View Full Version : Rain.

2 July 2006, 02:42 PM
The following is a short fanfic I wrote for a recurring character of mine over the past couple days. It's a bit dark, but I hope any and all readers enjoy. Please, if you catch any errors, let me know via a post in this thread, and if you have any questions, comments, suggestions, or complaints about the story, this is also the place to tell me. I'm always looking for feedback.

And, without further ado, I give you, "Rain."


It was raining.

As a slight breeze agitated the tatter of curtain on the open window, a few of the cold, acrid drops fell on her pale arm, dragging her up into consciousness for a moment.

It was light.

She had no idea how long she’d been in this room, only that she’d checked in on the nineteenth, flashing enough credits to go undisturbed for as long as she wished. She wondered, vaguely, what day it was. The last time she’d woken up, it was dark and oppressively hot in the grungy room, with the smut den across the skywalk bathing the walls in a sultry orange glow. The last she remembered, that window had been closed…how long ago? Inexplicably, she grinned a bit, her cracked and bleeding lips seeming to writhe in pain across her face. She was smiling as she pulled her arm off the ledge, but the smile soon disappeared when she saw her arm, a white, lifeless skeletal looking thing, with a netting of dark purple, almost black veins. Eyeing one of the veins, she felt she could see the toxic, corrupted blood flowing through. She gazed back into the room: no bed but the battered, upturned couch and the low caf table as the only surface furniture in the room, she felt sure the place qualified as a dump. Between her and the table was a small pile of expended self-injecting capsules, each of which could buy a night in a room ten times nicer than this.

She reached with her other arm to grab one of the still full capsules on the table, noticing for the first time the nasty burn and gash on her forearm, still oozing purplish blood. Funny, she couldn’t seem to remember how she’d gotten that. Clumsily, she knocked a full vial onto the floor. It landed on the applicator, breaking it, and rendering the vial useless. Suddenly frantic, she pulled herself over to the table (her legs didn’t seem to be working), and searched the table, apparently not noticing the foul scum she was seated in.

Had the girl been sober, she’d have seen several full capsules lying scattered around the floor. In the state she was in, however, the only thing she could perceive was the stark lack of the vials anywhere on the table. She glanced around in terror, beginning to make a few strangled, mewing noises, before finally shrieking, tearing a bit of ragged black hair out. In an explosion of movement, she kicked the table, sending it bouncing across the floor noisily. An irritated alien shout from below assured her that this particular reality was the one that everyone else was living in, but that did little to comfort her. Sobbing, she collapsed into a prone position over the pile of empty injectors, slowly bleeding from her arm, adding a dark tinge to the filth she lay in. Within moments, she was unconscious.

It had been a great show. She sat in the ready room, smoking an expensive cigarette, waiting for Tym to get back from signing autographs. His soundcaster solo had been totally improvised and totally transcendental tonight. And the crowd appreciated it. Already, Mayhaun, their agent, had confirmed that their next five dates were sold out, and standing room only sales were still on the rise. Smiling lovingly across the room to where her own ‘caster rested in its decal-covered case, she thanked the stars that she and Tym had met.

A knock at the door brought her back to reality.

“Just a minute.”, she called hoarsely as she dressed herself. An evening of screaming lyrics had left her ‘pipes’ dry and burning in a good sort of way, much like fatigue felt good after a hard day’s work. Pulling a Syphrant t-shirt over her wild hairdo and nude torso, she opened the door.

The door slid open to reveal a monster straight out of hell. It looked like it might have once been Tym, but the face was charred and blistered almost beyond recognition. The arms, bony and burnt, were dripping some sort of noxious fluid, even as the eyes, now vacant holed embedded in the thing’s skull, seemed to stare through her, eating her soul.

Panicked, she swatted at the door control, but too slowly. The thing strode in…

She jumped into consciousness and nearly fell off the couch. It was dark again, but this time, almost painfully cold. She coughed once as she looked around the room, and noticed that she could see her breath. She could also see the wet purplish flecks of blood she’d coughed up, soaking into the couch’s fabric. On the floor beside her lay an unconscious Gotal, cradling an empty flask and murmuring slightly. Though she couldn’t remember how he’d gotten in, she did remember they’d had a very good time. Still, she needed to warm up. Rising, she strode across the tiny room to close the window. She felt sure it had been open for quite some time as she pulled it closed, grimacing as she tramped in the slimy mess below it. She frowned at the horrible smelling refuse, trying fervently to remember how it had gotten there, to no avail. Mentally shrugging, she returned to the couch, noticing that the Gotal was gone. Or perhaps he’d never been there at all.

All the thinking made her want another fix though, and before she knew it, she’d found another vial and was removing the cap from the needle. Ah that’s right. The Gotal she’d meet last week, when she’d left the room in search of more Stigma. He’d offered her twenty vials for three times the going street rate, but she’d still accepted, and even invited him back to the room, where they’d spent the last several days in Stigma-reality, an exercise in vice and debauchery of the lowest form. Now however, he was gone. Though he knew better than to stiff her, and the thirteen remaining vials sat ready on the table that had somehow gotten upturned some time ago.

With another mental shrug, she placed the applicator needle against the infected, oozing flesh of her burn, noticing, for the first time, the spent applicator still hanging from its needle, out of her arm. Not feeling the need to remove it, she pressed the new one’s stud. The needle sprang a full three centimeters into her veins and expelled its contents. Instantly, her heart seemed to stop as her limbs turned to megaton-heavy blocks of ice. Within two seconds she was unconscious, with two applicators hanging out of her infected sore of an arm.

The deckplates thrummed beneath her gloss black, spiky boots as the courier ship left Coruscant’s gravity well. Leaning over to Tym, she kissed him lightly on the cheek. Thanks to his ‘caster work and her cutting vocals, not only had they been featured in several Coruscant music magazines, but the intergalactic act Red Tape had invited them to tour the Corellian sector as their opening act. Next Stop: Selonia.

Tym, already asleep, didn’t respond to the kiss, but she was glad she’d kissed him just the same. They were inseparable these days, getting inspiration for their angsty music from remembering life before they’d met, and the prospect of not being together. But where the two of them were concerned, happiness was immortal. With a contented smirk, she lay back in her plush nerf hide seat and attempted to get some sleep, even though she knew she wouldn’t.

How could tomorrow ever follow today?

It was raining again.

Drenched, she lay in the alley across the skyway from her old room, having been kicked out after complaints of stench led to her landlord finding her unconscious amid hundreds of empty vials of Stigma. Now, too impaired to find another place to stay, she could do little except stare up at what she felt sure must have been her room. The window was open, despite the rain, and she could see the tattered curtain whipping around angrily in the storm.

Though she hadn’t noticed the infection in her arm, the rain and fresh air of the past few days had helped somewhat to combat the infection. Still, her arm had taken on a definite greenish tinge, and bruised anywhere she touched it. Also, any scratch on her arm bled constantly. Aside from the swollen, infected arm, the rest of her body was starving to death. Her legs, now probably too weak to support even her own meager weight seemed to be strained just holding up the soaked film of skin she wore. Her Syphrant t-shirt still hung limply on her back, seemingly mocking her current state.

At that moment, a door opened in the wall she was leaning on. A rotund man in a cook’s uniform hustled out to the hopper, throwing a bag of trash in, before hurrying back into the kitchen, trying to keep dry, and apparently never noticing the urchin he’d passed. As soon as the man was gone, she dragged herself over to the hopper and tore open the bag with her bony, claw-like fingers. Grimy garbage spilled out, all over the girl, but she didn’t seem to notice, choosing a bruised fruit and the end of some leaf of bread from among the rubbish and eating right there in the hopper.

After a few minutes, she had finished. Scrabbling back out of the hopper, she managed a crouched position and hobbled back to her metal staircase, which she crawled under and covered herself with a soaked, grimy blanket. Now staring enviously back at the hopper, she wondered why she’d ever left it. She couldn’t possibly get any wetter, and now she’d just have to go over there again the next time the cooks brought out trash. Then she remembered the Stigma she’d smuggled out of her room. Pulling the vial, a broken one, out of her tattered pants, she broke the tip off onto the permacrete and held the broken vial up to her eye. The Gotal had taught her this, that she could still take a broken vial if she could drop it into the blood vessels of her eye. Staring up at the seal, she resolutely hit the stud. Within moments here eye was on fire and she moaned, writhing in agony beneath the stairs.

She sat locked in her room, stunned.

They’d been arguing last night. The same old thing. He wasn’t paying enough attention to her, she wasn’t taking her work seriously, he was stealing the spotlight from the band, she was cheating on him with the ommni player…then he’d hit her. Not just a slap, but knocked her to the ground. It was the jet-juice, of course, but still…she was too shocked to do anything except cry and run to her room, locking the door behind her.

Now he’d been standing at the door, apologizing for the past hour. She’d taken a shower, and now, returning to this part of the room, she was touched to hear him still plaintively trying to make things right. Sighing, she opened the door slightly; looking up into Tym’s waiting eyes. Head shaven, Tym stared back.

“You’re paying for the extra makeup”, she said finally, “to cover this up.”

“What?”, Tym asked, puzzled.

Opening the door fully, she revealed the palm-sized bruise on her cheek.

“Oh, baby”, he said, overcome with remorse. Holding her gently, he comforted her, murmuring pleasant things into her hair, now worn down in a black tangle.

Before she knew what she was doing, she found herself pulling him toward the bed…

She admired herself in the cracked, shabby mirror.

She’d returned to her little room in the night, hoping everyone would be asleep. When she’d bumped into the building manager, he merely looks at her disgustedly and moved to the other side of the hall. It seemed she’d never been kicked out at all. Whatever reality she was in when she’d perceived that apparently no longer existed, and she was glad to be back. She’d woken up a few days back in someone’s apartment. Ironically, some passing kids had noticed her gang tattoo and hauled her down seven levels where they dried her off, fed her, and more or less got her back on her feet. Her arm, no longer infected, was now a sickly shade of yellow, and the rest of her, still dangerously thin, was still pale white (the gangers had joked that she made stormtroopers look tanned). Now back in the apartment, she’d switched drugs. No longer taking part in Stigma, she’d come across a new drug, Tectonic, that was giving her some really sublime high trips. Just yesterday (yesterday?) she’d invented an amazing set of lyrics while on a Tec-trip. Another good thing about Tec was that it made her hungry. Slowly but surely, she’d begun to put on weight, and soon, she’d be able to go out into public without getting the strange, pitiful looks she’d been receiving on nights she’d gone out in search of Tec. Though she was now able to leave her room for a few hours at a time without needing Tec or Stigma, her skin was now paper dry and cracked and peeling in many places. In addition, she was frighteningly thin still, with bones seeming daring to poke through her sickly, pallid flesh. Her veins, still nearly black, were now bulging in places as her system balked at the lack of Stigma in her system. She did like cutting back on the Stigma; however, as it not only made her Stigma trips that much more intense, but it also allowed her to dabble in any number of drugs she cared to without fear of complications. (Any medical professional would disagree, but she hadn’t seen a doctor in years.) Over the past week, having emptied yet another of her accounts, she’d experienced a veritable buffet of illicit substance. Slip, Hype, Reverb, Shine…all of these and more had passed through her bloodstream, tying her arteries in knots and testing every speed her heart could go. Even now, her extremities tingled in half-numbness: the legacy of a double fix of Reverb she’d taken over an hour ago.

It was just past three in the morning and almost time for a party she had decided to attend. Clasping the faux razor-wire belt she wore (she’d had to poke another hole in the leather strap, she was so thin) and tightening the leather straps on her top, she turned to leave…then decided one last fix would be the perfect way to start her evening. Grabbing a tube of Slip from her pocket, she sniffed up the sticky, granulated powder, then dabber her already bleeding nose. Headed for the door, she took two steps and collapsed to the ground, eyes rolled into the back of her head, and already a stream of blood draining from her nose. Apparently, this batch wasn’t as clean as her hookup had indicated.

Whoever he was, she thought to herself, that dealer was getting more business from Tym and herself.

She’d shot the Stigma just before coming onstage and now, at the end of an hour long set; the dose had yet to wear off. She could see the music, traveling out in red, jagged lines, winding its way into every ear in the audience. The ears, in contrast, were deceptively difficult to focus on, and seemed to elude her scrutiny. The sound, however, was beautiful, the orange rings from the basscaster wrapping her in layers of warm comfort as the yellow blasts from the ommni lulled her nearly to sleep, onstage. The whole thing was so spiritual…so profoundly beautiful on an instinctive level, that it brought a tear to her eye.

Smiling tenderly at Tym as he entered a solo, she admired the writhing blue snake of sound flowing from Tym’s amps as it flirted with the orange rings and beams of yellow. At just the right moment, she clawed her way back out of the bliss to deliver a wordless primal scream that ended their final song of the night. Moments later, she was smiling and bowing, hand in hand with Tym and Zelkrin, their Bith ommni player, basking in the radiant orange-white glow of the crowd’s wild applause.

At that moment, the room tilted on its side and faded to black…the colors turned and drove into her brain…

It was raining.

No…the ceiling was leaking.

The second thing she noticed was the smell.

Something of a cross between fish and chlorine, the smell was faint enough to be tolerable, strong enough to be noticeable. Her brain seemed to consider the odor much like a critic regards a particularly interesting piece of alien art, sifting out every tiny bit of the smell in an instant. She decided that whatever she’d been doing when she blacked out, MiniFex she thought it was called, hadn’t totally worn off yet.

Rolling onto her other side, she saw a handful of furred aliens gathered nearer the center of the domed, damp room she was in. A little hoarsely she asked, “Where am I?”.

“Oh”, one of the aliens turned to her, “So you’ve decided to wake?”.

“Just tell me where the hell I am.”, she demanded tiredly, sourly.

“Level 23, Block 293. Closer than that, your guess is only a bit worse than mine.”

“Oh, thanks.”, she answered as she accepted a glass of chlorinated water the creature offered her, “How long have I been out of it?”

“Well”, the sinewy furry alien thought, “the fix hit you a bit harder than it ever hit any of us before. You pretty much dropped off the scanners about halfway through the hyperjump—“.

She sprayed out the water in a gasp of surprise, “What frellin’ planet am I on?!”

The alien blinked at her, somewhat puzzled. He dubiously replied, “Why…Corellia, of course.”

Stymied, she leaned back against the slimy brick wall. She thought she might vaguely remember the landing pad on Coruscant…but even that was more a feeling than any concrete memory. Shaking her head, she stood and walked in a small circle, trying to cajole her brain into revealing the details of her trip across the core, all to no avail. Still, she was healthy (her eyes were still dark and sunken, her face pale and gaunt, and, had a steady supply of ‘aid’, and apparently friendly companions. Throwing herself into a battered conform-lounger, she waved capriciously into the air and declared, “Ah, what the hell, gimme another fix.”

Dutifully, the alien opened a small cryo-stasis unit beside the lounger, and tossed her a sterile injector in a medical pouch. Tearing the packaging open with an almost animal hunger, she plunged the double needle into the port she’d had installed in her arm. The supercooled liquids had already frozen and killed the tissue near the post so she never felt the biting sting as the two agents combined and reacted in her bloodstream. The reaction then created a burning heat that literally finished the job of killing any surrounding flesh at the injection site but, of course, she didn’t feel a thing after two or three injections. Once she had a small circle of black, dead flesh, back on Coruscant, these guys (she felt sure they were all male) had taken her to an underworld clinic, where a friend of theirs had installed this port, a one way, tiny medical valve that led directly into the largest vein in her arm. Now, whenever she shot up, there was no need to tie off her arm or find a vein, she simply inserted the needle into the port and within moments, she’d be feeling the effects.

Dimly, she felt herself hit the cold, fishy floor as she convulsed wildly, writhing on the floor in semi-conscious delirium.

It was raining.

Damn government, she thought cynically, staring up into the night sky at the broken weather deflector, still, it does add a melodramatic quality to what’s happening…

“Are you okay?”, Tym asked distantly, dubiously, for the third time without an answer.

He’d killed her. He just told her his plans for the future of Syphrant, or rather, for himself.

He was leaving her.

He said he felt he was moving in a different direction, and it’d be for the best if he did some solo work for a while. Said he didn’t like where the music scene was going, that he needed to get his own message out there for the galaxy to hear.

He was leaving her.

He had to distance himself from his old world, his outside influences, and do some introspective writing. Had to bring the inside out, and put it to song. If he didn’t do this now, he might never get the chance to be honest with himself again.

He was leaving her.

He said she was too talented to let him take the limelight, said she had the voice of an angel and would make the galaxy sit up and take notice when she went big. She didn’t need to be held back while he contemplated and rethought his life, she needed to be out there being seen.

He was leaving her.

Beneath the folds of Tym’s leather jacket, she felt a few vials of Stigma, in an inside pocket. Wanting any excuse to avoid his face, she fished out the vials, four of them, and gathered them in her fist.

“Are you listening to me?”, Tym asked stupidly, finally changing things up.

Feeling as if at any moment, the agony could rip her apart, she wheeled back around to face him, a cold blue fire blazing in her eyes, the wide dark circles around them making her look as if she’d been dead for weeks. Shaking her head, she shook herself out of his old jacket and pressed the quartet of vials against her forearm, and thumbed all the studs in one sweeping motion.

The Stigma hit her like a permacrete wall, literally knocking her to the ground. Tym’s eyes went wide in shock as he knelt over her, shouting in silence, shaking a body that she’d left long ago. Slowly, the entire scene, the lights of imperial city, Tym’s worried face, the rain, the starry sky, all seemed to meld into a dark grey mass that slowly spun as it receded into the distance.

“Brody!”, she felt more than heard him shout, “Brody!”

He was leaving her.

“Brody!”, she shouted, leaping up with a start, only to be held in check by a mess of clear tubing.

“What?”, a round thing called from opposite the room. The white, pristine room.

“Brody.”, she repeated, a little less harshly this time, “My name.”

“But of course”, the round thing answered, “We took a retinal scan.”

“Oh good.”, she nodded, still never wondering in the slightest about anything.

The room was small. And white, very white. She lay in a repulsor bed, with white sheets and pillows. The tubes in her arms, nose, and throat led to a medical assistant droid, sitting silently in the corner. The tiling on the floor was, predictably, bright white, and the medical diagnostic computer opposite the droid was also white. Almost painfully white lights shone down from their sockets in the white ceiling, seeming to shine straight through her skeletal, dying body.

With something that, in a sober mind, might have been recognized as horror, she noticed her port had been surgically removed, and a bacta wrap had been strapped in its place. Father below this, nearer her hand where the sore had once consumed most of her arm, she was attached to yet another piece of equipment, displaying a host of readings on her system every ten seconds or so. Though her legs were beneath the sheets, she felt several monitors attached to them. The ones in the arches of her feet itched horribly.

“W-Where am I?”, she asked the thing hesitantly.

As if it were waiting for this, the thing instantly replied, “The Republic Medical Center, where else?”.

“Oh”, she replied, still unsure of herself and her surroundings, “Who are you?”.

“My name is Dr. Ghaller”, the thing responded, at which point she noticed the human doctor waving from the attached room, through a window: the thing had been a speaker.

“How long have I been here?”, she asked in the same hoarse monotone.

“Oh, about three weeks now. Though this is the first time you’ve spoken coherently.”, the doctor smiled encouragingly.

Finally, she noticed the window beyond the droid. The one that opened to a view of the outside. She could see familiar buildings, skyscrapers, offices, and…

“Imperial Palace…”

The doctor confirmed this, slightly bewildered.

“But…”, she stammered, “I was on Corellia…I was in a Fex den…I—.”

“Calm down, my dear”, Ghaller advised calmly, making a note on his datapad, “Now you haven’t left Coruscant in well over three months. You haven’t been to Corellian space since your group Syphrant toured there three years ago.”


“No buts. You have many things wrong with you. But in time, I promise, we’ll sort you out.”

“No!”, she shrieked, “I was there! It was a domed room! Smelled like fish and chlorine! I was there!”

“Now Miss Ness”, the doctor consoled, “I’m afraid that wasn’t possible. We’ve followed up on your trail for the past three months, and you never left a single room, several hundred levels down. In fact, that’s where we found you, when the building caught fire, and emergency rescue droids detected your EM activity and dragged you out. From our studies, we’ve determined you’d been comatose for several weeks. In fact, this was the twenty-fourth day of your coma.”

“But that’s impossible!”, she was on the verge of hysterics, “I lived in the alley too! Went with the gang boys! Fell…cut…razor!”

“Please, ma’am, calm down.”, Ghaller advised, “Or I’ll be forced to sedate you.”

“Sedate me?!”, she cried, “I’m telling you! The aliens…furry…cold drugs…my port!”

Shaking his head in disappointment, Ghaller tapped a button on his board. Brody watched in horror as a dark purple liquid flowed down a tube into a dark purple vein in her arm. Within seconds, the universe tilted on its side and shrunk to a single, yellow point, then winked out altogether.


3 July 2006, 01:02 AM
Excellent stuff mate!
I really liked it! :)

(I kinda have to take back what I said on AIM about characters with 'normal' lives, eh? :D)

3 July 2006, 12:06 PM
Nice-- I'm rocked to know I've got a character with such deep backstory in my game (albeit one concieved of not especially for said game) B)

3 July 2006, 01:16 PM
Originally posted by Rostek
Nice-- I'm rocked to know I've got a character with such deep backstory in my game (albeit one concieved of not especially for said game) B)

Well, if its any consolation, I wasn't inspired to write this until I knew I'd be playing her in Five of sabers. ;)

Any suggestions, boys?

Terras Jadeonar & Raven
4 July 2006, 12:20 AM
Damn that was one fine read man. Real fine. Was quite a trip to read and as scattered in breaks it was in, it all seemed to make some sort of sense... Then the real twister came, the end peice waking up in the med ward... And I thought those trips were actual splintered / shattered pieces of reality ;)

Is it me or did this fic have a bit of a noir feel to it? Pretty dark and dense anyways... And one of the best fics i've read in a long time to boot ;)


4 July 2006, 12:41 AM
I also got the noir-ish vibe to it, combined with a heathy dose of "bad trip" psychadelia, which given the drug theme strikes me as terribly appropriate.
As such isn't my literary forte, I'm struck without any serious suggestions for improvment/expansion-- congrats, it's very good :P

Terras Jadeonar & Raven
4 July 2006, 12:46 AM
If i were to make a suggestion, I'd say why stop here?

4 July 2006, 03:23 AM
Originally posted by Terras Jadeonar & Raven
If i were to make a suggestion, I'd say why stop here?

Quite astute, Terras-- I concur :D

4 July 2006, 03:31 AM
Good job Cold. I agree with TJ&R

4 July 2006, 09:41 AM
Wow. Wow.

Wow. Cold, you write darkened underworld/drugoverdose/twisted stuff very, very well.

If i were to make a suggestion, I'd say why stop here?

I third that.


5 July 2006, 01:55 PM
I'm flattered, guys. Thanks for all the kind words and encouragement. After this sort of reception, I've decided I may well write more along these lines, continuing to shed light on Brody's enigmatic past.

Bonus points to anybody (I haven't already told), who can tell me how I got the name for Brody's ex. :P

For the next segment that I'm brainstorming, it should be a little more coherent, make a bit more sense, and help to sort out and explain a bit of what happened here in "Rain."; I hope you all enjoy. :)

5 July 2006, 03:06 PM
Bonus points to anybody (I haven't already told), who can tell me how I got the name for Brody's ex.

Hmmm...that depends. How do you pronounce 'Tym'?

5 July 2006, 05:54 PM
Short 'y'...rhymes with...erm...Bimm. ;) Though from what I know of you, Psych, you'd be hard-pressed to have come across this information in your travels.

6 July 2006, 05:20 AM
Meh, probably. (That was my first thought.)

I was just thinking that if it was pronounced 'time,' then she lost all sense of time, even as she lost all sense of Tym.

It's iffy, but that was my guess.

6 July 2006, 06:20 AM
Wow! Great writing!

6 July 2006, 07:00 AM
Holy crap, Cold, that was unbelievable! I'm not usually into that "dark" stuff either... nor am I usually into the fanfics posted here on the forums. But... well, I guess I can't say anything that hasn't already been said here. My one concern, though, is be careful not to write too much more, at least not too fast... it's actually very easy to, uh, overdose on this sort of reading, for lack of a better word.

Great work.

6 July 2006, 02:29 PM
My one concern, though, is be careful not to write too much more, at least not too fast... it's actually very easy to, uh, overdose on this sort of reading, for lack of a better word.

No pun intended, I'm sure. ;)

And don't worry. That was the weird, trippy portion of her story; the next segment looks like it'll be much more coherent, in addition to helping make Rain more normal as well.

As far as Tym: he's named after Tim Armstrong, frontman for punk band Rancid, who is ex-Mr. Brody Dalle, the lovely lady leader of the ex-punk band, The Distillers, upon whom the character of Brody Ness was loosely based.

6 July 2006, 02:57 PM
in addition to helping make Rain more normal as well.

But not necesarily Brody? Or am I reading to much into this?

As far as Tym: he's named after Tim Armstrong, frontman for punk band Rancid, who is ex-Mr. Brody Dalle, the lovely lady leader of the ex-punk band, The Distillers, upon whom the character of Brody Ness was loosely based.

Ah. You're right, I haven't heard of him. But (at least?) I've heard of The Distillers. :rolleyes:

17 July 2006, 05:50 PM
But not necesarily Brody? Or am I reading to much into this?

Not at all. Brody is still (at the time of FoS) very much the basket case she's always been since...oh...about age four. Its just that the military has taought her how to do one thing very well, and she enjoys it.

For what it's worth, I havent done much on the as yet untitled second installment, though I may soon get cracking on it. I owe out a few IC roleplaying posts first. :)

8 August 2006, 11:21 AM
Great job, reads well. You spun an interesting story and I appreciate the trip-episodes. And that waking up in the med center was a nice way to put those trips into perspective - and that's always a usefull technique with these sort of things.

As for the continuation - just don't rush it. Take your time, let it grow ripe, put together a nice treat for all of us who'll be waiting for it.

zappo inc
8 August 2006, 12:28 PM
Very interesting stuff!
Yes, very 'noir'; but I also tasted a bit of the 'cyberpunk'- gritty, dark, wasted, unflinching.
Bladerunner meets Star Wars.
(does that make Han a replicant?)
Anyhhoo, nice. You clearly put a lot of imagination into it.
Much appreciated.

4 September 2006, 10:50 PM
I must say cold that it was one of the best stories written here.
It had everything you need. Keep up the good work.