Duck and Cover

(Here's part 1)
The outsider

Night was coming. With it would come the people of the night. Disaffected youths, ex-cons, punks, pushers, junkies and pimps. One vast surge of the detritus of humanity. Each night John would observe from his spot in a cave high on a mountain, and each night he would observe the extinguishing of another town, the lights going out forever.

Night was coming. Once it would have concerned John Turner, but not now. He had learned how to move unseen in the night, to become the thing to fear in the darkness. Once, he would have felt fear at the prospect of surviving another night here. His memories are not what they were anymore. Six years, no... maybe more, he had been trapped behind enemy lines. Originally from Britain, he had been conscripted as part of a detachment of UN soldiers to relieve American soldiers fighting in China.

He learned there that the war was not the same as it had seemed on TV. The Americans were not winning the war, as the propaganda made out. There was rather a terrible stalemate in which thousands of troops were being obliterated a week along the front line, roughly central China. In many ways it was similar to a war his Great Grandfather had told him about. The name was gone, but in that war they fought uselessly in trenches with massive loss of life. It was the same here.

The war had disgusted him from the moment he arrived there. He had been issued a new black suit of power armour with a nuclear trefoil symbol on the back, which was due to become the new standard uniform of American troops. They also gave him a .337 pistol and several clips of ammunition. Straight from the arrival gate the recruits received these, then they were flung into the front line. The officers were under order to shoot any man who tried to break and run, and it was not uncommon for a unit to turn on its commanding officer, murder him and flee. John also learned no prisoners were kept, all were executed by gunshot to the back of the head, if they were lucky.

John and the other European recruits learned to regard the American troops with extreme distaste. True they had been at the front line for years, but there was something wrong with them. There was a blank, soulless quality to their eyes, and their capacity for sadistic deeds seemed infinite. No village that they fell upon survived, and there were such terrible deeds. He still remembered the woman who thought she had escaped them getting caught, what they did to her, himself sitting in the next room, unable to do anything, trying to block out the screaming.

But then the others began to change. Francois from the French detachment began to carry round a leather bag, and he used bolt cutters to remove a finger from each person he killed, and he kept them in the bag. Not only was the violence directed outwards, but inwards as well. Davis and Francois had a blazing argument and the next day Davis was missing. Nobody commented on this, but John sneaked a look in Francois' bag and saw a finger with Davis' wedding ring on it.

The battles became more and more futile. More people died, nobody would miss them. Somehow, John kept his sanity. Somehow he survived.

Then the big one dropped. The American Government, oblivious to the fact that they have troops engaged in China, sent a strike of nuclear warheads, raking east China. Even at the front line it was blinding. Then they watched with silent horror as they saw nuclear missiles head over them, towards their own countries, retaliatory strikes. John thought of his dog, Snowy. Curiously enough, she was the one he was most worried about, not his family or work-mates, but his dog.

One day later all hell broke loose. The counter-blow by the Americans was devastating. Nuclear hell fell from the sky, the world burned, the ground bucked. John's unit had got to cover, and they survived.

Mills was a mighty appearing man, bulky and strong. He was also quite intelligent, but the war had twisted him beyond recognition. He took leadership of the unit, shooting the commanding officer. He explained that to survive in the desert they must compete with the other people for the natural resources. What he meant was to raid towns for supplies, burning, looting and committing terrible atrocities, then moving on. On the very night Mills took control, John slipped away into the night.

Since then he has refused to die. He has killed his fair share of people, but only to survive. He will survive. He will go to America, find out who pushed the button, and kill them if they still live. A dream, but dreams keep men alive.


-End of Part 1-

Great chapter, post another one soon, will you?

Another one tomorrow, OK?

Here's Part 2:
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As dawn caressed the horizon, John broke camp. He had heard on the grapevine that a small squad of UN deserters was terrorising a neighbouring area. It had to be Mills.

He strode purposefully down a hill, the packed earth cracked and blasted, hardened by the heat of a thousand suns, under a purple sky. He still kept his power armour sealed at all opportunities, as the background radiation was high.

For protection he carried the .337 pistol he had been issued when he had first landed. It was in terrible condition, and prone to jamming unexpectedly. He also only had 15 rounds left for it, but he was careful not to waste ammunition. His power armour was still in good condition, albeit with a few minor cracks. He guessed it probably wasn't completely sealed anymore but that it was better than no protection at all.

In the near distance, shimmering in the radiation haze was a town. John had not learned to speak Chinese, and it would not be useful as the Chinese peasants attack people in power armour on sight. Makes things a bit tricky.

As he stumbled across the cracked and broken soil, he heard the sound of engines, a beehive hum in his head. A dust cloud was headed directly for the town. He was too late. But that was not going to stop him.

As he quickened his pace to a fast jog, the best speed attainable in power armour, he heard gunshots, and the dust cloud was nearing the town wall.

He heard an explosion and he ran harder than he had ever run before, pumping his arms as he tried to outrun the inevitable. He unclicked the safety on his .337 sidearm as he ran.

Ahead in the distance was the loud whirring screech of a minigun, and the sound of people screaming. Other sounds could be picked out by John's trained ear. The repetitious thumping thud of the old M60. Loud cracking noises would be the M1 Garand rifles the Chinese peasantry was given to fight the Americans, who were many steps up on the technological tree. A roaring noise would be a flamethrower, technically deemed inhumane, but the American congress voted that the Chinese did not count as human beings, so it was OK.

He reached the town gate, essentially a makeshift blockade, scattered all over an internal courtyard by explosives, burning in a pathetic sort of way. He reached the gate and gasped.

The stench of roasted flesh was unbearable. Then he knew for certain his power armour was not sealed, for the stench came through his air filter. Many of the houses were burning, and the dust cloud was disappearing into the horizon ahead of him. Then he saw that a jeep was still parked in the courtyard. Someone might still be there.

He walked through the centre of the town, looking sadly from left to right at bodies lying pitifully in the street. They had spared no one. That was when he heard the screaming, coming from a building to his right. The door was locked, but he smashed it in with one kick. The screaming was coming from upstairs. He thudded quickly up the stairs and pushed open the first door he came to, the source of the screaming. Then he saw it.

A man in combat fatigues, trying to forcibly undress a young woman. John pressed the muzzle of his gun to the back of the man's head.

'Turn around.' He said.

The man jumped and spun round to face John. John knew at that instant who it was. Virgil. The unit forgot his name when they found out he read the ancient works, and they christened him after the ancient Roman author. When they were sitting around a fire at night, Virgil used to keep everyone entertained by reading aloud parts of "the Aeneid", written by the original Virgil. Back then he had been the most timid member of the group, just fresh from University. A far cry from the creature he had become. He broke down and grovelled in front of John.

'Don't kill me, please! God no oh god nononono, no god no!' He wailed, grovelling on the floor, a wretched sight, for he knew that voice.

'Why not, Virgil, you deserve to die now, yes?' Said John.

'Nooo! We used to be friends, John. Don't kill a friend!'

'Cut the shit. Your life is at stake here. Where have the others gone?' Asked John.

'We have a base to the North, in the mountains. Some old prison, very secure.' Said Virgil, who seemed to be regaining his confidence.

'How secure?'

'He has a private army tucked away there, there is only one entrance and the ground in front offers no cover. It's a killing field! To go there means death, unless you have a guide...'

'So what you mean is that you want me to spare your worthless life so that you could get me in? Not happening. Goodbye Virgil...' Said John in an emotionless monotone.

As he stood there with the gun pointed at the cowering man's head, he tried to detach himself from what he was about to do. The man was shaking uncontrollably as if he had a fever, and the stench of sweat was unbelievable. The tip of the gun barrel flared and a deep boom ended the life of Virgil. John felt a part of his humanity die with Virgil.
(to be continued)

If anyone has any comments, feel free to post them
I'm open to criticism.

Still a very good fan-fic. My advice to you is to concentrate on writing it and not begin writing other stuff meanwhile.

(Part 3)
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John drove. He had taken the Jeep and Virgil's assault rifle, an old model M16 with telescopic sight. His .337 was left in the town. He had also shed his Power Armour, and was wearing Virgil's tattered combats and body armour.

On his drive north he had passed other towns, similarly stricken. From what he was told by an English-speaking peasant who decided against attacking him, this was a fairly common occurrence, but that they seemed to be raiding more harshly recently. The man was quaking as he told John about a man, "Miles", probably Mills, who was only ever seen wearing power armour. Apparently Mills had been upset by their village once and had ordered all the villagers to be staked out in the sun and left to die. Three hundred people lived in that village. Seven survived.

Reflecting on such atrocities, John drove. He was nearing his goal; he could see the mountains ahead of him. He intended to pose as Virgil to get inside. It might work, it might not.

The Jeep arrived at the entrance to Mills' fortifications just after nightfall. A sleepy-looking man in faded overalls wandered near to the Jeep, now immobile with engine switched off. John had the dusty windows rolled up and it would have been difficult to see him.

'Hey Virgil, how come you fell behind? The Boss is pissed, I think I'd better let you through, he wants to see you straight away.' Said the sleepy man.

The man wandered over to the gates and inserted a keycard into a reader. The titanic gates swung outward revealing a courtyard. John turned the key in the ignition and drove the Jeep into the compound. Waiting inside the courtyard was a Herculean figure in power armour. John switched the engine off, checked his assault rifle was in order and stepped out of the Jeep. The figure in armour could not make out facial features from such a distance, and spoke in a chill metallic rasp through his rebreather.

'You know I don't like it when you stay behind, Virgil. Save your depredations for when you have leave. Otherwise next time I'll nail you to the wall outside and let the vultures have you.' Said the giant.

'Virgil's dead you bastard.' Said John in a hollow monotone.

'John... You useless do-gooder. I thought you would turn up sooner or later. You never really approved of me, did you? You think I'm a monster, don't you? Well who am I to disappoint you?' At this he clapped his hands twice and bright lights blazed down into the courtyard, and John could see the barrels of many guns pointed at him.

'You idiot. We were suspicious when Virgil didn't follow us, so I arranged this just in case. You could have scraped a bare living in the wasteland, but you had to try and change things. Well, John, goodbye...' Said the giant in armour, and he clapped his hands twice again and the barrels of thirty weapons blazed, filling the courtyard with deadly hail.

John took cover behind the jeep and readied his M16. Using the telescopic sight he quickly stood up, took a shot, killed a man and ducked back into cover. Doing this he killed six men, but the Jeep burst into flames and John ran out of cover and saw the gates were open, saw that he was outgunned and made a break for the door. Dodging and rolling, he narrowly avoided the continuous barrage of bullets and reached the open gate. However, just as he ran out of the gate, Mills came from the left and hit him in the stomach with a sledgehammer. John staggered back, out of sight of the marksmen now, vomited a spray of blood and collapsed unconscious to the hard, cold desert floor.
(to be continued)
P.S- S_F- Isn't your avatar from Warcraft III?

New part coming in the next 2 days - just got to sit my final Latin exam.

Part 4:
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John regained consciousness and immediately regretted it. He was lying on the floor in a dark room, no windows he could make out. His stomach was throbbing, a dull aching pain, and he knew he had suffered some kind of internal injury. Just as these thoughts registered, a foot kicked him sharply in the stomach, and he cried out loud.

'Silent, you dumb as shit hero scum.' Said a heavily accented voice he had not heard for years. Francois. He knew then that he was in trouble, and scrabbled to get up.

As he was putting weight on his hands, to push himself up, Francois stamped hard on John's left hand, and in addition to the searing pain, he felt and heard a sickening crunch. He found that the fingers of his left hand were useless, and he flopped again to the floor, sweat mingling with blood and filth on his face.

'Leave him be, Francois, we need him now.' This must be Mills, but John had not the energy to look up.

Two pairs of hands grabbed him by each armpit and dragged him out of the door to his cell. He passed out.

He regained his consciousness, and found himself on his back. He could see the stars, so he was outside. Just then he was hauled up onto his feet, and he saw he was out in the courtyard. There was a circle of heavily armed raiders around two men. On closer inspection these men were Chinese, and they were fighting each other. The raiders found this highly entertaining, and were placing bets on who would win. Through his swimming vision he saw one man throttle the other with his bare hands, and half of the raiders cried out in triumph as they had won their bet. Money exchanged hands. It was now clear to John what they wanted. He was going to have to fight this man. It came as no surprise when Mills came over to see him, still being held up.

'I trust you won't let the side down, John. I want to see you eat this Gook's eyes, you understand? I'll be betting on you.' With that he walked away.

John was dragged into the centre of the makeshift arena, where the men supporting him let go. John collapsed at once to the ground. The men started towards him, but John issued a shooing motion, signalling that he would get up himself. With great effort he raised himself to his knees, and eventually to his feet. He looked across and saw his opponent. It was the same man. The man seemed to have gone insane. That was probably how it went. You either had to do what you would never do, kill, or die. Constant killing would have had an effect on the toughest of minds, and the man in front of John had clearly cracked. The man screamed in a guttural incomprehensible language of his own, and charged at John.

John felt the familiar and almost soothing effect of adrenaline fill his system, blessing him with renewed strength and tenacity. He stood his ground. The man barrelled into John, and they both fell, the crazy man on top, frantic fingers trying to lock around his neck. John headbutted the man, who screamed as his nose was rebroken and rolled off John. John staggered up onto his feet, and kicked the man hard in the face. John still had his combat boots on, so the effect was terrible. There was a sickening crunch, and the man cried out in agony. By now the frenzy had him, and he kicked the man seven times more in the head. The thronged audience thrilled to this violence. Then the man.s head turned, and his eyes met John's, and he recognised something in them. The man was beaten, the look was imploring. Feeling guilt, he lowered his boot, and slumped to a sitting position facing the stricken foe. The raiders started shouting, and Francois and Mills stepped out from amongst them.

'Kill him!' Hissed Mills through his Power armour respirator. 'Kill him now!'

'No.' John said.

The man was quivering and twitching in a most unnatural way, his face a bloody wreck. As John looked at this man with pity, a boot struck him in the face. It belonged to Francois.

'When Mills says kill him, you kill him, you get that now?' He sneered at John.

'No.' John said.

The man still lay there twitching and spasming, oblivious now to the world around him. A gunshot rang out clear and a bullet smashed into the man's left temple, tearing part of the right side of his face off as it passed out the other side. The twitching stopped, and the body lay immobile.

'Useless bastard... Stake him out and leave him for the vultures.' Said Mills, pointing at John as he handed a smoking Desert Eagle back to a subordinate.

John felt a blow to the back of his head and passed out.
(to be continued)

Once again I call for constructive criticism of my unfinished opus.
Anyone?

Criticism, you say. Ok. I too try to post smt, but my work and my English is poor. If you want to hear some criticism, you’ll hear only jealous cries…

Anyway, if you want to hear smt – ok. Your harsh post-nuclear world is good – no good boys. This is fine, but don’t you think that the main person must achieve some more practical object, than simple revenge.

Than my second complain – post-nuclear world. It must be harsh, especially now – when war just ended. Small population of people, a lot of radiation and mutated beasts, no communities or villages – small travelers companies searching for food and fresh water… A lot of raiders and other mutated scum…

One more thing – try to do more action. With such speed you’ll tired and be bored very quickly from this story and you would like to write smt else… At least the same story was with me…

Well, here you are, I don’t know how constructive my criticism, but I try my best. This is only my opinion. Anyway, you writing is good – I hope you’ll post smt else

Follower wrote:anyway, if you want to hear smt – ok. Your harsh post-nuclear world is good – no good boys. This is fine, but don’t you think that the main person must achieve some more practical object, than simple revenge.

You may not believe this, but the story is just being set up. There is a hell of a lot of stuff to cover. And I know I have been light on action so far, but that's just because I'm establishing the characters, and I can't do that in the middle of a gunfight. I'll try to post some more after my next exam (tomorrow pm).
As for the revenge idea - let's just say that there's a twist to come...

Jimbo san wrote:You may not believe this, but the story is just being set up. There is a hell of a lot of stuff to cover. And I know I have been light on action so far, but that's just because I'm establishing the characters, and I can't do that in the middle of a gunfight. I'll try to post some more after my next exam (tomorrow pm).
As for the revenge idea - let's just say that there's a twist to come...

It's good to hear it. I think you had Latin lately so hear you are some of it:
"Dixi et salvavi animam meam". I hope all will be dine.

Hey all. Will try to transfer the next chapter tonight or tomorrow a.m.

EDIT - as an apology for such lateness, I now present TWO new chapters.

(part 5)
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John groaned. He opened his eyes. His whole body felt like it had been beaten on an anvil. Only his left eye could fully open, but it caught a glimpse of a fuzzy image. His ear picked up sounds, and then he realised the shape was addressing him.

'Please, do not try to move, you will worse the hurt. I am call Zhang Ling. My English is not very good, but I hope for your good recovery. Please, get some rest.' The shape moved, and was gone. Everything else was a blur, and then he passed out.

He woke with a start. He instantly regretted waking as an intense burst of pain wracked his body, and he writhed, only intensifying the pain. He could see out of both eyes now, and at a guess, it was some time since he had last been conscious. He was in a dirty whitish room, on an intensely uncomfortable bed. With extreme effort, he turned his head to the left, and craning to look at his side, saw his torso bandaged on this side, and more bandages covering his left hand. Moving his head to the right, he saw a long line of stitches down his right leg. He was covered in bruises.

'You are wakened. That is good. Now we will talk.' Said a light, heavily accented female voice.

A shape swam into his still slightly unclear vision. It was a young Chinese woman, no more than twenty. She was very pretty, wearing a doctor's white outfit. She smiled, and sat on the bed.

'You are well. That is good.' She said.

'Where am I?' Asked John, noting his jaw hurt as he spoke.

'We found you on the edge of our village. You were near dead, staked out to the sun. We helped you. You have been here for two months.' She said, smiling again.

'Why did you help me?' Asked John.

'Our leader, Quan Jin, a most wise man, remarked that an enemy of the "Mills" was a friend of ours. You were lucky. Even though your left hand were not as lucky.' She said.

'Why, what's wrong with my left hand?' Asked John, recalling the bandages.

'A man with a strange accent took a finger from you. One of our people saw them stake you out.' Said the woman.

Damn Francois, thought John.

'Stay with us for a few more weeks, we will help you recover. Then we will help you get vengeance.' She said.

'How?' He asked.

'We have some weapons stored. We are adequately armed, but we are not fighters. We were farmers before the Terror, and even though the ground is dead, we try to scrape our life from the land. And now I fear, I must go. Try to rest.' She said.

John closed his eyes and was enveloped in blackness.
(Continued below)

(part 6)
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Night fell, drawing a thick veil of mist over the raider base in the mountains. The raiders were mainly having fun in the courtyard. They had found a large cache of alcohol in a town they had raided and near twenty of the total thirty raiders were severely drunk, some were having fun with the prisoners, and some were sleeping. A very few guards were standing guard around the base, some above the front wall. Mills was somewhere; the men were unnerved by the fact that he almost never slept.

Gord, the sleepy gate guard sighed. He had only three more hours before Lee relieved him, and he could try some of the booze himself. The day had been fairly uneventful. There was the usual stream of prisoners, women and girls, occasionally the odd man who had a useful skill. He sat back on his chair and tried to keep his eyes open. The mist reduced his visibility severely, and he wondered if the gate guards could see anything at all. It's a shame he did not see the shape loom behind him. A gloved hand clamped over his mouth and a razor sharp knife slashed Gord's throat. Gord tried to cry out, but the hand was clamped on to his mouth, and he was pulled backwards into the mist.

John breathed deeply. He was glad the man had made no noise. John looks different now, several months down the line. He looks more haggard. There is a scar on his forehead running down to just above his right eye, and the middle finger of his left hand is missing.

He slid the knife back into the scabbard, and relieved the dead Gord of the keycard for the main gate. He knows that with night and the mist on his side the gate guards would not be able to see anything. He sidled over to the keycard reader and slid the card in. There was an affirmative beep, and the titanic steel doors swung open. He readied his new gun, an M60 assault rifle, and checked the several belts of ammunition he had. The villagers had also given him some hand grenades, a knife and some plastic explosives.

He saw the raiders, some lolling around on the courtyard floor drunk, others defiling some of the captive women. He smiled grimly. The conditions were in his favour.

Some raiders were playing cards, sitting on the ground out in the courtyard but the game was not going well as the men were drunk, and kept forgetting whose turn it was. Jared, one of the younger raiders, felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned his head and looked up into the merciless grey steel barrel of an M60. The gun blazed, and Jared's head exploded into a thousand fragments of blood, brain, bone and mucus. Blood showered the remaining players, who made an attempt to reach their weapons, despite being falling down drunk. The first raider was hit through the chest, shattering ribs, and he vomited blood and fell to the ground, gasping his last. Another two were hit through the face, and they both pirouetted backwards with chunks knocked out of their heads, spraying blood everywhere. The next was hit through the spleen, and he fell to the floor, dying slowly.

By this point, some of the others had armed themselves. John pulled the pin from a grenade, and threw it at the furthermost group of raiders. He hit the deck as a wet explosion and a shower of gore and minor body parts signalled the end of at least four more men. He reloaded his M60, and drew his knife, holding it in his left hand, firing his M60 in short controlled bursts with his right hand, his muscles standing out with the effort of keeping the gun under control. He passed a raider so dead drunk he was unaware that the firefight was going on, and slashed the man's throat on his way past, firing at a group of six men, killing one, two.

He saw the flamethrower trooper run at him, and fired at the raider's fuel cylinder, causing him to blow up, setting fire to some other raiders. They ran around, screaming for many seconds during the continuing firefight, before falling, their strength taken from their charred limbs.

The captive women who were in the courtyard had fled by now, and John had killed maybe twenty men in ten minutes of fighting. He saw some men come out of a door, into the courtyard, and fired, kept firing, poured out bullets until all three were dead, then he reloaded.

He was walking towards these dead men when a bullet grazed his left shoulder and several more screamed past his ear, tearing the air. He whirled and fired at a group of five or so men. They fell like stalks of corn before the scythe, all dead. Then, from the midst of the cordite smoke and wreckage, came a man. He carried an M16. John knew it was Francois from the walk. Francois had been injured in the leg by shrapnel, and had a distinctive walk.

Francois fired a long burst at John, who dodged and returned fire at the same time, hitting the ground and sliding whilst still firing. Francois ran at John, John kept firing. Francois seemed to dodge the bullets, as he dived and rolled into cover before running straight for John, weaving to avoid John's increasingly shaky aim. The massive vibrations of the M60 were having an adverse effect on his arm. The gun clicked, empty. Francois thudded into John, and they fell. John punched Francois in the face and then pushed him off. John picked up his knife and stood over the fallen Frenchman. John grabbed Francois by the hair and pulled his head back, and slashed his throat with the knife. Francois gurgled, and clawed at his throat as it filled with blood, slowly drowning him. He looked up at John, imploring, but John turned away, and the Frenchman collapsed to the floor, jerking for a while before becoming still.

'I must say I am impressed.' A slightly more cultured voice with a West Coast accent and a metallic respirator rasp. Mills.

John turned, and saw the Power Armour suited figure. He did not have time to go for his M60, empty and lying on the ground. Mills was carrying a General Electric Minigun in his hands, only possible if you are wearing Power Armour. The gun had a belt that was fed into a vast rucksack on his back, holding many thousands of rounds.

'So much damage, so much devastation, and for what? Vengeance? A mere nothing. John, we were only trying to survive out here in enemy territory.' Said Mills in a cold dead voice.

'Not by raping, looting and killing, Mills. You'll burn in hell for that shit.' Spat John as Mills set the barrel of his Minigun spinning.

'Maybe so. Pray keep my seat warm until I get there.' Said Mills as he pulled the trigger on the Minigun. There was pure noise, and fire burst forth from the Minigun. Empty shell cases spurted from the side of the gun. The chaos caused by the gun blinded Mills in the middle of the mist. After thirty seconds or so, he ceased fire. When the cordite smoke cleared, he saw no sign of John anywhere near the area he sprayed. Just then he heard a clatter behind him, and he wheeled and blazed his Minigun in the direction of the noise. Then John landed on his back from above, and Mills started spraying everywhere with the gun in a panic. John managed to undo the locks on the helmet and pulled it off. Mills looked up. John pulled the pin on a grenade and dropped it into the neck guard of the Power Armour and slammed the helmet back on, diving away and sprinting for cover. He saw the helmet explode, showering the courtyard with more gore and fragments of white hot metal. The helmet, protected from explosions from the outside, was vulnerable on the inside. Then the integrity of the Power Armour was compromised, and a chain of explosions shattered the body, pieces flying everywhere.

The next day dawned bright on the atrocities of the night before. The mangled corpses were still where they fell. John had freed the remaining captives the night before. He came out through the main gate. He had found a large fuel dump in the base, and had attached his plastic explosives to it. He ran, and behind him the base blossomed into a plume of noise and flame and then, burning, crumbled in on itself slowly, collapsing.

John watched it with a hollow sense of victory in his heart.

(NOTE - this is the end of the first story cycle)

WARNING! New part coming agonisingly soon! (within next week)
Signing off.
J_S

Just regonized this Jimbo San Good fic so far indepth critique coming

Archchancellor wrote:Just regonized this Jimbo San Good fic so far indepth critique coming

Look forward to it!

UPDATE:
Having been delayed (i've had paperwork to do), the first part of the second story cycle is being written (approx 20% done). It will be posted asap (i.e next few days).
Signing off
J_S