| Nov 10, 2015 9:57:24 GMT -5 |
Post by Francis L. Bonnefoy on Nov 10, 2015 9:57:24 GMT -5
This situation unnerved Francis.
Awoken earlier that day and all but dragged out of his cell, he could only wonder what was going on this time. He wasn’t put in better clothes, so it couldn’t be he had a contract. He wanted out of this place, he wanted the warm light on his skin, to feel the grass as he laid on it. He always enjoyed the way the grass tickled his skin as it brush with the wind. Sighing as the guard moved to push him into the waiting room, he hesitated before nodded and pushed Francis against the wall. Leaning in, it looked like he was issuing a threat, and that’s how Francis took it at first as well… a threat to his safety. The one hand curled around his own, pressing something into the skin that Francis found himself hesitant to look at. The man’s breath reeked of alcohol, something that shouldn’t have been allowed, but the guards all did what they wanted to anyway, with very little fear of backlash for doing something they weren’t supposed to, as long as the mutants were still being controlled of course and they all obeyed and stayed in their cells and fought like good pets.
“Here… drop it without anyone seeing you once you’re in the ring… I know who they put you up against and this is the only way you’ll both stand a chance and avoid the shocks. You’ll owe me a favor for this one day… and not the normal favor either. I’ll come let you know when it’s time to repay.”
Francis found himself beyond confused as the man pulled away and pushed him towards the door, waiting on the mutant to open it. Reaching out, the metal touched his skin, chilly as it always was. Metal was always cold in these situations, as if no one had passed this way before or ever would again. The thought disturbed Francis slightly, but he pushed it out of his head with a shake, causing some of his hair to fall in his face. Brushing the strands behind his ears, he wished for a hair tie, or that he had been allowed to get a haircut. But he knew that neither were bound to be likely unless one of these fights ended up with his hair burnt... or whatever powers there were around here. As the opening of the door revealed bright lights that caused his own eyes to narrow until he grew accustomed to the changed that threatened to blind him, he also heard the crowd cheering for a fight, for blood to be spilled.
Looking around as he walked into the ring, a ball of nervousness grew in his stomach that made him want to be sick. How could these people sit there and call for fighting of the mutants. Did they really see them as less, as beneath the so called normal people? How could these powers not be gifts to the individual, gifts that were unique as skill with throwing a pot or the ability to be able to see to the heart of a problem? Just because these gifts were more along the lines of what some might consider magic, did that really make them deserving to be thought less than dogs? With all the will he could muster, he tried to look brave, tried to look as if he had done this before and had the most confidence in his abilities to fight. Truth was, he was never much a physical fighter, and he had only paid the briefest lessons in how to use his power as a weapon. Now he wished he had. A long ago heard phrase ran through his head as he heard the ringing of the crowed loud in his ears.
“Do not ask for who the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.”
Awoken earlier that day and all but dragged out of his cell, he could only wonder what was going on this time. He wasn’t put in better clothes, so it couldn’t be he had a contract. He wanted out of this place, he wanted the warm light on his skin, to feel the grass as he laid on it. He always enjoyed the way the grass tickled his skin as it brush with the wind. Sighing as the guard moved to push him into the waiting room, he hesitated before nodded and pushed Francis against the wall. Leaning in, it looked like he was issuing a threat, and that’s how Francis took it at first as well… a threat to his safety. The one hand curled around his own, pressing something into the skin that Francis found himself hesitant to look at. The man’s breath reeked of alcohol, something that shouldn’t have been allowed, but the guards all did what they wanted to anyway, with very little fear of backlash for doing something they weren’t supposed to, as long as the mutants were still being controlled of course and they all obeyed and stayed in their cells and fought like good pets.
“Here… drop it without anyone seeing you once you’re in the ring… I know who they put you up against and this is the only way you’ll both stand a chance and avoid the shocks. You’ll owe me a favor for this one day… and not the normal favor either. I’ll come let you know when it’s time to repay.”
Francis found himself beyond confused as the man pulled away and pushed him towards the door, waiting on the mutant to open it. Reaching out, the metal touched his skin, chilly as it always was. Metal was always cold in these situations, as if no one had passed this way before or ever would again. The thought disturbed Francis slightly, but he pushed it out of his head with a shake, causing some of his hair to fall in his face. Brushing the strands behind his ears, he wished for a hair tie, or that he had been allowed to get a haircut. But he knew that neither were bound to be likely unless one of these fights ended up with his hair burnt... or whatever powers there were around here. As the opening of the door revealed bright lights that caused his own eyes to narrow until he grew accustomed to the changed that threatened to blind him, he also heard the crowd cheering for a fight, for blood to be spilled.
Looking around as he walked into the ring, a ball of nervousness grew in his stomach that made him want to be sick. How could these people sit there and call for fighting of the mutants. Did they really see them as less, as beneath the so called normal people? How could these powers not be gifts to the individual, gifts that were unique as skill with throwing a pot or the ability to be able to see to the heart of a problem? Just because these gifts were more along the lines of what some might consider magic, did that really make them deserving to be thought less than dogs? With all the will he could muster, he tried to look brave, tried to look as if he had done this before and had the most confidence in his abilities to fight. Truth was, he was never much a physical fighter, and he had only paid the briefest lessons in how to use his power as a weapon. Now he wished he had. A long ago heard phrase ran through his head as he heard the ringing of the crowed loud in his ears.
“Do not ask for who the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.”
