Hello, fellow authors. Not sure if you know all about me. Lately I've been obsessed with some books that I read, and it turns out that they already made two movies based upon it. (Can't wait for the third one!)
It's called "The Maze Runner" by James Dashner. It's a hell interesting and intense tales that I can't put it down. So the point is, I have been wondering:
What would it be like if the characters were our OCs from Rio Fandom?
Basically, this will be like Rio FanFiction OCs being gathered together, bringing back the old times, or something like that. I open a submission for those who would like to have their OCs in this story. Write in review or PM, and I would gladly accept it. You only have to follow the rules:
- Only males can be accepted
- OCs has no superpowers
- All ages will be brought to line at least to not more than 30 years old
- No firearms, no futuristic weapons, just- yes, Jameson, a baseball bat is okay
All those rules above are only applicable in this one story. So if you can't adequate to the rules, you can still join in the next installation of the series.
Authors on the following list have given me their permissions to use their OCs :
Alexriolover95
Headhusky
Alex The Owl
Ricardo the Black Hawk
Tomadahawk
Florafionpetals
Jameson the Phoenix Owl
Folks, I'll be so grateful if you can lend me your OCs. Be sure to leave a review because I want to know what you're thinking. So let's begin.
Chapter 1 - Day one
He was standing, surrounded by cold darkness and stale, dusty air. That was how his new life began.
He fell down at the sudden movement on the metal floor beneath him and shuffled backward on his wings and feet. His back struck a hard metal wall; he slid along it until he hit the corner of the room. Sinking to the floor, he folded his wings around his body. He whimpered in pain just as he felt a jolt of nail-biting stretching pressure around his wings; as if a pair of metallic strings had been planted under every of his wing bones.
The room jerked upward with another jolt, like an old lift in a mine shaft. Harsh sounds like the workings of an ancient steel factory, echoed through the room. He wanted to cry, but no tears came; he sat there, alone, waiting, heaving his chest up and down fast.
I- I'm a blue macaw, he thought.
That … that was the only thing he could remember about his life.
He didn't understand how this could be possible. He didn't even know his name. And yet he didn't know where he came from, or how he had got inside the dark lift, or who his parents were. Images of people flashed across his mind, but there was no recognition, their faces replaced with haunted smears of color. He couldn't think of one person he knew, or recall a single conversation. He remembered what trees were like, or how swift the breezing gentle wind beckoning through his feathers.
Strangely enough, he felt his fear whisked away like a swarm of gnats caught in the wind, replaced by an intense curiosity. He wanted to know where he was and what was happening.
A sudden change jolted him from his huddled position and threw him across the hard floor, the rising room halted with a groan and a clank. As he scrambled to his feet, he felt the room sway less and less until it finally stilled. Everything fell silent.
Minutes passed. He looked in every direction but saw only darkness; he felt along the walls again, searching for a way out. But there was nothing, only the cool metal. For even a bird, he was hoping his eyes would soon adjust to the darkness. He groaned in frustration; his echo amplified through the air, like the haunted moan of death. It faded, and silence returned. He screamed, called for help, pounded on the walls with his curled-fist wings. "Someone ... help me!" he screamed; each word ripped his throat raw.
Nothing.
He backed into the corner once again, folded his wings and shivered, and the fear returned. Everything went colder. He felt a worrying shudder in his chest, as if his heart wanted to escape, to flee his body.
A loud clank rang out above him and he sucked in a startled breath as he looked up. A straight line of light appeared across the ceiling of the room, and the blue macaw watched as it expanded. A heavy grating sound revealed double doors being forced open. After so long in darkness, the light stabbed his eyes; he looked away, covering his face with both wings. "Ah!"
He heard noises above—voices—and his chest was squeezed by fear.
"Wow, look at that dude."
"It's another blue macaw."
"How old is he?"
"Looks like a dung in a blue-duster."
"You're the dung, chaff-face."
"Dude, it smells like feet down there!"
"Hope you enjoyed the one-way trip, Greenie."
"Ain't no ticket back, bro."
A wave of confusion hit the blue macaw, he was blistered with panic. The voices were odd, tinged with echo. He willed his eyes to adjust as he squinted toward the light and those who were speaking. At first he could see only shifting shadows, but they soon turned into the shapes of bodies—avian figures bending over the hole in the ceiling, looking down at him, pointing.
And then, as if the lens of a camera had sharpened its focus, the faces cleared. They were birds, all of them were males—some young, some older, with different kind of species. The blue macaw didn't know what he'd expected, but seeing those faces puzzled him. They were just teenagers. Young-birds. Some of his fear melted away, but it was not enough to calm his racing heart.
Someone lowered a rope from above, and at the end of it was tied into a big loop.
"Hey, I know those wings are such a pain down there, so could ya just hold on this, chaff-face?"
The blue macaw knew he hesitated preferring to fly, and so he stepped into it with his right talon and wrapped his wings around the rope as he was yanked toward the sky. Wings reached down, lots of feathered colorful wings, grabbing him by his shoulders, pulling him up. The world seemed to spin, a swirling mist of faces and color and light. A storm of emotions wrenched his gut, twisted and pulled; he wanted to scream, cry, and throw up. The chorus of voices had grown silent, but a white figure spoke as they yanked him over the sharp edge of the dark box. And he knew he'd never forget the words.
"Day one, joelho," the bird said. "Welcome to the Glade."
To be continued . . .
