Neo Chronicles
Episode 2: Got his tail Whooped
Table of Contents
My name is Nexus—his name is Chris. Really, dude— Chris is a boy who has super human speed. A short while ago, he purchased the coolest toy a young, fourteen year old boy, skipping school, could possibly want. I done got dis supa sleek sword!
He runs so fast, the tall, sky reaching structures all appear to merge together around him. Every person on the street walking about looks like no more than a blur. Street lights, light up billboards, fancy electronics—sure he sees them as he speeds past, but at the rate he's going, he can't actually make them out. Besides, he's too excited to care. He has a new toy. The flying cars over his head can't even keep up with him. Granted, none of them are explicitly trying to, but—Don't got time for this.
Before he knows it, he's in the central park. Before he knows it again, he's traveled deep within the woods. He runs as far away from people and as far away from tech as he could possibly can. And as quickly as he started running, he quickly speeds to a halt. He grips the scabbard in his left hand and pulls the blade out with his right.
SWOOSH
He swings. Did you see that? He does it again and again and again he does it. He finds it a lot heavier than the sticks he used to play with, but that makes it even more exciting. He swings until his arm gets tired, trying out different moves he's seen on TV. Slicing the air, cutting through the wind, dividing the atmosphere.
Then he takes to the trees. He's in the forest—well, the woods in a park—it's the closest he'll ever get to a jungle that's not concrete. Growing up, he's learned to use his speed to his advantage. Physical activities were as difficult to him as they were to anyone else, but he's always had a knack for sticking with them until he got it. Now he can speed run on the regular. He can parkour with the best of them. Jumping from tree to tree isn't a problem for him. Neither is running through the woods like a wild animal, and with no one around, he can be as crazy as he wants.
The problem is, someone is around. Apparently, these woods aren't as secluded as Chris thinks. After fooling around for what was probably half an hour, that someone finally registers. He doesn't look like much. Some white boy, probably no more than three or four years older than him, standing across from him. The guy is leaning against the side of a tree, cigarette in hand, dressed in black from the neck down with his trench coat covering most of everything—Got his hair died black, too, and it comes down to his shoulders. All and all the guy looks like—Homie looks like a bum.
And he's just standing there. Chris looking down from upon the sturdy branch of a tree, mentally picks out every fault he can find with the guy. There are kids at school that dress and carry on just like him. Those are the kids Chris doesn't particularly get along with. He's tried to be cool with them before. For the most part, they have a lot of the same interests. Music wise, they'll listen to metal—I'm cool with metal. Movie wise, they watch the vintage, old stuff—things found on hard to find digital video discs. I'm into old movies, too. But for some reason, every time Chris tried to make an effort to be cool with them, they'd—They'd get all stuck up an' act like I ain't nobody worth hangin' with. Ain't nothin' wrong with me. Obviously, somethin's wrong with them. Probably racist or somethin'. I don't know. Fo'get 'em!
Chris has since then associated all people of the same or similar sub-culture styling with the stuck up, elitist snobs that aren't worth his own good graces. He's always wanted to speak his mind to them, though. Usually, he'd keep it quiet just to keep the peace, but he's always wanted to let them know how he felt about them. Now he sees an opportunity.
He jumps from the tree branch. He lands on the ground. He stands up right. And he walks over and asks,
“Hey, poser! What's your deal?”
“My deal?” the guy responds, looking up with a half cocked brow.
“Yeah, yo deal. What's up witchu? Actin' like you own the world or' somethin'. Wearin' some trench coat like you from the Matrix—you think you Neo?"
“No, I don't.”
“And the way you're talkin'. Dawg, give it a rest. You ain't playin' nobody.”
“Get to school, kid.”
“Don't be tellin' me to get to school. You the one that needs to get to school. Maybe you'll learn how to act.”
“Maybe you'll learn your place.”
“My place? Oh, so it's like that now? Because I'm half black, half Mexican, I need t'know my place!?”
“I'd rather you not put words in my mouth.”
“You white peoples is all the same. Oh, don't start laughin'. This ain't a laughin' matter. This white on black hate needs t'end. And you desperately need t'stop posin'.”
“Who's posing?”
“Oh, an' you gonna act like you don't know. Please dawg, just give it a rest.”
“Whatever.”
“There you go again. Man, I'm tellin' you for your own good.”
“Are you looking for a fight?”
“What if I am?”
“Then you're looking in the wrong place, kid.”
“You betta watch whatchu say, homie.”
“Don't call me 'homie'.”
“Don't call me 'kid.'”
“But that's what you are.”
“Not compared to you.”
“Y'know what? Shut it!”
And from there, Chris swings. It's his only response to that last remark. The swing is impulsive. He doesn't even realize that if that sword were to actually make contact, it could cut through something or slice something off. He's hoping the white guy has some sort of ST that protects him from random acts of violence, but thankfully the swing is so random and wild that a simple step to the side is enough for Chris to completely miss. That both relieves and upsets Chris. So he swings again.
“You don't even know how to use that thing,” the white guy states. Quickly, he steps again to avoid the incoming strike and sharply thwacks Chris on the forehead with an enclosed fist. Chris loses his footing, and the white guy steps in, ducks, and in a sweeping motion, kicks Chris's legs out, leaving the boy on the ground.
The next thing the white guy—What in the world is this freak tryna do? The guy's eyes start glowing, his hair starts flowing. It looks like some sort of electrical surge runs through his body. And to make matters worse, Chris can see some dark clouds form over head. Dang, it's about to rain, too?
“Kid, there's a reason you're on the ground right now. Actually, there're multiple reasons. One, you're just a f****** idiot. Two, you have no idea what a real fight is, and three—I'm a demon. Even if you had the slightest inkling of skill, the odds would still be in my favor.”
As if to add emphasis to his last remark, the “demon” does a remarkable feat. From the palm of his hand, something grows. It starts out pointed, piercing through the flesh, and it forces its way out. It's a blade—a dark, onyx colored blade. It slowly tears through the flesh until finally it emerges in the form of a sword soaked in blood. Lightning tears across the darkened sky, signaling the rain to pour upon the ground below.
"Go home, and the next time you see me, don't talk—don't even look my way."
Chris looks at this white guy. He looks him straight in his oddly red colored, brightly glowing eyes. He's not quite sure what to make of it, but whatever the case—Is this dude fo'real?
He does nothing to try and hide it. This situation is just too much for Chris to take in and process seriously, so he finds it best to let this guy know. He let's him know by laughing about it right in his face. “A demon? Really? That's what you're goin' with? C'mon, son. Really?”
“What's wrong with you?” white guy asks.
“What's wrong with me? Dawg, what's wrong witchu?” Chris responds.
“I don't understand.”
“There you go posin', again.”
“Do you realize that I'm literally two seconds from killing you?”
“You think I'm afraid of you!?”
“You should be, you f****** moron!”
Tensions flare. The “demon” has had enough. Without a second's thought to it, he strikes. And what a violent strike it is. He aims to maim. He aims to wound. He aims to—miss? Miss how could he miss? He was inches away, and he misses?
Within the same amount of time it took the “demon” to even move his arm, Chris—well, he does a barrel roll. He rolls right out the way. Let me be the first to tell you, this demon is not one to act slowly. That bloody sword swing should have struck before the kid even saw his arm move. If it were anyone else, that would have been the case, but when it comes to Chris—the boy is just too fast for that.
Chris is still smiling. He leaps back onto his feet and flails at the man, again. Both hands are at the hilt. The attacks are wild and full of energy.
The “demon” let's the strike in. He does nothing to evade. The blade cuts through his flesh. It's a nasty gash across the side of his neck, but a gash is all it is. To one not so durable, the strike would be much more, perhaps a clean cut. No, Chris is too sloppy to make a clean cut. Regardless, the “demon” has him right where he wants him. With a rampaging thrust of his own devilish and black-bladed katana, the demon plows through—no, wait—what? He misses again. That doesn't make any sense, he's right in front of him. C'mon son, you should know by now.
Once again, Chris's speedy reflexes come into play.
Chris is having the time of his life. He finds a guy in the park and instigates a fight. Who would have thought the guy would turn out to be some crazy, expert sword-wielding, self-proclaimed demon? Chris certainly didn't. If he did, he would have skipped the trash talk and got straight to the slashing. Sure, every slash he's made missed—Hey, I'm learning. If this keeps up, I'll be an expert at this sword thing in no time.
Chris, once again moves in to strike, but then the oddest thing happens. The so called “demon” stops. He just stops. He lowers his sword, lowers his arms, lowers his guard, and stops. Chris, not knowing what to make of it stops right in his tracks as well. He was mid-swing.
“Ey yo, what's witchu?” Chris pesters. "C'mon, let's keep playin'."
“No, I'm done,” the “demon” responds as he takes out his cigarette pack from his trench coat's pocket.
“Done? Dawg, you cant be done. We just started. Look, you mad you can't hit me? Fine. I'll give you one. Right here,” he says pointing to his face. “Go on. Nothin' too fatal, though. That would be bad.”
“Just what type of idiot are you? For f*** sake.” After taking out one cig from the package, he puts the rest back and then pulls out a lighter.
“Look yo, I know you's a lil' upset, but you gotta stop that cussin' thing. It's distasteful. An' that smokin' thing you doin'? Not a good look. People be havin' asthma and—”
“Go to Hell!”
“Ey, you da demon up in here.”
“Look, I'm tired. I don't need this. If I keep fighting, I might slip up and kill you, along with everyone else in this city. I don't want that.”
“Come again?”
“Demon. Remember?”
“Man, what does that even mean? Only thing I see is some goth/emo/punk tryna be hard or somethin'. You ain't done nothin' demonic—'cept that nasty sword thing—but for all I know, that's just your ST.”
“Perish.”
“What? Who says that? C'mon dawg, I told you, you ain't playin' no—”
And just like that, everything fades. It just all goes white. Everything. There was a loud boom, almost like a gunshot goin' off, and then nothing.
Then he wakes up. Chris is lying on the ground. Where'd the sun go? Why is he so hungry? Why does he have this huge, skull splitting headache? It's like he's just waking up after getting hit by a ton of bricks, no heavier, more forceful—Who cares what it feels like? It hurts. He can barely manage to stand on his feet, much less walk.
He's so disoriented, he can't even remember how he got here. Then a couple minutes later, it all rushes back. His flashbacks quickly reveal everything. What was that? Lightning? Did that dude shoot me with a lightning bolt? Seriously? That's how it went down? That's how he remembers it. The trash talk, then the lightning bolt. He really needs to learn to pick his battles. Nah, I pick my battles just fine. It's just these posers that gotta be all cheap with their powers, an' junk. All I got is speed.
Episode 2: Got his tail Whooped
Table of Contents
My name is Nexus—his name is Chris. Really, dude— Chris is a boy who has super human speed. A short while ago, he purchased the coolest toy a young, fourteen year old boy, skipping school, could possibly want. I done got dis supa sleek sword!
He runs so fast, the tall, sky reaching structures all appear to merge together around him. Every person on the street walking about looks like no more than a blur. Street lights, light up billboards, fancy electronics—sure he sees them as he speeds past, but at the rate he's going, he can't actually make them out. Besides, he's too excited to care. He has a new toy. The flying cars over his head can't even keep up with him. Granted, none of them are explicitly trying to, but—Don't got time for this.
Before he knows it, he's in the central park. Before he knows it again, he's traveled deep within the woods. He runs as far away from people and as far away from tech as he could possibly can. And as quickly as he started running, he quickly speeds to a halt. He grips the scabbard in his left hand and pulls the blade out with his right.
SWOOSH
He swings. Did you see that? He does it again and again and again he does it. He finds it a lot heavier than the sticks he used to play with, but that makes it even more exciting. He swings until his arm gets tired, trying out different moves he's seen on TV. Slicing the air, cutting through the wind, dividing the atmosphere.
Then he takes to the trees. He's in the forest—well, the woods in a park—it's the closest he'll ever get to a jungle that's not concrete. Growing up, he's learned to use his speed to his advantage. Physical activities were as difficult to him as they were to anyone else, but he's always had a knack for sticking with them until he got it. Now he can speed run on the regular. He can parkour with the best of them. Jumping from tree to tree isn't a problem for him. Neither is running through the woods like a wild animal, and with no one around, he can be as crazy as he wants.
The problem is, someone is around. Apparently, these woods aren't as secluded as Chris thinks. After fooling around for what was probably half an hour, that someone finally registers. He doesn't look like much. Some white boy, probably no more than three or four years older than him, standing across from him. The guy is leaning against the side of a tree, cigarette in hand, dressed in black from the neck down with his trench coat covering most of everything—Got his hair died black, too, and it comes down to his shoulders. All and all the guy looks like—Homie looks like a bum.
And he's just standing there. Chris looking down from upon the sturdy branch of a tree, mentally picks out every fault he can find with the guy. There are kids at school that dress and carry on just like him. Those are the kids Chris doesn't particularly get along with. He's tried to be cool with them before. For the most part, they have a lot of the same interests. Music wise, they'll listen to metal—I'm cool with metal. Movie wise, they watch the vintage, old stuff—things found on hard to find digital video discs. I'm into old movies, too. But for some reason, every time Chris tried to make an effort to be cool with them, they'd—They'd get all stuck up an' act like I ain't nobody worth hangin' with. Ain't nothin' wrong with me. Obviously, somethin's wrong with them. Probably racist or somethin'. I don't know. Fo'get 'em!
Chris has since then associated all people of the same or similar sub-culture styling with the stuck up, elitist snobs that aren't worth his own good graces. He's always wanted to speak his mind to them, though. Usually, he'd keep it quiet just to keep the peace, but he's always wanted to let them know how he felt about them. Now he sees an opportunity.
He jumps from the tree branch. He lands on the ground. He stands up right. And he walks over and asks,
“Hey, poser! What's your deal?”
“My deal?” the guy responds, looking up with a half cocked brow.
“Yeah, yo deal. What's up witchu? Actin' like you own the world or' somethin'. Wearin' some trench coat like you from the Matrix—you think you Neo?"
“No, I don't.”
“And the way you're talkin'. Dawg, give it a rest. You ain't playin' nobody.”
“Get to school, kid.”
“Don't be tellin' me to get to school. You the one that needs to get to school. Maybe you'll learn how to act.”
“Maybe you'll learn your place.”
“My place? Oh, so it's like that now? Because I'm half black, half Mexican, I need t'know my place!?”
“I'd rather you not put words in my mouth.”
“You white peoples is all the same. Oh, don't start laughin'. This ain't a laughin' matter. This white on black hate needs t'end. And you desperately need t'stop posin'.”
“Who's posing?”
“Oh, an' you gonna act like you don't know. Please dawg, just give it a rest.”
“Whatever.”
“There you go again. Man, I'm tellin' you for your own good.”
“Are you looking for a fight?”
“What if I am?”
“Then you're looking in the wrong place, kid.”
“You betta watch whatchu say, homie.”
“Don't call me 'homie'.”
“Don't call me 'kid.'”
“But that's what you are.”
“Not compared to you.”
“Y'know what? Shut it!”
And from there, Chris swings. It's his only response to that last remark. The swing is impulsive. He doesn't even realize that if that sword were to actually make contact, it could cut through something or slice something off. He's hoping the white guy has some sort of ST that protects him from random acts of violence, but thankfully the swing is so random and wild that a simple step to the side is enough for Chris to completely miss. That both relieves and upsets Chris. So he swings again.
“You don't even know how to use that thing,” the white guy states. Quickly, he steps again to avoid the incoming strike and sharply thwacks Chris on the forehead with an enclosed fist. Chris loses his footing, and the white guy steps in, ducks, and in a sweeping motion, kicks Chris's legs out, leaving the boy on the ground.
The next thing the white guy—What in the world is this freak tryna do? The guy's eyes start glowing, his hair starts flowing. It looks like some sort of electrical surge runs through his body. And to make matters worse, Chris can see some dark clouds form over head. Dang, it's about to rain, too?
“Kid, there's a reason you're on the ground right now. Actually, there're multiple reasons. One, you're just a f****** idiot. Two, you have no idea what a real fight is, and three—I'm a demon. Even if you had the slightest inkling of skill, the odds would still be in my favor.”
As if to add emphasis to his last remark, the “demon” does a remarkable feat. From the palm of his hand, something grows. It starts out pointed, piercing through the flesh, and it forces its way out. It's a blade—a dark, onyx colored blade. It slowly tears through the flesh until finally it emerges in the form of a sword soaked in blood. Lightning tears across the darkened sky, signaling the rain to pour upon the ground below.
"Go home, and the next time you see me, don't talk—don't even look my way."
Chris looks at this white guy. He looks him straight in his oddly red colored, brightly glowing eyes. He's not quite sure what to make of it, but whatever the case—Is this dude fo'real?
He does nothing to try and hide it. This situation is just too much for Chris to take in and process seriously, so he finds it best to let this guy know. He let's him know by laughing about it right in his face. “A demon? Really? That's what you're goin' with? C'mon, son. Really?”
“What's wrong with you?” white guy asks.
“What's wrong with me? Dawg, what's wrong witchu?” Chris responds.
“I don't understand.”
“There you go posin', again.”
“Do you realize that I'm literally two seconds from killing you?”
“You think I'm afraid of you!?”
“You should be, you f****** moron!”
Tensions flare. The “demon” has had enough. Without a second's thought to it, he strikes. And what a violent strike it is. He aims to maim. He aims to wound. He aims to—miss? Miss how could he miss? He was inches away, and he misses?
Within the same amount of time it took the “demon” to even move his arm, Chris—well, he does a barrel roll. He rolls right out the way. Let me be the first to tell you, this demon is not one to act slowly. That bloody sword swing should have struck before the kid even saw his arm move. If it were anyone else, that would have been the case, but when it comes to Chris—the boy is just too fast for that.
Chris is still smiling. He leaps back onto his feet and flails at the man, again. Both hands are at the hilt. The attacks are wild and full of energy.
The “demon” let's the strike in. He does nothing to evade. The blade cuts through his flesh. It's a nasty gash across the side of his neck, but a gash is all it is. To one not so durable, the strike would be much more, perhaps a clean cut. No, Chris is too sloppy to make a clean cut. Regardless, the “demon” has him right where he wants him. With a rampaging thrust of his own devilish and black-bladed katana, the demon plows through—no, wait—what? He misses again. That doesn't make any sense, he's right in front of him. C'mon son, you should know by now.
Once again, Chris's speedy reflexes come into play.
Chris is having the time of his life. He finds a guy in the park and instigates a fight. Who would have thought the guy would turn out to be some crazy, expert sword-wielding, self-proclaimed demon? Chris certainly didn't. If he did, he would have skipped the trash talk and got straight to the slashing. Sure, every slash he's made missed—Hey, I'm learning. If this keeps up, I'll be an expert at this sword thing in no time.
Chris, once again moves in to strike, but then the oddest thing happens. The so called “demon” stops. He just stops. He lowers his sword, lowers his arms, lowers his guard, and stops. Chris, not knowing what to make of it stops right in his tracks as well. He was mid-swing.
“Ey yo, what's witchu?” Chris pesters. "C'mon, let's keep playin'."
“No, I'm done,” the “demon” responds as he takes out his cigarette pack from his trench coat's pocket.
“Done? Dawg, you cant be done. We just started. Look, you mad you can't hit me? Fine. I'll give you one. Right here,” he says pointing to his face. “Go on. Nothin' too fatal, though. That would be bad.”
“Just what type of idiot are you? For f*** sake.” After taking out one cig from the package, he puts the rest back and then pulls out a lighter.
“Look yo, I know you's a lil' upset, but you gotta stop that cussin' thing. It's distasteful. An' that smokin' thing you doin'? Not a good look. People be havin' asthma and—”
“Go to Hell!”
“Ey, you da demon up in here.”
“Look, I'm tired. I don't need this. If I keep fighting, I might slip up and kill you, along with everyone else in this city. I don't want that.”
“Come again?”
“Demon. Remember?”
“Man, what does that even mean? Only thing I see is some goth/emo/punk tryna be hard or somethin'. You ain't done nothin' demonic—'cept that nasty sword thing—but for all I know, that's just your ST.”
“Perish.”
“What? Who says that? C'mon dawg, I told you, you ain't playin' no—”
And just like that, everything fades. It just all goes white. Everything. There was a loud boom, almost like a gunshot goin' off, and then nothing.
Then he wakes up. Chris is lying on the ground. Where'd the sun go? Why is he so hungry? Why does he have this huge, skull splitting headache? It's like he's just waking up after getting hit by a ton of bricks, no heavier, more forceful—Who cares what it feels like? It hurts. He can barely manage to stand on his feet, much less walk.
He's so disoriented, he can't even remember how he got here. Then a couple minutes later, it all rushes back. His flashbacks quickly reveal everything. What was that? Lightning? Did that dude shoot me with a lightning bolt? Seriously? That's how it went down? That's how he remembers it. The trash talk, then the lightning bolt. He really needs to learn to pick his battles. Nah, I pick my battles just fine. It's just these posers that gotta be all cheap with their powers, an' junk. All I got is speed.
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