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The zeroin writers thread - NSFW.

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  • #16
    Re: The zeroin writers thread.

    Im using personalised narration chief (cant remember the technical term), the language mirrors the character the narrative is following at that point, to aid the characterization certain characters speak in certain ways. Ill have a look at the points you flagged though, if you found them jarring i'll probably lose em

    The city itself is Denton City, was originally going to be Detroit but having never been I preferred to create my own so I dont risk getting it wrong. Its set approximately in the year 2035-40. I took existing gang violence problems from the states and magnified them to get the dystopic effect. Judged that gangsters and criminals would start wearing body armour more commonly as it becomes more available and cheaper to obtain, so the police would need to be better equipped Regular detectives like Harris from the prologue are issued Sig and USP varients while the city's SWAT equivalent, CRT, are loaded out with high-end weaponry.

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    • #17
      Re: The zeroin writers thread.

      Originally posted by Rampage View Post
      I have never written a novel but I have written poetry which has been published in a hard back book in America. I would love to get into novel writing, or at least short story writing. I have always had an active imagination that would thrive on paper.
      Thats awesome Rampage. I cant write poetry at all... I have no idea how it works and its not really my thing to read but I have enormous respect for those that write it well.

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      • #18
        Re: The zeroin writers thread.

        Originally posted by spetsnazdave87 View Post
        I cant write poetry at all... I have no idea how it works and its not really my thing to read but I have enormous respect for those that write it.
        Why thank you!

        Anywho, would the city info become the blurb? A suggestion, because its already hooked me onto the story. I would read the next chapters, a bit late for me now.

        I'm off, I've enjoyed reading it, not even the start and its brilliant! :D

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        • #19
          Re: The zeroin writers thread.

          Originally posted by TheLazymarksman View Post
          Why thank you!
          Yeah I did edit that to those who write it well :p but yeah, I cant write poetry at all so I have nothing but respect for those that can.

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          • #20
            Re: The zeroin writers thread.

            Read the synopsis via PM, again as I repeat - Lovely and in-depth and the cherry on top! :D - The finished version, can't wait!




            Alrighty, going to bed... *shoots lamp, monitor and room light with a Beretta named Henrietta* Hehe.

            Comment


            • #21
              Re: The zeroin writers thread - NSFW.

              Some more extracts: Chapters five and a lot of six, and the scene where Garraghy discovers his wire (this scene is very unpolished):

              Chapter Five


              ‘You seem to be settling in well,’ Nehru observed as they walked down the tenement steps. ‘The people respond to you.’
              ‘Not everyone. Some think I’m a traitor.’
              ‘And they’re either criminals or too short-sighted to see you’ve made a positive decision. The ones that are worth it will come round.’
              ‘I’m more worried about the ones that don’t. They’re the ones that have guns.’
              Nehru laughed, loosening his body armour tabs and letting the bulky vest hang off him.
              ‘Admit it. You felt good nabbing that parasite.’
              Jez looked over to where McCarthy and Banner were dragging Lynch in handcuffs from the building. The junkie spat and struggled against his restraints, blood trickling from his hairline.
              ‘I’d feel better if he’d told me what I wanted to know.’
              ‘We’ve got a few minutes before the wagon gets here. Try again. Just don’t get too physical.’
              Jez smiled thinly. It was the first time he’d smiled that morning.
              ‘Me? Get physical?’ he asked, handing the older man his shotgun with a wink.

              -*-
              Up on the roof of tenement C the two Wharfies burst out of the stairwell door, closely followed by Garraghy. The two gangsters were wheezing after the long flights of stairs, but the mercenary was barely sweating despite the heavy gun bag on his back. A couple of roofers sat in their makeshift shacks, frozen. Paulson pulled out his Glock and waved it at them.
              ‘Get the fuck outta here, you rat bastards,’ he panted. They scattered for the stairwell.
              Garraghy placed the gun bag on the floor and crossed to the edge of the roof. The smog-dulled glare of the midday sun dazzled him. He took a pair of expensive sunglasses from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, put them on. Far below him he could see the security team on the steps of tenement B, grey-suited bugs clustered around a cowering figure that could only be Lynch.
              ‘I see ‘em,’ he said shortly, stripping off his jacket and tossing it aside. Other than his body armour his torso was bare, his muscles gleaming with a thin sheen of perspiration. He turned to the breathless street thugs.
              ‘Time for you two to get in some practice,’ he said, watching them with dead eyes.
              ‘We really gonna do this?’ Harry whined. ‘Gang Reg’s gonna go ape shit.’
              ‘Shut the fuck up Harry,’ Paulson growled. ‘Connor wants those guns tested and he wants to send a message to the cops. We ain‘t to be fucked with no more. Soldier boy, break ‘em out.’
              ‘Whatever you say, boss,’ Garraghy chuckled coldly. ‘You’re the customer.’
              The merc crossed to the gun bag, unzipping it and unfolding a pair of sleek, tan assault rifles. Picking one up he motioned for Paulson to do the same with the other. The aging enforcer clumsily copied Garraghy’s practiced motions as he smoothly bolted a heavy optical sight onto the top of the rifle, screwing a long silencer onto the barrel and slotting a dark tan polymer box magazine in behind the pistol grip.
              ‘Israeli-made, chambered to caseless NATO ammunition,’ he recited as he racked a round into the chamber. ‘Accurate, bullpup, easy to conceal and has one motherfucker of a rate of fire. Very little recoil -- easy for your kid gangsters to use, they can think they’re in a videogame when they’re fragging the opposition. Single shot, three round burst and full auto.’
              Harry danced with glee as Garraghy passed him the rifle, a kid at Christmas getting a new toy. Paulson aimed down the sight, panning it around the rooftop, but when it came close to pointing at Garraghy the merc slapped it away, drawing his pistol in a fluid motion and holding it by his side.
              ‘Point a loaded gun at me again and I’ll be dealing with someone further up the chain. Understand?’ he growled.
              The man swallowed nervously, and nodded.
              ‘Great. Let’s shoot.’

              -*-
              Lynch inhaled on the cigarette Jez had given him. His eyes were still watering from the CS gas grenade, but he’d calmed down. The pair of them sat in the sun on the steps, the other security men stood back at a distance, watching. Around the tenements the sounds of the projects merged into a comforting rumble.
              ‘Who sent Dara Boyne off that roof, Johnny?’ Jez asked quietly.
              Lynch shook his head nervously.
              ‘Jez I’d tell ya if I did man, I really would, honest to god …’ he babbled.
              ‘Come on don’t be like this Johnny, you were my mate … you know everything that goes on in these three buildings. You’re like a fuckin’ one man neighbourhood watch bud, you see everything. You musta heard something.’
              ‘This is my third fuckin’ strike, Jez,’ the junkie muttered as he sucked the last of the cigarette into his ravaged lungs, ‘I’m fucked. I’m going away for a long stretch. I tell you anything, I don’t last five fuckin’ minutes in the joint. You know that.’
              ‘How high up does it go, Johnny?’ Jez asked, pushing his pack of the foul Pakistani cigarettes into Lynch’s hands and putting another between his lips, lighting it for him.
              ‘No-one has to know you told me, man, it’s between us. This ain’t official, it’s just me,’ he went on. ‘I’m just trying to find out what happened to my buddy. You can help me, can’t you?’
              ‘I dunno Jez, I’d be in deep shit if anyone found out …’
              ‘Who is it man? Paulson?’
              ‘Not Paulson, no…’ Lynch shook his head, sucking smoke. Jez could tell he was about to crack. He waited, realising he was holding his breath.
              The steps suddenly exploded in a storm of shattered concrete, bullets ricocheting all around them and screeching off across the courtyard. Banner screamed as his legs turned into bloody pulp below the knee, his feet bouncing away down the steps. Nehru shouted a warning, but took rounds in the back of his vest that knocked him to the ground. Lynch screamed, sprinting away in the direction of the street. Jez reacted immediately, rolling across off the stairs into cover. As he went over the edge he felt searing heat against his side, and knew he’d been hit.
              ‘Get down!’ he shouted at the security officers. ‘Get the fuck down!’
              The security guys couldn’t react fast enough. McCarthy was shot in his arm and went down twitching. Maureen dived for the floor, hands over her head screaming in fear. Bennett and Ross raised their Mp5s and started spraying bullets at the tenements, panicking.
              ‘Cease fire! Cease fucking fire!’ Jez yelled at them. ‘Those are people’s fucking homes, you dumb shits!’
              He drew his five-seven, racking the slide, and squinted up into the sunlight looking for the shooters. Nothing. He couldn’t even hear the shots, which meant suppressors. He heard a yelp as Ross was hit in the thigh with a tracer. The security officer writhed on the floor, the round burning red deep in his flesh. A burst caught Maureen across the upper torso, her body bouncing on the concrete with the impacts. The bullets kept raining down.
              ‘Fuck,’ Jez gasped under his breath. Adrenaline was burning in his system, his eyes buzzing. His training forced him to think through the situation. Heavy gunfire. Two weapons, but firing wild. Badly trained shooters, hammering on full auto. He looked down at his shirt, which was spattered in blood on his left side and hanging ragged. Shit. He tore it open, lifting his body armour to check himself. He’d been grazed by two or three rounds that had missed the trauma plate and sliced through the side of the Kevlar vest. They’d scored across his ribs, leaving ugly deep weals with surrounded by angry burns. Lucky.
              Nehru was trying to get up, half dragging himself for the tenement entrance. Jez could see the rounds had gone through the trauma plate in the back of the man’s vest; he was gushing blood. In the sky above Sunshine Corner he could see one of the police Blackhawks lazily passing, oblivious. Lynch had made it to the street, and had disappeared. Jez put his head back against the warm concrete, cursing.
              There was a commotion at the lobby doors of tenement C. A group of ragged homeless came sprinting out of the building, staggering back when they saw the carnage in the courtyard. Roofers. Jez looked up, shielding his eyes against the glare. Sure enough, there were three figures on the parapet of C. The tiny puffs of smoke and winking muzzle flashes looked almost benign in the summer sun.
              Bennett took one to the head, brains running down his uniform as he collapsed. An instant later Ross shook with three impacts dead centre, blood exploding from his mouth. A third shooter, Jez thought frantically. Someone knows what he’s doing.
              He rolled into a crouch, raising the five seven. Squinting down the sights, he squeezed the trigger.

              -*-
              ‘Single shot! Single shot!’ Garraghy shouted at Harry and Paulson as they sprayed bullets at the group far below. Paulson had clipped the Indo head of security with a wild burst and hit the redhead bitch into the bargain. Harry had only managed to kneecap one of the guards and wing another. The pair were even more undisciplined and trigger happy than he’d expected.
              ‘Those things on the top of your guns are fuckin’ state of the art computerized holosights. They practically do the job for you, and you can’t hit shit!’ he muttered as he snatched Harry’s assault rifle.
              Ejecting the nearly depleted magazine from the gun, he grabbed another from the gun bag and slapped it into place. He cycled the action and hugged the rifle butt into his shoulder. Squinting down the sights he drew a bead on the security guard spraying SMG fire at the lower floors of the tenement and shot him through the head with a single round. Switching his aim, he put three rounds into the man Harry had winged.
              Paulson switched his rifle over to semi-automatic and fired a series of suppressed shots. As he pulled the trigger, there were a series of steady cracks from below and the parapet in front of him disappeared in a cloud of brick dust. Chunks of masonry hit him in the face and hands, and a bullet punched through the meat of his upper arm. Screaming he dropped the assault rifle as he fell to the ground. Garraghy and Harry hit the deck.
              ‘Looks like someone down there knows what he’s doing,’ the merc spat.
              Rising to one knee he aimed quickly at the figures below. A guard they’d missed the first time had broken cover and was dragging the redhead into shelter. Garraghy fired at them both but missed. There were more muzzle flashes from the shadows by the stairwell and he ducked into cover as rounds whined off the brickwork. A police siren wailed into life close by, and across the projects the police helicopter turned towards them. They were finished for the day.
              ‘We’re out of time,’ he told Harry curtly. ‘Get the other gun packed up and help Paulson back down to one of your safe rooms.’
              He stepped back to the edge and put a two round ‘double-tap’ in the chest of each of the three wounded men still in the open below, then he grabbed his jacket and followed Harry and Paulson to the stairs. The police Blackhawk was approaching.
              -*-
              Maureen whimpered as Jez sat her upright, checking her injuries. She had two perforating wounds in her left shoulder, another in her right, and one straight through the trauma plate in the back of her vest that hadn’t come out the front. It didn’t look good. He swore under his breath as he gently leant her to one side and popped open her armour to relieve the pressure on her chest, in case of internal bleeding.
              ‘Hang on, Maureen,’ he muttered, stroking her face.
              He ducked out of cover once more, emptying the rest of his magazine at the roof top. Shell casings bounced off the paving slabs as he fired, bellowing wordlessly in sheer rage and frustration as he pulled the trigger until the slide locked back. In answer a rifle muzzle winked on the roof again, and in the open McCarthy jerked as bullets punched through the base of his neck. To his right, Banner stopped screaming with a puff of blood from an artery hit. Above him on the steps Nehru, who was nearly at the door and still dragging himself inch by inch up the stairs, shuddered with two more impacts and lay still.
              ‘Fuck!’ Jez yelled, impotently hurling his empty pistol in the direction of tenement C and staggering back into cover. Maureen’s eyes were closed, her skin turning grey and clammy.
              The police Blackhawk hung in the sky overhead, rotors throwing spinning shadows on the ground. He could see a black-suited police sniper sitting in the doorway scanning for targets, talking on his radio. He suddenly felt incredibly tired, and closed his eyes.

              Chapter Six.


              Jez sat on the bunk in the security office holding cell, softly banging his head against the cool concrete behind him. He’d chewed half a pack of downers to kill the adrenaline buzz and his head felt hazy. The uniforms in the next room had said he was welcome to sit in there with them, but he hadn’t felt comfortable. The holding cell was somewhere he was familiar with from his time running the stairwells as a kid; the irony wasn’t lost on him that he felt safer in there at that moment than he probably would in his own apartment.
              He absent-mindedly picked Nehru’s blood off his uniform shirt as he looked around the tight six-four, remembering all the times he and Dara had ended up here. Every birthday from his fourteenth onwards -- and a fair few nights in between-- had finished in this cell waiting for his mother or Willis to pay their bail. Until nine years ago anyway, when Dara went off the roof and Jez went off to the war.
              He heard talking in the security office and his hand shot to his holster, his pulse beating loudly in his temples. It was empty- the uniforms had taken his five seven for evidence. Then he heard one of the uniforms laugh and he relaxed a fraction, breathing heavily. His scored ribs stung where his shirt was sticking to the burns and he winced.
              There was a gentle tap on the door.
              ‘Jez Ryan?’ a female voice asked, young with a faint Slav twang to it.
              ‘Come in,’ he replied, turning his head to the newcomer.
              The door opened, and a small woman with purple hair and a faded Butchers hooded sweatshirt with rolled up sleeves slipped in. She was about five foot four, in her late twenties to early thirties, and her bare forearms were corded with muscle and decorated with colourful tattoos. Her face was pretty; slightly round but with a strong chin, twinkling blue eyes emphasised with purple eye shadow, and deep smile lines at the corner of her mouth. By the way she moved on the balls of her feet Jez saw guessed she was pretty serious about boxing.
              ‘Hey’, she said, ‘I’m Grace Tudyk. Gang Reg.’
              She reached into her sweatshirt and tugged out her badge and ID. He couldn’t help smiling at the photo on the creds- in it she had two black eyes, a large yellow bruise down one cheek and a gappy grin with a lit cigarette burning in the corner of her mouth while she gave the camera the finger. He liked her already, cop or no cop. She wasn’t afraid to get in a fight.
              ‘Jez,’ he replied, flashing her a grin. ‘I didn’t think they’d be sending someone as pretty as me.’
              Grace snorted.
              ‘Yeah don’t kid yourself pal,’ she chuckled. ‘I’m much prettier than you are. You look terrible.’
              Jez looked down at himself and had to agree with her. The blood on his uniform was black and starting to crack, and patches of sweat had dried into salt.
              ‘There a washroom in the office?’
              ‘Yeah, got a shower in the side by the lockers,’ he replied, raising an eyebrow.
              ‘I know what you need. Let’s go.’
              She offered him a hand up, which he took. She had a strong grip and was wearing padded leather sparring gloves, with what felt like coins sewn into the tops of the fingers. Jez was impressed -- this woman was a scrapper. She hauled him up with little visible effort and led the way out of the cell. Jez caught a look at her piece as she turned away, the compact grip of a USPC handgun emerging from a concealed-carry inside the waistband of her cargo pants next to a set of plasticuffs and a holstered Apple Icomm handset. He also spotted a wide trail of burn scar tissue running from below her left ear down under the edge of the grey shemagh she was wearing knotted about her neck.
              In the office the four uniforms had found Nehru’s pack of cards and were playing a game round the little metal table. The big guy with the attitude had his feet up. Jez’s eye twitched in anger -- Grace noticed and slapped him round the head.
              ‘Those security guys ain’t even in the morgue yet, Barrowman, and you’re acting like you own the place? Show some respect and go make yourself scarce why don’t you,’ she snapped.
              The big guy shot Jez a foul look but the glare Grace gave him was fouler. He dragged his boots off the table and stood up.
              ‘Sure Grace,’ he muttered.
              ‘Excuse me?’ Grace asked, in a quiet tone that was spookily similar to one Jez’s mother used to use.
              ‘Officer Tudyk,’ Barrowman replied meekly.
              ‘That’s better,’ she replied, smiling sweetly, then looked at Jez.
              ‘You. Shower,’ She ordered, and led the way to the washroom.
              Jez wasn’t sure what was going on but the uniforms were sniggering. He followed her into the cramped washroom, standing there awkwardly as she rummaged in the medicine cabinet.
              ‘Take your shirt off,’ she told him.
              ‘Look, I think you’re cute and all but-’ Jez cracked, but she turned her head and cut him off with a glare.
              ‘Don’t get any ideas, you’re not my type. You need your ribs looked at.’
              He shrugged, unable to keep a cheeky grin off his face.
              ‘Fair enough.’
              He stripped off his bloodstained shirt and dropped it on the floor. He gasped as the fabric peeled away from his burns. They had started to become infected, black sludge weeping from the deep scores, but he bit down on the pain in front of the woman. Grace turned round, latex gloves on her hands and holding a packet of antiseptic swabs.
              ‘This is gonna sting,’ she warned, ripping the top off the packet.
              ‘I’ve been patched up before.’
              Her fingers traced a series of dime-sized circles of scar tissue dotted across his left shoulder.
              ‘So I see. What happened?’
              ‘Indo with an SA-80, zipped me in the shoulder,’ Jez replied. ‘Was in a vets hospital in Honolulu for six months, went on leave for six weeks in Oahu, then bounced straight back in.’
              ‘Couldn’t get Stateside?’
              ‘Wasn’t allowed to. Didn’t they tell you? I was in on an offender’s conscription, they thought I’d run if I was let back in the States.’
              ‘That’s rough.’
              ‘Your friends in homicide put me there -- fuck,’ he gasped as Grace pressed the antiseptic into his burns. ‘Easy with that.’
              ‘You had an unlicensed firearm and a shitload of drugs on you,’ she muttered.
              ‘Everyone had unlicensed firearms, I had it for protection and you know it,’ Jez shot back. ‘Instead they shipped me off east and I spent six years in the mountains getting shot at.’
              ‘So you’re pissed, right? Gonna take a chunk out of me? Gonna blame the police for getting burnt?’ she asked as she cleaned the last of the black gunk out of his injuries.
              ‘Wasn’t you who put me away, was a pissant homicide dick. Besides, I’ve got bigger grudges than him.’
              ‘Want to share?’
              ‘No offence lady but I’ve just met you, you’re a cop and your bedside manner sucks so I’ll take a rain-check on that.’
              ‘Something to do with your friend Dara Boyne taking a swan dive off the top of Michigan Heights the night you got arrested?’ she asked, not unkindly, as she threw the used swabs in the trash and took an adhesive dressing and a box of steri-strips from the medicine cabinet.
              He stiffened, suddenly watchful.
              ‘Don’t want to talk about it,’ he growled.
              ‘I can understand that. Still, must have been tough. Didn’t get any closure, got dragged off to the war, you’re away for six years … that’s gotta leave you with some pretty serious baggage.’
              ‘I’m fine. Why are you even here? Just want to rub my face in the shit?’
              Grace didn’t reply, but peeled the back off the dressing and laid it over his wounds, securing it in place with the steri-strips.
              ‘Why is Gang-Reg still interested in me, anyway?’ he asked. ‘Afraid I’m going to go back to my old ways? Go back on my corner with a ten-dollar gat and a bag of zappers?’
              ‘Are you?’
              ‘Think I would have taken this piece-a-shit job if I had?’ Jez flared up, slapping her hand away. ‘I’ve spent six years in the mountains -- marksman school, sniper school, ranger school … I’ve got skill sets now. If I wanted back in the Wharfies I could have a fuckin’ penthouse instead of my mom’s shitty apartment, and I wouldn’t be a fleabag rent-a-cop waiting for some gangster to come downstairs and ice me in case I rat!’
              Grace leant back against the wall, folding her arms.
              ‘So what changed?’
              Jez threw up his arms, interlocking his fingers on top of his head and taking a deep breath.
              ‘I changed. In training they put me with Tommy Park, a sunshine corner boy. We were always getting in fights. Ended up in the brig more times than I could count during training, then they shipped us out to the mountains.’
              ‘Still enemies?’
              ‘You tend to stop giving a shit about colours as soon as the first bullet goes past your head. Me and Tommy were at the Kashmir Gate together, in the same chalk. We went house to house for six days, no air support. That changed things. We started to trust each other.’
              Jez paused; suddenly aware his hands were shaking. He pushed them into his pockets. Grace watched him, her face neutral.
              ‘What happened to Tommy?’ she asked quietly.
              ‘Missing,’ he replied shortly. ‘After I got tagged at firebase Powell. I found out he put me on the chopper and tried to head back to our squad, but he never made it.
              ‘I’m sorry.’
              ‘Not your fault,’ he sighed. ‘It was probably quick -- they were spamming all sorts of artillery on Powell, and they never found him. Probably went up with a one-oh-five.’
              There was an uneasy silence as he stared down at the floor. Grace reached out, gripping Jez’s shoulder reassuringly.
              ‘Let’s get something to eat. I know a good place, if you like noodles.’
              ‘As long as you’re buying, I’m in.’
              ‘What do you think expense forms are for?’
              -*-
              Apart from some childhood raiding parties Jez had never been into Sunshine Corner on foot. He felt self-conscious and vulnerable. He’d changed back into his street clothes at the tenement, and he’d felt the eyes of every Asian on his back as he walked past. Grace walked on, seemingly oblivious to the hostile looks he was getting. She’d left the unmarked police cruiser a block back at a short-stay parking lot, giving the small security team camped out in front ten dollars for an hour of protection.
              He felt naked without his five-seven on his belt; especially this deep in what he still felt was enemy territory. SC boys passed in groups, pimped out like peacocks, dressed in bright yellow and red with tie-dye hair and elaborate jewellery. One six foot tall Korean made eye contact with him as they passed, drawing his finger across his throat and grinning a stainless steel smile. Jez felt cold.
              Grace noticed his discomfort.
              ‘You ok?’ she asked. ‘These guys aren’t going to try anything. You’re with me.’
              ‘That’s enough to stop a bullet?’
              ‘The Asians aren’t stupid. Shooting the friends of cops is bad for business, so stop worrying.’
              Jez pushed his hands into his pockets, frowning. He had to hand it to her though, she had respect. Sunshine Corner was a zoo; racks of knock-off electronics and clothes overflowed out of flea markets onto the pavement, hawkers selling food and trinkets off handcarts filled the street and pedestrians filled almost every spare foot of space. The noise was immense, travel by vehicle was impossible. Despite the overcrowding though, people stepped aside for Grace. Several said hello, and she replied with a warm smile and a handshake.
              ‘You’re popular.’
              ‘I hope so, I run the Gang-Reg drop-in on the corner and I live down the street,’ she chuckled.
              ‘Really? I thought cops lived outside the walls,’ Jez frowned. ‘Risky, isn’t it?’
              ‘We don’t advertise it but Gang-Reg officers all live in the Slaughter. It’s why we all have to be single and childless. We need to be in the middle of it all but Harris doesn’t want us to have dependents in case something goes wrong.’
              ‘Harris?’ Jez asked. The name sounded familiar.
              ‘My boss, set up the unit. You’ll meet him later,’ Grace waved it aside. ‘Now we got more important things to worry about. In here.’
              She steered him left into a crowded noodle bar, which if it was possible seemed louder than the street outside. The smells of ginger, frying batter, chilli and onions were overpowering. He recognized Chinese, Korean and Japanese being spoken at a hundred miles an hour but there were at least two or three other dialects in the mix that he didn’t recognize. Grace elbowed her way to the front, grinning and shouting greetings in half a dozen different languages to regulars she knew. The long counter ran the length of the shop. Behind greasy Perspex ranks of silver containers overflowing with dozens of different dishes went back three deep. On top of the Perspex, big trays of deep-fried birds --probably pigeon-- squid and chicken on skewers were balanced precariously next to home-grown herbs and racks of grilled ribs.
              ‘What do you want?’ she shouted over the din, putting her mouth against his ear. He could smell her hair under the blanket of scents from the cooking; the sharp bite of tea-tree oil shampoo, mixed with sweat and cigarettes. He was starting to calm down, realising that most people weren’t giving him a second glance. The chances of getting shivved seemed to be getting slimmer.
              ‘I don’t know! I don’t eat Asian food! Order for me!’ he bellowed back.
              Grace turned back and shouted across the counter in an unknown dialect. One of the crumpled tiny old women serving acknowledged her with a nod and a three-toothed smile. She pushed past her co-workers, moving them aside with cheeky jabs of her elbow, yammering non-stop. Jez watched as she took two chipped porcelain bowls from the rack at the back of the shop and carried them to a steaming container, ladling out large dollops of watery brown broth thick with noodles and vegetables. Returning, she haggled briefly with Grace before exchanging them for a handful of dollars. Jez grabbed a skewer of the mystery meat and a handful of cutlery. He dropped a five on the counter, nodding his thanks.
              ‘Let’s go outside!’ the cop yelled in his ear.
              He followed her as she nimbly weaved through the chattering crowds back out onto the sidewalk. Even with everything that had been happening, he couldn't help noticing the curve of her buttocks, outlined beneath the loose cargo pants she wore. He chewed on the meat skewer and savoured the taste as he bit through the crunchy outer layer of seasoned batter into the soft meat beneath. This day was starting to look up after all.
              ‘How long you been in blue?’ he asked her as she took a right down a narrow but noticeably clean alley beside the noodle house.
              ‘Nine years; joined straight out of university, worked patrol over in Brinmore for my probation, then volunteered for Slaughter and worked in the women’s unit and hunted snakeheads for three years before Gang-Reg approached me. Been doing this five years now. Long time.’
              They took another right turn and the alley opened out into a small garden. Clean, green artificial turf and brushed, white cement surrounded a small fountain in the centre. Punters laughed and talked and ate noodles on concrete benches around the sides and sat on the turf. Above them the blue sky was framed on four sides by six floors of windows, washing lines criss-crossing the between walls. Droplets of moisture from the drying clothes made a pleasant, soft drizzle and he could taste the faint odour of detergent over the smells of rich food. It was strangely peaceful.
              ‘You went to college? he asked, looking around the garden.
              Grace laughed, finding a clear spot on the grass by a young Asian couple cuddling a baby in a yellow romper suit. She offered him a bowl and they broke out the cutlery. She took her sweatshirt off, revealing a sleeveless T-shirt and bare arms. He saw her tattoo sleeves were murals of old Disney characters; mostly from Alice in Wonderland and The Little Mermaid.
              ‘I did criminology and psychology at Denton U,’ she said as she started eating. ‘Joined the police on the fast track program, was meant to make detective in three years but I got thrown off it for fucking up one of my instructors.’
              ‘You fucked an instructor?’ Jez asked. ‘Trying to get that A grade?’
              ‘Fucked up,’ Grace corrected, wagging a finger. ‘He made a pass at me, a little too hard. Didn’t take no for an answer, so I put him through a plate glass window.’
              ‘Owch. So what’s a guy have to do to get with you and not get put in the ER?’
              She took a generous spoonful of vegetables from her bowl and sat back thoughtfully, a cheeky smile on her face as she chewed. Jez gingerly tried a bit of the mystery meat floating in his, and was surprised to find it very tasty.
              ‘Well ... he’d have to be charming ...athletic ... good sense of humour ...’
              Jez smirked, starting to feel a little cocky. He subtly flexed his Army-issue physique under his T-shirt as he shovelled bean sprouts into his mouth.
              ‘Of course,’ she went on, ‘he’d then have to have a sex change and become an attractive chick with nice tits, who likes old Peter Gabriel records.’
              ‘Excuse me?’ he spluttered.
              Grace laughed out loud at his stunned expression.
              ‘Yeah sorry to burst your bubble there jarhead but when I told you earlier that you weren’t my type, I probably should have made it clear you weren’t my gender,’ she teased. ‘Dicks aren’t my thing so put yours away and stop trying to get in my pants- we’ll get along a lot better.’
              Jez raised his hands in mock surrender, going bright red in embarrassment.
              ‘Okay, okay, I give up. Jesus, I didn’t realise.’
              ‘No harm no foul,’ Grace patted him on the arm. ‘It’s fine.’
              They sat eating in silence for a minute. She watched him, weighing him up.
              ‘Want to talk about what happened?’
              ‘What about it?’
              ‘I’m guessing you didn’t come home to get shot at by your old gang? I want to help, but you’re going to have to talk to me. Wharfies have never been mad dogs, assault weapons and mass murder isn’t their style. What were you up to?’
              Jez fumbled for his downers, popped a couple and washed them down with some of the broth. Grace didn’t comment. He took some deep breaths, then started to speak.
              ‘There were three shooters this morning. One was trained; he was the killer. He was precise, clean. The other two were undisciplined, shooting on auto with no fucking clue what they were doing. Messy. They were using suppressed assault rifles, probably shooting standard NATO ammo from the way it chewed up the security guys. I’d guess the killer had some kind of optic on his, it would have been hard to get decent groupings from that angle otherwise.’
              ‘You could tell all that, under fire?’ Grace asked gently. She sounded impressed. ‘Ballistics is still going over the scene.’
              Jez ignored her, rubbing his temples.
              ‘We weren’t the target. We’d pulled in a low-level scumbag named Lynch, I was trying to ask him some questions about the dead kid from the night I got sent down. Like you said, the Wharfies aren’t mad dogs. That was some serious fucking escalation but it had a purpose. They were trying to kill Lynch to shut him up, and they were sending a message; stay the fuck out of Michigan Heights.’






              The air-con in the cramped room was expensive, but Jez was sweating. The tiny microphone felt like a lead weight, the tape making his skin itch and crawl. The loose cargo trousers were sticking to his thighs, and he had to concentrate to stop his fingers from drumming on the arm of the couch, struggling to maintain eye contact with the three men opposite him.
              ‘You ok Ryan?’ Garraghy asked, looking at him curiously. ‘You seem pretty nervous... you’re sweating bad.’
              ‘I’m fine,’ he replied tightly. ‘Just hot is all.’
              ‘He was in the mountains for the past nine years- he ain’t used to the heat,’ Harry chuckled, patting Jez on the shoulder as he walked past. Jez thanked god the skinny rat was too stoned to notice the tension there. ‘I’ll go turn up the AC.’
              ‘So... what did you want to talk about?’ Jez asked, inwardly grateful for the save. ‘I’m not interested enough in spare green that I just want to sit around all day.’
              ‘Connor says we have to check you out, see where your loyalties lie before we give you any more info or let you in on the job,’ Pearson explained. ‘It’s nothin’ personal.’
              ‘So just stand up... hold your arms out, we’ll check you over... and everyone’s happy,’ Garraghy wheezed, standing up and pulling out a police-issue sensor wand from behind him. Inside Jez’s guts curled up into a ball and started to scream. He knew this was going to go bad, real fast.
              ‘A sensor wand?’ he said, trying to give the listening cops a heads-up. ‘Is that really necessary fellas?’
              ‘Trust us... it’s necessary,’ Garraghy growled, pulling back the tail of his suit and sliding the catch off his holster. ‘Arms out, Ryan.’
              Behind the mercenary Pearson drew a Glock 18 machine pistol from his waistband. From behind him he could hear Harry giggling, and the sound of a weapon being cocked. The noise made his eye twitch, and he felt his skin tighten as a shiver of anticipation ran down his spine. Old training mantras ran through his head.
              ‘You really don’t want to do this,’ he growled at Garraghy, standing up slowly. He could feel the comforting weight of the twenty-six in the concealed holster.
              ‘You know what... I really do,’ the merc replied with a sneer.
              Jez raised his arms, extending them. There were no sounds of rescue coming from down the hall, no CRT kicking down the door. He felt suddenly calm.
              Garraghy turned on the sensor wand, starting off the sweep along his arms left to right... then down over his chest... over his groin... over his thigh...
              The wand beeped over the microphone. Shit.
              Jez brought his arms down hard, grabbing the sensor wand and wrenching it from the merc’s grasp. Swinging it around his head like some medieval knight he smashed it into the bridge of Garraghy’s nose. He felt the crunch of breaking cartilage and the spray of blood on his bare forearms, and he threw two sharp left jabs into the merc’s face in rapid succession.
              Pearson and Harry shouted in surprise, the former in front of him raising the Glock. Jez dived to the side of the room under the dresser as the older man opened fire, the machine pistol firing for about half a second before it jammed. Reaching back Jez pulled out his gun, drawing a hasty bead one-handed on Pearson and pulling the trigger three times. The heavy bullets tore through the old gangster and he dropped hard, strings cut. There was a thick spray of blood on the wall behind him. Jez could hear shouts and running footsteps from down the hall- the cavalry, arriving too fucking late as usual. Only three bullets left.
              Harry screamed obscenities and opened fire with something big and full auto. Bullets tore the dresser to pieces above him, the room filling with smoke and bouncing shell casings.
              ‘Fuck!’ Jez yelled, flattening himself to the floor and rolling over, firing wildly.
              He saw Harry leap onto the back of the couch, crouching, an ancient sawed-off AK47 with a drum mag clutched in his hands. The skinny little rodent fired off another burst, chewing up the floorboards, and saw Jez. The twenty-six clicked empty, and suddenly the barrel of the AK was looking very big and dark. Harry smiled.
              The door exploded under a shotgun blast, a flash bang looping into the room. Jez clamped his hands over his ears, burying his face into his shoulder as it went off. He went deaf, his head echoing as a shockwave of light burnt white through his eyelids. He dimly heard Harry scream through the ringing. He opened his eyes, saw the skinny gangster fired a burst blind into the wall beside the door. CRT steamed through an instant later, firing their rifles on full auto and cutting Harry in half. His lifeless body spun and hit the far wall, ribbons of gore redecorating half the room. Jez sagged to the ground. He’d made it.

              Comment


              • #22
                Re: The zeroin writers thread - NSFW.

                Thanks for the help Lazy, very much appreciate it.

                Comment


                • #23
                  Re: The zeroin writers thread - NSFW.

                  lovin' it dave. (as macdonalds would say.)

                  i understand your narrative methods - it's reminiscant of raymond chandler stuff, in the sort of dark brooding way, although of course it's not written in first person. it has police procedural undertones, with a very gritty, personalised style. sort of like iain rankin - but, better. it's definately enjoyable to read.

                  i love the setting, especially the very cyberpunk slums, with technologies and ethnic food debased to forms of currency - and the descriptive style is very max payne lol. police stuff is always great like that - it allows the narrative to take a progressive form, and gives a very observant and detailed perspective - as cops should be of course. it also means that the dark and dirty can be described in a way that can be appreciated for its richness, if you get what i mean. it allows a descriptive study of the social and geopolitical aspects of city life and crime. criminals aren't just bad guys - they're a product of diaspora of the affluent, lol.

                  the only reservation i would have is your use of dialect. whilst much of the language is american cop style, you include the word 'mate,' 'mum,' and a few other utterances that are more british. although, i only skimmed through it.

                  great stuff mate. keep it up.

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                  • #24
                    Re: The zeroin writers thread - NSFW.

                    here's my unfinished 'The Transporter' fan fiction. bear in mind i wrote this a long time ago, so it's somewhat immaturely written, and maybe a little shallow.
                    if you're unfamiliar with 'The Transporter,' the films (the second and third being mostly crap) follow an ex-miliary guy called Frank. he is very particular about neatness and conduct, and is especially anal about his business perameters. namely his three rules. don't change the deal, no names, and never look in the package. he is quiet and reserved, but kicks ass when forced to do so. british to the core.
                    i also wrote it in a very 'American Psycho' style, with a lot of preppy detail to fashion and minor details - i was trying to imagine what Frank thinks about and observes. whilst he of course pays attention to possible dangers, room exits etc. he also likes his fashion and expensive taste, to a degree.
                    enjoy.

                    6:37. Frank tightened his table cut lamb Nappa leather driving gloves and checked his rear view mirror, returning his firm grasp of the smooth four spoke heated steering wheel. He breathed in the clean fragrance of the new upholstery cleaner he had used on the plush cream leather interior of his new Audi. After the dark red stains he had failed to remove from the seats of his 1999 BMW 7-series, Frank had added another rule to his list – no passengers in the new car that bleed blood. The Audi A8 W12 Quattro had a top speed of 155mph, an acceleration of 0-62mph in 5.2 seconds and high performance ceramic brakes. He would have to adjust the suspension for next week’s getaway in Hamburg. The aluminium space frame alone wouldn’t be enough to outrun any Porsche 924 police patrol cars he may encounter on the autobahn with two passengers and whatever contraband they had acquired from a depot in the city centre. The irony of using the German engineered car’s high performance engine for the transport of convicted felons in a high speed getaway on German soil excited him slightly.
                    6: 39. Frank straightened his Collezioni black stripe Emporio Armani jacket and cricked his neck, typing the seven digit ignition code into the concealed security console and starting up the engine with a satisfying growl, echoed back at him by the almost vacant underground garage. Shifting into first and releasing the handbrake, Frank gradually pulled out of the shadowy solitude of the car park, the smooth tyres making a subdued crunching sound against road grit that had spilled into the garage from the street. The clear orange xenon indicator light blinked on and off as the flash black sports-saloon gracefully swung around onto the frosty Brussels street, grey sunlight flecking off the curved metallic skin. Frank switched lanes, checking his watch again as the number of cars began to build in the cold grey streets; he had predicted the journey duration and traffic congestion perfectly.
                    Hotel Metropole: 31 Place de Brouckere. A suitcase, 1.4 kilograms, 42 x 31 centimeters; to be transported to destination 722 Viollet de-luc gardens. The deal would be initiated and concluded with no complications as usual – Frank hoped.
                    6: 51. Curiously glancing over at a brash new Lamborghini Murcieligo, the French license plate and pretentious air of grandeur about the driver indicating the persona of some ostentatious golf player, Frank shifted down into third and moved from behind a rusted garbage truck. The Metropole was now in view, the tall dated building almost menacing against the blank Brussels sky: ‘As the capitals only remaining 19th Century hotel, the Metropole perpetuates a uniquely Belgian character,’ Frank had read on the brochure; he preferred things simple, quiet. From the look of the rather large, slick looking minder awaiting his arrival in front of the hotel entrance however, his shiny bald head contrasting the sharp Christian Dior suit hugging his frame, the formula Euro-affluence of these mercenaries would mean the job would be less than simple. Frank checked his mirror and pulled up to the archaically cobbled hotel entrance, preparing himself for the sardonic wit these hired goons enjoyed peddling as a greeting. 6: 58; right on time.
                    The minder, his massive hands clasped before him in closed defence, noticed the transporter’s approach and absently scaled his fingers across his bare scalp. As a courtesy to the driver and with a blank expression, he reached out toward the driver’s side door handle to open it as the impressively efficient saloon came to a halt two inches from the kerb.
                    ‘There’s no reason for me to get out of the car,’ Frank said out of the open window as he applied the handbrake, still looking directly forward and stopping the minder’s hand on its advance. ‘I remotely open the boot, and you place the package in the boot,’ he said bluntly. ‘You then close said boot, carefully, and I can continue on my designated route.’ Frank looked up at the minder, rightly unimpressed by the transporter’s patronising directions as he stooped to look into the Audi. Under his right arm a rather flamboyant chrome pistol nestled in a shoulder holster came into view, the Desert Eagle .50 indicating the left handed borrowed muscle was either unconcerned with the cliché and inefficient hand cannon’s use as a concealed weapon, or that he was self-conscious of his size. ‘Present absence of the package however,’ Frank continued, ‘tells me that said package is not in your present safekeeping,’ he said, looking up at the minder’s thick features. ‘Don’t you think you ought to go get it?’
                    ‘You must come up to get it,’ the minder stated clearly in his dull, German accent. He scowled at Frank and stood up straight, pulling his snug suit jacket around him and fastening it.
                    ‘Now you see,’ Frank contravened, ‘that would mean a change in the specifications of the deal, and an infringement on rule one: namely, never-‘
                    ‘Mister..’ he paused and corrected himself, ‘My employer,’ the minder interrupted, now showing a little more confidence in his English and a smug knowledge of the transporter’s margins regarding names, ‘communicated to me your ‘never change the deal’ creed Mr. Transporter. However subsequent circumstances have created unavoidable altercations, therefore you must come up to get the package. This isn’t a problem for an upstanding businessman such as yourself, no?’ he goaded in an arrogantly eloquent vocabulary.
                    ‘You change the deal, I lose interest,’ Frank put candidly, extenuating his South London accent absently in brash contrast to the goon’s Germanic flare. ‘If you express such a lack of understanding of simple rules, then perhaps your employer does not require a transporter, and there is no reason for me to be here.’ Frank released the handbrake; however before he was able to pull away the minder slapped a beefy hand over the open window of the Audi, looking intently into Frank’s face. Frank didn’t like him touching the car; he considered in how many places he would have to break the chunky fingers groping the paintwork before the minder got the message.
                    ‘My employer insists,’ the heavy pursued. ‘For both of our sakes Mr. Transporter, let us not waste one another’s time. You will receive payment as expected, plus any further expense you feel this complication will cost you. As a businessman, please accept the lucrative deal we offer you, and of course, my sincerest apologies.’ He smirked and stood up straight again, allowing the transporter to consider his proposal.
                    Frank clutched the smooth four spoke heated steering wheel before him, his table cut lamb Nappa leather driving gloves creaking slightly under his tight grip. He clenched his jaw and checked his rear view mirror, looking down as he firmly reapplied the handbrake and disabled the security key code. He briskly opened the door of the Audi and climbed out, reluctantly allowing the valet to take his place, and straightening his Collezioni black stripe Emporio Armani jacket. He cricked his neck and absently passed a hand over his stubbly chin, careful not to look the self-satisfied minder in the eye. The Brussels street was chill but fresh, a refreshing sting after the soft atmospheric control within the Audi that Frank had carefully calibrated. Following the giant henchman up the stairs and into the entrance of the hotel, Frank glanced back at the Audi pulling away from the cobbled drop-off area, into the stream of traffic and round the side of the hotel.
                    ‘This superbly renovated hotel possesses an inimitable and gracious charm. Surround yourself with palm trees, Corinthian columns and deep leather sofas, and discover a beautifully preserved world of grandeur and opulence, beneath glittering chandeliers,’ the brochure had prattled. Frank glared around him at the rather sickly ‘opulence,’ squinting under the humming incandescence radiating from the halogen bulbs concealed within the brazen chandeliers above. Scattered around the lobby and draped over the lavish sofas were several other self-important types, slicked up in their suits and suitcases as a rather clamorous woman dressed in maroon Dolce and Gabbana strode across the shiny tiled floor, her gleaming red Bottega Veneta heels clacking on the ground in a piercing and arrogant manner; it was minus two outside - she would be cold in that dress. Two other heavies had joined Frank and the minder at the door. A lean, dark haired individual with a preened goatee and too much hair wax, possibly Italian, wearing a silk dark yellow Issey Miyake shirt under a Pinstripe Ralph Lauren jacket, a thick gold chain hung around his neck and a shiny Sig-Sauer tucked into the back of his trousers. The other gentleman; Asian with tanned, leathery skin and dark bruising around one eye, wore a composition of expensive Kiton and Brioni, all in black with no indication of a concealed weapon; a somewhat daunting prospect. The ethnic diversity of the grimacing individuals was principle in the European mercenary hierarchy. A display of modern cultural attentiveness in the construction of a criminal organisation seemed somewhat necessary to facilitate an intimidating entourage. They barely acknowledged his presence, silently taking up position behind the transporter as he continued through the lobby. Frank looked over at the receptionist, unresponsive to an inquiring customer as he glared at the passing persons, the transporter coolly continuing up the stairs as he followed the bald mercenary through the swish hotel.
                    Surrounded by his three attendants, Frank was lead through the genteel hotel corridors, escorted up three floors via an elevator, and presented at room 305, two further ushers guarding each side of the door. Frank took note of their size and weight, the ominous characters’ threatening guise instigating a certain prepared wariness in the transporter. The bald minder nodded at the doormen, then reached across and knocked on the door, once, then twice after a slight pause. Frank eyed the characters around him, suspicious of their façade as he relaxed his shoulders, prepared for whatever business came his way.
                    A few muffled words were heard from the other side of the door, and following a set of sharp footsteps the portal was candidly opened, a scowling and somewhat gangly looking character standing in the doorway. After eying Frank carefully, he stepped aside, touching the front of his Armani suit jacket - the garment not tailored entirely comfortably for a frame such as his - and sneered, lifting his nose pompously. The bald heavy behind the transporter grunted, the greasy Italian superciliously striding through the door first, before Frank’s minder politely motioned him in also. Frank looked at him momentarily, the brute half outstretching his hand as if to push him from behind – he retracted the limb, Frank’s glare assuring a world of pain if he came into any contact with his suit. With a humble incline of his shiny head, the burly character smiled at the transporter and again nodded toward the room.
                    Frank cautiously stepped through the door and looked around. The apartment was large and bright; a ray of white sunshine had penetrated the cloud covering outside and was beaming through the tall windows to Frank’s right and onto the rich red carpet. Deep rosewood Swedish furniture was eloquently arranged about the reception area and a large decorative arch lead onward into the living quarters, all framed in peach and pearl marble. Dust swirled in the shaft of light placidly; however Franks ostentatious surroundings left him short of relaxed. The room smelled of Calvin Klein and hair wax, and the obviously meaningless and lackadaisical choice of expensive rooms as a base for criminal activities frustrated him. The Italian waltzed ahead of him, through the archway and out of sight, as the heavy and the Asian stepped through the door behind him and shut it. The bald minder took up position b the window, pulling out his phone and punching in a set of digits, but the leathery skinned, Kiton attired gentleman remained, hands crossed before him, blocking the door. Frank, if he had an option, would not have chosen said character to prevent his escape if necessary – his lack of firearm and oriental, thus possibly physically skilled, origins left him unnerved and wary.
                    Again on the minder’s instructions, Frank continued through the apartment, eyeing each piece of furniture, each Eighteenth-century Renaissance-Europe Carville-embellished light fixture with careful scrutiny, and again taking careful note of the windows. A third storey drop was not a preferable means of escape, but Frank wanted to keep his options open. Through the partition and to his right, through another archway fringed with potted Chrysanthemums and Greek statuettes was a wide study with a tall and ostensibly embellished window ahead of him filtering more soft light into Frank’s face. Playing softly in the background was Bach’s fourth concerto, a perfect and perhaps somewhat requisite overture for this culturally edifying scene. Stood by a long bookcase on the left, the shelves adorned with hundreds of dusty first-editions, probably the work of further post Restoration European Grand-Tour aristocrats, stood two further post 80’s European high-paid aspiring semi-aristocrats. The nearest, a young gentleman with bleach blonde hair and a casual Dolce dinner jacket, his quaff spiked up at an odd angle, and the other, possibly Spanish, with a tidy pony-tail and grey suit – both wore Ray-ban sunglasses and stood with an air of vacant self-satisfaction. On Frank’s right a somewhat more threatening individual stood, his large hands neatly clasped behind his back as he regarded a painting – a Caravaggio with a dull Friesian gold frame. His dark brown skin shimmered beside his flawless black Armani, but an ethnically coloured, possibly Nigerian shirt flecked out from behind the collar. He was the only gent in the room to turn and notice Frank, and he did so with a wide and eerily welcoming smile, his pristine white teeth perfectly aligned below his strong features. His domineering presence suggested that he was of enough importance to lead this entourage of semi-affluent cross-continental goons, until a final individual strode into the room. His air of both casual and dominant arrogance asserted his authority, as he breeched the study’s uneasy air with his entrance, ignoring Frank momentarily as he finished dressing himself. He was wearing an immensely and luxuriously pricey Dolce and Gabbana shirt and waistcoat; his jacket and tie absent, the busied leader candidly fastened his cufflinks as he eventually acknowledged the transporter’s presence, eyeing him up and down critically.
                    With the leader’s attendance, and including the two door ushers, the Asian and the thin man back at the main door; Frank had now encountered an even ten of the crew, the majority of which he assumed were armed. The two mercs by the bookcase were probably concealing M9 Berettas, Mac 11’s, or, at a stretch MP7’s, and from the impressive appearance of the director of operations, he would probably have a Colt compact or some sort of custom revolver in his desk. The two heavies at the door were large enough to have been concealing any manner of light sub-machine gun within their bulky frames; and counting three briefcases in the room, with consideration to how powerful and wealthy these entrepreneurs were, Frank surmised that heavier weapons were likely on hand also. The black art-lover however didn’t seem the type for a firearm and was the most at ease in the room; that worried him most of all. He would have to play this safe, be careful - yet, without knowing what nationality the leader was, he wasn’t sure how his brash English attitude would be received. Politely now Frank. He hoped above all else that the man glaring so distastefully at him wasn’t French – then he would be in trouble.
                    ‘You are the transporter?’ the man asked; he was French – his accent indicated he was from somewhere near Burgundy, or thereabouts. Frank wasn’t prejudiced, but knew now that this gent might have some somewhat discriminatory views toward an English businessman such as Frank, simply from experience. It wasn’t a great start.
                    ‘Yes,’ Frank answered, in a concise a manner as one word would allow. He waited for the response, still unaware and suspicious as to why he had been summoned.
                    ‘Please,’ the French man said politely, ‘sit down.’ He motioned toward a seat facing him and positioned himself upon the edge of the desk casually. He had a demanding way about his request, but Frank was in no mood to endure these games.
                    ‘If I can have the package,’ Frank contravened clearly, ‘I’ll be on my way.’ He gave the man a steady glare. No one moved. Clicking his teeth and scratching his freshly shaved jaw absently, the man finally stood up and wandered toward the window, looking out onto the brisk Brussel streets. He looked frustrated; what did he want?
                    ‘I have a problem Mr. Transporter,’ the French man said, not turning around. ‘I’m afraid we may presently have a conflict of interests’ Frank didn’t like the sound of that, but wanting to avoid any confrontation, tried to reassure his client.
                    ‘And why’s that?’ he asked coolly, ‘No names, no changes to the deal; if we go ahead as planned, there should be no problems.’ He didn’t like this exchange, but wanted to avoid a violent one also. The French man paused and considered Frank’s words.
                    ‘And herein lies our problem,’ he answered, ‘for a man such as you, these rules of yours, these specifications as to the conduct of your deals are important, unbreakable, yes?’ With this he turned and faced Frank, still presenting himself politely and professionally, his French accent not betraying his eloquent lexis. Frank didn’t answer; his conditions had already been made clear. ‘You see,’ the French man continued, ‘along with my delivery, I had recently planned to have two of my friends here escort you to the Viollet de-luc gardens.’ He nodded over toward the blonde and pony-tailed heavies, and explained his words. ‘An altercation with my client and subsequently, our transaction, requires their presence at the destination, requires their accompanying of the package,’ he paused, ‘accompanying you.’ He looked at Frank intently, gauging his response to the proposal. Frank clenched his jaw and breathed in. ‘And yet, these rules of yours, these confines, prevent my plans, which I enact only to provide safety to my business. Do you understand my problem, Mr. Transporter?’
                    Frank again glanced over toward the two heavies at the bookcase, unable to read their expressions behind the somewhat unnecessarily wide sunglasses; did they expect an altercation? The art-lover had half perched himself on a small rosewood lamp table over by the wall and was placidly fondling an ornamental brass fairy, turning it over in his large hands as though he had little interest in what was happening in the room. His relaxed attitude was more than enough to sway Frank’s perspective of the danger surrounding him.
                    ‘I’m sure we could come to some arrangement,’ Frank reasoned through his teeth – a little inconvenience was not worth taking on an apartment of mercenaries and ruining almost a dozen expensive suits. As much as he didn’t enjoy swaying to these goons,

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                    • #25
                      Re: The zeroin writers thread - NSFW.

                      ha, sorry. no edit button. after reading it i can see my sentence lengths are almost dickensian (maybe they rationed full stops back then?) especially after dave's short and snappy cop-show story. few pauses for mental breaths, but hopefully it just reflects Frank's quick and observant state of mind :p

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                      • #26
                        Re: The zeroin writers thread - NSFW.

                        Cheers for the words on mine mate my workshop group did pick up the britishisms, but I havent got round to changing them yet so Ill get on that now.

                        I like yours a lot, perhaps the repetition of the same brand names and detailed product descriptions (the gloves and the suit) isnt needed but I agree that the details of the fashions gives the whole thing a good feel to it. You get the money and the european nature of it nicely!

                        PS- Mods if you wouldnt mind removing my synopsis, Im not too worried about copyrights but Ive changed my mind and would prefer it if the plot wasnt out there. Thanks!
                        Last edited by spetsnazdave87; 2 May, 2010, 14:38.

                        Comment


                        • #27
                          Re: The zeroin writers thread - NSFW.

                          thanks mods for the edit!

                          Comment


                          • #28
                            Re: The zeroin writers thread - NSFW.

                            I wrote this feghoot a while back. A wee short story set in the Warhammer 40k universe following the dying and injured left behind after a failed Imperial Guard assault on an Ork stronghold.

                            For those not in the know of 40k
                            Chimera - APC
                            Frak, feth - made up curse words
                            warp damned - goddamned
                            sacra - spirit probably analogous to whiskey
                            vox - radio

                            So frakking hot.
                            I'm lurking in the shade of the battered and bruised Chimera thats been doing its best to lug me and what remained of the platoon across the barren wasteland of Sarak, the largest, dryest, most inhospitable desert plain on Arcadia 102.
                            I take off my scratched and dented chest armour and toss it into the dust by the road. No doubt those feth wipes at the Commissariat will execute me for unauthorised disposal of Departmento Munitorium property, but right now, standing under the blistering sun, sweating precious fluids into my blood stained tunic, I'd welcome it.
                            I'd seen hell this last week. Part of a mass charge of armour and infantry intent on dislodging the Ork positions in the foothills, 60 miles north of the main Imperial city.
                            Yeah, that was a good idea.
                            Thousands of men and hundreds of tanks and APCs funneled into a seething, grinding, choking mass of metal and fire in the valleys and canyons. The Imperial brass had underestimated the greenskins again.
                            I turn and pace wearily round to the rear of the wrecked tank and grip the already scalding rungs of the access ladder. Heaving myself up onto the roof I cant help but sigh as I address the two grease covered men already toiling at the engine hatch.
                            “So whats the score here?” I asked, wearily.
                            “Its bad Sargeant.” replies corporal Nobbs. “The coolant pipes have shattered. The engine is only going to get worse from here on in.”
                            “Can you repair them?” I ask, knowing the response already.
                            “No sir. We can … well Smiley can remove them but we need to find some way of connecting the two ends of the pipes.”
                            I have to close my eyes for a moment
                            And see the first explosions ripple into the convoy. Mighty Leman Russ tanks tearing open like orange roses as their munitions detonated. Spindly legged Sentinels tossed into the air, limbs flailing.
                            I jerk my eyes open, and nearly topple off the flank of the carrier.
                            “You OK sir?”
                            “Fine. Just a little dehydrated.” Im severely dehydrated, to the point of hallucinations, but Im not telling them that. Theyve got little enough cause for hope without what remains of command having fantasies and collapsing in front of them.
                            “So. Is there any equipment you can tear out of the hull that can be used to fix the coolant pipes?”
                            “Nothing I can think of, sir, but tearing stuff out of the hull is a pretty good idea. The lighter we are the better.”
                            That look. I can see it every time he moves. His arm is killing him, but hes refused painkiller tabs. He says he needs to keep the tank operational. Im wondering which one will fail first. Him or the tank. Either way were frakked.
                            He dies and the tank stops working ... we're dead.
                            The tank breaks down beyond repair ... we're dead.
                            Just need to pray to the Emperor that both can hold out till our personal vox casters can raise the city, or a lookout spots us.
                            Its such a frakking stupid scenario. I can see the column of black smoke behind us, all thats left of the first strike force.
                            I can see the white walls of the city in front of us. I want to just reach out and touch it. If I close my eyes its almost as if I could see...
                            The wall of fire immolating all in its path as it came closer. The buck and heave of the troop truck I was riding in. The feeling of weightlessness as I was thrown out of my seat. The slab of armour coming down... Darkness.
                            But opening my eyes its still too far away. I need to focus.
                            “Right. Smiley, Nobbs. Keep at it. Remove those pipes and keep thinking of things that could be used to connect the ends. Ill get everyone else to work stripping equipment out.”
                            They nod and set about doing what they can. I feel worst for Nobbs. I knew him personally out of all the walking wounded here. He loved getting his hands dirty in amongst an engine, a vox pack, a heavy bolter. Anything mechanical.
                            If he's luck those medical whizzes in the city or in the Infirmary might be able to give him an augmetic, but he'll never be the same.
                            Slumping down onto the ground, I try to muster some enthusiasm before I talk to the troops. They need their strength, and working in this sun is going to be backbreaking, but it needs to be done.
                            “Ya know, I dont really like this look. I fancy a convertible.”
                            Their dust caked and smeared faces stare blankly back at me.
                            “Tear off those roof panels! Ditch the extra stowage! Toss the tow chains into the dunes! We need to make this crate lighter, and id like to avoid leaving any of you by the side of the road if possible!”
                            They finally get my drift and start hauling themselves out of the shade with various groans, yelps of pain and assorted grumbling.
                            “One man... Rameiro! Your on lookout. Everyone else ditch your armour. I reckon were safe from those green bastards now!”
                            I wish I felt as confident of that as I sounded.
                            “Rotate on a half hour basis.” I tell them, picking up an engineers wrench. Some mindless repetative task might take my mind off of the thirst. The heat. The situation.
                            “SMILEY!” I yell up to the driver. He sticks his head up from the engine cowling, his bandage stained with engine grease and coolant as well as a few flecks of blood.
                            “Yessir?”
                            “How many smoke grenades have we got.”
                            “Er. None sir. Not issued for this mission.”
                            I summon what strength I can and swing the heavy wrench at the launcher on the hull next to me. One of the tubes comes off with a clang. I swing again. The strains alreay getting to me. Its too hot for this kind of work, but needs must. On the third swing the metal shears away from the hull and the whole construct lands in the sand with a thump.
                            “Thats the kind of workmanship I want. Simple and brutal. No points for it looking nice! Smiley, how many rounds are left for the autocannon?”
                            “Do you need to ask, sir?”
                            Well thats me sorted for a while. Cramped in the cabin trying to get the turret off its ring.
                            I swing myself up and into the cabin. Hot and rank. Im dreading this.
                            OK, obviously this is going to take more than sheer brute force to shift, so I start looking for locking bolts and the like.
                            I hear Smiley swear from above me and the hatch clangs shut. Its pitch black. I cant see 2 inches in front of me. Without functioning auditory systems all the sounds from outside are muffled. Like they were coming through
                            2 inches of slab tank armour, lying on top of me. I can hear voices. The relief crews. Here to salvage what men and machines they can.
                            My feeble tapping.
                            Help.
                            Help.
                            A light...
                            Turning my head, I see a medic.
                            “Too far gone! Mark the armour for possible body retrie...”
                            And he's gone.

                            I begin fumbling in my pockets, looking for a lux-pack.
                            A chem stick.
                            A frakking match!
                            Anything that gives light. Anything but the dark. I close my fingers around the lho-stick lighter in my thigh pouch and bring it out. Holding it in front of me I click the igniter.
                            [/i] Light!
                            And the pressure on my chest dissapearing. Feth that hurts!
                            “Its a Sergeant!” a voice is saying.
                            More walking wounded. More the medics missed. Or dismissied.[/i]
                            “Sarge! You OK?”
                            The hatch is back open and Nobbs is peering in at me. I can only imagine how pathetic I look. Huddled in the middle of the cabin, wrench abandoned on the deck, clutching at a lighter like a talisman.
                            Scared of the dark.
                            “Fine, Nobbs. Keep at it.” I tell him. Looking resolutely at the locking bolt in front of me.... I cant meet his eye. I wrench the bolt out, the last one. Should be it.
                            “We think weve got something, sir.” he volunteers.
                            Clambering out of the turret hatch, I start kicking at the turret. Inch by inch it shifts till it clangs over the side and kicks up a cloud of dust and sand. That at least raises a raggedy round of applause from the men.
                            “What've you got?” I turn back to the engine, sweating more precious fluids away.
                            “Weve got a clean join point at both ends” Says Smiley. “If we police up the men's hydration pack straws, we can run one for the coolant flow, and one for the return. Theyre not rated for it, but if we can run slow enough, we can run till the straws burst from heat or acidity, kill the flow and swap the two of them out. It should get us in range of the city.”
                            Frak. I can hear more phantom shouting. No wait. Thats Rameiro.
                            “What is it trooper?” The look on his face terrifies me just to look at!
                            “Sir, the column of smoke from the canyon, Its moving. And I can hear engines revving...”
                            That only means one thing. The frakking greenskins.
                            “No time to spare then,” I announce, trying to maintain a veneer of calm. “Everyone! Stop work. Grab whatever weapons youve got and get on board. Pass your hydration pack straws up to Smiley and any spares youve got. WE ARE LEAVING!”
                            I scramble up onto the now open topped Chimera. The deck lurches under me as we begin to pick up speed, the last of the men running alongside for a second before diving onto the buckeld and scorched plating next to me.
                            “SIR!” calls Smiley. “Thats a rupture already. We pushed it too hard at the start!”
                            I can feel the huge machine grinding to a halt. Weve barely gone 300 yards. I need to keep them calm.
                            “Smiley, get the straws changed” I shout, as he plucks 2 straws from the pouch next to him. Everyone else, eyes on!”
                            I lead the way, eyes scanning the horizon through the sights of my Lasgun, looking for any sign of greenskin outriders.
                            Its painful waiting. It seems like hours before Smiley calls down.
                            "Weve got it, sir. Ready to go again!"
                            “Take it easy this time,” I call, grabbing hold of the mangled ramp frame for support.
                            We make it a lot further this time, till again the straws burst, leaking precious coolant, and Nobbs and Smiley take to the task of swapping the 2 burnt, or melted, or mangled straws for 2 fresh ones.
                            Finally. Thats the outer marker we've passed. Another mile or so and we'll be in communications range.
                            I can feel the hope rising in me, but the cloud on the horizon is looking bigger all the time. How long till they catch us? Will we have enough time to call in our presence and scramble a Navy interceptor? Will they care enough to send the navy?
                            “Burst!” Shouts Nobbs, Smiley having lost his voice after all the shouting of the last terrifying hour or 2.
                            “You know what to do! One final push and we'll be there! Theres medi-cots and cold sacra waiting for you in the city. Get to it!”
                            I mean it too, this time. Im not just trying to keep the morale up. The next time we get moving we'll move into comms range.
                            “CONTACT!” Shouts Sisko. “Sir we've got Ork bikes coming up fast! Theyll be on us in minutes!”
                            “Sir.”
                            “Hold fire. Wait till you can pick your targets.”
                            “Sir...”
                            I scan my lasgun left and right across the road. The Orks are advancing in a wide line. Feth theres a lot of them.
                            “Sir!”
                            I dont even turn round.
                            “Nobbs, dont try talking to me now! Change those 2 warp-damned straws and get us moving!”
                            “Sir...”
                            I click. The defeat in his voice. The time wasting. As the first Ork shells begin pinging off the hull, I slowly turn around. I see Nobbs. The single straw in his hand.
                            “Sir,” he repeats. “Thats the last straw”
                            Last edited by Boltrig; 2 May, 2010, 15:18.
                            www.youtube.com/boltrig <-My Youtube Channel

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                            • #29
                              Re: The zeroin writers thread - NSFW.

                              The repitition is to express that Frank is thinking carefully about damaging his lamb skin gloves as he clenches his fists lol, but criticism noted. The other ones are maybe too much - just because I ran out of brand names :p
                              just don't know how to end it now - I'm tempted to conclude it very politely and let Frank be on his way..

                              Youtube Channel: www.youtube.com/jonintheshell

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                              • #30
                                Re: The zeroin writers thread - NSFW.

                                Loving that 40k story - interesting and nicely written. I remember ripping one off from the space marines book myself many years ago. Nice work mate

                                Youtube Channel: www.youtube.com/jonintheshell

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