Fanfiction ► Heroes: Legends

[Xeon{Myroku}]

Impressive work, well done that last bit really got me going. Keep up the good work.

 

[tdc456]

Definitely worth the wait.
Good job as always.
Can't wait for more.

 

[King Naruto]

Nice my friend. I love what happened to Jack. Keep it going.

 

[Prophet]

Episode IV
The Wind of Change​

Autumn Morad, New York City, 2008​

Autumn’s hand slid around the smooth silver handle of an ordinary office door as she opened it with a soft click. Immediately the sounds of the city hit her hard. Honking horns, the friendly shouting of people to each other, the wondrous chorus of construction sites and trucks backing up. It was loud, but it was home. She walked forward, her brown hair blowing lightly in the breeze as she quickly entered the main part of the warehouse. It was a huge open space, all under a industrial steel roof. There were no windows in the ceiling in order to prevent damage to the wares in the warehouse, but the sides were open, almost like a huge metal tent rather than a building. People were bustling in and out, the height of business hour, and as Autumn stared around at the people pacing around the warehouse, searching and marveling at the wonders that were stored there, Autumn bowed her head shyly, and quickly made her way through the crowd. Paintings and drawings surrounded her she was in a treasure room of art. Her Auntie Grace had been running this business for as long as she can remember- the open air, art warehouse. Autumn wasn’t quite sure how it worked, but she knew that her Auntie received artwork from all over the country, taking them as donations and then giving the artist a portion of the profit. It wasn’t a huge business, but her Aunt had enough connections that the warehouse was always full. She walked through passages of crowded people, each admiring the wonderful work offered by the less than famous artists. She saw works from all around the country. She passed a piece depicting a large sea serpent attacking a ship. She passed a wonderful bronze sculpture of a Viking warrior, standing tall in a battle pose. She glanced fleetingly at a small portrait, depicting a teenage boy, barely 18 with his hand pressed against a broken glass window. All marvels of peoples talents contained in one, New York warehouse. But she couldn’t focus on the art right now. There was a far harsher voice calling for her now. She quickly wove her way through the crowd, her skinny young body allowing her to quickly sneak in between people admiring the art, the sounds of the crowd swallowing her like a wave at the beach. But it was a comforting wave, a friendly press, like a friend giving you a hug. She managed to get to the other side of the warehouse, the only other side with a wall, and she approached a metal door, knocking three times on it swung open on its on accord. She blinked, taking the door again by the hand and pushing it open as she walked into her Auntie’s office.

“You called?” she asked, her voice quiet and respectful as she glanced at the woman behind all the majesty behind her. Her Auntie sat in a simple spindly chair, her long strands of grey hair tucked behind her ears like a classic librarian. Her gaze was intense, her dark turquoise eyes peering carefully at the old computer humming in front of her. Her auntie was a woman the classics, and even as Autumn was clicking away on her iPhone, Auntie Grace plugged away accounts and cataloging on one of those big old grey computers. Reliable and clean, is how she described them. No tricks or fancy programs to get in the way. She stared at the screen, wrinkles crinkling across her face like the ripples of a pond. Yet, it seemed to fit her, the wrinkles adding taste to a ripe fruit. She blinked once, clicking a few things on the screen before it beeped, and she glanced up, her eyes meeting Autumns with a stern glance.

“It’s late Autumn, you should have been up earlier,” she said, taking a few papers from the desk and shuffling them together, “A whole day lost- so much can be produced in 24 hours.”

“Yes Auntie Grace,” she answered automatically, stretching slightly as she walked a bit closer, the door closing shut behind her as she sat in the seat in front of her Aunt’s desk. She sat quietly as her Aunt rubbed her fingers through her hair once, before turning to look at her small niece. She seemed so small, so frail. She was quite skinny for her age, and Auntie Grace almost never saw her leave the warehouse. Quite a shy one she was… It wasn’t healthy for a girl her age to be so alone.

“Listen Autumn,” she said, reaching under her desk and pulling out her purse, from which she drew a crisp 20 dollar bill, “I want you to get out of the warehouse. Go get some air, go shopping, hang out with some friends. You’ve been so quiet since… well, since last night. I want you to go have some fun, understand?”

Autumn froze for a second, about to voice some kind of protest, but a single glance from those turquoise eyes led to a mumbled “Yes m’aam” She took the 20 dollar bill, slipping it into her pocket as she turned like a mouse to the door, about to leave the kitchen where it had been caught, when her Aunt’s voice caught her again.

“Autumn,” and the quiet girl turned around slowly, glancing at her Auntie, who broke into a sincere smile, “Have some fun, okay?”

“Yes Auntie Grace,” she smiled back, and with a hop, she stepped out the door, vanishing into the sunlight as quickly as that mouse into a hole in the wall. However, her Auntie bolted up instantly, her smile turning into a falsely stern expression.

“Shut the door behind you!” she shouted after her, but Autumn’s footsteps receded into the noise of the crowd, and she shrugged it off as being unheard. However, as she moved around her desk, the door slowly swung closed, as if by an invisible hand, and her eyes widened for a second as it clicked shut, the sound ringing through the crescendo of the customers like a pin in an empty museum.

Stroma Vermilion. Hollywood, Nevada. 2008​

Wind swept through the streets of Nevada, and Stroma bowed his head against it, clutching his coat tighter to him as he braced against the cold. It wasn’t a cold day, but the breeze did send a slight shiver through his body.

“Damn weather, damn wind, damn office,” he grumbled to himself as he continued forward, his feet pumping against the concrete, slowly and surely as he made his way down the street. It was busy as ever in Nevada. The quiet howl of the wind was matched by the revving of engines, the grinding of tire upon asphalt as the busy people of Hollywood scurried about their business, rats in a massive labyrinth, attempting to find that hidden break somewhere in the midst of this chaos. Stroma couldn’t help but feel the same… attempting to find some purpose in this crazy hell he called life. As the wind slammed through his bones, like he had dipped his skeleton in an ice bath, he walked onward, muttering as he pushed himself along the sidewalks, his muttering drifting along in the wind, carried for anyone wandering this cold sidewalk to hear.

“Bastards won’t get me the Indian…” he groaned, ranting quietly to himself about the story he needed, “Gotta write the article to get this months check…” He pulled his coat around him a bit tighter, staring up at the overcast sky, which seemed to determined to make it as miserable as possible without actually letting rain fall. Tornado weather as that annoying weatherman on the news had said. Stroma hated that weatherman- the cheesy smile, with that annoyingly grating voice. And yet routinely, he would always turn to that channel in the morning, in an attempt to find something good in the day to come. However, his internal grumblings were suddenly overcome by the jingling of metal on metal in the wind. His ears pricked up as the familiar sound reached his ears, and he instantly quieted his grumbling, slowing his violent steps as he carefully began to walk quickly and quietly forward along the sidewalk.

“Change… change…”

The reason for his tip-toeing became apparent quickly. As he rounded the corner, a small slump of clothes came into sight. However, the old, wearied voice that came from the pile of clothes revealed its true identity, and a pair of glazed brown eyes peered out from the pile of bundled up rags. Stroma held his breath as he walked past the homeless man, crinkling his nose as the stench reached him, the smell of garbage and the scent of someone who hadn’t showered in weeks hitting him hard. He carefully walked past the man, walking quietly as he slowly made his way past the man, who’s only moving part was a single, skeletal hand, holding out a Styrofoam cup with a few jingling quarters in it.

“Just because I’m blind, doesn’t mean I can’t see you, asshole.”

Stroma almost froze, but instead, forced himself to keep walking, almost breaking into a run as the homeless man’s croaking voice following him with increasing venom.

“Yeah, that’s right, run you bastard! I’ll still be here later when you drive by in your Porsche, hahahaha”

The man’s crazy laughter followed him like a swarm of buzzing flies, and Stroma shivered, bundling up even more as the overcast sky seemed to grow darker, grey clouds shifting into dark masses as the man’s laughter seemed to suddenly blend in with crackling booms of thunder.

“Dammit,” he swore, breaking into a run as rain started to pour from the heavens, drowning out the crazed hobo’s laughter as the rainfall slammed into the ground with the ferocity of a hundred bullets. Stroma ran through the rain, his shoes slamming against the wet sidewalk as he raced toward his destination, thunder booming in the sky as the sudden transition from overcast into thunderstorm. Cars honked as various windshield wipers were turned on, and Stroma blinked, seeing stars as a sudden flash of lightning lit up the sky. He needed to get inside fast. Thankfully, as he turned yet another corner, the diner came into sight. He raced onward, leaping forward as he grasped the metal handle of the door, feeling the cool grip of the metal in his palm as he yanked open the door, pulling himself inside with a gasp as he felt the warm heat of the cozy diner wash over him.

“Stroma!”

He heard his name being called, and his heart was warmed as much as his body as he glanced over in the direction of the familiar voice. Sitting in a booth a few yards away from him, was his sister, Kate Vermillion. She smiled at him, patting the seat across from her with a slender white hand, the other tucking a long strand of brown hair behind her pale white ear. Stroma grinned back at her, groaning to himself inwardly as he felt his soaked clothes burning in the heat. Damn, all that rain had made him a mess. It didn’t help that his head was pounding, a small throb just like he had felt at the office. Must’ve been that run… Damn hobo’s giving him this headache…. But he put on a smile, making his way towards Kate as the smells of the diner washed over him. At least that always put him in a good mood. Karen’s Diner always had the greatest of homecooked food. Small enough that a reservation wasn’t required, but had enough quality give Stroma a good time. Always a solid choice.

“You look pretty miserable,” remarked Kate dryly, grinning slightly as she handed him a menu, her blue eyes sparkling as Stroma sat down with a groan, reveling in the warm heat of the diner, “Work got you down?”

“How could you tell?” replied Stroma darkly, sliding off his coat unconsciously and placing it beside him, his hand lying on the table and the other rubbing his temple as he shut his eyes, “I swear, between this article everyone wants me to write, and the weather, its been one hell of a week.”

“I bet,” said Kate, warmly, sipping from a mug of hot coffee, steam rising up from it as she sipped the warm brown tastiness, “Why the make it so hard for you to get it, I have no idea.”

“You’re telling me,” he groaned, taking the menu and glancing at it, his mixed eyes staring down at all the tantalizing options, “Apparently they want a freelance writer to investigate the rockslide, but the reservation is being freakin’ annoying. They won’t let anybody talk to the witness; it’s some Indian guy, and they’re screwing me on all the loopholes they have. It’ll be a miracle if I can grab the guy by the time this article is due.”

“They’re worried I bet,” Kate nodded, sipping her coffee again as she watched her brother scan the menu, “I mean, a rockslide like that, killing that many people? They don’t want anyone to think that the reservation is unsafe. Already they’ve got people complaining of foul play.”

“I know, but its still some bullsh…” muttered Stroma before Kate interrupted him, placing a hand on the menu and pulling it down before staring him in the eye.

“Just take it easy Stroma,” she said, her soothing voice layering over his swearing, “You know I hate it when you curse. Just get something to eat and look on the bright side. Hey, at least you didn’t get caught in that mess outside.”

“What’re you talking about, I’m totally soake-“ Stroma started to reply, but even as this confused words made it out of his mouth, he suddenly realized that the wetness he had felt when he entered the diner was totally gone. He glanced down at his coat, feeling it only to realize it was perfectly dry. He ran his fingers through his hair to find it as dry as when he had first left the office… “What the…” he muttered slowly to himself, and Kate gasped, unaware of Stroma’s confusion as the candles around the diner seemed to flare suddenly, as if fueled with renewed gusto, shouts from a variety of tables rising as each candle in the diner seemed to burn like a small star for a second before calming back down again…

Admus Afilius, New York City, 2008​

The end of Admus’s cigarette burned a dull ember orange, a glowing circle mimicking the golden sun shining in the clear blue sky. He blew out a large smoky cloud, the grey cloud of toxic fumes floating into the air, the scent of nicotine burning even further into his ragged black clothes. But Admus didn’t care. It had been a while since he gave a damn about what anyone thought of him. He ran one hand through his matted black hair, the long strands knotted and tangled like a dark black forest. It’d been a long time since a brush had run through that mess.

Admus was walking down the alleyway now, cigarette smoke drifting between the dark brick walls as he slowly made his way through the shadowy veins of the breathing creature that was New York City. The busy roads and the laughing crowds may be the beautiful exterior of the Big Apple, but Admus knew that the real stuff; the blood pumping through the city, lay in these alleys… This is where the real action went down. Already, as he strut through his territory, the shadows of the tall buildings dancing on his pale white skin, he had seen a good five homeless people, a few dead bodies, a drug exchange, two hookers, and what he was sure might at one point been a dead cat. It was all the scum of the city, the things those rich people tried desperately not to see. They turned up their noses, only to avoid the stench of rotting garbage. They shut their eyes only to avoid seeing the homeless person in front of them. And they shut their ears so they wouldn’t hear the screams of the city at night. It wasn’t as bad as some other places in the US to be sure, but NYC had its skeletons to be sure… and Admus was the king of pickin’ these white bones clean.

“Time for work,” he whispered to himself, his raspy voice clouded with smoke as he took another deep breath of the toxic fumes. His health was something he cared little about. As far as he was concerned, he could be offed at any time anyways. Might as well get some pleasure out of the time that he had. He flicked the end of his cigarette, cracking his neck slightly as he made a sharp left as he approached another crossway of alleyways. It was a labyrinth of passageways in some parts of New York- some leading to Time Square itself, while a wrong turn can send you straight to the ghetto. It was almost like another dimension in here- one of serenity and chaos. The sounds of an alley cat meowing could turn into wild gunshots at any second depending on how you turned… But Admus had walked these paths far too often to make a wrong turn. At this time of day, he knew that he had a better chance of being hit by a car than getting mugged in these alleyways.

He made his way through the alleyways, the sun casting weird shadows on his face, giving him the appearance of being heavily tattooed as he stealthily made his way amongst the stone walls. He stepped in a puddle, sending water splashing across a discarded newspaper, covering the headline “Mayor announces opening on Eclipse Day” with an array of dirty liquid. Leaping over a bag of open trash, he landed with a small thud on the concrete, sniffing slightly as the rats feasting on the garbage fled in terror. Silly beasts. They didn’t have to fear him. He was almost as animalistic as they were. He stood up, cracking his neck again as he walked over to yet another pathway, ready to make another turn. He was heading to visit one of his more favorite targets of the day. The infamous Ratman. At least, that’s what Admus called the dirty bastard. The guy sat on the same pile of trash all day, soaking up the sun, only moving when the police decided to clean out that area of the alleys, but even so, he always returned. A constant in a evolving city. The crotchety old man was also a source of information though- crazy as he was, he seemed to think that the rats told him what was going on in the city. Either way, he was the ‘to go guy’ when you needed information.

However as Admus approached the corner, he suddenly caught a whiff of something that made him halt in his tracks, his foot freezing midair. A coppery scent slid through the dense air, like oil across the surface of a clean river… Admus had lived in the streets of New York for long enough to immediately recognize that scent.

“Fresh blood,” he whispered quietly to himself, and with a cautious blink, he slowly held his breath, and peeked around the corner of the brick wall. What he saw made his heart stop, his entire body suddenly freezing as his cigarette fell from his gaping mouth.

Garbage was scattered across the ground like a grenade set off in a dumpster. Admus’s eyes quickly flitted off the carcasses of a few grey rats, each one writhing on the ground, blood seeping from their mouths as they slowly decayed into death. Trickles of blood slid across the ground like fresh rainfall, and Admus’s dark eyes widened as the source of the blood met his gaze. The Ratman lay pinned up against the wall, completely silent, buggy grey eyes widened with sheer horror as his thin skeletal hands lay lifeless by his side. Admus’s eyes traced over his pale, dirty skin, every surface cut by tiny little cuts, like the Ratman had been tossed in a lawnmower and spat back out again. Blood trickled from every wound, and Admus almost choked as the figure pinning the Ratman to the wall stood spattered in blood, a grotesque artist standing before his canvas of destruction. Admus wasn’t breathing as he stared at the figure, shrouded in the shadow of the tall brick buildings, his face hidden by dark shadow while a single strong forearm gripped the Ratman by the throat, pinning his freshly killed corpse up against the brick wall. Spots of blood flecked the golden tan skin of the assailant, cascading his ordinary casual white jacket with a mosaic of crimson liquid. Stained blue jeans turned from sapphire blue to the purple of a killer. Admus’s heart skipped a beat as he carefully watched the killer slowly remove his hand, letting the body drop down the wall with a sickening crunch, the Ratman’s body landing with a splash in the bloody pile of garbage. His body crumpled like a ragdoll, and the figure stared down at the Ratman, breathing slightly heavily as he stared down at his bloodstained hands, looking once at the small crater in the wall he had left when smashing the Ratman into it… For the first time since he was a small kid, Admus did not know how to get out of this street danger…

That bastard killed the Ratman, he thought inwardly, his heart pounding as he watched the figure slowly look down at his work, glancing at each of the writhing rats, sadistically stepping on a dying beast with a sickening crunch, small bones snapping underneath ordinary white sneakers, What the hell? He lifted the crazy old man into the air and smashed him into the wall. What happened to the rats? How did Ratman get all those cuts? What the hell is this guy? However as these thoughts poured through Admus’s head, he suddenly felt a burning sensation growing in his throat. Oh crap, he thought, desperately trying to suppress it, using every fiber of his being to suppress what he knew was coming, I swear to never smoke again… God dammit…However, his silent pleas were of no avail. With widening eyes and a screw you letter from his black lungs, series of hacking coughs spat out from his mouth, and he hacked out his lungs, his eyes widening as he took a step back, his hand over his mouth as payback made its way out of his mouth. Time froze for a second as he stepped backward, his eyes widening with fear as the figure froze, slowly turning at the sound, eyes locking with Admus’s. They were hollow… empty holes void of life and care…

“Dammit,” swore Admus, turning on his heel and running, sprinting away from the corner as his sneakers beat the ground. Dust rose from the ground as he sped away, his heart racing, his lungs heaving as he ran for his life. He pounded the pavement, hurling himself forward through garbage as he thought he heard heavy breathing behind him. He didn’t turn around, in fear that all he would see were those heavy hollow eyes burning into him again… Dammit… However, his feet left the sidewalk, he suddenly felt a sudden roaring sound, and quickly turned his head only to catch a faceful of wind, a sudden explosion of air slamming into him, the blast of air pushing him forward like a cork shooting out of a bottle. He shouted as air sliced him, like small knives cutting at his body, and he shut his eyes as he tumbled like a doll in a tornado. Helpless in the wind, he tore forward, bouncing after brick wall after brick wall as he was forcibly slammed through the labyrinth of alleys, his body suddenly going limp as he slammed against a particularly hard brick wall. His vision exploded for a second, descending into darkness as he went black. The last images he would see were those hollow, sinister eyes… as dark as the deepest manhole in the city… What was he?

TO BE CONTINUED​

 

[madammina]

THANK YOU! I was waiting for this!

In my utter embarrassment, I've forgotten my Navajo's name... but Thank you for remembering this and putting it up. good job!

 

[Xeon{Myroku}]

Nice work. You know I thought you might have abadon this for it being so late.

 

[Nebula Zero]

Yes. I love it.

Expecting the next update :3

 

[tdc456]

Amazing stuff.
Can't wait for more.