When the sirens began to blare across New York City, Alphonso ‘Fonsie’ Ferraz didn’t react as much as he should’ve. Years of watching EAS mocks and scenarios desensitized him to it.
That wasn’t to say he wasn’t scared as shit, he was. He only showed it outwardly by tensing. He looked out at the blue sky, confused. New York weather didn’t change that fast, and people would know if something was coming.
His phone screeched along with everything one else’s on the street, and the simple emergency message given was infinitely more damning than any siren could ever convey.
‘MULTIPLE BALLISTIC MISSILES INBOUND FOR THE UNITED STATES. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.’
The screams that rang out across the street overpowered the sirens, and Alphonso’s heart dropped to his stomach.
There was no way New York wasn’t a target. There was not a single reason not to blow up the biggest city in the U.S, and there was nowhere to run. There was no way anyone could get out of the blast radius in time, and nothing short of a bunker literal miles underground would have even the slightest chance of saving anyone.
He slumped against a wall and the world blurred. Thoughts rushed across his head and banged against his skull like a hurricane in a bowl.
He slowly dissociated, getting locked in his own head as the world around him fell into pandemonium.
He didn’t know how long he was there, vaguely remembering trying desperately to dial his parents, friends, anyone.
Eventually the screams turned into quiet sobs, numb shock, and even laughing in fear, horror, insanity, or maybe for a little comfort, whatever positive feeling they could find.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
Ironically, it was only when Alphonso looked up that the sky exploded in a brilliant orange-white light. He felt like he had laid the left side of his face on a gas stove first.
And then FIREFIREFIREFIREAHHHHHHITBURNSMAKEITSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOP-
After that? Finally, blessed nothingness.
What he didn’t expect was to open his eyes again. The weirdest part?
He wasn’t in control.
----------------------------------------
Jaune Arc was a lot of things. A good cook, a liar, a criminal, a (hopefully) future huntsman.
He was not a bird. So as he was careening through the air, launched off a cliff, he quietly reflected and came to the conclusion that he was not built for this.
‘What the fuck…..’ That was decidedly not his voice.
‘What?! W-who’s that?’ His own skull hurt as he internally shouted at the unfamiliar voice he swore he could hear. Was he schizophrenic? He would have known before.
The disembodied voice was silent for a bit, and he swore he saw in his head the image of a Valean man with the left side of his face completely burned off.
More closely, he looked around his age and was wearing a red and black striped shirt with the word ‘bwin’ pasted across, and he could faintly make out a badge on the left chest part of the shirt. He also wore cargo pants and red and black shoes. He also had on fingerless gloves.
And then, he heard a response.
‘Me?…just a friendly voice in your head. No, don’t worry. I’m 99- no, 95- …85 percent sure you’re not schizophrenic. Also, you should probably watch OUTTTTT-‘
Jaune looked forward and saw a tree directly in his path and both him and the voice shrieked like girls getting murdered in a horror movie.
A spear screamed through the air and pinned him to the tree, leaving him safe but hanging there. He saw an red haired girl waving his way and swore he heard the voice in his head murmur ‘Miló…?’
‘Yo, uh Blondie? What’s your name?’
‘Jaune Arc, why?’
‘…Yeah, that tracks… Remnant. Strap in Jaunetonio. This is going to be a… very long ride.’