• 12/21/12 10:04 am
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"Dear Journal, September 15, 2080
Have you ever felt alone? Ever felt as if you were betrayed? I have. I feel that way right now. I'm telling you this, knowing that you can't talk back, but there must be a way to get my emotions out now, right? I am the only... Survivor. The last... The singular.
,James Motron"
"And that's what he wrote", said a man from across the table.
"Is that so? He believes he's the only one left?", spoke the other, "How did you even recover this?".
"One of our patrolmen. He found it stuck on a thorn branch. Apparently, he was following it; it was flying in the wind. He thought it was quite a rare find."
"We need to find the man who wrote this. Should be nearby where you bought this.", proposed the first man.
"Alright.", agreed the other. They grabbed two small pistols, and opened the rusted door that opened to the room they were in. They set out, for the nearby road, in hopes that they'd find the man who wrote this.
...
James was running, against the wind. Away from whatever was following him. Or.... Whoever. He thought that they were some rabid creatures, left from the blast. He was running, and running, fearing for his life.
He tripped. He tripped on a loose branch, and fell, face-first. His body hit the ground, and was cut across the arm. He was ready to accept fate.
"Don't worry. We're here to help.", a voice told him. The man that the voice belonged to held out a hand. He wasn't sure whether or not to trust this "apparition". Or, maybe it was another person. He was desperate.
He grabbed the hand.
Have you ever felt alone? Ever felt as if you were betrayed? I have. I feel that way right now. I'm telling you this, knowing that you can't talk back, but there must be a way to get my emotions out now, right? I am the only... Survivor. The last... The singular.
,James Motron"
"And that's what he wrote", said a man from across the table.
"Is that so? He believes he's the only one left?", spoke the other, "How did you even recover this?".
"One of our patrolmen. He found it stuck on a thorn branch. Apparently, he was following it; it was flying in the wind. He thought it was quite a rare find."
"We need to find the man who wrote this. Should be nearby where you bought this.", proposed the first man.
"Alright.", agreed the other. They grabbed two small pistols, and opened the rusted door that opened to the room they were in. They set out, for the nearby road, in hopes that they'd find the man who wrote this.
...
James was running, against the wind. Away from whatever was following him. Or.... Whoever. He thought that they were some rabid creatures, left from the blast. He was running, and running, fearing for his life.
He tripped. He tripped on a loose branch, and fell, face-first. His body hit the ground, and was cut across the arm. He was ready to accept fate.
"Don't worry. We're here to help.", a voice told him. The man that the voice belonged to held out a hand. He wasn't sure whether or not to trust this "apparition". Or, maybe it was another person. He was desperate.
He grabbed the hand.
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