[OOC] Memory 001 // Alfons
[ Memory Crystal: Sight // Sound // Taste ]
"Our work is in its final stage. Starting today, I'm going to be staying over at the factory."
His own voice was matter-of-fact but businesslike... and very distant. So distant it surprised him. The dark stairway moved towards him as he started down.
There were steps behind him, thud-clack. Thud-clack. A slightly raspy voice called after him, though he kept moving.
"Those guys are plotting to go to war! One with the world that I came from. Those rockets must have something to do with it."
He ignored them and kept moving in his memory, though he wanted to turn around, and the labored steps -- the person was having trouble with the stairs -- sped up. The voice rose, becoming more insistent.
"Alfons!"
He paused for half a second, and to his horror, his memory self swung around. For half a moment he couldn't figure out what had happened, but the person following him went flying, hard, back into the steps and slid down.
He'd just hit them! Hit the -- why?!
Hurt. Distant. Lonely.
The person was blond, with a long ponytail, shorter than him. He couldn't figure whether they were male or female from either the voice or their position, but they moved awkwardly for a moment and suddenly there was a jolt.
Everything went black and he heard the sounds of himself coughing violently. In the background there was footsteps on the top of the stairs. The coughing escalated until there was a wet, sick noise, and his sight came back slowly. His hand was cupped before him, dark blood splattered over his palm.
The person on the stairs gave a horrified gasp.
He stared upwards to the top of the stairs -- a girl with long dark hair and dusky skin in a long skirt, hands clutched to her chest, eyes shining with sudden understanding. He felt a tug of emotion, deep in his chest.
His eyes slid to the person on the stairs, but something had happened to his vision. Other than the rush of brilliant gold that was their hair, he couldn't make out their face at all, but he somehow knew the blurred features were horrified... and not at being slammed painfully into a staircase.
"I don't have much time left," he said, and his voice caught a little. He clenched his fist, and for the first time in any memory or lucid reality, he raised his voice in anger. "This is my world! I want to leave behind some proof that I lived here!"
It rose still more, breaking over him. Guilt. Resentment. Fear. Anger.
"You have no right to say anything!"
The world dipped and turned, and the blurred face disappeared. The door flew open in front of him, and he heard the voice again, angry too, but somehow desperate.
"Alfons--!!"
The door slammed shut, cutting it off.
"Our work is in its final stage. Starting today, I'm going to be staying over at the factory."
His own voice was matter-of-fact but businesslike... and very distant. So distant it surprised him. The dark stairway moved towards him as he started down.
There were steps behind him, thud-clack. Thud-clack. A slightly raspy voice called after him, though he kept moving.
"Those guys are plotting to go to war! One with the world that I came from. Those rockets must have something to do with it."
He ignored them and kept moving in his memory, though he wanted to turn around, and the labored steps -- the person was having trouble with the stairs -- sped up. The voice rose, becoming more insistent.
"Alfons!"
He paused for half a second, and to his horror, his memory self swung around. For half a moment he couldn't figure out what had happened, but the person following him went flying, hard, back into the steps and slid down.
He'd just hit them! Hit the -- why?!
Hurt. Distant. Lonely.
The person was blond, with a long ponytail, shorter than him. He couldn't figure whether they were male or female from either the voice or their position, but they moved awkwardly for a moment and suddenly there was a jolt.
Everything went black and he heard the sounds of himself coughing violently. In the background there was footsteps on the top of the stairs. The coughing escalated until there was a wet, sick noise, and his sight came back slowly. His hand was cupped before him, dark blood splattered over his palm.
The person on the stairs gave a horrified gasp.
He stared upwards to the top of the stairs -- a girl with long dark hair and dusky skin in a long skirt, hands clutched to her chest, eyes shining with sudden understanding. He felt a tug of emotion, deep in his chest.
His eyes slid to the person on the stairs, but something had happened to his vision. Other than the rush of brilliant gold that was their hair, he couldn't make out their face at all, but he somehow knew the blurred features were horrified... and not at being slammed painfully into a staircase.
"I don't have much time left," he said, and his voice caught a little. He clenched his fist, and for the first time in any memory or lucid reality, he raised his voice in anger. "This is my world! I want to leave behind some proof that I lived here!"
It rose still more, breaking over him. Guilt. Resentment. Fear. Anger.
"You have no right to say anything!"
The world dipped and turned, and the blurred face disappeared. The door flew open in front of him, and he heard the voice again, angry too, but somehow desperate.
"Alfons--!!"
The door slammed shut, cutting it off.