Dark Soldier wrote:

I'll bring it over here as this is the relevant thread: Spoilered as its longish. First draft, so obvious errors will be ironed out in editing and such:

Spoiler:

Bacon and eggs, his favourite. His wife had made it him that morning, along with the packed lunch he was now tucking into. Sat alone in this quiet park, it'd always been his lunch ritual. On the same bench each day, surrounded by tranquility, he felt calm and clear. Spreading out the crusts from his sandwich so the pigeons could dine, seeing them flock, hunger overloading their sense. The gentle rustle of Nature as a slight breeze flows by, and in a minute, hell, he may even crack open that new novel he picked up yesterday. The stress of life and work was obsolete to him at this very moment. He reached into his bag, searching for that book he'd heard so much about, when his phone rang, the ringtone cute, albeit shrill. He hated it, but his wife loved it, and every minute that she smiled was worth any and all inconveniance. Despite the screen saying caller unknown, he took the call. "Hello?" Absolute silence on the line. "Hello? Anyone there?" "Do you value your life, Andrew?" "Pardon? Who is this?" "Your life, Andrew. What is its value to you? Happiness, a family? Love? Money?" "I...I don't really get what...Who is this?" "That is none of you concern. If you must, consider me your guardian angel, Andrew. I' here to offer you a way out of the life you quite clearly hate" "Who is...What do you know about my life?" "Everything, Andrew. I know that you ruffled your son's hair before you left this morning. I know last night you were in The Colliers Arms. Double whiskey, yes? I also know you were in there to wash the scent of that whore's pussy out of your mouth, the very same mouth that then went home and kissed your doting wife..." "What...How...How do you fucking know this? Who the fuck are you?" "If you ever want to see your wife and child again, you need to listen to me. Do you understand?" "I...You have my wife and child?" "I have my ways, Andrew. Do you understand me? Now listen. Get up from that bench, leave your bag. Walk calmly out of the park, turn right, and keep walking until you come across a rubbish bin. Inside will be a discarded McDonald's bag. Retrieve it, and inside you will find keys for a locker. Head to the train station, locker 213. Open it, take the bag, and head to the restroom. Do you understand me, Andrew?" "F-f-fuck you, whoever you are. This is bullshit." "Bullshit?" With that, a pigeon, finishing up the crumbs at his feet, exploded. The voice came back on the line. "I am watching you, Andrew. Do not doubt me for a second. The next bullet goes into your son's forehead. A clean kill, he won't suffer, but you will. Do not involve the police, do not ring another soul. Do as I say and this will all be over shortly. Ok?" Andrew pictured it clearly, the small coffin, his wife hysterical. The family in mourning, his own life now hollow. Devastated. He made the decision in no time. "Ok...Ok" He took a moment to compose himself. His life, less than ten minutes ago, was stable. His family safe, and now this. For what? From serenity to madness, he was but a puppet to this master. With a sigh, he took to his feet, his bag discarded, and he began to walk... He moved at a brisk pace. He had too, his mind was wrought with potential outcomes. With every glance, he had to withhold urges to tell, to plea with the public around him. Seeing himself on his knees, weeping, begging for mercy, for his son's life, but he knew deep within that this was lunacy. The instructions were what mattered, this twisted man's orders the tentative hook between happiness and complete devastation. After a cursory look around, he grabbed the discarded McDonald's bag from the bin, took the keys, and set off for the station. Why the fuck had he done it with her? Twice they'd slept together, and as far as he could tell she had something to do with this. Seeing her, alone, her dress riding high up her thighs, obviously inebriated, he couldn't help but give it a crack. He'd just wanted to get her going, flirt a bit, see if the old youth was still there, but one thing led to another and he ended up back at hers. Weak, he knew he was, like his father before him, that cunt of a man. And now what? His two loves in danger, all because he couldn't wait to whip his cock out. Entering the station, thankful to be out of the just falling rain, he headed directly for the lockers, beads of sweat mixing with the fresh rain on his skin. The place was busy, strangers bustling too and from, the daily ritual of their own lives, oblivious to others around them. He thought he saw her at one point, his mistress, her dark hair flowing over her shoulders as she sauntered by, but he knew this was bullshit, he knew where she was. For her to be here would be nothing short of a miracle. The locker in front of him now, hands trembling as he eased the key into the lock. It opened without problem, and Andrew quickly took the bag inside Remembering his orders, he headed for the lavatory, and the phone rang... "Good boy, Andrew. You have the bag I see. Head into one of the cubicles." He did as he was told. "Now, open the bag, Andrew. Go on, its a surprise..." He put the bag onto the unopened seat of the toilet, and tentatively unzipped it.  He knew what it was inside, he'd seen enough movies to get it. Pretty much an IED, a jacket laced with explosives.  The phone, on the cistern, sprung into life..."Put it on, Andrew. See how it fits..." He wanted to cry, to just give up there and then. Let it all burst out from him, to say sorry to his wife, to hold his son once more, to go back to that same morning and experience life as he once knew it. "Fucking do it, Andrew, or I flick the switch and annihilate you were you stand. I will put a bullet in your son, my friend. Inside the bag is a gun. Grab it, and put the jacket on..." He reached inside, the gun in his hands feeling alien, but eerily powerful.Taking his own jacket off, he hoisted the jacket up and eased his arms in. It weighed heavy on his body, mirroring his conscience. Zipped up, he grabbed the phone. "N-n-now what?" "Listen, Andrew. Listen very carefully. I have the trigger. If you even attempt to remove that jacket, it will blow. You speak to anyone other than who I instruct you to, it will blow. Any slight and you're dead. Put your jacket on over the top, there's a good...boy..." It struggled to fit, but somehow he managed to squeeze it on. "Now, you take the bag. You leave this station. You head left on your exit, and walk until you see the HSBC bank. You enter calmly, and queue. You wait until you are in front of the teller. You take the gun out, unzip your jacket, and demand as much as you want in unmarked notes. You give the teller your bag, remind her that she will feel her skull splintered into a thousand pieces if she raises the alarm. You wait patiently, receive the cash, zip up your jacket, and leave. You do this without raising suspicion. You do this, and you're on your way to safety. The next time you see your child, he'll be smiling. Do you understand?" "I...why me? Why me for all this? What did I do?" "Do you remember last night, Andrew? Or was that just another day to you?" He knew. How could he not? At hers, both empty, pleasured. Chatting, and she'd said it. She wanted more, she wanted him. She was going to approach his wife, she wouldn't listen. Words got heated, Andrew shielding his separate life, wanting it, hating her now. She'd thrown the bedside lamp at him, missed him by inches. Downstairs she stormed, him chasing after her. In the kitchen, somehow a knife in his hands, within an instant plunged deep into her stomach. He couldn't forget the look in her eyes, devotion mixed with panic. She tried to speak, she couldn't, but she'd ebbed way in his arms, her blood pooling around them. The shock had blanked him, he felt nothing, and he left, the scene still there for anyone to chance on. "I have the knife here, Andrew. This life you've worked so hard for, its in my hands. You follow what I say, do it to the letter, and her body along with the knife is gone forever. Remember that happiness you felt this morning? Its yours to bask in for as long as you desire. Do we understand each other Andrew?" He imagined turning the gun on himself, ending it now, but he knew he couldn't. His son would die, that he knew, and his wife, he couldn't even begin to comprehend what he...or they would do to her. "I....I understand..." A single deep breath, with the bag slung over his shoulder, Andrew left the cubicle... To him, the station felt distant, almost imaginary. To suffer a life turned upside down so severely in such little time had clouded his mind. The prospect that he could return to the life he had loved an hour or so ago now felt so enticing, but could he trust this man? Could he trust him to set him free? Another image entered now, stuck, repeating itself, his own son stood in front of him, his green eyes once so full of optimism and life slowly rolling in their sockets, a trickle of blood flowing over the bridge of his nose...He had to snap out of it, to keep calm, to put on that front he so readily slipped into just last night as he kissed his wife with such cheated passion. On the street now, head down. Just another pedestrian getting on with life. The rain had stopped, and the puddles of water rippled, shimmying the light. For some reason, at this precise moment, the memories of his summer vacations hit him hard. Young, optimistic, on the beach front at Blackpool, kicking up the sand as his mother and father sunbathed. He wanted so badly to be that boy now, and that single tear he could feel forming he would not allow to fall. Under his breath "Be strong. I need to be strong" So preoccupied by his frenzied mind was he, he bumped into a gentleman outside the bank, and for one fleeting moment he thought he felt the jacket explode, ripping him limb from limb, but then clarity and sense kicked back in. The man grumbled and went about his way. This was it, his moment. Get through this and he felt, he believed tht normality would be restored.  He placed his hand inside the pocket of his jacket, felt the coldness of the gun and steeled himself. Lifting his head, now set in a show of confidence, he opened the door, walked inside and joined the back of the short queue...

tigerswiftly wrote:

Ok, here's an excerpt from the thing I'm writing at the moment. 

Spoiler:

Chapter 1.5 Deep within the industrial belly of Nomad, work had begun. Coal faced stokers worked at a strenuous pace, grimy black sweat dripping from their brows, as they hurriedly fed the starving furnaces with huge slabs of coal. Engineers hit switches and turned dials on an array of soot stained control panels, barking measurements and other readings to one another. Masked figures climbed tall stepladders, pouring noxious chemicals into wide brass vats, stirring the moiling ichor with great iron paddles, before sealing them shut and nervously examining the temperature gauges of the great boiling engines. Barked orders and instructions were obeyed quickly and without hesitation, and the heart of Nomad groaned uneasily back into life. Outside the city, teams of treadworkers were rappelling slowly down the outside of the great walls. Supported by long steel cables held in place by thick tanned leather harnesses, they worked in pairs, inexpertly lowering themselves with long, bounding jumps off the side of the city walls. There were hundreds working on the task, swarming awkwardly downwards towards the giant caterpillar treads. One pairing's cable snapped as they descended, sending them spiralling into the freezing tundra far below. Once they reached the thick treads, they unhooked wide funnel shaped instruments from their belts. Reaching to their backpacks and pulling forth long rubber pipes, they plugged them into the smaller end of these funnels and thumped at thick set buttons on their packs. Slowly at first, gentle waves of heat emitted from their spouts. This quickly changed into a torrent of licking fire, bursting forth from the nozzle with surprising speed. More than one unfortunate treadworker was caught unprepared by the speed their thermoengine started, and melted a hand, or a foot, or a friend's face, into candlewax. Hours passed as the treadworkers toiled, blasting away the shackles of ice and frost that held the great Wandering City in place. The treads themselves, built long before any of Nomad's inhabitants' were born, showed not a crack nor blister, despite the furious heat set upon them. So it was. The still heart of Nomad started to beat once more. This was how every shift started. With fire, smoke, sweat, and the slow rebirth of the Wandering City. Nomad.