Post by Ruinaru on Jan 25, 2009 18:56:50 GMT -5
For those of you who don't know, I've taken my manga idea ( zerovirus.proboards20.com/index.cgi?board=manga&action=display&thread=945&page=1 ) and decided I'm just going to write it as a story for now. Here's chapter one.
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Chapter One
The sky was dark, shrouded in thick, menacing clouds. Lightning flashed and thunder clapped. Zak’s feet were planted firmly on the ground, far apart. In his hands was a glistening claymore, long and wicked. The storm’s angry bolts of fire danced across its chromed blade. Another flash briefly illuminated Zak’s face. His hair hung over his face, heavy with the sky’s cold tears. Above him loomed a mighty creature, a dragon of incomparable size and ferocity. It jaws spread apart, and the rancid stench of death pervaded the area. It unleashed a roar so mighty it shook Zak’s very core. His armor rattled, and his bones trembled.
As the dragon’s roar mingled with the rumbling thunder, a new sound emanated from nowhere and everywhere. A sharp, piercing noise. Zak dismissed it quickly, and prepared the charge the dragon. As he tensed his knees, the sound repeated itself. Louder now. It seemed to completely overpower all of his senses. He shook it off again. The dragon would require all of his strength and concentration to slay. He pulled the sword back, ready to deliver a mighty blow the great lizard’s neck and ran forward, screaming at the top of his lungs. Again, the noise pierced the universe. The sky shattered, as if made of glass, and the dragon dissolved into blackness. The ground fell out from beneath Zak, and he found himself floating in a realm of nothingness.
Slowly, blurred images filtered out of the blackness and into Zak’s vision. The wailing siren that had torn his world apart was becoming steadier and more regular. Like a siren, or an alarm. Zak clenched his eyes shut, trying to ignore it. He let out a groan and slowly pried his eyes open. He was surrounded by something soft, warm. The noise was getting louder. He blinked a few times, and found that was lying in a bed. His bed. He had been dreaming. The wailing cry that was filling his mind was his alarm clock, telling him it was time for school. It was the first day of school, actually. It was the fall semester of his senior year. Many of his peers were undoubtedly exhilarated by the thought of only having two semesters of high school left. Zak just wanted to sleep. School was a bore. Teachers were mundane. Lunches were barely edible. If he was just gonna sleep anyway, why couldn’t he stay at home? When did “free” public education become “mandatory” public education? But there was no helping it. He had to wake up. He had to take his shower. He had to go to school, and he had to learn. Whether he liked it or not.
Zak sat up and put his rectangle-framed black glasses on. He remained in that position for several more minutes, waiting for the world to come into focus. His medium length brown hair was a mess in the back, and his long bangs obscured his vision in the front. He was fairly thin. He wasn’t by any means athletic or noticeably muscular, but he wasn’t a complete wimp, either. Finally, he forced himself out of bed, and into the shower.
Half an hour later, Zak sat slumped behind a graffiti-covered, gum encrusted desk, struggling to keep his head up as schedules were passed out. He received his schedule and a school handbook, which he promptly stuffed into his messenger bag. It hadn’t changed the past three years; he doubted it was any different this year. He scanned his schedule. He didn’t recognize any of the teachers. None of the classes interested him. As usual, whoever was in charge of creating schedules had put all of his core classes in one semester. Fun stuff. The bell rang, and Zak hurried to his first class, English IV. “Wonderful way to start every morning,” he thought to himself. “It’s hard enough to stay awake this early as it is.”
Several hours later, the introductions were done in his other three classes as well. He wasn’t particularly fond of math, government, or physics, but he’d survive the semester. During the last few minutes of class for the day, his classmates sat around talking about summer vacation, classes for the semester, teachers, cars, boyfriends and girlfriends, and things Zak was generally uninterested in. None of his friends were taking the same classes as him, and he didn’t feel like associating himself with the jocks and preps that made up most of the student body.
Instead, he stared at the clock on the wall, watching the second hand make its rounds, like an ever-vigilant watchman. Ten minutes to the bell. Seven. Three. One. Finally, the bell rang and rowdy teenagers scrambled out of the stuffy classroom, eager to get out and enjoy the rest of their day. Zak waited until the crowd died down a bit before entering the hallway.
He pulled his schedule out of his pocket, looking for his locker number. The text books got heavier and heavier each year. He found the number, printed in a box along with other information he didn't exactly need. Locker number 133. He didn’t know why, but the number had a strange appeal to it.
It was located in Brown wing. Brown wing wasn’t technically a “wing” of the school, but rather the hub connecting the other hallways. The other wings branched off of Brown wing like the spokes of a wheel. There were Orange, Red, Blue, Green, and Yellow wings, each housing classes of similar subjects. Orange wing was home to math and science classes, Red encompassed English and foreign language classes, Blue held vocational classes and other electives, Green housed business classes, as well the art rooms, and Yellow held history and social science classes. Physical education, theater art classes, and music classes were held in a separate building.
Locker number 133 happened to be situated in between Red and Blue wings. It was about a third of the way from Red to Blue. Zak was relieved to see that there was no lock on it, and no one had put their books in it. It looked like he had finally gotten a locker to himself. He pulled his books out of his backpack and placed them on the top shelf, pushing them back against the wall. At first, he didn’t notice that they didn’t hit the wall. It wasn’t until he realized how far back he had pushed the books that he realized they had gone straight through what should have been a wall. He shifted to get a good look at the back of his locker. Sure enough, there was a very solid looking cinder block wall at its rear. However, his books seemed to have phased straight through the wall, as only half of each was visible. Tentatively, he touched the wall. It rippled like water, and he felt as he were pushing his hand through a waterfall. When he pulled it back, he found it to be perfectly dry. Needless to say, the young man was confused.
Most everyone had filtered out of the hall and into the commons by that point. He quickly opened one of the lockers beside his, ignored the books inside, wondered how whoever was using the locker had managed to get it decorated with so many magnets and mirrors so quickly but didn’t have the sense to put a lock on it, and stuck his hand inside. What greeted him was the cold, hard concrete that comprised most of the school. He tested his locker again to make sure he wasn’t losing his mind. Again, his hand passed through the fake wall effortlessly. “This can’t be happening,” he thought to himself. “Is this some kind of hologram or something?”
He pinched his arm, winced at the pain, and decided he wasn’t still dreaming. A quick survey of the hallway told him it was abandoned. He could hear the cacophony coming from the commons, but Brown wing was silent. He closed the locker beside his, took another look around, and plunged his whole arm through the illusion. Nothing was in pain yet, so he figured it was worth checking out. He pulled his messenger bag off his shoulder and pushed it all the way through. The ground was solid on the other side. He checked for anyone nearby one more time, and awkwardly slid into the locker, pulling the door shut behind him. As he passed through the illusion, he felt compelled to close his eyes and hold his breath.
---
And that's it for now. Comments? Criticism? Baked goods?
---
Chapter One
The sky was dark, shrouded in thick, menacing clouds. Lightning flashed and thunder clapped. Zak’s feet were planted firmly on the ground, far apart. In his hands was a glistening claymore, long and wicked. The storm’s angry bolts of fire danced across its chromed blade. Another flash briefly illuminated Zak’s face. His hair hung over his face, heavy with the sky’s cold tears. Above him loomed a mighty creature, a dragon of incomparable size and ferocity. It jaws spread apart, and the rancid stench of death pervaded the area. It unleashed a roar so mighty it shook Zak’s very core. His armor rattled, and his bones trembled.
As the dragon’s roar mingled with the rumbling thunder, a new sound emanated from nowhere and everywhere. A sharp, piercing noise. Zak dismissed it quickly, and prepared the charge the dragon. As he tensed his knees, the sound repeated itself. Louder now. It seemed to completely overpower all of his senses. He shook it off again. The dragon would require all of his strength and concentration to slay. He pulled the sword back, ready to deliver a mighty blow the great lizard’s neck and ran forward, screaming at the top of his lungs. Again, the noise pierced the universe. The sky shattered, as if made of glass, and the dragon dissolved into blackness. The ground fell out from beneath Zak, and he found himself floating in a realm of nothingness.
Slowly, blurred images filtered out of the blackness and into Zak’s vision. The wailing siren that had torn his world apart was becoming steadier and more regular. Like a siren, or an alarm. Zak clenched his eyes shut, trying to ignore it. He let out a groan and slowly pried his eyes open. He was surrounded by something soft, warm. The noise was getting louder. He blinked a few times, and found that was lying in a bed. His bed. He had been dreaming. The wailing cry that was filling his mind was his alarm clock, telling him it was time for school. It was the first day of school, actually. It was the fall semester of his senior year. Many of his peers were undoubtedly exhilarated by the thought of only having two semesters of high school left. Zak just wanted to sleep. School was a bore. Teachers were mundane. Lunches were barely edible. If he was just gonna sleep anyway, why couldn’t he stay at home? When did “free” public education become “mandatory” public education? But there was no helping it. He had to wake up. He had to take his shower. He had to go to school, and he had to learn. Whether he liked it or not.
Zak sat up and put his rectangle-framed black glasses on. He remained in that position for several more minutes, waiting for the world to come into focus. His medium length brown hair was a mess in the back, and his long bangs obscured his vision in the front. He was fairly thin. He wasn’t by any means athletic or noticeably muscular, but he wasn’t a complete wimp, either. Finally, he forced himself out of bed, and into the shower.
Half an hour later, Zak sat slumped behind a graffiti-covered, gum encrusted desk, struggling to keep his head up as schedules were passed out. He received his schedule and a school handbook, which he promptly stuffed into his messenger bag. It hadn’t changed the past three years; he doubted it was any different this year. He scanned his schedule. He didn’t recognize any of the teachers. None of the classes interested him. As usual, whoever was in charge of creating schedules had put all of his core classes in one semester. Fun stuff. The bell rang, and Zak hurried to his first class, English IV. “Wonderful way to start every morning,” he thought to himself. “It’s hard enough to stay awake this early as it is.”
Several hours later, the introductions were done in his other three classes as well. He wasn’t particularly fond of math, government, or physics, but he’d survive the semester. During the last few minutes of class for the day, his classmates sat around talking about summer vacation, classes for the semester, teachers, cars, boyfriends and girlfriends, and things Zak was generally uninterested in. None of his friends were taking the same classes as him, and he didn’t feel like associating himself with the jocks and preps that made up most of the student body.
Instead, he stared at the clock on the wall, watching the second hand make its rounds, like an ever-vigilant watchman. Ten minutes to the bell. Seven. Three. One. Finally, the bell rang and rowdy teenagers scrambled out of the stuffy classroom, eager to get out and enjoy the rest of their day. Zak waited until the crowd died down a bit before entering the hallway.
He pulled his schedule out of his pocket, looking for his locker number. The text books got heavier and heavier each year. He found the number, printed in a box along with other information he didn't exactly need. Locker number 133. He didn’t know why, but the number had a strange appeal to it.
It was located in Brown wing. Brown wing wasn’t technically a “wing” of the school, but rather the hub connecting the other hallways. The other wings branched off of Brown wing like the spokes of a wheel. There were Orange, Red, Blue, Green, and Yellow wings, each housing classes of similar subjects. Orange wing was home to math and science classes, Red encompassed English and foreign language classes, Blue held vocational classes and other electives, Green housed business classes, as well the art rooms, and Yellow held history and social science classes. Physical education, theater art classes, and music classes were held in a separate building.
Locker number 133 happened to be situated in between Red and Blue wings. It was about a third of the way from Red to Blue. Zak was relieved to see that there was no lock on it, and no one had put their books in it. It looked like he had finally gotten a locker to himself. He pulled his books out of his backpack and placed them on the top shelf, pushing them back against the wall. At first, he didn’t notice that they didn’t hit the wall. It wasn’t until he realized how far back he had pushed the books that he realized they had gone straight through what should have been a wall. He shifted to get a good look at the back of his locker. Sure enough, there was a very solid looking cinder block wall at its rear. However, his books seemed to have phased straight through the wall, as only half of each was visible. Tentatively, he touched the wall. It rippled like water, and he felt as he were pushing his hand through a waterfall. When he pulled it back, he found it to be perfectly dry. Needless to say, the young man was confused.
Most everyone had filtered out of the hall and into the commons by that point. He quickly opened one of the lockers beside his, ignored the books inside, wondered how whoever was using the locker had managed to get it decorated with so many magnets and mirrors so quickly but didn’t have the sense to put a lock on it, and stuck his hand inside. What greeted him was the cold, hard concrete that comprised most of the school. He tested his locker again to make sure he wasn’t losing his mind. Again, his hand passed through the fake wall effortlessly. “This can’t be happening,” he thought to himself. “Is this some kind of hologram or something?”
He pinched his arm, winced at the pain, and decided he wasn’t still dreaming. A quick survey of the hallway told him it was abandoned. He could hear the cacophony coming from the commons, but Brown wing was silent. He closed the locker beside his, took another look around, and plunged his whole arm through the illusion. Nothing was in pain yet, so he figured it was worth checking out. He pulled his messenger bag off his shoulder and pushed it all the way through. The ground was solid on the other side. He checked for anyone nearby one more time, and awkwardly slid into the locker, pulling the door shut behind him. As he passed through the illusion, he felt compelled to close his eyes and hold his breath.
---
And that's it for now. Comments? Criticism? Baked goods?