torch working

This is all because of a conversation with @daryshkart about Peter and Star Wars. :D


Peter was old enough when Yondu abducted him (picked him up) to know that Star Wars was made up. Still, he’d always thought space pirates and aliens were all made up too. And now he was plunged onto an actual, real spaceship full of actual, real space pirates, very much like a dirtier, rougher, infinitely bigger Millennium Falcon, and it was terrifying and amazing and by far the scariest/awesomest/worst/best thing that had ever happened to him.

He was severely disappointed in the lack of lightsabers, though.

***

“You want me to build a what?”

“A sword,” Peter said. “Made of light. It’s, uh, it’s a thing we had on Earth.”

Rocket gave him a narrow-eyed glare. They hadn’t known each other very long yet, but Peter could sense the skepticism pouring off him. “Is this another made-up thing from your stupid Earth stories?”

“No,” Peter said promptly. “Well … yes … but –”

“I knew it!”

“Look, the galaxy has got jump travel, laser guns, artificial gravity, and stuff that looks pretty much like magic to me. Why the heck can’t it have light swords too?”

“Because light doesn’t work that way, you frikkin’ overgrown ignoramoose.”

“It’s ‘ignoramus’,” Peter said, wondering absently as he said it exactly what word he was correcting via the translator, “and fine, a simple 'no’ would have been enough.”

And he forgot about it after that, because it wasn’t like he didn’t have enough to keep himself busy, and anyway, Rocket kinda probably had a point. Peter didn’t know a whole lot about physics (dropping out of school in the third grade had its downside) but he knew what he needed to know in order to keep his ship running, and trying to combine the functions of “laser” and “sword” was probably, well, not a thing for a reason.

***

It was a week or so after everything that happened with Ego, and with Yondu, and with the Eclector – a week of making repairs to the Quadrant, limping slowly back from the outer edge of the galaxy – when Peter walked into his (Yondu’s) quarters, flopped down on the rank fur covering the bed, and bounced up again with a yelp of pain.

“Groot!” he yelled to the room in general, because the only people who ever came in here regularly were Groot and Gamora, and Gamora was the only person on this ship who wasn’t likely to leave junk laying in the middle of the bed. He picked it up without caring much, intending to toss it into the mess on the floor, and then stopped, holding it in his hand.

He’d never seen this before – which wasn’t exactly a new experience (Groot had probably found it in one of Yondu’s drawers; they were going to have to have a talk about going through people’s stuff again) but he couldn’t figure out what it was, either. It looked like the hilt of a sword without the blade. In fact, it really looked a lot like –

Peter gripped it without really thinking about it, in the handle-like way it seemed meant to be held, and two feet of glowing blue light stabbed out to illuminate the dimness of Yondu’s quarters.

Peter yelled and dropped it. The glowing blade vanished as soon as it left his hand. It plunked into the fur on the bed.

“That reaction was all I was hoping for and more,” came a sardonic voice from the doorway. “I just wish I had been recording it.”

Peter jumped and spun around. “Rocket.” He looked back at the thing on the bed. Picked it up. Squeezed it carefully. This time he didn’t drop it when the light burst out of the end. It even hummed – not quite the right kind of hum, but … damn. He tried an experimental slice through the air. “You … made me a lightsaber. An actual, real lightsaber.”

Rocket looked away and picked his teeth with a claw. “It doesn’t work real well. Actually it’s pretty lame-ass for cutting things. Laser torch works way better – which is pretty much what it’s based off of, just a glammed-up version. An’ the handle heats up if you leave it on too long.”

“You made me a lightsaber.” Peter tried a fancy side-swing he’d seen Gamora do, and lopped off the top of a lamp. Oops.

(Yondu’s gonna kill me was his first thought, for just an instant before the memory of why Yondu wasn’t going to do that slammed into him.)

And he glanced at Rocket in the doorway, at the feigned posture of unconcern, and he couldn’t help thinking that he wasn’t the only one who must have needed something to take his mind off things right now.

Losers, he’d called them once. People who have lost stuff. And they had; they’d all lost too much, and a glowing light stick didn’t bring any of that back – it was really just a toy –

A toy Peter had mentioned once, and given Rocket a quick sketch he’d drawn. And Rocket had remembered. And made it for him.

He was holding an honest-to-God functional lightsaber in his hands.

“I am not joking here, this is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Rocket. Thank you.” He tried some more swings, this time trying not to aim for any furnishings. “I’m gonna have to get Gamora to show me some actual sword moves.”

“If you take that thing into combat,” Rocket remarked, “you’re probably gonna die. Most likely after accidentally killing at least one of the rest of us, the way you’re swingin’ it around.”

“I don’t care. It’ll be worth it.” Peter looked up, grinning; he was feeling – happy, he was feeling happy, for the first time in a week. “Can you make another one?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“So we can duel. Obviously.” He tried reversing the blade samurai-style and almost cut his hand off. Oops. Probably didn’t want to emulate Luke quite that closely. “Can you make the other one red?”

“Humies,” Rocket sighed, but there was a slight smile tugging at the corner of his muzzle.

A journey into superpowers
Fire Manipulation ( Also called Pyrokinesis / Fire Release / Firebending )

• User can create, shape and manipulate fire, the rapid oxidation of a material in the exothermic chemical process of combustion, releasing heat, light, and various reaction products, flame being the visible portion of the fire.

Depending on the substances alight, and any impurities outside, the color of the flame and the fire’s intensity will be different.


•  Examples:
Portgas D. Ace (One Piece)
Human Torch (Marvel Comics)
Madison Montgomery (American Horror Story: Coven)
Natsu Dragneel (Fairy Tail)
Bill Cipher (Gravity Falls)
Sailor Mars (Sailor Moon)
Leo Valdez (Heroes of Olympus)
Pyrope (Undertale)
Zuko  (Avatar: The Last Airbender)

my cinderella wakes up with the taste of ashes in her mouth and thinks of her mother’s waning sickness. my cinderella has nightmares of watching her mother’s chest rising, a wheeze escaping her ribs. my cinderella does not cry about this, because she lives in the place fires begin.

her stepmother has perfect teeth and high eyebrows. “are you done sweeping?” she asks. “i need to see myself in my tiles.”

there are long days spent like this. sometimes cinderella gets caught on things. she spends four hours with a toothbrush swiveling in small circles, her whole body trembling. she thinks if everything is perfect, nothing bad will happen. if she checks the stove eight times, it will not poison her like her stepmother’s venom. if she lets the cat scratch her once a day, it will learn to love her. if she just gets these baseboards clean, maybe her father will come home to her.

the invitation comes when she is adjusting the pictures on the wall. it is announced with fanfare. her stepmother sends out the request for dresses instantly while cinderella watches, waiting.

“baby,” stepmother wakes her on the day of, “hope you know how long you’ll be working for today.” strokes her hair a little.

cinderella stares at her. doesn’t want to go to the ball, where people will be twirling around on floors someone else spent six hours polishing, where people will be careless in eating food someone else toiled over cooking. where people like her fade into the shadows.

when she opens her mouth, she says, “let me go, stepmother.” it is worth the look of shock and terror on that woman’s face to tell a lie. cinderella, after the slap, hides her face and smiles.

they leave trumpeting. her step sisters are cupcakes floating on shoes cinderella has sown together.

in the night, she rises from her bed and coaxes a little mouse onto her hands and snaps its little neck. 

boiling the fur of it off is easy. she feeds the bits to the cat, who twines around her feet. she takes the bones under the poplar tree and lays them out just-so. she says the words her mother used to know.

deep from the shadows comes the Fairy. pink and pretty with eyes that are totally empty. cinderella knows better than to look at them directly. “you summon me?” asks the ancient one. “what needs be done?”

cinderella does not want a ball. cinderella wants a night off. she explains slowly what she wants. she gives the Fairy three things: a needle. a fingernail. a strand of hair. the deal is done, midnight comes.

she dresses in her mother’s dress, hidden under the floorboards. it is beautiful, white, shines like a river. on her feet are no shoes at all. she wants to feel the ground that carries her, that has been tilled by people like her.

at the gates, they stop her. no carriage, nothing but a smile on her. but she’s so polite. so willing. has big fluttering eyelashes. lures the guards beyond the light of the castle’s torches. knows how to work a kitchen knife.

inside, she is blinded by the brightness of lamps on granite. everyone here is laughing. gliding. cinderella glides too, effortless without any shoes. 

her stepsisters hang off one another, have their arms draped off the prince. cinderella walks up. smiles. says the words her mother taught her. 

they erupt into screams. “needles” they howl, dancing in shoes cinderella made, “needles in my feet.” they bleed all over the floors someone worked hard for. “That,” says cinderella, “is one for me.”

the prince is without words. stepmother in her skirts tumbles as she skitters forwards. she is bubbling with improper language to speak in front of royals. on her hand is a nail chipped from slapping her stepdaughter. cinderella looks her in the eyes when she says the word. without a pause, violent scratches appear over her stepmother. she is torn open. 

“that,” says cinderella, “is for my mother.”

cinderella tips over candle sticks and sets things on fire. leaves them all with the taste of ashes in their lungs. turns. does not run. 

the prince follows. on his steps, as the clock strikes midnight, he finds a footprint in blood. he swears he will find whomever it belongs to if he has to try the shoes of every girl in the kingdom. 

but cinderella is no longer a girl. the last, a ring of cathair, has turned her into whiskers and a tail. she sits there, watching him in the light. she twines around his legs and purrs at him. he finds her white coat fascinating. 

she lives off of castle food for the rest of her life. sometimes, when she is bored, she bats all of the pictures straight in the front hall. 

nobody ever finds the girl. at the funeral of the stepmother, a white cat sits by the feet of the widowed man who was her father. he has nightmares of his first wife forever after. 

Memoirs of the Broken People

Originally posted by nctuhohahyes

Pairing: JaehyunX Reader

Genre: Soulmate Au/Angst/Fluff/Historical

Word Count: 9k

Summary: History used to be your favorite class of the day. Used to. But that was before the visions, the lashing out and the incredible, undeniable heartache that erupted every day. History was Jaehyun’s least favorite class too. 

Author’s note: Goddamn, where have I been? IT’S BEEN FOREVER! How are all of you? I’m back from hell and better than ever! Jkjk, anyways, I’ve been super obsessed with NCT lately, especially Taeyong, so ironically I write about Jaehyun apparently??? Anyways! Requests are open still, but I can’t promise I’ll get it done super fast since I’m on vacation. Anywho, Enjoy this piece of shit I just wrote!

Keep reading

  • every chopped contestant in the desert round: my plan is to make an ice cream that I'll over churn into butter, a crepe that'll come apart in the pan, a panna cotta that won't set up, and a cake that won't bake through. And if all that doesn't work, my plan B is this caramel sauce, which I'll definitely forget about and burn to shit.
The Effect of Emotional Abuse on Each Type: INFP

SUBMITTED by hannah-elizabeth-j

^^^^^^^^^ My work is done.

Oh, like a real analysis/description? Okay then.

I’ve seen a few posts/requests on here about the effects of emotional abuse and the affect that it has on each Myers Briggs type so, as someone who works with a lot of domestic abuse victims I thought that I’d give my two cents worth. I wanted them to be quite detailed to give people a fair amount of information so this will be the general format; a general description of what it will look like, how this differs from similar types (ie. the ENFJ compared to the INFJ and ESFJ) and a character in fiction who acts similar to this (may not be for the same reason and I might not get one for each type but I’ll try).

INFP

There will be some variation depending on when the abuse took place in their life but there are somethings that will remain the same.

Ever want to see an INFP that defies every stereotype in the book?

From my experience an INFP who has come from an abusive home will contradict pretty much every stereotype there is.

Chances are while they are in an abusive situation these are some of the last people that you would ever see crying or really showing any form of emotion. Until they get out, there will be no torched art work taking place, no heart-breaking poems and no idealism.

Here’s the thing, as far as I’m concerned you can’t really give abusive people a Myers Briggs type.  In fiction, sure it’s easy but as far as real life goes, it doesn’t work because they all end up as ENTJ’s or ESTJ’s and that simply can’t be true.

But I digress, the point of me saying that was that the profile of an abuser is the polar opposite of an INFP profile (this isn’t me saying that all INFP’s are wonderful people because that’s impossible) the point is that an abuser will make an INFP suppress every part of themselves more than with any other type that I’ve come across.

An abusive person doesn’t want you to have a moral code, independent emotions or for there to be any level of removal from a reality that they can control. The result of this is that the INFP can’t use their dominant or auxiliary functions and stay safe at the same time.

But, since is still their type what you will see when an INFP is in an abusive situation is a person who just seems, for want of a better word, empty. The INFP will have suppressed their most natural selves because the truth is you can talk my ear off all about Fi having its own value system that is totally independent and this is what they will act on but, this changes if you are manipulated and never know one day to the next if you are going to be safe.

Its highly unlikely that they will have any of the usual INFP traits of having personal interests or hobbies or anything that would fuel their Fi or Ne, they will simply be surviving, just getting though the day with nothing extra, you may see an excessive amount of reading or TV watching. Anything in short that means they can be their natural selves without anyone noticing.

So in this stage, they would be pretty impossible people to type.

After this person had left their lives say hello to the inferior Te grip. This will just be made worse by the fact that control is something they have never had(and if the abuser was a parent) or hadn’t had  for  a long period of time.

Suddenly it is ‘my way or the high way.’ They will want to have a say in everything, no one will be able to tell them what to do, how to do it or when to do it. I’ve seen a studious INFP friend of mine get in a lot of trouble when she was in this situation because she refused  to work at school or do her homework. Did she really have an issue with school? No, she liked it. But they were telling her what to do and when to do it by and she wasn’t having any of it. She had a strong element of enneagram 8(tri-type) in  she was more confrontational than most would be. Many would just passively refuse to do things because they will not be told what to do anymore.

When this phase of over, its pretty much just all tears and trying to revaluate everything. They finally have the freedom to be who they are but at this point they have no bloody clue who that is. And I don’t mean in a sense of ‘I’m in my 20’s and an trying to find  myself’ sort of way. They have never been able to be who they are so from what I’ve seen they tend to go back and forth between emotional extremes for a few months. Sudden flashes of anger, then idealism and wanting peace. Then they just want to cry all the time, then it is their sole mission to be happy.

If this is you or someone in your life, its hard and I understand but the honest truth is (as long as it’s not something that has been going on for years) all that is really needed here is time. It will mellow itself out.

Just like with the other types, years later they will likely appear to be a lot better and they often will be.

But in those cases when it is a different story in their heads you will often see cases of people who are disconnected to the people around them. They could at a party full of people having fun feel no sort of sense that this is their reality.

INFP vs. ISFP

  • The ISFP is far more likely to indulge in things like over or under eating, drinking, sex ect. as a method of distraction
  • The INFP will be more liable to appearing detached from situations than an ISFP, despite what they may be feeling, an ISFP will appear to be more grounded in reality and engage with people due to Se
  • Si is far more likely to focus/replay the details of what happened Ni will reply the general experience not the specific events

INFP vs. ENFP

  • Look at the grip, you will get in the grip 9/10 when you leave an abusive situation the way these types act in grips is very different
  • From what I’ve seen when they are at the stage of accepting and moving on from the abusive situation, an ENFP will likely deflect with humor on the situation, I am yet to see an INFP do this
  • ENFP’s  will be see to try and distract themselves from an abusive home by an extravagant social life.

Finally, you can’t find a better example than Credence Barebone (Fantastic Beasts & Where to Find Them) for an INFP being an abusive situation. And I apologize but I couldn’t think of an example of what one may look like years after. If you can think of any please mention it.

This for the other types will be coming soon. If there are any further questions I’d be happy to answer(send them to me not this blog).

Laia WIP from An Ember in the Ashes and A Torch Against the Night. 

Finally back!!!!! I’m not sure if I’ll finish this tonight because its rather a big painting, but I’m finally getting back into the swing of things :) 

Now! I want to get an idea of what people are into! Send me requests?

10

[ 3 ] The next part was uneventful. The shuffling of weeds and clanging of our equipment interrupt the quiet morning. I stepped up onto the ruined platform, placing my hand on his shoulder as we peered down into the pit. A half open doorway sat on the far end. I lit our torches and let Snake take the lead. I could already hear them but saw nothing. We progressed slowly. My hand never left his arm for the first hour. 

A sharp corner, luckily I turned it with a Spectral Missile at the ready. A Draugr bowman fired, the arrow bounced off my shield, splintering over my head. My missile tore through its chest plate, leaving a loud rattle of bones and sizzle of flesh as it collapsed on itself. The creeping persistent shuffling that had accompanied us thus far ended, replaced with their alerted groans and clatter of weapons. They came at us from all sides. Snilla-Nilyn’s glow lead me to the female. The last one on my side sliced a dagger across my left thigh as I divided her from head to groin. Snake swung wide, taking 3 at once while I circled the bigger one. Hilde mowed through them, one after another until only one remained. Snake distracted it with a torch while I struck at its legs. I eventually found my mark, severing the back of its right leg, it fell to its knees. Hilde gleamed and it was over. The draugr head rolled to a stop just out of range of the torchlight. All was quiet again. I healed our wounds and we began rummaging through containers.

Full Story

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8]

(Shadows crook their fingers out to her, and she dances on the edge of existence.)


“They’re back again,” Reggie said, arms crossed over his chest as he stared out the window.

Concetta made a strangled noise of exasperation, stomping over to stand beside him. She put her hands on her hips, scowling fiercely. “Really? Don’t they have better things to be doing?”

“Guess not,” Reggie said with a bored voice, his expression blank in a way that she recognized from the ease of long practice— he had already lost interest. Reggie turned away and let the curtains fall back into place, dismissing the mob milling about outside. They had bright torches held in work-calloused hands, and they were using the light to peer through the clearing.

She imagined that they were staring right at her, and shivered. Concetta wished that she could have the same indifferent attitude as her housemate, but even now she could feel the fear creeping up on her.

Once, Jasmin had jokingly said that a person never forgot their first witch hunt. She didn’t know just how right she was. Or maybe she did. Jasmin was different, even among the settlers here.

Reggie’s hand settled lightly on her head, ruffling the short haircut. “Don’t worry. This isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.”

She stared up at him, expression deadpan. “That’s… actually not helpful. That’s almost the exact opposite of what I wanted to hear, congratulations.”

Reggie shrugged, unbothered by the criticism. “What does it even matter? Even if they do manage to get in here, nothing they do will stick. Jasmin made sure of that.”

“I know,” Concetta said, and her mind was flooded with images of flames licking her skirts and shadows peeling themselves off the ground. “But that doesn’t mean it won’t hurt.”


(Death is an old family friend, and she laughs when they come for her. Death laughs too, and takes her hand when she offers it. It hurts.)


“I wonder if they really even know,” Concetta said one day, eyeing the angry villagers that had once again begun to circle the mansion. “Are they aware of what this place really is?

“As aware as a bunch of half-blind mortals could be,” Jasmin answered, a bit distractedly. She was concentrating on the bright fabric in her hands, carefully cutting off each of the glittery buttons. “They know that there’s something here, something that raises goosebumps on their arms and blurs at the edge of their vision. But they can’t really see it. They’re only human, after all.”

Jasmin didn’t mean it maliciously, but when she said human like that, so full of pity and careless arrogance, Concetta couldn’t help but shy away.

Concetta wasn’t human, true, but she hadn’t known that for a long time. And though she may have hated many humans, she did not hate humanity. It was hard for many of her companions to say the same. She didn’t blame them, not really. Concetta knew just how hard it was to separate the vicious few from the indifferent majority.

Even she had difficulty with it, sometimes.


(Come to us, they whisper. Come to us, and never be lonely again.)


The morning was crisp and cool. Reggie had gone to bed a little under an hour ago, the door to his basement room shut tight in order to prevent any light from leaking in.

Concetta had no idea where Jasmin was. The older woman had likely wandered off into the forest somewhere. She might not return for several more hours— or weeks, depending on how long her good mood lasted.

Concetta was used to the silence, the distinct absence of any other living beings. Jasmin and Reggie were the only other permanent residents besides her, and they were both drifters, content to follow the wind and listen to the stories it had to give them.

She couldn’t speak with the wind. She had tried, once, but gave up almost immediately when the only answer she was given was the furious roaring of a hurricane in her ears.

Concetta wasn’t meant to speak with the wind. She wasn’t whimsical and blunt like Jasmine, or relentless and steady like Reggie. While the two of them weren’t exactly soft people, they carried a gentleness in their souls and hearts that broke themselves over and over again simply so that someone else could have a piece of it.

A witch-child is not soft or gentle; they are harsh and unforgiving and dance with fire nipping at their heels.

“I, uh, heard this place was safe,” the man said, an almost sheepish expression on his face. He avoided looking her in the eye, keeping his gaze fixed on somewhere over her right shoulder instead. “My name is William. Is it okay if I, uh, stay here?”

Concetta could do nothing but nod in agreement, pulling the door open fully to allow him inside. Just as Jasmin had done for her, that rainy night so many years ago.


(The shadows dance, they rip and chew up the earth with their long claws, and she is running running running—)


“And here is your room,” Concetta gestured towards one of the empty guest rooms, hoping that the Dryad who had stayed in there last had remembered to clear away any plant growth before she left.

“Uh, thanks,” William said, still looking slightly to the right of where she was actually standing. “Is there anything I should know about this place before I get settled in?”

Concetta thought for a moment, and then shook her head. “Nothing that I can teach you.”

“U-uh, wait…” William stammered, clearly even more nervous than before. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said,” Concetta blinked, a bit unsure of what all the fuss was about. “There are a great many things in this place that even I cannot explain. It would be best for you to discover them yourself. That is why you’re here, right? Though I have to say, I’m a bit impressed. I’ve never seen a human manage to get this far before.”

“Oh, thank you—” William began, face flushing pleasantly at the praise, before he dramatically paled. “Wait, you know—”

“I know lots of things,” Concetta said amusedly, already turning to walk away. “Perhaps, at the end of this little venture, you will too. Have a wonderful stay, Mr. William.”

Behind her, she could hear him gulp. She felt a little bad for tormenting him, but not enough to actually stop. After all, she recognized this man.

The vicious few and the indifferent majority.

Weren’t both of them at fault, in the end?


(“Help me!” she cries, not to the shadows but to the people, the people who watch her with wide, pitying eyes. “Help me!

The people don’t answer, but the shadows do.)


—notes: 

Second one of the night, woohoo! I’m so tired, what the hell. Anyways, this is a fun one too! I definitely enjoyed writing it, so I’m satisfied! Another Caffeine Challenge, and they seem to get better every time. Cheers!!

Watch on jaelyn96.tumblr.com

Jay questions Voight about Rixton.

“CHICAGO PD” “SEVEN INDICTMENTS” 02/15/2017 (10:00PM - 11:00PM) (Wednesday) : INTELLIGENCE INVESTIGATES A HOME EXPLOSION WITH NO WITNESSES AND A VICTIM BURNED BEYOND RECOGNITION. When a charred body is found in a torched house, Intelligence must work to identify the victim, as well as a young boy who is found badly injured inside. As they look to determine the cause and who may have been involved, they are faced with a web of secrets and lies. Meanwhile, Lindsay (Sophia Bush) and Halstead (Jesse Lee Soffer) receive an odd warning about Rixton (guest star Nick Wechsler) that leaves them suspicious. Also starring Jason Beghe, Patrick John Flueger, Elias Koteas, Marina Squerciati, LaRoyce Hawkins and Amy Morton. Guest starring Jon Seda, Yaya DaCosta, Colin Donnell and Christian Stolte. Source: NBC

Credit: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o50qQS00_5o Viben on Films

Home ; Part 2

A/N : and so the continuation heheh :))) also ive been rlly busy for preparations for an event at my sch so im rlly sorry for any delays in requests!! i hope yall cld bare with me for a while :“) enjoy!

————————•
Part 1, Part 2

"Babe you wanna- no shit i hate you torchlight go die,” the torchlight Sicheng had been using died off just as he was about to ask you if you wanted a break. He frowned as searched through that gigantic duffle bag he never allowed you to help carry for batteries as you pulled him to the side and fed him a few raisins to eat.

The pair of you have been walking through the drainage system for about five hours now and you werent gonna lie – you did feel tired from all the walking – but you didn’t want to risk the both of you getting spotted trying to escape the city through the drainage system. The pocket watch on the top of Sicheng’s duffle bag said 10pm. You squatted down, deep in thought, while waiting for Sicheng to get the torch working again. You could only think about how everything was fine in that little constricted city – how everyone was happy, how everything was peaceful, and how you still had your family – before all this chaos happened.

This little city of yours which you called home had always been a peaceful one. No disputes between the people and the leaders; everyone abided by the rules and was happy to do so. Wanting to protect their citizens from misleading thoughts and people from the corrupt world outside, the city’s leaders build barriers around the city and conducted a tight security system and was cautious when people came to visit the city. Even so, everyone was very accepting, understandable and very generous. No one was poor – help in any form was always prepared in advance, even economically.

You smiled recalling these memories of how your neighbourhood had always been. You remembered frolicking happily in the vast fields meant for public use – picnics, celebrations, gathering parties held every month. Oh, such pleasurable moments you longed to see again. The sound of a click and sudden brightness snapped you out of your thoughts; Sicheng had finally gotten the torch to work. “Hey, you deep in thought again?” he settled down beside you and pulled your head onto his lap and stroked your hair. You nodded as a reply smiling a little. “You remember how we got together?” he asked looking at you lovingly, “Gosh, i wish that place where i confessed wasn’t destroyed though; i wanted to bring you there on our next anniversary.” You felt something wet drop onto your cheek and sat up only to see Sicheng wiping away his own tears this time. “We should get moving now okay? The quicker we get out of here the quicker we can find our happiness,” you tried to comforte Sicheng with your words only to hesitate at saying ‘happiness’. He seemed to notice that and lifted your chin to kiss your forehead. “Lets go,” he whispered, getting a hold of your hand and continued walking.

********

Sicheng yawned and glanced over at the pocket watch; 3.25 am. Just a little more, he told himself, a little more and we can rest before tackling another 5 kilometres. You streched your arms while you walked on. Everything seemed normal under the tunnel except for the fact that Sicheng has been fidgeting and flipping his hair constantly; a habit of his when he felt that something was amiss. Sure enough something shone through one one of the connectors. “I swear if i find people here,” that someone spoke with a low voice as the sound of ammo being loaded into a pistol was heard. Both of your eyes widened. Instinctively, your hands reached for the pistol you attached to the belt of your jeans. Sicheng already had his pistol out, duffle bag out of the way. They had better not find out that people were escaping through the tunnels. Or it’s goodbye to the surface of the earth.

End of Part 2