✪ Fourth Star: Shroomfield ✈
[That morning started out like any other. Wake up, brush teeth, comb hair into a fabulous 'do', and head down for breakfast. Black coffee and maybe some pancakes?
Like always, Alfred's drone wife would follow the request without question, except today she decided to add in an extra ingredient. After all, when wild mushrooms popped up, of course you added it to the pancakes to make them even tastier and more aesthetically pleasing. She seemed very pleased to serve this special meal to her not!husband.
Then again, she always appeared pleasantly pleased about everything.
Everything seemed fine as he made his way to work. Everything except this odd feeling of apprehension.
He couldn't quite place its origin as he passed by the local stores.]
[Out in the streets by General Store]
[Alfred's stomach twisted as a horrible gnawing hunger just gripped his innards. He clutched at his side from the pain. He knew he had a big appetite, but to be this hungry after shortly eating breakfast?
Passing by the general store, he decided a quick snack shouldn't spoil his appetite for lunch. What could after all?
But when he looked inside, the store was completely barren of any foodstuffs. As he lingered, what appeared to be a farming family dressed in dusty, dirty clothes stepped past him inside. The children were tugging at their father's wrist, asking if they were going to finally get something to eat. He would nod and murmur something to them, trying to keep up a reassuring front. But the mother looked as if she were trying hard not to cry. She seemed to be holding a coin in her hand, clutching on it as if her life depended on it.
Disturbed, Alfred moved on. But everywhere he looked, people passing by in the street would all be the same. Unwashed, dirty, emaciated. Some looked gravely ill, too, as they coughed into their hands or mud-colored handkerchiefs that must have been colorful before.
He would bump into someone. No matter who it is, the image he would see would be the face of a staving child that might meld to be the accusing face of another country's.
"It's all your fault. Look at what you did, with your stupid irresponsible impulses and lack of foresight to predict this disaster!" would be the first thing he'd hear from them regardless if they said anything or not.]
N-no. I didn't mean to. . .!
[On the way to Goldberg Street]
[Later, he'd retreat back home, needing a moment to himself. Unfortunately, before he could reach his house, he heard someone stalking behind him. A snap from dry twigs here, a very faint shuffling of clothes, maybe even a still breath. So quiet yet so loud at the same time. Like whoever was there wanted him to know he was there.
His hunger had been replaced by something even deeper, though he couldn't quite place what it was.
As he passed by a water puddle gathered along the curb as a result of someone recently watering their lawn or something, he chanced upon seeing someone dressed like this behind him holding a musket. The other man seemed to be right behind him, glaring hatefully with the gun cocked.
To everyone else, he would appear to just be staring into the puddle, but the longer he'd stare, the more sick he'd look until his cheeks would puff and his throat would convulse as if he were about to throw up. Figure out what's wrong with him or walk on by?]
[Wandering the streets]
[After a rest back home, Alfred will out and about again. Only this time he would be knocking on everyone's door, looking rather subdued. Should you answer, he will extend a piece of paper that looks like this.]
[If he knew you, it would detail someone he might have known was related to you in some way.
If not, it'd just say something like 'son' or 'daughter' or 'father', 'sister', 'brother'--things like that.
It had obviously been written on notebook paper or something, but to him it's official and it was his duty to ensure that you'd get it.
He won't say anything. He'll just wait to see the reaction he gets, although his gaze will be averted and he clearly looks apologetic.]
[Park]
[It was hard handing those telegrams to everyone. Each one briefly informing them of the death of someone near and dear to them. It was never an easy task.
Needing time to himself, he went to the park.
Unfortunately, when he got there, it wasn't trees and suspiciously dull green grass he'd see.
No, it was
this.
Beneath his feet, he would be walking over rubble and occasionally what he really hoped was just mud, although it was stained black and bore the stench of decay.
The sky was dark, some kind of artificial mist clouding the sun. It became hard to breathe.
A shout was caught in his throat as he felt a hand come down behind his back. Burnt flesh and bodily fluids was what he smelt before turning around to see the faces of anyone he could consider a close ally.
Alfred could feel the bile rising to his throat, but somehow managed to keep it down.
No words needed to be said. Their looks said it all--hollow, betrayed, beyond anger and sadness.
And somehow, he knew, he was the cause of all this.
Him, who was supposed to be the hero, brought about the world's ultimate destruction.
His hands were stained, literally, with the blood of millions.
Alfred would run to any water source nearby and start washing his hands vigorously. But no matter how hard he'd wash, they would never become clean. It was too late.]
Like always, Alfred's drone wife would follow the request without question, except today she decided to add in an extra ingredient. After all, when wild mushrooms popped up, of course you added it to the pancakes to make them even tastier and more aesthetically pleasing. She seemed very pleased to serve this special meal to her not!husband.
Then again, she always appeared pleasantly pleased about everything.
Everything seemed fine as he made his way to work. Everything except this odd feeling of apprehension.
He couldn't quite place its origin as he passed by the local stores.]
[Out in the streets by General Store]
[Alfred's stomach twisted as a horrible gnawing hunger just gripped his innards. He clutched at his side from the pain. He knew he had a big appetite, but to be this hungry after shortly eating breakfast?
Passing by the general store, he decided a quick snack shouldn't spoil his appetite for lunch. What could after all?
But when he looked inside, the store was completely barren of any foodstuffs. As he lingered, what appeared to be a farming family dressed in dusty, dirty clothes stepped past him inside. The children were tugging at their father's wrist, asking if they were going to finally get something to eat. He would nod and murmur something to them, trying to keep up a reassuring front. But the mother looked as if she were trying hard not to cry. She seemed to be holding a coin in her hand, clutching on it as if her life depended on it.
Disturbed, Alfred moved on. But everywhere he looked, people passing by in the street would all be the same. Unwashed, dirty, emaciated. Some looked gravely ill, too, as they coughed into their hands or mud-colored handkerchiefs that must have been colorful before.
He would bump into someone. No matter who it is, the image he would see would be the face of a staving child that might meld to be the accusing face of another country's.
"It's all your fault. Look at what you did, with your stupid irresponsible impulses and lack of foresight to predict this disaster!" would be the first thing he'd hear from them regardless if they said anything or not.]
N-no. I didn't mean to. . .!
[On the way to Goldberg Street]
[Later, he'd retreat back home, needing a moment to himself. Unfortunately, before he could reach his house, he heard someone stalking behind him. A snap from dry twigs here, a very faint shuffling of clothes, maybe even a still breath. So quiet yet so loud at the same time. Like whoever was there wanted him to know he was there.
His hunger had been replaced by something even deeper, though he couldn't quite place what it was.
As he passed by a water puddle gathered along the curb as a result of someone recently watering their lawn or something, he chanced upon seeing someone dressed like this behind him holding a musket. The other man seemed to be right behind him, glaring hatefully with the gun cocked.
To everyone else, he would appear to just be staring into the puddle, but the longer he'd stare, the more sick he'd look until his cheeks would puff and his throat would convulse as if he were about to throw up. Figure out what's wrong with him or walk on by?]
[Wandering the streets]
[After a rest back home, Alfred will out and about again. Only this time he would be knocking on everyone's door, looking rather subdued. Should you answer, he will extend a piece of paper that looks like this.]
[If he knew you, it would detail someone he might have known was related to you in some way.
If not, it'd just say something like 'son' or 'daughter' or 'father', 'sister', 'brother'--things like that.
It had obviously been written on notebook paper or something, but to him it's official and it was his duty to ensure that you'd get it.
He won't say anything. He'll just wait to see the reaction he gets, although his gaze will be averted and he clearly looks apologetic.]
[Park]
[It was hard handing those telegrams to everyone. Each one briefly informing them of the death of someone near and dear to them. It was never an easy task.
Needing time to himself, he went to the park.
Unfortunately, when he got there, it wasn't trees and suspiciously dull green grass he'd see.
No, it was
this.
Beneath his feet, he would be walking over rubble and occasionally what he really hoped was just mud, although it was stained black and bore the stench of decay.
The sky was dark, some kind of artificial mist clouding the sun. It became hard to breathe.
A shout was caught in his throat as he felt a hand come down behind his back. Burnt flesh and bodily fluids was what he smelt before turning around to see the faces of anyone he could consider a close ally.
Alfred could feel the bile rising to his throat, but somehow managed to keep it down.
No words needed to be said. Their looks said it all--hollow, betrayed, beyond anger and sadness.
And somehow, he knew, he was the cause of all this.
Him, who was supposed to be the hero, brought about the world's ultimate destruction.
His hands were stained, literally, with the blood of millions.
Alfred would run to any water source nearby and start washing his hands vigorously. But no matter how hard he'd wash, they would never become clean. It was too late.]