08-30-2015, 07:28 PM
[spoiler]
The marionette finally came to a halt, and found refuge at a small, circular clearing in the forest. He had put at least a few furlongs of distance between he and whatever the fucked chased him, and finally took the time to look back.
He clapped each hand against its corresponding knee, hunched over, and peered under his armpit; nobody was there. Not a soul—not Top Man, Lyra, Onion . . . not even that devious goblin, Grobdum—trailed him. All that stood behind him was the willow tree that hooked over the path he blazed into the clearing, drenching it with its drooping leaves, which were dead in color.
I have to find the little ghost girl, Pinocchio told himself; so far, his search for Omni seemed more like a survivor game (he could imagine a group of shadowy figures, all hunkered over, watching the carnage with wide grins, half-shown behind fat cigars). Orc militia, murder temples, flesh-eating lunatics, what else? In the note he read, ghost girl never mentioned any of it, not even that one minute detail—she broadcasted the same message across the Omniverse, spreading it like a contagion.
“CLAYTON” a voice boomed from Pinocchio’s northwest.
The marionette hopped up, startled. He swiveled his head to an extent unfathomable to human anatomy, and set his gaze over a line of overgrown bushes. It was difficult to depict the figures as they danced around in half-colored blurs, but he knew they weren’t orcs, nor flesh-eating lunatics; whoever they were, the name CLAYTON was foreign to Pinocchio.
His eyes darted around for a worthy place to hide—a charred tree not far from his left would have to suffice. He pounced over to it and climbed its bark like a squirrel. The tree felt dry and decayed, but he conquered it and lay flat across its sole branch.
Footsteps shambled below him, and he could hear different voices congregating. One person articulated their wariness of Clayton. It was the same voice which roared his name, and from the sound of it, belonged to a headstrong female.
“Is there a problem?” another voice inquired, entering into the discussion.
Pinocchio heard the female subtly gasp, but she quickly collected herself. “These freaks,” she astutely replied, “that’s what the problem is.”
If she were made of wood, and restrained to the same laws as the marionette, her nose would have grown like an appendage to a pervert whom caught a glimpse up a woman’s skirt.
“That’s not what you said,” Pinocchio muttered. “You said the hunter might become a problem.”
“Yes, that too,” the woman said shouting towards the tree. “Thank you for reminding me.”
Pinocchio threw both hands over his open mouth; the woman heard him. As he rolled onto his side to catch a glance of the people under him, his eyes locked with the woman’s own. She saw him. Her dark irises pierced through the curtain of her long bang, and shot metaphorical lasers towards the marionette.
She did not seem mad, simply exasperated. Her visage carried the wounds of attrition, bagged under her eyes in puffy sacs. They told the tales of her mental and emotional anguish, and her far-too-extended trudge in search of answers. And the ghost girl.
Her two accomplices looked the same. The tall, slender man to her right had a broken posture, and his pale skin only served to highlight the wrinkles across his face, which were far too strong for someone of his age; the man to the woman’s left was glossed in sweat, and his armor was smeared with crisscrosses of blood.
None of them came off as aggressive, but Pinocchio did not trust them—if this woman’s cast of friends were the type to pull blades on one another then they were the marionette’s type of people. He trusted Groddum more than them.
“General . . .” her armored comrade said in a drifting tone.
This was Pinochhio’s chance, and he seized it, rolling back over and out of the tree, while the woman’s eyes were shifted away from him; neither the woman nor her goons noticed the hollow thud of Pinocchio’s body bouncing off of the bare ground. He winced as a dull pain shot up his ass, but the fear of not knowing the intentions of the woman and her band fueled him to grab his sore cheek, and lumber towards the willow tree.
Where was his temple-running crew when he needed them? Probably where he abandoned them, somewhere on the other side of the thick foliage he escaped through. He left them as soon as things became hostile, too afraid to help them. What a stupid and selfish move.
As soon as Pinocchio broke through the willow’s barrier of leaves he collapsed to his knees, and pounded his fists against the ground. “I’m such a punk,” he grieved. “I don’t deserve to be a real boy; I’m just a useless tool for entertainment!”
Then a familiar voice echoed: “Little dude!”
“Top Man!” Pinocchio’s head shot up; the voice was close.
The leaves on the other side of the willow shook, and he shot a look over there. Top Man, and the others, it had to be. A comforting feeling floated cover his shoulders, and as a pair of hands parted the leaves he couldn’t help but smile like a child watching their parent walk through the front door. But those feelings ended abruptly, and his smile bowed into a quivering frown as a grunting man hauled himself towards the marionette.
“C-c-can I help you?” Pinocchio stammered, taking a step back. Then another.
The man replied with a groan, and limped forward, dragging his back leg. Below his short-sleeve Hawaiian shirt, chunks of missing flesh ran down both arms, varying in size and depth.
“A-are you . . . ok?” Pinocchio asked, but then stopped in his tracks as he saw the man’s cold, white, lifeless eyes; the man lunged forward, throwing his hands out to grab the marionette. “What’re you doing?!”
The man’s hands latched onto Pinocchio’s shoulders, and with a jerk, he pulled the marionette forward, towards his opening mouth. Strings of saliva stretched from his rotten upper teeth to his jagged lower ones, and Pinocchio felt them closing in and around his nose.
“Pinocchio!” It was the voice of Lyra; must be in his head, like a memory flash right before death.
Pinocchio slammed his eyes shut, accepting his fate, but before he felt any pain a warm liquid splashed over his face. He opened his eyes.
The man let go of Pinocchio’s shoulders and wobbled in place. His head had been caved in from the top, smashed like a baked potato, with brain matter and blood bulging out in a soufflé. He slouched forward for a second, but then collapsed over on his side and rolled onto his stomach. Dead.
“Saved your nose there,” Top Man said, smiling. “Thought we lost you there, for a second.”
Pinocchio let out a sigh of relief. “Man am I glad to see you. I thought I was d—“
“Dead?” The robot chucked. “Not on Lyra’s watch. Let’s just get back to the others.”
“They’re not mad that I ran off?” Pinoccho dipped his head in shame.
“Nah, dude. Plus there’s a whole army of us now.”
Pinocchio whipped his head back up. “Army?” he inquired.
Top Man just smirked. “I can show you better than I can tell you.”[/spoiler]
[spoiler]
Top Man was right, an army had been assembled; Pinocchio had seen all of their faces before. They were the same people he saw at the destination ghost girl gave, before the plume of smoke scattered everyone like roaches. He remembered the gleams from their gun barrels, and blades, and how they twinkled in the beams of sunlight that broke through the canopy. But now they were all stained with blood and gunk, which told stories of their experiences like tattoos.
Some people were missing, and almost everyone had sustained some sort of ailment, emotional or physical. Hope still sparkled in the eyes of most, though, and while moods overall were low, morale was pleasantly high—“we’re gonna meet Omni and demand a ransom!” one man said as he put the final touches on his leaf-and-branch shelter, receiving a few cheers.
They weren’t as bad as Pinocchio first thought. Were some violent, sure. Were others borderline sociopaths? Check. But the marionette deduced they were no worse than any other community of people; considering the circumstances, they were quite angelic (CLAYTON didn’t pull a blade on anybody).
Many days passed without a lead, and with the exception of a failed orc raid (Pinocchio even kept true to his word, staying to fight instead of running), all there was left to do was survive.
A lot of nights Pinocchio spent laying in his shelter, gazing up through the hole in the canopy, and into the sky. He thought about Gingy. Why didn’t the pastry just create Pinocchio as a human? If primes had so much power it was certainly possible. Gingy could just make it reality—pop! goodbye termites, hello acne! As he continued to dwell on it, resentment began to manifest. A true friend would recognize his dream, and make it true. Pinocchio would do it for Gingy, if roles were reversed. Why not then? Maybe Gingy wasn’t a true friend, just someone who enjoyed the company of a wooden puppet.[/spoiler]
[spoiler]
“And the humans go out to forage for food,” Top Man said, pointing over to a patch of berry-rich bushes as Lyra crouched down and ripped a vine from it. He and Pinocchio spectated from their sitting positions. “The average human must consume at least two thousand calories worth of food, a day, to survive.” He stuck his finger into the cylinder of his ear and looked over at Pinocchio. “I’ve been reduced to an Animal Planet commentator. Aren’t you glad you don’t have to eat all the time? I know I am. Sounds pretty inefficient to me.”
The marionette took it as a joke, and smiled faintly. “Helps them grow though,” he replied, and then frowned. “Something we can’t do.”
Top Man cocked an eye. “What, you jealous of that?”
“Well, yeah. Me and you are stuck the way we are, for eternity. We don’t grow, we don’t mature.”
“We don’t die,” the robot quipped.
“We don’t get to feel love, or any of those things, either,” Pinocchio pouted, sinking his head between his thighs.
Top Man clapped a hand on the marionette’s shoulder. “Sure you do—sure we do. We have personality, and we have emotions. They may not be produced by hormones, and chemical processes, but we have them. Our anatomy is just different. I don’t know how your internals work, but I have a circuit board, and other technologies, which mimic those jobs.”
“I’m just enchanted,” the marionette replied with a sigh.
“Hey, sounds good to me, lil dude. That what makes you you. I like being my own person, and not like everyone else. I don’t envy humans at all, and you shouldn’t either. I’m sure all your friends appreciate you for the guy you are now. I do.” He paused. “Is that why you want to meet Omni, to become a human?”
“To become a prime, which then I could turn myself human,” Pinocchio replied. “I’ve always wanted to be a real boy . . . to be able to grow, and become an adult. Maybe start a family . . . normal life type stuff.”
“I suppose that’s a good reason. I could see some benefits to being a prime. Just don’t stress over it, because you’re pretty awesome the way you are.”
“Really?” Pinocchio looked up at Top Man. His eyes burned, but did not water. But the emotion was there; Top Man’s words had encouraged him some.
“Yeah, man,” he replied, and raised an open palm. “Up top.”
Pinocchio smiled, and smacked his wooden palm against the robots metallic one, producing a hollow ting![/spoiler]
[spoiler]
Pinocchio spent the next night digesting everything Top Man had told him. It was a message about being comfortable in his own skin, and appreciating who he was. Self-worth, and all that jazz. He had heard that discussion before, and even explained far better, but never before did it ring so true. Maybe because every other time he received that message it was from the lips of a human, or other living and breathing creature. Never from another person like himself, an autonomous object.
Even Gingy never gave him a talk like that, and he wasn’t exactly human either. The thought began to agitate Pinocchio until he rationalized it. Perhaps, Gingy wanted him to discover it on his own. Pinocchio was always hard at hearing when it came to advice. Before now, at least—always marching to the thump of his own drum, instead.
Maybe that was the true reason he wanted to be a real boy . . . it was about being his own person—doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Maturation brought independence; as a prime, the marionette would have complete freedom, unrestrained by the laws which currently governed him.
Though Top Man made him realize he was perfect the way he was, Pinocchio wanted the freedom to experience all that life had to offer him.[/spoiler]
“Let’s go around!” Pinocchio heard.
How?
The fog stretched both east and west, as far as Pinocchio could see, and stopped just short of the swamp bank in front of the group. It was thick, and black, towering over them like a foreboding wall . . . the wall to their cemetery, possibly. Myths about the swamp, and its mysterious fog, stretched as far as Camelot—Swamp of Sadness, they called it. No one that’s ever entered it has escaped; it eats you whole, and swallows you as easy as air.
They had left their camp earlier that day, chasing the only clue available. Pinocchio remained skeptical, but it was either enter the swamp, or stay at the camp, and hate himself for never knowing if what lied behind the fog.
With a strong sigh, he took his first step into the swamp; his leg sunk up to the knee instantly, almost tipping him over, but he managed to stay standing. Grass growing from the swamp floor brushed up against his abdomen as he moved deeper into it, making it difficult for him to maneuver, but he pushed forward, raking it aside with his forearms.
He made it to the wall of fog with nothing more than a bad case of waterlog, taking a moment to stare at it before entering. If Pinocchio crossed the fog there was no going back—he couldn’t just whimper, flail his arms, and retreat--, and he knew that. No, he’d have to put his manpants on, and face whatever awaited him. He tried to keep a stern external, but deep down he was scared shitless. Turning around and leaving ran a few laps in his mind, and nearly persuaded him, but he refused. If he could kill orcs, proceed through trivial temples, and survive flesheaters, damnit he could walk through a fog. This adventure of chasing his dream had progressed into more than just a fantasy hunt—it was a journey to find himself.
As Pinocchio entered into the fog everything became dark, after only a couple of steps. He brought his hand to his face, but could barely make out the details of it. All he saw was the contrast of complexion. He turned around, expecting to see the bank of the fog, but all that welcome him was blinding darkness.
What did you expect? a voice said, giggling. Thought you’d see the end of the fog?
Pinocchio whipped back around. “Who said that?”
Does it matter? You can’t see me. I could simply be a voice in your head, for all you know.
“Who are you?” the marionette inquired. He tried to take a step backwards, but the grass locked around his ankles and wrists, keeping him in place.
It doesn’t matter. Why, are you scared?
Pinocchio growled. He tried to pull his hands free from the grass, but it just tightened its grip, wrapping around his wrists like tentacles. He could hear the voice giggling, and watching his struggle with great amusement.
Are you?
The marionette knew that if he lied his nose would grow—his giveaway. “I’ve gone through too much to be scared,” he retorted; he did go through too much.
Just because you worded it in a way where you didn’t lie doesn’t mean you’re not scared.
Memories flashed across Pinocchio’s mind like a fast-moving slideshow. It was the time he was most afraid.
You remember that day—the day when Prince Charming seized Far Far Away—and how he put in you a puppet shop. You were finally home, and with your own kind. All around you, all you could see were other toys. That’s what you are, just a toy.
[spoiler]
Pinocchio remembered that day.
A sharp pain awoke him from his sleep. As his eyes shot open, he realized he was being suspended by the strings attached to his arms. He tried to move, but a consequence of pain resulted immediately.
A crowd of people rushed towards him, pressing their bellies against the glass, which housed him. A few of the men grabbed their sons and daughters, and sat them on their shoulders for a better view. One woman emerged from the crowd, and retrieved a coin from between her cleavage. She slipped it into a compartment next to the glass, just outside of Pinocchio’s view. The marionette tried to catch a glimpse of where she put it, but as he leaned forward another shot of pain ran through his arms. As the woman stepped back, a jingle started to play from out of the compartment, and the wires attached to his wrists began to manipulate his movement.
“No!” he shouted.
The wires pulled his hands back, flopping them over his head, around his neck, and then forward. His legs flapped around like paraplegic forced to dance on crutches, but the strings controlling Pinocchio kept him from collapsing.
The crowd cheered—kids pumped their fists in the air, while their parents grinned widely, chanting “dance, dance, dance!”
Pinocchio could see more people in the background coming towards the crowd, intrigued by the spectacle. His body moved awkwardly, and then about-faced; his head was forced forward, and between his own legs, to stare back at the crowd. They burst into laughter.[/spoiler]
You remember that day, don’t you?
Quote:Getting to the camp
The marionette finally came to a halt, and found refuge at a small, circular clearing in the forest. He had put at least a few furlongs of distance between he and whatever the fucked chased him, and finally took the time to look back.
He clapped each hand against its corresponding knee, hunched over, and peered under his armpit; nobody was there. Not a soul—not Top Man, Lyra, Onion . . . not even that devious goblin, Grobdum—trailed him. All that stood behind him was the willow tree that hooked over the path he blazed into the clearing, drenching it with its drooping leaves, which were dead in color.
I have to find the little ghost girl, Pinocchio told himself; so far, his search for Omni seemed more like a survivor game (he could imagine a group of shadowy figures, all hunkered over, watching the carnage with wide grins, half-shown behind fat cigars). Orc militia, murder temples, flesh-eating lunatics, what else? In the note he read, ghost girl never mentioned any of it, not even that one minute detail—she broadcasted the same message across the Omniverse, spreading it like a contagion.
“CLAYTON” a voice boomed from Pinocchio’s northwest.
The marionette hopped up, startled. He swiveled his head to an extent unfathomable to human anatomy, and set his gaze over a line of overgrown bushes. It was difficult to depict the figures as they danced around in half-colored blurs, but he knew they weren’t orcs, nor flesh-eating lunatics; whoever they were, the name CLAYTON was foreign to Pinocchio.
His eyes darted around for a worthy place to hide—a charred tree not far from his left would have to suffice. He pounced over to it and climbed its bark like a squirrel. The tree felt dry and decayed, but he conquered it and lay flat across its sole branch.
Footsteps shambled below him, and he could hear different voices congregating. One person articulated their wariness of Clayton. It was the same voice which roared his name, and from the sound of it, belonged to a headstrong female.
“Is there a problem?” another voice inquired, entering into the discussion.
Pinocchio heard the female subtly gasp, but she quickly collected herself. “These freaks,” she astutely replied, “that’s what the problem is.”
If she were made of wood, and restrained to the same laws as the marionette, her nose would have grown like an appendage to a pervert whom caught a glimpse up a woman’s skirt.
“That’s not what you said,” Pinocchio muttered. “You said the hunter might become a problem.”
“Yes, that too,” the woman said shouting towards the tree. “Thank you for reminding me.”
Pinocchio threw both hands over his open mouth; the woman heard him. As he rolled onto his side to catch a glance of the people under him, his eyes locked with the woman’s own. She saw him. Her dark irises pierced through the curtain of her long bang, and shot metaphorical lasers towards the marionette.
She did not seem mad, simply exasperated. Her visage carried the wounds of attrition, bagged under her eyes in puffy sacs. They told the tales of her mental and emotional anguish, and her far-too-extended trudge in search of answers. And the ghost girl.
Her two accomplices looked the same. The tall, slender man to her right had a broken posture, and his pale skin only served to highlight the wrinkles across his face, which were far too strong for someone of his age; the man to the woman’s left was glossed in sweat, and his armor was smeared with crisscrosses of blood.
None of them came off as aggressive, but Pinocchio did not trust them—if this woman’s cast of friends were the type to pull blades on one another then they were the marionette’s type of people. He trusted Groddum more than them.
“General . . .” her armored comrade said in a drifting tone.
This was Pinochhio’s chance, and he seized it, rolling back over and out of the tree, while the woman’s eyes were shifted away from him; neither the woman nor her goons noticed the hollow thud of Pinocchio’s body bouncing off of the bare ground. He winced as a dull pain shot up his ass, but the fear of not knowing the intentions of the woman and her band fueled him to grab his sore cheek, and lumber towards the willow tree.
Where was his temple-running crew when he needed them? Probably where he abandoned them, somewhere on the other side of the thick foliage he escaped through. He left them as soon as things became hostile, too afraid to help them. What a stupid and selfish move.
As soon as Pinocchio broke through the willow’s barrier of leaves he collapsed to his knees, and pounded his fists against the ground. “I’m such a punk,” he grieved. “I don’t deserve to be a real boy; I’m just a useless tool for entertainment!”
Then a familiar voice echoed: “Little dude!”
“Top Man!” Pinocchio’s head shot up; the voice was close.
The leaves on the other side of the willow shook, and he shot a look over there. Top Man, and the others, it had to be. A comforting feeling floated cover his shoulders, and as a pair of hands parted the leaves he couldn’t help but smile like a child watching their parent walk through the front door. But those feelings ended abruptly, and his smile bowed into a quivering frown as a grunting man hauled himself towards the marionette.
“C-c-can I help you?” Pinocchio stammered, taking a step back. Then another.
The man replied with a groan, and limped forward, dragging his back leg. Below his short-sleeve Hawaiian shirt, chunks of missing flesh ran down both arms, varying in size and depth.
“A-are you . . . ok?” Pinocchio asked, but then stopped in his tracks as he saw the man’s cold, white, lifeless eyes; the man lunged forward, throwing his hands out to grab the marionette. “What’re you doing?!”
The man’s hands latched onto Pinocchio’s shoulders, and with a jerk, he pulled the marionette forward, towards his opening mouth. Strings of saliva stretched from his rotten upper teeth to his jagged lower ones, and Pinocchio felt them closing in and around his nose.
“Pinocchio!” It was the voice of Lyra; must be in his head, like a memory flash right before death.
Pinocchio slammed his eyes shut, accepting his fate, but before he felt any pain a warm liquid splashed over his face. He opened his eyes.
The man let go of Pinocchio’s shoulders and wobbled in place. His head had been caved in from the top, smashed like a baked potato, with brain matter and blood bulging out in a soufflé. He slouched forward for a second, but then collapsed over on his side and rolled onto his stomach. Dead.
“Saved your nose there,” Top Man said, smiling. “Thought we lost you there, for a second.”
Pinocchio let out a sigh of relief. “Man am I glad to see you. I thought I was d—“
“Dead?” The robot chucked. “Not on Lyra’s watch. Let’s just get back to the others.”
“They’re not mad that I ran off?” Pinoccho dipped his head in shame.
“Nah, dude. Plus there’s a whole army of us now.”
Pinocchio whipped his head back up. “Army?” he inquired.
Top Man just smirked. “I can show you better than I can tell you.”[/spoiler]
[spoiler]
Quote:Camp Life
Top Man was right, an army had been assembled; Pinocchio had seen all of their faces before. They were the same people he saw at the destination ghost girl gave, before the plume of smoke scattered everyone like roaches. He remembered the gleams from their gun barrels, and blades, and how they twinkled in the beams of sunlight that broke through the canopy. But now they were all stained with blood and gunk, which told stories of their experiences like tattoos.
Some people were missing, and almost everyone had sustained some sort of ailment, emotional or physical. Hope still sparkled in the eyes of most, though, and while moods overall were low, morale was pleasantly high—“we’re gonna meet Omni and demand a ransom!” one man said as he put the final touches on his leaf-and-branch shelter, receiving a few cheers.
They weren’t as bad as Pinocchio first thought. Were some violent, sure. Were others borderline sociopaths? Check. But the marionette deduced they were no worse than any other community of people; considering the circumstances, they were quite angelic (CLAYTON didn’t pull a blade on anybody).
Many days passed without a lead, and with the exception of a failed orc raid (Pinocchio even kept true to his word, staying to fight instead of running), all there was left to do was survive.
A lot of nights Pinocchio spent laying in his shelter, gazing up through the hole in the canopy, and into the sky. He thought about Gingy. Why didn’t the pastry just create Pinocchio as a human? If primes had so much power it was certainly possible. Gingy could just make it reality—pop! goodbye termites, hello acne! As he continued to dwell on it, resentment began to manifest. A true friend would recognize his dream, and make it true. Pinocchio would do it for Gingy, if roles were reversed. Why not then? Maybe Gingy wasn’t a true friend, just someone who enjoyed the company of a wooden puppet.[/spoiler]
[spoiler]
Quote:Pinocchio and Top Man
“And the humans go out to forage for food,” Top Man said, pointing over to a patch of berry-rich bushes as Lyra crouched down and ripped a vine from it. He and Pinocchio spectated from their sitting positions. “The average human must consume at least two thousand calories worth of food, a day, to survive.” He stuck his finger into the cylinder of his ear and looked over at Pinocchio. “I’ve been reduced to an Animal Planet commentator. Aren’t you glad you don’t have to eat all the time? I know I am. Sounds pretty inefficient to me.”
The marionette took it as a joke, and smiled faintly. “Helps them grow though,” he replied, and then frowned. “Something we can’t do.”
Top Man cocked an eye. “What, you jealous of that?”
“Well, yeah. Me and you are stuck the way we are, for eternity. We don’t grow, we don’t mature.”
“We don’t die,” the robot quipped.
“We don’t get to feel love, or any of those things, either,” Pinocchio pouted, sinking his head between his thighs.
Top Man clapped a hand on the marionette’s shoulder. “Sure you do—sure we do. We have personality, and we have emotions. They may not be produced by hormones, and chemical processes, but we have them. Our anatomy is just different. I don’t know how your internals work, but I have a circuit board, and other technologies, which mimic those jobs.”
“I’m just enchanted,” the marionette replied with a sigh.
“Hey, sounds good to me, lil dude. That what makes you you. I like being my own person, and not like everyone else. I don’t envy humans at all, and you shouldn’t either. I’m sure all your friends appreciate you for the guy you are now. I do.” He paused. “Is that why you want to meet Omni, to become a human?”
“To become a prime, which then I could turn myself human,” Pinocchio replied. “I’ve always wanted to be a real boy . . . to be able to grow, and become an adult. Maybe start a family . . . normal life type stuff.”
“I suppose that’s a good reason. I could see some benefits to being a prime. Just don’t stress over it, because you’re pretty awesome the way you are.”
“Really?” Pinocchio looked up at Top Man. His eyes burned, but did not water. But the emotion was there; Top Man’s words had encouraged him some.
“Yeah, man,” he replied, and raised an open palm. “Up top.”
Pinocchio smiled, and smacked his wooden palm against the robots metallic one, producing a hollow ting![/spoiler]
[spoiler]
Quote:Last Night at the Camp
Pinocchio spent the next night digesting everything Top Man had told him. It was a message about being comfortable in his own skin, and appreciating who he was. Self-worth, and all that jazz. He had heard that discussion before, and even explained far better, but never before did it ring so true. Maybe because every other time he received that message it was from the lips of a human, or other living and breathing creature. Never from another person like himself, an autonomous object.
Even Gingy never gave him a talk like that, and he wasn’t exactly human either. The thought began to agitate Pinocchio until he rationalized it. Perhaps, Gingy wanted him to discover it on his own. Pinocchio was always hard at hearing when it came to advice. Before now, at least—always marching to the thump of his own drum, instead.
Maybe that was the true reason he wanted to be a real boy . . . it was about being his own person—doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Maturation brought independence; as a prime, the marionette would have complete freedom, unrestrained by the laws which currently governed him.
Though Top Man made him realize he was perfect the way he was, Pinocchio wanted the freedom to experience all that life had to offer him.[/spoiler]
“Let’s go around!” Pinocchio heard.
How?
The fog stretched both east and west, as far as Pinocchio could see, and stopped just short of the swamp bank in front of the group. It was thick, and black, towering over them like a foreboding wall . . . the wall to their cemetery, possibly. Myths about the swamp, and its mysterious fog, stretched as far as Camelot—Swamp of Sadness, they called it. No one that’s ever entered it has escaped; it eats you whole, and swallows you as easy as air.
They had left their camp earlier that day, chasing the only clue available. Pinocchio remained skeptical, but it was either enter the swamp, or stay at the camp, and hate himself for never knowing if what lied behind the fog.
With a strong sigh, he took his first step into the swamp; his leg sunk up to the knee instantly, almost tipping him over, but he managed to stay standing. Grass growing from the swamp floor brushed up against his abdomen as he moved deeper into it, making it difficult for him to maneuver, but he pushed forward, raking it aside with his forearms.
He made it to the wall of fog with nothing more than a bad case of waterlog, taking a moment to stare at it before entering. If Pinocchio crossed the fog there was no going back—he couldn’t just whimper, flail his arms, and retreat--, and he knew that. No, he’d have to put his manpants on, and face whatever awaited him. He tried to keep a stern external, but deep down he was scared shitless. Turning around and leaving ran a few laps in his mind, and nearly persuaded him, but he refused. If he could kill orcs, proceed through trivial temples, and survive flesheaters, damnit he could walk through a fog. This adventure of chasing his dream had progressed into more than just a fantasy hunt—it was a journey to find himself.
As Pinocchio entered into the fog everything became dark, after only a couple of steps. He brought his hand to his face, but could barely make out the details of it. All he saw was the contrast of complexion. He turned around, expecting to see the bank of the fog, but all that welcome him was blinding darkness.
What did you expect? a voice said, giggling. Thought you’d see the end of the fog?
Pinocchio whipped back around. “Who said that?”
Does it matter? You can’t see me. I could simply be a voice in your head, for all you know.
“Who are you?” the marionette inquired. He tried to take a step backwards, but the grass locked around his ankles and wrists, keeping him in place.
It doesn’t matter. Why, are you scared?
Pinocchio growled. He tried to pull his hands free from the grass, but it just tightened its grip, wrapping around his wrists like tentacles. He could hear the voice giggling, and watching his struggle with great amusement.
Are you?
The marionette knew that if he lied his nose would grow—his giveaway. “I’ve gone through too much to be scared,” he retorted; he did go through too much.
Just because you worded it in a way where you didn’t lie doesn’t mean you’re not scared.
Memories flashed across Pinocchio’s mind like a fast-moving slideshow. It was the time he was most afraid.
You remember that day—the day when Prince Charming seized Far Far Away—and how he put in you a puppet shop. You were finally home, and with your own kind. All around you, all you could see were other toys. That’s what you are, just a toy.
[spoiler]
Quote:Fog Flashback
Pinocchio remembered that day.
A sharp pain awoke him from his sleep. As his eyes shot open, he realized he was being suspended by the strings attached to his arms. He tried to move, but a consequence of pain resulted immediately.
A crowd of people rushed towards him, pressing their bellies against the glass, which housed him. A few of the men grabbed their sons and daughters, and sat them on their shoulders for a better view. One woman emerged from the crowd, and retrieved a coin from between her cleavage. She slipped it into a compartment next to the glass, just outside of Pinocchio’s view. The marionette tried to catch a glimpse of where she put it, but as he leaned forward another shot of pain ran through his arms. As the woman stepped back, a jingle started to play from out of the compartment, and the wires attached to his wrists began to manipulate his movement.
“No!” he shouted.
The wires pulled his hands back, flopping them over his head, around his neck, and then forward. His legs flapped around like paraplegic forced to dance on crutches, but the strings controlling Pinocchio kept him from collapsing.
The crowd cheered—kids pumped their fists in the air, while their parents grinned widely, chanting “dance, dance, dance!”
Pinocchio could see more people in the background coming towards the crowd, intrigued by the spectacle. His body moved awkwardly, and then about-faced; his head was forced forward, and between his own legs, to stare back at the crowd. They burst into laughter.[/spoiler]
You remember that day, don’t you?
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![[Image: Deadpool_Funny.png]](http://i137.photobucket.com/albums/q218/Aerogfx/sigs/Deadpool_Funny.png)
Dante's Abyss Placings
2015 - 4th
2015 - 4th
2016 - 2nd
2017 - 4th
PVP Combat Record
(One-on-One)
3W - 0L - 0D
3W - 0L - 0D
(TAG-TEAM)
1W - 1L - 0D
[/float]![[Image: Deadpool_Funny.png]](http://s137.photobucket.com/user/Aerogfx/media/sigs/Deadpool_Funny.png.html)