Where do I start? Let's see...disclaimer: the only character I own is
Zaryah. Bear with me on this first chapter, it's an intro and it will all
make sense later one. This story starts in the near future, but it is
really about the distant future, Wyatt and Chris' future, where Evil Wyatt
rules the world. Can it be saved by one drifting girl? I Looooooove
reviews, good and bad, please R&R!
Opening Act
Eleven dollars, four nickels, and a penny – that was all that was left of this week's pay. Not that she cared. What difference did anything make now? Besides, she should consider herself lucky to have this much; she'd seen the children of other victims, younger ones mostly, and at least she had clothes and a roof over her head.
She looked at the nickels in her hand, bright and shiny. They were new. She remembered, many years ago, her science teacher demonstrating an experiment. Two pennies, one old, one new. When placed in acid overnight, the inside of the new penny was eaten away because the copper insides had been replaced with cheap substitute. The old penny was pure copper, and remained whole and unbroken.
She'd gotten to keep the penny; it was hollow, hollow like she knew these shiny new nickels would surely be. Hollow like the house that stood in front of her. Not her home – not anymore. It used to be, before the neighborhood had died. Now it stood silent testimony in a ghetto, acknowledgment of lost lives. A house, not a home, because the front porch stood empty, the backyard swing remained still, and no fire had burned in the fireplace for a long time. It held not even memories. Only she held those, and she didn't need this silent reminder. Then why did she keep coming back here? Maybe it was like those children she saw, living in the tents, clutching their dolls because they were the last memories they possessed. But she did possess many things still, and she didn't need them. They didn't matter now.
She shoved the change into her jacket pocket, and turned away. Home now was a tiny apartment above Bill's Pizza-Rama. Her college dorm had been bigger. Forget it all – forget everything. Think only of the future, and reaching it. She could make things better if she tried.
Walking towards Home took her through the park, silent except for a single bird. As she passed by a thick grove of overgrown trees and brush, a man ran by, just narrowly avoiding lighting her hair with the great torch he was waving. Strange, in the daytime. Her walk had halted to stare at the man as he ran hard and fast, until the buzz of an engine distracted her. She turned, but not fast enough, and a great hunk of metal and gas plowed into her, knocking her to the ground. She threw out her arms and winced as they took the brunt of her fall, but her leg twisted strangely, and she bit her lip to choke back a scream. The motorcycle was slowing, turning, coming back to stop before her. The rider threw off her helmet to reveal a woman, nicely dressed, brown hair, kind brown eyes, not quite middle-aged. Definitely not a member of Hell's Angels. She didn't belong on a motorcycle.
The woman rushed to her side in a blur.
"Oh my God," she said. "We need help. Chris!"
Who was she calling?
"Listen, now don't try to move. I can't begin to explain how sorry I am. I'm Piper, by the way. Chris!"
A man walked into her line of sight, looking razzled. He took in the situation, then lifted a questioning eyebrow to the woman, Piper.
"Questions later," she told him, and he nodded. He bent his shaggy mop of brown hair over her leg, and held out a hand.
"Everything is going to be all right," Piper said, then put two fingers under her chin to force her to look up, making her instantly dizzy. "Do you have a name?"
"Zaryah," she gasped. Sweat was rolling down her forehead, and she couldn't see what this man – Chris, apparently – was doing to her. Strangely, the pain was diminishing.
(a/n – Zaryah is pronounced zuh-Ree-uh)
They were talking in low tones.
"...might come back," the woman was saying. "You have to take back to the house where she'll be safe.
"I can't – "
"You can and you will. Go now."
"What will you do?"
"I'll come back too, but first I have to take this bike back. We'll worry about the – other – later." Her eyes flicked over to Zaryah when she said "other".
Zaryah had no time to protest because by the time her muddled mind began form a coherent sentence, she was floating away in a blue star......
Opening Act
Eleven dollars, four nickels, and a penny – that was all that was left of this week's pay. Not that she cared. What difference did anything make now? Besides, she should consider herself lucky to have this much; she'd seen the children of other victims, younger ones mostly, and at least she had clothes and a roof over her head.
She looked at the nickels in her hand, bright and shiny. They were new. She remembered, many years ago, her science teacher demonstrating an experiment. Two pennies, one old, one new. When placed in acid overnight, the inside of the new penny was eaten away because the copper insides had been replaced with cheap substitute. The old penny was pure copper, and remained whole and unbroken.
She'd gotten to keep the penny; it was hollow, hollow like she knew these shiny new nickels would surely be. Hollow like the house that stood in front of her. Not her home – not anymore. It used to be, before the neighborhood had died. Now it stood silent testimony in a ghetto, acknowledgment of lost lives. A house, not a home, because the front porch stood empty, the backyard swing remained still, and no fire had burned in the fireplace for a long time. It held not even memories. Only she held those, and she didn't need this silent reminder. Then why did she keep coming back here? Maybe it was like those children she saw, living in the tents, clutching their dolls because they were the last memories they possessed. But she did possess many things still, and she didn't need them. They didn't matter now.
She shoved the change into her jacket pocket, and turned away. Home now was a tiny apartment above Bill's Pizza-Rama. Her college dorm had been bigger. Forget it all – forget everything. Think only of the future, and reaching it. She could make things better if she tried.
Walking towards Home took her through the park, silent except for a single bird. As she passed by a thick grove of overgrown trees and brush, a man ran by, just narrowly avoiding lighting her hair with the great torch he was waving. Strange, in the daytime. Her walk had halted to stare at the man as he ran hard and fast, until the buzz of an engine distracted her. She turned, but not fast enough, and a great hunk of metal and gas plowed into her, knocking her to the ground. She threw out her arms and winced as they took the brunt of her fall, but her leg twisted strangely, and she bit her lip to choke back a scream. The motorcycle was slowing, turning, coming back to stop before her. The rider threw off her helmet to reveal a woman, nicely dressed, brown hair, kind brown eyes, not quite middle-aged. Definitely not a member of Hell's Angels. She didn't belong on a motorcycle.
The woman rushed to her side in a blur.
"Oh my God," she said. "We need help. Chris!"
Who was she calling?
"Listen, now don't try to move. I can't begin to explain how sorry I am. I'm Piper, by the way. Chris!"
A man walked into her line of sight, looking razzled. He took in the situation, then lifted a questioning eyebrow to the woman, Piper.
"Questions later," she told him, and he nodded. He bent his shaggy mop of brown hair over her leg, and held out a hand.
"Everything is going to be all right," Piper said, then put two fingers under her chin to force her to look up, making her instantly dizzy. "Do you have a name?"
"Zaryah," she gasped. Sweat was rolling down her forehead, and she couldn't see what this man – Chris, apparently – was doing to her. Strangely, the pain was diminishing.
(a/n – Zaryah is pronounced zuh-Ree-uh)
They were talking in low tones.
"...might come back," the woman was saying. "You have to take back to the house where she'll be safe.
"I can't – "
"You can and you will. Go now."
"What will you do?"
"I'll come back too, but first I have to take this bike back. We'll worry about the – other – later." Her eyes flicked over to Zaryah when she said "other".
Zaryah had no time to protest because by the time her muddled mind began form a coherent sentence, she was floating away in a blue star......