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BLUE SUN ROOM FAN FICTION - GENERAL
C1P4 Explore the brutality of the Academy
CATEGORY: FICTION TIMES READ: 715 RATING: SERIES: FIREFLY
Table of Contents
Survivor: Chapter 1 Part 1
Survivor: Chapter 1 Part 2
Survivor: Chapter 1 Part 3
Survivor: Chapter 1 Part 4
Quote: New images. Anger- not mine- others. Angry faces stare towards me- though their speech is hidden their anger- body language is not lost on me- they think me unfair perhaps. These angry stairs turn to risen fists, aimed guns, and pointed knives. If I am unlucky enough to have to deal with the later two I lose some money in 'life insurance' that will calm the situation. But the first result I often participate in- I am small- light- young- but quick. The other men seem clumsy- have had too much to drink- and I have my day most times.
Summary: Explore the brutality of the Academy.
The cold floor surprises my feet once again- I still am yet to get used to walking bare though it has been at least a month since I first awoke in the metal box. I am shoved into the capsule- this time not by the evasive man but instead by the odd scientist- of whom I grown to realize receives pleasure from pushing around others. Today however I am not headed for the Headmaster's office- today I am headed for the medical labs where each student will receive a complete medical evaluation- all on an individual basis. I have grown used to the metal walls of the labyrinth- but not the evil that resides within its walls.
The other students continue to laugh at my expense- naming me Porter; as in attendant, and treat me as such. I hate the treatment- though any 'obscene behavior'; as defined by the scientists as cursing - arguing- or violence, is met with punishment- as I have come to find out and therefore I have no way to resist my torment. They exile me from their table by stacking books on my seat or committing other atrocities to my assigned area- and so I often receive punishment for sitting at the incorrect location. I have notified many of the school staff of my abuse- and yet they hardly care- some even partake in my exploitation- making me help them with dish duty or such on the basis that they will support a false claim that I have committed some wrong. I am a lion lost in a city- not belonging here but trapped nonetheless, even Professor Tullius has grown impatient with my lack of knowledge- and most of the other teachers hate me- going out of their way to make me miserable.
The odd scientist appears at the door- as he does every morning. "Good Morning S501, you are the first student to be evaluated today- follow me."
I cannot help but to chuckle as I follow him- he had stopped asking me to follow him after I politely refused one day of last week- of course I was punished for my impunity but it was well worth the frustration I had caused him.
The capsule whizzes around- it is a disorientating ride; perhaps by design, as the capsule seeming darts at top speed towards its target. This ride however is different than during my visit to the Headmaster's office- this time the capsule drops down several levels before beginning is horizontal departure- a new location perhaps?
Finally the door to the capsule opens once again- my feet meet the cold floor but the new and startling environment rather captures my attention- I have been taken directly to a single room by the capsule.
The room was a preliminary lab- having similar equipment to that of a pediatricians office, on the far side of the lab was a large metal door- massive enough to confuse with the opening of a safe. In the center of the room stood the Headmaster with one other scientist, and in the corner to my right sat two guards playing a card game- poker.
One of the guards was staring intently on the pot- it was large for a two man game, perhaps too large for the man to resist.
My eyes intently studied the board- which held a 3 of spades, a 4 of diamonds, a 6 of spades, a king of spades, and the final card was a 3 of clubs.
"Welcome 501." The headmaster said - the scientist no longer by his side- and the door at the back of the room closing shut.
His words come as deaf to me- I hear them but I don't. slight shushes and whispers clamor the back of my mind-
"You're not going to win- your cards aren't good enough"
Surprised I glanced around- looking for the origin of the voice- and discovered it had been my own.
A blinking light crosses my mind- a flash of memories I once knew- cards- I know poker. How odd is it to be able to name a game when you cannot identify yourself? Whispers fill my ears- my eyes drift warily around the room- glancing- analyzing- I search for the whispers.
I glance upon the guards.
The first guard looks towards me. He is a large white male- 6'3 220 perhaps. He has bright red hair- unkept- that is complemented by an overgrown red goatee- overall he appeared to be rather lowly educated based on his appearance- his mouth moves but his voice fades behind the curtain of my mind- I look to the other.
The guard opposite of him was a Black male of large size and carried a more civilized look to him- his hair properly trimmed and face shaved clean. He hardly made an expression- he was a rookie to the game and seemed almost too tight lipped. He gives me a glance- his more out of concern.
I stagger back slightly- whispers turn to images- images turn to memories.
Autumn air dries away sweat located on my brow- I am tired but pleased. Harvested wheat- shaped into bales surround me and within my hand I hold a primitive tool of sorts- a crescent blade connected to a staff. It is harvest season- working season.
My emotions are apparent within this memory- that is odd- most times these sitcoms hold no emotion- they are jokes to me- they hold no sound.
I am tired- long day of work with the ragged tool perhaps. I walk- trudge- to an oddly shaped red building; a barn, dragging a cart with 4 bales of the wheat behind me. I stop short of the barn- tossing the 4 bales of wheat into a shuttle shaped storage unit- a large one- a silo. A man next to the silo observes the bales- and hands me 18 ribbons- signifying my total work from the season so far- it is pay day.
I head into the barn- and wait in a line of equally exhausted men laurelled with ribbons. At the head of the line sits a well dressed man- no sweat- he has with him a container- and exchanges ribbons for coin. Finally my time comes- I toss him the ribbons- he neglects to exchange them. Anger now boils within me. I open my mouth- silence- perhaps I had been shouting- but my sitcoms are silent. The man shakes his head- smiling- pointing to a document. I can read it- "Labor Card Required"- is what it says- I am too young to have a labor card- I have been cheated.
I leave- sorrow and anger consume the memory- but there is evidently nothing to protect me from such an exploit- and so I leave- walking down a street until I arrive at another primitive tool- this one having two wheels and a chain that makes them move when I pedal. In the far distance the sun sets behind tall buildings and bright lights- this is my destination- I head for a city.
The memory shifts forward- skipping frames- now I am near the bright lights- but no sound- no text- no speech is audible. Only one sign catches my eye- black letters beset by a lit yellow background- with a picture of beer located in the center. It is a bar.
I often went to this city- it is the setting for many silent sitcoms- this bar was kind to kin of my age and only worried about cash or labor- one could find good earning; though not honest, work there.
My mind is plagued at a loss for names- the sign to the city- the bar- all unintelligible.
Memories interrupt the sitcom- scenes of cards all silent but vivid. Though names escape me- actions don't. I do more than drink at the bar- I gamble. Cards make sense to me- these scenes highlighted by my eventual sweeping in of coin- the other men giving hard pressed looks towards me as I rob them of their hard earned money so easily. I am no cheat- I know this game- it speaks to me- and I listen to it. My decisions are perfect- and so is my success.
New images. Anger- not mine- others. Angry faces stare towards me- though their speech is hidden their anger- body language is not lost on me- they think me unfair perhaps. These angry stairs turn to risen fists, aimed guns, and pointed knives. If I am unlucky enough to have to deal with the later two I lose some money in 'life insurance' that will calm the situation. But the first result I often participate in- I am small- light- young- but quick. The other men seem clumsy- have had too much to drink- and I have my day most times.
Still the interjections continue. The scene seemed good to me-but then others- dressed in blue or wearing of stars- always armed with weapons- show up to rob me of my victory. These star armed men- keepers of useless laws- were not so kind towards me. Many scenes end with me in a cage- a large room sized cage- with those that I humiliated earlier- and with the star armed men grabbing my winnings.
The sitcom returns.
I am now in the bar- I don't want to make a bad day worse- so instead of heading to the gambling table in the corner I instead sit up at the bar. I interact with the man behind the bar- he looks genuinely concerned for me- hands me a beer though I don't hand him coin.
The evening seems to be mellow- me drowning my anxiety and anger beer after beer- peacefully- I even eye the gambling table for a second- but recant my interest. Then a man stumbles into the bar- he was dirty and dressed messily aside from an oddly nice belt buckle- he is perhaps a miner- and was already belligerently drunk as told by his attempt at walking. He is causing trouble- looking place to place- he tosses the gambling table- and stumbles around- he has not found what he desires.
He eyes me- and jettisons to my position- his belt buckle strikes a chord in me- he is a victim of my gambling. He turns me around- starts yelling at me- his voice is silent in the sitcom- starts tossing about- stomping his feet- I show him the insoles of my pockets- empty. This enrages him- but the man behind the bar tries to get his attention- to help me out- instead the drunken fool decides on another path to get his coin. He pulls out a small pistol- aims at the man behind the bar- and points to a cash register of sorts- he intends to rob the place. I attempt to get up- possibly to sneak out- but the drunk clocks me with the pistol- it hurt. Anger and Fear now rise within the memory. The drunk starts flailing his arms- he is angry- he points the pistol at me- squeezes the trigger- but nothing happens. He in his drunken rampage forgot to bring bullets. I am not the first one to get to him- the men formerly sitting at the gambling table surround him- them equipped with knives or chairs. One of the bigger men grabs on to the drunk and lifts him by his collar.
Fear fills the eyes of the drunk- he is terrified- he slips out of his shirt and darts towards the door- but forgets to open it- and his face meets the door in a collision of titans- the door wins. The mood lightens- people's faces show their joy; their laughter- though I am deaf to it, and the memory fades away.
Friday, March 9, 2012 2:05 PM
Friday, March 9, 2012 2:10 PM
Wednesday, March 28, 2012 9:08 AM
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