The Campaign Builder's Guild

With updates (hopefully) thrice a week!
The basic premise is this: In an all-too-near future where oil has become more myth than reality, the collapse of the global market precipitates a radical political shift within the United States. Turned into a virtual police state by the now-dominant American Patriot Party, personal liberties and freedoms are inferior to national security.

WARNING: Although there will not be explicit sexuality, MATURE THEMES and CONCEPTS will be expressed. Political and social commentary will be contained herein. Reader discretion is advised.

I have every intention of telling this story as a serial, with the main focus being on the character introduced. There is no discussion thread, so feel free to comment, question, laud, or loathe on this thread-- but please, if you read it, leave SOME kind of comment (even "You suck!" or "Awesome dude!").

So, without further ado:
Act One: The Green Revolution
(http://img167.imageshack.us/img167/9631/greenrevolutioncopyyp8.jpg)

The Green Revolution
A Dystopian Thriller
by J.W. Oldcastle
For â,¬Å"Emmaâ,¬Â
   Her name was Emma. She was that girl you were always too intimidated to talk to, too infatuated with to properly form coherent thoughts around, and too beautiful, smart, and obnoxiously likable to even consider approaching. Her eyes had a glimmer of kindness hidden behind a stylish yet unobtrusive pair of glasses, and her cascading hair shimmered even under the florescent light.

   In the eyes of Jack Cross, Emma Fairfield was flawless. He had met the young woman back when they were colleagues at George Washington Elementary, a respected academic institution in its own right. While studying addition together under the tutelage of Ms. Serena, young Jack felt-- at the tender age of seven-- the initial stages of that twittering pang that even adults cannot define (so instead they provide a tangible, dull word: love). Though Jack considered Emma a dear friend, their lives went separate ways after the harrowing days of Elementary, only to somehow be reintroduced during that laborious affair known as â,¬Å"high school.â,¬Â Jack's eyes were widened anew at the rediscovery of his extinguished flame, and held ever a secret candle for one who was becoming quite the enterprising young lass.

   Were that the fires of youth and passion could not be impressed by the winds of fortune! The third year of study at the aforementioned institution yielded an unfortunate set of circumstances that tore the unrequited and unstated love of Jack's life away. On a snowy winter day wherein he had finally built the courage and gumption to speak to young Emma in person (and, if his gut and fumbling words allowed, ask her to the upcoming pageant), a most unfortunate occurrence ruined the opportunity. Emma's father, an officer of high standing and reasonable repute, was involved in a most unfortunate happenstance during the last leg of his tour overseas. Having seen the young woman burst into tears and be consoled by both friends and the arms of a former lover, Jack's confidence shattered. Deciding it best to let her be in the support of those near her, Jack forcefully put out what smoldering ashes of amour he retained.

   Bereft of purpose and duty, Jack eventually entered into the military service himself. On the lonely autumn nights, when he would look at the moon and remember the same glimmer that the eyes of his unrequited love once felt, he sometimes wondered if he had joined to serve his nation, the American Patriot Party, or perhaps the memory of the love that died that cold winter morning.

   Ã¢,¬Å"Back off, everyone gets a turn!â,¬Â came forth the cry of the Corporal, as soldiers in body armor wielding shields and sticks attempted to quell the rising fury of the crowd. Assembled in what was supposed to be a bread line, the citizens of this minor metropolis had become increasingly irate as food lines became longer and rations incrementally smaller. Holding fast to the line, Jack Cross waited for his orders, knowing full well that if these potential rioters had anything to throw at the line of black-garbed enforcers, his shield would be in frequent use.

   Ã¢,¬Å"You will all return to your position in line,â,¬Â came the bellowing command of the squawking speakerbox. Delivered in a hair-splitting monotone that cracked and fizzled because of the outdated machinery used to propel the voice, the members of the crowd (to the amazement of some of the newer soldiers) actually settled, returning to their position in the half-mile line. A common practice, the soldiers often speculated that this was as much to quiet the obnoxious sounds emitting from the speaker as it was a genuine desire to get food; there would always be time after the bread line to complain.

   Jack heard a pair of officers somewhere later down the line murmuring about the ingratitude of the civilians, a statement that always made him uncomfortable. Ever since the American Patriot Party seized control of the national government after the collapse of the international trading market, military sentiment against â,¬Å"civsâ,¬Â had become increasingly hostile. Often perceived as ungrateful, sniveling freeloaders, civs were both the setup and punchline to the Great Social Joke.

   However, Jack had never honestly believed that civilians were somehow undeserving of the military's protection. By his recollection, the soldiers during the Oil Wars had maintained a sense of honor while the people remained largely supportive only in name; as the economy began to slow and the oil pipelines dried up, the rancor between the military and civilian government grew to the boiling point. Had the progressive reformists of the Patriot Party not stepped in and stabilize the political scene, a civil war was not outside the realm of possibility.

   Sometimes, though, civs seemed to be asking for trouble, and today was one of those unfortunate exceptions. Although the bulk of the crowd had obliged the halting commands of the speakerbox, seven women and eight men, all in their late adolescence or early adulthood, had defiantly taken up roost at the front of the line. Garbed in white shirts, tan slacks, and sporting green bandannas around their necks, they vigorously shouted various calls of protest, though they garbled and muffled to Jack thanks to the constricting helmet.

   Ã¢,¬Å"Treefuckers,â,¬Â the Corporal muttered over the helmet radio. The term had become one of endearment between the Patriot Party-sponsored military and the Community for a Classless Society, an organization that had been described as an Eco-Communist terrorist cell. Although they had become somewhat infamous for the magnitude of their protests, Jack had never actually seen any of its members in person.

   As the chanting and confusion intensified, one of the Community members broke formation. Sporting a plain white cap and an embroidered bandanna (with a white sickle and hammer, fine handiwork) that concealed whatever facial features the attacker might have had, the anonymous assailant lit and lobbed a Molotov cocktail into the food bank before any of the soldiers could react. A garbled voice overtook both the speakerbox and the military intercom, bringing many of the soldiers to their knees with its deafening volume.

   Ã¢,¬Å"We are only seeking freedom for our brothers and sisters, freedom from this industrial-military complex that has dominated your lives for too long.â,¬Â The masked voice went on, even as several soldiers tossed aside their helmets, drawing their batons. Jack struggled to find the switch to his helmet, gritting his teeth. â,¬Å"The revolution of the proletariat is at hand! Don't let these aristocratic capitalist pigs let you live in the delusions of class advancement any longer!â,¬Â

   With the stunning ring of gunfire echoing throughout the street, the three soldiers approaching the protesters were sniped from above. The rest of the soldiers were either scurrying about or clenching their helmets in agony, unable to turn off the piercing voice emitting through their headsets.

   With a groan, Jack realized that he was likely the only one still coherent enough to stop these terrorists. He drew his Manchester service revolver, pulling back the hammer as he tried to focus on a target, a dizziness overcoming nearly all of his senses. As he felt the world twirling about him and everything began to blur together, he fired four shots. And then everything was black.

   As Jack awoke, he noted with some curiosity the taste of blood in his mouth. Curiouser still was the feeling of cold surface on his cheek. Only after a moment of collection did he realize he was laying prostrate on a slab of concrete. His eyes adjusting to the dim glow of a flickering florescent bulb, Jack stood, knocking his head against a hard metal railing.

   The stream of obscenities that followed drew the attention of several pairs of footsteps, one of which more impatient and determined than the others. Squinting, Jack attempted to discern his surroundings; the best he could guess is that he had been captured by the terrorists and placed in some sort of holding cell.

   From the dark recesses of the chamber came a menacing voice. â,¬Å"Private Cross. Or, should I say, Prisoner 4221870.â,¬Â

   The matter-of-fact tone and unswerving command behind the voice sent a shiver down Jack's spine. With a slight stutter, the man who had been but a schoolboy a few years prior attempted to respond. â,¬Å"M-my name is Jack Cross, and I demand to know who is detaining me and for what purpose.â,¬Â

   A collected, almost faked chuckle issued from the darkness. With a pause, the laugh's originator responded. â,¬Å"Under Section 512 of the American Patriot Detainment Act, Prisoner 4221870, I am not obligated to tell you anything.â,¬Â

   A terrorist invoking Section 512? Nothing about that made any sense. But then, the only possible alternative would be... unthinkable. â,¬Å"Section 512 can only be invoked by the United States Military. If you are a terrorist organization, I advise you--â,¬Â

   The bulb flickered on, burning Jack's vision for a brief moment. After the pain had subsided, he noted in horror that standing before him was none other than General Rockrose, one of the most ambitious (and feared) members of the Party. The jagged red scare that ran across his left, milky eye seemed all the more prominent as the white-haired man stepped towards him. The bars of the cell slid quietly shut as guards looked in, almost with eagerness.

   Furiously, Jack asked, â,¬Å"Of what am I accused?â,¬Â

   Rockrose stepped ever closer, until it seemed that he filled the entire room. He had traded his green uniform for a black jumpsuit, so  his burning eyes and pudgy face drew Jack's attention ever inward. Mere inches from him, the General's breath smelled of cheap liquor and cheaper garlic. â,¬Å"That information is classified as per Section 512 of the Patriot Detainment Act.â,¬Â With a sudden movement of Rockrose's arm, Jack felt electricity jolt through his body: a taser. Rockrose's cracked lips furled into a joyless smirk. â,¬Å"Tell me,â,¬Â the General coolly said, â,¬Å"What are the names and locations of the other members of the Green Communist Party?â,¬Â

   Still recovering from the effects of the taser, Jack tried to piece Rockrose's words together. Why would anyone think he was affiliated with the protesters? He had tried to shoot them! Entirely earnest, Jack replied, â,¬Å"I am not a member of the Green Communist Party, sir. I've been an American Patriot all of my life.â,¬Â

   Jack felt his body jerk and convulse as Rockrose deployed the taser again. The old man snarled. â,¬Å"You have one last chance to tell me the names and locations of the other members of the Green Communist Party.â,¬Â

   Writhing in pain, Jack wanted so badly to tell him, wished he could invent a convincing story. In that moment of weakness, he would have betrayed his own mother as a Green Communist, something that surprised and disturbed him. But in this instance of weakness, he had nothing to offer his questioner. The best he could manage is a mumbled, â,¬Å"I don't know what you--â,¬Â

   The sparks of the taser brought the comfort of blackness once more.

   As irregular as they were, the number of showers he had taken led Jack to believe he had been detained for about three weeks. Some days, Rockrose would personally come and interrogate him. Others, he would be deprived of food, be humiliated by unwatched guards, or be questioned by one of the attendants of the prison. From the outrageous behavior of the guards and the squalid living conditions, Jack could only assume that he was a prisoner in Blackbar, an infamous offshore installment used primarily for political dissidents and prisoners of war.

   After the first day, the reason and meaning behind his detention became less important than survival. After the first week, his thoughts turned to the dangers of this place, and he dreamt ways to escape. After the second week, he had become nearly suicidal, the daily torments and humiliations only slightly being outweighed by the desire, the hope to see his family and friends.

   Just three days prior, even that hope was taken from him. In what had become routine fashion, the guards had circled him, kicking and beating him with their nightsticks. The cracking of bones and the pain of his bruises had become diminished, and Jack wearily accepted his fate at the end of their boots, batons, and badges.

   In the excitement of the moment, however, one of the guards' anonymity was compromised; his helmet unwittingly falling to the floor of the concrete cell, Jack recognized the soldier. It was Christopher Sanders, a member of Jack's unit who had requested a transfer out of city work (he was too squeamish to handle rioters). What had this prison done, to transform such a meek boy into a ruthless monster?

   Although he felt blood in his mouth, and possibly a broken tooth, Jack swallowed, reaching a thin hand forward, towards his former friend. â,¬Å"Why--?â,¬Â

   The soldier's eyes widened for a moment, seemingly horrified at the sight. As Jack slowly crawled towards him, the demonic taunting of the masked guards brought tears to the soldier's eyes. With a false, dopey grin, he reared back, his black boot smashing against Jack's head as an empty taunt echoed.

   Ã¢,¬Å"Treefucker.â,¬Â

   He had become used to being called it. For what seemed to be as long as he could remember, the scraggly-bearded, scruffy-haired man in a plain tan suit had been referred to by his new name, 4221870. Except during the thrashings of the guards (whence he was known by quite a colorful variety of names), the pleadings of his interrogators (4221870 noted with a twisted irony that they had become increasingly desperate), or the visits of Party Leaders (who attempted to reason with him; he enjoyed spitting in their faces, both figuratively and otherwise).

   After what seemed to be a month passed by, the emaciated 4221870 had started to wonder why he had not simply been killed. After all, no one seemed to miss him, the guards were more than willing, and Rockrose had sufficient rancor for him; the only estimation 4221870 could make was that members of the Party desperately needed information they wrongly believed he had. Meaning he was only worth having around as long as he remained their exclusive hope.

   4221870 would have likely appreciated the irony of his existence,  he often mused, were it not for the horrible predicament he was in. That his life hung on the balance of the competence (or unwillingness to be captured) of a terrorist group, one that he had even opened fire against, was perhaps too bittersweet even for the secret poet that had once dwelled within him.

   As the sounds of mortar and shelling exploded across the complex, 4221870 lay still, his eyes affixed to the flickering florescent bulb. Most likely, this was one of the drills the guards went through; a series of mind games designed to intimidate prisoners and further erode their sense of stability and independence. It normally worked.

   But there was a hint that something was wrong. 4221870 noted curiously that one of the guards, slightly taller and stockier than his fellows, was visibly quivering with paranoia. Returning his view lackadaisically to the light once more, a half-smile curled onto his lip. The guards tried their best, but they were no Thespians; this was genuine terror.

   The flickering light jolted before fading entirely. In fact, all the lights, and all the power, for that matter, had gone out; even the backup generators had failed. 4221870 covered his ears as the sound of gunfire filled the corridors, not out of fear from a stray bullet, but out of the stark memory of what had led him here. After a long minute, the lights returned, as 4221870 saw his cell door slide open. Over the prison intercom, an energetic voice shouted, â,¬Å"Brothers and sisters, political prisoners and soldiers at war, the Community for a Classless Society has freed you!â,¬Â

   Ã¢,¬Å"What's yo' name?â,¬Â the green bandanna-wearing youngster asked impatiently. In the three hours since the raid, the prisoners had all been gathered in an abandoned mess hall, as Green Communist members strode up and down the aisle, some with seized Manchester assault rifles, others with briefcases full of papers.

   Ã¢,¬Å"I am Prisoner 4221870, detained and withheld information under Section 512 of the Patriot Detainment Act. I have been denied my Constitutional Rights and Liberties due to my alleged associations with a terrorist organization.â,¬Â

   The green-attired teen gave a frustrated sigh. â,¬Å"Listen, these Blackbar guys only left  files based on cell number and name, not prisoner number. When the prison doors all opened, we couldn't keep track of who was who... so just tell me yo' name, and we be done with it!â,¬Â

   4221870 offered an empty stare, his weathered eyes akin to the emptiness of the sea. â,¬Å"I am Prisoner 4221870,â,¬Â he reiterated, â,¬Å"detained and withheld information under...â,¬Â

   Ã¢,¬Å"The hell is wrong with you, man? We trying to help you!â,¬Â Throwing his hands into the air, the young man stormed away, ranting to other green-and-white-clad gunmen. 4221870 would have offered a wry grin, if he could remember how.

   As the rest of the detainees were slowly hurried out the main gate or ushered down the corridor (to either be shot or returned to their cell, by the guess of 4221870), the prisoner who could not remember his name simply stood idly by, staring blankly at the vibrant and dynamic scene around him. He realized suddenly that a young woman, her face concealed by a cap and bandanna and a Manchester revolver in her hand, was speaking to him.

   Ã¢,¬Å"We've got three minutes to get out of here, you crazy bastard.â,¬Â Her voice, though muffled, was soft and melodic, every harsh note a strain for  her delicate voice. â,¬Å"Now, tell me your name, or we do this quick and easy.â,¬Â

   That soft melody, that sweetness, yes, even those hardened, fierce eyes! â,¬Å"Emma?â,¬Â

   The young woman stepped back, her icy blue eyes narrowing. Then, with a sudden flash of realization, she dropped the gun, her gloved hand reaching to lower the green bandanna. â,¬Å"My god... Jack? Jack Cross, is that you?â,¬Â

That's it, for now. Let me know what you think!

Write more foo'.  That cliffhanger was cheap!

Agreed.

Do you have at all a date where this story takes place?  Is it something like "the not-so-distant future," or something more like "25 definite years of Bush-like tyranny later...."

Quote from: First postThe basic premise is this: In an all-too-near future where oil has become more myth than reality, the collapse of the global market precipitates a radical political shift within the United States. Turned into a virtual police state by the now-dominant American Patriot Party, personal liberties and freedoms are inferior to national security.

Yeah, I skipped straight to the story ... sorry ;)

   Jack stared somberly into the flickering candlelight of the lantern, his eyes fixated on the dancing flame. It had been several hours since the love of his youth re-entered his life, and he had been so mesmerized that he barely said two sentences since. At Emmaâ,¬,,¢s prodding, he joined the heavily armed revolutionaries aboard their ship, a curious mix between old craftsmanship and turbine-powered technology.

   As Emma wrapped a makeshift sling for his arm (it had apparently, for some time, been broken in three places), her every touch seemed to bring both a fluttering sensation in his gut and an indescribable pain to his bruised and battered form; with the upper half of his tan uniform discarded, his wiry and malnourished form was plain to see. Every ounce of pain he had taught himself to ignore was amplified immeasurably by her gentle movements.

   Her voice was akin to the tinkling of an angelic chorus. â,¬Å"You havenâ,¬,,¢t said a word since we boarded ship. Are you okay?â,¬Â Through his weariness and anxiety, he could barely manage a grunt of affirmation. She slowly began to remove the bandages that had been wrapped hours earlier. â,¬Å"Howâ,¬,,¢s that?â,¬Â she asked. â,¬Å"Any better?â,¬Â

   Slowly, he craned his neck so that his eyes met hers. He struggled to find his voice, a lump forming in his throat. â,¬Å"Itâ,¬,,¢s fine,â,¬Â he rasped, â,¬Å"thank you.â,¬Â He could feel the emotional tethers of adolescence welling within him.

   Apparently troubled by Jackâ,¬,,¢s silence, the young woman leaned towards him, concern evident by that faint glimmer in her eye. â,¬Å"I know that you must have been through something horrible there...â,¬Â

   Ã¢,¬Å"You donâ,¬,,¢t know,â,¬Â Jack instinctively snapped. â,¬Å"You couldnâ,¬,,¢t.â,¬Â He regretted it almost as soon as it left his bruised lips.

   That gentleness she had shown him evaporated, her shimmering blue eyes clouding with hurt. â,¬Å"Maybe not.â,¬Â Jack grimaced as she wound the last bandage particularly tight. She stood, surveying her handiwork. With a curt nod, she approached the cabin door.

   Ã¢,¬Å"Wait, please.â,¬Â

   She slowly turned to face Jack. â,¬Å"Yes?â,¬Â

   Propping himself against the wall, Jack brushed a strand of hair from his face as he formed a half-smile. â,¬Å"Whatever happened to your glasses?â,¬Â

   He could have sworn he saw the faintest shade of red tinge her cheeks. â,¬Å"The metal frames were melted down to make wiring for the Communityâ,¬,,¢s solar panels. Besides, they were hideous.â,¬Â

   Jack shook his head as best he could without injuring himself further. â,¬Å"They were beautiful.â,¬Â

   For a brief moment, her gaze softened once again as she hesitated at the doorway, looking back at him. After a long, painful pause, she smiled appreciatively. â,¬Å"Itâ,¬,,¢s good to see you, Jack. Welcome to the Community.â,¬Â The door opened and shut, and like that, she was gone.

   Carefully lowering himself onto a dingy mattress, Jack Cross dreamed in peace for the first time in months.

I like it and hate it at the same time. Congratulations. Only one other book has been able to do that to me thus far, and that was 1984. This reminds me a lot of that book. Very excellent writing.

At least your protagonist doesn't die a party death after betraying his lover...

Ah yes, and the requisite;

You suck! (I'm jealous)

Quote from: Jack SparrowI like it and hate it at the same time. Congratulations. Only one other book has been able to do that to me thus far, and that was 1984. This reminds me a lot of that book. Very excellent writing.

Thank you for the compliment, though I'd never rank myself with a literary giant like Orwell.

QuoteAt least your protagonist doesn't die a party death after betraying his lover...

Ah yes, and the requisite;

You suck! (I'm jealous)[/quote]

Thanks for the feedback and the honesty, I appreciate it. :) I might have more up tonight.

Of course I'm loving it. The last chapter or so, however, is reminding me quite strongly of Mieville's The Scar.

Quote from: JaercOf course I'm loving it. The last chapter or so, however, is reminding me quite strongly of Mieville's The Scar.

I'm glad I keep reminding people of stuff I've never read-- that means I'm hitting some of the formulas that have worked for these authors. ;)

The approach I'm taking is trying to write a story through characters, rather than about or with them.

Elven, this is great stuff.  If I had any criticisms of what I've seen so far, it is this - I would like to have seen the fall of Jack's loyalty in greater detail.  That's the kind of thing that interests me, a spotlight on the process of conversion, or perhaps I should say revelation.  We can be sure that he was tortured, but what did that torture do to him?  Is he still a loyal member of the Patriot Party, ready to forgive the error of his fellows?  Or is he beginning to perceive that he is the enemy of the state not because of his intentions but merely because the state has declared him to be so?  Or is something else at work in him?

Quote from: DeeLElven, this is great stuff.  If I had any criticisms of what I've seen so far, it is this - I would like to have seen the fall of Jack's loyalty in greater detail.  That's the kind of thing that interests me, a spotlight on the process of conversion, or perhaps I should say revelation.  We can be sure that he was tortured, but what did that torture do to him?  Is he still a loyal member of the Patriot Party, ready to forgive the error of his fellows?  Or is he beginning to perceive that he is the enemy of the state not because of his intentions but merely because the state has declared him to be so?  Or is something else at work in him?

Oh-ho, my good friend, do not jump to conclusions. Jack is on the ship with the crazy Greenies, he isn't yet part and parcel (nor has he subscribed) to their ideologies. This is actually the topic of the next few installments. ;)

*whips*

Go!

:P

Quote from: Raskolnikov On The Stairs*whips*

Go!

:P

I haven't forgotten about this, honest. I'm going to definitely have some more up sometime this week (maybe even today).

I also plan on getting some new Super-Carrot done.

:(

Eldo, I've just read this, thanks to a bump from Jaerc, and I agree with everything said so far. It's a fantastic piece, my only desire would have been a greater description of prison life. How is it that in as little as three weeks, he seemingly forgets his own name? An idea of the suffering he felt would have increased my connection.

Are you familiar with the social psychology experiments on social roles; enacted through a prison role-play by Zimbardo? In short the two-week experiment had to be cut off after six-days, due to how quickly and completley the prisoners and wardens (themselves being the candidates experimented upon) began to actually think of themselves as such.

Quote from: AllWillFall2MeEldo, I've just read this, thanks to a bump from Jaerc, and I agree with everything said so far. It's a fantastic piece, my only desire would have been a greater description of prison life. How is it that in as little as three weeks, he seemingly forgets his own name? An idea of the suffering he felt would have increased my connection.

The dehumanization and loss of identity were actually engendered through some very strenuous methods, which are only alluded to in the story. Starvation, sleep deprivation, light-based torture, isolation, dehydration, and a variety of other techniques--- employed for three weeks--- can, when combined, create severe mental and physical health problems. Obviously, the effects on Jack were not permanent, but I figured, for the purposes of the story and the development of the character, the description of the more sinister methods would be both unnecessary and almost distracting.

As for the reason I haven't updated, I apologize. I tend to make claims I can't support, and one of them is being able to update this story; I have the ideas, as well as a rough plan of where the story is going to go, but I haven't managed to make them "click," so to speak. Also, my schoolwork has been strenuous and demanding, and I haven't had a whole lot of time to pursue my urges to write for fun.

Hopefully, hopefully, HOPEFULLY, I will finish the story. Because it's one of my favorites, too.