The Blood on Your Hands [Plot]

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cass
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The Blood on Your Hands [Plot] Sept 26, 2012 6:42:24 GMT -5

Post by cass on Sept 26, 2012 6:42:24 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

It was dark, but then again it was normally always dark. Light never seemed to penetrate into the depths of the basement, and if it did at stayed to the edges like an animal, hunting, seeking and searching. It prowled around, toying with the kids’ minds, making it appear as though it was there, but it wasn’t. Why would it be? They were feet below the surface of the ground, their cells built into the walls, water dripped freely into them, brown and rather quite thick, full of dust and dirt, coagulating around the rims of the cages, building up so that they were unbreakable, escapable. And Altair knew this all with a simple flicker of his eyes, cold eyes that seemed to dance with the essence of a fire. But this fire produced no warmth, it was as if it came from the very depths of Hell, and in this hell there were no fires that burned people and made them scream, it was cold, as cold as his heart.

His steps were light, and soundless against the echoing of his breath in the air, it bounced off of the walls. The air was cold and bite into his exposed skin in a way that only drew a smile across his face, tugging the corners of his lips, upwards in a sinister smile that would leave anyone with eyes widened, staring, fearing the man that he was. It was not only the smile that toyed with one’s mind, but the fact that underneath the flickering flames of a cruel man, there was a permanent kindness that seemed glued to his eyes. No matter how made or angry he got it stayed, dying sometimes to only the smallest of glows and in other times burning brighter than the sun. On those times you would question yourself and ask was he really bad, was his heart truly made of stone? It was those thoughts that drew the kids on. He had the ability to manipulate them, twisting their minds until they trusted him and did as they were told.

It was than and only then did he reach out yanking them into his iron grip where they could not and would never escape. Only death would be their release and even then most tried not to die, preferring to live and hope –falsely placed hope- that they can escape and return to the homes that they left. They never returned, not one of them had ever gone back to the parents they were torn from, the sisters, friends, boyfriends and girlfriends that they had been removed from. They liked to think it, all of the kids did, it gave them hope and the want, the lust, the willingness to kill and fight for their lives. They did it all for a dream that was crushed, something that Altair loved to do, he loved to think that he held it and with a small clench of his hand he crushed it, it turning to dust and floating away in the cold draught that often stayed in the basement. They were never going to leave, they were stuck forever.

The arena was to his left, ready for the fight that was about to come. His hand lingered over the door to the weapons cupboard, contemplating the ideas that floated so often in his sadistic mind. The choices of weapons were pathetic and stupid, they were idiotic and only things that and idiot would fight with, but the kids did not have much of a choice, they could not really chose what they wanted to fight with. With a shrug he walked away from the door, there would be no weapons today in this fight; they would fight with their bare hands, feet, nails and teeth. It made it more exciting. He blinked once and then twice, his eyes mobbing swiftly over the room. It was dark; shadows enveloped the corners, as if hiding monsters, protecting them by wrapping them around the dark, covering them from the eyes of the humans. They stretched out in areas, like long fingers spreading themselves out along the ground digging in with claws and holding themselves there, waiting for someone to step on them. Waiting to grab someone and tug them into the darkness.

He ignored the children, their moans, their coughs and sneezing, he simply walked past them not even giving them the pleasure of the slightest inclination that he knew they existed. He did know they existed he was the one who had brought almost every single one of them here. He was the only one who had the ability to manipulate them with a few words, his cunning and sly tricks fooled them for the time that he needed to snag them and take them back. They never stood a chance against him. The others were less… were not as good. They often screwed up with slight mistakes, small outbursts that sent the child running, their eyes were too much like a book, displaying the emotions too simply. They did not have the skill that Altair Melnont held.

He stepped elegantly into the arena, through a small side door that was angled in such a way that only a small glimpse of its frame could be seen by only a few of the children. The rest of them could see nothing. Seconds later Bone and Tiltoo came out dragging the two children that would fight with them. The rest of the children were lead out by Lear, a collar was wrapped around each of their necks, a chain connecting them to one another. They were forced into a row, barred from interfering with the fight in anyway. Altair spared them a small glance, a cruel small curling is lips, malice burned in his eyes as he peered down into the arena, he took his place in a raised platform, opposite the children sitting on the benches. Other people, the betters, sat everywhere else, eyes eager straining forward ready to watch. Eyes glistening maliciously. The ground was made of dirt, hard packed and rough, one lone tree was in the centre of the arena and that was all that it consisted of.

”Let the fight begin.” The excitement that crept into his tone was easily noted.

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 -- Okay to start off, sorry about the power-playing, if you don't like it let me know and I will change it. I did it to basically set the scene, to tell you all where you are and what you are doing. Agian, don't like it let me know.

Secondly, rules.

The fight as all of you know is against Fanta and Pepper. It will be unarmed, that means no weapons. All of you are free to RP what you see, as you are in the place watching. Cici and Semper, just fight as you normally would, just make sure your posts are decent length -- although I already know both of you are amazing writer's and your post are going to be perfect. Feel no need to rush and just post, take your time and have fun ^^

Finally, if you have any questions about the fight, the plot or anything I have written, just ask :3 Also good Luck ^^

PS. I will code this later... maybe ;) ]

Last Edit: Sept 26, 2012 6:47:28 GMT -5 by cass

umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]
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The Blood on Your Hands [Plot] Sept 26, 2012 14:50:49 GMT -5

Post by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars] on Sept 26, 2012 14:50:49 GMT -5

Maximus Hilbrooke

Skies are crying, I am watching
Catching tear drops in my hands
Only silence as it's ending
Like we never had a chance

My mother once told me that I'd be thankful for everything she and my father did for me some day. She said that it would all make sense to me, the reasons they wanted me to train so badly, but I never did. I always had it burned into my mind that they just wanted to win a popularity contest among the people they grew up training with. I was wrong. They only wanted me safe. They wanted to know that if ever I were in trouble, I'd be okay. I wish now that I had just listened to them all those years. Maybe if I had I wouldn't be here right now, being led into yet another dark room, with a collar around my neck that suggests I am an animal of some sorts. Among the others that I am chained to, Fanta isn't one of them. In fact, I can't seem to find her anywhere. It's as if she has disappeared from the face of the earth. Perhaps she has finally escaped. Maybe she is free right now, and she is almost back to her old home, where she belongs. Sadly, I know in the back of my mind that this isn't true. I know where she is, even though my eyes can't seem to find her yet.

It isn't until I'm seated on the bench that I can see her. She is standing there, out in the open. She isn't the only person I can find, though. I glare at the boy she is supposed to fight in a few moments. She has to win. She has to beat this boy, because I think I care about her. I've done the one thing I told myself I wouldn't do when I was brought here. Don't let anybody in, Max. In the end, you'll regret it. I play the thought through my head over and over again, coming to the same realization each time. Fanta has managed to get past my walls. I feel my heart racing in my chest quicker and quicker as the seconds pass, and whenever I hear a voice announcing the beginning of the fight, my eyes close. I don't want to see it. I don't want to watch her fight. Do I want her to live? Of course. Do I want to watch her kill somebody, or worse somebody kill her? Of course not.

I flinch as I hear skin touch skin, and mind mind begins to question everything that is happening right on the other side of my eyelids. Was that her hitting him? Or him hitting her? Is she hurt? I can't stop myself anymore, and my eyes fly open, anxious to see what they have been avoiding. I hope that the only friend I have here is okay. I hope that she will be able to hold her own, because now, she is the only thing that is keeping my sanity in place.

ooc: lol, this is what happens when I am without muse.

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

semper
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The Blood on Your Hands [Plot] Sept 28, 2012 12:00:00 GMT -5

Post by semper on Sept 28, 2012 12:00:00 GMT -5

Pepper Rebio

[/font]

My heart is racing – surely I’d die if it pounded a rhythm only slightly faster. You would think I’d be used to the prefight rituals, but I’m not. Each one strikes fear into my core whether I’m a contender or not. I have seen people die and I have killed, the aftershock of both is the same.

[/color] The fear starts to bubble up inside of me and I begin to pace along the bars of my holding cell, clenched fists shaking at my sides. I don’t want to fight.[/color] It’s something I say every time but can do nothing about it. I’m going to be thrown into that arena one way or another, whether it’s a minute or an hour from now. The nerves work up and I swear I’m going to be sick but there’s nothing in my belly to throw back up, so I resort to muttering a song that I always used to hear my twin sister sing. Just a short little poem she recited with different octaves all fitting smoothly together – but I can’t sing so I just mutter them, trying to recall that calmness I always felt back at home. It evades me, though, leaving me to fend for myself against this gnawing and creeping fear, but I can’t deal with it. It’s becoming overwhelming and I feel my entire body begin to vibrate with tremors as a result.

I can hear the muffled murmuring of all the spectators – those filthy-minded betters that come to watch a sort of “mini Games” – and all I want to do is shrink back to nothingness. If I die then I’ll become nothing but I don’t want to die.[/color] I want to live to make it to the outside world – be with Sonnet as he gets to see his flowers again for the first time in years[/color] – and see my parents again, live the life Salt and I were deprived of so early in life. ”You said you’re scared but I’ll catch you if you fall; don’t fear, I’m right here.”[/color] The only problem is that there’s no one here to help me. I’m on my own just like I have been every fight. I have to pull through this again.[/color] If I want to see Salt and Sonnet and Chato again then I’m going to have to use everything I have to go against my resentment of killing Fanta. The poor girl has done nothing to me and now I’m slowly starting to want to kill her.

My hands tremble still and I pace just a little faster until the door suddenly opens and in comes either Bone or Tiltoo, I can’t tell which. They grab my arm and harshly drag me out into the one area that I dread more than anything. My feet drag themselves across the hard-packed dirt that’s soaked up my blood before and will do so again today (or is it night?[/color]). My wide hazel eyes turn their gaze to the crowd. There’s the obnoxious betters, then off to the side are all the people I know; I see my sister, her strong determination showing and her intense gaze fixed on me. I know what she wants me to do but I keep forcing that instinct down. We can find another way, it doesn’t have to go like this.[/color] Altair wouldn’t like that, though; he wants violence, he wants one of us to die in this arena, he as well as the others want entertainment. I quickly look away and see Sonnet this time. His facial features aren’t as uplifting as they normally are and I can’t quite tell what’s going on in his head. I want to just go run up to them but Altair’s voice brings me back to attention with what’s at hand. I need to fight, I need to live, I need to be a monster.[/color]
[/blockquote]

((I dunno if I should put an attack in this post or not. xD If so I’ll edit with one.))
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i hear the mountains calling me home

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The Blood on Your Hands [Plot] Sept 29, 2012 11:35:04 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Sept 29, 2012 11:35:04 GMT -5

{ F A N T A C H I M E }

Is this the real life? Is this just
fantasy?
Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality[/center][/i]

There was once a time when Fanta could walk outside, only to be engulfed in a world of silence, sewn together by the delicate call of the wind chimes. There was once a time when simplicity was a composed reality rather than a desired fantasy. Most of all, there was once a time when the girl with the ghostly expression and the disastrous mess of dirt-caked blond hair, could somehow let the continuous wheels in her head die down and stop turning at such a rapid pace. Fanta's eyes so rarely closed, as she tried to sort out thought after thought after thought, as they flickered through her memory, only to be gone a second later if she didn't snatch them first.

There was a profound stubbornness that filled Fanta, a stubborness disguised by weakness. Fanta Chime was born a fighter, but not this kind of a fighter. She fought for her own creativity, her own sanity, always being the one that took something so hopeless and obsolete and created something wonderful from its remains. She needed something to grasp, and over the course of her lifetime, Fanta had searched for ways to keep her sanity at her side. She was still searching, still hoping.

But hoping was at least one-hundred times more difficult for her. Everything was.

Chimes. She remembered the sky, the blue blue sky, and the chimes: the wind chimes. She couldn't remember her parents' voices or their faces but she remembered the chimes that turned the steady wind's whispers to song. It was the only memory she held of her real family, her real home, and it was those chimes that reminded her when she was home. She found chimes in the most simple of things: the sound of the piano keys, so delicate and dreary, and now, in Max's voice, so faintly resembling that simple sound ignited by the wind when she was so very young. The piano keys had been taken from her, but Max had been her little detour back to sanity. Almost.

No one really knew Fanta. She used to speak all of the time, through the keys of the piano, but no one ever listened. No one ever cared to understand who she was or where she came from. Even the people at the community home: they didn't know her real name. In fact, she didn't either. Yet, the odd young girl hadn't stopped commenting on the chimes, and somehow, it had been adopted as her last name.

Silence is haunting. The wind—you don't know what it sounds like, until you hear the chimes echoing its thoughts. Then, you know that the haunting whispers that surround you are only disguising something so much more beautiful. Fanta was the wind, but no one could hear her. No one could hear her even when she let a tornado run loose across the land. They saw an enormous disaster of insanity, but nothing else. Not until the wind chimes caught her tune, not until the wind chimes allowed her to tame herself. For once, the wind was at peace, eyes closed as she shielded herself from the world. When she finally found a way to grasp her own ability to let her brain activity slow and immerse herself into another world entirely, almost nothing could wake her—nothing except for the sound of keys, scraping against the lock, the sensation of two rough hands pulling the wind from her sleep. Maybe even that would fail to wake her in only a matter of hours. Maybe nothing would.

Fanta screamed and she struggled, failing to accept her own fate, but in only a few minutes, she was out of breath, her energy drained. She felt hard-packed dirt beneath her feet, as the hands let go of her, situating her across from Pepper. Her gaze flickered over to the tree. She remembered that tree. She remembered it all too well. In fact, she remembered this ground, and that bench, and the feeling of blood, seeping from her forehead. Fanta knew that this fight wasn't just Fanta versus Pepper. Mona was here too, prepared for her revenge—two versus one. No, Mona. No. Don't fight me, Fanta thought. I'm on your side. Yet, before another thought could pull the seams of her mind down any further, the man's voice illuminated the arena. “Let the fight begin.”

An odd sound, something between a laugh and a scream and a desperate cry, escaped Fanta's mouth, and she quickly sank to the ground, digging her fingernails into the earth. Dig, dig, dig. She couldn't stop herself. Dig, dig, dig. The ground was hard, but Fanta didn't care. She was getting out of here. She was going to find Madelyn and her piano. She wasn't going to let this end like it did with Mona. They wouldn't win this time. Dig, dig, dig. She wasn't getting anywhere, but she couldn't see it. She never could. Life had blinded her from the beginning, and had, in turn, given her sight of things that no one else could see. Maybe if she dug far enough, she'd make her way out of here. Maybe, maybe Mona was down there, under her feet, crying out for someone to hear her, waiting to be saved.

“Pepper,” she said, her voice raspy and weak. “Dig.”

Dig, dig, dig. She screamed, pushing at the dirt over and over and over again, despite the fact that the ground wouldn't give in. With each elongated moment, another haunting thought pulled her down. Her fragile mind was overflowing with too much. Worse, there were no wind chimes to restrain her insanity. Not here, not now, maybe never again. She couldn't hear the sound of the piano, or the sound of Max's voice, or even just the simple sound of chimes that had carried her through her life as the only memory of her real home. She screamed as she realized she had nothing left but dirtied fingernails and fragments of hope. She was barely aware of Pepper and that fact that, at any moment, he had the power to take her down. Instead, still kneeling on the ground, she kept her fingers going, digging viciously at the unforgiving dirt.

Never having grown out of her childish habits, she kept digging, utterly unaware of her surroundings: unaware of Max sitting on the sidelines, unaware of Pepper standing somewhere across from her, and unaware of the scary man's hungry smile, as he waited for that first drop of blood.

Because she was the wind, running at her own pace.

And no one could hear her.

ooc -- Sorry, I haven't written anything in so long and I have like no idea what this is. But omg, 1000th post <333 [/size][/blockquote][/color][/justify]

Last Edit: Nov 6, 2012 20:45:49 GMT -5 by Deleted

semper
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The Blood on Your Hands [Plot] Oct 20, 2012 14:03:12 GMT -5

Post by semper on Oct 20, 2012 14:03:12 GMT -5

Pepper Rebio

[/font]

The four simple words have only started fading when Fanta shrieks – some terrifying noise that makes me automatically duck as if she’s already dealt the first attack. My arms quickly reach up to defend myself but she never approaches me; instead, she simply ducks down and starts clawing at the ground, tearing up dirt with her nails. It takes my mind a few moments to process her actions and to realize that she’s being harmless, even inviting me to join her.

But why? What does she think she can accomplish by digging? She’s trying to escape.

[/color] There’s no way she can possibly dig her way out of the arena; at one point or another she’s going to hit a barrier. There’s going to be a point in which she can’t dig, she won’t find her freedom no matter how hard she claws at the ground. Does she not realize that I’m here?[/color] At any moment I could just attack her – pounce, claw, bite, bash, break. I don’t exist to her, not while she thinks she can get out of her. Her scream startles me and I flinch away again from the terrifying noise, taking a quick step back.

She’s so absorbed in her own world.[/color]

It could be so simple. Fanta isn’t trying to fight right now and it almost occurs to me that she doesn’t seem to know what’s at stake. She knows, though; that’s why she’s trying to escape.[/color] But you can’t escape this place, this hell hole. The only way out of here is to die.

My hands curl into fists, lowering down from their protective stance. Why isn’t she getting this? Why is it so hard to understand?[/color] In this place you have to kill or be killed, not try to escape. Salt has tried that and exhausted that option to its weary bones and yet she’s still here. She hasn’t escaped, so what makes Fanta any better than my sister? What would ever make her, some poor mad girl, more capable of outsmarting my brilliant sister in escape routes? Nothing.[/color] Salt is braver, stronger, and more level-headed than this frantic girl in front of me.

To my dull hazel eyes, Fanta’s just acting like some weak little animal. You know, the ones that don’t have any sort of strength needed to properly defend themselves so they resort to burrowing and hiding.[/color] There’s no doubt in my mind that she wants to live but she’s going about it all the wrong way.

You can’t escape, Fanta.[/color]

I begin to walk toward her, my gaze locked onto her hunched form. She’d be so easy to take out right now…. her attention isn’t on me at all. What could possibly be in the ground that’s more important than me?[/color]

I’m what she should be focusing on. I’m the only one that can save her. I’m the only thing that matters right now.

Death is our only salvation in the dungeon but my will to live outweighs that. I want to be able to still see Sonnet’s smiles, hear quiet remnants of Salt’s songs, all of those useless facts Chato tells – I want all of that still. All I have to do is murder Fanta.[/color]

A predator – that’s what I am, it’s what I have to be. If I’m to take out this mad girl I need to see her as only some sick little vulnerable animal that’s already on the verge of death. All I’ll be doing is helping her through that transition from life to death.[/color] Predators don’t have sympathy – they only hunger, starve, thirst.[/color] No sympathy; not now, not ever.

Without a second thought I duck down and charge at her. I don’t care whether or not she hears me coming – I feel as if I have the upper hand already. She’s too focused on everything else but what she should be focused on, and that’s saving her own damn life.

unarmed
[dice=200+5000]
broken jaw - 7.0

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[rand=987057271180674433208545763045553019992043264212090266637969762]

Last Edit: Oct 20, 2012 14:08:48 GMT -5 by semper

i hear the mountains calling me home

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The Blood on Your Hands [Plot] Oct 28, 2012 15:40:23 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Oct 28, 2012 15:40:23 GMT -5

{ F A N T A C H I M E }

Is this the real life? Is this just
fantasy?
Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality[/center][/i]

Fanta Chime knew that Life wanted her silent. With life, came the wind; but with human nature, came the chimes. So did imperfection. Therefore, Life's intentions were to make the world a more perfect environment; yet the means which it was willing to go to were questionable.

From how Life had been treating her, it almost seemed to Fanta that she held something that life wanted. Everyone did, really. It was as though she knew a secret: a secret that Life had never intended for any other product of its own existence to know. Life was doing everything in its power to keep those few words—whatever they were which life so keenly despised—from ever escaping the lips of the girl who held them so securely within the depths of her very creation. Life thought that playing with the strings and the keys that lined her brain, pulling them to the limits of incorrect tuning, would help to restrain the wild mind of Fanta Chime. Maybe it did, yet the fighter continued to fight.

Now, Life was on it's way to burying Fanta's unspoken secrets forever, along with the soul of the girl, still very alive. But what was it; what was it that Life never wanted her to share with the world? Either way, the collision of Pepper's fist with her face that threw her onto her back was quite unexpected. Or maybe it wasn't; maybe hope had merely blinded her for those few moments. Pain suddenly filled her jaw and Fanta whimpered, putting her dirt-caked hands to her face, blood following her. She almost laughed at the fact that it was her jaw: it was her mouth that had been targeted, the one sense utterly devoted to communication. In how many more ways could Life impair her ability to communicate? Very quickly, Fanta shot a glare at Pepper,l who stood above her, before pulling herself to her feet.

When this was all over, and when Fanta was finally dead, what human soul would remember her words clinging, clinging, clinging, like seaweed on a rock, like a spider to it's web, like the last shriveled leaf, as winter terminates its entire reality? All of these things: unwanted, abandoned, and thrown into the dark results of blind judgment. Maybe Max would. Maybe he would remember. Max, Max, Max. Hope, hope, hope. Blind hope was the only thing left that Fanta had left to cling to, without being shoved off, like a dying leaf at fall's finale.

However, the real question was: who ever discovered the many worlds and galaxies beyond the simple planet Earth? Who ever found the origins of the people who first inhabited the land? Who ever knew the answer to creation? Who ever established immortality? Who ever dug and dug and dug until they reached the very core of the Earth? No one ever did. And so it was decided that no one would ever know of the soul hidden beneath the blanket of irrefutable ugliness that had become Fanta Chime's reality. She was just another mystery, forever unsolved.

She had never been given her proper chance. She'd spoken, but her words had always been distorted by autism. Only two people had even come close to understanding, let alone caring. Madelyn understood her, more than anyone else in the world ever had, yet Madelyn's search for her own potential left Fanta in the dust of her own monstrosity. Max, on the other hand, she had only known for so long. He listened, but did he understand? Did he understand an inch of what was hidden beneath her cursed, confused reality?

Fanta didn't want to die right here, with so much still locked inside her heart, waiting for its escape. She didn't want to fade away, without knowing what it meant to feel love and comfort and worry for someone other than oneself, and even more so, without knowing that there was at least some sense of completion within her. There was nothing complete about dying with an unlocked world still buried within the chambers of your heart.

The girl didn't understand. She didn't understand why Pepper had lashed out, why he somehow didn't think the way she did. With her distorted perception of reality, she had come to the conclusion that everyone's minds were interconnected, similar in thought. Sometimes, it was difficult for her to realize that not everyone played nice. The kids at the community home had been the same way; they pushed Fanta around, but when she fought back, no one listened. They didn't care that she didn't start it. They didn't care that they had taken her doll first. They didn't want to care.

Was Pepper the same way? Was he just like the kids who took advantage of Fanta's clueless behavior, who treated her as though she were incapable of ever deserving life in the first place? Would he use that as an excuse to push away his sense of empathy? Would he use it just to win? Fanta never liked those kinds of people: the ones who didn't want to make eye contact with her, the ones who didn't want to believe that there was anything more to her than crazy. They all thought it was okay, to take her dolls and cut her in line; and now, to kill her.

"She's crazy after all. It's not as though she'll notice."

But she very much did.

Through raspy breaths, Fanta let her words ignite the silent atmosphere. “You're,” she said, pain filling her jaw, “no,” and the words were distorted, the pain in her jaw too great, too limiting. “'ferent.” She couldn't get the whole word out. It wasn't an accident that her jaw had been fractured. Life wanted her silent. Why?

Gathering her balance, Fanta's hands turned to fists. Why? She asked herself. Why was she the target of Life's monstrous behavior? She had no deep, dark secrets and she held nothing more than what belonged to her. Yet, she held a goodness that after her death, would find its way to the very corners of the most hidden of histories, until no eyes fell upon it ever again.

Maybe that's what Life wanted.

All goodness gone and forgotten, Fanta silently promised herself that she would win this fight like she won against Mona. Except, she realized, as she threw all of her strength in Pepper's direction, this time it would be easier.

unarmed
[dice=200+5000]
Bruised Left Forearm - 2

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Last Edit: Nov 6, 2012 20:46:03 GMT -5 by Deleted

semper
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The Blood on Your Hands [Plot] Dec 29, 2012 17:47:22 GMT -5

Post by semper on Dec 29, 2012 17:47:22 GMT -5

Pepper Rebio

[/font]

Once, in your parents’ masonry workshop, you began snooping around. Your parents didn’t mind since all you were doing was picking up scrap tidbits of stone, metal, nails, and whatever else you could find. No one bothered you and you enjoyed your work, turning it into a game: you were the predator and the inanimate scraps were your prey. I was so young back then – so small and frail.

[/color] Whether it was by toddling around or crawling on all fours (with gloves on, of course; mother never liked it when we didn’t wear gloves in the shop “just in case,” as she always put it[/color]), prowling in search of scraps. You collected a fair amount usually every other day, though it depended on how large the project was and how often demands came in.

You created a pile in the back, far away from anyone else’s eyes. There, you sorted out the materials: stones, steel, nails, etc – and once you even had a pile of sawdust. The piles were set around you in a semicircle. The hardest part was figuring out the placement of the items; you had scraps of cardboard and some glue bottles that your mother let you have, crusted with old glue on the top and hardly a quarter full. Your tiny fingers set each item on the cardboard very delicately, being sure to not allow round items to roll. Those were always the trickiest ones.[/color] After each scrap was put into their proper place, you removed them one by one and dabbed some glue, then put it back and held the scrap against the adhesive for a minimum of ten seconds. Any less and they’ll surely fall off![/color]

Your parents never found out about your scrap works while you were at home – have they found them by now?[/color] Were they crying over them, remembering the little curly-haired boy that prowled along the shop floor as if he were a predator? I’ve been a predator all along. I realize that now.[/color] During Career training you never did put on that great of a show – your first (and last[/color]) girlfriend quickly made that a point when she assaulted you and you hadn’t the courage nor strength to fight back. She tore you down and ripped the rug right out from underneath your feet – and it was then that you learned to only stand on solid ground; no rugs or anything that could knock you off balance.

Is that why the floor of my prison is cement?[/color]

You’ve lost yourself in the dungeon, though. There’s nothing at all stabilizing about the place. In fact, part of you believes that you were sturdier on the rug than on the cement. Sure, rugs can be yanked from underneath you, but they never take away your humanity. Your hands are still slick with warm blood even if they’ve been washed since the last fight; you’ve cut off vital air supply; bludgeoned someone to death with a mere candlestick. Where is my candlestick?[/color] And suddenly it hits you: you want the carpet, the uncertainty of whether or not it’ll be there when people walk by. You treasure that over this damp, moldy cement – it’s not as sturdy as you had originally hoped. You want out. I want out.[/color]

The desire for the return of your innocence burns with such a fire that a guttural growl rumbles in your chest. The girl was trying to speak – such pitiful sounds were emitted from her mouth. What is she saying?[/color] The distorted and jumbled syllables are an enigma to you. ”You’re.. no… ferent..” Ferret? Friend?[/color] As she gets up and starts toward you, you brace yourself, putting your arm up to defend yourself as she attacks. The blow stings, but it’s nothing compared to the crack in her jaw.

”Friend?” You snarl, hazel eyes narrowed onto the poor mad girl. It used to be that when you looked across the cells and saw her, you pitied her. No one was very sane in the dungeon (except for Sonnet, but even he is crazy in his own way[/color]), that was a given; but in your opinion, Fanta’s mental state was the worst. If you had met her on the street you probably would have turned a blind eye at her muttering and untimely giggles – or was she different before she ended up here?[/color] How long had she been trapped behind bars? As long as you have? Shorter? Longer? What was she like above ground?

On any other day you would have seen her as a possible friend – but not today.

”I am not your friend!” You charge at her, desperation powering your attack. If you kill her, you live to formulate another escape plan – if I survive, I can go home. And I’m not going to let this mad girl ruin that chance.[/color]

unarmed
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Last Edit: Dec 29, 2012 17:53:16 GMT -5 by semper

i hear the mountains calling me home

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The Blood on Your Hands [Plot] Jan 4, 2013 17:37:45 GMT -5

Post by Python on Jan 4, 2013 17:37:45 GMT -5

- - - - - -

Today was not just another day. Today, Sonnet’s time would not be spent isolated in the corners of a filthy cell barred by steel appendages, bathing in his own grime and picking at the corners of his nails or scratching marks into the walls to keep himself occupied. Today would not allow him to wrap his hands around the metal dividing himself and the beloved Pepper Rebio, or let him speak with the bitter Salt Rebio as she snapped unpleasant remarks at his grinning face. Today, even Sonnet Prey could not find the will or energy to crack one of his signature smiles, because he knew that by the end of this day one more child would be buried beneath the soil never to see the eye of sunlight or the smiles of their family members again.

And that child could be Pepper. He anticipated every moment of this wretched ~~morning?~~ ~~afternoon~~ ~~evening?~~ day, still aware of the routine and protocol that would follow as soon as the two doomed children were dragged unwillingly from their zoo cages. When he spotted Bone and Tiltoo’s lurking silhouettes against the dim light reaching the basement, he watched lazily through half-lidded eyes as each of them opened a single cell door, slamming the sliding bars aside to create a startling rattle that surged into his rusty bones and awakened his senses. One yanked a screaming Fanta out of her quarters, the other handling Pepper rather harshly to nobody’s surprise.

Eyes weary with sleep deprivation and worry, Sonnet watched Pepper change from an independent prisoner struggling for happiness to an abused rag doll in less than a second as his form was violently jerked out of the cell by either Bone or Tiltoo - he could not distinguish the two from a distance. He was granted only a second or two of Pepper’s attention, their gazes meeting in the darkness past the shadows and the humid atmosphere, and in that moment there were “good lucks” and “you’ll do greats” he wanted to mutter as reassurance for a panicking Pepper, but little time was available and only the flash of a half-hearted smile reached the boy’s eyes before he was hauled out of sight and into what Sonnet knew was the arena. After that, he could predict what would arrive next and what would be in store for himself. He did not stir when Lear tore his cage door open, and merely sat against the cold, damp concrete walls with his legs sprawled in front of him (his jeans were ripped and littered with stains from Ripred knows what) as he listened to the rattles of chains and the cries of miserable children being forced out of their cramped prisons. He did not fight when the shadow of the king loomed over his pathetic form - he only obeyed orders and rose steadily from his relaxed position in the corner, pacing slowly along with Lear out of his cell and toward the series of chains he knew all too well. In only a few seconds time, Sonnet was shackled to his fellow prisoners, wrists and neck bound in heavy iron that clanged as the children were forced to walk in an awkward, single-file line to the arena, where the fate of one child rested in its boundaries.

The arena was disgusting - a mess of caked dirt, dried blood, and reeking with the stench of death, but Sonnet expected no different. Lear guided the children connected by restricting collars and chains to a spot where the platform was in clear, plain sight - where there was nowhere to stare but at the arena on which Fanta and Pepper would duel. The children stood in a row, Sonnet being lodged between two prisoners who tugged his chains and summoned a nasty ache in his neck, and where there was normally mutters and quiet sobs of despair there was now an eerie silence lingering in the musty air, as if the children were staring into the eyes of a terrifying ghost when Altair appeared. ”Let the fight begin,” he heard Altair announce, and as much as Sonnet wanted to look away he could not. Fanta may have been a distant stranger to him, but Pepper was his friend. ”You’ll see them again,” Pepper had said, his hand curled in Sonnet’s through iron bars trying to separate them, his reference to the flowers he once cherished a reminder that there was more to hope for than just freedom. His response had been a simple thank you, for he knew Pepper invested a lot of faith in him believing that he was the most unbreakable statue in this museum of hell, and perhaps he was correct. I’ve fought, I’ve killed, I’ve suffered, but I’m still okay - right? I’ll always be okay. But maybe it was this excessive optimism that made him just as broken as everyone else.

There were no cheers, catcalls, or sounds of encouragement from the audience - only the weak breaths of miserable children that didn’t want to watch fellow human beings brawl, especially with no weapons. The death will be slow and painful. It always was, wasn’t it? Altair made sure of that every time. Sonnet would know, he was one of the most prestigious killers in the entire system, being held captive for years without he himself knowing, though what he did know was that the days were blurred together, all of his memories fuzzy. He would never forget the names of the children, however, or their screams as he’d slaughtered them like an impassive, unstoppable machine. Now, it was either Fanta or Pepper’s turn to rise above the rest, and from what he was witnessing Pepper was stealing the upper hand. Fanta - there had always been an air of strangeness to her, like she was absorbed in her own world, reality being like a dream. She always appeared “out of it”, maybe a bit crazy - or perhaps there was something wrong with her, something not caused by her captivity in this hellhole. Whatever the cause may be, it was leading her to the floor, her nails clawing at the dirt as if trying to create a tunnel in which to escape - but they all knew it was impossible. Even Fanta should’ve known.

Copper eyes focused evenly on Pepper. Sonnet’s expression was blank, his shoulders leaned against the wall behind him as he silently willed his friend to move, to take advantage of Fanta’s distraction even if it was an act of evil. Someone was going to die, all of them knew it, so why not make the death quicker? Why drag it out for Altair’s pleasure? Pepper needed to attack and fight if he wanted to survive, and Sonnet surely didn’t want to watch them stand there uselessly until Altair decided to intervene - if that happened, there would only be more pain than what was necessary and he knew Pepper wanted to avoid that. Luckily, his companion stole the chance and cracked his fist across the girl’s jaw, the sickening sound of the crunch prompting a few children to cringe while Sonnet remained rigid. He couldn’t decipher what Fanta muttered afterwards, but the words seemed laced with enough fuel to anger Pepper, who lashed out again and missed after Fanta had landed a blow against his arm. Now, the fight had truly commenced, and it took every ounce of strength within him to pry his eyes away from the violence and stare at their shifting feet instead, refusing to look at the handsome face as he either killed or took his last breath.

But Sonnet knew he would look again. He always did.[/blockquote][/justify][/color]

Last Edit: Jan 4, 2013 17:47:39 GMT -5 by Python