Post by xenionsh on Dec 5, 2008 16:44:19 GMT -5
So here's the first version of the intro to something I'm writing. The style's going to be cleaned up a bit, I still need a name (It's kind of hard to determine who I'm talking about), but any comments or criticism are welcome...
As he sat in the corner of a dark, secluded room, he almost felt the pain from the scars on his body. He thought nothing of it as he rested his body against the walls. His thoughts remained elsewhere, in the past, and made the weight of the .357 Magnum in his hand even greater; They kept his finger on the trigger as he watched his own tear roll down the barrel.
He was widely regarded as a hero, and commonly seen as a role model and a revolutionary, he sparked many movements and inspired nothing but positive thoughts in those who followed him. Known best as a reformer for the greater good, his skill and reasoning had reduced a great war to a heated debate, his genius redefined the lives of many, and his rigorous application of his philosophies forced destruction down to compromise. Though he saved many lives, he couldn't bring himself to even wonder if his actions could harm a few, even if to help many more.
He knew well how to hide darkness.
The thoughts that raced through his head were unbearable as his finger trembled, but he didn't know why he didn't do it. He could, yet he wouldn't. He searched through his mind in split seconds that seemed like long minutes trying to find the good as it flowed through the horror. He thought of his friends, his comrades, and all he saw were the few dominating mental images of their bloody bodies, fear and hatred in the lifeless eyes of the one who still had them, and the impossible love and unattainable desire to do good in the mutilated hearts of all the human beings whose images haunted him and locked his hand shut around the handle; Their wounds were the mouths coughing up blood while screaming, “vengeance.” But vengeance could no longer provide him a reason to hold on to the life he once thought was so beautiful.
This was too much for him to take. One by one, the memories containing subconsciously flooded him. His mind was too weak to control its master by now; The one part of him that spoke nothing but the unabridged truth forced him to watch what he had suffered through, what he had lived for.
The ancestors of the men he mutually considered his brothers had succeeded in removing the puppetmasters from the head of a country. Most people believed that they were “terrorists” using a form of what was considered cyber-terrorism to promote disinformation and propaganda. This disinformation was the biggest source of rage for the general mass of society – the truth. It was through the history of this event that he and his brothers learned that the pen is only mightier that the sword if the paper goes to the right hands; And that unfortunately, in many situations, the right hands for the paper do not exist. They must instead draw their swords. Just a year later, those who were not known to be a part of the small group started a political revolution. It was never linked back, but the violence involved was seen as less criminal than the nonviolent computer techniques demanding reform.
A mere nine years after, the same organization, almost officially recognized as a terrorist group a decade or so ago, was portrayed by the same public, the same coverage, the same press, as a heroic mercenary band. They were allowed to say this because they had murdered the ones expressed as terrorists. These newly-titled mercenaries fought with the losing Alliance in the Israeli War, in a valiant attempt to bring about the great changes fought against by the “bad guys” -- most of the countries involved in the war who had Communist governments or theocracies or even dictatorships. In reality, it just turned out that the lesser of the two evils in this war was far less evil, on a scale comparable to World War II; The “mercenaries” just fought for what they knew to be right, taking the place of elite assassins and military officers. Although he had not been part of this, the ability to have a second, more legitimate perspective to properly form his own opinions certainly helped his judgement -- a skill which prevented his death many times over, and that was now once again clouded with horror.
The events of his own life suddenly broke through the gate of his mind, with far more detail.
It was, he remembered vividly, November 9th, 2087, a decade after the Israeli War. He now visualized himself, and did so as realistically as his mind could handle; He lost the advantage of being able to tune out at all because he had lived all of the following nightmare. He had a close friend, who set out to destroy an enemy of truth whose devilish corruption of a report could have made millions, while hurting the perception of the “terrorist group.” This was to be done, as honor dictated, nonviolently; The government intelligence agency providing that report was going to simply be talked to, and arrangements would have been made to provide a more truthful report before the information was made available to the public. After 72 hours with no contact from his close friend and brother, he knew what must be done. Arming himself with little more that fully automatic weapons and small explosives, he left for where he knew he would find what he dreaded the most.
He found his friend's mutilated body in a condition that had almost drawn him to suicide before. There were clear marks on his body where he had been torn open, and been asked for answers. It was fortunate, then, although it did not help ease any stress, depression, or rage, that he had apparently died before giving up any answers. His hands, now separate from his arms, had their fingers smashed, often removed, apparently with the bloody hammer that lay next to the corpse whose upper arms were both pierced many times over and chained to a support above. He noticed that there were no signs of a forcible killing.
The seconds seemed like hours of examination in fury and despair as he was noticed. He was thankful the memory of all the guards he killed was blurred. Yet when he remembered looking back to the body, his eyes alone screamed, echoed by the blood pouring from the dead human's wounds, “Give me vengeance. Give me justice,” but the vengeance had been served in a rush; it left him wondering for years of his troubled life, how to provide justice.
Another image suddenly strengthened his grip on the gun. It was July 6th, 2090. The aftermath of the apocalyptic Israeli war was, though disputed, loosening its death grip on the world. Many countries, including much of eastern Europe, Asia, and all of North America, had once again replaced their oil dependencies. The general perception of the global picture was good, society was viewed as recovering; Again, these views were after much censorship and filtering. In his homeland, somewhere between disputed borders in the Middle East, a country was trying to gain official recognition. He had never before thought of fighting against his own country, but the images kept coming back: bodies, starved, tortured, or otherwise destroyed simply because they refused to serve in an army whose methods of attaining its goal of independence included murdering many innocents who didn't agree. The chain reaction brought about many international deaths. Entire families lay with bullets throughout their bodies in their own homes, and it seemed as though there could be no resistance. As he looked through homes for any survivors, he found nothing but bodies, and many happy activities that were being enjoyed shortly prior to invasion, with maybe a paused video game, a spilled drink, or a chess piece knocked over. The mere sight of any such thing would have driven almost any intelligible person half insane. The one thing that stopped his search was what was, at first sight, a normal lower class house. He entered doubting the presence of life. Blood from the family's dog spread across the carpet from being pushed by the door. He felt like he had died inside himself for each of the lives who had been taken, whose only impact on the world was reduced to the bodies and blood that lay before him. After his final cry to attract the attention of any who may still have been alive in the home, he noticed a door ajar. His blurred memory wouldn't hold and recall all the details of many of the atrocities he had noticed, but he recalled going to the door, opening it. No matter what he could try to think, the image that hit him next would never escape him. He had done no wrong, yet he couldn't help but blame something on himself, even though he was clueless as to what. A small girl, who could have been no older than six years, was resting against the wall of the small closet, her body screaming in fear. But her voice no longer screamed because of the lone red hole on the top of her head, dying the top of her hair far darker than the rest of her bright blonde hair. He wondered why he did so for a long time, but he pushed her head up and looked at her face. He saw her knees drenched in tears. The next thing he saw was her face, screaming for a savior, yet all that came was an avenger. He saw a fearful face, he saw a human face; The face whose fear could come only from innocence. She could have done nothing wrong other than jumping on her bed, but she had fallen as a victim of a small nation trying to amass an army; An army she could never have been a part of. This blanket slaughter of the innocent infuriated him to no end. He knew the man who symbolized leadership and power in this nation. He also knew the men that had power and leadership. After such a sight, he couldn't understand why he drew feelings of guilt and treachery from the killing of three men.
When the king's head was finally in his scope, he saw another face. He knew he was likely to die, and had no chance of escaping without injuries. He looked at the face and wondered why he still saw a human being, why he still had respect. The small army before the king was but a few hundred yards away. He pulled the trigger on his own death sentence after setting the timer on the small bomb next to him. After a few more .50 caliber decapitations, he took his rifle and ran. He felt something puncture his skin at least twice, but the memory of his escape remained haunting him purely because he felt he had betrayed something. It was not the trust of his brothers, but rather what he considered his country. Just remembering some of the emotions he felt while running through that forest to his escape made hindered his will to live.
“I was a hero when I got out,” he thought. He had found the moment's good that caused him to put away the gun he held as he heard the opening of the door. The tears were gone from his face as the lights were turned on, and he then heard an unquestioning, friendly voice saying, “Come, my brother. Your advice is needed.”
So yeah, it's about some guy who's been through a lot of psychological trouble, with a group perceived as a terrorist organization. He was going to kill himself because he can't find any good in himself and he only sees himself as an avenger. I still need to figure out a good way to keep it from going off too far with the background information and just convey the images he was seeing, maybe add one or two more.
I think I broke the spellchecker on the forum too...
As he sat in the corner of a dark, secluded room, he almost felt the pain from the scars on his body. He thought nothing of it as he rested his body against the walls. His thoughts remained elsewhere, in the past, and made the weight of the .357 Magnum in his hand even greater; They kept his finger on the trigger as he watched his own tear roll down the barrel.
He was widely regarded as a hero, and commonly seen as a role model and a revolutionary, he sparked many movements and inspired nothing but positive thoughts in those who followed him. Known best as a reformer for the greater good, his skill and reasoning had reduced a great war to a heated debate, his genius redefined the lives of many, and his rigorous application of his philosophies forced destruction down to compromise. Though he saved many lives, he couldn't bring himself to even wonder if his actions could harm a few, even if to help many more.
He knew well how to hide darkness.
The thoughts that raced through his head were unbearable as his finger trembled, but he didn't know why he didn't do it. He could, yet he wouldn't. He searched through his mind in split seconds that seemed like long minutes trying to find the good as it flowed through the horror. He thought of his friends, his comrades, and all he saw were the few dominating mental images of their bloody bodies, fear and hatred in the lifeless eyes of the one who still had them, and the impossible love and unattainable desire to do good in the mutilated hearts of all the human beings whose images haunted him and locked his hand shut around the handle; Their wounds were the mouths coughing up blood while screaming, “vengeance.” But vengeance could no longer provide him a reason to hold on to the life he once thought was so beautiful.
This was too much for him to take. One by one, the memories containing subconsciously flooded him. His mind was too weak to control its master by now; The one part of him that spoke nothing but the unabridged truth forced him to watch what he had suffered through, what he had lived for.
The ancestors of the men he mutually considered his brothers had succeeded in removing the puppetmasters from the head of a country. Most people believed that they were “terrorists” using a form of what was considered cyber-terrorism to promote disinformation and propaganda. This disinformation was the biggest source of rage for the general mass of society – the truth. It was through the history of this event that he and his brothers learned that the pen is only mightier that the sword if the paper goes to the right hands; And that unfortunately, in many situations, the right hands for the paper do not exist. They must instead draw their swords. Just a year later, those who were not known to be a part of the small group started a political revolution. It was never linked back, but the violence involved was seen as less criminal than the nonviolent computer techniques demanding reform.
A mere nine years after, the same organization, almost officially recognized as a terrorist group a decade or so ago, was portrayed by the same public, the same coverage, the same press, as a heroic mercenary band. They were allowed to say this because they had murdered the ones expressed as terrorists. These newly-titled mercenaries fought with the losing Alliance in the Israeli War, in a valiant attempt to bring about the great changes fought against by the “bad guys” -- most of the countries involved in the war who had Communist governments or theocracies or even dictatorships. In reality, it just turned out that the lesser of the two evils in this war was far less evil, on a scale comparable to World War II; The “mercenaries” just fought for what they knew to be right, taking the place of elite assassins and military officers. Although he had not been part of this, the ability to have a second, more legitimate perspective to properly form his own opinions certainly helped his judgement -- a skill which prevented his death many times over, and that was now once again clouded with horror.
The events of his own life suddenly broke through the gate of his mind, with far more detail.
It was, he remembered vividly, November 9th, 2087, a decade after the Israeli War. He now visualized himself, and did so as realistically as his mind could handle; He lost the advantage of being able to tune out at all because he had lived all of the following nightmare. He had a close friend, who set out to destroy an enemy of truth whose devilish corruption of a report could have made millions, while hurting the perception of the “terrorist group.” This was to be done, as honor dictated, nonviolently; The government intelligence agency providing that report was going to simply be talked to, and arrangements would have been made to provide a more truthful report before the information was made available to the public. After 72 hours with no contact from his close friend and brother, he knew what must be done. Arming himself with little more that fully automatic weapons and small explosives, he left for where he knew he would find what he dreaded the most.
He found his friend's mutilated body in a condition that had almost drawn him to suicide before. There were clear marks on his body where he had been torn open, and been asked for answers. It was fortunate, then, although it did not help ease any stress, depression, or rage, that he had apparently died before giving up any answers. His hands, now separate from his arms, had their fingers smashed, often removed, apparently with the bloody hammer that lay next to the corpse whose upper arms were both pierced many times over and chained to a support above. He noticed that there were no signs of a forcible killing.
The seconds seemed like hours of examination in fury and despair as he was noticed. He was thankful the memory of all the guards he killed was blurred. Yet when he remembered looking back to the body, his eyes alone screamed, echoed by the blood pouring from the dead human's wounds, “Give me vengeance. Give me justice,” but the vengeance had been served in a rush; it left him wondering for years of his troubled life, how to provide justice.
Another image suddenly strengthened his grip on the gun. It was July 6th, 2090. The aftermath of the apocalyptic Israeli war was, though disputed, loosening its death grip on the world. Many countries, including much of eastern Europe, Asia, and all of North America, had once again replaced their oil dependencies. The general perception of the global picture was good, society was viewed as recovering; Again, these views were after much censorship and filtering. In his homeland, somewhere between disputed borders in the Middle East, a country was trying to gain official recognition. He had never before thought of fighting against his own country, but the images kept coming back: bodies, starved, tortured, or otherwise destroyed simply because they refused to serve in an army whose methods of attaining its goal of independence included murdering many innocents who didn't agree. The chain reaction brought about many international deaths. Entire families lay with bullets throughout their bodies in their own homes, and it seemed as though there could be no resistance. As he looked through homes for any survivors, he found nothing but bodies, and many happy activities that were being enjoyed shortly prior to invasion, with maybe a paused video game, a spilled drink, or a chess piece knocked over. The mere sight of any such thing would have driven almost any intelligible person half insane. The one thing that stopped his search was what was, at first sight, a normal lower class house. He entered doubting the presence of life. Blood from the family's dog spread across the carpet from being pushed by the door. He felt like he had died inside himself for each of the lives who had been taken, whose only impact on the world was reduced to the bodies and blood that lay before him. After his final cry to attract the attention of any who may still have been alive in the home, he noticed a door ajar. His blurred memory wouldn't hold and recall all the details of many of the atrocities he had noticed, but he recalled going to the door, opening it. No matter what he could try to think, the image that hit him next would never escape him. He had done no wrong, yet he couldn't help but blame something on himself, even though he was clueless as to what. A small girl, who could have been no older than six years, was resting against the wall of the small closet, her body screaming in fear. But her voice no longer screamed because of the lone red hole on the top of her head, dying the top of her hair far darker than the rest of her bright blonde hair. He wondered why he did so for a long time, but he pushed her head up and looked at her face. He saw her knees drenched in tears. The next thing he saw was her face, screaming for a savior, yet all that came was an avenger. He saw a fearful face, he saw a human face; The face whose fear could come only from innocence. She could have done nothing wrong other than jumping on her bed, but she had fallen as a victim of a small nation trying to amass an army; An army she could never have been a part of. This blanket slaughter of the innocent infuriated him to no end. He knew the man who symbolized leadership and power in this nation. He also knew the men that had power and leadership. After such a sight, he couldn't understand why he drew feelings of guilt and treachery from the killing of three men.
When the king's head was finally in his scope, he saw another face. He knew he was likely to die, and had no chance of escaping without injuries. He looked at the face and wondered why he still saw a human being, why he still had respect. The small army before the king was but a few hundred yards away. He pulled the trigger on his own death sentence after setting the timer on the small bomb next to him. After a few more .50 caliber decapitations, he took his rifle and ran. He felt something puncture his skin at least twice, but the memory of his escape remained haunting him purely because he felt he had betrayed something. It was not the trust of his brothers, but rather what he considered his country. Just remembering some of the emotions he felt while running through that forest to his escape made hindered his will to live.
“I was a hero when I got out,” he thought. He had found the moment's good that caused him to put away the gun he held as he heard the opening of the door. The tears were gone from his face as the lights were turned on, and he then heard an unquestioning, friendly voice saying, “Come, my brother. Your advice is needed.”
So yeah, it's about some guy who's been through a lot of psychological trouble, with a group perceived as a terrorist organization. He was going to kill himself because he can't find any good in himself and he only sees himself as an avenger. I still need to figure out a good way to keep it from going off too far with the background information and just convey the images he was seeing, maybe add one or two more.
I think I broke the spellchecker on the forum too...
