Disasterstrike

11/07/07 - Cut Them Down

2007-11-08T03:41:19Z

The video footage was grainy for a digital recording. A man stumbling down the street, knife in hand. A gruesome sight. Everywhere bodies. Blood, guts, everything filled the street, as if a veritable flood of the dead had washed down the hill.
It may as well have. The man had a stubbly grey beard stained red with blood. His knife mimicked his beard. His eyes were open wide, as if he could see all, but he was expressely unaware of his surroundings. His song was weak from the speakers, but Kit could hear the worrds.

I am the forerunner of mind and thought
Clarity I achieve
Through the cleansing
The damned will be washed
Souls will be cleaned
My knife is the agent
Of this world's salvation
There will be no end
My mission is eternal
And even in my fall
It will continue

   The man tripped over a body. Lazily he pushed himself back up, always singing the same words as he went. Kit felt goosebumps crawl up his arm. Shivers sent up his spine. Helena placed a hand gently on his shoulder.
   “It's okay, Kit. You don't have to watch this if you don't want to.”
   Kit hadn't realized until now, but his breathing had become ragged. “No, I want to. It's okay...”
   Three men in blue police uniforms make themselves seen through the footage.
   “Stop, stop now!” one of them shouts, but his shouting falls on deaf ears.
   “I am the savior... I am the savior...”
   The man who had shout stepped ahead of his comrades and pointed his weapon at the stumbling singer.
   “This is your last opportunity. I will shoot if you persist!”
   “This cleansing... you will become a part of it...”
   “Damnit...” The cop's hand shook visibly. Then it exploded.
   “The hell? I thought these weren't supposed to do that...”
   “No safeties are perfect, I guess.” A second cop stepped forward before his gun exploded as well. Both officers stood in shock, blood dripping where their hands once stood. The third cop raised his gun hesitantly at the approaching murderer before dropping it and running.
   The bearded man was on him like a hound. Before he could even scream, the fleeing police officer died. His spine stood out from his back for all to see.
   The other two were in shock. The killer approached them slowly, with sure-footedness. Neither offered any resistance as his blade crossed their necks. The footage stopped.
   “We don't typically show this footage, Kit, even to those who ask. You're kind of a special exception...”
   “I know. I had to see it... Hard to believe that man once... with my mother.”
   “You'd be surprised how common a statement like that can be, even when murder is not involved. Disasterstrike may as well be as old as time if it weren't for the special conditions of these murders.”
   “What do you mean?”
   “Well, before the Yorrenites we still had needless deaths. Certainly the Yorrenites are a threat, but it all goes back to that 'condition of the soul' thing. The fact that people are capable of murder is nothing new.”
   “Yeah,” Kit said distractedly, “I guess so...”
   “You look tired, Kit. This has been a long day, and don't think I haven't noticed that you haven't eaten. Can I buy you dinner?”
   “No... I think... I think I'm just gonna head on back to the apartment for now.”
   Helena nodded. “I understand. Take it easy for a couple of days, Kit. You're obligated to fulfill your duties here, but your duties do not include breaking yourself.” Kindly, she embraced him for a moment.
   “Thanks, Helena.” Kit walked out of the room, apparently dragging himself and his will with him.

   Outside of her own apartment, Susan was waiting.
   “Mr. Xxxx, I want to speak with you.”
   “Some other time, Susan...”
   “I just want to apo--”
   “Later!” he snapped. His door slammed behind him.
   Wearily, Kit took a moment to review the contents of his fridge. A moment was all that was necessary, as the contents included an old block of cheese and some molding yogurt. He briefly considered reviewing his cupboard before resigning himself to passing out in his bed.

   If the previous evening had been sleepless, this evening had qualified as “negative sleep.” All through the night, Kit suffered through images of his father running around with a butcher's knife, cutting people down. Men, women, children, all paralyzed with fear. Before him lay the bodies of the dead and the still forms of those who would not run, scream, or fight.
   He watched as Yorren struck them down, one by one. With each fallen victim, the wrinkles on his face would lighten. Yorren would stand straighter. His pace would increase. His beard seemed to grow shorter. Where once his hair was gray, it had become red. His paunch dissapeared, replaced by a poory defined thinness. Kit watched, mouth dry with terror and shock, as a carbon copy of himself continued to mow down the innocent and guilty alike.
   And throughout it all, an orchestra of death filled the air, as rancid to his ears as the smell of the corpses were to his nose.

   “Well, good morning, sunshine.” Walter passively greeted Kit. The microwave timer stated “1:00.”
   Helena placed a styrofoam cup of some steaming liquid down on the counter and addressed Kit. “I thought I told you to take it easy, Kit.”
   “I can't rest...”
   “Try some Nyquil,” Walter suggested.
   “Nothing will work. Not until there are no more Yorrenites.”
   “How very admirable, Kit. It's always nice to see someone so invested in their work.”
   “I'm invested.” Walter sounded wounded. “This job offers a very nice retirement account.”
   “And we shall all have an opportunity to earn that today,” Susan announced stoically as she entered the room. “If surveillance is correct, there is a Yorrenite outside of the city.”
   “How do they know?” Walter asked.
   “Dead bears.”
   “Oh, well, could be any hunter dude with a gun.”
   “Dead bears with knife wounds.”
   “Everyone's got a hobby, I guess...” Walter's shoulders slumped in defeat.
   “Not that I'm complaining, but why don't these guys ever use guns?” Kit asked.
   “They do, occasionally. It's all a matter of what is available when they go on their rampage. More than once we've had to placate armed police officers and the like,” Helena offered.
   “So where exactly did the reports come from?” Apathy dotted Walter's question mark.
   “Down the end of Old Way.”
   Walter let out an impressed whistle. “Spooky. Good choice.”
   “Okay,” Helena clapped her hands together once, meaning it was time to get down to business. “Walter, I want you to take Kit out to check out the road. Don't deviate into the woods. It's too risky. There aren't any people living out there, so you're not going to save any lives by putting yourselves in too much danger. Just investigate and handle encounters as they come.”
   “What about me?” Susan looked befuddled.
   “You'll continue monitoring the radios. Be sure to have one tuned in on Walter's frequency.”
   “I don't understand,” Susan's face seemed to be turning red, “I always go on missions.”
   “Not today. I need you to listen to the radios.”
   “This is about him, isn't it?” Susan pointed an accusing finger at Kit, who stepped back in surprise.
   “Your recent malice towards Kit did figure into my decision, yes.”
   “This is so much bull shit!” Susan was in an unprecedented rage mode. “I'm a much more experienced singer than he is! He doesn't even know what he's doing! He just opens his mouth and... stuff comes out!”
   “Ms. O'Hara!” Helena's sharp speech brought the rage to an abrupt end. “Your... loud... opinions of Mr. Xxxx have been noted. However, I have complete faith in him and Mr. Indigo. They will be handling this mission. You will be handling surveillance. Understood?”
   “Yes, Doctor...”
   “And I expect you to handle it well, Ms. O'Hara. Your recent track record of letting your feelings affect your work is not good.”
   “Yes, Doctor...”
   Thoroughly chastised, Susan left the room to resume her surveillance duties. Helena sighed wearily.
   “Okay, Walter, be sure to take a flashlight.”
   Kit looked confused. “It's still early afternoon.”
   Walter walked out nonchalantly, not waiting for Kit to follow. “Take her word for it, we're gonna need it.”

   An hour and a half drive took Walter and Kit to the outskirts of town. Office buildings gave way to homes, which soon gave way to trees. Every attempt Kit made at conversation just led to Walter turning the speakers up.
   “Relax, kid, don't you like Pink Floyd?” Kit did not respond. Walter sighed. “Look, it's just that this is the first time I've gotten to go out without Ms. O'Blowhard keeping the mood down. Just enjoy the ride; we're almost there.”
   Prophecy itself could not have been timelier. The trees had been thick for miles, a forest running parallel to the road. Walter parked the car outside a dirt road that led into the forest. Even from the outside, the necessity of a flashlight was apparent. The trees formed a canopy over the road, as if in a concentrated effort to keep light from ever touching it.
   “Okay, kiddo, take the flashlight and stay beside me. You heard Helena, there's no reason for either of us to go out of our way. We'll walk down the road, we'll walk back up the road.”
   “I know that's what Helena told us to do, but we really should find the Yorrenite. If we don't, more people will die.”
   “More people will always die, kid, no matter what you do. Besides, there probably isn't even a Yorrenite out here. Some dead animals don't really mean that much.”
   Kit's final objection was a half hearted sigh. He grabbed the flashlight and slipped out the car. Without even waiting for the sound of Walter's door to close, he ran ahead, turning the flashlight.
   “Hey, wait up!” Walter shouted. “Take your time... damn!”

   It didn't take long for Kit to accommodate Walter's leisurely pace.
   “How long is this road, anyway?” Kit asked.
   “I don't know. I've never gotten to the end before.”
   “Isn't that what, like, the internet is for?”
   “Look like I have a laptop, kid? Shit, even if I did, you think you're gonna find a signal out here?”
   “Speaking of signals, maybe we should report in so they know we're still alive. It's been over an hour.”
   “Yeah. Usually they call first. I wonder why Susan hasn't yet.”
   Kit sighed guiltily.
   “Whatever, kid, it's like I said. Susan is a full on blow hard. Don't let it get to you.” He raised the radio up to his mouth. “Susan, this is Walter and Kit, checking in.” Silence. “Susan, can you hear me?” Static, then silence again. “Susan? ... Looks like we're on our own.”
   Then darkness came. “Damnit, kid, keep the flashlight on.”
   “Uhh... I think it ran out of juice. I'm not getting anything.”
   “Damn. There's no way we're going to be able to find our way back in this darkness. The best plan is to just sit and wait until they notice we're gone. They'll have to send someone out eventually.”
   “Wait a minute. Do you hear that?”
   “What? I don't hear any-- wait, I do. It sounds like singing.”
   “It could be a Yorrenite.”
   “Guess we better check it out. Not like there's anything better to do.” In the darkness, Kit could hear Walter unholstering his gun. Together, they followed the music, abandoning the road for an obstacle course of trees. Not five minutes afterwards did Kit detect the noise of crashing and falling.
   “This isn't going to work,” Walter grumbled. “We know which way we're going, but that's not gonna get us around these trees.”
   “Well, there's one thing we can try...” Kit conceded. He cleared his throat before emitting a low hum. As vibrations coursed through his throat, a dim light emitted from the flashlight.
   “Why didn't you do that earlier?”
   Darkness. “I just thought of it.”
   “Whatever, just keep going.”
   “You know, whoever else is singing will probably hear me.”
   “So we'll all find eachother that much sooner, bang bang, he's dead, we go home!”
   “... Right.” Clearing his throat again, Kit began to sing a wordless song. The notes were light and bouncy, almost as if from a song written for children. As he sang, he could feel energy running down his arm to the flashlight, which was now showing the way much more brightly than even when it had its own power.
   A few more minutes of exploration soon led Kit and Walter to the source of music.
   “I don't get it,” Walter griped, “It sounds like it's right here, but I don't see anything.”
   “I do.” Kit pointed the flashlight at a blue tarp sitting on the ground. From the outside, the outline of a human body could be perceived. Slowly, Walter inched over to the tarp before removing it from the ground. Indeed, a human body had been beneath the tarp. Now he simply lay there, pale, bald, naked and unmoving. The head had been severed, but lay just above the neck none the less.
   “Like I said, kiddo, more people will alway—YAH!” The eyes of the body shot open. A maniacal grin spread across the face. Grabbing the bald head and cradling it at his side, the body jumped to the ground and began dancing in spins and jumps in time to the music, which had suddenly transitioned into a carnival theme.
   “Aaah! Shoot it! Shoot it!” Then darkness once again came.
   “I can't see when you're not singing!”
   “... I can't sing! It's just not coming!”
   “Let me help you with that,” a third voice.
   A spotlight shone from above, its origin a complete mystery. Illuminated by the sudden light was a teenage boy. Pink hair fell flat against his head, long to his shoulders and the bangs just long enough to reach his eyebrows. A black sweatshirt hung off his body, giving way to torn blue jeans and a pair of all black sneakers. At his feet lay the previously dancing body. The head had presumably rolled out of the spotlight.
   “There, all better.” The boy cracked a twisted smirk. “Well, then, you made it!”
   “Who the hell are you?” Walter's grip on his weapon tightened.
   The boy performed a sweeping bow. “My name is ARGH I AM SHITTY WRITER WHO CANT COME UP WITH NAMES FOR HIS CHARACTERS SERIOUSLY FUCK THIS

Discipline Wavering

2007-11-06T01:28:36Z

I've been so tired lately. Even when I get plenty of rest and take care of myself, I'm tired. I feel a strong need to look over my life and priorities and reorganize accordingly. My mind is totally off of NaNo and Disasterstrike. At this point I am not throwing in the towel, but I feel like it may happen unless an attitude change comes soon. My heart just isn't in it right now.

A Milestone of Sorts

2007-11-05T22:12:01Z

Today is the first day of NaNo that more than 3 hours has passed without me hitting my daily quota. This means the pressure will be slightly increased for the rest of the month unless I happen to pump up around 4k in one day. It could happen, but I'm not banking on it.

Quick Tip #2

2007-11-05T07:30:01Z

A good way to increase your discipline in NaNo is to avoid having a blog. If you must blog, don't fill it with pictures of a stunning young man. I wish I had taken this advice.

Quick Tip

2007-11-05T07:28:58Z

There is obviously only so much you can do in this regard, but I believe you'll find your discipline in NaNo will be improved by minimizing the influence of negativity in your life. I try to avoid people who irk me, food I dislike, music that annoys me, anything at all, as much as possible (moreso than usual).

11/04/07 - Condition of the Human Soul

2007-11-04T10:31:10Z

The moon rose and fell in an instant, the sun invading the sky to warrant a new day. Through it all, Kit's sleep was restless. He had told himself that it was a lie; Susan was merely trying to get back at him. But one thought floated through his nightmares. “You just don't know.”
The mere fact that Kit had no idea who his father was prevented him from achieving any rest on the issue. For this reason, he found himself in Helena's office with a very wounded-faced Susan.

   “Ms. O'Hara,” the doctor spoke sternly, “I would have believed that you of all people would recognize the importance of tactical confidentiality.”
   “You mean you all meant to hide this from me!” Kit interjected.
   “This is not the time, Kit.”
   “It is the time because I say so! This is my blood we're talking about! You don't schedule that!”
   “I am the senior agent in this office, Mr. Xxxx.” Helena reminded him.
   “I don't give a damn if your God himself! How long were you planning to hide this from me?”
   “There were certain considerations that had to be addressed before--”
   “Indefinitely.” Susan looked at Kit with dead eyes. “You were to be killed before the issue were to arise.”
   “Wrong! Damnit, Susan, just don't talk for a minute!” Helena took a deep breathe. Kit didn't seem to be breathing at all. “Look, Mr.... Kit. Kit, we recognize that there was a risk factor associated with your lineage, but we have never planned for a situation to arise where it would necessary to... placate you.”
   “Kill me.”
   “No... yes, that's what I meant, but that was not in the plan, despite what Ms. O'Hara,” a stern glance, “may see fit to tell you.”
   “It seems to me that she's the only one who saw fit to tell me anything at all.”
   “It was for your own good, Kit. We had no idea how you might react.”
   “Don't you think that's my choice? I have a right to know! I might be the son of the most dangerous man on Earth!”
   “There's no 'might' about it.”
   “Ms. O'Hara, I have heard quite enough. Please leave this office right now. You may wait outside.”
   Sulking, Susan obediently left, slamming the door behind her.
   “In all my years as the head of this office, I have yet to see her ever behave in this manner. I apologize, Kit, I don't know what has come over her.”
   Kit sighed and slid into a chair behind him without invitation. “Is it true?” he asked meekly.
   “I'm afraid so, Kit.” The docotor sat in the chair behind her desk. “Before we stored his body, we drew some blood from Yorren. Using some blood drawn for the sake of a test done to you at the prison, we managed to establish an 89 percent likelihood that you are indeed Alan Yorren's son.”
   “That's... not really a certainty, is it?”
   “These things are rarely wrong, Kit. Science has come a long way in this field. I know you wish to hold on to some hope, but allow me to dispell that so you eventually move on: you are Alan Yorren's son.”
   “So, what does... wow, that's so messed up. But, I mean... where does that leave me?”
   “I won't lie to you anymore, Kit. You've shown some incredible ability. As you've seen, you are not the only singer in DED, but you are the only one with your kind of growth. Susan spent years to obtain her divining abilities, and your own strength nearly matches hers. I would not be surprised if, in a few years, you could see the future for years ahead... and even alter it.
   “That may come with a cost, I'm a fraid. It's not 100%... nothing ever seems to be.... but we have established a pattern with the male children of Yorrenites... they typically become Yorrenites themselves. There have been exceptions, but... well, you are his son, after all.”
   “I just don't understand. This is so much to take in. Didn't you say that you were not counting on me to not .. snap?”
   Helena smiled kindly at Kit. “Kit, you are not the only one allowed to cling to hope. In fact, you might say that hope is what we represent. Different DED offices offer different philosophies, but here, we offer hope. There was once a world without these needless deaths. There will be again. It is out hope, our duty, to usher that world in.
   “You can be part of that, Kit. You have the potential to be the strongest singer the world has ever known, and I think, if there is any force behind the Yorrenites, they are probably quaking in their boots right now at the thought of you. You represent the end of all of this. You represent hope.”
   “Or I might just represent the end of everything else. What if Susan is right and I do snap? That ... man in the graveyard. He could sing just like I do. He could use that against others. If I'm as strong as you think, don't I pose a threat?”
   “Kit, where do you think a Yorrenite comes from?”
   “Wha... a Yorrenite is just a normal person under... not so normal circumstances. You taught me that.”
   “Yes but what do you think causes those circumstances? There are lots of theories. Some believe it's a disease. We even have a joke name for it: Yorrenitus. When someone calls into the office for a day off, we almost always hear 'Sorry, can't make it. I have a bad case of Yorrenitus today.'” Kit just stared blankly. “It doesn't work out, though. For one, a disease typically has a path. If you mark Yorren as the first victim of this supposed disease, then why is the second recorded Disasterstrike murder in India? We're not perfect, Kit, but no disease spreads that fast without at least a hint of a trail. We would have seen it. Besides that, we've been following this for over three years, and have yet to establish any pattern of transmission. No, if there is such a thing as Yorrenitus, it is beyond the scope of any disease recorded to date.
   “Perhaps it is genetic. The fact that many children of Yorrenites have turned out to be Yorrenites themselves certainly lends credence to this theory. But there have been enough exceptions to destroy that theory as well.
   “There are many more theories. Not a single one has become established. A lack of good testing certainly plays into it. The situation is just much too volatile for the kind of control we need. In the future, we hope to establish that control, but for now we must press on in the face of so much loss. And there is no doubt, this has been a great loss. Not only the deaths of the victims, but of those who become Yorrenite themselves. Those men were fathers and sons. They had families, hobbies, and jobs. They had lives. To be certain, their death is as meaningless as the deaths of those they have killed.
   “But I'm losing focus here. Would you like to hear my theory, Kit?” No response. “Very well. I don't believe that Disasterstrike is caused by a disease, or even by genetics. To be sure, family plays a huge role in it, though. No, Disasterstrike must be the result of one thing. It is a condition of the human soul.”
   “Excuse me?”
   “Oh, I understand. This must all sound so abstract to you, and I understand your desire for certainty. Please consider what I am saying.
   “DED makes a point to investigate the lives of each Yorrenite we apprehend. Even as we speak, Mr. Warren, whom you met in the graveyard, is being run through a very thorough study. Not only his body or his records, but his life. His family is being interviewed. His employers, as well, all the way back to when he bagged groceries for a local supermarket as a teenager. We want to know everything. Did he enjoy his job? Did he love his family? Did his family love him? What kind of pets did he own? How did they pass away?
   “I've personally reviewed each case file. If you ask any other DED agent, they will tell you there is no common factor amongst any of the Yorrenites. I am telling you now that this is absolutely not true.
   “Inner strife, Kit. So very difficult to define. That seems to be the one theme of this whole case. Difficult definitions.
   “So where do I put inner strife? In the heart. It lies solely in the heart. There are people whose entire lives have been nothing but the result of loss, pain, and hardship. And yet these people can push on, face the most difficult situations that bear no hope, and come through with a good heart. Contrarily, a man can achieve easy wealth, own the nicest things, have the most beautiful wife. He will still not be happy. He may believe he is happy, but that does not always necessitate actual happiness.
   “In every case file that has sit on this desk, there is a complete life history. The only way it could be more thorough is if I were the person in question. And always, there is a hint of a bad heart. Always, there is desperation in their lives. Men who would sell their mothers for a dime. Men who beat their children. Men who beat their children because they were beat by their fathers. The list goes on. Sometimes there is only a hint, sometimes it's so obvious that even my boss could see it.”
   “This is a bit much. It all seems so vague.”
   “I don't blame you for thinking that way, Kit, and you stand with the majority by doing so.”
   “So, what would it take to create certainty?”
   “If you were to become a Yorrenite, Kit, I would know that my theory is wrong.”

Theme Song

2007-11-03T23:23:23Z

I really get way too into the "meta' elements of writing. Instead of focusing on word count or plot development, I'll instead fixate on something like "Oh man, this song would go so well with this scene." For example, I was just listening to Syringe by Emilie Autumn, and it clicked. That's totally Disasterstrike's theme song.

But since when did a novel need a theme song?

11/03/07 - Blue Suit, Brown Teeth, Black Soul

2007-11-03T10:51:52Z

    “When people are speaking of the Disasterstrike killings, they are largely referring to those murders that are caused by the Yorrenites. Sometimes a murder by more 'conventional means' is attributed as a Disasterstrike killing, but for the most part, they are one and the same.
   “It is a bit difficult to describe a Yorrenite. Though our organization is formed and based around defeating them, we don't really know anything about their origins or motives.
   “Here's what it comes down to: a Yorrenite is a normal human male, like yourself, who is somehow attributed extra strength, speed, and becomes nearly impervious to pain. Those things in and of themselves mean nothing, until you consider that, upon obtaining these attributes, the person in question goes on nothing short of a rampage.”

   “But we encountered at least twelve of these Yorrenite guys. Susan and Walter shot them all down.”
   Dr. Helena looked up from her notes to face Kit. They were in a room identical to the bland office from before, the key difference being that they each had a desk with notepaper and pens before them.
   “Yorrenites are formidable killers, Kit, but their main strength is also their weakness. They have a single-minded motivation to kill. As a result, they will focus primarily on their target, putting their lives, if you can call them lives, at total risk. And they are not invincible.”
   “So, why do you call them 'Yorrenites,' anyway?”
   “Named after the first recorded Disasterstrike murderer, Alan Yorren. He's notable for several other reasons. The first is that no Yorrenite has been quite as difficult to stop. The second is this: after we did kill him, we kept his body in storage to study. But the next day when we went to retrieve the body... Poof!” Helena threw her hands up in the air. “His body wasn't there! Gone without a trace!
   “We don't know what happened. There have been no sightings of Yorren, but shortly after his dissapearance, reports of Disasterstrike murders have shot up. For these reasons he is known as 'The Father of Disasterstrike.' And therefore, we have Yorrenites.” Helena waited a moment for Kit to finish scrawling notes before continuing. “As you can see, we're working with very little solid information. We don't know where they come from, why they kill, anything except what we have observed in their actions, which leaves me with the final point of this introduction. Yorrenites sing.”
   Kit's head snapped to attention, abandoning all pretenses of taking notes.
   “Oh, yes, Kit, almost as beautifully as you. Perhaps you'd like to hear a small example?” Receiving no answer, Helena took the liberty of retrieving a boom box from beneath her desk and pressing a single button on the top of it. A second passed before Kit found himself coverings his ears desperately. Calmly, Helena stopped the recording. “What's wrong, Kit?”
   “What do you mean 'what's wrong?' That was horrible! Beyond terrible!”
   “Interesting. What did you hear, Kit?”
   “Hear? I hea... heard. I don't know. I just felt like a bunch of bombs in my head were all exploding at once. I thought I was going to die.” Kit paused for a moment. “I would have done anything to get rid of that feeling.”
   “Anything?”
   “Absolutely anything.”

   Given his introduction, Kit was made to take a variety of “alternative” training courses. Instead of weapons training, he was granted a singing course. He was also made to take meditation and yoga classes.
   “I don't get it,” he confided to Helena once. “I know that somehow my singing is supposed to be of some benefit, but I never get that feeling during these classes.”
   “It's not a class in deity symphonics, Kit. Just enjoy it for what it is.”
   “But why?”
   “Why not? Your singing is so moving. You should be grateful for this chance. You're getting paid to learn to sing! And who knows? It may prove useful in the future.”

   “Do you know how to use this thing?” Walter held a pistol towards Kit.
   Kit's face soured as he reached for the weapon. “Not really. I've been taking singing classes.”
   Walter placed the gun in his own holster. “Tough cookies, kiddo. Hope you can sing really loud.”
   “There's no need for concern, Mr. Xxxx. This is merely a patrol run. There are certain locations that many Yorrenite sightings seem to stem from.”
   “Which locations?”
   “Graveyards, Mr. Xxxx. But don't worry. We hardly ever encounter any Yorrenites on these runs.”
   “How often?”
   “Not very often...”
   “How often?”
   Susan looked genuinely upset for the first time since Kit had met her. “About half the time... if you round down.”

   Kit found himself in the backseat of a blue Ford Taurus for the purpose of this trip.
   “This thing turns like shit,” Walter complained. “I really prefer that limo.”
   “You go to war with the family car you have, Mr. Indigo, not the symbol of wealth and status you might want.”
   Kit interjected. “Wouldn't it make more sense to be riding in some all-black, fancy, government vehicle?”
   “How naïve. Mr. Indigo, please take a note down so that I may remember to arrange for Mr. Xxxx to take some critical thinking training.”
   “Driving...”
   “I'm surrounded by incompetence. To answer your query, Mr. Xxxx, while DED is not strictly a secret organization, we find it's better to not draw too much attention to ourselves. The Disasterstrike Murders are very high profile in the media and we'd rather not be hampered by unwanted fame. Therefore, this vehicle. We blend in perfectly.”
   “I look like I'm kidnapping some children to take to my den of very bad things.”
   “I assure you, Mr. Indigo, that both Mr. Xxxx and I are adults.”
   “Barely.”
   Kit found it in himself to interrupt once again. “What about the limo? That was hardly an attempt at blending in.”
   “More-so than you might think, Mr. Xxxx. Anyone paying any amount of attention, and people do pay attention, will notice that we came in as a party of one, and left as a party of three. In this case, we wanted to create the illusion that perhaps you were a high profile inmate, as opposed to a government recruit.”
   “I don't really see how that's much better.”
   “Well, you're only a child. It's to be expected that you can't understand these things, Mr. Xxxx.”
   “I'm an adult!”
   “Barely.”

   What followed was a tour of the city's graveyards. The three agents would park, enter a graveyard, and cover every square inch. Walter seemed to do the most investigating, painstakingly reviewing details about each gravestone and tree that Kit would only ever glance over. Susan's contribution must have been notable as well. She did not inspect as closely as Walter, but her gaze portrayed an intensity and focus unmatched by the most dedicated cram school student.
   Kit's effort involved resisting the temptation to yawn. Unsuccesfully, each gasp and sigh punctuated by a dissaproving glare from Susan, whose stare never lost its intensity. Kit could swear he felt his heart stop once or twice.
   As before, boredom gave way to humming. Aware of his companions, Kit let little more than a rumble emerge from his throat. No complaints were offered, so he continued as they searched each graveyard.
   Though truly he was humming quietly, the graveyard soon filled with a melancholic elegy, a tribute to the dead of the past and those that would die in the future. As the music flowed from Kit, the dimensions of the graveyard seemed to shift. At first he thought he was imagining it, but the way Walter's search slowed and Susan's gaze turned to that of mute concern confirmed it. Their surroundings were moving about that Individual gravestones would grow smaller and larger. The air in front of them would shimmer and shake as if it were a piece of fabric blowing in the wind.
   It was then that Kit realized his voice was not the only one lending itself to the music. Beside him Susan was singing. Her voice was light and mournful, filled with sorrow and emotion. The shifting objects slowed, as if settling into their new shapes.
   With their voices combined, the air filled with loss, then regret, then finally joyous release. The grass greened and grew around them. The trees blew as farewells in the wind.
   Then the song died, joining the residents of the cemetery in memory.
   “Get ready,” Susan's voice wavered.
   “What's going on?”
   Walter gave a Kit a sideways glance. “Susan is an Auger. If she says 'get ready' then we--”
   “Get ready, Walter!”
   In a flash, Susan and Walter each had their weapons unholstered and ready. “He'll be here any minute n--”
   Then Kit started screaming.
   His world was filled with pain and fear. He clawed at his ears, his hair, his eyes. Desperation filled his sight and his lungs. “Make it go away! That sound! Anything but this!”
   And in the midst of it all, Walter's voice boomed. “You want to make it go away?” He pushed Kit forward. “Then sing!”
   Song like purifying fire sprang unbidden from Kit's mouth. The graveyard once again filled with music. Euphonious melody clashed with lecherous clicks and bangs. Soulful piano notes sprung across the sky in defiance of audial scratches and grotesque gurgles.
   The music was from Kit, but the noises were beyond those of natural human design. He was not singing a song. He was summoning music before him.
   The world became him and his enemy. Before him stood a man in a blue office suit stained with blood. His hands were crimson where they once tore at flesh and muscle. And his lips. His lips were stained deeper than the darkest clown's lipstick. A grin spread across his face, betraying deep brown teeth. As he laughed, the opposing noise grew. Then the words came.

No'duk esper tangineterstaf
Orasd fluad'd nievler

   At the edge of reality, Kit could hear voices, muted against his perception.
   “He can't do this much already, Susan. It's too soon. Shoot the Yorrenite.”
   “We must observe longer. Remain calm. Mr. Indigo.”

No'duk esper tangineterstaf
Orasd fluad'd nievler

   “If this keeps up he'll die.”
   “We will wait.”

No'duk esper tangineterstaf
Orasd flua

    The world exploded. A crack broke through all senses, causing a ripple in noise as well as sight. Blackness filled Kit's eyes, leaving only his enemy in space. Then the enemy had no head and Kit was sitting in a cemetary. Susan and Walter were standing over him and a man in a blue, blood-stained office suit lie dead a few feet away from them.
    “He could have made it. He could have learned so much.”
    “By the looks of things he may yet still die, Susan. This wasn't right.”
    “Are you so sure of that, Walter? Would it be that great of a lo--”

    “I must s kt you ertan ayv it y ull.”
    Kit's vision granted him blurry light. Impossible patterns filled his eyes. “What?” he croaked.
    “I said you certainly gave it your all. Not that Walter and Susan couldn't have hadn't handled it on their own, but it's a lot quicker waiting for you to wake up than it is waiting for Walter's bones to knit.” Helena's voice.
    “I'm grateful for that myself,” Walter noted.
    “We did not expect an enemy of that strength.” Susan added.
    “Ah, but it must have been so glorious!” Helena exclaimed. “The forces of good and evil, imposing their wills through music! An orchestra of justice versus despair! If only I were there.”
    “You should have heard the bang that brought the bastard down.” Walter blew imaginary smoke from his fingertips.
    “Indeed.” Helena pursed her lips. “I'd like to know where you managed to acquire explosive rounds and a weapon to fire them.”
    “I bet you would.”
    “I can't hide your dirty work forever, Walter. One of these days one of the higher ups are going to notice that these Yorrenites were not killed via approved methods.”
    “That will be an interesting day,” Walter mused.
    “Hmph... How are you feeling, Kit?”
    Kit sat up and looked around. “Pretty okay, actually. I feel like I could go another round.”
    Helena laughed and patted Kit on the back. “No need for that, but I'm glad you're doing well. Why don't you head back to apartments. If I recall correctly, you do have training tomorrow.”
    “Ooh,” Kit moaned, “Then again maybe I'm not feeling so well.”
    Helena playfully shoved at Kit. “Just go. I have reports to write and you're all distracting me. One must be miserable to write reports, after all, so leave, the lot of you.”

    “I just don't get the point,” Kit confided. Walter had broken away from the group at the first sign of a liquor store (“Sucks to be you kids.”), leaving Kit and Susan to return to their designated housing alone. Each agent had previously been granted their own studio apartment in the same building.
    “The point is to rid mankind of the threat of the Yorrenites. Really, Mr. Xxxx, your naivety never ceases to astound.”
    “Yeah, whatever, but what's with all the singing? Can you even call it singing?”
    “Call it what you wish.”
    “Why do you always have to be so cold?”
    “I am not cold. You are merely... needy.”
    Kit barked a laugh. “Needy? That'll be the day. Why don't you just admit your more rigid than a pinecone with a stick up its ass?”
    The clicking of shoes against floor tiles as they ascended the apartment building stairwell served as sharp disapproval to Kit's statement. Soon they had reached Susan's doorway, a few apartments away from Kit's own.
    “You know, Kit,” she hissed, her back to his, “We don't need you. You aren't the only singer and you certainly are not the best, not matter what Helena may say to you.”
    “You say that, but you guys were pretty eager to have me on the team.”
    “Well, we have to keep an eye on you, after all.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Who knows when you'll crack. Walter and I must be ready to kill you when that happens.”
    “Wha...”
    “After all, you are the son of Alan Yorren.”
    A moments silence seemed to fill an eternity.
    “Goodnight, Mr. Xxxx.” Susan's door clicked shut.

Knowledge

2007-11-03T09:22:08Z

Nothing like trying to create a reasonably believable story to make you realize what you don't know. Case in point: music. I don't know anything about music aside from what I like and what I do not like. Take a look at the first couple of paragraphs. You can count the amount of music terms that I know on one hand. Thank god for english courses that taught me words like "cacophonous."

The fine people behind NaNoWriMo thankfully have a "Plot Realism" forum on their site. I have yet to run any of my own questions by them, but just reviewing the threads there is entertaining and enlightening. If you ever wanted to know about the personality of alpacas or a good cheap hotel rate, the NaNo forums have you covered.

11/02/07 - Sing As If Your Life Depended On it

2007-11-02T10:06:25Z

    Susan grabbed at the door handle, pulled the latch, and pushed at the door.
   Nothing happened.
   “Goddamnit!” Aiming her weapon, Susan fired a single shot at the door window. An unholy scream from outside leaked in through the window's new hole.
   Kitt was forced to cover his ears. “What in the hell!?” A low, deep humming filled the air.
   There was no time to respond. A sickening thud turned the single bullet hold into a large crack in the window. Blood smeared the glass. Another thud. The crack grew. A third. A bloodied hand broke through the glass, reaching at air. Susan fired another shot, causing the hand to dissapear out the window, its owner howling.
   Without hesitation, she pushed the door open and slammed it shut in a single motion, leaving Kit alone in the limo. The vehicle shook again a couple of times. Gunfire and howling meshed together to form a cacophonous orchestra of mortality. With each bullet fired, the limo's movements slowed a bit more, as if each shot was robbing the vehicle itself of life.

A crackling noise erupted from behind Kit's head, followed by Susan's voice. “Kit!” Another gunshot, magnified by the radio. “Get out here now!”
   “Are you insane!? I'm not going out there. I don't have a gun!” Two more shots were fired. The howling erupted again.
   “Goddammit, Kit, if you're making excuses in there I can't hear you! Get out now or so help me God I will let these bastards get you!”
   Kit took a moment to observe his surroundings. The windows on all sides of him were broken and bloodied. The attackers weren't fighting Susan. They were trying to get inside the entire time.
   Before he could make the decision to leave, the door to his left popped open. A bloodied hand reached at him. Kit could not scramble back fast enough. The offending hand grabbed the collar of his uniform and pulled him out, leaving him to fall face-first on the ground. The stench of vomit and drying blood invaded his nostrils. Kit scrambled to his feet, wiping fluids off his face in vain. Everything he touched merely got stickier and stinkier.
   Before he could properly absorb his surroundings, as much as such surroundings can be absorbed, a gun was shoved into his face.
   “Mr. Xxxx, if you value your life,” said Susan, “You will sing.”
   “What? What?”
   Susan raised her hand as if to smack Kit in the face.
   “Give it up, Susan. This is too much for a newbie like him.” That voice. Kit turned around to find the guard from the prison. His uniform was replaced by a blue, hooded sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. “Let's just get out of here before more of them come.” Armed and surrounded by the bodies of dead men, he still spoke as if he didn't care about anything.
   Susan sighed and holstered her weapon and smoothed her skirt in front of her. “Mr. Xxxx, I understand that you are new to this operation, but we expect results in an efficient manner. This is not a game.”
   Kit's response was to bend over and vomit.
   “He'll need more shots,” Walter observed.

   Waking up, he found himself in the most sterile lobby that man could muster. The room was a painfully boring beige without a hint of dust or decoration. He sat in the one chair on top of a plain brown carpet. A small table sat next to him, but there wasn't so much as a lamp or a magazine. There were no windows. Just a brown door. A single lightbulb on the ceiling illuminated the room, though not well enough. Kit rubbed his eyes in a futile attempt to adjust.
   “Ah, Mr. Xxxx, you're awake!”
   Kit looked to the left to face the voice. A woman with white hair, yet a youthful face, stood facing him. A white lab coat covered her body, showing only her feet which were clad in small black dress shoes. She carried a white clip board. Noting his response, she dutifully checked something off.
   “Who are you?”
   “My name is Dr. Helena. You may just call me Helena.”
   “Don't you have a last name?”
   “That is my last name.”
   “What am I doing here?”
   “Oh, great question. What are we all doing here? What is the purpose that drives us to inhale day in and day out? What quest drives us to persevere through difficulty yet allows us to maintain mediocrity in our daily lives? It really is fascinating, and it's a good sign that you're asking questions like that.”
   “Um... I mean in this room.”
   Helena's face became downcast. With a frown, she checked off another mark on the contents of her board.
   “This is an examination. Today we will be seeing what kind of attitude and abilities you have to offer the Disasterstrike Elimination Division, or as I like to call it, 'DED.'”
   “Huh. Pronounced 'dead.' I like that.”
   Another check. Kit scratched the back of his head and looked around nervously.
   “Though you have already participated in a little encounter with the enemy, you have not yet been granted membership here at DED. Your responses will determine how and if you can help DED.”
   Kit sighed. “I'm already failing, aren't I?”
   “Questions like that certainly aren't helping your chances, Kit. May I call you Kit?” As she answered, she scribbled some notes down.
   “Umm.. Maybe I don't really want to join DED. I mean, that was some pretty freaky stuff back there.”
   “Oooh, very good point, Kit. Cognitive consideration is certainly a plus. But you don't want to hear things like this. Tell me, what would you do if you didn't join DED?”
   “Go back to prison, I suppose. I'm under the impression I don't really have a choice here.”
   “And if you did?”
   “I...” Kit was a bit taken aback. “I had never considered that. I guess for the past couple of days I've been living in a world where there was only prison, and afterwards, Disasterstrike.”
   “You would be surprised how many people think just like that, Kit. Every day, people around the world are settling for what they already have. The concept of possibility has completely escaped the minds that comprise our culture.”
   “Yeah, I guess I see what you mean. We all just kind of settle for the daily grind, don't we?”
   “Not you, though. Your history indicates a life of ambition. You pushed forward in every curricular activity you approached, and you certainly did not lack approach. I'm guessing you intended to make something of yourself. A politician, maybe?”
   “Artist, actually. I wanted to paint.”
   “That's surprising.”
   “I'm actually pretty good at it.”
   Helena shook her head. “That's not what I mean. You said 'wanted.' Did you lose that particular ambition, Kit?”
   “Um... no, I guess not. It's just that other stuff happened...”
   “I see. You're the kind of person who has the attitude that things happen to you.”
   “Well, there was James, not to mention Rose...”
   “Did they take your ambition from you?”
   “No, it's just that... You know how it is.”
   “I'm afraid I don't. How is it, Kit?”
   “They always needed something! It's so infuriating. It's like, Hello! I have a life to live too!”
   “Did they force you to sacrafice your own life for theirs?”
   “Exactly!”
   “How so?”
   “Well, James would always get into some sort of trouble, and he didn't quite have my... er-- You see, he would...”
   “If I may interject, Kit, it seems to me that you allow yourself to be coerced into undesirable situations.”
   “How do you mean?”
   “Well, this, for example. How did you end up in this room?”
   “I don't know. I just ended up here...”
   “Exactly.” Dutifully, Helena checked off yet another mark on her clipboard. “Well, I think that about covers it. If you could just wait here for a few moments, please.”
   “Not like I have anywhere better to be.”
   “Are you certain of that?”
   Before Kit could respond, the doctor had left. He was alone with his thoughts, which was really what he wanted least at this point. Sighing, he brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from his jeans.
   “Wait a minute...” They were certainly his clothes, and they certainly had been cleaned since the encounter at the limo. Sighing, he stood up and began stretching his arms and back. “Fucking weird group. Feh, that doesn't even begin to cover it.”
   Each minute seemed to be an hour in the bland room. He paced. He stretched. He sat. He did jumping jacks. And finally, when there was nothing else left to do, he hummed. As his throat vibrated, relief seemed to come to him. His mind cleared and his heart lifted.
   Soon, humming gave way to whistling. The notes were weak at first, but with practice he soon pierced the air with sweet, clear noise. Color seemed to fill the room as he began to pace whistling the tune that granted him relief.
   The voice returned to him. The urgency and nagging was gone. Now it coaxed him. It was telling him about himself. It told a tale of freedom and potential. Before him stood the world, ready for his presence and his touch, wherever he may grant it. He did have better places to be.
   So he sang.
   The words had no clear meaning, yet they bore the message he needed. A voice that was not his emerged from his his heart and from his soul. He could see the world clearly now. It lay before him, clearer than day.
   So he changed the words.
   The world shifted. It bobbed and it morphed in time to his song. Slowly at first. His voice deepened. The volume increased. From his music came his will and his desire. He would leave now. He had better places to be.
   The door slammed shut. The music stopped and the world slipped from his grasp. Kit was in that dull room that lacked character of any sort. But now he was not alone.
   “I don't suppose, Mr. Xxxx, that you could have found it in yourself to bring that performance to bear during our earlier encounter?” Susan asked. She was wiping tears from her eyes with a handkerchief.
   “What... what was I doing?” Kit looked around him, dumbfounded at his own performance.
   Helena bent over to retrieve her clipboard from the ground. Sniffling, she scribbled something and handed the clipboard to Kit.

“Signature from Dr. Helena Helena indicates that cosigner is fit and prepared to begin training and duty for the Disasterstrike Elimination Division. Signature of the cosigner indicates agreement of this, as well as acceptance of the obligations and duties as an agent of the Disasterstrike Elimination Division.”

   Below the statement was Helena's scrawled signature, slightly runny with tears.
   Helena wiped her eyes with a sleeve before laying a hand on Kit's shoulder. “You have somewhere better to be now.”
   Kit dutifully nodded before accepting a pen from the doctor and signing in a final marked scrawl.

Music

2007-11-02T03:12:40Z

There are many tricks to maintaining an ideal writing environment. It's largely an individual matter. For me, I like to play music that serves as a soundtrack to my story. If I'm writing a peaceful scene, I need peaceful music. If I'm writing an action scene, I need music that is appropriately frantic.

It can get very specific. If style or pace of a fight is chaotic, the music needs to match. Not just any old rock song will work.

For Disasterstrike, I'm finding that I draw the most from Diablo Swing Orchestra. Their music is appropriately heavy in a prog-metal sort of way, but that "swing" element also gives it a certain amount of pseudo-jazzy class that I hope carries over into my story. The best example will be in the character of Walter Indigo.

Walter is a man of his work, though his casual nature makes him appear less passionate than you'd expect. He enjoys the pleasures of life and living, yet he's very capable, bringing an intensity to his work that doesn't show in his personality.

Another artist I've been utilizing a lot is Emilie Autumn. Her work is very gothic and beautiful. A talented singer and musician both. Her stuff can be quite intense in a more haunting sort of way. When I think of "the tune," I think of Emilie Autumn. Her music really represents the soul of all the characters in Disasterstrike. Since I will be delving into the nature of KIt's soul in the future, I feel that this is an important translation, especially since music plays a role in the story as well as out.

Preparedness

2007-11-01T11:42:39Z

Even though NaNoWriMo is focused on dynamically producing a story, there is something to be said for preparation. If I had given NaNo it's due pre-November thought, I wouldn't have such glaring plot holes (how did the police get involved in James and Kit's crime?) and Kit would have a last name by now. Hell, you might even get to know what he looks like.

In my future NaNo adventures, I will plan the stages of my story and my characters, while maintaining a philosophy of flexibility.

11/01/07 - In and Out

2007-11-01T11:35:28Z

It was a tune he knew well. A melodious lure, it drew him into any state he needed. Calm before panic. Motivation in the face of sloth. When he hummed it, the tune came out nondescript and jarring, cacophonous and yet inspired. It twisted any sense of order into a perverse series of unexpected shifts in pitch, speed, consistency; rather, it lacked any of these things as it carried the listener away from the concept of mere sound.

   In his mind, the twisted tune revealed its full glory. A thundering, sweeping melody that was more. It was a pure force driving out fear, hesitance, and panic. When he allowed his mind to wander to that tune, God became fully realized in his mind. Possibility and limitation would clash in a flurry of notes and noises and in the end, possibility was the ultimate victor. He would transcend his body, the world, all obstacles, the universe; he would transcend himself and fully embody and become the very spirit of creation. Nothing could ever stand in his way because all was he and he was all.
   All heights could be jumped, all forces stopped, all obstacles pushed over as if a mere thought were all it required.
   So why!? Why did he have to forget it at that time of all times? Sitting in the cold darkness, he glanced at the person who could be his new best friend or maybe even more. He shuddered. Was it the thought that chilled him or the lack of proper heat?
   Laying back, he cursed the stone slab that would be his only source of leisure. His lids, heavy with days of anxious sleeplessness, came to a close, though sleep would not find him quite yet. Instead, his mind wandered. Not to that tune, woefully, but to those cursed events where he perhaps needed it most.

   “We aren't the only survivors.” Jack bared his teeth in a caricature of a smile as he brushed dirty brown bangs from his clear, blue eyes. Somehow, Kit doubted Jack was capable of genuine happiness. He seemed to live off trouble, the kind that seemed harmless at the onset but always grew to envelop himself and others (“Usually myself,” Kit mused in despair) in slightly more tangible danger. Jack noted the impatience in Kit's eyes, let out a tiny hissing noise that resembled laughter, and continued. “This is how it works. We need to get into contact with the others, before 'they' do.” Jack shuddered, his muscular frame curling and releasing in spasms at the thought. “Contamination sets in approximately 32 hours, so we have some time if we're smart about it. After that, if the zombies so much as see--”
   “Shut up!” Kit threw a stray pebble lamely at Jack's freckled face. “I'm so sick of your games. Your games are what got us into this mess. Do you have even a tiny idea of what kind of trouble we are in? When they find us--”
   “Theeeey,” Jack interrupted.
   “Excuse me?”
   “You have to stress it when you say 'they' or 'them.' It makes it more dramatic. Owch!” Another pebble bounced off his face. “Stop it!” he whined ineffectually.
   “Shut up or I swear to God I will step right outside with a big red flag and yell until they come right by with their blinking red and blue lights and arrest us.”
   “Well, at least it will be all over like you want...”
   “No! No! They can't find us! I'm not going to jail for your stupid game!”
   Jack laughed and scratched his neck. Though youthful features graced both the boys' faces, maturity was already beginning to show in the form of light brown facial hair. Though it was barely noticeable, Kit always begrudged Jack's symbol of maturity, a virtue that Kit seemed to hold over Jack.
   “They can't arrest us, Kit! You gotta relax, man!”
   “Relax? Relax!? We aren't children anymore, James! We're adults. Legally... adults! The full mark of the law will be used against us! We don't get to go home free!” Kit jumped to his feet, dust flying out around him. Somewhere in the ruins of the church, a mouse squeaked its dismay at the intruders. “They will put us away for a very... very... fucking... long time!”
   “It's just graffiti. I wouldn't even call it graffiti. It's more like art.”
   “Who gives a good god damn about the fucking graffiti?! No one! No one, Jack! God, are you fucking insane!? Were you there when you pushed the guy!? He was using a cane. He didn't get up!”
   “I was a little busy trying to get away, Kit. I'm sure he'll be fine.”
   The dust settled with their voices. A moment of silence puncuated by the occasional rodent squeak. “He'll be fine, right, Kit?”
   “He didn't open his eyes,” Kit whispered.
   “What?”
   “There was blood, and he didn't open his eyes, and he didn't get up.”
   “Oh God.”
   “Yeah.”
   “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. We can't wait here. They'll find us. We've been yelling. They're probably waiting for us outside right now. We gotta run.”
   Kit took two steps forward and slapped Jack straight across the face. A sharp piercing noise that signaled the end of the world.
   And then it came back to life.
   “Think. If they are waiting outside like you say, we can't just run out.”
   “Right, of course. Oh, Jesus tap dancing Christ, get us out of here, Kit. Please, please, please. You're a smart guy. You're the smart one. You can do it. You've always been the smart one, getting us out of trouble.”
   “It's okay, Jack. I have a plan.”
   “Kit?”
   “Run.”
   “What?”
   “Run!”
   Kit grabbed Jack's wrist and pulled with all his might, running out the door. Running towards the light.

   He laughed to himself, a small rumble that, nevertheless, managed to disturb his new companion. “Quiet, shit face, or I'll give you something to really laugh about.”
   “You know,” Kit slurred, sleep finally coming to claim him in the cold dark, “if you think you see the light, you should turn the other way.”
   “What the fuck are you talking about, shit face?”
   But he was already asleep.

   The light was the first thing he saw. Then the sillhouette. “Get up. You have a visitor.”
   “Wha?”
   “Get up. You have a visitor. Get up.”
   “Who would come to visit me?”
   “Who gives a shit?”
   “Exactly.”

   The guard led Kit down a hall, then down a flight of stairs whose squeaking indicated imminent malfunction. Out a metal door and through a hallway that was slightly more presentable. Paint on the walls that wasn't totally eaten away by lack of care.
   “Stop letting everything bother you.” The guard looked down at Kit, his face betraying only apathy.
   “Easy for you to say.”
   “Everything will change.”
   “What are you talking about?”
   “It's the nature of things. You'll see.”
   “Whatever, man.”

   The visitor was a young woman, a girl really. Long, jet black hair flowed to her waist in neat form, clear to reveal her pale face and brown eyes. Her mouth was taut with an adult seriousness that Kit had only seen in authority figures from his school days. A white blouse was covered by an unbuttoned yet tidy blue jacket. A single, red bow rested at an angle on top of her head, though somehow it failed to relieve her of her marked maturity. Kit imagined that not even a teddy bear and a summer dress could make her look childish enough to match her own age.
   The guard tapped Kit's shoulder and pointed to a red board with white print marked “Visiting Rules” then walked away, his pace maintaining apathetic leisure.
   “Thank you for coming.” Her voice was sharp, but not harsh. It would be melodious if she didn't deliver it with such indifference and straightforwardness.
   Kit shrugged and tugged at the too-tight orange jumpsuit that was standard issue for inmates. “You caught me at an unusually free moment.” He was not rewarded with any notable reaction.
   “My name is Susan O'Hara. You are here because you are being granted an opportunity to serve mankind.”
   “Actually, I'm here for manslaughter.”
   “I'm going to have to ask you to maintain a reasonable level of seriousness, Mr. Xxxx.”
   Kit raised his head and straightened his mouth in mock seriousness.
   “Deadly.”
   “Quite.” She left no clue to her meaning. “I am representing the Federal Bureau of Investigations for this visit, Mr. Xxxx.”
   “Yeah? Can I see a badge?”
   “No. I am here to make you an offer.”
   “And if I refuse?”
   “Please, Mr. Xxxx, you are smarter than this. Listen to the offer before opening your very capable mouth.”
   “Kit.”
   “Excuse me?”
   “My name is Kit.”
   “I am aware, Mr. Xxxx. As I was saying, we are prepared to offer you total absolution from your very serious crime in return for your service.”
   “The FBI doesn't have that kind of power.”
   “In most situations you would be correct. However, I am part of that division which has... marked influence.”
   “And which division would that be?”
   “Are you familiar with the Disasterstrike Murders?”
   “Who isn't?” Images flashed in his mind. Newspaper headlines and talking heads on television describing gruesome killing after gruesome killing. Men, seemingly sane by all rights, suddenly driven to amazing acts of murder. Rumors said they were invincible. One popular line of gossip described one such encounter where a man killed two fully grown black bears. There really was no official opinion on whether or not the killer survived that particular encounter.
   “So, wait just a moment,” Kit ventured, “That means you...”
   “Yes. I am an agent of the Disasterstrike Elimination Division.”
   “Prove it.”
   “It's not my business to prove anything to you, Mr. Xxxx. I am merely here to inform you that you are invited and encouraged to join the Disasterstrike Elimination Division.”
   “Why me?”
   “Frankly...”
   “Yes?”
   “You have nothing to lose.”

   Something kept on scratching at the back of his head. A tiny voice was trying to warn him of a very obvious flaw in all this, but he just could not summon the resources to hear or heed it. There were plenty of others things to worry about. The unpleasantly thorough body search. The scratchy uniform that felt too restrictive. Oh, and the shots. Can't forget the shots. All those shots.
   “You know, I was thinking, why can't you just put the ingredients for all of the shots into one super shot so that I don't start springing leaks.”
   “Are you serious?”
   “Yeah. It seems pretty obvious to me.”
   The doctor shook her head before removing yet another needle from its place on the counter. “Okay, this one is going to hurt...”

   It wasn't until he woke up in the back of an unfamiliar limousine in front of the ever serious Susan O'Hara that it occurred to him.
   “I'm not the only one there who had lost his entire life. You haven't really explained why I was given this opportunity.”
   “It would have been prudent of you to consider a point like this before obligating yourself in this manner, Mr. Xxxx.”
   “Well?”
   “Suffice it to say, you are not the only member of Disasterstrike Elimination that was recruited in your particular manner. Besides...”
   “Yes?”
   “There are those who are not entirely... unsympathetic.”

   He had been humming that tune for as long as he could remember. It was as if he was born knowing its unique flow, or lack there of. It seemed to have gone without a trace now. Slowly, it was being replaced by its virtual opposite. An uncontrollable creeping dread put to sound that lurked in the back of his mind. It robbed him of his focus.
   Focus was exactly what he needed at this juncture.

   The limo stopped with an unprecedented suddenness, hurtling Kit's unsecured body forward into Susan. Their heads collided comically. “Walter!” Susan barked, “What's the situation?” A voice that was oddly familiar to Kit broke through on a radio attached to the girl's waist, hooked to a loose-hanging belt. Casually it explained:
   “Yorrenites are blocking the path. I can't get through.”
   “How many?”
   “At least a dozen.”
   “Together? They've never shown any organization before.”
   “Yorrenites?” Kit interrupted. “What's going on?”
   Susan withdrew a pistol from a holster attached to the other side of her waist. “You're first mission. Get ready.”
   “What's ready?”
   “For the sake of this mission, ready means staying put and shutting up. Wait here.”
   The limo began to rock side to side, gently at first, then more frantically.
   The radio hissed. “Susan! They have surrounded the vehicle!”
   “I'm ready. We will force our way out then engage the unit as a two-man pincer.”
   “I understand. On your signal.”
   “Now!”

Welcome

2007-11-01T11:27:35Z

Greetings and welcome to my NaNoWriMo LiveJournal. NaNoWriMo is a yearly writing event that begins and spans every November. The goal of every participant is to write 50,000 words for a novel. I have decided to start a blog to share my story and my experiences writing said story for 2007.

I have participated in NaNoWriMo only one year previously, in 2005. I did not meet the 50,000 word goal, but I have learned a lot about what it takes. What does it take, you ask?

Discipline. The nature of NaNoWriMo means that I don't need to worry about details that slow me down when I'm writing. All I have to worry about is putting my heart into 50,000 words. That leaves room for lots of discipline, and you sure need it. Depending on your creative output, getting that many words into a month can be a daunting task. In my opinion, the trick is making sure I get at least 2,000 words into my story every day.

Why 2,000? Well, it's just rounding up. It gives me a buffer. All the discipline in the world can't account for the fact that real life just happens sometimes. By putting in 2,000 words every day that I can, I hope to account for most of the time I will miss.

So what is my story? Poorly planned.

Just kidding (kinda). Inspired by a dream I had less than a week ago, Disasterstrike is a sci-fi/fantasy thriller. It tells of a young man who must face many demons. Some will be from his past. Some will come to him in the future. And many are very tangible and out for blood. Disasterstrike portrays a modern world being slowly torn by a mysterious series of murders that span the globe. How will a culture that finds value in safety and freedom reconcile this change? Well, hell if I know. I came up with this less than a week ago.

Everything I write here is for my own gratification. I am sharing it with you because I am gratified by attention.