Not quite sure but this seemed like the place to start for this exercise. In college one of my English professors has us play a game called Ninja Tag. Very simple concept using forums or cell phones one person sends a prompt to the other essentially playing the "Narrator" and sets the story for the other person to respond. The response is an opportunity for the "player" to flex their writing and vocabulary skills. Of course that has many names and has been around forever and a day, but I am fond of this particular version centering around ninja cliches. If anyone is interested I tend to use one of a few standard beginnings so here it is... You are on the 50th floor of a building standing in the middle of a room. There is a crocodile behind you and ninjas are pouring through the windows in front of you wielding katanas, kunai, shuriken, and one lone rebellious ninja swinging a yowling angry cat. Waaaaaaa!! Oh, and the building is on fire. *ominous voice of the narrator, "What do you do?"
The sounds of shouting, hissing, and burning drywall are deafening. My ammo is spent and I throw my guns on the floor as I weigh my options. Not good. The smoke is starting to sting my eyes and my legs are weak from running up all those flights of stairs. The enemy is swiftly closing in around me. If I don't think of something fast, I'm dead. My back feels heavy. Wait! The rocket launcher strapped to my back! I quickly unholster my last resort and point it at the ceiling. Here goes nothing. The shock of the blast gives my enemies pause as debris rains down around us. I've punched a hole through the roof and sunlight begins to pour in. That asshole with the cat drops his "weapon" in his confusion and I scoop up the terrified tabby in one arm while throwing my empty launcher at the nearest goon. With lightning speed I rip my grappling hook from my belt and fire it towards the sky. I feel my line pull taut and know that the grappling hook has caught it's mark and I immediately begin to reel myself up and away from the nightmare below. I take a quick moment to look back over my shoulder and see an ocean of stunned faces and one pissed-off crocodile. I smile briefly at the sight. Sunlight hits my face and I pull myself slowly out of the building and roll onto my back. I feel claws in my skin from my furry companion at my chest, but the pain isn't registering. Not yet. What now? Sheila. Of course. She would be in the helicopter circling the city looking for me. Where was she? I jump to my feet and search the skies. There! She's about two miles out, but I can easily signal her. I grab a flare from my vest, ignite it, and watch as it's bright red light rockets into the air above me. Relief floods me when I see the helicopter turn towards me. Then I hear a loud commotion behind me. Turning, I look down into the hole I've created and see a masked face coming up at me. I instinctively stomp my boot down on the bridge of his nose and he falls back into the building, screaming. The ninjas are making a living ladder of bodies and climbing up to me with murderous intent. Hurry up, Shelia! I don't know how long I can keep them at bay playing this insane game of Whack-a-Mole on top of the Homeland Bank building. One manages to grab my ankle and I go down hard, the terrified cat still clinging to me. I kick him with my other foot and break free just as the helicopter arrives. The wind from the rotors whips my hair into my face as it hovers a few feet off the roof. I jump up and sprint towards it as fast as my weary legs will go. Just a few more seconds and I'll be safe. Over the incredible noise, I can still hear the angry shouts from my enemies. There are right behind me. Keep running! I leap into the helicopter with one bound and grab onto one of many dangling straps. "GO!" I scream at her. Sheila doesn't hesitate. She banks hard and ascends, narrowly escaping outstretched hands. She glances back at me. "Who's that?" she yells over the noise, gesturing to the wide-eyed cat in my arms. "Frank", I reply. "Frank? That's his name?" she questions incredulously. "I don't know. He just looks like a Frank." She shrugs and turns back around. I look down at Frank in my lap and let out a long sigh. I'm finally headed home.
[First time using present tense, and first time using first person-- let's see what happens] "Marzipan, wake up" whispers Sheila from my right. I savour the darkness and laxed muscles for a few more seconds before opening my eyes. From a port window I note it's dark outside too, barring the full moon. So it's been three hours at least. I can't tell if Sheila's eyes greet my own; I have never seen behind her tinted visor. We're alone in seating area of her chopper, red lights give shine to eight seats in rows against either end, each topped with swing-down braces for turbulent weather. I still haven't asked her why she named her helicopter, and why she chose Kangaroo of all labels. But I have a more important question to ask her. Something stirs on my lap. I look down. Franks' eyes I can see, big and golden against his black fur. The little bugger has it easy; he just has to lick himself and-- but awe: the little bugger's a cute little bugger, too. "Are you really my sister?" I ask, not to the cat of course, but my other company. Sheila's voice is still low, more tentative than I've ever encountered, though I've only known her for a week. "Clan Master Triage is pretty sure." My eyes leave the cute little furball; Sheila is looking away now, leaning on the hull as if it were a friend. Shame? "Sheila, I'm not ready to talk to him yet. I got to get this cat back to Spoiled-err-ella." My mispronunciation of the stock-broker's daughter is more true than not. The girl can't be happy with her army of ponies, no, she has to have her cat. Frank's his name, because I can't remember the actual name. "The cat can wait. I flew you to our stronghold while you slept." Her tone is that of a defendant before a judge. Electric outrage rises up in me. I stand up, clutching the meat-with-a-tail I had spent all my ammo and almost my life rescuing. A sharp pain meets the top of my skull; I'm not that tall, but apparently too tall for this goddamn helicopter. "Not cool. Get this 'Kangaroo' back in the air now." She finally looks at me, or at least faces me: still no glimpse behind the visor. "It won't take long. He can tell us for sure. I need to know as much as you do, Marz-- or apparently more so. I'll personally fly you back Mr. Waltz so you can get your stupid cash. It just needs to wait until after." I'm a little hurt that she thinks I don't care. I do, but a part of me doesn't want to know. Were my parents liars? Sheila only has a few papers as proof, easily manufactured. One way to find out. Spoild-err-ella can wait a few days for her precious Frank. "Take me to him, let's get this over with." We silently leave Sheila's chopper, Frank's soft body still in my grip. I think he's starting to like me. Though the blades aren't spinning, we both refrain from hopping out like rabbits, instead ducking our heads and stepping. Habit. A good habit. A breeze shivers my skin. My sixth-sense starts up, asking me if I'm sure I have absolutely no ammo left-- and the answer is a definite yes. We're in a valley, apparently without a groundskeeper; the grass goes up to my thighs. I spot a cluster of huts hiding in the distant darkness. One of them has Clan Master Triage in it, undoubtedly. Sheila moves ahead of me--she must have night-vision in that visor. The rustling grass hiding her legs makes it look as if she's gliding in the night. She stops and draws her sidearm: a short little stocky thing that's probably from Europe. Fancy. Maybe she named that too. I've been too busy watching her to notice the crucified man posted on a post. His feet have been cut off and nailed to his ribs on either side. He's wearing a full pajama getup. My sixth-sense asks once more, and the answer again is no. If bullets are dollars, I'm flat broke. Sheila half-turns to me, her vocal cords failing to produce the tough voice she had probably intended. "Marzipan, have you got my back?" "I've got a cat's ass and no ammo. That foot-stapling is classic Oregano Clan. Your master's dead and we're wasting our time here, unless we want to be dead, too." She doesn't seem to have a reply. A touch of empathy races through me. The clan is probably all she knows, and it's likely gone. A rushing sound, not unlike a river, begins. Sheila fully turns towards me. I glance rear to see a robed shadow warrior speeding towards us through the grass, his katana raised overhead like a torch. I duck, hoping Sheila has been in combat before. One of the three shots drops the ninja like a stone, disappearing into the grass-- only a thresher will find him now. Something was odd about his approach; the high grass would have provided easy cover for a ninja, especially one of the deadly Oregano warriors. Sheila grabs my arm before I can do more thinking. "There's an armoury on the south side, come with me!" "No. Let's get back in the air, get help!" "That's where they'll be waiting for us. Look where he just came from." She's making sense this time, and she might be my sister. I follow her to the huts, anxiously scanning the overgrown field for more attackers. [Yikes, longer than expected.]
