Hello, everyone my name is DarkThought. I saw Fanfiction.Net and decided to see how my style would fare against the criticism of my peers.

This is an idea I've been working with, an Orwellian style character but in our world, present day.

He's not going to be your typical hero, he's not going to look like a god, with muscles all over. He's going to be an eighteen year old, with average looks that don't always cut it.

He's not going to always win, he's not gonna have the girls all over him, and he's definitely gonna have his share of problems. In essence, I'm going to make as real as I possibly can.

So please, read and review as I begin.

(This is what a character is thinking)

-This is what he's writing-

No Copying anything without my permission. Enjoy.

Prologue: The Beginning of the End of his Conformity.

(I Hate my Life)

(I Hate my Life)

(I Hate my Life)

Tony's words echoed in the back of his mind, over and over again. His inner voice incessant, he looked up as his inner voice continued the bitter chant.

Books, aisles full of them. Worn, torn, probably never read too. He was sitting in the school library, in one of those corners nobody goes to or only goes to make out.

He'd just come back from failing a test, and he was seriously, no, majestically pissed. It was History of Western Art, and he knew he blew it Big Time.

For about ten minutes he stared dumbly at the test, all the while trying to fathom the point of over-analyzing these damn paintings so much. Half of what he saw he didn't expect on the test, the other half he should've known but didn't study because he had better things to do.

(Like I need that crap anyway....)

He glanced around, the library was deathly quiet, not matching the seething, angry tone in his mind. He needed to bitch, he needed to moan, but he had no friends. Years of kissing the system's ass will do that to you.

But he still needed to vent. He glanced down at his cubicle, his notebook was open and it was blank. He barely took any notes these days, he was always zoning out even when he tried. He used to get 90s all the time. Now he'd be lucky if he winged a 50 on that test. Little by little he was changing, years of resentment and anger were making him different and he didn't mind the change all that much.

(Ever since that day four years ago...)

He glanced at the notebook again, then at the pen in his right hand. A thought came to him.

(Oh, Why the Hell Not?)

So he wrote, to whom, maybe just himself.

-I've just come back from failing a test. Should I feel ashamed? Some people would me think yes, but the truth of the matter- it doesn't matter.-

-Education isn't a waste of time.-

-School is.-

He smirked at that, surprised at what he wrote. The words just flowed, like water. He'd wrote that because he knew whatever was in his future....

It WOULDN'T involve art.

-Why? They don't (or won't) teach you what you need.-

-They try to refute me, show me the error of my ways, that an education is what I need to succeed.-

-Fools, your definition is knowledge is far different from mine.-

-How many years have I spent learning things, year in, year out, only to forget them by year's end?-

Oh, he KNEW the answer to that.

-Too many.-

-Go ahead, tell me who was the President in 1816? When was the Cold War? What's a direct object? How many degrees are there in an acute triangle?-

-4x to the second power = BULLSHIT-

He paused, where had that come from? He glanced around, still nothing but the steady hum of the radiator to accompany him. He was completely alone with his thoughts.

He shook his head in disgust. All these books surrounding him, and he bet 99% hadn't been touched in the last decade in anything but school related work. He'd made up a game out of it earlier. He would go around, randomly grab a book of the shelf and see how many people took it out and when by the card in the back. He took about 12 books.

All the cards were blank.

(I am..... Jack's Complete lack of surprise.) He'd said to himself then, quoting a movie he loved to death.

He glanced at his notebook again, his fire rekindled, he continued.

-Does this establish my self-worth?-

-I was raised to believe intelligence is respected.-

-It's scorned.-

Tony sighed, at least your run-of-the-mill College intelligence anyway.

- I was raised to believe the good guy wins.-

- Nice guys finish last. Damn you, Hollywood.-

He laughed at loud at that. All those movies where the good guy loses at first, but then he trains for like a year and all of sudden he can single-handedly take down an entire empire. Real life doesn't work like that. That was partly the reason he stopped watching TV.

-I was raised to believe my opinion matters.-

-It does if you agree.-

Good ol' conformity. You can always count on it to fuck up your day.

-Crammed in a room with 25+ students, you think you'll get what you need?-

He put the pen down, writing had never been so..... relieving. He actually felt a little better. He'd vented, had a chance to express his anger, his frustration. He'd been so convinced after years of being friendless that he would have to just keep this inside him. He'd never thought of writing, even when his high school teachers praised his skills.

(Might as well try now.)

His ears picked up movement, he looked up. Footsteps, two sets of them.

(Probably a couple here for you know what.)

He gathered his things quickly after looking at his watch. Only 10 minutes to his next class, he'd better haul ass.

As he headed down the aisle, he could've swore he heard two voices whispering, the sounds of lips smacking together, and a girl giggling.


I'm not too sure if I want to continue this or where exactly to go next, but please review. I'm going to get some actual dialogue in next chapter. Give me a fair shot people.