.001
I don't remember that dead crow carcass by the street.
I don't remember that red brick wall, either. I don't remember that unlit alleyway, I don't remember that cracked sidewalk, nor do I remember that crooked sign bolted beneath the tin roof of that building.
Where the hell am I?
My limbs; they feel... rusted. Old. Creaky. Clenching and unclenching my hands, stretching my fingers... a fresh rush of blood surging through my arms... just what the hell is going on here? Waking up in the alleyway, all I had on me was a large case and an oversized cotton pouch. A case with Griever emblazoned on it. I had a little money on me, this leather-bound journal -- I'll probably fill it later, when the time is more suitable -- an article or two of clothes.
Light. I just remember a few gentle ripples swaying through the airstreams before a blinding crash of light swallowed me whole. Engulfing the entire world.
I wonder, am I dead?
I'm not going to bother checking the case; its weight is proof enough. My blade is still loyal, still by my side.
Now to figure out where the hell I've ended up...