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Post by Daybreak on Dec 22, 2005 21:19:52 GMT -5
*~*~*~*~*EDIT: The full title of this story is Children's Underground. Read at your own risk. Thank you!*~*~*~*~*
Well, here goes. This is a little story that I's quite proud of so far. It's only fair to warn you that it will get a bit violent after the introduction (I'm running the worst parts past Ryodragon before I post them). You can see a picture of Robin in my art thread. Enjoy!
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Prologue:
It was a morning that lasted all day, heavy and grey with a balefully wet chill that promised an early winter. It was also a Sunday, so the city was dead as every soul who could sought a bit of shelter to curl up under.
The two boys who happened along the banks of the muddy river that day were, by default, alone. They might have been six years old at the time. One of them did look older, but no one could ever figure out which it was. Their clothes may have been different, but layers of mud and undescribable grime dulled their individuality until only the twin faces were important.
Their hair (red) and eyes (green) were too bright for the day. Freckles stood out so harshly where the dirt had washed away that it was possible to count them from a distance. Eighteen each: nine on the left, nine on the right.
Their mother, if she could be called such, had died just the summer before from a progressively fatal illness.
That was what they called insanity now: progressively fatal.
The one who seemed older (although it may have been just a trick of the light) kept an eye on the other, but the other was focused on the river bottom as he waded into the ugly water.
“Robin,” the first called.
Concentration broken, the other looked, and his eyes widened, and he choked out “Red-“ but it was too late.
The monsters with the burlap bags had swallowed them both up.
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Post by Dundee on Dec 25, 2005 21:01:34 GMT -5
... Wow. Well, if I were to describe it in a few words, they'd be engaging, detailed, and a knack for cliff hangers. Though it does jump from slightly surreal, if scientifically correct, to a fantasy adventure with undetailed and unknown characters. Also, "swallowed them both up."  What kind of monsters? Fantastical creatures or bad people? But other than that last sentence, VERY good, and I think that the rest of the story will it up. |
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Post by Daybreak on Dec 26, 2005 14:04:41 GMT -5
Aw, thanks ^^ You'll find out about the "monsters" in the first chapter. It's somewhat in the eyes of the kids for a while, so some things are going to be a little distorted by how they're viewed.
The world is a modern/futuristic setting, but with many different creatures and magic (although humans are the dominant species). Kinda of like the Charbyverse, actually, only the humans know all the other species exist...
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Post by Daybreak on Jan 31, 2006 21:38:14 GMT -5
First chapter! Alright, folks, please pay attention. This chapter contains violence and disturbing scenes. DO NOT READ if you aren't prepared for some heavy stuff or if you have a weak stomach ^^;. This is barely within the acceptable level for this forum, and I really don't want to have to remove it. Thanks for your cooperation!
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Chapter One:
Robin was uncooperative from the start. Not that being shoved like a cooking hen into a bag generally encourages cooperation. He did not like the way people looked at him under here (definitely under because, although he had not been able to see where the men were taking him, he had had the distinct impression they were travelling downwards. He had even tried to scream once, but only once. The bag had been dunked in something foul that made him heave and gag whenever he opened his mouth, and he didn’t think anyone would help him, anyway).
He could still taste that bag, and now he was in this place with these people who watched him like he was a prized beast. He was used to being treated like an animal or insect of minor annoyance, but this intense interest frightened him.
Not that he let them know. He stood straight, defying them with every underfed ounce of his body.
He must have passed some kind of requirement because a murmur passed around the room and the man behind him loomed closer and reached towards his throat.
Robin started and pulled back, twisting his body around until his arm made a tiny snapping noise in the grip of the man and his shoulder blades stood out from his back like spines. But it didn’t work and worse, amusement ghosted through the room as eyes refocused onto him. The hand reached his neck, and he felt metal press into his skin.
It was a collar, just tight enough to be uncomfortable, with an impossible latch that snagged on some of the small, sensitive hairs on the back of his neck just as it clicked shut with unnerving finality.
He winced and voiced a strangled protest that sounded bestial even to his own ears. The man at his back steered him roughly out of the room, never even shifting the grip he had on Robin’s arm.
The hallways were awful. The whole place was a mishmash of dirt and concrete, with dark entrances to other underground complexes set high and foreboding in the walls. Every tunnel was worn smooth, but some seemed new and out of place while others were undeniably ancient. And these were only the halls with the sleeping quarters.
Robin watched doorway after doorway go by, shuddering as they transformed into starving mouths in his mind. If he were to go through one of them, he knew he would never be able to leave.
His guard stopped in front of one of the worse-for-wear doors and yanked it open, shoving the boy inside with uncalled for violence. Surprised, Robin could do nothing to stop himself from landing face-first. A dull crack echoed in his skull and metal dug into his neck, but he ignored both and pulled himself up.
The other forty or so boys in the room stared at him. The room was good-sized, with about thirty beds, but there were far too many children to fit comfortably. Several were on the floor and one or two shared beds, and every single one was filthy. Robin hadn’t thought there were so many street rats in the world.
“I say, don’t that ‘urt?” asked one boy, hopping off his bed to flick Robin’s nose. Yelping, he covered his face and backed against the door.
“It does whe’ you do dat,” he grumbled as gore seeped through his fingers. It was throbbing now; he must have cracked it when he fell.
“Tilt your head back,” the other boy offered, “and pinch it, like this.” He demonstrated on his own, long nose.
“Nuh-uh,” someone Robin couldn’t see said, “You tilt it forward and pinch! That way the blood doesn’t get into your brain.”
“Blood can’t get into your brain, stupid,” another shot back. Nervous chatter began to rise up around the room.
“Can too! My mum’s a nurse, so I should know!”
“Your mum was a thief, you liar!”
“You take that back!” a tussle broke out at the back of the room, and children that knew nothing about the boy or his mother quickly chose sides. One group vastly overpowered the other. After all, nobody likes a boy who insults mothers.
The boy who had first spoken turned back to Robin, flinging his hands up dramatically. “Gosh, sorry about them. Com’mon, you can share my bed once you stop bleeding.” His expression changed, and he was suddenly scrutinizing Robin from dark eyes glaring down the entire length of his nose. “Say, you ain’t a bedwetter, are ya?”
Robin responded with a rude noise that made his nose sting and dislodged a fresh flow of blood. “I ain’t a baby.”
“Good,” the boy was obviously relieved. He leaned close to Robin and whispered conspiringly, “They’re bedwetters.” He indicated the boys banished to the floor with a crooked knuckle, then pulled Robin to a bed next to the door. He didn’t seem to care about blood on the sheets, despite his earlier comment.
Robin cleared his throat and made to introduce himself, but the other boy shushed him.
“No, no, no, no, no!” He shook his head comically and looked vaguely disturbed. “If they catch us using real names, they’ll be mad!” He tugged at his collar, and Robin noticed a number etched into it for the first time. “I’m Eleven,” he announced, “and you’re Forty-one.” Eleven reached over, brushing Robin’s collar lightly before snatching his hand back like he’d been burnt.
That night Robin woke twenty-three times. He counted. Boys cried and screamed and sobbed in their sleep. Once, an eerie wail arose from several of them almost simultaneously. Once, Robin lay in the bed with his heart pounding, convinced the strangled sound he had heard in his sleep hadn’t been his own.
There were undeniably unusual things about their situation. The likely explanation for the mass kidnapping was slavers, which explained why everyone was male and from the street. It did not explain why no boy was above eight years old, or why the door was never locked or guarded.
Still, no one was foolish enough to try and leave. At least, no one tried it after the first boy. He returned shortly after leaving, and later vanished. He was not the only one, either. Boys who became sick, or too nervous, or cried themselves useless also disappeared.
One boy said it reminded him of culling weak animals from a herd, then he closed his mouth and fixed a grim, haunting stare upon his face. It stayed there for a week, during which he refused to speak. Then one night, he went crazy, crying and screaming and attacking the walls. He was escorted out that morning. No one was foolish enough to expect to see him again.
The room itself wasn’t too unusual, although the small closet that barely met the standards for a bathroom was an unaccustomed luxury to many of the boys. It was washed in a dim half-light that came from no visible source, and after a while it was difficult to distinguish “night” from “day”. Not many new boys arrived after Robin.
Perhaps the strangest point was the exercises. They might have been daily, but with the monotonous life it may have been anywhere from hourly to weekly. A man, never the same one twice, would escort the whole crowd to a more open room and instruct them to do whatever they wished for a while, so long as they were moving.
Everyone agreed that this was dangerously erratic behavior for slavers to engage in.
Despite all this, Robin didn’t really suspect anything else but to be sold to the highest bidder. At least, not at first.
His discovery was pure chance. The room was full of peepholes, and the only one looking out on the hallway leading to their door happened to be above the bed Robin shared with Eleven. They took turns looking out it, and on this particular day, Robin had the unfortunate chance to take watch duty instead of participating in the current brawl.
The procession took him by surprise. He had never seen more than one or two people pass their door at any one time, but this...
They walked slowly, some apparently serving as escorts while others were hitched like oxen to carts. The people were strangers and therefore of little consequence, so he turned his attention to their burdens.
Some were alive. He couldn’t move, frozen and numb, because some were alive. Not most, for sure. The bodies rolling by the peephole were damaged and hidden by carelessly placed sheets, but he could still see that they were all female. The ones that lived writhed under the sheets and he imagined he heard coughs and pained noises; blood bubbling into lungs, frothing upwards, forced through veins, once, twice, gone; groans of men-turned-monsters pulling those death carts, the dead hand of a girl younger than him jostling up and down with their movements, all seeping through the thick walls.
There were an impossible number of them. Robin didn’t even know how long he watched them, rolling by one by one, but by the time Eleven shook him until he pulled away from the peephole, he had the vague impression that the grotesque parade had ended long before.
That night, the room started betting on how long it would be until he cracked. No one else lasted long after those kinds of nightmares.
So only Robin had an idea of what was going on, the day things changed. Oh, everyone knew something was wrong, of course. The guards woke the whole room during “quite period”, and everyone was jostled and half-asleep and frightened. More than one were still trapped in their nightmares, and wailed to themselves as they were prodded into the hall.
Then they began walking, but not in the direction of the exercise room. They walked in the direction the dead girls had come from.
Robin closed his eyes and let the mob of boys carry him, trying not to listen to Eleven’s breathless speculations as to what was going on.
The next time he looked up, they were pooling into an enormous arena. It was then that Robin noticed the final oddity about the boys from his room.
They were all human.
Boys from every direction swarmed inwards, and he easily recognized a multitude of fae and draconians, spirit-beasts and crossbreeds. In fact, on the whole, humans were a distinct minority. So many males, all younger than nine, couldn’t have been snatched in this city alone.
Robin swallowed. This operation was much larger than he had dreamed.
They eventually organized everyone into lines. Robin stood meekly in his, cowed and quaking in his bones. The seats around the arena were slowly filling with the kind of rich, cruel men no experienced thief would touch.
Robin realized a little too late that he was at the head of the line. The women standing there peered at him over the bulky list in her hands.
“Name?”
He flinched. Surely it was a trick. They’d never asked his name. In fact, boys in his room had been severely punished for referring to one another as something other than their number. Straightening himself, he stuck his upper lip out defiantly. “Forty - one.”
The women gave him a second look, holding his gaze with eyes that reminded him of dead little girls. “Name?”
Robin deflated, but his voice stayed strong as he answered, “Robin. Robin Goodfellow.”
“Robin Redbreast.” He thought at first that it was an echo. Then he wished it was. In the time he had spent guarding his own hide from these subterranean monsters, he had never considered that his brother was suffering as well, locked in a room just like his own. The rule on the streets was always out of sight, out of mind. When he chose to think about it, in those long, uncomfortable rest periods, he preferred to believe his brother had escaped, or was at least dead.
What he had never expected was to see him again. Alive. Down here. It made his stomach twist until it pushed his heart into his throat. He couldn’t breathe. He was sure he was staring across the room at the (possibly imagined) blur of red he thought might be his twin.
Something jostled him rudely, pushing him out of line into a bared area in the area. He bumped against comfortingly familiar flesh, and the two clung to each other, trying to reach that vague comfort family had to offer.
But it was already gone. And even if it hadn’t been, the looming guards would have quickly disillusioned them.
“Which if you is lying?” Robin looked at his brother, feeling his brain work painfully slow under the pressure of fear and surreally.
“What?” It wasn’t the cleverest retort he’d ever heard his brother use.
“Do you think we’re stupid?” Robin couldn’t really tell which guard talked at any one time, but he didn’t see how that mattered. They were around them like a living wall, and he had a sneaking suspicion that they were moving closer. “Any dullard can see you’re twins. You can’t both have the same name.”
He felt his brother, the other Robin, stiffen as he realized the misunderstanding. After all, it wasn’t the first time it had happened. Robin Redbreast cleared his throat.
“Our mum wasn’t what you’d call right in th’ head,” he offered. “Named us both aft’ our da, ‘nd gave us different last names instead. Didn’t know his, I guess.”
Robin Goodfellow, never having been one to say a wrong word against his mother, frowned, but decided to keep his mouth shut when he glanced again at the menacing guards. The big one in front grunted and turned around, giving a wave of his hand. The explanation must have been enough for him, because the two boys were hauled to their feet and shoved to the corner where the rest of the boys were waiting.
In frantic whispers, Robin informed his brother of what he had seen in the hallway. “Red, it’s gonna be a slaughter, I just know it. What can we do?” He watched his brother bite his lip and turn away. Robin let out a low moan - the kind cattle might make when they realize they are afraid despite not understanding the concept of butchery. He held his brother higher than any other being on the planet. If Redbreast didn’t have an answer, they were lost to the world.
Eleven shoved through the crowd, breathing hard and grinning without any real amusement. He stopped when he came upon the two Robins and gaped. “Grief, I don’ know which one t’ look at!”
Robin let out a sigh and quickly introduced his brother. “...and Red, this is Elev-“ his roommate cut his off with a sharp shake of his head and tapped his oversized nose.
“Geronimo!” He explained with a lopsided smile. Robin raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to ask exactly what that was supposed to mean. “’S safe to call us by our names now, right? I mean, you just said your bro’s name was Red. Mine’s Geronimo.”
“Ger...” Robin echoed. The name suited his young friend. Suddenly, his eyes widened as he remembered what he had been discussing with his brother. “Oh @$#%, Geronimo! We’ve got to get out of here, these guys aren’t playing games!”
“Too late.” While the other two boys had been talking, Robin Redbreast had kept a sharp eye on the entrance to the arena. Now all three turned to watch the heavy doors ease open.
On the other side stood a row of males of several different species, all late teens. Their bodies were all lean and hardened, but also stretched - as if they had been pushed to the limit one time too many. Each one was restrained at a distance by hefty guards, but only a few struggled against the bonds. The rest stood, unnaturally calm, and watched the increasing confusion ripple through the crown of boys.
Unintentionally, Robin caught the eye of an elf-boy who stood slightly taller than then rest of the fighters (for that was what they undoubtedly were). But his eyes... Robin gulped and backed into Geronimo.
There was nothing in those eyes. Whatever soul - whatever sanity - that had once resided there was dead. All that was left was bloodlust. And hate, definitely hate.
Red gave out a muffled cry as the fighters were set loose and the three were shoved apart by the mob of boys trying to get away from the entrance. The harsh metallic sound of weapons being drawn reached their ears, even as far back as they were.
The boys in the front never stood a chance. The attackers cut through the crush of bodies effectively, ignoring the strange, gurgling pleas their victims made. Then they moved systematically through the boys, slaying first those paralyzed with fear, then the ones who ran blindly. Those who wove through legs and bodies, hid and timed their short darts away from the attackers, were somewhat safe, for the moment.
Robin darted through the crowd, trusting Red and Geronimo could take care of themselves. He had had some practice working crowds at festivals before, but this was different. This was a mob. At any moment it could squeeze in on him and trample him, if he was lucky. If not, it would pick him up and carry him, helpless, into the waiting arms of the killers.
With a shuddering gasp, he broke through into a cleared area. The smell hit him a moment later, something sickeningly warm that lay heavy in his chest and seemed to coat his tongue in a film of copper.
His eyes fixed on the source. A body lay still on the floor before him, split open from the inside of its thigh to the ribcage, laying the bones bare and stained, blood still swelling from the wound to spill over onto the floor.
But that was not what made Robin freeze, or what caused sweat to bead on his brow and shoot shivers through his spine. That was the job of its face. The dead boy had a strong nose and sharp features. Robin’s gaze fell on the hands - delicate, long-fingered things. An artist’s hands. A thief’s hands.
The boy had been lighthearted, quick to laugh. He had been a loyal friend, not entirely bright, and peferred to live in the present rather than look towards the future. Robin saw now that it wouldn’t have made much of a difference.
He knelt down by Geronimo’s corpse and spoke a short prayer. On the streets where he had grown up, it was know as the Poor Man’s Funeral - a ceremony given only to those few homeless lucky enough to have friends or family left by the time they died. Even children knew it, so that they may speak it for dead parents or siblings before the city’s daily body collection.
Robin, finishing quickly, stood up and fled once again into the crowd, not daring to look back at the corpse. Friend or no, dwelling on Geronimo’s death was a greater risk than he could afford.
High above the slaughter, a slender young woman with an impassive face and cold eyes tried futilely to ignore the grousing of her assosciate. “I don’t see why we’re required to watch these things,” the squat, sniveling man whined, “Some of us have already chosen our gladiators for this year.”
“Yes,” sneered the woman, not bothering to move her gaze from the arena, “and most of those are gathering information on the opponents their girls may be facing. Perhaps if you had other criteria besides beauty when picking your fighters, you may be more inclined to ensure that they performed as well in the ring as out of it.” She sniffed, “You should be careful. If you loose many more matches, the overlords may be inclined to discharge you.”
The man turned red and spluttered at the woman’s suggestion. “Just because you’re the only female sponser, you think you can...”
But the woman wasn’t paying him any mind. She had heard it all before, anyways. Intead she was focused, hawklike, on the redheaded figure paused by the corpse of another boy. She pulled back when she realized what he was doing and shook her head. The boy would learn the folly of prayers for others soon enough. Her interest, however, was no less keen. She punched a code into her handhelp computer and brought it to her lips. “Management? I’ve sent you directions... yes, yes. Pull the little red darling. He’s mine.”
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Post by Daybreak on Mar 12, 2006 21:51:21 GMT -5
H'okay, here's the deal:
a) Need to finish fanfic first, or it will never get done.
b) Must try to work both stories around school, work, and stuff
c) It takes me a reeeeeaaaallly long time to write a chapter that long. So... even if I was actively working on it, it'd be a few months before I got it put up ^^;. Sorry to all you (one person) who read this, but you'll have to bear with me.
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What kind of monsters? Fantastical creatures or bad people? But other than that last sentence, VERY good, and I think that the rest of the story will it up.
