Susan Skull

[Glen]

Ok, for those of you who have been reading my blog (I think there's (like) three of you), you may now have discovered that I have finished editing "Susan Skull". Well, I say finished: I mean finished until I have had a few readers read it and rip its entrails out onto the baking ground.

As for you, dear reader, I am afraid I can only allow you a mere snippet, which you may read at your peril. If you care to trawl your way back through the history of this critique section you might find a section of "Susan Skull" which was a little way ahead of this section.

This section (952 words of Susan Skull loveliness) has a bad word in it, so you should stop...hold on...I'll just asterisk it out and you can make up your own bad word to fit...

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An Academy ship winks into existence above the tundra, unfolding out of a blue vortex of light. The ship dips quickly, stops, rights itself, ascends steeply. An Academy Black Ops team leap from it and drop. And drop.


Agent One hits the ground first. Having twisted during the long descent he fails to land correctly. He fails to land upright. Instead he takes a large portion of the shock of impact with his ribs. ‘Ooof,’ he says.


Agent Two lands more successfully, turns to Agent One for guidance, and receives instead a baleful, silent glare from Agent One who struggles in vain for a breath of the icy, arctic air. ‘Sir,’ cries Agent Two, his voice barely discernible over the noise of the nearby firefight.


Agent One, rolls to his back, raises his hand and signals: “Engage – Enemy – Lethal Force – Locate – Witch’


‘Sir!’ shouts Agent Two, who in turn directs Agents Four through Seven and



Nine through Eleven to engage the clone army. Seven agents head out. Agent Eleven was brought on the mission to replace Agent Eight who had been injured by an angry aurochs in his previous mission. No-one had noticed, until too late, that Agent Three was not present. No-one knew why, and they were too far across the galaxy to rectify their error. The group was a man down before the mission had properly started.


Two remains with One. Four through Seven, and Nine through Eleven, all of who have survived the irregularly long drop from the ship, move at a run toward the epicentre of the fighting: a jeep with a mounted machine gun maybe three hundred metres from the drop site. Above them their ship banks away and arcs high into the muddy gloom of the sky.


Agent One manages to draw a broken, shuddering breath, and uses what little air he has gleaned to exclaim, ‘What the ****…’ to his second in command.


‘Sir?’ asks Agent Two.


Agent One draws another tortured breath, and gasps ‘…was that?’


‘Sir?’ asks Agent Two.


‘We were practically still in orbit when we jumped’ says Agent One, his voice a fractured squawk.


‘Slightly higher than usual, Sir,’ agrees Agent Two. He ducks his head, lowers his body at the sound of very localised gunfire. ‘On account of the giants, Sir,’ he goes on. ‘We saw them as we came in, Sir. Thought we better steer clear, Sir.’


‘Giants?’


‘Sir!’ hollers Agent Two. He turns, points through the mobs of clone soldiers to an enormous, naked, humanoid giant who is swatting clones hard enough to lift them from their feet and knock them to sail through the air.



Agent One watches one of the clones land back on the frozen tundra with what he suspects will be a lethally brutal connection.


‘Must be ten, twelve metres tall, Sir!’ says Agent Two. He points again, to another immense hominid, this one is holding a clone in each of his mammoth hands, and connecting their heads with sufficient force to break both. ‘They ain’t wearing hardly anything, Sir. And there’s a third one, Sir,’ he points again at a giant creature who is holding a vehicle in his hands, and using it as a club to batter, and swipe at the clones.


‘Who are they?’ whispers Agent One rhetorically.


‘Well, don’t rightly know, Sir. But they’re killing Kiss’ clones, Sir, so it looks like they’re on our side. Least for now, anyways.’


Agent Two stops to listen to a radio message. Both hear the message, but Agent Two relates the message anyway: ‘They’ve found her.’


Agent One, draws a breath that is close to normal, and accepts the hand offered by Agent Two to help draw him to his feet. ‘Let’s go,’ he says.


To Agent One, the battle is a phantasmagoric kaleidoscope of scenes he can barely interpret. The noise of gunfire is tumultuous, with an incessant cracking of rifle fire and small arms, with a stuttering, staccato counterpoint of heavy machine gun fire. Rounds thud and ping into vehicles, and whistle through the air. The Black Ops team add their own heavy ordinance to the mix, with explosives booming like thunder and blowing blossoms of earth and melting ice into the air. But there is no sound from any creature. The clones die quietly. Their entrails and limbs are ripped into by heavy rounds, but they emit not a sound, not a scream or cry. Eviscerated or maimed they falter in their stride and fall, or they are jerked into some twisted semblance of themselves by the force of an impact, and then they fall, but always without a sound.


The giants work in close concert, each protecting the others but without sound. They work through the clones like a farmer scything down long grass: killing them quietly, without fuss. The giants are wounded, red splashes of blood are clear to see, clone rifle fire picking out further wounds as the seconds of battle move on, but the giants say nothing. Seemingly indefatigable they mow the grass.


‘Do you know what they are, Sir?’ asks Agent Two.


‘No,’ says Agent One. ‘I have no idea.’


‘Nothing in the mission brief, Sir?’ Agent Two seems unable to stand upright, his back is bent, his legs bent at the knees, he holds onto his helmet with one hand.


‘Nothing.’


‘What do you think they’ll do when the clones are dead, Sir?’


‘Let’s find out,’ says Agent One, lifting his gun and firing a resounding volley into the nearest group of clones. He runs on, aiming and firing. ‘Aw, gee,’ says Agent Two, and follows, reluctantly letting go of his helmet so that he too can raise his rifle and engage the enemy.

 

[EricWard]

An Academy ship winks into existence above the tundra, unfolding out of a blue vortex of light. The ship dips quickly, stops, rights itself, ascends steeply. An Academy is it completely needed to specify that they're Academy since we have that from the ship? Black Ops team leap from it and drop. And drop.


Agent One hits the ground first. Having twisted during the long descent he fails to land correctly. He fails to land upright not sure about the reiteration of 'he fails'. Instead he takes a large portion of the shock of impact with his ribs. ‘Ooof,’ he says.


Agent Two lands more successfully, turns to Agent One for guidance, and receives instead a baleful, silent glare from Agent One who struggles in vain for a breath of the icy, arctic air. ‘Sir,’ cries Agent Two, his voice barely discernible over the noise of the nearby firefight.


Agent One, rolls to his back, raises his hand and signals: “Engage – Enemy – Lethal Force – Locate – Witch’


‘Sir!’ shouts Agent Two, who in turn directs Agents Four through Seven and Nine through Eleven to engage the clone army. Seven agents head out. Agent Eleven was brought on the mission to replace Agent Eight who had been injured by an angry aurochs in his previous mission. No-one had noticed, until too late, that Agent Three was not present. No-one knew why, and they were too far across the galaxy to rectify their error. The group was a man down before the mission had properly started. I'm a little torn on the Agent [number] motif. While it does show the faceless bureaucracy that (I think) you're going for, it wears a little through the repetition


Two remains with One. Four through Seven, and Nine through Eleven, all of who have survived the irregularly long drop from the ship, move at a run toward the epicentre of the fighting: a jeep with a mounted machine gun maybe three hundred metres from the drop site. Above them their ship banks away and arcs high into the muddy gloom of the sky.


Agent One manages to draw a broken, shuddering breath, and uses what little air he has gleaned to exclaim, ‘What the puppy…’ to his second in command.


‘Sir?’ asks Agent Two.


Agent One draws another tortured breath, and gasps ‘…was that?’


‘Sir?’ asks Agent Two.


‘We were practically still in orbit when we jumped’ says Agent One, his voice a fractured squawk.


‘Slightly higher than usual, Sir,’ agrees Agent Two. He ducks his head, lowers his body at the sound of very localised I'm not sure 'very localised' gives you the specificity you want. If anything, it makes it more vague gunfire. ‘On account of the giants, Sir,’ he goes on. ‘We saw them as we came in, Sir. Thought we better steer clear, Sir.’


‘Giants?’


‘Sir!’ hollers Agent Two. He turns, points through the mobs of clone soldiers to an enormous, naked, humanoid giant who is swatting clones hard enough to lift them from their feet and knock them to sail through the air.



Agent One watches one of the clones land back on the frozen tundra with what he suspects will be a lethally brutal connection.


‘Must be ten, twelve metres tall, Sir!’ says Agent Two. He points again, to another immense hominid, this one is holding a clone in each of his mammoth hands, and connecting their heads with sufficient force to break both. ‘They ain’t wearing hardly anything, Sir. And there’s a third one, Sir,’ he points again at a giant creature who is holding a vehicle in his hands, and using it as a club to batter, and swipe at the clones.


‘Who are they?’ whispers Agent One rhetorically. No need for 'rhetorically' here, suggest having him just ask himself or something


‘Well, don’t rightly know, Sir. But they’re killing Kiss’ clones, Sir, so it looks like they’re on our side. Least for now, anyways.’


Agent Two stops to listen to a radio message. Both hear the message, but Agent Two relates the message anyway: ‘They’ve found her.’ Cut down on the 'messages'


Agent One, no need for the first comma draws a breath that is close to normal, and accepts the hand offered by Agent Two to help draw him to his feet. ‘Let’s go,’ he says.


To Agent One, the battle is a phantasmagoric best word ever? possibly kaleidoscope of scenes he can barely interpret. The noise of gunfire is tumultuous, with an incessant cracking of rifle fire and small arms rifles are technically small arms, with a stuttering, staccato counterpoint of heavy machine gun fire. Rounds thud and ping into vehicles, and whistle through the air. The Black Ops team add their own heavy ordinance to the mix, with explosives booming like thunder and blowing blossoms of earth and melting ice into the air. But there is no sound from any creature. The clones die quietly. Their entrails and limbs are ripped into by heavy rounds, but they emit not a sound, not a scream or cry. Eviscerated or maimed they falter in their stride and fall, or they are jerked into some twisted semblance of themselves by the force of an impact, and then they fall, but always without a sound. Well now that's just creepy. Very effective


The giants work in close concert, each protecting the others but without sound. They work through the clones like a farmer scything down long grass: killing them quietly, without fuss. The giants are wounded, red splashes of blood are clear to see, clone rifle fire picking out further wounds as the seconds of battle move on, but the giants say nothing. Seemingly indefatigable they mow the grass. Ah, I see what you did there


‘Do you know what they are, Sir?’ asks Agent Two.


‘No,’ says Agent One. ‘I have no idea.’


‘Nothing in the mission brief, Sir?’ Agent Two seems unable to stand upright, his back is bent, his legs bent at the knees, he holds onto his helmet with one hand.


‘Nothing.’


‘What do you think they’ll do when the clones are dead, Sir?’


‘Let’s find out,’ says Agent One, lifting his gun and firing a resounding volley into the nearest group of clones. He runs on, aiming and firing. ‘Aw, gee,’ says Agent Two, and follows, reluctantly letting go of his helmet so that he too can raise his rifle and engage the enemy.

So I'm very intrigued by this so far. The scene is effective with imagery and action and I do want to read more.

I can guess that clones and giants hate (or at least want to kill) each other and the agents are mopping up the both of them. I am a little confused by terminology, though. Black Ops suggest an elite soldier, which isn't quite the same as the cloak-and-dagger implications of the word "Agent." Agent, by the way, puts in my mind an image of black suits (Damn you MIB and the Matrix!) so I think a more detailed description might help if they aren't running about in shirts and ties.

Again, I'm torn by the use of Agent [Number]. I think it can be done well with a more unique identifier after "Agent." Look at James Bond. Everyone remembers Agent 007 but probably wouldn't remember just Agent 7.

 

[clippedwolf]

An Academy ship winks into existence above the tundra, unfolding out of a blue vortex of light. The ship dips quickly, stops, rights itself, ascends steeply. An Academy Black Ops team leap from it and drop. And drop.


Agent One hits the ground first. Having twisted during the long descent he fails to land correctly. He fails to land upright. Instead he takes a large portion of the shock of impact with his ribs. ‘Ooof,’ he says.
As a parachutist, I find this very interesting. Did they intend to land on their feet? Are they superhuman, I wonder. Him landing on his side shouldn't make that much of a difference then, yet it does. What forces are at play?


Agent Two lands more successfully, turns to Agent One for guidance, and receives instead a baleful, silent glare from Agent One who struggles in vain for a breath of the icy, arctic air. ‘Sir,’ cries Agent Two, his voice barely discernible over the noise of the nearby firefight.
Once again, why did landing on his side make Agent One non-combat-able? When landing on your feet incorrectly you risk damaging your feet, ankles, knees and hips. Sorry, I'm obsessing about the physics, I want the details.


Agent One, rolls to his back, raises his hand and signals: “Engage – Enemy – Lethal Force – Locate – Witch’
I know you are going for drama, but Lethal Force seems redundant...unless it isn't, I guess. Shouldn't the rules of engagement already be briefed? What are their rules of engagement? Military hand and arm signals are simple and meant to be read over a distance, or in low light. Strange that these Agents have developed a signal language of nouns.


‘Sir!’ shouts Agent Two, who in turn directs Agents Four through Seven and Nine through Eleven to engage the clone army. Engage the clone army? How large is this army? A company, a battalion, a regiment, an entire division? How can these three engage it? Seven agents head out. Agent Eleven was brought on the mission to replace Agent Eight who had been injured by an angry aurochs in his previous mission. No-one had noticed, until too late, that Agent Three was not present. When did it become too late? In a military unit everyone is responsible for someone else, even if it is a peer. Someone should have noticed, except they didn't, until it was too late. When did it become too late? No-one knew why, and they were too far across the galaxy to rectify their error. The group was a man down before the mission had properly started. This can be said better. Properly started? There is a difference between going to war, being in combat, and being in a firefight, though the distinction may be lost to someone who never has. The mission had just started, and it was already a man down.


Two remains with One. Doesn't that take two out of the fight instead of one? Four through Seven, and Nine through Eleven, all of who have survived the irregularly long drop from the ship, Only one hasn't survived, that statement makes it sound like the casualties were greater. move at a run toward the epicentre of the fighting: a jeep with a mounted machine gun maybe three hundred metres from the drop site. Above them their ship banks away and arcs high into the muddy gloom of the sky.

I'm interested in doing the next part, but I have to run now.

 

[Bowler1]

Agent One hits the ground first. Having twisted during the long descent he fails to land correctly. He fails to land upright. Instead he takes a large portion of the shock of impact with his ribs. ‘Ooof,’ he says. – a little corny…


Agent Two lands more successfully, turns to Agent One for guidance, and receives instead a baleful, silent glare from Agent One who struggles in vain for a breath of the icy, arctic air. ‘Sir,’ cries Agent Two, his voice barely discernible over the noise of the nearby firefight.
I had to re-read to get clear in my head, and that was before all the rest of the agents turned up. I can follow it, agent 1 to 9, but it can be hard in places.

Agent One, rolls to his back, raises his hand and signals: “Engage – Enemy – Lethal Force – Locate – Witch’’ – keep the ‘’ consistent.

Nine through Eleven to engage the clone army. Seven agents head out. Agent Eleven was brought on the mission to replace Agent Eight who had been injured by an angry aurochs in his previous mission. No-one had noticed, until too late, that Agent Three was not present. No-one knew why, and they were too far across the galaxy to rectify their error. The group was a man down before the mission had properly started.
This feels like an aside to the action, and had me wondering just how professional these guys are if they just lost Agent 3.


‘Slightly higher than usual, Sir,’ – I have raised a thread on forms of direct address and sir/ma’am on Chrons, worth looking for as Judge and others nailed my question. Anyway, the rule is small ‘s’ for sir and ma’am. It can be a capital letter for rank, such as Captain and Sergeant when referring to a specific individual, but confusingly, it can also be captain and sergeant. I have seen different authors using each. I hope that helps, Glen; I worried it’s as clear as mud…

Agent One watches one of the clones land back on the frozen tundra with what he suspects will be a lethally brutal connection.
In red, felt a little remote.

‘Must be ten, twelve metres tall, Sir!’ says Agent Two. He points again, to another immense hominid, this one is holding a clone in each of his mammoth hands, and connecting their heads with sufficient force to break both. ‘They ain’t wearing hardly anything, Sir. And there’s a third one, Sir,’ he points again at a giant creature who is holding a vehicle in his hands, and using it as a club to batter, and swipe at the clones.

Interesting Glen, lots of action. There’s very little emotion from any of the agents, they’re all just blasting away. That’s the most stand out bit for me, no fear, excitement or any other battle emotion. Fun to write I bet, and it was good to read.

 

[Grinnel]

You'll need to take my cirtique with a grain of salt, as combat scenes are definitely not my forte.

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An Academy ship winks into existence above the tundra, unfolding out of a blue vortex of light Sounds more dramatic than a 'wink' . The ship dips quickly, stops, rights itself, ascends steeply. An Academy Black Ops team leap from it and drop. And drop. I like the repeat here for emphasis.


Agent One hits the ground first. Having twisted during the long descent he fails to land correctly. He fails to land upright. Instead he takes a large portion of the shock of impact with his ribs. ‘Ooof,’ he says. In effect this is repeated three times. Twice is enough for dramatic effect.


Agent Two lands more successfully, turns to Agent One for guidance, and receives instead a baleful, silent glare from Agent One who struggles in vain for a breath of the icy, arctic air. ‘Sir,’ cries Agent Two, his voice barely discernible over the noise of the nearby firefight.


Agent One, rolls to his back, raises his hand and signals: “Engage – Enemy – Lethal Force – Locate – Witch’ They have a military hand signal for 'witch'? If the witch is their objective, perhaps the signal should be 'target' or 'objective' depending on whether they've come to kill or save her...


‘Sir!’ shouts Agent Two, who in turn directs Agents Four through Seven and Nine through Eleven to engage the clone army. Seven agents head out. Agent Eleven was brought on the mission to replace Agent Eight who had been injured by an angry aurochs in his previous mission. No-one had noticed, until too late, that Agent Three was not present. No-one knew why, and they were too far across the galaxy to rectify their error. The group was a man down before the mission had properly started. The repeated 'agent' takes me a little out of it and slows the action down.

Since the numbers are assigned specifically for the mission (otherwise we might have agents 35, 62, and 14 along for the ride) wouldn't everyone simply move up one number and we would still have agents one through nine?

Also, is it important enough to the story to break drag the action down that we find out about agents three and eight here? Perhaps their absence could come into a conversation after the mission?


Two remains with One. Four through Seven, and Nine through Eleven again, I find the gap in agents distracting, all of whom have survived the irregularly long drop from the ship, move at a run toward the epicentre of the fighting: a jeep with a mounted machine gun maybe three hundred metres from the drop site. Above them their ship banks away and arcs high into the muddy gloom of the sky.


Agent One manages to draw a broken, shuddering breath, and uses what little air he has gleaned to exclaim, ‘What the ****…’ to his second in command.


‘Sir?’ asks Agent Two.


Agent One draws another tortured breath, and gasps ‘…was that?’


‘Sir?’ asks Agent Two.


‘We were practically still in orbit when we jumped’ says Agent One, his voice a fractured squawk.


‘Slightly higher than usual, Sir,’ agrees Agent Two. He ducks his head, lowers his body at the sound of very localised gunfire. ‘On account of the giants, Sir,’ he goes on. ‘We saw them as we came in, Sir. Thought we better steer clear, Sir.’ Only in boot camp do you say 'Sir' at the end of every sentence. in addition, Black Ops teams would resist indicating rank in any way for fear the officers might become more of a target.

The agents would have been warned that the jump was extra-long; even if it was just shouted to them before they jumped. Agent One should know why. It might be better if One were cursing the giants as the reason he got injured.


‘Giants?’


‘Sir!’ hollers Agent Two. He turns, points through the mobs of clone soldiers to an enormous, naked, humanoid giant who is swatting clones hard enough to lift them from their feet and knock them to sail Try sailing or flying through the air. Ouch!




Agent One watches one of the clones land back on the frozen tundra with what he suspects will be a lethally brutal connection.


‘Must be ten, twelve metres tall, Sir!’ says Agent Two. He points again, to another immense hominid, this one is holding a clone in each of his mammoth hands, and connecting their heads with sufficient force to break both. ‘They ain’t wearing hardly anything, Sir. And there’s a third one, Sir,’ he points again at a giant creature who is holding a vehicle in his hands, and using it as a club to batter, and swipe at the clones.


‘Who are they?’ whispers Agent One rhetorically.


‘Well, don’t rightly know, Sir. But they’re killing Kiss’ clones, Sir, so it looks like they’re on our side. Least for now, anyways.’


Agent Two stops to listen to a radio message. Both hear the message, but Agent Two relates the message anyway: ‘They’ve found her.’


Agent One, draws a breath that is close to normal, and accepts the hand offered by Agent Two to help draw him to his feet. ‘Let’s go,’ he says.


To Agent One, the battle is a phantasmagoric kaleidoscope of scenes he can barely interpret. The noise of gunfire is tumultuous, with an incessant cracking of rifle fire and small arms, with a stuttering, staccato counterpoint of heavy machine gun fire. Rounds thud and ping into vehicles, and whistle through the air. The Black Ops team add their own heavy ordinance to the mix, with explosives booming like thunder and try; blowing blossoms of earth and melting ice into the air. But there is no sound from any creature. The clones die quietly. Their entrails and limbs are ripped into by heavy rounds, but they emit not a sound, not a scream or cry. Eviscerated or maimed they falter in their stride and fall, or they are jerked into some twisted semblance of themselves by the force of an impact, a little overkill, I think and then they fall, but always without a sound.


The giants work in close concert, each protecting the others but without sound. They work through the clones like a farmer scything down long grass: killing them quietly, without fuss. The giants are wounded, red splashes of blood are clear to see, clone rifle fire picking out further wounds as the seconds of battle move on, but the giants say nothing. Seemingly indefatigable they mow the grass. I like the image.

Eerie, with no noise coming from the clones or giants.


‘Do you know what they are, Sir?’ asks Agent Two.


‘No,’ says Agent One. ‘I have no idea.’


‘Nothing in the mission brief, Sir?’ Agent Two seems unable to stand upright, his back is bent, his legs bent at the knees, he holds onto his helmet with one hand. It's not clear;is this because he's injured, or is he crouching out of line of fire?


‘Nothing.’


‘What do you think they’ll do when the clones are dead, Sir?’


‘Let’s find out,’ says Agent One, lifting his gun and firing a resounding volley into the nearest group of clones. He runs on, aiming and firing. ‘Aw, gee,’ says Agent Two, and follows, reluctantly letting go of his helmet so that he too can raise his rifle and engage the enemy.

I think it could use some thightening up, as it doesn't quite read smoothly.

I like the concept: Sci-Fi's elite soldiers come into a fantasy world: wait until they come up against magic!

It's probably just my twisted brain, but when you said Kiss' clones I couldn't help but imagine Rabid Kiss fans painted up like Gene Simmons and crew...

 

[Cosmic Geoff]

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An Academy ship winks Present tense? into existence above the tundra, unfolding out of a blue vortex of light. The ship dips quickly, stops, rights itself, ascends steeply. An Academy Black Ops team leap from it and drop. And drop.





‘Must be ten, twelve metres tall, Sir!’ says Agent Two. He points again, to another immense hominid, this one is holding a clone in each of his mammoth hands, and connecting their heads with sufficient force to break both. ‘They ain’t wearing hardly anything, Sir. And there’s a third one, Sir,’ he points again at a giant creature who is holding a vehicle in his hands, and using it as a club to batter, and swipe at the clones.


‘Who are they?’ whispers Agent One rhetorically.



To Agent One, the battle is a phantasmagoric kaleidoscope of scenes he can barely interpret. The noise of gunfire is tumultuous, with an incessant cracking of rifle fire and small arms Rifles are small arms , with a stuttering, staccato counterpoint of heavy machine gun fire. Rounds thud and ping into vehicles, and whistle through the air. The Black Ops team add their own heavy ordinance to the mix, with explosives booming like thunder and blowing blossoms of earth and melting ice into the air. But there is no sound from any creature. The clones die quietly. Their entrails and limbs are ripped into by heavy rounds, but they emit not a sound, not a scream or cry. Eviscerated or maimed they falter in their stride and fall, or they are jerked into some twisted semblance of themselves by the force of an impact, and then they fall, but always without a sound. I assume that the lack of sound from the clones etcs is meant to increase the sense of ominousness.


The giants work in close concert, each protecting the others but without sound. They work through the clones like a farmer scything down long grass: killing them quietly, without fuss. The giants are wounded, red splashes of blood are clear to see, clone rifle fire picking out further wounds as the seconds of battle move on, but the giants say nothing. Seemingly indefatigable they mow the grass.


‘Do you know what they are, Sir?’ asks Agent Two.


‘No,’ says Agent One. ‘I have no idea.’


‘Nothing in the mission brief, Sir?’ Agent Two seems unable to stand upright, his back is bent, his legs bent at the knees, he holds onto his helmet with one hand.


‘Nothing.’


‘What do you think they’ll do when the clones are dead, Sir?’


‘Let’s find out,’ says Agent One, lifting his gun and firing a resounding volley into the nearest group of clones. He runs on, with broken ribs? aiming and firing. ‘Aw, gee,’ says Agent Two, and follows, reluctantly letting go of his helmet so that he too can raise his rifle and engage the enemy.

I assume that it's meant to be a sort of science fantasy and it's meant to be funny. I wondered at the use of present tense. Is it like that throughout or just in some sections? Dropping the troops from such a height seems singularly unlikely (or incompetent) - if worried about the giants they just needed to land at a sufficient distance away. One wonders why they didn't refuse to jump.
Overall it works pretty well - it reads well and the story is interesting and amusing.

 

[Jo Zebedee]

Ok, for those of you who have been reading my blog (I think there's (like) three of you)raises hand. , you may now have discovered that I have finished editing "Susan Skull".
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An Academy ship winks into existence above the tundra, unfoldingI like this image out of a blue vortex of light. The ship dips quickly, stops, rights itself, ascends steeply. An Academynot sure you need? Black Ops team leap from it and drop. And drop.


Agent One hits the ground first. Having twisted during the long descent he fails to land correctly. He fails to land upright.I'm not sure this sentence adds? Instead he takes a large portion of the shock of impact with his ribs. ‘Ooof,’ he says.


Agent Two lands more successfully, turns to Agent One for guidance, and receives instead a baleful, silent glare from Agent One who struggles in vain for a breath of the icy, arctic air. ‘Sir,’ cries Agent Two, his voice barely discernible over the noise of the nearby firefight.


Agent One,drop comma rolls to his back, raises his hand and signals: “Engage – Enemy – Lethal Force – Locate – Witchfull stop?’


‘Sir!’ shouts Agent Two, who in turn directs Agents Four through Seven and



Nine through Eleven to engage the clone army. The seven? Seven agents head out. Agent Eleven was brought on the mission to replace Agent Eight who had been injured by an angry aurochs in his previous mission. No-one had noticed, until too late, that Agent Three was not present. No-one knew why, and they were too far across the galaxy to rectify their error. The group was a man down before the mission had properly started. all the detail of the agents is slowing it for me.


Two remains with One. Four through Seven, and Nine through Eleven, all of who have survived the irregularly long drop from the ship, move at a run toward the epicentre of the fighting: a jeep with a mounted machine gun maybe three hundred metres from the drop site. Above them their ship banks awayI don't think you need away; banking tells us this anyway? and arcs high into the muddy gloom of the sky.


Agent One manages to draw a broken, shuddering breath, and uses what little air he has gleaned to exclaim, ‘What the ****…’ to his second in command.


‘Sir?’ asks Agent Two.


Agent One draws another tortured breath, and gasps ‘…was that?’


‘Sir?’ asks Agent Two.


‘We were practically still in orbit when we jumped comma’ says Agent One, his voice a fractured squawk.


‘Slightly higher than usual, SirHere, according to a thread I had up once, sir has a small S, it only has a capital if a name ie Sir Glen... ,’ agrees Agent Two. He ducks his head, lowers his body at the sound of very localised gunfire. ‘On account of the giants, Sir,’ he goes on. ‘We saw them as we came in, Sir. Thought we better steer clear, Sirtoo many sirs for me. It's a hard one, because etiquette might require them, but I've generally found dropping every second one makes the flow a little easier. .’


‘Giants?’


‘Sir!’ hollers Agent Two. He turns, points through the mobs of clone soldiers to an enormous, naked, humanoid giant who is swatting clones hard enough to lift them from their feet and knock them to sail through the air.



Agent One watches one of the clones land back on the frozen tundra with what he suspects will be a lethally brutal connection.


‘Must be ten, twelve metres tall, Sir!’ says Agent Two. He points again, to another immense hominid, this one is holding a clone in each of his mammoth hands, and connecting their heads with sufficient force to break both. ‘They ain’t wearing hardly anything, Sir. And there’s a third one, Sir,full stop." He’ he points again at athe? since we know about it? giant creature who is holding a vehicle in his hands, and using it as a club to batter,drop comma and swipe at the clones.


‘Who are they?’ whispers Agent Onecomma, although rhetorically pulled me out a bit, it was like there was something going on I didn't get... rhetorically.


‘Well, don’t rightly know, Sir. But they’re killing Kiss’ clones, Sir, so it looks like they’re on our side. Least for now, anyways.’


Agent Two stops to listen to a radio message. Both hear the message, but Agent Two relates the message anyway:why? Is it for the reader's benefit? If so, I'd just have us hearing it over the radio at teh same time. ‘They’ve found her.’


Agent One,drop comma draws a breath that is close to normal, and accepts the hand offered by Agent Two to help draw him to his feet. ‘Let’s go,’ he says.


To Agent One, the battle is a phantasmagoric kaleidoscope of scenes he can barely interpret. The noise of gunfire is tumultuous, with an incessant cracking of rifle fire and small arms, withand? to avoid the repeat of with? a stuttering, staccato counterpoint of heavy machine gun fire. Rounds thud and ping into vehicles, and whistle through the air. The Black Ops team add their own heavy ordinance to the mix, with explosives booming like thunder and blowing blossoms of earth and melting ice into the air. But there is no sound from any creature. The clones die quietly. Their entrails and limbs are ripped into by heavy rounds, but they emit not a sound, not a scream or cry. Eviscerated or maimed they falter in their stride and fall, or they are jerked into some twisted semblance of themselves by the force of an impact, and then they fall, but always without a sound.nice paragraph, like a snap shot of the action.


The giants work in close concert, each protecting the others but without sound. They work through the clones like a farmer scything down long grass: killing them quietly, without fuss. The giants are wounded, red splashes of blood are clear to see, clone rifle fire picking out further wounds as the seconds of battle move on, but the giants say nothing. Seemingly indefatigable they mow the grass.


‘Do you know what they are, Sir?’ asks Agent Two.haven't they already talked about this, or am I confused?


‘No,’ says Agent One. ‘I have no idea.’


‘Nothing in the mission brief, Sir?’ Agent Two seems unable to stand upright,here i wonder if a colon might be smoother. I'm not sure, but the next bit might read smoothly like a llist? his back is bent, his legs bent at the knees, he holds onto his helmet with one hand.


‘Nothing.’


‘What do you think they’ll do when the clones are dead, Sir?’


‘Let’s find out,’ says Agent One, lifting his gun and firing a resounding volley into the nearest group of clones. He runs on, aiming and firing. new paragraph.‘Aw, gee,’ says Agent Two, and follows, reluctantly letting go of his helmet so that he too can raise his rifle and engage the enemy.

Hi Glen, I quite enjoyed it, liked being straight into the action. I was a bit confused what sort of vehicles there were and the scope of the fight - is it a skirmish or a battle? That sort of thing. The other comments are nits. Good luck.

 

[Sleepless]

I liked the story, formatting was terrible! Why is it all over the place? My only real comment is dialogue, doesnt come across as the conversation of a Special Forces unit in the middle of action, probably more swearing, more clipped, less aw geez.

 

[Glen]

How fantastic it is to get all this feedback! Thanks all. I can't process it all just yet, given that I am in a hotel room with prehistoric wi-fi, but I will find time over the coming weekend. But for now I think I have learned:

• I don't know much about fighting / armies / military
• I have at least one reader of my blog
• "Puppy" is a very bad word
• My running gags don't work in a sequel
• I repeat stuff, and I repeat stuff.
• I should, probably, given it is a sequel, give a little more info.
• I need to think more, and be clearer about, getting out of a drop ship
• I won't be able to fix up every discrepancy about the Academy, because they are academics, not military.

My most unpleasant realisation is that I probably need to go through this ****ing document another time. Hell's teeth!

 

[Grinnel]

Keep at it; keep at it; keep at it.

In a few years, when you're trying to figure out ways to spend the royalties, it will have been worth it. (At least, that's what I keep telling myself...)

 

[EricWard]

• "Puppy" is a very bad word
  

Heh, just making sure you were reading everything.

 

[Warren_Paul]

Hey Glen. Overall I'm not a big fan of present tense, but I've tried my hand at reading through this and making some comments. Hope they help.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

An Academy ship winks into existence above the tundra, unfolding out of a blue vortex of light. The ship dips quickly, stops, rights itself, ascends steeply. -Ending the sentence without an and or then sounded strange to me. Makes me think that there should be more to the actions after it ascends. As it is sounds fragmented- An Academy Black Ops team leap from it and drop. And drop. -There is no indication of perspective. Where are we seeing this from? Inside the ship, or outside, or from the view of one of the team members. Need to know so I can picture it properly. If the PoV is omnipresent, I don't get any feel for the narrator that's telling the story either, unless that came before this scene?-


Agent One hits the ground first. Having twisted during the long descent he fails to land correctly. He fails to land -Repeat of 'fails to land'- upright. Instead he takes a large portion of the shock of impact with his ribs. ‘Ooof,’ he says. -I'd take the dialogue out. For two reasons. Firstly unless the PoV is from Agent One or omnipresent, nobody would hear him. And secondly, it sounds a bit comedic, but then, knowing you that might not be an issue.


Agent Two lands more successfully, turns to Agent One for guidance, and receives instead a baleful, silent glare from Agent One who struggles in vain for a breath of the icy, arctic air. ‘Sir,’ cries Agent Two, his voice barely discernible over the noise of the nearby firefight.


Agent One, -don't need comma here- rolls to his back, raises his hand and signals: “Engage – Enemy – Lethal Force – Locate – Witch’


‘Sir!’ shouts Agent Two, who in turn directs Agents Four through Seven and Nine through Eleven to engage the clone army. Seven agents head out. Agent Eleven was brought on the mission to replace Agent Eight who had been injured by an angry aurochs in his previous mission. No-one had noticed, until too late, that Agent Three was not present. No-one knew why, and they were too far across the galaxy to rectify their error. The group was a man down before the mission had properly started. -At this paragraph I'm starting to feel a bit info-dumped on because that's what it reads like. And I still have no idea who the narrator is. I'm afraid there isn't any personality or life to this piece-


Two remains with One. Four through Seven, and Nine through Eleven, all of who have survived the irregularly long drop from the ship, move at a run toward the epicentre of the fighting: a jeep with a mounted machine gun maybe three hundred metres from the drop site. Above them their ship banks away and arcs high into the muddy gloom of the sky.

-After this point the infodumpishness fades away it seems and the PoV starts to settle on either Agent One, or Two. Not sure who, but at least it's much more stable, instead of the flicking around of earlier-

Agent One manages to draw a broken, shuddering breath, and uses what little air he has gleaned to exclaim, ‘What the ****…’ to his second in command.


‘Sir?’ asks Agent Two.


Agent One draws another tortured breath, and gasps ‘…was that?’


‘Sir?’ asks Agent Two.


‘We were practically still in orbit when we jumped’ says Agent One, his voice a fractured squawk.


‘Slightly higher than usual, Sir,’ agrees Agent Two. He ducks his head, lowers his body at the sound of very localised gunfire. ‘On account of the giants, Sir,’ he goes on. ‘We saw them as we came in, Sir. Thought we better steer clear, Sir.’


‘Giants?’


‘Sir!’ hollers Agent Two. He turns, points through the mobs of clone soldiers to an enormous, naked, humanoid giant who is swatting clones hard enough to lift them from their feet and knock them to sail through the air.



Agent One watches one of the clones land back on the frozen tundra with what he suspects will be a lethally brutal connection.


‘Must be ten, twelve metres tall, Sir!’ says Agent Two. He points again, to another immense hominid, this one is holding a clone in each of his mammoth hands, and connecting their heads with sufficient force to break both. ‘They ain’t wearing hardly anything, Sir. -You've already told us they aren't wearing anything in narrative, so either take it out of the narrative above, or change this dialogue. Right now it's repeating details we already know- And there’s a third one, Sir,’ he points again at a giant creature who is holding a vehicle in his hands, and using it as a club to batter, and swipe at the clones.


‘Who are they?’ whispers Agent One rhetorically.


‘Well, don’t rightly know, Sir. But they’re killing Kiss’ clones, Sir, so it looks like they’re on our side. Least for now, anyways.’


Agent Two stops to listen -Stops doing what? Hadn't he already finished his dialogue?- to a radio message. Both hear the message, but Agent Two relates the message anyway: ‘They’ve found her.’

-If they both hear the message, then why not show us the message, instead of Agent Two relating it back to him?-

Agent One, draws a breath that is close to normal, and accepts the hand offered by Agent Two to help draw him to his feet. ‘Let’s go,’ he says.

-Always referred to as Agent one or two, I'd have preferred to get a bit more personal with the characters, what are their names? Give them some character, cause right now I've read half of this and don't even know a single thing about these guys-

To Agent One, the battle is a phantasmagoric kaleidoscope of scenes he can barely interpret. The noise of gunfire is tumultuous, with an incessant cracking of rifle fire and small arms, with a stuttering, staccato counterpoint of heavy machine gun fire. Rounds thud and ping into vehicles, and whistle through the air. The Black Ops team add their own heavy ordinance to the mix, with explosives booming like thunder and blowing blossoms of earth and melting ice into the air. But there is no sound from any creature. The clones die quietly. Their entrails and limbs are ripped into by heavy rounds, but they emit not a sound, not a scream or cry. Eviscerated or maimed they falter in their stride and fall, or they are jerked into some twisted semblance of themselves by the force of an impact, and then they fall, but always without a sound. -Half a paragraph to say in several different ways that they died quietly, I think it could be tightened a bit-


The giants work in close concert, each protecting the others but without sound. They work through the clones like a farmer scything down long grass: killing them quietly, without fuss. The giants are wounded, red splashes of blood are clear to see, clone rifle fire picking out further wounds as the seconds of battle move on, but the giants say nothing. Seemingly indefatigable they mow the grass.


‘Do you know what they are, Sir?’ asks Agent Two.


‘No,’ says Agent One. ‘I have no idea.’


‘Nothing in the mission brief, Sir?’ Agent Two seems unable to stand upright, his back is bent, his legs bent at the knees, he holds onto his helmet with one hand.


‘Nothing.’


‘What do you think they’ll do when the clones are dead, Sir?’


‘Let’s find out,’ says Agent One, lifting his gun and firing a resounding volley into the nearest group of clones. He runs on, aiming and firing. ‘Aw, gee,’ -This dialogue comes across rather corny, like a country bumpkin sort of character. Intended?- says Agent Two, and follows, reluctantly letting go of his helmet so that he too can raise his rifle and engage the enemy.

Unfortunately I didn't like it, sorry Glen. I felt the personality and character of the scene fell rather flat because there was no PoV character and it was about as shallow as can possibly be. I'd have liked to get into the minds of one of the agents, had his thoughts, and got to know who they were. Referring to them as Agent One and Two didn't go over well with me I'm afraid. Even if it's omnipresent, I think the scene still needs some personality from the narrator added to it.

I think the dialogue also needs a bit of work, it's short and clipped. Half of it I felt didn't even contribute anything to the scene. All the 'sirs' were a bit too much for me. Maybe that's how they speak to superiors in the army, I don't know, but for me I got sick on him saying 'Sir' all the time.

Also as a side note on technicalities; I don't believe you land directly on your feet anyway when skydiving because it can break your legs, even with a parachute slowing the rate of fall. They usually do a little kinda roll, don't they? I'm no expert on the matter though, so probably somebody could come along and give a better answer to that than me.

Also, as has been mentioned earlier; I agree that the team sounds like a bunch of amateurs. Maybe they are?

Sorry I couldn't be more positive about it.

 

[Glen]

[FONT=&quot]Thanks again for all the feedback, and I mean all. It’s a gift being able to see the words from someone else’s pov. If anyone is interested, I’ve made changes based on the feedback and copied below.[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]This may, or may not go into the final version (but probs will). I hope to have a couple of folk read the whole book, and get more feedback, before I edit again. [/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]I haven’t taken on all suggestions. [/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]I think the section would read better with the context of the preceeding section, or even the preceeding book, and some of this is just going to have to stay because it’s the way I want the book to be. Rightly or wrongly I reckon we all need to try to find a voice that suits us. [/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]The section comes after a sad section in which a character from the first book has things very hard indeed and the tone is desperate and sombre. This scene is meant to be lighter, and more comedic. Things are meant to be going wrong.[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]Some of the inconsistency is meant to be there. I think that’s the way people operate – they will ask the same question twice, even if they already have the answer. And I personally don’t like reading anything where all the answers are given for me.[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]And the Academy, well, who knows who they are, but they are certainly not elite military.[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]***[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]An Academy ship winks into existence above the tundra, unfolding out of a blue vortex of light. The ship dips quickly, stops, rights itself, and as a Black Ops team leap from the drop ramp, ascends steeply.

Agent One twists during the jump and fails to land upright. He stumbles, falls and takes a large portion of the shock of impact with his ribs. ‘Ooof,’ he says.

Agent Two lands successfully, turns to Agent One for guidance, and receives instead a baleful, silent glare from Agent One who struggles in vain for a breath of the icy, arctic air. ‘Sir,’ cries Agent Two, his voice barely discernible over the noise of the nearby firefight.

Agent One rolls to his back, raises his hand and signals: ‘Proceed! – Clear Target – Retrieve Girl.’[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]‘Sir!’ shouts Agent Two, who in turn directs Agents Four through Seven and Nine through Eleven to engage the clone army. Seven agents head out. Agent Eleven was brought on the mission to replace Agent Eight who had been injured by an angry aurochs in his previous mission. No-one had noticed, until too late, that Agent Three was not present. No-one knew why, and they were too far across the galaxy to rectify their error. The group was a man down before the mission had properly started.

Two remains with One. Four through Seven, and Nine through Eleven, all of whom have survived the irregularly long drop from the ship without injury, move at a run toward the epicentre of the fighting: a jeep with a mounted machine gun maybe three hundred metres from the drop site. Above them their ship banks away and arcs high into the muddy gloom of the sky.

Agent One manages to draw a broken, shuddering breath, and uses what little air he has gleaned to exclaim, ‘What the hell…’ to his second in command.

‘Sir?’ asks Agent Two.

Agent One draws another tortured breath, and gasps ‘…was that?’

‘Sir?’ asks Agent Two.

‘We were practically still in orbit when we jumped,’ says Agent One, his voice a fractured squawk.

‘Slightly higher than usual, Sir,’ agrees Agent Two. He ducks his head, lowers his body at the sound of very localised gunfire. ‘On account of the giants, Sir,’ he goes on. ‘We saw them as we came in, Sir. Thought we better steer clear, Sir.’

‘Giants?’[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]
‘Sir!’ hollers Agent Two. He turns, points through the mobs of clone soldiers to an enormous, naked, humanoid giant who is swatting clones hard enough to lift them from their feet and hurl them through the air.

Agent One watches one of the clones land back on the frozen tundra with what he suspects will be a lethally brutal connection.

‘Must be ten, twelve metres tall, Sir!’ says Agent Two. He points again, to another immense hominid, this one is holding a clone in each of his mammoth hands, and connecting their heads with sufficient force to break both. ‘They ain’t wearing hardly anything. And there’s a third one,’ he points again at a giant creature who is holding a vehicle in his hands, and using it as a club to batter, and swipe at the clones.

‘Who are they?’ whispers Agent One rhetorically.

‘Well, don’t rightly know, Sir. But they’re killing Kiss’ clones, so it looks like they’re on our side. Least for now, anyways.’ Both hear a radio update from the other agents, but Agent Two relates the message anyway: ‘They’ve found her.’

Agent One draws a breath that is close to normal, and accepts the hand offered by Agent Two to help draw him to his feet. ‘Let’s go,’ he says.

To Agent One, the battle is a phantasmagoric kaleidoscope of scenes he can barely interpret. The noise of gunfire is tumultuous, with an incessant cracking of small arms fire, with a stuttering, staccato counterpoint of heavy machine gun fire. Rounds thud and ping into vehicles, and whistle through the air. The Black Ops team add their own heavy ordinance to the mix, with explosives booming like thunder and blowing blossoms of earth and melting ice into the air. But there is no sound from any creature. The clones die quietly. Their entrails and limbs are ripped into by heavy rounds, but they emit not a sound, not a scream or cry. Eviscerated or maimed they falter in their stride and fall, or they are jerked into some twisted semblance of themselves by the force of an impact, and then they fall, but always without a sound.

The giants work in close concert, each protecting the others but without sound. They work through the clones like a farmer scything down long grass: killing them quietly, without fuss. The giants are wounded, red splashes of blood are clear to see, clone rifle fire picking out further wounds as the seconds of battle move on, but the giants say nothing. Seemingly indefatigable they mow the grass.

‘Do you know what they are, Sir?’ asks Agent Two.

‘No,’ says Agent One. ‘I have no idea.’

‘Nothing in the mission brief, Sir?’ Agent Two seems unable to stand upright, his back is bent, his legs bent at the knees, he holds onto his helmet with one hand.

‘Nothing.’[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]‘What do you think they’ll do when the clones are dead, Sir?’

‘Let’s find out,’ says Agent One, lifting his gun and firing a resounding volley into the nearest group of clones. He runs on, aiming and firing. ‘Aw, gee,’ says Agent Two, and follows, reluctantly letting go of his helmet so that he too can raise his rifle and engage the enemy.[/FONT]

 

[Hex]

I always love your writing, Glen, and I'm sorry I didn't get to this before because I really enjoyed it.

Just to be awkward (hey, why not?) I preferred your original opening with the 'and drop. And drop.' -- this version's opening reads as more careful, and I don't think that's necessarily a good thing. er... I feel the same about Agent One's landing. I liked your first version better, though I wasn't totally sure about the 'upright' sentence -- I thought you could drop that, or use it instead of the 'correctly' one.

Damn. I have to go. More later. I think maybe your rewrite suffers a bit from trying to please people and therefore losing your voice. Of which, as you know, I am a massive fan.

EDIT: back in time to comment on the rest. I don't have much of a comment, in fact. Just I liked it very much. The later changes worked for me.

Something a bit unwieldy happened, I thought, in the paragraph on the giants being silent. I wasn't sure about '...without sound.'/ '...without fuss.' I think but that was the only bit I thought might be a little smoother.

I'm pretty sure you shouldn't be capitalising 'sir' -- it looks weird, like you're referring to Sir Ponsonby (which, it occurs to me, you might be, so I'll be quiet).

 

[The Judge]

Glen, I've taken the liberty of increasing the font size of your post -- on my screen the original was so small it needed a microscope to read!!

And just to agree with Hex's point, I'd only give a capital to "sir" at the beginning of a sentence or if it's part of a name. And even if you are referring to Sir Ponsonby, I'd still only capitalise it if the Ponsonby is also there.

 

[Gary Compton]

A nice idea but the writing needs tightening for an action scene. There's no urgency in the words in my opinion. I deliberately havent read the other comments.

I've just had a look at a bit as haven't much time

I think you could add a bit more POV. I have added a bit for effect but the scene needs more.

An Academy ship winks into existence above the tundra, unfolding out of a blue vortex of light. Nice image The ship dips quickly, stops, rights itself, ascends steeply. I dont like this description. It's clunky when it should be smooth for such a vessell. How about - The ship positions itself over the dropzone and the Academy Black Ops team descend, one by one, to the surface. An Academy Black Ops team leap from it and drop. And drop.


Agent One hits the ground first. Having twisted during the long descent he fails to land correctly. A misile expodes next to him. He fails to land upright. Instead he takes a large portion of the shock of impact with his ribs. ‘Ooof,’ he says.


Agent Two lands more successfully, turns to Agent One for guidance, and receives instead a baleful, silent glare from Agent One who struggles in vain for a breath of the icy, arctic air. ‘Sir,’ cries Agent Two, his voice barely discernible over the noise of the nearby firefight.


Agent One, rolls to his back, raises his hand and signals: “Engage – Enemy – Lethal Force – Locate – Witch’

‘Sir!’ shouts Agent Two, who in turn directs Agents Four through Seven and

Nine through Eleven dont like that - how about the agents (to- delete) engage the clone army. Seven agents head out. Agent Eleven was brought on the mission to replace Agent Eight who had been injured by an angry aurochs in his previous mission. No-one had noticed, until too late, that Agent Three was not present. No-one knew why, and they were too far across the galaxy to rectify their error. The group was a man down before the mission had properly started. Calling the agents by numbers pulled me out of the story. Can you not name them - Agent Gideon (biblical) Agent Zeus (Greek God) You could come up with something appropriate to your story.

 

[Glen]

Thanks The Judge. I noticed that my pasting of regular sized font went through some kind of text-shrinking wormhole (that's what we call it in IT), but that only motivated me to groan, not to do anything about it.

:0(

Hm. The upper cased "Sir" seemed so plausible. Now I will have to push just those bits of text, and only those bits, through the text-shrinking wormhole.

Who said writing was easy?

And who is this Ponsonby dude?!??!

 

[SciFrac]

This didn't grab me for a couple reasons:

It's hard for me too feel emotions for people named one, two, three, etc. All numbers get jumbled in my head and I don't feel particularly close to any of them. If agent five died instead of agent six, it woulnt matter to me. I want them to matter.

Present tense doesn't really help either. Just a preference, so keep if you like. Also, I'd like to feel more urgency in the words themselves. Keep fast action short and sweet.

 

[Mark R]

An Academy ship winks into existence above the tundra, unfolding out of a blue vortex of light

I think it has to be either - 'winks out of existence' or 'unfolding out of a blue vortex of light'. The former is immediate, the latter languid. Both are nice but they don't work together.

I liked the "drops. And drops." bit that seems to have been omitted in this version.

Agent One twists during the jump and fails to land upright. He stumbles, falls and takes a large portion of the shock of impact with his ribs. ‘Ooof,’ he says.

This got a chuckle.

‘Sir!’ shouts Agent Two, who in turn directs Agents Four through Seven and Nine through Eleven to engage the clone army. Seven agents head out. Agent Eleven was brought on the mission to replace Agent Eight who had been injured by an angry aurochs in his previous mission. No-one had noticed, until too late, that Agent Three was not present. No-one knew why, and they were too far across the galaxy to rectify their error. The group was a man down before the mission had properly started.

Two remains with One. Four through Seven, and Nine through Eleven, all of whom have survived the irregularly long drop from the ship without injury, move at a run toward the epicentre of the fighting: a jeep with a mounted machine gun maybe three hundred metres from the drop site. Above them their ship banks away and arcs high into the muddy gloom of the sky.

I actually like this in as much as it is neatly and logically laid out. I know what everyone is doing, I may not remember as the piece continues, but that's my own fault. We're dealing with a sizeable group of people each performing different tasks, and this is as good a way to introduce that concept as any. It doesn't feel overloaded, it does feel urgent, and I think it sets a military theme nicely.

Agent One manages to draw a broken, shuddering breath, and uses what little air he has gleaned to exclaim, ‘What the hell…’ to his second in command.

[FONT=&quot]
[/FONT]
"What the f---" is always going to please me more than "what the hell". I know it sounds crazy but the latter just seems sanitised to me.

To Agent One, the battle is a phantasmagoric kaleidoscope of scenes he can barely interpret. The noise of gunfire is tumultuous, with an incessant cracking of small arms fire, with a stuttering, staccato counterpoint of heavy machine gun fire.

Like everyone else I liked the language here. As a point of pedantry I am not sure that you can call machine gun fire "staccato" - small arms fire has more discernible staccato properties, in that the silence after the sound is evident. It goes crack-crack-crack rather than a machine gun which is more crackcrackcrackcrack. There may be silences between the shots but the human ear won't pick them out - you hear it more like a continuous sound.

I should suffix this by saying I don't think anyone is going to care overmuch, but if you employ a technical word you're going to make people get technical

Rounds thud and ping into vehicles, and whistle through the air. The Black Ops team add their own heavy ordinance to the mix, with explosives booming like thunder and blowing blossoms of earth and melting ice into the air.

Again the pedant in me comes to the fore - 'explosives booming like thunder' - yes thunder can boom, but it can also rumble or growl or do other things. Thunder is such a generic word for a loud sound that I think you may benefit by using a more specific variant. My suggestion would be 'booming like thunderclaps'.

As a piece I thought it was fine and it flowed nicely. Nothing about it really drew me in but then this isn't a hook sequence, so why should it?

 

[amberwaves]

I like this - even better the second time around.

I still have an issue and it might be my lack of understanding of a rhetoric definition that is not in my dictionary.

----------quote-----------
‘Who are they?’ whispers Agent One rhetorically.
-----------end quote---------------------
I had to look this one up to be sure it wasn't just a use of the word I was unfamiliar with.
I could not find any usage that fits this within this context although in a twisted way if he was being rhetorical to himself then it might be an inside joke that only he knows about trying to be rhetorical one way while ending up looking rhetorical another way and inside out turning his "Who are they" To rhetoric that only he could possibly appreciate at the moment which would be a deviously inventive type of clever usage of the word rhetoric that none of us could possibly get.

-----------quote------
Agent Two stops to listen to a radio message. Both hear the message, but Agent Two relates the message anyway: ‘They’ve found her.’

-----end quotes----------
Relay might work better here though there is plenty of room to use relates. Relate in this context jars me to a point of a headache. Relate and relay are not the same and I don't know if he was doing a narrative or passing the information.


For someones edification Barnes and Noble offers a book on Rifles and small arms not that that makes them the expert but I think trying to turn that into a problem in this context is really nit picking the nit's nits.





---------------quote------
To Agent One, the battle is a phantasmagoric kaleidoscope of scenes he can barely interpret. The noise of gunfire is tumultuous, with an incessant cracking of rifle fire and small arms, with a stuttering, staccato counterpoint of heavy machine gun fire. Rounds thud and ping into vehicles, and whistle through the air. The Black Ops team add their own heavy ordinance to the mix, with explosives booming like thunder and blowing blossoms of earth and melting ice into the air. But there is no sound from any creature. The clones die quietly. Their entrails and limbs are ripped into by heavy rounds, but they emit not a sound, not a scream or cry. Eviscerated or maimed they falter in their stride and fall, or they are jerked into some twisted semblance of themselves by the force of an impact, and then they fall, but always without a sound.
-----------end quote-----------

This all strikes me as purple and don't get me wrong this is not a criticism because this is more like a purple patch then purple prose. It's just that it all factored down into a bunch of white noise in my brain which works because the point is that its noisy all around while there are no sounds from any creature. And the clones die quietly. And, also, I love purple its my favorite flavor of prose.

------------------quotes-----------------
‘Do you know what they are, Sir?’ asks Agent Two.


‘No,’ says Agent One. ‘I have no idea.’
------------end quotes------------------

This is ironic- I think that if we take into consideration one's question previously and two's answer that this now might smack of rhetoric with slightly less stretch then the previous question.