Hello everyone! Welcome to the first chapter of my new story Miscalculations! I want to thank you for taking an interest in this story no matter now small that interest is. Please leave comments and/or insults. Any feedback will be adored for the consideration you had. To start off, it has almost been an entire year since I have done anything on fanfiction. But I've never forgotten. I truly hope my writing has improved, which I like to think it has improved greatly though I still have room to grow. So, I have nothing more to add other than I hope you enjoy this story as much as I have enjoyed writing it thus far.
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto or any of its characters.
/ / /
"Are the charts stable?" People bustled around the room with their lab coats flapping behind them. Some were seated in their individual computers, their hands dancing across the keys. Others scurried around and about making last minute preparations. Papers were stacked into unkempt piles scattered about. Used coffee cups littered the desks showing signs of late nights working on their breakthrough project.
Their breakthrough.
A metallic beast stood behind a wall of glass; wires protruded themselves and wound inside its confined space. Its platform, round, was as wide as a car. Finger-like appendages hovered above. It shined with radiance as spotlights were used to illuminate the machine. A machine that had taken so much time, money, and faith to keep its creators operating.
"The charts are stable," a man responded in Japanese. The computer made his glasses glow. His eyes sagged resembling those of a bloodhound's. Many nights had been spent sleeping in his uncomfortable swivel chair and using his desk as a pillow. If things went well tonight, he would soon be able to go back to his home and snooze in his own bed.
"Good," the first man said his Japanese coated with a thin slice of English accent. "Then we will soon commence the practice run of our project." His handsome smile showed off a set of straight pearls. This was the day he'd been waiting for. Ever since that day in the meeting room when all the men in suits thought his idea was preposterous. He calmly explained to them the inner workings of dimensions and wormholes telling them that the impossible could be done.
Despite his usual popularity amongst the men, only the truly risky contributed donations that day.
And this was the day to prove its worth. All of his patience and stress went into this project. It would work.
The man stood, his button shirt worn and wrinkled. Looking over the crowd of workers sitting at their computers signed to their individual duties to the project. Like ants, their job may have been small, but it went towards such a meaningful cause.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he addressed to his staff. The flurry of computer keys and paper passing paused momentarily to listen. "This is a big step toward our dream. Tonight is the night we do what people thought couldn't be done. Tonight is the first test of our hard work," he paused to peer at the mechanism behind the glass wall. "Tonight is the first practice run."
An applause sounded through the air as the man thanked them for their time and effort put into the project. A woman inside the room of interest placed a single piece of paper onto the center of the platform as they cheered. A message, written in Japanese, read a single word: COSMO.
A number of levers were flicked and buttons were pushed as members put on their safety glasses. Screens lit up almost excited for the event to take place. Computers loaded while steady beeps echoed through the tense air. The man waited and watched the loading bar fill with blue bars until it signaled him ready a hearty Loading complete. Usage ready.
His fingers brushed the top on the button glowing happily. His heart jumped. When was the last time he remembered being so excited? There had almost never been a reason to get excited in his past years. But this, this machine could change the future and its views. Pride, an unfamiliar emotion, pulsed through his veins.
With deep breath and another squeeze from his heart, he pressed down.
A light grew out of the room. Waves of electricity licked the paper wanting to become familiar, to become one. The electricity pulsed and throbbed like it was living. It matured and gained strength as it drank in more power the wires were feeding it. It combined and reproduced scanning the platform below.
One of the blinding strands broke loose from the others. It stretched farther than any in its power-sucking greed. The pillar ran across the wires at the base of its stage causing an excess to energy to surge through. Sparks soared from the base of the equipment. Panic was written on the faces of the staff as sirens flashed across their screens.
"The system is malfunctioning!" A woman cried, her fingers jogging across her keyboard. "There was a miscalculation, it has too much power! It's destroying itself!"
Papers fluttered to the floor as everyone dashed in chaos. Feet dodged and fleeted as some tried to escape the lab. Men and women pounded at controls with ferocious determination to salvage the machine.
The man watched in horror, his stomach sinking, as his work grew more and more out of control. Lightning flicked across the walls of its chamber. Fire was beginning to spread. Utter destruction and pandemonium was unfolding before him.
"Sir!" The man turned to see an avid, middle aged male still standing in front of his screen. "Sir, the machine is searching for a location! It wants to transport something here!"
Transport something.
"What is it sending?" The man yelled over the commotion striding around the disorderly room. "Where is it trying to send it to?"
The employee pushed up his glasses with sweaty hands. "Right now it's somewhere over the United States." They watched as the computer projected views of earth through the use of satellites. The maps zoomed in closer to the continent.
"It has already covered that much distance," the man mumbled to himself. "Can you redirect the location to the lab?"
Shaky hands typed in panic. "I don't have enough time to reroute. The only thing I can manage is to make specific coordinates for the transportation inside the United States area." He turned to look at his boss with anxious eyes. "Is there anyone from the U.S. you can trust?"
Someone in the United States. The man knew many people from the states, but he didn't necessarily trust or know many to keep anything a secret. He did have someone in mind that could handle the situation. However, the relationship between him and that someone was shaky already. He would expect their bond to grow even more strained if he did cause such a conflict.
But this was a much more important issue than a bond. He would make it up somehow.
He rubbed a tense hand through his hair as he sucked air in through his mouth in an almost strained process. "I might have someone in mind."
/ / /
Ding!
"Order for table four's ready!" A shrill call sounded through the staff kitchen. Saturday nights were always busy with families going out for their grandmothers' birthday, business meetings for well-known corporations, and even romantic anniversaries for serious lovers.
Ding!
Being a well-respected fine dining restaurant in this city, Sixteen was adored for its scrumptious cuisine. Recipes varied from Amuse Bouche to Roast Duck Foie Gras and the customers were pleased with the dishes. The view kept the customers coming back as well. The sparkling streets almost looked welcoming in the evening. Other towering buildings across the urban jungle also glimmered in the night with their glossy windows reflecting the world around. It was the city's substitute sea of stars.
Ding!
But, the outlook from the magnificent restaurant windows was marred by the splatters of drizzling raindrops outside. Plit plit plit, the sky cried on the bustling human life below. From the sixteenth floor of the hotel, one could barely see the people beneath, but most everyone imaged there would be umbrellas roaming the streets as the weather gradually became worse.
Ding!
"Charlie, table eight's dishes are ready to head out!" The sous chef's, Jason, voice rumbled to the waitress that was rushing over to the counter. Jason had a larger build than most men, but also a more gentle nature as well. Gentle, that is, as long as the orders weren't messed with. His face was pudgy and his belly was round with a few too many pastries. The only way to butter him up was to send him his favorite: coconut cake. And Jason needed to be buttered up a lot after a Saturday night.
Charlotte was in charge of table three, seven, eight, and eleven tonight. They were missing Kelly so an extra table was added to everyone's slate. She was in the process of shoving a few loose strands of hair into her bun when she made it across the kitchen to Jason.
The middle aged man was checking the sauce when she got there. The shrimp curled around the center of the plate with a bright orange sauce drizzled on top. She could see leeks somewhere in the mix as well. Table eight's order consisted of two New Zealand Langoustines and a Breast of a Scottish Pheasant.
The smell of the three meals and the kitchen as a whole was almost stifling. Aromas drifted from lobsters being baked the next island over and a potato soup being stirred in a copper pot two cook tops away. Her eyes watered at the familiar scent of freshly sliced onions.
"Thanks Jason," Charlotte acknowledged the sous as he had moved on to approving the next dishes meant for table two. She took her three meals, balancing them atop her dark tray. Making sure her dress shirt and vest were tucked in properly and spotless, Charlotte swung the right kitchen door open leaving the god-like smells behind her.
She prayed her hair was properly placed in her bun. She also hoped her face hadn't perspired too much while inside the steamy kitchen.
The dinner scene beyond the slamming pots and bubbling stews was refined. Customers sat in their leather-cushioned seats in formal attire. Some tables laughed with humble humor others sat in almost complete silence with the occasional sip of champagne.
Charlotte zigzagged through the candlelit tables. Raindrop-shaped lamps sat on inverted shelves on the wall providing a dull and solitary expression to the space. The walls were painted a romantic red accented with dark wood bordering. The carpet Charlotte walked across had swirls of black inside a sandy shaded backdrop.
Table eight was seated beside the ceiling-to-floor tall window near the back of the room. It was still drizzling, to Charlotte's dismay, meaning she'd have to walk to the car garage in the rain because of her negligence to bring a jacket.
She smiled a greeting at the small family seated around the square tabletop apologizing for the wait. The two New Zealand Langoustines went to the man and woman sitting across from each other. The man wore a black suit, an emerald tie brought out the green specks in his blue eyes. The woman, assumed wife from the rock on her left hand, matched her husband with her welcoming jade dress. Her hair was twisted and held with glistening pins, something Charlotte would never afford or even wish to have the skill to pull off.
The third member of the family appeared distant from the other two. She was supposed eleven years old with long, curly, golden locks and a pout on her face granted by undying boredom. It was no wonder why. The parents seemed keen on keeping the topic on grownup affairs and had forgotten to bring anything to entertain the little lady. Or rather, much less forgotten and thought it would be inappropriate in a fine dining restaurant.
Charlotte hated it when parents brought their children, twelve and below, to such a fancy place. It was torture for the kids and quite plainly, kids misbehave when they're bored.
For instance, when Charlotte placed the gravy-drowned pheasant on the table cloth in front of the child, the little girl huffed with her arms crossed. This posture was surely meant to signal her parents that she had no intention on eating what was in front of her.
If only that little brat could see that while she sat in a classy hotel eating a healthy meal other children sat at home eating McDonald's in front of the television. Her purple velvet dress was something most girls her age would have sold their whole collection of Barbies for—dream house and all.
But, most parents that came to Sixteen were hardly the family types. They were politicians, large cooperation owners, and actors. Many of them have probably never eaten a home cooked meal at their kitchen table while laughing about something the neighbor said. They've probably never had a Sunday cookout. It made her want to scoff and roll her eyes.
"Tell me if you need anything," Charlotte said with a soft smile in the parents' direction. They nodded in response but their attention seemed to be focused on the child's rebellious attitude.
/ / /
In the end, the little girl only swallowed a few bites of the bird. Charlotte was happy to see them leave. She was afraid of having a reoccurrence of purposefully children-caused spills. There had been a few instances in her memory when children intentionally dropped their glasses or knocked their plate onto the floor in order to make their parents look at them. Children are corrupt that way.
It was eleven now. Customers had gone and there were dishes to clean. Skillets and pots littered the counters ready for a good scrub. Burnt cheese and vegetables clung to the saucers like baboons to their mothers. They refused to come off.
Tonight, it was Charlotte's turn to wash and Ronda's turn to dry. Jason sat nearby dabbing his sweaty forehead with his stained pocket handkerchief.
Ronda was a lanky woman with wiry blond hair. Her eyes had hallowed in her late twenties and she was going on forty. Ronda's voice was thick through the frequent smoke breaks by the hotel entrance. Her personality was just as rough and ragged. When she went home that night, she would pour herself a glass of aged Cabernet Sauvignon while watching the late night soap operas.
"You two stuck with cleaning duty tonight?" Jason sounded out of breath though he was sitting. His face was still beat red from running around the kitchen all night making preparations. "It was pretty busy tonight so there are a lot of dishes."
"Yup," Ronda agreed her voice sounding like two stones grinding against each other. "I have to be here since it's been a whole month since the last time I've helped clean." Then she added, "I hate cleaning. If either of you saw my apartment you'd think there were five people living there with the amount of junk piled everywhere."
"If that's case," Charlotte scrubbed the difficult pan soaking in the soapy water. "Then I'm glad I volunteered to wash. It would be annoying to have you do it then not have it washed correctly."
Her sleeves were pushed up and her bare arms were streaked in bubbles. Her uniform collar bow was untied and hung loosely around her neck. The black vest wrapped around her was unbuttoned along side the first top buttons of her shirt. She rinsed the mixing bowl in her hands before handing it off to Ronda to dry.
Ronda slapped the towel on the bowl replying with a charming, "Damn straight." She mopped up the dish sloppily and placed it to the side to put away later. "You would have just had to wash them for me anyway, Charlie."
"Ronda, I thought women were supposed to be naturals at cleaning," Jason teased letting airy chuckles escape as the testy woman's lips turned down. The wrinkles on her brow deepened.
"Jason, I'll tell you what I'm good at," she said an old southern accent seeping in through her tone. She pointed a wet knife at him. "I'm good at chopping. Vegetables, meat, anything that needs to be cut up I can take care of. Cleaning and other feminine nonsense is something I don't measure up to."
When Ronda went back to her towel Charlotte smirked. "Is that why your boyfriend has such great domestic abilities to make up for your lack of?" Her eyebrows rose cockily with wit.
"You see, you meant for that to be a crack," Ronda grinned with yellow-stained teeth, "but I have someone to take care of me and make me happy every night. What do you have?" She flicked a dripping whisk in Charlotte's direction sprinkling her. "You have an empty apartment. One of these days you're going to get yourself mugged or raped if you don't get yourself a roommate."
"Ronda, listen to yourself." The dishwater was turning a sick brownish color like polluted clouds. Charlotte would have to change it soon. "The chances of being mugged or raped just because you're alone in your apartment are uncertain. If someone really wanted to do something like that, they wouldn't take the time to see if you lived alone and just take you while you're in the street where no one will care."
"Oh yeah," Ronda's voice dripped with skepticism. "How are you supposed to know whether or not you have a stalker? Some people out there on the streets are messed up. They will spot you one day and want to see you everyday. Soon they'll be following you on the streets. Then they'll follow you to your apartment building. One day they may make it up to your room."
A dubious expression fitted itself on Charlotte's face. "I think you've been watching too many soaps. It's distorting your reality."
The sous bellowed gripping his belly as he jiggled in merriment. Ronda was less than pleased. She placed her fists on either side of her hips and narrowed her eyes at the girl.
"You're pretty mouthy for someone your age." In her mouth she snapped some gum Charlotte hadn't remembered her put in. "Haven't you ever heard to respect your elders?"
They locked eyes. "Haven't you heard that my generation doesn't give respect to people unless they've earned it?" Charlotte's words flowed out with a sly smile. She had been raised in situations where retorts were used habitually. They weren't needed, but they were used.
Her comeback was rewarded with soaked, boney fingers racking through her hair in a congratulating pat. Hair stuck up in strange loops and frizzes when Ronda was finished.
"Kid, you're going to go far in this world," the woman stated, the smell of nicotine dusting across Charlotte's face. "With that sort of attitude, no one will stand in your way. I don't get why you spend all your time working."
Instead of observing the conversation, Jason intercepted. "That would be because colleges don't take girls with just attitude. They want a girl with attitude and money." A calm smirk addressed his mouth as he spoke. Whether because he thought the situation was comical or if it was his way of showing sympathy, Charlotte couldn't tell.
"Oh," Ronda sighed getting back to work once she saw her pile of dishes growing. "So you want an education. You're one of those smart girls who want to go farther in life." Her hip jutted out haughtily as though Charlotte had attacked her pride. It may have had something to do with Ronda's history of running away from home at a young age and hopping from job to job to make a living. Eventually she had found the Sixteen along the way and the monthly payments on her apartment had grown less binding.
"I don't want to be a waitress my whole life," Charlotte's face dropped as her shoulders shrugged. "My mother isn't going to help me pay for college so I have to take care of myself. That's the end of it."
"It sounds like a lot of bull if you ask me," Ronda's lips sneered into a dissatisfied frown. "A lot of bull and work. Neither is good in my opinion."
"Yeah, well…" Charlotte let the conversation go since she knew Ronda wasn't the type to understand. Many people Charlotte's age had college handed to them. And if it wasn't, they didn't have high expectations for themselves in the first place and gave up on college. She wasn't going to ruin her life by letting the opportunity leave her. Charlotte had two good working hands. She would work to get what she wanted. She wanted achievement.
Something she didn't get growing up since someone always took the spotlight.
/ / /
Charlotte slammed her car door shut and put the key in the ignition. When her car shuddered awake, her clock blazed at her in neon numbers 12:13. Late shifts turned early at the Sixteen. She eagerly took the cleaning job ahead of everyone else to get in an extra hour or two on her pay check.
She drove her silver Saab through the rows of cars and down the cement ramp to the ground floor. Traffic wasn't so dreadful at such an early hour. What was normally a thirty minute drive to work at six o'clock only took fifteen. She passed by several pubs seeing a variety of types from giggly groups of girls to men in their business garb stumbling out of the neon archways.
A theater was open for midnight showings. It had lines of people crowding into the cramped sidewalks along the streets. Most of the mass were teenagers wearing the same black T-shirts. A few individuals were getting a little shove happy as some began yelling at their neighbors. Charlotte tried to get a look to see what was playing, but passed by too quickly to read the florescent bulbs above; she could have sworn she saw the word Underworld somewhere.
As she continued down the street, she admitted to herself she didn't have money to splurge on a movie anyway. By the time you paid to get in and bought a drink, she would have already spent enough to buy her two shampoos worth.
And shampoo was a needed priority while seeing a movie wasn't.
Soon she rounded the corner and veered into a parking space along side her apartment building. With her faux leather purse in hand, Charlotte turned off her car and stepped out into the rain. Hours ago the rain was a feathery precipitation now it pelted down on her head and shoulders as she ran on the sidewalk where she nearly landed on a piece of pink bubblegum.
When she made it through the entrance she first checked her mail. She ran through her keychain singling out the one between her car and gym keys. She unlocked the grimy metal locker of 308. The cheap paint was chipped and the number was wearing off. She pulled out the white envelopes inside.
Bills… Taxes were due next week. Go figure.
A long sigh escaped her lips filled with exhaustion. Her contacts were getting sticky with sleep, she realized. Quickly, with the motivation of the warmth and comfort of her bedroom, she turned left up the staircase. She took two steps at a time.
The apartment building wasn't the best, but it was what her paycheck could afford. Few people wrote and carved initials and immature phrases along the faded blue walls as if it were a bathroom stall. She refrained from touching the railing because of her phobia of… any other person in the building. The stairs were narrow and made a tight squeeze if two had to pass each other.
Taking the last few steps one at a time, she finally reached the third floor. By that time her breaths heaved and she realized she needed to push the landlord harder about fixing the elevators. It was always a pain having to walk up that many flights.
Charlotte undid her bun and ran a hand through her shoulder blade-length hair. Knots had formed and a symmetrical wave circled her head from the ponytail tie. Her eyes were already beginning to droop when she pulled out her room key. The familiar turn of the doorknob was so welcoming she almost thought to fall into the doorway and sleep.
Instead, she opened the door and creaked it shut pulling the chain across and dead bolting the lock. She slipped her heeled wingtip shoes on the tile near the door. She wouldn't track anything from the streets into her humble home.
She turned to her apartment illuminated by the streetlights bellow. The kitchen beside the door contained little counter space, a fridge, and a small number of cabinets. Then again, she was the only one who lived there so little was all she needed.
Her table was pitiful only able to tightly seat four. Her living room was even more humble with a love seat and quaint wooden coffee table as her only furnishing and a television pressed against the back wall. There were no pictures hung on the walls with happy memories, there were none to remember. Her walls were a sun-bleached tan color.
On the right wall were two doors. The farthest entered a bathroom so small it could only hold two persons at once. The closest held her bedroom, the room she treasured most.
She went to switch on the light beside the kitchen cabinets, but a sound stopped her.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Charlotte looked at her sink where the handle was twisted slightly and a steady trickle seeped from the faucet. She didn't think she had forgotten to turn off the water this afternoon. In fact, she had plenty of time before she left for work to go through her apartment to make sure all the lights were off.
She turned the lever anyway and took a closer look at the room. The couch looked a little crooked like someone had bumped into it. And the lamp beside her left window had been knocked over. The lampshade rocked loose to the slight breeze of the furnace.
Charlotte stood still. Her face froze as her eyes still scanned the room. She didn't necessarily have a great memory, but she would have remembered bumping into her lamp stand.
There was a time once when she saw a nifty pepper spray device in a gas station. It was pink to make it feminine, conveniently palm-sized, and it could even hang as a key chain. Charlotte didn't purchase it because it was her egg money she would have to spend. Also the thought of mere pepper stopping an insane man from attacking her seemed ludicrous. If she really feared about getting mugged, she should get a license to conceal and carry not buy a tiny can of seasoning.
But in that moment she regretted it.
She should have bought the stupid can and gone without eggs for a week. Self defense is much more important than food. How were you supposed to eat an omelet in the morning if you were dead or beaten until you were immobile?
Reaching across the counter, Charlotte pulled out a cutting knife from one of the drawers keeping her eyes on the room. She couldn't hear anything. No movement. No breathing. The only thing she could perceive was the sound of her heartbeat in her ears. Adrenaline, an amazing bodily chemical, pounded through her limbs waking her up. Her worry over dry contacts vanished.
In sock feet she padded over to the carpet in her living room checking the opposite side of her couch. Nothing. With her back to the exterior wall of the building, she peered across the room where both her bathroom and bedroom doors were closed. Abstract shadows from collected raindrops on the window dripped down the wall. The light was an eerie rust color. It flickered for a moment and Charlotte feared it would evaporate completely leaving her in darkness with something unknown in her apartment.
She debated what to do. She most definitely didn't have the guts to search the rooms herself. The knife in her hand shook enough as it was. Another hand gripped the handle to provide a steadier hold. She lifted her hands and pointed the end of the blade at the two doors.
"C-Come out," she shivered. "I know you're there." Her voice quavered uncertainly. Every nerve in her body screamed at how tense she held her posture. "Come out now or I'll call the police."
Now there was an idea. Call the police. The logical thing to do would be to call the police first then threat. Then again, it could all be her imagination. How many times had she been home alone when she was still in her parent's house and thought someone was downstairs? Many, but there was never actually anyone to report. It was always her mind playing tricks on her. Just imagine the embarrassment of contacting the police and have it be a false alarm. They'd walk in to see her pointing a blade at two empty rooms. Then they'd be really pissed and give her a strict lecture as if she were twelve. The landlord would also have a hissy fit knowing a couple of cops were inside his building. Yeah… it would be mighty humiliating to call the police.
But… when had she ever felt so scared?
Taking a hand off the knife she dug into her pocket and fumbled with her cell phone. "I'm serious." She held the phone up to show as though the person could see through walls. "I have my phone out, I'll call them."
Maybe in five weeks or five years she would look back at herself and laugh at how stupid she was. She highly doubted anyone could be in her apartment. It was possible for an earthquake to move objects around in a room. Or there could be a ghost.
She would much rather a ghost be taunting her at that moment than a human. Or it could be a prank from her friends. Yeah, friends were supposed to do things of that sort.
She heard her doorknob turn. It was such a slow and small movement she could hardly see it, especially in a dimly lit room.
The door to what used to be her sanctuary cracked open with a long screeech. She though she was going to faint. In her dizziness she briefly wondered if it was real. Could bad dreams really come true? Was their truly a monster that lived under her bed in grade school?
A figure stepped out from the captivity of her bedroom and stood opposite to her. With the little light provided she could see his noticeably messy ginger hair. Not messy, spiky, sticking up every which way. He was taller, she noticed regrettably. She couldn't quite tell, but she could make up a number of piercings along his nose and ears. There were two in his lip as well. On his forehead he wore a piece of metal with marks engraved on the surface. The man wore a cloak that went from his chin all the way down to his shins.
His presence was unbelievable.
He held himself poised with his hands to his sides. His eyes bore into her like daggers, digging and twisting painfully. He made her so uncomfortable she couldn't move. Her heart stopped. She couldn't breath. Couldn't think. Couldn't function. Her tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of her mouth. She was visibly shaking.
She had never tried to understand the phrase 'fight or flight' first hand. It was said so often that its meaning became numb in her brain. It was just a phrase. But now it proved to be entirely more than 'just a phrase'. It was something that stood for those split deadening seconds when you're faced with a horrific predicament. Your choice determined the outcome. And sometimes the outcome was whether you survived the event or not.
This is what went through her mind. Well, many things went through her mind in those few seconds that seemed to freeze in time. Things like I wonder if I put my gym uniform in the laundry basket to wash for work tomorrow and I need to get more toothpaste, I've been getting low and even I'm pretty sure my period is about to start soon, should I consider wearing a light pad to bed?
All thoughts considering were pretty useless to the situation, but they were there nonetheless.
Charlotte watched the man a few moments more before gripping the phone in her hand. Rather, it was much less a grip but a twitch to wake her from her trance.
With rigid movements she flipped open her phone and pushed dial. Her fingers had never trembled so much in her life. Not even when she was in speech class giving a PowerPoint and her hand wobbled something fierce when she motioned at her diagram.
Her thumb hadn't even managed to press the first one of 9-1-1 when her head was hit against the wall behind her. A smashing noise sounded at the back of her head as she realized that she'd cracked through the drywall. A second passed when she worried about what she would tell her landlord and how much it would cost to repair. Then she comprehended her situation.
The man who was just standing reverse to her by her bedroom door was now standing in front of her. His hand clasped around her throat dangerously restricting her airways. Her knife had clattered on the tiles during the blow and her phone was now in the hands of the man.
His hands seized the appliance with such an unyielding hold she thought it would snap. For a moment he studied the phone, turned it this way and that, looking at the single number she had typed, and then back at her.
From this proximity Charlotte could count the three piercings through his nose and seven in each ear. The headband he wore had four vertical scores with a long scratch through the middle. It resembled an oversized tally mark. His eyes blazed a malicious hue with his intent observation. She noticed that he had three rings around each pupil.
Within the blink of an eye, her phone was crushed in his palm. Splitters of plastic, bits of computer chips, and battery fluid ejected from his fist. His gaze never strayed from her face and his hand never left her throat.
The hand grew tighter as he leaned in closer and opened his mouth to speak.
/ / /
I believe this is a great start! I'm already ending on a cliffhanger to make sure I ensnare readers!
You already made it through an entire chapter! Congratulations! Also to add, Alizera Song helped to edit this story and my terrible grammar mistakes and also… Just mistakes that just didn't make sense. So I give her credit!
Question: What will the Mystery Man say?
It's actually not a very hard question, though I know you probably won't be able to get it… It's a terrible first question. I would ask who the lab man is and how he is connected to the whole plot, but I think I will ask that at a later date. That's a very GOOD question and will be saved until the best time. Although, you can try to answer it now if you'd like. You just won't get the answer until WAY later. Also, the reason for the question is… I've always loved it when I read other fanfics and they have questions at the end of each chapter for the readers to participate.
I will also attempt to answer most of your comments and thank those who favorite, comment, and alert. If I don't, I give you all permission to come after me and threaten my life in any way you prefer.
To make a note about this story, I plan to make this out into something very deep. I'm not only trying to improve my writing style, but also the… depth of my work. I want there to be some form of meaning behind everything. So, even though I write for my own enjoyment and for others, I will still try to make this significant. Not just another fanfic.
With those final words, I wish you all a happy New Years!