12-15-2009, 10:04 PM
His body was becoming numb, involuntarily shivering at the mercy of such extreme conditions. The storm had not hindered, and he suspected that it never would. Howling winds battered his meager, freezing frame, dancing and whipping around him with unrelenting malice. Her merciless tempest wielded snowflakes and ice shards that savagely attacked his flush red skin with the menace of a thousand razorblades. The blizzard’s fury was overbearing, and he collapsed onto one knee; his hand gun still blindly leveled into the alabaster veil.
Breaths came slow and with excruciating pain. With every inhalation the bitter cold tore at his soft, vulnerable throat and invaded his already blackened lungs. What could one man do in the face of such unbridled and reckless hate? He could think of no answer, but, at the same time, he could not relent, he could not surrender. This was his chance, his only chance, to right his wrongs. Damon Dukes had stated that only one of them could receive what they so desperately sought. To him that had been obvious. He had come so far, and suffered so much, and now he was at destiny’s doorstep. His Alice was so close now. He realized now that absolution was something that would not simply be granted to him, regardless of how much he suffered – he had to earn his right to apologize. And this was his opportunity.
Was it selfish? He asked himself. This chance had been born from blood; many had died so that he could see her one last time. His hands and his heart were eternally stained crimson, was this worth the price that he had paid? That others had paid? He knew that it was, and, even if it was not, he could not turn back now. There was no good or evil in this world. There was only pain and sorrow. There was only death.
A single stream of tears rose above his eye’s embankment and cascaded down his cheek; it quickly slowed and solidified, frozen against his numbed flesh.
“Do you think that you are the only one who suffers?” Trafford screamed into the bitter nothingness. His arms collapsed against his side, dropping the Desert Eagle into the fair powder that surrounded him. He could feel his muscles tense beneath his blood stained garment. His forehead wrinkled and his eyebrows furrowed, encroaching on his hazelnut irises with menacing intent. “We all have our burdens to carry; the whole world suffers.”
Her friends had died, so what? His entire life had been taken from him; everything he had ever known had been systematically destroyed. He had never known normality. His parents had made sure of that. They had never been satisfied. It was his mother’s idea to enroll him in a strict, focused private school where he was surrounded by boys and girls who operated like robots. With all work and no play, they had become slaves to time and order. But that was not enough, military academy followed. And then came the experiments, the research and his own death – the death of the Alexander Trafford that had been born of his mother’s womb, and the birth of the freak. Enter misery, enter despair, and enter self-loathing.
Then he had met Alice, and she eased his pain. She had been his rock, the force that broke the storming tides of his restless and uneasy mind. And now she had been taken from him. That was his fault, he knew that. Enter his calloused and blackened soul.
“This is all that I have left,” He continued to bellow into the frosted shroud. He slowly pushed himself to his feet and stumbled aimlessly around the epicenter of the storm. “The fading hope that I can reconcile what I have done. I would gladly end my own life if that would achieve such an end; but it wouldn’t, it couldn’t. This is the only way. You’d take from me this opportunity!?”
His words carried waves of sorrow and hatred. It was not animosity for his foe, but for himself. He paused for a moment, awaiting any reply from the blue-haired ice queen.
“I can’t let you do that,” Trafford exclaimed with uncharacteristic determination. “I will destroy this entire island before I fail her.”
Sage, of course, had no idea of whom he spoke. But that did not matter, not to Alex at least. His opponent was nothing more than an obstacle on his bleak and darkened path; what was one more death if it meant absolution? He was beginning to wonder if forgiveness was even possible, from himself or from Alice. Part of him knew that he was doomed to eternal sorrow. He had not been a man since he was seventeen and his father had volunteered him for energy infusions. He had been transformed, against his will, into an abomination, a freak. There was no home to which he could return, no kin that he could confide in; he was eternally alone.
Death was irrelevant to him now. Surely even hell was better than this miserable existence. He lived for one end – to see Alice one more time. Then, perhaps, things would change, but not until then.
He had to kill her.
Trafford, frozen and consumed with sorrow, lifted his palms in front of his face and stared with empty eyes into his skin’s natural wrinkles. He could feel the energy coursing through his muscles and through his veins; he had become, for all intents and purposes, an embodiment of raw power. The strength to accomplish his task lie within him, he knew that now.
His fingers withdrew into his palms and his long, bony hands became tightened fists. Alexander focused his mind, not on anything in particular, but, rather, he honed in on everything. A multitude of randomly placed golden circles began to illuminate the battlefield’s surface. He could not see his opponent, so he would blanket the area in explosions. A promise was a promise; he would burn and raze this island into nothingness before he faced failure.
Somewhere, deep within the storm’s obscure veil, Sage began to notice the strengthening glimmer of golden power. It was everywhere.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fresh cigarette. Slowly and carefully, his shaking and shivering fingers guided the Marlboro into the corner of his lips. He eyed the world around him; the ice queen’s winter wonderland was now covered with the glimmer of a thousand coronas that awaited detonation.
He blinked once and, simultaneously, the tip of his cigarette became lit, and the arctic tundra fell victim to his army of explosions.
With his eyes clenched shut, he did not allow himself the enjoyment of watching his work. Though, he could imagine its beauty. A thousand bulbs of orange and yellow flame would rise from nothingness and desperately lick the air in search of their target. Explosions had a mind of their own you see, their enraged blaze swayed this way and that, and reached at whatever it so pleased, before surrendering its existence into a plume of blackness. What was born of hatred and fury, willingly and peacefully died and dissipated in dancing wisps of smoke.
The flickering light of his own life would not surrender so easily, or so peacefully. He telekinetically lifted his fallen hand cannon and returned it to his palm, while simultaneously withdrawing the other. Whether he had actually struck his icy opponent, or had merely distracted her, he did not know, but the storm was beginning to retreat. In the distance, the slender outline of a woman’s silhouette stood out from the frosted veil.
He inhaled deeply and filled his lungs with a cancerous plume of bluish grey smoke. His thumbs pulled back and cocked the hammer on each of his high caliber Desert Eagles.
He had reached the peak of the mountain; his struggle was nearly over. Absolution was in sight, and she felt so near. All his life he had been running, fleeing from his own despair; now he stood and faced it head on. The culmination of all his misery, all his despair and all his loathing was embodied in this young cyrokinetic.
You are so close now. We are so close.
His heart quivered. He could feel her restlessly shake within his soul. Through an exhalation of smoke he sighed, and then gently he pulled back on each trigger for what he hoped would be the last time.
Breaths came slow and with excruciating pain. With every inhalation the bitter cold tore at his soft, vulnerable throat and invaded his already blackened lungs. What could one man do in the face of such unbridled and reckless hate? He could think of no answer, but, at the same time, he could not relent, he could not surrender. This was his chance, his only chance, to right his wrongs. Damon Dukes had stated that only one of them could receive what they so desperately sought. To him that had been obvious. He had come so far, and suffered so much, and now he was at destiny’s doorstep. His Alice was so close now. He realized now that absolution was something that would not simply be granted to him, regardless of how much he suffered – he had to earn his right to apologize. And this was his opportunity.
Was it selfish? He asked himself. This chance had been born from blood; many had died so that he could see her one last time. His hands and his heart were eternally stained crimson, was this worth the price that he had paid? That others had paid? He knew that it was, and, even if it was not, he could not turn back now. There was no good or evil in this world. There was only pain and sorrow. There was only death.
A single stream of tears rose above his eye’s embankment and cascaded down his cheek; it quickly slowed and solidified, frozen against his numbed flesh.
“Do you think that you are the only one who suffers?” Trafford screamed into the bitter nothingness. His arms collapsed against his side, dropping the Desert Eagle into the fair powder that surrounded him. He could feel his muscles tense beneath his blood stained garment. His forehead wrinkled and his eyebrows furrowed, encroaching on his hazelnut irises with menacing intent. “We all have our burdens to carry; the whole world suffers.”
Her friends had died, so what? His entire life had been taken from him; everything he had ever known had been systematically destroyed. He had never known normality. His parents had made sure of that. They had never been satisfied. It was his mother’s idea to enroll him in a strict, focused private school where he was surrounded by boys and girls who operated like robots. With all work and no play, they had become slaves to time and order. But that was not enough, military academy followed. And then came the experiments, the research and his own death – the death of the Alexander Trafford that had been born of his mother’s womb, and the birth of the freak. Enter misery, enter despair, and enter self-loathing.
Then he had met Alice, and she eased his pain. She had been his rock, the force that broke the storming tides of his restless and uneasy mind. And now she had been taken from him. That was his fault, he knew that. Enter his calloused and blackened soul.
“This is all that I have left,” He continued to bellow into the frosted shroud. He slowly pushed himself to his feet and stumbled aimlessly around the epicenter of the storm. “The fading hope that I can reconcile what I have done. I would gladly end my own life if that would achieve such an end; but it wouldn’t, it couldn’t. This is the only way. You’d take from me this opportunity!?”
His words carried waves of sorrow and hatred. It was not animosity for his foe, but for himself. He paused for a moment, awaiting any reply from the blue-haired ice queen.
“I can’t let you do that,” Trafford exclaimed with uncharacteristic determination. “I will destroy this entire island before I fail her.”
Sage, of course, had no idea of whom he spoke. But that did not matter, not to Alex at least. His opponent was nothing more than an obstacle on his bleak and darkened path; what was one more death if it meant absolution? He was beginning to wonder if forgiveness was even possible, from himself or from Alice. Part of him knew that he was doomed to eternal sorrow. He had not been a man since he was seventeen and his father had volunteered him for energy infusions. He had been transformed, against his will, into an abomination, a freak. There was no home to which he could return, no kin that he could confide in; he was eternally alone.
Death was irrelevant to him now. Surely even hell was better than this miserable existence. He lived for one end – to see Alice one more time. Then, perhaps, things would change, but not until then.
He had to kill her.
Trafford, frozen and consumed with sorrow, lifted his palms in front of his face and stared with empty eyes into his skin’s natural wrinkles. He could feel the energy coursing through his muscles and through his veins; he had become, for all intents and purposes, an embodiment of raw power. The strength to accomplish his task lie within him, he knew that now.
His fingers withdrew into his palms and his long, bony hands became tightened fists. Alexander focused his mind, not on anything in particular, but, rather, he honed in on everything. A multitude of randomly placed golden circles began to illuminate the battlefield’s surface. He could not see his opponent, so he would blanket the area in explosions. A promise was a promise; he would burn and raze this island into nothingness before he faced failure.
Somewhere, deep within the storm’s obscure veil, Sage began to notice the strengthening glimmer of golden power. It was everywhere.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fresh cigarette. Slowly and carefully, his shaking and shivering fingers guided the Marlboro into the corner of his lips. He eyed the world around him; the ice queen’s winter wonderland was now covered with the glimmer of a thousand coronas that awaited detonation.
He blinked once and, simultaneously, the tip of his cigarette became lit, and the arctic tundra fell victim to his army of explosions.
With his eyes clenched shut, he did not allow himself the enjoyment of watching his work. Though, he could imagine its beauty. A thousand bulbs of orange and yellow flame would rise from nothingness and desperately lick the air in search of their target. Explosions had a mind of their own you see, their enraged blaze swayed this way and that, and reached at whatever it so pleased, before surrendering its existence into a plume of blackness. What was born of hatred and fury, willingly and peacefully died and dissipated in dancing wisps of smoke.
The flickering light of his own life would not surrender so easily, or so peacefully. He telekinetically lifted his fallen hand cannon and returned it to his palm, while simultaneously withdrawing the other. Whether he had actually struck his icy opponent, or had merely distracted her, he did not know, but the storm was beginning to retreat. In the distance, the slender outline of a woman’s silhouette stood out from the frosted veil.
He inhaled deeply and filled his lungs with a cancerous plume of bluish grey smoke. His thumbs pulled back and cocked the hammer on each of his high caliber Desert Eagles.
He had reached the peak of the mountain; his struggle was nearly over. Absolution was in sight, and she felt so near. All his life he had been running, fleeing from his own despair; now he stood and faced it head on. The culmination of all his misery, all his despair and all his loathing was embodied in this young cyrokinetic.
You are so close now. We are so close.
His heart quivered. He could feel her restlessly shake within his soul. Through an exhalation of smoke he sighed, and then gently he pulled back on each trigger for what he hoped would be the last time.
![[Image: alext.jpg]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v234/waffuru/alext.jpg)