#meganwritesstuff

Strength

Courage

Hart

Taut

Strong

Stern

Steely

Hardened

Unrelenting

Resolve

Passion

Serge

Knots

Solid

Heightened

Extension of the Wall

Conquer

Win

Overcome

Challenge

Renewal

Fire

Passion

Fearless

Rage

Bioling

To Set Aflame

Perserverence

Determination

Surrounded in the residual fires and billowing plumes of smoke, Phinia surveyed the view from the top of the newly-breached Parisian encompass. As she wiped the grimy sweat from her now ashen forehead, her handiwork elicited a rush of adrenaline and endorphins.

Alive. She was alive.

The serge of enlightened resolve spread like the flames below through her body. She straightened herself at the sounds of the chopper blades. Phinia lifted her head to see the helicopter circling above. At the very tip of its nose, an anchored camera adjusted its focus on her. At the thought of the world watching through the lens, she imagined herself as the wall’s extension. Solid stone. Unbreakable. Impassable.

Fearless.

Among her audience, Phinia only wanted her stern gaze to reach one pair of eyes through the world’s window. The Grand Chancellor watched his monitors with a rigid expression.

At Phinia’s display, his lips twisted into a bitter snarl.

-------------------------------

Music:

"Dandelion" - Ivan Torrent

Arion’s palms steadily drew back to their place on his mahogany desk. His breath, a soft pant, initiated when he hung his head on straightened arm. His posture had the two of them questioning whether either should speak. Sander, however, noticed a rather peculiar thing.

Arion’s shoulders were shaking and small wheezes escaped him. Lydia’s eyes narrowed – she was he was weeping. As Sander opened his mouth, Arion’s wheezing evolved into chuckling; harder, and harder. His palm covered his eyes, a maniacal grin in the window’s reflection sapped Lydia of her breath. Arion’s laughter crescendoed into a loud cackle until finally erupting into a crazed, reckless abandon of hysterics.

--

Her hands were gripped around the straps of her purse as she walked at a brisk pace. As though being guided or pulled by invisible means, she walked with purpose across the platform, pushing the revolving door and sweeping into the terminal. The sounds of automated voices echoed from wall to wall, as though fighting for her focus. Her eyes narrowed at a woman peering curiously at her through a store window. The man next to her, eyes agape, joined the woman’s incredulous stare. Awkwardly, Phinia broke her gaze with the couple and continued her pace. She anxiously looked at the collection of eyes she seemed to gather, and felt her face growing hot. She brushed passed a woman who dropped her bags on impact, but froze at the sight of Phinia before reaching down to collect her belongings.

In response, Phinia drew away awkwardly, speeding her pace, wanting to exit the building more than ever. The automated voices faded into the bustle of car horns and chatter, like jolting from a monotonous dream, Phinia’s head jerked to a large Television panel located in the center of the Oslo bustle.

“Phinia Abalene.”

At first, Phinia shook her head. She heard her name as clear as crystal, but stared at the television in disbelief, until the news broadcast said her name a second time. An image of Phinia – the one from her ID card – flashed on the grainy monitor beside a female news anchor. Her breath hitched in her throat.

“—should be considered armed and dangerous,” the voice continued. “5’4”, possibly 130 pounds, we’re told by authorities that she’s traveling alone, possibly en route to Oslo. Again, breaking news out of the capitol last night. Phinia Abalene is a named suspect in the attempted assassination of the Grand Chancellor. Any information—“