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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2057349-Immortals--Chapter-1
Rated: 13+ · Chapter · Young Adult · #2057349
A group of gentically modified misfits band together to defeat a lovesick man. CHAPTER ONE
Little life lesson for you- Never try to take on a extremely fat guard armed with a ray gun when you only have a baguette.

YOU. WILL. NOT. WIN.

You will, however, end up on the floor in massive amounts of pain and needing a new pair of pants. Both the American and English types might I add. Now seriously take my advice, unless you want to end up in this cell in Lock Up with me. Not that I would complain, since it is seriously boring and lonely in here, but I'd still hate for you to get caught here too.

"Mr Brace?"

Ugh.

"It's Miss Brace," I say, raising my head to look at the burly guard in front of me. Burly cocks his eyebrow, giving me the once over.

"It says you're male on all your paperwork, Mr Brace."

"Yeah, well, my paperwork's wrong. If I was a guy I wouldn't look like this would I?" I motion to my grease stained dress and waist length bright blue hair (which, and I'm not trying to boast or anything, has stayed in place during this whole thing). Burly just sighs, gesturing for me to follow him out of cell. I stand with a groan and stumble after him. Sitting around for two hours really does kill your legs. He hands me my paint splattered rucksack with clear distaste and I sling it over my shoulder. If he's touched my stuff he's so dead. The lights flicker as we walk down the hallway, the people in the cells on my left shooting me death glares. Once you get here, it's rare you ever get out. And if you do, you're exiled to The Desert, which pretty much means you're royally screwed. We turn a corner and reach the main entrance of Lock Up. A beaten up metal desk sits in the middle of the immense, well lit atrium, surrounded by armed officers on all sides. Each one of them has a ray gun slung over their shoulders, which are kinda like these things that they used in the old days called tasers, but ten times more powerful. Some are tugging people by the arms towards the cells, others just milling around. They've probably reached their daily pick up quota by now. Every guard has to arrest at least four people a day for some stupid reason. There never used to be a quota, but the new top guy, President Cinco, introduced it as part of his election campaign and it keeps increasing. Soon everyone in MRA is gunna be stuck in Lock Up.

The guard stalks over to the seating area on the other side of the room, his eyes trained on someone. My walk slows as my eyes fall on the guy Burly's staring at. Shit. The man stands, talking to Burly in hushed tones. Unkempt blond hair falls in front of his bloodshot eyes. A thin layer of stubble sticks to his white jaw and the smell of stale whiskey is so strong I nearly barf. Both men turn to face me, their faces completely unreadable.

"Come on, Alex. Let's get you home," the stinky blond slings an arm around my shoulders, trying his best to seem fatherly. I have to resist the urge to run a mile.

"You'll keep to our agreement, Mr Brace?" Burly asks him.

"Sure, sure," he waves it off and pulls me towards the double doors. As soon as we're out, I swipe his arm away and storm off ahead, shoving my headphones in my ears.

"Oi, Alex!"

I keep walking.

"Alex!"

I still don't stop.

"Alex Tyler Brace!"

"What?!" I yell back, yanking out my headphones. He stalks up and grabs me by the shoulders, tugging me into a side alley.

"What kinda shit did you pull to get back in there? I do everything for you and that's how you repay me?" His toxic breath crawls over my face.

"You do fucking nothing for me, Dad. You can't even get my name right!"

"Your name is Alex, boy. Always has been, always will be."

"It's Skylar, you moron. I haven't been Alex for a long time."

I pull myself out of his grip and run as fast as I can away from him. The lead lined walls flash past me as I run through the streets, pushing through the crowds. I can't be around that guy. He's like a fucking lead balloon, always pulling me down and ripping me apart. Not that a balloon can rip you apart, but you get the picture.

I burst into my workshop and slam the door, typing in the lock key. Slinging my rucksack on the table, I press the necessary buttons and the place springs to life. Books stand in crooked piles all over the floor. Tattered posters from ancient bands like My Chemical Romance and Greenday coat the walls, some hidden by designs. My work table stands up straight in the center of the room. Pieces of engines and god knows what lay scattered all over it, coupled with old food wrappers. A hammock is strung up in one corner, various old blankets flowing off it. My safe place. Whenever Dad gets on my nerves- which is pretty much all the time- I come here. It's also where I've been sleeping lately as well. You see, it turns out you can only put up with your fathers god forsaken drinking for so long before you really have to get out. I guess I do love him and all, he is my father after all, but I can't be around him. Every time I see him it's like a slap round the face. He doesn't understand me, he doesn't even know me anymore.

Wiping God knows what off of my work bench, I toss my latest project on the table. Fixing shit normally takes my mind off things. The newest craptastic piece is a very old shortwave radio that someone had dropped off to my friend Josh and then passed on to me to fix for a payment of 100 dollars. It's seriously illegal to fix things like this but I've got to make money somehow. Opening up the back, I groan loudly. The circuit is completely fried. I touch one of the components with my tweezers and sparks fly.

"Fucking great," I mumble.

"Language, Sky," a female voice smiles from the doorway.

"English," I reply, my head hitting my arms.

"What's up?" The voice asks much more softly and footsteps move towards me.

"Nothing."

"Bullshit."

"Look who's swearing now," I grumble, lifting my head to look at the girl in front of me. Black hair falls to her shoulders, a pink strip peeking out through the soft waves. Flicked eyeliner lines her deep brown eyes and nude lips are turned up into her signature half smile. A silver cross sits on her black chest.

"Seriously though, Smurfy. What's wrong?" She perches on my worktable, her thick construction boots swinging. I sigh.

"I mighta got arrested again..."

"Skylar!"

"What?! It wasn't even my fault this time...."

"You really need to quit getting arrested. Anymore arrests and they'll exile you."

"They can't exile me, I'm not eighteen yet."

"Then they'll just send you to the Surface," she slips her hand into mine and looks me straight in the eye. The butterflies still form in my stomach when she does that. I look down at our hands, my thumb rubbing circles on the back of her hand.

"They won't send me to the Surface, Cara. I'd just drive them crazy," I smile ruefully at my girlfriend. The girl just rolls her eyes.

"You drive everyone crazy, Smurfy. All you have to do is open your mouth."

"Bitch...."

Sinking down in my seat, I fold my arms and put on my best sulky face. Which, if I do say so myself, is quite damn good. Cara just smiles that smile and kisses me softly on the lips. She pulls away, still smiling, but I pull her back in for a much longer kiss, burying my hands in her hair. Once again, it's her that pulls back, leaving my lips tingling.

"No. I've got to go see Josh and you have stuff to do."

"Why do you need to see Josh again?"

"He's got a job for me, apparently. Probably just another safe cracking job, but it's money," Cara stands and shoulders her knapsack, running her hand through her hair, "I'll see you later yeah?"

"Yeah, see ya," I walk over to her and kiss her cheek before she leaves, locking the door behind her. Cara and Josh are the only two people with keys to this place, so I should have a few hours of peace before I have to face Dad again. Sitting back down, I take another look at the radio. It definitely needs a brand new circuit board but I'm not sure about the transmitter. It looks fine, but they all do, no matter how screwed up they really are. Only one way to find out if I need a new one. Grabbing my tweezers, I poke the transmitter. More sparks fly out and I yelp, falling backwards off my chair.

Ow.
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