vishna post sample
This is an opening post for an original RP where the character I play (Vishna) is an ex government solider on the path of retribution. It starts when he blows up a hidden clinic and ends up finding a six year old kid who's a test-tube baby and experiment.
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The summer air is heavy in the forest, a tactile heat that rushes past his ears as he cuts through thick foliage and oversteps underbrush. His adrenaline is running high, pupils blown wide to better his vision as swift footwork takes him away from where plumes of gray and orange leak into the night. He has made a mistake, certainly not the first in this vindictive path and painfully not the last, but it is a mistake he must deal with nonetheless. She sits on his back, his hands beneath her legs and her arms around his shoulders, and coughs out the humid oxygen. The sound is loud to him, overly so to trained hearing, and he throws a glance to the side to make sure that it isn't attracting the attention of whatever may lurk in the dark. They've made distance, but not enough, and when another explosion rips through the ozone it blinds him in white.
White feet, white dress, white hair. She stares at him with quiet curiosity, her mind in her eyes. Blood drips into his own from a wound on his brow, and for a moment the child of ivory is one painted in red hues and devastation.
The march of booted feet draw near.
Another cough sounds out, and he can feel the up and down of weak lungs working against his spine. Annoyance flares, teeth barring as he jumps a fallen tree trunk. Time is of the essence and this mistake, this girl, could cost him time enough to be caught. This is something he cannot afford. Veering off, a number of miles later, Vishna ramps down the steep incline of a small basin, and lands in a crouch near the thin stream trickling through. Non-gently he shakes the small creature off of him, like an insect, and stands.
As he turns around, painted in silver moon and treetop shadows, he is an unwelcoming warrior with eyes that glow mercury. Staring down at what he has impulsively stolen, Vishna watches the cough rattle her chest and bare, soft-soled feet sink into the mud. The Lain makes his decision.
He leaves her, for she is not to him, and he is not to her.
She is a manufactured child. That much is obvious by her wise but unexposed gaze and the skin he now sees to be clear. As he looms over her, he notes the lack of fear, and the small toy clutched in her hands. She does not speak, nor move, and as the ground rumbles with the detonation he has set off deep in the bowels of this hidden clinic, he is struck by how she is both singular in her innocence of this place and damned for her connection to it.
There is no sound greeted to him as he walks away. No frightened protest, no plea for him to stay. Another wet wheeze slips into the night, informing the lingering beasts of easy prey. He knows by morning she will be found, for she is something someone will want back - an experiment whose results are still in the making - and that all will be well. Despite location change, she will soon go back to the life she had before and he will go back to his.
When white lashes brush over transparent cheeks, and the wall cracks beside him, she changes and he is staring down at another little girl with blues eyes and a heart shaped face. His pulse stops in alarm, hands pulled into fists, before again she is a stranger.
Another self made earthquake trembles the facility.
His decision is made.
Vishna does not get far, merely a mile gone, before he acknowledges what his subconscious has known all along.
By the time he returns to the bank-side, the girl is just as he left her. Standing and silent, staring and shivering. He is resentful at himself for being so weak, and angry at this girl for appearing when least he needed it.
Vishna pulls out a handkerchief from the inside of frock coat, and crouches in front of the ghostly infant. With a few deft tugs, he has fashioned it around her lower face, a mask to keep her exposure minimum. On one knee, he watches her with wary eyes, before at last speaking in a voice naturally dulcet.
"Do you have a name?"
It is both an end and a beginning, wrapped in words, and carried out into the soft lull of night.