Chapters of book (to be published when I write them)

Chapter 1: Eternal

He thought it was impossible, he thought the day would never come...but it was here.

His golden, bloodshot, tired eyes were slowly fading, all life being drained out of it. He held his hand over the wound: a deep, painful cut that stretched across his stomach, tearing through his orange robes, many of his allies, most of whom were dead, would constantly remind him that he looks like a Buddhist monk. He thought of it that way too, as he did receive the clothes from a Tibetan monastery almost 18000000 years ago.

The wrapped cloth, that covered his skinless face, sagged. It revealed his skeleton-like head, no hair, just bone. As one of his last acts, he pulled it off and let it swiftly sink to the dusty, lifeless ground he knelt on. The desert wind quickly changes the colour of the cloth from orange to a light shade of grey, which was later stained gold by his blood.

His life drained in sync with the blood, creating a stream on the ground. His blood hadn’t always been gold; he only gained that after becoming immortal. Unlike most, he wasn’t born with this ‘blessing’, he wasn’t given it by a sacred object...he earned immortality. But, as he always knew, even immortals don’t last forever.

He was one of the last immortals too, he was the most powerful as well, and the fact he was dying meant that none were safe. He had recreated the world many times after destruction, usually allowing life to reform itself, but he always brought back humanity. Though they were the ones who were responsible for most of the destructions, he did belong to their race, and he didn’t want to be alone in a new world.

The sun slowly sets in the horizon. The masked man, as he was more commonly known as, watched the miracle he was always amazed at. He wished that this was a weird dream, maybe even a prophecy, he didn’t want to die yet, but there were flaws in both those ideas. Firstly, he had insomnia, so it was rare that he would sleep. When he had his human face, he would have always had black bags under his eyes. Secondly, he would never feel pain in his prophecies: but here, the pain was unbearable.

The cut, more like a slash, sent pulses of agony throughout his, now feeble, body. Every 2 seconds, a shockwave of new, but familiar, torture. Not even a thousand swords could inflict anything close to the amount of pain it generates.

The masked man turns his head, slowly and full of hurt. His gaze catches a figure, THE figure. It was about 500 metres away from the masked man. The one that brought the blow, the one that is his murderer...the one that has endangered the lives of all on this planet.

The figures features can’t be seen due to the long-reaching shadow of a near-by sand dune; all that can be made out is that the figure is humanoid and slim. What is clear is the object in the figures hand.

It is a silver disc, generating some sort of golden aura. The aura was pulsing in time with the masked man’s pain-waves. It was clear that this was the weapon that stabbed him. The disc fit snugly in the figure’s hand; it was completely solid all the way through, sturdy too, but thin and with razor sharp edges.

The masked man coughs violently, more blood splutters from his mouth, the few muscles there, only enough to frown or smile clearly, strain. His eyes seem to lock with the figure’s, but the masked man can’t be sure as the eyes are also covered by darkness. The weakly asks “Why?”

The figure smiles, shrugging slightly. The figure walks up to the masked man and grabs his head, somehow still covered in shadows, forcing it up towards the sky and tuts “Because...well, I know who you are, what you’ve done” the figure laughs “We all have demons, but yours...I’m amazed that you managed to last even a day without killing yourself”

The figure punches the masked man to the floor again. The fist was fast and hard, managing to break the jaw in several places. The floor was now gold coated, rivers of his blood flowing into the cracks on the ground. “Tell me what it is Damir” The figure says coldly.

A sense of shock mixes with the stinging of the wound, the masked man’s real name was long forgotten ‘No one left alive should remember that name’ the masked man thought ‘Unless...’

“WHAT IS IT!?” The figure shouts, obviously losing their temper, the anger seems to almost radiate off them “WHAT IS THE EVERLASTING TRAIL!?”

The masked man weakly chuckles “I would...rather...die...than tell...scum like...you” He says, managing to maintain a strong, yet calm tone. His words only cut up by pauses in which the masked man would grasp for air.

The figure sighs and holds the disc to the masked man’s neck. Shadows still surround the figure, slightly creeping onto the masked man as well. The shadows feel cold, even colder than the masked man’s body. The slow darkness grows around the disk, transforming the look of disappointment on the figures face into a look of sick satisfaction at the thought of ending the once great saviour of humanity’s life.

“So be it” The figure says, somehow making the tone joyful at the idea of death, yet cold, as if to say that something inside them is resisting. A brief spark of hope in the masked man’s mind quickly evaporates as the figure flicks his wrist and slices the main artery in the neck.

The next second is in slow motion for the masked man. His blood flies out of his body, yet it bends around the figure, not a drop touching it. His life-force, even in slow motion, is sprinting away. His sight blurs, all sound is muffled out, and the copper taste surrounds his tongue. His body numbs and slumps to the fall.

The figure lightly kicks the body, checking for any signs of life. It kneels down. Its dark hand closes the eyelids, one of those few muscles the masked man had left on his face, a sign of embarrassing respect the figured had for him. This is swiftly turned into a spit on the body as the figure stands up.

The sky turns black; the sun had completely disappeared over the horizon. The few stars left in the sky, between 30 to 40 lights hanging above, seem to dim. The figure’s shadows seem to sink back too. The dust blows away from the corpse and the howling winds turns into a gentle breeze.

All grows deadly quiet...all except the figure who is laughing madly. The laughter echoes miles around, chilling the spines of the few brave enough to leave the cities and wonder the wasteland of, what was once, England.

The closest city, was known as Manchester, now more commonly known as Site 3:5, could be seen in the background. Its lights were even comforting to most travellers on their journey, but had not the same emotion to the figure. It instead had the opposite effect, providing a sense of insecurity to it.

The figure violently kicked the lifeless pile, which was the masked man. It then turned its back on the body and walked away, almost skipping even. It whistled a tune as it faded from sight, going deeper into the dead plain, dropping the disc onto the floor; it had no more use for it.

What the figure didn’t notice was the thing that meant his work wasn’t fully complete. He had succeeding in killing the masked man, in tearing a hole in the safety net of this world, in ending the chance that this war would end swiftly and without more blood.

But the figure didn’t inspect the face of the masked man much, it didn’t see the sign, it didn’t see the one thing it should have seen. It didn’t see the faint smile on the masked man’s face.

The figure may have destroyed many things, but there is always a survivor, always hope. The masked man planned for his death, he had met many hopefuls, and many who could continue the fight...the smile meant one thing and one thing only...he had chosen an heir.




Chapter 2: Hope

Longa rose from his sleep, hitting his head on the ceiling as he rose up. He tore right through the cardboard box he called home and let out a huge sigh that he had managed to not wake for a whole hour and a half.

He had slept in his clothes yet again, but at least they had been washed last night. His ‘lucky’ grey hoodie, his dark blue jeans, which had a tear on the left knee, and a pair of worn, white trainers were some of the few things he could call his own. The trainers had a strange word on them, ‘Nike’, which
Longa always thought meant happiness or something like that.

His median length brown hair sagged slightly, but maintained its typical style: sticking out fringe and smoothed down everywhere else. It seemed to match with his fair skin, but that still made his looks nothing special. He admitted his was average looking, maybe even slightly above that at best.

His chocolate coloured eyes scanned the area for any sign of Lings, but none could be found. Ether he was safe or the Ling were getting smarter.

He bit his pale lips in anticipation of the idea that he might have a bed tonight. He was going to sign up for the army today, they always kept their soldiers at the Army Recruitment Centre, ARC for short, and provided a room for them till they were sent to another Site.

The Army was now a breeze to get into. The age limit was knocked down to 14, and being three years over that line meant he had no worries, the army were willing to accept anyone these days.

After crawling out from the tangle of thin, torn blankets he used for warmth and folded out the flaps of the box so he could step out into the garbage filled alleyway he had lived on for 5 months.

He put on his brown, cotton sack over his shoulder. He carried his most treasured items in it. The contents of the bag were mostly a few scraps of food he found around the city, pencils and sheets of paper, and a torch. But there was one thing so special, and meaningful, to him that he spent the last of his money, which was hard enough to find, so it could be laminated.

That object was a drawing, one he drew 3 years ago. He remembered that day very well.

It was raining heavily, all the cardboard boxes in the slums we affected. Those with scrap metal homes were lucky that their houses weren’t going to be washed away. The raindrops acted almost like machine guns, rapidly hitting anything in their path.

Though it would cause colossal damage, it was very much welcomed. There was a heavy drought that year, and water was needed. Cheers of laughter filled everyone’s ears; people rushed to the ‘streets’ and held up buckets, bowls, hands, whatever they could find, just to collect some of the life-saving nectar that fell from the heavens.

Longa was too distracted though, his focus was on the girl next to him, Stella, his 3rd, but easily the biggest, crush. The other two crushes had both ended in the same way, Longa found out they liked someone else, and so he gave up.

But, to him, Stella was different, he never stopped liking her. The thing that used to impress him the most was her blond hair. Others would have called it stringy, split-ended, but Longa would have described it as radiant, perfect even.

Her skin was the same shade as his, but her deep, bright, blue eyes always had Longa in a comma of some sorts. Whenever she looked at him, his heart would skip a beat. Her warm smile had the same effect.

She too wore jeans, but hers never ripped. She also wore a collection of tops, massive compared too many others who lived here. She had 3 shirts, all of which Longa loved to see on her, suiting her skinny body.

But it wasn’t just her looks that Longa liked about her; she was the kindest and most thoughtful person he had ever met.

On that day, he was standing next to Stella, who was a year younger but an inch taller than Longa, helping her hold up a huge bucket she borrowed from her dad. She was stronger than she looked too, as she was carrying most of the weight.

Stella knew Longa was trying his best to hold up the bucket, laughing internally that Longa’s arms were wobbling. She ran her hand around the bucket rim slightly; to support his side more, but not too much that Longa would notice and feel weaker.

Stella liked Longa too. Though Longa seemed to always criticise himself, Stella never agreed with him on those points. She was a lot better at hiding her emotions than Longa, who was turning pink at this point. Stella kept her normal face though, she was scared she would hurt Longa if they ever got too close.

Longa sighed lightly, he thought Stella didn’t think about him in the same way.

When the water filled up they carried it back to their sector of the slums and under the metal roof that covered a few sleeping bags. The dropped the, now over-flowing, bucket on the garbage-thick ground. The water that was spilled quickly formed into black puddles.

Longa put his hands on his knees, bending slightly. He tried to cover his heavy breathing but this was no use, Stella already knew he was exhausted. She wasn’t tired from the journey but pretended she was, yet again, so Longa didn’t feel weak and pathetic.

Longa walked to a wall of the shelter and slumped to the floor. Stella sat beside him. They both watched the rain fall outside, both slightly amazed at the amount of water out there, more than either of them had seen in their combined lives.

Longa took out his notepad and pencil, which he was given for his birthday a few nights back, from his bag.

“Err...Stella” Longa said in his nervous voice, the ascent he had usually caused him to slur his words.

Stella’s gaze shifted from the rain to Longa. Her eyes, yet again, made Longa breathless for a second “What?” She said with a smile.

Longa was panicking “Do you...err... want to maybe...” His throat went dry, and he froze.

“Do you want maybe...” Stella says, trying to edge the question on.

“Do you want to maybe...?” He choked up. He wanted to say ‘do something some time’ but instead he said “Let me draw you?”

Stella shrugged “Sure, why not” That wasn’t the question she expected, nor the question she wanted. She hid her disappointment behind a smile, as she usually did.

Longa nodded and began drawing her. It took an hour for him to finish his pencil drawing, getting every detail accurately. His drawing skills were the one thing he was proud of. At the end, he had produced a photo-like image of Stella, no colour, just pencil lines.

Stella snatched it out of Longa’s hand and stared at it with a huge grin. She turned her head to face Longa “It’s amazing” she says with a sense of awe and a sparkle in her eye “I’ll always take it with me, where ever I go, whatever I do”

Longa snaps back to reality and takes out the drawing. He carefully slides it out and holds in his hand. Tears of both joy of the memory and sadness of how it was returned to him.

His mind does a flash back to the day after the Ling stormed the slums, 1 and a half years ago. That was also the day he found out his powers.

He was given a box at the refugee camp, it contained Stella’s stuff. He had received it since he was the only one known to be alive that knew her well.
The soldier, about in his early twenties, thin stature but still looked imposing in his uniform. A thick scar ran down his left eye, half-blinding him. He had suffered too much death already.

Longa kept asking where did they find the picture, but the soldier wouldn’t say, he knew that Longa would be hurt. But Longa really wanted to know, he really needed to know...then it happened.

The voice of the soldier fills his head: ‘It was found by a charred body’

At first he thought the soldier was mumbling, but the voice was too clear. Longa then thought he was throwing his voice, but it was only then when he realised he found his power, a rite of passage for all humans. Powers can range from control of an element, shape-shifting and less useful powers, like changing the colour of their fingers. But Longa had a different power...he could mind read.

After forcing that memory, the most painful of them all, to the back of his mind, he walks out of the shit-filled alley and towards a new life...towards the ARC.


Chapter 3: Reborn

In the back allies of Site 3:5, there was a bright light. Not of a light colour as you may expect, such as white of gold, it was of deep purple.
The light swirled like clouds, forming a thick mist, it was impenetrable to all, inside was pure darkness. Any passers-by would have to ether ignore it, or be classed as crazy and sent to the ‘happy house’...and no one wanted to be locked up in that hell, so the whole event was ignored.

Strange lightning ejected out, one of the bright bolts hitting by-passer, yet it seemed to harm no one, it didn’t even attract the by-passer’s attention. The by-passer continued her journey, coat tightly closed, and scarf masking the lower half of her face.

The strange storm continued in the back-alley. Out of the swirling pandemonium came a hand. It had young, slightly tanned, skin. The hand grasped air rapidly, almost as if the owner was being tortured.

The hand, after several minutes of grasping, rose even further out of the purple abyss. It was followed by a shoulder, which was followed by a head and upper-half of a chest.

The top area of the head was covered in short, black hair. The eyes were green, shining dully. The ears and nose were small and simple while the mouth had a weak shade of pink for the lips.

The head took its first breath of air; its eyes widened, gaining a glint of life. The storm died away, revealing the rest of the body, the skin from the hand mirrored that of the whole body, standing awkwardly, feet in a puddle full of mud and many things no one wanted to know about.

The body was that of a boy, but you could argue it was a man. The body had an age of 18. The boy looked around, staring at the details of the walls: the decay of the bricks, the torn posters of curfew times, the stains of vomit left by drunkards over the years.

The boy’s newly formed eyes scanned the area some more, coming across a small girl.

The small girl was about 6 years old, covered in a thick fleece and cradling a small rag doll. She had an African origin, her black skin and dark hair gave that away. She had a look of intelligence, her IQ was in the high 2% of the population already, but not even this helped the girl understand what had just happened. The girl’s eyes were wide; the pupils were far too tiny, almost as if the white was engulfing it.

The boy gave a warm smile and bent down to her level. He then asked “Hi, what’s your name?”

The girl was still suspicious “Why should I tell you? You could be human”

The boy cracked his neck once, he noticed the small scar on the girl’s forehead; it was in the shape of a cross “I guess you’re Ling then. I’m called Keys”

The girl rubbed her mark “I’m Dema” She said with a wide smile, proud of her name. In Ling tradition, only daughters of Ling chieftains could bear a name beginning with D.

Keys nods “Well, pleasure to meet you Dema” He says “So, where am I?”

“You’re two miles south of the ‘Manchester’ border” Dema replied “But you’re on the Ling side...the better side”

“Ok, first of all...I need some clothes” Keys says, covering his groin area “Could you get me some?”

Dema nodded rapidly “Sure” She ran off, returning a few minutes later with a pair of jeans, a red shirt and some white trainers.

Keys puts them on, surprised at how they all fit him perfectly. After changing, he pats the girl’s head “Thanks Dema” He says, regretting what he’s about to do.

In Keys’ hand, a 47. Magnum forms. The metal, though slightly dull, glints with the street light shining down at it. He raises the gun towards Dema “I’m sorry...” Keys said coldly, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Dema’s eyes widen even more than before. She is paralysed in fear, knowing what her fate is.

Keys smiles, his arm now still. His finger wraps around the trigger “I’m so sorry...but a war is a war” He says as he squeezes the trigger.
The next few seconds seem to slow as the sound the firing emits from the gun, the bang almost deafening Keys. The bullet travels to the girl’s upper chest, sinking into her like a knife into butter.

Dema’s body falls backward, blood rushes from the wound in her chest and pours onto the ground. Her mouth moves, opening and closing. Her increasingly dull eyes look at Keys “W-what are y-you?”

Keys stands over the girl, gun now aimed at her head “I am what my grandfather never wanted me to be...” He holds back the rush of pleasure and guilt at the same time; it was fine killing, but a young girl? ‘She knows too much, she knows too much’ Keys thinks, the thought convincing him that this is something he MUST do.

Dema looks deep into Keys’, now bright, green eyes “I-I should ha-have never tru-trusted a...a...a...” She is cut off as the battle to breath became too much, overwhelming her want to speak.

Keys let the salty tears stream down his face, dripping onto the cold, muddy, concrete ground. He widens his eyes, all innocence leaves them. He pulls the trigger again. He hears the blast plus a squelching sound. He dreads to think what it was caused by. He teleports away, his mind focused on the human border.

The body of Dema lay on the street curb. Two figures stand over it. Both figures have the cross-shaped scars on their foreheads.

“Was she one of yours?” The first figure asks.

“Yes” The second figure quickly says.

“Ok, we best torch it”

The second figure nods and holds a lighter up. The first figure takes out a bottle and pours the contents on Dema’s body. The lighter drops and the flames quickly devour the body.

“It is done” The first figure says.

The second figure nods.

“This looks like human work” The first figure says.

“Humans? This deep in our territory?”

“Maybe a one off, we should inform Rever”

“Yeah, want some food?”

The first figure smiles “Why not”

They both walk away, down the darkened street. The wind whistles as the fire slowly finishes its work on Dema’s lifeless shell. Both of the figures quickly
forget about Dema. Their minds are focused on one thing and one thing only...their search food.

*jaw drops* ... FUCKING EPIC!!!!!!

WOAH! You're a really good writer! The only thing that doesn't sound good is how you use 'the figure' too many times in a row.

thx Taylor

dragonlover13 wrote: WOAH! You're a really good writer! The only thing that doesn't sound good is how you use 'the figure' too many times in a row.

I have to use that cuz I dont want to give his/her identity away (but its easy to find out if u look at the rpg)

DoubleM wrote:

dragonlover13 wrote: WOAH! You're a really good writer! The only thing that doesn't sound good is how you use 'the figure' too many times in a row.

I have to use that cuz I dont want to give his/her identity away (but its easy to find out if u look at the rpg)

Like in this part "Its lights were even comforting to most travellers on their journey, but had not the same emotion to the figure. It instead had the opposite effect, providing a sense of insecurity to the figure." The second time you use 'figure' it sound kind of off.

dragonlover13 wrote:

DoubleM wrote:

dragonlover13 wrote: WOAH! You're a really good writer! The only thing that doesn't sound good is how you use 'the figure' too many times in a row.

I have to use that cuz I dont want to give his/her identity away (but its easy to find out if u look at the rpg)

Like in this part "Its lights were even comforting to most travellers on their journey, but had not the same emotion to the figure. It instead had the opposite effect, providing a sense of insecurity to the figure." The second time you use 'figure' it sound kind of off.

Ok, sorted, thanks for your opinion, I didnt see that. It did sound off. Thanks again

DoubleM wrote:

dragonlover13 wrote:

DoubleM wrote:

dragonlover13 wrote: WOAH! You're a really good writer! The only thing that doesn't sound good is how you use 'the figure' too many times in a row.

I have to use that cuz I dont want to give his/her identity away (but its easy to find out if u look at the rpg)

Like in this part "Its lights were even comforting to most travellers on their journey, but had not the same emotion to the figure. It instead had the opposite effect, providing a sense of insecurity to the figure." The second time you use 'figure' it sound kind of off.

Ok, sorted, thanks for your opinion, I didnt see that. It did sound off. Thanks again

You're welcome.

DoubleM wrote:thx Taylor

No problem. (sorry, I was putting a glove on a fake severed hand to stretch it out)

Umbreon101 wrote:

DoubleM wrote:thx Taylor

No problem. (sorry, I was putting a glove on a fake severed hand to stretch it out)

lol, nice idea