Credit for this idea goes to Wetstar, a fabulous author who has written a story called Iron Children. You should check it out! That story is the inspiration for this one! Crystal Ryans belongs to her, too :)
The link to Iron Children:
www . fanfiction s / 8961417 / 1 /Iron-Children (Just eliminate spaces :))
And here is the very first chapter of Rollercoasters. It's named this way because, well, isn't life an emotional rollercoaster sometimes?
"Only after disaster can we be resurrected. It's only after you've lost everything that you're free to do anything. Nothing is static, everything is evolving, everything is falling apart." — Chuck Palahniuk
Chapter One: Falling Apart, Falling Into Place
The first explosion rattles the house, nearly knocking me off my feet. As soon as I regain my balance, I run to the window. My fingers fumble as I try to undo the lock. I throw open the window just as a column of fire erupts from the street.
"Ah!" I yell, slamming the window shut. I've heard rumors of a rebellion. Everyone has. I know what happened in 8. But District 1 always seemed…untouchable.
Another bomb goes off. I race down the stairs.
"Mom? Dad?" I call out, but the house is empty. I open the door and look outside. More fire, louder blasts. Homes torn to pieces by bombs dropped from the hovercrafts above. Frozen with fear, I stare up at the planes, like massive metal birds in the cloudless sky. I flinch when I hear the sound of gunshots from the Victors' Village.
From the Victors' Village!
The door swings open all the way. I jump over the three front steps and hit the ground running. My best friend lives in the Village with her mother, the victor of the 49th Hunger Games. If they're targeting the victors first, Crystal will be next.
"Crys!" I yell, even though I know she can't hear me. Before I can cross the street, a rusty car speeds up onto the curb and jerks to a stop in front of me, nearly crashing into the mailbox. The passenger-side window rolls down with an ear-splitting scraping sound, revealing an unhappy-looking man in the driver's seat.
"Splendor, get in!" he orders.
"How do you know my name?" I ask, taking a step back. The man looks annoyed, like I'm wasting his time.
"I'm a friend of your parents," he says flatly, "They want you to get in the car."
"No! How do I know—"
"Get in the car!" Before I can react, the man flings open the passenger-side door, grabs me by the front of my shirt, and yanks me inside. He reaches over and slams the door shut behind me. As I reach for the handle, the click of a lock tells me it's useless. The tires screech as the stranger stomps on the gas pedal.
"Let me out!" I yell, banging on the window with my fists. It doesn't do any good, but it makes a lot of noise, which my kidnapper doesn't appreciate.
"Shut up!" he shouts.
"Where are you taking me?" I shout back, trying to erase the nervousness in my voice.
"Somewhere safe," he says, not taking his eyes off the road. He swerves to avoid a Peacekeeper, and I'm thrown against the window.
"Put your seatbelt on, kid," he tells me, "You're gonna need it."
"Who are you?" I yell.
"Patric."
"My parents never said anything about knowing a Patric!" Patric gives a frustrated sigh, like this is the tenth time he's had to explain it to me.
"'Cause my last name's Bright."
"You're Bright?" I exclaim, recalling a conversation my parents had once about a man named Bright. It isn't uncommon to have that kind of name in District 1. My name, an excellent example, is Splendor. My sister's name was Flash.
"Patric Bright," Patric points out.
"Did they tell you to get me out?" I ask.
"Yeah. I live—" Patric coughs and corrects himself, "lived in District Two. So I was close." We've made it out of the chaos, but he hasn't slowed the car.
"Do you know where they are?" I ask. Patric raises an eyebrow.
"I didn't know they were gone."
"Oh," I say, not sure what to think. Whether I should be worried for their lives. Whether to believe anything Patric says in the first place. A long moment passes.
"I haven't seen your family since you were…What? Four years old?" I don't remember seeing him at all.
"Yeah, that must be it," he decides, "How's your sister?" I flinch.
"She's dead." Flash died in the Hunger Games two years ago. He should have known it, though. Viewing is mandatory, and Flash made it to the final four. There's no way he could have missed her.
"Oh," said Patric, "Ah, sorry. She was a good kid, Flash." I look out the back window and watch District 1 disappear.
"How old are you now?" asks Patric, "Ten?"
"Eleven."
"Huh. You look smaller." I try to sit up straighter in the seat.
"I'm not small," I say. Patric laughs loudly.
"You'll grow," he replies, turning his attention back to the road ahead.
I fasten my seatbelt.
Please review, I'd really appreciate some feedback!