Half - Arsed, Half - done Story

Yeah. You read right. This is for everything that doesn't have anything to do with Eva.

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ice reaper
Gaghiel
Gaghiel
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Joined: Jan 14, 2005
Location: england, west yorkshire

Half - Arsed, Half - done Story

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Postby ice reaper » Mon Aug 14, 2006 9:19 am

a little kind of biography i posted on a forum for a character i made (Ice Reaper, der) it's generally a gruesome exercise in my efforts to find out the most effective way to portray gunfights and other nastiness through writing, effectively. btw it's in preperation for a trilogy of novels i'm planning on releasing ^_ '

well, here it goes. don't be too harsh if you want to leave critisisms, like i said above, just something to sharpen up my nasty writing. the rest of the story telling i admit is rather bland:


Part 1: The Creation

15th February 1990.
Earth, Russia Alternate Universe 1
13:20, Shalashaska Yurenov, soon to be known as Ice Reaper, was born. Born in Russia by a young ‘virgin’ girl, who claimed to have no recollection of when he was conceived. The fact of the matter was that she had gone through a collection of generic experiments whilst at a young age; this caused Shalashaska to be ‘conceived’.

Looked upon as an abomination, for his appearance was much less than normal. He resembled nothing of a human bar the basic structure of his limbs and their placement on the torso. The scientists who carried out the genetic experiments decided it was better to sort the matter out them selves rather than risk their involvement becoming universally known. This was done by the scientists claiming Shalashaska had a variation of the genetic fault ‘albinism’, which causes the pigment melanin, which gives the skin its colour. The lack of this pigment also causes the hair to become almost entirely white, with the slightest hint of pale blue.

Another of the symptoms is the colour of the eyes. The lack of melanin is the culprit of this crime once more. The eyes of the unfortunate are cursed with a colourless iris, though it can be mistaken for being red because of the retina showing through the colourless iris and thus giving the iris a false red colour.

The symptoms of albinism perfectly shone through Shalashaska’s complexion. The child’s skin was white given the slight tinge of blue which is given to the hair, except Shalashaska was never to have hair upon his person, because of the electrotherapy his ‘mother’ was given whilst with he was within her. But that is a matter for later mention.

Shalashaska’s eyes were a dark green, but this statement refers not to the iris, but to the entire optic orb. The pupil was permanently contracted, but this was counter balanced by the fact that another 3 pupils were in place around the central, larger pupil. Unusual- even unheard of; but accepted by the public as an albino trait.

The child’s face was plagued by yet more anomalies, which even the unknowing public wouldn’t accept as a case of albinism. These features were the nose and mouth. The latter was positioned vertically in spite of the traditional horizontal position. No lips were present to cage the teeth; this may have been because of their potential hindrance in the use of dental movement.
Along with the mouth, the teeth were also vertically placed. The teeth themselves were granted with hinge joints in their centres’ giving them more crushing potential. All of the teeth were canines, in appearance at least. The final unusual feature of the mouth was the tongue which measured 7” in length and split into nine different segments.

The nose, being the final unusual aspect of this creature’s person, is squashed to only lift 1cm from the face. The nostrils were not as that which a human has, but more like that of reptiles. Partly in contradiction to the latter statement, Shalashaska’s ‘nose’ was in possession of four nostrils of reptilian appearance and not two.

The ‘mother’ Natalia Yurenov, treat Shalashaska as her own child even though he was greatly hindered in human appearance. She soon found a man willing to accept the burden also, with his proposal to her. Which she accepted.

Part 2: Public Acceptance

March 1994.
The man who took Natalia as his wife was Josef Checavaski who took Yurenov as his surname in respect to there being no aerie to the Yurenov name. This is a tradition usually put in action in Japan; when there are no male offspring in a family, the male to marry one of the female offspring of the family would sometimes decide it an honour to carry on the females’ family name.

Shalashaska was brought up with Josef as his father, being too young to understand the turmoil in which his country was in, Shalashaska believed his life to be bliss. He was soon to be proven wrong.

Russia was in the state of civil war, tens of factions made up the civil armies. Whilst the factions fought each other for land and dominance, the government saw it fit for them to act as ‘peace maker’. In reality, they became nothing more than executioners who sort the factions out and executed all who they believed to be participants in the civil war.

The serious downside to this method was the fact that everyone was in a faction whether they were fighters or just bystanders; they were all in a faction. The government executed everyone any involvement in a faction, children executed publicly with the excuse that when they were old enough they would seek revenge.

The Yurenov family was in the Russian 'Cosa Nostra' or the more common known name- 'mafia' faction, it being the oldest, most orderly and legitimate of all the factions; they would protect their own. Because of the civil war, and the Russian way of thinking, Josef taught Shalashaska four of the most effective and lethal martial arts in existence, along with samurai techniques of swordplay.

Shalashaska was accepted into the messy public as one, his appearance shocked, but didn’t alienate citizens. Shalashaska was, again, in blissful ignorance of the war and loved his life.

He was soon to feel the pain of loss.

Part 3: Loss and After

November 1999.
Winter- the season of cold loss.

Shalashaska now 9 years of age, had perfected all of the aforementioned arts of combat and took up the task of combining them into one complete close quarters bombardment of death.

It was all over the news- the government was growing tiresome of civil war which had lasted for the past decade and sort a swift way out. The statement put out by head of state, Sergei Ournov, was as follows:

All of the participants in this tiresome plague- I am warning you to disband and surrender yourselves. You shall be shown great lenience for your acts of crime in exchange for peace in our nation.

If you do not heed this warning; you shall all be publicly executed for your terrorist acts. A sweep team is clearing the streets of this plague in one day’s time. We call them “The Quarantine”.

This is your last warning- scum!


The Quarantine did as was said. By night they swept through each street, every house, destroying every bed and crib dweller. Riots broke out in the streets, freedom fighters seeking a bloody end to the massacre. The crack of AK 47 fire, the illumination of flash-bangs, the screams of death- they all littered the air. The government run team was massively out numbered; tens of thousands of civilians against 250 trained killers.

This being the 1st alternate universe; plasma technology was just in it’s field testing stage of experimentation. The Quarantine was armed with such weapons, “Death Spitters” being the side arm which appeared as a hook which formed a second set of barrels and a handle. Four barrels, one above another, one ahead of the next.

The primary weapon was a burst assault rifle, “Reapers” were their given names. Similar in shape to the Japanese “FA- MAS”, the banana magazine held a maximum of thirty rounds which could be fired at twice the speed of sound and capable of piercing the hull of an M- 1 tank. The trigger was simply an extension of the handle, giving maximum comfort and reaction time; useful in urban terrain.

The standard toothed combat knife was still in use as an effective stealth close combat weapon. The final selection of weapons was grenades; fragmentation grenades and flash- bang grenades.

Their combat uniform was a simple black military uniform and boots; this was also accompanied by a black helmet and goggles. Some chose fingerless gloves for a more comfortable hold on the weapon’s handle, which leads to exceptional handling capabilities. All of the sweep team decided to wear a black handkerchief over their faces in the way a cowboy would do so; this was to strike even more fear into the hearts’ of the unfortunates.

The gunfights awoke the Yurenovs, giving them chance to hide in the basement. As they fled to the shadowy below, a stray AK 47 round broke through the window and entered the body of Josef. The armour piercing slug made it’s way through muscle, organ and bone with leisurely ease.

Josef was left with a punctured lung and splintered ribs, paralysed with pain, he lay motionless on the floor gasping for the sulphur filled air. Natalia forced herself and Shalashaska underground, leaving first in time for front row seats to the horrific spectacle. Three of the sweep team slowly entered the living room, seeing Josef struggling to grasp hold of life. The three men laughed and joked with the downed man, prodding his broken chest with the barrels’ of their rifles’ just to watch him scream and squirm.

Finally, one of the men knelt next to Josef’s head and spoke into his ear: “sorry kid, nothing personal!” he spoke in a voice not hiding his amusement of the event. Tears streamed down Natalia’s cheeks, stained with the blood of her husband which had crept it’s way in-between the floor boards. She awaited the noise which she loathed with all her aching heart, whilst holding her son tight to her breast comforting the blissfully ignorant child.

The soldier placed his Death Spitter to the casualty’s head, the weapon’s mouth full of it’s saliva and ready to launch it into the unfortunate’s cranium. That sound which Natalia loathed so much filled the air; similar to that of paper swiftly being torn and disrupting the air. She couldn’t help but yelp out in shock of the sound she knew would surely come, quieter than those in the background, but still load enough to echo in Shalashaska’s mind for the rest of his life.

The yelp caught the attention of the three men, whose heads and rifles turned in unison towards the basement door. The smoking wound in the floorboards created a grave for Josef’s head interior. The wound from the single round dispersed Josef’s head across the floor in all directions, leaving only a smoking, cauterised neck to show there was once a head in that place.

The men approached the door cautiously and as an elite team, the leader was the man armed with the Death Spitter, this was clear from the followers’ comments:
“Flash- bang, major?” and his answer of-
“As snake opens the door.” Code names were obviously being used. Natalia’s bloodshot eyes ached in watch of the dust falling from the floorboards, giving away the killers’ position. Knowing of their probable fate, Natalia softly spoke to her son:
“I love you, and so does your dad. Don’t worry; we’ll see him soon.” Shalashaska rose his head from his mother, his eyes wide open in shock, seeming that he wasn’t as ignorant as she hoped.
“What’s wrong, honey?” she asked, or rather pleaded. No answer met her waiting ears.
“Don’t you want to see daddy again? Don’t you want to die with mummy? Shalashaska!?” she had become depressed to the point of madness.

Shalashaka opened his mouth slowly and softly answered:
“No. no, I don’t want to die. If you’ve given up hope of life- then you sit alone and die.” His voice grew lauder to the point of a half scream.
“Just sit there and die!! I’ll go and help the people dad knew!!” with that he ran into the shadows.
“NNNNOOOO!!!!” Natalia screamed, tears filled with blood rolling off her cheeks and onto her lap.

The scream alerted the sweep team. The door swung open and a single flash- bang flew down the stairs, hitting a step every four steps that it passed. Time was as it is, “relevant to the observer” time to Natalia seemed to slow to an almost halt, that magic moment of release from pain coming no closer. And yet to The Quarantine, blood rushing through their bodies at phenomenal speed, made time rush by in the blink of an eye.

The white flame from the flash- bang burnt the sight from Natalia’s eyes and rung sound from her ears. Shalashaska spared as he looked at the ground with his ears tightly covered. The time to strike was now.
“Go, go, go!” the major yelled. And as this order was issued, the man moved into place, the man who smashed the door ‘Snake’ dived into the room and leant against the far wall. The grenade thrower knelt on one knee and leaned out into the basement, rifle pressed against his ready shoulder. Finally, the major dived in on his side, stretched out on the floor, his Death Spitter at the ready. This routine military action was carried out in the space of three seconds, but now someone must die. Natalia was rolling on the floor grasping her useless eyes, screaming in agony. The three men unleashed their pity upon her in the form of death, two three round bursts from the two Reapers and three shots from the Death Spitter. The rounds effortlessly tore the young woman open, fifteen perforations in her stomach and chest which were almost instantly cauterised by the plasma.

Natalia’s heart pumped it’s last, forcing the oxyhymoglobin to become saturated in plasma and to pass it through her body. Veins, arteries and organs all collapsed because of the plasma’s reaction. Her last circulation of blood, was her most painful.

The Quarantine troops relaxed their weapons, seeing their victim stained with the blood of another as well as her own. Splatters of blood clung to the wall behind her still warm body, but gravity slowly persuaded the fluid down. To the ignorant soldiers they were done here, but Shalashaska thought differently.

The three men stood closely together to admire their work, convenient for Shalashaska’s weapon of choice: he found his father’s shotgun. It was a ‘SPAS automatic shotgun’. He jumped out of the shadows and screamed:
“Die you bastards!!” the shotgun was tightly pressed against his shoulder and pointed in their direction.
“What the- ” an eruption of lead engulfed the three men, killing two instantly by tearing apart one of the men’s chests and destroying the other’s head.

The major fell down the wooden steps, breaking the last two in half and impaling his right arm, the shot had torn through his legs. His screams of pain were music to the orphan’s ears, tears falling from his face rapidly.
“Now, what shall I do with you?”

Part 4: The Beast

1999 November cont.
The major looked up to Shalashaska, his face screwed up with pain and grinding his teeth.
“You……little bastard…….where the hell did you come from?” He grabbed the puncture in his right arm and tried to ease his arm away from the splintered stairs. Shalashaska pumped the shotgun, releasing the still smoking shell from the ejection bay. He smeared the tears from his eyes, at the same time smearing blood across his face and answered:
“Your darkest dreams.” And with that released another spray of lead into the haunted victim’s arm.

The nerves in the major’s arm held their last command, his hand clenched around his other bicep. The other end of his arm held nothing bar severed muscle and shattered bone. The shot had torn the left arm completely apart, the blood flowing towards the hand that had been released towards the major’s chest. The clenched fingers twitched, but kept their grip on the skewered arm.

The screams coming from the major’s mouth would curdle the blood of his family. But they weren’t there. The tattered remains of the father’s body would bring tears to his children’s eyes. But they weren’t there. All the comfort that was on offer was lying motionless and blood soaked out of sight behind him.
“Sorry – did that hurt?” Shalashaska taunted “Well just imagine seeing your family going through this pain. Imagine they were inches away from you, but might as well of been on another planet because you couldn’t help. Have you got that image?” How is such a young child talking like this? The major was listening, but squirmed and rolled side-to-side with his teeth ground together, slowly chipping each other away.

Shalashaska continued with his torture, in a neutral and calm voice. “It’s not particularly nice, is it?” Shalashaska began to look agitated and moving from his state of smouldering to a reborn inferno. “That’s what you’ve put me through today – and what I would do to you if you were ever going to leave this room alive. But, hey, I’ll just have to settle with killing them while they’re alone.”

The major spluttered what appeared to be a short burst of laughter, drown in blood.
“You……..don’t even know,” he stopped to cough up a mouthful of thickening blood “….know my name……never mind where I live, or if….I has a family.” Shalashaska took this opportunity to release a short laugh himself.
“But there’s were you’re wrong. I can…….feel – sense, your thoughts. As soon as I mentioned your family, images appeared in your head of your girlfriend, son and two daughters. And of course their names. You’ve been busy to say you’re not even married.” That was it, the major crunched up his in fury and ripped his arm away from the splinter and reached for his Death Spitter. Shalashaska dived onto him before he could un-holster his sidearm. Shalashaska was now on all fours leant over the major, shotgun left behind – it wasn’t needed for the next step. The major had nothing but fear shining through his face and blood pouring from his broken skin.

Shalashaska had gone from being human, to something else – some sort of beast. None of his features had changed, just his actions. His vertical mouth slowly opening, its teeth coated in saliva so much that it began to drip onto the major’s face, diluting the blood stood there. His breathing became deeper, almost a growl and then – then something which confirmed the victim’s fears and brought out his fast paced breathing. Shalashaska’s eyes narrowed like a predator would over its prey.

The predator opened it’s jaws wider than any human could and launched forward, closing them around the major’s face. He shook everywhere in agony trying to earn his escape through force, at the same time he screamed with all the power his lungs could exert, but muffled by the beast’s embrace. His legs kicking his tattered ‘arms’ struggling for something, anything that could help his escape.

The beast’s jaws slowly closed, puncturing skin, then muscle, then bone, then tender organ. The squirms shrank with less effort in each movement, until he lay still with blackest blood seeping through the gaps between the beast’s teeth and down his face, chin, neck, shoulders. The beast rose it’s head, then arching it’s back with arms stretched back and blood streaming from each tooth’s crevice, unleashed a gargled screech of a roar. The front of it’s face was entirely soaked in blood and held remnants of brain. The still body on the staircase had no front to its head, leaving the remaining brain on show, soaked in almost black blood. The same blood completely engulfed the remainder of the body’s head and shoulders, seeping down the tattered corpse.

Shalashaska blinked and suddenly released, falling to his knees with a horrified and confused face. He had been there, bit off the front of the major’s head, but he hadn’t been in control – a more primal version of himself had taken over and made his deepest desire reality.
“What………am I?”

Part 5: Making of a Leader

Shalashaska now stood in the front room of his house, his dead father lain on the floor with a cauterised neck and a shattered head scattered across the floor atop of dry blood. Now prepared to join the fight raging outside, shotgun fully loaded, a belt of shells wrapped around his torso and a Reaper in his hands that he had taken two magazines for and taped together. Shalashaska ran out of the front door just at that moment a faction soldier was hit in the head with a plasma round, causing it to explode and leaving the lifeless body falling backwards to the floor, in a way a living man wouldn’t allow. Shalashaska fell back in shock, smacking his elbows against the boarded floor, but quickly got on his feet and ran out into the line of fire.

The factions were loosing – badly – over half of their forces were decorating the streets with their fluids with only a dozen of The Quarantine dead in return. Smoke and flame filled the night sky alongside stray shots and the illuminations of muzzle flashes from thousands of firearms.

Shalashaska ran down dark alley way after dark alley way for a fight which actually looked as though there was the possibility of them living. Finally, he came across a stale mate shootout where four Quarantine members were trapped in a wrecked house, whilst thirteen or so faction fighters took cover behind abandoned market stalls and fired into the wreck. Bodies of both sides were scattered all over the street, emphasizing the longevity of this fire fight.

Shalashaska took refuge behind a storage crate alongside a man who appeared to be in his early thirties. The man turned his head to speak with the boy.
“What the hell are you doin here, freak!?” Shalashaska looked back, surprised at the last word.
“Freak?”
“Yeah, ‘freak’. What ya doing outta ya home?”
“I’m not a freak!!” Shalashaska replied with his Reaper shaking in his grip.
“Have ya sin ya’self, freak? Cos I bet ya ant sin anyone else who looks like ya.” The man chuckled to himself “Everyone calls ya a freak; ya parents jus’ kept ya ignorant from us thoughts.” Shalashaska tightened his teeth together, his forehead creasing with growing anger.
“Ya parents are right idiots.”
“LIAR!!!!!” Shalashaska took up his Reaper, squeezing the trigger tightly into the handle, unleashing plasma rounds into the tormenter’s stomach.

The man gazed ahead blankly, blood trickling from his mouth as though the wound was there rather than in his stomach. The smoke from the smouldering flesh filled Shalashaska’s nostrils with pleasure and his mind with justice. The man slid down the wall he was not so long ago standing next to, leaving a smear of blood in his wake. He hit the floor with his last word the; only possession that still meant anything – and what a last word it was. It would be the justification of the deaths of billions in the future and the single most important memory Shalashaska would hold in his mind of this day. A word so simple and yet with so many meanings, a word which holds only one syllable, but rolls off the tongues of so many. A word which had already been said, but meant nothing until now. A word which killed the man who spoke it with his last breath. The word clawed its way through blood and ground teeth to achieve freedom.

“Freak……”

So much effort had been exhausted on the word that it ended with a sigh of release and relief.

Shalashaska broke out into an uncontrollable rage from the fact that he couldn’t do anything in retaliation to his tremendous insult. He began to kick the smouldering corpse club it with the butt of his gun screaming in an internal agony.

Eventually, Shalashaska fell to his knees in tears.
“I’m not a freak…….I’m not a freak……..” Repeating it like a prayer, whispering more and more with every repetition. An explosion erupted in-between the two positions; a grenade had been deployed from a third unknown party. Shalashaska had no care for what the present had lain down for him for him or what the future held ready waiting for its turn to set the ever emptying table of present. Prayer had now turned to tear drenched squirms and jerks of what must have been choking.

Quarantine reinforcements made their way through the cover of the settling dust from the grenade. All that gave away their positions was their ghostly silhouettes and the illumination of plasma rounds being exhausted. Faction fighters fell to the phantoms’ barrage, stumbling over crates, death grip causing AKs to fire off into the night sky.

The shooting stopped and hordes of Quarantine soldiers moved forward, looking for struggling targets still grasping for life, so as to release a final three rounds into their chests. One of the soldiers spotted the still unaware Shalashaska in tears.
“Sir!” He called to his captain.
“What?”
“There’s a……‘boy’ down here.”
“A boy!? These people really are savages.”
“Yes sir, what should we do?”
“Look at him – he’s armed to the teeth. Take him to the meat house.” The soldier looked alarmed and disgusted at the order.
“But sir; he’s just a boy!” The captain remained poker faced and repeated the order.
“Take him to the meat house, private.” The soldier still looked disgusted with the idea, but complied and took Shalashaska by the wrist and dragged him away whilst giving an obedient:
“Sir.”


* * *

When Shalashaska woke he found himself in a walk-in-freezer that of which was common in meat storage facilities. Senses quickly returned and Shalashaska realised he was tied to a chair with handcuffs and rope. He squirmed around trying to move the chair, but it was bolted to the floor. Pigs and cows hung from hooks on the roof – muscle on show – blood stained the ice below them with a distinct smell which caused the taste of copper to generate mildly on his tongue.

A heavy steel door lurched open with a crackle from the crumbling ice to reveal two Quarantine members rubbing their gloved hands. Blood curdling screams in the background, the two men strolled in joking and laughing, their hot air condensing. This made Shalashaska realise it was way below 0ºc in there.

One of the men caught sight of Shalashaska and turned his and the other’s attention towards him. “Right, let’s get this over with; I still don’t feel right about doing this to a kid.” The other man took up a hand and pointed at him revealing the crisp, toothed combat knife within his clenched fist, his forefinger outstretched. Shalashaska was young, but not stupid; he began to fear for his life.
“This kid probably killed our guys without a second thought – don’t you want to get him back for it?” The hesitant man spoke again.
“Cruw: he’s just a kid!” The knife wielder grew a face of disgust from the remark and turned to Shalashaska to begin his work.

“Look at those eyes! They’re entirely green.” He directed it to the other man, but meant it to scare the child. “Maybe I’ll cut one out for my collection.” He laughed, but the hesitant man became restless, brushed his hands down his face and held them over his mouth. His skin perfectly white with morality. That was it. He went for the door.
“You’re sick, man” The other man chuckled.
“Yes I am.”

The heavy door slammed shut, shaking clinging ice off of the walls. The man with the knife, now alone, turned his attention to Shalashaska.
“Right, down to business then.” He resumed a scarily casual voice. He took up his free hand and wrapped it around Shalashaska’s cheak with his thumb under the chin.
“First things first. That set of eyes you’ve got.” He brought the knife up to Shalashaska’s right eye and held it just millimetres from his pupil.

Shalashaska’s eye ball darted around rapidly in its socket, trying to evade the knifes tip. His head trying to push back into the wooden chair, but the man’s grip was firm and kept Shalashaska still. A grin came across the man’s face. He plunged the tip of the blade into Shalashaska’s eye and quickly scooped it out of the socket. Shalashaska screamed at the top of his young lungs, shaking all over trying to break his bonds and grasp his open socket. The eye hung down out of its position by the red nerve, blackened blood pouring out of the wound and covering Shalashaska’s ragged shirt and collecting on his lap.

The man removed the knife after the quick scoop, but now went back to the eye and took the toothed edge of his knife. He took hold of the eye ball, black jelly oozing out of the puncture, put the teeth of the blade to the nerve and tore it apart with one downwards pull of the knife. Shalashaska let out another slightly higher pitched scream. A big smile came across the man’s face as he held the green orb in his palm. He began to throw it a few inches into the air and catching it again. He started laughing.
“Brilliant!!”

His smile downgraded back to a grin as his attention turned to Shalashaska’s right ear.
“Well, might as well have one of them as well.” Shalashaska was now just hanging his head and panting loudly, the loss of blood leaving most of his face numb. The man took hold of his head once more, moving it so Shalashaska was looking directly into his eyes. Shalashaska looked down out of eye contact with the sadist. This made him give out a small burst of laughter.
“Oh well, round 2.”

He brought the serrated edge against the top of Shalashaska’s right ear. The blade took one swift pull to remove the ear. Shalashaska let out a yelp and flinched, but nothing more. He just carried on panting. The lack of feeling in his face left the removal of the ear feeling like nothing more than a knick. The man didn’t look impressed; a look of disgust now came up on his face now.

The ear was left to merely drop to the floor, turning the snowy ice red, the colour spreading like ripples in the water.
“Seems like that’s all I’m gonna get from you. I’ll just finish you off then.” He took Shalashaska’s head in his hand for the last time. The two holes left in Shalashaska’s head leaked blood down his gloved hand. He then brought the blade up to his throat and held it there.
“Bye-bye, little boy.” His grip tightened on the handle. Shalashaska took a slight gulp, his wind pipe moving up his throat then sliding back down. He was ready. The remaining eye he had met with the inquisitor’s.

At that exact point, his head erupted into chum and engulfed Shalashaska’s face. His face entirely covered in blood and skull fragments ranging in colour from crimson to black. He opened his eye to see a smouldering neck looking right back at him. The corpse’s hands fell to its sides quickly followed by the entire body falling back, resting on the calves of his bent legs. Shalashaska could now see the doorway, where a man stood, dressed in Quarantine gear, but with all of its regimental badges torn off and a strange symbol roughly painted on the chest. The torso area was riddled with bullet holes, but this man stood upright without injury. This uniform had been looted.

The man stood with a SPAS shotgun, barrel smoking, no head protection covering his face. He had medium length, shaggy brown hair; just long enough to cover the top halves of his ears. His eyes were dark green and yet stood out from the rest of his face.

The symbol on his uniform was strange: it had two short vertical lines just apart from each other, horizontal line connecting the two about 2/3 down the lines. Another two lines came from the vertical lines at a diagonal angle and met forming a triangle. At the point of contact between these two lines was a final vertical line going beyond the triangle at the same length as the first two lines had. Inside the triangle was painted roughly, not quite meeting the lines, the colour was red.

The man gave the shotgun one firm pump, ejecting the spent cartridge from the gun spiralling through the air. A little smoke trial followed the cartridge closely. He had a satisfied grin as he looked towards the corpse. Now Shalashaska realised; it was the man who had left just before the torture took place. If there was any feeling left Shalashaska’s face he would have smiled, but instead he just remained slumped in his chair, soaked in blood.

The man’s grin vanished once he paid attention to Shalashaska. He ran over to the bonds and broke them with his combat knife; the ice had made the chains brittle over the months. The wounds came into sight, the blood clotted and blotchy. That was good; no more blood was going to come out, the problem was that there wasn’t much blood left to come out. The man took the corpse’s jacket, tore a long strip off of it and tied it around both eye and ear wounds. Shades of darkness emerging as the black material mixed with the clotted blood.

He looked into Shalashaska’s eye and took hold of both his shoulders.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here.” He spoke with a sense of urgency, but with a bit of excitement finding its way into his voice. With that, the savour took up the knife used to disfigure Shalashaska and broke the eroded binds into pieces with it. Shalashaska’s head fell into his lap, but there was no time for rest. He was almost immediately pulled up and flung over the man’s shoulder, his hand holding him steady, ready for what was to ensue.

With a deep breath, the running began. Through the doorway and into the open corridor labyrinth, where countless lay dead – Quarantine and rebels alike. If the battles in the streets were bad, this was horrific. Elevated walkways laden with Quarantine members firing down at factionists below, but this didn’t stop the return of fire and so bodies fell from the walkways and into the crowded corridors. Spent cases rained down onto the icy floor, creating a shallow lake.

The man ran through the crowds paying no attention to their matters, just trying to get away before reinforcements damned all efforts. Corridor after corridor of shootouts didn’t stop the man’s noble efforts of escape, the end was here. One last door; shut tightly – nothing a few shots of SPAS can’t handle. He lifted his hand and fired into the centre of the door leaving a huge dint – need to reload – a passer-by’s shoulder found its way against the pump action grip and needing only a quick jerk from the holder. There it was. Spent case joining its brethren and new round filled the chamber, all done whilst still running. The final shot hit the dint, exploding, leaving a gaping hole.

The man dived through the hole, rolling on impact of the tarmac outside, Shalashaska now unconscious. An armoured personnel carrier waited on the road; the man found his way there and entered the passenger’s seat, Shalashaska on his lap, shotgun by his feet.

And so began the end.

right, there's about another 25 A4 pages left after this that i need to type up...and finish writing, but that's the gist of it. congratulations if you managed to read all of it without killing yourself or others. and please point out any grammar or spelling errors.

thanks for your time ^_^

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Postby Faußtin » Mon Aug 14, 2006 1:15 pm

O_O Oh my God, what the fuck... O_O
As a fellow writer, I think that this is quite good. Lets see... Nine... no, ten points out of ten for the gunfights; well done, but I thought they are a bit short. Should've been longer... :wink: :twisted: Eleven out of ten points for handling fear, anger, gore, pain, et cetera flawlessly. Nine point for the character design; Shalashaka is the only one of whom you give a lot of details; his saviour should've had more description, even if only one or two more sentences. Seven points of ten for the drama; typical, but well done. Six points out of ten for the world design; enough for your practice, but not for a real story. Well, lets see... 43/50... and considering that this was but a mere practice of your gunfight-writing skills, and the lack of grammar/spelling mistakes (met with around a dozen, but I can't recall where; sorry, I can't help you with that. Reichu will surely lend you aid. :wink:)... I say its a five.
I'll read what you'll post here, and grade it, if thats not a problem. :D :wink:
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Postby ice reaper » Tue Aug 15, 2006 8:35 am

nice! thanks for the feedback, now i know i've at least got the swing of things with gunfights - i'll just have to work at getting some longer ones in.

Eleven out of ten points for handling fear, anger, gore, pain, et cetera flawlessly.


i'm VERY pleased with that comment/ rating, seen as that is actually what my future project will also have to be hitting the nail repeatedly on the head with some sort of automated sledge hammer with.

i know some...all of the situations which posed some sort of dilema for the lead character were common if not cliche, and the shalashaska did take up a hell of a lot of my character building, but you might be happy to know the concluding segment of the tale does delve into The Saviour's mind and motives to give him a bit more of a three dimensional persona.


Six points out of ten for the world design; enough for your practice, but not for a real story.


ah yes, an area massively neglected throughout the story i'm afraid. again, something i picked up on whilst writing the end of the story, but not much more than a few 'ooooo' moments. very superficial.

I'll read what you'll post here, and grade it, if thats not a problem.


can never have too much constructive critisism. thank you very much for your time and i'll be sure to get the final part up and running ASAP.

......and Reichu seems to be an invaluable critic on all levels of media :) let's just hope she's kind enough to make an appearence.

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Postby Faußtin » Tue Aug 15, 2006 10:02 am

ice reaper wrote:i'm VERY pleased with that comment/ rating, seen as that is actually what my future project will also have to be hitting the nail repeatedly on the head with some sort of automated sledge hammer with.

Advice: don't use the same motifs all the time; try to improvise and be creative. There are hundreds of ways to kill someone. :twisted:
To be honest, I didn't expect Shalashaka to finish the major so soon. I would have shot his penis, bite off his ears, cut his lips down, burned his hair, chopped down every twenty fingers... and so on, and so on... :twisted:
Advice: Try to put yourself into the character who performs the action. That tends to help a lot and can give a couple of ideas.

ice reaper wrote:i know some...all of the situations which posed some sort of dilema for the lead character were common if not cliche, and the shalashaska did take up a hell of a lot of my character building, but you might be happy to know the concluding segment of the tale does delve into The Saviour's mind and motives to give him a bit more of a three dimensional persona.

I thought as much.

ice reaper wrote:thank you very much for your time

You're welcome! :D :wink: I'm happy to be of use to anyone.
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Postby ice reaper » Tue Aug 15, 2006 10:30 am

believe me, the things that pop into my head about how to kill someone (and let them now about it) to put it simply; scare me. i just thought there should be one piece of writing i do that doesn't go too far, but let's you peak out of the window at it. that's my last bad analogy. i swear.

i know. i know. i know. i know when i'm writing it that i'm repeating myself, but i can't help but continue, so i'll give your advice a go and step into Shaly's shoes.

and something i forgot to put at the end of my last post: always a pleasure to meet another writer.

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Postby Faußtin » Thu Aug 17, 2006 12:20 pm

English is not my original language, so can you tell me what "go and step into Shaly's shoes." is? :S Or maybe I didn't read a book you did. It tends to happen.

Oh, and by the way... Where is "far"? :wink: :twisted:
You know, I always think that it is not me who is writing the story. I think of myself as the sculptor's collegue, who provides the stone, and the scupltor (the story itself) will create the statue. I always put myself into the characters' place, and I try to guess what the Hell would they do? Of course, when I'm miming a character (tends to happen when I'm writing a fanfic), it won't work as well as I would like it to, but meh, I'm just a simple mortal, not a mimic, nor Hideaki Anno. I can't be always right when I'm trying to make a man out of Shinji, so that he could deserve Asuka's love. You see? I'm putting my own thoughts into the work. Its not surprising though.

And another thing: don't be afraid of your many ideas how to kill someone. Thats only the second worse thing. The worst is when you have dozens of ideas how to torture someone. The only thing one can do is to accept it. Live by embracing it. But surviving that embrace is another thing.
*Stops rambling and spreading own truths, which are not others'*
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Postby ice reaper » Mon Aug 21, 2006 8:18 am

English is not my original language, so can you tell me what "go and step into Shaly's shoes." is? :S Or maybe I didn't read a book you did. It tends to happen.


sorry about that. it's my own little adaptation of the phrase 'don't judge someone untill you have walked in there shoes' so i'm gonna look from shaly's (shalashaska's) point of veiw as i right.

I can't be always right when I'm trying to make a man out of Shinji, so that he could deserve Asuka's love


now that must be a hard job. ooooo, he could stalk Kaji and imitate him. or not....

and i'll definately take your comments on board, again.

something else: there's plenty of views on this topic so someone else please comment aswell!!

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Postby Faußtin » Tue Aug 22, 2006 6:26 am

sorry about that. it's my own little adaptation of the phrase 'don't judge someone untill you have walked in there shoes' so i'm gonna look from shaly's (shalashaska's) point of veiw as i right.

Its a good idea I think. I'll remeber that. A good line. :)
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Postby ice reaper » Tue Aug 29, 2006 9:47 am

just a quick update:

i have almost - a few paragraphs away - finished the conclusion of my practice piece. given its final length (longer than the original post here :? ) it will be some time before i get it typed up and posted, especially given i start my first year at college in a few days time. *whispered 'yey'*

and that's that.

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Postby Faußtin » Tue Aug 29, 2006 2:29 pm

The "yey" goes for the college, or the state of your story? :)
And by the way, if this is a practice piece, then is there any chance that there is something greater happening behind the curtains? *crosses fingers*
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Postby ice reaper » Thu Aug 31, 2006 5:06 am

Faußtin wrote:The "yey" goes for the college, or the state of your story? :)


however completely insane i might sound: both ^_^

Faußtin wrote:And by the way, if this is a practice piece, then is there any chance that there is something greater happening behind the curtains? *crosses fingers*


:oops: i'm flattered you care. well, as soon as i type up the end of this story i will be starting pre-production on my trilogy of novels which i'm going to get published *cough* the trilogy deals with some current issues and some shared beliefs of mine (not religious) and using what i have learned from writing THIS short story to produce excellent gunfights, gripping plotlines (though a bit illusive in this story) and traumatising torture sequences. i'm hoping it will be a best seller ^_^ however arragont that sounds.

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Postby Faußtin » Sat Sep 02, 2006 2:49 pm

Ambitious, I'd say. And all I do is asking, so that my curiosity could be fed. :wink:
As I've read the last few sentences, I had a thought that you've read books from Dan Brown. You know, Code of Da Vinci (saw the film), Angels and Demons (read it)...? Those books have those parameters you've mentioned, though lack the hardcore gore action I smell :twisted: Or maybe I just want to smell :P ... Nope, its just the dinner. :P :lol:
You know, I have a dream that I could one day I will be a/the co-director of my story's anime version and the supervisor of the manga edition. I'm quite a daydreamer, don't you think? :roll: :wink: :)
If you would like to, then I could write a torture scene for you. Just to give you some ideas. :?:
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Postby ice reaper » Sun Sep 03, 2006 4:58 am

sorry, never read those books ^_^ saw the da vinci code film though *shakes head in disapointment* i might have a look at that Angels and Demons though.....like the sound of the name.

You know, I have a dream that I could one day I will be a/the co-director of my story's anime version and the supervisor of the manga edition. I'm quite a daydreamer, don't you think?


if you put your mind - and wallet - to it then it can always happen. i have a simular dream ^_^

thanks for the offer, but i have plenty of ideas for torture scenes which deeply desturb me as it is.

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Postby Faußtin » Mon Sep 04, 2006 11:15 am

[quote="ice reaper]if you put your mind - and wallet - to it then it can always happen. i have a simular dream ^_^[/quote]
Yeey! :D Then I'm not the only daydreamer on this globe of mud!
Now, lets see... wallet? Barely. Mind? Errr... :P :wink: :lol:

You would be really disturbed if you would read my scene. :twisted: And I'm only 17, and will be 18 next year... (at April's first day, and this is a secret!)
:lol:
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Postby ice reaper » Tue Sep 05, 2006 9:27 am

Faußtin wrote:
ice reaper wrote:if you put your mind - and wallet - to it then it can always happen. i have a simular dream ^_^

Yeey! Then I'm not the only daydreamer on this globe of mud!
Now, lets see... wallet? Barely. Mind? Errr...


well, there's always kidnapping Anno and forcing him to make your anime.....with a little of his story telling help.

i'm only 16.......well, my birthday is just one day off of Valentine's day. phew! dodged THAT bullet.

oh, and i have FINALLY finished this story: those couple of finsihing paragraphs turned into 25 more pages.....

i'm off to my first day of college tomorrow, so it'll be a while till i get it up here, but i'll try my best.

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Postby ThroneofDravaris » Tue Sep 05, 2006 10:46 am

I thought this thread was going to be about Xenogears.


Carry on.
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Postby ice reaper » Tue Sep 05, 2006 1:45 pm

.......ok, what?

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Postby Faußtin » Fri Sep 08, 2006 11:18 am

ice reaper wrote:well, there's always kidnapping Anno and forcing him to make your anime.....

Don't give me ideas... :twisted: :P :D

ice reaper wrote:oh, and i have FINALLY finished this story: those couple of finsihing paragraphs turned into 25 more pages.....

:lol:
This happens to me at times too. I think "okay, this will be a short background of my character (D&D)". And then I give the Dice (or Dungeon? I don't know the English version) Master a dozen pages... :roll: :D

ice reaper wrote:i'm off to my first day of college tomorrow, so it'll be a while till i get it up here, but i'll try my best.

Fingers crossed. 8) :D
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Postby Mr. Tines » Fri Sep 08, 2006 1:47 pm

Faußtin wrote:This happens to me at times too. I think "okay, this will be a short background of my character (D&D)". And then I give the Dice (or Dungeon? I don't know the English version) Master a dozen pages... :roll: :D


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Postby ice reaper » Sat Sep 09, 2006 6:50 am

Faußtin wrote:
ice reaper wrote:oh, and i have FINALLY finished this story: those couple of finsihing paragraphs turned into 25 more pages.....

:lol:
This happens to me at times too. I think "okay, this will be a short background of my character (D&D)". And then I give the Dice (or Dungeon? I don't know the English version) Master a dozen pages... :roll: :D


i suppose it can't have done the story too much harm, it is the big finale after all. and in general, more information is better than less......as long as it's relevent.

afraid i still haven't got started on typing the story up :? A level physics is a cruel mistress.....

"The divine fall silent as the freil plea aloud"


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