For the past six hundred years, the world had been plunged into chaos. Separated through the societal divide of ‘Social Justice’. It had been a political debate that for the past four hundred years had been fought on two fronts: the World Government and the Rebels. The origin of the fighting had been lost to time and to the assassinations of many major political figures but with near daily uprisings throughout the world, the World Government had begun to exert violence on civilians and rebels alike. Leading to a further increase of revolutions and terrorist attacks. However, unbeknownst to the World Government and the Rebels, and a force was gathering in the shadows: the Spirits. The Spirits were a hidden force that was looking to overthrow the status quo and make a change although what that change was, remained unknown even to many of the Spirits’ own members.
[A back alley in the North Citadel]
Punches landed with a thud that sounded like gunfire. Blood splattered on the floor and onto the shoes of a young man.
“Prick! Look what you did! You’re gonna pay for that with money or your life. I don’t mind which.”
The boy whose blood was strewn across the alley looked up at the man with resentment and hatred that almost appeared to boil over into blood lust. Tendrils of water coiled around the man’s fist, enhancing his strength and power. A clean blow to the head was all it took to knock the young boy out. The use of magic for violence was strictly prohibited by the World Government but there were still some cowardly rats who used it. Pete -the assailant- was one of those rats. As Pete watched the young boy collapse to the ground, he spat on the boy and turned to walk away. A hand grasped his ankle and Pete looked down.
“So the whiny shit wants to keep playing?”
The boy looked up peering up at Pete hardly able to see past his long, dark hair. Pete almost seemed to lurch away with unease when he met eyes with the boy but that must’ve been a trick of the light. The young boy stood up using all the strength he had left to make one swing at Pete. This boy had not used magic to enhance his body, instead it was a weak, sluggish punch that resulted in no damage and the boy collapsed again.
“My name’s not Prick or Shit. It’s Oliver remember that next time you pick a fight with me.” He glared at Pete and practically spat the next word, “Prick.”
The shadows of the alleyway appeared to dance around Oliver lifting him to his feet and wrapped around his entire body forming a suit of armour that could only be seen as a true force of devastation and destruction. It only took one punch. The meek and wan boy took one punch to send the burly man flying a few metres and out into the main street. Oliver had exhausted his energy and collapsed to the floor for the third and final time.
When Oliver awoke, he was in an old time bar with a jukebox, and tacky green leather couches. Unsure of his surroundings and if he was safe or not, he attempted to scurry out of the enclosed space and towards the door. He reached the door handle and moved to open it but as soon as he touched the knob, he was blasted back and hit into the opposite wall. Despite the room being quite small, it was still a large distance to be launched. A loud chuckle came from behind Oliver. He quickly swivelled to see who it was.
“Gets me every time!” A large, muscular, yet considerably old man snorted.
“Who are you? Where am I? Why would you booby trap a door? Are you going to let me leave?” Oliver asked frantically hoping that the old man would let him leave.
“Wow. Slow down there scrawny. To answer your questions: I’m David, you’re in my bar, it was funny, and yes once I know that you’re healed. Does that satisfy you?” He took a sharp inhale after hurriedly spewing out all that information for Oliver to consume.
“Hi David, I’m Oliver its nice to meet you. I’m completely fine as well as evidenced by being blasted nine feet across the room. So I’ll be leaving” Oliver said coldly. Not wanting to be here for too long.
David opened his mouth appearing as though he was about to object but no interjections came. Oliver walked up to the door once again and cautiously placed one hand on the door knob. It was safe. He pulled open the door that was almost twice his height and headed out of the bar to the daylight surroundings of the West Citadel. The West Citadel! How did he get here? Well that’s not good.
Oliver shamelessly walked back into the bar and look at David in disgust. “Why did you bring me to the West Citadel? What the fuck possessed you?” Oliver despite his clear disadvantage in height and muscle was standing up to David and yelling now. Not caring about the repurcussions it Oliver's mind, David was whimpering in the corner and backing down but that wasn't the case.
David refuted Oliver’s accusations with a blank expression clearly unaware of Oliver’s intentions by asking that and his feeling of superiority over David.
“I didn’t bring you anywhere. I found you lying unconscious on my doorstep.” He informed Oliver in a dumbfounded manner.
Oliver seemingly took a few seconds to process this information with a face that screamed confusion. If David didn't bring him here, how did he get here? Was it Pete? Or was it someone or something else? With an air of insecurity, he shot daggers at David and once again left the bar and back into the streets of the West Citadel. Now to find a way home.
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