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Ambrosius Syndrome.

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Old 06-28-2018, 03:54 PM
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Default Ambrosius Syndrome.


The year was 2046. The 20’s second coming had been ok. Derick Drummond had done well up until 29, and then lost everything. Now he was like more than 50 % of Americans, homeless. He was standing in line for the 3D printer roadside kiosk. Printing the blanket he needed took 2 hours. time he didn’t have. The soup kitchen opened in an hour and then closed not much later. He pushed the others out of him way. No one cared. Drummond had done this before. He was drunk on who knew what. Drunk men were stupid, and you couldn't help that.

Wearing his blanket like a scarf, he walked to the soup kitchen, where he ate his slop alone. Nothing new, on that point. After a while, someone stopped by with a laptop and a bottle of gin for Derick. The black skinned, red haired woman had grey eyes, fully connected to the internet. Much like everything now.

You could hack it too, control people. Never Mari though. No one could control Mari, not even her. She took a deep swing of gin, passed it, and rolled a joint, sprinkling on the acid. Drugs were a thing in the slum cities of phoenix, the tent villages where most folks lived. Derick was born here, but Mari was a wealthy daughter fallen from grace. She might as well have been dead to her family. They were to her, for sure.

Mostly.

It was sad, but not stronger than her. Her and gin. And drugs. She had too much blood in her alcohol system, a situation currently being remedied. The buzz sped through her veins and then she lit the joint. She had missed acid. They needed acid in Ambrosius. Get those rich fucks to loosen the fuck up, She never wanted to be stuck there again. Homeless was nice. She could do homeless.

Derick would give up drugs for Ambrosius. Almost anyone would instantly. It was only a dream for most. He could do it, if Mari married him. They’d dated since a while ago, and if she married him he’d be a citizen. But she wanted to stay here. So they would go and after a while she would come back, leaving him with the impossible goal of finding anyone half a percent as good. He hated that. Maybe Ambrosius could suck it. He liked drugs. And Mari.

Mari turned on the hydrogen condenser, and in minutes poured two ice cold waters. They tasted good, but Derick missed gin already. He had a problem. And not just alcoholism. He hated this life. No good way to even kill himself. It was hell. There were ways out to be pursued despite it all. The Lancer path was his. Despite her hatred of Ambrosius, it was Mari’s as well. We were assassins. The most skilled in the world. I was number 2. We had unbeatable equipment. No house though. That was for people, not walking guns. That’s how they saw us. God forbid we jammed up.

Such guns lined the streets. Empty broken things. Sometimes they delivered the missions. That’s why they were there. That and hunger.The gun they were here for was an old friend, Derick’s brother Desmond. They saw him in the chow line and got food, sitting at his table. There were no secrets here, and no laws. He was injured with a black eye. He was selling his body again for heroin. This thing wasn’t his brother any more. It was just desmond, a broken gun. He’d been a talented one, could still do it if he kicked his habit. He was a true addict. Drugs were all. He’d kill his wife for half a hit. His daughter for a joint, and he loved Angela more than anyone.

I loved my niece too. That’s why I took her from him. She hated me for it. We were still homeless. I would change that. Enough kills and they let you in. You and your family. And your wife. All crimes are forgiven, even Mari’s. That’s what they said, and why would they lie.

They were white. Everyone knew white people were genetically superior to everyone else. That was why Mari was the only black person in there. They had half the population. It was retarded. So very racist. Out here was mostly black. Hell, I was black. Being black sucks.We all think so. Except Mari. She loved her skin, and her beautiful, black and red, braided hair. She was thinking about dreads. She wanted them when she returned to ambrosius. It would make them so happy and proud to have her back, even blacker than when she left, with a blunt in her mouth and a gold chain.

She had a better idea. She was going to destroy Ambrosius. Once and for all. It went without saying that she would die. It was inevitable. I would prevent it anyway. Soon, we had our mission, a father of three both of us knew, apparently a radical. We went to work.

He had his knives, and her sniper rifle was folded into a computer chip. His knives used solar energy to inflict cauterized wounds. He has use it to cook too. They found the man sadly, playing with his sons. His daughter was thankfully missing. Mari killed him with a headshot. I slit the throats of the witnesses, his young sons. They stood no chance. More meat for the grinder. This was what lancers did. No witnesses, even kids playing in the streets. We were murderers for hire. Garbage men. Nothing else whatsoever.These were most of the people they killed. Friends, some of them. He’d played frisbee with these kids. It made him wretch.

At least cauterized wounds are painless. Always good to know the children whose throats you cut didn’t suffer. They couldn’t even scream, and it was over. The town was a vast meat grinder. People, kids sometimes, went in, meat came out. That’s just the way it had been since before they were born, since the day the world ended. America nuked china, russia, japan, and north korea. Every country proceeded to nuke the shit out of them back, basically sterilizing the continent. It had recovered, but slowly. They all did. Now Mari and Derick were vultures, picking at the corpse. Plenty of meat left still to this day.

They returned to desmond, got their money, and returned their weapons to storage. They always did, unless they had to cook something. Free food at the slophouse tonight anyway. After that find somewhere to have violent sex and sleep. That was how most nights went with them. Still, Derick had no friends. Not really. No one knew him, other than surface level stuff. He had anger. Hatred he couldn’t stand to see in him.
Mari slipped the rifle computer chip into a laptop and uploaded all of her ballistic data to the lancer database, a massive ranking system with them at the top. They found a burning trash can and sat down next to desmond. Derick ignored the needles. No one else came. Most nights desmond was alone except for customers and dealers. Not tonight, at least. That was always life.

Once, Desmond had been top lancer without rival. He’d gone to ambrosius, hundreds of time. Why did he always do this. It pissed Derick off fiercely to hate his older brother, but hate him he did. He was a prostitute god damn it. He sold his ass and mouth! And for that fucking heroin> It was enough. But they were brothers, still. Always brothers.

When Mari awoke, Desmond wasn’t moving, and his eyes were open. The needle was still in his arm. Mari screamed, and kept apologizing, sobbing. I yawned, grabbe the narcan, and got him back without any trouble. Now it was his turn to yawn. “When you’re ready I got your next mission Derick.”

He nodded. “Kill Mari. This mission is not refusable. Refusal will place you as a secondary target for execution.”

“The drugs must be fucking with you man. KIll Mari? There’s no way that’s the mission.”

“Its true.” His eyes cast down. “I'm sorry.” In less than a second he drew a gun from his pocket, pointed at Mari, and fired. I jumped in front of it, took one to the shoulder, and Mari took his gun. He drew another and fired three times. Just then a tornado-like wind suddenly appeared, and inside it was a pristine, beautiful woman of about 25. She has a katana, currently pulsing with electricity, and beautiful gray eyes along with blue green hair. She zoomed toward Desmond before he could fire and sliced him nearly in half.

“Mari, it is time for you to come home. The disease is spreading too quickly.”

“Leave me alone annabelle. I won’t die for Ambrosius. Get out.” At that, she ran. Derick gave chase, but Annabelle stopped him with one hand to the shoulder.

“What was that for?”

“I need you to talk to her. Mari won’t listen, but she doesn’t have to die. We found a donor. Me” She was in tears. he wanted to comforter her, but she was perfect. Too perfect. Derrick knew where Mari would go. He knew it before he knew he knew it. A bizarre sixth sense. He always knew where Mari would be. She would have the high ground. Sniper. This would be difficult. He could never kill Mari, or let her die.

On a nearby building, a skyscraper with a commanding view, he found her with a pair of binoculars. She had him in her sights too. He was still losing blood from when Desmond shot him. Annabelle came with needle and thread to stitch him up. “Ambrosius is dying. To save it we need Mari’s blood. All of it.”

“You said she didn’t have to die.”

“She doesn’t.” She was almost in tears. “Let’s just get her back for now.” no shot rang out as they drew closer. Mari didn't want to kill them. She had Derrick dead to rights caught in her scope. She couldn't kill annabelle with a sniper rifle, she knew. It wouldn't penetrate. Dear sister would require the shotgun with armor piercing rounds. Suddenly they saw a massive flying shape snatch mari up in large mechanical claws. “Enstag. God damn it Darkwing, leave my sister to me.”

Before just not, he had never had any reason to believe in enstag, a fairy tale about a lancer guild even stronger than Mari. Supposedly they planned to destroy Ambrosius.starting to look like Derrick’s going to stop them himself with Anna belle. As quickly as it appeared Darkwing of the Enstag vanished. Even he could not feel Mari now. It terrified him. Shook him to his core. He could only follow Annabelle.

At last he stopped dead. “Explain all of this, or I can’t go with you,” He stood in place defiantly. No one would make him move without an answer.

Anna belle let out a heavy sigh. “We have to do this now? Ok, well, Ambrosius is sick, a wasting disease called ambrosius syndrome, for lack of more a creative name. It can be cured with blood from Mari, though we don’t know why. Originally it was thought Mari would have to die for this to happen, and she wa ordered to comply, now she has to die for disobeying ambrosius, no matter what. They sent me to kill her and bring her blood home.” She saw him tense for a fight. “But I won’t do it. And they are so pissed over it. But she’s my sister. How could I?”

Derrick took a hesitant step forward. “That’s an answer. Still many questions. But let’s go. Enstag knows we’re coming.” I lead her to Enstag’s secret hideout. Everyone knew where it was, though no one I run into Darkwing or any other enstag member there. It was an old, abandoned warehouse Derrick used to smoke in. He smelled Marijuana at the door and knew someone was home. Reluctantly he opened the door. A tall white man with a bald head and massive winged armor smoked a blunt with his girlfriend.

Seeing the man in the flesh was terrifying. He was a legend, just sitting here and smoking a blunt. He was the tallest man Derrick had ever met. Definitely an Ambrosian. “Hello, friends of Mari! It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.” The massive man bowed low and Anna Belle returned with a curtsy. It was only polite. These two were meant for eachother. Both terrify me. Darkwing stepped forward and shook my hand, almost dislocating my shoulder.

He could see how he became top lancer, but not why he’d want to be. He asked.”So, WHy come out here? Why be a lancer when you could stay in ambrosius?” He cast his eyes down to the floor, deeply ashamed of his answer.

“Well you see, my opinions used to be rather...old fashioned. That is, racist. In particular I believed black folks weren’t quite human. I came out here to lead...Hunting parties.”Derick had heard of these, treating us like big game. But to think of being hunted by darkwing for such a reason. To leave Ambrosius simply for the joy of killing black people. It was disgusting. He liked Darkwing less and less every minute. Just then, someone else arrived. It was Patricia Conwright, another member of enstag.

The compact woman had some of the darkest skin he’d ever seen, and two pistols. They looked old. It was hard to believe you could lance a tuna with those. Not only because tuna was extinct. But yet here she was, way above the top of her class. He was very jealous. Patricia Conwright had always been a personal hero to Derrick.

There was a man with him, a japanese man, rare these days. Asians are welcome in Ambrosius, yet there aren’t many left. He has a very old sword by his side, and puts his hand on it when he seems the strangers. “Stand down, ryousuke. These are friends. For now.” His hand fell to his side. Derrick breathed a little easier. Ryousuke was called the reaper in some parts, or shinigami. It wasn’t everyday that Derrick met someone better at killing than he was.

“So what’s the plan? Why do you need Mari?”

“We need you too. To destroy Ambrosius, the root of our many societal problems.” His voice was deep. And Derrick doubted he was joking. “What say you?” In response Derrick drew his knives. “Ryousuke?”

All Derrick saw was steel. In a knee jerk reaction, he flung his head back and defended with read hot knives. Even so the blade cut under his right eye just before he shattered it, leaving a glimmering shard of steel protruding from Derrick’s face. It was deeply uncomfortable. “He’s fast. I have never missed before. You owe me a new sword, shardface.” Derrick was terrified that might catch on. Mari had basically given up trying to breathe, or to scream.

He felt his face. It had become sharp. “How many bodies were on that blade?”

“Too many to count.” Ryousuke was crying for his oldest friend.

“Now it has even more.” He fell to a knee. “I will carry it with me always. I am your sword now. Use me as you will.” Ryousuke sheathed the rest of his sword.

“Rise. We have work to do, Shardface.” It was catching on. God damn him. Even Derrick kinda liked it now. Curse the whole of the japanese race to a slower extinction than that of the black race! He wanted to watch them die. That was his introduction to ryousuke, who would become known as shadowsword, Derrick’s very closest friend and ally for this and all times to come.

“You will fight with us, Derrick Drummond.” The voice belonged to darkwing. “ Together we will see Ambrosius burn.
He weeped out a weak sounding “Yes.” He demanded more so Derrick shouted “Yes!” Until he approved and subsided. Mari had already joined, and wanted Ambrosius to bleed and beg forgiveness. Forgiveness she would never part with, would never give to them. Derrick wasn’t so sure, but he faked it more than well enough.

That there were only 3 of them amazed Derrick more than anything, other than his new moniker. These guys could depopulate a city, back when there was more than one. Only take ‘em a couple of hours. Darkwing laid a blueprint out on the low poker table set out in the warehouse. Derrick would play poker with Ryousuke. And die horribly probably. That was a given already though. Everybody died horribly out here. Desmond died horribly out here. That was all he wanted to avoid, beating his brother’s low mark.

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  #2  
Old 06-28-2018, 05:13 PM
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I skimmed. I’ll read it later. Seems interesting.

Any number under 1000 should be spelled out—unless you are being artistic about it.
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Old 06-28-2018, 07:34 PM
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I get the feeling there's a good story buried within all these words, but it's hard to read.

Whenever you have a little time Google/Bing "Show, Don't Tell". Good writing shows us a story; it allows the narration to come alive for the reader. Telling just reads like stage direction, "John walked across the room, stopped for a minute, looked confused, then walk a little bit more, and then he opened the window." Notice how it reads like stage directions. There's only so much of that a reader can handle. All writers struggle with this and it takes practice.

It' s not enough to have the play-by-play. The writer has to build compelling narration. This starts with "show don't tell" SDT.
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Old 06-30-2018, 01:44 AM
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I second spshane. There's potential for a good story in this. You just need to do a little work on your writing.
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Old 07-03-2018, 10:52 AM
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can someone give me an example of where I tell rather than show? I thought I did that ok.
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Old 07-05-2018, 01:58 AM
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The first half is all info dump. You're trying to unload too big a chunk of back story.

The year was 2046. The 20’s second coming had been ok. Derick Drummond had done well up until 29, and then lost everything. Now he was like more than 50 % of Americans, homeless. He was standing in line for the 3D printer roadside kiosk. Printing the blanket he needed took 2 hours. time he didn’t have. The soup kitchen opened in an hour and then closed not much later. He pushed the others out of him way. No one cared. Drummond had done this before. He was drunk on who knew what. Drunk men were stupid, and you couldn't help that.

Wearing his blanket like a scarf, he walked to the soup kitchen, where he ate his slop alone. Nothing new, on that point. After a while, someone stopped by with a laptop and a bottle of gin for Derick. The black skinned, red haired woman had grey eyes, fully connected to the internet. Much like everything now.

You could hack it too, control people. Never Mari though. No one could control Mari, not even her. She took a deep swing of gin, passed it, and rolled a joint, sprinkling on the acid. Drugs were a thing in the slum cities of phoenix, the tent villages where most folks lived. Derick was born here, but Mari was a wealthy daughter fallen from grace. She might as well have been dead to her family. They were to her, for sure.

Mostly.

It was sad, but not stronger than her. Her and gin. And drugs. She had too much blood in her alcohol system, a situation currently being remedied. The buzz sped through her veins and then she lit the joint. She had missed acid. They needed acid in Ambrosius. Get those rich fucks to loosen the fuck up, She never wanted to be stuck there again. Homeless was nice. She could do homeless.

Derick would give up drugs for Ambrosius. Almost anyone would instantly. It was only a dream for most. He could do it, if Mari married him. They’d dated since a while ago, and if she married him he’d be a citizen. But she wanted to stay here. So they would go and after a while she would come back, leaving him with the impossible goal of finding anyone half a percent as good. He hated that. Maybe Ambrosius could suck it. He liked drugs. And Mari.

Mari turned on the hydrogen condenser, and in minutes poured two ice cold waters. They tasted good, but Derick missed gin already. He had a problem. And not just alcoholism. He hated this life. No good way to even kill himself. It was hell. There were ways out to be pursued despite it all. The Lancer path was his. Despite her hatred of Ambrosius, it was Mari’s as well. We were assassins. The most skilled in the world. I was number 2. We had unbeatable equipment. No house though. That was for people, not walking guns. That’s how they saw us. God forbid we jammed up.

Such guns lined the streets. Empty broken things. Sometimes they delivered the missions. That’s why they were there. That and hunger.The gun they were here for was an old friend, Derick’s brother Desmond. They saw him in the chow line and got food, sitting at his table. There were no secrets here, and no laws. He was injured with a black eye. He was selling his body again for heroin. This thing wasn’t his brother any more. It was just desmond, a broken gun. He’d been a talented one, could still do it if he kicked his habit. He was a true addict. Drugs were all. He’d kill his wife for half a hit. His daughter for a joint, and he loved Angela more than anyone.

I loved my niece too. That’s why I took her from him. She hated me for it. We were still homeless. I would change that. Enough kills and they let you in. You and your family. And your wife. All crimes are forgiven, even Mari’s. That’s what they said, and why would they lie.

They were white. Everyone knew white people were genetically superior to everyone else. That was why Mari was the only black person in there. They had half the population. It was retarded. So very racist. Out here was mostly black. Hell, I was black. Being black sucks.We all think so. Except Mari. She loved her skin, and her beautiful, black and red, braided hair. She was thinking about dreads. She wanted them when she returned to ambrosius. It would make them so happy and proud to have her back, even blacker than when she left, with a blunt in her mouth and a gold chain.

She had a better idea. She was going to destroy Ambrosius. Once and for all. It went without saying that she would die. It was inevitable. I would prevent it anyway. Soon, we had our mission, a father of three both of us knew, apparently a radical. We went to work.

He had his knives, and her sniper rifle was folded into a computer chip. His knives used solar energy to inflict cauterized wounds. He has use it to cook too. They found the man sadly, playing with his sons. His daughter was thankfully missing. Mari killed him with a headshot. I slit the throats of the witnesses, his young sons. They stood no chance. More meat for the grinder. This was what lancers did. No witnesses, even kids playing in the streets. We were murderers for hire. Garbage men. Nothing else whatsoever.These were most of the people they killed. Friends, some of them. He’d played frisbee with these kids. It made him wretch.

At least cauterized wounds are painless. Always good to know the children whose throats you cut didn’t suffer. They couldn’t even scream, and it was over. The town was a vast meat grinder. People, kids sometimes, went in, meat came out. That’s just the way it had been since before they were born, since the day the world ended. America nuked china, russia, japan, and north korea. Every country proceeded to nuke the shit out of them back, basically sterilizing the continent. It had recovered, but slowly. They all did. Now Mari and Derick were vultures, picking at the corpse. Plenty of meat left still to this day.

They returned to desmond, got their money, and returned their weapons to storage. They always did, unless they had to cook something. Free food at the slophouse tonight anyway. After that find somewhere to have violent sex and sleep. That was how most nights went with them. Still, Derick had no friends. Not really. No one knew him, other than surface level stuff. He had anger. Hatred he couldn’t stand to see in him.
Mari slipped the rifle computer chip into a laptop and uploaded all of her ballistic data to the lancer database, a massive ranking system with them at the top. They found a burning trash can and sat down next to desmond. Derick ignored the needles. No one else came. Most nights desmond was alone except for customers and dealers. Not tonight, at least. That was always life.

Once, Desmond had been top lancer without rival. He’d gone to ambrosius, hundreds of time. Why did he always do this. It pissed Derick off fiercely to hate his older brother, but hate him he did. He was a prostitute god damn it. He sold his ass and mouth! And for that fucking heroin> It was enough. But they were brothers, still. Always brothers.
Not a single bit of dialogue in this. You need to show us with interactions and character behaviour. This is all just you telling us back story. Seems a wasted opportunity to flesh out your character. Instead of telling us how he feels about his brother, show it with character interaction. Have him confront his brother about his addiction. Instead of telling us how he loves Mari, show us with actions that would suggest so.
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Old 07-08-2018, 04:12 PM
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The year was 2046. The 20’s second coming had been ok. Derick Drummond had done well up until 29, and then lost everything. Now he was like more than 50 % of Americans, homeless. He was standing in line for the 3D printer roadside kiosk. Printing the blanket he needed took 2 hours. Time he didn’t have. The soup kitchen opened in an hour and then closed not much later. He pushed the others out of his way. No one cared. Drummond had done this before. He was drunk on who knew what. Drunk men were stupid, and you couldn't help that.

Wearing his blanket like a scarf, he walked to the soup kitchen, where he ate his slop alone. Nothing new, on that point. After a while, someone stopped by with a laptop and a bottle of gin for Derrick. The black skinned, red and black haired woman had grey eyes, fully connected to the internet by high tech contact lenses. Much like everything now.

You could hack it too, control people. Never Mari though. No one could control Mari, not even herself. She took a deep swig of gin, passed it, and rolled a joint, sprinkling on the acid. Drugs were a thing in the slum cities of phoenix, the tent villages where most folks lived. Not so in the last city, Ambrosius. Derrick was born here, but Mari was a wealthy daughter fallen from grace. She might as well have been dead to her family. They were to her, for sure.

Mostly.

It was sad, but not stronger than her. Her and gin. And drugs. She had too much blood in her alcohol system, a situation currently being remedied. The buzz sped through her veins and then she lit the joint. She had missed acid. They needed acid in Ambrosius. Get those rich fucks to loosen the fuck up. She never wanted to be stuck there again. Homeless was nice. She could do homeless.

Derick would give up drugs for Ambrosius. Almost anyone would instantly. It was only a dream for most. He could do it, if Mari married him. They’d dated since a while ago, and if she married him he’d be a citizen. But she wanted to stay here. So they would go and after a while she would come back, leaving him with the impossible goal of finding anyone half a percent as good. He hated that. Maybe Ambrosius could suck it. He liked drugs. And Mari. He more than liked Mari. He didn’t say love. Love was weakness out here.

“Time to go to work.” He pecked her quickly on the cheek. “Time to go see my brother.”

“Sounds like a plan, let’s go make some money.” She was grinning ear to ear, as always when she got to shoot something. It was nearly a fetish with her.

Mari turned on the hydrogen condenser, and in minutes poured two ice cold waters. They tasted good, but Derrick missed gin already. He had a problem. And not just alcoholism. He hated this life. No good way to even kill himself. It was hell. There were ways out to be pursued despite it all. The Lancer path was his. Despite her hatred of Ambrosius, it was Mari’s as well. they were assassins. The most skilled in the world. He was number 2. They had unbeatable equipment. No house though. That was for people, not walking guns. That’s how the Ambrosians saw them. God forbid we jammed up.

Such guns lined the streets. Empty broken things. Sometimes they delivered the missions. That’s why they were there. That and hunger.The gun they were here for was an old friend, Derick’s older brother Desmond. They saw him in the chow line and got food, sitting at his table. There were no secrets here, and no laws. Desmond was injured with a black eye. Derrick had a suspicion what that meant, but he kept quiet.

He’d been a talented one, could still do it if he kicked his habit. But he was a true addict. Drugs were all. He’d kill his wife for half a hit. His daughter for a joint, and he loved Angela more than anyone.

Derrick loved his niece too. That’s why he took her from him. She hated him for it. They were still homeless. Derrick would change that. Enough kills and they let you in. You and your family. And your wife. All crimes are forgiven, even Mari’s. That’s what they said, and why would they lie.

They were white. Everyone knew white people were genetically superior to everyone else. That was why Mari was the only black person in there. They had half the population. It was retarded. So very racist. Out here was mostly black. Hell, he was black. Being black sucks.Everyone thinks so. Except Mari. She loved her skin, and her beautiful, black and red, braided hair. She was thinking about dreads. She wanted them when she returned to Ambrosius. It would make them so happy and proud to have her back, even blacker than when she left, with a blunt in her mouth and a gold chain.

She had a better idea. She was going to destroy Ambrosius. Once and for all. It went without saying that she would die. It was inevitable. He would prevent it anyway. Soon, They had our mission, a father of three both of them knew, apparently a radical. They went to work.

Mari unfolded her computer chip into a sniper rifle, and derrick tested the superheating on his knives. “Don’t put those away when we’re done. We’ll need them to cook the food we buy with this hall.”

They found the man sadly, playing with his sons. His daughter was thankfully missing. Mari killed him with a headshot. Derrick slit the throats of the witnesses, his young sons. They stood no chance. More meat for the grinder. This was what lancers did. No witnesses, even kids playing in the streets. They were murderers for hire. Garbage men. Nothing else whatsoever.These were most of the people they killed. Friends, some of them. He’d played frisbee with these kids. It made him wretch.

“It never gets easier,” Mari sighed. They were both growing tired, and were too young to feel so old.
“No, it never does.” Maybe it did and he just didn’t know. It was time to find desmond again.

At least cauterized wounds are painless. Or so he told himself. Somehow he doubted it. Always good to know the children whose throats you cut didn’t suffer. They couldn’t even scream, and it was over. The town was a vast meat grinder. People, kids sometimes, went in, meat came out. That’s just the way it had been since before they were born, since the day the world ended. America nuked china, russia, japan, Iran, and north korea. Every country proceeded to nuke the shit out of them back, basically sterilizing the continent. It had recovered, but slowly. They all did. Now Mari and Derick were vultures, picking at the corpse. Plenty of meat left still to this day.

“Well if that ain’t my brother and his lovely, sexy little baby girl?” Desmond greeted them with a loud voice, a hearty laugh, and a wide hug that showed track marks. Derrick stored his knives to cook dinner. They could buy ingredients with their haul at the street markets. They would need heat still.

Mari slipped the rifle computer chip into a laptop and uploaded all of her ballistic data to the lancer database, a massive ranking system with them at the top.Desmond was sitting by himself at the edge of a little shanty town. His black eye stood out even against his dark skin. There were needles all over the ground.”Just sit anywhere. Warm those bones. Gonna be a cold night in hell.”

Once, Desmond had been top lancer without rival. He’d gone to Ambrosius, hundreds of times. Why did he always do this. It pissed Derick off fiercely to hate his older brother, but hate him he did. Not long after they arrived, a man approached, very tall with filthy, vitiligo ravaged skin and very chapped lips he was constantly licking.

“Yo Dezzy, how much? I got that clear, bro.”

Desmond tilted back his head to tink, and then said, “You got that black? Gimme twenty dollars worth.” Derrick was appalled, and Desmond had to leaved camp for about two hours, and when he came back the needle was still in his arm. They all went to sleep.

When Mari awoke, Desmond wasn’t moving, and his eyes were open. The needle was still in his arm. Mari screamed, and kept apologizing, sobbing. Derrick yawned, grabbed the narcan, and got him back without any trouble. Now it was his turn to yawn. “When you’re ready I got your next mission Derrick, my good buddy.”

His younger brother nodded. “Kill Mari if you could, please. You’d really be helping me out. This mission is not refusable. Refusal will place you as a secondary target for execution.”

“The drugs must be fucking with you man. Talking for you. Kill Mari? There’s no way that’s the mission.”

“Its true.” His eyes cast down. “I'm sorry.” In less than a second he drew a gun from his pocket, pointed at Mari, and fired. Derrick jumped in front of it, took one to the shoulder, and Mari took the gun from Desmond. He drew another and fired three times. Just then a tornado-like wind suddenly appeared, and inside it was a pristine, beautiful woman of about 25, though like most Ambrosians it was hard to tell her age. She could be forty. She has a katana, currently pulsing with electricity, and beautiful gray eyes along with blue green hair. She zoomed toward Desmond before he could fire and sliced him neatly in half.

“Mari, it is time for you to come home. The disease is spreading too quickly.”

“Leave me alone annabelle. I won’t die for Ambrosius. Get out.” At that, she ran. Derick gave chase, but Annabelle stopped him with one hand to the shoulder.

“What was that for?”

“I need you to talk to her. Mari won’t listen, but she doesn’t have to die. We found a donor.” She was in tears. he wanted to comforter her, but she was perfect. Too perfect. Derrick knew where Mari would go. He knew it before he knew he knew it. A bizarre sixth sense he had. He always knew where Mari would be. She would have the high ground. Sniper. This would be difficult. He could never kill Mari, or let her die.

I have worked on it up to this point. Take a look.
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  #8  
Old 07-09-2018, 01:20 AM
Nox (Offline)
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It's better but there's still a lot of telling in those first few paragraphs and a lot of unnecessary content. I've highlighted in red what you don't need.

The year was 2046. The 20’s second coming had been ok. Derick Drummond had done well up until 29, and then lost everything. Now he was like more than 50 % of Americans, homeless. He was standing in line for the 3D printer roadside kiosk. Printing the blanket he needed took 2 hours. Time he didn’t have. The soup kitchen opened in an hour and then closed not much later. He pushed the others out of his way. No one cared. Drummond had done this before. He was drunk on who knew what. Drunk men were stupid, and you couldn't help that.

Wearing his blanket like a scarf, he walked to the soup kitchen, where he ate his slop alone. Nothing new, on that point. After a while, someone stopped by with a laptop and a bottle of gin for Derrick. The black skinned, red and black haired woman had grey eyes, fully connected to the internet by high tech contact lenses. Much like everything now.

You could hack it too, control people. Never Mari though. No one could control Mari, not even herself. She took a deep swig of gin, passed it, and rolled a joint, sprinkling on the acid. Drugs were a thing in the slum cities of phoenix, the tent villages where most folks lived. Not so in the last city, Ambrosius. Derrick was born here, but Mari was a wealthy daughter fallen from grace. She might as well have been dead to her family. They were to her, for sure.

Mostly.

It was sad, but not stronger than her. Her and gin. And drugs. She had too much blood in her alcohol system, a situation currently being remedied. The buzz sped through her veins and then she lit the joint. She had missed acid. They needed acid in Ambrosius. Get those rich fucks to loosen the fuck up. She never wanted to be stuck there again. Homeless was nice. She could do homeless.

Derick would give up drugs for Ambrosius. Almost anyone would instantly. It was only a dream for most. He could do it, if Mari married him. They’d dated since a while ago, and if she married him he’d be a citizen. But she wanted to stay here. So they would go and after a while she would come back, leaving him with the impossible goal of finding anyone half a percent as good. He hated that. Maybe Ambrosius could suck it. He liked drugs. And Mari. He more than liked Mari. He didn’t say love. Love was weakness out here.
And this is an example of how I'd write the first paragraph.

Derrick sighed and squinted through his intoxicated haze at the hands of his time piece. 1130 hours, it read. He glanced over the disheveled forms that queued in front of him, their clothing ragged and stained. He rolled his eyes and pushed his way to the front. No one argued. It wasn't the first time he'd done it. No one fucked with lancers. Derrick fumbled with some coins as he inserted them into the kiosk. The 3D printer whirred to life and spat him out a blanket.


Obviously thats pretty basic and is more my style of writing but you get the idea? Minimal telling. His impatience is implied by his actions. You know he's drunk without specifically saying so.
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Old 07-09-2018, 05:38 AM
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fair enough. I did work on it quite a bit.
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Old 07-09-2018, 04:41 PM
Nox (Offline)
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I know and you seem to have a clear idea of where you want to go with this too, but don't be afraid to rewrite stuff. It's painful until you realise how much better your second go at it is.
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Old 07-10-2018, 05:14 AM
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I really like how it turned out. Any idea where I'm going? And I really like how now I show a customer come calling for him rather than tell you about his activities
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