d.o.mai.n -Chapter 2, Scene 1 - Writers Forum

Maetrix66 · 03-28-2008, 03:57 PM

Here's the revised edition, thanks Olly!

Everyone please let me know what works well or still needs work!

Thanks in advance (as always)!

Chris

d.o.mai.n
Chapter 2 Scene 1

At a pace of 180 MPH Miles could clearly make out the plot of land where he would most likely dig his own grave.

He expected a painless transition into the bright light of heaven. What he got was a flash of crimson as his body compressed against the soft earth followed by the most excruciating pain Miles had ever endured. Time, or at least his perception of it, slowed to the point where he could feel dirt forcing its way into every facial orifice.

He would later recall that he was glad he landed face first.

He had never heard of anyone having cognitive retention of their death before, but then again he had never heard of anyone already dead being able to report much of anything.

Miles became astounded that the conclusion of his life had slowed to a point that allowed existential interpretation. He considered the ability to function as his brain was reshaped into the approximate dimensions of a Frisbee a moral victory.

The wretched process began to slow to farcical proportions.

Please just let me die. His only thought, repeating in endless loop.

The soil blacked out his vision on its way to the back of his skull.

Suddenly he felt the pressure release, like a rubber band snapping past it’s tensile strength threshold and found himself fighting the restraints holding his head to the massage table in the clinic operating room.

He vomited through the table opening into a well-placed bucket. His body writhed, fighting to remain in his current reality. The nurse behind him placed her hand on his back to reassure him. Through his wretching, her soothing voice tried to talk him down.

“Breathe, Mr. King, make sure to keep breathing. It will pass.”

Miles had the urge to correct her, but thankfully was unable to disclose his true identity as he struggled to regain his composure. Snot ran from his nose unimpeded, and he realized he was crying as well. This did nothing to help matters, in fact his resulting anger at crying in front of a perfect stranger counteracted the breathing, forcing him to enter a new fit of dry heaves.

Finally, he was able to stop gyrating long enough for the nurse to safely release the retention straps.
Springing around to a sitting position, Miles hastily snatched the paper towel from the nurse’s hand and wiped the excrement from his face.

“What the hell was that?”, He spat the first words his decreasing heart rate would allow.

The nurse cautiously recited her well rehearsed lecture on the systems need to determine an individuals pain threshold, or how much each individual can take before losing consciousness. This limit is individual, so the process is an unfortunate necessity, as is the lack of prior explanation.

A beeping sound to his left drew Miles attention away from the obviously unsympathetic nurse. The rear of his neck erupted in pain as he turned his head to investigate.

He quickly placed his hand over the small plastic object at the back of his neck before the nurse could grab his wrist.

“Careful. If you pull on that too hard before the incision has a chance to heal, you could become temporarily paralyzed, or even worse, damage the implant.

Miles retracted his hand, but eyed the nurse with suspicion.

She returned his glare and handed him a slip of paper.

“Take all the time you need to gather your equilibrium, then hand this to the lady behind the front counter.”

Miles angrily snatched the paper from the woman’s hand and plucked his shirt from the adjacent seatback. Noticing the pinkish hue of the front half of his torso, he realized the surgery had not been as quick as it had seemed. He knew the Paresthesia would not be far behind.

The nurse turned and left as he adjusted the collar of his shirt. His back began to prickle as proper blood flow returned, but he fought the uncomfortable sensation and began to button his shirt.

He quickly learned that he could button his shirt faster than it took for him to restore proper blood flow to his entire body or regain his “equilibrium” as the nurse had called it.

Only the chair positioned next to the table kept him from toppling over as he hopped down from the operating table. Even so, he quickly took a knee and endured the prickling sensation in the back of his legs for a few minutes until he had the strength to rise.

The “lady” behind the counter was not a lady at all, but merely a holographic representation. He had already determined during his lengthy wait that this was due to the recent killings and theft of drugs from several area clinics covered daily by the local news channels.

Miles typically left the news on for background noise during his late night exercise routines. He hated to exercise alone, and the background noise made him nostalgic for the community gym he belonged to before rising insurance and litigation costs forced the entire chain to close.
It wasn’t that the facility was unsafe, but societies growing unwillingness to blame themselves for their accidents and shortcomings had finally caught up with the industry. Miles would close his eyes and pretend the sound was coming from an antiquated set hung from the ceiling near the treadmills, as it had been at many gyms back then.

The news stories didn’t interest him in the least, he considered them as depressing as alcoholism, but the noise combined with the machines and distant conversation to make the place feel like a second home to him.

His internal struggle against the antiseptic reality of the present had forced him to create his current routine, what his ex-girlfriend had called his “coping mechanism”.

Miles turned and took a final glimpse around. The heavy metal door that he had passed through was no doubt bulletproof, and would lock solid in event of a robbery attempt. With no hostage to force the staff to open the door, any intruders would have no choice but to leave before the police arrived.

Miles smirked as he made the logical next step of considering the waiting room occupants, a step the owner of the clinic had obviously overlooked.

Olly Buckle · 03-28-2008, 06:38 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Maetrix66

d.o.mai.n
Chapter 2 Scene 1

With absolute clarity Miles could make out the plot of land where he would most likely dig his own grave at a pace of 180 MPH.
(Rephrase, he is not going to dig his grave at that pace. eg.:- at 180mph Mike could make out with absolute clarity the plot...)

He expected a painless segway (Don't recognise this word, nor does spell check) into the bright light of heaven. What he got was a flash of crimson as his body compressed against the soft earth followed ( by) the most excruciating pain Miles had ever endured. Time, or at least his perception of it, slowed to the point where he could feel dirt forcing its way into every facial orifice.

He would recall later in all sincerity that he was glad he landed face first. (The sincerity might relate to the gladness, but not the recall)

Miles had never heard of anyone having cognitive retention of their death before, but then again he had never heard of anyone already dead being able to report much of anything.

The fact that he was having existential thoughts as the time slowing process of his demise came as a complete surprise. (Sorry, that sentence does not work, I can see what you are trying to say, but there are too many things in it--- That he was having existential thoughts--- at the same time as the time slowing process--- that accompanied his demise--- was a surprise, that's understating it, mindblowing) Miles assumed that the ability to consider anything as his brain was reshaped into the approximate dimensions of a Frisbee was at the very least, a moral victory.

The wretched process began to slow even further, almost to a point of being a comically terminal means of torture. ( comically terminal does not seem right , how about bizarrely comical means of terminal torture or some such?)

Please just let me die. His only thought, repeating in endless loop.

The soil blacked out his vision on it’s way to the back of his skull.

Suddenly he felt the pressure release, like a rubber band snapping past it’s tensile strength threshold and found himself fighting the restraints holding his head to the massage table in the clinic operating room.

He vomited through the table opening into a well-placed bucket. His body writhed, fighting to remain in his current reality. The nurse behind him placed her hand on his back to reassure him. Through his wretching, her soothing voice tried to talk him down.

“Breathe, Mr. King, make sure to keep breathing. It will pass.”

Miles had the urge to correct her, but thankfully was unable to disclose his true identity as he struggled to regain his composure. Snot ran from his nose unimpeded, and he realized he was crying as well. This did nothing to help matters, in fact his resulting anger at crying in front of a perfect stranger counteracted the breathing, forcing him to enter a new fit of dry heaves.

Finally, he was able to stop gyrating long enough for the nurse to safely release the retention straps.
Springing around to a sitting position, Miles hastily snatched the paper towel from the nurse’s hand and wiped the excrement (Wrong end-vomit) from his face.

“What the hell was that?”, (something missing here- like "Were" or "He spat"?) the first words his decreasing heart rate would allow.

The nurse cautiously recited her well rehearsed lecture on the systems need to determine an individuals pain threshold, or how much each individual can take before losing consciousness. This limit is individual, so the process is an unfortunate necessity, as is the lack of prior explanation.

A beeping sound to his left drew Miles attention away from the obviously unsympathetic nurse. The rear of his neck erupted in pain as he turned his head to investigate.

He quickly placed his hand over the small plastic object at the back of his neck before the nurse could grab his wrist.

“Careful. If you pull on that too hard before the incision has a chance to heal, you could become temporarily paralyzed, or even worse, damage the implant.

Miles retracted his hand, but eyed the nurse with suspicion.

She returned his glare and handed him a slip of paper.

“Take all the time you need to gather your equilibrium, then hand this to the lady behind the front counter.”

Miles angrily snatched the paper from the woman’s hand and plucked his shirt from the adjacent seatback. Noticing the pinkish he of the front half of his torso, he assumed he had been lying under for a lengthy period of time. ( This doesn't work, is that he really hue? Under what? Sunlamps? Make it clearer what he has realised)

The nurse turned and left as he adjusted the collar of his shirt. His back began to prickle as proper blood flow returned, but he fought the uncomfortable sensation and began to button his shirt.

He quickly learned that he could button his shirt faster than it took for him to restore proper blood flow to his entire body or regain his “equilibrium” as the nurse had called it.

Only the chair positioned next to the table kept him from toppling over as he hopped down from the operating table. Even so, he quickly took a knee and endured the prickling sensation in the back of his legs for a few minutes until he had the strength to rise.

The “lady” behind the counter was not a lady at all, but merely a holographic representation. He had already determined during his lengthy wait that this was due to the recent killings and theft of drugs from several area clinics. (what recent killings, or is this to be revealed or in ch 1. How had he determined it? just waiting there would not have told him anything, did he have a conversation with someone, with the hologram? did he read a notice, how many languages was it in? --god chance to show us what sort of place it is instead of just telling us )

The heavy metal door that he had passed through was no doubt bulletproof, and would lock solid, and with no hostage to force the staff to open the door, would have to leave before the police arrived.(This doesn't work, I am sorry I can draw no sense from it)

Miles smirked when (as?) he made the logical next step of considering the waiting room occupants, a step the owner of the clinic had obviously overlooked.

As before, Please let me know what you think!

I have put my comments in brackets, I Hope some of them might be useful. Olly.

Maetrix66 · 03-28-2008, 07:29 PM

Thank you for taking the time to read my excerpt and breaking down and clarifying what you saw that needed work. You've saved me alot of time and answered some questions I had about a few passages.

Olly Buckle · 03-29-2008, 03:04 AM

good, it is always pleasing when some one takes the trouble to say critique was worth it, thank you.

Maetrix66 · 03-31-2008, 05:47 PM

Placeholder for Chapter 2, Scene 2.

Maetrix66 · 04-05-2008, 10:57 AM

Just punched this out this morning, it's a very early draft.

Please let me know what you think, I'm looking more for how well it describes what is going on in regards to how coherent everything is.

Thanks in advance!
Chris
(The First Chapter is on page two in this forum, if you want to read it first)

Chapter 2, Scene 2

Miles fought through the pain in his legs to reach the counter and pressed his thumb to the scanner seamlessly integrated into the counter. The screen behind the counter read some instructions for him regarding his new implant, basic stuff that he had already been told by the pre-op nurse on an earlier appointment.

He impatiently waited for it to scroll to the end and again pressed his thumb to the glass to signify that he at least been present for the entire dictation. A piece of thin vinyl rolled from a slit in the counter.

Miles held it up to read the small text printed on the slip of e-paper. Recognizing the name of a anti-psychotic medication that he would be required to take for the first week to allow his brain a chance to adjust to stimulus of the implant, he stuffed it into his pocket.

His stomach started to commenced to feel as though it would fold over onto itself as he awaited the discharge to finalize. The cold sweat on his forehead, along with the rapid production of saliva in his mouth, told him that another round of fitful vomiting was soon to begin. He quickly pressed his thumb to the pad again and staggered to the door.

He forced the glass door open and found that his stomach was not entirely empty, after all. He barely made it to the trash receptacle across the alley from the clinic entrance before the heaving started. Miles though that if he ever vomited again once this day was finished, it would be too soon.

He swished the remaining saliva/vomit from his mouth with a spat and carefully wiped the spittle from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and struggled out of the alley and onto the side street, eager to get moving.

His eyes began to adjust to the sun. Hanging low in the afternoon sky, it lit the side
street and cast long shadows wherever it could. He walked slowly, still not yet ready to trust his recovering legs.

He followed the street around the exterior of a small city park before ducking down another alley. He normally hated to take advice from others, especially people older than him. He hated to trust others even less, but had over the years realized that trust was unavoidable.

His rising need for self sufficiency, brought on by the paranoia of hiding from the police at every turn, had caused him to take a closer look at his world. He had come to the realization that every time he expected a device to perform the way it had the last time he had used it, was a form of trust.

Every time he took a particular alleyway because the optic scanners had long since been offline there, it was no guarantee that they had not been repaired since his last visit. He took a deep breath as he found the scanner had in fact not been repaired in this alley.

The adjoining avenue no doubt had functioning retinal scanners, and with his contact lenses safely tucked inside of his pocket processor case, he had to be careful. Typically, he had (unauthorized) access to the FBI network and was able to conceal his identity by substituting a borrowed identity in the data stream before it left the camera.

He prided himself on his own ingenuity, as the criminal reference database was located at centralized servers and not in the cameras themselves. If it had been, he would have been caught years ago. Of course, that would open up serious security implications if one of the cameras were stolen.

Miles hesitated in the shadows of the alley.

“Well, I guess now is as good a time as any to trust this baby out”, he muttered to himself.

A voice spoke from behind him.

“The software supplied with your implant may not be used to, or in collaboration to, break any laws of either the State of Maine or the United States of America, sanctions or trade agreements enforced by NATO or the United Nations.”

Miles whirled around, his eyes fixing on the nurse from the clinic. Standing in the alley, her white coat seemed to cast it’s own illumination in the dark alley. More than a little perturbed at the lack of indiscretion, he snapped back at her.

“You followed me? What do you think you’re doing?”

The woman only stared back at him blankly.

“I said, what the hell do you think you are doing? How do you know what I was about to do?”

Again, the woman’s expression never wavered.

Miles closed the first 8 feet between them in two steps, meaning to startle the smug expression off her face with his rapid approach. The nurses’ lack of reaction, gave him pause and he slowed the last few steps before he reached her. He retained the angry glare, but his sense of how this confrontation would go had dissipated. He spoke again, forcing his voice to carry the tone he thought would force her to react.

Miles had a cult leader’s power of observation, and of peoples reactions to different circumstances. It had led him well in the past, when he had to persuade something from someone or talk himself out of a situation. Supremely confident of any encounter, for the first time in years he was unsure of himself, and it only made him angrier.

“I asked you a question. Are you reading my thoughts?” The thought of the clinic, and by extension, the government, being able to get inside his head made his stomach turn.

He bore into the woman’s eyes with his own, trying to get her to react out of sheer fear. It did not work. The woman continued her benevolent gaze.

Miles decided to try a different tactic. “The software guiding my implant consists of device drivers and association applications. It has no power to control how I use it.”

This caused the slightest of change in the woman’s expression, the change was hard to place but she at least appeared to be considering his words. Then she spoke.

“The software constraints are not set in place by the Kincaid Corporation, they are set forth by your portable operating system.” She turned to leave.

How could I be so stupid? Miles thought. His operating system was a customized Linux kernel, and of course he had replaced it with a standard operating system prior to his appointment, containing files that would reinforce his fabricated identity.

He had yet to revert the pocket processor to the correct software. He was at least glad that he had not stepped out into the avenue before he realized this fact. The protection afforded to him by his identity “spoofer” did not currently exist on his pocket processor.

That obviously did not explain why he was being followed.

“Stop, I want to know why you are following me.” The woman did not break stride.

Miles reached for her, and his hand passed directly through her shoulder as though it were a projection. His anger quickly shifted to bewilderment as he glanced from his hand to the woman’s back. She took a few more steps before fading from view like a ghost headed for heaven.

Miles was dumfounded at first, but his typically astute mind began to slowly make the connections. The first thing he realized was that the woman had not been there at all, but was merely a sprite, a projection created by the software in his processor. He looked around after making this connection, anxious to verify that no one had witnessed the one sided conversation.

These types of conversations had become increasingly common over the last 30 years, but to Miles’ knowledge, the only people currently having conversations like the one he had just had were sequestered in the psych ward.

His next connection was that the implant had been functioning from the moment that he had left the clinic. He had assumed that the implant had a burning in period, as this had been what he had been what the pre-op nurse had told him.

He reached into his pocket and retrieved a wafer of silicon the dimensions of a thumbnail and inserted it into the side of his sidearm, and pressed the large power button on the side. Words began to scroll down the outside brick wall of the building he was currently facing.

He recognized the boot sequence, which at in a moment or two, reached the prompt for him to decide how to proceed further. He had already created a image file of his previous system configuration, allowing him to restore it to it’s previous state all at once.

This time, instead of reaching into his pocket for the round device that he typically used to enter commends by gyrating it and pressing a sequence of buttons protruding from it’s exterior, he simply thought the commands.

tar -xzvf
grub-torvalds95879.tar.gz
cd grub-torvalds95879
./configure
make
make install

The lines of code appeared below the prompt and executed when he entered the command.

A few moments later the text had finished blurring by and disappeared. Miles called up a screen by thinking the commands he would normally enter with his control sphere. This was slightly slower than his typical means of input, but he supposed that this eventually would get much faster.

He changed channels to NESN, and check the scores for yesterday. He soon realized that he could forgo the individual commands, and simply execute by requesting a result, rather than the commands required to bring them about. He could check his messages by simply wondering if someone had left him one, or deciding that he wanted to look. He decided that this was a much faster means of getting around.

A smile began to spread across his face as he called up his optical ID concealment program and stepped out onto the sidewalk of the main avenue and headed for the pharmacy to fill his prescription.