He wasn't sure if it was day or night out there.
The days were just as dark as the nights most of the time, and if it was bright enough outside for several blocks of the city to be seen, then it was bright enough to stay inside. Everyone knew if you could see, you could also be seen and if you could be seen, you could and would become the hunted, either by Zork itself or the marauders many of the other citizens of the city had become in order to thrive in this strange world.
At least the electricity was still on throughout the city itself, even if it had been cut off in the outlying and now mostly abandoned areas. Of course, no one with more than half a brain cut on the lights in any part of any building that could be seen from outside. That was just like inviting marauders to come in.
And to imagine, he, Kaiba Seto, lived in such a world as this. Years ago, when his stepfather died, he had said that he never again would live in fear. He supposed this was why there was that admonishment of "never say never"; it was certainly coming back to haunt. He had sworn he wouldn't live in fear; now he would have to be stupid not to be afraid and if there was anything Kaiba wasn't, it was stupid.
A few months ago, he had found out the hard way that the mansion was no longer safe, when marauders attacked it in force. A few of his guards had not survived, and indeed, he, Mokuba, and a few employees had only barely made it out. Now Kaiba Corp Tower was his last refuge; Kaiba Land had long since been commandeered as a refugee camp of a sort.
Even the lower levels of the Kaiba Corp building itself were beginning to find themselves filled with refugees, some of which he even vaguely recognized from classes or gaming tournaments. He, Mokuba, and the few surviving members of his staff occupied the upper levels, with the two Kaibas being the sole occupants of the topmost floor, but the other levels were filling and fast. More perplexing, many of them claimed to have been rescued from what sounded like hell itself by some mysterious figure they only knew as Wraith.
The more he tried to find out about Wraith, the more close-lipped everyone became on the subject. It was almost like the person was his namesake and just didn't exist. Who would send refugees to him, after all? It would have to be someone who knew him, knew he wouldn't turn these people away. Most everyone who knew him even that well was accounted for, though, and those who weren't accounted for...
Well, they were probably over a year dead. If they weren't dead, then based on the stories he had been here, they were probably wishing that they were.
25 April 2008
I guess this one is going to be short sections as I get a chance to scribble on it. Many apologies: I usually hate doing short sections, but I would rather update with them at frequent intervals than with longer sections every few months.
Why the long delays (even long for me)? I got a publishing contract! My first novel, Amaranth, will be coming out in December. In the meanwhile, I'm working on editing it for publication, as well as completing the second book in The Preterhumans series, Verdant.