Discussion in 'Textventures' started by inexpediency, Jul 13, 2011.
>go west, young man
You struggle and claw your way up to a moderately high branch, scraping up the palms of your hands in the process. Directly ahead of you, you can see the charred remains of the forest stretching well beyond the horizon. You can't quite tell where the fire started, and the whole mess is still dotted with thin trails of smoke, curling up to the sky. Behind you and to either side you can see nothing but trees; you could probably see more if you were higher, but you'd rather not risk falling on your ass.
After shuffling your way back to Earth, you decide to head westward to see what you can find. You examine the tree and find a healthy thick of moss. Moss grows on the west side of trees, right?
You're pretty sure that's right.
It takes you about an hour of stumbling through the undergrowth--or what you assume is an hour, anyway--but eventually you find a small brook. The water is cold and seems clear enough, so you take a long, deep drink to soothe your dry throat, and then clean yourself off as best you can.
After a long rest and a few more refreshing drinks, you decide to follow the brook and find out where it leads. It's better than getting lost, in any case.
You're now Tara, and after several long, panicked hours, you've finally arrived at the cabin.
It's a small place, old and rustic, but at least it's intact. Your father took you and your siblings here a few times when you were little, but you never really enjoyed it that much.
You dig out a musty blanket and wrap it around Peter, who is now asleep on the floor, and gently kiss his forehead. He'd never let you do that if he were awake, but you're just glad that he's alive.
In the corner there are a couple of fishing rods, and on one side of the wall is a small metal safe next to a wooden cabinet filled with canned food. Outside there is a pond, half-covered in algae; a fire-pit with some old firewood and an ax; and your four-wheeler, which is looking a little bit worse for wear after the trip.
>dig for earthworms and then go fishin!
> Equip Axe...er..I mean...strap axe to back?
>Immediately locate the can opener.
You go outside, fishing pole in hand, and root through the mud for a while until you come up with a few decent-sized earthworms, which you end up all spearing on one hook after you realize you have nothing to store them in. As you tiptoe to the edge of the pond, you wonder if there are any fish even still living in there, much less any that are safe for consumption.
Nevertheless, you cast off, and thrust the butt of the pole deep into the bank to keep it steady while you go do other things.
Covered in mud, you amble over to the firepit. An axe will make a decent weapon, you figure, if you need it--and all things considered, there's a very high chance that you will. You tear off a long strip of fabric from the bottom of your shirt, and with a few green twigs you find laying around, you fashion a crude carrying case that you can wear on your back.
You head back inside and search the cabin high and low for a can opener, but come up empty. You can't imagine why your dad would stock the place with canned food and not have a can opener, but that seems to be the case.
You do have an axe, though...
In a brief moment of shortsightedness you grab a can of Beanie Weenies and head for the chopping block. The axe feels heavy and unsure in your hands, but you raise it high above your head and bring it down with a vengeance into the lid of the can.
It doesn't work out quite like you'd planned.
"Jesus Christ," you mutter. Why did you do that? There are Beenie Weenies everywhere. That was a terrible idea.
You start laughing, and as you sink to the ground and bury your head in your hands the laughs melt into shuddering sobs. You can't catch a fish. You're covered in baked beans and mud. Your family is probably dead.
What the hell are you going to do now?
Clean yourself up in the nearest clean water source.
>Pull yourself together
>Sharpen a stick with the axe and use the sharp stick to poke cans open
You stagger to your feet. "It's okay," you say to yourself. "You just need to get cleaned up a little."
There is a small hand-pumped well behind the cabin, you remember, so you grab the shredded Beanie Weenie can, clean it out, and give yourself a sort of makeshift shower. It takes some elbow grease, but at least you feel a bit better.
You find a fallen branch outside, and though the axe is dull, you're able to sharpen the branch into sort of a crude spear. Back in the cabin, you pull a can of Vienna sausages from the cabinet, and wrestle with it for a full ten minutes until you realize that there's a pull-tab on the top.
Well, you couldn't feel any stupider. You throw the stick aside and eat your dinner, and when you're finished, you curl up on the floor beside your brother and quickly fall asleep.
You're now a different boy, hundreds of miles away, and you're trying to teach your sister how to shoot a gun.
It isn't going so well.
You have to admit, though, that she's never been much of a fighter. Despite the fact that she's only three years younger than you, she's tiny enough that even the pistol in her hands looks far too big for her. Besides, you're not sure she could pull the trigger on a fly, much less a person.
But she's never been able to understand, like you do, the world that you two live in. She could never understand that the Sovereignty, cruel and oppressive as they are, are responsible for the death of your mother. She could never understand your decision to join the Rebellion, nor your endless hours spent in training at the underground firing ranges. She couldn't understand your eagerness to turn eighteen--to not only escape the purgatory of a foster care system you've been drifting through since childhood, but to become a full-blown soldier in the Rebellion and show those Sov bastards just how much of a "failure" you really are.
Maybe now that they've blown up the world, she'll finally understand.
Still, she holds the gun unsurely, staring with wide brown eyes at the alien thing in her hands, as if it could go off at any minute without her consent.
"I'm not sure this is really...my thing."
You sigh, moving forward to correct her stance. "Look, you have to be able to protect yourself, okay? Here--keep your arms straighter than that."
She squeezes the trigger, eyes closed, and misses her target--a nearby tree trunk--by a mile.
But before we go any further, what is your name? And hers?
miguel and rosalita chavez de santa domingo
Dorian and Odessa
Red and Blue Rodriguez
In their spare time they also catch small monsters and train them to battle
Your name is Dorian Rodriguez. Your sister's is Rosalita--Rosie for short. She's your only family.
She's also a terrible shot.
You pinch the bridge of your nose as she lowers the gun.
"You usually want to keep one eye open. So you can, you know, see what you're shooting?" Your voice comes out harsher than you intended, but you just want her to be able to defend herself.
"Right," she says, offering a sheepish smile.
You wrap an arm around her tiny shoulders. "Here, try again. Keep your hand steady--don't hold your arm up too long or it'll shake. See?"
She nods and begins to raise the gun again, but as she does, you hear a distinct snap in the woods behind you and put a hand on her arm. She stops, and you put a finger on her lips, listening. The air is still for a few seconds before clumsy footsteps break the silence, kicking through the underbrush with no attempt at subtlety. Slowly, you pry the gun from Rosie's hands, fitting it into your own; it feels comfortable there. You can't see anyone yet, but they're definitely getting closer.
What should you do?
point the gun at the source of the noise and shout WHO'S THERE or WHAT DO YOU WANT or something to that effect
No! Stay low and quiet and wait for them to reveal themselves!
> Tell her to keep both eyes open because the cliche that you close one eye when firing is a stupid idea perpetuated by stupid movies
Fire a shot, let whoever's out there know you're armed and dangerous
Separate names with a comma.