Mystia !zkD5V186A2 2008/09/27 (Sat) 02:06 No. 20509 “Just one condition,” you say as you come to a stop. A quick flash of your partisan leaves a deep straight line across the tunnel floor. You lean forward with the toes of your forward foot just barely touching the mark. “Everybody start at the line! We race till we’re out of the tunnel!”
“What are you thinking, Muttley?!?!” Toki’s harsh whisper is right by your ear as she takes her position next to you.
“Figured it’d be fun, AND the sooner we get out of these tunnels, the more time we’ll have to hunt down your books, right?” Toki eyes you suspiciously, but a smile tugging at her lips keeps the joke from going further.
“On your mark!”
Everyone is on the line. Happy Flandre and Dastardly floating just above it.
“GET SET!”
You can hear a malicious giggling coming from the bully and a sniff from the victim. You can feel their muscles tensing, ready to launch themselves at your word.
You wonder how long it’ll take them to catch up.
“GO!”
Your vision blurs as the tunnel flies by. The air feels nearly like a solid object as you push through it. Your hearing, at first distinct with the sound of foot falls and rushing wind, slowly fades into a high pitched whine. As the whine raises in pitch, you note the timbre and understand that you are currently running at your fastest.
And for some reason it’s not exhausting.
You know you can go faster than this. You WANT to go faster than this.
And so you kick it up a notch. Your legs are moving ever faster, eating more distance in less time, the air feels thicker, and you can’t here a thing. But you can still see.
Despite the horrible blurring, you can feel the moderate slope upward and tell the ground and lighting change in the distance, with no one ahead of you, it feels like an easy victory, but there’s no point in leaving that up to chance.
You push an ounce more of your strength into moving faster.
Everything lurches. Your feet don’t touch the ground. Your eardrums pop. The world spins around you. You feel like your falling. Your gut feels like it’s exploding. The wind feels like razors. Your head is muddled. You can’t breath. You can’t see. You can’t think. You cartwheel out of control. You feel your arm trying to rip itself off. Your entire body bruising. Your legs shattering.
And if you had the time, you might have even felt some pain before the darkness claimed you.
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“Ow!”
You stare at the cut on your finger where blood flows in a crimson curtain. The blood bubbles slowly and snakes down your index finger and over you palm before spilling off in a thin but steady trail toward the ground. You stare at the impossible amount of blood from the tiny cut unable to comprehend why it seems out of place. You lose interest quickly. “Where am I?”
The room is large with nothing in it. White walls, white floor, a white chair, a white table, and upon closer examination, a single sheet of white paper on the white table.
You sit in the chair unsure of what to think and your eyes catch the trail of blood you left in your short walk to the table. Like a lake at the end of a river, the pool of blood from when you were standing still sits in an amorphous blob while a trail that thins and thickens follows the floor straight towards you before taking a gentle curve around the tables legs before becoming another pool at the bottom of a waterfall. Your entire palm is red now, but without much thought to the fact, you push your index finger into the paper and scrawl a word. The red in this place seems at odds with the white all around it, and it’s obvious that it doesn’t belong here. You pick up the paper to look at what you wrote. For some reason you can’t remember though you’re sure you just wrote it. Looking over the table you realize you don’t even remember what you wrote it with. You stare at the blank page wondering why you’re holding it and let it drop from your hand to the table. As it drops, a corner of the paper drags sharply again your finger.
“Ow!”
You stare at the cut on your finger where blood flows in a crimson curtain. The blood bubbles slowly and snakes down your index finger and over you palm before spilling off in a thin but steady trail toward the ground. You stare at the impossible amount of blood from the tiny cut unable to comprehend why it seems out of place. You lose interest quickly. “Where am I?”
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Here.
What?
Your eyelids feel too heavy to lift, but your body feels too pent up with energy not to try. Your chest feels damp and heavier than usual as you prop yourself onto your elbows. Why would your chest be damp? You try and remember the last thing that happened to explain why you were on the ground, but all you can remember is starting a race.
“Ow,” you say with no particular reason than feeling sore.
You finally wrench open your eyes and find a small audience for the event.
“THAT. WAS. AWESOME!” The upbeat Flandre has her way with these few words as she stares at you wide eyed with a smile plastered over the entirety of her face.
“Congratulation,” The dull voice of reason wafts from the unaffected Flandre sitting by you, “That explosion of sound and pressure wasn’t entirely necessary... you were winning by a few paces and the tunnel collapsed, but congratulations all the same.”
“I didn’t know you could do that, Muttley,” Toki’ states matter of factly gasping for air beside the Flandres. “You okay?”
You move to stand up, but an unfamiliar weight shifts on your chests. You notice now that your chest is damp from tears. “Yeah, I’m peachy,” you say feeling a bit worn, lowering your voice to a whisper, you direct it to the Flandre on your chest, “Are you okay?”
She nods her head into your chest still sobbing quietly. Getting up is a tad difficult with Flandre gripping you like a vice, but once you’re on your feet again, she eventually detaches herself from you, dropping to her feet before darting away behind some bookshelves.
Taking in your surroundings for the first time you realize your in a basement. In fact, it’s not much larger than your basement back home. Barely a hundred feet long and fifty feet wide, the primarily gray stone walls peek out over the tops of bookshelves that line the majority of the walls where they aren’t placed arbitrarily. Though some of the bookshelves are lined with tattered books, most seem flooded with knick-knacks. Piles of objects that are indistinguishable from each other at a distance but are most definitely made with some purpose in mind fill every shelf. And most the floor, you realize looking down. It feels rather comfy here, and if it weren’t for an entire wall missing, (in its place is a gaping hole, now filled with boulders, that was the entrance to the tunnel,) it’d seem much too conservative for the mansion above.
“There are some trapdoors up into most the main rooms of the mansion here,” Flandre states, “If you want to go the garden, lobby, sitting room, kitchen, library, gallery, maids’ quarters, or the audience chamber, there are ways from here.” She looks into your eyes with her heavy lidded stare.
“Hmmmm...”
Choose one:
[ ] “How long was I out?”
[ ] “How did I end up winning the race?”
[ ] “So what do I get for placing first?”
And
[ ] Garden
[ ] Lobby
[ ] Sitting room
[ ] Kitchen
[ ] Library
[ ] Gallery
[ ] Maids’ quarters
[ ] Audience chamber
And somewhere in the depths of your mind, there is a single word scrawled on a single sheet of paper. What is it?
[ ] One word write-in.