I don't own the character of Star Wars or the franchise itself. Hetalia is also not mine.
Sunday 27th March 2013
So now you know what happened. Good thing someone outside of the school does. I don't want to be forgotten. I want to leave my mark.
The subject of my nightmares changes every night, but one of the reoccurring themes has been a dream of the world decades into the future.
Each time, it's the same: a boy and a girl are speeding over a wasteland on high-tech, hovering motorcycles, sorta like the type Leia and Luke used in the chase scene in the last movie. Their faces are covered by black visors attached to a helmet, but I know which is the girl, who rides out in front, and who is the boy, who lags behind her, his head whipping from side-to-side as he tries to take everything in. I can see walls of text scrolling past on their visors; readings from the landscape and the trajectories of their vehicles. The two navigate through the shells of old, rusted cities. There are craters everywhere, as if a giant ice cream scooper came from the sky and sampled a little of everything. Every now and then the boy flies too close to a building and disturbs a murder of crows, and their sleek black bodies will bruise the sky as they flap away. Birds are everywhere. Deer and moose trot down the streets totally at ease. Trees grow where they please amongst the buildings and the city wears a green dress of ivy and ferns.
It's very pretty actually.
Eventually they come to a forest. Although time in a dream is much different to real-time, I know they fly above the green sea for at least an hour. The first time I hear the boy speak (in a French accent of all things) he asks "Are we there yet?"
And she replies (in an Eastern European accent) "Count the birds."
The World academy jumps into view soon. It doesn't go from a speck in the distance, it just springs up out of the trees and the two dismount on the field. The empty field. Our school is deserted completely. The building itself seems to have weathered a war. Glass litters every surface as well as rubble. The entire Western Wing has been blasted to pieces that are scattered in the surrounding area in good-sized chunks.
"What is this?" asks the boy. "Why did you bring me here?"
She shrugs. "I needed back up. They say this place has been abandoned for years."
"I'm your 'just in case'?"
"Yeah. Deal with it."
They walk in stride towards the front entrance, which has only one door remaining on its hinge now and even that is thrown wide open.
"How long did they last? Who were they?" the boy's voice bounces all around the deserted hall and through the caved roof into the forest.
"I don't know. Kids? This is a school."
"They musta had it made! All the way out in the wilderness, they had to be stocked up. They could have just locked the gates and settled in."
"C'mon, don't be an ass. You know no one ever got off that easy."
For a while they wander through the burnt out school. They never find any bodies until they come to the very last room, where I always wake up. The girl pushes the door open and I lie there, my blood and body as fresh as if I had died seconds ago .
He screams and she grabs a laser-gun type thing off her belt. But they are not attacked. Soon she starts forward and nudges my body. When she turns me over, I see that I have been filleted. My body has been opened and the organs have been taken out as easily as if my ribs were shelves on a fridge.
"Who the hell is this guy? He's dressed like the old times."
The girl leans down wordlessly and stares into my face for a long time. Then she produces a slim grey book from a concealed pocket and places it next to me. Roddy's exercise book. My journal. What you're reading right now.
She straightens up, bras her companion by the arm and drags him out heedless of his protests. Then I wake up.
Eight times: I counted. Twice in one night. Maybe I have some latent precognitive ability that has been awakened by the extreme stress and trauma of the situation I find myself in. Or maybe I need to get my head outta the clouds.
By the way did I tell you? We're bombing the school tomorrow.
A dream sequence. The writer's forbidden fruit. I told myself I wouldn't do it, I kept telling myself that and somehow it's turned up in the story. Damn you forbidden fruit!