|
|
Post by allie on Jul 16, 2008 17:02:42 GMT
Dang, I have lots of reasons. Let's see... KND ended (it made me cry... but now I'm fine about it. :3), my grandfather died, a friend of mine's sister was in a car accident who died, the storms have been fierce causing a few tornados around the state (Illinois; but we're fine now) in early June and in the early 20s, and now I've just found out that the concert I was pumped up for is being in September on a school day. ..Aw, crap, it sucks to be me this year. XD And now.. I think my cat is getting pretty ill. He isn't looking too well. I haven't seen him in a while, and he's getting old... but if he dies, I hope he'll die peacefully in his sleep.  I've had Rudolph for a whole 11 years. Holy crud, my brother's kinda...well, doing the same thing. But he's taking a class in this English at the Community College in my town for the summer, I hope he'll pass... And I'll be taking Natural Chemistry next year. Oo I'm not good with math and all but I'll do my best. .. Now I want to try to think up a 1/362 fic. x3 |
|
|
|
Post by allie on Jul 16, 2008 18:11:44 GMT
*hugs back* Yeah, I'm really wishing it all to calm down in the Fall or Winter. The only good things that are happening around me that I've played one of the best videogames ever, my cousins are coming today to stay for a few days, and DotD will be released later in October. :3
But I'm also worried for my aunts and uncles who live down in Florida around that tropical storm and such... I hope they'll be okay, too.
And yes, I do have inspiration for 1/362! That's what makes me happy. ^_^ ...And I've thought of it for a while, I might, just might be typing a KND style of Stephen King's Pet Sematary.
... Except Rachel would probably die in it. Oo Ugh... *shudders* XD I've never had a death in a fic.
|
|
|
|
Post by Dreamer on Jul 16, 2008 18:15:13 GMT
I had my rough year already (back in seventh-eighth grade), so I can confidently say it will get better. You just have to hang on until then. :3
Never had a death in a fic? Seriously? I've had at least one death in most of my fics... one at the most. Though my Avatar/Wolf's Rain fic might be a different story...
Well, it'll be 1/362, right? Better than no 1/362 at all. ^^
|
|
|
|
Post by C7Angelocas12 on Jul 16, 2008 19:45:49 GMT
Oh? Well, this Courting Commander might not be too worried about Kids Next Door's conclusion... as his almost-ready first chapter might indicate. Yet, the thunderstorm outside my window at the moment is making me somewhat nervous. Fortunately, if/once this storm clears, I should have that first chapter for my new story ready to post tonight. Leave it to me to shake my head in bemusement at how political leaders around the world might perceive Nigel Uno and Rachel McKenzie as a couple, and not just President Bush and Senator McCain.
|
|
|
|
Post by allie on Jul 17, 2008 1:39:34 GMT
^Ah, good idea! I hope the storm clears up soon for you, Angel. (I dislike storms myself. Not a fan...)
Hi, everyone! Sorry I've logged-on so late. I was visiting some relatives that just drove in from Colorado and will be staying at my grandma's for a few days. ^-^ Now I'm back... So hello, 1/362ers! ;D
...Gah, now I wanna write a oneshot containing Nigel and Rachel trapped in a crystal-ized planet together like in one of my pictures. x3
|
|
|
|
Post by C7Angelocas12 on Jul 17, 2008 1:48:07 GMT
Thank you, Allie, and fortunately for me, the storm cleared up in my area a few hours ago, which allowed me to take care of this.:
“Summer Camps, Lies, and a Memo”
Chapter 1: “Vendettas by Deception”
“I must say, you had quite the setup earlier today, Your Majesty. I look forward to working with you to coordinate the activities of my country’s Sharia banks.”
“Don’t worry too much, Saifullah. Given time -- and Allah’s grace -- I trust that you’ll be just fine where you are, even if you do live on the other side of South Asia, on an archipelago, no less.”
Saudi Arabian King Muslim bin Abdul-Aziz Al-Saud had his arms crossed in front of him as he conversed calmly with Indonesian President Saifullah Guntur Bimowibowo, uncertainty evident on Bimowibowo’s face... in contrast to Muslim’s face, which now turned back toward the window of his personal limousine and then up at the clear night sky. Anyone observing the two men at the moment would have also noticed a contrast between Bimowibowo’s gray business suit and green tie and Muslim’s standard robes, which would have been light brown enough to match during the day the desert around the road on which the limo cruised quietly. Small shrubs and blades of grass dotted that road, and overhead, stars sparkled here and there, celestial sources of light that accompanied the limo’s headlights -- and those of the various cars and motorcycles ahead and behind that main Saudi royal vehicle -- to illuminate as best they could an otherwise dark and mysterious road. Almost appropriately enough, darkly mysterious was Muslim’s state of mind, focused as his thoughts were on some bizarre, to say the very least, events around the world, especially within the Great Enemy, er, the United States of America. Global broccoli supplies had plummeted by at least 60%, while blurpleberry mines had been discovered in spots dispersed across Latin America, from Mexico to Colombia. As for America itself, many schools that apparently used to ban such activities as dodgeball and recess were now reactivating them for their children. As odd as both developments were to the leader of the House of Saud, they were just starters. The ages of the people supposedly responsible for those developments made them particularly odd to not just Muslim, but also his advisors and operatives, if naturally so; those people were neither 50 nor 40 nor 33 nor even 25 American years old. The people involved were either eight, nine, ten, or eleven American years old, which made them prepubescent kids. Why would those kids be engaging in such activities for children everywhere? However -- and perhaps more ominously to Muslim -- why would the two children who seemed to be leading these “Kids Next Door”, as they seemed to call themselves, be as... intent as they were in their mission? As Muslim’s limousine and its convoy continued traveling along that desert road and Muslim turned back to face Bimowibowo several seconds later, attempting to project a certain level of sinister determination in the process, one conclusion was clear to the King of Saudi Arabia, even if the President of Indonesia knew virtually nothing about this organization: if the young people of not just America, but also the United Kingdom of Great Britain, were getting to be as suspicious of the Law of Submission to Allah as that one American girl and that one British boy commonly mentioned as leaders by those aforementioned Kids Next Door were, then the House of Saud and its associates across the Umma, especially in Egypt, were running out of time.
“Look at you now, my old friend,” Muslim said. “I always thought you were a man of great talent when I first met you, and in the past year, my perceptions have proven correct.”
“Er, thank you for your confidence. I’ve had several opportunities to adjust myself to this job since that election back home,” Bimowibowo replied, pausing to reflect on his thoughts some more. “Admittedly, I did not expect those Islamic Liberation Party people to be so... thorough.”
One of Muslim’s eyebrows slid upward. “Thorough? Extensive? Efficient, perhaps? I can assure you, Mr. President, that through its methods, the ILP can indeed confirm without question that nobody in your country can go astray from the Great Sharia... not even your banks.”
Bimowibowo nodded, Muslim’s words filtering into his mind. “Rejecting interest and pork while accepting exclusivity away from those heretics might be an odd way to do business for some, but Allah willing, they’ll come around.” He tucked his chin between his thumb and pointer finger and turned his eyes in a different direction, as if getting a new inspiration of curiosity. “I’d like to meet whoever the Indonesian Central Bank is paying for his Sharia-based advice one day.”
A laugh of sinister anticipation escaped Muslim at Bimowibowo’s last sentence, and Bimowibowo could only focus back on Muslim in confusion. “How fortuitous. This limousine is traveling to a certain spot where I am to meet this Sharia advisor of whom you speak.” He looked at his watch and studied it for a quick moment. “We should be arriving about 15 minutes.”
Both of Bimowibowo’s eyebrows shot up with surprise. “Really? In that case, just lead the way, Your Majesty, and soon, Indonesia will become the greatest beacon of the Law of Submission in Southeast Asia.”
A cruel smile crept across Muslim’s face as he nodded affirmatively at Bimowibowo and then turned to face the forward direction of the vehicle, falling silently back into his thoughts. The King of Saudi Arabia smiled to himself at his companion’s progress within the past four years. As a young lawyer working in Jakarta, Bimowibowo had shown great promise to Muslim while he was still the crown prince of that kingdom across the Arabian Peninsula, traveling aboard to see for himself what and who he’d be dealing with. One of the people with whom Muslim ended up conversing in a firm manner of professional friendship happened to be a very influential cleric who was born in Pakistan but generally liked traveling all over the Ummat Al-Islamiya, lecturing and listening to all who would hear and see him. Even the Arabian Peninsula News Agency -- quite rightly, as Muslim perceived -- saw fit to grant that cleric his own television program for him to spread his Koranic message on most days of the American week... but not today, certainly not this moment. At the moment, the famous cleric and Sharia advisor to some of the top banks in each region of the world, including the Indonesian Central Bank, was waiting at a location known only to Muslim and his royal chauffeur, who now turned slightly right onto another road away from the previous desert road, following the motorcycles and cars ahead of the limo, the small Saudi flag at its hood waving rapidly. No other sound was discernible along that road, and anyone watching from any nearby cliff would have seen a procession of moving lights that moved singularly toward whatever secret objective its main passenger had in mind. Bimowibowo looked around himself before turning his head back in the same general direction Muslim was facing, eager yet somewhat nervous, perhaps understandably to someone like Muslim, to see just who this famous Sharia advisor was.
As it was, Bimowibowo did not have too much longer to wait, for about 15 minutes after he declared his ambition for his country as energetically as he could, Muslim’s convoy began to slow down, from the escort cars and trucks to the royal limo itself, awaiting Muslim and Bimowibowo’s journey by foot to the rest of the way toward their destination. Some moments passed after the limo eventually stopped, and the door opened to reveal a still-darkened area around the royal convoy, the night sky directly overhead. Muslim stepped out of the limo first, nodding briefly at the chauffeur standing at the door handle, and Bimowibowo stepped out soon after, looking around with as much curiosity as he had after that meeting earlier today before turning his focus toward a small rectangular building directly ahead of him. Bimowibowo managed to catch up to Muslim and the agents within that convoy, who’d begun walking ahead of him in the process. One of the agents had already jogged far enough to reach the door for that building, while the other agents began spreading out to separate positions around it, and thus could the Saudi King and the Indonesian President enter the building without any undue interference. The two leaders walked inside and turned down the corridor that served as the inside of that rectangular building, the contents of which were known only to the King of Saudi Arabia himself and certain guests allowed to accompany him, in this case, Muslim and Bimowibowo... or even certain special friends of the House of Saud. Deeper both men walked into that walled corridor toward a double door with a single keypad to its right, at least from their point of view, and a single bar directly over the doorway of two squares that left Bimowibowo with a small frown of puzzlement for a few moments.
“An elevator?” Bimowibowo asked.
“Indeed,” Muslim said with a smirk. “However, you might find that your meeting with Sheikh Ramadan was worth the trip.”
Muslim stood in front of the keypad and begin pressing the proper digits with his hand to activate the elevator. Some numbers he used at least thrice, others only once, and still others not at all. Muslim could only chuckle sinisterly at those digits, representing to anyone who studied them sufficiently the perpetual wrath of the Community of the Great Prophet against the Great Enemy and its wicked allies. Fortunately, Muslim still had some ways to make American President Samantha Fletcher squirm for breaking his kingdom’s control over her country’s energy demand, and what he’d heard from his clerical friend was enough to get his attention quickly. That attention and anticipation could only increase as the double door opened and Muslim and Bimowibowo stepped inside the elevator, then turned around in time to see the double door slide shut. Downward the elevator hummed, with Muslim and Bimowibowo standing silently, until they felt it stop after several seconds more. When the double door slid open once again, the sinister smirk on Muslim’s face was even more evident to anyone who paid particular attention as he and his companion stepped out of the elevator... and into a room with a flat-screen television along one wall and a large Saudi flag on the other. Scimitars pointing upward were visible on both sides of the flag, and just below it was a bookshelf containing several volumes of Reliable Collections. At the other end of the room away from the elevator, a single man sat at a table, his chair turned toward the television as it doubtlessly displayed a newscast from somewhere, a single thick book sitting quietly on the table to his left. Green stars-and-crescents were visible along the wall behind the man, who had a stony expression on his face as Muslim and Bimowibowo walked steadily toward him until those two stood in front of the chairs opposite the man. An ominously eager smile now crossed Muslim’s face as he turned his thoughts back to that cleric’s plan, a simple component of that cleric’s name, among other more unpleasant components... unpleasant, that is, for American minds.
“Peace be upon you, Jihad, my old friend,” Muslim began.
The figure turned his head to face the Saudi King, his face as stony as his hand while it grasped a remote and pressed one of the top buttons to turn off the flat-screen television. “Peace be upon you, as well, Your Majesty. This should not take too long. Please, have a seat.”
The two political leaders each took a chair and sat down, and Bimowibowo looked between Muslim and the mysterious capped figure with curiosity, then cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly. “Um... have we met before, sir?”
“Thank you for that reminder,” Muslim interrupted suddenly. “Mr. President of Indonesia, let me introduce you to Sheikh Jihad Abdul-Malik Ramadan, the top Sharia advisor to Southeast Asia’s biggest banks... even if, as you might learn, he’s far more than that.”
Bimowibowo’s mind had evidently stopped at “banks”, because a look of respect for Ramadan was crossing his face at this moment, the last part of Muslim’s introductory statement barely audible to his ears. “Ah. You must be the Sheikh Jihad Ramadan of whom my country’s central bank has spoken highly. Your knowledge of the Sharia has proven invaluable to my citizens.”
Ramadan nodded emotionlessly, letting the anger he was masking loose after the first two words. “Thank you... and may Allah curse Wall Street for rejecting that knowledge -- and especially those pesky kids for resisting it!!!!!”
The younger leader raised his arm defensively, obviously startled by Ramadan’s outburst, then turned to his older companion. “Uh... ‘pesky kids’, Your Majesty?”
Muslim frowned grimly at Bimowibowo’s surprise, the kids to whom Ramadan was referring all too clear to his mind’s eye. “Well, Saifullah, since you’re already here, I might as well let you in on the Brothers’” -- the last word Muslim said with an audible pause, almost of secrecy -- “latest plan.” He cleared his throat to prepare himself. “First, do you recall that chicken nugget mine reportedly discovered in a valley somewhere in the United States?”
Bimowibowo tapped his chin several times before blinking in recollection. “Why, yes. There were stories that described how a large group of kids fought some other children for control of that mine. I’ve also heard reports of pirates who seem to have an obsession with candy, an old lady who seems to have a similar obsession with cats, a wizard who seems to have quite the penchant for magical dodgeballs, and even a man who seems to know how to throw fireballs at long distances, but I didn’t really think much of them back then.”
“Well, you might want to start now,” Muslim said admonitorily before he grabbed the remote from the table, pointed it directly at the television, and pressed several buttons to switch the screen toward showing some kids with some very strange gear and equipment. “They call themselves the ‘Kids Next Door’, and their stated goal is to defend the ability of kids everywhere to be kids. They have sectors on every single continent on Earth, and their best sector appears to be based” -- a map of the United States of America was now visible on the television, with a small dot blinking in its northeastern section -- “in America itself.”
Bimowibowo stared at the map silently. “Wow. It might be good to see kids getting together and being friends. Just think of how many adventures they could have fighting for such a noble purpose.”
Ramadan snorted abruptly. “Try telling that[/b] to the little vermin who stuffed that loathsome cereal down my throat -- as well as that of Muslim Brothers’ Society global leader Rashid Qarani, my good friend in Egypt, at that -- and then played that infernal Rainbow Monkey theme song AND SHOCKED ME WITH THAT ELECTRIC NET[/b][/u] until I cancelled my decree calling on that puppet for President Fletcher and Prime Minister Gilbert in Cairo to ban Yipper Cards and Rainbow Monkeys six American weeks ago!!!!!” He covered his head with both hands with frustration. “By Allah, I thought my ears would explode.”
“Mark Gilbert? If I may ask, Sheikh Ramadan, why the Prime Minister of Britain... along with the President of America?” Bimowibowo asked obliviously.
“That’s where this whole situation gets alarming... or at least should,” Muslim said, pressing the remote several more times to reveal on the television screen a boy without any hair but with black sunglasses and a girl with blonde hair that could reach to her shoulders... and then pointing at each child once with it as he continued, “Those two kids evidently masterminded the Kids Next Door’s shenanigans against Ramadan and Qarani. The girl is American, and the boy is British.”
Having leaned forward slowly to take this information in, Bimowibowo could only turn rapidly toward Muslim in mounting shock all of one minute later. “Hold on a minute. Are you saying that those two kids could be...?”
“Prepubescent versions of America and Britain? Precisely, especially if they end up becoming girlfriend and boyfriend,” Muslim said darkly... before shifting toward Ramadan sinisterly. “Fortunately, some of Jihad’s... operatives within the Great Enemy might have a plan.”
An even more sinister smile crossed Ramadan’s face as he, having removed his hands from the back of his head and raised it, thought about what his lead operative told him just before he arrived at this secret meeting spot. “Thank you. The Federation for American-Islamic Relations has been organizing a summer camp within the Appalachian Mountains, right in that boy’s sector’s backyard. Those operatives have even assured FAIR’s director that the proper children have been invited to this camp.”
Bimowibowo nodded thoughtfully, tapping his chin while still looking at the two kids on the television screen. “What does this Federation for American-Islamic Relations intend to do?”
Muslim chuckled with an aura of malicious deceit. “The children whom FAIR invited will be learning about the harmony of Allah’s Sharia, and by the time they finish, they’ll be quite eager to slowly but steadily sabotage America from within its own borders. You know the best part, Saifullah? As far as those infidels in Ohio believe, that summer camp is intended to disprove the clash of civilizations.”
Ramadan snorted again. “You’re one to be optimistic, Your Majesty. Some of my operatives in Louisiana were investigated a month ago for writing fake voter registration forms. At least four of FAIR’s top officials, including its chairman, have resigned for unspecified reasons within a matter of weeks, and let’s not forget all those documents exposing FAIR’s links to that terror charity that were unfairly -- pun intended, as the Americans might say -- revealed during that trial in Texas. In short, the American public is getting far more suspicious about FAIR than I’d like it to be, which is not at all... so my operatives had better not mess this up.”
Muslim simply clucked optimism about this localized endeavor intermixed with some disapproval. “On the other hand, if this summer camp succeeds, then those Kids Next Door will be that much closer to having their stated goal rendered obsolete. It might be just as well for us that many other Americans are simply not interested in our agenda of Jihad.” He pressed the remote one last time to switch from the bald British boy and the shoulder-length-blonde-haired American girl back to a new newscast. “Make no mistake, my friends. If I’m reading the winds of change in Egypt correctly, then soon enough, Nigel Uno, Rachel McKenzie, and their friends will not be the only ones to pay a heavy price for daring to defy the Community of Islam.”
Muslim turned up the volume somewhat, with Bimowibowo and Ramadan looking on at the newscast. It displayed a debate between four analysts for the Arabian Peninsula News Agency over some election-related activities in Egypt. Two of them spoke defensively about the “moderation”, as they put it, of the Muslim Brothers’ Society so as to be more acceptable to the people of that country. One of the others excoriated that group for attempting to assassinate President Fletcher while she was traveling across the Middle East three months ago. The last one spoke as firmly as he could about its duty to the Law of Submission... and itself, even going so far as to mention “those strange kids”. Sheikh Jihad Abdul-Malik Ramadan, the mentor of the Muslim Brothers’ Society and its various fronts around the world, could only smirk inwardly at the APNA crossfire at the moment, but as he, Saudi Arabian King Muslim bin Abdul-Aziz Al-Saud, and Indonesian President Saifullah Guntur Bimowibowo continued watching the television screen silently, Ramadan himself had one single objective floating in the back of his mind, an objective that the Federation for American-Islamic Relations had one last chance to get closer to achieving before the American public sentenced it to oblivion once and for all: the subversion and eventual destruction of the Kids Next Door.
END OF CHAPTER 1
Yes, Nigel and Rachel merely received mentions by the King of Saudi Arabia, but I sense that he will be in the background for this story, most likely. Not to worry, though; methinks that the Kids Next Door themselves will appear soon, or at least Herbie and Lizzie. As for Nigel and Rachel themselves... let their latest politically dramatic adventure to stop international jihadism begin. ;D
|
|
|
|
Post by C7Angelocas12 on Jul 17, 2008 2:45:37 GMT
That is correct. I was attempting to communicate the idea that Muslim and Ramadan didn't simply get up one morning and say randomly, "I want to destroy the Kids Next Door.". Perhaps more specifically, I sought to portray what those villainous stealth jihadists themselves thought of Nigel and Rachel after what they and their fellow Kids Next Door had been doing. Yes, Muslim might sound much calmer than Ali Muhammad Teherani, but somewhat more... cheerful than Adolf Solanus. Hopefully, though, Nigel, Rachel, and their friends will still be able to see through this hoax of a summer camp.
|
|
|
|
Post by C7Angelocas12 on Jul 17, 2008 3:27:31 GMT
(laughing warmly... yet somewhat hesitantly) A cool idea if I saw one, lead Courting Commander. If Ash remains clueless about any romantic moments between Nigel and Rachel, then I trust that Dawn will notice something more quickly. I don't believe that Nigel and Rachel would want to confess their feelings for each other publicly, so to speak. Thinking of possible Moonbase locations, I'd guess the observation deck, most likely after some life-threatening incident that they managed to recover from.
|
|
I've had Rudolph for a whole 11 years. 
