The SERIOUS BUSINESS Critique Thread

For 'mom' there's ma and mum, which I've always liked.

I'll get back to you on Tasekeru once I can, Fringe.

Thanks to the both of you. I know it'll take some time to read through, but I hope you find it worth it.

Amarys, I know it's Latin and not Greek, but you could use a name based on "mater" or "matron" if you felt the need. Or, for more accuracy, look up whatever "mother" was in Greek... Babelfish failed me on that one. XD

EDIT: If you guys are anything like me, your responses will be long and detailed. I welcome the opportunity for more discussion, but so as not to clog the thread, I'll be more than happy to follow up with you via PM.

edited 27th Jul '10 7:58:19 PM by FringeBenefits

ooh, ooh! Mati and Vati!! that'll work. thanks thanks thanks!

I'm super energetic today because I had Caprese salad. I'm not usually this Genki Girl. Also, I aced my German Oral test...WOOHOO I'm certified fluent!

all of that said, I had one more shortish section to copy paste. if this story takes off like I think it's going to, I'll stick it in a "real" blog.

Her parents fell into abrupt silence as she approached but her father smiled at her when he saw the breakfast tray. “Come join us Cassia. Or am I the one interrupting?”

“No interruption Vati.” Cassia said, setting the tray in the center of the table. “But I only brought two plates. You'll have to share with Mati.”

The three tucked in with relish and for a while, all was peaceful small talk. “It's very good jam you made, Cassia.” her mother said. Cassia nodded her thanks, mouth too full f toast to immediately answer.

“Your mother and I were discussing this afternoon's court.” her father said. Cassia swallowed the half eaten mouthful, grimacing. “Are you sure your source is correct about Orion?” she asked. She wasn't hopeful, since her father's network of information was usually very good.

Cephus nodded. “I'm afraid so. I heard from Caros today; Orion stayed the night at the Turnfish just last night.” Cassia looked down at her plate, smearing her last corner of bread in the jam. “Will you help me get ready Mati? I want to look...correct.” Mati nodded and her father looked approving. “You've done very well so far, Cassia. Your mother and I were talking about how proud we were of you. I know this is very hard.”

Cassia shrugged. “Everyone has something they have to do right now, and all I want is for Meda to get better.“ She didn't expect her voice to catch on her sister's name, and she looked down at her plate again. She had to be strong for her parents.

As if saying Meda's name had woken her, her twin's sweet voice came from the open window. “Mati? Cassia, Can you come help me?”

“I'll go.” Amris rose from the table, wiping her fingers on her skirt. “I'm coming, Meda. Just stay there.” Amris Turned to her other daughter. “Cass, I'll be in ym study in aobut an hour, find me there and we'll get you ready for today.”

Cassia nodded, and once Amris had left, a tense silence fell over the table. She half expected her father to say something; to give her some advice about what to tell orion or how to meet him. But her father just sat, staring past the garden to the sea cliffs and beyond. Cassia looked in the direction of his gaze and realized that he was communing with Pisces. The great Guardian of the ocean, her father's Charge beast, took the form of a huge black and white whale. Some called him the Shadowwave, but Cassia was not afraid of him. Her father had introduced both girls to Pisces when they were still very long, and the Chargebeast, along with the girl's parents, had been their first swimming teacher. Cassia looked back at her father, who broke out of the trance.

Tthank you for breakfast, Cassia. I must meet with some of the delegates from houses Sirius and Lynx. They want to have a meeting of all the council soon.” Cassia nodded. A council meeting was expected, with all that had happened.

The bards were already creating songs about the last few months, although at her family's request, Meda had been left out of it. The most recent tale was too poetic for Cassia's taste, and yet some of the lines still stuck in her head. Namely, the bards had all decided that the Arrow which had killed the Charge beast Eridanus was named by Orion. “Eridanus was the great snake who was struck by the silver arrow Fornax.” She thought this a strange addition because, as far as anyone knew, Orion entertained no affectation of naming his arrows or his other weapons. Poetic license. Cassia had no time or interest in poetry; such flowery phrases were more Meda's bent.

She gathered the dishes and dropped them in the basin that was filled with water every evening for washing. There had to be something worthwhile what to do with herself for the next hour. She looked to the sea; the silvery beach that ran at the bottom of the sea cliffs had always calmed her. There was a long stretch of stony steps that winded their way to the bottom. They looked more dangerous than they actually were. Cassia still took the steps carefully, because the sun had not yet dried the night's dew from the stones. Her toes gripped the rounded edges and she found her self wondering how many Lords like her father had made this journey. How many apprentices had followed, hoping that Pisces would accept them? Her father had been severely disappointed when Meda was chosen by Galatos and his beast Pegasus. He had been sure that Pisces would take her on. Cassia too, had shown no real interest in the powers over the bay that Pisces offered. She was too independent to be tied to one place. There was a burning in her soul that urged hr to travel to see the world. Her parent had promised, once Meda was better...

One of the stairs was wetter than she predicted, and she slipped sideways, towards the rocky cliff. She yelped and threw her self back and down. Her hindside hit the stone steps hard. “Ouch.” but at least she hadn't fallen. The last thing her mother needed was another wounded daughter. Still shaky, she crab -scrambled the rest of the way down the steps. Once her feet hit the soft sand she relaxed. We really need a railing for that. But once over, the incident was forgotten. The beach was private to her family, and Cassia shucked out of her clothes and waded out to waist high. The coolish water was a good contrast to the already hot midsummer day. It was clear enough that day that cassia could see all the way through the blue-green waves to the sandy bottom. Little quicksilver fish darted past her legs and free floating fingers.

One big wave lifted her off her feet and she let herself be taken, floating on her back. Even if a strong current grabbed her, Pisces was aware of every being in his ocean. She and Meda had often ridden on his broad back.

The great beast did not come to visit her that day. She guessed he was about other business. With it being such a clear day, the main bay was probably teeming with fishermen and larger craft. Pisces patrolled the Piscean bay with a careful eye. It was his duty to regulate the fishing, as well as warning sailors of incoming storms or the occasional tsunami.

The waves carried her closer to the shore, and Cassia swam in, crawling up on the warm beach. She flopped over on her back with a happy sigh.

“Cassia!” Mati was calling. With a grumble, she got up, shielding her eyes from the glaring sun. “Down here!” she called back. After quickly pulling on her clothing, she trudged to the stairs and began the climb up. So much for an easy summer day.

Aaaand that's the first half of chapter 1.

edited 28th Jul '10 2:34:36 PM by Amarys

Amateur cook Professional procrastinator

The story is getting deeper and more complex, and I'm growing steadily more interested. I really like the idea of the Charge beasts... it seems like a unique and interesting variation on the idea of a summoned familiar.

Also, the bards being historians is terrific. That one came right out of left field and impressed the hell out of me, to be frank!

I did notice that this excerpt has some typos and errors in it, though. I only mention that because your mechanics in the first part were excellent... You've set a very high standard, and I hope you'll keep it up.

edited 28th Jul '10 6:06:30 PM by FringeBenefits

To Amarys

comma before 'but'.

when addressing someone by name, offset it by commas.

- hyphenate.

capitalize.

You weave in exposition well, and since this is the start of the tale, I got a fairly good look at characterization as well. A solid piece; you manage the important elements well.

My bit The character is on a train, just so you know.

I stepped out of the white-walled cubicle, suddenly so constricting, pacing to the section’s connecting door and walking onto the connecting bridge. I could simply leap away here, never to be seen again; and I flipped upwards, landing on the smooth white roof. There was the border wall, dust rising from the city in front of it.

Ha. I had not taken up a cause in some time, had a narrow road set for me so. There was a credo to recite, a nearly ancient thing that was dormant for many years. Suddenly, I felt self-conscious, kneeling in the opposite direction of our movement, head facing up, making my neck tingle with pain. There I was, for the entire world to see, exposing the very core of my nature. At last I began to speak, wind tearing at my flesh, settling into the primordial cadence’s cold embrace.

“I am. With the name of Gant, solely for war. By three thousand dead does your mind know me. By ten thousand kilograms of scattered earth does your body know me. By ten thousand dead and a hundred thousand kilograms of earth scattered shall you see death. With sword and rifle, I reap the strong; with mace and pistol, I take the weak. In ash I find my form and in blood my scent.”

I paused for a moment, savoring the words. My own creed, words to shake men. Those were simple times, dry lands filled with my comrades, narrow roads set by tiresome grubs. Then, I was a carefree hedonist, unconcerned with my own dignity, content to live in bloody rain. It ended, just as all stories do, with death; the rabid footfalls of their hunters chasing me, a fevered hallucination of tearing vines as I fell into water, slithering away.

Ah, I had forgotten the most vital piece. “I come.” A promise to draw in clouds, make the complacent look upwards in horror. They would be confused for but a moment, horror leisurely draining them of thought as I cast them down. Soon, a storm would come, the balance that had atrophied their arms shattered as I tear open stomachs ad crush skulls and leave fields of carrion-

“Nice prayer.” There was a tap of metal, a brief clink before I felt someone looming over me.

edited 30th Jul '10 7:34:44 PM by Morgulion

This is this.

Hay guys, this is sum fanfiction i wrote for Half Life 2. It's a crossover story. It's in my signature.

Skip over the preface, it's author tract/how I got the stupid idea. It's only two chapters as of now, mostly introducing the story and giving some idea as to how altered the plot of HL 2 is.

edited 5th Aug '10 5:35:51 PM by JackMackerel

Half-Life: Dual Nature, a crossover story of reasonably sized proportions.

For prologue 2.

I must say, this is a great way to highlight the characterization of Freeman as someone not quite in touch with the military.

A few too many nonspecific-inducing terms there (somehow, whatever, something-or-other).

pages'. I'm assuming there's more to this sentence.

Overall, not bad. It's got a very distinct mood and tone, with consistent narration. I'm not overly fond of continual swearing, but it does the job it needs to. A good start on the whole.

This is this.

Thanks. Dammit, I knew I still had some typos - that's what I hate about writing fanfiction, you'll make obvious mistakes. I just caught a few more right now, too.

Were there any comments for prologue one?

Half-Life: Dual Nature, a crossover story of reasonably sized proportions.

Morgulion

Pros:

Very atmospheric Easy to follow the action (or non action, as in this segment) I'm very interested in following further. I was actually a little upset when it ended.

Cons: Very few. In the beginning, you have a sentence with a semi-colon that's misused, I feel. Make the second clause it's own sentence, I suggest.

"The balance[...] shattered as I tear [...] ad crush" This sounds a bit awkward, not to mention the obvious: "and", not "ad", obviously a typo. But I would think that tear and crush should be "tore and crushed" or perhaps rephrase the beginning to "be shattered" or "shattering"

— My own piece? For some context: the POV character (noted as "Locke") is a magical warrior in a modern day setting, who is being taught. This scene was written in a sort of vacuum: I don't have the pieces that precede it written except for some very early writings, but I think this part is a good sample of my writing. Directly prior to this scene, Dorian has been sparring barehanded against armed-with-sword Locke. Locke asks a question:

—————-

Dorian paused and then seemed to almost chew his words before speaking.

"Well, yes and no. You see, most vampires are the result of another vampire's attack, but obviously that wouldn't explain how the first vampire was created. So it stands to reason that there's another way to make a vampire."

As he said the last word, he resumed his attack, and I thought he was done. But after a few exchanges, Dorian spoke again. He didn't even seem winded, battering away at my defenses while he calmly explained.

"From our research- divinations, medical examinations, interviewing-, we know that vampires are essentially creatures spun whole-cloth of warlock magic. You remember what Reynolds told you?" I tried to give an affirmation and almost got a shot to the skull for it, but I managed to both dodge his foot and nod, which I was proud of. He continued, "Three main sources of magic, et cetera et cetera. Well, vampires are apparently some sort of horribly designed capacitor for potentiae. They have no conscious access to it, but it suffuses their entire body. You take a peek at one through an arcane spectrometer and it’s like they aren’t even there. They’re background static. But you stick one in an Archimedean Death Ray, and they’ll power that bad boy until Ragnarok. But the thing is, the potentiae is so busy giving them incredible strength, speed, reflexes, that they burn through it like flash paper. And the kicker? Vampires can’t absorb potentiae in any way we can. They can’t get it from the sun, from practice at dermal absorption, even a direct transfusion from a mage won’t do anything but spray potentiae in the air. They can only get it through direct consumption of human blood. Also-”

At this point, my guard had slipped about two inches too low, meaning I missed my parry and was sent spinning across the room with a cracked jaw, so I missed a bit of Dorian's Vampire 101 Crash Course while I extracted myself from the weapon rack I broke with my ribcage. As my own magical stores worked at healing the worst of my broken face, Dorian seemed to be coming to a very “Dorian” place in his lecture.

"Wait...what was your question again?” he called across the training hall as I limped to my sword. I paused for a moment to let my teeth finish healing and manually shut it off, leaving myself with a busted lip and a bruise.

“I wanted to know if being bitten by a vampire was the only way to become a vampire. You started to answer but then went off on a tangent about vampiric biology.” I called back as I checked my weapon for cracks in the blade. Finding none, I readied it and began advancing on Dorian again. I was about ten feet away when it looked like he was ready to speak.

At that moment, I lunged forward and thrust towards his midsection before focusing and leaping over his head. He twisted away from the thrust and paused until I hit the ground , and even as I tucked into a roll and swiped at his calf, he began to talk again. I began to flow, letting his words wash over me, absorbing them as I let my body handle the increasingly quick movements of our spar, my own mind taking in more and more detail.

“Nice moves. A bit ‘Jedi’ for my tastes, but whatever; if it works...Anyway. When a vampire attack kills someone, that person is dead. They don’t come back, ever. But when a vampire feeds and the victim lives, then they sometimes, depending on what looks to be level of contamination of the vampire’s potentiae reaching the victim, they might become a vampire themselves. They go into their first dormancy period, which might last a few days, or even weeks. During this time, any remaining potentiae usually burns itself out trying to heal the ridiculous amount of carnage that vampires usually leave their victims’ bodies with, and the hunger starts gnawing away at them. They wake up, go on feeding sprees, and we put them down, as you do.

However, there’s another way to do it. You see, since a warlock or a wizard spends most of his life training his body to store and absorb more and more potentiae, his body already shares some characteristics with a vampire’s. All one has to do is find a way to take the stores of magic that the mage in question has access to, and make them a part of his actual body, moreso than it already is.”

I leaned away from a vicious backhanded swipe and countered with a sharp kick to the side of my mentor’s kneecap. I swear I heard it pop, but Dorian hopped up using his other leg and roundhouse kicked me with it. When I spun around from the kick with a decapitation strike, he was back on both legs, good as new. What's more, he'd blocked my attack with his bare forearm. The blade of my sword was biting into the bone, but he just stood there, face impassive. As my flow broke, and the world quickened, Dorian scowled and snapped out his fist.

I vaguely heard someone scold me with "Pay attention, Locke," but I was more concerned with the broken bones in my face.

—*—*—

My first thoughts upon regaining consciousness were something along the lines of How did he do that? and then shortly afterward Ow. Ow. Ow. My face. Ow. Ow. Dear god my face.

edited 7th Aug '10 2:19:20 AM by StalkThis

@Jack Mackerel

For prologue 1.

Take that out of parentheses.

I'd suggest rephrasing this bit.

move "every so often" to after "group", it flows better that way.

take out of parentheses.

take out of parentheses.

Replace 'can' with 'could'.

I'd take out the part in parentheses. Seems needlessly distracting.

take out of parentheses.

The one continued gripe I have is that all the spots with parentheses don't require them, and they break up the flow a bit. Otherwise, it's a solid piece, with the qualities I mentioned in my 1st critique.

Stalk This, your critique will be upcoming.

This is this.

@Stalk This: Good, but some of your sentences are a bit wordy. Try to compress it a bit or split them into fragments.

First section of a new story. This one should hopefully be a bit longer, although i'm planning to write it as it comes to me.

---

If one were to skim through the entire human history, they’d notice two things. The first is that it’s really, really long and filled with over-inflated tales of bravery and conquest by strong and powerful men. The second, that a great many of these strong and powerful men were like glass statues. Mighty, imposing, seemingly omnipotent, and surprisingly fragile. Take for instance, the mighty Troy. Destroyed for want of a single woman. And Goliath, vanquished by a boy, a rock, and a sling. Those who defied the very notion of death itself annihilated by the tiniest pebble. So ends the fate of many of the powerful, the strong, the mighty, and the godly.

And so ended the fate of that summer town. It arrived late that night. Three hours after the last light in the houses of Haven had been extinguished.

edited 6th Aug '10 9:40:13 PM by KSPAM

I've got new mythological machinery, and very handsome supernatural scenery. Goodfae: a mafia web serial

KSPAM: Sling vs. slingshot - big difference. Aside from that, nice bit of exposition, and it grabbed my attention. A bit of foreboding set in.

Morgulion: I coud imagine the fight very well, kudos. But, can you break up the expo-speech just a bit with a bit more attention to the fight? I was having a teeny bit of trouble remembering that these two were actually fighting on some of the longer dialogue bits.

edited 6th Aug '10 12:18:04 PM by pvtnum11

Happiness is zero-gee with a sinus cold.

Me or Stalk This?

This is this.

Whoops. Sorry, I meant Stalk This. Your first-person bit was catchy. I take that the crud is about to hit the fan in that scene?

edited 6th Aug '10 3:41:05 PM by pvtnum11

Happiness is zero-gee with a sinus cold.

No, just a bit of philosophical debate. The guy behind him is just another mercenary colleague.

This is this.

Oh, okay. I'll go re-read it and see how that goes, as that impacts how in interpret the text...

Happiness is zero-gee with a sinus cold.

pvtnum: Oops. I feel rally stupid now >_<

I've got new mythological machinery, and very handsome supernatural scenery. Goodfae: a mafia web serial

KSPAM: Is it the dialogue or the narration that's too wordy, or both?

^A little bit of both. But it's fine with the narration. You might eant to trim down the actual dialogue.

I've got new mythological machinery, and very handsome supernatural scenery. Goodfae: a mafia web serial

Hi guys. I'm new to this thread - but I read the ground rules at the beginning. So I'm gonna post an Original Work for feedback.

Sergeant picked the bottle up off the bar ,looked the bartender square in the eye, and knocked back his vodka like it was a shot.

"Now, I have some questions for you. Why are those two words following us everywhere - Every bartender I ask, I hear about"Renegade Revolution". What is it, a gang? A new law? Why are all the bartenders going on about it? What connection does it have to the president? I want answers."

The bartender nervously focused on polishing a glass. He stuttered when he talked. Sergeant hated that. "I can't tell you anymore. Wouldn't want to run afoul of them."

"Of whom?" Sergeant asked. He grabbed the bottle threateningly by the neck.

The bartender looked utterly defeated. "R-R-Renegade Revolution."

Sergeant tossed the bottle up in the air. The bartender looked up following the bottle's arc as it smashed against the roof. Sergeant whipped out his pistol and shot the bartender in the chin. The bullet slammed through his head and splattered his brains all over the back wall. Before the shards of broken glass came tinkling back down to the floor, Sergeant had already disappeared on to the next place where he might get some information.

edited 7th Aug '10 1:28:31 PM by Pseudonym

<(-_-<)(>-_-)> "FUSION HA"

@Pseudonym:

Here, the scene of Sergeant's desperation is almost brought alive. A couple suggestions I have to make it work better:

Can be split into three separate sentences; each with an impact more poignant than that list of events. E.g.: Sergeant picked the bottle off the bar. Knocked it back like it was a shot. Looked the bartender square in the eye.

A nitpick — quotes within spoken sentences: use 'asdf' instead of "asdf". You have an opportunity to add tension as Sergeant begins his brief interrogation. Add interplay, such as hints to the bartender's addling anxiety as the Sergeant speaks.

"Now I have some questions for you. Why are those two words following us everywhere? 'Renegade Revolution?'"

The bartender remained silent.

"What is it, a gang? A new law?"

There was still no response from the bartender, save for a quivering lip that he bites onto.

"Why are all the bartenders going on about it?"

The bartender tried focusing on polishing a glass, his hands shaking with some doubt.

"I want answers!"

Instead of telling that the bartender was stuttering, show it in his dialogue: "I— I can't tell you that. Wouldn't want to, y'know, run afoul of them."

I like the rest of it. How Sergeant walks unfettered as he moves on to better sources of info.

edited 7th Aug '10 2:46:05 PM by QQQQQ

Pseudonym: I'm not understanding why he shot the bartender so quickly. Was it because the tender knew but didn't want to tell? Also, Sergeant is one bad dude, as no other bar patrons either intervened, cowered in fear or did anything at all. Unless, of course, no one else was there. Or if he had a friend watching the door. QQQQQ's input was good, especially the stuttering hesitation part.

I had an information-gathering scene in my story, let me dig it up...

---

Krela had the youth by the collar of his tattered duster, and as Jermaine watched, Krela tossed him to the ground in front of the other youths. She heard the pawnbroker exclaim something and he came around the counter to see what was the matter.

“What’s all this, old man?” the broker exclaimed. Krela stood there, breathing a bit hard, his wrinkled face shiny with perspiration. Jermaine was amazed the geriatric old man didn't keel over right htere on the spot. On the contrary, Krela whipped his head to face the pawn-broker and gave him a hard stare.

“These yer filchers?” Krela replied. “They’re causing some grief to my girl here.”

“They hang out here, that’s all,” the broker replied.

“Yeah, sure. And I’m a young man, too. Inside, before I call some enforcers to deal with this,” Krela said, extending an arm towards the entranceway.

“Whoa, I’m not wanting any enforcers here, honest, now let’s all be cool here and see if we can work this out,” the broker stammered. Krela suppressed a smile, knowing that he had found a hotspot to tickle. Krela had not used the term for police, but rather, the mafia’s hitmen, the true law providers in the city. If he had wanted to get police involved, he would have mentioned something about inspectors. Not that inspectors would’ve been able to do much in any case.

Krela looked over the contents of the pawnshop. He cast his eyes over mostly small and easily stolen electronic items, cheap weapons, clothes, frontier equipment, bric-a-brac and nondescript clutter. He snorted. He had never run a pawnshop, viewing them as mere gutter trash in the grand scheme of things. They were legal to operate, and some would say that they were necessary, as they provided a source of income to people who were down and out, and a source of cheap items to those who needed them. They were also easy cash for lowlife thieves and burglars, who would use the pawnshop as a good spot to fence their stolen good to. The broker would store the items for a time, keeping them from prying eyes until they were no longer missed.

Which, to Krela, explained the kids. The broker would use them to move hot merchandise from place to place, or for outright theft of the items in question. It was an old business, and almost universal in scope. The other explanation was that the broker used them for protection, but seeing how handily he had snuck up and dispatched one of them, led doubt to that theory. Another fact came to his mind, the fact that the store wasn’t in the really rough part of the city, and thus not requiring protection, per se. Krela remembered the time Jermaine herself had been just another street urchin, not unlike the ones peering in from outside the store.

“Okay, now that I got your complete attention, here’s the deal,” Krela started. “I run the new restaurant uptown. You weren’t invited by the powers that be, but you heard about it.”

“I had heard about it.”

“Well see, that’s the front side.”

“You running backdoor stuff, old man? What’s the deal, here?”

“Yeah, I’m running back door stuff. You’re sharp, but you’re also stupid. I’ve scoped your place out, and you’re small-time, but you got what I need.”

The broker scrunched up his face, evidently off-guard. “And what’s that?”

“You got urchins. Butt-loads of ‘em. They’re not very skilled at being discreet. But they tell you stuff, right? They got the info about what goes on around in this part of town?"

“Maybe. Why would I tell you what goes on over here?”

“Because some gun runner bought a piece from here, same gun that was used on that botched raid last month, got it? Syndicate gave me a tip that I might have to look you up. Sent my girl here to run intel. She gets roughed up, and now I gots to get involved.” Krela leaned in closer to the broker and lowered his voice. "I don't like getting involved. Bad for my heart rate and my blood pressure medicine doesn't take well to it." Which was true, as Krela was long past being a spring chicken by any stretch of the imagination.

"I'm still not following-"

“Shut yer pie-hole and listen. My ace was hit on that raid. Guess what ventilator did it? The one you sold. Now, mind you, I know that gun runners don’t do the shooting, but you know the people who did. I want names, or you’ll lose the ability to utter another word aloud, after I rearrange the innards of yer neck.”

“I can’t just do that, man, they’ll-”

“I’ll give you two options if you decide to keep your mouth shut, so listen up. Might be the last decision you make today. I get to use either a knife, or a gun. I’m better with a gun. Not so good with a knife, so it might be a little messy, you follow?” he growled. He stepped back a bit and went on. “We’re movers, you do know what movers are, right? Think your job, only a million times more important. You move bits of trash from hovel to hovel, maybe a gun or two. I move crates of guns. Or ship parts, drugs, explosives, data, computers, you name it, and I get it all moved across the ‘Verse. You do not want to be on my bad side, you got that? I’ve made men simply disappear, kid, so many I’ve forgotten most of them.” Krela pulled a rusty knife from his belt with one hand, and a well-worn semiautomatic with the other, out of a holster. “You? You'll just another body that some backpacker finds in six months, and no one will rightly care. Pick your poison, hotshot, or I’ll pick it for you. Plenty of sand outside of town I can pack you into.” He watched the broker begin to sweat, eyes wide.

“Stennis. You want a guy names Stennis. He gots some muscle with him, some hitman he pays to keep in his pocket.”

“You blowing smoke? I can sense when I man is lyin’ to me, and I think my senses are starting to go off the chart, boy,” Krela threatened, raising the handgun up. "Jermaine, you might want to look away. This might get a little messy."

“No, man, I swear. He hangs out in the industrial quarter. He’s the guy who organized the raid, honest!”

“I ain’t ever, never, heard of an honest broker. Your kind is almost as bad as slavers. I’ll give you five seconds to blot that miserable lie from your head, just five seconds, and tell me the real story.” Krela raised the gun and aimed down the sights.

“No, I swear! He’s on the corner of 3rd and Luute, that’s where I make the drops!”

“One,” Krela said. Jermaine watched, unsure what to do. She had never seen the old codger do anything violent.

“Some old cargo containers, they store crap in them-”

“Two.”

“I send the kids to do the drop, they don’t even know what they’re doing, just bags of-”

“Three.”

“Oh, man, you can’t, I’m tellin’ you the whole thing, it’s Stennis-”

“Four.”

“He’s the one you want, and the hitman, too, p-p-please!” the broker trembled. Krela hesitated, and lowered the gun. He knew the cargo storage place, and he figured it would be worth a visit.

“You know what? I think I believe you. Now, as I was saying. You got urchins, right?”

“Whatever they know, they’ll tell you!” the broker blabbered, somehow relieved that he was still standing. Even Jermaine looked less tense.

“I’ll keep it in mind. Now you go think real hard about dealing for Stennis in the future. Like, tell him the market’s too hot to sell or something the next time he sees you, got it?” Krela holstered the gun and tucked the knife into his belt.

“Too hot, yeah okay, anything.”

“I’ll be watching you. You can expect a call from me later. Don’t miss it. I don’t like voice mail, so if you want to be on my good side, you best have your scrawny little butt planted at your desk when I give you a buzz. Might be in an hour, might be in a day, Can't rightly tell you.” Krela turned and motioned Jermaine out the door. The youths were gathered outside, looking insolent. Krela shot them a withering look, and watched a few of them wilt under it.

---

EDIT Forgot. This ain't Star Wars no more, so I had to correct a reference to a blaster. Guess I got to scrub it one more time.

edited 7th Aug '10 5:27:17 PM by pvtnum11

Happiness is zero-gee with a sinus cold.

For pvtnum 11

Critique:

After I reread that sentence a couple times I realized it wasn't a straight contradiction, but at first glance it sounds a little silly. I suggest you replace "sharp" with a sleezy, street-smart-sounding adjective like "sly" or "slick as oil" or something.

Praise:

I love how you point out the protagonist's age, juxtaposed with what a badass he is. You clearly show us how the characters around him struggle to reconcile to the idea that this old man is dangerous, something the readers can understand. You are really sneaking in a jab at our prejudice. I see what you did there...

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Here's the first chapter of my Modern Warfare fic. Please be gentle, it's my first time...posting fan fiction. This is taking place after the events of MW2. It's intended to be Lighter and Softer, though not quite fluffy, and in later chapters may have just a dash of lemon. We'll see.

---

My, he certainly is a big man, was the young lieutenant's first impression.

Her second impression was that he stank like a polecat.

When she made a covert move to cover her nose, one of her junior enlisted informed her in an undervoice that snipers in the field avoided bathing, and if they did, they never used soap.

Gross. So much for the glamour of the Special Forces. She whispered back to the airman, "I wonder why they don't put that in the brochure," and they both snickered.

The trio of newcomers stood at quasi-attention as they explained their mission ("what we can tell you, sir") and needs to the outpost's commander, Colonel Campbell. Campbell looked massively impressed at their casual use of words like "need to know" and "person of interest." He downright boggled when the rugged British officer gestured to the Russian man in their group and called him "the package."

The lieutenant resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

Between the Colonel, her own person, and the British invasion, the tiny office would have been full. When a vague sense of unease about their visitors spurred her to invite three of the most muscular enlisted Airmen they had, they ended up packed into the Colonel's office like sardines.

The burly one she'd first noticed—boy he looked like a cold-blooded throat-cutter if she'd ever seen one—was closest to them. Sergeant Ramirez had bristled like a bulldog when the mohawked warrior had arranged himself behind Price...and within arm's reach of her. He might tower over her but he was not taller than the hulking Ramirez, she noted with satisfaction, nor was he as muscular.

For himself, Mohawk had made no sign he'd noticed either of them.

Ramirez himself whispered a complaint about his smell, and they all snickered again. She sobered quickly as Price—so far only one name between the three men, and not a single rank—turned his gaze to them. She lifted her chin haughtily as the airman smothered another laugh and moved slightly behind her. Speak Spanish, do you, you limey Brit? Well I don't care. Don't you glare at my men. The British officer returned his attention to the Colonel.

Her commanding officer was doing quite well, she thought judiciously. Having two SAS operatives and a Russian deserter show up on his proverbial doorstep was not a situation one dealt with every day. Also, since it was about ten o'clock in the morning, he would have already downed enough whiskey to sedate a horse. So she was just glad that he was upright with all of his buttons and zippers done up correctly.

When Campbell started gabbling about his many connections (the truth), his long experience with all matters covert (blatant lies), the lieutenant was so disgusted that she didn't even protest when he suggested that she had better things to do. Though she could tell by the strangled noises the Staff Sergeant was making that he was by no means conviced everything was copacetic, she took herself off and the enlisted men with her.

Anyway, she was beyond caring what happened to her superior officer. It would serve them right if the trio turned out to be international criminals wanted for treason and war crimes.

edited 15th Aug '10 9:45:49 PM by callsignecho

Screaming along at mach .2 with my hair on fire.

Thank you, callsignecho - that very sentence has been bugging me for awhile. I'll take your advice and change it. And yes, I was aiming to have Krela portrayed as such. Glad you liked it. EDIT: Oh, I wasn't really trying to push a 'respect your elders' aesop - more like 'age and treachory will overcome youth and skill', and the thought was that if he's managed to make it as far as he has and for as long as he has, then he is not a man to be trifled with.

I'll read over yours, now...

Back. I've played MW 2 so I'm a bit familiar with the plot of the game. I would've liked to have heard some of the dialogue itself, (to connect the readers to the other characters in the room aside from the LT), although I liked the last little bit where she idly thinks about them might being criminals and such. Is this the same Ramirez from the game? IIRC, he was only a Private, unless you have this bumped up a year or two - or he got meritoriously promoted, of course, due to previous events. If a different character altogether, not a problem, then.

edited 16th Aug '10 11:08:14 AM by pvtnum11

Happiness is zero-gee with a sinus cold.

Actually I totally forgot there was a Pvt. Ramirez player character, but anyway I believe that Ramirez was an Army Ranger, no? This one is an Airman.

I see what you mean about showing the dialogue instead of just having the lieutenant narrate for us. Thanks.

Screaming along at mach .2 with my hair on fire.