Sunday Music and Story Preview
August 7, 2011 § 1 Comment
Well hello there.
I have to be all business today, especially since I’m already late for what I need to be doing.
First, I have a Louis Armstrong song to play for you. It’s quite possibly my favourite song of his.
Second, I have a preview of Nova’s story. It’s not finished, but it’s going quite well now that I’ve got some traction. Looking at a white screen is incredibly hard, but it’s like building Lego. Once you have one line written, it’s a hell of a lot easier to add something to that, rather than write a whole new line.
So enjoy on your Sunday afternoon. Peace out, yo.
Oh, and for those who would be interested, this is 3/4 of a single-spaced page with 2cm margins. 598 words, which ain’t too many, but right now that’s about 1/5 of what I’ve got so far.
John Shephard let Mordin commit the last betrayal, but he took all the others for himself.
His shotgun barked in the face of a charging Krogan, the sound lost amidst the alien’s defiant roar. The blast, however, was not, and the Krogan collapsed and died, his face a broken mass of blood, bone, and brain. The force of the shot blew through the creature’s head, taking with it most of the grey matter within, what little there was to be had in a Krogan stupid enough to charge a Vanguard with a shotgun.
That was betrayal number twelve, John knew. He was counting.
“Damn Vorcha,” grumbled Garrus from his perch at John’s right, “just don’t know when to stay down. Too damn tough to die in one shot, and too damn stupid to keep their heads down for the second.” His rifle whined, a metallic sneer, as the back third of another Vorcha’s head exploded in a red mist, revealing even less brain than that which had been inside the Krogan. “Palaven dammit,” Garrus grumbled again, “and I just calibrated this scope.”
“Perhaps if you took less time calibrating and more time practising your shooting, Mr. Vakarian, you wouldn’t miss so much?” Dr. Mordin Solus asked as he calmly lined up shot after shot with his pistol. They were ostensibly pinned down in a corridor, huddled behind some crates as members of the Weyrloc tribe tried to dislodge them from their position and stop them before they penetrated too far into their research station. Unfortunately for the Weyrloc, they relied heavily on their favoured tactic of the frontal charge. Shephard had imagined they would. In fact, he had counted on it. Garrus’ sniper rifle and Shephard’s shotgun were there to show the Weyrloc just why that plan was a bad one.
Another Vorcha fell back hissing, the hole in his chest large enough for a person to crawl through, and John added another to the total.
“Look at the Professor,” Garrus intoned, his voice deadpan, “bringing a pistol to a Krogan fight. This is your gig, Mordin. We’re just along for the ride.”
A Krogan, his armour stained with dirt and debris, burst through the wall behind Garrus. The sniper went down in a shower of rubble, letting out a strained hiss as he was covered in pieces of wall and dirt. Behind the Krogan, a seething group of Vorcha pushed forward, sticking forward guns and arms, shooting wildly into the ceiling, walls, and anywhere that wasn’t currently being shot full of holes.
Mordin sniffed, his nostrils flaring with irritation. He narrowed his eyes and snapped his fingers. The implants in his arms shone briefly with a red light. Thin streamers of monofilament metal, too small to be seen with the naked eye, shot out of his implants. In less than a second, they danced in the air in front of the mass of crowded Vorsha. Mordin spared a sneer for them, as highly flammable methandyanine gas sprayed out and was ignited with a spark.
The hallway behind the Krogan exploded into a strangely quiet inferno. There was still the whine of bullets, booms of grenades and the howls of the enraged and wounded, but there was no great woosh of the ignition implants. There was only the screams of half a dozen Vorcha as the flaming, gas, conveniently heavier than air, drifted lazily down like burning snow. The screams did not last long.
Six more for Mordin, but Shephard grudged him those. This was his betrayal as much as his.