Analognovelist
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This would be my new fan fic that I'm screwin with. Sorry if it isn't straight action from beginning.. but I'm an english major so I had to throw some character work and exposition in there or I just couldn't feel right about it. Enjoy. OH and there's some language.
Awake.
Flickering neon lights, the musty smell of dust mites, a gentle rocking motion.
Lars’ hands shot out in front of him, fists clenched at ready. It was an old reflex from waking up in too many bloody situations.
His fists unclenched as he realized nothing was going to lunge at him out of the murky haze of his just waking eyes.
Unlike the jungles and harsh urban landscapes that he had become so used to waking up in, Lars found himself in slightly more pleasant surroundings.
A train car.
“**** me,” he said aloud.
A man in his late fifties with tired eyes and white whisps of hair sticking out of his ears turned to face Lars.
“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” It was a tone utterly bereft of emotion.
In one swift motion Lars lunged forward and gripped the man around the collar of his faded blue jumpsuit.
“I don’t need your lip old man, you have 10 seconds to explain to me where the hell I am, and how I got here, or I’m going to get awfully cranky.”
He didn’t seem phased by the outburst.
“Well, I can tell you for sure you’re on the M Line leading into City 17. In regards to the how you got here question, that might be more of an issue for a priest than an old broken down mechanic.”
Lars didn’t seemed pleased with an answer.
“Five minutes ago I’m sitting on my couch eating an egg salad sandwich and watching bass fishing and some asshole in a blue suit just barges in out of nowhere and tells me he has a job for me. Next thing I know, everything goes black and I’m here. You wanna tell me how a priest could explain that one gramps,” Lars said in a tone barely above a growl.
“You’re right buddy, you don’t need a priest, you need a shrink.”
Another response that didn’t seem to tickle Lars’ fancy. He ran his hands through his hair, burying his face in his palms.
“Okay, could you spare me the “I’m a tough old man who makes wise cracks” bit for just long enough to tell me where the hell City 17 is?”
Hearing this, the old man looked at Lars as if he’d walked into the train car wearing tin foil on his head.
“Southern Lithuania”
Lars nodded incredulously.
“So I somehow got from upstate New York to Southern Croatia in the blink of an eye.”
“Well, a blink of your eye, not necessarily everyone else’s”
Lars was beginning to suspect the old man knew more than he was letting on, but decided to drop the issue. He’d met men like that before, they’d only say as much as they wanted to, and Lars had the feeling the old man had reached his limit.
Lars scanned the car for any other passengers he could interrogate, but found none. It was just him, the old man, and a whole lot of questions.
He sat back in his seat and tried to get his head straight by looking out of the window. The sun was just rising over the horizon, and it cast a icy blue light across the gently swaying fields that flew past the window. The sight of it soothed Lars.
He let his shoulders and eye brows sag, shook his head lightly from side to side and took a deep breath, while counting to fifteen. It was old stress relief technique he’d learned from a friend in the NSA.
In moments he felt his head clear and his ability to think return to him.
“What in the hell was going on?”
His mind reeled through every possible explanation. Everything from government kidnapping to alien abduction but none of it seemed to fit.
His thought process was interrupted by the lurch of the train beginning to slow to a halt. Like a weed growing up through the cracks in a sidewalk, City 17 seemingly popped up out of the nothingness of the Lituanian countryside. Massive stone buildings loomed on the horizon, relics of the era of Soviet dominance.
“The Reds sure did love shit big,” Lars muttered to himself. The old man nodded in agreement.
The train’s breaks screamed as it lurched to a halt in a towering train station with dusty, weather worn skylights far above.
It looked pretty much like any other Eastern European train station, big, square, gray and sparse. Russian buildings always reminded Lars of Mauseleums. Considering how Stalin treated his loyal subjects, maybe the style choice was an accurate one. Lars could just make out figures milling around in the early morning light.
“Time to get some answers gramps,” he said, rising to his feet.
He stepped to the trains door and waited for them to open. The old man was now standing behind him. He whispered something in Lars’ ear.
”Don’t be surprised if the answer you get isn’t the one you’re looking for.”
As they say in the movies, he didn’t like the sound of that.
The doors snapped open with surprising efficiency and Lars found himself in the crisp dry air of the train station. He was about to go find someone to strangle information out of when a high pitched whirring sound from behind him made him wheel around like a man who’s back was on fire.
“What the shit?!”
The thing was about the size of a basketball, a little steel, hovering basketball. It rotated in the air, moving within inches of his face. In a normal situation, Lars wouldn’t have stood for such a thing, but at the moment he found himself transfixed by what he saw.
There was a blinding flash, and then the thing zipped high up in the air and out of view.
He gave up trying to figure what was going on his own. He considered himself a fairly smart person, but it was clearly beyond his powers of comprehension to explain this situation.
As if in a daze, he made his way up a set of concrete stairs and into large walkway. More people were milling about in the hallway, going one way or another. They all carried that million mile stare that the old man had sported. That, however, wasn’t what most caught Lars’s attention. Standing at the end of the hallway, in front a fifteen foot tall chain link fence and some sort of check point, was a figure in the most bizarre looking gas mask Lars had ever seen. It had bright, glowing blue eyes and looked to be made out of some sort of advanced polymer.
“This sumbitch’ll have answers,” Lars thought to himself.
With his massive 6’5 frame, Lars managed to cover the distance between him and sentry in only a few strides.
“Hey buddy,” he said as he put his hand on the sentry’s shoulder.
Lars knew the moment his hand touched the smooth metallic material of the mysterious figures shoulder pad that he’d made a mistake.
He saw the tell tale signs of a coming storm: tensed shoulders and neck, moving forward on to the balls of the feet, compression of the spine.
When the blow came Lars was ready. In fact, after so much time chasing after whispers and smoke, the prospect of a real physical foe was an exciting one. In a well practiced motion the guard pulled a mean looking baton-like object off his belt and whipped it at Lars’s face.
These moments always felt like a dance to Lars.
”And one two three four… one two three four,” it always popped into his mind at moment like these.
He squeezed his against his right shoulder and slouched to the right. He heard the baton crackle with electricity as it whizzed within centimeters of his face.
”And one two three four.. one two three four.”
The failed blow left the guard badly off balance with his arms outstretched over Lars’s head, he seized the opportunity. Bracing the opposite side of the guards arm with his left hand, he brought up his right to strike the elbow with animal like brutality. It gave way, the snapping ligaments letting out soft pops like dry cracking twigs. The baton clattered to the floor. Mr. guard now found himself with elbows that happened to bend in opposite directions.
The next strike, a swift chop to the voice box caused him to double over, gasping. Little the guard know, bending over as he did left him open for a knee to the face. Even through his armored mask, the blow sent his head snapping back ferociously. He fell to the floor, still as ice.
Harsh, muffled voices from behind Lars let him know the fight wasn’t over.
“And one and two and three”
With his back still facing his new attackers, he swept up the baton. Guessing the distance based on sound of the clattering footsteps, Lars wheeled and struck in one motion.
The blow caught the poor sap square in the face, he hit the floor like a gymnast failing the dismount. We’re talking at least a five tenths deduction.
More guards were streaming out of a door to his right, he counted at least six of them, all suited in armor and wielding batons, luckily he hadn’t spotted a gun yet.
He coiled up his back like a puma ready to strike, staring his closest foe straight in the eyes.
“You may bring me down, but your friend here just developed a limp.”
This guard prepared for the attack he thought was coming. The attacker that ran up to catch Lars from behind didn’t however. He happened to be lucky recipient of a baseball swing to the knee, more human origami ensued.
It was then that they brought him down. Something hard collided with the back of his head and all went black.
Awake.
Flickering neon lights, the musty smell of dust mites, a gentle rocking motion.
Lars’ hands shot out in front of him, fists clenched at ready. It was an old reflex from waking up in too many bloody situations.
His fists unclenched as he realized nothing was going to lunge at him out of the murky haze of his just waking eyes.
Unlike the jungles and harsh urban landscapes that he had become so used to waking up in, Lars found himself in slightly more pleasant surroundings.
A train car.
“**** me,” he said aloud.
A man in his late fifties with tired eyes and white whisps of hair sticking out of his ears turned to face Lars.
“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” It was a tone utterly bereft of emotion.
In one swift motion Lars lunged forward and gripped the man around the collar of his faded blue jumpsuit.
“I don’t need your lip old man, you have 10 seconds to explain to me where the hell I am, and how I got here, or I’m going to get awfully cranky.”
He didn’t seem phased by the outburst.
“Well, I can tell you for sure you’re on the M Line leading into City 17. In regards to the how you got here question, that might be more of an issue for a priest than an old broken down mechanic.”
Lars didn’t seemed pleased with an answer.
“Five minutes ago I’m sitting on my couch eating an egg salad sandwich and watching bass fishing and some asshole in a blue suit just barges in out of nowhere and tells me he has a job for me. Next thing I know, everything goes black and I’m here. You wanna tell me how a priest could explain that one gramps,” Lars said in a tone barely above a growl.
“You’re right buddy, you don’t need a priest, you need a shrink.”
Another response that didn’t seem to tickle Lars’ fancy. He ran his hands through his hair, burying his face in his palms.
“Okay, could you spare me the “I’m a tough old man who makes wise cracks” bit for just long enough to tell me where the hell City 17 is?”
Hearing this, the old man looked at Lars as if he’d walked into the train car wearing tin foil on his head.
“Southern Lithuania”
Lars nodded incredulously.
“So I somehow got from upstate New York to Southern Croatia in the blink of an eye.”
“Well, a blink of your eye, not necessarily everyone else’s”
Lars was beginning to suspect the old man knew more than he was letting on, but decided to drop the issue. He’d met men like that before, they’d only say as much as they wanted to, and Lars had the feeling the old man had reached his limit.
Lars scanned the car for any other passengers he could interrogate, but found none. It was just him, the old man, and a whole lot of questions.
He sat back in his seat and tried to get his head straight by looking out of the window. The sun was just rising over the horizon, and it cast a icy blue light across the gently swaying fields that flew past the window. The sight of it soothed Lars.
He let his shoulders and eye brows sag, shook his head lightly from side to side and took a deep breath, while counting to fifteen. It was old stress relief technique he’d learned from a friend in the NSA.
In moments he felt his head clear and his ability to think return to him.
“What in the hell was going on?”
His mind reeled through every possible explanation. Everything from government kidnapping to alien abduction but none of it seemed to fit.
His thought process was interrupted by the lurch of the train beginning to slow to a halt. Like a weed growing up through the cracks in a sidewalk, City 17 seemingly popped up out of the nothingness of the Lituanian countryside. Massive stone buildings loomed on the horizon, relics of the era of Soviet dominance.
“The Reds sure did love shit big,” Lars muttered to himself. The old man nodded in agreement.
The train’s breaks screamed as it lurched to a halt in a towering train station with dusty, weather worn skylights far above.
It looked pretty much like any other Eastern European train station, big, square, gray and sparse. Russian buildings always reminded Lars of Mauseleums. Considering how Stalin treated his loyal subjects, maybe the style choice was an accurate one. Lars could just make out figures milling around in the early morning light.
“Time to get some answers gramps,” he said, rising to his feet.
He stepped to the trains door and waited for them to open. The old man was now standing behind him. He whispered something in Lars’ ear.
”Don’t be surprised if the answer you get isn’t the one you’re looking for.”
As they say in the movies, he didn’t like the sound of that.
The doors snapped open with surprising efficiency and Lars found himself in the crisp dry air of the train station. He was about to go find someone to strangle information out of when a high pitched whirring sound from behind him made him wheel around like a man who’s back was on fire.
“What the shit?!”
The thing was about the size of a basketball, a little steel, hovering basketball. It rotated in the air, moving within inches of his face. In a normal situation, Lars wouldn’t have stood for such a thing, but at the moment he found himself transfixed by what he saw.
There was a blinding flash, and then the thing zipped high up in the air and out of view.
He gave up trying to figure what was going on his own. He considered himself a fairly smart person, but it was clearly beyond his powers of comprehension to explain this situation.
As if in a daze, he made his way up a set of concrete stairs and into large walkway. More people were milling about in the hallway, going one way or another. They all carried that million mile stare that the old man had sported. That, however, wasn’t what most caught Lars’s attention. Standing at the end of the hallway, in front a fifteen foot tall chain link fence and some sort of check point, was a figure in the most bizarre looking gas mask Lars had ever seen. It had bright, glowing blue eyes and looked to be made out of some sort of advanced polymer.
“This sumbitch’ll have answers,” Lars thought to himself.
With his massive 6’5 frame, Lars managed to cover the distance between him and sentry in only a few strides.
“Hey buddy,” he said as he put his hand on the sentry’s shoulder.
Lars knew the moment his hand touched the smooth metallic material of the mysterious figures shoulder pad that he’d made a mistake.
He saw the tell tale signs of a coming storm: tensed shoulders and neck, moving forward on to the balls of the feet, compression of the spine.
When the blow came Lars was ready. In fact, after so much time chasing after whispers and smoke, the prospect of a real physical foe was an exciting one. In a well practiced motion the guard pulled a mean looking baton-like object off his belt and whipped it at Lars’s face.
These moments always felt like a dance to Lars.
”And one two three four… one two three four,” it always popped into his mind at moment like these.
He squeezed his against his right shoulder and slouched to the right. He heard the baton crackle with electricity as it whizzed within centimeters of his face.
”And one two three four.. one two three four.”
The failed blow left the guard badly off balance with his arms outstretched over Lars’s head, he seized the opportunity. Bracing the opposite side of the guards arm with his left hand, he brought up his right to strike the elbow with animal like brutality. It gave way, the snapping ligaments letting out soft pops like dry cracking twigs. The baton clattered to the floor. Mr. guard now found himself with elbows that happened to bend in opposite directions.
The next strike, a swift chop to the voice box caused him to double over, gasping. Little the guard know, bending over as he did left him open for a knee to the face. Even through his armored mask, the blow sent his head snapping back ferociously. He fell to the floor, still as ice.
Harsh, muffled voices from behind Lars let him know the fight wasn’t over.
“And one and two and three”
With his back still facing his new attackers, he swept up the baton. Guessing the distance based on sound of the clattering footsteps, Lars wheeled and struck in one motion.
The blow caught the poor sap square in the face, he hit the floor like a gymnast failing the dismount. We’re talking at least a five tenths deduction.
More guards were streaming out of a door to his right, he counted at least six of them, all suited in armor and wielding batons, luckily he hadn’t spotted a gun yet.
He coiled up his back like a puma ready to strike, staring his closest foe straight in the eyes.
“You may bring me down, but your friend here just developed a limp.”
This guard prepared for the attack he thought was coming. The attacker that ran up to catch Lars from behind didn’t however. He happened to be lucky recipient of a baseball swing to the knee, more human origami ensued.
It was then that they brought him down. Something hard collided with the back of his head and all went black.
