Okay! If anyone was wondering why the story didn't make sense then your in luck cause I'm an idiot! I updated the wrong chapter, my bad, but it's fixed now but I recomend that you check chapter two out cause I done fucked up.
It's fixed now!
Chapter Three: Guest
Azula PoV
It was dark. It was cold. There was a burning sensation at my wrists, from a cut or a scrape. I was sore. My legs were tied to the legs of the chair. My arms were tied behind me. I heard muttered voices, I couldn't hear what they were saying but I heard their voices. It was like being under water trying to listen to an above water conversation. My mouth is dry, then I realize there is a gag in my mouth.
Things are coming to me a little to slow at the moment.
My blindfold is ripped off, but I can't see anything but white, so I close my eyes as fast as possible to avoid the dizzying blindness. Then the gag is ripped away.
I slowly open my eyes as they try to readjust to the light.
A man—no the man I saw by the van grimaces above me.
"What are you doing out here, kid?" He asked me. I look around, trying to feel my bearings. We are still in the building, but I'm tied to a chair.
"Answer me, why are you here?"
"Running from something," was all I could croak out before I sputtered into a coughing fit. The man, either trusting or generous, cut my bindings and handed me a bottle of water from out of the van. I take a sip and hope it's not poisoned.
"This is a bad part of town, and you don't look like a street rat, who are you?" the man kneels so that we were eye to eye. From here, I see a faded pink line peak from under his black eye patch that covers his left eye.
"My name is Azula. I don't know my parents and my group home manager was just murdered. I don't want to go back to another group home. Or the same one even. I don't know why I'm here, as in this building. It looked abandoned and safe-ish."
The man just stares at me, as if he is searching my soul for who I am. I stare back, but I make my stare more calculating.
"Well, I heard the news about the lady who was killed, and the news also said that two of the kids ran away. Be careful where you show your face at, kid, they have eyes everywhere," The man stands up. I stand up, and immediately sway sideways. The man catches me and guilds me back to the chair. The stars had returned for a moment, making me dizzy again.
"You know my name. Well, what's yours?"
"It would be better if you didn't know," he laughs lightly.
"I'm going to make up a name then, Mr. Scary-Pirate-Goatee."
The man smirks amusingly, "Feisty, you want to know my name? I'm—"
And explosion is set off from the wall and chucks of rubble and metal are thrown everywhere. I'm thrown from my seat and the only sound I can register is a constant ring. I lay there in a daze as dust layered like fog makes everything impossible to see. My stomach burns and I look down half-heartedly. A jagged metal shard protrudes from me. I stare at it, nothing comes to mind about what to do. I feel sick, now, and my hands start shaking. Seconds or minute—I don't really know—later a pool of red liquid gathers around me.
I faintly hear yelling and fighting. There's a gunshot. But I can't move. My energy is resolved to convulsing. I don't have control of my eyes, or my entire body for that matter. My eyes focus and refocus, close and reopen. I taste a metallic taste in my mouth and then I cough up spurts of blood.
The last thing I remember was a dark figure descending towards me.
o\0\8/0/o
Some say dark cannot be dark without the light. Or light, without the dark, for that matter. But it's purely based on perspective.
Is the glass half empty? Or half full?
But as the light and dark fade together, grey is formed.
That's where I sit now. There is nothing here. No images or sounds. No feeling or smells. I am motionless. Occasionally, someone or something else moves my physical body, while my mental body is stiff and hampered.
My body starts slowly reconnecting, piece by piece. Like a computer trying to reboot itself. Slowly, I begin to hear, feel, and smell again. But my sight always stays dark. I even begin to taste the saliva in my mouth.
When I finally gain my sight back, all I can do is toss my head and moan. I have no energy to do much else. I tried raising my hand, and it slid of the bed and fell asleep. My motor control had failed. The rythmic beeping of the monitor is the only sound I hear; it mocks me in a way, telling me that I'm alone. The cords in my arms feel awkward and uncomfortable on my skin. After my arm fell asleep, so did I. But I was reawakened by the soft click of a door. I try to raise my arm again, instead, it just twitches. I try to say hello to the figure approaching me, but I sounded more like a gargled "haylla".
To be honest, I'm horrified with myself. But the man who entered was amazed. He was middle aged, maybe even older, with thinning white hair and a grey suit. He blinked when I tried to move my arm again, then after another failed attempt; he gently places my arm on the bed and then rushes out of the room. And then, the only emotion I can process is sadness and loneliness. My eyes rim with tears and my vision blurs.
The door swings open loudly this time, but my only able reaction to the noise is my head flops towards it. The first man walks in, along with another man. He has white hair as well, though in all honesty he doesn't look old enough to be fifty or sixty. He hobbles towards me while he clutches his own ribs.
Who were these people? Where was I?
The hobbling man sits gingerly on the end of my hospital bed. I try to speak again.
"Halla," My words are muffled by my brain and I am frustrated beyond compare. Randomly, I burst into tears. Even my sobs are horrifying.
The man strokes my hair and tells me it's alright. He says that they thought I was gone completely, until I healed my wounds faster than anything he's ever seen. He told me I would be back to normal in no time. I didn't believe him.
I slow myself to sniffles, and breathe slowly. If I try hard enough, I can do it. I always have been able to. My natural body healed with my metahuman abilities, but the connection between my mind and my body are lacking.
After a few minutes of staring at the hobbled man, I get a feeling like I know him. He has an eye patch. He has a goatee. I know him.
At least I think I know him.
I'm perplexed, and I think he sees that. He smiles, in a slight, awkward, way.
"I was about to tell you my name when the wall exploded. My name is Slade, Slade Wilson."
Name. It's not a hard word to say, only one syllable. I can do this.
"Na-na-na-m-m," My failed attempts seem to be improving at least. I loll my head down, just enough to still see the goatee man and my hand. I twitch my thumb, then my index finger, then my middle finger, then my ring finger, and finally my pinky. I repeat this motion several more times in both hands. And with each repetition, it gets easier and faster.
Both men just stare at me; I feel like a sideshow attraction. I continue until I can move my entire hand at once.
Then something hits me, possibly even harder than the wall did.
"Azula," I say in a surprised and broken voice. The goatee man nods and tells me to rest. He gets up and hobbles back out the door, followed by the first man.
I am left alone, and I continue to work my motor skills. I don't intend to rest soon. Before I know it I can say two syllable words without a sweat and flex my arms and legs. But from all the hard work, I slip off into a dreamless sleep.