Newgrounds.com — Everything, By Everyone.

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'Hey,' a new voice entered the conversation, and the stench vanished. Hank turned to see Deimos. 'Hey man, what's up? Why'd you go shouting like that?'

Hank bent his head and adjusted his spectacles. 'J-just stress. Sorry.'

Deimos stared at him for a long time, and then disappeared. Hank sighed and resumed his long, dreary work of mindless typing.

By the time his ten hours were up, by the time the sun had set, and everyone on his floor had left, he felt he couldn't bear it anymore. He needed to do something, anything, he was feeling so goddamn hot...

Calm down, he told himself, and then a giggle escaped his lips. Soon he was chuckling. So this was what it came to. Despite all his efforts, he was finally descending into Madness.

He heard the lift ding. Someone had arrived at his floor.

'It's them,' the clown whispered into his ear. 'The 1337 crew. Kill them.'

'Fuck you,' Hank muttered. The door opened. Several men stepped out, and Hank caught his breath in horror. They all had crimson ties, black suits and blood red glasses. Hank instinctively ducked behind the cubicle.

'They're not real,' he squeaked. 'No, no, no, they can't be...fuck you, Tricky.'

Tricky laughed, the sound echoing around the deserted space. 'Let me tell you something Hank.'

The footsteps drew nearer. Hank found his hand reaching towards his desk drawer, where he kept a letter opener. A very sharp one.

'How do you know Nevada even happened?' Tricky grinned, displaying bloody, rotten teeth. 'How do you know you even stopped the Auditor? This could all be a dream, Hank. Or a false reality.'

'Not true,' Hank grunted. He heard men whispering his hushed voices, and then the unmistakable sound of a bolt being drawn back. He carefully opened the drawer, and saw the letter opener inside, gleaming in the light.

'Something else' Tricky pointed to the pen lying on Hank's desk. 'That pen's not real, Hank. Neither is the desk. But the knife is real.' He paused, and shrugged. 'Actually, it might not be.'

'Shut up,' Hank could hear the footsteps stop right outside his cubicle. He flipped the knife over, in a stabbing position. An agent appeared in doorway, carrying an M9 pistol.

'Freeze,' he barked to Hank, pointing the pistol. 'Put your hands up - '

Hank feinted to the right, the gun fired, the bullet missed, and then Hank lunged and stabbed the agent in the neck. Blood spurted out, spraying Hank with warmth.

'Johnson?' an agent called from across the room. Hank snatched the dead man's M9, and rose up. The second agent saw his death coming to meet him, his mouth opened in surprise, and he started to raise his pistol, but a bullet slammed into his skull before he could do so.

'What the fuck,' Hank yelled, and then a spray of bullets kicked up chunks of plaster from the wall in front of him. He ducked. 'This can't be happening. This can't be...'

He desperately wanted to stop, stop fighting, stop this madness, but an invisible instinct compelled him to raise the M9 and drop to a prone position. Bullets whizzed over his head, destroying every single item in his office. The computer monitor shattered into a million pieces and the CPU he had spent so many hours on crumpled like a paper bag. The pen on the desk jittered before snapping in two.

Hank poked his head out of the cubicle, saw an agent and aimed. A minute later the agent crumpled to the floor, his M16A1 rifle falling out of his dead hands. Hank dashed over to the body and picked up the sub-machinegun. Feeling a wave of nostalgia, he checked the magazine, slid it back and cocked it with a loud clack.

He rose up, aiming his rifle left and right, but all the agents were dead. He entered the elevator, and was about to press the '1' button when he stopped.

There was an additional button in the panel, one he had never seen before. It was as twice as big as the others and read, '9001'.
'Where did this come from?' Hank snapped at Tricky who had of course followed him into the lift.

'It's always been there, Hank. You just haven't noticed it.'

Hank caressed the button. It was smooth and had that glassy feel. Definitely real - or was it?

He looked at the clown. 'Tell me. What have you done?! What else is a damn illusion, you sick motherfuck!'

'Dunno,' Tricky shrugged. 'Sometimes even I can't tell. But I do know you want to press that button, Hank.'

'Why?' Hank eyed the bold numbers in trepidation.

'You'll find plenty of agents down there,' Tricky grinned. Hank pressed the button, the lift doors snapped shut and he ascended.

Hank looked to the side. His reflection in the shiny lift doors startled him. Previously his glasses were clear. Now it was stained with blood. He had red glasses now.

Just like old times.

With a ding, the door opened. What was outside wasn't a normal office lobby. Hank had come to expect the unexpected. He saw blood red sky, grey desolate landscape and a dull looking building that probably housed many agents. A sign nearby said, 'Welcome to Nevada'.

He got out of the lift, and was not surprised to see it vanish out of existence after he had left it. At the same time, the doors of the building opened and agents spilled out, with axes, rifles, machineguns, bats, pistols, grenade launchers...

Hank fired. Blood splattered over the grey ground. Agents fell. Hank felt a bullet graze his cheek, but continued firing, and when he felt a katana stick itself into his side he swung round, broke the agent's neck one handedly and grabbed the sword. He paused, and reached for a fresh clip.

One, two, three bullets entered his shoulder. Hank threw the sword, and the shooting stopped. He slammed the cartridge into the slot and yanked the bolt back. Yes, this felt good. The killing and the madness. He was no longer Hank the meek accountant. He was Hank the assassin.

'Excellent,' the clown grinned, appearing in front of Hank, twirling his warning sign. 'We can finally continue.'

He swung the sign forward, and pain exploded across Hank's abdomen. He jumped back, panting. He pulled the trigger of his rifle, and then-

He stopped. Lowered his rifle.

---

'Hank J. Wimbleton,' the man in the suit said, looking up at the man whom he was addressing. 'That's your name, right?'

'It is,' Hank allowed a smile to play on his lips, and adjusted his perfectly circular spectacles. The man in the suit - the agent, Hank preferred to think of him, wrote furiously on the piece of paper and then handed another piece to him. 'Sign here.'

'Sure,' Hank replied affably, carefully engraving his initials on the dotted line, and handed the paper back.

The agent stood up. 'Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Wimbleton.'

'As with you,' Hank said, shaking the man's hand. He watched the agent turn around and head for the door, about to exit Hank's house. Hank opened his dresser drawer.

The agent reached the door and opened it.

Hank eyed the shiny object in the compartment, considered, and called out. 'Hey.'

'Yes, Mr. Wimbleton?' The agent practically spun round.

'Have a toffee,' Hank took out the glittering candy and tossed it to the agent, who accepted it gratefully.

'Thank you, Mr. Wimbleton,' the agent said with genuine warmth, and left. Hank sat down on his chair, content. The property market was booming, everyone said. Well, Hank always was one to follow mob mentality, and with luck the plot of land he had just invested in would pay off.

Hank adjusted his glasses again, people said they made him look nerdy, but never mind. He started to prepare for his current and admittedly unsuccessful job - an accountant. Every day he slaved for ten hours holed up in a cubicle wasting his life, all for a meager sum. Remember the property, Hank reminded himself, trying to be optimistic, and then the doorbell rang.

Hank opened it to see a bearded man whom he had never seen around this neighborhood before. A man wearing horn rimmed glasses and a casual t-shirt, and around his neck was a cross hanging from a chain. A Christian.

'Sorry to bother you,' the man said, 'but I'm afraid I need your help. Yours was the first house I saw, so...'

'No problem. What's yours?' Hank's voice was cheerful enough, but he was getting annoyed. Whatever this was, he did not have time, he had to go to work.

'My car broke down. I need someone to help me push it,' the man jerked his thumb in a vague direction behind him. 'Please?'

'I have to rush for work...'

'Come on, help out a holy man,' the Christian pleaded.

'I really can't, why don't you try someone else...'

'Yours is the only house for miles. I would really, really appreciate it - ' the man rattled on. Hank felt something emerge from the depths of his heart. Something hot.

And then he saw him. A man in grey clothes, with rotting green skin and orange hair. Wearing a metal mask covered with bloodstains.

He was standing right behind the Christian, and he had simply teleported there out of thin air. The clown glared at Hank from under his metal mask, pointed to the Christian and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Hank closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, the clown was gone.

'Alright,' Hank said in the tone many kind people use when they want to sound grudging but in reality they're only too happy to help.

'Thanks,' the Christian smiled and thumped Hank on the back. 'You're a lifesaver!'

'You're welcome,' Hank replied meekly, adjusting his glasses.

When he arrived at work, he was an hour late. He tried to slip past his boss without any notice, but...

'Wimbleton!' roared the Boss. He had his usual cowboy hat settled on his head, why he did this no one knew, and everyone nicknamed him "the Sheriff".

'Sorry sir,' Hank said, bowing his head. He bore the Sheriff's tongue for ten whole minutes in silence. After the Sheriff had finally wiped the spittle from his mouth, he had one final word.

'One k down, Wimbleton. That's a thousand less. Two thousand if you ever come down late again.' With that, the Sheriff spun on his heel and strutted on his way. Hank stared after him.

The clown appeared in front of the Sheriff, who walked through him as if we wasn't there. The clown pointed to Hank's boss, and then to the stapler lying on Hank's desk.

Hank understood. One stapler was enough. He could jam it into the Sheriff's neck, watch as his jugular slowly bled out. One thousand down? It didn't matter, Sheriff. You're dead. You're dead you're dead

Hank rubbed his eyes, and the clown was gone again.

He walked over to his computer, and with a sigh, turned it on and watched it boot up. Text flashed across the screen. REALITY COMPROMISED. INTIATING IMPROBABLITIY RESTORATION -

Hank kicked the CPU with his foot, and the text disappeared.

'Woah, man,' his neighbor, a friendly but unscrupulous man named Demois said from the doorway. 'Somebody's angry.'

'Shut up,' a passer-by said.

'Sorry, Sanford,' Deimos rolled his eyes, lit a cigarette that blatantly disobeyed the sign beside him, and left.

Hank returned to looking at his computer. The screen was as normal. A green field in a clear blue sky. Icons arranged in neat rows. Orderly. Normal. Not mad.

Pulling up a chair, he sat down and began his work. Typing as he usually did. Type, type, type. After five minutes he looked at the clock, and groaned.

Suddenly he was aware of a putrid stench, as if something was rotting. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temple with his forehead. 'Go away.'

The stench remained.

'I can do this,' Hank said to nobody in particular.

'No you can't,' the clown behind him replied.

'You're dead,' Hank said, staring at the meaningless numbers on his screen. 'You're not real. You can't do anything, so go away.'

'I can,' the voice was filled with sadistic glee, and Hank felt the urge to spin around and throttle the damn clown by the throat. But that would be just giving in.

'You. Are. Not. Real.' Hank pounded the desk with his fists, but only lightly. 'I killed you in Nevada. Everything became normal. Everything is normal, dammit!'

'You can't kill me, Hank,' the clown's voice wafted towards him. 'Didn't you learn? The clown cannot die. I am real, Hank. And you will suffer.'

'I just want a normal life!' Hank exploded. 'Leave me alone!'

---

No offence but... this seems too interesting to be true.

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Can someone help out a noob? I wanted to submit my madness day story but I kept getting "You have used words that are not allowed in the BBS.' I don't know what such words are. And no, I do not have any html tags.

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Part 4, the last part of the first chapter. I may not continue. Please give feedback, kthxbye.

Jones, looking at the wall that had teleported behind him, decided that there were enough surprises for one night. He went to the grille, and looked inside.

His hideout was deserted. Jones had more or less locked Bob in there - he had his suspicions - but somehow, that fellow had managed to get out. Using his mysterious powers.

Jones had a hunch that the wall was Bob's doing as well. On cue, the Immortal himself appeared round the corner, splashing along the water, looking sweaty and tired as hell.

'You. What'd you do?'

'N-nothing,' Bob panted. 'C-come on. We h-have to get out of here.'

'Point noted,' Jones said, drawing his sword with his good hand.

'Jones...could you do me a favour?'

'What?'

'Take me...to my son's house,' Bob looked completely unhinged. 'I didn't want to ask you before...but I'm going to have to trust you. Take me now, Jones. I...just want to see his face again.'

'I'm afraid that won't happen,' Jones sighed, raising his arm.

Bob was dimly aware of a whooshing sound, then a cold feeling in his gut. He looked down. There was a sword sticking out of his stomach.

In an instant Jones was at him, sticking another sword in Bob's neck.

'J-jones,' Bob choked, his fingers scrabbling for his pocket. Jones beat him to the chase, and snatched the toy dog keychain before Bob could grab it himself.

'Give - ' Bob managed, before Jones drove the sword deeper in his neck, effectively silencing him.

'You forgot the number one rule in this business,' Jones said, studying the keychain. 'Don't trust anyone.'

Bob tried to speak, but only blood came out of his mouth. His body crashed into the water with a loud splash, struggling to regenerate, but with the swords still sticking out of him, that was going to be an arduous process indeed. Meanwhile, Jones raised the keychain, as if he was intending to destroy it...

But he did much worse than that.

Adam Jones put the keychain in his jacket pocket, and began to walk away. Pain shot through Bob, not physical pain but cold pain, the icy veins of depression struck his heart with every step Jones made. Every step which brought the keychain farther and farther away.

'Give,' Bob began, pulling the sword out of his throat. 'give...MY SON BACK!'

He raised his hands.

There was a loud whoosh, and Jones threw himself to the side. Just in time. A section of the wall disappeared into thin air, as well as a chunk of the floor.

Jones threw a sword. It traveled through the air, seemed to shimmer, and then it winked out of existence.

'Space distortion,' Jones commented, looking at Bob, who was panting hard. 'An interesting power. The experiment must have been a special one, because you're a special immortal. An Immortal which everyone in the whole city would like to capture, dissect and research.

'You don't just have any plain ordinary power. You have the power of the Zone itself.'

Bob glared at him, and then collapsed into the water again, panting like a dog on heat. Whatever energy he had was gone. Only a cold, dead feeling in his heart.

With the last of his strength, Bob lifted his head. 'Promise,' he rasped, 'please, promise you'll take care of my son...'

Jones only stared at him with a nonchalant expression. Then turned his back, wand waded through the water. Bob felt a monster rise within him.

'Fuck you, Jones!' Bob shouted, using his last vestiges of consciousness to curse this man whom he now hated with all his heart. 'I hope you burn in HELL!'

Jones didn't even look back. Bob, feeling the icy tendrils reach his head, mercifully passed into unconsciousness.

Davis found Bob lying on the ground. Face down in the water. He grabbed the Immortal's head and pulled him up. The fellow wasn't dead of course.

'Where is he?' roared Davis.

'Wh - '

'Where is Jones?' Davis was now a shadow of his former self, now a seething demon whose handsome young face was contorted rage.

'Took my...son...Rob...'

'You fucking Immortals,' Davis shook Bob up and down as if he was a ragdoll. 'I'm going to kill all of you bastards. Every fucking one.'

One of the officers came running up behind him. 'Sir! Your Object! You left it - '

Davis whirled on him. 'Shut the fuck up!'

Then he clutched his heart and seemed to reconsider. He held out a hand, and the officer handed him the second revolver which he had neglected to pick up.

Suddenly Davis looked all refreshed again. He slowly wiped his brow and looked up. 'Not to worry, officer,' he smiled pleasantly. 'We have the Immortal who has the powers of the Zone. And that's all that matters.'

Above ground, Jones conversed with the phone with an unknown contact. 'Yes, I've got his Object. His life will be hell for the next few days, poor bastard.'

The contact said something else.

'I don't think you have to worry about the triads. As soon as my damn arm is healed, I'll run over to Mina.'

The contact said something else, and then hung up. Jones sighed, leaned against the wall and looked around. Nothing was around but the lifeless dumpsters and dark shadows.

He was alone. Again.

---

Kai I'm going to have to rewrite the last two parts. Here's part 3.

They arrived at Jones's hideout. Which was in the sewers.

'Ew,' Bob said.

Jones, carefully avoiding the green stuff, walked up to a metal grille. 'This part is dry,' he said. Twsiting a few metal bars, he stepped aside and the grille swung open.

'How'd you open that?'

'Same way I solve a rubiks cube. A friend designed it for me.'

The both of them went in, went through a small tunnel and came across a small room. It was completely bare, except for a few bottles of bear, and a plain mattress. The only megre light the room had came from a flickering light bulb dangling from a chain on the ceiling.

'This is where you live?' Bob exclaimed. 'Don't mean to be rude...but...'

Jones walked wordlessly over to the beer and immediately began drinking.

An awkward silence filled the room. Bob sat down on the floor. 'I'll let you have the mattress,' he said. 'Since you're the host.'

Jones threw the empty bottle on the floor, and reached for a new one. 'How's you become an Immortal,' he asked between gulps.

'Well...I went into the Zone.'

'Willingly?'

'It was an experiment. By the government. I was supposed to be the guinea pig, I was outfitted with cameras and everything. They wanted to see what would happen when I disappeared.'

'Did they find out?' Jones asked, sounding interested.

'I don't think so. When I disappeared - and reappeared on the other side of the earth, two things happened. One, I had grown an attachment to that keychain my son gave me on my birthday, two, all the cameras, microphones that were on me were dead.'

'Damn Zone,' Jones reached for a third bottle. 'Always fucking with us.'

'You shouldn't drink that much,' Bob cautioned.

'I can never get drunk,' Jones said almost sorrowfully, and downed the beer. He changed the subject. 'So I guess once nothing came out of the experiment, you were deemed useless.'

'And I was hunted down,' Bob bowed his head. 'By the very people I worked with. Even Davis, the man who always tipped me a biscuit during our lunch break.' He sighed.

'Don't tell me you never saw that coming.'

'I didn't. They never told me people could become Immortals after entering the Zone.'

'Idiot,' Jones said. 'So what're you planning now?'

'I just want to see my wife and children again,' Bob smiled weakly. 'Y'know, say hi to them, tell them I'm not dead, that sort of thing.'

'That's all?'

'That's all. That's my goal.'

'You do know that you've just revealed your agenda and origins to a stranger,' Jones sighed, throwing away the third bottle. It bounced and landed with a loud ping.

'You're a good man, Jones' Bob grinned. 'I think I can trust you - to a certain extent, of course.'

Jones looked annoyed at the compliment. 'I'm going to sleep,' he grunted, walking over to the paltry excuse for a bed. And then Bob noticed something strange. Jones was walking differently - his arm was held by the side, as if he was trying not to move it so much.

He was acting as if his arm was hurt. But that couldn't be - Immortals couldn't get hurt, right?

When Jones awoke, he saw Bob still awake, looking down at the toy dog keychain.

'Go to sleep,' Jones snapped.

Bob didn't answer. He was looking down at the keychain with a certain fondness. 'I've heard somewhere that our Objects are based on what we value the most.' He commented, stroking the keychain.

'Are you getting wimpy?'

'Sorry, Jones,' Bob smiled. 'I was just reminiscing about the times with my family. My son's name is Robert, by the way. Ten years old. Blonde hair. Dreams of becoming a chef.'

Bob looked at Jones. 'Do you have any family, Jones?'

'None that I care for.'

'Good. More rambling for me,' Bob looked back at the keychain, lost in thought. 'I'm going to give him what he always wanted, when I see him again. A golden spatula, tailor made, with the perfect material.'

'And just how - '

Boom.

Jones jerked his head up.

Another boom. The faint sound of a grenade. Then, distant gunfire.

'Something's happening,' said Bob, putting the keychain back into his pocket.

'Thank you, Captain Obvious,' grunted Jones. 'Stay here. I'm going to look around.'

He walked over the grille, peered outside, unlocked it and climbed out.

More booms. Louder this time. Whatever was happening, it was in the sewers itself.

Jones, drawing his sword, slowly walked down the sewer tunnel. He reached a corner, and peered round.

Several police officers were walking towards him. Quickly Jones retreated behind the wall, but too late - he heard a shout. Jones braced himself for the oncoming battle.

Another boom. Cries of pain. A bloodied body of a police officer flew past Jones and crashed into the wall. The green water slowly turned red.

An Immortal walked into a view, a muscular man in a singlet. A bloodied necklace hung from his neck. He saw Jones and grinned.

'Let me guess,' Jones groaned, running to the side. 'You guys want Bob.'

'Hurr hurr,' grunted the Immortal - not an intelligent fellow, Jones noted - and punched his fist into the wall. The wall instantly crumbled, sending debris and the like raining down.

Jones weaved and dove, avoiding the debris, sprinted up to the Immortal and swung his sword. The Immortal grabbed it, squeezed, shattering the sword with a loud tinkling sound.

His fist closed in. Jones backflipped, narrowly avoiding a punch that would have caved his face in. Landing unsteadily - for he had had to do the backflip with only one hand - he looked at the Immortal straight in the eye.

'What's so special about Bob? Pray tell,' said Jones. Hopefully, this idiot would easily give up information.

'Hurr hurr,' chuckled the Immortal, the wound in his hand already healing.

There was a loud bang, and the immortal's necklace shattered into a million pieces. The Immortal gasped, clutched the spot where the necklace had been, and fell to the floor dead.

Jones whirled round. Another police officer was walking towards him, reloading a revolver.

'Don't worry, Mr. Jones,' smiled Davis, inserting a golden bullet with a loud click. 'I'm going to fulfill my promise.'

'I thought you were dead,' growled Jones.

'I was.'

'Oh shit,' Jones said, realizing. 'The government's using immortals now, eh? Isn't that a bit ironic?'

'They resorted to desperate measures,' Davis shrugged, snapping the chamber into place. 'That Bob person is worth a lot to them that they enlisted my services. Of course, they'll eventually get rid of me, but I'll enjoy the job for as long at it lasts.'

'What? You enjoy - '

'You wouldn't understand,' Davis smiled. 'Adam Jones. I looked you up. The infamous Immortal who's incredibly skilled. No one has ever found out what your Object is. But I think I've figured it out.'

'Oh?'

'Objects are a representation of what Immortals value most. And I think I know what you value the most, Mr. Jones.' Davis thumbed back the hammer, and slowly brought up the revolver to aim.

'What?'

'Yourself,' said Davis, pointing his gun directly at Jones's head. The Immortal reacted fast, kicking dirty ditchwater into the officer's face. Davis wiped his eyes, and opened them in time to see a sword stab him in the forehead.

Jones retrieved another sword and sliced. Davis's hands, still clutching the revolvers, fell and crashed onto the floor.

Davis grinned madly, extended his mouth and threw his head forwards. Jones drove the first sword down, cleaving the head in two, just in time to avoid a bite to his jugular vein, a wound that would have been fatal.

He heard running feet behind him. Reinforcements. Jones broke into a sprint. If he was caught in this straight corridor, it wouldn't be good. Too late, he heard gunfire behind him. Quickly he ran in a zigzag fashion, kicking up dirty water in his wake.

---

Suddenly they braked, so abruptly Bob almost broke his neck. He looked up. 'Why are we stopping?'

'Someone's following us,' Jones jerked Bob off and drew two of the short swords from his scabbard.

'W-what?' Bob looked wildly around. Then he saw a man in a trenchcoat walking towards them.

'What's your power?' Jones asked, never taking his eyes off the man in the trenchcoat.

'I-I'm afraid I don't know yet.'

Jones controlled his temper and looked at Trenchcoat.

'Friend or enemy?' he asked.

'You first,' said Trenchcoat, glaring at him from beneath tinted glasses.

'Mafia,' said Jones.

'Triads,' Trenchcoat replied, assuming a battle stance. 'Adam Jones. Still with the mafia,eh? A pity.'

'Duh,' Jones said, throwing the sword. It flew towards Trenchcoat like an arrow from a bow.

Trenchcoat extended his hand. The sword deflected and clattered onto the ground.

'Controlling air currents?' Jones raised his eyebrow.

'Duh,' Trenchcoat snapped. 'Listen, Jones. I have no fight with you. I want that guy.'

He pointed to Bob, who started.

'You want him over me?' Jones looked at Bob. 'you must be pretty damn important. What aren't you telling me?'

'We could resolve this issue over a nice cup of tea,' commented Trenchcoat, extending his other hand. 'But you, Adam Jones, are so incorrigible.'

Jones broke into a sprint.

A blurry formed in Trenchcoat's hands, and Jones was hurtled back. He crashed into a building. An audible crunching sound was heard.

'Weak,' spat Trenchcoat. Suddenly, he gasped. Looking down, he saw that there was a tear in his coat.

'Shit!' he yelled, clutching the area of tear and stumbling. 'Fuck you! Fuck you!'

A sword flew towards him. Trenchcoat, now seething with rage, extended his hand and deflected it.

Another sword flew in from behind him. Trenchcoat whirled round, but and at the same time Jones came in from behind him.

The sword pierced Trenchcoat in the stomach, and pierced the trenchcoat as well. At the same time, Jones grabbed the hem of the coat and ripped it off the Immortal.

'My coat!' cried Trenchcoat, grimacing in pain, 'Give it back!'

Jones stopped momentarily, near the fence surrounding Zone Zero, and held the coat up. In his other hand, he held his sword, preparing to slash the coat open.

'Noooooooooo!' yelled Trenchcoat, extending his hand. Jones was slammed against the fence. But he had let go of the coat at the same time.

The coat floated away, past the green fence, towards Zone Zero.

'Fuck!' Without a moment's hesitation, Trenchcoat pulled the sword from his body, threw it and Jones and rushed over to the fence.

'Oh, no,' Bob said, realising what Trenchcoat was going to do.

Trenchcoat climbed over the fence, his wound healing, but noticeably slow. He landed on the other side of the fence with a thump. Landed at the outskirts of Zone Zero.

Jones watched with a blank expression. He was already sheathing his sword.

Trenchcoat turned back one last time. 'Fuck you, Adam Jones.' He then scurried after his coat, all the while crying in pain.

The two other Immortals watched.

The coat suddenly disappeared. Just like that. One minute it was there, the next it was gone. It had completely vanished.

So had Trenchcoat.

'Is it true?' Bob whispered, looking at the place where Trenchcoat had disappeared. 'That once an Immortal enters Zone Zero, they can never come back?'

'Who knows?' Jones started to walk away, losing interest. 'We're walking back from now on.'

'Why aren't we running?'

'Shut up and walk.' Jones thought of something. 'By the way, that Immortal somehow acquired a tear in his coat. Any idea how he got that?'

'Nope,' Bob said innocently. 'But even if I knew, I wouldn't tell you. Because you shouldn't trust anyone, right?'

'Right,' Jones didn't even crack a smile. 'Watch your back.'

The two of them started walking again.

---

So I had an idea, and I applied it here. I may continue it. Please criticise this, and also be sure to inform me if I have had the same idea as anyone else.

'Stop!' yelled the small, wiry man, running down the streets. 'Please!'

'Don't worry sir,' said the smiling police officer, slowly walking after him. 'Just come with me, and everything - '

He stopped when he saw his quarry had disappeared around the corner. Sighing, he drew two revolvers from his holster and thumbed back the hammer.

The small man retreated behind a dumpster, and stopped to catch his breath. The object he was clutching, a small toy dog on a keychain, fell out of his tired hands and onto the floor. The small man shrieked and dove after it.

A bang permeated the air, causing the man to give a yelp and collapsed onto the ground. His hands scrabbled for the keychain, before a second bullet entered his skull, scattering his brains all over the dumpster.

The officer calmly strolled in, holstering his smoking revolvers, and looked at the body. Bending down, he grabbed the keychain, stood back up, and watched the body intently.

Two other offices strolled into the scene. 'You got 'im, Davis,' one of them said, grinning and cocking his shotgun. 'Nice 'un.'

'Not yet,' Davis murmured. 'Wait.'

Slowly, the splattered brains began to move.

'Mother of ¬¬¬- !' exclaimed Shotgun.

The brains continued to crawl across the pavement, and entered the small man's head. When all the brain matter was deposited, the man's head reformed instantly, and his eyes flew open.

'He's not dead?' Shotgun growled. 'Davis!'

'Didn't I tell you not to worry?' replied Davis cheerfully. He held up the keychain. 'Wait.'

The small man slowly stood up. Gradually, he realized where he was. And that three officers were pointing their guns at him.

More importantly, he saw that Davis had the keychain.

Shrieking, he darted forward, but a loud boom from Shotgun splattered his guts all over the ground.

'W-why,' coughed the man weakly, as his guts struggled to reform. 'Why...are you doing this...you're the police, for chirssakes!'

'You're an Immortal,' Davis said, as if that explained everything. He held up the keychain, and gave a small smile. 'You would be needing this, wouldn't you?'

'Davis,' warned the third officer, who was sporting a large moustache. 'Just kill him.'

Davis ignored Moustache, and slowly swung the keychain back and forth. 'Unfortunately, you can't have it.'

Bang. Bang. Two more rounds hit the man's stomach, sending blood flying. The Immortal screeched, and inhuman sound.

'Gut shots hurt, don't they?' Davis smiled. 'Don't worry, this will all be over in a few seconds.'

'Davis - ' began Moustache.

Four more shots. The Immortal screamed in pain, clutching his side.

Davis calmly reloaded, hooking the keychain to his vest for the time being. 'Relax. I told you, you have nothing to worry about - '

Something shot through the air.

'What,' Moustache had time to say before a short sword sliced his head in half. Blood spurted out as his body slowly fell to the ground.

Davis whirled around, drawing his other revolver, his narrow eyes searching for the attacker. All he could see was darkness.

'The fuck?' swore Shotgun, only just realizing. This realization came too late, however, as a second short sword flew out of the air and sliced his head clean off.

Davis spun around in a circle, his revolvers aiming this way and that. Nothing but darkness and the blood of his comrades. Where was the bastard?

Whoosh -

Instinctively Davis aimed, pulled the trigger. The sword, deflected by the bullet, spun away in the darkness, but not before he heard pattering feet behind him.

Instantly he whirled around, just in time to see a man in a jacket run a sword through his heart. The sheer momentum of the attack pushed him, slammed him against the wall.

Davis raised his head weakly, to look at his would be killer.

'You're fast,' he croaked. 'Another Immortal?'

'Correct,' the new arrival said coldly.

'Don't worry,' Davis managed a smile. 'You'll soon be dead...I swear it...'

His head drooped down. The man in the jacket made sure the job was finished, by deftly twisting the handle, slicing the officer's body into two. Wiping the blood on the dead man's tie, he turned towards the other Immortal lying on the floor.

'Here,' the man in the jacket said, holding up the keychain. 'We Immortals have to look out for each other.'

The other snatched the keychain, but then regained his composure. 'Thanks,' he said gratefully. 'Who are you?'

'You might have heard about me. Adam Jones.'

'Adam Jones?' the man's eyes widened. 'The Adam Jones?'

'The one and only.' Jones grunted, already walking away and picking up the swords he had thrown. 'You?'

'I-I'm a little insignificant, I'm afraid. The name's Robert. You can call me Bob.'

'Bob,' Jones repeated, sheathing the swords on the scabbards sewn into his jacket. 'Nice name.'

Bob hesitated, then decided to ask. 'Listen, erm, I don't want to intrude the Adam West, of course, but do you mind if I stay with you for a little?'

Jones stopped, stared, and then looked away. 'You're new to the Immortal business aren't you?'

'Yes,' Bob admitted.

Jones studied his face. 'Stay with me how long?'

'A week.'

'Why?'

'I have to do something,' Bob replied cryptically.

Jones dropped his head. 'Fine,' he muttered. 'But you mustn't interfere with my daily activities. Just stay at my hideout, come and go if you please, only for one week. Okay?'

'Promise!'

'It's done then,' Jones bent down. 'Hop on.'

'S-sorry?'

'Jump on my back. Quick.'

Bob gave an involuntary shrug, and jumped onto Jones's back. Jones began to walk slowly.

'So, what's your object?' Bob asked, trying to make conversation.

'You think I'm going to tell you?' Jones slowly increased his pace to a jog. 'You really are new.'

'Erm...sorry.'

'A little lesson for you,' Jones broke into a full sprint.

Suddenly the air around Bob whooshed, and the scenery blurred, and they sped along the alleyways fast.

'T-t-thanks!' Bob yelled, bracing himself.

'Don't mention it. Ever,' replied Jones, his voice faint from pounding wind. 'And keep your voice down.'

They passed a large metal wire fence. Bob recognized it. These fences, green with the government's seal stamped on it, were spread all around the city. All for the sake of keeping intruders out from one particular area.

'Zone Zero,' Bob said, pointing to the lifeless buildings beyond the fences. 'Any theories?'

'None. Shut up.'

---

dude, i would recommend you break up your dialogue into one paragraph for one line. It's the general practice for all writers.

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Okay...I wrote part of a novel. Now I know people here don't approve of giving unfinished novels to be critqued, but I think 16k words is enough for detailed criticism.

For some reason typewith.me won't let me post the whole thing.

Part 1: here
Part 2: here

Criticisms on structure are appreciated. If you don't want to give detailed criticism for some reason then just tell me if you like it or not.

K thanks hope u like it.

By the way, please don't steal it. Or I will be sad.

---

Hey gaiz has anyone ever gotten any art guys to illustrate your novels?

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At 7/31/10 12:46 PM, InsertFunnyUserName wrote: It's not the events in a story that make something suspenseful, it's the reader's attachment to the characters....

Thanks. I'll keep that in mind :)

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At 7/30/10 02:37 PM, Stereocrisis wrote: Oh you little Stephen King, you!

Thanks. I'll take that as a yes. Perhaps you could give a moar detailed critique?

Anyone else? i was hoping a certain funny username would review this...

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Just a little thing I wrote, I was trying to make it sort of a suspense/horror story. If you don't feel suspense at all, let me know.

Friday

Davis didn't like Johnson. Johnson didn't like Davis. But a mutual goal had brought them together - a chance for promotion.

The case they were working on was two things - puzzling and peculiar.

'On October 6th 2012,' Johnson read from the file, 'the entire population of Derry, Maine, disappeared.' He set the file down. 'Lol.'

'There is nothing to laugh about,' growled Davis. 'What was the last line again?'

'The entire population of Derry, Maine, disappeared.'

'Disappeared?'

'Yes, they went on polar bears and skied down the Alps.'

Davis ignored that comment. 'Are you serious?'

'I'm serious. Have the file yourself.'

'How do two thousand people vanish into thin air?' demanded Davis. 'You mean the result was instantaneous? They just teleported somewhere overnight?'

'It appears so.'

'What the fuck.'

'There's nothing to fuck about,' sang Johnson in a high pitched voice.

'Fuck you,' Davis sighed. 'Nothing was left behind? Any personal belongings?'

'All of the people's rooms were ordinary. As in, half-open books were still there, clothes were still in their drawers, that sort of thing.'

Davis leant back in his chair, brooding. 'What happened the hell happened here?'

Tuesday

'Sit down,' Officer Jones kindly gestured to a comfortable soft chair. Smith looked at the chair as if it was a snake poised to strike, but then he slowly inched towards it, and sat down. His palms were sweaty and he looked pale.

'You look under the weather,' Jones commented. 'Here. Have a mentos.'

'I'd rather not,' Smith pushed the sweet away.

'Whatever floats your boat. Something must have really scared you, eh? Don't worry son, the Derry police apartment will take care of it,' Jones leaned forward and laced his fingers together. 'Now, tell me all about it.'

'My girlfriend,' Smith said softly, as if afraid of being overheard. 'She...she...'

'Come on, son, spit it out!'

'She...wasn't my girlfriend. I-I mean she was, but she didn't...truly love me.'

'A break up? Sorry to say, but that sounds a little tardy - '

'You don't understand!' Smith snapped, and then hurriedly lowered his voice. 'You don't know the scary part. You have no idea. She managed to fool me. For ten years straight. And guess what? She didn't have any feelings for me all these ten years. None. Do you realize what this means?'

'Sorry, but I don't follow.'

Smith took a deep breath, and then there was a loud bang. He practically jumped out of his seat.

Jones smiled, but had the tact not to laugh out loud. 'Relax, it's just Carey. He likes to slam doors, but he's a good man.'

Smith's head swung back and forth. 'How many men do you have at the station?'

'Just Carey, me and two others.'

'Not enough,' Smith moaned, gripping the chair. 'No more interruptions, officer. I need to get through this quickly.'

'Sure thing.'

Smith took a deep breath and continued. 'See, that's the scary bit. Ten years, ten fucking years, she managed to snug up into bed with me, watch a few movies, go out to dinner, have sex, and it turns out the whole time she was just faking her passion, the entire fucking time. Who do you think can do that?'

Jones shrugged.

'Anyway, that's scary. But not as scary as the next bit. See, it was one whole big conspiracy from the start. She wanted to get close to me, to use me. I'm a banker, you see. So I get really close to the CEO. One day I took her out to dinner with my boss. And guess what happened.'

Jones shrugged again. Smith looked demented now, but he was determined to finish the story.

'She broke a bottle on the table, y'know, like in those movies? Got it nice and sharp. She stabbed my boss right in the throat.'

Smith gasped and shuddered. Jones raised his eyebrows. 'So that's it. Give me her name, her address, and I promise we'll - '

'Officer!' growled Smith. 'That's not the scary bit, you know what's the scary bit? She stabbed him right in front of the other diners. In full view of the fucking waiters. And guess what?

'Nothing happened. They didn't do a thing. Just carried on eating as usual, even though the Boss was screaming like fuck and his blood....' Smith bowed his head briefly and continued. 'When his body...stopped twitching, she asked for the bill. I was sitting still the entire time, scared out of my mind, and then the waiter came, looked at the body and said, "do you want to keep your leftovers, ma'm?'

' "No thank you" she said, and then she looked at me, and then I knew I was in for it. I got up. And then something else scary happened. As I got up, all the other diners got up. Then they started moving towards me. Like fucking zombies!

'I ran as fast as I did in my life. Somehow, I made it out of that damn restaurant, and hailed a cab. Then the most fucking scary thing happened, y'know that?

'I got in, the cabbie said, "where to?", I said, "anywhere" and then he said, "how about Hell?". At first I thought I had heard wrong, but then he pulled out a gun. And then I saw out of the window, the diners walking towards the cab. As well as the policeman standing by the meter. The schoolgirls that had been chatting by the corner. The bum sleeping on the street. Every single fucking person on the street stopped what they were doing and walked towards the cab. The whole damn city was against me!

'And then the cabbie held up a hand to the people outside, and they stopped. He turned to me and said, "Expect us." Then I blacked out, I don't know what did it, or why they let me live, but then I woke up in my house, and rushed straight here.'

Smith let out a deep breath, calmer, now that he wasn't alone.

'That's a mighty strange story,' Jones said, in the tone most psychologists have when talking to their patients. 'Don't worry we'll take care of it. Now why don't you go home and take a good rest?'

Smith realized. 'No,' he gasped, standing up. The chair fell to the ground. 'No...you can't leave me alone! You can't send me back out there! You have to believe me!'

Jones gripped the man's arm firmly. 'Don't worry, sir. This is for your own good.'

There was another loud bang. Smith jumped. Jones grabbed him even tighter. 'I told you, son, there's nothing to worry about - '

He stopped in mid sentence. Slowly, Smith turned round.

The door was shut.

There was another bang. A thud. The door remained shut.

Smith let out a whimper, and then broke free of Jones scrambling to the window. 'They're here!' he shrieked. 'Oh god oh god ohgod they've come for me!'

Footsteps. Jones, as if in a dream, took out his pistol, and pointed it at the door. Smith was already scrabbling at the window, trying to force it open, but then he saw something outside and shrieked.

The doorknob turned. Jones fired, three well-placed shots, up, middle, down. Smith gasped again, made a horrid retching sound and fainted.

Silence.

The door swung open. Jones had his hand on the trigger, but he couldn't move. His mouth opened and closed, his mind was wiped blank.

Standing in the doorway was a smiling Jones.

'We are Anonymous,' the doppelganger said, slowly stepping forward, smiling cheerfully, as the real Jones had often done.

'We are Legion,' he recited, walking up to Jones until they were face to face.

'Expect us.' He concluded, stabbing Jones with a knife. He drew it out, and then stabbed him again, And again. And again.

---

At 7/10/10 10:14 PM, protoAuthor wrote: Characters drive the story, it's important to know who they are as people. Your script feels like it's sacrificing characters for style.

Actually, knowing the general population of Youtube, they would prefer style over characterization. More characterization would help, but style overall will be more important, unfortunately.

Anyway, that's only for Youtube.

---

Hello, new here, want to get feedback on this little opening scene I'm writing for a potentially epic saga which might or might not be finished. Go, on, criticise it.

The lone and lifeless landscape, stretched out for many miles and miles, with dead trees scattered all around the dusty ground. The two men who were walking along it would have a hard time.

The trees had long since wilted, the air had adopted a musty smell and the sky was yellowish green, with clouds in the distance. The two men had long since adopted themselves to this feeling, this feeling of walking through this lonely road, walking through the end of the world.

'It's the end of the world,' the first man said.

The second was used to his companion's comments. 'Shut up.'

'But it is!' the first swept his arm over the devastating scene around them. 'It is the perfect apocalyptic nightmare! How very poetic'

'Wow. You should get a medal,' the second sighed. 'Just shut up, Johnson.'

'You shut up first, Benny boy.'

Ben rubbed his temples. 'You know what? I should just kill myself. Right now.'

'Okay.'

'Like I said,' Ben groaned wearily. Suddenly he spotted something, and knelt down. 'Footprints.' He said.

'Wow. You should get a medal.'

'Shut up, Johnson,' Ben reiterated, staring at the footprint faintly embedded in the lifeless sand. 'Whadda you reckon? Good or bad?'

'Depends on what you mean.'

'Forget I asked.' Ben stood up and started to walk forward. Behind him, Johnson knelt down and examined the footprint. He then stood up and surveyed his surroundings.

'Male, in his 20s, quite a weak build, about one-fifty, was running along this path, wearing a gown, and possibly has an aversion to blackberries.'

'Whatever,' Ben said. 'So he's running? So he might be in trouble.'

'What, you wanna help him?'

'Just bringing it up. You can help him, if your screwed up logic commands you.'

'My screwed up logic does command me,' Johnson grinned. 'Go! Go! Go!'

'You go,' corrected Ben. He hefted the backpack he was carrying. 'We're on a mission, remember? Just catch up with me sooner or later and please, please don't get distracted again.'

'Sure thing Benny boy,' Johnson agreed, and started sprinting off the dusty path and through the fallen trees. Ben stared after him, sighed again, and continued walking.

Johnson darted in between and around trees, following the tracks laid by this mysterious individual. Finally, he heard voices, and stopped. Using a tree as cover, he peered round.

Four men were standing in a circle around another man. The circulars were all wearing combat gear, Kevlar vests and the like. The man in the center was wearing a simple white hospital gown. He was cowering on the ground. Not good for him.

'Yellow!' Johnson yelled, strolling into the scene. All the men's heads turned and four guns were pointed at him.

'Yes, yellow, yes, both nice as a greeting and as a color, whoopee,' Johnson murmured. The men gave no response, just eyed him beadily, loudly cocking their weapons for show.

'You!' Johnson hand shot out. 'Yeah, you with the bad lisp and the ex-girlfriend.'

The thug who had been referred to jumped, but quickly reassembled his face into one of casual disinterest.

'Yes, I was talking to you. Don't go all stony faced on me!'

One of the men, obviously the leader, spoke up. 'Are you white or black?'

Johnson clapped his hands for no apparent reason. 'As you can see, I am clearly yellow skinned.'

'You know damn well what I mean,' the leader spat. He had a gold tooth. Gold tooth meant a lot of things, Johnson mused.

'I know what you mean,' he finally said. 'But the question is...do you know what I mean?'

'What?'

'PARADOX!!!' shouted Johnson, waving his arms.

Suddenly one of the men lost his temper. 'Fuck this!' he cried. 'Who the fuck cares whether he's a black! He's fucking insane! Look at him, for fuck's sake! He's wearing a fucking tie! On top of a motherfucking t-shirt!'

'Do you call your son Fuckboy as well?' asked Johnson, fingering his obscene tie.

'Fuck you,' snarled the man, and fired.

Johnson inclined his head to the side, just as the muzzle flashed, and the bullet streaked past him.

The man's dropped open. 'How the...How the fuck?!'

'Shut up,' snapped the leader, displaying perfect calm. He turned to Johnson. 'I'm going to ask you one last time. Are you Black or White?'

'White.'

'Fire!' yelled the Leader, pumping his shotgun for all his was worth. Three more guns fired with him, punching bullet holes in every tree unfortunate enough to be on the scene. Johnson was already moving, darting around the trees and disappearing. After a few more rounds, the leader ceased fire, and the others instantly stopped

'Looks like he ran off,' the leader growled. He turned to his subordinates. 'Make sure he doesn't come back. I'll deal with the wimp.'

He was referring to the man on the ground, still whimpering. Throughout all this time, he hadn't run away, simply because he was still in shock. How pathetic. The leader suddenly realized that it didn't matter whether this wimp was Black or White. He wouldn't survive either way. Either give him a quick death now, or a slow one in the wilderness.

The leader made a decision, and cocked his shotgun one more time.

Then three quick shots rang out.

The leader spun round, only to see his three men fall to the ground, one after the other. Blood began pooling round their bodies.

There was no one in sight. The trees had hid Johnson's retreat well.

'Shit,' muttered the Leader, freeing one hand to grab a pistol by his belt. He held both weapons in opposite directions, waiting, for the slightest movement, in those damn trees.

The wimp started to wail again. The leader kicked him, and the wimp went quiet. Silence again. Nothing but the slow whispering of the wind.

Then Johns burst out - not through the trees, but from on top of them - and before the leader could raise his shotgun upwards, Johnson pounced on him, and the two rolled on the ground, punching and kicking, biting and scratching, until suddenly Johnson had the leader in an armlock.

'I win,' said Johnson. 'Haha.'

'Fuck you, you damn whitey,' growled the leader. 'Think you're so high and mighty - '

'We are,' Johnson said. 'meanwhile, just go and die, will you?'

He took the leader's pistol and shot him twice in the stomach. Gasping in pain, the leader clutched his abdomen and started to writhe. Johnson let go of him and went over to the other man lying on the ground.

Johnson squatted next to the wimp. 'Hey.'

The wimp just whimpered without any reply.

'Who are you?' Johnson asked. It was a good question. Many people nowadays tended to be tougher, plus they dressed smart. No one was survived post apocalyptic eras wearing a damn gown.

---

At 6/19/10 02:52 PM, RNNR wrote:

At 6/18/10 09:58 PM, tehbladeclan wrote: need writers for animations, give me some ideas some origonality and i will give u credit in my animations

TELL US WHAT YOU'RE EXPECTING FROM US WRITERS. WHAT ARE YOUR OWN IDEAS? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA? DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG THIS IS GOING TO TAKE? CAN YOU GIVE ANY ASSURANCE THAT THIS WILL EVEN GO ANYWHERE?

Well said. blade, please give more details. Especially about the script. Genre, length, restrictions, etc. Otherwise we might turn up with random scripts that you don't like.

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At 6/18/10 09:58 PM, tehbladeclan wrote: need writers for animations, give me some ideas some origonality and i will give u credit in my animations

Good sir, I would appreciate it if you gave some more details. Any specific genre? Length?

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Well I have a question.
Can the story use characters from other works of fiction? E.g. Batman