AN: Next few chapters are basically gonna be all OCs. Gotta develop the MC's background n' shit, y'know?
Music: The Doors – People Are Strange
"How's it feel, motherfucker? How's it feel to be fuckin' dead?"
–Cpl Gabe Garza, Generation Kill
II. GET UP, SOLDIER!
Ding… Dong… Ding… Dong…
The last bell of the last day…
To those of more innocent times, it would have been an occasion to celebrate, another joyous step in one's coming of age. But for the Class of 2052, it was a death sentence. The draft had been put in place a few months ago, and already, a third of the class consisted of empty seats and broken dreams.
Ashley was lucky, being born so late. But he could still feel it, the conscription letter waiting to fly into his inbox like a jealous ex. Soon enough, he would have no choice – might as well beat Uncle Sam to the punch…
"Shit… Ash…" His longtime friend stood over his shoulder, concerned, "If ya gon' be signing your gotdamn death warrant, at least do it right."
"Jamal, c'mon," Ashley rolled his eyes, "They're gonna take us all anyway, and this ain't going away anytime soon – you've seen the shit going down in Tennessee, right?"
"No shit, I had family there," Jamal said somberly, "had."
"Oh… shit, man, I'm sorr–"
Jamal raised a hand, "No, don't apologize. Just don't… It's my fault for not telling ya."
"I just…" Ashley shook his head, "If I volunteer instead of just waiting, at least I can choose which big green dick to get assfucked by. I know damn well I can't fly for shit, I get seasick easily, and I'd rather rip my fucking nuts off before considering eating a crayon… Army's the way to go."
"Army? That's for heroes," Jamal scoffed, "We both know you ain't no motherfucking hero, so stop trying to be one. There's another branch you forgot about, " He pulled a manila folder out of his bookbag and dropped it on Ashley's desk. Printed on it was a seal containing a lion holding a sword and shield, "National Guard, same training as Army, but you get to stay closer to home. Ain't no worrying about being deployed down in the deep south to fight wiggies at Crackertown. It's what I'm doin' – think about it."
It only took a mere three seconds of Jamal's silence pleading before Ashley finally broke under pressure, "Fine, I'll do it…" He crumpled up the army papers, hitting a perfect three-point shot at the recycling bin, and got to work on the new forms, "As always, you make one hell of an argument, Mr. Valedictorian,"
"Bitch, shut the fuck–"
"–up. Wake up, brat,"
A splash of cool water spritzed over Ashley's sore face, pulling him away from Wonderland; he was ramrod straighter-than-a-dick, briefly having flashbacks of his days as a dumb boot. A few seconds passed before he regained awareness of the world, along with how everything stung.
To his right, the faint embers of a dying campfire glowed. To his left, the sun did its damnedest to glare through the trees. And ahead, sitting on a rotten log, somebody latched their canteen back onto their belt. Weary orange eyes stared back.
"Welcome back to the land of the living," A gruff, gravelly voice. An old man ripped a bite of the jerky in his hand, nary a care in the world. With him, the carriage of a bitter man, dressed in aged ginger; pale, long-weathered skin, more freckles than stars in the sky, and pale hair with faint hints of the orange it used to be. All of that, regarding Ashley with an indifferent concern, "You better be grateful. Used half my damn bandages on you."
Half out of reaction and half out of curiosity, Ashley glanced down. He was in for one hell of a surprise.
Holy shit, it wasn't a dream…
Tiny pudgy hands attached to stubby toothpick arms attached to the bony sternum of a malnourished tyke, all wrapped up like a dirty little mummy. Ashley gawked in disbelief. It wasn't his body, yet it responded to every slight input all the same. And every time he moved, he could feel his raw skin itch and burn – a thousand little pinches telling him what he was seeing was real.
"What the fu–" His mouth wrote the check without any input. High-pitched, squeaky… blabbermouth. He remembered this – just like the times before his balls dropped and he grew self-conscious.
Dear God, did Ashley really die and get spirited away? He thought it was just a cliche from those shitty Japanese cartoons grandpa was so fond of…
"Language, brat!" The old man chided, getting Ashley's attention, "Didn't your parents ever teach you not to cuss?"
"Huh?" His brain blanked out, and out of some weird urge or instinct, he tilted his head. Somewhere on the top of his scalp felt a little breezy for some reason.
"Right, of course not… damn feral savages."
For some reason, that felt… Mildly racist?
Double checking to make sure he hadn't been suddenly transformed into a Sub-Saharan African in his new life, Ashley looked down, only for his sheer confusion to escalate. They were both whiter than a Tuesday night at Cracker Barrel!
The hell is gramps here smoking?
Even ignoring his newfound youth and the ruffling feeling on top of his head, questions still flooded through his mind. Intrusive thoughts were having a field day, like a rogue ATF agent who found himself in the middle of a Chinese kennel.
Where am I? How am I not dead? Where's the nuclear hellfire? Who the hell is this guy? – and so on and so on.
"Got a name?" The old man ripped another piece of jerky with his teeth, "I can't just be calling you 'boy' this whole time…"
"Ashley,"
The old man scratched his beard, "Hmm… a bit girlish, don't you think?"
"It's a boy's name too," Ashley half-growled. Good Lord, the number of times he had to explain this to everyone he ever knew, and the teasing too… It sure as hell grated on one's nerves after a while.
"Russell, or sir – whichever you prefer," The old man reciprocated, finishing his jerky. He unzipped a nearby bag and started rummaging through it.
"Russell, then," Ashley could see the trap from a million miles away. This guy feels like a professional killer, not a hobo… "'Cause I'm pretty sure you work for a living."
The now-named Russell paused what he was doing, before giving Ashley an approving nod, "Good. Looks like you got something under those big ol' ears after all…" Out of the bag, he pulled out a large, beige plastic packet, and tossed it over. Ashley caught it with ease, despite the stiffness in his arms, "Eat up. We're heading out in fifteen."
Ashley studied the thick, crinkly packet, eyes slowly scanning over the spartan lettering…
Meal, Ready to Eat – Beef and Vegetables – Atlas Army Surplus (750 Lien)
He couldn't tell you what in God's name an Atlas was other than an old myth, but the MRE was still an MRE, and those brought back a humvee load of memories, both good and bad.
Letting muscle memory do the work, he tore it open with his teeth and got to chowing, not even bothering to use the weird-looking crystal heat pack. Unlike the soylent-green-esque toxic sludge served during the war, this one went down inoffensively, though bland.
Ashley finished it in sixty seconds flat. A silent prayer was sent, that he'd wouldn't end up doubled over on the john over this later.
Resisting the urge to groan, Ashley followed closely behind Russell along the well-beaten path, twisting and turning around the old trees. It wasn't even the fact that he felt like a microwaved hotdog – the war ensured he'd learned to tolerate all sorts of petty pains – no, it was the fact that his bandages and clothes chafed him to hell and back.
Yet, for all his complaining, the choice was clear. It was either play King Tut for a while or get gangrene. He'd seen enough poor bastards die from the latter, it was one fucking ugly, miserable way to go – fuck that!
"Quit whining."
Ashley rolled his eyes, "Get your hearing checked, old man. I didn't say shit."
"I see it on your face, brat." Russell grabbed his hand and pulled him along, picking up the pace, "Keep moving. Village's about five klicks north of here and I'd prefer if we were there before sundown."
Yessir…
A few minutes passed by with only the blissful sounds of nature to accompany them. And to be honest, it was a balm to his soul – to step back and appreciate the world around him… taking in its beauty…
Of course, Russell had to ruin the moment by opening his damn mouth, "You know, you don't really sound like you're from around here, and you certainly don't talk like you're from the zoo either… How long have you been in Vale?"
"Uh, well…"
Why yes, old man, why not share everything about where I'm from… Besides, what the hell is a Vale?
It definitely sounded like a place or country of some kind – probably Atlas too, seeing as they got their own army and shit, judging from the MRE packaging. None of it rang any bells for Ashley, though; he didn't remember any of the newer post-American states sharing the name. Another point for being in another world.
Hell, looking around, everything about these strange old woods supported this hypothesis. While most of the trees and flowers looked vaguely familiar to anyone who touched grass, if one took a closer look, they'd realize how much of a funhouse mirror reflection it all was.
Everything was off – not a bad sort of off, just… different.
Plus, outside of the most remote parts of state and national parks, there weren't any old trees left in the former States. The extensive use of defoliants and chemical weapons made damn sure of that. There wasn't a chance in hell that he was anywhere back home…
"Guess you really are lost, huh?"
"Quiet, Magoo."
The older man smirked.
Good Lord, this avocado-toast-munching millennial asshole was starting to push his buttons. Ashley couldn't wait until he was all patched up. Then, he could finally run off and no longer have to deal with–
Wait a minute…
Looking down, he was reminded for the fiftieth time that day that he was stuck as a little kid. Not the ideal circumstances in a survival situation.
Damn it… He had no choice but to stick with this geriatric bastard, for now.
"Hey, I get it. If you don't wanna talk about it, that's fine" Russell shrugged, "Not like I talk about being from Atlas either…" He muttered the second part under his breath, but evidently not quiet enough, as Ashley could hear it clear as day.
Touchy subject, no bueno. Got it.
"Yeah…"
Slowly, the sounds of the forest became more and more muted, as if he had water in his ears. Russell started to get a little antsy, looking behind his back.
There was that creepy feeling again, deep in Ashley's gut… The same kind that told him he was in deep shit…
Crack!
He stepped on a stick. It all went dead silent, not even a damn bug chirping.
Russell threw his arm out, stopping Ashley in his tracks, and almost knocking him over. He silently gestured "stop" before following it up with a shush. Before Ashley could react, the old man was gone, off to the bushes at near-impossible speeds.
"What are you…" His voice petered out as the paranoia started to set in.
It was Gettysburg all over again… Hiding away in a sleeping bag as the night crept in, seeing ghosts at the corner of his eyes, glaring at him. The cold chill slowly trickled down his back, followed by pins and needles.
Fear made one see some crazy shit, but this… This felt real. Something else was here, watching him, making his hackles rise.
"Grrr…" A low demonic rumble.
Slowly, Ashley turned around. He was face to face with… he didn't know what it was. This thing was vaguely wolf-shaped, but it didn't have any fur; it looked more as if it were a skeleton with muscles dipped into a barrel of crude oil. Its skull was stuck in a rictus, chattering teeth, its soulless crimson glowing with malice.
Fear. True, primal, fear.
"…rrrRRAAHH!"
It charged, bounding between trunks, recklessly knocking down trees. Ashley tried to run but it was too late, his clumsy tripped over themselves and his face met dirt and rocks.
The beast leaped up high, claws out, teeth bared. Ashley barely had the time to roll over.
Fwoosh-squelch!
An orange light surrounded by embers – a blade cut across the beast's neck as if it were made of butter, before embedding itself into a tree. It was bright, his eyes were strained from looking at it.
The beast dissolved before it landed, what didn't evaporate instantly splattered into a tar-like substance, splattering him. Ashley covered his face, but awful taste and stench assaulted his senses regardless. Desperately, he crawled away, pushing himself upright with the help of a nearby tree.
Thump-Thump-Thump… Crack!
The ground started rumbling, the splintering of bark, the shaking of leaves. A different creature, this one taking the form of a mutant boar, but with tusks thicker than California redwoods. It stood there, glancing around with its four eyes – it hadn't noticed him, at least not yet. Ashley kept his breathing down as quiet as he could, staying still as a statue.
Another orange glow assaulted his senses, and the next thing he knew, the creature had four translucent blades inside all its eyes. Limply falling over, it melted into an evaporating puddle.
The screaming sounds of nature returned like a riptide to the sea.
Warily, Ashley stumbled out into the open, thanking whatever higher power was up there that his bladder was empty before the whole ordeal. Now that…
"W-w-what the fuck was that!?"
…He ain't never seen nothing like it. It was almost impossible to put it into words.
Seriously, what the fuck!?
Then, as if he were taking a Sunday afternoon stroll through the neighborhood, Russell emerged from the brush. His eyes shined with a metallic orange, which lit up his face even under the shade, and he wore a slightly smug satisfied expression, one typically worn for a job well done.
With a casual wave of his hand, the glowing weapons vanished in a shower of sparks.
"That, boy, was Grimm – real nasty bastards," He answered in a grating, self-congratulatory tone, "I should know, I hunt them for a living."
Ashley summoned his words through a twisted tongue, "A-and the whole magical…?" He vaguely gestured toward the hole in the tree where the sword had been.
Did I get rescued by a wizard? Is this some sort of Neverending Story type of deal? Where the hell's my poodle-dragon hybrid thing!?
"No magic to be seen here," Russell explained matter-of-factly. A few floating, glowing daggers appeared mid-air, lazily orbiting his hand, "My semblance – it lets me project anything, so long as it's a blade" As soon as they came, the blades vanished to sparks and embers as well
"Okay?…" Ashley squinted. Nothing about this made any sense, "How's this semblance thing any different from just magic?"
"Hell if I know – that's a question for the eggheads." The older man shrugged, and then waved at him like a dog, "Come on. We're burning daylight here."
Despite being unsatisfied by the non-answer, Ashley was quick to follow the order. What the hell else was he supposed to do? Antagonize the guy who can make floating, magical blades on fucking command!?
Ashley may have not valued his own life too highly, but even he didn't want to end it with a Darwin Award. He had some self-respect, goddamnit!
Another hour of trekking through the woods later, they had made it to their destination, right when the sun was dipping below the horizon.
The door creaked as Russell pushed the door open; Ashley followed him inside. The inn they were staying at had a warm, homey atmosphere, almost welcoming… if it weren't for the fact that half the patrons in the lobby were openly gawking at him, not even acknowledging the old magician beside him.
Most of the stares seemed to be out of mild curiosity, like they were looking at an exotic pet walking about in the dog park. Those ones quickly went back to minding their own business. However, some of them, especially the older, more conservative-looking antiquities and crones, had a twinge of disgust or contempt on their brows. Ones which only twisted further as that breezy, ruffling feeling from the top of his head returned.
Ashley pretended to not mind them. Russell, meanwhile, went straight up to the front desk, where an elderly man stood to greet him, back hunched like a question mark.
"G'mornin', Mr. Huntsman." Initially, he put on the farce of being a sweet ol' grandpa, but that smile soon turned sour upon noticing Ashley's existence. A knick of curiosity picked at the back of Ashley's head at the strange treatment.
Was it the bandages?
"I see you haven't read the sign. I'm afraid you ain't s'posed to bring f–" The old innkeeper started.
"I would like to reserve a room," Russell's eyes hardened a slight bit, and the old man flinched.
Even if Ashley wasn't the intended target here, he almost pissed himself at that moment too. Russell was one scary-looking motherfucker when he played it up.
The wrinkly bastard chose his next words very carefully, "…Right, room three is yours for the next night. But, I can't give ya the discount since yer bringin' that… thing inside my property."
Fuck you too, Shetland.
Slowly, Russell pulled out his wallet, taking out colored banknotes one by one, before – Slam! – nearly splitting the front counter in half from how hard he slapped it, making the ancient Grand Wizard hopeful nearly spit out his dentures.
"Why thank you very much, sir…"
Russell's strained smile made him look more like a hyena about to rip a gazelle's nuts off than a thankful customer. Before any of the staff could raise a picket, Ashley was hastily hustled into their new, and most certainly temporary, quarters. The now-boy walked in, the huntsman slammed the door behind them, locking it, and then threw his bags on top of the obviously cheap bed.
"Go get yourself cleaned up," Russell ordered, pointing at the bathroom door, "I'll teach you how to change your bandages after."
The tone of voice triggered an instinct that the military had browbeaten into Ashley for the better part of his former adult life. He made a beeline to the bathroom with a subconscious yessir, not even questioning it until he was already inside.
He glanced down, finally taking in how absolutely filthy he was – the stained bandages were only the surface of it. Tentatively, he sniffed and almost gagged – blood, mud, ash, and shit made for an unpleasant combination. Russell was right, he needed a damn bath yesterday.
Reaching over, he started the water, making it lukewarm to make it easier for the burns. Satisfied with the temperature, he let it fill up. He got to work unwrapping the old, dirty bandages.
An itchy feeling grew, at the top of his head, but… further…
Ashley reached up, his fingers snaking through tangled, ratty, greasy hair to finally scratch the – he jolted back, recoiling at the alien sensation. Pausing, he reached up higher and steadily lowered his hand. Something warm and fuzzy folded under his fingertips.
Morbid curiosity put a gun against his head and took him hostage; he rushed over to the bathroom mirror to get a good look at himself:
The face was familiar, if a bit skinnier than he remembered – it was him as a little boy, but the colors were all hilariously off. His eyes were a vibrant blue, instead of the dull grayish hazel they once were. The hair was a cartoonish red, as if he just dyed it like one of those sickle-sucking commie motherfuckers from the west coast, yet impossibly, it was all natural.
But the real star of the show, swiveling around on top of his head with a mind of their own, were two big, fluffy wolf ears. They perked up, facing his reflection, as he unconsciously tilted his head again.
"Well… A helluva long way from Kansas, aren't ya, Dorothy?" He muttered.
Something told him that clicking his heels in magical red shoes wasn't getting him out of this one.
