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One of Three
Topic Started: Aug 10 2010, 10:32 AM (6,534 Views)
Hallucinojelly
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God was telling you "not yet".
[ *  *  *  * ]
B044: Trent Savage - Start

The coast was clear. He sprang forth from the undergrowth as though his arms had turned into legs, and found himself at what appeared to be a small cabin of sorts, nestled here among the mountains. His fingers wrapping themselves tightly around the handle of his weapon - kanabo, it was called, though Trent had never heard of such a thing - and he tip-toed cautiously up the path leading to the front door. His daypack, numbered "B044", along with his duffel bag, hung loosely off his shoulders, causing him some discomfort as he had to keep stopping to make sure they didn't slip away from his oddly-proportioned frame, and the sweat was already building in blotches beneath his armpits and around the small of his back. But this was not the time to start caring about appearances (or odours), because now the boy had made it to the tiny building, his weapon raising higher and higher the closer he got to the door.

Finally, he made it, but someone troubled him as he clasped his hand around the cold metal of the handle. This was too easy, he thought, far too easy. How could a place like this be so empty with so many students running around out there? So many of his classmates would have a weapon like his, or worse, something deadlier, more precise - a gun, for instance. He gulped. Someone could be in there, right now, waiting for him to waltz on in with a machine gun primed and eager to send an army of metal his way. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all; this wasn't like a game. In a game, you have game overs, but you never die. You just try again and hope for the best. There'd be no retries here though, no second chances. If he died, that would be it, and that would be the end of "B044", whatever that number meant.

Yeah, I should just-

"About three hours, give or take. Depends on how well you feel hiking. We can take this path around."

The quietest gasp abandoned him and he covered his mouth with his free hand. There were people in there! Now what? What if they came out, right now? How many were there? Panic took hold of him and he bolted around the cabin, only looking back once he found shelter behind one of the larger mounds of dug-up earth. His heart pounded against his chest, a fierce mixture of adrenaline and terror beating wildly like an electric samba in his veins. He didn't know who was in there, or even if they had any dangerous intent at all, but the fact was he'd left himself open just now, and that was a mistake he couldn't afford to make again.

That is, a mistake he couldn't make later, as he slowly brought his head up over the top of the mound. The cold breeze now made an impression on the boy as it whipped around his mangy hair, and he shivered as the T-shirt he wore provided no amount of protection against the harsh, bitter wind. From here, he could only see the back of the ranger's station, along with the staircase leading up to the front door as the cabin sat raised above the ground. That was when he noticed a pair of legs descend the stairs, alerting him to how correct his estimation had been. Another pair followed, meaning that two people must have already looted the place (damn, why didn't he get here sooner?), but at least they were finally leaving.

In an attempt to hoist himself up, he forgot how unsettled the pile he was lying on actually was, and sure enough he found himself sliding down to the bottom of the dirt-heap with a frustrated groan. Having been awake for over an hour, it would make sense to think that he would be over the effects of the knock-out gas by now, but with his adamant refusal to sleep when there was gaming to be done, his body wasn't used to the wonderful properties that came with more than 4 hours sleep. Essentially, his body was trying to trip him, as though it was working against him as he tried over and over to climb up the damn molehill, but after seventeen failed attempts to do so he finally let his limbs get their own way.

So he sat, for a while, at the base of the mound, his head resting on the rocky surface of the mountain while his eyes looked towards the blue for some kind of inspiration. Of course he knew that he could easily just walk around that heap of dirt, but that wasn't the point. He had a goal now, his own mountain to climb. It'd just be simpler if it didn't keep falling away from him every time he had to reach around to keep his bags from slipping away. Lord knows that he didn't want to have to slide back down to get them again, that'd be the worst. No, he had to do this. It was training, right? If he could somehow get to the top of the mound then he figured that'd be a good sign of things to come.

Okay, last time.

Shoving his weapon into his bag, he stared up at the hill as he psyched himself up. Then, taking a deep breath, he lunged forward, hands tearing away at the soil as he scrambled up and up, his heart working at a fever pitch as his legs struggled against the steep climb. He was doing it, he was really doing it! He was going to- YES! Yes! He'd made it! He'd made it to the very top, oh, happy days! "Hah!" He called out, panting with every breath after as his rested his hands on his knees. "Hah... I... hah! I did it! Ha-AH!" His victory, however, would be cut short. The ground beneath him gave way to his heavy breathing and he tumbled awkwardly down the mound, his feet flying over his head while his duffel bag flew from his shoulder. With a sickening smack, his head met the hard ground below, and he lay motionless, face-down in the dirt.

Somewhere nearby, the distinct shape of Craig Hoyle began to stir.
Edited by Hallucinojelly, Aug 11 2010, 11:32 AM.
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Hallucinojelly
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God was telling you "not yet".
[ *  *  *  * ]
It was cold. No, wait, it was warm. No, hang on - what the heck was wrong with this place? Trent felt uneasy as he bobbed along the river of darkness; his blood flowing throughout the black of his surroundings like every pore in his skin was gaping wide open. He felt like he'd died a thousand times and yet there was a gentle ease to which he accepted his new home. The shadows crept along his body, poking at him with their pointy sticks and speaking in a dialect he knew he'd never understand. That was okay though, this was fine. He liked being here for some reason, as though he felt safe inside this world, sheltered from the struggle beginning to take hold of the island outside of this cocoon.

Recalling what events had brought him here was an impossible task, as though his memories were hidden away in a secret place guarded by the very demons now examining the inside of his chest. They clicked their shadow tongues as they prodded his beating heart - it almost tickled as they pierced it with their tiny spears, watching hungrily as the blood began to bubble forth, seeping over the lungs and muscle below. He gave a weary laugh, his head lolling from side to side, but he did nothing to stop them from carrying on their work. This was their world, after all, and he was just a guest.

As they continued down the river for what seemed like days on end, they finally reached a blank television screen, suspended in the air by the darkness itself. Coming to a stop, the river dried up beneath his body and he fell to the ground with a silent thud; the demons now finished with their examination quickly left the scene, leaving Trent alone and bewildered as the screen flickered into life. Static crackling wildly above him, he could have sworn he saw sparks hit the blackened ground around him, but there were far more pressing matters at hand. Squinting his eyes, he thought he could make out the shape of someone's face amidst the frenzied pattern, but when the static began to dissolve he wished the face hadn't been so familiar.

Danya. That man from the video, the one in charge of every game he'd seen. Sure, everyone had watched at least one episode of SOTF, right? Everyone talked about it, didn't they? About Dodd, about Bryan, about Riz? He couldn't have been the only one, so why was he seeing that man's face now, like some sort of divine entity about to pass the harshest judgement ever conceived by his tiny little mind. "B044. Trent... Savage? Am I saying that right?" Mouth hanging open, he simply nodded in disbelief, his natural responses slowly returning to him as he watched on. "Oh, Trent... Trent, Trent, Trent. You've been a bit stupid, haven't you? A bit forgetful."

Wh-what?

"Don't make that face at me!" The screen roared down at the boy, engulfing the world in a hellish fire as he glared right into his conscious, deep into the heart of his memories. "You've been awake for a while now, and what did you do? What was the first thing you did?" Trent broke away from his gaze, desperately grasping at an answer. "The girl! You've forgotten THE GIRL." His eyes widened. How could he have forgotten? He'd been so busy - no, so selfish, that he'd forgotten all about the one person in the world that he actually liked. He'd forgotten about his best friend. He'd forgotten about-

"Violet! I-I know, I-" His voice cracked as he answered, the pressure building as the screen looked down impatiently. "I-I should- I shoulda tried to f-find her! I-I'm sorry! I'm sorry- please!" The face leered, it's portly chin rolling around as it began to break a terrible grin.
"Oh yeah, Violet. How could you forget about her, Trent? The only person who's ever understood you. The only girl you've ever-"
"Sh-shut up! You shut up now, y'hear?!" And it did. With a grim bellow of laughter, the screen faded out of existence, permitting Trent the time he needed to fully process what had been said. It was all too much, however, and as fast as he'd fallen asleep the real Trent began to wake, though not blessed with the same tranquillity that came with floating along the dark canal.

It had been a few minutes since Craig had headed up to the cabin on the other side of the small clearing, and now the boy began to stir out of his maddening dream. "Ugh... my fuckin' head." He mumbled as he spit the dirt from his mouth and wiped his drool away with his sleepy hand. The pounding in his head was a harsh reminder to never again try something so stupid, and he took a good few more minutes of rest before attempting to get to his feet. He had to wonder though, about his sleep. What had happened just then was something he could never try to remember, and half of him wondered if he'd even dreamed at all, being so close to killing himself as he had been.

Never doin' that kinda shit again, right? Never again?

Nodding woozily, he lurched forward with a groan, his head still spinning from the impact of his head against the rocks. It was lucky for him that the damage done hadn't been more severe, though if anyone tried to convince him the pain now was a miracle he'd surely launch a groggy punch their way. And so he moved, slowly, and not so surely, over to the ranger's station, forgetting all about the duffel bag he had left in the bushes behind him.
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Hallucinojelly
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God was telling you "not yet".
[ *  *  *  * ]
Trent wrinkled his nose as he got close to the cabin; the acrid smell of vomit flew into his face with the wind, causing him to gag a little. It smelt sharp and tangy, clinging to the inside of his nose, and he had to pull his T-shirt up to his face to stop the smell from overwhelming his recovering senses. His head was still drumming with a rhythmic pain, and his eyes couldn't quite focus properly, but at least he could still move, albeit in the fashion of the zombies in those early Romero films. It didn't matter though, as he kept reminding himself; "It coulda been worse. You coulda died, y' idiot." Which was all too true. He couldn't afford to do those moronic things any more, he had a real objective now, a real goal to aim for. Nodding along with his thoughts, he took a moment to stop himself as a brief dizzy spell passed over him, taking a quick look around after it was gone to check if he was still alone.

"Hey, bud... you have a nice nap?"

The voice sounded familiar - and close. The area blurring around him as his head turned quickly in an attempt to find the source, his eyes soon stopped dead when a large, moving shape entered his sights. Vision settling as he focused on the shape, he realized why the voice had sounded so familiar, and a smile threatened to close his wide-open mouth. "C...Craig? Is that - is that you, man?" This couldn't be happening, could it? Had he actually received some kind of luck now? Though the pain still hammered away at his skull, Trent didn't care. He'd found one of the very few people he actually liked on the island, and he didn't even seem to be carrying a weapon. An unusually happy Trent rushed (well, hobbled) over to the boy, unaware of the stoned look of relief on his face.

"I... hah, I can't believe it. Of all the peeeople, I find you, man. Craig fuckin' Hoyle." He laughed, trying his best to stay standing as his head began to spin from all the excitement. Lugging his legs behind him, he managed to get up close to the outer wall of the cabin, resting on it as he walked over to the confused on-looker who seemed a bit disturbed by Trent's condition. His hair was full of dirt and a small patch of sticky, congealing blood had emerged around the side of his head, hidden only slightly by his greasy locks. Added to this, he simply had the look of a major stoner about him, and the fact that his eyes wouldn't straighten did nothing to help matters at all. No, right now he was a mess, and as he finally got into Craig's proximity there was only one thing he could do.

"My... oh man, you're lookin' kinda..." Without another word he slumped forward, hanging his arms around the footballer's stomach as the world around him began to blacken once again. "Gotta... ohhhh, shiiiit..." His words slurred together into an indecipherable mess and his eyelids locked themselves down, leaving a bewildered Craig holding the unconscious boy carefully in his arms.

His goal was going to be harder to reach than he thought.
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Hallucinojelly
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God was telling you "not yet".
[ *  *  *  * ]
Trent liked it here, in the dark and the gloom. It was much nicer now that the man in the screen had gone; far less of a nightmare world. Having been more aware of his condition he would've worried, but this was not the place for worrying, no sir. This was the place of the abstract and the heart, where the only demons now bore far less of a grudge than they had done before. They didn't even sharpen their sticks any more, since they were becoming far less afraid of the curious child who had entered once again into their secret home. However, they remained wary of the visitor as he lay down by the riverbank, watching him stare into the rippling waters pouring past his feet.

His eyes held all of the guilt he'd received from his previous visit, knowing full well that he'd somehow lost his way on the path towards his goal. What was his goal, anyway? Something... dangerous, he expected. Something hard to accomplish. Whatever it was, he knew he needed help to reach it, but who was there to turn to out here? The demons wouldn't aid him in his endeavour, although he could probably guess why. Sighing, he dipped his hand into the waters below, splashing them around in the black until his hand felt icy cold.

For a subconscious, this really was a dreary sort of world. He thought there'd be more women here, for a start. The kind of women his mother wouldn't approve of, but his little brother might. ...Since when did he start calling Max his "brother"? That was new. Maybe it was the island tricking his mind. Yeah, that's all it was. There was no way in hell he'd ever consider that little brat his family, nor his father. Snorting, he smacked his watery reflection, swearing for a second that he saw that man's smug face judging him for being stuck in the dead zone.

Well fuck him. What did he know? He'd spent the last few years ruining Trent's life, so why should he be the one who gets judged? The demons chattered excitedly over the outburst, giggling amongst themselves as the boy got to his feet.

"You guys can shut up too."

And with the hollow laughter coming to a stop, Trent began to walk away from the river. He needed to calm himself down a little.
Edited by Hallucinojelly, Sep 3 2010, 05:51 PM.
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Hallucinojelly
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God was telling you "not yet".
[ *  *  *  * ]
Trent sighed.

This place was way too big for him. Even if it was his subconscious, he didn't realize it'd be so vast - it wasn't like he had a lot of thoughts to bury around here. If only he had a map or something. At the very least, he had some to time to kill while he wandered around, which was good. It meant he could think over things a little better before he returned to the real world.

"The dog days really are over, aren't they?"

"Whuh?"

The voice floated on from nearby, but as far as he could see there was only darkness here - not an ounce of people. Maybe the demons had learnt to talk? Heh, he wondered what they'd have to say about their new friend. But no, the voice had sounded familiar. Like... a man he knew. Eyes scanning, Trent jumped as he felt a warm breath on the back of his neck.

"What the fu- RON?!"

Yep, his stepfather, Ronald Savage, stood right there in his world with the thinnest of smiles adorning his stupid, moustached face. He wore his usual brown business suit, with his usual polished-to-perfection shoes hovering just an inch off the ground as he looked over his stepson's body.

"You look a little worse for wear, son. What've you been doing in here?"

"I..."

Trent went quiet. Okay, so yeah, maybe he was in a crazy dream world, and yeah, maybe there were demons and Danyas and god knows what else, but seriously? Ron? Right now? Why the hell was Ron here? He hated the guy. There'd be no reason for Trent to ever want him there, not even if Hayley Williams offered to give him a damn sponge bath.

"You okay, son? You're looking awfully peaky."

Of course I'm looking "peaky", you're not supposed to be here, dick.

"Did you just call your old man a dick?"

What?!

"Wha- wait, you're not-"

"Ohhh, I can read your thoughts. Right, yes, I should have mentioned that. We are in your subconscious after all."

Ron gave a small chuckle, his moustache fluttering where his breath ran against it. Trent had always hated his moustache. It made him look important, which he wasn't. All Ron did was work at a small paper company. Who even needed paper nowadays? What a joke. As for the mind-reading? Hell, that just pissed him off even more.

"So... what do you want to do?"

"What do I- What? What the hell is this? Why do you wanna "do something" with me all of a sudden? You shouldn't even be here."

Trent was angry now, his fists clenching themselves to stop him from throttling the guy.

"...Is that a no?"

...

What.

"Okay, that's it, you're fuckin' off now."
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Hallucinojelly
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God was telling you "not yet".
[ *  *  *  * ]
There was a long silence after Trent spoke, leaving the words hanging in the air like a foul odour (befitting of his filthy attire). It only ended once Ron began to chuckle to himself, slowly building in volume until his laughter permeated every inch of the dark world.

"Oh, Trent, you are a funny one. So very funny, aren't you, boy?"

Ron laughed away the end of his sentence before he too rose to his feet. Standing just a yard away from his stepson, his moustache flickered at the ends as he drew a long breath. Wary, the boy took a few staggered steps back, wondering what this guy would do after saying something to him that he'd never dare try in the real world.

"Wh-what? You gonna hit me? Dunno if I'd feel-"

SMACK.

He had no idea what had just happened, but he sure as hell felt it. His body propelled through the air by the sheer force of Ronald's fist, all he could do was panic as the ground came racing towards him in a blur of black and lights. Teeth cracking, nose crunching fun soon followed, and soon after his body came to a stop it slumped face-down in the dirt with it's ass raised in the air. Fire was his first thought; the feeling of fire burning away at every part of his frame while he screamed out for some form of gentle release. Just a pill, or maybe two. How many was it before you overdosed? Twenty? Thirty? Well fuck it, this was agony, and it wasn't going to stop any time soon.

"Need a hand?"

Came Ronald's voice, ringing far across the plain as he floated towards his human-looking punching bag. Trent coughed and spluttered as a spatter of blood sprayed over his hands and the floor below. What the fuck was this? Wasn't this his dream world? His subconscious? So how the hell could he be in this much pain?

"It's because I'm a dream-walker."

The boy's eyes widened in disbelief.

"Y-you're a- what?!"

"...I'm joking, Trent. You dreamt me here, so, everything I do is up to you. Not that you can actively control it though. Shame."

SMACK.

A sensation so painful this time, that the boy only uttered air as he limply flew further down the way. His balls throbbed with the imprint of Ronald's shoe, and he curled up into a broken heap.

"You wanted me to do that? Boy, you have a lot of problems."

Trent's fingers ripped at the ground as his entire body clenched. The amount of pain he was in was unlike anything he'd ever felt before, having only been the subject of verbal abuse from the guys at school, so this... this was hell to him. And he knew that if he didn't stop it soon the pain would only get worse and worse and worse.

He didn't even hear Ronald sigh as he floated right up behind him, readying his leg for another strike.
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Hallucinojelly
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God was telling you "not yet".
[ *  *  *  * ]
But nothing came.

All around him blew the silent winds of the dark world, but not one carried the breath of the man who had thrown him into his current position. Cautiously, he opened his eyes, careful not to catch his stepfather's own looking right back at him. Only, as he did so, he noticed something terrible had occurred while he sat there, bracing for the next strike.

"...Ron?"

The man was nowhere in sight. Not a whisper of him remained, not even a single stitch from his tacky-looking suit. As Trent began to relax, he realized what was happening. Looking down at his own body, he could see that all his wounds and tears and scrapes were beginning to mend themselves, as though they had never existed to start with. The agonising throbbing he'd been feeling was calming down, and his mind felt like it been washed clean.

A song began to play through the air, as the demons came to greet him, and he paused for a second, sitting perfectly still as the lyrics danced upon his tongue.

"I... feel safe. I... feel scared."

His eyes glossed over as the words lit up the sky, blazing out across the clouds as the darkness dissolved away from the world. As he sang - in a voice reminiscent of a young, troubled prisoner - the ground and the earth peeled itself apart, like the skin of an orange, and it kept on going until the boy was left spinning in the depths of an endless, black abyss.

"I... feel ready."

The demons swam towards him now, struggling to breathe in the crushing expanse that lay out ahead. Taking Trent by the shoulders, they dragged him down, towards a spiralling red light, and once they were close enough they let him say his farewells. After all, this was no time to be emotional. He'd be back before they knew it.

"And yet... unprepared."

Rolling their little demon eyes back into their heads, they gathered together and gave him an almighty push into the descent.

----

"Nngh..."

Trent awoke with a start. The memories of that place would never bother him again, which meant that he now had to come with answers for a few little questions he had. Like, how the fuck did he get here? Where exactly was here? He assumed it was the cabin he'd met Craig near earlier, but his vision was blurred and he couldn't quite tell. Oh, that was a point. Where the hell was Craig? Had he left him all alo-

"Because Rosa's leaving you behind!"

That sounded like... shit, who was that voice? It sounded familiar, definitely. But then it sounded so panicked, so frantic. What was happening in front of him? Dammit, he couldn't even think properly with all this drumming in his head. The throb throb throbbing persisted, banging and booming inside his skull like the march of a soldiers' parade; bang, bang, bang, thud, thud, thud. God, it was all he could do to stop himself from breaking apart his cranium piece by jagged piece.

He twisted around in his spot, quietly and angrily behind the others, until the pain became too much for him to bear. He needed to get out of this intense atmosphere, away from whoever had a fucking shovel pointed at his face, and luckily enough he'd been dropped right next to the open door.

Holding on to his head with one hand, he hoisted himself up with the other. He knocked over his bag as he got to his feet, but he didn't care about making a fuss. All he wanted to do was get somewhere less... bright, and fast. Lazily scooping up his daypack, he dragged it out of the doorway behind him and began his struggle through the thicket - missing the huddled figures that watched him as he ran, hazily, away from the station.

((Trent Savage continued in Laurel and Hardy Got NOTHIN' on Us))
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