Needle points dig into my calves, pricking, then scraping down the flesh. I hiss in both pain and surprise, recoiling instantly to send a deterring kick. The thing yelps in surprise, and I hear the hurried claw-clicks as it scurries a few feet away. I turn, hands poised to strike, unfortunately empty of the stab-creating object I had threatened to use. I scan slowly at eye-level, then drop my eyes lower, seeing nothing at first.
A glimpse of a sickly blue color causes my gaze to stutter, locking on the person crouching just a few feet away. They are pale and thin, bones jutting awkwardly underneath attenuated skin, their eyes hollow and fearful. I, unwittingly, take a step backwards, my mind sounding alarms of danger before I can take in the rest of the scene.
Similarly sallow faces peek out from the alley, seemingly intentionally stacked atop each other, or perhaps they had no place else to go in the rather cramped space. I inch away from all of them, trying to put distance between myself and the people that are evidently outnumbering me. Though they alone are hardly strong enough to beat me in any sort of combat, not even Vixen Lao, the very first General of Arms, could say what horrors might befall me if the fight ends up being seven on one. Despite my fears, the person huddling on the ground doesn’t move an inch, not towards nor away from me. I tentatively step towards them - though I’m coming to the slow conclusion that this is a girl - and she makes a sound like a whimper, flinching as though she might run. Now that I’m fairly confident I won’t get attacked, at least not at this moment, I take a beat to go over the details I’m slowly accumulating. The sickly blue color belongs to the gown she is wearing, which I originally thought to be a night gown, but upon further examination appears to be made of paper. I peer closer, forcing myself to continue the process, even if my stomach is threatening to flip inside out. A medical bracelet adorns her wrist, labeling her as a patient of the psychiatric ward.
I squint in confusion, tilting my head as I fight to remember anything at all about the institution. The only thing I can conjure up is that she is very far from where she is supposed to be, since the last I heard the only psychiatric facility in Aarchea was settled in the north sector, sitting right on the coast of Zynnet. Considering we’re currently deep in the south of Cicatrix, she shouldn’t even be alive right now, much less on the ground before me.
“Did you come here all the way from Zynnet?” I ask, curiosity wiping away any hesitation.
At the mention of what I assume is her home, she hisses, baring her teeth in a feral grin. She creeps across the ground, unballing herself to crawl on hands and knees towards me. I take a decisive step backwards, holding out a hand as though she might listen to logical reasoning. The heads in the alley whine in unison, groaning as though they’re encouraging her. I stand, disturbingly still, as the woman pushes herself off the ground, stumbling upright and wobbling slightly. She grins, or tries to, the corners of her mouth drooping downwards despite her efforts. A dirty hand, appearing to bear claws at the tips of elongated fingers, reaches out, brushing my cheek in a surprisingly gentle caress.
“You’re pretty,” she rasps, voice rough and unforgiving, trailing her nails slightly painfully down my face as she pulls her hand away.
“Thank you?” I whisper, fear muting the words and drawing up the end of the sentence into a question.
“I want to keep it,” she tells me, hands refinding their place to now grasp both cheeks firmly,
“Keep what?” I hesitate to ask, trying to pull away from her vise-like grip.
“Your head,” she informs me innocently, tilting her own head so as to better observe me.
Her gaze is calculating and softly appreciative, eyes sliding over my features like a pawn shop owner appraising a vastly valuable item - with both greed and hope.
“In a jar,” the woman says determinedly, cocking her head the other way now, as though deciding the best way to remove my head from my body.
Soft giggles come from the alley, the heads trying to suppress their laughter at my expense.
“Ohhh-kay,” I drawl, trying to nudge her away, my hands pressing gently at her shoulders.
Much to my frustration, she doesn’t budge, instead choosing to dig her fingers in harder, nearly tearing at my flesh in the process. I give her another shove, slightly harder this time, her refusal to leave me indicated by her unrelenting grip.
“Alright, we’re done here,” I tell her starkly, sending a kick unforgivingly into her gut.
She snaps her jaws at me on contact, reaching out to bite me, but the kick sends her tumbling out of range. The woman falls to the ground with a squeal, and I wince at the sound of her nails scraping against the road as she scrambles to rise. She scuttles back towards the alley, appearing to have fled, but of course, I’m not that lucky. She hunches, running awkwardly at me as fast as her disturbingly thin legs will allow. I slide to the side, narrowly avoiding her outstretched hands, much to her irritated scream of frustration. Generally, I don’t think of myself as a fool, and I uphold that thought as I turn tail and run, weaving down the road at a mild pace rather than a sprint. Despite my lack of fool status, my ego certainly won’t allow me to sprint away from such a mild threat, so perhaps the status of fool is slightly restored to me.
I pause, tamping down my breaths to listen, but I hear nothing behind me. All that lingers is soft giggling, coming from the street I left behind, maniacal whispers breaking up the laughter. My head shakes dismissively, brushing off the encounter with a slight shiver, though I can’t help but glance back every few feet, just to be sure.
I walk in relative silence, the only sounds being my rapid footfalls and impatient breaths, the noise in my head accompanying them quite nicely. My stomach growls impatiently, hunger gnawing incessantly at my insides, demanding food I can’t provide. The sound of water trickling makes my head shoot up, resembling a startled animal. I swivel my head to the left, then the right, backwards and forward, trying to discern where the sound is coming from. I take a tentative few steps to my left, speeding up when the sound gets reassuringly louder. Anxious excitement flutters in my chest, kicking my legs into a brisk jog as I follow the sound instinctively.
I dart my eyes around as I run, searching with the determination of a mother leopard desperate to feed hungry cubs. A whistling tune breaks my thought process and my stride, forcing me to skid to a muffled stop. I catch my breath in my cheeks, holding my mouth in a bubble as I strain to listen. It’s clearly a human sound, the whistles coming at an inconsistent volume and pattern, though the song seems to be one I vaguely recognize. The tune rises and falls, a sing-song melody that I can recall my mother humming not uncommonly as she bustled around our house.
In the Battle of New Dawn
He fought hard, brave and strong
Led our troops to victory
‘Til there was daylight to see
Vixen Lao, they shouted his name
Loud and proud, then the curses came
They killed him dead
The sadness spread
And so we sing:
Aarchea rise strong
Aarchea rise true
And to our great leader
How we revere you
My body sways unintentionally along with the tune, my own lips rounding out the words that I know so well. I step forward, not quite of my own volition, drawn towards the familiar song and the sound of water continuously pouring. I duck behind a demolished building, peering slightly over the top to look in the direction of the whistler. A man stands close by, lips pursed in whistling as he casually dumps a plastic bottle of water out onto the ground. My eyes widen at the sight, and I nearly gasp as I spot the cache of water bottles peeking out from underneath a tarp beside him. My mouth seems to dry instantly, my thirst screaming over the voice of reason in my head, tuning it out until all I can think of is the layer of sand coating my throat and a plan to acquire that water, no matter what it takes.
With more care than I think I’ve ever used, I creep out from behind the building, crouching low to remain, hopefully, out of his sightline. He swaps hands, tossing the water bottle to his left, tipping up the end to continue to empty it while dragging the fingers of his right hand through shaggy onyx hair. As demoralizing and slightly embarrassing as this is, I crawl slowly, articulating each movement to ensure I don’t accidentally crunch any gravel. To the outside eye, I probably look ridiculous; here’s to hoping no one is watching. My palm lands on the ground for the umpteenth time, but apparently my attention must have strayed from my path because a sharp stone digs unforgivingly into the soft skin on my palm. I wince, clamping my teeth down on my tongue and squeezing my eyes shut for a moment to avoid making a sound. Gently, I pick my hand up, prying the stone out from the deep indent it made in my flesh, as I shake out my hand to brush off the lingering throbbing. The stone falls, clattering to the pavement so loudly that I’m sure it echoes through all of Cicatrix. I cringe, abs contracting as I try to curl into myself as though I could shrink to an invisible size. I stop all bodily functions, halting my existence as I watch the man carefully to gauge if he heard anything, though the stone was so damn loud I don’t know how he couldn’t have heard it. Much to my relief, however, he moves on without interruption, picking up another water bottle from the pile and twisting off the cap to dump it onto the ground. My stomach physically twinges at the sight of him dumping water so thoughtlessly onto the ground, and a growl of frustration mounts in my throat as I force myself to crawl forwards another foot.
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