Dusk

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Wonderland
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Dusk

Postby Wonderland » Wed Mar 13, 2013 4:18 pm

I have started to write a gritty, dark sci-fiy story with a racial and humanity theme. I would love some feedback on the first 2/3s of chapter one (couldn't wait to finish the chapter and release it so I finished most of it). What do you think? Thanks for reading!

CHAPTER ONE: The Escort

2074, June 19th, 8:30 PM, North East Quarter of Amsdash City

I glance at my watch. It’s almost seven at night. IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII - er, sorry, I’m sitting on my couch like a cat that knew some weird form of stretching. People (I think they’re people?) walk down the street, doing their night-life thing. Lots of nightlife here. My couch is chrome. Everything is chrome. I’m WAITING - oh, gosh, sorry, there I go again, saying things strangely (er, thinking). I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately.

Anyway, what am I waiting for? An escort. The roads aren’t safe for your kind, they say. What the hell is my kind? It’s so misleading, looking out the window at the crowds below. The government controls everything now. All of it all. What’s that have to do with it, you ask? So much. They’re very secretive - hiding things all the time in plain sight, under your noses, laughing and waiting to strike. Just like my ex-wife. The crowds could simply be an illusion to make us feel we’re safe. Projections or holograms aren’t hard to come by.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! Must be my escort. I run to answer the door, and feel a sharp jolt in my thigh, like some static shock. Out steps a wide man with a equally-wide moustache but he is also short and heavily armoured, covered in what looks like metallic battle armour with extra gadgets all tucked around it. His cold blue eyes cut through me like steel.

“I assume you are Jonathan Dusk?” he asks me and I nod respectfully even if I don’t like my last name. It sounds too film noir, or something. He nods back, peering down into my odd crimson-coloured eyes. I have seen those eyes around though. He, of course, didn’t notice my baldness. In the past it was a symbol of age, but due to “evolution” (President Delone, our “great” leader, told us this) it now is not. A great deal of people have never had hair, including myself.

“We have to make this look good,” the escort tells me. “If I don’t handcuff you and make this look good, the government might suspect something so I gotta appear to hate you. By the way, my name is Gared Truman.” Gared’s voice is sorta cold-sounding, like mine. It isn’t long before my hands are forced behind my back and squeezed together using these cold pieces of metal, like my skin. “Now, when we are out I may come off as rude. Don’t worry, lad. I only kill if I have to.”

I shiver and he winks in my direction. His smile seems pleasant enough, and so he opens the door and boots me outside (literally - it was a steel toe boot and it knocked me onto my knees), and even though I am shocked, I recover quickly and don’t take it to heart. Very few people are around and they are used to watching this charade.

He pushes me through the city, and I am his willing prisoner. I gaze up at the stars above, and the majestic yet pointy and sinister-looking buildings and skyscrapers around. No break from the chrome, black, grey, brown and white. It is certainly a consistent color scheme. Lights twinkle like diamonds, and it is almost blinding. It must be blinding to drivers too, as both beat-up, rusty cars from decades ago (the poor folk - makes it easy to tell) and sleek, dirty, gas burning hovercrafts (the rich folk). Ironic that hovercrafts were supposed to be energy efficient. Must not have worked, judging by the greyish of the sky and the brown clouds. It starts to drizzle a bit, bouncing off the puddles already there like a trampoline.

Why am I being taken along by a escort, you ask? I dunno, nobody will say. All I know is a lot of people hate me and my “kind”. They spit in my direction and scoff like I am a foul beast. Not all people do though. I was contacted by the “RM Rainbows” (a resistance and militia group fighting for equality and a decidedly less dictatorship government - they’ve been giving the government troubles for a while but they’re really taking off now).

Anyway, they said that they saw in the city records (which the militia managed to invade recently - heard that in the news) that I was of a different race and that they were sending somebody to collect me and protect me until I got to their headquarters in the east quarter of the city, miles away. Brave souls, anyway, as these men volunteered for something they believed in and even wear the government army's armour to disguise themselves. Speaking of which…

A man wearing similar armour as Mr. Truman but with a similarly-styled grey-ish dirty helmet is walking down the same sidewalk as us. He glances at me with a smirk on his face and nicooral (a nicotine-based peppermint stick invented a decade ago) stuck between his lips.

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Not Me
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Re: Dusk

Postby Not Me » Wed Mar 13, 2013 6:15 pm

People smoke peppermint now? :razz:
Anywho, I'm intrigued. Who is this guy? Why is he so special? Why are people smoking peppermint sticks?

Oh, I would like to point out that he says it's almost seven at night, but you said at the top that it's 8:30. Very good otherwise, though. Can't wait to read more! :D
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Wonderland
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Re: Dusk

Postby Wonderland » Wed Mar 13, 2013 7:10 pm

Yup. Good old peppermint! :lol: Yeah, I was going for the intrigue. :)

Oh, derp, better fix that. Thanks for reading!


“Where are you taking this thing?” he growled out.

Mr. Truman just smiles and chuckles to himself, “The garbage bin, officer. Perhaps to work in the mines or the factories. Nah, he doesn’t deserve that. He deserves worse.” I realize how cold his voice sounds, like mine. Not necessarily a bad thing in this case though. Truman hides his eyes the whole time. Weird. He hauls me along with a similar smirk on his face.

Soldier activity was getting tight in some of the main roads so we ducked out into alley after alley. After a while, we came down a street that was very familiar to me: Parkingson Street. At the end of the street, just under an overpass busy with hovercraft after hovercraft was a local bar, “The Raining Bow”. I visit them every week. Money has been running low as my “kind” aren’t allowed most jobs, and some resort to stealing which only cements their horrid reputation. “The Raining Bow,” smiles Truman quietly, still tightly gripped on my handcuffs. “More to this place than meets the eye. Far more.”
CHAPTER TWO: THE OFFER

It was just a small building – doesn’t look like much on the outside, judging by the exterior. It stands behind some metal columns and one tall tree, a rarity in these parts, and so it became the talk of the town and almost a monument. A symbol of hope.

We enter and are immediately greeted by a bunch of similarly armored dudes like it was a little squad. It pretty much was. Smiles. All friendly. I think. There isn’t a patron or bartender in sight tonight because of the glowing neon closed sign out the front window. The stools instead have the armored dudes filling them up. Truman releases me and pushes me forth into the crowd. “Now with what do I owe the pleasure? All I know is you owe me something now for getting you to safety...” says a voice somewhere to the left. It sounded soft yet commanding – it must be feminine.

“Jonathan Dusk, madam,” answers Truman, “Age is 25, medium build…-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” says the voice, “I’m more interested in what I’m getting out of this.”

Truman just groaned, “You asked, madam.”

Out steps a tall, pretty woman in what appears to be her early thirties. Her crisp long brunette hair covers her caramel eyes as she examines me from head to toe like I’m the weird one dressed in battle armour.

“Hmm. Looks like a strong fighter. His type usually are very-”

“WHAT TYPE? WHAT IS MY TYPE? HUH?! WHAT THE HELL IS IT?” I shock everybody with my ungratefulness and complete loss of cool. I had to let I out. I had to know. I get another random electrical jab from nowhere, like somebody was teasing me with static electricity. I take a deep breath.

Her eyes are cold. “Nobody speaks to our great leader, Madam Vanessa Kamal, like that.” Snarls Truman.

“Nah, no – it’s okay – he deserves to know. Send him downstairs to the doctor later on. For now, we need to make a deal Mr. Dusk. We saved you. Now you fight with us. It certainly isn’t a punishment. It wasn’t for me. It was liberating, quite literally.”

I think to myself. The government does have to die. I have no family anymore. Very little money – what do I have to lose? So I answer. “Certainly. When do I get to blow up the capital building?”

She laughs. “Send him down to the doctor before he makes me smile.”

CHAPTER THREE: THE DOCTOR IS IN

Truman was instructed to lead me down to the doctor. He did. We had to go down about five flights of stairs - this is a big and busy building (er, base) but most of it is underground, probably in development for years, hidden away. We finally come to a metal door that says “Doctor Leroid Turner” and I open the door. Truman walks back up the nearby stairs while I walk into the room.

It’s pretty much empty, save for some stools and a table, a box of needles, Band-Aids (which are hardly made anymore), casts and a shelf filled with painkillers. Hardly a doctors’ office make. I sit down on a stool (designed for the bar) and shove of close to a wooden desk (THAT ISN’T CHROME! WOW!) A little sign on the doctor’s desk reads, “The Doctor is out and will be with you shortly”. I wait about ten minutes and I am sad I went down at all when he arrives.

“Oh! A visitor, Archibald! How exciting! Of course, I do this often, you understand, Archibald. It just never gets old. I feel so loved!” I hear a voice coming closer and closer. Who the hell is Archibald? There’s two of them? Then the voice opens the door.

CREEAAKK! In comes a very short, elderly fellow with greying black hair, a stained doctor’s outfit and friendly green eyes. He isn’t the only one that comes in. A little brown kitten, a rarity these days as well, trots in. “Oh, how rude! I haven’t introduced myself or Archibald to our guest!” he exclaims as he sits down in a stool opposite me.


“Where are you taking this thing?” he growled out.

Mr. Truman just smiles and chuckles to himself, “The garbage bin, officer. Perhaps to work in the mines or the factories. Nah, he doesn’t deserve that. He deserves worse.” I realize how cold his voice sounds, like mine. Not necessarily a bad thing in this case though. Truman hides his eyes the whole time. Weird. He hauls me along with a similar smirk on his face.

Soldier activity was getting tight in some of the main roads so we ducked out into alley after alley. After a while, we came down a street that was very familiar to me: Parkingson Street. At the end of the street, just under an overpass busy with hovercraft after hovercraft was a local bar, “The Raining Bow”. I visit them every week. Money has been running low as my “kind” aren’t allowed most jobs, and some resort to stealing which only cements their horrid reputation. “The Raining Bow,” smiles Truman quietly, still tightly gripped on my handcuffs. “More to this place than meets the eye. Far more.”
CHAPTER TWO: THE OFFER

It was just a small building – doesn’t look like much on the outside, judging by the exterior. It stands behind some metal columns and one tall tree, a rarity in these parts, and so it became the talk of the town and almost a monument. A symbol of hope.

We enter and are immediately greeted by a bunch of similarly armored dudes like it was a little squad. It pretty much was. Smiles. All friendly. I think. There isn’t a patron or bartender in sight tonight because of the glowing neon closed sign out the front window. The stools instead have the armored dudes filling them up. Truman releases me and pushes me forth into the crowd. “Now with what do I owe the pleasure? All I know is you owe me something now for getting you to safety...” says a voice somewhere to the left. It sounded soft yet commanding – it must be feminine.

“Jonathan Dusk, madam,” answers Truman, “Age is 25, medium build…-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” says the voice, “I’m more interested in what I’m getting out of this.”

Truman just groaned, “You asked, madam.”

Out steps a tall, pretty woman in what appears to be her early thirties. Her crisp long brunette hair covers her caramel eyes as she examines me from head to toe like I’m the weird one dressed in battle armour.

“Hmm. Looks like a strong fighter. His type usually are very-”

“WHAT TYPE? WHAT IS MY TYPE? HUH?! WHAT THE HELL IS IT?” I shock everybody with my ungratefulness and complete loss of cool. I had to let I out. I had to know. I get another random electrical jab from nowhere, like somebody was teasing me with static electricity. I take a deep breath.

Her eyes are cold. “Nobody speaks to our great leader, Madam Vanessa Kamal, like that.” Snarls Truman.

“Nah, no – it’s okay – he deserves to know. Send him downstairs to the doctor later on. For now, we need to make a deal Mr. Dusk. We saved you. Now you fight with us. It certainly isn’t a punishment. It wasn’t for me. It was liberating, quite literally.”

I think to myself. The government does have to die. I have no family anymore. Very little money – what do I have to lose? So I answer. “Certainly. When do I get to blow up the capital building?”

She laughs. “Send him down to the doctor before he makes me smile.”

CHAPTER THREE: THE DOCTOR IS IN

Truman was instructed to lead me down to the doctor. He did. We had to go down about five flights of stairs - this is a big and busy building (er, base) but most of it is underground, probably in development for years, hidden away. We finally come to a metal door that says “Doctor Leroid Turner” and I open the door. Truman walks back up the nearby stairs while I walk into the room.

It’s pretty much empty, save for some stools and a table, a box of needles, Band-Aids (which are hardly made anymore), casts and a shelf filled with painkillers. Hardly a doctors’ office make. I sit down on a stool (designed for the bar) and shove of close to a wooden desk (THAT ISN’T CHROME! WOW!) A little sign on the doctor’s desk reads, “The Doctor is out and will be with you shortly”. I wait about ten minutes and I am sad I went down at all when he arrives.

“Oh! A visitor, Archibald! How exciting! Of course, I do this often, you understand, Archibald. It just never gets old. I feel so loved!” I hear a voice coming closer and closer. Who the hell is Archibald? There’s two of them? Then the voice opens the door.

CREEAAKK! In comes a very short, elderly fellow with greying black hair, a stained doctor’s outfit and friendly green eyes. He isn’t the only one that comes in. A little brown kitten, a rarity these days as well, trots in. “Oh, how rude! I haven’t introduced myself or Archibald to our guest!” he exclaims as he sits down in a stool opposite me.
Last edited by Wonderland on Sat Mar 16, 2013 6:42 am, edited 2 times in total.
Reason: Automatically merged double post.

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mistergeorge
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Re: Dusk

Postby mistergeorge » Sun Jun 02, 2013 3:56 pm

It is well-written but it needs more details and more action because it is getting boring and sometimes very slow.

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Wonderland
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Re: Dusk

Postby Wonderland » Sun Jun 02, 2013 6:17 pm

Hm, I forgot all about it. Maybe I will return to it again.


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