Post by NDKilla on Oct 13, 2014 9:37:54 GMT -5
Hot.
That is the first word that 16-year-old William Beckham thought of when he regained consciousness in the middle of the Sonoran Desert on October 25th, 2113.
Shit.
That is the second word that William thought of. He already knew what had happened to him. Under very few circumstances does a boy his age wake up in the middle of the desert. He was already aware of what desert he was in just because of the circumstances. The project was not unheard of. In fact, he had been dreading this day.
“Damn it” he mumbled a curse as he sat up and wiped the sand off of his shirt.
He looked around, hoping that he wouldn’t see another person. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, not yet. He wasn’t ready for this. He didn’t know if he’d ever be ready, but he wanted to survive.
As he became more aware of his surroundings he stood up and spun around again. He took a few steps and picked up a large, beige backpack that was lying upside down in a sand drift. As he reached and grabbed it, he noticed his right arm was very sore, even though he was feeling more and more energetic the more he moved. He lifted up the short sleeve of his t-shirt and saw what he had already known would be there. A little red mark, not covered by anything, was on his arm; it was where he had been injected.
He traced his finger in a small circle around the mark as he sighed. He stretched and then sat down, setting the bag to his right side in the sand. He dusted sand off the top and unzipped it, rummaging through the bag, constantly cautious of his surroundings.
Inside the pack, he found two sets of clothes identical to the one he was wearing: boxers, baggy, beige cargo shorts, and a plain white t-shirt. He also found a map, 2 canteens full of water, and the cold grip of what looked like a gun.
He pulled the gun out of the pack and set it on the ground in front of him. The end of it was solid and there was a glowing red dot on the left side of the grip.
He wasn’t ready for this. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He wanted to survive.
He took a sip out of the canteen, enjoying the crisp taste of ice water. He was dropped off recently.
He picked up the gun and shivered as he once again felt the cool metal grip. He gripped it tighter as he stood up and slung the pack over his shoulders.
“Bang,” he said quietly as he aimed the gun down at the ground and started to squeeze the trigger.
A red line appeared on the left side of the barrel, visible to him. A red beam appeared from the front of the gun before his fingertip slipped off the trigger. The red line on the side of the gun disappeared.
His eyes widened as he looked down and dropped the gun. He leaned down and stared at a black spot on the ground. He poked it. It was glassy and cool. He dug into the sand and picked it up; it appeared to be a black piece of glass.
He stood up and slid the glass into a pocket; it weighed down his pocket a bit and pressed against his leg. It was surprisingly heavy and it was almost bullet shaped.
That is the first word that 16-year-old William Beckham thought of when he regained consciousness in the middle of the Sonoran Desert on October 25th, 2113.
Shit.
That is the second word that William thought of. He already knew what had happened to him. Under very few circumstances does a boy his age wake up in the middle of the desert. He was already aware of what desert he was in just because of the circumstances. The project was not unheard of. In fact, he had been dreading this day.
“Damn it” he mumbled a curse as he sat up and wiped the sand off of his shirt.
He looked around, hoping that he wouldn’t see another person. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, not yet. He wasn’t ready for this. He didn’t know if he’d ever be ready, but he wanted to survive.
As he became more aware of his surroundings he stood up and spun around again. He took a few steps and picked up a large, beige backpack that was lying upside down in a sand drift. As he reached and grabbed it, he noticed his right arm was very sore, even though he was feeling more and more energetic the more he moved. He lifted up the short sleeve of his t-shirt and saw what he had already known would be there. A little red mark, not covered by anything, was on his arm; it was where he had been injected.
He traced his finger in a small circle around the mark as he sighed. He stretched and then sat down, setting the bag to his right side in the sand. He dusted sand off the top and unzipped it, rummaging through the bag, constantly cautious of his surroundings.
Inside the pack, he found two sets of clothes identical to the one he was wearing: boxers, baggy, beige cargo shorts, and a plain white t-shirt. He also found a map, 2 canteens full of water, and the cold grip of what looked like a gun.
He pulled the gun out of the pack and set it on the ground in front of him. The end of it was solid and there was a glowing red dot on the left side of the grip.
He wasn’t ready for this. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He wanted to survive.
He took a sip out of the canteen, enjoying the crisp taste of ice water. He was dropped off recently.
He picked up the gun and shivered as he once again felt the cool metal grip. He gripped it tighter as he stood up and slung the pack over his shoulders.
“Bang,” he said quietly as he aimed the gun down at the ground and started to squeeze the trigger.
A red line appeared on the left side of the barrel, visible to him. A red beam appeared from the front of the gun before his fingertip slipped off the trigger. The red line on the side of the gun disappeared.
His eyes widened as he looked down and dropped the gun. He leaned down and stared at a black spot on the ground. He poked it. It was glassy and cool. He dug into the sand and picked it up; it appeared to be a black piece of glass.
He stood up and slid the glass into a pocket; it weighed down his pocket a bit and pressed against his leg. It was surprisingly heavy and it was almost bullet shaped.