Subject: I have returned!
Author:
Posted on: 2013-09-20 23:19:00 UTC

Category: PPC

Judicature Beneath the Violaceous Firmament

Genre: Adventure

Rating: PG-13, for some violence

Summary: Agent Clarke Smithers, Floater Agent of the PPC, pursues his quarry in a fictional world.


Hi, I'm LizardFancier, aka. 2109Pride. I had to set up a new account because trolls kept spamming my old one with bad reviews. They said I couldn't write, and maybe that was true, but now I've been taking a lot of classes and reading a bunch of the really great literature (even though it's really boring ~ _ ~), and I've learned a lot about what makes writing good. So anyway, this is my first new fic: what better way to dazzle you all with my newfound competence than by authoring a fanfic involving the supreme arbiters of good writing, the PPC? It took me about three weeks to do, and I had to use three different thesauri (that's the plural of thesaurus, in case you didn't know!), so it might go over a lot of people's heads. But if you can appreciate real literature, enjoy! ;]


CHAPTER 1: ARRIVAL


Agent Clarke Smithers, senior Floater Agent operating under the benevolent auspices of the august Protectors of the Plot Continuum, ambulated his last few steps through the scintillant, ultramarine aperture, instantaneously ferrying himself and his SPAS-12 tactical arquebus from the Minotaurian geometric convolution within which he had spent the last decumvirate of his own meager existence, ever after that fateful day when the world of Black Mesa had through tragedy transmorgified itself, inverting from a humble and accommodating haven for natural philosophy to a Stygian hellpit torn asunder by the despondent wails of those few, meager, athirst ghosts still trapped beneath the Sysiphean avoirdupois of its titian sedimentation, to a deserted trackway which meandered into the indistinct horizon like a cuckolded paramour eternally seeking after the philanderer with whom she had shared her most intimate maidenhood, now a meager peasant of late 19th-century Czarist Russia, granted only the most rudimentary cognizance necessary to internalize its servile role as a mere resilient terrain to accelerate the ebony-garbed operative towards his terminal harbor: “I have resided here, humble and mute, for an age without end,” the viaduct seemed to expostulate into the amaranthine gloaming, “and I will reside here, humble and mute, for a later age everlasting.” Smithers was a man of mundane countenance, bespectacled and near completely depilated, thin of limb and long of year, azure-eyed and sallow-skinned, garbed in a dingy laboratory cloak over his bureaucratically-mandated ebony vestments, the sole reminder of his initial vocation in the science of nuclear physics- a participal garment, of course, for Clarke Smithers was an eminently practical man, but like the amathyst-hued celestial dome that enfolded him and the bepebbled trackway beneath his booted feet, they lacked that sublime quality of emotional effervescence that theologians call soul; a fitting metaphor for Smithers' own peregrination across the face of the mortal coil.

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