Well, anyway, I'll get a-cracking on fixing the prologue soon (hopefully; a part of me is wondering at my hypocrisy at working on a project I proclaim is dead while ignoring my current project, but I've hit a kinda-sorta-not-really dead end on City of the Veen, so whatever). But for now I've decided to put up the first chapter~! (which I like a TON better than the prologue)
Prepare to see some unfamiliar faces here, as the first chapter takes place around fourteen years after the prologue. Also, it's rather long, being twelve pages in MS Word, so I'll post it in brief increments. Not that there are no scene breaks in this chapter, so I'll be dividing it up rather arbitrarily.
Anyway, read it, and you'll see why I like the first chapter a whole TON more than the prologue.
Zenith: Chapter One
The neighborhood was called “Pine Heights”, or it had been once, back when it had been a proper neighborhood instead of a winding maze of streets lined with fading, dilapidated old houses. There were no pine trees in Pine Heights—there had never been—but there were weeds, plenty of them, growing tall and scraggly on the lawns of the ramshackle falling-apart houses, and obscuring the faded sign at the very entrance of the neighborhood that proclaimed in formerly-green letters, Welcome to Pine Heights.
The sign spoke to no one these days. Back when it had first been built, Pine Heights had been located at a busy suburban district, but now all the people had moved out and away, into the cities, leaving behind the monotonous frame houses where they had once lived. Some years back the Castle-builders had come in the hopes of making the neighborhood attractive again by converting the houses to Castles, but they had only cleared a few lots and erected the barest skeletons of Castles before the New World Order decided to end the country’s love affair with Castles, and routed all of the Castle-builders. Some had left so fast that their building robots, rusted over with age, were still scattered in the few vacant lots the Castle-builders had managed to clear.
These days no one even bothered to pretend that there was still something worth living for in Pine Heights. Almost all of the former residents were gone, lost to the cities or to death. Now Pine Heights was like all of the countless other relics of the suburbia that the New World Order had banished, but a hopeless collection of empty falling-apart houses. It was located so far from the main metropolitan area that few people ever had an opportunity to come here, or bothered to leave behind the vibrant life of the cities just to pay a visit to a dead suburb. To nearly all, Pine Heights was no longer even a memory.
But not everyone had forgotten about the old suburbs. There were still scavengers and street rats, who made their living by knocking down the flimsy doors of empty houses and carrying out anything valuable that might have been there. They rarely entered Pine Heights, however, as they preferred to strip Castles--and there were many neighborhoods consisting of just Castles located by Pine Heights. Still, a bedraggled few came, mostly because they had been chased from the Castles by stronger scavengers, and looted to their hearts’ content. And then there were even a few extremely old people, so old they remembered a day before both the Castles and the New World Order. These elderly folk were so attached to their old suburban houses that they remained, guarding, like obstinate priests, their near-decrepit houses as if they were sacred temples.
And then there was someone else who was neither a scavenger nor a senior citizen, who was quite happy to call Pine Heights his home. His name was Louis Orson, and he lived in the middle of a cul-de-sac, in a frame house that had once been painted a cheery blue, but had faded to a murky gray. For Pine Heights, it was not an unusual specimen at all.
But the person who lived inside was far from normal. Louis Orson had only just celebrated his twenty-fourth birthday, and could barely remember a time before the New World Order had come and without a doubt had no recollections of life before Castles. He also commanded an extraordinary fortune, despite appearances, meaning that he had no need to scavenge for a living.In fact, his kind—young, well-educated, and highly intelligent—could mostly be found in the enormous metropolises, pursuing hot-shot careers in politics or business. They shunned the suburbs, and wouldn't be caught dead living broken-down houses in an abandoned suburb.
Not that Orson ever cared about what others though about him. To him, his existence inside his dilapidated gray house was ideal, never mind what everyone else might think. Most of the time he stayed inside one room all day long, the room at the very end of the top floor, overlooking the street. Once in a past life that room had been a personal bedroom, but Orson had renovated it to suit his unique purposes. Its walls were now covered with multiple screens and feedback displays, while the front of the room, where the window had once been, had been replaced by an enormous monitor and an input station. Orson spent his days before this monitor and the station, clacking out endless strings of code on the keyboard, eyes perpetually trained on the cryptic symbols scrolling across the dark screen.
Louis Orson’s unusual lifestyle no longer seemed so strange when one took in account that he was a programmer. Programmers were, by nature, expected to be eccentric and unconventional individuals. Orson, with his abnormal choice of residence, did nothing to break the mold.
Today he wasn’t facing the computer and hammering out a code, as usual. Instead, Orson had turned his chair to face the room’s door, and was watching it with a marked intentness, one ankle resting on one knee and arms folded. He had remained in this position for several hours already, if not longer, only sometimes breaking the monotony to push up his red shades or cast a sidelong glance at his wrist timepiece.
“He’s late,” he said after examining the timepiece for the third time that hour. “What’s taking him, exactly?”
With an annoyed sigh Orson stood up, uncrossing his legs and pushing the chair out from under him. He strode to the door and pushed it open, but saw nothing save the empty hall of the house’s top floor. A small cleanbot whirred its way, humming a content tune, down the hall, picking up fluffy dust bunnies and wiping away streaks of dirt with its magnetic underside. Although Orson’s house itself was in decaying condition, it at the very least was entirely spotless, due to the armada of cleanbots that Orson maintained.
“Hey, outta the way, you,” snarled Orson as he crossed the hall. He directed a rather mean-spirited kick at the cleanbot, and it scampered with a whirred protest.
Orson made his way down the dust-covered stairs and stopped at the landing, where he peered over the railing to view the bottom floor of his house. All was normal—the round black forms of cleanbots scurried across the floor, and as usual the door to the house was open slightly, to let in a nonexistent summer breeze (as the house’s air conditioning had succumbed many, many years ago). Orson didn’t need to worry about theft because of the guardbot stationed outside the door, flashing its knives and dissuading any potential scavengers from entering. Although most of the scavengers knew who Orson was and wouldn’t even dream of coming near his house…
Well, if Orson couldn’t see the person whom he was expecting, it was plain that they weren’t here. He conceded defeat and tromped back up the stairs, kicking aside a cleanbot as he did so.
“Late, damn it, he’s an hour late,” complained Orson as he sank back into his chair, this time slouching again the worn leather. He checked his timepiece again--a pointless gesture, as fewer than five minutes had transpired since he had left the room.
Once more, Orson pushed his shades up his long nose, as they had fallen again. He supposed he should try on his new pair, since they’d fit better. Corseley had, after all, taken care to get them custom-made, and Orson supposed it was rude that he hadn’t so much as opened the present his politician friend had given him for his birthday. But most of Orson rebelled against the thought of replacing the battered red shades he always wore, the same shades that had seen him through thick and thin for almost seven years. What the heck, they still managed to stay on his face, and for Orson that was more than enough. Corseley had always complained about Orson being cheap, and Orson had to concede that this was a very valid point. But Orson wasn’t a hot-shot politician raking in the cash like Corseley was.
And as if thinking about his late visitor was the cue, with a sudden start Orson heard the familiar low humming sound of a hovercar pulling to a gentle stop in front of his house. He half-jerked out of his seat, a part of him wanting to stomp up to Corseley and demand just what the hell his problem was, why was he so late, but Orson managed to suppress his instincts and remained sprawled in his seat, waiting for Corseley to arrive. Besides, it would have been too much trouble to get up just to shout at Corseley.
“You know me. It’s Assemblyman Corseley, to see Orson.” Even up in his room, Orson clearly heard Corseley speak to the guardbot, which no doubt had blocked his path and demanded identification, as per procedure. Orson should know, as he had built the guardbot himself.
He heard Corseley step with infinite carefulness around the cleanbots—that Corseley, always so careful—and scale the stairs. By the time Corseley had crossed the hall and pushed open the door to the room, Orson was prepared, and greeted his visitor with a wide, lazy smirk.
“Hey, someone’s a little late,” he said, making no effort at hiding the sarcasm that pervaded his voice.
Corseley glared back at Orson—clearly, he wasn’t in a mood to joke. There was a definite, palpable anger shining in the crystal blue eyes behind his spectacles, and his arms were folded with a firm obstinancy across his suited chest, the suit which was rather rumpled now. Orson supposed that around two hours in a hovercar would do that to one’s clothes, however.
“I know,” said Corseley, his voice quiet as always, but suffused with anger. “But not without reason.”
“Yeah?” said Orson, beckoning Corseley in with a lazy wave of his hand. He found that all of his anger at his companion had since passed, replaced by curiosity—Orson could never stay angry at anyone for long. “It’s got to be a good reason, for you to be, what, an hour late?”
“It is,” snapped Corseley, entering the room. He cast a brief glance around although nothing had changed since the last time he’d been here. “You see, after the Assembly adjourned today, I went to the station as usual, since that was where I’d parked my hovercar—”
“Yeah, yeah,” cut in Orson with no small amount of rudeness. That Corseley…he was always so good at hedging, although Orson supposed that was a necessary skill for a politician. “Okay, so you went to the station. Then what?”
Corseley sighed, obviously miffed about being interrupted—after all, they had rules for this sort of thing in the Assembly.. But Orson wasn’t a politician and he couldn't give a damn for rules. He fixed the blonde politician with an intent look, waiting for Corseley to continue his story.
“All right, then,” said Corseley. “I went to the station…and although I normally don’t look at such things, I happened to notice that the magazine stand had…well, a new issue of Events had come out.”
“Ah,” said Orson, catching on in that moment. He sat up straighter in his chair and intensified his scrutiny of Corseley, noticing this time the rolled up magazine the politician clutched in one thin pale hand. “And it had me on the cover, didn’t it?”
“You’re right, it did,” said Corseley, his mouth flattening into a thin line of disapproval. “It was that interview that Events did with you—I forget, in February, I believe—”
“Yeah, February,” agreed Orson. Corseley nodded stiffly but continued without interruption.
“So, it was that interview. I picked it up and bought it, of course, but by the time I was finished, traffic had swelled…considerably. It took me almost an hour to leave the city limits…while I was waiting, I passed time by reading the interview...and I noticed that they had some rather…unflattering…things to say about you,” he said, turning to glare at Orson over his spectacles. “Mostly due to certain things you told them about, oh, the New World Order.”
By the time Corseley had finished Orson found that he was grinning ever-so-slightly. He knew that it was inappropriate and definitely not the right time to be feeling this way, but he still couldn’t help but feel faintly amused at Corseley’s righteous indignation. “Ah. Pray tell me. What marvelous compliments did Events magazine shower upon me, Peter?”
Peter Corseley shot Orson a dirty look (that Orson returned with a smile) but then unfurled the magazine clutched in his hand. Its ends immediately curled, obviously desiring to roll together again—that was how tightly Corseley had been holding it. The cover displayed a prominent picture of Orson smiling with his usual languid assurance into the camera, red shades obscuring his eyes, tousled auburn hair swept over his forehead. Orson only had time to glimpse the cover, however, before Corseley had flipped the magazine open and turned the pages so quickly they appeared white flapping blurs.
After some time flipping, he stopped, to hold the magazine before him and read, in a loud voice for Orson’s benefit, even though Orson wasn’t deaf, “‘Earlier this year Events reporter Cynthia Bay had the privilege of a coveted interview with the Second Genius of the New World Order—’”
“Ah!” interrupted Orson, springing out of his seat a little in his triumph. He shook a finger at a startled Corseley and continued, “There’s the first count they’re wrong and they haven’t even gotten to the interview yet! Me, the second genius? That’s just preposterous. Come on, I’m not the second genius to have been born into this world. There’ve been years—a good five hundred of them—of history before those granfallooners took over. What about all the scientific and literary greats before me? To say I’m only the ‘second genius’ is just plain ignorance and idiocy. Don’t you agree, Peter?”
“Orson…” sighed Corseley in that voice clearly implying that he was tired of this, of hearing this all the time, because Orson without fail would always bring up this topic whenever Corseley visited. “Orson, what you’re saying is heresy.”
“Yeah, I know it’s heresy,” retorted Orson, crossing his legs—ankle over knee—again, and folding his arms. “It’s heresy, but it’s true.”
“Orson…” said Corseley again, helplessly. Orson gave Corseley a perfect smile, since he knew this would probably annoy Corseley even more.
“All right, Pete, carry on,” he said. “Let’s see how horribly Events magazine misrepresented me, shall we?”
“Oh, Orson…if you wish.” Corseley trailed off with a resigned sigh, and looked back down at the magazine. “It really doesn’t say much beside the usual tabloid business, I must warn you.”
Orson arched an auburn eyebrow. “Really, now. You mean they try to discredit me by saying I’m insane?”
“Basically,” agreed Corseley, rifling through the pages of the interview. “Here, you should see this—here Bay calls you an ‘utterly irresponsible, hopelessly insensitive, and completely mad genius’.”
“Wow,” said Orson with no small amount of sarcasm. He folded his arms behind his head and leaned back into the chair, the leather that was constantly warm from Orson’s perpetual presence. “She sure went out of her way to slander me, didn’t she? Although I must say that I do appreciate the ‘genius’ bit…”
The slightest ghost of a smile actually flickered across Corseley’s face, and the politician shook his white-blonde head, looking both frustrated and amused at Orson’s reaction. Orson merely responded with a casual grin.
“As you can see,” said Corseley, “she didn’t have very many nice things to say about you. The rest of the article is in the same vein. And that brings us to the reason why I’m here.”
“Oh, Peter,” sighed Orson, turning away from Corseley and adjusting his shades at the same time. “Must it come to this?”
“Yes, it must,” was Corseley’s tight-lipped, serious response. “I am warning you, Orson, for your own good—stop criticizing the Order so damn often. And that’s not only because I’m a politician. It’s also because I’m your friend. I’m worried for you, Orson. You see, the Order is obsessed with you, and I don’t mean it in a good way.”
“What’re you trying to say, Pete?” said Orson, turning back towards Corseley and allowing a mischievous smile to slowly cross his face. “What, are you saying that you’re afraid the Order will kill me?”
Corseley leapt back as if physically struck, a look of both shock and revulsion crossing his face and twisting his pale features. It took him several moments to speak, as his mouth opened and closed and his Adam’s apple bobbed, and his words seemed stuck in his throat. But finally, the words did come, in a tight, almost squeaked, rush.
“Of—of course not, Orson—you must be insane—they wouldn’t kill you, oh, for goodness’ sake, Orson—you are the Second Genius—the Order would never—”
“You never know,” said Orson cavalierly, although he personally didn’t believe his own idiotic theory. Of course the New World Order wouldn’t kill their Second Genius. Then they’d have to go through the trouble of finding a Third Genius, and seeing as Orson had no students, they couldn’t just do what they did with the First Genius and declare his student the Second Genius after he’d passed away.
“You…you are being idiotic, Orson,” said Corseley in an indignant huff.
“Aww, relax, Peter,” said Orson, shaking his head. “And could ya do me a favor?”
“What?” said Corseley, almost petulantly. Orson had to suppress the sudden bizarre urge to laugh.
“Stop calling me ‘Orson’ all the time, will you?” said Orson. “Look, you can call me ‘Louis’ if you like, Peter. No need to be so formal.”
“Orson…” said Corseley with a little shake of his head. Well, it appeared he wasn’t following Orson’s suggestion. Orson shrugged. Oh well…if Peter wanted to call him by last name then Orson wouldn’t stop him, although he’d be annoyed.
“So, anyway, Peter,” said Orson, turning his chair back around to face his main monitor and input station. “Segueing from Events magazine…there’s a reason why I called you here, you know.”
“Really, now,” said Corseley. Orson could no longer see Corseley now, but there was no mistaking the definite petulant note that had crept into the politician’s voice. “I thought it was because you just wanted some company.”
“Really, now?” Orson couldn’t help it—he threw his head back and laughed, a long, loud, raucous laugh that rang throughout the room and caused a cleanbot that had entered to immediately scamper, whirring in fear. Corseley, however, was far too used to Orson’s raucous laughs to really care, and he merely turned to shoot Orson an irritated glare.
“No, I was really thinking that,” he insisted. “You must get rather lonely out here...in the middle of nowhere, with only robots for company. I know I would get lonely.”
“Don’t judge everyone by your standards,” replied Orson flippantly, although he understood Corseley’s attitude. Most normal people would probably become lonely or even insane, living in an abandoned suburb without any other humans around save the occasional scavenger. But Orson had never considered himself normal…something he’d inherited from his mentor, he supposed.
“Of course. You’re right,” said Corseley, seemingly having taken Orson’s words seriously. He should know better than that. Orson was much harder to offend than that, after all. “That was insensitive of me…”
“Come off it, Peter,” said Orson with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m sure you can’t be any more insensitive than this ‘hopelessly insensitive mad genius’ or whatever.”
To Orson’s relief, Corseley responded with a laugh, a dry little chuckle. “You’re right, you’re right, of course…but wait a second. Where did you get that?”
With the last words, Corseley’s tone suddenly became sharp and intent. Orson, confused, turned around to fix Corseley with a blank stare.
“Huh?” he said, while the blonde politician looked intently at Orson’s…at Orson’s hand, it seemed. With a sudden flash of insight Orson realized exactly what Corseley was looking at, and he moved his hand to rest of the back of the seat, giving Corseley an even better view of the tarnished, cracked, plain silver band on his right index finger.
“Oh, you mean this?” said Orson, and he found himself inexplicably grinning. Trust Corseley to be observant enough to notice…and really, it was fortunate that Corseley had stumbled upon this subject, because it had everything to do with the reason why Orson had summoned Corseley in the first place. “It’s what I wanted to talk with you about.”
~La la la, that's all for now! Sorry to cut off on such an inoppportune moment, but agian, this chapter has no scene breaks so there's no real way to naturally slice and dice it into pieces.
Honest critique is appreciated beyond anything in the world. Really, you guys are the greatest. ^^ In particular, again, I want commentary on my prose, and specifically...I'd like to know your thoughts on the characters, and the whole Events deal, too. I feel like I breezed over that too quickly, so if you think it should be elaborated/expanded then just say so. I really don't mind lengthening this chapter (I almost feel it needs to be longer). I'll probably edit this one quicker too since I don't feel like cringing and retching every time I read through it.
And I pray to dear god that none of you are confused. The transition 'twene the prologue and the first chapter IS rather abrupt, and I'm afraid I might end up confuddling a few readers who were expecting to read more about Brit, Hale, and Magnus rather than two completely new characters. But Louis and Peter WILL be the main characters of the book, and the two other main characters will be introduced next chapter. Which I've written about half of, and after that...I actually haven't written ANYTHING else from the Zenith Cycle out. I have plenty of plotting, though. A whole composition book's worth.
So! Comment away! The really interesting stuff hasn't started happening yet, but all the same, you're patient people. Tell me what you like or dislike about this current scene. ~_^
Although now I'm confused about whether it's thirteen or fourteen years. The timelines aren't exactly set in stone yet, though (mostly because people's birthdays will convolute a lot of them...don't ask)
Sorry, I couldn't help it - just when I saw BHM I immediately thought of Big High Master... *sigh* (I always do that with license plates, too. Instead of seeing 867-BTC, I see 867-Buffalo Tazering Center) My convoluted mind all wacko again. *pulls on the brain reins*
In particular...I got incredibly depressed over my tendency for repeating myself and stuffing my sentences with useless words halfway through chapter three, so I fizzled out. >_> I can't do this...I have to...perservere...
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