|Dark City (Future Past Rough Draft)|
I thought it might be educational for you guys to see the evolution one of my stories traditionally goes through.
This bit here is what eventually evolved into Future Past, Present History. I think you can see the gem here, but it's covered in serious amounts of dross, don't you think?
Also, note that once I get a rough draft written, I normally start over from scratch. I did not edit this to create Future Past as you know it, it was merely written with this in mind.
Buildings stand tall to either side of the street. Above, thick, dark clouds roll, fading to a fog that thinned the closer it got to the ground. Small puddles stand here and there in the rippled, old pavement. Errant breezes, caught by the skyscrapers to either side, spun and tossed trash and papers through the wet.
It was quiet, for a city. The muffled sounds of vehicles could be heard echoing through the concrete and steel canyons, and the odd gunshot, footstep, or laugh could be heard erratically through the fog.
Spurts of laughter and harsh music came from a cantina to the left. It was the humorless laughter of men who are sick of their existence but not enough to end the charade of drugs and debauchery that was their version of life.
With a suddennes that seems painful, the dirty, painted-over window in the front shatters as a man in leather and chains comes falling through it. He does not quite make it out, and his legs catch on the frame and his head buries itself in the muddy garbage at the base of the building.
There is a pause in the sound, - as if someone had hit the cosmic mute button - abruptly the man grunts in pain, and begins feeling for a purchase, cutting himself on the jagged teeth of glass in the frame and swearing in the process.
There is a muffled curse from inside, and the man's legs are thrown over the window pane and he is suddenly lying face down, half off and half on the street. Pushing himself upright, he stands and shouts into the cantina, "Conntra, you flat-handed bastard! I'm going to rip out your festering intestines and shove them so far up your whore-mother's bleeding-" His words are stopped by Conntra's well-tossed barstool. It is followed up up by Conntra himself, a squat, ugly man with a tarnished cybernetic patch covering his left ear and eye, and a biomechanical left arm to match.
Tossing the broken stool to the side with his right arm, Conntra full-arm-slaps the man with his left, crunching nose and bouncing his head off the pavement. Blood splatters, and, reacting quickly, the man in leather hits the c-patch with one of his many pieces of metal hanging on his person, and begins to hook the chain it is attached to around Conntra's neck.
Yelling in agony, Conntra nontheless manages to duck the chain, and backhands the man in the face with his returning left, finally grabbing the bicep and, biomech muscle flexing grotesquely, pushes his fingers through flesh and over the humerus to grip the other man's bicep muscle.
Conntra's yell is echoed by the other man, but before a counterplay is made, a mewling whine tears by their heads. It moves up the street, turns and comes back in the form of a tall black man on a fancycle. Coasting gently to a stop on the walk across the street, the fans rotate sideways - blowing wet papers and dirt across the fighting pair - and drops with a gentle clunk the the ground.
The newcomer ignores the pair, calmly extending the support runners before rising from the saddle. His short coat hangs open to frame a cadmium-sheen shirt that gleams softly in the diffuse light. A wide leather belt clamps firmly around his waist, supporting full trousers that are bloused outside the tops of his clasp boots, billowing softly like the fabric of the jacket above.
A knife handle shows above the inside top of his right boot, and as he straightens his jacket, a gun is briefly visible, high on his left hip. Coolly, as if nothing untoward is going on, he asks the stunned pair, "Either of you fellows know Boss Marcus?"
A stunned silence follows, and a siren can be heard high above during the pause. The newcomer speaks again, not seeming to notice the lack of an answer. "He is inside, third floor, Room 460. Correct?" And again not waiting for an answer, walks to the door, glass crunching underfoot, opens the door and walks inside, heading for the stairs ahead.
The door closes with a skisshhh of pneumatics, revealing Conntra sitting on his haunches beside the man in leather, who is on his side, moaning, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his shredded arm. He mutters in bafflement, "Silck?"
(June 2nd, 2002, 6:35 pm)
I can certainl see the evolution from this to the other one, without changing anything too much.
(June 2nd, 2002, 9:53 pm)
Apart from the fight sequence, I actually prefer thsi version :P
(June 3rd, 2002, 2:05 am)
Yeah... I can see it now. This version is more streamlined, direct... It's got that "cyberpunk" sound to it that my new one is lacking. I think the next part picks it up a bit, but we shall see. And, once I finish all the parts, I'm still going to re-master the whole.
(September 20th, 2004, 9:31 pm)
since you wouldn't mail it to me I had to find it the hard way and it was well worth it. its by far going to be your best if and when you ever finnish it. I still want to see a story outline.
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