Evinsia
10-08-2005, 09:53
OOC: This is a story of modern Evinsia. Or, to be more specific, Evinsia circa 2010.
IC:
25 years before the Day of Infamy:
The sky was clear that day in the Evinsian Capital District. Gene Cross, just a sophomore in high school, walked calmly down the sidewalk. His friend Jim Galveston walked beside him. The two were talking, not really contributing anything of any importance.
"That giant warehouse they're putting up on Washington Street is a waste," said Jim.
"Yup. Too tall. Too much wasted space," replied Gene.
They continued going on about small things like that until they reached a clearing where two buildings had once stood. One had toppled in a gas-related explosion, the other having to be demolished because of the damage caused by its neighbor. They always looked at the things that had accumulated on top of the concrete, with grass growing thick in the cracks, over the years, including countless pieces of garbage, some old, probably diseased childrens' toys, and a rusted hulk of what appeared to be a Buick LeSabre.
There was a new addition in the lot that day, a newly-parked AMC Gremlin that had obviously seen the effects of the years. They went over to examine it, as Gene loved 1970s hatchbacks.
Unexpectedly, two men dressed in black, with bright pink mohawks, sprung out from behind the car. One was wielding some sort of blunt object, and the other had a switchblade knife. The knife-wielding one had obvious trouble getting it open, which Jim used to his advantage. Grabbing the man's wrists, he attempted to take the knife. The punk proceeded to head-butt Jim in the face, sending him backward in pain. The other one swung the blunt object, hitting Jim in the chest. Jim fell to the ground, unconscious.
Gene, not one to see a friend fall so easily, wrapped around his right hand the leather belt he always wore. The metal buckle was left to flail. He charged the punks, swinging at the one with the blunt object. The man ducked, but Gene connected with the nose of the other one, and wrangled the knife out of the man's hand. The blade managed to come out, and he charged at the other man. The blunt object connected with Gene's chest, winding him. Another one hit the stomach, making him almost fall over in pain. While this was happening, he managed to drop the knife. A last kick from the one he hit with his belt knocked him to the ground.
He landed on his side, managing to see the men run off. One of them had on the back of his coat a large, hand-drawn red 'A' in a circle. He rolled his head, seeing Jim laying, bloodied, on the sidewalk. Then, everything went black.
LATER
Gene awoke to the sight of a white ceiling. In his peripheral vision was some movement. Rolling his head over (easier said than done because of the tube in his nose), he saw his parents and brother.
"Oh, thank God," sighed his mother.
"Where am I?" he asked.
"The hospital. You got quite a beating back there, son. You doing okay?" asked his father.
"I guess."
"Who did this to you?" sobbed his mom.
"The guys with the mohawks." He coughed. "And the leather jackets with the red A's on the back."
Silence filled the room.
"Was it like this?" the brother asked. He sketched something on a piece of paper and showed it to Gene.
"Yes," he rasped.
"Then they were anarchists."
Silence struck the room once more.
"Where's Jim?" asked Gene.
"Jim... Jim's...," hesitated his mom.
"I hate to tell you this, son, but Jim's in Intensive Care. He's not expected to make it."
Gene averted his gaze from his dad, who broke the news, and stared straight ahead. The machine tracking his vitals beeped at his quickly-elevating blood pressure. A solitary tear almost went down his cheek but went into the hair in his sideburn.
SEVEN DAYS LATER
Gene, in crutches, his arm in a cast and his leg in a brace, stood above his friend Jim Galveston's grave. It was appropriate that it be raining. His suit was wet from the precipitation. Jim had once told Gene that he wanted a chance to see the Lightningbird aerial demonstration team. Gene, as one last gesture of friendship, took a small toy of one of the team's planes, and slowly lowered himself to the ground. He set the plane on his friend's headstone, and hung his head to pray. He took his time, as he knew getting up would be hell.
One last tap of the headstone and a mutterance of salutations, and a chapter of Gene's life came to a close. He then swore to eventually find out who had done this to Jim and himself and treat them to the same thing as what they did to Jim.
IC:
25 years before the Day of Infamy:
The sky was clear that day in the Evinsian Capital District. Gene Cross, just a sophomore in high school, walked calmly down the sidewalk. His friend Jim Galveston walked beside him. The two were talking, not really contributing anything of any importance.
"That giant warehouse they're putting up on Washington Street is a waste," said Jim.
"Yup. Too tall. Too much wasted space," replied Gene.
They continued going on about small things like that until they reached a clearing where two buildings had once stood. One had toppled in a gas-related explosion, the other having to be demolished because of the damage caused by its neighbor. They always looked at the things that had accumulated on top of the concrete, with grass growing thick in the cracks, over the years, including countless pieces of garbage, some old, probably diseased childrens' toys, and a rusted hulk of what appeared to be a Buick LeSabre.
There was a new addition in the lot that day, a newly-parked AMC Gremlin that had obviously seen the effects of the years. They went over to examine it, as Gene loved 1970s hatchbacks.
Unexpectedly, two men dressed in black, with bright pink mohawks, sprung out from behind the car. One was wielding some sort of blunt object, and the other had a switchblade knife. The knife-wielding one had obvious trouble getting it open, which Jim used to his advantage. Grabbing the man's wrists, he attempted to take the knife. The punk proceeded to head-butt Jim in the face, sending him backward in pain. The other one swung the blunt object, hitting Jim in the chest. Jim fell to the ground, unconscious.
Gene, not one to see a friend fall so easily, wrapped around his right hand the leather belt he always wore. The metal buckle was left to flail. He charged the punks, swinging at the one with the blunt object. The man ducked, but Gene connected with the nose of the other one, and wrangled the knife out of the man's hand. The blade managed to come out, and he charged at the other man. The blunt object connected with Gene's chest, winding him. Another one hit the stomach, making him almost fall over in pain. While this was happening, he managed to drop the knife. A last kick from the one he hit with his belt knocked him to the ground.
He landed on his side, managing to see the men run off. One of them had on the back of his coat a large, hand-drawn red 'A' in a circle. He rolled his head, seeing Jim laying, bloodied, on the sidewalk. Then, everything went black.
LATER
Gene awoke to the sight of a white ceiling. In his peripheral vision was some movement. Rolling his head over (easier said than done because of the tube in his nose), he saw his parents and brother.
"Oh, thank God," sighed his mother.
"Where am I?" he asked.
"The hospital. You got quite a beating back there, son. You doing okay?" asked his father.
"I guess."
"Who did this to you?" sobbed his mom.
"The guys with the mohawks." He coughed. "And the leather jackets with the red A's on the back."
Silence filled the room.
"Was it like this?" the brother asked. He sketched something on a piece of paper and showed it to Gene.
"Yes," he rasped.
"Then they were anarchists."
Silence struck the room once more.
"Where's Jim?" asked Gene.
"Jim... Jim's...," hesitated his mom.
"I hate to tell you this, son, but Jim's in Intensive Care. He's not expected to make it."
Gene averted his gaze from his dad, who broke the news, and stared straight ahead. The machine tracking his vitals beeped at his quickly-elevating blood pressure. A solitary tear almost went down his cheek but went into the hair in his sideburn.
SEVEN DAYS LATER
Gene, in crutches, his arm in a cast and his leg in a brace, stood above his friend Jim Galveston's grave. It was appropriate that it be raining. His suit was wet from the precipitation. Jim had once told Gene that he wanted a chance to see the Lightningbird aerial demonstration team. Gene, as one last gesture of friendship, took a small toy of one of the team's planes, and slowly lowered himself to the ground. He set the plane on his friend's headstone, and hung his head to pray. He took his time, as he knew getting up would be hell.
One last tap of the headstone and a mutterance of salutations, and a chapter of Gene's life came to a close. He then swore to eventually find out who had done this to Jim and himself and treat them to the same thing as what they did to Jim.