Author's Notes:
Hey, it's me. Yes, I actually write. Holy crap.
So, yeah. Nothing fancy today, ladies and gents. Just some idea I got from reading The Supernaturalist. Awsome book! So, future on the brain. Yahoo!
Yeaaah. Well, first things first, you are not going to understand anything for a while. But all will be explained as it progresses, so don't panic young grasshoppers, time shall tell all. Other than that, this story will contain....YAOI! (boy on boy) Hmm, good stuff. 'Nuff said.
Disclaimer: Aw, you know how it goes.
VIDEO ARCHIVE—
INTERVIEW 1759 o RIKU
A razor blade gave me freedom from the Dorms. A small rectangle of steel, incredibly sharp on two sides. It came wrapped in paper, with words NOT FOR USE BY CHILDREN printed on the side.
I was eleven years old then. Eight years ago, which means I am probably the oldest human alive. Five years past the time when the Overlords would have wrenched my brain out of my skull and used it in one of their creatures.
Actually, I guess Ansem is the oldest human around. If you can call him human.
Ansem would say that it wasn't the razor blade that gave me freedom. It was what I did with it. The object is irrelevant; my action is the important part.
But that blade still seems important to me. It was the first useful object I ever conjured—or created, or whatever it is I do. I remember when I first realized what a razor blade was, staring at that faded page of newspaper I found. The newspaper that had lain in a wall cavity for forty, maybe fifty years, long before the Overlords decided to use the building as Dormitory.
And there, in black-turned-gray on white-turned-yellow, an advertisement for razor blades with a picture perfect for me to put in my head.
It took three months of practice for me to build that picture into something real, a hard, sharp object to hold in my hand. Then one day, it wasn't just a thought. It was there in my hand. Real. Sharp.
Sharp enough to cut the tracer out of my wrist. To make escape a possibility…
Well, I did it. Only one in ten thousand gets out of the Dormitories, according to Ansem. Most can't find anything to cut the tracer out or don't have the wits to disable it in some other way.
Even now, when I look at the scar, I wonder how…But it's done now. I've been free for eight years…
I don't know why Ansem wants to record this. I mean, who's going to see this video.
I've been here with Ansem for three years. But he's been here for nearly fifteen—ever since the Change. There's been a lot of children in this place since then.
I've seen their videos but I'llnever see them. You sit in the dark, wayching their aces as they talk through their brief lives, and all the time you wonder what got them in the end. Was it a Winger striking out of the sky? Trackers on their heels till they dropped and the Myrmidons came? A Ferret uncoiling in some dark hole where they'd hoped to hide?
Now you're watching me…and wondering…what got him?