I'm mostly a lurker in social media but, lately, I've been feeling more... proactive, per se. So, yeah. I should probably present myself...
I'm Neogoryth! Neo, if you like. I've been in a few fandoms over the years, but EW must be one of the oldest. I came in contact with it thanks to the original Pork Soda back in 2016. Loved that shit. From then on, I simply watched everything and fell in love with its dumb jokes. It's probably why my sense of humour is fucked nowadays.
But yeah. A few years back, 2023-ish or so, I started writing the original concept idea of this possible fanfic. Even published a few chapters and had some lovely commenters, but after some time I actually hated it and... deleted it. But I feel like after cuptoast's rendition of Pork Soda... the fandom has now entered an Age of Enlightment. Which means this is my opportunity to try again with my idea. However, with more experience and fresher ideas.
Which means two things.
I'd love, like, really love to find a possible beta reader?? I'm really dubious about my writing skills. I know I can write, I love doing it... but english isn't my native language. I'm fluent in it, got a high level. But writing is a different thing. So, yeah.
I just wanted to share a snippet of what I have and get some opinions before anything else. Y'know, get some opinions on it and just... see if anyone would be interested in reading it.
I'll just leave you (if there's anyone reading this, of course, lol) with it and keep rolling. Buh-bye!
“You know, mate, if you rub that plug any harder, you’re going to polish right through the steel and turn the whole bloody thing into a pipe bomb.” A drawling voice cut through the background noise.
Tom lifted his brow, his hand falling still. Across the armoury, a blurry green-clad silhouette shifted. From what he could make out, Edd seemed to be leaning back, casually playing with something—a pencil? Tom had heard him scribbling for a while now. He didn’t need crystal-clear sight to know the smug bastard was smirking. He could practically hear it.
“I’m clearing the carbon, you git,” Tom muttered, tossing the blackened strip of flannel back onto the workbench. He then heard a snort, probably accompanied by a dumb roll of his eyes. “If the gas port pits, the whole rifle turns into a bolt-action club the next time a scouting patrol encounters one of those commies at the border.”
“Right… because three hours of aggressive polishing is standard British military maintenance,” Edd retorted, his tone dripping with that effortless, mocking sass that always managed to grate him whenever his head got thumping. Tom heard the distinct click-clack of Edd tapping his charcoal against the side of his wooden mapping board. “You’ve practically given that plug a mirror finish, Tommy. If a Red Army grunt gets close enough to look down your barrel, they’ll be too busy admiring their own reflection to shoot you.”
Tom ignored the jibe, reaching blindly for the guide rod and the heavy recoil spring. “The spring’s losing its tension anyway,” he lied smoothly, sliding the assembly back into the stamped-steel chassis with a rhythmic, practiced snick. He aligned the upper receiver, slamming it shut against the lower frame until the captive pins snapped home with a solid, metallic thud. “The dampness in these lower tunnels is turning the internal mechanisms to absolute rubbish. I’m just making sure it actually works.”
He then heard a low, non-committal hum. It was a flat, heavy sound that clearly screamed: I don’t believe a single bloody word coming out of your mouth.
No more rasping could be heard for a while and, out of the blue, “You’re turning to absolute rubbish,” Edd muttered, his tone flat. Tom didn’t look up, his thumb running over the rugged receiver line of the L85A1. “Brilliant retort, mate. Did you map that one out on your little grid charts, too?”
“YOU’RE mapped out on a chart,” Edd shot back immediately. From the shifting sound of the wood, he was leaning his elbows into his mapping board now. Tom could almost make out his blurry green silhouette, now all hunched forward. ‘‘And your attitude is bloody exhausting”.
“Yeah, well, this entire conversation is exhausting,’’ Tom muttered, blindly reaching for a bottle of cleaner, trying to sound completely nonchalant while the digital static behind his eyes continued to thrum.
“YOU’RE exhausting,” Edd snapped, the sarcasm in his voice growing sharp with every word Tom hurled at him. “And you’re a pain in the arse as well—uh, and you’re ugly.”
Right as Tom opened his mouth, a sharp, violent spike of white heat flashed directly behind his brow. He suppressed a full-body flinch, only fluttering his eyelids. Then, a second wave, just as harsh as the first one, came along. This time, he snapped his mouth closed so hard that his teeth clacked, and his jaw ached. The IDO woke up with a vengeful flicker.
