Alright, I got a though pop into my head. I've never really come up with a story that I thought could survive, never having thought up a complete plot. However, I did happen to think up this one. The story is based around a bunch of sociopaths, and quite a few others. It will be quite complex, so bear with me. It will have various chapter types, taking place in two 'eras,' and following certain characters. No chapter will stray out of following one character, although two groups may meet up at certain points.
Now, there are two eras. Present, and past. These will determine what type of chapter it is. There will be several groups that would be followed; they are to be revealed later, assuming the story survives.
Finally, this is more or less a test, to see if you guys like it. If you do, I'll continue; if you don't, I'll stop. Criticism will be welcome.
Oh yes, and there is some occasional language and bloody scenes. Nothing terribly rated R.
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Chapter One
There was a knock at the door.
Within seconds, the room erupted into an erratic set of clicks, clanks, and the safeties of weapons being unlocked. The room was full of men, brandishing nickel plated pistols and ten gauge shotguns.
At the door was a draft officer, assigned to draft all men under thirty five. Unknown to him, the house he came to forcefully enlist was full of a death squad, a single ten person group directly responsible for the City of Houston's fourteen per one hundred thousand murder spike, making in the city with the highest murder rate in the country.
Warily, the leader of the group approached the front door, his forty five caliber pistol ready to blow the brains out of any hostile that may come. Step by step, caution filling the room, he reached the door.
"Who's there?" He asked, shattering the silence of the room.
"I'm with the Selective Service, I've come to enlist all able men in the household. Please open the door," the man replied in a commanding voice.
The leader then opened the door, very slowly and leaving it barely six inches open.
The man stood there with a grim look on his face, hair graying even though he appeared mid thirties. Clipboard in hand, he asked a very simple question: "Are you Christopher Waroway?"
"I am," he replied.
"May I come in?" The Selective Service agent inquired, with an overly patronizing tone.
"No," Christopher replied.
"I'm afraid that's not an option. Let me in," the agent demanded.
"'Kay, don't say I didn't warn you. We're not in a friendly mood."
As the agent pushed against the door, the pistol in Christopher's hand was creeping up to head level, just itching to blow the agents' head off.
The door was then finally open, and the agent stepped inside, so fixated on Christopher he didn't notice the near army right in front of him, until it was too late.
Already inside, he then noticed the eight men pointing the weapons at him, and his face went from commanding to terror in an instant. He took a massive breath as he registered what he was seeing, utterly terrified of what lay before. Within moments he heard the door slam shut and a cold, steel barrel tickle his temple.
"Told you we weren't friendly. Bad timing, eh?" Christopher whispered to the agent, condescending and colder than the steel of his weapon.
"You -- you can't do this!" The agent screamed, terror and realization striking him like a lightning bolt.
"We'll see," he retorted., "Now go sit your ass on the couch and we'll have a discussion before we decide on blowing your head off."
Christopher went behind the agent, forcing him forward with the tip of his gun. He kept going until they reached a brown leather couch, with what appeared to be bullet holes in it. Pointing downwards with the tip of the gun, the agent sat down, shaking and in complete shock.
"Now what was it you wanted?" Christopher asked, as politely as he could.
There was no reply.
Again Christopher repeated, this time slightly more firm.
Again, the agent didn't reply.
"God dammit, what the hell do you want?!" Christopher barked at him.
"Fine! I'll tell you. Look, all my job is, is to make you guys enlist. I'm a pawn, I'm just doing my job!" The agent explained, his voice noticeably shaky.
"Oh, really? What do you think about that, my friends?" Christopher called out to those standing in the room. They started chuckling among themselves. "It's funny, we were just talking about that. Funny how it works, no?"
"Sure," the agent replied, barely maintaining his composer.
"I'll tell you what, sign us up. Do you want just men or do chicks count too?"
"E -- ev -- everyone."
"'Kay. Rose! Get out here. You gotta get drafted too," Christopher called out, seemingly to nothing.
Within seconds a woman, average height and jet black hair walked out, looking quite obviously annoyed.
"Really? Not happening. No fun for women in the army," she snorted, barely holding back a laugh.
"Alright. X, what do you think?" Christopher asked one of the men in the room.
"What do I think? Not much. Other than this is stupid, not much. Not much at all," he replied, repeating himself several times almost without knowing so.
"'Kay, so we all have to go?" Christopher asked the agent.
"I guess so," he said.
"Hm, sign us up then. We won't mind a bit of fun."
Nearly an hour passes as the agent got full names, birthdays, legal statuses, and so forth. He would occasionally get to some hiccups where one wouldn't give up his full name, rather just keep saying their nickname. He got calmer as time passed although he was showing some very obvious signs of distress, and never stopped shaking.
"So that's all of you, no one else?" He inquired at the end of the process.
"Nope," Christopher replied.
"Alright, report to 32nd and Main tomorrow morning by 9:00am," the agent said, before finishing.
"Now, mister what ever your name is, this never happened. You came in, filled out papers, and left. The guns, nothing to do with anything. You will say nothing, understood?" Christopher commanded.
"Understood."
"Good. Now screw off."
