#*past meme

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Send Me A ☁ And I'll Write A Scene From My Character's Past

There was a lot of blood in his mouth, pooling onto his tongue and his cheek, his teeth, his entire face hurt. There was a pounding in his head and he was swaying a little, but he locked his knees before they could buckle and ignored the sting in his eyes, blinked the blood dripping down into his lashes away.

With his eyes on his opponent, Michael spit out a bloody glob, not bothering to watch as it mixed in with the dirt. 

His feet ached - they were calloused, but the exposure to the heated ground and sharp pebbles and rocks that poked up into the soft flesh of the bottom of his feet was never something he’d be able to get used to.

It was something that he could - and had to - endure, though.

Endurance. That was what this whole thing was about. Endurance, and putting on a show. 

Michael’s eyes lifted, scanning the crowd held several feet above and around him, tucked safely behind metal bars whose tops were serrated into sharp edges like pikes. It ensured that no one outside of the dug in dirt ring got in.

And that no one inside of it got out.

Michael’s eyes quickly swung back over to his opponent, the sound of dirt kicking up and feet pounding against the Earth alerting him to the fact that they had taken advantage of Michael’s hesitance and distraction, and Michael braced himself for the punch he wouldn’t be able to dodge in time.

They both went down, the force of impact knocking the breath out of Michael’s lungs and an elbow digging painfully into the cavity of his chest. The crowd was going wild, expletives being thrown around along with leers and cheers, everyone betting for their favorite fighter, who was stronger, who would win.

And most of the bets were going to the man digging his nails into Michael’s arms, tearing skin off and raising an arm to land a blow on Michael’s face.

Michael didn’t give him the chance.

He turned and craned his head to the side, watching as the man punched the ground and grimaced in pain. And when that happened, Michael drew his legs up and kicked out and up, the soles of his feet connecting directly with the other male’s abdomen and knocking him back.

But instead of lying there to give himself a chance to breathe, to recover from the knock to the ground, Michael sprang up instead and ignored the dizziness, the ache in his back and the physical exhaustion coupled with the unbearable heat of the midsummer sun. 

He ignored it all, because if he focused on anything other than the fight, he would die.

There was only one thing that mattered right now, and it wasn’t whether he could avoid breaking any bones or whether he’d be able to see properly after all was said and done. It didn’t matter, because all those things weren’t preventable, they were fate. In a fight like this, where he was only entertainment and the bloodier the fight, the better, to not receive any blows or injuries would be sacrilege. It would end in him being dead anyway, or being thrown in a cage for all his troubles of avoiding any physical injuries.

All that mattered now was surviving, and when the other man came at him, Michael made sure that he would.

And that the other man wouldn’t.

[mogars-archive]

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Send Me A ☁ And I'll Write A Scene From My Character's Past

He’d heard tales. And honestly, how couldn’t he?

Michael hadn’t been at the sea port for very long. Only two, almost three, years really. But it was obvious, almost palpable - the fear and the caution in the people’s eyes.

 There were whispers everywhere, quiet murmurings and anxious - sometimes curious - glances over towards the West side of the sea where specks of what were mountains could be seen in the distance.

I hear they’re feral, they whispered. They’ll rip people apart with their fingers!

Or, Did you hear the story about the fisherman? He went over to the wild lands and he never came back! It’s been two years! Poor family still comes by the dock every year on the day he set sail, hoping he’ll come back…

Michael refused to believe in any of it. He considered the stories and tales of those beyond the sea to be just that - stories and tales, told by fathers at night to frighten their sons and normal folk who didn’t know any better.

Because what people didn’t know, what was different from them, they feared.

But ripping people apart with your fingers? It was a shaky belief at best, but it was one that most people believed in - including fishermen.

Especially fisherman.

"I said no." 

Michael scowled up at the man loading the boat, casting nets over into the bow of the fishing boat. 

"I have more money to pay you for one trip than you’d earn selling all those fucking fish." Michael countered. "Why the hell not?"

"Because," The fisherman turned to eye Michael, looking unimpressed and unswayed. "I don’t fancy dying for a bit of money - money I can make in two trips time." The man scoffed, and turned away. "I suggest you leave, kid, and you come back to thank me later when you’re alive."

Michael’s eyes narrowed. “I’m already alive.”

"And you’ll still be since no one’s taking you anywhere, now leave.”

Standing still, staring at the fisherman’s back for a few seconds, Michael’s lips pulled down into a bigger scowl before he turned and began walking away. “Fucking cowards,” He scoffed under his breath, and shoved his money deep into the pockets of his trousers.

Who would have thought that a boy of sixteen would hold more in his pants than men who had supposedly traveled the stormy seas and lived to tell the tale still?

He needed to get over to the Wild Lands, danger be damned. It was Michael’s only option, his only chance at success, and if he needed to fucking swim his way there, then so be it.

Luckily enough, it never came to that.

He was about to give up when time passed and the dock became noticeably more empty, the sun dipping to merge with the horizon and cast all colors and glows onto the surface of the water. There was almost no fishermen left, all of them having gone on their journeys or having ignored Michael as they made their way back home. No respectable, no sane man with a favor towards living or a family to feed would take a boy to the Wild Lands. It was insane.

Which is why Michael found someone who lacked all four of those qualities.

"The Wild Lands?" A man grumbled, and peered over at Michael. He was gruff and dirty, reeking of fish and piss and Michael forced himself to look the man back in the eyes, to not scrunch his nose up in disgust or cower in intimidation.

Not that he was intimidated.

The man looked down at the money in Michael’s hand.

"I can pay you more." Michael said firmly, and his voice held no argument. He didn’t want to, but if he had to — he would. This man, low and dirty as he was, was his only choice. And beggars can’t be choosers.

That caught the man’s attention, and he gave a long sigh of pretend resignation, as if he was concerned but had no choice.

But he wasn’t, and he did.

"We set sail in the morning."

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Send Me A ☁ And I'll Write A Scene From My Character's Past

Michael had never gone to college.

It was a miracle that he even managed to graduate from high school, skirting on by with Cs and Ds and the occasional B, always teetering on the edge of ‘passing’ and ‘failing’ in his classes. 

His family had never really had the money to pay for college and they never pressured him to go into it either, so Michael figured, why even bother? It was obvious studying his ass off and being an herb wasn’t his strong point (and to be fair, it wasn’t a strong point in a lot of people at his high school).

So when he managed to land a job in a mechanic’s shop (thank god for automotive classes being an elective, one class he was actually good at), Michael didn’t really mind working there. Sure, it was in a sketchy part of town, and the guys there were slackers coming in with the occasional red eyes and smelling like skunks but the job paid well enough, and Michael made sure to establish quickly that the guys shouldn’t try messing with him.

Maybe it wasn’t the most exciting job, or one he particularly loved, but hey - it paid the bills, and allowed Michael to do whatever the fuck he wanted afterwards, so did it really matter? He didn’t need to be rolling in stacks - although it’d definitely be fun if he could. 

But eventually, curiosity got the best of him, and even though Michael himself wasn’t into drugs, the guys at the shop were, and well - why not make a little bit of side money, right? Some people had trouble being dealers - had trouble selling it and not smoking it. But considering Michael was only after the paper kind of green and not the herb, he didn’t consider it a problem.

Turns out, selling drugs in a sketchy part of town, with a sketchy bunch of guys who maaaaybe weren’t the best to get into things with? Well.

Michael kind of wished he hadn’t gone in so blind, because if he knew how to do things right, he wouldn’t have gotten so fucked over in the deal gone wrong, the one that got his shit kicked in and his money taken.

But in the end, getting his shit kicked in got him to where he was today.

Nursing a few broken ribs and a bruised jaw, a split lip and a bleeding wound above his eye wasn’t exactly Michael’s favorite thing. It didn’t teach him shit about humility or embarrassment, and it didn’t teach him any other great lessons.

It’s the man who came by afterwards and found Michael in his pathetic, beaten state that taught him how things were done.

Geoff was the one who taught Michael that only punks brought out switch-blades in the middle of a fist fight and did dirty business on dealers.

And he taught Michael that you get punks back with a bullet in the head. 

And that’s exactly what Michael did.