Will write short stories...

[Draklyne]

*draklyne holds up sign proclaiming, "Will write short stories for free!"*

*Turns it around, considers, crossing out "free" and scribbling some more. "FOOD," has been appended to the end. After a moment's pause, adds "Do not send thru mail."*

 

[ductonius]

Yo.

We over at Defense Command are looking for short story writers to help illustrate parts of the universe not covered by the regular material. You can take a look on the Media page for four of the current ones. A fifth is being rewritten by another team memeber and Im working on a sixth.

However, these are only hero stores.

We need storeis illustrating the socieities and inner workings of each of the sides. If you think your up to it give me an email at [email protected]

you can also find me on MSN at [email protected]

 

[fizzlephox]

I'll write short stories for free, no food or anything. I'm fairly good at it too if I do say so myself.

 

[Draklyne]

I wrote this a year ago (more? time flies...) for the mod HOSTILE FREEDOM when I was inspired by them to write cyberpunk detective for their world Hammerstein. Never got very far with it, but it serves well enough as a demo, even though I itch to edit it. I delude myself into thinking my writing skills have improved.



Hammerstein's Freelancer

A lamp guttered over the abandoned alleyway. Levitating over the street on a graviton-deflector plate, it gave up for the night as the clock, figuratively speaking of course, struck nine. It swiftly docked itself into its holder for the night. After all, the solar cells lining the top had their limits.

A rat skittered across the newly-darkened alley as I leaned against the wall. A Hammerstein cigar pulsed dully in the dark as breathed in the smoke. Despite being a newly-minted world, Hammerstein's addictive substances were already as good or better than the Old-World products. Nothing like a new solar system to add flavor to a boring plant.

I had been waiting all day for this moment. Now is when the night-life comes alive. Now is when the case would open up, and, more importantly, I could open up some mouths with well-placed credits. Maybe I'd get a few job offers; maybe I'd get a few clues. Either way, paying for a few alcoholics' drinks was profitable, paradoxically.

I made my move towards the bar. Inside, a miasma of heat, beer, and other unnamable substances assaulted my nose. Their siege was in vain. I'd been here before.

I took a seat next to a loud, fat man whose flabs bounced somewhat, even in the high gravity of Hammerstein. He was yapping about some assassination that had taken place in a high-ranking crime organization. A single knife-wound in the base of the skull, into the brains. Scrambled the guy's grey-matter. Interesting. This was my case. More interesting was the fact that it was completely hush-hush, and no one, especially no fat man on the streets was supposed to know about this. It had happened approximately 23 hours ago, too soon to hit the streets. Furthermore, video records had been erased in the attack and there was no evidence of intrusion in the building. Something was going down.

Something big was happening, and a fat man was talking about it animatedly.

I looked at the man's drinking buddy, and drinking buddy he was, without a doubt. He was out cold on the smooth, imported wood, with a small puddle of alcohol and spittle gathering at his mouth. Intuiting that the fat man would be more expressive with a more interested drinking buddy, I ordered a drink and handed it over with a casual, "Really now? That's interesting. Keep going." The fat man positively lit up at the offer and began spouting rumors once more. I'd already heard most of it, but then he got to the interesting part.

"...and the real puzzle," he whispered conspirationally, "is why they hired the killer. After all, they were the-"

A sudden burst of gunfire shattered the relatively familiar sound of drinking, arguing, and laughter. A deadly silence fell over the bar. I cocked my head towards the source of sound, replaying it in my mind. That was a Spitfire assault rifle, commonly handed out to Opanara Marines. The sharp, staccato beat of my younger years was unmistakable.

In the bar, a single word was uttered, in a mix of contempt, awe, and, most prevalently, fear.

"Opanara..."

Then all hell broke loose. A mob suddenly formed out of the confusion and shifted towards the exits. People were trampled underfoot as the raging sea surged towards the doors.

I sighed, still seated. The most tantalizing tidbit of information, snatched from my waiting grasp. Who killed Illian Stuhr? The fat man knew, but the fat man was exiting the building. I rubbed my cigarette between thumb and forefinger, then dropped it into the fat man's drink. It went out with a protesting hiss.

When the Opanaras burst through the door, I was gone. The bar was empty save for a few drunks.

Meanwhile, the detonator I'd placed on the roof ticked down. I held a few grudges. Just a few.