-Collidescope-

Here it is.



Dhyclidean Border, 12:01
The walls that surrounded Dhyclidea were the first and the biggest of their kind, an unsurpassable blockade of stone and black metal, surrounding and protecting all of the land. Giant beacons of fire were mounted every hundred feet, streaming dying embers and smoke into the sky. Along the top of the wall, guards patrolled, carrying torches and E32’s. Every now and then, a train rumbled by, mixing black smoke with the white of the fires. On the wall, one particular guard, Erick Gaudfuld, struggled to light his Stringeholm. A fellow guard strolled by, snickering at Gaudfuld’s futile attempts to transfer the flame from his match to the butt of his cigar.
“Gaudfuld, you seemed to have a little less trouble with that dynamite back in ‘twenty then with that smoke there.”
Gaudfuld struggled to come up with a witty reply; unfortunately, however, he had not been graced with the quick wit or clever tongue with which to craft a sufficient comeback. Let them make fun of the war stories, he thought; they don’t know half the things I do.
The cigar finally caught, and puffs of smoke drifted out. Sitting out in the brisk night air, smoking and daydreaming all night. This was the life. Gaudfuld leaned against the far wall and began stroking his mustache, thinking of his past. Hours passed, the night went on, as usual. The fires began to die down slightly. Gaudfuld checked his watch. Three ‘O Clock. A train whistle sounded in the distance. Gaudfuld began to nod off. He caught himself halfway through nodding, and decided to get up. He stepped up to the edge; feeling the breeze on his face woke him up slightly. He sighed, and began to relax. Then, in the distance, one of the beacons went out. Gaudfuld stepped back.
“Khafred, Ghamir, look at this.”
The two closest guards stumbled to their feet. They appeared bored for a moment, then they spotted the extinguished beacon. The one named Khafred turned around. Ghamir turned around.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling that beacon of course!”
Khafred picked up a cylinder about the size of a soup can. It had a mouthpiece at one end.
“Operator, get me beacon three-oh-seven.”
There was murmuring on the other side of the phone, followed by a mechanical clanking as tubes deep within the wall aligned. Khafred listened as three clanks sounded, followed by a short silence, followed by seven clangs sounded off. 307.
“Hello, three-oh-seven. . . can you hear me, three-oh-seven?”
There was silence at the other end.
“Three-oh-seven, can you hear me?”
More silence.
“Khafred, the beacon’s back on!” Whispered Gaudfuld.
Khafred turned. The beacon was, in fact, on. Nothing had been proven though. Enemies could relight a beacon as efficiently as any soldier. He turned back to the mouthpiece.
“Three-oh-seven, are you there?”
Silence for a moment. Then. . .
“Sorry. . . The beacon went out, I fell asleep at the post. Didn’t notice until just now. Sorry.”
Gaudfuld let out a sigh of relief.
“For a moment there, I thought something had happened.”
It was at that precise moment when the wall collapsed. . .


Europa, Prison Camp 1A, 6:11

. . . and at that precise moment on the other side of the globe, when Burgmund Tolifer awoke with a rather sharp shock. Or rather, awoke because of a rather sharp shock. The foreman twirled his shockstick as expertly as a band leader with a baton. Waking to an agonizing shock and a foreman as ugly as this one contrasted sharply with a hot coffee and a bit of toast. The latter being, of course, Burgmund’s typical and preferred morning.
“C’mon! Wake up, y’ smelly li’l Brussels sprouts!”
The foreman, of course, was not in much of a position to say anything, of course, his mossy teeth looking like Brussels sprouts in and of themselves. His smell, too, was probably worse than the whole prison community’s added together. Fifteen year-old Burgmund stumbled to his feet. Once, a member of the most feared crime team in the world. Now, living in the highest security prison camp in the world. The Red Phoenix had plundered nearly every known treasure hot spot on the face of the planet, they were a household name. Then, thanks to a false lead, they had been caught. The rest of Burgmund team was dead, or hiding. There wasn’t really a difference. Either way, they would be of no help to him. One for all and all for themselves; that was the code of honor in the crime world. Burgmund jumped as the Shockstick hit him in the . . . m . . . back. He stepped into the line that was filing out the building. He blinked, eyes adjusting to the light as he stepped outside. Even though the sun was obscured by clouds that covered the sky, the light was still hard to get used to after a night in a windowless bunker.
“You all know your positions! Start shoveling!”
Burgmund climbed down into hole A1 and lifted a shovel. The owners at the camp could just as easily get steam-powered machinery, but they insisted on making the prisoners do it. Not hard work, just meaningless work. Even a Grauf would not want to do this job. Burgmund sighed, and began to dig. . .

Dhyclidean Border, Jail house 20, 3:21

Sharp explosions woke Blythess Grommely from his dreamy sleep in cell block 11.
“Oh no, there’s gunfire.” He said, not sounding the least bit concerned. When you can’t die, and you’re from a much more interesting realm, things tend to bore you. Outside the prison, there were more explosions. Grommely’s pointy beard twitched.
“You may not want to do that.” He remarked to his cellmates, who standing at the barred window, looking out upon the city. A cannonball crashed through the wall, exploding and throwing shrapnel all over the poor, ignorant prisoners. They cried out in pain. Trendin stepped over them to stand in front of the large hole made by the cannonball.
“Farewell, gentleman. . .”
He brushed off his well-tailored suit and stepped out through the hole. The prisoners gasped. Even though they were in shock, and in pain, they had to wonder. The cell was on the fifth floor of the police office. . .


That's all there is to it. I got really bored with it and didn't think it was really going anywhere.

Denying ever having ever touched the corpse,
Collideascope

__________________
They say you can’t be hip,
But I don’t care what they say,
The thing I got’s cold blooded,
And I’m coming from a brand new place,
I’m dealing quick and I don’t miss a lick and I better don’t leave no trace. -James Brown

saravena13

O_O. I can understand why you'd get bored with it. I'd get bored writing something like that.

That's part of my problem, though. X-(

__________________
The penguins are coming. THE PENGUINS ARE COMING!!!!!

bbgun

True, that can get very boring to right. Try writing something more Controversial. Something that matters to the present time and impacts with the same principles as you're charactor would have otherwise.

Ben