11-16-2009, 07:06 AM
The expression pasted across his visage was not one of arrogance or celebration, but of frustration and anger. Alexander was livid. Not only had his inevitable victory been halted by some damned invisible force, but he had been cast out of the warm, cozy bunker and into the hellacious cold of the arctic tundra. Was this not a competition? One where the weak are eliminated in order to pit the strongest and elite against one another? They had been selected to be participants in an exhibition of natural selection; a few would rise above adversity, and the rest would die in the pursuit of survival. Apparently, in this scenario, the promise of true competition was nothing more than a red herring; the promise was little more than bait to ascertain their presence on this fucking island. And he had bit, and bit hard.
“I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” Trafford hissed through clenched teeth. It was not in his nature to be violent or angry, or at least to his knowledge it wasn’t. He figured these emotions had been repressed beneath the surface by the order and oppression of his privileged childhood. Whatever caused this outrage, be it the cold or the fight or some other deep seeded character flaw, his fury was not subsiding. And he did not know what disturbed him more, his anger or the lengths to which he felt comfortable going to uncover the source of this farce known as Dante’s Abyss, because, if he knew anything, this was not simply a competition for the sake of competition. “And that orange haired punk, or anyone else for that matter, better not get in my mother fucking way . . .”
The slow, wandering trudge that had previously marked his journey was absent. It had been replaced by the furiously determined march of a man on a mission; the long-stride swagger that was present in the climax of any film worth its salt. Clint Eastwood, Trafford’s silver-screen idol, knew it well, and now Alexander got his taste. Seldom in his life had he really had a purpose, or a vision, that he attacked with such urgency. But this fraudulent fight had been the last straw in a series of misfortunes. His father, OmniCorp, his addictions, Alice’s death . . . his entire life he had been avoiding confrontation with his problems. This was it; he would not be running anymore.
Trafford never made bets unless he was absolutely sure he would win, and he would bet everything he owned, which, admittedly, wasn’t much, that his answers would not be found in this arctic wasteland. No, his destination was elsewhere.
The problem was, he had no idea where elsewhere was.
He looked first to his left, and then to his right, and all he could see was snow – billions of fair, uncorrupted white flakes dancing eternally in the constant, howling winds that stained this winter wonderland with miserable, freezing depression. Before him however, and not too far off, he could see mountainous peaks that were uncovered by the all-too-familiar alabaster surface. In front of the two most ominous peaks, or perhaps in between them, he saw another familiar sight – a bunker.
As he marched on, and the snow beneath his feet and the wind on his face lessened, Alexander discarded his warm jacket and hat as he prepared for warmer climates. He kept the satchel though, it was a much more comfortable and convenient means of storing his belongings then in the inner pocket of his Armani suit.
And so, with a lit cigarette sitting snug in the corner of his mouth and his finger resting on the trigger of his newly acquired energy assault rifle, Trafford made his way into the foreign section of this forsaken island.
“I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” Trafford hissed through clenched teeth. It was not in his nature to be violent or angry, or at least to his knowledge it wasn’t. He figured these emotions had been repressed beneath the surface by the order and oppression of his privileged childhood. Whatever caused this outrage, be it the cold or the fight or some other deep seeded character flaw, his fury was not subsiding. And he did not know what disturbed him more, his anger or the lengths to which he felt comfortable going to uncover the source of this farce known as Dante’s Abyss, because, if he knew anything, this was not simply a competition for the sake of competition. “And that orange haired punk, or anyone else for that matter, better not get in my mother fucking way . . .”
The slow, wandering trudge that had previously marked his journey was absent. It had been replaced by the furiously determined march of a man on a mission; the long-stride swagger that was present in the climax of any film worth its salt. Clint Eastwood, Trafford’s silver-screen idol, knew it well, and now Alexander got his taste. Seldom in his life had he really had a purpose, or a vision, that he attacked with such urgency. But this fraudulent fight had been the last straw in a series of misfortunes. His father, OmniCorp, his addictions, Alice’s death . . . his entire life he had been avoiding confrontation with his problems. This was it; he would not be running anymore.
~~~*~~~
Trafford never made bets unless he was absolutely sure he would win, and he would bet everything he owned, which, admittedly, wasn’t much, that his answers would not be found in this arctic wasteland. No, his destination was elsewhere.
The problem was, he had no idea where elsewhere was.
He looked first to his left, and then to his right, and all he could see was snow – billions of fair, uncorrupted white flakes dancing eternally in the constant, howling winds that stained this winter wonderland with miserable, freezing depression. Before him however, and not too far off, he could see mountainous peaks that were uncovered by the all-too-familiar alabaster surface. In front of the two most ominous peaks, or perhaps in between them, he saw another familiar sight – a bunker.
As he marched on, and the snow beneath his feet and the wind on his face lessened, Alexander discarded his warm jacket and hat as he prepared for warmer climates. He kept the satchel though, it was a much more comfortable and convenient means of storing his belongings then in the inner pocket of his Armani suit.
And so, with a lit cigarette sitting snug in the corner of his mouth and his finger resting on the trigger of his newly acquired energy assault rifle, Trafford made his way into the foreign section of this forsaken island.
Quote: Alexander Trafford moves from the Arctic Sector to the Mountain Sector, and enters the Mountain Sector Bunker
![[Image: alext.jpg]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v234/waffuru/alext.jpg)