Young Writers Society

Actually, this should be titled "Chronicles of the Abandoned part 1", but I'm not going to post more of it unless it generates some interest. Chronicles of the Abandoned is my pet project, first dystopian story, first rebellion, and aborted JulNoWriMo. Enjoy.
NOTE- PG13. Language, some violence.
Edited, now titled "Chronicles of the Abandoned, Part 1"

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Falling… I’m falling from the top of the city, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. If I live through this, I’ll kill you bastards. If I can live through this. Can I? Not at this speed. I’ve got to do something. Anything. I’ll kill you bastards, I’ll kill you all!
SMASH.
Damn, my arm! My arm! It’s shattered! Shit! But that did slow me down. I’ve got to do that again, and not break every bone in my body.
SMASH.
There goes the gun, and the damn ammo cartridge is gonna leak. The ammo! It’ll harden! I can use this goop like a cushion!
SMASH.
I don’t believe it, that almost worked! There’s no way in hell I’m gonna remain conscious on the final impact, but I will not die now! I will not!
SMASH.
I am not dead.
SMASH.
I will not die.
SMASH.
I will live.
SMASH.
And I will kill you all.
SMASH.


“Hey, wake up!”
“Is he dead?” A new voice.
“He’s got a pulse.” Third voice.
“Bastard militia. Looks like they gooped the poor son of a mother and knocked him off the edge. Saved his life, though.” First voice again. Male. Young-ish, maybe twenty. Bemused, exasperated.
Don’t insult the militia, you peon. Wait… please, do. They tried to kill me, so I guess I’m not one of them anymore.
“Wait, there’s a helmet over there…” Second voice again. Also male. A bit younger than the first. Less gravelly. Curious. “It’s a militia helmet…”
“Cracked, and badly.” Third voice. Low. Most suspicious of the three. “Wake him up, I think it’s his.”
“Wake up!” The second voice, the young one. SLAP! “Wake up!”
I groan, audibly, not wanting to be slapped again.
“Are you militia?” The third voice again. “This looks like your helmet. And this is a militia helmet. Seems to me that that makes you militia. And I hate militia.”
“I am, and so do I,” I croak.
“Start making sense,” says the first voice.
“I am, if you would bother to listen,” I say, trying and failing to sit up. “I am, was a member of the militia. That is my helmet.”
“Then what stops me from killing you?” asks the third man, a big black man, with ape blood, and appropriately huge arms.
“The past tense. I said was.”
“Why the hell are you here?” asks the second person, a youth of about 17, with more curiosity, less suspicion, and pale-white skin.
“Maybe because I WAS PUSHED?” I yell, or try to, but the noise just hurts my head and throat.
“And who would’ve pushed you, hhhhhm?” asks the first one. Also pale-white, but taller.
“Let’s think about that, shall we?” I sarcastically reply.
“Shut up and answer,” says the third one. I turn my head, intending to make a bitingly sarcastic reply, but the site of a long metal spar an inch or so from my nose discourages me attacking his logical fallacy, for silence and answering questions are mutually exclusive.
“I was in the militia. They just tried to kill me. Here I am.”
“And why would we believe you?” the ape asks again.
“Because I’m lying here, possibly bleeding to death. That work?”
“I’ve seen militia do crazier shit than that.”
“Do I look like a spy to you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why am I still alive?”
“I was wondering that myself,” he answers thoughtfully.
“Because there’s obviously something that says ‘not spy’ to you,” I say, answering my own question.
“Possibly,” he allows, but does not move the metal spar, or make any move to help me up.
“Are you still going to kill me, then?” I ask after a bit of time has passed.
“Possibly.”
“Why would I be sitting here, possibly dying, if I were a spy? Wouldn’t I make a much slower, less insane entrance? Maybe killing some militia on the way in, or doing something to gain your trust? No, I was pushed from the top of the city, and now I’m here. Is that good enough for you?”
“Possibly.”
Aching in every inch of my body, frustrated by this huge ape, I lose my temper. “Well what the hell will it take to convince you, you dumb son of a bitch?!”
“Wrong,” he says showing emotion for the first time. He raises the improvised spear and thrusts at my chest.
“NO, DON’T!” one of the others scream. Both the ape and I ignore him.
I roll out of the way as spear comes down, adrenaline allowing me to forget my pain. I get to my feet, to find that my left leg collapses under my weight. Shifting my weight to my right leg, I reach down to grab my electro-baton of its customary position on my belt, only to realize is isn’t there. The ape comes at me, swinging the pole towards my face. He fights dirty, I realize, ducking under and grabbing the spear as it whistles by. I pull down on the spear both to try and raise myself into a standing position and to gauge his strength. He pulls it out of my hands. I slide backwards, and get my back against a wall. My left leg is useless. He’s going come at me again, what am I going to do? He probably knows my leg is useless. I’m not going to dodge left, and he knows it. I have to block or dodge right without getting skewered. Shit.
Before I can contemplate a decent plan, the brute comes at me again, the spar aimed at my heart, his eyes loudly proclaiming his intent to impale me. I’ll never make it with this leg… my leg… I drop into a crouch, and pull a wicked stiletto from my right boot. I stand as best I can, tossing the stiletto to my left hand and using my right palm to shove the spar up and over my head. The brute’s momentum carries him forward towards my waiting blade. He releases the spar and tries to stop himself. I take hold of the spar and clunk him weakly in the head with the blunt end of it by spinning my wrist. It stuns him momentarily, but doesn’t do much. He falls back, leaving me armed with a metal stick and a glorified steak knife, but leaving him hopefully unarmed. He looks surprised.
“Militia,” he mutters.
“Was.”
“Bastard.”
Eye roll.
“I’m gonna kill you.”
“With what and why?”
“Because you’re militia.”
“You won’t, because you didn’t answer with what, idiot. And I’m no longer militia.”
“Yes, I will, and you lie.”
“Both of you, stop it!” the youngest one yells.
“He’s right. We could use him. And if he’s a spy, we can kill him later,” the second one says.
“No, you can’t. You cannot ‘kill me later.’”
“Can’t we?” the huge one says.
“Try again. You couldn’t last time.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Stop!”
“Do it.”
“Okay.”
“STOP!” At this the young one physically stands between us. “This is pointless. He could be useful to us. If the militia really did try and kill him, then it stands to reason that he’d want to kill them. And by the fact that he made an ass of you after falling from the top of the city and getting a broken leg says a good deal about his ability to fight. He can be useful to us. Now stop trying to kill him!”
I tossed the spar back to the man. “Here- don’t try using it on me again.”
He easily catches it. “I’ll think about it.”
The young one glares at me, as if trying to force me to put the stiletto away. I make no such motions. Finally, he gives up and says “My name’s Raz.”
“Enko,” says the first one, the taller of the pale-white men.
“And the one who wants you dead is Asilmako Slen, goes by Asil,” supplies Raz.
“And who the hell are you?” asks the idiot Asil, sneering.
“Tarahn Pankhaara.”
“Zeno.”
“What?”
“I’m not calling you ‘Tarahn Pankhaara,’” says Raz. “You’re Zeno.”
“Fine. Now who the hell are you people? You and you,” I say, pointing to Enko and Raz “are obviously brothers. But who the hell are you supposed to be?” I say, jerking my head in the direction of Asil.
“Does it matter?”
“Is there an answer?”
“None that I’m giving you.”
“Great, I’ll give you one. You’re my operations officer. Raz, congratulations. You just became my chief or recruitment. Enko, you look like you’re the oldest, so you just became my second in command and chief of logistics. You like the thoughtful type, so you’ll do.”
“What the hell?” blurts Raz.
“This crazy son of a street whore hit his damn head,” Asil snarls, leveling the metal spar again.
“You’re an idiot,” laughs Enko. “But I like you’re guts.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” yells Raz, completely off-balance.
“What does it look like? I’m starting a rebellion.” I laugh. “You were right. I want to kill militia. And there’s so many of you that want to also, so why not get a little help? The Domestic Militia is going to regret the day they pushed Tarahn Pankhaara off the edge of the uppercity.”
“The day they pushed Zeno?” corrects Raz with a raised eyebrow.
“The day they pushed Zeno,” I agree.

No idea why this thing didn't indent properly, it did when I copy-pasted it on. Seems to have gotten messed up somewhere along the way. Apologies. I'll try and get this fixed.

Alright, let's review here.

First things first, I really liked this. The main character's got attitude, which is always fun.

Now, I'll start off with the big thing.

This seems kinda cliche, at this point in the story. I mean, I've seen similar stories before - major agency takes out a member, member tries to bring down the agency. It's been done before.

However, at this point, I like the way you're going about it. The basic idea has been done before, and you can't avoid that. It's about the details you put on it. Just try to avoid making this exactly like other similar stories.

Next up, the begining. I may just be out of touch with terms, but what exactly is he doing to save himself? Because all I can think of is

1) Making ammo into goop to cuishon his fall
2) Slamming the gun against the wall to slow him down
3) Shooting the ground to slow himself down
4) Combination of 3 and 1

I don't think any of those are right.

Nitpick: At the very beginging of the story, Zeno says "Falling..." I don't think he seems like the person to speak slowly while falling from a skyscraper. I'd make him more freaked out - and he is freaked out later in the paragraph, but...he just says "Falling..." and then becomes freaked out.

Where does Asil pull "Zeno" from? He made up a name, on the spot, and it actually is pretty neat. I think it would be more realistic for it to be a shortening of his full name, like "Tarn" or something.

In the ending, Raz kinda has a mood swing. He's all freaked out over this new operation thing, then he's suddenly calm again. I think it would make more sense if Enko said it - it seems like something he would say.

Though my hoard of nitpicks may make this seam like a lie, I'll tell you anyway: I really liked this. You wrote it excellently, and if you edit a bit here and there, I think you'll have a great first chapter here.

Oh, and I love the introduction! It really does a great job of hooking people - nice work there!

Good luck in the rest of the story!

Thanks for the input! And I love your sig, by the way. Mythbusters, for the win!

I like it. Your verbal (and physical) sparring was pretty neat... it takes a special kind of writer to master dialogue like that. The beginning was powerful; and the action was full of tension.
I love it; I totally think you should continue. But I'm a sucker for dystopian military... stuff.
And I don't believe in cliche. An over-used storyline can warp into one of the most inventive things out there; It's just a matter of what you do with it. That being said, sparkly angsty vampires...... probably not the best idea for a new story.
I urge you to continue. And please tell me when you post something new.

Great snappy dialogue!
I would say - worry not about cliches. In this day and age, you have to take yourself outside the human condition to reach really new grounds, and that usually shatters a human, even if he/she leaves a work of genious behind.
We all work with what we have - a number of basic themes, already coded into a couple of dozen basic plots. Its the style which makes or breaks a story, and there is certainly style in the dialogues. Lets see if there is style in the next phase of the plot.
And keeping in mind that the exact same pop song themes and movie plots take the world by storm every year for almost a hundred years now (every year the world begins anew for some reason for the majority) - even if there is not an ounce of originality in your work - with the right atittude it could be the next winner.
Waiting for developements

WoW. I just finished Misery by SK and you for some reason reminded me of that book. Which is good.
Okay, I stink at grammar so I'll stick to content.
First, I like like the attitude of the main character. It gives him character. oh, before i forget. You seem to be very adept at giving characters strong personalities. That is very impressive . Most writers fail and make it half-hearted.
Second, the only thing that confused me was the beginning of the fall. His ammo turned into goop?
Third, The stiletto... I got the fact that this story was SciFi from the genre you posted it in and the mentioning of guns and ammo. I recognize that they still have blades but... a stiletto? Is the stiletto the standard knife of the militia?
Fourth, very good job. Ill be following your work.

I think the story is great, however I think in the fast-passed parts, don't use to many adjectives because to a normal reader they start to A) not read the adjectives and B) start skipping full paragraphs. Also I don't think it's cliche at all and if it is then write it any way because practically every story seems to be cliche.

This is a very interisting story if you ask me. Through the only problem is that I would like to read the next parts but don't have the time. It's lways fun having a civil war going on if this is one.