Hi everyone! KHwhitelion here! Welcome to the first chapter of this story.
Now, as many of you know, I tend to stay away from multi-chapter fics, as I have a terrible problem with updating XD however, THIS story is different. Why? Because the darn thing came to me in a dream—no joke! Granted, it's been altered to fit in the canon universe, but most of what you're going to read was based on events that happened in my subconsciousness. To these characters. Of this show.
Of course, this chapter may not make a lot of sense, but I promise you, the following chapters WILL!
Oh, and I KNOW the story title is the same as that Three Days Grace song, but I couldn't for the life of me think of a title and that song fits the situation of this story.
Okay, I'm probably boring you now….so enjoy this story!
He was running.
Where? He didn't know. His brain had ceased functioning hours ago. At least, it seemed like hours; truth be told, he really had no idea just how long he'd been on the road. Somewhere along the way, the sun had risen and set several times—it was dark now—but he'd long since lost count.
It didn't matter anyway; he couldn't stop, no matter how much he may have wanted….or was it needed at this point? He certainly remembered something about a sprained ankle…wrist….which was it again? Or was the pain simply due to his lack of nourishment? Could have been one—could have been all. He'd stopped feeling anything other than the drive to move since he first got out of there.
Successfully, anyway.
He would have laughed, had his throat not been clogged with dryness rivaling even the vastest of deserts. Oh how they had underestimated him. Thinking he'd learned from experience—ha! The only thing he'd learned in his failed attempts was how not to escape; testing the limits of not only his own body but the eyes and ears of the personnel themselves.
Turns out, he'd been right all along. The old dogs just simply couldn't handle his new tricks.
Forget what others may have said—he was the true artist of his family….
Yes….they were his family, weren't they? Once upon a time at least.
Now….well, circumstances spoke for themselves.
And he knew where he wasn't running: home. Lost the taste to call it that the moment they locked him up.
Which begged the question of his true destination….if he even had one. Most people knew his face...his name…..knew the lies woven around him. He'd be reported….or shot….before he'd even make it up their driveways.
But that didn't surprise him; he'd been exposed to the cruelty called 'The World' from the moment he was old enough to process thought. What was it called….conformity? That seemed right—monkey see, monkey do...and all the other bull that came with nationwide peer pressure.
Wait, he was getting ahead of himself. 'Nationwide?' Surely he'd only traveled a few states; not everyone would dial 9-1-1 should he appear on their doorstep. Only those foolish and blind believe everything the television told them.
That gave him what….about half the Country? Maybe less? He'd forgotten just how many of those lazy bastards called 'human beings' allowed that cursed two-faced box to morph them into oversized potatoes.
Oh how he wanted to be one of them right now.
To just sit back, prop his feet up and casually sip whatever beverage he chose; the only reason for anxiety being A) what next week's episode of whatever was going to be after such a huge cliffhanger of the previous program, or B) what his….wife….was preparing for dinner.
Yes….the ultimate euphoria for a typical man his age.
A pity he'd never been deemed 'typical.'
It was then the world suddenly lurched forward, sending him crashing into the very ground on which he ran. During the less than two-second plummet, he vaguely recalled his foot catching against a rock or branch or something to trigger the fall, but at the present moment, it was of little importance. For, apart from the wind knocked out of his lungs, an onslaught of mind-numbing pain flooded his senses, rapidly replacing his previous adrenaline. Since he'd set out, he hadn't once stopped to properly catch his breath—unless crawling into the back of the occasional truck counted—and now, he was paying for it.
The hard way.
He couldn't move. Couldn't think. Hell….he could barely breathe. Every ounce of his body was screaming in agony; only making its severe overuse painfully more obvious to him. His joints were on fire; both wrists and left ankle swollen red; looks like he had several sprains after all. At least it was better than the invisible daggers slicing his lungs every time his already stinging chest rose and fell. And there was that sharp throbbing against his skull.
He wanted to cry it hurt so much. Probably would have too, if he'd had any tears left to shed.
As it was, he just lay there for a while, gaping like a fish and trying with everything he had not to succumb to the pain.
He was wasting time, lying there like that. They'd find him if he didn't get up off his ass and move. Curling up and dying here and now wasn't an option—no matter how badly his body begged him. He'd come too far to just give up now.
To just let them win.
His eyes snapped open. No. He couldn't….wouldn't let that happen. Those lying sons of bitches were not going to take him back.
Even if that meant running until he dropped dead.
Biting his lip so hard it bled, he slowly, painfully, staggered to his knees, wincing at the twang in his shoulders and sore arms.
He was halfway there. Now came the tricky part.
Sucking in a breath—then cringing at the pain and abruptly exhaling—he raised one leg, then the other. His vision swerved, but he remained standing, blinking profusely until his surroundings came back into focus.
Face twisting into a grimace, he carefully lifted his left leg, grunting at the pull he felt in his muscles, before setting it down again, this time a few inches in front. Pausing until the pain dulled, he mimicked the motion with his other leg. He still had no idea where he was heading. But he'd get there: one achy step at a time.
Minutes….hours….days?...later, he saw it.
That faint, faint glimmer of human civilization. Literally: several yellow-white patches of light cut through the surrounding darkness like a kni—razor blade. Disoriented though he was, he knew in a second those glowing specks didn't belong to stars. For one thing, they were far too low in the sky—and were positioned in a very obscure and structured manner.
Secondly, the soft haze the little lights gave off illuminated what appeared to be some type of building; hence the reason for their unusual placement.
Ignoring the prickling hairs on his back, he forced himself onward. Humanity had proven itself a cruel, heartless bitch, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something….something different lay waiting beyond the walls of the—wooden?—building. Enough that he trusted that compelling feeling in his gut to pull him forward: rationality having exhausted itself during the meticulous journey.
There was an unmistakable sway in his step; dizziness nearly knocking him off his feet.
A pang of discomfort struck his stomach—one that wasn't physical—as his step gradually began to slow.
He'd almost reached his limit.
Don't pass out! His mind—what was left of it—demanded, Don't pass out! He was right there; even through his hazy vision, the globs of light—windows, he realized—had grown in size, and the building in question had equally grown in detail—blurred detail, but detail nonetheless.
In truth, it almost looked….familiar? No….no….must be his waning consciousness fooling his eyes. He didn't have a death wish.
Yet….
He was so close now, it was though as he could reach out and touch it….
Ironically, one faulty step sent him face first into a glossy wooden surface with a loud smack.
Ow.
Almost instantly, a chorus of….barking….exploded from the other side of said surface, along with angry shouting in a language he didn't understand.
A familiar language he didn't understand.
He, however, would have to worry about that later, as purple spots were dancing before his eyes; the result of unplanned impact of flesh on wood, no doubt. Don't pass out….he reminded himself, raising a pale hand and forcing it into a frail fist.
He desperately wanted to knock—whether the unknown wood was a door or not—but past experiences held him back….
….who was he kidding? At this rate, he'd die anyway—might as well risk it.
On three.
One.He braced himself. Inside, the angry voice quieted.
Two. His hand inched its way forward. Said voice switched to English; joined by two others.
Three. His knees gave out. The door swung open.
"SCHEI!"
Once again, his face made contact with an unknown surface. Only this time….it was warm. Wrinkled. Moving.
"Was tun Sie?"
Angry. But….more importantly….
Blinking profusely to clear his blurred vision, he raised his head. "O-Otto?"
Silence.
"Francis?"
The broken, beaten man nodded, retaliating his former boss' shocked expression with a feeble smile.
"Vhat….vhate are you doing here?" The German man asked, obviously not believing who'd just fallen into him, "Und….vhat happened to you?"
Abruptly, his smile faded; both questions shaking him from his temporary relief. "I…." he croaked, attempting to straighten "I…."
That was the last thing out of Francis' mouth. He was too sore. Too tired. Too weak.
Head spinning, he lost his balance, succumbing to a world of darkness as he crashed to the floor.
Like I said: confused? Stay tuned for the next chapter!
About the German: I got my definitions from an online translator, so forgive me if they aren't right.
Definitions: Schei (shit). Was tun Sie (what are you doing).
Hey Countrygrl: thanks for encouraging me to go ahead and write this XD Chapter one was fun, and I'm sure the others will be, too!