~Introduction and Influences~ Hello all, and welcome to my first ever fan fiction! Well, sort of. I first created this last summer, then realized that this would be a great place to post it. If it's enjoyed quite a bit here, I may decide to continue with more chapters then I've already written. Please note that this will be a fan fiction based of a more serious note. This entire ordeal is based on two major gaming franchises, along with two major works of literature. The first major franchise is The Legend of Zelda. However, you'll be seeing the franchise from a completely new point of view. The second gaming franchise is Kingdom Hearts, namely for the idea of Organization XIII (hence the name of fic, hehe). Now for the two major works of literature that this is based on. The first is George Orwell's 1984, a modern classic of a "negative utopia" that creates an imaginy world that is both intriguing and horrifying. The second work is John Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath. Not for the basis of content, but rather for style. One chapter would focus on the main storyline, while the next would be a completely unrelated event that would serve only for symbolic and imagistic purposes. I'm going to try and follow the same sort of outline, to get some very unique attributes in here. And with that, I hope that you will enjoy this ongoing story. Please, please, PLEASE post your comments and suggestions for future chapters as we go. It'll help immensely. Also, share some of your personal thoughts on the story! What do you think of when you read a sentence, what do you think this passage is reprsenting, etc. Enjoy! ~Chapter Index~ Prologue As another flash of lightning lit the sky of the thirteenth-hour, the murder of crows resting on the roofs of the barracks glided through the petals that had littered the dampened earth. A rain lasting for three nights had inundated the patches of soil boardering the barracks, and the comrades inside were helpless to stop the leaking of water that plagued their nestings. Hylians, they were once called, though none remembered. There were no memmories remaining in these individuals. They had made sure of that. They had established a land that fed not on thoughts, not on logic, but on fact. Well, that is, their fact. They had many names of calling. The hooded, the cloaked. Somehow, the established name for them became the Organization. It did not matter, though. The Organization was never referred to by the comrades. Nothing was. The comrades were a silenced group of individuals. There were no emotions, no thoughts. The only words spoken were "yes sir" and "no mam." Of course, there were some who were unlike the rest. There were some comrades who had slipped through the grater, and who held a self-antidote to the Organization's memory-corrupting and fact-eroding poison. There were no records of such individuals, however. It was made sure that those who held thoughts, ideas, feelings, held no role in this apartheid. And when asked by one of the upper-order holders to supply information relating to that individual, one had to gamble against fate. Should one say, "Yes, I remember him," that showed weakness, and, in the views of the Organization, corruption of the mind. However, should one say, "No, I have never talked to that individual," that showed defiance, and turned an accusation on an elite member. Comrades would disappear from their daily mundane tasks without warning each day. So was the punishment for breaking the rules of the Organization. There were no reprimands, no dismissals. When one held a unique thought, or defied those who were elite, he simply disappeared, his record erradicated from existence. And should one ask what had happened to that individual, he would be met with the statement that that person never existed, and would more than likely share the same fate within days for daring to imply a statement that was not fact. Or, rather, fact according to the Organization. Who knew what was fact. The Organization had the ability to edit history to their liking. Had the Organization really invented the sword, the shield, the wheel? To the comrades, yes. They had been told by the Organization that it was so, and thus, it was engraved as fact into their minds. No one dare question what was told. For that matter, the Organization may not have even really existed. The comrades were simply told by their elites to follow the rules of the group, and not ask questions. Though it was very unlikely that the elites would devise an entire division of their castle to what was called the "lair of the Organization." On the outside of this division lay what was the symbol of the Organization, a four-pronged star intwined with a double heart at the bottom, though the previous symbol--three large, golden triangles all connected to form one single triangle--was still partially visible despite being laregly effaced by the strumming waters of, what seemed to be, hundreds of years. The comrades never saw the members of the Organization, though. However, the false reports of spotting "hooded figures" moving in the back shadows were not looked upon as taboo by the elites, as they felt that this "awe," despite not being real, was something that was goal-driven for the elites. For the fourth night, a rain of a thousand fiery embers coated the shackles of the barracks, and the comrades found themselves huddled in the corners of their sections, trying to force themself into sleep so not to have a stray thought that might be misconstrued as "defiance." After all, there was always a way for the elites and the members of the Organization to know if a thought had brewed in the minds of one of their lackees. The elites had a way of making the comrades stay controlled. After all, the chances of a revolt would be great if all powers had been stricken away from them. The comrades were able to socialize with others of their status at any time, though it was ill-advised to do so in the prescence of an elite. Simple small talk was usually what was discussed. "Hello comrade, have you seen how bright the moon is tonight?" and other such prases would be the general forms of discussion. The shadows of the clouds continued to radiate on the still damp earth. Tiny icycles begin to form within the cracks of the roof shackles, and the consistent howling of the wind created roaring echoes that bounced within the empty walls within the barracks. For the comrades inside, time had all but halted. The rain continued to fall, and the memories continued to fall into nothingess.
