Yes, this is indeed the prologue to the new multichapter fic that I will be working on while Don't Steal My Sunglasses's sequel goes on hold.
It's good to be back, and I'm hoping to fully utilize the obscene breeding of my plotbunnies! Breed, bunnies, BREED!
Without further adieu, I present my next multichapter, Folklore. Enjoy!
The desert sun slithered through cracks in the tall walls of the generator complex, throwing its light in reflections around the various displaced angled pieces of metal that had been hastily pounded into sheets for repairs, snakelike in its twisting path. Indeed, light, to the dwellers of the lower reaches of Home, incited in them all of the fear that a snake might; the small instances of radiance that saturated their eyes were produced only from the blaze of the seething hearts inside the mechanical beasts that they tinkered with, and the glow of hot metal that they pounded with their mighty hammers. The sweat and the blood of their occasional injuries formed the lakes and rivers of their dim universe. The center of the sun, present in temperature, was also there.
The workers of this giant society within an oven were never universally rested. Like living creatures, the fierce machina that powered the facilities above hollered and screeched and bellowed for attention at all times, and they were fed and nurtured and healed when necessary, with care, which was a lot to be said about such feeling-less mechanisms when their caretakers endured much lesser conditions. There were no "shifts" for these busy people; there was only the continuous autonomous obligation, installed at birth and carried to death, to keep the grand iron brutes alive.
Where, then, was hope to be found in such a place?
In a smaller sect of the map, containing a slighter mass of steel flesh and flaming pipe entrails, which fueled a slighter part of the world above, worked a small function of two girls and a weak old man, whose feebleness in all areas seemed to worsen by the hour. The three—all of the people in this place—shared green eyes, spiraling pupils, pale skin, and blonde hair, though, to an outside observer, they appeared to be tanned brunettes thanks to the grime that infested their outer bodies.
"Gimme a bar," ordered the girl that reached into the maw of the fire-filled creature, attempting to surgically repair the tiny thing that prompted the deafening pangs of unmeshed gears, the cries of the creature's pain. The girl, Rikku, gritted her teeth against the relentless heat of its core, and held out her other hand to receive the necessary tool. The second girl, Kyla, quickly placed a metal bar with a curved edge in Rikku's hand. Rikku shifted so that she was on her knees, leaning straight into the contained hell. "Hold me up," she said.
Kyla got behind her comrade and embraced her thighs in a tight hug, holding her as she fell further into the machine while reaching out with the curved bar. The dirt and sweat embedded in Rikku's skin acted as a barrier against the excited flames. The girl extended her arm as far as she could, and then, taking a bold risk, struck the perpetrator back into place with a loud whack. The gears met and meshed, and the machine quieted like a child that had cried itself to sleep. Kyla heaved with as much strength as she could muster and snatched Rikku out of the flaming pit, and the two collapsed belly-up on the solid floor together, panting painfully. Rikku turned and spat ashes onto the floor.
"Another job well done!" she said. They both looked to the old man, who had been extant in this occupation of life for much longer than both of them. Expressions that they found hard to hide exploded like fireworks in their eyes as they did; they were young, and had not yet developed the emotional mask that adults made constant use of. Where was the point in doing this over and over again? they asked with their eyes.
The old man pursed his lips, flexed every wrinkle around his mouth distastefully, tacitly informing them that he wasn't in the mood to preach about what they surely already knew. He was famous for his notions about the importance of their lowly society. "Those who dwell above us make up the trunk of a healthy tree," he would say. "But where is a tree without its roots?"
Others had less positive opinions. There were those, including Rikku, who ventured to imagine that if the big tree's "roots" weren't kept in shape, the city above would crumble, and crush the city below. Such thoughts usually entered the ground-dwellers' minds around the age of adolescence, and the impressionability of that period cemented the mindset of unconscious fear in its place for years to come, until adulthood and shattered resolve weathered it away.
Rikku stared up at the solid sky now, and became so nervous at her own thoughts that she gulped down the bitter ash wedged beneath her tongue. The angle at which she gazed toward her ceiling, the surface dwellers' floor, produced the sensation of it slowly falling on her, as it did sometimes in her nightmares, or of being flung at the unforgiving barrier with terrifying speed.
She looked away, scrubbing the spaces between her teeth with a prodding fingernail. The irritation of the reddened gums that she touched only caused more discomfort, so she let the useless hand fall to her side. From a nearby wall, through a gap in a botched repair of the top corner, slithered a snake of light, which brightened and solidified as the morning made its steady advance.
"Time for bed," she muttered as she kipped-up. She wished a quick good morning to Kyla and the old man, and received no answer, for the old man was too weary to speak and simply nodded at her back, and Kyla could not speak at all. She turned and waved at them, then started off to leave.
She had not taken two steps when a thin body collided with her back and almost sent her to the floor again. It was Kyla, and there was an anxious look in her eye. No—she was terrified.
"Hey, what's wrong?" Rikku held her friend and cocked her head in confusion. Kyla held up a hand and made symbols with her fingers, one after another, with a rapidity that could only be mastered by a mute. Don't go.
"Huh? Well, why not?"
Rumors. They are coming. Someone saw them.
Later on, Rikku would look back and deceive herself into thinking that it was the ash she'd swallowed that caused her terrible bout of nausea, and such was the reason that she had rushed home, despite Kyla's warning. But she was Al Bhed, immune to ash and fire and heat, and later still she would look back on the recollection and realize that she had told herself a lie. There was nothing—not snakes, not light, not the weight of the city above—that had established itself so universally as a single shared fear, as them.
They were of mystery to those who weren't adults. They were widely known, but not known at all. To teenagers and below, it was only fact that they came from the city above, and, some whispered, were involved in the disappearances of people. Officially, the claims were that the vanished person fell into the furnace of their machine and was properly cremated there (evidently, a death inside your machina was a noble death). But even in the coolest machines, which still blazed, no burned bones or human ashes were ever found. The disappearances were common rather than occasional, and appeared to be random and unaffected by anything—but the people left behind by those who vanished were anything but. Sometimes entire families, anchored in hope by just one person, were torn apart or displaced.
They were coming, and Rikku's utmost concern was not for herself, but for her father. And that was the reality of why her feet carried her across the heat-stricken map, through crowds of wandering people, into humid and smelly alleyways, and finally, home.
There was a black vehicle parked outside.
Rikku burst through the rusty door, which proved to be a mistake. Revealed in the dim light, barely standing out against the dirty walls, were five pairs of black-hooded figures whose eyes turned towards her and fixed their menacing gazes on her. They stood over Rikku's father, who sat on a tattered couch. Cid also turned his eyes to his daughter. A tiny, tragic smile appeared on his face.
"Hey, sweetheart." His voice was coarse; as if he'd had the wind knocked out of him, or he'd done a lot of yelling. Rikku's heart shuddered, and she heard it in her ears. She stepped back and closed the door, and kept her blind spot against it. Cid's eyes screamed, "RUN."
"Ahh, the girl of the hour." The robed figure at the helm of the assembly waved the papers in his hand, and Rikku caught a glimpse of her yearly profile on one of them. It was only a picture, but the old man always said that a picture was worth a thousand words. "We've been expecting you." The accent of his Al Bhed was articulate and fabricated. Though his face was hooded, it was obvious that he was not Al Bhed, himself.
Rikku stiffened said nothing, despite the questions that jumped to her mind. What do you want? Are you them? Why were you waiting for me, you creeps?
"You must know who we are," said the leader. "We had originally come to take your father, but he begged us to take you instead."
Cid stood up and swung his arm threateningly at the group. "She ain't stupid! She knows that's a lie!"
Rikku knew it was a lie. The leader chuckled and continued. "His begging was so pathetic that we decided to take pity on him," he said. Even if it was a lie, his words traveled straight to Rikku's heart, and each one struck it with more force than the last.
"I didn't do no begging—I only begged 'em to take me inste—"
The cloaked figure to the left of his leader drew a bludgeon from the folds of his robe as Cid spoke, lifted it over his head, and brought it swiftly down on Cid's unsuspecting skull. Alive but unconscious, Cid's words drew to an abrupt end, and his body sagged and collapsed on the couch like a damp piece of paper. A whimper that might have been a cry, if Rikku had not restrained it, escaped the girl's throat, and her hands flew to her heart, which slammed against her insides. Every throb pounded at her entire body, especially her head, which grew lighter with every passing moment. Rikku sank to her knees.
"Come quietly, little girl." Two of them at the rear of the party, who had done nothing until now, came forth and gripped her forearms with calloused and cold hands. She felt herself being lifted to her feet, and Rikku caught sight of her father one last time before they forced her out the door.
That day was the last time she ever saw Kyla, or the old man. It would be the last time she ever saw her father in good health. That she had ignored clear warnings, and had strayed onto the path of danger, did not matter; fate would have driven her by one set of means, or by any of a thousand others, into their hands, into their shadowy vehicle, and away from the home that she had known since the beginning of her life. For, as she would hear many times in the near future,
There are no coincidences in this world;
There is only the inevitable.
If my virtual pen keeps moving like it has been this past while, then you can expect the official first chapter within the next couple of weeks. Until then, reviews earn virtual cookies and endless appreciation. Seriously, hit that review button! It WANTS you!
-Ari