Assassins Curse Chap 8

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Urashima Keitaro
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Assassins Curse Chap 8

Post by Urashima Keitaro » Wed, 2. Mar 05, 14:06

I have no excuse for being this late so here goes...


===============================================


Almost dead by racing

Gustav’s pride and joy rolled out from the garage. It had a massive rear spoiler on the back with side skirts going along the length of the car. It was painted bone white, with a black lightning bolt running down both sides. The rear lights were surrounded with chrome to protect and to make the crate look good. The hub-caps were pearlescent green, meaning that if you looked at them from a certain angle they were yellow. The front lights were ultra-powerful white bulbs inside a clear plastic casing. The exhaust was double barrelled, light metallic blue. On the hood was a massive air intake, with gills along the outside.
The exhaust was made 20% bigger, so that the car could get rid of more waste more quickly, improving power output by 12bhp. Even if no other upgrades were added it could go to 87mph. Not a bad increase really, 17mph from 12bhp. However, upgrades were added, and certain modifications were made. The transmission was changed to rear wheel drive, at long last, it really made it easier to thread through a corner.
Other then the suspension and the gearbox all other upgrades were under the hood. This would be a beast to drive.



As soon as he got on to the track he found the car was a real bugger to handle. The frame was so light and flimsy that the car felt like it wanted to fly through the sky. Around the corners this effect wasn’t improved as the car really refused to slow down, making slamming on the brakes a necessity, doing untold damage to the tyres. The power of the car was almost impossible to use to the full, but even then slowing down so he could take the corner was almost impossible.

Soon, after fighting all the way he brought the car to the pits. Screaming the vilest profanities he knew he slammed the door.

He got the mechanics to look at the car. Cursing madly he walked to the canteen and bought a coffee. The hot scalding liquid passing down his throat cooled his mind down. Slowly, he got back to normal, thinking about the upgrades he could make to stop his car handling like a breeze-block.

Finally he got back to the garage and the mechanics were fiddling with the bodywork, replacing it with carbon fibre panels. They’d also inserted a really stiff anti roll bar into the top of the car.

Deciding to have another go he drove out, far more carefully, on to the race track. Not trusting the car he broke early and accelerated late. Currently he was last in the timings.

Being beaten by everyone else was not part of his plan. Somehow he had to gain enough confidence in the car to wring some more performance out of it.



Finally after a big operation that included placing a hydraulic joint in both his shoulders, and a metallic plate to hold them together, Dafs got discharged. All was fairly well, nothing drastic to report. Just had a dosage of medication to ease the mind. Finally, his wounds were beginning to heal.

Moving his arms to check whether he could move them he opened the door outside. Not knowing his own strength he opened them to the full, and broke one off the hinges. He stared at the door in his hand, and leaving an IOU on the desk walked out, carrying the door. Well, he tried, after about the third attempt he navigated himself and the door out of the building.

He was about to drop the door when eight of Yugorovski’s men, who he recognised from the prison appeared from across the street. Deciding to take the risk he shadowed them, getting as close as he dared. About three metres away he saw something glinting in their pockets. Glancing at the shape he thought he saw the handgrip of a gun. Being an inquisitive sort of person he moved closer, risking being noticed. Just a normal pistol, modified, but just a normal pistol.

Slowly he edged closer. One of the guys got out his weapon. For no known reason he pointed it at a wheelie bin and fired, the bullets clanging against the bin, and boring through the outer shell. Just a normal weapon then, his desire to see a science fiction weapon left unfulfilled. Yet again.

He had no fear, he crept towards them. Eight armed against one unarmed. Well, if these guys were anything like the previous encounter, he mused, then there’d be no trouble and he’d still have time for the race he’d entered himself in. He even ordered new upgrades, but when American cars were concerned there was no way he could win without.
Closing in on his prey he waited for one of them to even give a hint of recognition. After about five minutes of waiting patiently he elbowed one of them in the back, the extra power from the hydraulic shoulder causing him almost instantaneous death. The other seven turned around, all looking for the assailant who’d just reduced their number.

Another punch, and one of them was on the floor, coughing up blood while gurgling in extreme agony, his eyes unseeing. One looked at him, then looked at Dafs, before he ended up sprawled, motionless on the floor, groaning and clutching his stomach, blood slowly welling out from the wound. Punches in the stomach can be lethal, especially with a hydraulic arm.

The others reacted, their numbers three less then they were. Picking one up by the neck Dafs threw him head-first into the ground, leaving a small crack in the floor where his head hit.

As one they circled Dafs, knowing that with half their number gone they had no choice if they wanted to survive. They took their guns out and aimed at him. As one they shot. Dafs ducked, the bullets impacting on the people who shot them. One was instantly dead, the bullet going through an eyeball, spurting through the brain and out of the other side. He collapsed to the floor.

The next one got shot in the arm, his eyes welling up as his brain registered the pain. Screaming in pain he clutched his arm, dropping his gun. Looking at the floor he fainted. He could cope with the sight of blood, just not his own.

The other two got hit in their hands as they attempted to stop the bullets from impacting on their faces. They took another shot at Dafs. Aiming each shot with almost pinpoint accuracy they fired, both bullets impacting on Dafs’ shoulder joint. Picking one of the shooters up with psychotic strength he looked into the persons eyes, then threw him into the wall.

Realising the futility of it all, the last one ran off, not even attempting to shoot, his survival instincts taking over, paralysing every other feeling.



Dafs, sensing he hadn’t got enough time to get to the race ran as fast as he could. Finding a conveniently placed scooter he jumped on to it.
Gunning the throttle as fast as he dared he arrived at the garage about half a minute before the actual race was about to start.

He grabbed open the garage door, and inside was a gleaming blue Dodge Viper, with numerous handling modifications. He hadn’t really got the finances to do any more. In fact, he hadn’t even got all the finances required so he borrowed the money. As usual he probably wouldn’t pay it back, he’d just conveniently leave the country.

He got inside the car. He floored it out of the box, then following the speed limit he stopped just before the pit exit.

He glanced backwards at the starting grid and could just make out a red TVR with a yellow Lamborghini Countach right beside it. Ah, so Carys was ready to race, with specially fitted hand controls until her body healed fully, as was Terrik. He looked for a bone white Larda last of all and was quite shocked that it was on the front grid, beside a mean looking GT2
Porsche.

As a standard penalty for late arrivals he had to wait until the last car had past the first corner before being allowed to floor the throttle. He grasped the steering wheel securely, keeping his stress levels down to a minimum. He watched as all of the racers streaked by. Drumming the wheel he waited for when the announcer would let him go.

He watched as everyone made it safely through the first corner and started the engine. He shifted impatiently into first and felt the car accelerating towards the corner. He shifted down and broke, sticking close to the apex, and saw the crowd jeer as his last placed car sped by.



Further ahead Gustav was having a hard battle with the GT2 Porsche 911, with Carys and Terrik close by. Gustav was currently behind the Porsche, honking his horn at the road-hog that was currently in the way, blocking him through every corner and out accelerating him through the straights. Gustav was using every piece of tarmac he could, but so was the Porsche. On the verge of screaming Gustav got passed by Carys, then she almost forced the Porsche driver off the road.

He got passed by both Gustav and Terrik: Gustav on the inside and Terrik on the outside. Slowly, they started to edge away from the Porsche, who, while driving almost on the edge, couldn’t get round the corners as fast.

As he exited the last corner of his current lap, the Porsche cooling system gave in, and turned the car into an overheating, ticking time-bomb. He had no choice, he had to pit, and the repair cost him ten minutes, and effectively cost him the race. Even Dafs had passed him, but he was catching people to be fair.

It turned into a three-way fight for the lead, a TVR, a larda and a Countach were battling for the win, and for a place on the podium.



By lap eleven Dafs had caught up with the first slow-coach that was still fighting for the race, racing in a supercharged Acura Integra that was obviously too much for the driver of the vehicle to cope with. Numerous off road incursions had already placed him ten seconds behind his closest rival. The car, a few laps later gave up the ghost with the turbo, the engine and the transmission going simultaneously through a chicane.

Those few laps were all it took for hotshot Dafs to catch another slowcoach, a slightly modified Mercedes 270 CLK with the computer chip still installed to limit the speed to 155mph. Dafs zoomed by on the straights, hitting 176mph before having to slow down, waving at the peeved driver who kept whacking the dashboard in frustration.

Slightly ahead was a Nissan 300ZL, the whacky paint-job showing that the owner cared nothing about performance, just making his car look good, at the expense of anything good. But the driver was good, so it took Dafs three laps of endless dodging and diving, scraping and ramming to get through, finally forcing the other guy wide on the gravel.

All was quiet for a few laps before he caught up with a two way fight for twelfth between a Porsche 350 Spyder and a Mitsubishi Evo 8. They were at each others throats, every alternate corner they passed each other, sharing paintwork and wing mirrors.

Dafs could sense that it would be easy to pass these two and within the next two corners had dived right in the middle of them, causing shameless confusion and an off road incursion or two. As they worked their way out of the gravel they hit each other once more and normal procedures resumed.

Now it was time for the pit stops, where Dafs got his tyres changed and enough fuel to finish the race.



However, above the race-track something interesting was happening. A helicopter, one of Yugorovski’s by the blood red ‘darkclaw’ insignia, hovered above, slowly it began to land. It landed inside a forest, in the outside perimeter of the racing grounds. Near the area where the three highest placed finishers would be presented trophies, that was where they decided to land. That, was where they would take revenge on the escapees. The only ones who would suffer, ironically, this time at least, were the ones who proved themselves worthy of being left alive.

They came out of the Apache, a small squad of twelve, each member as dangerous in his field as the others were in theirs. In the lead of the troop were Captain James Black, and his second in command Lieutenant Nakejama.

Captain Black was a 37 year old with a trim beard and a distinct feel of the British Honour Guard about him. He was fairly tall, about 6 foot 3, and had been in a fair few skirmishes. He had a scar where his left eye, and part of his skull had been ripped out, he was a very lucky person compared to the other guy sent to disarm mines. They had stumbled into an enemy base. The grenade that was thrown at him and the other sentry should have killed them both. There was no normal way he could’ve survived, but, somehow luck was on his side.

Lieutenant Nakejama was a combat veteran. He was built like a tank, and, like his superior, had survived skirmishes working for his government on every war-front. His face was quite typical of most Japanese folk, and had a certain mystical quality. His eyes were shimmering blue, and always looked like he was about to cry, but he was fairly cheerful for someone who lost an arm in the field of combat. During a battle he was told to provide cover fire for a friend. He ended up pinned down as they fought, desperately, to stay alive. One rather short burst from a wary enemy cost him his arm, but the hesitancy to kill cost the enemy his life.

“So, Captain Black, run it past me again, why we are doing this? After all, we are UN peacekeepers, not pawns for a Polish crime-lord.”

“Search me, why High Command has got so corrupt is far beyond my perception. But, remember the veiled threats? He already had my wife killed for ‘insubordination,’ and yours is on the run! Unless we follow the primary directive we lose our children too. If there was a risk-free way out of this I’d take it, but I doubt I can see one.” Sighing loudly he simply said, “Either way, we’re screwed. Either we complete the mission and suffer self-condemnation or we fail, and our family dies.”

“Uh, sirs, shouldn’t we set ourselves up to complete the mission. This one promises to be a bit different from usual.”

They both sighed, “Here will have to do, set up camp!”

They stared towards the battle-field. “You sure this has to be done?”

“I can only hope something bad goes wrong with the implementation. Our targets seem like decent people, if a bit dangerous. We’re the tyrants, not them.”

They looked towards the race track, it was coming to a close, slowly, the race was coming to an end.



Only one lap to go. There are two real opponents now. Sure, Dafs would have been fairly tough and all, but that of course depended on where he started. And starting last basically screwed his chances of fighting us before he even begun.

Entering the start straight for the penultimate time Gustav knew he had to pull some tricks to win, and winning was his first priority. Going in to the first corner he forced his way past Carys, who openly swore and stuck up the vs.

During the entire thing he was trying hard to get past Terrik, and at the last corner he forced Terrik into a wider line and as Terrik was going so fast he ended up in the gravel, where he almost stalled the engine.

After crawling his way out of the gravel Terrik saw a blue viper drawing closer. “Come on, accelerate, dammit. Don’t cost me third like Gustav did first.”



Dafs was fourth, he had wormed his way up the field, clawing his way with barely legal tactics, or undeniable skill, occasionally both. He was driving down through the final chicane, and coming up to the final right.
He saw Terrik lumbering out of the gravel, and saw one last chance for an extra position. He patted the dashboard for luck. Not wholly superstitious he just wanted to salvage a bit more from this race then he started off with.

Terrik slowly, but surely, accelerated out of the gravel, and made his way down the straight, putting his foot to the floor. Even though he was catching, Dafs realised that this time it would be too late to do a thing about getting the position. A final deficit of 1.3 seconds separated third and fourth.

Dafs whacked the dash in disgust, not at the car, but at himself. Seeing Terrik just complete the race ahead of him almost made him wonder what could have been if it wasn’t for his late arrival.

At the end he climbed out of his car and shook his head. Stretching his neck to the left he noticed something that did not belong in a forest. However they got it there, Yugorovski’s people weren’t afraid of being noticed. Something was up, and he was determined to find out what.



In the forest they were setting up their weaponry. The viewpoint was perfect for the perfect kill. All that was left was the congratulations ceremony, and then they’d go on the podium. The primary target was Carys, Yugorovski knew what she did, and also knew what he required be done to traitors. However, as they didn’t know where Dafs was at the present time they were targeting Carys, the second traitor.



Slowly she and Gustav were making their way on to the rostrum. Waiting was making the mercenaries fairly nervous. The longer it took for the trio to get to the rostrum the longer it would take for the final shot. Thus the more chance there was of them being spotted. Even now, so soon after the race had finished there might have been someone who spotted them.
They got on to the podium, and finally Lieutenant Nakejama and Captain Black gave the order. Just in time for Carys Gustav spotted the troop and positioned himself in between the bullet and her. “Well, I suppose that’s good in the overall scheme,” said Corporal Kayne.

Kayne was a trained sniper. On his fairly tanned arm was a tattoo of a python with the head coming out of the eye of a skull. He looked like he did weights sometimes, or he took steroids. On his left cheek was a thin scar, a scar from a bar brawl he was involved in a few years back.

Gustav got pushed back from the force of the gun, and Carys screamed. She cried, she thought he was dead. Kayne smiled slightly, he should get a pay check soon. He wasn’t doing this out of malice, like Carys he was a mercenary. No, he was doing it for the money.

Suddenly Kayne got whacked into the air, and bashed back first into a tree, he fainted, knocked out.



A few seconds earlier Dafs had got himself to their position through the forest, and was going to cause these guys some trouble, especially because of them shooting Gustav. Revenge may not be swift, but it would be sweet.

The guy with the sniper would be the first target, but as he was armed he’d have to be knocked out quickly. One quick punch on his chin and the sniper was sent flying through the air, all consciousness taken out of him by the force. He was out cold before hitting the tree. Dafs took a quick moment to get some breath back.

Taking a swing at the remainder he took three with a single punch. All surprise was gone by now, but so were four enemies. These guys saw the futility of it all, and the remaining eight promptly surrendered.

Dafs tied them up and looked at them, at least a few had the medals of UN command. He went to search for the four he had knocked out, and brought them back, three of them were UN soldiers. These guys are supposed to keep the peace, not help an evil slime go to war. “You guys have betrayed everything you supposedly stand for. The fact that you aren’t going to war against Yugorovski, and have joined his side, tells me just how corrupt you ‘peacekeepers’,” spitting out the word, “have become. I have no faith in this world, and I blame people like you!

“Do you know what the Welsh did to traitors back when the Celts were a mighty force? It involved slowly skinning you, and dipping you in acid!!! We were uncultured, but we were damned good at deterring bastards like you!

“Now, in the helicopter, you worthless bags of tripe!” Dafs shouted, throwing them in the back of the helicopter. Moving his way to the front he switched on the engine. Soon the propellers started to rotate, the gentle whir of the engines growing into a roar as they reached terminal velocity.

The copter rose elegantly from the forest. It powered forward, out of the forest, to the patch of concrete by the podium. Hovering for a few seconds, Dafs slowly lowered it on to the ground. “Is Gustav ok?”

Carys looked like she was crying. “There was no way he could’ve survived the hit! He saved my life, in doing that he sacrificed himself.”

“He’s not dead yet. The bullet entered low on the right side. It’s either imbedded in one of his intestines, or has gone through past the ribs. The initial shock has knocked him out, and the bleeding is still happening.

“Get his top off, now, and get me a bandage. The only way to halt the bleeding is to apply pressure direct to the wound. Then, I’ll have to transport him to a hospital. Hopefully this should take no longer then a few days. Unless this is like the NHS, otherwise we’ll need months at least. Anyone have money?”

“Each of us do, transferred to our banks tomorrow. Even you’ll have a few grand,” smiled Terrik, trying to make light of a disaster.



Sixteen hours later Gustav woke up in a lot of pain. He was aboard a helicopter. He couldn’t remember a thing, except that he was out cold for some time, and he couldn’t remember the events of the previous day. Huh? Why am I here, and how come I’m in such searing pain?

Piloting the helicopter was tough, so Dafs put it on autopilot once again.
He went to the back, to check up on Gustav for the n’th time since he was shot. Gustav saw him come in. “What time is it? And why am I in so much pain?”

“You’ve been out cold for sixteen hours. It’s around six o clock in the morning.” Dafs yawned. “I was worried and couldn’t sleep. So I decided to pilot the Apache for a bit, putting it on auto when I thought I should check up on you. I’ve been awake for thirty six hours.

“As for the second question, you got shot by turncoat UN people working for Yugorovski. I couldn’t see too clearly but saw you moving in front of Carys, and then you being pushed back by the force of a sniper bullet. Luckily the bullet didn’t impact any organs as far as I can tell, but we’re taking you to a hospital anyway. It could be serious.”

The memories of the previous day flooded back to Gustav. “Is she ok? Did she get hurt?”

“She thought you had died. She’s fitfully sleeping but is pretty pessimistic. The only reason I got her to go to sleep was that I’d tell her what your condition was when she awoke. Physically she’s unharmed, which I can’t say about your would be assailants.”

“They’re here?” Gustav gulped.

“Prisoners of battle. They’re tied up. I intend to begin interrogation fairly soon, soon we’ll understand what made them traitors to peacekeeping.”

===============================================

Just tell me what to change and I will, I'm still not overly satisifed with this chapter so if you have any probs I'll try to rectify.

SteveMill
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Re: Assassins Curse Chap 8

Post by SteveMill » Wed, 2. Mar 05, 16:11

Usual problem with tags and firefox, apologies. I enjoyed this - it's always fun when reading about something you know nothing about by a writer who seems to know what he's talking about. Allegedly helpful comments in brackets below.

----------------------------------------


As soon as he got on to the track he found the car was a real bugger to handle. The frame was so light and flimsy that the car felt like it wanted to fly through the sky. Around the corners this effect wasn’t improved as the car really refused to slow down, making slamming on the brakes a necessity, doing untold damage to the tyres. The power of the car was almost impossible to use to the full, but even then slowing down so he could take the corner was almost impossible.

Soon, after fighting all the way he brought the car to the pits. Screaming the vilest profanities he knew he slammed the door.

He got the mechanics to look at the car. Cursing madly he walked to the canteen and bought a coffee. The hot scalding liquid passing down his throat cooled his mind down. Slowly, he got back to normal, thinking about the upgrades he could make to stop his car handling like a breeze-block.


(This whole incident needs to be a scene not narrative. Remember the first rule of fiction - 'show don't tell'. )

About three metres away he saw something glinting in their pockets. (He has X-ray vision? Something - singular, pockets, plural)


Slowly he edged closer. One of the guys got out his weapon. For no known reason he pointed it at a wheelie bin and fired, the bullets clanging against the bin, and boring through the outer shell. Just a normal weapon then, his desire to see a science fiction weapon left unfulfilled. Yet again.


As one they circled Dafs, knowing that with half their number gone they had no choice if they wanted to survive. They took their guns out and aimed at him. As one they shot. Dafs ducked, the bullets impacting on the people who shot them.

(No! This isn't 'Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em'. Simply not a credible moment, for this reader anyway.)

As usual he probably wouldn’t pay it back, he’d just conveniently leave the country. (Nice characterisation.)

Slightly ahead was a Nissan 300ZL, the whacky paint-job (words like wacky and slowcoach don't work - when you do things like this, when you are writing with a strong focus third person point of view - is inserting an authorial judgement. If you want to comment on the paint-job the character has to do it and he's racing - describe the paint job as he would see it - probably no more than a blur of colour. Remember - the goal is to keep the reader riveted - don't take a step back as the reader takes that step with you.)


As they worked their way out of the gravel they hit each other once more and normal procedures resumed. (Similarly - you can't report what your viewpoint character doesn't see. You're sort of shifting between the detached omniscient, god-like third person where you can do this at the expense of visceral closeness to the POV character, and third person limited - eg sitting on the shoulder of the viewpoint character. Stick to the latter so the reader is in the cabin with him, sharing the sensory experience.)



However, above the race-track (something interesting was happening - keep authorial voice out of it) A helicopter, one of Yugorovski’s by the blood red ‘darkclaw’ insignia, hovered above, slowly it began to land. It landed inside a forest, in the outside perimeter of the racing grounds. Near the area where the three highest placed finishers would be presented trophies, that was where they decided to land. That, was where they would take revenge on the escapees. The only ones who would suffer, ironically, this time at least, were the ones who proved themselves worthy of being left alive.

(This is a good shift in perspective - opening out from the limited third-person.)

They came out of the Apache, a small squad of twelve. (12? Not from an 2 seater attack helicopter they didn't. )


“So, Captain Black, run it past me again, why we are doing this? After all, we are UN peacekeepers, not pawns for a Polish crime-lord.” (A better technique for describing the characters would be to intersperse it with dialogue and action. What you've done here is 'info-dump.' We all do it but we shouldn't. The effect is to break the forward flow of the story. At all times you must think about keeping the story moving - don't break the reader's immersion in the 'fictive dream' unless doing it for pacing effect. Most of this chapter would be better done as a mixture of narrative, dialogue and action - there's just way too much narrative.

This is something I've only just learned - when a reader examines a page, say when browsing in a shop, their eye is unconsciously looking for white space. We are unconsciously deterred by large chunks of text. The use of dialogue breaks text up - plenty of white space on a page, encouraging readers to read)

“Search me, why High Command has got so corrupt is far beyond my perception. But, remember the veiled threats? He already had my wife killed for ‘insubordination,’ and yours is on the run! Unless we follow the primary directive we lose our children too. If there was a risk-free way out of this I’d take it, but I doubt I can see one.”

Sighing loudly he simply said, “Either way, we’re screwed. Either we complete the mission and suffer self-condemnation or we fail, and our family dies.” (You need to break the dialogue up more with tags and actions - like you did with 'sighing'.)

“Uh, sirs, shouldn’t we set ourselves up to complete the mission. This one promises to be a bit different from usual.”

They both sighed, “Here will have to do, set up camp!”

They stared towards the battle-field. “You sure this has to be done?”

(No idea who is speaking any of these lines)

“I can only hope something bad goes wrong with the implementation. Our targets seem like decent people, if a bit dangerous. We’re the tyrants, not them.” (This sort of thing makes good dialogue - we're seeing the moral choices through the actions of the characters, not just being told.)


Wow - there is a lot going on here, a car race and assasinations. I'm exhausted just reading it! Maybe it needs splitting into two chapters, one for the race with a prefiguring mention of the helicopter and another dealing with events in the forest?

Don't bother now - this is a first draft of your novel so it's more important to keep moving forward - but when you rewrite maybe you should be rigorous about the POV . Fix the reader firmly in the car with the single viewpoint character and stay there. You know a lot about racing and cars and I bet you'll be able to make the reader feel they're there. Think about all the senses - the roar of engines, the heat off the track, the gasoline stench.

A fun read, thanks.

Steve

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Post by Dragon_Rider » Wed, 9. Mar 05, 11:48

Can't wait for more!!

Its a very good read :D
Ben

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Post by therjw » Wed, 9. Mar 05, 12:57

Very good Dafs cannot wait for the next part :)

Urashima Keitaro
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Post by Urashima Keitaro » Wed, 9. Mar 05, 18:33

Hehe. The next part won't be appearing for a few weeks, or possibly even longer. College work gets in the way. I'll do bits of what I can obviously.

SteveMill
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Post by SteveMill » Thu, 10. Mar 05, 10:31

:(

Urashima Keitaro
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Post by Urashima Keitaro » Tue, 15. Mar 05, 11:41

Just under two weeks until chap 9. I assure you, it'll be worth the wait. :D

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