This is What it Takes. [plot]

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cass
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This is What it Takes. [plot] Jul 15, 2012 21:45:45 GMT -5

Post by cass on Jul 15, 2012 21:45:45 GMT -5

( A L T A I R K I L O O M E L N O N T )

Define your meaning of war
To me it's what we do when we're bored
And even on my own,
I feel the heat coming off of the blacktop
And it makes me want it more

When he was young Altair use to dream of always being in the games, getting in there fighting, spilling blood and killing, but as the years went on he never got his opportunity and he hated it. Each year there was no name of his and his chance to volunteer was always stolen by some dick head. Each year he begged for his name to be called, he even paid for his name to be placed into that bowl more than once every year, but it never happened. The year of his eighteenth birthday was his last chance and even as the words of volunteering were on his lips he was beaten. He would play no game; he would never have his fun. But he couldn’t live without that fun of blood, and the way a person could scream if you cut them. He had to have it. If he couldn’t be in the games he would have it his way.

Altair created his games. He became the gamemakers, kidnapping unfortunate kids, locking them up and bullying them until they screamed for his blood. He bashed and tortured them, building their rage so that when they were set to fight they would and it would be bloodier and more gruesome then any arena. Altair would stand and watch, he would laugh the sound echoing above the screams of pain from the kids fighting below him, he loved the thrill of watching them fight, ripping into each other’s flesh and causing more pain than any person could bear to feel. It was what made him smile; it was what made him happy.

- - -

They don’t forget why would they? There is always the reminder of where they are and why they are there. The growling of empty stomachs, the cold damp floors, wet air and foul smells, not to mention the tormentors that continuously tormented them, they were all there, they were all alive, hollow eyed and weak. They were all his. A small smile stretched its way across neat features; it played just below a nose that was god-damned near perfect. It was a smile that almost reached his eyes. Eyes that were brown and warm, so very welcoming, but if you ever took the time to look you would see that beneath those friendly eyes was nothing, but coldness. It was fitting for this man’s black heart. ~~A heart blacker then his own soul~~

[/s][/color]

It is said that this man has no soul. He doesn’t know how people come up with such an assumption seeing as none of them have ever seen a soul, let alone his own soul. The idea that he has no soul made him smile, although he would never let anyone believe he had no soul, Altair knew he didn’t have one. He had lost it a long time ago. He didn’t need one to be him, he didn’t want one. They were just waste, in a way like hope, hope did nothing, but drag you down. A soul was useless, why carry around useless weight?

Each step that brought him deeper into the depths of his basement made the smile on his face lengthen, there was a cruel edge to his sinister smile, it played along with the mask of a kind man, he had rid himself of that cruel edge in a flash, it was how he drew the kiddies in making sure they trusted him, believed him. No liar could do what he did and do it as well as he did. It took practice. The shadows around him lengthened as the light dropped to something of a glow, they stretched their long fingers up the wall, grasping each and every crack. There was nowhere to hide down here you were always seen and caught.

As you stepped deeper into the depths of the underground room, the light died, Altair paused for a moment to let his vision adjust; falling down these stairs was not something he wanted. The way that they were angles just showed how man-made they were, how crappy and dangerous they could be. Most of the stairs angled downwards sharply, if you weren’t use to the steps each step you took made you stumble and each stumble created the possibility to fall. The rushed job was effective though, no one could move up and down them fast, if you didn’t know how they worked. As his eyes adjusted he took a moment to gaze at the place he owned at the business he ran.

This place and everything and everyone in it was his. He owned them all and there was nothing they could all do. Those kids that called for food, begged for freedom were his he had done this to them. He grins as he enters the basement; his eyes were cold as he quickly scanned the room. Metal wiring littered the room , between each `fence line’ there was about a meter gap, big enough for the kid that lay in it to move. Each tiny cell was filled; there was nothing in it, except for the child that occupied the cubicle. They could easily see one another, they could talk and chat. Altair did not know why they would talk to each other, but he allowed that freedom, after all insanity did not make for a good fight.

He moves across the front of them, ignoring each pet, they were not worth his attention. He crinkled his nose in disgust, the place smelled like shit, urine and just crap.[/color] The air was damp and heavy with the smell of mould. He struts forward and moves over to a young girl who lay perched on a chair. “Tiltoo.” He said coldly, there was no warmth for this girl, but unlike the rest of them, she was not caged like an animal, she had the freedom to come and leave as she willed. “The arena needs preparing, we have a fight in two days’ time.” He said curtly, looking her up and down. “Get Bone and prepare it.” He hesitates for a moment a smile stretching its way across his features. He turened to face the kids. "Good luck, Pepper and Fanta."[/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify][/size]

Because I'm hyped up, outta control
If it's a fight I'm ready to go
I wouldn't put my money on the other guy
If you know what I know that I know
It's been a long time coming

( OOC: OK so everyone must post once, this is the opening to the plot, there is no order, just post to introduce your character into the plot! After everyone has posted once we shall then move into the first fight, which I have yet to decide who it will be. I will put the rules to the fight in that post, so don't worry. If you have any questions about this thread PM me. We will not be starting the next thread until everyone in the plot has posted here, it is mandatory. Lastly, have fun :D )

Last Edit: Jul 15, 2012 22:19:49 GMT -5 by cass

umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]
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— 🥀 —

This is What it Takes. [plot] Jul 15, 2012 23:53:50 GMT -5

Post by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars] on Jul 15, 2012 23:53:50 GMT -5

You can take everything I have, you can break everything I am,
like I'm made of glass, like I'm made of paper.

Main, Emphasis, Speaking, Hearing

His hollow eyes darted around the dark room that surrounded them searching for any solution they could find to just escape from this place. It was all he wanted them to find. Not the people that sat around him in the same predicament, probably doing the same thing they'd done since he arrived, nothing. It wasn't by choice, of course. The cages that each with held a different human being kind of left mobility limited. They'd told him that the next fight was coming up, and that there was a chance he would be in it, but he still didn't really understand. Sure, the bars couldn't keep them from speaking, but nobody could say it, and that scared Max every time he thought about it. "Bad." The girl Maximus assumed was crazy said. "Bad, bad." Even though he questioned the girl's sanity, he'd gotten more out of her than any of the others in the room. He'd even tried to force the others to tell him what was going on, but, again, there wasn't much he could do in a cage. Using the power he'd grown so used to in his old life was hard when bars separated him from everything around him.

click, clack, click, clack.

The sound of footsteps falling down the old stairs signaled somebody's entrance, and he hoped that it was that one man who always fed them. Instead, another man was in his place, and Max knew that he was different from the others that could come and go as they pleased. He had an air about him that said he was untouchable. He didn't bother to look any of them in the eye, or at all, really, he just smiled as he inched his way deeper into the damp room. Max didn't dare speak because something told him that he'd regret it, he just watched as he got closer, closer, and closer, to the cage that kept him from leaving and never coming back. Behind him was the man Max was hoping would come down, but he acted different, as if he was scared to show his authority in front of this new man. He let his feet pull him as far back as his cage would let him and bowed his head, terrified of what would happen. Alas, he heard the man's voice carry through the room.

"Good luck, Pepper and Fanta."

What did that even mean? Was it good? Bad? He assumed the answer was 'bad' because after the names were called, he felt the air in the room change. Things were serious now. He only squinted his eyes together tighter as he heard the cages open and come to a screechy halt, and the hesitant footsteps that followed. He didn't want to know anymore! He just wanted to go. "Please, please, please." He whispered frantically. He wanted to say more, to stand up and get himself out, but he was frozen in his place, and too afraid to move. What happened now? He couldn't tell by just sound which was now amplified due to his sight being hidden, but he assumed it wasn't anything that was going to make his stay here any better.

Last Edit: Jul 15, 2012 23:57:08 GMT -5 by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]

^{I AM A GARDEN OF BLACK AND RED AGONIES}

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This is What it Takes. [plot] Jul 19, 2012 1:09:10 GMT -5

Post by Python on Jul 19, 2012 1:09:10 GMT -5

-----------------------

It’s too warm.

[/color]

The air was never this humid, never this musty or filthy or suffocating in the outside world - a world where everything seemed blurred together as his memories slowly threatened to fade into nonexistence and deceive him into thinking that this caged life was all he ever knew. But he would not succumb to insanity. There was too much as stake; the flashing images of his mother knitting sweaters by the fireplace, its flickering oranges creating light that danced upon her skin as her caramel eyes narrowed in an out of focus trying desperately not to shift to Sonnet. The sweet taste of sugar sprinkled upon his desserts whenever the two of them could afford such a luxury during their plunge into poverty. The smile that would turn his lips whenever his mother would recite the poetry his father left behind - always consisting of fourteen lines. A sonnet. His mother’s most prized possession, both written in ink and forged into the golden flower that was her son. These bittersweet memories - Sweet from the drops of honeyed love, and bitter from his wish to have cherished them more[/I] - were too precious for him to let go, but after enduring three years trapped within these same walls, where only death was an everlasting companion, it was difficult to retain what sanity was left. But I have to try. For them. For her. For himself.

Sweat and grime clung to his skin like grains of sand, and with his eyes half-lidded he raised his head instinctively to the faint sound of echoing footsteps. After spending what felt like an eternity in this dungeon, Sonnet had familiarized himself with each individual’s footsteps. The volume, the speed, the specific sounds - he could always determine who was descending before they arrived, and in this case, it was Altair on his way down - the brain behind the scheme - leaving him no reason to stir. With his blonde head propped against the basement’s damp walls, he watched Altair glide across the room and pay no regards to the poor souls he imprisoned with an air of authority and malevolence hovering about him. It may have been an illusion of the mind, but he thought he spotted a pair of horns projecting from the man’s skull, and the silver glint of a scythe clenched within his grasp. He was the embodiment of pure wickedness - a cruelty so strong, a rush of cold air descended upon the room as his figure stalked by. Without so much as moving a muscle, Sonnet watched Altair approached the Queen on her throne; none other than Tiltoo, a woman of few favors and many teases. ”The arena needs preparing,” his statement was blunt, and his voice without a trace of warmth. It was nothing too surprising to the confined warrior. ”We have a fight in two days’ time.”

Two days. Time was of little meaning when one could not see the sunset or the moon rise. There was no ticking of the clock, no trace of the outside world that could warn them of upcoming night, morning, afternoon - anything. Two days was a foreign concept. Sonnet could only translate two days into one word: Soon. Soon, two unfortunate souls would be chucked into a makeshift arena with only one emerging with their life. Soon, more bloodstains would litte their skin and strip them of their innocence. Soon, another life would be lost to the hands of a child undeserving of such punishment. Soon, I may die. There was no telling who would win a fight. Sonnet may have reaped children of their souls before, but some champions were destined to fall in the end. To be knocked off of their pedestal and replaced by a new champion with a durable heart and a stronger will to live. A kid like me can only last so long. And yet, he always strived to be his greatest, even if it meant spilling the blood of a child. It is a crime to kill - but it is absolutely unforgivable to give up.

A vicious smile crept its way along Altair’s features as he turned to face the ~~animals~~ children in their cages. ”Good luck, Pepper and Fanta." Fanta. He knew that name - he recalled it belonging to a newcomer. A girl who had only participated in one or two fights - a girl who had yet to adjust to this hell. But it was the second name that truly captured his ~~heart~~ attention. Pepper. The brother of the girl sitting not ten feet away from him in the neighboring cell. The boy who was struck persistently by illness and allergies wracking his body with coughs and startling the snoozers out of their sleep with his sneezes. The boy who didn’t seem as inflicted with insanity as the rest. A boy who would die with the pity of a silent Sonnet sitting in his cell. I‘m sorry.[/size][/justify][/blockquote]
[/size]

Last Edit: Jul 19, 2012 1:10:56 GMT -5 by Python

semper
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This is What it Takes. [plot] Jul 22, 2012 19:14:08 GMT -5

Post by semper on Jul 22, 2012 19:14:08 GMT -5

Pepper Rebio

[/font]

It’s a wonder that you haven’t fallen sick with any terminal illness in the dark dungeon. The constant dampness and growing mold does nothing but make your sense of smelling worse, clogging it with mucus and leaving you sniffing endlessly. Not only that, but sneezing. Your sneezes aren’t quiet in the least – instead, they are loud and often wake people up in the middle of their sleep. I wouldn’t be surprised if people want me to die, that way they can all sleep in peace.

[/color] The thought, though a pointlessly made assumption, strikes your very core. In the dungeon, sleep is extremely vital. You never know when your name will be called, and once it is, your days are numbered. Numbered like a broken item to be destroyed. It’s only a matter of time until you are destroyed.[/color]

A sudden sneeze tears from your lungs, leaving your throat tingling and raw. It’s something that you’ve grown used to, but it still hurts all the same. Neither Altiar, nor Bone, nor Tiltoo have even once bothered to help you out by giving you any medicine no matter how many times you ask. You’re forced to just bear it. Curl up in the corner; try to bite back bitter vomit; clutch your stomach and pray you don’t have diarrhea; cover your ears to get as much silence as you can to calm a throbbing migraine.[/color] Nobody else seems to understand the constant pain you endure – not even Salt, your sister, though she is the one that comes closest to knowing what you’re going through. Maybe Chato gets it, but you aren’t sure. For all you know, he could just be lying to make him seem sympathetic toward you. But Chato isn’t a liar. He wouldn’t lie to me. Why lie when you’re only going to die in a short while?[/color] Another sneeze rocks you and you pull your knees up to your chest as you sit in the corner, your forehead pressing against your knees.

Altair’s voice doesn’t cause you to lift your head up. It’s become such a common sound that you don’t even bother to acknowledge it anymore, but a few certain words capture your attention: Arena. Preparing. Fight. Two days.[/color] Someone is going to die, everyone knows it now. But who?[/color] A sickening feeling grips your stomach and for a moment you feel bitter vomit burning the back of your throat, but after a hard swallow it disappears. Who will he call?[/color]

You don’t believe Altair’s words. N-no, he didn’t say my name.[/color] But it’s yours. He speaks the single word that will never forget, the one word that means so much to you. You never realize how much fear your own name can instill inside of you, but it paralyzes your limbs and makes the color drain from your face as you raise your head. The surroundings suddenly become extremely vivid – the bars, the cement, the mold, the people surrounding you – and your anxious hazel eyes quickly seek out the girl who could have the very last face you will ever see.

Fanta.[/color]

You don’t know much about her. All you do know is that something is wrong with her. Ever since her first fight she has been a bit… off.[/color] When your sneezing isn’t occupying the silence, it usually is her laughter. Though I don’t know what the hell she finds so funny here.[/color] Your eyes cast a glance at your sister. I can’t die. I can’t. I don’t want to leave her. We’re both going to escape.[/color] You’ve always dreamed of ways to escape, but now that idea has been deflated by Altair’s few words. Instead of figuring out a way to get past the bars, you now have to come up with a way to keep your life safe. Again.

[/blockquote]
[/justify][/size][/color][/blockquote]

i hear the mountains calling me home

Jimmeh!
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This is What it Takes. [plot] Jul 24, 2012 14:39:23 GMT -5

Post by Jimmeh! on Jul 24, 2012 14:39:23 GMT -5

There was something colouring the mood of today a darker shade than normal. I could feel something bad about to happen. The grey squalor we live in felt colder, more desolate, somehow bleaker than usual. A selection day. It had to be. Nothing else could set me on edge like this. Make my blood pound, a cold fury within my veins. Everything is the same, but worse. Pepper in the corner, repressing the urge to cough his lungs, guts and life all over the floor. Sonnet seemingly content with himself. Fanta in her usual state of madness. The new kid, Maximus or something suitably manly, demanding answers to his obvious questions. These bring a rueful smirk to my face, oh so briefly. He'll find out soon enough.

I sit in the perfect centre of my cell. Until I hear the tell tale sound of our judge, jury and executioner by proxy. I hear him enter the room, the only vision of death that can ever plague my nightmares. So suave. Self-assured. A warrior, a fighter. Murderer. Heart blacker than obsidian. I bite on my tongue to hold it in check, lest I replace another hapless victim for his sick game. I game I aim to win, or to break free of forever.

He speaks to Tiltoo first, the hell-cat that torments us. I say us. I mean them. Because I know exactly how to play her game, the pathetic wretch. Enough of my saliva has found her face that she knows I'm going to take a lot more to break. Arena readied for two days time. Of course. You get a feel for things down here. Time has no meaning. But instinct seems to tell you something bad's coming. Fanta could tell you that much. Insane she may be, but down here, sanity is only a relative concept. All we can do is wait, hope, and act. Wait for the names. Hope it isn't yours. Kill if it is.

Today, it's not my name. Well. Not my first name at any rate. Despite my steely facade, inside, my heart's breaking. The only person besides myself I really care about in here. My brother. And the combatants? Pepper and Fanta? That's not a fight. That's watching the afflicted battle against themselves. Blood wells in my mouth as I bite down harder, breaking into the speech-giving muscle. I care not. It's all I can do to not spit venom at Altair. Quick as a flash, I'm on my feet, sucking on the self-inflicted wound, the coppery taste flooding my senses. My eyes catch Fanta's briefly, a slight sense of pity filling my heart, before catching Pepper's. He doesn't hold the gaze. I swallow down the vitae filling my mouth, striding over to the bars, grabbing hold of them, looking sternly at my brother, a hard edge to my stance, lithe frame pushed against the bars.

Hope you're not planning anything heroic in there Pep. Time to break the monster out again. I know he's forlorn. I am too, every time my name is called. I just hide it a lot better than the rest. State of mind. Only for Pepper, everyone knows about the candlestick. Everyone knows how brutal and feral he gets. In that respect, he has me beat. I can never get to that stage of raw, primal fury. It's as though every part of him demands survival. Funny what adrenaline does. Come on, get up. You've only got two days. Focus Pep. My tone is as insistent and unfeeling as it always is nowadays. I hate doing this. Motivating him to kill. To unleash the beast that will kill so brutally. The mess that candlestick made is forever embedded in my brain. As much as each of my previous opponents. I wonder how Sonnet copes...

Last Edit: Jul 24, 2012 14:42:37 GMT -5 by Jimmeh!

Onyx
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in between somewhere and nowhere

This is What it Takes. [plot] Jul 27, 2012 11:07:54 GMT -5

Post by Onyx on Jul 27, 2012 11:07:54 GMT -5

B O N E K E L T

In my head, you were screaming again, brother. These dreams and visions don't come often, but when they do, they come with the full force of a thousand crashing tides behind them. I watch you writhe as the poison I gave you burns your throat, eating away at the tissues of your iron tongue, the foam erupting from your pores and from between your stained teeth a sure sign of my success. I will never forget it, brother, the day you became my next number. And oh, the screaming, as if all of the angels of whatever heavens these citizens foolishly believe in were raising their voices in a heavenly cacophony all at once. You scream and scream and scream, the iron chords of your throat grating together, the improvisational rhythm of your breath as it quickens, weakens, stops. Most men would be disturbed, brother, but not I. If I can't suppress the memories of you into a number and a souvenir, at least I can watch that moment, where I was freed from your oppressive force once and for all, over and over again.

I was woken from this beautiful nightmare by sunlight spilling through my window like solar honey. As Altair's right hand man, and closest companion, though I can only wish he wants me like I want him, and I would never tell him for I do not involve myself in the follies of love, I am blessed with having a room in his barricaded and barred up house above ground, rather than under it with the whining, stinking children I am employed to keep alive until it is their time to become nothingness. I dislike the sunlight, for it makes the cellars hot and rank, the mildew always more evident on the walls. But Altair won't have me complaining, and I won't lose the respect he has for me with petty whinging. Instead, I tell Lear, though he looks at me just as a peasant – who is he to think he is king? Soon he will just be another number – and the little bitch Tiltoo, though she looks at me with something surreal in her eyes. But I cannot say what her glazed gazes mean.

Even as I first listened to Melnont, standing by the splintering desk that hunches like a wounded animal in the corner of this room, I knew there would be a fight in a matter of days. Fear spreads like a cancer here, and has the same effect. The children have gone crazy before, and they will go crazy again. I wondered which two little rats would be fighting for their lives this time. Though some people think it obscene, I find Altair to be a genius. What better way to find the right candidate for the Hunger Games than giving them a taste of the fighting first? Though what is the point of a little victory in the Games anyway? They win and rat out this whole organisation. We've bought off, or disposed of, Peacekeepers before, but we cannot stand up to an army.

Tiltoo was waiting outside my room, as she always is whether there is big news or not, trying to look nonchalant but instead giving off the unsettling demeanor of someone looking for refuge. I am not an agent of justice, but nor am I one to protect someone from it. I am merely a witness, waiting for their lives to end. She was speaking before I had time to tell her I didn't want her here. No one can come in my room, my personal space, for fear they might find my box. In it, I keep all the memories of the ~~people~~ numbers that have died around me. A way to defeat the guilty conscience that brings me down to the level of humanity. There is nothing I would like to share less, especially since I expect all the people who could possibly see it to end up in that box as well. But it was clear, by the look on her piggish face, that Tiltoo is not interested in trinkets. Behind the mask of cruel excitement she wears, her eyes gleam in a vicious, but vulnerable way.

[/i] "Altiar says to tell you the next fight will be in two days." The way his name rolls off her tongue makes me shudder, though it is more the fact that it is his name than it is her voice. Though the gleam in her dark, narrowed eyes suggest she believes otherwise? "Meet with Lear and get everything ready." I grunt and look past her. While Hallows plans as effectively as a Gamemaker, and Tiltoo digs graves for the new numbers, I only take orders from Altair. I will go to him at once.

I push Tiltoo away, without roughness but without restraint either, and turn to lock my door. She mutters, over my shoulder, "It's Pepper Rebio against Fanta Chime. I'll be up Fanta's ende, if you'd like to join me." I tense and look at her inquisitively. Then I reply harshly, "I'll be at Altair's side, where I belong. Now, don't you have a hole to dig?"[/color] I smile mockingly, exhale and stride away. The death here is imminent, and it will be sweet.[/size][/justify][/blockquote][/blockquote]

Last Edit: Jul 27, 2012 11:09:28 GMT -5 by Onyx

someday we'll be drinking with the seldom seen kid

Cait
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if looks could kill

This is What it Takes. [plot] Jul 27, 2012 12:14:37 GMT -5

Post by Cait on Jul 27, 2012 12:14:37 GMT -5

i45.tinypic.com/34snv5c.png

[/img][/center]

Cellars and basements were meant to be used for evil. What other purpose could they possibly have?

The basements are stored underneath the house, away from human interaction and out of sight, the only creatures that get even a glimpse of the hell underneath the surface being the filthy rats, crawling for the slightest shimmer of sunlight. We are among those filthy rats.[/i][/color] If we were good, after all, we would not have to live with the guilt of knowing such terrible secrets, the same guilt that has washed away over the years of not even caring anymore. Now there is nothing left there, nothing at all. Hope is lost in such terrible places, and even faith in a God is not enough to stop the decaying spirit inside of you, slowly fading with each day. Secrets are hidden, kept unspoken for years if they are placed out of sight well enough. Basements are the perfect place to hide secrets, all the dirty little secrets that you thought nobody would ever find out about. You can put them away, pound them into the ground and lock them up, but the secrets still lie there. They always come out in the end. Nothing is ever left unheard, no stone left unturned. Secrets are always found.

The cells that line the basement walls are cold and uninviting. Steel bars from the floor to the ceiling turned stone cold from the chill of the damp, dark place. Faint whimpering. The only sign that the secrets hidden in this particular basement are not your average secrets. A sneeze echoing to the right, familiar now, so familiar that I do not even have to turn to know who it is. The long hours I have spent in this underground nightmare, a place where not even sleep is enough to rid away the horrible fantasies the traumatized children experience night after night. I wonder if any of them pray, and if maybe they’re last hope rests in God. Maybe that’s what keeps them going on. Maybe that’s what has stopped them from breaking already. But they are all broken, and there would never be any fixing for them. For most of them, I do not even know their names. The only thing I truly know about each of them is that they are doomed, and that escape is unreachable.

The cold basement is as cold as my heart.

Alongside the cold, winter chill ricocheting off of the hard walls, the steady drips of water adding to the musty dampness of the place, there was also the hot, sticky humid atmosphere of tiny bodies living within such close proximity to one another. The two unlikely attributes, hot and cold, going hand-in-hand with each other in a place so lonely and desperate. Even as I sit perched on the rickety wooden chair, keeping guard as I watch the hollow-eyed children gorge themselves with the meagre food supplied to them only minutes ago, I can feel the unease in the room. They know what is coming. So do I. At least there’s the light for me to see. They have nothing at all. Unlike the unfortunates, I am not a caged bird; I constantly thank God. I was, of course, left to my own, as long as I did my job, the only job that I would ever need to be able get on adequately in this life. And as long as I stuck with the rules that held me to the hell I was living in, nothing could possibly go wrong for me. Altiar would be pleased, and the uneven foundation that our small group was built on would remain balanced for just a little longer.

The inevitable split was soon to come, storm clouds already beginning to roll into the night sky, allowing sudden flashes of lightning to illuminate the ribbon of darkness that loomed far above me where I could not see, far above my head, far above the basement which holds only the slightest sliver of light from the glowing lamp resting in the corner. My mind wanders to Bone subconsciously, and I cannot help the flutter of my heart as the beat quickens slightly. I wonder if there is a battle raging inside of him. How could he ever manage to stay so calm and relaxed in a place like this? After all, we too were similar to the caged creatures. Yet his strength is what makes him all the more stunning. Once again I was pointing out the perfections, wasting time, disappointing myself, not hurting anybody but myself in the slightest. There is no need for interference here anyway.

Maybe one day…

Footsteps echo down the stairs, for the sound travels as a frightened child would flee from danger, landing on the ground with hard, heavy crashes as they run and run, faster and faster. There is no need to twist my head around to see who will be descending down the steep stairs that have brought me to this very spot enough times to make a sane man go insane. We are all here, a broken, spiritual family. The only people missing were Altiar, Bone and Lear, though I never even saw more than a glimpse of thar mysterious boy. He had his own secrets, too. I’ll find them out. All secrets are discovered in the end. Altiar strode towards the middle of the cellar, the wild look in his eyes giving away the fact that my previous guesses – and the children’s fears – were true. A fight is upon us.

The silence stretched out uneasily around the room, the atmosphere even more silent than it had been before. The air around me stung with a harsh, bitter breeze filled with anxiety and hatred that was aimed at not only me, but the cruel man with the sneering face standing amongst the broken. I had tried to imagine myself in the shoes of one of the children standing before me, but the image had never once come to me, too clouded with painful memories of the past, secrets that were left untouched. Even the pathetic boy’s sneezing had momentarily stopped, which was good. He was starting to get on my nerves, but we didn’t need any incidents before the big show.

Then finally, the silence was shattered.

Like a single musical note being struck after the silence and tranquillity of prayer, the noise rising from Altiar’s body and disappearing out of his mouth struck the room with a certain force that was quite unusual for Altiar. Even I jumped a little in my chair as the booming voice said my name, a ring to it that vibrated dangerously around the basement. The words tumbled out, and the excitement on Altiar’s face was painfully obvious. He lived for this. I held my breath waiting for the names to tumble from the man’s lips. They always did. The anticipation grew, but the children, of course, wouldn’t feel it. All they would feel was dread.

Pepper. Fanta.

Fanta. The one girl who I knew the best out of any of the unfortunates here. Hours of torturing and teasing the small, timid girl who sat fearfully in the corner of her prison cell was one of my favourite pastimes. There was nothing in her eyes, no hatred, nothing. She was too crazy to even know how she should feel about the jeers aimed directly at her. After all, it’s not easy living with the knowledge that you have taken away somebody’s precious life in a selfish attempt to preserve your own. I would know. A sense of sadness flooded through me momentarily, coursing through my veins, throbbing in my heart. If she dies, there will be nobody to torture. But I would find someone. There was always going to be someone, as long as Altiar was still around.

As silent as a ghost, Altiar ascended back up into the house, the footsteps that had only moments earlier been loud enough to silence the horrified faces of innocent children now soft and barely audible above the heavy breathing of the two who were to meet their fate.

Pepper. Fanta.

What ridiculous names.

The rickety chair creaked as I stood up, slowly scanning the cells around me. Caged animals. My eyes rested on each pair of wide eyes staring back at me, the emotions impossible to read. The food provided earlier was long gone, digesting in the children’s shrivelled-up intestines at this very moment. My gaze swept the room swiftly, before I made my way up the stairs to Bone’s room. My eyes rested on his eyes as I stood at the door. They were so beautiful. “The fight is soon – two days away. Pepper and Fanta. We have to prepare for it. Meet with Lear and get everything ready. We wouldn’t want to disappoint him.” Bone knew what I meant. As I made for the hallway leading to my own room, already preparing myself to pray, I looked back at Bone’s face, no signs of emotion crossing it, no way of telling how he felt, nor what he was thinking. I winked at him. “Should be a good one, yes? I’ll be up with Fanta, if you want to join me.” I ignore his snark reply, before tossing a quick “See you there,”[/color] over my shoulder.

The storm raging just beyond the horizon is far too powerful for even the strongest of Gods to control.[/blockquote]

{OOC – Oh, let’s see what pathetic crap I come up with at 3am in the morning, yaya.}

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Last Edit: Jul 27, 2012 12:28:29 GMT -5 by Cait

i always used to be into writing sort of modern abstract
lyricism stuff (that were like) slight vague indications of a feeling.

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This is What it Takes. [plot] Jul 29, 2012 11:06:06 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Jul 29, 2012 11:06:06 GMT -5

{ F a n t a . C h i m e }

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It was a zoo, purely a zoo. Only there were no children holding their parents' hands or sunlight too bright to even squint or happiness that seemed almost palpable. But there were caged animals.

If you really thought about it, this basement and the zoo were similar in many ways. Of course, these animals had something to look forward to—as scary as their realities were, whereas the animals at the zoo were always bored, waiting for a fate that wouldn't come.

Fear or boredom? Which would you choose?

The animal three cells--err, cages down the aisle, had been taken by a dream. Wandering back and forth, through the door to her past and the door to her future, confusion often liked to settle in the midst of her sleep, while she attempted to tie up the loose ends.

Many of the other animals looked down upon her, the most despicable of them all. Deemed insane by her lack of proper speech, her wandering eyes, and her unfocused thoughts, Fanta Chime was her name, at least, she thought it was.

She didn't know what she was dreaming about, at least not after her eyes flickered open. The girl's long wavy hair was a disaster, enwrapping her face in a sort of mask as she slept. She spit the tufts of her own hair from her mouth, cringing at her own scent.

Stretching her legs with the little space she could use, she gave herself the privilege of a yawn, Sitting up, she let her eyes adjust to the never-ending darkness. Each day it took her less time. She hadn't seen light in so long that she was almost positive that if she did, she would go blind.

The footsteps that echoed through the dimly lit room were what had ignited her senses. They always did. Footsteps meant food. Footsteps meant pain. Footsteps meant blood.

The footsteps became a bit more distinct now, and she was able to sense whose they were. She had learned to pay attention to which footsteps matched up with which function. It took her longer than most others to put two and two together, and figure out that the heavy footsteps belonged to the right-hand man, and the lighter footsteps belonged to the man with the keys.

The really light footsteps usually signaled the female, the one who liked to stand in front of Fanta's cell and taunt her, play with her mind, and watch it rewire itself again. Fanta hated her the most. But the man with the keys downstairs meant the most serious business. The man with the keys meant Mona.

Fanta was smarter than she got credit for.

The man with the keys was in charge of the important business: not the food or the cleanup or the trivial beatings here and there. The man with the keys was the one who told her to kill Mona, the one who opened her cell and watched as the other man dragged her, to that little place where the light was a few tones brighter.

"Mona," she whispered, her thought process slowing.
They all thought she was insane, a syndrome brought upon her as a result of having seen death, having killed someone. She was a weakling in their eyes. But they didn't know half the story. Fanta Chime was not insane. She was autistic. Severely autistic. Worse than that. In the short time that she’d been here, her perception of reality had been completely rewired.

"Bad," she said, the wordsslipping from her mouth. She was immediately drowned in a mess of thoughts, unable to form a complete sentence. "Bad. Bad." Mona was Madelyn’s sister. Where was Madelyn? Was she still alive?

She didn't know who she was talking to. Maybe the boy next to her; she didn't know him very well, but did it matter? Or maybe she was talking to air, pure air. An imaginary friend that didn't exist. Madelyn. Madelyn.

And now, Fanta knew, she was going to have to relive Mona’s death again. Madelyn’s death. Did Fanta kill Madelyn? Her brain said she did. Madelyn, Mona—the two names were becoming one, indistinguishable.

Fanta tried to cry, but her brain fumbled to keep up with her thoughts. What was supposed to be a scream came out as a laugh. It was as though her nerves had been rewired; it was as though this girl who had once been only a few steps from normal, had just fallen through the ground, now miles and miles beneath that reality.

"Bad." She said again, her laughs reaching their end. Madelyn meant Mona which meant dead which meant pain which meant darkness which meant man with the keys.

She quickly scooted to the corner of her cell, as far from the door as she could keep herself. She needed to scream. She wanted to. But every time, her screams turned to laughs. Lying her head against the wall, taken by hysterics, she placed her fingers on the floor, and let the nonexistant music wash over her. Her fingers glided across the surface beneath her as the music echoed through her mind. It was her favorite piano piece to play. Chopin. His music seemed to touch her like nothing else could.

Fanta Chime wasn't afraid of the man with the keys or the darkness that surrounded her. She wasn't even afraid of death. But she was afraid of forgetting what music sounded like.
She tried to block out the rest of the world, humming the tune that clung to her. She hummed louder and then louder, consistently trying to pull herself back to sanity. But the sea had already enwrapped her in its arms; there was no going back.

The outside world didn't hear the tune that Fanta did. What sounded like a sweet and mellow hum in her own mind, sounded severely off-pitch to anyone else. It was a deathening sound, but it was also the only thing Fanta had for company.

Suddenly, the man's voice echoed through the room, but Fanta didn't catch his words. Slowly, she tuned into situation, processing her surroundings slowly. "Good luck, Pepper and Fanta," he said.

And that’s when she laughed some more, tears trickling down her cheeks like a waterfall as she held her knees close to her chest.

She wasn’t stupid.

Even she understood.
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