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Post by Neodymium [144] on Jul 15, 2012 22:01:25 GMT -5
The evening sky was the color of a cinder block, a dull, featureless gray that seemed to grow darker and darker by the second. Storm clouds boiled on the horizon and the sound of thunder rumbled out across the ruined earth from somewhere far away.
A stiff, cold wind blasted intermittently down the narrow streets of the northeast shops. Scraps of old newspapers and dead grass swirled past the storefronts, skittering down and empty street. All the Rogues and visiting traders were inside, hiding out somewhere-closing up their shops against the impending rain, ready to wait out this storm-
All except for one. A small, thin doll in back fabric meandered aimlessly down the deserted street, his pale-faced, turquoise-haired reflection gazing out from a million shattered, distorted panes of glass in countless storefront windows. He carried a scalpel and an overstuffed burlap sack that rattled and clanked as he hauled it along behind him, his gait and breathing labored by the bag's obvious weight.
Most dolls would have the sense not to be caught like this, outside and alone with a storm coming and a heavy load to carry. But most dolls weren't him: an aimless, homeless scavenger alone in the world, a lost soul dragged into town on the wind. No, most dolls weren't Neo.
For a moment, the wind died down and lightning flashed from far away in the stillness, lending a bit of light to a sky that was rapidly fading to black as night set in. Neo, without warning, stopped dead in his tracks, cocking his head to one side like a dog that had just caught an interesting sound. He scarcely dared to breathe, frozen in place by an unexpected, ominous sound, a rustling from somewhere behind him on the quiet, windless street.
Something was behind him, that was for sure-something that seemed to be trying hard to keep quiet-but Neo had no idea what it was. For all he knew, it could be a machine, lying in wait for the perfect moment to strike. But at the moment, whatever it was didn't matter. he knew what he had to do.
Gently, he let the bag of scrap metal slip out of his hands, and reached slowly behind his back to unsling his scalpel. With his weapon at the ready, he took a deep steadying breath and whipped around to face whatever might be behind him...
A stiff, cold wind blasted intermittently down the narrow streets of the northeast shops. Scraps of old newspapers and dead grass swirled past the storefronts, skittering down and empty street. All the Rogues and visiting traders were inside, hiding out somewhere-closing up their shops against the impending rain, ready to wait out this storm-
All except for one. A small, thin doll in back fabric meandered aimlessly down the deserted street, his pale-faced, turquoise-haired reflection gazing out from a million shattered, distorted panes of glass in countless storefront windows. He carried a scalpel and an overstuffed burlap sack that rattled and clanked as he hauled it along behind him, his gait and breathing labored by the bag's obvious weight.
Most dolls would have the sense not to be caught like this, outside and alone with a storm coming and a heavy load to carry. But most dolls weren't him: an aimless, homeless scavenger alone in the world, a lost soul dragged into town on the wind. No, most dolls weren't Neo.
For a moment, the wind died down and lightning flashed from far away in the stillness, lending a bit of light to a sky that was rapidly fading to black as night set in. Neo, without warning, stopped dead in his tracks, cocking his head to one side like a dog that had just caught an interesting sound. He scarcely dared to breathe, frozen in place by an unexpected, ominous sound, a rustling from somewhere behind him on the quiet, windless street.
Something was behind him, that was for sure-something that seemed to be trying hard to keep quiet-but Neo had no idea what it was. For all he knew, it could be a machine, lying in wait for the perfect moment to strike. But at the moment, whatever it was didn't matter. he knew what he had to do.
Gently, he let the bag of scrap metal slip out of his hands, and reached slowly behind his back to unsling his scalpel. With his weapon at the ready, he took a deep steadying breath and whipped around to face whatever might be behind him...