I can die. It's just that whenever I get injured, my consciousness transfers into a universe in which I did not get injured. This, later on, left me with a reputation of invulnerability.
My body represents the universe. So, when the mind leaves, it dies and...
I'm not sure, exactly, what happens.
You look up from your gun in shock.
There had been an attack on your hideout earlier that morning. Nobody really knew by whom. All reports were of a black woman in a black trench coat with a green outline, with what seemed like a cross between a fedora and a sombrero. It also said that she attacked with a lance (somehow) and a whip.
From your private intel, she was Sn0wman of the felt, Second only to English and his mysterious partner.
The felt were a relatively new gang in town whose theme was pool, and opposed the Midnight crew, whose theme was Cards. They had already taken down the entire clubs wing of their gang, aside form the ace.
And you, 3rd wild of the Uno's, had killed her.
You grin as you echo into the radio. The boss was gonna love this.
*A few hours later.*
You hold up your martini at the crowd of cheers. The boss had announced your triumph (No matter how lucky it had been) at tonight's victory party. Cheers went up in the crowd, (The Felt had a record of being nearly unbeatable) but you couldn't help but peer around. Something really seemed off, but you couldn't put your finger on it.
Ah well, you decide as the main course comes out, doesn't matter.
*The morning of the next day.*
You groan a bit as you sit up. You had one too many, you think, as you step into your suit.
You grab a glass of water and pocket a few things as you head out.
"Hey! Heya boss!"
You look up and see the Double Draw of Red.
The double draws were highly skilled folk. Could use any gun you'd care to name to perfection, but also dual wield that very same gun with maximum precision.
The time it takes to train one up means there's only four at a single time. But then there's only four of all the three Status positions, as well as four wilds, who combine all three Status abilities into a single deadly person. Only the Wild+4 Is higher up on the chain.
It gets a bit confusing but they based the gang off of Uno so you have nobody to blame but the founder.
Red DD was a newbie, you guess, as everyone knows not to talk like that to a wild in that tone. You let it slide, just this once.
"What is it?"
"The entire Felt mansion disappeared last night!"
You pause in shock. What? The Felt was weird sure, and Sn0wman was a capable leader, but English was still alive!
"Thanks for the info.", you say dully, and the DD of R wanders off.
You walk down the hall, thinking it over, when you reach a specific hallway. It hold one of your favorite paintings, drawn and hung last night in honor of your victory, and you stop to admire it.
You can't see it.
Or more accurately, your eyes keep sliding off of the place where it should have been. There's nothing here move along a voice whispers.
You almost follow it when your Skip training kicks in. Skips are the absolute masters of stealth, able to get past even the mightiest of fortifications and illusions unnoticed.
This just happens to be an unbelievably powerful self delusion.
Breath focus twist turn pull break shatter
And you see it.
Or more accurately, there is nothing to see.
A gaping hole of bright swirling darkness resides int he wall. Swirling streams of non-existence dance through the tear in reality.
You gape in horror before you notice a crack break off more of the wall.
*Five hours later.*
"Look boss it's right here," you say in a panic.
He stares at you, then he turns to look at the wall.
The cracks have gotten bigger, but he shows no reaction.
"Wild 3 what in the hell are you talkin' about?"
"It's right there! Use your Skip training! It's a powerful self delusion!" You scream in a panic.
"Son, I'm hells of a lot better at Skip's than you are, and I'm tellin' ya, there Ain't nothin' there! Maybe I should take you to see the Reverse's. I hear they can make excellent psychologists... sometimes."
The Reverses are the best Torturers and information gatherers this side of East City. You would absolutely dread having one as a psychologist
"But the painting isn't there anymore," you argue desperately.
He looks confused and examines the hallway.
"Son we never had any painting in this hallway."
"Of course there was a painting in this hallway! It was drawn last night as a reward for killing Sn0wman!" You yell, tears in your eyes.
Now the boss looks extremely confused.
Then he says something you completely freeze at.
"Son, You ain't never killed Sn0wman, the entire gangs been missing since three in the mornin'! You feeling alright?"
The hole cracks and gets bigger.
*Two days the same.*
You nervously go down to breakfast. You had your suspicions confirmed yesterday morning after a session with a reverse.
The entire world is in a giant loop of time. Every three O'clock the world spins back to the past, and you find yourself waking up at seven in your bed.
And the holes have spread.
There are crevices in space and time everywhere now. Floors, Walls, Ceilings, and everything that goes in is gone. Nobody remembers it. You are the only one able to see them.
Others don't fall in somehow, though. (Survival mechanism?) They just walk around them, or if it has completely blocked a path, they simply find a different one.
You walk in fear.
*Three weeks later*
You don't dare to look at people anymore. Their faces and clothes and bodies have become patchwork with holes.
A half skull with eyes passes you an egg while the exposed muscle covering of a three of blues walks by.
Wil'three? (You always hated that nickname)
You stand up and walk away.
You can't stand her face anymore.
*Three months later*
The lake is boiling. You don't know why. Something to do with the buildup of heat.
You haven't looked anyone in the face for two months now.
They don't have them.
You cry into what remains of your pillow as the day passes.
*One week later*
You see something in the nothing.
A flash of darkness.
It had a pupil.
The whispers start.
*One day later.*
They are back, In a way.
The holes are filled. But still the walls degrade into what filled them.
Yells echo through your mind as various people you once knew become abominations.
And still you are the only one who knows.
You scream into the darkness.
*One year later*
A thought occurs. You have never looked into a mirror since the day Sn0wman fell.
As you walk, the last spots of normality are swallowed up by the horrors.
The only way to go is forward. Your mind gibbers and the last thread unwinds.
You spot one, laying on the floor, face down.
You pick it up and look.
I Don't know what happens when my body dies.
All I can say is that I hope it hurts.
Last edited by Dermonster; 12-06-2010 at 07:16 PM.
what up, I want to join the cool kid fanfic club too
this is actually a scene from a longer thing I'm working on, but it can stand on its own too, I think! The fic it's from was begun before the most recent exile updates, so let's just pretend a day went by in-between WQ arriving and her wandering off to play on the computer, 'kay? 'Kay.
"White Moves First":
The chain of events set off by the egg-shaped ship touching down and its passenger stepping out into the sunlight progressed so swiftly that, before the Vagabond really knew what was happening, he was watching in stunned silence as his friend the Mendicant knelt in the sand and let her former Queen place a lopsided, homemade crown on her shrouded head. Then, remembering something extremely important, he had drawn the Questant’s old ring out from underneath the grip on his trusty knife, and the following whirlwind of excitement had only died down with their campfire, hours later.
Then, the Questant had gotten to her feet, said a few words of thanks and good-night, and gracefully put a hand around the Mendicant’s thin shoulders. Clasping her new crown tightly in her hands, she had smiled apologetically and dutifully allowed herself to be led away from the fire, towards the egg-shaped station. As they left the glow of the fire, the glow of the ring, held safely in the Questant’s hand, lit their path.
After the door of the station had whooshed shut, the Vagabond had looked at it for a long time without speaking. Something was nagging at him, itching unpleasantly at somewhere dark and long-lost in his head, and not even the happiness of the evening could keep it back.
The explosion of sparks and bangs that split the air when the Renegade dumped a fresh load of ammunition on the fire, however, successfully launched the Vagabond out of his thoughts and onto the sand, frantically beating at the hem of his rags to put out the small fire sparked there.
“Told you to get outta’ the way,” said the Renegade, dusting off his hands.
The Vagabond picked himself up and, shaking, carefully sat back down on his pumpkin. “I didn’t hear you.”
His friend snorted with laughter and plopped down beside the fire, clasping his hands behind his head. “No kidding. What’s eating you tonight, anyway? You ain’t said a word since the dames took off.”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” The Vagabond huddled closer to the fire, turning his back to the capsule.
“Heh. Yeah, sure.” He was quiet for a minute or two. The next thing he said, however, sent a sudden bolt through the Vagabond’s stomach: “Guess it was bound to happen sometime.”
“What?” he said quietly. Swallowing hard, he stared at the fire as, in his usual, nonchalant drawl, his friend gave voice to the sick fear growing inside him.
“Them two ditchin’ us,” he said. “Pawn and Queen; don’t matter what they call themselves, it’s what they are. ‘S what all of us are, in the end. …Well, it was nice bein’ happy all together while it lasted.”
There was a faint shuffling sound as the Renegade shifted to a more comfortable position in the sand. The Vagabond felt his heartbeat in his ears. “But…” His voice came out a whisper, and he swallowed and tried again: “But it’s different now! Isn’t it? We’re not… we’re not on the Battlefield anymore. Not even in the Incipisphere. Those things are gone; they’re far away!”
“You think that matters? They’ve got the ring, Vagabond,” said the Renegade. “What do you think that whole crowning gig was really all about, anyway? And then they just up and leave—” he snapped his fingers, and the sound hung in the air—“like that. I don't care what kind of hippy-dippy stuff you farmer types got up to out on Skaia; it looks pretty clear to me what's goin' on here.”
“I don’t believe it,” the Vagabond said, hoping that if he forced out each word with enough strength, he could make himself believe them completely. “I don’t believe a word. We’re friends.”
The Renegade gave a low, humorless chuckle. “You’re really somethin’ else.”
The Vagabond said nothing. The fire popped, but he didn’t flinch; instead, he looked down to watch the sparks drifting towards his feet. They were covered in pale dust, but the carapace beneath shone black as jet in the firelight. He buried his toes in the sand.
“Better get some shuteye. Tomorrow’s gonna be a big day.” Another chuckle. “Their move.”
Last edited by c_rowles; 12-06-2010 at 07:49 PM.
if you be brave and stout of heart:
'neath this link lurks my DeviantART.
Dammit c_rowles, I just finished my own exile!fic on the subject. STOP STEALING MY BRAIN.
White Moves First
The black can of peas bishop knocks over the white can of cheese king. Black wins. White loses. Again.
You are getting tired of solitaire chess.
You set up the cans again. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe there won't be any losers. You're sick of losing.
But when you play solitaire chess, you always lose. Sure, you always win, but winning is the same as losing when you're playing by yourself. You set the black pawns up in a row, neat and even and sure to die.
Pawns are just there to be killed, anyway. Pawns are never the heroes.
You go to set up the white cans, but you knock one over and it rolls out of reach. A delicate white foot gently comes down on it, halting its roll. "Can I play?"
You look up. It's the Mendicant, and she looks tired. You all look tired, lately, but she looks ready to fall down.
"Sure. You want white?"
"Okay." She sits as you finish setting her pieces, legs folded under her, sword on the floor at her side. She's never without the sword, even when she sleeps she cuddles it close.
You wonder how often she cuts herself on it.
You take your own seat. "Your move first." She peers at her pieces, selecting her queen's pawn.
It's a nice change, playing against another person. You've played this game a thousand times, all by yourself, as many different ways as you can think of, but it's always the same. Careful, conservative, trying to lose as few pieces as possible - at first. Later, the pace grows more frantic, the battle more vicious, one side dominating the other regardless of losses.
But with her it's different. She's not afraid of sacrifice. She avoids loss where possible, but she doesn't mourn the loss of her cans as you do. She moves on, adjusts her strategy, remaneuvers until she once again has the advantage.
She breaks the silence after nearly twenty minutes of intense combat. "Why haven't you come up lately?"
You're distracted. Trying to plot how to remove her bishop without endangering your knight. "Lately?"
"Since the Questant arrived."
Your free hand is resting on her captured rook, and it twitches at the mention of Her name. "I dunno," you lie.
Her black eyes grow cold. "Right."
Three minutes later, you give in. "It bothers me, okay? She bothers me. Just..."
"I don't see why." In her irritation she places her queen in peril, and you let out a bark of victorious laughter.
Her eyes widen. "I didn't mean to-"
"Too late, no take-backs!" You gleefully snap it up with your pawn. "Haha, yes! Good pawn, best soldier." You mime giving it a little high-five, but accidentally knock it over. She giggles.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it."
A few moves later, she tries again. "Why does She bother you so much? She was a pretty good Queen to us. I know you're a Dersite, but it's not a racism thing since you're okay with me. Unless it is and you secretly hate me. Do you hate me? I-" She's rambling. She always rambles when she's nervous. Another sign of nervousness is when she touches her sword too much, and she's doing that too, white fingers tapping the blade in arrhythmic staccato.
"Should I answer or do you want to keep going?" She shuts up, and you sigh. You feel bad for that. "I guess it's different for you. Derse... we had too many Queens and Kings and Sovereigns who said they were doing right, said they were there for the people, and never were. They said they were good but they did bad things, said they were nice but really they were awful. And it only changed when people started standing up for themselves, but even then you were more likely to get killed than to actually change anything." You close your eyes and press the heels of your hands into them, but it doesn't stop the memories flashing in your mind, memories of crushed pawns like yourself, battlefields awash in blood. The Slayer rising above it all, white grin like a twisted knife-slash in his face.
"I just think, if we have a chance to make this world different, we should. No one better than anyone else, no one who gets to push everyone else around and get away with it."
She's silent for a moment. Your eyes are still closed, but you hear a can thunk to the floor in front of you. You open them to see...
A can of Tab, circled in white chalk, on the square nearest you. Pawn promoted to queen. And from this position, your own king is in grave danger.
You try to move him, but there's nowhere you can go.
You look up to see her black eyes smiling. "Sometimes queens are good, though. And She was a good Queen."
You gently tip over your can of gravy king. It rolls across the board. "You'd be a better one." That silences her.
You get up to chase after your errant king. "Play again?"
In my headcanon they all act like eight-year-olds. SOCUTE~ I do love me some exiles.
@Derm: Snowman, you creepy creepy bitch. I like this chapter. I like it a lot. *shudders*
Last edited by raequiem; 12-06-2010 at 07:52 PM.
Reason: fuck typos fuck typos fuck typos also hey derm
I'm the same person here as I am on AO3 and Deviantart, and pretty much everywhere else. Check out my fics and arts and stuff!
Life grinned maniacally. She could never get enough, no matter what. She had to feel that last remnant, that last whisp of survival so she could survive. She never missed her friends, didn't even remember them. Isolation was forgotten, and Doom?
Doom never circled her thoughts. But Life didn't care, Life never cared. She danced happily, gleefully slicing up her new victim. She laughed, and laughed.
She continued to laugh as she was locked away. she just laughed, and laughed. Her hair fell out slowly, her skin began to sink, and eventually all that was left was a skull. And Life continued to cackle. But it was an echo, the old Life had already left, followed her friends to the next era. She had no reason to remain, no reason to stay.
But her echo remained on earth, cackling forever.
Wheezing, he drags himself out of bed. Gasping for air, unable to breathe. He curses that game, that stupid, stupid, game that took his friends.
He is the Knight of Blood, the last survivor. He never wonders why, he just knows. He was the first to discover what Skaia had done to them with their game. Those powers they had obtained, they always came with a price. The price was always high, and Skaia always collected. For Blood, it is late in life, after a full life. But Blood cursed Skaia, cursed them for not taking him sooner. Skaia collected slowly from Blood, draining him of energy. He looked apathetically at his skin, as it dried, solidified into flakier then birch leaves. He weakly stretched out an arm, and then it fell apart. He watched grimly as his blood dripped out of his muscle, sadly shaking his head, realizing that he has no chance.
But Blood smiled, happy that he was done. He had lived his life, however wretchedly. He would be with them soon, he saw his friend now. Breath stretched out his hand, smiling with delight as Blood joined them. Blood grinned back, their old rivalry banished. Blood didn't care for that anymore, smiling happily as he saw Space and Mind, together at last.
He grasped Breath's hand, and the skin and blood was replaced, and his old appearance was restored. Blood grinned, happy to be returned to his friends. He was even almost happy to see Void and the First Light. It surprised him, in fact. Blood hadn't seen them for quite some time.
But Blood was the last, not the first. To truely understand the cruelty Skaia had commited, you have to do something.
d'aww! Man I was so going to write an exiles-play-chess shortfic, too! Talk about brain-stealing, brain-stealer! Maybe I still will write it, someday...? But right now I'm going to re-read your fanfic and picture WV and PM playing a game of chess with food and drink cans and having a Heated Discussion, because that was cute as heck.
the voices you gave them really make them sound a lot like the kids or the trolls; it's way different from how I hear them (which is speaking more like their individual typing styles, even while acting silly), and your interpretation totally fits just as well.
And everybody everywhere should write more exile fic.
if you be brave and stout of heart:
'neath this link lurks my DeviantART.
Hey everyone. I'm not new to the world of fan-fics, but I am new to writing from the perspective of canon characters. (All of my stuff prior has been Pokemon with almost entirely OCs.) However, an idea popped into my head after I had some time to recover from Jade: Enter and I couldn't help but write. However, it's in 2nd person present which is very new to me (generally I can't stand it), so critique would be nice. As horrible as it sounds, I'm trying to get better at playing with people's heads with my writing. >.>;
...Okay, I'll stop talking and just post the thing.
> Reader: Be the bro
It was something that had to happen. It was always going to happen. It had already happened.
But you can't help but feel nervous. It was never anything you had ever expressed outwardly, especially not to your little brother, but everyone felt nervous at some point in their lives. It was human.
Unlike the black thing standing in front of you. While human in shape, it was decidedly unhuman in action, and probably emotion. This thing can and had and would slaughter hundreds of people and ruin too many lives to count.
And the fucker was holding your sword.
But he tossed it back to you wordlessly, and just as wordlessly you caught it. In your other hand you held a recently-repaired Lil' Cal. No way you'd let him miss this. The puppet seems to confuse Jack, but not nearly as much as the orange feather asshole behind him. You grin as he jerks his head around in confusion, but as soon as he turns back to face you, you're all business. No one could hold a candle to your poker face. You only know one person who could come close.
Then suddenly Cal has punched Jack in the face and you're nowhere to be seen. The puppet is draped over him and clinging to him surprisingly well for an inanimate object. Jack reacts poorly. You and the orange Dave, the feathery one, can't do much other than stand back and watch as everything catches on fire. It doesn't faze you. Much. Dave's planet--the real Dave, not the one here that should have died and is going to die soon--was far hotter. Molten rocks and all that. But you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel at least the slightest bit uncomfortable.
The fight continues. You and Davesprite score a hit here, Jack scores a hit there. You've fought him before, but it wasn't like this. Jack wasn't as much of a threat. There wasn't as much at stake. Something had to give if this fight was going to end anytime soon. You hope it'll give in your favor, but you know that it can't. It never was supposed to.
It's the ring. That's what gave. The ring on Jack's only hand begins to glow with golden fire. Jack sparks with flashes of green and white electricity. His body convulses as he begins to transform (is he in pain? You hope he's in pain) and suddenly he's even more monstrous than before. Gone is the comical hat and stupid tentacles. The tufts of fur on the side of his face grow longer and his ears extend and change to an appearance not unlike a devil's horns.
But this doesn't bother you. It doesn't bother you it doesn't bother it doesn't bother you--maybe if you repeat it enough it'll become true. But you're not surprised. Not really. You didn't know exactly what was coming, but you knew it wouldn't be auspicious.
The fight doesn't last much longer. You swing your weapon, but wherever it is, Jack just isn't. No matter what you do, he always manages to be somewhere else mere milliseconds before you make contact. He's indestructible.
Another swing, another miss, and suddenly breathing is difficult. Why is your sword not in your hand? You thought you nicked him that last time but oh there it is. As you look down you feel a dull ache, then searing pain as you stare at the sword--your sword--sticking out of your chest. That's not where it belongs at all.
Not even noticing the elevation change, you find yourself on the ground. You don't really want to die. Not yet. Not this way. You wanted to make more of a difference. You wanted to be able to do more against Jack, for Dave's sake and the sake of his friends. You don't want to be a pointless sacrifice, but maybe that was your purpose all along. Maybe you were always meant to stall for time. Ever since that record shop was destroyed by that meteor. Ever since you found that kid on that dead horse. You've always been filling a role.
Breathing is even harder and there's so much blood and everything is cold and everything hurts and it's hard to see. Your hands and feet are numb, and even if you were holding your sword instead of wearing it in your chest like you're a fucking pin cushion, you wouldn't be able to feel it. Your fingers are too limp. Useless now, like the rest of your body. A flash of green light and orange feathers explode around you.
Davesprite's necklace falls to the ground in a puddle of blood that used to belong to you and how is there so much blood and nothing makes sense anymore.
But you're too numb to hurt anymore, that's nice. For an instant you think your vision's returned. Everything's slightly lighter; your glasses aren't on your face, they're on his and the change doesn't last long. You can barely see and you wish you couldn't feel anything at all. There's something in your chest--what is it?
There's something else you don't have anymore, something you've always worn and that everyone has always known you by, but it's gone now and someone took it and you should complain, but everything's too confusing and why are you still alive.
You try to relax. You can't even see anything other than bright green light, so what's the use in attempting anything? It feels like everything is right with the world. The green light, which is becoming progressively harder to see, is comforting, welcoming even. You have a distant sensation that there's something inherently wrong about the light, but how could something so inviting be a bad thing?
Something pulls at what remains of your consciousness. Is it the light? It must be the light. It feels like home.
You've been fighting for so long. Maybe it's time for you to stop. Maybe it's time for you to give in.
@Dermonter: That is some Lovecraftian shit right there. Nice job. I'm just going to go and gibber incomprehensibly for a while.
In the mean time, I have basically know idea how to continue Record Scratch. I'm just not getting the same bursts of inspiration that was for the past three chapters. Oh well, I'm sure something will form in my head.
Originally Posted by Dastreus
ToreaderTornado is Lord English and LE is busy being Spades Slick, who is everyone. ToreaderTornado is everyone because ToreaderTornado is the dreamer.
Originally Posted by Varkarrus
IT'S FUN TO STAY AT THE
Originally Posted by MayorSillyBiscuits
Originally Posted by Tesseract
Originally Posted by Varkarrus
Originally Posted by ToreaderTornado
Originally Posted by The One Guy
I am the bullhornedAirman .
Avatar courtesy of apatheticZombie
Took me about a year to notice the typo. How long did it take you?
North Carolina, the state where no one lives. No one.
Re: MSPA Fanfiction III
So, uh, first post here. I came up with my own ideas about how the process of sorting out the low/mutant bloods or the disabled trolls works. Then I wrote this.
As per my friend's advice, I post it here!
For a worker at one of the registering facilities on Alternia, life was quite mundane. Due to his low color on the caste system, he was chosen for the menial task of entering each and every troll that came into his small block into the Alternian supercomputer that housed all the information about their planet. The high points of his day consisted of meeting someone of an exceptionally low or high place on the caste system. Very rarely, one with some type of disability or strangely off-color blood would come in only to be dragged away for culling. He had no part in these other than flipping the switch signaling the next one to enter. These instances were few and far between, and today was no exception from the monotony.
After serving another boringly normal yellow-blood, he flipped the switch once again. Within a few seconds entered a young girl, possibly 7 or 8 sweeps old. It must have been her first time going through examination, he assumed, because she was exceptionally nervous. The registration worker sighed and leaned his head on his hand. Without giving another glance, he went through the regular questions, name, age, blood color.
The young girl answered them all, but on the third question, she seemed even more worried. "G-green!" she stammered. Unaware of her obviously increasing worry, he typed her answer into the computer. She seemed to calm down quite a bit when he inquired no further about her blood. But just as she began to calm down, a robot arm descended from above. The arm had a small needle at the end, and a tube running up it until it came to meet a large computer embedded in the ceiling.
Now instead of just nervous, the girl began to panic. Her gaze flitted between the arm and the worker at his computer. He assumed she was nervous simply because she didn't understand what to do, so he murmured in monotone, "Just stick your hand out."
She brought her hand up to her chest and clutched it tightly.
"Why? What'll it do?"
"It'll prick your finger to find out what color you are."
This didn't seem to assuage her worries but instead make them worse. She kept a hold on her hand and cast a leery glance at the machine, then back to the examiner.
"But- but I just told you it's green!"
Once again he sighed and rolled his eyes.
"It's to find out your exact hue and all that shit. Just green is a little too general don't you think?"
He turned back to his computer waiting for the program to come up with all the numbers he needed to put into her profile, but nothing happened. He heard no noise and realized she must have still not let the machine read her yet. Casting a glare back towards her he found her shaking, holding her hand so close as if it were her lifeline and her eyes watering.
"No... Please..." she whispered and the tears came running down her face.
Green tears- but not any type of normal green.
Realizing what was going on, he kept wary eyes trained on her and slowly his hand drifted towards the back of the counter. Concealed beneath was a button to call security.
Reading his movements, the troll girl's eyes widened, then flicked once towards the door and back. She bolted out the open door into the corridor outside. Others who had just finished their registration were coming out to the very same corridor and as she ran in a blind panic, the girl crashed into another troll who had exited a room just a few doors down from the one she was in formerly.
Together they toppled to the ground, the other troll screaming out profanities at their assailant. When she regained her senses, she looked back for a short moment. She found that many other trolls were leaning out of their rooms trying to get a good look at what all the commotion was about. Behind them though, was exactly what she didn't want to see. The registration worker pointing her out to a group of security guards. Without a moment's pause the girl was back on her feet and making a mad dash for the double doors at the end of the hallway.
A guard who was on stand-by had seen the entire event transpire and jumped out in front of her. He tried to grab for her arms to pull her down, and managed to latch onto her wrist. He dug his nails into the skin, and neon green welled up to the surface. She tried to jerk her hand away but howled out in pain when she realized they were sunk in deep. She took one more glance behind and found the group of guards moving in fast. In one determined jerk, she wrenched her arm away, tearing the skin further, but allowing her to get away.
Now nothing was between her and the double doors which she put her trust in to be freedom.
Outside, the doors burst open and a young troll girl came sprinting out at full speed. Her arm was dripping a neon green liquid and tears of the same hue fell from her eyes as she panted. Right behind her was a gang of others, infuriated and yelling at the top of their lungs. The girl jumped from the curb onto the street, but didn't quite clear. Her foot hooked the concrete and she was brought to the ground in front of two passing highbloods.
In one final act of desperation she clutched the nearest's pants leg and raised her eyes to him.
"Please, help me." she sobbed.
The blood on her hands smeared onto the noble's pants and shoe. He looked down at the groveling mutant below him and sneered in utter disgust, kicking her away.
Her eyes never left his, the hope slowly dying from them.
Security approached afterward and apprehended the runaway. They deeply apologized to the two highbloods, promising it would not happen again.
Only when they began to haul her away, did she scream. She screamed and sobbed incoherently but it didn't matter anymore. All hope was lost. The noise pierced the air, and as the twin doors closed, the screaming faded away and eventually stopped altogether.
The two royals that had seen the end of the chase had continued walking, complaining to one another about the need for mutants like those to be culled at birth. As they continued, it became evident they held no kindly feelings for each other. Nonetheless, their conversation continued in faked tolerance, getting lost in the distance.
Business as usual on Alternia.
WHEN DID I WRITE THIS MUCH MY GOG.
Also, I kept the identities ambiguous on purpose, I didn't want to attach any names or traits to the characters, so you can dream them up to look however you want. This turned out to be a bitch to try and write in that style buuuut, hopefully it's not too difficult to follow?
Oops my uncreative is showing, that's the best title I could think of honestly.
Also, critique please?