Aura of the Heart

Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by Laggy Lagiacrus, Jul 29, 2012.

  1. So.
    After being bombarded with suggestions from who-cares-where, I caved in.
    I caved in and read "My Little Dashie."
    *Dodges brick*
    Now, I don't watch, and never have watched MLP, but I'm familiar with the basics of it.
    *Dodges more bricks*
    But, even with my minimal knowledge and impartiality towards the pony fanbase, I still felt the story beat at my stony heart with a diamond pickaxe.
    (Woo, Minecraft.)
    Now, usually, my hare-brained ideas for stories peter out after about a few hours, and my interest follows soon after. However, MLD has been an inspirational tale for me, and I just had to rip it off write a version that would not cause a complete and utter dungstorm that could express things from a different viewpoint, had a similar thing happened to someone else.
    Look, it's a derivative of a derivative, I know. But I needed to write something with my heart, and that's hard for me. This was all I had.
  2. Aura of the Heart, Chapter One: I Hate This Town

    ​Tomoya Okazaki

    It seems the government forgot about this part of town. Or maybe they abandoned it. It doesn’t matter either way – we’re all in the same boat.
    When I say that this part of town was forgotten, or just flat-out abandoned, I mean it in several ways. The most prominent is the state of things. How dilapidated and grey the crumbling buildings are – the only places anyone bothers to keep in a vaguely acceptable state are the essential businesses, and the places people actually bother to inhabit. Otherwise, it’s just an empty space, filled with dust and dirt, where even the spiders have moved out. Windows are shattered, and anything of value no longer remains in empty rooms. Why leave them there, when someone else can use it?

    The streets and pavement are in a nigh-unusable state. Not that anyone drives that much here. Most of the time, the most wheels you’ll see are the ones on a battered shopping cart. Maybe a few of them, in storage or being pushed around. Some of them aren’t even from the same store, but we take what we can get. The pavements are just as cracked as the unused tarmac, making the highly superstitious types dance like ballerinas. Not that I know if we have any, but I’m guessing we do. There has to be one in this dump of a settlement - if you can call it even that.

    Litter is spread about like a filthy layer of confetti, ranging from banal items such as waterlogged cardboard boxes and rubbish bins smashed beyond use or repair, to even more uninteresting things, such as a broken toy that could not find any use, or a book that was not even good for burning. You’ll see someone attempting to clean an area up, or put things in a bin bag at the very least. They fight a losing battle, though – even if, by some miraculous chance, they do clean an area up, it still looks as dank and depressing as it always did. In fact, it even looks a little empty afterwards. It’s a sad fact, that the closest things we have to outdoor decoration, is an amassment of things nobody even wants any more. There’s probably a saying for that. I don’t know it. I’ve never been one for sayings, or any quotes in general. After all, why bother? Nobody’s around to hear me say them. And most of the advice to keep my head up is utterly useless. In this area, you keep your head down, and you do whatever it is you’re paid to. That’s the simple truth of it, and our lives.

    By law, I’m not old enough to be living on my own, with little to no adult supervision. By law, there should be a guardian, well, guarding me. But here I am, a fifteen-year-old boy, with no inclination as to why I should even be bothering. Not that I’m suicidal – don’t get me wrong, I don’t really think dying is such a good idea at this point. No, I just don’t see the point in trying. Every day, nothing happens. We lead our miserable existence. We trudge along, forever, just doing what we’re paid to. We go back home, we do whatever seems appropriate, and then we rest up for the next day. Appearance is something that’s only superficial to us. Not that we interact enough to actually care, but that’s our area for you. I never really bothered to do much with by hair. I washed it so it didn’t fade from charcoal to a lighter shade of grey, and I kept it combed straight so it didn’t get in the way of my dull, lifeless, sea-green eyes. My wardrobe was always some button-up shirt or another, darkened slightly from being exposed to so much dirt – not just what you can see, but the pollution in the air as well. Some would comment on how authentic my ripped jeans looked. I’d tell them that it was because they were ripped. My leather lace-ups were dirt-brown for a reason.

    We live in an odd little society. Basically, we’re acceptable society’s cast-offs. The unteachables, the rebels, the unwanted, the unloved, the unneeded… somehow, a lot of them end up here. We’re a conglomeration of, well, God only knows. We’re a diverse group; we can’t afford to discriminate. We accept people, because we have to. Any skills, talents or abilities we can use are used. Me? Sometimes I count things, sometimes I do manual labour. Some people do basic DIY, other people do the cooking we all find so barely edible. It’s not heaven, but we get along the best we can.
    Nobody really makes friends here – we don’t have the time, nor do we have the energy, when you consider what we go through. We don’t like being lonely – at least, most of us don’t. I’m one of those people who don’t mind being on their own - but when it comes down to it, they just aren’t very good with people. I’ll admit, I’m quite stone-hearted. Loneliness without reprieve does that to you.

    I do take some small solace, however, in the battered old DS I cling to so much. The charger – hell, the item itself – should have worn out long ago. But, because I never really get to use either, they remain usable. It’s one of the original models – you know, the grey bricks. They may be outdated, but it’s not like any of us have the money, resources, or overall need for newer versions. Besides, this one’s special to me – not just because of the game that remains lodged in there, but because it’s all I have left of my past. It’s a painful reminder of what was done, and what wasn’t done, but I can’t forget the past. It drives me to be a survivor. It drives me to stick my middle finger up t society, and tell everyone that I’m not just a cast-off of some biased, prejudiced system. I am a human being.

    I do have fond memories of this place, though – well, they’re essentially all the days I’ve spent at home, simmering down with good old Pokémon Pearl. The creatures always seemed to warm something in me. How they seemed almost human in the way they acted, how they fought without question because they trusted the trainer, how they managed to speak volumes about how they felt without words because they respected their human master – no, master is wrong. Friend… That’s a more fitting term. And while it pained me to know that friendship was a rare, and often trampled-upon thing in my existence, it was nice to know I could at least pretend that a sentient being would notice if I died, beyond the fact that a corpse was rotting away, a place to live was now available once again, and that my possessions could be taken without resistance. But I could only ever pretend. It’s frustrating, but so is everything else.
  3. Oh.. oh gosh....

    That's pretty damned touching!
  4. You like? Well, prepare for the inevitable disappointment of the mediocre successor the next part. Now with approximately 10% more plot advancement.

    I’ve said this town is a depressing place in several ways. You don’t need me to remind you of that fact. But what I do have to tell you is that none of us really seem to care. After all, it’s the only place we’re ever going to even feel remotely welcome in. We don’t complain, because we all know that this is as good as it’s going to get. We’ve long since accepted that we’re going to remain as we are, and probably never be anything special. I never wanted to, but when it came down to it, it’s not like I had much of a choice. Now? I just fit in with the dwindling crowd.

    I come home from work one day, my body layered in sweat and dirt, my muscles aching and burning to their respective cores. I’ve been attempting to clear some rubble from a road, with the assistance of other people – none of them were more than three years older than me, at the very most. What remained of a building had finally started to collapse and while it was no immediate danger to anyone with an ounce of common sense, the resulting rubble would prove too much to move if left alone and allowed to build up. In this area, for something like that to happen is not unheard of, and there was always at least five people on call to keep things in check. Turns out that I was on duty for today, so naturally, I wanted to get home quickly to ease my weary self. You may have thought it good exercise, but I reason differently. Have you ever heard of what happened to boys who used huge hammers in Victorian factories? Their spines were twisted out of shape. Too much, too young. I suppose I can’t help my position, though.

    In my haste, I neglected to notice where I was going, and I took a completely wrong turn. I’d meant to go left, but I turned right instead. It wasn’t until I noticed a fading, chipped sign barely clinging to a wall, that I’d noticed I was on the wrong side of the area. I knew these parts, so I wasn’t lost. I could make my way back, no problem. The problem lay in me making it back, and having enough time to rest sufficiently. Rest was scarce here, and you cherished every moment you could get of it. And every moment I wasted, was another moment contributing to tiredness. But, there was something that caught my eye as I trudged on home. It wasn’t anything extravagant. It had no discerning features, no crazy appendages. It was just a normal, run—of-the-mill cardboard box. Perhaps it was its sheer lack of anything special that made it stand out – quite ironic. In this veritable treasure trove of assorted rubbish, everything was torn, broken or otherwise ruined. But the box seemed… untouched. It was just sitting there, waiting for the weather to take its course. Perhaps it was this peculiarity that drove me to peek inside it, just a passing glance. Nothing but feigned interest, it must be said.
    Until I saw a hint of blue and black.

    You must remember that the box was fairly large. It could probably fit a small child in there, if you must know. And what I saw in there seemed to be roundabout the same size as one. Curled up in the container was a small, vaguely fox-like creature. I seemed to recall there being something more fitting for it, but my brain was reeling at what I saw there in the first place. I’ll admit, I just thought it was a soft toy – something that had been tossed out callously by the better-off people, and had not been subject to natural destruction yet. However, it dawned on me that soft toys don’t breath, making adorable snoring noises as they did so. Yes, I said it was adorable. I don’t find it so, but I know people generally do. It also dawned on me, that soft toys don’t roll over, with their eyes shutting ever-tighter, as if locked in a nightmare, with no hope of escape. Soft toys don’t burst bolt-upright, shouting “Ri!” as they do so.
    This wasn’t a soft toy. This was the real thing. A living, breathing, Riolu. The emanation pokémon. In the games, you were unlikely to find a wild one. In real life? I’d have slapped you for such a ridiculous notion. But here it was, looking from left to right, like an accelerated, terrified lighthouse. After a few seconds of it taking in its surroundings, its eyes focussed on me – and mine on him. It backed away, pushing itself into the corner of the box, evidently riddled with fear at the sight of a complete stranger staring at it. But, to my surprise, he calmed surprisingly quickly. The reason was lost on me, up until the moment I recalled just what one of Riolu’s special abilities was. In the pokédex, it said:

    It has the peculiar power of being able to see emotions such as joy and rage in the form of waves.

    Naturally, this meant it could probably sense how I felt now. I felt no need to harm it, but the need to help it was non-existent as well. I was simply intrigued by this creature – why it was here, what it was doing, and how it got into a box. Yet, it didn’t approach me, so I attempted to make the first move. I held my hand out to the young pokémon, and did my best to remain calm and steady. As human as they were in a lot of regards, it would still have some animalistic tendencies. Therefore, I could not afford to display any sort of weakness to it, lest I be deemed someone not safe to be with. However, this Riolu probably sensed my uncertainty, marked by it reaching out to a foreign creature never before seen in this light. Its tiny paw placed itself in the palm of my hand, and it looked up to me with its round, innocent eyes. It didn’t see me as weak, it was simply regarding me as someone who needed help. In this regard, it was more human than I was.
    It saw there was some degree of fear residing in me, and wanted to cure that.