Friday, October 26th, 2007
First Steps, Chapter 5
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aurikkulockwind @ 04:34pm
TGIF!
The Haunted House is tomorrow, and we've yet to finish decorating all of it. So...more tonight, even though we'd been hoping to have today off. Oh well.
Another post to First Steps. I've decided I want to finish posting this fic before posting other works, so, after this, expect a sudden spurt of Final Fantasy fics. I might add the sequel to Happy Birthday, Get Well Soon, though, so that might crop up in the middle of the Aurikku/one FF7 fic avalanche.
Title: First Steps
Author: me (ffjunkie42 or, on ff.net, sagdragon3002)
Genre: MK, general.
Rating: PG (K+ if you go by ff.net's thing)
Chapter 5: All the Cowboys Have Come Here: Stryker
Disclaimer: Mortal Kombat doesn't belong to me. I'm sure all MK fans out there are supremely relieved by that.
LiuSubzeroSonyaJaxNightwolfStrykerKitana
Raiden teleported into a town, taking some time to orient himself. He had teleported somewhere in the center of the U.S., Arkansas if he wasn't mistaken. Farmland stretched in every direction, oak trees dotting the landscape. There was a bawl of a dog and the answering call of a neighboring hound.
Well, this is as unlikely a place to find a Chosen One as I can get, Raiden thought to himself bemusedly. But there had been a signature here, and where there was a signature the Thunder God diligently went.
Transforming his appearance to that of a beggar, as per his preference, Raiden set off in the direction of the Chosen's aura. The aura grew stronger, though the landscape remained largely unchanged. A brook babbled nearby, an indirect off-shoot of the Arkansas River, and an enormous tree leaned over the water, creating immense shadows from the setting sun.
Smiling down genially at the water, Raiden took a moment to enjoy the peace of a rural setting. Too much of the world was becoming urbanized, leaving Raiden highly entertained by the technology but sorely missing the simplicity of Zhu Zin and its time.
His inattention proved to be rather detrimental as a fair-sized rock struck the back of his head. Hand instinctively grasping the aching part of his skull, Raiden turned to find the source of his pain.
A row of boys (Where had they come from? Raiden momentarily wondered) sat on one of the tree branches, laughing heartily at his woe. Many of them were armed with rocks nearly the size of the one that had hit him.
Grumbling inarticulately about the lack of respect in the world from children, Raiden nearly fried the tree they sat upon when someone shouted, “Hey!”
Raiden turned his attention to the shouter, his senses overwhelmed by the proximity of a Chosen One. His eyes focused on a prepubescent boy, his shock of red hair cut short but left untamed. Hazel eyes glared at the boys on the branch, and though he hadn't grown much the boy's frame was well-muscled, undoubtedly from farm-work. He dressed in well-worn pants and a ratty shirt that was more used than old. He held a hoe, blade sharp and gleaming.
“Leave the old man alone, you pigeon-heads!” the boy said, jabbing the hoe at them single-handedly. “You won't be pickin' on anybody on the Stryker farm, not while I'm around! Now git! An' I'm tellin' all your Pa's about this, sure as my name's Kurtis Stryker!”
All the boys wailed dismally and rushed off, dropping their stones. Raiden watched their departure speculatively, then turned to the boy. “Thank you,” he said, crossing the brook to stand by the boy. Flattery and humbleness would be expected from a poor beggar, though Raiden was miffed he hadn't gotten the chance to scare the mortal brats. “Such a band of bullies, I'm not sure how I would have managed.”
“Ah, shucks, mister,” Kurtis beamed up at him. “They ain't much at all. Once you git all glower-y an' after their hides, they turn yellower'n chickens. You just need to know how to handle 'em proper. Now stallions, they're meaner'n a snake with no water, mark my words.”
Well well. A Chosen One that doesn't mouth off to every adult he sees. My luck's changing, it seems. “Do you stand up for everyone that's in trouble?” Raiden asked, using some of his immortal power to keep the conversation honest.
“Sometimes,” the boy answered, leaning the butt of his tool on the ground but seemingly unaware of the magical atmosphere surrounding him. “I don't like bullies. But, I can't fight all the time. Gotta set an example for my sisters an' all. An' Pa needs me on the farm. I can't pitch hay or plow fields if I'm all bruised-up.”
And I suspect he's been 'bruised-up' many times. Maybe an unlikely area for a Chosen One, but the place certainly breeds the same kind of heart as anywhere else. A shame his prowess in magic isn't as advanced as the others. He laid a hand on the boy's shoulder, smiling down benignly as he used some of his immortality to magically mark the boy as a confirmed Chosen. “Sooner or later, I'm sure you'll be able to deter them from fighting without having to use fists. And I'm sure you'll do your father proud with your honorable soul.”
Turning a furious red, Kurtis scuffed the ground with his boot. “Sheez, mister, I ain't that special. Just dumber'n the other kids. Smart kids run away an' tell the adults.”
“Ah, but you are honorable. Smart, too. Wait until you're older, and you'll see what I mean.” Raiden turned and walked behind the oak to hide his teleport.
Kurtis spotted a belt on the ground where the old man had stood, picking it up and shouting after him, “Hey, wait, you forgot your belt!” He ran around the tree, nearly completing a circuit before realizing the man had disappeared. Eyes wide, he scanned the horizon, trying to catch a glimpse of the man's slightly hunched figure. Finding no sign that he had even been here, Kurtis scrutinized the belt. The leather was black, well-made, and engraved with the body length of a Chinese dragon. The gold buckle shone even in the poor light, and the head of the Chinese dragon glared out, daring anyone to make less of its nobility.
Taking one last glance around, Kurtis shrugged and wrapped the belt around his waist. It hung lopsided even at the tightest, but peering at his reflection in the brook, he thought it made him look like one of the old cowboys from the westerns his Pa always loved watching. Smiling satisfactorily, Kurtis headed home to help his Ma and Pa take care of the Stryker plot.
----------------------------------------
A/N: I decided Raiden could do with a break from mouthy Chosen children. Rest assured, Picking-on-Raiden-athon continues in the next few chapters.
"In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth, and the earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the spirit of God was moving over the face of the waters."
It's an oral history. It was passed down, word-of-mouth, father to son, from Adam to Seth, from Seth to Enos, from Enos to Cainan, for 40 generations, a growing, changing, story, it was handed down, word-of-mouth, father to son. Until Moses finally gets it down on lambskin. But lambskins wear out, and need to be recopied. Copies of copies of copies of copies of copies of copies of copies of an oral history passed down through 40 generations.
From Hebrew it's translated into Arabic, from Arabic to Latin, from Latin to Greek, from Greek to Russian, from Russian to German, from German to an old form of English that you could not read. Through 400 years of evolution of the English language to the book we have today, which is: a translation of a translation of a translation of a translation of a translation of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of an oral history passed down through 40 generations.
You can't put a grocery list through that many translations, copies, and re-telling, and not expect to have some big changes in the dinner menu when the kids make it back from Kroger's.
And yet people are killing each other over this written word. Here's a tip: If you're killing someone in the name of God — you're missing the message. --Nick Annis in the preface to God is Good. (No, haven't read the book, am not particularly religious, but the last sentence caught my eye on Wikiquotes).
The Haunted House is tomorrow, and we've yet to finish decorating all of it. So...more tonight, even though we'd been hoping to have today off. Oh well.
Another post to First Steps. I've decided I want to finish posting this fic before posting other works, so, after this, expect a sudden spurt of Final Fantasy fics. I might add the sequel to Happy Birthday, Get Well Soon, though, so that might crop up in the middle of the Aurikku/one FF7 fic avalanche.
Title: First Steps
Author: me (ffjunkie42 or, on ff.net, sagdragon3002)
Genre: MK, general.
Rating: PG (K+ if you go by ff.net's thing)
Chapter 5: All the Cowboys Have Come Here: Stryker
Disclaimer: Mortal Kombat doesn't belong to me. I'm sure all MK fans out there are supremely relieved by that.
LiuSubzeroSonyaJaxNightwolfStrykerKitana
Raiden teleported into a town, taking some time to orient himself. He had teleported somewhere in the center of the U.S., Arkansas if he wasn't mistaken. Farmland stretched in every direction, oak trees dotting the landscape. There was a bawl of a dog and the answering call of a neighboring hound.
Well, this is as unlikely a place to find a Chosen One as I can get, Raiden thought to himself bemusedly. But there had been a signature here, and where there was a signature the Thunder God diligently went.
Transforming his appearance to that of a beggar, as per his preference, Raiden set off in the direction of the Chosen's aura. The aura grew stronger, though the landscape remained largely unchanged. A brook babbled nearby, an indirect off-shoot of the Arkansas River, and an enormous tree leaned over the water, creating immense shadows from the setting sun.
Smiling down genially at the water, Raiden took a moment to enjoy the peace of a rural setting. Too much of the world was becoming urbanized, leaving Raiden highly entertained by the technology but sorely missing the simplicity of Zhu Zin and its time.
His inattention proved to be rather detrimental as a fair-sized rock struck the back of his head. Hand instinctively grasping the aching part of his skull, Raiden turned to find the source of his pain.
A row of boys (Where had they come from? Raiden momentarily wondered) sat on one of the tree branches, laughing heartily at his woe. Many of them were armed with rocks nearly the size of the one that had hit him.
Grumbling inarticulately about the lack of respect in the world from children, Raiden nearly fried the tree they sat upon when someone shouted, “Hey!”
Raiden turned his attention to the shouter, his senses overwhelmed by the proximity of a Chosen One. His eyes focused on a prepubescent boy, his shock of red hair cut short but left untamed. Hazel eyes glared at the boys on the branch, and though he hadn't grown much the boy's frame was well-muscled, undoubtedly from farm-work. He dressed in well-worn pants and a ratty shirt that was more used than old. He held a hoe, blade sharp and gleaming.
“Leave the old man alone, you pigeon-heads!” the boy said, jabbing the hoe at them single-handedly. “You won't be pickin' on anybody on the Stryker farm, not while I'm around! Now git! An' I'm tellin' all your Pa's about this, sure as my name's Kurtis Stryker!”
All the boys wailed dismally and rushed off, dropping their stones. Raiden watched their departure speculatively, then turned to the boy. “Thank you,” he said, crossing the brook to stand by the boy. Flattery and humbleness would be expected from a poor beggar, though Raiden was miffed he hadn't gotten the chance to scare the mortal brats. “Such a band of bullies, I'm not sure how I would have managed.”
“Ah, shucks, mister,” Kurtis beamed up at him. “They ain't much at all. Once you git all glower-y an' after their hides, they turn yellower'n chickens. You just need to know how to handle 'em proper. Now stallions, they're meaner'n a snake with no water, mark my words.”
Well well. A Chosen One that doesn't mouth off to every adult he sees. My luck's changing, it seems. “Do you stand up for everyone that's in trouble?” Raiden asked, using some of his immortal power to keep the conversation honest.
“Sometimes,” the boy answered, leaning the butt of his tool on the ground but seemingly unaware of the magical atmosphere surrounding him. “I don't like bullies. But, I can't fight all the time. Gotta set an example for my sisters an' all. An' Pa needs me on the farm. I can't pitch hay or plow fields if I'm all bruised-up.”
And I suspect he's been 'bruised-up' many times. Maybe an unlikely area for a Chosen One, but the place certainly breeds the same kind of heart as anywhere else. A shame his prowess in magic isn't as advanced as the others. He laid a hand on the boy's shoulder, smiling down benignly as he used some of his immortality to magically mark the boy as a confirmed Chosen. “Sooner or later, I'm sure you'll be able to deter them from fighting without having to use fists. And I'm sure you'll do your father proud with your honorable soul.”
Turning a furious red, Kurtis scuffed the ground with his boot. “Sheez, mister, I ain't that special. Just dumber'n the other kids. Smart kids run away an' tell the adults.”
“Ah, but you are honorable. Smart, too. Wait until you're older, and you'll see what I mean.” Raiden turned and walked behind the oak to hide his teleport.
Kurtis spotted a belt on the ground where the old man had stood, picking it up and shouting after him, “Hey, wait, you forgot your belt!” He ran around the tree, nearly completing a circuit before realizing the man had disappeared. Eyes wide, he scanned the horizon, trying to catch a glimpse of the man's slightly hunched figure. Finding no sign that he had even been here, Kurtis scrutinized the belt. The leather was black, well-made, and engraved with the body length of a Chinese dragon. The gold buckle shone even in the poor light, and the head of the Chinese dragon glared out, daring anyone to make less of its nobility.
Taking one last glance around, Kurtis shrugged and wrapped the belt around his waist. It hung lopsided even at the tightest, but peering at his reflection in the brook, he thought it made him look like one of the old cowboys from the westerns his Pa always loved watching. Smiling satisfactorily, Kurtis headed home to help his Ma and Pa take care of the Stryker plot.
----------------------------------------
A/N: I decided Raiden could do with a break from mouthy Chosen children. Rest assured, Picking-on-Raiden-athon continues in the next few chapters.
"In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth, and the earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the spirit of God was moving over the face of the waters."
It's an oral history. It was passed down, word-of-mouth, father to son, from Adam to Seth, from Seth to Enos, from Enos to Cainan, for 40 generations, a growing, changing, story, it was handed down, word-of-mouth, father to son. Until Moses finally gets it down on lambskin. But lambskins wear out, and need to be recopied. Copies of copies of copies of copies of copies of copies of copies of an oral history passed down through 40 generations.
From Hebrew it's translated into Arabic, from Arabic to Latin, from Latin to Greek, from Greek to Russian, from Russian to German, from German to an old form of English that you could not read. Through 400 years of evolution of the English language to the book we have today, which is: a translation of a translation of a translation of a translation of a translation of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of an oral history passed down through 40 generations.
You can't put a grocery list through that many translations, copies, and re-telling, and not expect to have some big changes in the dinner menu when the kids make it back from Kroger's.
And yet people are killing each other over this written word. Here's a tip: If you're killing someone in the name of God — you're missing the message. --Nick Annis in the preface to God is Good. (No, haven't read the book, am not particularly religious, but the last sentence caught my eye on Wikiquotes).
Mood: 
calm
calm
