OK, first off, this is NOT based off of Square-Enix's DS title. In fact, I didn't even know the game existed until long after I even gave my story a title. There are even references to shinigami's in it. I know it's odd, but you just have to trust me that I seriously didn't know. So please don't accuse me of stealing, copyright infringement, etc. To tell you the truth, this isn't even based off of anything in particular. It's all my ideas, and random character names that I came up with. It actually started off as my piece for creative writing in English. The reason I have so much freedom is because I'm only in 7th grade, and my teacher is awesome. Oh wait, did I mention that I was in 7th grade? Yeah. So I obviously can't use humongously large or complex words yet (see? Humongously is my synonom for "big"). The whole thing is also unedited; I'm gonna go back once I actually finish writing it and fix it up. And I know the first chapter starts out a bit slow, and you're probably going, "WTF is this?!? I don't get it!". So I'll basically sum it up here. It gives a lot of the protagonist's backstory. He's a little loner that just turns 13, and nothing in his life is going right. See, the story takes place in the year 3013, but he's stuck in a little Amish town, and yearns to see the big skyscrapers of New York City. To top it off, he pretty much has nobody to look after him, for his parents passed away at the age of 5. Well, he does have an old, seemingly normal neighbor until... ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It's a Wonderful World Chapter One: The Eighty-seven Candles *Chapter One* The Eighty-seven Candles The kickball sailed high overhead, and for a split second, the cheering children feared that it would clear the fences of the school yard. Luckily, it rebounded off the iron gates with a violent rattling and flew towards the sideline of the court. It rolled and bounced across the rough concrete and came to a halt at the benches. There it stood, at the feet of an eight year old boy with long, jet black, unruly hair. Slowly, the boy bent down and scooped up the kickball in his pale, bony hands. He bounced it on the ground and looked at his peers who stood frozen in place. Then he said in a small, trembling voice, “Err…this is yours, right?” “Yeah,” said one of the boys. “But you can have it. We don’t really feel like playing anymore. C’mon guys, let’s go do something else…or something.” The group nodded in agreement. “Alright, thanks,” said the boy, still clutching the ball. His grip tightened on it, and his voice quavered slightly. But nobody seemed to notice. With that, the group walked away, leaving him and the ball behind. They didn’t seem to hear the muffled sniffling issuing from the benches. Or they just didn’t care. * * * A tall, cloaked figure rose out of its chair, and strode over to the office window. It opened the blinds and peered down onto the street five stories below. Civilians bustled happily along, with their shopping bags and on-the-go lunches. They were completely unaware of the ancient, run-down office building that they passed by. It was as if it didn’t even exist. The office should have stood out to them, seeing that all the adjacent buildings were completely new and renovated. The figure was a man, twenty-one years old. Gray-streaked, midnight black hair flowed down the sides of his head. He lowered his shades and inspected each ant-sized passerby carefully from the twenty-first floor, trying to find something unique in each of them. But all of them were the same; care-free and narrow-minded. This is why my job is so boring, he thought grimly. It seems as the years go on, people just get stupider and stupider. Boy, Boss sure isn’t going to like this.... * * * Ricky Ian Pessilin opened his large, watery blue eyes with much difficulty and tried making out the time on the old grandfather clock. The glass pane was badly scratched, but it was still somewhat readable. It was only 6:30 AM, but Ricky knew all too well that he was already late for school. Class at Bluesboro School always started ridiculously early, but ironically the teachers were constantly telling the students to get their much-needed sleep. He grudgingly sat up on his dusty, springy mattress and shuffled over to the bathroom. As he washed up in the rusty old sink, he thought to himself about why his life was so messed up. Ricky wanted to drop out of school badly, though there would be no advantages of doing so. Most children had already moved away with their families to help with businesses or to go into training for difficult jobs. And that was when they were only about nine or ten years old. Here Ricky was, nearly thirteen years old, yet he had no way of earning money or supporting himself. At the age of five, his parents had left him at home for the weekend and went on a vacation to New York City. They tragically lost their lives in an accident while traveling across the Thunder Plains. As the name implied, the plains were always blanketed under thick, black clouds that released storm after storm of terrible thunder and lightning. As Mr. and Mrs. Pessilin were riding through a thicket of trees, one of the trunks suddenly burst into flames when a bolt of lighting struck it. A small wildfire had engulfed the thicket and when the smoke cleared, nothing remained but blackened trees and the charred pieces of wood from the carriage. Ricky heard the story from an old neighbor named Bobby Branson, who lived just down the hill from him and had actually been only a couple miles behind the Pessilins on the trail when the tragedy occurred. Ever since then, Ricky lived alone in the quiet house on top of Marooned Hill. He tried to avoid questions about where his missing parents were and kept his family tragedy a secret. Not even the teachers at school had found out, and to the best of his knowledge, the only two people in the world who knew of the incident were him and old man Branson. Bobby had, in a way, taken Ricky in as a son of his own, but secretly. Sometimes he would deliver food and water to Ricky’s doorstep and ask for nothing in return but to try his best at everything. There were times where the old man would take Ricky on fishing trips and other times where he would teach Ricky self defense. One of the things Ricky wanted to do more than ever was to find a way to repay Branson. He tried volunteering for jobs without pay, and all the old man did was slowly shake his balding, shiny head. Ricky came to the conclusion that because Branson’s wife was badly crippled and barely able to move, all he really wanted was someone else to keep him company. Ricky also needed someone by his side. That brought his social status into attention. He couldn’t understand why, but whenever somebody looked at him, an expression of fear would suddenly grow on their face and they would immediately turn away. This was the reason he could not do business even with the elderly people. He didn’t get it. There were three standards of a proper boy in Bluesboro: looks, grades, and abilities. Ricky made a mental checklist of each thing and evaluated himself. Was he ugly? No. He had seen his reflection in the mirror twice a day. He was at an average height and fairly thin with soft facial features, though his eyes had a bit of a sharp, rebellious look to them. They were a bright aqua blue and gave a naturally piercing stare. His unkempt black hair was long and thick with some of it sticking out in every direction like a porcupine. His bangs almost touched his eyes. People often described the style as “defying the law of gravity.” Still, he didn’t exactly fit the description of a dropout. Grades? He made straight A’s in school, and a teacher couldn’t ask for a finer student. As for abilities, that was taken care of by Branson. The man taught Ricky every vital skill in life, from cooking to building houses. All around, Ricky was an ordinary kid with ordinary features. Yet, he could not make a single friend except for old Bobby Branson. It was painful; to be alone in the world with no parents, no friends, and not even more than one soul that he could call a companion. He tried his best to hide this pain, but the more he held it in, the more it wanted to burst out. It was like a large, wild beast confined to a measly cage, gnawing at the bars. But the best way to deal with all this was just to ignore it. After washing up, he slipped on his backpack and stepped out into the chilly, misty dawn. This Thursday morning, everything was quiet, just like other days. The peaceful silence soothed Ricky, making early morning his favorite part of the day. It helped him think, and it was the only thing that seemed normal in his abnormal life. He made his way down the hill and into town. At the market, he purchased a bagel with some spare change in his pocket. He munched on his breakfast steadily in Traffle Square, trying to feel content. But it was hard when more than thirty adults stared and whispered to their coworkers. Ricky heard bits and pieces of their conversations. -“He gives me the creeps! I mean, just looking at him makes you want to-” “Shush Brian! Do you have any idea could happen to you if he hears?” -“I don’t know what it is about him, but you just feel all…ugh, you know?” “Yeah, he even talks in that monotonous voice. It only makes the sensation worse.” He had to put up with this every single day. Adults would treat him like devil’s spawn, as if he were the most horrendous thing they had ever seen. Ricky just smiled menacingly at the adults as they passed, freaking them out even more. They would glance at a nonexistent watch and make some excuse of being late for work, then hurry off. It was part of Ricky’s new daily routine. Ever since people became afraid of him for no apparent reason, he played the “Smile ‘n Stare Game”, which scared everybody off. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it worked. But he did it only to hide the pain. If only someone understood him… Ricky shook his head and muttered something about not letting emotions get to him. He followed the dirt path out of town and up a steep hill. Bluesboro School waited at the top. As he stepped over the threshold, the teacher, Professor Hendrix glared at him and without a word, continued on with the lesson. She wrote several topics on the chalkboard, topics that Ricky got tired of seeing: 100 environmentally friendly things that Bluesboro does: 101 disgusting things done in New Pork City: How we can make the world a better place: Ricky plopped down next to Corey Connelly, another boy who couldn’t seem to make any friends. The two often sat together, yet they didn’t really have much to say. Professor Hendrix droned on and on about how everyone in Bluesboro was trying to act as environmentalists in honor of the springtime. Ricky sighed. The people of Bluesboro insulted NY by nicknaming it, “New Pork City” due to the high number of fairly obese people living there. Ricky got sick of it, and sometimes got the two names mixed up. The professor kept ranting over some random New York City statistics (“Did you know that more than fifteen percent of New Porkers actually throw their trash on the ground? How terrible!”.) Ricky zoned out for the rest of the class. He didn’t participate in the somewhat intense discussion over pollution. Five hours later, it was time for recess. The kids all rushed out the doors, eager to get their twenty minutes of sunshine. Ricky stuck to the benches. He didn’t bother asking to join soccer or kickball games. He knew all too well that he would only be rejected. Lunchtime began. Ricky sat several picnic tables away from the others. He had nothing to eat. Branson could only bring him food once every other day. Ricky didn’t blame him. Instead, he felt guilty for even accepting the food at all. Class resumed for one more hour. The lesson was over electricity, and the disadvantages of using it. “New Pork City,” explained the professor. “…uses so much energy that it requires nearly three hundred power plants just to light half of the city. What do you think happens during power failures? They don’t have many candles prepared like we do!” After school, Ricky sauntered back home. Unlike other kids, he was in no hurry to get his homework done or play outside. He dropped by Branson’s tiny hut on the way up Marooned Hill to say hello, but instead of finding the familiar, wrinkly face, he was greeted by a note taped to the door. Tape. Ricky didn’t know that it was even sold in Bluesboro. Ricky, Anna insisted that we should go do some sightseeing before it’s too late, if you know what I mean. So using a wheelchair, I’m pushing her around. We’re following the mountain trail up in the Appalachians, enjoying the view. Who knows, we might even make it all the way to the trail’s end! We should be heading home around nine tonight, so don’t worry about us. ~Branson Ricky thought that his old friend had finally cracked. Why shouldn’t he worry about them? What was the man thinking, heading up into the mountains at high altitudes, where it was freezing? Bluesboro was already chilly enough in the spring. Branson and his wife were senior citizens. They weren’t strong enough to handle that kind of weather. But then again, thought Ricky. The guy’s still able to carry loads of heavy stuff. He knows how to own people in karate. He’ll be fine. With that, Ricky trudged on home. Marooned Hill was a good half of a mile from town. It was occupied by two houses; Branson’s tiny hut at the base and Ricky’s medium-sized stone ranch at the top. From his house, Ricky had an excellent view in all directions. To the north were the vast Bluesboro Fields and beyond that, the dark woods of the Bluesboro Forest. Far to the east were the outlines of the Appalachian Mountains. Ricky was surprised he could even make out things that distant, seeing as Bluesboro was always covered in a blanket of mist. He reached underneath his doormat and groped around for the house key. Ricky knew it was a risky place to hide something, but Marooned Hill, hence the name, was pretty much isolated and never visited. Once inside, Ricky unlaced his boots and plopped down onto his uncomfortable bed, sending up a cloud of dust. He sneezed and sniffled, thinking more about why life was so terrible. Bluesboro was similar to an Amish society. There was no electricity, no computers, no cars, no anything. New York had holographic ads floating around in the streets and vehicles soaring through the air. The people of Bluesboro used ink quills and parchment. New Yorkers used styluses and e-paper. As to why the people of Bluesboro hated the idea of bringing a volt of electricity into the area, Ricky had no clue. Everybody certainly didn’t treat their manual labor as if it were tradition. They just acted as if it were bad voodoo to bring a “complex” device (such as a flashlight) into the village. But many citizens were beginning to show interest in inventions that were used in New York. Young folks planned on breaking away from their quiet little town and moving into the big city. Others demanded for Bluesboro to catch up in terms of science and technology. But at the same time, elderly people shuddered at the thought of machines doing labor. Ricky, still being only a preteen, had a pretty neutral opinion on the debates, but he wouldn’t have minded leaning over a little bit to the high-tech side. He groaned and pulled himself out of bed and over to the kitchen table. It was time to do his homework: a five paragraph essay on how Bluesboro could make a difference in the world and his opinions on why technology should stay primitive. For Ricky, it was difficult. Was he supposed to lie? It took all his willpower to even write down the simplest main idea: I am against new inventions and ideas because… He sighed in frustration, crumpled up the piece of parchment, and tossed it in his wastebasket. How stupid did it sound? Disliking tools that would make life so much easier? He yawned. The bed suddenly looked more welcoming to Ricky. He gave in and laid down once more. Fatigue had been mysteriously overwhelming him more and more often. He took naps frequently because of this. His eyelids got heavier. Before he shut them completely, he made out the time on the grandfather clock. 4:15 PM. Wonderful, he thought. Now I get to become nocturnal. God loves turning the world upside-down. * * * “Just a couple more months, eh, Venn?” said Nita. “A couple more months ‘till what?” replied Venn in his usual gruff voice. “Don’t play stupid. You’ve been hosting this event for what-? Five years now? It’s inevitable.” “I know, but Nita...something’s been bothering me. You know that new kid that got promoted last year? The one who’s been rising through the ranks rapidly?” “Mmhmm.” “Isn’t he kinda...young to be in here? He’s only like sixteen, right?” “Nonsense! Venn, that’s exactly how old you were when you first entered the Shinigami Organization. That’s the only reason that you weren’t forced to change your name. In the real world, you were nobody important at that age. People could care less whether you lived or died.” “I suppose you’re right. That kid’s name is his own, his original one…What was it? Claw…no, no, no, wasn’t it Claus? Yeah, Claus. Ugh, just saying the name gives me the creeps...as embarrassing as it is. I should be ashamed for being afraid of a little kid.” “I know exactly what you’re talking about! It’s just being in his presence that makes you uncomfortable, right?” “Yeah, whatever. Just don’t make a big fuss out of it.” * * * “Ricky Pessilin! Is that you in there?” called a voice outside Ricky’s house. “This is the police! Please answer the door!” Rather than waking up immediately, Ricky slowly opened his eyes. He wasn’t the type of person who got startled easily. He yawned and glanced at the clock. It was eleven o’ clock. I almost had a full night’s worth of sleep! he thought cheerfully. But still, who are these people that I keep dreaming about? He shuffled towards the door, taking his time. He first made sure to fix his bed sheets and constantly glanced at the clock, ensuring that his eyes weren’t playing a trick on him. He wondered what someone could possibly want with him at this time of the night. The person outside was knocking incredibly loud, and it got to the point where it irritated Ricky. “Okay, okay, I’m coming!” he managed to let out in a yawn. He quit dawdling and hurried to the door. As soon as he answered, the man on the other side broke off the doorknob. It was apparent that he had tried forcing his entry. He lost balance and fell over backwards, ears turning bright pink. He quickly handed the broken knob to Ricky, then straightened himself up and tried to look as official as an official should be. “Oh! So you’re um-that Pessilin kid…” he said, obviously shocked to realize that Ricky was “that kid” who adults talked so secretly about. “Ummm, yes sir...is there a problem?” asked Ricky, trying not to sound annoyed. “Well I guess I should introduce myself first. I’m Detective Hingus. I work for the Bluesboro Police Department.” He held out a hand. Ricky reluctantly shook it. “I’ve got some tragic news to share with you, kid. Are you acquaintances with Bobby Branson?” Ricky nodded. A lump rose in his throat. “Did…something happen?” “Yes. It was an incident that occurred in the mountains about half an hour ago. Would you happen to know about this?” Ricky shook his head. “All Branson told me was that he was heading up into the Appalachians with Anna, his wife and that he’d be back by nine.” Sweat began beading around his forehead. “Well, I’d thought you might want to come see this.” Ricky agreed nervously. Thousands of thoughts were racing through his brain, and he couldn’t keep up with it all. What could have happened to Branson? Did he fall from someplace high up or get crushed by a boulder? Did he freeze to death or something? Ricky hurriedly slipped back inside for a moment to put on his boots. Hingus led the way in the dark. It was hard for Ricky to keep up when no flashlight, lantern, or candle was there to guide them. He stumbled several times and tripped over things that were nearly invisible. They were following the east path to where the Appalachians’ mountain trail began. The road was made of gravel, so every time Ricky slipped, he ended up scraping his hands. Ricky noticed that there was a great deal of commotion around the mountains. A small crowd had gathered at the base, with a large portion of the people demanding to know what had transpired. Ten policemen were needed to hold them off. He then looked up to where everybody was pointing at. He had to tilt his head almost straight back to see it, but it was there. A faint flickering of lights. They weren’t ordinary. Instead of the regular bright gold and white that Ricky was used to seeing, they emitted an eerie purple. “What’s going on up there?” cried someone from the crowd. “Is that foreign technology? I’ve never seen that kind of light before!” Ricky pushed his way through the crowd, a wave of panic surging through him. A shoulder bumped into his so harshly that it was clearly intentional. He turned around and groaned. It was Pokey, a boy at his school who always teased about his friendship with Branson. “Hey, Penicillin, guess what? I managed to sneak passed the police force and see what all the ruckus was about. Well what is it?” he snorted. “You wanna know?” “No, I don’t,” muttered Ricky. He shoved Pokey aside and made his way to the front of the crowd. “It’s too bad nothing happened to that old loon! This would have been a night to celebrate!” Ricky kept on walking, not believing a word of it. Several policemen spotted and confronted him. “Step aside. I’m a longtime friend of Branson!” “He is,” said Detective Hingus. “Let him through. I think he has the right to know what happened. “Well we don’t know,” replied one of the policemen. “We heard a pair of people screaming bloody murder from somewhere up there. Then there was a ferocious roar of some sort of beast. God, it sounded terrible. And some lady shouting, ‘run Branson!’ We figured she was referring to that old guy living at Marooned Hill.” Detective Hingus nodded. “Good inference,” he said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “But that still doesn’t explain what happened. Shouldn’t you guys have went up there and investigated the scene until I showed up?” One of the policemen’s face turned bright pink, so pink that Ricky could see it even in the dark. “Well you see, the team is a bit…frightened. None of them want to get gored or mutilated by whatever weird thing that’s roaming around up there.” “Well what are you waiting for, the SWAT team? Those are only in New Pork City. Here, you’re stuck with bayonets and night sticks, so you might as well do with what you’ve got.” said Hingus. They began arguing. I don’t have time for this, thought Ricky. I gotta see if Branson’s okay. He quietly circled around the bickering group and began running up the mountain trail. But he was quickly spotted by people in the crowd. “Hey! What does that Pessilin kid think he’s doing?” The police force turned their heads upwards and pointed out Ricky. “Kid! It’s dangerous up there! Don’t go alone!” “Too bad! While you guys are arguing about weapons that this stupid village doesn’t have, I’ll be seeing if someone’s life can still be saved!” yelled Ricky in response. He then sprinted. The trail winded around the mountain, with sharp twists and turns that made Ricky feel like he was racing up a colossal snake. The path was narrow, and there were no fences or railings to block the edge. One wrong move and he would be lying eagle-spread on the hard earth hundreds of feet below. Along the way, his foot caught something wedged into the ground. It was a slip of paper. E-paper. The kind used in New York. He picked it up curiously. It was a thin, plastic sheet with filth caked onto different areas of it. Despite all the wearing it had been through, the words printed on it had stayed clear and sharp. Ricky brushed off the dirt and skimmed the page. The S.O.R.T Reports #3 2/19/08 Dear Journal, Today, the team came up with a brilliant plan. My somewhat dimwitted colleague, Igor, discovered a way to alter the DNA sequence in organisms and recreate them with different characteristics from their former selves. I was as surprised as I was when I got admitted into the research team. Genius I tell you! This is a huge step for the Shinigami Organization. With this discovery, we can make animals bigger! Faster! Stronger! How will this benefit us? It won’t. It’s more for the Shinigami Organization as a whole than for the research department. You see, lately, it’s been difficult to catch more contestants for the game (it’s held annually, so they have to find new ones quite often.) But whether people have less desirable features nowadays or just that Venn Scrimgeour’s ability to sense eligible contestants is failing him, one fact remains certain: it’s necessary to find combatants fast and efficiently. And we can’t just have one person on the job. But with powerful, invincible creatures tracking combatants down, there’s no way they can run. The team is still looking into more specific ways to alter the genes, for there is a lot of work to be done. We have to use some sort of cloaking device, or give the animals the ability to camouflage. Many worthy players already know that they are destined to get thrown into the game. I don’t think we’re going to catch any hiding cowards when a giant rhinoceros dashes through the street, bashing up cars and trampling innocent people. Stealth is the key. Also, while Venn is able to sniff out participants and we can just order the regenerated animals to pursue from there, it would help a great deal if the animals could sniff them out on their own. It would save a lot of time and effort. But it will be a great feat to pull off, nearly unthinkable. Then again, when it comes to the Shinigami Organization, anything is possible! ~Mitchell McDonald While Ricky didn’t understand a single sentence, he was even more puzzled by the date. February 19, 3008. That was five years ago. What was an old journal entry like this doing up here in the mountains? Especially since it was from New York, which was hundreds of miles away? Ricky swore. Branson could have been bleeding to death a hundred feet above, and he would be spending those last minutes reading a piece of plastic that made no sense. He stuffed the report into his pocket and began dashing up the mountain trail again, following every incline and bend in the path. It was starting to get chilly. His asthma kicked in. A wheezy cough escaped from his throat. Ugh, I should have remembered my jacket, he thought grimly. An odd sensation suddenly overcame Ricky. His vision blurred and time seemed to come to a halt. He no longer felt the icy bite of the dry air. In fact, he felt an intense burning in his chest. He kept on running with no sense of direction, for he was nearly blind. After a minute, the strange phenomenon ceased and he regained awareness. To his surprise, when he looked down over the edge, the crowd that had gathered appeared to be the size of a small beetle. How did I do that? he wondered. He recalled that he had only been following the trail for about twenty minutes, including the time he stopped to read the S.O.R.T Report. It was now blistering cold. Strong gales sliced through Ricky’s cheeks, forcing him to cover his face with his coat sleeve. At this temperature, Branson could already be dead. I gotta speed things up! But he was drained of all energy and his body felt completely immobilized. So step-by-step, he sluggishly dragged himself the rest of the way. Finally, just when he thought the death of him was near, he discovered a small nook where the source of the strange purple light was located. What he saw was both fascinating and terrifying at the same time. Eighty-seven miniature wax candles were hovering a foot above the ground, all emitting a brilliant lilac flame. It almost blinded Ricky. This must have been how I was able to spot it even from a thousand feet below, he figured. They were all arranged so that they formed a tight circle around two figures. The atmosphere felt unearthly; an invisible aura seemed to engulf the scene. Branson was knelt beside a body. The bright purple light illuminated his facial features clearly. His brown aging spots and short, white beard were splashed with salty tears, which poured from his small, gray eyes. “What happened?!?” cried Ricky. He hurried over to the two. But he failed to get Branson’s attention. The old man’s mind was somewhere else. He was speaking to the body, to Anna. “I swear I’ll kill that monster! I promise you!” he muttered with clenched fists. Ricky’s eyes widened. Anna had replied back. “Branson, dear, vengeance is not something I married you for. I’m sure Drago had his reasons. He seemed…different, almost like he was ill.” She spoke in a calm, soothing voice. “He was never a good pet! I shouldn’t have brought him here!” said Branson, who clearly wasn’t consoled by his wife’s words. “Anna, I promised you I wouldn’t make another mistake, but it looks like I already have!” He was shaking convulsively with rage. For a moment, Ricky’s brain didn’t compute until he saw it. Nearly a foot long and soaked with blood was a wickedly curved fang, which was pierced straight through Anna’s heart. There were no tears, just a clean, neatly driven puncture. “Branson,” said Ricky, guilty that he was using up the couple’s last moment together. “From the time I received the news to the time I got here, wouldn’t you say that it was enough to seek some help?!?” He didn’t have an answer. But Anna spoke for him. “Oh…” she said weakly. “You must be Ricky. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. You’re…a good young man. Don’t listen to what other people say.” Ricky was about to insist on keeping quiet, but the woman continued on. He was amazed at how much she could speak. “About five years ago, Branson found this pet roaming around in the Thunder Plains. It was some sort of cross-breed between a dragon and a dinosaur. Anyways, being the creature lover he is, Branson “adopted” this animal and named it Drago. Since he was such a rare little thing, almost shocking, Branson kept him hidden up here, away from the eyes of villagers.” “Hush, honey. Don’t waste your energy. I’ll explain.” He turned to Ricky. “Drago was always a nice little guy. He yapped happily whenever we came up here for a visit. But today…something odd was happening with him. He was all splotchy and I could have sworn I saw chunks of metal clamped onto his skin. I didn’t have time to observe much, because right when he saw us with those two beady little eyes, he started acting all haywire. The next thing I knew, I was pushing Anna as fast as I could with Drago hot on our heels.” “He should have ran for himself,” chimed in Anna. “But he insisted that he’d get me out alive. Oh, if I weren’t crippled, I would have been able to run too. If it weren’t for me, he might not have suffered such an injury.” she explained weakly. For the first time, Ricky noticed a large, open wound running down Branson’s entire left arm. His face was badly cut, and blood was beginning to curdle around his lips. “Darling, don’t blame yourself. It’s my fault. I could have pushed you faster or picked you up, or even use magic. But I just wasn’t thinking straight. It was such a shock to see Drago act that – oh, what am I doing? I’m making excuses!” Branson moaned even harder. “Bobby, don’t you see? I’m perfectly happy with passing on. I want to be free, not crippled. I believe in the afterlife. I’ll be with the angels soon.” Anna was now croaking. She smiled contently. “But you know what you have to do now. Train the boy. Pass on everything that you know. The end is drawing near. I know it is.” “I will do my best,” said Branson. Anna reached out. Branson took her hand and kissed the back of it gently. “Save the world, make a difference…” she whispered softly. “That is my last, dying wish. Thank you for everything.” Then her hand went limp. It fell out of Branson’s and to the ground. Anna’s eyes slowly shut, never to open again. Ricky stood speechlessly, rooted to the spot. The gears were slowly turning in his head, but none of what was said sank in. In his mind, the word “magic” bounced around, and it gave him a headache. It wasn’t until Branson broke into tears again that he walked over and placed an arm around the old man’s shoulders. “Oh R-Ricky,” he stuttered. “I’m s-sorry you had to see my like this. It’s j-just that Anna was one of the only people I held d-dear to me in this world. And p-pretty soon, y-you’ll have to leave too.” “Don’t be silly, sir. I’ll always be here, at your side. Anna was a strong woman and lived a good life, even if her ending wasn’t so great. But she’s happy where she is now, and that’s all that matters. C’mon, let’s go home. I’ll walk with you.” Branson wiped his eyes. “No, it’s okay, Ricky. You need to go on and get your rest. I need sometime alone.” Branson took a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose with it. It sounded like an off-key trumpet. “Yes sir,” replied Ricky, but he still had hundreds of burning questions to ask. Branson noticed the quizzical look on his face. “Oh? The candles? Yes, well you see, today was Anna’s eighty-seventh birthday. That’s part of the reason we took our little trip up here. The lilac? That was her favorite color. Everything she wore was lilac. Everything in her life had to be lilac. The rest, I’m afraid, will have to wait for later. Now, scoot off to bed Ricky. Tomorrow, we’ll try to put this behind our backs. Expect a hot bowl of tomato soup for lunch.” “Sure thing.” “Be safe.” “I will.” Ricky turned and slipped. He reached out swiftly to break the fall with his palms. EDIT It made him even more curious of how he had gotten to such a high altitude in such a short time. He turned to see if Branson was watching, but instead, the aged man was already chiseling in a grave for Anna on the wall of the nook.. A swift moving shadow caught Ricky’s eye. It was out in the distant mountain pass, another quarter of a mile up the trail. The silhouette was so quick that he could have sworn he imagined it. I probably did, he thought. It’s midnight, I just witnessed death, and I’m tired. He sighed. It was one heck of a crazy night. Someone dear passed away. A five year old diary entry was found. He climbed at least a thousand feet within twenty minutes. He witnessed an old man levitate eighty-seven candles with purple flames. And yet, craziest of all, he hadn’t finished his five paragraph essay. But that was the least of Ricky’s worries. This was all just the beginning of everything. And everything was about to go terribly wrong. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- So that's the first part. If people like it, I'll post the other chapters. If not...well, then I won't do anything, except improve. EDIT: DANGIT! I posted this in the wrong section! Can a mod move it over to the original works? Thanks. ANOTHER EDIT: DoubleDangit! I miraculously misspelled "Chapter". I've become to reliant on Word.
