TITANSPINE // Chapter 1:
"Blood & Silver"
ⲥⲁⲥⲟⲉⲧⲏⲉ𝛓 𝛓ⲥꞅⲓⲃⲉⲛⲇⲓ ─── ⲥⲁⲥⲟⲉⲧⲏⲉ𝛓 𝛓ⲥꞅⲓⲃⲉⲛⲇⲓ ─── ⲥⲁⲥⲟⲉⲧⲏⲉ𝛓 𝛓ⲥꞅⲓⲃⲉⲛⲇⲓ
this chapter is a letterbox archives original. do not repurpose.
this chapter of TITANSPINE contains violence. please proceed with caution if this topics is distressing.
ⲥⲁⲥⲟⲉⲧⲏⲉ𝛓 𝛓ⲥꞅⲓⲃⲉⲛⲇⲓ ─── ⲥⲁⲥⲟⲉⲧⲏⲉ𝛓 𝛓ⲥꞅⲓⲃⲉⲛⲇⲓ ─── ⲥⲁⲥⲟⲉⲧⲏⲉ𝛓 𝛓ⲥꞅⲓⲃⲉⲛⲇⲓ
It didn’t matter, really. The future, the past? All that Lance could see with prophetic – though a better term may be inconvenient – visions? Inconvenient as it may be, when Lance was struck over the head in an alleyway, a bit of prophecy sounded like a pretty damn good idea.
As he fell to the ground, there was a flash. Another person might’ve seen a flash of red, like the blood trickling down his neck and shoulders. Lance saw a flash of purple-blue. A buzzing whirred in the back of his head as a vision distracted him. A sign. The next move.
Concrete scarred the arms that caught him.
A crash above. Falling, falling. Silver.
He picked himself up fast enough to dodge the metal pipe. It smashed into the ground, sending chunks of chalky urban debris into the air. Any slower and it would’ve hit him square on the head.
Lance recovered quickly. Being accustomed to the streets tended to pay off in situations like this, so he avoided the next incoming swing. The pipe ricocheted off a support beam.
He shot back. Metal clattered to the ground. An alley wall was torn apart from the impact. The industrial design splintered and cracked.
He was spared from a bloody end. Or rather, that bloody end. Lance was acutely aware that each success was only a lucky accident. And one misstep…
He tried to catch a stabilising breath. That was hard, given the thug with the pipe wasn’t done yet.
Bones crunch together. Impact. Silver.
Tiny moments of what could happen, moments bathed in blood, clouded Lance’s vision. It would be generous to call it helpful.
The ringing snap of metal against brick flooded the alleyway. Another crashing of that pipe gave Lance a moment to catch a glimpse of his attacker. A towering, muscular woman who wielded her weapon with a focused, lethal poise.
But Lance was faster. Even disturbed by flashing visions, he slipped past each blow. The prophecies were no help. Nothing more than a hostile whisper behind his ear.
Silver. Silver. Silver!
There was nothing silver in sight. The repetition was a knocking in his head. Between missed blows, Lance scanned the area for any trace of silver. But, as he expected, there was nothing.
The useless foresight was enough to send his blood boiling. If those damned visions would stop for just one second so he could focus on not dying–
Then there was light. Something new to witness. An open field. Not a swift glimpse of inevitable doom, but instead something… bright. Brighter than the three suns. It didn’t burn, though. The sunlight was gentle, welcoming, even. An unfamiliar sense of calm overflowed within him, strong enough that he didn’t question why he was safe. He just was. There was no danger. Only the loving winter sun of Hai’lya above, and solid ground below.
Peace. Respite.
Not quite.
Lance hit the pavement. Solidly this time, with no forethought to brace himself. A violent tide of blood spilled across the ground. The nausea sunk in as he grasped the side of his head. Bones ground together. Caved in.
He tried, earnestly tried, to stand again. But one hit was enough to give the thug an irreversible advantage.
Lance steadied his hand, trying to conjure a spell as quickly as possible. That was rebuked by the pipe. It connected with a crack.
Then another.
Then another.
RED. SILVER. RED. RED.
The visions were no longer annoying suggestions. They were entirely true. Nobody noticed when Lance cried out in pain, least of all the one causing said pain. Or maybe nobody cared.
He wasn’t spared from the sensation. No, he was conscious for every agonising moment.
Blow after blow.
The woman’s face was hard to isolate between flashes of copper and crimson. Her face was sharp, her attacks sharper. And she wore a sort of uniform, or at least an insignia. But each time Lance tried to get a better look, he had to shoulder another unrelenting bout of pain.
Bleary eyesight, ringing in his ears, and a sense of imminent doom in his gut, Lance wasn’t sure how long he waited to die.
There was nobody to help. Same as always.
As much as Lance wanted to survive, he figured he would inevitably overstay his welcome. It’s a tricky game, teetering between the fault lines of life and death.
The visions properly ceased when she crashed the pipe across his torso. A shattering. Blood and bile rose to the top of his throat, and he knew he had no hope. It poured out of him with an acidic force.
Just as he expected a final blow, the woman paused. A quiet, strained groan escaped him as she grabbed him. Her bloodied hand left another gory stain on his white hair.
“Pathetic,” she cursed, eyeing the boy’s sanguinary form. Her eyes tried to meet his, but Lance couldn’t hold his head up.
With a swift tug, she yanked his hair out of his face and studied him. She held the almost-carcass with a focused, lethal, grip. Lance’s organs pushed against one another, bloodied and bruised.
She clicked her tongue. “Good. I was almost worried I’d got the wrong person.”
Under her grasp, Lance whimpered, using the last bit of his energy to try and squirm away.
The woman gave a slight laugh, amused at his suffering. Her eyes shined with a metallic glitter.
“Are you afraid?” She asked, her voice dropping to a whispery hiss.
Lance tried to reply. Every bone in his broken body wanted to tell her where she could go. He wanted nothing more than to tell her she wouldn’t go unpunished. But instead of any of that, a bloody cough lurched out of him. It splattered against the pavement, but she didn’t care.
“I bet you are…” she said, “you better be. Don’t worry, I think I’m done with you now.”
The sound of copper scraping against concrete. Though Lance couldn’t see it, that feeling of dread was impossible to ignore.
“I’ll make this quick.”
ⲥⲁⲥⲟⲉⲧⲏⲉ𝛓 𝛓ⲥꞅⲓⲃⲉⲛⲇⲓ ─── ⲥⲁⲥⲟⲉⲧⲏⲉ𝛓 𝛓ⲥꞅⲓⲃⲉⲛⲇⲓ ─── ⲥⲁⲥⲟⲉⲧⲏⲉ𝛓 𝛓ⲥꞅⲓⲃⲉⲛⲇⲓ
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