- Created By otakualchemist
Drowning
She was asleep. It was sort of like a small miracle, seeing her asleep, because in the future—in her future—she was always moving around, bustling, smiling fake smiles that masked deep sorrow. But here she was, draped under a jacket far too large for her, her arm tucked under her head like a pillow and her chest moving in the sweet, slow rhythm of sleep. Gently leaning down, he picked up glasses and held them up to the sunrise, letting the light filter through the lenses, stained with salt from tears. Rin, at age fourteen, the previous night, had been crying.
Looking down, he noticed that her cheek was also sporting a large bruise, likely from a hit to the face. “Abuse,” He saw Susano’o mutter, gazing down at the child that had been determined to be his daughter, flesh and blood alike. “Her adoptive mother must have done it… that would rationalize her reasons for fleeing up here to sleep, of all places,” He said in a whisper, his silky voice wafting to Yukimura’s and Zexion’s ears alike.
“I hear someone,” Zexion whispered to them, and, opening a portal behind them into the clock tower, he ushered Susano’o and Yukimura in, the latter dropping the glasses after cleaning them off.
“There you are! I knew you’d be sleeping up here again…” A female sighed, taking the jacket off of her and nudging her foot to rouse her from her slumber. “Get up! We’re getting breakfast at Michael’s today, remember? It’s his birthday!”
“Oh, yeah…” Rin yawned, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. She looked so different from how she was in the future… here, she was more tomboyish, with short cut hair and baggy shorts, and an obviously un-ladylike demeanor about everything. In the future, she was so demure, so peaceful, so… lonely.
“So… these must be the friends that she lost,” Zexion murmured, and Susano’o nodded. “First… she lived without real parents. Then, without real friends. And now, she’s surrounded by people that love and care about her, and it’s like she’s drowning. She doesn’t know how to pull herself up to the surface, because she’s never been there before.”
“But… there’s always going to be someone to pull her back up.” Zexion cut in, glancing at Yukimura. “You’re like her life raft. She’s holding onto you because she’s got no other way to live. And… I guess… in those thirteen years, the life raft started to deflate, and she was left without a way out. She was drowning… and in one final act of desperation… she killed herself before the ocean could. Now, where is she? She’s lost. And… the life raft is the one who has to be there to find her again. That’s the way it is, right?”
Yukimura nodded, watching the girl who would someday be his wife run off, her too-large coat trailing behind her, a goofy grin on her face that he’d probably never see again.
“I’ll pull her back to shore.”
MT Ch. I- Ranel Alistair
"Now, dear child," she said with a smile, "Erinn awaits."
~Mabinogi Tales~ Chapter I- Ranel Alistair (Death is nothing, here.)
2453 A.D., London, England
All of London was ablaze. They didn't know when the bombings had started, they just did, and they started right near Big Ben, where Ranel Alistair was with his younger sister, Riné.
As they'd been taughyt, Ranel grabbed the child up and ran toward Buckingham Palace, so he could take Riné to the shelter, then try and stop the fires with the other men.
"Ranel Alistair!" A megaphone-enhanced voice shouted, up from one of the menacling black helicopters that circled the city, their bright spotlights piercing through the fires. "You are under arrest for crimes against the city of London! The entire, city, including yourself and the inhabitants, must removed as an act of cleansing in result of your crime!"
The voice was young, Arabian, male. Ranel recognized the armored uniform, though; sleek. Black. Federation.
They knew.
"Riné, run," he whispered to the child, setting her down in the streets.
"Are you resisting arrest, Ranel Alistair?" the voice asked, and he looked up at the armored Arabian, though his words were drowned out by the whistle of a missile heading towards him, the Federation officer, and his tiny ten-year old sister...
-----
There was a white heat, then a cool breeze. Silence. Sand. And another voice.
"Are you awake, Ranel?"
A woman hovered above him, smiling as her fingertips gently brushed his temple. "Ranel... I'm Nao. I will send you to Erinn, where death cannot touch you, and the gods will keep you in their eternal prayers."
"Wait..." Ranel sat up, her eyes fixed upon him. "What happened to London? To my friends? Oh, lord, what happened to Riné?!"
"Hush, now," She commanded, her tone suddenly stern. "I could only save the two that are destined. You, Ranel Alistair, and Adalia Al-Bashed."
Adalia? That was a woman's name.
"Now, go into Erinn, Ranel. Go home."
And before he could question her, everything was white, and a sharp pain overtook his spine and arm as he realized that he'd hit the ground, wearing unfamiliar clothes and hearing unfamiliar sounds. Though, he turned his face into the cool mound of dirt and was glad to find that, at least, that smelled the same.
Opening his eyes, he sorely looked around and saw that, wherever he was, it was nice; everything smelled fresh and sounded quiet, and was unsurprisingly primitive. There was a familiarity, though, to this tiny village. The name of it was almost on his lips, burning on his tongue...
"Excuse me, but you've landed on my sword." Yet another unfamiliar voice. However, looking down, he groaned at the sight of the blade impaling his arm, and he laughed dryly.
"I guess this is my welcome to Tir Chonaill."
Tea
There is a woman who sits at her window, stares out on the world, and sips her tea.
She is fashion. What she wears, the world wears. Her lips, the vibrant red of the orient, stained the white china as she sipped the sweet, steaming beverage. Her teeth so white and perfect, her hair, a vivid black, pressed to her head in the styled waves. Her nails match her lips and her dress does, as well, and her shoes are like ladybugs, red with black dots.
She is grace. The way she gets up from her chair and disappears behind the architectural curtain, the part of her life that no one can see, but everyone wishes to. Her skirt flares at her thighs, her balance perfect, her posture admired by choir boys and conductors.
She is a revolutionary. A woman looked up at her, and said "This is the image of the American Woman." The flappers were born.
She is a model. A tired man, his ebony skin contrasting against the whites of his eyes, saw how beautifully she wore herself, colored her skin black in his mind, and so came the Harlem Renaissance.
And all she's ever done is sat there and drink tea in her window.
Moving a Few Things
To make things a little less cluttered here, I'm going to move my non-fictional works over to my new world, Sun Showers. Prosthetic Imagination will stay as-is, but only for the good stuff and updates concerning the good stuff.
I hope that those of you who read my work come with me on the move.
-Otaku Alchemist
We Remain
"Sometimes he had indulged in daydreams about finding someone. More often, though, he had tried to adjust to what he sincerely believed was the inevitable — that he was actually the only one left in the world. At least in as much of the world as he could ever hope to know." - Richard Matheson, I Am Legend
The best thing about being one of the last people left on the earth was that you could stand on top of the Carew Tower, legs aching after a 49 floor climb and a three mile walk, and see every star in the sky for billions of light years, pinpricks of light dotting the darkness that seemed to personify the Earth. It was dangerous taking the couple of trips up there every so often, away from the safety of the school with the tightest security around. It was intensely dangerous, but they stayed the night in the building, under abandoned desks or on employee lounge tables, and in the dawn, when the cries of the infected had ceased their nocturnal song, the two or three of them that would come at a time hopped back in the SUV, parked three miles away, and headed back up to the suburban area where their sanctuary was a high school, and days meant going and scouring the areas for canned food, anything still edible, bottled water and carbonated drinks, and sometimes even wine or champagne on special occasions, since there was no one around to enforce the drinking law. Smoking, too, though no one did that but Jack, who had drifted down from Detroit to join the group of six or so teenagers that, like him, like those in the Colony in Vermont, and like Dr. Robert Neville in New York, were immune.
He felt like he was babysitting them sometimes, these sixteen year olds that lived out of their high school and broke into homes and stole food with an expertise that had so often made him wonder if they'd been doing it their whole lives. When he went with them on runs, to hospitals for antibiotics, to stores and homes for food, they kicked down doors and broke through windows easily with punches, kicks, and the back ends of guns. They'd even taken furniture from houses that they liked; couches, chairs, beds, curtains. They went to the IKEA that had been opened back in 2008 and furnished the school like it was a mansion, barely feeling bad. "If we're going to live, it might as well be in comfort," one of the teens, Elizabeth, had told him.
It was she who had found Jack and taken him into their home. She was the de facto leader of the group, that was more than obvious, and it had been her idea to rally up these other children that she hadn't known, all only thirteen at the time, except for little Eli Roth, who was only two at the time. "This is our little army," She so gladly introduced, "We have Michael DeRoba," She nodded to a blonde teen with a rifle pressed against his shoulder like a marine at attention, "Dominique Hayes," A black boy with his hair in dreadlocks, his face illuminated by the glow of his laptop, "Yukihiro Atsunaga," an Asian boy who was asleep in a bed, "Myself, Elizabeth Coppola, and... oh, there they are. Melissa Raphael, we call her Mel, and Eli Roth. They're attached at the hip pretty much. Eli won't do anything without Mel, and Mel won't do anything without Eli. Everyone!" Her voice piped up, and everyone looked over, even the sleeping Japanese. "This is Jack Hanson, from Detroit. He'll be staying with us."
All Jack could register at that moment were Eli's deep blue eyes, boring into his soul.
