Post by Kosovo on Dec 18, 2012 2:58:38 GMT -6
It's four in the morning and I really shouldn't still be awake, but I got an attack of the muses earlier this evening and produced a short story. Yes, this takes place in the same universe as the roleplay; I may or may not decide to make it an actual thing that actually happened in a later RP. Yes, it's centered around my character; what do you expect? I hope you enjoy it.
It was late in the evening, but a light still burned in the window of one house in the small village as Kosovo approached. Everyone else must be asleep already, he presumed, setting his sights on the one house that seemed to have occupants he might ask for shelter. It looked familiar, somehow, and as he drew near he recognized the voices that drifted from the open window as Bosnia and Albania, two reasonably close neighbors of his.
“—since they left?” Bosnia was saying. Kosovo paused where he was, unwilling to interrupt and wondering what was going on.
Albania heaved a lengthy sigh. “Nothing. I phoned Alfred today, but his answering machine message said he wouldn't be back until two weeks ago.”
There was a pause, wherein Bosnia seemed to be weighing the news. “So it's not just Vasile, Snezana, and Astrit?”
At the sound of his name, Kosovo jumped and hurried closer again. Did this mean they thought he was missing? When had he had time to go missing?
As he walked, he could hear Albania's reply: “It's them, and it's also Natalia and Katya and Alfred, probably Arthur and Matthew too, and Ana María, both Italians, and even Ivan and Sadiq that seem to be just... gone. There may be more. I haven't even tried to get hold of everyone. You've been holding down the fort all right here?”
“It could be better,” Bosnia confessed. “There's something in the air. People seem to think something has happened to them, and I'm not sure I disagree anymore.”
Kosovo sped up, anxious now to prove that he was alive, that the worries were groundless. He was nearly to the open door by the time Albania replied, “Do you have any idea what that might be?”
“I don't know,” Bosnia admitted.
Kosovo raced in the door and called, “Hello!”
Bosnia and Albania were huddled around a fireplace only a few yards away, but they gave no sign that they had heard. A moment later, though, they did react to the sound of Albania's cell phone ringing.
“Hello?”
Kosovo stopped trying to get their attention, letting Albania listen. After a while, the older nation began to shake, and pleaded into the phone, “Are you sure it was them? No doubt about it?”
A listening pause. “Then—?”
Another long pause, and then a strained “Thank you.” Albania hung up, and turned to Bosnia. “News from someone who works for Alfred. They found bodies just outside the place where the countries were meeting. They've tentatively identified two as Snezana and Astrit.”
Kosovo froze. What?
Bosnia evidenced almost as much shock. “How do they even know? What could kill a nation?”
“I don't know,” Albania sighed despairingly. “But we'll have to make sure it's really them...”
No matter how he tried, Kosovo could not get their attention.
One long, desperate trip later, Kosovo was still shadowing his neighbors as they entered a bleak, sterile morgue with a dispassionate nurse's aide and an American police officer as their guides. They had given their human names to the officer, who asked the aide for the appropriate bodies. The aide showed them to a table with a covered body on it, and pulled back the cloth covering.
Even if he had still expected anyone to hear him, Kosovo's cry of dismay would have been hard to distinguish from the similar sounds Bosnia and Albania made at the sight of the dead woman. It was Serbia, her neat hair now matted with blood, her eyes mercifully closed but unmoving, her skin excessively pale, but her face nonetheless clearly recognizable. Kosovo sank to the ground, weeping for his sister, whom he had never really hated. He had not liked some things she did, but he had never questioned or denied that she should live, and have her own place to do it in. All he had wanted was the same courtesy from her, and now she was gone and he would never be able to have peace with her.
Who else was gone? And why? How?
Kosovo forced himself to his feet as Serbia's face was covered again, and followed the small group to another table. The body on this one was significantly smaller, just a little lump in the broad expanse of cloth by comparison. A sense of foreboding dropped swiftly into his stomach, and was almost instantly dispelled by his fear coming to pass as the shroud was pulled away to reveal the corpse's face.
The stark white face was, but for its deathly pallor and fearful expression, the same one that Kosovo saw when he looked in a mirror. His lightless eyes stared blindly up at the ceiling, at some terror that had taken away their sight and life, except that that wasn't possible, because here he stood seeing with those same eyes. Behind him, Bosnia was confirming for the police officer that yes, this boy was Astrit Zupan, a thirteen-year-old from the disputed nation of Kosovo, that he was the younger brother of the Serbian girl they had just seen, that he too had been in Louisiana for a haunted house party—and yes, he really was thirteen, even though by American standards he looked younger...
The police officer continued questioning Bosnia and Albania unabated, even as Kosovo's attention was forcibly reallocated by the sudden, shocking sound of cackling. An old woman, draped in a long, black, hooded cloak and wearing a malicious grin, swooped down upon him out of nowhere that he could see.
“Did you think you could survive in the manor?” she crowed. “What a lesson you have to learn, little boy. You've been dead since you arrived; you merely haven't bothered to accept it yet...”
Astrit screamed and sat bolt upright in bed. It was dark, but he could see his sister's outline in the other of the pair of twin beds in the room. Breathing hard, trying to calm himself, he pressed his hand to his pounding heart. He could feel his pulse in plenty of other places, but somehow he needed the extra dose of confirmation that his heartbeat was still there. The dim shape of his sleeping sister drew his eye again, and he wondered if Snezana would mind—or bother him—if he crawled into her bed for the time being.
--------------------------------------------------------
It was late in the evening, but a light still burned in the window of one house in the small village as Kosovo approached. Everyone else must be asleep already, he presumed, setting his sights on the one house that seemed to have occupants he might ask for shelter. It looked familiar, somehow, and as he drew near he recognized the voices that drifted from the open window as Bosnia and Albania, two reasonably close neighbors of his.
“—since they left?” Bosnia was saying. Kosovo paused where he was, unwilling to interrupt and wondering what was going on.
Albania heaved a lengthy sigh. “Nothing. I phoned Alfred today, but his answering machine message said he wouldn't be back until two weeks ago.”
There was a pause, wherein Bosnia seemed to be weighing the news. “So it's not just Vasile, Snezana, and Astrit?”
At the sound of his name, Kosovo jumped and hurried closer again. Did this mean they thought he was missing? When had he had time to go missing?
As he walked, he could hear Albania's reply: “It's them, and it's also Natalia and Katya and Alfred, probably Arthur and Matthew too, and Ana María, both Italians, and even Ivan and Sadiq that seem to be just... gone. There may be more. I haven't even tried to get hold of everyone. You've been holding down the fort all right here?”
“It could be better,” Bosnia confessed. “There's something in the air. People seem to think something has happened to them, and I'm not sure I disagree anymore.”
Kosovo sped up, anxious now to prove that he was alive, that the worries were groundless. He was nearly to the open door by the time Albania replied, “Do you have any idea what that might be?”
“I don't know,” Bosnia admitted.
Kosovo raced in the door and called, “Hello!”
Bosnia and Albania were huddled around a fireplace only a few yards away, but they gave no sign that they had heard. A moment later, though, they did react to the sound of Albania's cell phone ringing.
“Hello?”
Kosovo stopped trying to get their attention, letting Albania listen. After a while, the older nation began to shake, and pleaded into the phone, “Are you sure it was them? No doubt about it?”
A listening pause. “Then—?”
Another long pause, and then a strained “Thank you.” Albania hung up, and turned to Bosnia. “News from someone who works for Alfred. They found bodies just outside the place where the countries were meeting. They've tentatively identified two as Snezana and Astrit.”
Kosovo froze. What?
Bosnia evidenced almost as much shock. “How do they even know? What could kill a nation?”
“I don't know,” Albania sighed despairingly. “But we'll have to make sure it's really them...”
No matter how he tried, Kosovo could not get their attention.
One long, desperate trip later, Kosovo was still shadowing his neighbors as they entered a bleak, sterile morgue with a dispassionate nurse's aide and an American police officer as their guides. They had given their human names to the officer, who asked the aide for the appropriate bodies. The aide showed them to a table with a covered body on it, and pulled back the cloth covering.
Even if he had still expected anyone to hear him, Kosovo's cry of dismay would have been hard to distinguish from the similar sounds Bosnia and Albania made at the sight of the dead woman. It was Serbia, her neat hair now matted with blood, her eyes mercifully closed but unmoving, her skin excessively pale, but her face nonetheless clearly recognizable. Kosovo sank to the ground, weeping for his sister, whom he had never really hated. He had not liked some things she did, but he had never questioned or denied that she should live, and have her own place to do it in. All he had wanted was the same courtesy from her, and now she was gone and he would never be able to have peace with her.
Who else was gone? And why? How?
Kosovo forced himself to his feet as Serbia's face was covered again, and followed the small group to another table. The body on this one was significantly smaller, just a little lump in the broad expanse of cloth by comparison. A sense of foreboding dropped swiftly into his stomach, and was almost instantly dispelled by his fear coming to pass as the shroud was pulled away to reveal the corpse's face.
The stark white face was, but for its deathly pallor and fearful expression, the same one that Kosovo saw when he looked in a mirror. His lightless eyes stared blindly up at the ceiling, at some terror that had taken away their sight and life, except that that wasn't possible, because here he stood seeing with those same eyes. Behind him, Bosnia was confirming for the police officer that yes, this boy was Astrit Zupan, a thirteen-year-old from the disputed nation of Kosovo, that he was the younger brother of the Serbian girl they had just seen, that he too had been in Louisiana for a haunted house party—and yes, he really was thirteen, even though by American standards he looked younger...
The police officer continued questioning Bosnia and Albania unabated, even as Kosovo's attention was forcibly reallocated by the sudden, shocking sound of cackling. An old woman, draped in a long, black, hooded cloak and wearing a malicious grin, swooped down upon him out of nowhere that he could see.
“Did you think you could survive in the manor?” she crowed. “What a lesson you have to learn, little boy. You've been dead since you arrived; you merely haven't bothered to accept it yet...”
Astrit screamed and sat bolt upright in bed. It was dark, but he could see his sister's outline in the other of the pair of twin beds in the room. Breathing hard, trying to calm himself, he pressed his hand to his pounding heart. He could feel his pulse in plenty of other places, but somehow he needed the extra dose of confirmation that his heartbeat was still there. The dim shape of his sleeping sister drew his eye again, and he wondered if Snezana would mind—or bother him—if he crawled into her bed for the time being.