A/N: (Just skip straight to the story if you can't be bothered reading this. It's just disclaimers and notes about the story itself and whatnot, probably only interesting for all one of my acquaintances *cough* my brother… *cough* who even knows what Channel Awesome is.)
Ahem. A quick disclaimer before we plunge straight into this new story. As you may have guessed from the title, it is, in fact, based on one of my all-time favourite internet reviewers on the YouTubes: a certain Mr. Il Neige. As this Mr. Neige is indeed a real person, I cannot lay claim to being his creator, nor the creator of his wonderful show 'What We Had to Watch'. Yes, it is on Channel Awesome, and yes, the rest of the CA crew will no doubt be making appearances at some point during this story. Perhaps even some of my other favourite YouTubers who have nothing to do with reviewing but are equally awesome...? We shall see.
Now, if there's one thing I'm known for on story publishing sites like this, it's my reliability to be completely unreliable in any sort of uploading schedule. I write when I feel like it, and I publish when I feel like it. Although I am more eager to write if I get reviews, so…? *winks* Haha. I'm joking, obviously. Read if you want, review if you want, don't if you don't.
And Il Neige, if by some miracle you ever come across this… hi. *waves and grins shyly*
Okay, enough stalling. On with the story.
CHAPTER ONE
The front door of the Burger King joint opened with a bang. The chair that had been wedged under its handle scraped across the linoleum floor on its side, smashing into the counter and making the person hiding beneath it jump. Quickly, heart pounding, he schooled himself into total stillness. His fingers tightened around the handle of the only weapon he'd managed to grab before fleeing his home: a sword. It was his prized possession, and had it not been the direst situation of his life, he probably wouldn't have taken it. As it was, however, he studied the woven blue hilt, tried to let the sight of the winged pommel guards and the Triforce engraved on the base of the tapered blade lend him some modicum of calm.
What would Link do? he asked himself over and over again as footsteps echoed softly past the threshold of the restaurant. A long, misshapen shadow rippled on the menu above him as the intruder grew closer. Oh, God, what would Link do?!
"Come out, come out, wherever you're hiding." The voice was deep, male- teasing. The person behind the counter shut his eyes when he recognised it; for a split second he was more irritated than frightened. His fear quickly returned, however, when a ball of electric green light shot above his head, igniting the empty kitchens in a blazing green inferno. The drinks machines were blasted off their counters, and he had to duck under a shower of drinks cups and kids' meal boxes.
"I know you're in here," the intruder hissed gleefully. "I can smell every ounce of your fear."
The person under the counter gripped his sword tighter, doing his best to ignore the sizzling cardboard melting into green puddles around him. He'd have to do something soon. If he stayed here and the intruder found him, he'd be dead for sure. Surely he stood a more fighting chance if he jumped out now, with the element of sur—
"Perhaps a truce can be arranged if you save me the trouble of searching for you," the voice went on. His shadow moved on the menu; it shrank, shifted to the left. Chairs scraped across the floor. He was looking under the tables. "You are, after all, the reason my fellows and I had this marvellous opportunity to explore your world."
A sliver of guilt sliced through the mounting panic. The man was right, of course. It was all his fault this happened. Perhaps it was time he tried to do something about it… Breathing heavily, but silently, through his nose, the person shifted to his knees, made to crawl out from under the counter.
"As such," the voice continued, "I'm prepared to offer you a place amongst our ranks. You could have this land for your own, if you wished."
The person paused mid-crawl. America… could be his? He had to admit, on the face of it, it was a pretty tempting offer. It did sound much nicer than living on the run in the burning ruins of California, living off scraps other survivors hadn't touched from bins and restaurants and grocery stores, sleeping on his own in empty houses and garden sheds, hoping against hope those whom he'd released into the world wouldn't track him down for just tonight, just one more day.
A flicker of green light illuminated the menu. It made the burgers in the pictures look like they'd been sitting in the sun for a couple of weeks, right next to a family of skunks. His heart sank as he saw it; clearly, everything the intruder was saying was a bluff. Shaking the last remnants of stupidity from his ears, he scrambled around the counter on his hands and knees and peered out from around the edge. The intruder had his back to him, his gloved hand outstretched to push open the door of the men's room. His black robes brushed the floor, and the red jewelled collar caught the light of the flames cupped in his other palm. Short salt and pepper hair was sticking up in dishevelled little spikes around his head. In fact, the person noticed, his entire wardrobe seemed a bit tattered. The hems of his robes were torn, and as he shifted forwards, a bare, dirty foot was exposed underneath it.
Despite his heartbeat hammering in his ears, the person couldn't suppress a little grin. Like the man was in any position to offer him the entire country; from the looks of things, he was barely managing to keep his own place in this shattered remnant of the world.
The men's room door swung shut behind the man. The person took the opportunity. Scrambling to his feet, he lifted his sword to his middle, tip of the blade pointing forward, and rushed towards the door. He fully intended to burst through it, swinging madly, hoping against hope that surprise alone would lend him enough time to hack something vital before the intruder got in a shot of his own.
The door swung open just as he reached it. The man's wicked grin seemed to fill the entire world.
"Not very talented, eh, Mr Neige?"
Blind panic took over. He wheeled backwards, barely managing to deflect the fireball zooming towards his face with a wild chop of his sword. It shot into the back wall, blasting apart one of the wide windows. The intruder laughed and advanced; Neige stumbled back, feeling his heart in his throat as the rim of a table pressed into his spine.
"Why me, Profion?" he said weakly. Talk. Stall. Don't give him time to kill you, he thought desperately. "Like you said, it's my fau—because of me you're all here. Why do you want to kill me?" His sword trembled, its tip pointed at Profion's eyes. The mage barely even seemed to see it.
Another fireball had been growing in his Profion's palm, but it simmered into a something resembling a flickering pilot light as he lowered his arms.
"Why?" Profion sneered. "Why do you suppose the greatest mage in a millennia would bother himself with a pitiful commoner?"
Neige, his eyes raking across Profion's grubby foot and tattered robes, opened his mouth to say he really had no idea, but Profion continued smoothly across him.
"Do you think just anybody has the power to break down the walls between fiction and reality? Imagination and sensibility? You have power, boy."
The blade stilled suddenly. "Hey, I'm twenty-five."
"I won't be the first, either. The reward set for the return of your corpse has risen exponentially. Thirty thousand gold pieces, in Izmer currency. Though," he paused, his own dark gaze taking in Neige's unwashed sandy hair, dirt-smudged face and clothes and exhausted eyes, "I suspect you deduced as much for yourself."
Neige licked his lips, readjusted his grip on the sword hilt.
The tiny flame in Profion's black glove fizzled into nothing. His wicked smile deepened, and he raised his arms wide, the dusty and torn sleeves of his robe flapping like bats' wings as he stepped away. Neige hardly believed his eyes when Profion actually turned his back on him, continuing to ramble.
"Imagine the power you could wield against us, then, if you were left to your own devices. My villainous brothers and sisters and I were treated like outcasts in our own worlds, left to rot or die horrible deaths. Now, thanks to your doing, we are all free to live lives outside the constructs of good versus evil where evil loses every damned time. Now, because of you, we stand a chance of winning."
His arms were still high up in the air. He was talking to the wind whistling through the broken window. Neige couldn't believe this opportunity that was being presented to him. Carefully, so as not to draw Profion's attention, he raised his sword in a stabbing position.
"And," Profion continued, fire stuttering to life in his gloved palm once again, "we can't risk you sneaking up behind us and stabbing us in the ba—"
The sword came plunging down before the fire even had a chance to grow. Profion howled as it was buried up the hilt in his exposed back; he stumbled forward, falling to his knees, attempting to clutch at the blade that had pierced him clean through.
Neige breathed heavily, staring down at his trembling hands. They were smeared with sticky blood – black blood. On the ground, a pool of the stuff was growing around Profion's writhing figure.
"You think you've won, little commoner?" Profion hissed, choking on some blood that dribbled down his chin. "You think killing me will be the end of all this?"
Neige watched the mage's skin drain of colour, watched his breathing become laboured and his gloved fingers grow slippery on the sword's blade. A little bit of bravery was starting to seep back in. He hitched a small smile onto his face.
"Well, if everyone else is as stupid as you, then yeah. I'll have the world fixed by next Tuesday."
Profion tried to chuckle, but only ended up choking on more blood. "You're more irritating than those obnoxious thieves who defeated me in my own world, boy," he hissed.
Neige's eyebrows shot up. Frowning, he bent down and tugged the sword out of Profion's back, wincing only a little as the mage howled in pain.
"Hell no," he said, wiping the blade on his already damaged Nintendo shirt. "You did not just compare me to those idiots. I'm out of here." He slipped the blade back into the sheath dangling crookedly from his hips and stepped around the growing puddle of black blood, making his way to the door.
"You're going to leave me here to die, boy?" Profion spluttered. For the first time, there was a note of panic in his voice. "Not very noble of you- for a hero."
Neige didn't stop walking. The door was already open, swinging on its hinges in the light breeze blowing down the deserted main road. He reached it and turned back, his hand resting lightly on the busted doorhandle.
"By the way, Profion. It's not 'boy'. It's Il Neige."
Profion just stared silently after him.
He'd barely turned back to the road when there was a loud bang! from inside the restaurant. He spun around, but there was nothing to see; only a lingering pool of black goo and the smoking remains of an empty set of robes.
Swallowing determinedly, the young man known as Il Neige touched the pommel of his sword and set off into the broken world.
