand my position. You and I both saw the horrible state things are in. Forty percent of the galaxy is below the poverty line, Councilor Layton; I believe we have reached the threshold where extreme action becomes necessary! We have two highly trained mercenary companies whose sole goals are to guard resources and commit petty theft and, if they’re lucky, a hit every thirty years. Shouldn’t we use them to do what they were intended for, to act as a military extension of our clans’ wills?”
Layton shook his head and disbelief and stepped away from Darius, walking out to the window behind his desk. He stared out at the estate, the vast complex stretching out in every direction to the horizon. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, he turned around, his face solemn. “I don’t like admitting it, Darius, but you’re right. Something has to change, and in a society where change is brought about by murder, that may very well be our best shot. What would you suggest as our first course of action, partner?”

Layton walked back over to Darius, and confidently thrust out his hand. Darius took it and shook, the unsigned agreement been councilors sealed. “We begin with the other councilors, Vincent. Some are worthy of recruiting to our cause. But others must be dealt with swiftly, and without remorse. Can you do that?”

Layton smiled calmly at the suggestion. “You’re looking at the most skilled covert operations commander to be adopted into the clans in centuries. You’re asking me to play a child’s game. Who’s our target?”

“Targets, actually.” Darius corrected. Bill, who had been silent until now, stood and approached the pair with a data pad full of information on the various councilors. “My father’s treasure trove of information.” Darius explained to Layton. “I’ve used it to compile a list of the councilors that we could recruit, and those who need to be eliminated.”

“I assume Bargo’s the big target?” Layton asked, his chipper demeanor now subdued as he talked about more serious business.

“No.” Darius replied flatly. “Bargo may be greedy, but he is influential, and he has access to vital resources. We can buy him, and his influence will pull most of the other clan leaders toward us. There are only two that must be dealt with through force.”

Two pictures appeared on the data pad, one an old woman with beehive hair and a frail looking old man with a kindly smile.

“This must be a mistake.” Layton replied, staring in confusion at the old man’s picture. “Melissa Staunt is too stuck in the old ways to join us, I understand that, but what harm could Smitt possibly be to you?”

“It’s not him that bothers me, it’s his age.” Darius explained. “As the oldest member of the council, his age guarantees he won’t be long for this world. Even if we managed to get him on our side, it’s highly possible that he could die the very next morning and appoint an heir that just so happens to despise us, and has access to whatever we’d shared with his predecessor. It will be more beneficial if we kill him now, and replace him with someone more sympathetic to our efforts. I assume you know who I mean?”
“Oliver Smitt.” Bill interjected, cutting off Layton before he even had a chance to consider the question. On the data pad the picture of a young boy, barely even at the age of maturity, smiling goofily into the camera that had taken his photo. A short-cropped head of bright red hair greeted the viewer in a striking manner, and freckles dotted the boy’s face.

“The kid’s a dreamer.” Layton said to no one in particular as he examined the photo. “Always asking questions his tutors didn’t like to hear, from what I understand. Just the sort of idealist you’re looking for, partner.”

“Precisely.” Darius confirmed. “There is no need for you to make any more conjectures, Councilor Layton, for I already have it set up.”

The Amagai youth approached Layton’s desk and beckoned Bill, who pulled out a stack of papers full of information. While most civilians had moved on to the more convenient digital forms of information storage, the Guild had grown fond of old-fashioned paper, which was easy to protect due to the limited amount of copies, and easy to dispose of should it become irrelevant or compromised. These papers detailed a markedly elaborate plan to handle the assassination and coronation attempts.

Darius would make a solitary visit to Councilor Smitt that night on the pretense of acquainting himself with his fellow councilors. While there, he would shift the conversation to the choice of Smitt’s heir and attempt to influence him to pick Oliver, should he not already be chosen. After he left, the hit would begin. Two teams of mercenaries led by Bill and one of Layton’s men would storm the building, dressed in the armor of the Staunt’s Viper mercenaries (to be requisitioned by Layton’s men during the setup of the operation) and murder the eldest councilor. The overt nature of the mission, while flashy, served a deliberate purpose in that the false Vipers would be easy to recognize. This would sew distrust among the other councilors towards Melissa Staunt, undermining her own position and allowing Darius to recruit the young Oliver to his side. Layton looked over all of this in a sense of near awe.

“You’ve handled yourself well here, Darius. Your first assassination and you’ve already got a plan worthy of your father! Albus would have been so proud of you, boy, I just know it!”

Darius blushed a bit, embarrassed by the constant praises of Layton. “Thank you for the kind words, Councilor, but my father’s approval is of little concern to me right now. All that matters is carrying on his work to the best of my ability.”

Layton nodded and affirmed this, ensuring Darius that he understood what he meant. “So, when can we begin?” the elder man asked.
Darius nodded politely and walked to and out the door, followed closely by Bill. “We’ve already begun, Councilor.”

Spoiler: Chapter 4 (click to show/hide)

Councilor Orville Smitt sat quietly in his office, dozens of sheets of paper scattered on his desk before him. He had been gone for one day to oversee the council assembly, and within that short absence thirty new reports were brought to him, half of which seemed to revolve around a particular businessman by the name of Finch, who had been making attempts to purchase large sections of Smitt clan territory, and had been spotted consulting with the Skunks, a low-brow gang that liked to call itself a mercenary company. All signs seemed to suggest that Finch was in the process of trying to usurp the Smitt clan as a member of the council.

Orville couldn’t help but look at his exploits in disappointment. He was clearly a determined man and worthy of respect, but such an affront to the Smitts could not stand. He drew a blank sheet of paper from a draw filled with them and quietly scribbled out an order, his shaky hand garbling a few of the words as it went.

“I, Councilor Orville Smitt, eldest member of the Guild Council, hereby decree that the upcoming businessman by the name of Christopher Finch is a traitor to his people, and I hereby give the order to Elysia Smitt, my head of security, to have him executed in a public showing, as per her request.”

With his other hand, Orville gingerly picked up a stamp, his own personal councilor’s seal. With a strong smack, he pressed it down into the paper, leaving behind its imprint. The stamp was of a beastly two-headed man with curly hair. The two faces appeared to be arguing with each other over something. Most councilors seemed to choose meaningful designs, but this design amused Orville so much as a young man that he chose it as his signature.

With the paper finished, he casually placed it in a bin to be collected by his secretary later on. For the moment, he was content to lean back in his leather chair and stare at his office. The walls were a pure white, the color of the clouds on a particularly sunny day. Bright-colored and frivolous art was scattered about the walls, and the rug was a soft eggshell color. No matter what others would tell him about it, Orville enjoyed the sense of purity that he felt looking at his room. While he could have gone on all day admiring it, a voice sounded on the intercom sitting on his desk.

“Councilor Smitt, you appear to have a guest.”

“Ah, send him in please.” the councilor replied in his usual voice; a mix of kindness and confusion. He looked up to see the doors open, revealing a strong and stern figure that he recognized from earlier that morning.

“Oh, Councilor Amagai! Please do come in and have a seat.”

Darius nodded graciously and sat down in a chair opposite the eldest councilor, looking at the room in a marveled expression. “It appears that you are rather bold in your design choices, Councilor Smitt.”

“Yes, I’m quite proud of it in fact.” Smitt replied, smiling warmly at the compliment. He leaned over and pointed at a painting sitting on a wall to Darius’ left. “That one there is an original from an artist back on Earth. Practically ancient, er, Picasso, I think his name was?”

“Interesting.” Darius replied. “But, wouldn’t something by him have crumbled to dust by now?”

“Oh, that’s just what you’d think, but not so.” Orville replied. “It was a spot of trouble, trying to keep it preserved; cost me a million, you know, just to get it in that vacuum-sealed frame. But it was very much worth it, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, it complements the color of the room nicely.” Darius responded. “Though, I feel I must get back to the reason I’ve arrived—“

“Oh yes, yes, tell me all about it Councilor.” replied Orville, leaning forward expectantly. Darius caught a full view of the councilor’s face, and realized how closely it resembled a turkey’s. From his large nose, to his large and blank eyes, and a smile that seemed to advertise cluelessness, the councilor’s appearance would have been comical on a lesser man.

“Well, I’m here to learn, you might say.” Darius replied. “My father, Albus, he kept me home for most of my life. I learned only a little of the outside world, and of the men and women he worked with, so I’ve decided to make it a little project of mine to come and visit each of you, and learn about who I’ll be working with.”

“That’s a splendid idea, absolutely wonderful!” Orville exclaimed. “Tell me, what would you like to know?”

Before Darius could specify any specific topic, Orville had begun to speak. The longer they were together, the more Darius was reminded of Councilor Layton.  Smitt spoke with a frenzied and erratic pace, making subtle hand gestures that complimented whatever odd situation he was speaking of at the time.

“Oh, where do I begin? Well, the Smitt clan is a very prestigious clan you should know, a cut above those other fools, if you understand my meaning. But we’re not proud, oh no indeed never! We are a humble clan, but that’s not to say we aren’t aware of our own achievements, no sir! We’re the innovators of the Guild, the ones that all others go to for new ideas; our structures are the absolute pinnacle of human achievement, and we’ve made it our goal to share them with all the others! Go to any planet for a thousand light years, and pick out a building. Is it bold? We made it! Is it unique? We made it! Is it sturdy, pleasing to the eye, and crafted with the precision of master? We MADE IT!”

Darius was a bit taken aback by the violent outburst at the end of Orville’s speech, but he did not let it show in his speech. “That is informative, and kind of you, Councilor Smitt, but I was hoping to know a bit more about yourself, and your own deeds.”

Realizing his error, the eldest councilor apologized and spoke more calmly, this time going on for much longer. He explained that, coming from a large home with seven siblings, he learned quickly how to perform as a shrewd businessman, exalting himself and making the others look like fools in comparison. Though it took years of hard work, he earned the title of heir to the clan, and when the day came he took his seat among the most prestigious in all of Guild space.

“That’s astounding, Councilor.” Darius said. He pulled out a data pad and began to write, the subject being a poem dedicated to a small lavender flower on Councilor Smitt’s desk. But as far as the other councilor knew, he was taking notes on his life story. “So, how long have you been in power, then?”

“Oh, longer than I care to count.” Smitt replied, nodding in a humble acceptance of the question. “Though, if I were forced to pick a number, I would probably say… one hundred. I have been in power for one hundred years, give or take a few.”

Darius forced a face of bewilderment, though he was certain that his father’s own notes had told him everything he needed to know about the man he was interviewing. “A full century, Councilor Smitt? I’d have never guessed. Please, tell me your secret, for I’ve never heard of a man that could live to be so old.”

The old man chortled at the compliment. “Oh, my, so many compliments from the young lad. Your father taught you well, Councilor Amagai, at least in etiquette. I suppose I may as well share my secret, I’m certainly too old to be affected by it. You see, on a far-away world, though I do not know the name, there is a rejuvenating spring of water that the natives called “La Madre”, the home of their Mother Spirit. Well, curiosity got the better of me, and I sent out a few of my men to bring back a bit of this water. They came back a full year later, with a single bottle of water, and I tell you boy it was beautiful. It seemed to glow with an amber light, and the room was warmed just by its presence. Now I couldn’t just let an opportunity like that pass me by, correct? I took a drink from the water, and its effects were positively magical! My vitality was increased tenfold, it seemed, and it certainly extended my lifespan by a considerable deal, as I’m sitting here before you as we speak.”

Darius could only let his jaw drop a little in response. His mind was fascinated by what sort of culture lived on this planet, and whether he could study them. But the business sense that his father had instilled with him wrested control, and at once all he could think of was the worms deep in the crust of Heaven’s Gate. The fluid they left behind, diluted with the water from that spring… the possibilities were awe-inspiring. He leaned forward and stared at the Councilor intently. “Sir, I beg your pardon, but do you have any of that water left? I would love to see it for myself.”

“Alas, Councilor Amagai, I do not.” Orville responded with a dejected sigh. “When I first tasted that water, I was filled with greed, a basic need and desire for all of that water that I could drink. There was not a drop left in that bottle when I was finished with it.”

“I see.” Darius whispered. He turned back and looked at the Councilor in a colder expression than before. “Without that water then, your age must be catching up with you. You’ve probably thought long and hard about an heir, then?”

“Oh, indeed, Councilor Amagai, indeed.” Orville said, nodding rapidly in agreement. “For years I’ve contemplated who would take my place as head of the Smitt clan, and just this morning I think I’ve decided.”

“Really?” Darius asked, intrigued. “Might I ask you whom you have chosen?”

“Indeed.” Orville said, beaming. “I have chosen my great-granddaughter, Jule Smitt.”

“Damn.” Darius thought to himself. “Why would he choose her? She is nothing like him, cold and ruthless, a war hawk if ever there was one.”

His response out loud was more diplomatic. “That is an interesting choice Councilor Smitt, and might I say an odd one. Are you sure there is no one who would be better suited for advancing your clan?”

“You mean Oliver, yes?” Orville asked his younger companion. “He is a good boy, and one day he will lead our clan to glory, I’m sure of it. But when I die, it’s going to be difficult times. The clans will likely break out in violence trying to usurp my clan’s place as the most prestigious. Jule is a strong girl, and she has a level head for warfare. She is the sort of leadership we will need in those times. Oliver has good ideas, but for times of peace and not war.”

Darius scowled, though not in a way so noticeable that Orville could see it. The eldest councilor was quite obviously set in his decision, and Darius was certain that he could do little to convince him otherwise. He needed to think of another plan to make Oliver the heir.  As he pondered, his eyes seemed to move of their own volition, slowly drifting towards a small object on Councilor Smitt’s desk: his stamp. That stamp was all the proof Darius needed to make a forged document worthy of recognition by the council. His conscience revolted at the thought, every word of his father’s teachings clearly setting themselves against such a dishonorable act. To kill a councilor was to show them respect, to show them they were a threat worth acting against. But to steal their own personal possessions, especially something as valuable as their personal stamp, was a crime no other councilor would even consider. They viewed as something so despicable that even their worst crimes paled in comparison to it.

To Darius’ own relief, he was not like the other councilors. “Councilor Smitt, could you look outside the window, and tell me what you see?”

Councilor Smitt stood up and walked over to the large window behind him, staring out at the world below. He never heard, or otherwise noticed Darius pocketing his prized stamp, nor the crinkling of the bill he snatched.

Below him, through that window, was Garrison, the largest city in all of the Galactic Commerce Guild’s space. His own palatial mansion sat at the top of a mountain range that cut through the middle of the city, the rocks standing as tall as Mount Aconcagua, the largest mountain on Earth after a devastating asteroid impact flattened much of Asia. Even then, the tallest buildings came to eye level, their tallest floors at an elevation level with his own. The city was clustered with buildings of this height, their magnificent marble-esque architecture reaching to skies above. For nearly forty kilometers in all directions the city stretched, gradually sloping downward in height until the edges of the town were indicated by luxurious suburbs, where one and two-story homes dotted the lush, green landscape. While other clans had homeworlds rich in resources, and were forced to mar the landscape as they harvested them, the Smitt’s capital of Purity had no vital resources of its own that warranted destroying its strikingly beautiful landscape. Instead, they harvested building resources from Purity’s moon, and the other planets within their territory, and focused them all on turning Purity into the most beautiful planet in the galaxy. Many would say they had succeeded, as the city was nearly uniform in its pristine white color, and with a nearly omnipresent police force in the form of the Smitt’s mercenaries its crime record was nearly as spotless.

“I see greatness, Councilor Amagai.” Orville said. “I see a city full of potential, a true metropolis, devoid of the sin that plagues our civilization. I see a vision of the future, one that could be brought about under my leadership. But, as it is, I see a hope that shall never come. Your father was a good man, Councilor Amagai, and as such I feel you are worthy enough to tell you, my hope shall likely never come. Under better circumstances, my great-grandnephew Oliver might be able to continue, even expand this age of prosperity. But the wars that will surely come shall tear us to shreds under his leadership; that is why I pass the torch to Jule, so that in the future that vision I have seen might rise from our ashes.” He took a deep breath, and stared for a moment longer. He turned to face Darius and said, “I hate to be a bother Councilor Amagai, but I feel I need to spend some time alone. I hate to cut our talk short, but we must end for today.”

“It is no trouble at all, Councilor Smitt, and it has been a pleasure speaking with you.” replied Darius, with a bow. He turned and swiftly walked from the room, fingering the objects he had stolen. A few short minutes later, and the Coucilor was on a shuttle flying away from the palace. He flew only a short distance, over the nearest peak, to a camp that had been set up. He landed amongst a collection of tattered tents, where his mercenary team had set up. Behind them, the bright blue sun of their system was beginning to set, splashing the sky in an array of colors. Against this backdrop Darius exited the vehicle, being greeted by Bill and Councilor Layton, to whom he handed the stolen items. After a moment of confused looks, he explained all that had happened during the interview while they moved to another tent.

By the end of it, Layton was nodding in an assured manner. “That was a very smart move, my boy; gotta remember that not every plan goes the way you want it to.”

“Still,” the young councilor complained. “I feel that I should have seen an outcome like this coming. Councilor Smitt is an intelligent man, and Oliver is not the first choice one would make without the knowledge we have. But what’s done is done, are you ready Bill?”

Bill saluted his councilor, and shouted “As good as we can get, sir! Plan’s already set up, me an’ your Badgers are gonna swoop in from the roof, cut off the shuttle so Smitt can’t run. Chuck’s gonna bring up his team right through the front door, and rush Smitt’s office.”

“Very good.” Darius responded, commending the mercenary. “Meanwhile, Layton and I will get to work on making a new document, marking Oliver as the chosen heir of the Smitt clan. It’s almost sunset, Bill, you and your men had best be moving.”

Bill saluted his friend once more, and rushed off to gather his men, their golden Viper armor shining in the bright rays of the setting sun. Darius sat down at a table with Layton and smoothed out the crinkled sheet of paper he had stolen. It appeared to be some sort of bill ordering a man’s execution. “Lucky him.” Darius muttered to his companion, who responded with a chuckle. They pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and a fountain pen in the style of Smitt’s, and began to carefully write out a document in the format used for the appointment of heirs.

There's the newest two.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Supermikhail on April 06, 2011, 08:52:05 am

Quote

But Albus had seen their plight, and for the first time in eons a councilor felt sympathy for the less fortunate.

This part is extremely suspicious. It feels like the writer was sponsored by the clan. ;) I'd think in the face of a rebellion it was better for him to figure out some way to pacify the masses. And the rest of the Guild was probably very glad that he took the initiative.

Quote

He experimented with it, and to his surprise found that when diluted in water and with sodium dissolved within

Made me laugh. When you dissolve sodium in water you get an explosion, first, then a solution quite hazardous to living tissue. But it wouldn't be a solution of sodium.

Quote

If it could repair tissue, it could likely be used to grow it as well. Albus, a man with no sons of his own, found this to be a practical godsend. The Amagai clan had the means to create the perfect cloning vats.

Well, that's a parade of baseless statements. First, that's how tissue repair works - it is regrown over. Second, no, you can't just put a few hairs off your head into a nutritious solution and grow a copy of yourself. You need an ovum to start the development. Without an ovum, you'll just grow more of the same tissue (in the best, magical case). Frankly, you don't need sci-fi magics for cloning - the science and technology is available to us already. You need a womb, without it you simply won't get a child, and you might need gene manipulation, because there are bound to be cloning artifacts, like accelerated aging - age, scientists say, is encoded in the DNA, and so would be transfered from Albus to Darius.

In short, you are performing some hard-to-understand shenanigans. From any point, it would have been far easier for Albus to have a natural child. He would have managed to foster a worthy successor somehow, considering what a great diplomat he was.

Quote

“Gotta say, Chuck, your boss could learn some manners. Two fine ladies like us show up at your door, and all you can tell ‘em is a bunch of horseshit about conduct?”

Well, the first time I thought I misunderstood. It's quite a weird thing for a grilled war veteran to willingly compare himself to a lady.

Quote

With a strong smack, he pressed it down into the paper, leaving behind its imprint.

Try without "leaving behind its imprint." It's kind of obvious what a strongly smacked thing leaves. I've noticed that you sometimes like to state obvious things. Well, nothing that can't be corrected in rewriting.

Quote

“It appears that you are rather bold in your design choices, Councilor Smitt.”

No, he is not bold. If he walked in the street in his design choices, it would have been bold. But it's his residence, with armed guards. He is just extravagant, or something.

Quote

He leaned forward and stared at the Councilor intently. “Sir, I beg your pardon, but do you have any of that water left? I would love to see it for myself.”

“Alas, Councilor Amagai, I do not.” Orville responded with a dejected sigh. “When I first tasted that water, I was filled with greed, a basic need and desire for all of that water that I could drink. There was not a drop left in that bottle when I was finished with it.”

“I see.” Darius whispered. He turned back and looked at the Councilor in a colder expression than before. “Without that water then, your age must be catching up with you. You’ve probably thought long and hard about an heir, then?”

This is a strange conversation, reminding me of medieval romance. They are so obvious and so exaggerated. Are you going for Medieval romance?

Maybe what's bothering me is how the lofty language is contrasted by the vile deeds. Ehm. It's strange to see a situation like that written in the style of high fantasy. Maybe it would work with realism better.

Although, I must commend you on your dedication. That's a pretty fast pace you're moving at.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: CJ1145 on April 06, 2011, 02:12:46 pm

I'm on a phone again, so I'll address a paragraph to each subject, in the order you placed them in.

I admit, when I wrote this section, I looked back and said "this guy looks like a saint." I thought about correcting it, then I thought about how this could be a good thought. What if this nigh-messianic figure's actions not only failed to save the galaxy, they brought it to ruin? It could also come to light that he's less perfect than people thought, but I don't know for sure. I probably know less than the reader in some areas.

The sodium thing was intentional, making the parts of the solution so wholly impossible that it becomes obvious that something in that fluid is extraordinary. While I'm trying to give the world depth, hard realism and science is definitely not a focus.

The whole cloning bull is my own fault. I kind of left the actual process vague on purpose due to my lack of knowledge on it. But a natural son was not an option in Albus' mind. Darius would have been born weak and fragile like the rest of the Guild, and more importantly it was possible for him to hide the vats. A living, breathing, and thinking individual would have been harder to hide and protect.

Chuck has a (sometimes bad) sense of humor he clings to. Not to mention he's somewhat insane to begin with. He was, when you think about it, the instigator for the whole coup taking place.

True, easy to fix, but it's just sort of a habit of mine that I have trouble catching.

True, it's not bold, but pretty much every word in this conversation is ass-kissing on Darius' part. He wants to make it known how highly he thinks of the Councilor, so that he might be able to influence the choice of heir.

The speech style for this part was intentional. In formal meetings like this, the Councilors intentionally up the refinement in their speech to appear more noble. And like you seemed to notice this was to contrast with just how terrible they are; they're a bunch of dirty, amoral crooks who try to act like gentlemen for the sake of their own consciences.

And thank you :)

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Supermikhail on April 07, 2011, 01:06:40 am

Don't mention it. :)

Quote

The whole cloning bull is my own fault. I kind of left the actual process vague on purpose due to my lack of knowledge on it. But a natural son was not an option in Albus' mind. Darius would have been born weak and fragile like the rest of the Guild, and more importantly it was possible for him to hide the vats. A living, breathing, and thinking individual would have been harder to hide and protect.

It sounds like a religious thing. It might be easier to make sense of if it was a religious thing, that is, Albus thought, for example, that the human flesh of the councilors has become unpure, and so the savior has to come from an immaculate inception. Probably could save some shenanigans, and add something the reader could relate to. Well, maybe "relate" is not the right word. More like, find something familiar... No, make Albus easier to understand. Although how you work it into the plot... It could be done, by making Darius's origin an object of exploration throughout the story, or at least a part of it. Right now, the introduction seems a little too long, and as if you've told in it everything that happens in the story - Darius was created to change the world. And he proceeds to do so. There might be a little too little intrigue. Not that it's no fun watching terrible deeds unfolding, and exploring another world.

To the sodium thing. Well, everybody reading it would think that it's a goof. That is, anybody somewhat familiar with chemistry. You have to back it up somehow. At least remove water out of that. Sodium is still pretty dangerous without it. Although, what made you single out sodium is a mystery to me. Also, the closest most metals come to being dissolved is in the form of amalgams. I don't think this is a genre where you want to make intentional mistakes, or what without explanation seems to be mistakes.

Quote

The speech style for this part was intentional. In formal meetings like this, the Councilors intentionally up the refinement in their speech to appear more noble. And like you seemed to notice this was to contrast with just how terrible they are; they're a bunch of dirty, amoral crooks who try to act like gentlemen for the sake of their own consciences.

It's more not their speech, then, but your, the author's, attitude towards it - that lofty style I keep talking about. When you surround the characters' insincere, hypocritical statements with... well, take this passage

Quote

squealed the councilor, as he vigorously shook the youth’s hand. Darius attempted a smile

"vigorously", "attempted" (here), "squealed" (as a dialog tag) - you don't meet them out of fantasy or medieval literature, or satire these days. The reader then thinks "I'm not supposed to take this seriously, right?" - but there's not enough humor. "Is this a philosophical writing?" - well, we'll see. Also, I didn't notice much difference in Darius's speech when he was talking to councilors and to Bill. You might want to add a touch of realism into the author's words. There's a lot of you in this story (it's not a bad thing), you become a sort of meta-character, and the reader relates to you, too, becomes aware of your "actions". Although, being a beginning writer, you could leave these considerations until the rewrite, or your next novel. By the way, what's the accumulated word count?

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: CJ1145 on April 07, 2011, 05:41:57 am

Hm, the religious idea is interesting. Right now the physical reasoning is that the councilors are physically weak and frail. Most that aren't skin and bones are noticeably overweight. More reason could easily be given over the course of a story, though.

The sodium is something that can be removed easily, but the water is plot-related, as it sets up part of Darius' incentive to jump off the slippery slope.

The speech issue is my fault, obviously, but I've tried and there's not much I can do about it. I've been told I have a very advanced vocabulary for my age, and I addmit my writing style is just a tad archaic, so combined this might be a bit weird for sci-fi writing. Funny story, about four years ago when I started writing the first prototype of this story, someone compared my writing to Tom Clancy. I wasn't sure whether to thank or slap him.

EDIT: Forgot to mention, Darius consistently speaks like that on purpose. He is all business all the time, or at least he wants to appear that way.

The total word count, including chapter titles (which are mostly descriptions there for my own benefit) my story clocks in just shy of 10,000 words.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: CJ1145 on April 09, 2011, 08:23:43 pm

So I've written another chapter, this time focusing on Bill and the assassinatin of Councilor Smitt. I was originally planning to have Chapters 4, 5, and now 6 all take place in a single chapter, but I realized that was way too long compared to the short in comparison chapters before it. So I've split them up.

Also, based on the views this thread's got it can't just be me and Supermikhail reading this. If anyone else is reading and likes the story, hates it, or wants to comment on something, feel free to post. Getting constructive criticism is why I post this here.

Spoiler: Chapter 5 (click to show/hide)

Bill had made good time after leaving Darius to work on his own project, already knowing his destination. The camp was small, but full of mercenaries going about their business. Though subtle, one could see the thin line drawn between the halves of the camp belonging to the Amagai's Badgers, and the Layton's Crimsons. The hostility between the groups was something of a legend among the other mercenary groups in Guild territory.

"Bunch'a goddamn cowards, if you ask me." Bill had once slurred on a drunken tirade. "They'll show up if ya promise'em glory, but soon as things start t' heat up they're gone, an' with all yer hard-earned money too." It was no secret that Bill had trained his Badgers well, but he drilled in no lesson harder than "Never trust a Crimson."

If the rivalries between the different clans in the Guild were to be described as "fierce", the rivalries between their respective mercenaries were to be called "vicious". Each company had worked hard for its long-standing contracts with their clan clients, and they devoted massive amounts of resources to keeping those good relations. The best way most of the companies could gain favor was to go out of their ways to attack and destroy the companies of other clans. Despite the now two-generation alliance between the Amagai and the Layton clans, the Crimsons and Badgers had yet to regain each other's trust after a brutal war nearly two hundred years before. Bill remembered many a story his grandfather would tell about his own grandfather, a soldier in the war. He told Bill about bloody, disease-filled trench warfare, of orbital bombardments leveling entire cities, and the humiliating defeat the Badgers had suffered at the hands of the Crimsons, the precursors to Layton's Hellion mercenaries. Ever since that day, Bill had made it up in his mind that he was going to despise all Crimsons with as much hatred he could muster. Save for a few faltering moments he had kept it up to his own satisfaction.

The leader of the Badgers walked up to a long line of mercenaries lined up along a cliff-face, looking down at the city of Garrison. Bill cleared his throat to gather their attention, and they all made a quick about-face on their heels, saluting him. He smiled at his own men, dressed in replica Viper armor. It was frustrating to see them wear the colors of the enemy, but he trusted Darius. He'd known the Amagai youth for only a short time, but something told Bill that the boy had a great destiny, and that if he knew what was good for him he'd follow that youth as far as he could. This time, the boy had told him he'd need his men disguised, and he'd disguised them as well as any man could. He positioned himself where he needed to be, standing in front of a large metal hulk. He brought his fist straight out to his side, and smacked it against the frame of the large vehicle. He began to bellow in a louder, more booming voice than he usually used, and took care to properly pronounce his words through his thick accent. He failed.

"This, Badgers, is a Marshall-Keane design Aerial Transport an' Assault Craft, or an MK AHAC for those of you who can't talk th' big words! Today this craft is gonna be yerr mama, it's gonna be yerr best friend, it's gonna be yer guardian angel, and it is gonna be the biggest goddamn knife you have ever held as it rains down molten lead on those Smitt sonsabitches like so many cuts to their stomachs, you hear me Badgers?!"

The Badgers stamped their feet and made a gutteral "aroomph" noise, in response to their commander's attempts at motivation. Himself motivated by their enthusiasm, Bill continued.

"Badgers, if you have ever doubted your position in life I think I'd like ya to reconsider yer position! We are standin' on the precipice of glory, of war, an' one helluva bloodbath, boys! We got ourselves a whole mess'a white plastic-wearin' pansies down there waiting for th' gallows! They think they are so great that they could take on the Badgers an' come out on top! Will you let that stand, soldiers?!"

"Hell no, sir!" The Badgers shouted back, raising their rifles into the air.

"And all around us, Badgers, we've got ourselves a regular bunch'a prissy Hellion boys thinkin' that just 'cause their Crimson grand-daddies won themselves a fight that they have got th' stuff to fight alongside the Badgers! Will you show them just how goddamn pathetic they really are, Badgers?!"

"Hell yes, sir!" They shouted back.

"Then get yer sorry asses on this bee-yootiful piece'a machinery here, an' let's go nab us a councilor, boys! This's gonna be one to write yer folks about!"

Bill turned and jumped into the side of the AHAC, while his men, twenty mercenaries in all, divided themselves between Bill's own transport and its identical twin sitting a few meters away. It took them less than thirty seconds to pile in and report to their Captain to let them know they were all in. In near-perfect unison, the AHAC pilots brought their flying beasts to life, the rotors spinning at speeds too fast to see as they lifted their own massive bodies into the air before drifting up over the peaks. To their left, a second pair of AHACs were making their way along a different route. "There go them prissy wannabe Crimson boys now, Badgers!" Bill shouted into the mic. "They got their sorry asses a head start, an' we're still gonna beat'em to their own dang target, am I right!"

The loud whirring of the AHAC's motors was drowned out by the cheering coming from inside its metal frame, as the mercenaries descended from the high peaks of the mountain. Below them stretched out the expansive estate of Councilor Orville Smitt, his pristine white mansion—more of a fortress, really—embedded in the side of the mountain. On the very top of the complex was an extremely large landing pad, several hundred square meters in total of various spaces for whatever shuttles needed to land. At the moment Bill could only make out two—an offworld shuttle from a diplomat, likely the McCaines, and the Councilor's personal aircar. He wondered to himself if the diplomat would be a problem; sparking a war with the McCaines was something even he wanted to avoid. Skill only brought his Badgers so far when going against mercenaries as psychotic as the Cloud. He considered alerting his men not to harm the diplomat, but decided against it. As far as he cared, it was time they got some payback for the death of Councilor Albus.

As soon as the AHAC gunships were in range, the pilots activated their chainguns. Massive multi-barreled appendages welded to the bellies of the ships slowly began to turn, speeding up until they were a blur, when the bullets finally erupted in a torrent of yellow streaks. The high-velocity rounds impacted the roof with prejudice, tearing through concrete and steel as they struggled to find their marks on the vehicles. After a moment of steadying the ships and closing the distance, the chainguns got close enough to make direct hits on the vehicles, molten lead converting the transports into bubbling scrap in a matter of seconds. Not a minute later and the AHACs were hovering just above the surface of the roof. Bill wasted no time in acting and grabbed his nearest Badger, tossing him out of the safety of the gunship before shouting everyone else off in seconds. He jumped out himself, only to find his men racing for cover as movement stirred on the other side of the roof. Half a dozen men in a metallic white armor were lined up behind barricades, their rifles aimed for him.

"Drop your weapon!" one shouted. "You Vipers are gonna get hell for breaking our truce like this!"

"Well, at least the disguises fool 'em" Bill muttered to himself. He gave no verbal response to the guard himself, instead pointing at them to the pilot in the nearest AHAC. He understood, and a volley of chaingun fire ripped the guards to shreds. Bill stood everyone back up and forced them over to the nearest door. "Get in line you sonsabitches, single file! We're goin' into hostile territory here, get yer heads in it, and remember, we are Vipers th' moment we set foot in that door!"

He took the lead, and came up to a door leading to a downward staircase. He brought his leg up and smashed his leg into entrance, the wooden frame smashing into splinters as it tumbled down the steps. He crouched and moved down the stairs, his mercenaries tailing him closely, as they went down several floors. The man behind him grabbed his shoulder as he passed a door and whispered "This is the floor, Councilor Smitt's office is here."

Bill nodded, mostly to himself in anticipation of the ensuing violence. He leaned up against the door and reached into a bag strapped to his leg. He pulled out a small length of what appeared to be wire, and attached one end to a visor he then placed on his face. The other end he fed under the bottom of the door, a tiny camera on the end capturing every detail of the other side. There was a small barricade set up, ten guards had taken up positions in various parts of a medium-sized atrium. Two at close range, four behind raised walls near the center, and the remaining four on a balcony at the far end.

He turned and relayed this information to his own troops, and quickly spat out orders for them to follow. They lined up behind the door, each reciting their own personal task to themselves in a mix of fear and excitement. Bill counted down, three… two… one…

The door burst open, a puff of smoke from a grenade immediately obscuring the vision of the guards within the atrium. Bill's men rushed in, their thermal goggles giving them a clear view of the two closest men. They fell in a hail of bullets, their blood slicking the clean tile floor. A spray of bullets came from the remaining eight guards, their random shots finding their mark in the neck of a young man standing next to Bill. The Captain's eyes shot open as he cursed every word he could think of as the young man's corpse collapsed on him. He fell to the floor on instinct, and dragged the young body with him behind a bench for cover. Another Badger, disguised as a Viper, came rushing in with a grenade launcher. He stood in the open and fired his weapon with precise aim, its payload detonating on the balcony. An unlucky guard's white form was replaced by a red and black outline on the wall behind where he once was, and the other three were sent scrambling as the floor collapsed beneath them, one escaping to the room beyond the atrium while the others fell. Their bodies crumpled up at the end of the long fall and remained still.

The grenadier immediately paid for his rookie mistake as the four standing guards returned fire, a hail of armor-piercing bullets punching through his entire body. A terrified scream escaped the boy's lips before he was catapulted backwards through the doorway he entered from. Bill cursed again, wondering how his own elite could make such obvious mistakes. He took action for himself this time, propping himself up over the wall and picking out one of the men behind a large palm tree. He squeezed the trigger, and a three-round burst snaked through the guard's skull. A guttural sound welled up in his throat, and his body collapsed in a single, fluid motion. The remaining three men saw their comrade fall and began to move backwards, still firing randomly as they sprinted for the door. The Badgers began to whoop and holler as they gave chase to the white-armored guards, a hail of bullets cutting them down long before they reached safety.

A cheer erupted from Bill's men as they celebrated their victory, but their Captain descended on them quickly. "Hey, hey, cut the chatter, Vipers! You may've just beat their asses, but one of 'em got away! He's gonna warn th' others, an' now we've really got our work cut out for us. Already lost Tracy an' Max, I'd better not see any'a you pull stupid mistakes like they did, all right? It's gonna cost you your life, like it cost theirs."

A commotion of agreement and ashamed apologies came from Bill's men, but they regrouped quickly and formed up into two groups of five. Bill led one of the teams alongside him as he moved up to a door into the next room. He peered in to see that it was a featureless white hall, with a similarly-colored carpet. Above him was a small walkway, presumably the route that guard had taken back to his comrades. Bill wondered if the Councilor knew about their attack yet, and unconsciously began to move a little faster, as he ordered the other team down the hall.

Five Badgers crouched low and moved down into the hallway, the eccentric art on the walls catching their eyes. They came to the first door on the right and abruptly stopped; a hush fell over them as they listened. On the other side Bill made out something like a faint whimpering. The team by the door lined up in a breaching position, and waited for the one at the back of their line, a behemoth by the name of Arthur. Arthur strode to the doorway and crashed the frame in with his first kick. Bill watched as the team rushed into the room, shouting obscenities and orders not to move; he thought he heard a voice attempting to protest, but a moment later an ear-piercing volley of gunfire cracked into life. Bill left his cover and rushed into the room to see the source of the commotion. The room was sort of dining area, about 40 square feet and longer than it was wide, and in the usual style of Smitt decorating. His five troops were gathered in a semicircle around a pulpy mass that was once a man. Bill approached the corpse and kneeled beside it to check its ID. He only needed to look for a moment, before he found a triple-chevron pattern, colored red blue and yellow, all bright and adorned with trim on the sides.

A feeling of dread spread through Bill's body as he came to recognize the symbol as the McCaine's clan. His legs shook a bit as he stood up and turned to his men. "What th' hell've you done, boys? Get out! Get the hell outta here before"—

Though he never explained just what they were running from, his men found out for themselves when the wall beside them exploded with the force of a small bomb. A chunk of rock struck Bill's helmet, disorienting him; he thought he heard another explosion outside, and the distraction lasted long enough for a large leg to spring from the debris and force itself into his stomach, launching the mercenary across the room into a wall. He hit the wall with a loud thud and slid down, looking up to see the smallest of the team, a young recruit named Ashley staring at a blade that had just pierced her heart and come out the other side. Another kick detached her from the sword, and the mysterious attacker stepped out of the smoke onto her fresh corpse. He was a stout man, about five and a half feet tall, covered in a distinctive armor. The matte black underarmor was covered by multiple bright orange plates, though the most distinctive parts were his helmet and insignia. The orange helmet covered his entire head, with no part of his face visible. A small plate jutted out in front of where his eyes would be, to keep room for the hardware that ran his heads-up-display inside. The insignia was also bright orange, and proudly displayed on his chest, shoulders, and back. It was a puffy cloud, starting from a pointed tail and drifting off into a more rounded shape on the other end, full of various spirals to give it more form. This was the insignia of the universally-dreaded Cloud mercenaries.

While most mercenary companies working for the clans were actual companies, the Cloud was more of a home-grown force. The McCaine took their strongest, most clever, and most insane citizens and captives hostage, brainwashing them and driving them to a frothing insanity. All they knew was their duty to the clan, protecting their charges and eliminating their targets with ferocity and precision that no other clan could match in one-on-one scenarios. Therefore, a single mercenary was usually deemed sufficient to guard a person of moderate or lower importance within the clan hierarchy. However, the necessity for Cloud mercenaries to be completely insane had its drawbacks. When a target a Cloud was ordered to defend was killed, it had a tendency to go berserk and destroy any and all living beings it could find before committing a very showy suicide by way of a thirty-pound bomb strapped to their backs. It was in the best interests of anyone nearby to prevent this from happening.

Though he had taken a moment to enjoy the slaughter of the young recruit, the Cloud wasted little time in continuing his rampage. The blade he held in his hand was a marvel of technology, a sword taken from the planet of New Bethlehem. The craftsmen there were legends for their ability to produce wares with attention to the most minute of details. In the case of a weapon such as a sword, this included making sure that it was capable of slicing open even the strongest of armor, while still being light enough to wield efficiently. The blade proved its worth again when an upward stroke vertically bisected another Badger, his scream cut short by the stroke through his vocal chords. The last sound he made was a pathetic hacking sound as his two sides hit the floor.

By now Bill had recovered, and quickly drew a pistol from his side, which he fired repeatedly at the Cloud. The mad killer took a blow to the shoulder, his armor reflecting the shot entirely; only a dent in the armor hinted that a bullet had made contact. "Damn." the old merc thought. "Must be solid amagium." After the first round the Cloud ducked, letting the bullets fly over his head as he drew a pistol of his own. A single shot hit Bill's hand, with flinched from the blow and forced him to drop his weapon. Bill immediately identified the Cloud's helmet as the source of his inhuman accuracy, guiding the mercenaries movements to perfectly strike his enemies. The veteran clutched his bleeding appendage and ducked behind a chair at his end of the table while Arthur approached the Cloud from the side, his own rifle firing wildly.

The Cloud rolled backwards, dozens of bullets impacting harmlessly on the floor. He thrust forward with his sword and brought it through Arthur's stomach. The big man gasped and choked a bit, but his agony was ended when the Cloud put a bullet into his brain. He quickly removed the sword, and Arthur fell back against the wall, his face in shock. The last two Badgers in the room poured bullets at the Cloud from one side, their bullets impacting on his nearly-impervious armor. The McCaine's wild mercenary ducked and leaped into the air, flipping over the two and landing behind them, his weapons sheathed. His hands shot out and found purchase on one Badger's head as it was jerked to the side. His neck snapped loudly, and he was tossed away as if he were a ragdoll. The last of the team aimed her shotgun at the Cloud and fired a spread shot. Multiple pellets impacted harmlessly against his armor, but three or four made their mark on the weaker underarmor. The black areas of his suit were splotched in his own red blood, as the Cloud stumbled back from the impact of the pellets. The woman pulled the trigger and fired again, but by now the Cloud had already weaved to the side and drawn his sword. He lunged forward and pushed the blade up through her abdomen and released it, leaving it hanging there as his hands grabbed her shotgun and spun the barrel to face her. A loud bang erupted through the room, and a mix of gray and red splattered the ceiling.

The Cloud looked around for more enemies to slay, and was met by a loud roar from the other end of the room. Bill shoved his body into the end of the long glass table that served as the main seating area for everyone in the room, and it rammed into the mercenary, pinning him up against the wall. Bill jumped up on top of the table, which held his weight by some miracle, and ran down its length firing bullets at him. The Cloud's head moved from side to side in inhuman fashion, the bullets either harmlessly impacting this helmet or the walls around him, but his sensitive underarmor was never touched. As Bill got closer, he found that his gun was empty, and instead pulled out a combat knife and threw it at the Cloud. This was a poor choice in judgment, as the Cloud immediately lifted his sword and deflected the knife, and then threw his own weapon at the Badger. Bill had no choice but to duck, which brought his own head within reach of the Cloud. The mercenary wasted no time in grabbed the first place he could reach, Bill's ear, and dragging him close enough to deliver a solid punch to his nose, cracking it open and sending a stream of blood pouring out. Bill attempted to defend himself in this odd position and threw a left hook, but the Cloud caught it and twisted the arm away, forcing Bill to roll off the table. The Cloud threw the veteran mercenary into the wall and pushed table away. He darted for his sword, but Bill charged after him and tackled him as soon as he grabbed the weapon. The two were on the ground, each attempting to get to the top position. After a quick scuffle the Cloud was the first to reach this position, and brought his blade down in stabbing motion at Bill.

The older mercenary's eyes opened wide, as he deflected the blow with his combat knife. As they rolled past it he had managed to grab it, and was now grateful for it. The Cloud's blade retreated, and struck again closer to his stomach. This time Bill was too slow, and the blade punched into his abdomen. His face twisted into a horrible expression as he attempted to push through the pain, and swing his knife up at the Cloud's hands. His foe quickly moved his hands away from the blade, which presented Bill with an opportunity. He immediately dropped his knife and grabbed the sword instead, and lifted it out of his body in a fluid motion. He swung it at the Cloud, and with a lucky strike sliced his left arm open. The Cloud jumped to his feet and backed away; Bill responded by using his other arm to grab his combat knife and toss it at the bodyguard. It landed in his thigh, blood flowing out from the underarmor. The Cloud staggered a bit before removing the dagger, wielding it against Bill. The old mercenary had gotten up once more, now holding a hand over his wound while wielding his sword with another. He made the first move and lunged forward, but the Cloud slipped under the blow and moved forward, slicing the knife across Bill's cheek, nearly cutting it entirely open. A sudden adrenaline rush encouraged the Badger, and his free hand hit the Cloud with an uppercut that knocked him to the floor, a large dent in the hardware bulge of his helmet. Bill regretted his lucky shot almost immediately, as his hand was nearly crushed against the incredibly strong amagium.

He wanted to check if it was broken, but lacking in time moved forward and swung down with his sword at the mercenary. But the Cloud moved too quickly, and a spinning kick caught Bill's leg and pinned him to the ground. The Cloud landed, planting one part of himself on top of Bill's leg while leaning on his sword arm, leaving him defenseless.

The Cloud lifted his knife, and brought it down. Bill waited for the impact, but watched in awe as the knife went slightly to the right of his face and slipped into the floor beside him. He looked back up at the Cloud and saw the dent in his helmet. "The damage must be screwing up his vision." the old veteran realized. With his free hand he grabbed the Cloud mercenary's pistol out of its holster and shoved it up into his neck, firing a pair of shots. A soft gurgle came from underneath his helmet before he collapsed. With a pained wheeze Bill shoved the corpse off of him and slowly climbed back to his feet. He found that his leg had been injured by the takedown, in combination all the blood he was losing from his stomach wound. He would need to finish the mission and link up with the Hellions quickly. He looked around the room and counted five Badgers. He felt a bit worried as he stepped out into the hallway, suddenly recalling the second explosion. He looked at the way he had come from, to find the blast radius of a grenade had gone off. The scorched bodies of his Badgers lied in grotesquely impossible positions all around the blackened hallway, their features warped from the intense heat. Bill shook his head and gave a silent prayer for his lost men. He leaned against the wall to take a breath and began to limp down toward the Councilor's room.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Supermikhail on April 10, 2011, 02:17:56 pm

Hey, look, tl;dr! 8) Well, either my nemesis has caught up with me, or you kind of overdid it this time. Seriously, I don't know what it is with forums, but they are very unsuitable for long prose. Maybe it's a myriad of links to reply, go to other threads, check out the news, etc, but it's pretty hard to concentrate on something as long. Well, you've split the chapters up... but maybe it's time you did some rewriting, for conciseness. Like, the third paragraph - exposition, again - give us some action! It's like a history class. Maybe it's just me, but I think that it's much more fun to infer this stuff from subtle hints in the action. And actually, you've said it all in the two previous paragraphs. It's perfectly clear that Crimsons and Badgers aren't on friendly terms. You won't attract more readers by long-winded abstract explanations.

Also, there's a lot of chit-chat before the climactic assault. I couldn't understand at first why they all got together. The beginning could make more of a point.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: CJ1145 on April 10, 2011, 08:08:33 pm

Quote

but maybe it's time you did some rewriting, for conciseness. Like, the third paragraph - exposition, again - give us some action! It's like a history class. Maybe it's just me, but I think that it's much more fun to infer this stuff from subtle hints in the action.

True, and fair enough. I'm just not quite sure how I would accomplish this. It'd doable though, I guess it will just take a while.

Quote

Also, there's a lot of chit-chat before the climactic assault. I couldn't understand at first why they all got together. The beginning could make more of a point.

I don't actually quite understand what you mean here. Could you explain please?

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Supermikhail on April 11, 2011, 04:55:41 am

Okay. I guess what I actually meant with my second paragraph is that you should cut the whole morale speech together with exposition. I can't help but imagine it as a chapter exclusively for an assault mission, which should start with the beginning of the assault - that is, as the troops are landing... If we agree that the morale speech doesn't add anything to the plot, the cussy, slack way it's performed by cap'n Bill doesn't really serve to keep attention.

Yeah, is the rivalry between troops going to have some impact on the plot later?

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: CJ1145 on April 11, 2011, 07:22:21 am

Quote from: Supermikhail on April 11, 2011, 04:55:41 am

Okay. I guess what I actually meant with my second paragraph is that you should cut the whole morale speech together with exposition. I can't help but imagine it as a chapter exclusively for an assault mission, which should start with the beginning of the assault - that is, as the troops are landing... If we agree that the morale speech doesn't add anything to the plot, the cussy, slack way it's performed by cap'n Bill doesn't really serve to keep attention.

I understand what you're saying here, but I can't help but feel that if I got rid of it the new question would be "How did we magically teleport to the assault? What happened in-between?"

Quote

Yeah, is the rivalry between troops going to have some impact on the plot later?

Yes, mildly so in the next chapter and more significantly later on.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Neonivek on April 11, 2011, 08:56:51 am

Odd I thought when he mentioned Sodium he was refering to salt (in the same way most nutrional guides refer to salt as sodium)

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Supermikhail on April 11, 2011, 10:24:10 am

Well. They don't refer to salt. They imply sodium ion. I think they expect a certain category to access their guides, who'd get what they talk about, because of the experience with colloquialisms like this. CJ doesn't supply the necessary chemical context, to take such colloquialisms naturally. But he still uses "dissolved", and sodium in guides refers to sodium ion. You can't dissolve an ion. Ions form after dissolving.

Quote from: CJ1145 on April 11, 2011, 07:22:21 am

I understand what you're saying here, but I can't help but feel that if I got rid of it the new question would be "How did we magically teleport to the assault? What happened in-between?"

With Neonivek's appearance I guess I might be wrong about the need to cut everything. Still, does the intro answer the question of how we come to the assault? The troops were already gathered at the end of chapter 4. It is not a big logical leap from troops being gathered to troops assaulting a castle (or whatever). Yeah, like they say "do not underestimate your readers". And if you didn't write what happened in between, it means that nothing siginficant did. At least that's my two cents.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: CJ1145 on April 11, 2011, 08:27:56 pm

Quote from: Supermikhail on April 11, 2011, 10:24:10 am

Well. They don't refer to salt. They imply sodium ion. I think they expect a certain category to access their guides, who'd get what they talk about, because of the experience with colloquialisms like this. CJ doesn't supply the necessary chemical context, to take such colloquialisms naturally. But he still uses "dissolved", and sodium in guides refers to sodium ion. You can't dissolve an ion. Ions form after dissolving.

Chemistry isn't really my thing. Well that's a lie, I'm acing Chemistry but I try not to think about it too much. Mind you I'm not editing the posts I've made here, but I am editing the word document that holds it all, and when I reach milestones I intend to repost the story to see how it ties together in one long segment. The reason I say this is that in the updated version sodium is gone.

Quote

With Neonivek's appearance I guess I might be wrong about the need to cut everything. Still, does the intro answer the question of how we come to the assault? The troops were already gathered at the end of chapter 4. It is not a big logical leap from troops being gathered to troops assaulting a castle (or whatever). Yeah, like they say "do not underestimate your readers". And if you didn't write what happened in between, it means that nothing siginficant did. At least that's my two cents.

True. I think I'll get to work on trying to figure out a good way to get rid of that speech while still making at least a tiny lead-up, as opposed to starting the chapter when their boots hit the roof.

EDIT: For the sake of my own pride as a shitty amateur writer, was the action itself okay?

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Supermikhail on April 12, 2011, 03:09:46 am

Okay, about that.

What does "impacted the roof with prejudice" mean? At least in the context. Do the guns have any choice about the way they do their job?

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The man behind him grabbed his shoulder as he passed a door and whispered “This is the floor, Councilor Smitt’s office is here."

You're a bit too far from the identifier of the person. It doesn't read well.

Quote

The Captain’s eyes shot open as he cursed every word he could think of as the young man’s corpse collapsed on him.

That's called over-dramatizing. There's hardly time for that, and besides, surely he didn't expect to complete the mission without any casualties. After all, they're not ninja-sneaking in. That's the thing with over-dramatizing - it usually feels fake to the reader. You aren't going to think about the caliber of the bullets flying around you, at least not consciously. You aren't going to have time to come up with fancy swears in the middle of a battle.

And dragging the body was hardly timely or appropriate. The guy was dead - the victor does whatever he wants with the fallen. There's kind of no point.

One more point of overdramatizing - for some reason, the enemies are referred to as "men" whereas our guys are "boys", at least when they are killed. While passion in the writing is appreciated, the author is kind of expected to keep a level head. There are no good or bad guys for you, they are all your creations. Or if you imply that that's Bill thoughts, somehow mark that in the text.

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A guttural sound welled up in his throat, and his body collapsed in a single, fluid motion.

Well, that's weird. I don't know how to explain it, but this description kind of doesn't want to go with death. I expect someone to do something in a single, fluid motion of their own volition, and collapsing dead doesn't fit.

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A commotion of agreement and ashamed apologies came from Bill’s men, but they regrouped quickly and formed up into two groups of five.

There's nothing to apoligize for. There is no gun-fu. Firefight is not exact science. Somebody always gets hit by mistake, by accident, by ricochet.

Cloud mercenary exposition flow breaker. Cut it.

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The last sound he made was a pathetic hacking sound as his two sides hit the floor.

Cut that. He didn't make any sounds because there's a rampage in action.

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Bill immediately identified the Cloud’s helmet as the source of his inhuman accuracy, guiding the mercenaries movements to perfectly strike his enemies.

About that. Just yesterday... No the day before that - we talked with a guy about practical applications of katanas, and agreed that slicing a man in half, vertically, is not one of them. Especially upwards. You probably need to push on the guys head to do it. And still, you'll blunt your weapon too much for your effort, however hard it is. And I don't see much application for inhuman accuracy with such a weapon - I mean, wherever you hit you score. So, unless the computer has a "show off" setting, it's wasted.

With that said, a casual reader might not notice, or ignore, so it's entirely your choice. You've already said science is not your goal.

Quote

Bill attempted to defend himself in this odd position

Bad choice of words for a climactic moment.

Although, the moment itself is a bit slow. I don't think many will be able to visualize everything that you wove there. It probably plays out perfectly in your mind as an action movie, but with text it's a bit hard to keep up. Maybe you could compact it, or break it up with some speech? Can't the Cloud speak?

All in all, though, frankly, you're great at visual stuff and action. I guess I took it for granted before, but it's very good and important that your characters always do something physical, supplement their speech and thoughts by non-verbal components. Yeah, Darius's rolled shoulders sent a wrong message, but at least there was a message.

One more thing. With such an action packed chapter you are expected to have similar passages later. Your story will be cataloged with combat sci-fi, so don't decide to go philosophical later on.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Willfor on April 12, 2011, 05:28:52 am

Quote

One more point of overdramatizing - for some reason, the enemies are referred to as "men" whereas our guys are "boys", at least when they are killed. While passion in the writing is appreciated, the author is kind of expected to keep a level head. There are no good or bad guys for you, they are all your creations. Or if you imply that that's Bill thoughts, somehow mark that in the text.

With hard limited third-person perspective, there is actually no need to mark such things as the thoughts of the character as everything is assumed to be from the character's perspective. It's a fun way to write, in my opinion. It's even more fun when you take on the perspective of a character from the other side, and show the prejudices they have compared to the prejudices of the protagonist(s), not using dialogue but subtle thought clues.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: CJ1145 on April 12, 2011, 05:51:39 am

Once again I lack a proper computer so I'll just respond to each point in order.

That word "prejudice" is one of my many banes when writing. I know it doesn't go there but it snuck in (I know it's sneaked but that's stupid, snuck is better-sounding to me) like it does in nearly every story I write.

The word "him" refers to Bill, so I guess I'll just replace the pronoun with his name.

The over-dramatizing wouldn't be AS bad, because I meant to say that it happened in his head. I forgot to write that I guess. As I'm planning to explain later, Bill is very attached to his soldiers. He gets very upset when they die, and at the least tries to ensure their bodies aren't harmed beyond the necessary in combat. He was forced to give up on that when his entire squad died, and he gets a rant about it later.

I hadn't even noticed the men and boys pattern. Huh. I tend to sort of space out when I'm writing. I could add a few lines to explain that these are Bill's thoughts. I think Willfor has a point though.

You're right, it does sound pretty weird.

They're not apologizing because two. Men died, they're apologizing because they're supposed to be an elite force and made a rookie mistake.

The exposition is too long, but I'll still need a few lines to show why Bill is so pants-wettingly terrified of them.

All right, I'll try cutting it though I can't exactly see why to see if it flows better.

The Cloud is actually not wielding a katana, and if I said katana anywhere that was an accident. It's more of an elongated scimitar. And the only reason the Cloud managed that kill was because of his extremely strong blade, which is essentially magical. (This does become a plot point later, it's not just a handwave.)

It isn't the best choice of words, but it. Can be easily fixed.

And thank you. I do intend for there to be a lot more action later in the story, though this is definitely the least actiony of all the versions of this story I've ever made. I'm trying to work a bit harder on the characters this time instead of just the war.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Supermikhail on April 12, 2011, 09:18:09 am

Willfor, get out of here... Or maybe I'm sorry but I was wrong. Everything... most of what I said in the Writers thread was wrong. There are no simple rules for writing, except when writers are procrastinating and want to bullshit about their art. Writing is about what reads right. Knowing what reads right is about experience. And I learn every day.

With that, I stand on my point about over-dramatizing - it doesn't work there. It's bad. I don't feel Bill enough to fit everything that goes on in the chapter into his head. He's not the third-person protagonist of the story, he's just came in to show off in this chapter. What the hell is "hard limited third-person perspective" anyway? Is it a term? :P

Quote

The Cloud is actually not wielding a katana, and if I said katana anywhere that was an accident. It's more of an elongated scimitar. And the only reason the Cloud managed that kill was because of his extremely strong blade, which is essentially magical. (This does become a plot point later, it's not just a handwave.)

I meant that we talked about katanas extrapolating on all swords. Okay, he made that kill. Magic. Why nobody is bothered by it, that's another question. At the first strike they should have known that there's something weird about it, because if it cut a person in half like that, the first kill should have seemed like knife through butter. And there are no ordinary swords like that. Ordinary swords aren't made for cutting a person in half. In face of this evidence, Bill's men still tried to rush the Cloud. They were either suicidal, or dumb.

Just ranting. ::)

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Willfor on April 12, 2011, 11:35:02 am

Quote from: Supermikhail on April 12, 2011, 09:18:09 am

Willfor, get out of here... Or maybe I'm sorry but I was wrong. Everything... most of what I said in the Writers thread was wrong. There are no simple rules for writing, except when writers are procrastinating and want to bullshit about their art. Writing is about what reads right. Knowing what reads right is about experience. And I learn every day.

You were wrong then, and you are still wrong now. I was wrong then, and I am still wrong now. We will both be wrong tomorrow. The important thing is try to make sense while we're wrong, and not take anything about this hobby/profession too seriously for the sake of our own mental health.

As the AspiringAuthorOwl (http://twitter.com/#!/authorowl) said:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

(http://img.ie/66260.png)

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Supermikhail on April 13, 2011, 04:39:55 am

But if you're wrong, it's wrong to not take anything about this hobby/profession too seriously for the sake of our mental health? Did you try to trick me by the way that spoiler doesn't show anything/image opens up an xml document!,,

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Willfor on April 13, 2011, 08:05:42 am

Quote from: Supermikhail on April 13, 2011, 04:39:55 am

Did you try to trick me by the way that spoiler doesn't show anything/image opens up an xml document!,,

Twitpic images time out. I was hoping you would see it before it did. I'm going to reupload the image on a site that won't do that now.

Image troubles have been fixed.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Supermikhail on April 13, 2011, 08:32:22 am

Jeez, that's a bit extreme.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Willfor on April 13, 2011, 03:47:06 pm

Quote from: Supermikhail on April 13, 2011, 08:32:22 am

Jeez, that's a bit extreme.

It's a form of meme. Like Computer Science penguin:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

(http://i.imgur.com/7j7nA.jpg)

(http://i.imgur.com/QZy2G.jpg)

And Journalism Major Camel:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

(http://26.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_li292irLsV1qhhk3wo1_500.jpg)

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: CJ1145 on April 14, 2011, 05:27:06 am

Well, that's all well and good but these sorts of disputes can be resolved within PMs. Willfor, if you have anything to say about the topic at hand I'd love to hear it. Otherwise feel free to continue the current discussion somewhere else.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Supermikhail on April 14, 2011, 09:28:59 am

CJ, you are not a nice boy.

I wanted to say that not taking this hobby/profession seriously is what creates all those dumb movies and books. Willfor, you might not be on a Hollywood salary right now, but I doubt you'll suddenly change to be conscious of the consequences of your words if you sign up for one.

I guess in the context of current discussion it means that CJ should stop his pseudoscience bullshit. You can omit it to avoid embarrassing yourself and deceiving others, just think about it a bit. In the end, you might even get rid of cloning. You have to be able to compromise, even on your dearest plot points. Even George Lucas had to compromise, and it made him a legendary movie. If the essence of the story is solid, it'll hold after being stripped of some supporting details.

8) I'm a witty individual capable of staying on topic under the direst of circumstances! 8)

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: CJ1145 on April 14, 2011, 02:07:34 pm

I know it's pseudoscience, but later chapters definitely and quite intentionally introduce some very fantastical elements, so I'm not sure if I want to compromise here just to make something even crazier and now entirely out of left field further down the line. It's technically a sci-fi story and I classify it as such, but it's very soft science, if not fantasy in some places.

And the cloning could be removed but with the plot I have in mind I'd have to change a massive portion of the story. To continue the Lucas analogy, it would be like if someone forced Lucas to remove Yoda and the trip to Dagobah from the story. In theory it could be done, but it would have vastly changed the story and likely not for the better.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Supermikhail on April 15, 2011, 11:04:40 am

I'd like to differ - Yoda seems to me to be a mostly comic relief character. We can live without comic relief character. Yeah, he's an icon, but suppose Luke gained his powers through some actual plot development, not Jehovah Witnesses advertising. While we're on that, I think we can agree that George Lucas is just a lucky nerd, and without compromises the movies would have been simply horrible. As I don't want to be a part to creation of another George Lucas, I'm going to let you consider these few points:

Cloning is exactly about what is written on the label. It creates a genetically identical individual, which is to say, the same with the exception of a few scars - physical, or emotional, or nutritional. As opposed to a natural inception, the woman whose womb carries the embryo doesn't influence the appearance of the child, who is a copy of a single individual barring genetic modification. If you don't have anything against that we can assume that Darius looks exactly like Albus, except a "few" years younger. We can further assume that in a civilization that advanced photographs in some form are widespread, thus, a photograph of Albus at the age of Darius would be available, and maybe Darius at this age would be on the memory of one of the Guild. Therefore the Council members should be likely to recognize Darius as some relative of Albus simply visually. However, they would probably know that Albus had no such relatives. What would their assumption would be then? Considering how advanced the civilization is, cloning should be easily possible (we, Earthlings, are capable of cloning, having but dipped our feet into the cold flow of space). I postulate that councilors should have come without any trouble to the conclusion that Darius is Albus's clone. So what would all the secrecy be about?

... Also, what prevented McCaines from killing Darius after they killed Albus? Sheer surprise at finding an heir?

Edit: You know, if you're not sure about the science, you could always ask before writing. As a matter of fact, I'm here mostly to help, not to read (for the pleasure of it, that is). I guess it makes me feel important, or maybe I'm just a crazy person.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Willfor on April 15, 2011, 01:54:02 pm

Sorry Mikhail, your opinion on this differs completely from mine. Science fiction and fantasy only differ in how utterly fixated to a pornographic degree most science fiction writers are obsessed with the details. I, myself, would love a return of good authors to Space Opera and the like as I find hard science fiction to be akin to eating bread that's been baked and baked again until there's no moisture left at all.

Dune is fantasy, and yet many people herald it as the foundation of good science fiction. (the ending truly sucks though, he shouldn't have let his editor convince him to split the first one from the second one in the series... It literally almost ends mid-sentence)

CJ, I recommend you keep trucking with how you envision your world.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Supermikhail on April 15, 2011, 02:19:06 pm

You know, it's because of this stuff that no one took science-fiction seriously until the '60s - sci-fi was exactly fantasy of pseudoscience geeks with shallow, unrealistic characters, with no appeal for anyone but similar geeks, who couldn't get laid and so had to place themselves on other planets, with beauties and hi-tech. While literature can be so much more - it can educate, open our eyes to other possibilities, warn against dangers, it can guide instead of misguiding.

Although, I don't give a fuck, because I am that geek that can't get laid, and maybe because I am obsessed with truth... This is disgusting, godspeed and goodnight.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Willfor on April 15, 2011, 02:44:42 pm

As per CJ's wishes, I'm taking it to PMs.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: CJ1145 on April 15, 2011, 02:53:02 pm

Well, maybe I shouldn't call it cloning, or stress that his genes were tampered with after initial cloning to change his physical appearance. Keep in mind I go back and edit small parts of the chapters on almost every reread. While I personally prefer softer science, as it allows me to be a bit more creative in the sort of characters and events I can make, I can at least explain my reasoning. I do appreciate the input from both of you, however. That's not to say I hate hard science fiction, but the softer can be just as intriguing. My personal favorite old sci-fi was a book called Midnight At the Well of Souls, and if you know the plot I think you'll understand why it's not very hard on the scale.

To answer why Darius was not killed alongside Albus, I tried to make it clear that he was still in the vat, hidden away. Albus was somewhere entirely different when he was killed.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: CJ1145 on April 16, 2011, 09:15:29 pm

I've finished the first draft of Chapter 6, the last of Bill's spotlight chapters, and the culmination of the assassination of Councilor Smitt. As usual, any comments or constructive criticism is welcome.

Spoiler: Chapter 6 (click to show/hide)

Bill wasn't sure how much time had passed. He had been crawling through these hallways for his entire life, as far as he was concerned. He looked around. Behind him and up to his feet was a trail, dripping blood that stretched through some unholy stretch of those blank halls, now stained red. At his feet was another pool of blood, but not his own. One of the Smitt's Knight mercenaries was laying face down, his face one of shock if he could recall. The sword Bill had taken from the Cloud mercenary was standing tall from its position in the Knight's spine. The Badger was relieved that Smitt's guards were so poorly trained, in comparison to the psychotic assassin that he had engaged before.

With a grunt, he reached down and grabbed his trophy and yanked it from the corpse. His own hands were stained in the blood of many people, his own included. But none of it was fresh. "Good." he thought. That meant his wounds were starting to clot, and he likely wouldn't die of blood loss. As a mercenary of the Guild, Bill had been given multiple upgrades to make him well-suited for combat. Tougher skin and bones, a self-repairing stomach to avoid impalement and a circulation system that allowed over half the blood in his body to be lost before bleeding out. He was especially grateful for the stomach, without which he would be dead somewhere in these hallways.

But even though he was alive, he had no idea where he was going to find the Councilor. Without his squad, this was quickly turning into a slog.

He recalled the view he had from the AHAC when they descended on the mansion. He was certain he had explored nearly the entire floor; only one hallway remained, around the corner he now faced. Used to the routine he pressed his body up against the corner and gingerly took out a piece of reflective glass he had stolen from a bathroom. He placed it so that he could look around the corner. To his surprise, almost a dozen Knights were in the hallway; but they were not standing, but strewn about in odd positions. Their blood smeared the white hallway, leading up to a single door that had been smashed in. He paused his breathing for moment, and swore he heard voices coming from that door. With a little effort he pushed off from his starting position and moved towards the door, nearly tripping over a corpse. He looked down to see glinting gold armor by his foot. He realized that the men in the room up ahead had to be the remaining Hellions. As he continued to approach, he was certain that there were voices now, and two in particular were in the middle of a conversation.

“…sorry, but the price has gotta be a little better than that before I go and betray my employer. Bad for my rep, you see. Gotta keep up that image, right?"
"Fine, fine, then! I'll give you half the planet if you just put down the gun and listen!"

"Ooh, nice bargaining chip. All right, Smitt, talk."

Bill grimaced, and his heart sank a bit as the voice not belonging to the Councilor spoke. He'd know the sound of that traitor wherever he heard him. Finally up against the doorway, he peeked in, and sure enough he found himself looking at the back of Chuck, and three of his Hellions staring down the Councilor.

Full name Chuck Wolff, and one of the dirtiest cowards in space as far as Bill was concerned. He had reservations about letting him lead Layton's Hellions on the mission, but to think he would be willing to negotiate with his own target was--Bill stopped himself there. This was Chuck, how could he have expected anything different?

"You're a tough one, Crimson, getting past all my guards." Councilor Smitt began, his voice and body trembling in fear. "But, alas, you've killed them all; for the moment I am sorely lacking in the troops I need to get revenge against your employers. Oh, I should have known that Amagai boy was up to no good.”

"Not good." Bill thought to himself. Chuck had let him in on who really sent the attack. If Smitt lived through this the entire plan would fall through. He lifted up his sidearm, but it slipped through his blood-slicked hands and hit the floor. He ducked behind cover as one of Chuck's men turned to face him. He waited for what seemed like ages, but the guard had not spotted him, and turned back to let his commander know that nobody was there. Chuck spoke next.

"So, let me see if I'm clear on this: you want me, a long-standing member of Layton's personal guard, to become a turncoat and go back telling him I've killed you, only to murder him and the new Amagai Councilor in their sleep?"

"Y-yes..?" Orville asked sheepishly.

Chuck paused and stared down the Councilor, only to burst out into laughter, his men joining in quickly. "Oh, I like you, Smitt! I really do, you're a shrewd bastard. Very well, we have a deal; but we're going to need to negotiate the price further once I get back."

Bill had heard enough. He lunged forward to his sidearm, picking it up and leaning in the doorway, his laser sight pinning itself on Orville's forehead. The Councilor's mouth dropped open in horror as he saw the gunman, and was frozen in that state when the bullet punched through his skull. The dead Councilor dropped to the floor, a ghastly exhale drifting out of his frozen mouth. Chuck and the others immediately drew their weapons and turned, only to see Bill. They hesitated, and after a moment put their weapons away. Chuck nodded at two of his men, and they ran over to help up the Badger leader. They supported him by the underarms over both of their shoulders, and dragged him over to Chuck. The Hellion smiled at him, but Bill only saw a smug grin.

"Bill, I certainly didn't expect to see you here! You look a little roughed-up; don't tell me these 'plastic-wearing sonsabitches', as you called them, managed to bring down all of you?"

"There was a Cloud." Bill growled back to him.

"Oh." Chuck said, sounding genuinely disturbed. He grimaced a bit and apologized for the ordeal. "Of course, you should be thankful you're alive. You'll get a hero's welcome for besting him, I'm sure. Not to mention your timely arrival to finish off the Councilor here."

"Oh, like I expect you t' let me live." Bill replied. Chuck looked at him with a curious expression, and sighed.

"Bill, don't tell me you're still bitter about the Ganymede job? It was business, nothing else. Our employer needed that data, and there was no guarantee we'd live long enough to get it to him if both of us stayed to fight the flea-hounds."

"You cut an' ran with th' money, you bastard!" Bill shouted. "That's why I'm gonna rat ya out t' yer boss! That's all a rat deserves!"

"Bill, you're doing 'that' again." Chuck stated flatly. "You're letting your own little moral code get in the way of good business. Think about it, buddy. We work for some of the most morally bankrupt men and women in the galaxy, the only thing a conscience is going to do is get in our way. Smitt was offering me a better deal than Layton, but since he's dead that deal's off. Your little protégé is going to be just fine, I've got no personal quarrel with him." He leaned in close and practically whispered "So why don't we just keep this secret between us?"

Bill's eyes slipped to look at the corner of the room. Four men in golden armor, now stained red with blood, were piled up in a heap. Chuck's men, most likely killed for disagreeing with the idea of treason. Bill frowned as he thought over his options, and looked straight into his ex-partner's eyes, sighing in resignation.

"Go fuck yourself, Chuck."

"Darn," Chuck said in a deadpan voice. He picked up a handgun from the late Councilor's table and slipped in a cartridge of ammunition. "I was really hoping we'd be able to mend this old wound. But it seems not. Well, Bill, it's been fun but I think we really should be getting back to base, don't you?"

He lifted the gun to Bill's head, who shut his eyes and gritted his teeth as he waited for the killing blow. After a pause that went on for far less time than anyone present realized, a small ping sounded; Bill lost consciousness as an intense pain shot through his system, and slowly relaxed into nothing.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The pain was back. Bill was taken out of his calm sleep with a jolt of fresh pain, and his eyes shot open to take in his surroundings. He was in a tent, somewhere. He tried to prop himself up, only for more severe pain to force him on his back. His eyes managed to get a glimpse around, and he discovered that he was in a medical tent. The equipment all around was hooked up to his body; a machine designed for replenishing the blood of wounded soldiers was already fed into his arm, and a fresh set of stitches had repaired the painful stab wound in his stomach.

On the other side of the tent, a flap opened and three men walked inside. They approached, and Bill saw that they were Darius, Councilor Layton, and Chuck. He immediately felt defensive, his arm reaching out for a weapon and to his surprise finding the sword he had taken from the Cloud mercenary.

"I thought you should keep it." Chuck told the Badger warmly. "After all, you were the one that brought down that monster."

"No need to explain, Mr. Kraft, my man has told us all about it!" Layton exclaimed. "You'll be getting a hero's welcome for this back home, my man, I'm sure of it! I'll just take my bodyguard and leave the two of you alone for a while, I'm sure you have much to discuss."

As Layton and Chuck left, Darius pulled up a chair next to Bill. "What'd he tell ya?" the veteran asked.

"He informed us of how the initial assault was a disaster, his Hellions being torn apart by the heavy defenses of the Smitts, all but three of his men dying in the breaching of the walls. When they got in, they had to sneak past dozens of guards, ambushing them through the hallways to avoid an agonizing death, until they reached Smitt's office where they were ambushed by a Cloud mercenary. They felt they were doomed, until you arrived on the scene with your Badgers. All of your men were tragically slain in defending them, but you ignored multiple fatal wounds and tore the beast to shreds, then killed the Councilor with the Cloud's own sword. You then collapsed from your wounds, and Chuck had his men bring you back to recover while he planted the forged declaration of heir and brought in a recovery team to clean up the bodies."

"Heh, I'da thought he'd exaggerate at least a LITTLE more'n that…;"

Bill explained the true events of the assault to Darius, who listened quietly until he finished. Once he was certain Bill was done he responded.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Bill, but what bothers me the most about that story is Chuck. If he knew you were going to tell me about his plans, why would he choose to let you live?"

"I dunno sir, slippery bastard's always been like that. I can guarantee ya that it's gonna benefit 'im in the long run, though. Just don't know how."

"Well, we'd best keep an eye on him then." said Darius, who stood up quickly and placed the chair back in its place. "Get some sleep, Bill. Next time you wake we'll be on our way home. Let me worry about the traitors."

Darius left immediately, and Bill lied alone in his bed. His thoughts were stuck on the faces of the men and women he had lost. He'd need to start writing letters back to their families to inform them. But his grieving was interrupted as the flap opened again, and Chuck stepped into the room.

Bill groaned in agony as he managed to sit up and lean against the back of his bed, staring down his rival. "What the hell d'you want, Chuck?"

"Hm, me?" Chuck asked, sounding genuinely confused. "I don't want anything. I figured you had a lot of questions, so I should probably pop in and see if I could answer any of them."

"You mockin' me?" Bill growled.

"No, not at all!" Chuck insisted, shaking his hands in a dissuading manner. "It seems you're a bit too defensive to kick off this conversation, so I'll ask a question for you: 'Why did you let me live, Chuck?' Well, you see Bill, unlike you I'm not one to hold a grudge. Like I tried to explain to you back in Smitt's manor, business is business. Sure, I left you to deal with the flea-hounds, but that doesn't mean I hate you. I just needed to ensure my own survival. You would have done the same if you were the one holding the data chip."

"I don't leave my men to die." Bill snarled at him.

"But, you didn't die!" Chuck said. "You got out alive, stronger and wiser than before. When you think about it I did you a favor by abandoning you, I forced you to learn that sometimes you have to look out for yourself. Obviously the lesson didn't stick, but it's the thought that counts."

"Fine!" Bill shouted. "You wanna sit here and play trivia with me then answer this! Why'd you let me live when ya know I'm gonna be out f'r yer blood soon as I can walk again?!"

"Oh, well, that's simple, Bill." Chuck said in an innocent tone. "You'll never really kill me; I'm better than you."

"You smug son of a--;"

"Oh come on, Bill, calm down or you'll split that wound back open!" Chuck warned in an almost parentally caring manner. "You've got to keep in mind, Bill, there's always going to be somebody better than you. It just so happens that it's me. And besides, it's not like I enjoy being your better. I just am."

Chuck yawned and stretched his arms out a bit, cutting off Bill's response. "Well, it has been fun, Bill, but I think it's best that I get going. Take care, old partner."

The Crimson leader turned and walked to the tent flap, only turning to fire another tranquilizer round into Bill's neck before walking out. The closing flap was the last thing Bill saw before slipping into unconsciousness again.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: Supermikhail on April 17, 2011, 03:08:28 pm

I guess I shouldn't drop out silently, but I've had a lot of self-doubt recently, and I'm not sure I'm actually qualified to guide other people in writing craft, so I'd like to concentrate on my own writing. I don't know what kind of feedback I can give, the last chapter definitely doesn't seem to be my cup of tea. All I see is unnecessary pathos, lack of reason, caricature villains... I'm into realism, I usually just don't understand abstract, surreal things.

Quote

He'd know the sound of that traitor wherever he heard him.

See if it sounds better replaced by this: "Traitor, Bill thought clenching his hand around the hilt of the sword."

If not, it probably means that I'm out of my league in this matter, and will do more harm trying to help.

Title: Re: CJ, unsatisfied with his shitty art, declares war on literature
Post by: CJ1145 on April 17, 2011, 08:24:41 pm

Well, I'm sorry to hear you're having issues, but I appreciate any feedback you can give. I'm not relying on you to guide me, if that's too much pressure, but I like to get opinions from as many people as possible so I can learn from that.

And to be honest, Chuck is not going to be a major villain, he's pretty much in there because one of my friends was really intrigued by his bit part in chapter 2 and wanted more of him, so I thought it would be a chance to expand Bill's backstory a bit. These last two chapters were kind of a tone shift since it was an entirely different character, so I guess there would be some marked differences.