MONICA'S NANOWRIMO PLOTTAGE

[ZACK CHARMING]

So...this is also basically for my benefit, so nobody really needs to read it, although I'd really love it if people read and gave me comments...it will be updated as I have more Spanish classes and develop the characters more, etc.

Setting:
Surrounded by four enormous walls in the midst of a vast, hostile wilderness lies the city of Mork. It's set about 3000 years in the future built on the remains of a city once called New York (though this will probably never come up in the book). Ruled by a sadistic Liege Lord, Mork is a "paradise" in which any form of violence or weaponry is banned. Any book or artifact making any reference or allusion to violence or conflict is also banned. Consequentially, the only books the citizens have access to are official records and obscure nonfiction. Computers and technology are also gone. However, weaponry and some technology are sold illegally for big bucks.
Any child born with (or developing before the age of 21) the slightest imperfection is cast into the streets to die. However, these "exposed" children have come together to form street four street gangs called "The Four Bands". The bands are basically nocturnal, and all of the citizens know that venturing into the city at night is certain suicide.

The Four Bands
The Bands are each ruled by an Alderman, who is responsible for making sure everyone in his or her band is fed. The nature of the Bands means that members barely have a life expectancy: a Band member has never lived past 21. The Bands sleep during the day, in the shadowy corners and back alleys of Mork.
There is a gathering of The Four Bands each night at Midnight, run by the four Aldermen.
The Bands also have one Forbidden Book, which is a textbook detailing the history of the world up to about the 1800s. This is where all of their knowledge of violence comes from (though the information in the book is considered stories and legend, not fact). If they induct any young, unnamed children, a name is chosen from the text.
The Bands Are:
The Donovons- Boys gang. All about chivalry and manliness and stuff. Think a bunch of prep school guys living on the streets
The Demstri- "Black Sheep" Boys gang. All about drinking, hanging out in bars, and mugging people.
The Serkela- Girls gang. All about beauty, fitting in, and girly stuff. As pristine as it's possible for street orphans to be. Very exclusive. Think of a sorority.
The Skrilings- Girls gang. Not as pristine as the Serkela, very accepting. Like a mixed bag of all of them, I guess (because I haven't really thought about this one yet ).

Characters + Backstories!!! So far...
Atira- 15 years old. Alderman of the Skrilings. All about justice and everything being fair: will accept any Exposed child into her band. She doesn't know when she was exposed or why (this is a major plot hole that I have to fill...). She doesn't believe in murdering and pillaging, and tries to obtain food and supplies for the Skrilings with as ethical means as possible (I also haven't decided how she's going to do this yet). She's also super speedy and nasty with a dagger.

Sinscarcia (Scar)- 17 years old. Lived with his parents and a large family, when he was struck with a terrible fever which spared his life but took his eyesight. Now a flawed being, he was Exposed and became one of the Donovons. Very tall, muscular and intimidating (and he also has a cool little belt thing that becomes a sword when you push a button). Strong and silent type, and he probably has a crush on Atira.

Hadrian- 14 years old. Scar's brother, but he was Exposed just after birth because he was a "runt". (He's really short). Basically the leader of the Demstri because the Alderman is a druggie idiot. Not very strong but has an exceptional intellect and has a gift for manipulating people. He can also pick locks. AND he bangs a lot of chicks.

Veaniro- In his 30s? The Liege Lord (basically King) of Mork. Evil and sadistic, plucks little kids off the streets and kills them because he thinks they're a threat to his authority. Also randomly kills citizens who insult him. Has a bunch of guard dudes who roam around the streets and shoot any Band kids they see. Also uses (and provides his forces with) a lot of illegal technology, namely guns and cell phones.

Cyrin-16 years old. Veaniro's son. Kind of a depressed kid because everybody hates him because of his dad. Owns some illegal technology obtained fro his father, like an earpiece for communication and a pistol, but is gifted with bows and arrows. Is going to fall in love with Atira and kiss her at some point in the book. He's also probably going to die, but I might have mercy and kill Scar instead

Trajan- 17 years old. Alderman of the Demstri, though he won the position in a beer-drinking contest. Always drunk. Exposed as a toddler because of "behavioral issues"

Lyrax- 16 years old. Member of the Demstri. Exposed because he is missing an eye (wears an eyepatch). He is the vendor of illegal things, and is the Four Bands' source of guns and weaponry. Very sketchy, does all his deals in the backs of bars.

Pericles-20 years old, Alderman of the Donovons. Exposed as a baby because one leg was shorter than the other. The oldest Band member and the general leader and mentor of all four. Official reader of the Forbidden Book.

Ariatne- 18 years old. Alderman of the Serkela. Stuck up and drop-dead gorgeous. I'm not sure what else.

Jesmia- 12 years old. Not quite sure about this chick yet, but she's a member of the Skrilings and she's gonna be really annoying and follow them around, but actually be really good at healing. OH and she's gonna end up with Hadrian.

Juro- 12 years old, Jesmia's twin, probably going to be a Donovon...really his sole purpose is to get kidnapped by Veaniro and set the plot in motion.

[TUESDAY DAVENPORT]

EXCERPT #1
It's absolutely horrible, I already know, so I'm looking for ways to maybe make it kind of decent? Any and all are appreciated ;D


“I trust that your tutor is humoring me by providing my son with an adequate education.” The Liege Lord Veaniro spat on the wooden floor. “Are you able to keep up with his pace? I took great care to make your modest capabilities exceedingly evident when I briefed the man on you. Still, I worry that your unimpressive intellect may irritate him.”

Actually, the old fool whom his idiot father had hired as tutor for Cyrin moved at such a slow pace that Cyrin was pretty sure he could read, absorb, tabulate, review, and recite ten times over every piece of information he’d learned that week while Skoire was still flipping to the right page in one of the infinite number of humdrum Morcian record books that he so detested. “He should teach me more interesting topics,” he said, pulling himself upwards in an effort to look a billion times more confident than he felt.

“Is that so?” One of his father’s candles briefly illuminated his face, revealing a poisonous expression. “Because I am of the opinion that the topics Skoire reinforces with you are quite suitable for a person of your, shall we say, humble intelligence.”

Cyrin gritted his teeth but he knew he couldn’t lose his temper. Not now. Not with his father so dangerously close to his infamous tirade-mode. “Well,” said Cyrin, choosing his words carefully. “I was quite interested in one of the volumes in the far back of Mother’s old bookcase. It contained a lot of information about the physical world: the particles which make up the world that surrounds us.” Cyrin could feel the excitement building within him as he recounted the information. He remembered the thrill of leaning over the musty pages and allowing his brain to soak and bask in the information: atoms, molecules, quarks, the Theory of General Relativity, to which he’d become something of an addict and had scanned the majority of his Mother’s books for the slightest reference to, Electromagnetism, which he didn’t begin to understand but loved to imagine and fathom during his long “study” sessions of mindlessly reciting rudimentary arithmetic and grammar, and even the laws of Thermodynamics, which he’d discovered only briefly yesterday but had been hoping to learn more about very soon. “I was wondering if perhaps Skoire could teach me something like that.”

Veaniro didn’t miss a beat. “No.”

It figured. “What about mathematics, then? Some of those equations that you punch into the Calculating Machines, I can solve in my head, with a pencil and paper in case I get lost.”

“Skoire’s curriculum is quite comprehensive.” Veaniro stood abruptly, brandishing the candles like swords and glaring at Cyrin lie he would glare at an enemy. “You are an uneducated cretin, boy. I would sooner scorn our family name and re-open the Liege Lordship for General Election for the first time in one hundred and seventy years than see an ignoramus like you assume my position.”

Cyrin couldn’t restrain himself this time. “With all due respect, father, I am neither an ignoramus nor a cretin. I know a lot of things.”

“Is that so?” Veaniro raised a malicious eyebrow. “What is the main principle of City Fortification?”

Cyrin’s mind was blank. Skoire spent at least an hour a day explaining military tactics such as Fortification, but Cyrin had become quite the expert on tuning him out when he explained concepts like that. All of that effort, knowledge and brainpower concentrated on an action so inane, wrong, and morally disgusting.

“No?” His father seemed amused. “Name three tactical considerations of a Small-Unit Hull-Down operation. No? What about Peaceful Penetration? Scorched Earth? Military camouflage?” Cyrin felt his face growing warmer and warmer his father pressed forward with his tirade. “How many square feet per unit must a soldier be permitted in order to brandish a gun? What is the range of ammunition levels necessary to fire a 16K12 model? What about a UT38? How much gold can be spent on armor for soldiers with a ranking of Lieutenant Colonel or lower?” Cyrin’s father allowed himself a smug grin. “Well. We’ve just got a little genius on our hands. I’m so proud of my protégé, the-“

“The area of any two-dimensional circle divided by the square root of its radius is the number Pi, the first ten digits of which are 3.141592653,” he burst out, unable to contain himself any longer. His face was bright red, eyes ablaze and livid as his voice escalated in volume and rage with each calculation he fed through his brain. And yet, he felt the thrill of adventure rising like a wave on the Ocean inside of him, growing and gaining in momentum as he stimulated his mind. Imagine that: an actually exciting, stimulating activity for Cyrin’s brain. Wouldn’t that be something.
Cyrin could feel his father’s disapproving, scorned eyes on him, but he didn’t care. He felt the numbers gain in intensity, whirling around him at speeds unfathomable to mankind and their puny little brains. As he manipulated the numerals like pawns on the chess board in the downstairs parlor, new sums swam up before him.“The square root of 97200 is 311.76915, rounded up. The square root of that is 17.65698, rounded down. The arc tangent of 17.65698 is 86.75852, rounded down. The natural logarithm of 86.75852 is 4.46312, the cube root of which is 1.64644, rounded up, and the cube of which is 88.90285, rounded up.”

Breathing deeply, Cyrin leaned back against his pillow. His father was too incensed to speak for a few moments: in the candlelight, his face was the color of beets, his lips pursed tightly together as if restraining a volcanic eruptionl. Then, suddenly, the familiar growl came again. Beneath his blankets, Cyrin instinctively tensed.

“And what use is…detritus like that,” Veaniro growled through gritted teeth, “when my obnoxious imbecile of a son cannot shoot a gun?”

Cyrin was silent, staring upwards at the enormous, gleaming chandelier dangling from his ceiling. It was so beautiful, so ornately carved, with every aspect carefully planned out, no doubt by some blissfully ignorant artisan in some other mansion far across Mork. Cyrin wondered whether that Artisan had ever wished he could know more than the standard curricula of Mork allowed: had he ever wanted to escape the life of perfection to experience the imperfect, if only for a day?

Suddenly, a stab of pain shot through Cyrin’s lower leg and up through his abdomen. His jaw dropped to scream, but the pain came again, more abrupt and deeper this time. Cyrin choked on his cry and doubled over, writhing in agony. There, standing at the end of his bed was his father, clutching a long metal rod, grotesquely curved into a sharp hook at the tip. He touched it to Cyrin’s foot and the pain sizzled up a third time. Cyrin’s flesh was on fire: a thousand daggers ripped and tore at his flesh as the metal rod jabbed at his foot again and again, sending waves of agony shuddering through his body, longer and more pronounced each time. Cyrin screamed as the pain shredded his sin: his voice echoed off of his walls and the clear Plexiglas over his windows, as if the volume of his voice would somehow release the agony that was being compressed inside him with each jab.
“Stop it!” he hollered, but his voice sounded far away, disembodied, as if he were hearing it through a thick, molasses-type ocean of endless, perpetual agony. “Stop, please, stop!”
He pressed the pillow harder and harder into his face until at last the terrible rod was removed. The agony became less excruciating until it subsided to a dull throb against his muscles. Cyrin curled into a tight ball beneath his blankets and hugged his pillow to his face, sobbing with pure anguish.

“I should’ve exposed you,” came the growl that was hostility itself from the foot of Cyrin’s bed, and he jumped in terror at the sound before regaining control of himself. “I should’ve exposed you, you useless infidel. I should’ve known that brain I saw in you was fickle. You can’t shoot a gun. You can’t clean a bullet. You can’t run a mile and you can’t lift a piece of armor. You can’t march in formation and you can’t strategize for a battle situation.”

Cyrin clenched his teeth. “You’re a fiend,” he managed, through his tears.

“Excuse me?”

Cyrin flinched as his eyes passed over the metal rod, but he continued. “You’re a fiend, and a hypocrite, and a villain. You’re a horrible man. My mother-“

“Your mother was a terrible ruler. Her emotions made her weak. She allowed the citizens too much freedom. The streets were flooded with quarrel. There was punching and pushing and shoving and crying from children. Your mother-“

“My mother loved me!” Cyrin had managed to stymie the flow of tears, but he felt them begin to flow again as thoughts of his mother’s face cascaded into his mind: her smile lighting up her face like a flickering flame on a match, her eyes gleaming with affection and promise, her embrace pulling him in and folding him safely within her, her voice whispering in his ear. “It's okay, Cy, it's gonna be okay.” Everything will be okay, she’d said, and folded him in her arms. And he’d felt safe: he’d felt safe and warm and comfortable, and happy in the safe harbor his mother’s hug. “My mother loved me. Do you love me, Dad? Do you love me?”

“Love.” Veaniro spat on the floor. “Love. An abstract concept of human desire. What is the use of a concept of love? It is nothing more than desire. Nothing more than a physical urge. Love creates conflict, and conflict creates imperfection. Love is in fact the window to imperfection: love has no place in a perfect world.”

“How can a world with no love be perfect?” Cyrin was still crying, but he managed to straighten himself out.