Writing Sample - Attack in the Streets

Another long night, a long night of trying to forget. This world had grown more and more painful, as nothing poisoned the mind more than memories that lay just on the edge of remembrance, only to remain out of reach. Who was he and where did he come from? The bars were more and more packed each night, and he felt others were beginning to succumb to what he had already; the pain of being no one. Each day he tried to remind himself it wasn't that bad, that even if he forgot who he was, that it may be for the best, that this is a chance to redefine whoever he was in his past life. Reincarnation after all, many believed in. Maybe this is what it's like, only this is just where everyone's souls are deposited. This odd place. And yet, how can that be, when so many have begun to get back bits and pieces, and that their memories called to places that exist in this world. Was he the only one out of place? These are the questions that pained him most, that kept him up at night. Not that this body of his needed the sleep. It was fueled in a much different way, sleep only giving him a break from the thoughts, and seemingly put a hold on the internal battery that was always draining.

"How much longer do I have?" He mumbled, the clear orange medical supplement bottle being withdrawn from the pocket in his slacks. Only eight small, glowing spheres remained. He gripped the bottle so tight, he almost felt like it would shatter in his hands.

He had power, but every use of it seemed to push the clock forward farther than he could swallow. Each day he woke up feeling weaker, like he would keel over at any moment. And yet he still had strength. Some days he laughed, finding humor in the feeling of what could only be described as growing old. Some days, he would push himself, get the flow of power moving, just to feel alive again, whereas other days he would simply run on E, just to conserve a bit. Some days he just didn't care at all. He placed the bottle back into his pocket. Those were emergency use only now. He couldn't burn through them too quick, or else he'd have nothing left. Didn't help the voice of Diabolos would enter his consciousness some days, reminding him to conserve. Conserve to survive another day. Conserve to find a solution. Easy for him to say, even if he died, the materia that contained the summon would just pass on. Maybe the connection he felt was the only reason this being of the abyss seeked to aide. Whatever his reason, he didn't give a damn at that moment, as the thoughts were wearing off his buzz, which for his metabolism was hard enough to work up to begin with.

A sneer and a grunt, and into his other pocket he reached, withdrawing the steel container that had his specially rolled cigarettes. To call them that was unfair though. They were instead a blend of herbs and Nightshade, a herb he had learned was poisonous, and yet even just to the touch made him feel more comfortable, and when lit up, stoked the dying furnace in his core. It rejuvenated muscles made him feel alive again. The lid was popped, a white tube knocked up into his mouth. Put back the case, withdraw the glinting silver lighter. Flick it open, light the flint. Ah...the smell of flame, how soothing. Light the mixture, inhale...exhale. Relax, open your eyes again, feel alive. You can make it another day. A heavy sigh was the only sound in the alleyway...at least it was for a moment.

A heavy thud, ears perking up. Imurashi spun on the hardened heel of his dress shoes, a shadowy form lay beyond the reach of the scattered street lamps. The one near it was sparking, long since broken. The mixed Cigarette hung loose in his mouth, ashes simply drifting down as he tried to narrow his eyes. Normally he could see well in the dark, but the streetlamp above made it harder to see past its radiance. Then a heavy spark, and in the darkness, a twisted figure of rippling muscle and sinews, seemingly of blue color, at least its top half, stood in the darkness. It had a crazed, bestial face, and its body stood easily a foot taller than Imurashi. His body tensed, instincts lit up like holiday lights in his mind, and a hand was raised to try and be threatening. None of it mattered.

The mass of muscle that made up this creature of humanoid shape leaned over, like a beast leaping, and hurled itself his way. Without drawing on his power, he could never have reacted fast enough, as it cleared the half a block distance between them in less than a second. Hands couldn't even move in defense, and the curled fist of the creature was slung like a shotgun into his chest. It hit him harder than he can ever remember being hit square on the left side of his chest. Was this thing going for the kill already? Those thoughts didn't matter, because his mind went blank at the moment of impact. All the air in his lungs felt like they were squeezed out in an instant, leaving him choking and sputtering for air. Even the hardened bone density wasn't a factor, as the loud cracking of bone echoed sickeningly through the thin alleyway.

'Is this how I die?'

Thoughts of panic raced through his mind in that instant, but survival was all that mattered. Eyes caught the flash of the muscles in this things arm tensing. A kill shot, for the head. His mind worked tactically. In that split second he could feel the silent, but panicked nod from Diabolos. His left arm went up in defense of his head, a blow like that on his ribs would kill him to the head. Teeth gritted as what felt like the force of a wrecking ball struck his arm. Another snap and he felt his hand go limp. A sacrifice that had to be made to survive. Survive, that was all that was on his mind. He had to survive, he had to walk away at any cost. What cost was next? His mind drifted down to the orange and white capped pill bottle. Is that cost worth it? It was that or die where he stood.

A defiant look cross his brow as he looked at the monster with scorn. Whatever it was, it was far from human, but it didn't matter, it would die like the rest. Panic and anger mixed together, and a primal fury rose. He could feel that furnace in his core light ablaze, like it had a gallon of fuel added to the dying flames. It rose up in a consuming inferno in his core, a familiar feeling. This feeling brought before his eyes a flashing memory. He recalled his past life, like those in this world did every so often. Memories of times he had struck down threats flashed before his eyes, and he recalled the power that gave his body meaning, one that had been stripped with his memories. His right hand outstretched and the flashing memories helped him recalled what it mean to channel that furnace, that raging inferno in his core. But at what cost? What would it cost him to defend himself here?

In those final moments, it didn't matter. What was in front of him was hindering his survival, was keeping him from living another moment. It had to be erased if he wanted to survive. Hand outstretched, placing the palm of his hand against the flesh of the beast before him. It radiated heat like his own furnace did, like the materia in his shoulder and his wrist burned entering his body. He felt like it was familiar, but familiarity didn't matter in those moments. All that mattered was who got to walk away. The beasts purpose, what it was, what it stood for, did not matter at all. All that mattered was the anger in his soul that brought out a primal instinct to erase the beast from existence. His memory showed him how to channel that anger, that chaos, through his body, and to make use of it in a destructive way. And so he did, he forced it out, forced it out with as much hatred and anger as he could. From his starving lungs he forced out a barking scream, burning his vocal chords out with passion, as a flash of crimson embers and light danced, a raging inferno that lasted only a second, but with fury the likes of his eyes never remembered seeing. From his palm it danced and along the narrow alley it licked, street and walls of old empty buildings. Streetlights melted and disintegrated, stone cracked from the heat, and when it was all said and done, all that was left of the being was dust and ash, a blacked cone of alleyway left in its wake.

Drained...like years of hunger suddenly gripped at his soul. To his knees he fell, gasping for air, throat feeling torn up by his cry of anger and defiance in the face of death. Several ribs easily were shattered, and his left arm lay at his side, back of his hand, unfeeling, lay twisted on the stone, useless. Gritted teeth, bit down hard at the pain, hard enough he withdrew the belt from his slacks, bunching it up with his right hand, before placing it between his teeth to keep them from shattering.

He survived. He was here, a broken man, kneeling in the streets of Midgar, but he was alive. To him, that's all that mattered.