Hello, humanoids! I am back, and ready to start on the third chapter of my friend's bio. Yeah, it was a shame that he couldn't make it, but he got drugged by some teenage female while walking home from exams. No big deal. You might think, hey, this is a pretty nice person who's had a rough time. Maybe I should cut him some slack. Let me think…nope.

First off, I am going to recognize those who are sharing their thoughts on the story.

WritingLover21: Thank you for choosing to read my story. I noticed that you have recently created a profile. I read your stories, and, while they feel clustered, they are still fun to read. I hope you keep writing, too.

{P.S. I am curious as to why you put "sorry" on your profile description. The fact that you already have two stories started is impressive, and having slipups in your writing is okay; it means you're human, and it'll get better along the way.}

Cressida123: Thank you for the detailed reviews! I really enjoy when you review my works, for you really read the work, think about it, and are not afraid to display your opinion. Yes, [sigh] I deserved the reprimand for the way I have displayed Sophie Foster so far ((Created by Shannon Messenger)). But I thought that it would add something more to the biogra- I mean, story.

By the way, I didn't realize that I was writing it like a bio [smack forehead, realizing that I referred to it ]as a biography more than five times]. But I do like the description. And as for the untrusting nature of Rowan, I felt as though Sophie was being too trusting and rash; for example, she really should have had a contingency plan in place in case her secret got out the moment she was put in the paper, let's be honest. And as for running into the street after meeting an over-curious stalker, that was foolish; the better plan would have been to go back to the group, or to try to lose him by going into crowds in the museum.

Wow, look at the time! More writing, less talking, am I right?

"This is the talking between the aspects, while this is thought. This is the thought of an aspect.

This is action, and "this is speaking out loud."


While I was running from the stranger, the aspects of thinking have a meeting concerning the situation that I had gotten them into.

Panic, his forehead furrowing into valleys, works furiously, trying to get his assignment together on time. He has taken the memories of today and put together a very detailed presentation of what happened, for it is his turn to present the information to the board.

Now, while he always tried his best to remain neutral, for it would be humiliating to have another call from Psyche again, he cannot help but feel concerned.

Why do children have to be so weak? Now that the Dryadic folk have found him, they will do anything to ensure that Rowan doesn't escape. We really should have had a lockdown procedure in case this ever happened. I wonder how that-

He stops himself with the realization of what he just thought. What are the Dryadic folk?

Before he continues this thought, Panic is interrupted by a voice behind him.

"Pan, the brief should have been turned in already. You are already .25 milliseconds late." (In the mind, .25 milliseconds is equal to 25 minutes.)

Panic turns to face the double-personality aspect Logic/Focus, alias Logos, who is in charge of rationality; the serious aspect recently received punctuality as one of his tasks in Rowan's absence, and he is taking it seriously, word for word.

Logos continued to remind Panic of the reason why the task at hand is so important. "At this rate, you won't have time to turn it in before he gets in trouble, and we don't want that; we need ALL the information in order to proceed"

Right as Panic starts to answer, a brilliant white tornado starts to travel towards the two. It hits Logos, throwing him unconscious, then rushes to Panic. Panic feels a white-hot pain, filling his vision until all he could see is a blank landscape, then he collapses.


Sarcasm was speaking to Rowan when a cloud starts surrounding them both, with Rowan in the thick of it; he sees Rowan start to go glassy-eyed, so he tries to keep him awake.

Right as Sarcasm says, "What now, genius?", trying to get him to say something, do something, anything, but Rowan's aspect flickers, then vanishes.

He feels a despair fill his form, then he abruptly shuts down, unable to help his friend and leader.

Guttural rage infiltrates his senses, and he welcomes it. For two milliseconds, the only sounds in the Mind are the echoes of the unbridled screams of anguish emitting from his twisted form as he tries to bring Rowan back. Then he collapses, the emotions too much for his body and soul to bear.

Rocking back and forth in the center of the storm, he whimpers, "What now?", tears streaming down his cheeks unchecked.


Memory tries to tell Rowan something, but his Backer doesn't work. It is almost like the 'internet' connection is malfunctioning; to be honest, there really isn't such a connection needed, though, but it is the closest thing to compare the concept to.

Just as he tries to send the message concerning the specific danger to the KC again, a blindingly white spinning wind sneaks up behind him and whips away the device out of his hands.

He stands there, transfixed by the mysteriously lovely whirlwind.

It slowly approaches him, growing bigger and bigger.

Right as it reaches the ceiling, a mere meter away from his body, Memory snaps out of the trance, fear penetrating every pore.

He tries to run, but the storm engulfs him, the previously beautiful sight now a terrifying tornado of glass shards.

He tries to hit the side, but his hand is the only thing harmed; the skin on his knuckles was scraped clean off.

As he lurches backwards in pain, blood rushes from the bare flesh, covering the ground around him. The blood moves into a circle around Memory of its own accord, reflecting the whiteness of the storm.

As he watches in horror, the liquid divides into little circles and moves upward, pulling even more fluid from his body, depriving him of his lifeblood.

Soon, he shivers as the last of half of his blood joins the circles. It condenses, forming bars white as frost and his parchment-dry skin, for it had also pulled the pigments from his body. The bars are too close together, providing no room to escape.

Even worse, they begin to shake, hitting each other at a rate so fast that Memory finds himself trapped in a sound chamber. The frequency of the sound goes higher and higher, the tempo going faster and faster until the cacophony became too great for the preservation of sanity, and consciousness.

Just as his eyes start rolling upwards, his hand touches something. He forces himself to focus long enough to see the Backer.

He files the message under Project Flaredon with a single press of a button, then his vision goes dark.

The body falls into a heap on the freezing ground, his ear dripping white fluid.


When I wake up, I panic. Then I realize that I am…in my own bed. I wonder what is going on, for all I remember is a thick white fog, and Panic.

Eh, probably was just some dream I had.

Coffee is now definitely a priority. Toast too.

Then I remember that I have a project to turn in, so I quickly get dressed, brush my teeth, who needs breakfast, anyway, and go downstairs to clean and pack up my science project. So far, it feels like a normal school day, and I soon forget why I was nervous earlier.

I go to school per usual, finish my last round of exams, which were pretty tedious because I already know where my understanding of the material is at, and ride the can home.

As I stumble off the bus and start walking the rest of the way, I'm suddenly hit with a sense of trepidation as I look around. For some reason, I think of pain and sickly sweet.

What do those have to do with each other? This is ridiculous!

Shaking the momentary confusion out of my head, I get home without incident, which is great; I'm not in the mood to deal with any crazy stuff.

I start unlocking the back door, only to find that something was stuck in the lock.

I carefully use my wire to pick it out, only to find that it is a tiny bird-shaped button made of what appears to be silver; however, its weight seems heavier than it should be.

I slip it into my pocket, noting that it is cold, as though it had been there since this morning; as I unlock the door, I muse over the circumstance of its appearance.

I remember locking the door, so it couldn't be from before then. And since I left so soon before school starts, it couldn't be a student since all of the schools in my district have the same schedule.

I walk in and proceed with my daily work. Since my mother is a teacher and my father is a mechanical engineer at a government facility, I don't expect them to come back until an hour later, so I get out my jewelry kit.

By the way, I use it to experiment with various metals and to shape wire, not to actually make jewelry. Except as a present for someone, but I usually say that I bought it at some obscure location if they ask.

I put the button on an old spoon and heat it with the blowtorch, expecting it to start softening, but nothing happens. Instead, as the spoon starts to change colors, the button stays the same.

Is this…platinum?!

This is a shock, for while silver was valuable, platinum is even more so, and is much harder to find. It also is denser, which explains the weight.

Right then, a burst of electricity zaps my hand, startling the merde out of me. Really, why did I even think that? I thought I was sensible enough not to curse.

I bend down to examine the bird-shaped button, which I had dropped on the floor. It was…GLOWING!

Time to get out of here. I've had enough experience to know that when any substance starts to glow after a disturbance, it is time to skedaddle.

Right as I start heading towards the back door, a blinding light flashes throughout the room, momentarily blinding me.

While I am dazed, someone (or something) abruptly grabs me and throws me over their shoulder.

I try to kick the aggressor, but the person's grip only tightens, crushing my rib-cage.

I try to shout to get the neighbors' attention, but I instead taste a sickly-sweetness.

I have a feeling that this is a sedative, but instead of muddling my brain, it jolts my brain onto full alert; I remember why I was so apprehensive when walking from the bus stop: the cold, determined, uncaring look in the gold-flecked eyes as the teenager used this same disgusting sedative flashes across my mind.

I feel my gut twist as I struggle one last time, then the figure drops me. It is a surprisingly long way down from the floor, indicating that the person is above six feet tall.

I look up to see…something that is most definitely not human. It looks more like a humanoid gargoyle than an actual human. Its features were that of determination, as the girl's were, but also of confusion.

I run past the stone creature towards the door, but instead get a fist to the face, knocking me to the ground. OW! Right in the nose. Definitely broken.

Looking up from the floor and clutching my face, I see periwinkle eyes staring into my own. They were full of regret…and determination. What is up with all of this determination? Are they part of a cult or something?

As I try to get up, head whirling from the hit in the face, I hear a male teenager's voice. "What should we do with him, Foster?"

I get up to find a stone creature and a bunch of people closing in, creating a barrier between me and the door.

They create a hole in the barrier, letting in the stalker from yesterday.

She monotonously states, "Take him." Regret is clearly written on her brow, which throws me off. Of all of the things to see in the face of my kidnapper, I would never have thought that it would be regret.

A teen with the piercing ice-blue eyes pulls out a stick, which doesn't really look much like a weapon, and points it at me. He looks at 'Foster' and asks, "Are you sure," concern clearly written on his brow.

What in the world is going on?!

'Foster' nods, giving the go-ahead with whatever is going on.

Any signs of emotion vanish from the teenager's face, and he jabs the twig in my direction.

I panic as I feel a pain ripple through me, increasing with each millisecond, spreading until it rushes through every pore in my very being.

Although it hurt to even breathe, I still somehow manage to stay up.

I stumble forward, all thought replaced by the need to get out of here. I get zapped again, the pain increasing ten-fold.

I continue walking, more like limping, BioMed states, forward. I pull the wire and key out of my pocket, desperate enough to fight the troupe if I have to, arms shaking from the rush of electricity coursing through my veins.

Ice-blue eyes widening, the teen shoots me again. The pain is white-hot now, so hot that it feels colder than liquid nitrogen.

I fumble forward, blindly lashing forward with the wire in hand, hitting nothing but air.

I feel one final jolt of lightning in my chest, and my muscles cease to work in mid-step.

The ice radiates from my torso until my entire body stiffens; the momentum from walking forward makes me fall backwards, hitting my head yet again on the floor.

By then, the pain of the fall feels like relief compared to the maelstrom of paralyzing agony rushing through my body, threatening to pull me down under the waves.

Surprisingly enough, right as my consciousness starts to drown, Sarcasm decides to pipe in. "What now?"

But now the cultists, as I've since dubbed them, can hear it. Either they are Telepaths, or I am speaking aloud...probably the latter; they look shocked, probably at the fact that I could still speak.

I smile despite all the pain, glad that I was able to surprise someone one last time; I am certain that I'm about to die, and refuse to go out in terror.

Another blast sends me to the bottom, where I could see the figures pull me away from behind a thin white veil. Then the veil becomes infinite.


-Stranger's POV-

I stand over the male adolescent, perplexed by what just occurred. The boy had, despite being outnumbered, still been prepared to fight. I could decide that this is an example of humans' barbaric nature, or I could admire his courage.

I choose to think about it later, and I carefully bend down to prod the child's arm, trying to see if he is truly paralyzed. Hey, he might be faking it. He seems smart enough to do it, so why not?

Yes, he is out, for the moment at least.

I start to pick up his body, which is now stiffer than Bronte's humor, when it suddenly spasms, falling out of my hands with a crash.

I stand straight up, getting out my weapons upon reflex, and watch the boy.

The boy's face is blank, the eyes glossy as they stare into the unfathomable distance. Where did all the emotion go-

Snap!

The boy's arms snap to the sides of the body, and the legs jerk straight down.

His lips start moving, mouthing some phrase over and over again, scarcely breathing.

Panic blares in my mind, and I shout to one of the teenage elves to hurry up and Light Leap.

I gently yet hurriedly pick up the adolescent's body and run through the beam, letting it whisk us away.

-Time Skip, one hour-

This kid is STILL mouthing something, and I'm not a lip reader, so that sucks.

I sit down on the bed, tired from the ordeal.

As I contemplate putting a gag over the kid's mouth so I can go get some sleep, he starts shouting in nonsensical sounds, eyes blank as can be. WHAT IN BLAZES IS THAT!?

"Oedipus Rex marte!"

Pause*

"Iniziativa di Firebird!"

"Mubadarat fayrbyrd!"

What's all this about fire?

The kid continuously shouts nonsense with increasing speed and volume, his voice never growing hoarse.

-26 hours later-

"Firebirdi algatus!"

"Inisyatiba ng Firebird!"

"Firebird-initiativet!"

This is insane. He's been shouting his head off for more than a day and a night, and it's now so loud that it is shaking Everglade; I have to stay behind with the kid while the others evacuated to make sure that he doesn't get out somehow.

"Fairbord sanaachilga!"

"Menter Firebird!"

"Firebird Initiative!"

Wait, what language is that? Sounds familiar... HAVE I BEEN LISTENING TO THIS KID SCREAMING HIS HEAD OFF IN HUMAN LANGUAGES FOR THE PAST TWENTY-SOMETHING HOURS WHEN I COULD'VE GOTTEN ONE OF OUR PROFESSORS TO SIMPLY LISTEN TO HIS RANTING?!

Right as I get up to leave, the boy says one last thing.

"Initsiativa Firebird!"

I freeze. Initiative Firebird?

As though the boy heard me, he relaxes.

I relax, thinking that this nightmare is finally over, when the child's body bolts upright, crashing onto the floor.

Not even reacting to the pain, the boy starts monotonously chanting a phrase over and over again.

"Prochetete posledovatelnostta na aktivirane. Prochetete posledovatelnostta na aktivirane. Prochetete posledovatelnostta na aktivirane. Prochetete posledovatelnostta na aktivirane."

What activation sequence?!

"Ne segaI," I mutter to myself. "Po-dobre da se spravya s tova po-kusno." (Not now...I better deal with this later)

The boy relaxes, and his eyes show a hint of recognition before they close, sound asleep.

I sit down, confused as to what in the world just happened.


I decided to have the character speak in Bulgarian, because when I read their character in the books, I immediately thought of Germanic family languages. Shout outs to whomever guesses who s/he/it is.

BWAHAHA- {take another breath} -HAHAHAHA! I am such a jerk, even more so for having fun writing the scene. But it was totally worth it.

I had to edit it. A LOT.

Now Rowan Dryadalem would probably kill me for making him suffer through that, he will forgive me…in a few centuries.

Or he doesn't even need to find out about my involvement. Hmm...I'll think about it.

Can't wait to start on the next part!😊