Nadar Hassallen
Employee
When all you've got is nothing, there's a lot to go around.[Mo0:13]
Posts: 21 
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Post by Nadar Hassallen on Mar 7, 2011 3:18:32 GMT -5
0300 Hours:
The ground was horribly damp against the calloused skin of the boy's feet, each step making him feel as if he could be sucked underground with every pound of pressure pressed on it. Yes. He was absolutely quiet; he had grown used to the sensation of having a closed mouth.. In fact, he quite preferred it. Without communication for several months, he had hardly even thought of talking to another soul. What was the point? They were all thinking the exact same things.. they did not wish to be there either. He, especially, wished to be gone. These people. These monsters. They had taken everything from him.. and why? He was only a boy. Now thirteen years old, he was a mere child. That, however, was not how the monsters saw him. He was a number. Another being to hand artillery to and simply scream "fire" at. Well, he would no longer be their dog. He had been beaten. He had faced the worst of it all. At least, that was what he believed-- When Nadar heard a noise coming from the left, sounding anywhere from twenty to thirty feet away, his entire frame froze. When he heard another twig snap, then several more.. that was when he took off in a sprint toward the gate. Ten feet high, he figured that, with a bit of work, he could climb his way over. It was a decent plan, and he was certain that, with his flexibility and stamina, he may have had some sort of chance in the matter of getting away. Running free. Freedom seemed the world to him now. Now that everything else that he held dear was gone... it was the potential to being that the boy had left. It was everything that he could possibly have hoped for. Maybe even more. There had been stories going around. Stories of how the Western World was free. In the West, a man could be exactly what he wished to be. Say what he wanted... but now was not the time for speaking. Now that the boy had caused a scene, he had several men following after him, trailing at an unsafe distance behind. He could have looked and spied them... but he did not wish to waste the time. He needed to focus on getting away. Freedom. Freedom. That was exactly what the boy needed at that moment, but something was holding him back. The load on his back. The tiny bit of belongings that he had left.. They were slowing him down. The only book he was able to salvage. The pair of clothing that he had had on his back when first he was captured. A new pair of socks.. and an MG3 general purposed machine gun. He dropped it all. He dropped it all and sprinted into the fastest sort of gallop that he could possibly muster. It was, however, futile. When his stubbed and dirty fingers hit the steel rings of fence, someone had already grabbed at his shirt. By that point, he was too afraid to even bother with questions. Why had no one been shooting at him? Why so few precautions in catching him? It was then that Nadar saw the gun.
BANG.
The man's shoulder was practically burning when the frame of his torso shot up from his own little corner. He had not expected to scream, but, at times, he could not refrain from doing so. It had always reminded him of flashbacks from novels. Times when the narrator or protagonist would have some life-revealing flashback from days long since past. Something with relevance to his or her current situation. Of course, Nadar had nothing to relate his past experiences with in the present date. Things were different now. Freedom was apparent and, if he wanted to keep a novel, he could simply keep it. There was no reason to hide any of his belongings.. because there was no person readying to take them. Of course, he could not exactly call for random occurrences of deus ex machina-- but the hand of God could never be taken into too much foresight. As for some picture of foreshadowing, there was none to be seen from his nightmare. Aptly said, and obvious, his life was not merely a story to be recited. These were actual events that had taken place. True stories that might be shared about a fireplace. War tales that your grandfather expresses every time that the two of you meet. One too many times. He did not take note on how this phase of his life would set him in the position of falling actions, nor did he figure that there was some sort of resolution in his grasp. At least, not to an immediate sense of radification that his entire life could be summed into. As for that moment, on that cold night in the freezing climate of Alaska.. Nadar was in the West. He was not about to be shot by a KL-7 assault rifle. His shoulder was hurting, yes.. but that was probably because he had slept on the floor once again. Though, truly, he was starting to wonder if he was having sympathy pains.. Pains of sympathy for the child he once had been. Though, now, he was no longer a child. And after taking several moments to calm himself and put on proper attire (a tight black shirt he had recently purchased for what he had been told was a "once in a life-time offer!"), he stood at the door of his room, then slipped out into the hallway. It took seconds for him to reach his destination. A semi-resolute position for his current situation. At that time, he sat himself at the door of one Fyedka Reiji Tchaikyov. He then quieted his breathing, pressed his ear to the man's door.. and listened for any sort of movement. He did not, after all, wish to disturb the man. His.. fiance.
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Post by Fyedka Tchaikyov on Mar 22, 2011 22:03:51 GMT -5
  Something in him kept him from sleep again tonight.
It was normal, he knew, for him to stay up for days at a time, over and over again. How irritating... Given, after Nadar was at his side in this place, it seemed to be easier to sleep, to have someone beside him as well, which caused him to have a flutter at the pit of his stomach, reaching to his chest or his throat, causing slight discomfort, slight anxiety, but even more so, it caused excitement in him, under his skin like a lit flame, burning him, branding him. Was this love? This flaming excitement, mixed with a terrible fear that something would go wrong, someone would change, and everything would fall apart, everything would just... end. And he couldn't do that. He couldn't lose someone so close to him, so dear to him. It was that fear that kept him awake some nights. It was that fear that kept him in the darkness, staring at a wall—it was either that, or he was at his desk, writing frantically as if it would give him some calm, the notes would scrape against the paper, again sometimes repeated over and over, and other times sporadic, ever-changing and not quite all there, an insane type of tune, similar perhaps to the Rite of Spring, or others. But the Rite of Spring had a point and had a method, whether those who first had heard it recognized the movement or not. He could understand it, he could listen and listen and listen again, and still yet, he would listen some more, and would learn a little more with each listening moment, each moment he opened his ears and his mind and allowed the music to take him where it was designed to take him. This piece was not methodical, really, but the cello was deep and filled with roots, with the spines of the entire ensemble.
The flutes would pick up in the third quarter, with some serenity masked with the cellos, believing them some sort of relief from the tension, and so they would be. Slowly and surely, the flutes would take over from the deep roots of utter chaos, tension, and would combine with acoustic guitar, plucked and not strummed, because the tunes were Ornate in nature, were specifically from the Mid-east, playing some sort of history that no one would know, and yet the strums of a melting heart would soar and tremble in the wake of the sheer simplicity, hiding away the meanings from prying ears, prying eyes... prying children.
After hours, though, he was weary. It was early in the morning now, but his shades and curtains prevented any potential light from leaking into his bedroom. Whether or not there was light outside he wasn't sure. He still hadn't gotten accustomed to the odd days and nights in this place. Half the time, he wasn't sure if it was morning or afternoon until he looked at a clock, only to discover that it was ten at night. It was excruciatingly annoying, you had to realize, and for a man who was already easily annoyed, it was even worse to deal with. And so he sat with only the light of his lamp to keep him company in the darkened room, the corner's shadows seeming to loom ever so closer to him while his hand wrapped around his rosary, thumbing the beads absently as he stared at the notes in front of him, trying to make sense of whatever he had written, the ever-changing tune of his mind, over and over, but calm in the end, with the fingering of the guitars keeping him casual, keeping him in check, keeping him sane. He felt tired, but he knew that once he laid onto the bed, his mind would be at work again, and he would be up soon, writing down more notes, or perhaps simply thinking, about the past or about the future, even about current things, such as relationships or enemies, or a lack of annoyance that he had once even favored above the others. So instead, he plucked his guitar from beside his bed and settled it onto his lap, crossing his ankle over his knee. He strummed gently, then plucked just a small tune. He wondered absently... would he be awake..? No, he didn't suppose he would be... But he himself was now more awake than he had even been before hand. He sighed some and placed his guitar onto the mattress, standing and pulling on a shirt and his jacket, then a loose maroon scarf. But the moment he pulled open his own door, he stopped, and blinked.
“Nadar..?”
He paused once again, staring down at the man for a moment or two. What would he be doing, here... at his door, just simply... sitting..? Perhaps he had been waiting for him, or maybe something was wrong? Was something wrong? He couldn't see if anything was wrong... But still, he crouched in front of him and smiled just a little. “You can come in.. if you'd like,” he always was at a loss for words around this man. Never knew what to say. He had never been in situations like these before, with anyone. It had to be shocking. He had never met anyone that he didn't know what to say to, because everyone had been exactly the same. Everyone he had insulted and bitten down, chewed out, made them cry, but him..? Fyedka was at a loss, and he loved that more than most anything else. Because it was special...
It was only for his Nadar. His.. fiance.
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