Hello once again, this is Journeyman if the name to your left was not an indication. There are four of us working on the central collab. In order for the rest of you to get a sense for what we are doing, gain a sample of each of our own individual writing styles, and as a delicious sneak peek concerning people, places, and events to come, I recommended we all write a little segment from our own respective fanfictions. We are all still in the planning, scripting and world building stages, but consider this a taste of things to come.

Again, we are not close to writing just yet. We got ourselves locked in a room and are planning and plotting. I just don't leave the room because I live there. Shiro, I've managed to chain to the wall. At least we are scripting and stuff. This is my own portion. Take this scene at face value. Get whatever symbolism, subtle clues, and hints you can.

'cause I'm not telling you a thing.

A pair of bodies rushed through the torn open door. Tina immediately turned left, rifle raised. Samuel did the same for the right, each checking the hard corner for any sign of a threat. The room was small in size, and as their lines of fire crossed in the center of the room, Samuel whispered, “Room clear.”

A small stream of equines and humans filtered through the doorway. Each were wide eyed and alert, warry. The offices and hallways were once pristine and immaculate, free of any issue that even Rarity could find fault. Now the lights barely worked, walls and cubicles were destroyed, and the scent of dried blood hung in the air.

The engineers and marines tread carefully and cautiously. Not one spoke. The instinct for silence was not out of lack of topics, but the lingering fear of danger. Noise brought them. They were not safe. No one was safe. Their current floor still held power for the electric lights and the computer terminals, those that were still in operable. Most screens, servers, and towers were smashed beyond repair by some great force. The cracked fluorescent lights that still functioned flickered constantly with a dull hum. They cast shadows, each one hiding a monster of the mind.

Samuel and Tina stood together on the far side of the room, stacked up and ready for entry to the next set of offices. Samuel narrowed his eyes in irritation. Everyone’s body was wound tighter than a spring. The adrenaline had amazingly not left their systems. One would believe that they would be fresh out by now. Samuel, being raised as a soldier, was trained to handle the increased sensory load and desire to flee. Fluttershy wasn’t doing so well. Applejack’s unspoken duty was to support the timid mare and push her as hard as necessary through every situation. She was currently looking at the floor as one cautious hoof moved in front of the other. It was better than looking at the destruction around them. Despite the scent of blood in the air, not a single body was on the floor, taunting them that horrors had yet to come.

Flicka, Sophia, and Ramirez stacked up on the door opposite Samuel and Tina. The engineers prepped their own scavenged weapons, while Flicka’s Accord Squad stood back to support the marines should they fail and to protect the rear. The group’s scavenged and hodgepodge armor, cobbled together from the dead and spare parts, was enough for moderate protection, but not enough for a sustained blitz or firefight.

Tina tapped Samuel’s shoulder. Samuel rushed through the unlocked iron door, while Tina followed, but continued left. Flicka and her squad followed suit and were flanked by Applejack, Fluttershy, Rarity, and the engineers.

The room was a large office area with rows upon rows of cubicles. The marines were already streaming down the rows, bodies crouched. There was little aside from the usual omnipresent rustling that accompanied the lockdown, but it was not enough to drop one’s guard. One or the engineers by the name of Henry tightened his grip on his weapon, a simple rivet gun, and was the first to follow. Bits of dangling wire was torn out of the wall next to a large smear of blood. The trail led back to the door the just entered and stopped.

“Room clear,” Samuel hissed. That was not enough to calm their frayed nerves.

Rarity, using her remarkable and impeccable sense of observation, scanned the room first. This room had several more functioning monitors, but most displayed error messages or what Flicka had started calling the Blue Screen of Death. She cantered to the nearest functioning computer and put a hoof on the mouse.

”Don’t touch that.”

Everyone, including the hardened marines, pointed their weapons at Rarity in a synchronized movement. Flicka fired a mental command through her own Dataport and her weapons lowered once she realized she had almost shot her friend. Rarity herself had dropped to the filthy carpeted floor, legs over her head. She had expected to hear the hiss and crackle of weapons. No one had a clear line of fire. That was odd; the voice had felt like it was right in front of her, yet it wasn’t from anyone in the room.

”North wall, far corner. Do you all see the camera?” The voice crackled from the computer terminal Rarity had approached. The voice was a distinguished and musical tenor, but carried the tone of someone heavily amused.

Samuel, Tina, Ramirez, and Sophia covered the doors, but the remainder approached. Flicka approached the station. The screen kept flickering due to damage, but functional and displayed the Eden Enterprises corporate logo over a blank white screen. A single camera attached to the screen looked directly back at her. “I am Captain Flic– ”

”Flicka. I know your name,” the voice chuckled. There was a unoiled squeak on the other end of the line and a few keyboard clicks.

Flicka narrowed her eyes at the interruption. “Captain Flicka of – ”

“Accord Squad. I know. Well, I know now.”

“Captain Flicka of Accord Squad,” Flicka hissed in a rush. Their unexpected guest’s tone was grating on her nerves. The remaining engineers and marines crowded around the terminal, although eyes were wary of the doors. “Identify yourself.”

”Look at the north wall, far corner,” the man ordered again. Sighing, Flicka and Samuel looked up. A tiny camera was wedged in the corner. The red light identified it as operational. With a slow, mechanical grind, the camera spun in a circle before focusing back on them.

“I’ve been watching you for some time, friends. How’s the leg, Sam?” Samuel growled under his lips at the informal manner the man spoke to him, but that did not stop him from clutching his leg where he suffered a bullet wound the previous day. “My unique set of skills has proven quite useful in this shithole.”

“Identify yourself,” Flicka hissed again. The man had the remarkable ability to annoy her without trying that hard.

“Oh, please excuse my behavior,” the voice said with a transparently informal sense of dignity. “I have a few names, but you might know me best as DaemonJack.”

“Shit,” Tina swore. She looked around as if expecting the man in question to be standing behind them the whole time. She did find an arm dangling from a false ceiling tile, blood blackened with time and coagulation.

“An’ who’s this?” Applejack asked Samuel. The man’s eyebrows were raised in surprise. He knew this person.

“DaemonJack,” he started, “is a grey hat hacker and guilty of fraud, identify theft, money laundering, corporate espionage, and a laundry list of cybercrimes. He’s wanted for questioning on the Nubian-Saul banking crash – eighty two banks across multiple planets suddenly found themselves without two credits to rub together. His mark was all over the hack, but he denied credit. Half of the Fortune 40 want him dead, while the other half hire him for off the books jobs. He’s a dangerous man, and Galapol’s third most wanted.”

“In the cyberflesh. But...” DaemonJack trailed off.

Samuel’s eyes narrowed at the screen. The scar across his lips made him look like he was smiling. “But...DaemonJack never approaches anyone himself when not on business. He has an ulterior motive.”

“Which is what the fuck are you doing here!?”

The explosion of sound from the speakers made everyone jump back. Samuel and Tina leveled their guns on the door. When they were assured nothing was rushing, they slowly lowered them, ears perked for any sign of danger. Before anyone could chided DaemonJack for his outburst, he started talking.

"I wondered what barrel-assed popo let a bunch of engineers and magical talking ponies into the quarantine. So let's take a look here... “ A few more ticks echoed from the speakers. “Firewall this, crack that, don't have your password as 'GOD' you dumbshits. Now let's pull up these dossiers.

"What luck! Flicka! How you doing? I see here you managed to get a job with Valkyrie. Congratz. I wonder what strings someone had to pull in order to get an undocumented lifeform access to level three clearance and the head of her own task force. Let's pull up the cyberware directory. Hmmm... nice tech. Planning on staging your own little assault on a corporate facility? Why be any less prepared? Considering professional assassins don't dump this much bullshit into their bodies, especially aliens not even a year in service, I wonder what would happen if I backtracked the money transfers? Is our little marine been naughty and installed something illegal? I think I'm going to make a few calls to my friends in NOMAD soon. Maybe some Alliance security officer is about to learn his little pet has been a very bad girl.

"And careful with those pecks on the cheek, Rarity. This city's gone to shit, but not the power for the security feeds." DaemonJack chuckles. "Not yet."

There are a few more keyboard clicks across the speakers. "Found it! Now, let's take a look at who sent you in here. No signal can get past the barricades, but that doesn’t mean I can’t backtrack your logs. Wait, Director Clemmins gave you the green light to come in here! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! That fatass can't get out of bed without jerking off to a Factory holochip full of Asian girls."

The camera turns and focuses on Applejack.

"And who is this lovely mare? I'm for blondes myself."

"Bite me."

"Oh, I will. I'll see if biting that cutie mark works like a scratch and sniff. You know, this interspecies stuff really isn’t my thing, but you’ve got some fine legs Miss..." A few tacks of a keyboard echoes over the speaker. "Applejack? Fuck me. That name would kill even Clemmins' boner. And working with OrC Op. in the Ag. District? The fuck is this shit? I expected two Rambos, an Agent Smith, three Isaac Clarkes, and the Partridge Family. Not one cyberpony, her bitchy emo squeeze, ponified genderbent Deliverance, a closet nympho – I tapped OrC. Op security feeds last month, Fluttershy. Naughty girl – and the cast of red shirts that dies at the end of every episode of Star Trek.

"So let me get this straight. The fate of the city is in the hands of you Jerry Springer rejects?"

"What the hell's your problem? We're here to – " Flicka began, but she was cut off.

"Die in the most horrible was possible by a rampaging mutant with weapons set to 'fuck you'. Get your head out of the ground, Flicka; you're not an ostrich hiding in a hole. Tighten that spanktastic ass anymore and your head will pop like a zit. This isn't training and these cyberpsycho fuckers aren't going to play by your stupid rules of engagement. Get used to being overwhelmed, anxious, getting separated from the pack, and fearshitting yourself when you hear the click of your magazine.

"You've got a hell of a problem, and ol' Jack is your only source of eyes and ears. I didn't spend my life running from the law to die in this shithole. Shake this old sinner's hand, friends."

DaemonJack spoke his next line in a mock humanoid voice. "I'm sorry, please speak louder into the microphone. If your station keeps having trouble, press Alt + F4 to continue"

You spelled Ostrich wrong. As for this Ramirez character, I imagine him to look like this.

A thousand dollars to the pony that finds out who Jack is by fanfic's end.

1336297 He's your persona?

So AJ has little on her file seemingly due to it being newer, Fluttershy did something, and Rarity's been kissing someone.

This Jack guy would get along well with Discord I'd say.

1336478
I meant his in-story name. You obviously don't know me that well. While I am talented in computers and programming languages, like Jack, I am the driest, most dull person you will ever meet. I don't put myself in stories, because I believe against using cruel and unusual punishment.

I've hidden at least seven other key morsels of information in this little snippet. You caught some of the main ones, but the ones that went unnoticed are the truly awesome moments.

Believe it or not, he wouldn't. Grey Hat: chaotically neutral.

1336511

Well they may have a bit of fun talking about chaos

You should make an appearance in your story at least, you know, a cameo like any great author/writer does. Bump into the group in a prison and get promptly killed by a guard or deliver their pizza.

1336579
Regardless of the insults, Jack was trying to bitch slap them out of complacency. Although abrasive and forceful, he was demanding they accept his help for mutual gain. Recall the building they are in. It's been blasted so bad they might have gotten the roaches.

1336579
I really don't know what i would do to write myself into a story. I'm drawing a complete blank. I guess I could write a tertiary character to the story, like a fence or information broker, but I ordinarily tailor those for the role. If I write myself in, I'd have o reverse my normal process and create a scene for a character, instead of a character for a scene. I write stories and scenes by creating a setting first, then the story, then the details, and the characters last. To do so otherwise just feels weird to me.

1336667

Then add yourself when you need a random extra character in the story, rather than working specifically to add yourself.

1336667 Or just write a self-insert story.

1336780
Still feels kind of weird to me. I still build their personalities around a situation if I only use them once. For instance, I made two ponies who were bros and bantered with each other. It was a fun scene, but the lightheartedness was specially constructed to contrast with the coming of a monster. The humor by contrast gave the monster a bigger impact. I don't make superfluous characters. It seems counterproductive to me and goes against my nature.

1336801
That brings up the same problem that I am a dry as toast. I'm boring. If I was suddenly in Equestria, I'd want to go back. Otherwise, I wouldn't really give a shit. I can't make myself interesting in real life, so how the hell do I do it in fiction?

With characters like the Crafter, Jack, and the Gravedigger, I can craft a situation. Doesn't change the fact I am boring.

1336816 But it's more believable to have a charicter that doesn't quite fit the situation.

1336816

No problem then, nature is relentless if battling against it.

1336843
It's still literature. I have to make it interesting. I can make characters that don't fit the situation. I wrote a story about a character that not only wasn't a pony, but didn't even speak the same language. I had to slowly write that in. A self insert does not appeal to me because I am not interesting enough for a story, and I am not interesting enough for others. As self-serving as it is, I want to write something my readers will enjoy.

The absolute worst thing you can do to a story is make it boring. At least having it bad can emotionally stimulate anger, boring being boring is a blank void. It's why I write character like Jack and the Crafter. They are more interesting to others and myself.

1336829 So is Ben Stien (or however you spell it) but he can still be interesting. Besides, you can embelish. In my self-insert, I'm fluent in Japanese, but in real life I only know enough to get by

1336881
Most of his work is played for laughs, such as Mask and Casper. Ironically funny is funny. That doesn't cross over as well to a medium where inflection and sarcasm are more difficult to convey. I have no desire to put myself in a story for self gratification. I find myself more comfortable to take fragment of my own personality and adapt them into my characters. The Crafter takes my inability to empathize with most people, as he doesn't speak. Jack takes my inherent desire to get even with those who've slighted me, no matter how much. My "friend" we've talked about is my desire to act on blind rage. Gravedigger is self interest.