Newgrounds.com — Everything, By Everyone.

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At 7/21/12 12:35 AM, revengeofthefallen wrote: Hi everyone! I'm Riella! Or Tarra, depending on what kind of a day I'm having. But today I'm Riella.
This is my first post on the BBS, so...
I was wondering if anyone was interested in reading the prologue to my story.
The prologue to "Frozen Fire"
Tell me what you think!

Relationship between Dylan and the protagonist needs to be developed more. I don't feel anything for them, I don't have a clue why she's supposed to be so sad or why he's supposed to be such a bastard because I know very little about them.

Unless you're planning on expanding it further in the future.

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My Literature teacher once said that, in constructing a novel, one does not see characters as real people living their lives. They are just caricatures. Devices. Tools. Nothing more.

The Internet tends to disagree. Through my assimilated journeys through the Web during these past few years, I have heard of characters being more than just words on a page. To no one else but the author, they can be real as anyone else. There have been tales of authors who can have perfectly natural conversations with characters in their heads. Some actually feel the trials and tribulations their characters are going through. Some even break into tears when they write the scene of their favourite character's untimely demise. Presumably, having such a connection to your character is a hallmark of one's literary excellence.

But, as always, it is hard to separate myth from reality. So I'm opening up the floor to you guys. Do you guys actually feel for your characters at all? Or do you just pen words down like it's exactly that - words? Is writing just for the excitement of controlling fate in the palm of your hand, or is it something else? How far are you guys emotionally connected to your characters?

For me, I think I'm a cold fish.

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Wtf

Keep in mind that's there's a difference between surrealism with a point, and just utter gibberish.

Otherwise, I'm interested. PM me or something when you're done.

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Oh, great, this forum's still going strong.

Hi Deathcon.

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bump

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Don't base everything you write solely on what you see onscreen. It generally opens up a ton of cliches, and unsuccessful attempts to emulate television. If you're writing a book, then read a book to know how you can write better. Read. Read. Read.

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'Well, what a fucking drama queen,' FB said after a while.

'Yeah. I love the expression on his face, though. If you stick a guy like him in a tornado I'm sure he'll come out with that same face,' Johnson chuckled. 'I like him already. Mina, when exactly - '

She was gone. At some point while they had been preoccupied with the file she had vanished without so much as a goodbye.

'Fucking bitch.' FB said.

'You'd better go too, mate,' Johnson. 'If I were you, I wouldn't miss a single minute of Genesis.'

'Fuck you.'

'Have fun.'

FB gave a funny motion faintly akin to a wave, and stomped off. Johnson remained where he was, turning the file over in his hands, thinking, a stream of possibilities and methods shooting through his brain. He made a decision, smiled, and stalked off.

---

I'd always loved how villains interacted with each other. Anyway, here's my attempt to introduce three of them at the same time for a story I'm currently writing. Feel free to give any sort of feedback, whether mundane or nitpicky.
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The tiny, millimeter-wide piece of metal shot through his brain and snuffed out his life. He fell down, the smiley face mask flying off his face, a jagged hole near the upturned mouth. He didn't move again.

'Check, aaaand mate,' the man with the scruffy hair said, walking down from the end of the tunnel to observe his kill.

'Fuck you,' said the man in the trenchcoat from the other side of the tunnel. 'I had him, you little piece of shit.'

'Okay. You're awesome,' the scruffy hair man said, bending next to the smiley mask. He turned it over and spun it around his hands. 'Well, would you look at that. We got one of those mask weirdos.'

'Fuck you, Johnson,' the trenchcoat man said, for no particular reason.

'As much as I would love to venture into the wonders of homosexual intercourse, FB, I'd have to decline for the time being,' Johnson said, not bothering to look up. He looked at the dead man's face, and then back to the fractured mask. 'I'd always wondered what made those mask brothers tick. Huh.'

'Can we fucking get going already?' FB snapped. ''I'm hot and I'm tired and I haven't had any fucking lunch.'

'Hold your horses, pal,' Johnson, remaining completely still.

'The fuck are you doing?'

'Thinking,' Johnson said. 'Something you should try doing from time to time, by the way.'

'For your fucking information, I'm here for a reason. If you think your fucking degrees and shit are so fucking great, you'd better go fuck yourself.'

'Stop swearing, mate,' Johnson said. 'And yes, I don't think university graduation is an accurate measure of your intelligence. But, it helps. No worries, mate. I respect your intellect. It's just that in the great chain of intelligence, ordinary society festers at the bottom, you and Mina poke out from the surface, then our exalted leader comes next...and I'm at the top.' Johnson stood up. 'Psychology is fun,' he said. 'Okay, let's go then.'

They walked out of the tunnel. FB rubbed the back of his neck, stowing his pistol back inside his pocket.

'Don't see the point of doing this shit anyway,' he barked. 'We're the fucking commanders, we fucking deserve to sit back to let the grunts do the work.'

Johnson knew that FB already knew the reason. But FB liked to complain. No matter how reasonable anything was, he aimed to tear it down. And Johnson was only too happy to humor people like him with the sound of his own voice. Maybe that was why they partnered together all the time. Anyone else would find either of them intolerable.

'If a king does not lead, the people won't follow, mate,' Johnson said. They had reached the main street now, where the ordinary American society was already going about their business. The two of them melted back into the crowd without noticing. 'According to our exalted leader's philosophy, leaders are supposed to be higher up the chain than everyone else. Ergo, we have to shoot better than everyone else. Can't believe you never worked that one out.'

'Fuck you.'

A woman was waiting for them at the more deserted side of the street, leaning against the lampost with her dirty hair hanging over her eyes. Johnson saw her and stuck out a hand. 'Hey, Mina.'

'Did you get him?' Mina said, avoiding eye contact as she usually did, staring at something in the distance.

'Yup. It was the smiley faced one. Hey, Mina, if I may stray from the main topic for just a second, you do look dashingly sexy today.'

'Shut up.' Mina said, her eyes sliding over to him briefly, before returning to gaze at something only she could see.

'So did Kristoff get his?' FB asked.

Mina shook her head slowly.

'The fuck? I come down all the way here to cap the smiley motherfucker, and Kristoff didn't get the sadface one? Is that what you're telling me?'

'Yes, mate, that's what she's telling you,' Johnson remarked airily. 'Hey, Mina, I thought Kristoff was supposed to be a good shot. Where is he, anyway?'

'Punishing himself.'

'I'm sorry?'

Mina blinked, once. 'Kristoff and I let him get away. Kristoff fired once and missed him. He missed the shot, and he's angry at himself.'

'I always knew that fuckhead was off his rocker,' FB said. Mina turned her head to look at him for the first time, and she considered him like a piece of rubbish on the ground.

'Shut up.'

'Yeah, well, fuck you too, bitch. You're both crazy.'

'I beg to differ,' Johnson said. 'I'm crazier than all of you, and no one's going to take that away from me, thanks.'

'Fuck you,' FB said to him.

'Honestly, don't you have anything else in your insult vocabulary than those two words? It was cute as first but now it's just gotten stale.'

'Kristoff wants to give you new orders,' Mina said, her soft voice cutting into their exchange easily. 'The two communists were meeting with someone.'

'You don't say? Another communist for us to take out?'

'I thought my work was fucking done already. It's fucking hot out here, you know that?'

'Kristoff doesn't know where it is. He just knows two of our targets met him earlier today.'

'So, what, we have nothing to go on?'

'Well, that's just fucking great.'

Mina regarded the two of them with a faint emotion resembling disgust. 'Johnson, Kristoff wants you to be the one to track him down.'

'Why so much effort to track down this particular communist?' Johnson held up his hands. 'Just curious. I mean, those two mask brothers were high up the communist chain, but the man they were meeting with could be some cocaine riddled bum for all we know.'

'Kristoff doesn't know where he is, but he knows who it is.'

'Who?'

'An old friend, apparently. His name is Adam Jones.'

'That's a fucking nerdy name.'

Mina raked her eyes over FB, digging into his face. 'If you have nothing more to contribute, Fire Man, shut up.'

'I guess if protocol follows, if Kristoff thinks he's a threat, we think he's a threat.' Johnson said. 'Even though I've got a Machavelli book I've got on my waiting list I'd like to get to now.'

'That's correct.'

'Three cheers for democracy, mate.'

'We're not fighting for democracy, in case you didn't notice,' Mina said.

'You're right. I didn't. Sorry about that. I don't what I'm doing half the time, actually.'

'And what do I do?' FB growled, shifting his feet. 'I'm not going to sit on my ass all day long.'

'I thought you said it was hot.'

'Fuck you, bitch. I'm itching for some action, and you'd better give me some.'

'You filthy hypocrite,' Mina said, her eyebrows finally beginning to crease. 'I hate you.' she added after a moment's thought.

'The feeling's a-fucking mutual, bitch.'

'I love you, Mina,' Johnson said. 'In addition to your dashing sexiness, you do have a - '

'Shut up,' Mina said. 'Johnson, Kristoff wants you to find Jones within the week.'

'Within the week? Are you serious? I've got my book, remember? I don't have time to go gallivanting across the country just for one man - '

'Two weeks.'

'That's more like it. Signed and stamped, my dear Mina, I'll have him by next Friday.'

Fire Man,' Mina continued, curling her mouth at the name, 'You'll be devoted to Project Genesis.'

Johnson jerked his head up. 'Genesis? You mean we're doing that now?'

'Fuck yes,' FB breathed. 'Finally. About time Kristoff got his thumb outta his ass.'

'Come on, I want to do Project Genesis,' Johnson said. 'Can't you do the finding thing instead, Mina? Please? You're really pretty, by the way.'

'You'll do what Kristoff tells you to do,' Mina said.

'Right, right. He's our exalted leader, I forgot.'

'Can we get into some fucking shade?' FB snapped. 'It's fucking hot out here.'

Mina ignored him, and handed Johnson a file. 'Here's everything Kristoff knows about him.'

Johnson took the file and flipped it open, biting on his thumb as he did so. FB leaned forward to look.

---

--

I'd always thought you were a bit off your rocker, but never like this. Has your arrogant little mind ever thought that you might be wrong, and the crowd raising hell that consists of pretty much everyone else are actually in the right? I've talked, and talked, and so has Lain, and everybody else, and almost, if not all, agree that you most definitely are in the wrong.

Everything you've done has been wrong from the start. Just face it. You've always been a stuck up arrogant prick during secondary school, and now I'm calling you out on it. I bet being a bigshot Director has its benefits, eh? I know the type.

Lain has not brainwashed me, or whatever the fuck you think it is. I don't know what being insane feels like, and I never will because I'm feeling perfectly normal right now. Just angry as hell. Maybe you're the insane one, Paul.

I'll make one last appeal. Release Lain, and then cancel the treatments for the other inmates. We can work something out. If not, then Me, Lain, and everybody else will move things one step higher.

--

It's been a long time in the making. Friends who I thought I could trust have betrayed me, and now I'm alone. I'll be spending the night in the office, thanks to you. My own men won't let me out. My own men. But I can accept it. This place is my home. And for every minute that passes, I am still the Director of this Institution.

You've done a good job this time, haven't you? Lain. It would be just like you, I imagine, to have slit William's throat and stuffed him in an empty closet from Day One. Just like you to steal away someone else close to me, and then start a whole new mind game. It's just like you. You fucking bastard.

I'll go down fighting. No one can corrupt my rational mind. I have honed it for years on end, resisting the infection that spreads naturally among places such as these, and don't think for a second you will be able to make me snap.

Don't think for a FUCKING SECOND that you have won. YOU HAVE NOT. I will go down FIGHTING, with my SANITY intact, and till the very end this will still remain MY INSTITUTION,

--

Okay, not that I had any doubts before, but you are seriously bat fucking insane, if you'd pardon the impression. Either that are you're really, really desperate. I'm not Lain, I'm William. No one's keeping you from leaving your office. I guess I'll take your answer as a no, though?

The whole lot of us are coming up to your office tomorrow. And not only the staff, Lain and several of the other inmates are coming along as well. We're going to stop your Third Reich once and for all. It's pretty damn clear that you're not fit to run this place, and that certificate of yours means jackshit.

For what it's worth, I'm sorry it had to come to this. But I have to do what's good for everyone.

--

If you were really William, you wouldn't have bothered to write to me, now that you've practically made my Institution your kingdom. No, you are most certainly Lain.

Every king has to die, every reign has to end. In hindsight, I performed decently. I did what I believed was right, and I have absolutely no regrets. And it will give me no greater pleasure to meet my death in the place which I have devoted most, of not all of my life to.

You can kill a man, Lain, but you cannot kill his legacy. I may have lost, but you haven't won either.

But I'll go down fighting. I know I'm outnumbered, but there are exactly six shots in my revolver, and I will try my very best to pump every single one into your fucking eyes.

--

(William - Paul Correspondence ends here)

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Dear Commissioner,

Regarding the Woodbridge incident - where two men, William something and the Director were shot dead. I understand that there were some letters found in the Director's drawer. Forgive me if I'm mistaken, but the Director was tracking the correspondence between him and the William person, and among these letters a story emerges of a particularly scary sounding patient who apparently orchestrated the whole bloody mess.

I was interested, so I took a peek at some the asylum records. And guess what? No record of the patient ever existing in the asylum. I can't find his name anywhere, and all the staff swear up and down they'd never heard of him. But apparently, to William and the Director, he was real.

I think both of them weren't quite right in the head. One of them shot the other, and then killed himself, either way we can write this off as a simple case of insanity. I guess that's one of the things an asylum does to you. I got the jeebies myself when I visited that place.

Well anyway, that's my theory. Feel free to shoot it down and follow up on it, I'm just doing my job. If I'm right, though, a little bonus wouldn't do any harm.

Yours Sincerely,

Second Officer Edmund Nial

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Dear William,

I have never been, as you put it, a 'stroppy emo kid'. I have, and always have been, a perfectly rational man. I would have to be one, you understand, to stop hooligans like Lain from eroding my sanity. He may have charmed some of my staff but I will be the one to retain my senses. I ask you as a friend, William, not to pursue this matter further. For both the safety of yourself and the institution.

It seems I cannot meet you after all. My schedule is simply stretched thin, and try as I might I cannot find time to meet my dear old friend.

You also might be interested to know I have ordered my staff to bar you entry. I hope you understand I am doing this for the good of all concerned.

One more thing. I would like you to give me the names of the staff who told you all these fairy tales about Lain. I will see them in my office, where I will make sure we have absolutely no more misunderstandings.

--

Tough luck, Paul. I'm not giving you the names. It's an instinct I've cultivated back in the day when Mr Roberts was clambering after our asses. I'd do the same for you, and I'm sure you'd do the same for me.

I got a little friendly with some of the staff - you know me - and I got them to spill even more. Sorry to tell you this, but you're not exactly on their top ten list. Heck, once they were all done ranting, they even were willing enough to show me to Lain's cell. He was trussed up in a straightjacket and there were several orderlies close by waiting to pounce if he tried anything, but he was perfectly harmless.

We just sat down and talked. Some of the orderlies were even joining in at the end. And I don't give a damn what you think, Paul, but he's a perfectly sane man. And it's not just me. Your staff thinks so too.

Just look past your pride and give him a proper psychiatric evaluation, okay?

--

Dear William,

I assure you, the members of my staff who have so foolishly played along with this farce are vastly inexperienced men. The higher echelons of the institution, me included, all know what Lain can do when he shows his true colors. It is a miracle, and daresay divine intervention, that you have met Lain twice and walked away with your sanity intact.

For all the psychiatrists I have paid thousands for their service in this institution, Lain makes the best one of them all. He plays men like he plays a fiddle. I must confess that my heart went cold once I had read of your first meeting with Lain, and now it is sinking further and further as I become aware of your further endeavors.

I am telling you, no, begging you to leave this business of Lain alone, and giving me the names of all staffs involved. Lain has tried this before, and the last time he had nearly come close to succeeding in his goal. I would rather such a terrifying incident never happen again in my institution.

--

Sympathy card's not going to work now, buddy. I've been hearing stories, bits and pieces the orderlies blurt out after they check no eavesdropping, and I know what you do behind the scenes, Paul. I know of some of the treatments. 'Electroshock therapy'? Seriously? And your damn harmless 'Solitary Confinement?' Turns out it was more like Confinement from food, water and everything else

Don't you realize what you're doing to them? I understand they may have been a little off their rocker, but still, they're human beings. Especially Lain.

You do know this is enough to rustle some feathers among the government, right?

--

Dear William,

I would rather believe otherwise, but it is my opinion that you have ever so subtly issued a threat. It is true that I have treated my inmates harshly, and for that I do not apologize. Every man's home is his castle, and as the certified director of this Institution I am entitled to do whatever it takes for my patients to be cured.

It saddens me that you still take the side of that puerile wretch of a man. Now that pleasantries are out of the way, let me be a little more direct. Lain is nothing more than a monster, and you are a fool for being taken in, as you always were, even back in the day. The next time you are seen in the Institution's grounds, I'm afraid I will be forced to take more extreme measures to force you off my property.

--

It's not just me, Paul. The others also think you've been running a regular dictatorship here. I'd like to think I've got some friends on the inside now, so good luck If you're even thinking of keeping me away from here.

I could report this all to the authorities, you know,

I've seen some men come through my bar in my time, and I know their types. I'm sorry to say that you fall into one particular category, the one where men have had people listening to them for so long they don't care what's right or wrong anymore.

Of course, if you can explain all this, then by all means, I'm waiting for you. I not, then I'm disappointed.

--

Dear William,

Are you seriously daring to insinuate some of my own men against me? And you dare accuse me of being a dictator? In my own Institution, no less? Even my patience has its limits.

I have told you at the very beginning that my Institution is a spider's web, and it is my job to ensure when God picks it up it does not come apart in His hands. It is my job to ensure that this society is as rigid and as stable as ten ton brick, and it is my job to keep my hooligans under control. Lain is no exception.

So don't you dare suggest I am abusing my power, because whatever I do, I do rationally, for the sake of my Institution. You are an outsider, so I fail to see what in the hell makes you think you can decide how things must run around here.

Go ahead. Flee to the government, but I must warn you it will do no good. Even if those bureaucrats will ever so predictably disapprove of my work, I can easily hide what goes on, and of course they will not trust the word of a man who everyday adds to the disorganized chaos that is America, rather than restoring it.

--

You've done it now, buddy. I'm normally a nice guy, but you've sparked my fucking fuse. You've turned into a regular Hitler now, you arrogant weasel. So I can't go to the government? No problem. I was about to, but Lain stopped me. He had a better idea.

What goes on in a man's castle stays inside a man's castle, eh? Too dang right. If we settle matters inside the asylum, everyone will be none the wiser.

I think about half the orderlies are taking Lain's side. Pretty soon you're going to have some rebellion on your hands, if you don't change things quick.

Oh, and make sure you consider the last few sentences a goddamn threat.

--

My Dear William,

It is with much regret that I must accept that you are beyond hope at this stage. Since you enjoy the company of the mentally sane so much, why don't you come upstairs to meet me directly in my officer, and bring some of your newfound friends with you? Especially your new best friend Lain.

I have done extensive research on our newfound friend, and every time each new piece of evidence never fails to unsettle me. I know that wherever he passes, conflict erupts, people fight, and many, many die. I have seen him drive men insane, right here in this very Institution. I have even once personally met his hellish gaze. But nothing, nothing can compare to the loss I experienced when he made someone, someone very dear to me, jump off the sixth floor of this building.

So you make sure you tell Lain, that while my feet are still firmly planted under my desk and while I still retain the ability to speak, think and breathe, that he will never, ever, corrupt MY Institution.

---

Lain

Pardon the informality - you were always picky about such things, back in the day - but it's been sixteen long years, godammit. Remember the sporty guy you were always tagging along with back in Secondary School? That's me. Your old William, right in the flesh(or rather the ink), all grown up.

I only found you by chance while scrolling through the newspapers, and it seems you've come a long way, Mr Director. Though, being the head of an asylum is pretty bizarre choice. I suppose you can't complain, though, you're sure raking in the dollars by the hour. Me, I'm just a humble bartender. That's right, a bartender. I bet you never saw this coming, and neither did I!

I swear, judging from what I've read you seem to have changed a damn lot over the years. No more the scruffy, long haired boy just lurking at the sidelines, eh? When you're not busy earning dollops of money, why don't you drop by for a chat some time? We have an awful damn lot to catch up on. And if possible, I hope you'll allow me a peek at your asylum. I'd always wanted to see what those creepy places were like.

--

Dear William,

It is indeed a pleasant surprise to hear from a dear friend after a so very long time. I would be most interested to hear of how your life had progressed after our innocent school days, however being an asylum director is more strenuous than you think, and it remains to be seen when I can make an appointment, if at all.

As to your second request, I am afraid I cannot abide to it. Institutions for the mentally insane are sacred places, as fragile as a spider's web. I feel I must prevent you, though no ill intentions of my own, from entering my facility. You will understand, I hope.

--

Same old Paul, eh? You've changed quite a lot, but you're still as icy as ever. Well, what did I do when you were acting particularly stroppy back in the day? Well, I ignored you, of course! Terribly sorry, Paul, and I offer a thousand apologies, but on my way back to work I took a detour to Woodbridge and ended up at your place. The guards gave a jump when I said I knew you, and after I proved it they happily stood aside.

Don't worry, I didn't intend to touch anything. In fact, I spent a good portion of the time just wandering around the administrative part of the place, and it was entirely by accident that I ran into Lain.

You must have heard about Lain. Rest easy, I don't intend to badger you about it for the rest of your life (actually, maybe I am, you know me!). I swear, though, I thought he was just another orderly when I met him. He had the garb on and all. The only thing that unsettled me were his eyes. I know it's clichéd, but they were somehow...dark. As if his pupils were diluted so much they were filling up his whole face. Pardon my exposition, but that's the only way I can think to describe him.

Anyway, he came rattling down the corridor and nearly collided with me, but he darted to the side at the last second. Then as I watched him dash down the corridor like a frightened jackrabbit, he suddenly slowed down to a jog, and finally stopped. Then he turned back and started walking towards me, staring at me with those eyes.

I'd have to admit, I was a little jumped by who I thought was just a strange orderly. If I had known it was an escaped inmate, I might have bolted right then and there. But instead he smiled and stuck out a gangly pale hand. Not knowing what else to do, I grasped and shook it. It was damn cold - like a lump of meat.

He asked me, damn calmly as you please, if I could sow him the way out. And what else could I do? I complied. And despite all his general creepiness, he looked damn young. Like some lost kid in the mall. When I said yes, I would show him the way out, his face brightened up and he thanked me profusely. No one's ever thanked me like that before - being host to crazy drunk ruffians doesn't exactly earn me any appreciation.

So say what you want, but I walked out of our short meeting liking that damn kid. Of course, before I could show him out two of your men leapt out and tackled him to the ground. Apparently they told me I was raising hell for a few minutes before they finally convinced me he was an inmate. And I felt damn sorry when he was dragged away, and the way he looked at me with those dark eyes, well it was like the eyes of a sick puppy, now that I think about it.

So I'll go out on a limb here and request that you arrange an appointment for me to see Lain. Of course, knowing you, I'll probably be denied, but at least let me see his file or something, let me find out more about him. He seems like a poor kid. What's his story?

Our lunch date's still on, by the way. You'd better find an open spot in you schedule, or I'm going to personally go up to your office and drag you down to that nice coffee place near Woodbridge.

--

Dear William,

You have never changed either, my old friend. However, I feel a pressing need to remind you that this is not the innocent proving grounds of our Alma Mater. This is the adult's world, a new arena in which every action we make has consequences. As such, I must frown upon you intrusion upon my institution, although I must thank you for not intentionally interfering with the inmates.

It seems that the effect Lain has had on others has never changed. He possesses a certain magnetic air around him that may attract you, but do not be fooled. It may come as hard to believe for you, as it has for so many others, but Lain is by far the most dangerous inmate in this asylum. As such, I hope you understand why I cannot allow you to see him, and that I cannot allow you to catch even a glimpse of his most classified files. There are buckets of red tape surrounding this man called Lain, and it is in my best interests that I prevent you from ever meeting him again.

I assure you, I am doing all in my power to try and allocate a time in which we can meet, as I am as eager to reunite as you are. The place you suggested, I hope, is reasonably far away from my institution.

--

Goddammit, Paul, when are you ever going to drop that formal tone? It's been sixteen years, buddy, cut me some slack. And, come on, what you said about Lain only makes me much more interested. Just let me have a peek. Just a little secret between us friends, eh?

I visited your asylum again, but don't worry, I spent the day talking to the staff and not the inmates. Apparently you've left quite an impression on both. They talk of you like some boogeyman, waiting to swoop down on them if they ever slip up or take a break. Like Mr Roberts back in our day. Never would've thought you'd follow his example, but different strokes for different folks, I guess.

Okay, you're probably not going to like this, but I weaseled some information about Lain out of them. And nowhere did they saw that he was some crazy manipulative sonofabitch. In fact, he was the model prisoner, quiet and polite. They did say he was sent here for killing someone, but that was many years ago, and he's never given anyone any trouble since then.

I'm sure whatever treatments you did to him have cured him. I'm sure you're capable of reason. Just look over his file one more time, and I'm sure you'll find some good stuff there. Come on, Paul. For once, stop being such a stroppy emo kid.

---

At 9/14/11 02:32 PM, DeftAndEvil wrote: Damn, about a week left and I'm still at the same point as I was a month ago :O

same

---

First time I've ever placed on a Newgrounds competition. Fuck Yeah.

---

He forced himself awake. He had not fully cooled down yet, but he didn't care. He needed to fix his mistake.

She was lying next to him on the bench, her eyes closed. It was already night. No one else was around. It was just them in the darkness. He held her close, and through the dim moonlight saw that her face was wet. She had been crying.

He sat there in the dark silence, thinking. His creator, a man he had wanted to feel respect for, had warned him about this phenomenon called 'irrationality', which had arose from something called 'emotions'. He did not want to have emotions, as much as his creator had previously glorified. He did not want to be irrational. He just wanted to make her smile.

He got off the bench, careful not to wake her, and began walking. He couldn't bear to see her sad face any longer, and so he stumbled endlessly into the darkness, alone. His creator had said crying was good outlet, so he tried to cry, but he couldn't.

He remembered the first time he had awoken, how his creator had impressed on him, practically begged him, to keep his daughter safe from the world. That single, firm command in block letters, his only purpose in life, to obey and serve her. He turned around and began walking back. He wouldn't leave her, even for a second. She needed him. And he needed her.

He felt his way back to the bench, and sat on it, his circuits already powering down for a nap. He reached out to stroke her hair, to be comforted by her presence.

His hand touched nothing. Frantically, he leapt off the bench and began flailing wildly, hoping to touch her, confirm that she was there. But she was gone. His processor was heating up, hot, hot, pounding through his brain. Where was she? Where could she have gone? How could she have left him?

He sat down in despair, wanting to scream, but he couldn't. But in the end, he found out that he could. So he screamed, screamed for the girl in his life, screamed for her to come back.

'Ted - '

His head darted round, his head moving left and right.

'Ted!'

It was unmistakably her voice. His processor hummed into action.

'TED!'

All the written commands jammed into place. He opened his eyes and stood up.

'TEEEEEEEEEDDDDDDDD!'

He ran, his once aching joints feeling light as a feather. He ran and ran towards a small curtain of light in the darkness, a lamppost where her cry had come from. He saw her wrestling with a man in a blue jacket, and he ran faster. The man in the blue jacket was on top of her. Pinning her hands to the ground, cupping her hand to her mouth and kissing her.

'Come on, little girl,' the man crooned. 'Don't cry. Daddy's here - '

That was when a punch hit the man full into the face like a freight train, driving him out from the light and back into the darkness. The man cursed, tried to stand up, but another punch sent him to the floor.

'You fuck,' the man growled, scrabbling to his feet, taking out a gun from his pocket. She was wailing on the ground, sobbing into the asphalt. 'Shut the fuck up bitch!' the man yelled at her, and her guardian punched him one last time. The gun and the man fell to the floor.

She was still crying. He cast one last hateful glance, and then went over to check on her. When he touched her bare skin, she screamed, and he recoiled.

She retreated into her fetal position, quietly suffering. He waited for agonizing seconds.

'Ted.' she muttered after a while, peering out from under her arm. He nodded vigorously, listening closely for her next words.

'Kill him,' she moaned.

He hesitated. Then he stood up. The man's gun was lying on the floor. He picked it up.

The man, just regaining consciousness, saw him coming, and saw the gun, and backed away.

'Woah, man, take it easy. I wasn't - '

He raised the gun.

'No! Please!' The hood slipped off, revealing a flushed young face. 'Stop! Please! You don't have to do this! The cops will catch you. I'M SORRY! PLEASE!'

He wavered one more time, and then he remembered the command. He pulled the trigger. A bang, a bright flash, and the man slumped down dead.

He returned to her side for further orders. She saw the dead body, but she didn't smile. There was one more thing he had to do.

'Kiss me,' she said. Embracing her, he did. Something sparked in his brain and he began to do more than just kissing, and then suddenly she was laughing, and his mouth curled upwards for the first time, and under that the lamppost, with no one around to see them, they made that thing called love.

His head didn't feel so hot anymore.

---

Her

'Hurry up, Ted!'

He heard her distant cry, and his processor hummed into action .

'Where are you? Ted!'

Slowly, mechanically, his system ran the checks. All the written commands jammed into place. He opened his eyes and stood up.

'Ted! Teeeeeeeeed!' the girl cried.

He ran. His overused joints groaned in protest, grating against each other, but he didn't care. Specific instructions had been implanted onto him, namely, not to bother about joints breaking or battery fluid leaking or his processor overheating. Unless of course, that his body was broken down to the extent that he was unable to serve his master. In that event, he was permitted to worry.

Right now, though, he had to move to his destination. He burst into an open field and found her there, bending over, picking at the petals of a flower.

'There you are!' she said, looking up at him. 'What took you so long?'

He gave a sort of resigned shrug, and pointed to his head. Her face softened.

'Got to fix you up soon, then,' she said, looking at the lone pair of daisies in the field. 'If I can. Anyway, I want to try an experiment. Come here.'

He obeyed, approaching the daisies. She pointed reverently at the stem. 'Pluck them.'

He did, exerting as much care as his joints could allow. He wanted to shut down, wanted to rest, but he was not allowed to. He gingerly plucked the flowers, bent down and handed them over to her.

'Thanks, Ted!' she held it up, inspecting them from every angle. They were perfectly symmetrical, and she smiled. He was never sure about how he felt about that smile. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel. But every time he saw that smile, his battered body, the heat, the pain, suddenly seemed inconsequential in his mind, so he supposed that seeing her smile was a good thing. At any rate, making her happy was his main task, and he supposed he was obliged to feel happy.

He stopped thinking about this, as his processor needed some time to cool off. She didn't notice, of course. She tucked her flower back into her pocket, patted it, and smiled again. 'Let's get something to eat now, alright Ted?'

He was tired. The nap he had taken had only lasted a few minutes, and he wanted to go back to sleep. He could tell her that. But he couldn't. He wondered if it was against his programming, or it was what his creator had called 'irrationality.' But at any rate, he couldn't bring himself to. So he forced himself back on his heavy legs and lumbered after her. She needed him to be always at her side.
--

An hour later they sat in a secluded alleyway, and he watched her munch on sausages from a can. He wondered how the shopkeeper was feeling after the robbery, and concluded that the shopkeeper probably wasn't feeling too cheerful. The shopkeeper probably wasn't smiling now. But she, she was smiling, so he considered his actions justified.

After she had finished, she looked up and seemed to realise something. She dug into her pocket and brought out one of her daises. It was a tad squashed, probably due to all the running they had to do to escape the shopkeeper with his shotgun, but its colours still shone in the dim light.

'This is yours,' she giggled. He took it gingerly.

'I have one, and you have one. It's po - poetic.'

He nodded blankly, and put it in his own pocket.

'Keep it safe, okay?'

He nodded, and she proceeded to finish her lunch. Then they both emerged from the alleyway back into the street, holding hands under the pretence of a father and daughter. Passers-by saw the two of them, the big man and the small girl, and forget them a second later. They didn't notice their rejection. If they had noticed, they wouldn't have cared.

He had noticed a clothes shop and was dwelling on why humans needed to put on such things, when he noticed the girl had stopped, so he stopped too. She was looking at the display dress in the window, marvelling at its bright pink colour. He waited patiently for her orders.

'I want that,' she said.

He nodded, and entered the shop.

An old, wrinkled man was manning the counter, and looked up at his approach. 'Ah, hello Mister. May I help you?'

He remained silent, and walked towards the pink dress. He caught sight of her in the window, she smiled at him, and he nodded at her in acknowledgement. He lifted the dress off the mannequin.

'Hey!' the old man cried, and tried to move his aged body past the counter. Once it was apparent that he couldn't do this fast enough, the old man stopped, and watched helplessly as the robber walked towards the door, pink dress in hand.

'You thieving bastard!' the old man yelled with what little voice he had left, and comments stung. 'I'll call the police, and they'll be on your ass, you lousy cheating motherfucker - '

A little girl, only about ten years old, emerged from the backroom. 'Grandpa?'

'Nothing to worry about, dear,' the old man said, his voice lowering immediately. 'Nothing to worry about. Why don't you go back to your modelling?'

The little girl looked at the robber, and then at her grandfather. 'Is something wrong?'

The robber stepped forward and gently laid the dress on the counter, the sleeve pointing towards the little girl. Before anyone could express their amazement, he had already left the shop.

Outside, she was waiting for him. She had already seen everything through the window. He didn't know how to face her.

'I want that dress,' she said, giving him a puzzled look. He looked back towards the shop, saw the little girl, looked back at his own, and shook his head. Truthfully, he had no idea what had possessed him to disobey his master.

'I want that dress,' she repeated, looking angrier now. Again he was not able to do anything but stand in the middle of the street and shake his head. He was helplessly confused. Abruptly, she stomped past him, and he followed with his head down. His head was hotter than ever.

--

She didn't speak to him like she normally did. They just both walked on in subdued silence, no longer holding hands. His processor was stuffed and cramped, but that didn't matter to him anymore. He had failed his master, he didn't even know why, and it terrified him. He didn't even know why he was terrified, or what the emotion was called. A smile from her would have banished his feelings immediately, but she didn't smile. Not once.

They arrived at a park, lush with all its darkened greenery. Night was falling, and the people were scarce. They walked over to one of the benches and sat there together.

He had read somewhere that parks were a dangerous place at night, so to redeem himself, he looked round for anyone who looked remotely suspicious. There was a man in a seedy blue jacket that was looking longingly in the distance. He traced the man's line of vision to a couple on a nearby bench. They were all over each other, half undressed, their limbs entangled, their mouths meeting in fiery love and passion. He wondered if that was his creator had termed 'making love'.

She grabbed his hand, and he turned. She was looking at him with wet eyes.

'Kiss me,' she said.

He recognised his chance at redemption, so his processor whirred into place as he grabbed her arms, hugged her tight and brought his lips close to hers. He wanted to kiss her, he did. But before he could do so, his processor reached the critical temperature, his failsafe activated, and he blacked out, falling to the side.

---

A few days to the deadline, and nobody's submitted yet. To be honest, I'm a bit worried.

---

At 7/3/11 11:23 PM, WritersBlock wrote:
What if a robot were programmed specifically to have emotions or feelings, or they were some form of artificial intelligence capable of feeling? I think robots have much more potential than people grant them.

Robots are programs written by humans. That's my assumed definition.

---

Its a fine sunny day, the birds are singing , your lawn is mowed, and you are ready to relax in your comfy armchair. Suddenly, a beaver pops of out of a hole! Your eyes widen in shock. It attacks you, cutting deep gashes into your flesh, and you scream. It hurts so badly, but you are powerless before the mighty beast. Within minutes you are dead.

---

Sorry, but you'll have to try harder. First, the joke was predictable. Second, it wasn't even a good joke.

---

I've lost count of how many novels I've failed to finish, much less a full series. I hope you'll be able to sustain your interest in your series, good luck on that.

One tip, though - if you're going to release your series in parts, make sure you've written and finalised the whole thing before publishing it. Inevitably, you're going to feel the need to change a lot of things before you reach the end.

---

I think we need to be apathetic here. If our friend here doesn't want to take our criticism, just let him be. If we call him out on it, it'll only lead to another predictable flame war.

---

At 5/30/11 05:41 PM, sky1995 wrote: no thanks, im pullin the plug, run out of interest, that and pre-summer work. so im pretty much gonna forget about it, also you are right, my stuff is unappealing. so thanks for giving two shits to read and review, red through the stuff my self, and my god is it terrible. thanks for lookin at this, and have a good summer, thanks.

wtf

---

Planning, I find, is rather dull. It isn't as interesting if you write a story where you already know how it's going to play out. What I do is create a bunch of characters with different goals, and then start from there. Sometimes I have an end in mind and work towards it, but that's all the planning I do.

---

But fate was not on my side for some reason

This sentence(3rd paragraph) bugs me. I don't even know why. Too cliched?

Anyway, awesome story.

---

which leads me to believe that my employers are the US government.

Redundant. We can already infer that since he saw a US airfield, his employers were the US.
.

As I zoomed I saw him standing at the podium smiling patriotically just like in his photo, his face full of enthusiasm.

How does one "smile patriotically?" The adverb isn't clear.

There's many punctuation and grammar mistakes. Revise and edit. Also, you went on about how assassinating the Russian guy was important, but you didn't say what he actually did to deserve such an early death. If you do mention something, it can give more meaning and desperation to the character's actions.

By the way, you based this off Call of Duty, didn't you? :P

---

Aro was a typical kid. 14, scraggly, brown hair, green eyes, and a pretty average height. He loved chocolate and hated vegetables. He lived with his mom and kid sister; Aro never knew his father. Still, he got by. He went to school; 8th grade, and played sports on the weekend. Any other time he had he spent at home playing video games.

It's generally boring to describe your characters this way. I don't think anyone would care how tall he is(unless it's an important plot point later on, which it probably isn't.). It's also dull if you describe his everyday mundane activities that every kid his age probably does. Maybe you should make him a bit more unique.

But I thought it was raining," Aro said groggily. His mom pointed out the window. The sky was still somewhat dark, but it wasn't raining. Aro's mom smirked at him.

That was awkward.

:The water level got a little higher after the rain.

There has to be a better way to say this. Maybe 'water lapped at his ankles'?

Aro was dangerously confused.

Exactly how was he 'dangerously confused'? Was he so confused he might hurt himself, or die of a brain ebolism? The phrasing doesn't make sense.

Suddenly, the girl looked strangely familiar, like he had seen her before. Then it hit him. She was in one of the same classes as him. He recalled that she never really talked that much, and never sat with anyone else.

I would advise that you make Aro realise the girl was familiar at the beginning, when he first met her, so as to create more suspense.

---

"No!" yelled Shizuki, staring at him. "Don't pull it out! We need to get to the nearest medical office!"

I don't think she would have time to finish that long sentence. I suggest shortening it to "Don't pull it out!"

---

Running.

Trees, road, sand, all flying past, forgotten in an instant.

Always running.

Adam Jones finally stopped. He sat down on the old asphalt, and unslung his pack. He took a chug from his bottle, ten litres of water disappearing down his throat in a few seconds. The lamppost above him illuminated his face in a harsh glare.

After ten minutes, his aching legs still refused to budge. Jones just sat there under the lamppost, grateful for the excuse to rest. Unconsciously, he leaned back and closed his eyes. If he had been in his right mind, he would have considered falling asleep horrendous, but right now it was all he could think off. Falling asleep. Resting. And dreaming.

He had barely started to drift off when a clunk on stone startled him awake. His hand went to his pocket; his eyes scanned his surroundings.

Had he imagined it?

Jones crouched in the meagre light, and slowly, delicately, began to slip the knife out of his jeans. With his other hand he grabbed the pack, and backed out of the ray of light. The darkness embraced him once more.

After a few tense seconds, nothing had stirred. Jones tucked the knife back in, slipped on his backpack, and stood up. Indeed, he may have heard the footstep only in his dreams. But his instincts had already been aroused, and were screaming at him.

Jones took one step back, two steps, and then he turned round and began to run.

Always running.

---

I'm not really happy with mine, but thiswas all I could crank out in the time that I have. I'll try to feedback on others, if I have the time, that is.

---

Awesome as always, Deathcon. Lately I've been very busy, but I'll try to crank out something by Monday.