Chapter 2
Hey, y'all!
Sorry I haven't upd8d in ages…(about 7 months)…but no1 gave me ideas except for melissa, which I had already thought of and am planning on doing in chapter 3 onwards…plus, I had skoolwork. And skoolwork. And still more skoolwork.
But, I got writer's block again 4 ATM and my english oral, so I did this chapter. Hope no1 is disappointed.
ShaedowCat
X3 - thanx 4 the compliment
Darkness Amber - um…sorry, this isn't soon, but I needed another case of writer's block, bcoz no1 gave me ne ideas!
Jessie - thanx…but I don't have ne ideas! I don't know where I'm going with this! So, if u haven't given up bcoz it took so long 2 upd8, plz give me sum ideas!
rafiki - okay, I'm keeping going…sorta…
Good Witch - thanx 4 the review, yes I am upd8ing now, If u have ne ideas, plz tell me so I can write the story instead of relying on writer's block for my inspiration!
piper wyatt-halliwell 1973 - thanx
gimmeabreak - okay, will do
nighttime writer - here u go…hope u haven't given up on me…
kina24 - oh, shut up
purpleant - thanx! And as 4 why Rebecca kidnapped Chris…hmmm…wait and find out…
DarkGoddessRaven - that's okay, I got writer's block on All that matters again…but this chapter may be a bit crap, due to the fact that I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO WRITE!
faith j. - thanx! Here's the next chapter, hope ur not disappointed…
melissa - thank-you, thank-you, thank-you…ur pretty much the only person who gave me ne ideas…and what are you, psychic?
deranged black kitten of doom - gloomily hope I don't piss u off with this chapter…but I'm glad u liked the first chapter
Queen of the Elven City - thanx for the review, and sorry I didn't upd8 sooner
Stranded Stargazer - glad u like the assassin with feelings bit, I wasn't sure how that would go down, but I agree, it's nice to see a cold-hearted assassin with feelings occasionally
Good Witch - aargh! Leave me alone! Fine! (shoves chapter at Good Witch) here it is!
k.o.d (and kina24 again, the rude individual) - hi, yes, thanx, bye (to kina: I'll get you! It'll look like an accident!)
mugglewolf - nah, I'm just jokin', I don't believe in active powers like fireballs and crap, but those powers I listed r ones I'd like 2 have…newayz glad u like it
Good Witch – okay, okay! You asked for it, remember!
CharmedMilliE – okey-day, shall do, here you go!
Author's Note: Actually, it's tooken me 7 bouts of writer's block to get this chapter done, so people…get your thinkin' caps on. This is your story as much as it is mine, I've told you!
2011
Chris slipped silently out of his bed and began to quietly fill his school-bag with his things. Once his few meagre possessions were packed, he slung the backpack over his shoulder and walked to the dormitory door, avoiding squeaky floor-boards with the skill born of seven years of practice.
Carefully, oh so carefully, he pulled the handle of the door downwards, wincing as the old metal handle squealed in protest. He glanced over his shoulder, checking to see if any of his dorm-mates had heard the harsh metallic sound and woken up, but the other boys all slept on.
Sighing in relief, he gave the door a gentle shove, pushing it open just enough so he - and his backpack - could slip through, then slunk out into the corridor.
Chris trotted as silently as possible down the hallway, avoiding the creakier spots of the ancient wooden floor as he headed towards the Matron's office. He passed through the derelict building as quickly as possible, speeding past rotting floor-boards and crumbling walls, trying to minimise the amount of time he had to be there.
As he neared his destination, he slowed to a walk, stopping occasionally to check none of the other kids were around - either sneaking between dorms or in the more official role of Snitch - but he saw and heard nothing.
A few minutes later he was standing outside of the Matron's office, the one place no-one went of their own volition…except, tonight, him. Chris took a deep breath, glanced both ways down the corridor, then reached out and turned the door handle. It twisted silently, and he heard the faint snick of the lock pulling back out of the port. He pushed it open, and it moved silently and smoothly inwards on well-oiled hinges. He snuck inside and closed the door behind him.
The inside of the office was a stark contrast to the rest of the building. Deep red velvet curtains covered the stained glass windows; a huge mahogany desk was the centre-piece; a deep leather armchair resided in the corner of the room, near the fireplace in which red-hot embers still glowed; satin cushions in a myriad of colours adorned the large white sofa that stood next to a large mahogany book-case and wardrobe.
Chris looked in distaste at the unchecked opulence, thinking of all the money that must've gone into this room, and how much could've gone into the rest of the orphanage. He shook his head, then headed over to the wardrobe. This wardrobe was where the Matron, a despicable woman in her fifties by the name of Begonia Pritchard, kept all of the things that came in with the children who came into the orphanage, and it was in here that Chris' true possessions were locked.
Settling himself down in front of the wardrobe, he pulled his back-pack off his shoulders and set it down on the plush carpet beside him. He studied the lock on the wardrobe carefully. It wasn't very sophisticated, just your normal, average tumbler lock…until you factored in the electric charge that passed through the lock, turning the average thief into a gibbering mess if they tried to use a metal lock-pick, and melting the plastic ones, and also the fact that the key hole itself was only a millimetre in width.
But Chris wasn't your average thief.
With a nod of quiet satisfaction, he pulled an ordinary – albeit antique – paper-clip out of his pocket.
The paper-clip was one of those paper-clips that has the coloured plastic coating over the top of the metal. Two-thirds of the plastic had been stripped away, exposing the metal beneath, and cutting down the paper-clips width by half.
Chris slid his make-shift lock-pick into the lock carefully, ensuring that he only had contact with semi-insulated plastic-coated part of the pick. A very faint hum filled the room as the pick slid home, and Chris felt the plastic - and the metal it encased - heat up beneath his fingers. Ignoring it, he began to work on the lock.
Half a minute later, the heat beneath his fingers was becoming an uncomfortable burning, and he was only halfway through. He closed his eyes. If he pulled the clip out now, the tumblers would fall back into their original positions and he'd have to start all over again. If he continued, there was an extremely good chance that the plastic would melt, his fingers would come into contact with the metal, and the electric current flowing through it would immobilise him.
Screw it, he thought determinedly, and he continued to work. At five seconds, the heat coming through the plastic began to feel a little close for comfort. At ten seconds, Chris felt the plastic coating begin to bubble under his fingers. At fifteen seconds, the plastic was beginning to slip, and he saw with the edge of his vision a drop of melted plastic fall to the floor. At twenty seconds…
…Chris felt the tumblers begin to fall away, just as the plastic coating disintegrated. Bracing himself for a 1500 volt shock, he instead felt white-hot - but certainly not electrocuted - wire bite into his fingers…and the door clicked open.
Chris dropped the paperclip and rocked back, away from the door. He gave a low, wordless cry of pain and cradled his hand against his chest. His fingers felt like they were on fire, they hurt so much…he just wanted to have them stop hurting…he pressed his forehead against his knees and closed his eyes, concentrating on trying to beat the pain down.
A tear of pain streaked down his cheek, then fell down to his hand. Almost as if in answer, a small pale blue sphere of light emanated from the burns across his fingers. It was quickly followed by another, and then another…after a few seconds, a few dozen tiny lights were covering the searing marks on Chris' fingers. After a second, the lights turned from pale blue to palest gold, and a tiny golden glow spread over his fingers. It lingered for a few moments, then it and the tiny orbs dissipated.
Chris kept his eyes firmly shut. He didn't want to see his fingers…didn't want to see how badly they'd been damaged. His fingers were everything to him…they were his means of escaping this hell-hole…they were his life. Without them, he couldn't be a thief…he wouldn't be able to keep himself alive out on the streets. But he had to know…
Slowly, he straightened, and held his hands up in front of his face. He took a deep breath, then opened his eyes. And stared in shock.
There was nothing. No blemish, no scar, no rising blisters, and – he slowly began to notice – no pain. Nothing. A grin began to spread across Chris' thin face, and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from yelling with joy. Then he frowned.
Burnt fingers didn't just heal themselves.
He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, but he shrugged the feeling of something-not-quite-right off and turned back to the cupboard. He began to rummage around – methodically, and quietly – in the cupboard for his belongings.
"Chris '06, Chris '06, Chris '06…" he whispered to himself as he searched, then, "…ah, gotcha!" as he found the clear plastic bag with his name and the year he was bought in on it, as well as a list of the possessions he'd had on him when he'd arrived. There were only three things: a beaten-up leather jacket, which was normal enough, and a small velvet bag with a strange, three-pointed symbol on it, containing a crystal and a small amount of herbs, which was slightly less normal…but the last item was an ornately decorated dagger.
Definitely not normal for a two-year-old to have in his possession.
As Chris drew the items out, a whisp of something white caught his eye as it fell to the ground. He picked it up.
It was a piece of white paper. There was a large tear in the top of it, and across it, in big, black letters, was his name. CHRIS. Chris felt the familiar stirrings of rage…and confusion. His family had abandoned him. He had had a home, and a family, and they'd given him a name, and then they'd abandoned him. Why? Why had they done it? Why…
Carefully, he folded the paper and placed it in his pocket. There would be plenty of time to ask questions later. But now, he had to get going, or he'd never get out.
Glancing nervously at the other door in the room, the door that led from the Matron's office to the Matron's quarters, Chris pushed the door to the closet closed. He slipped the dagger and the velvet bag into his back-pack, then neatly folded the jacket and slid that in, too. He slung the bag over his shoulder, then walked over to the door to the office and left the room.
He trotted down the hall towards the kitchen. The kitchen was the closest way to the outside, and also the best way to leave if you were to escape: the front door was a two minute walk away, and opened onto a busy main street. The kitchen door, on the other hand, opened onto a back alley, with half a dozen alleys leading off from it, and dozens of alleys leading off from them. The perfect place to get lost.
Chris opened the creaky door to the kitchen, slid inside, then walked over to the pantry. He grabbed some apples and shoved them in his back-pack, as well as two packets of biscuits, a block of chocolate, three bananas and the two small bottles of brandy and whiskey he'd seen the cook hide behind the potatoes. He also grabbed some carrots and put them in his bag too.
He grabbed another apple for eating on his way, then, leaving the pantry door ajar, he sauntered over to the door leading to Liberty. He opened the door, but paused, looking around, mentally saying good-bye to Hell.
A second later, there was no-one there.
Chris had gone.
Well, there y'all go…hope this is good enough for all you out there…i tried… 'twas the best I could do…
Hee hee.
Luv
ShaedowCat
ps AND FOR GODDESS' SAKE, GIVE ME SOME IDEAS:)
luv me aka SC
pps I'm not mad at yiz, I'm just frustrated!
Luv mSC
