The Worker [Story I wrote in 7th grade]

[Bathtub]

FOR PEOPLE COMING HERE FROM THE TRENDYENT FORUMS
HAGAN WROTE THIS

Hello! I have a couple of old stories to share, I'll post a little bio for them.
Please note that the following stories are somewhat old (Worker is 2 years) I never really shared them with everyone, but an old friend sent me one of my old stories and told me to continue. This made me take a look at previous stories, and see how I could improve on them.
**THE WORKER**

Before you read these, please know that this story is kind of old. I wrote it when I was in 7th grade for the Scholastic Art and Writing competition (And it won gold, woo!)
I'm going back to revise it, because I think it has some potential. Some aspects of the plot are kinda cliche, some of the parts are kinda dumb and some parts just feel out of place.
However, I want some feedback from other people on what this story could do better.
Some of the things I think need improving:
While I was reading this, I got really tired of reading The Worker, but I wasn't sure what else to call him while still keeping his identity secret. A rename might be in the works.
I feel the end is kind of abrupt.

[QUOTE]THE WORKER

“Are you ready to go, dearest?”
“Yes, let me just fix my tie.”
“We are bringing Maria, right?”
“Of course, honey.”
“This will be such a fun night!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“So,” the man said. “When are you going to finally confess?”
The Worker stayed silent. He promised himself that nothing would break his calm. The harsh light was positioned in just the right place that it stung his eyes. “Look,” the man continued. “We know what you did, and we know how you did it. We need to know why.” The Worker smirked, and remained silent.
The man pounded the stainless steel table in frustration. It was a risky move to anger him, the Worker thought. But then again, people made mistakes when they were mad. As long as he kept his cool, he would be fine.
The man stared into the Workers eyes, his gaze unnerving, but not intimidating. “We’re going to find what you stole. And you will pay for your crimes.”
The Worker tried to remember how long he’d been in the room, to no avail. He thought back to what he liked to think was only weeks ago. He let his mind fall into memory as the sound of the man screaming in his ear slowly dimmed, and he could hear the sounds of the city.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The world was shades of gray. Metropolitan cities were littered across the globe, and nature was a thing of the past. The buildings seemed to touch the sky, with architecture similar to that of a brick. The streets were gray and symmetrical, with squeaky-clean busses riding silently down the street, filled with men and women who liked to think of themselves as respectable and normal. They had names like Rob and Jim, Mary and Anne. They wore crisp suits or their factory uniform. They went to the office, and talked to their boss about football. The men played golf on Sundays, and the women had nice little gatherings with their friends. Life was normal, and always the same.
The Worker stood atop a roof, looking down at the scene before him. All he saw was trapped and helpless lives. They were content in their little box of normality, completely unaware of the bliss that some had obtained. These people were simply puppets. But he would not stand here and do nothing. He didn’t think of himself as a rebel, or a hero. He was simply himself, and nothing more.
He heard the steel door open, and then several voices. Four men walked onto the roof. They introduced themselves as Tempest, Miller, Bubba, and Jib. The Worker raised his eyebrows at their strange names, but, considering what they did, he didn’t blame them for hiding their identity. They wore gray military outfits and wielded custom-made automatic weapons loaded with tranquilizer rounds. They may have been against the government, but that didn’t mean they were killers.
“So,” The Worker said. “I presume that you are the men I inquired about?”
The men said nothing, but the Worker understood.
“Moving on,” The Worker said with a smirk. “Are you four prepared?” The men uneasily nodded. “Excellent. Let me brief you.” He laid out a blueprint of the building onto a concrete slab. “We will enter the building through here,” He pointed to several windows four floors below their current position. “You two,” he pointed to Tempest and Bubba, “will follow this path and knock out any problems that arise, while you two,” he pointed to Miller and Jib, “will drop down two floors and secure our position.”
“So what exactly are we stealing, again?” said Bubba. “I need all the facts before I go off and risk my behind.”
The Worker grinned deviously. “Ah yes, that’s the fun part. We are stealing the contents of a safe belonging to a certain gentlemen who I shall dub ‘Mr. Smith’.”
“And what exactly is in that safe?” said Jib.
“I like to call it Individuality. I do not know if you men have the mental capacity to fully understand what exactly I’m talking about, so I’ll give it to you simply. You see our gray, dull world? What we’re stealing is the opposite of that. This is the one element in the world that can make us someone. And the only people who get it are the big business men. I’d say that’s fair, how about you?”
Tempest sneered and said, “That’s a load of bullcrap. I see why you needed the best men for the job.”
The men laughed. The Worker said smoothly, “Yes, I do think that you would be the best men available for this kind of mission. But, back to what I was saying.” He pointed back to the map. “I will enter here.” He pointed to an air vent entrance located on the roof. “I will be the one with the explosive charges used to access the vault, so you must make sure nothing happens to me.”
“So, are you all ready?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Worker, eyes closed, smiled peacefully before receiving a fist directly into his jaw. “I told you to SPEAK, not to sit there like some freaking monk!” said the man. The veins in his neck were strained with frustration. He was beginning to crack.
Finally, The Worker spoke. “If you think you’re going to get anything out of me, you’re sorely mistaken.”
The interrogator began to calm down. He was starting to realize what The Worker was trying to accomplish. He sat down, and smoothed his jelled hair. “Look. We can either do this the easy way, or the hard way.”
The Worker laughed and said, “How cliché can you get? Honestly, I thought you people could have thought of some new material.”
The interrogator proceeded to punch The Worker directly in his face. He rubbed his jaw and fell back into memory.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He was crawling through a cramped air vent. He hoped the men were undergoing the tasks they were assigned. He heard several gunshots, which hurt his ears, but nothing else was heard. After what seemed like forever, he finally reached his destination. It was an air vent on the same floor of the vault, about 10 meters away from the vault itself. He heard the muffled sound of the custom rifles being discharged, and the thump of unconscious bodies hit the floor. The plan was going surprisingly smoothly. The Worker expected more guards or just more security in general.
He examined the area. There were several bank teller stands and cubicles, and located in the eastern wall was an enormous, steel vault.
He swooped down from the air vent and landed gracefully with a small thud. He nodded at the men, and then extracted the explosive charge from his suit. He began to arm it as the men patrolled the area. The timer was set for 15 seconds. The Worker cried, “It’s armed!” and everyone crouched behind whatever cover they could find. There was a small boom noise, and suddenly there was a large hole in the enormous safe.
The Worker emerged from behind a cubicle swiftly and entered the vault. The inside was padded with a cold white material. At the very center, suspended in midair, was one of the most peculiar things any of them had ever laid eyes upon.
Jib, who was slightly behind, caught up to the gaping men at the hole in the vault. “Oi, what’s the big deal?” And then he beheld the object that was so swiftly grabbing his comrades’ attention.
Suspended in midair was a small sphere about the size of a grapefruit. What was really important is what color it was. While the rest of the world, everybody and everything, were dull shades of gray, this small sphere contained violent red, soft blue, lush green and bright yellow. It had every color imaginable, all contained, swirling around like a child’s science project in the strange sphere. The men were so astonished, so in awe of the sheer unnaturalness of the object that they were afraid.
The Worker smirked. “Gentlemen,” he said smoothly. “I give you; color.”
The men, still in shock, said nothing about this statement.
The Worker proceeded to take a small jar out of Tempest’ backpack and quickly shoved the color into the jar. He put it back into his backpack and told them to be ready to evacuate the premises. They made sure they had collected anything and began to take their leave.
Suddenly, they heard a shrill alarm sound somewhere inside the building. Footsteps could be heard running up the staircases. The doors burst open to guards holding rifles.
“Well,” The Worker said, already sliding a pistol out of his jacket, “This is what I expected.”
As he fired the first shot, the bullet struck one of the men directly in the shoulder, and all hell broke loose.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You know, you’re really starting to get on my nerves.”
The Worker laughed uneasily and said with a voice drenched in sarcasm, “My deepest apologies. I had no intention to get on your nerves. Do you mind if I have another cup of tea? I am ever so thirsty.” He began to laugh some more, with just a taste of insanity hidden behind the cackling.
The man began to realize what was happening, and slowly smiled. “Perhaps you would like to meet him.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bullets shattered the windows, debris was flying, and The Worker and his men were pinned down in a small grouping of cubicles in the center of the floor. The security was far more powerful than The Worker could have even thought possible, and was beginning to worry about his plan being unsuccessful.
He stood up and shot a couple of rounds blindly. The sound of destruction clogged his ears, leaving them ringing with pain. We have to get out of here, he thought. I’m not going to let these men die. The four men looked at him, awaiting some sort of direction to help get them out of the situation. He looked at them, and very seriously said, “Run.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
His memory began to fade. What had happened to them? He racked his mind for an answer, to no avail. He remembered screams, and bullets, torn paper and, strangely, elevator music. He had a quick flash of a glass door opening, to be met with gray light and the sound of a helicopters blades spinning.
He was suddenly aware of the noise, or more of the lack of it. The man was gone. The Worker was alone, in an eternal void with only a table, a chair, and a lamp. He began to feel himself slip away. He thought of before, of the times when he was just another normal man, with a wife and a daughter.
Suddenly, a soft, sliding sound, and there was a blinding rectangle of light, with a man-shaped silhouette. The sound was heard once more, the light was gone. He heard graceful footsteps coming closer and closer.
And then, the most peculiar thing happened.
His eyes were flooded with color, of pale skin and dark brown, and the bright white, the blood red of a tie, clinging stiffly to a man’s neck.
This man had color.
That’s when The Worker knew just whom he was dealing with, this man, the very man whom The Worker had been so desperate to ruin, the owner of the vault that had probably cost four fine men their lives.
“I must admit that I am impressed.” He heard a voice smooth as silk. “You, and those four other men fought bravely.” The Worker heard a soft chuckle. “But unfortunately, even the bravest of men must fall.”
“What was her name again?”
The Worker’s eyes widened. There was a quick flash in his mind, the scream of a child, the deep crimson of blood splattered on the walls. The sight of his wife, lying on the ground, bathing in a pool of her own blood. The red of the tie that matched her blood, worn by a man like no other, standing over her body with a knife clutched in his hand.
“You killed her.”
The Worker was broken. He realized the impossibility of his seemingly noble, yet completely selfish quest. If it were not for him, they would still be alive. Tempest, Jib, Miller, and Bubba.
Maria.
And her.
They would still be here. They could have lived full lives, lives cut short by the selfishness of a man who thought that he was a hero. He saw now that there was no hope for this world, no hope for his future that would hopefully be ended. He remembered that horrible day, coming home from work to find the woman he loved lost in death, murdered by the man who thought he could own the world with the power of his color.
The Worker looked at the floor.
“We… we were going to see a play. We were bringing darling Maria, in her cute dress. But… she began to feel sick. She wanted to go home. Maria was taken home, but she told me to stay, and have fun by myself. So… I did. It was a great play. I was on my way home. I pulled up in our driveway… our gray, boring driveway… and… the door was missing. I stepped inside… and… and saw her body…” The Worker began to shed silent tears. “She was just a child… and… and…. I saw you. With a knife in your hand, standing over both of their bodies… having a look of pure bliss on your face… and I saw something I had never seen before. Only later I learned that it was color.”
The Colored Man wore an expression of eerie calm. He began to talk, slowly, like he was reading a novel. But the Worker could not hear him.
The Worker closed his eyes.
The sound of The Colored Man talking began to fade.
He thought of Maria.
He thought of her.
He said, in a low whisper, “Every day, I miss you both. I’m so happy to finally… see you… again…”
Then the world faded to black, and all was still.

[/QUOTE]

Anyways, thanks for reading. Please give me feedback on what I should include, change, or remove.

** REBORN (WIP)**
So, this was my 8th grade story. I ended up submitting poems to the competition, because I couldn't finish this story. I liked the idea I had going, but I wasn't sure how to create a conflict, or a resolution. I just didn't know how to continue the plot. Now, a year later, I've come back to it to see if I can save it. I'm still not sure what's gonna happen with it.

[QUOTE]Reborn
The worst parts of my life is when I’m dead. (yea i'm not sure how to phrase this)
I mean, it’s not like the death was bad. I passed away while I was sleeping, surrounded by friends and family. I lived a long and prosperous life this time. 93, that’s how old I was. I was ready to go. I just wasn’t ready for what happens next.
Death is like a void. It’s the feeling of nothingness you can’t possibly describe. It’s the knowledge that you will never be you again, that you will never see your loved ones again. But that’s not what it’s like for me. Imagine sitting in an empty waiting room, with a single chair. Waiting for a doctor, or a dentist, or someone else, but knowing that they will never come. That’s what it’s like for me, every time I go to visit the office. That’s what I call the period of time when I’m dead.
Let me explain, as much as I can. I don’t remember my first life. I don’t remember when I was born, I don’t remember where, I don’t even remember my name. The earliest memory I can think of is about 4 lives ago, when I lived in England. I don’t know why I’m like this. All I know is that I’ve been here for a long, long time. I’m not a god, or anything. I just don’t stay dead. But eventually, the waiting is over, and I am blinded by the light, and I cry, and cry. And then I get to be a baby. This is one of my favorite times. Everything is handled for you. Food, diapers, and naps. That’s all you need. But as I grow up, I get to know my new family. I’ve had very good families, over all the years. I always miss them, after I go. Sometimes I see some past members, depending on how long I’m dead. But I never approach them. I never talk to them, I never say hi. It would just be too complicated; I don’t think they would believe me anyway.
Anyways, next comes the name. I’ve been given a plethora of names, ranging from Alvin to Ajeet. These are the staples that I have come to expect, every time I come back. At this point, I don’t even know what to call myself. You might have noticed how I talk like a normal person. Adapting to the changing languages and rising amount of colloquialisms is one of my talents that I have refined over the years. I find it helps to ease the tension in social situations and helps out with me appearing “normal.”
Growing up is always nostalgic. A new life is kind of like a new job, with new people and new events. I’ve always had great friends to spend my time with, and I’ve always been pretty popular. My name this time is Neil. My family is a humble collection of oddballs living out in the suburbs of East America. My mom, Jenny, is a dance teacher, and my dad, Ron, is a writer. I have many uncles and aunts, all whom are quirky and charming. We live in a nice suburb. Considering this is a sort of “new” country, I haven’t “lived” here yet. I mean, I’ve been here before, but I’ve never been someone who actually lives here. I like it. The politics are annoying, but I like the lifestyle.
[/QUOTE]

[Bathtub]

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