Heck Tate
The Fleet Footed
This is a piece that I'd really like to see made into comics, but I need to find an illustrator to do that as I can only draw stick figures. This would be the first of the series, essentially Alder's origin story. Basically I want to know if you get a sense of Alder as a character or if you're having trouble identifying with him and why this does or doesn't work. I tried to keep this under 1500 words, so consequently we don't see as much of Alder's thought process as I would have liked to show, but there should be room for that in comics. Thanks in advance for reading!
Alder had always considered himself a loner, but then again, he supposed that most orphans thought of themselves the same way. In a world without orphanages, or any social services for that matter, if your friends and family all died, you were pretty much on your own.
Regardless, he was certainly a resourceful loner. Perhaps it was because he had grown up in this society, if the remnants of such a run-down world could be called such. The adults who had lived through the war were born into a soft world and were still adjusting to reality, which gave Alder a distinct advantage.
Alder's dad had always said that the war took all the men who could fight and killed them. Of course, Alder had also watched an old man with a bat beat his dad's face to a pulp, so maybe there were still some left who could fight.
No one fought like Alder. He knew each fight could be his death. It had been so his whole life. Older men remembered a time when fights were broken up. When some form of honor still persisted, and the winner walked away. Alder had only heard of such things.
He had never known a mother's loving embrace. His mother had died giving birth to him in the ruins of an abandoned apartment building. The hospitals had all been looted long before his birth.
He never knew how his father raised him when he was a newborn. For the twelve years of his life that Alder had family, his father had kept them alive simply through subtlety and theft. It made Alder wonder what his father had done to survive before the war, but they rarely talked of such things. The most his father ever said of the past was that once it was imperfect but still beautiful, but that none of that mattered anymore.
His father taught him how to wait patiently and form a plan before acting. How to use the darkness to his advantage, and there was so much darkness to work with.
Sometimes the Sun wouldn't shine for weeks. When it did appear, it was only to briefly shine through a gap in the clouds before being locked away by their angry gray wall. Everyone looked up at the Sun when it appeared. His father said it made them think things would get better.
The two of them never looked up. They knew better, but so did the man who killed Alder's father.
Alder's father had waited too long, or maybe not long enough. Either way, the Sun had appeared at the wrong moment, and the man his father was trying to rob wasted no time looking at it.
Alder knew: the light was their friend, but he lived in a world of darkness.
He continued on as his father had taught him. Stealing enough to survive. Remaining silent and motionless in the darkness to escape detection. Striking only when the moment presented itself.
Sometimes he would see dozens of people traveling together in a herd, but he always kept his distance from such groups. Their numbers may have scared off small groups of bandits, but with so many mouths to feed they rarely had any food. Alder could provide for himself.
At fourteen, after two years of solitude, Alder had been forced to kill for his food countless times when more subtle methods failed him. Most of these fights ended with Alder's opponents dead before they had a chance to fight back. The only difference was that this night required him to kill two to ensure his survival.
He had the whole thing planned out. There was no way past this particular group's supply guard. He had chosen to follow this particular group because they had fewer members than the other he had seen recently, but they were well organized for such a small outfit of bandits. One had even waved a gun around threateningly once they had stopped to make camp, though Alder doubted it had bullets. No one had bullets anymore.
He could remember hearing gunshots echoing through the darkness every few days when he was a child. He had never heard one close up before, though he had seen plenty. His father told him that the first year after the war, everyone with a gun and ammo did whatever they wanted. Until they ran out of bullets, that is.
Ever so slowly, Alder crept up to the side of the supply cart. When he was about ten feet away from the nearest guard, Alder dropped down to his hands and knees. He unwound the coil of thin metal wire which was his only weapon from his left forearm before silently crawling forward.
Finally he was positioned behind the guard, and from this distance could discern a large man wrapped in the remnants of tattered blankets. Alder had seen others in similar garb, and knew that the constrictions of the shards of fabric would slow the man's reaction speed. He rose, so slowly, carefully, and stretched his arms above both their heads, no light to glimmer off the wire and betray him. He remained poised behind the guard for a moment, waiting for him to exhale his last breath.
In a single swift motion, Alder's arms came down and back, snagging the guard's throat with the wire. A single gurgle escaped the larger man before all he could do was claw wildly at the wire. Alder held him with every muscle in his body, hugging the guard's head to his chest. Eventually he was still, and Alder untangled himself from his still warm corpse.
He could hear footsteps approaching from the other side of the cart. Slinking smoothly back into the darkness, Alder waited. The other guard must have heard something, because he called for his companion as he grew closer.
“Dave? You'd better not be asleep over here,” any moment he would be able to see the body lying on the ground before him. Alder moved outward from the cart, keeping low and trusting to the darkness to shroud him. He prepared to spring on the second man when Dave helped him out.
In the two years he had spent alone, Alder had come to realize how unpredictable the living were. No matter how much you planned, living beings always had the capacity to do something you didn't anticipate. After thinking on this, Alder was left with the simple conclusion that you could always count on the dead. They had a tendency to behave as expected.
Despite what Alder thought was a relatively bright day, the second guard never saw Dave's body, but instead tripped over it and came crashing down.
Alder pounced. He pinned the second guard's arms with his legs while the cord pulled his head back at an unnatural angle. Still, a single shriek escaped the guard, warning the rest of the camp that there was an intruder.
The second guard died faster than the first, but not before Alder heard a not so distant yell. A bright flash and then the loudest noise Alder had ever heard in his life followed this. Something in the cart caught fire, and Alder scrambled away from its light, seeking the comforting solitude of the darkness.
The fool had made his own bullets! Post-war bullets were wildly unpredictable, often injuring the shooter or destroying the gun. This one apparently shot fire, not something Alder had any intention of fighting especially since they had already set their own supplies on fire. He would need to find others with food, and fast. What a waste of life tonight had been.
He fled the fire, the gun flashes, and the crazed yelling. Each time he looked back he could still the glow of the flames behind him. They may not have been able to see him, but he would not feel safe until he could escape their light. The fire spread, eager to consume the already dying city, until Alder eventually closed his eyes entirely and let his memory take him down the streets as he knew them.
When he opened his eyes he could no longer see the glow. Instead, his eyes opened to a greater darkness than he had ever seen. Though he knew it was impossible, it seemed brighter when his eyes were closed. As he looked up he could see nothing which could be labeled as sky. No way of telling if the atmosphere stretched miles or feet above him.
A raspy voice called him forward, but Alder could not tell from which direction it came. As he walked forward, the darkness thickened, pressing against him, threatening to squeeze the air from his lungs.
“There are darker roads than these,” the voice whispered from the deepest recesses of Alder's mind. “Would you walk them?”
He did not respond, could not, but only walked forward, allowing the darkness to crush him as he exhaled his last breath.
Alder had always considered himself a loner, but then again, he supposed that most orphans thought of themselves the same way. In a world without orphanages, or any social services for that matter, if your friends and family all died, you were pretty much on your own.
Regardless, he was certainly a resourceful loner. Perhaps it was because he had grown up in this society, if the remnants of such a run-down world could be called such. The adults who had lived through the war were born into a soft world and were still adjusting to reality, which gave Alder a distinct advantage.
Alder's dad had always said that the war took all the men who could fight and killed them. Of course, Alder had also watched an old man with a bat beat his dad's face to a pulp, so maybe there were still some left who could fight.
No one fought like Alder. He knew each fight could be his death. It had been so his whole life. Older men remembered a time when fights were broken up. When some form of honor still persisted, and the winner walked away. Alder had only heard of such things.
He had never known a mother's loving embrace. His mother had died giving birth to him in the ruins of an abandoned apartment building. The hospitals had all been looted long before his birth.
He never knew how his father raised him when he was a newborn. For the twelve years of his life that Alder had family, his father had kept them alive simply through subtlety and theft. It made Alder wonder what his father had done to survive before the war, but they rarely talked of such things. The most his father ever said of the past was that once it was imperfect but still beautiful, but that none of that mattered anymore.
His father taught him how to wait patiently and form a plan before acting. How to use the darkness to his advantage, and there was so much darkness to work with.
Sometimes the Sun wouldn't shine for weeks. When it did appear, it was only to briefly shine through a gap in the clouds before being locked away by their angry gray wall. Everyone looked up at the Sun when it appeared. His father said it made them think things would get better.
The two of them never looked up. They knew better, but so did the man who killed Alder's father.
Alder's father had waited too long, or maybe not long enough. Either way, the Sun had appeared at the wrong moment, and the man his father was trying to rob wasted no time looking at it.
Alder knew: the light was their friend, but he lived in a world of darkness.
He continued on as his father had taught him. Stealing enough to survive. Remaining silent and motionless in the darkness to escape detection. Striking only when the moment presented itself.
Sometimes he would see dozens of people traveling together in a herd, but he always kept his distance from such groups. Their numbers may have scared off small groups of bandits, but with so many mouths to feed they rarely had any food. Alder could provide for himself.
At fourteen, after two years of solitude, Alder had been forced to kill for his food countless times when more subtle methods failed him. Most of these fights ended with Alder's opponents dead before they had a chance to fight back. The only difference was that this night required him to kill two to ensure his survival.
He had the whole thing planned out. There was no way past this particular group's supply guard. He had chosen to follow this particular group because they had fewer members than the other he had seen recently, but they were well organized for such a small outfit of bandits. One had even waved a gun around threateningly once they had stopped to make camp, though Alder doubted it had bullets. No one had bullets anymore.
He could remember hearing gunshots echoing through the darkness every few days when he was a child. He had never heard one close up before, though he had seen plenty. His father told him that the first year after the war, everyone with a gun and ammo did whatever they wanted. Until they ran out of bullets, that is.
Ever so slowly, Alder crept up to the side of the supply cart. When he was about ten feet away from the nearest guard, Alder dropped down to his hands and knees. He unwound the coil of thin metal wire which was his only weapon from his left forearm before silently crawling forward.
Finally he was positioned behind the guard, and from this distance could discern a large man wrapped in the remnants of tattered blankets. Alder had seen others in similar garb, and knew that the constrictions of the shards of fabric would slow the man's reaction speed. He rose, so slowly, carefully, and stretched his arms above both their heads, no light to glimmer off the wire and betray him. He remained poised behind the guard for a moment, waiting for him to exhale his last breath.
In a single swift motion, Alder's arms came down and back, snagging the guard's throat with the wire. A single gurgle escaped the larger man before all he could do was claw wildly at the wire. Alder held him with every muscle in his body, hugging the guard's head to his chest. Eventually he was still, and Alder untangled himself from his still warm corpse.
He could hear footsteps approaching from the other side of the cart. Slinking smoothly back into the darkness, Alder waited. The other guard must have heard something, because he called for his companion as he grew closer.
“Dave? You'd better not be asleep over here,” any moment he would be able to see the body lying on the ground before him. Alder moved outward from the cart, keeping low and trusting to the darkness to shroud him. He prepared to spring on the second man when Dave helped him out.
In the two years he had spent alone, Alder had come to realize how unpredictable the living were. No matter how much you planned, living beings always had the capacity to do something you didn't anticipate. After thinking on this, Alder was left with the simple conclusion that you could always count on the dead. They had a tendency to behave as expected.
Despite what Alder thought was a relatively bright day, the second guard never saw Dave's body, but instead tripped over it and came crashing down.
Alder pounced. He pinned the second guard's arms with his legs while the cord pulled his head back at an unnatural angle. Still, a single shriek escaped the guard, warning the rest of the camp that there was an intruder.
The second guard died faster than the first, but not before Alder heard a not so distant yell. A bright flash and then the loudest noise Alder had ever heard in his life followed this. Something in the cart caught fire, and Alder scrambled away from its light, seeking the comforting solitude of the darkness.
The fool had made his own bullets! Post-war bullets were wildly unpredictable, often injuring the shooter or destroying the gun. This one apparently shot fire, not something Alder had any intention of fighting especially since they had already set their own supplies on fire. He would need to find others with food, and fast. What a waste of life tonight had been.
He fled the fire, the gun flashes, and the crazed yelling. Each time he looked back he could still the glow of the flames behind him. They may not have been able to see him, but he would not feel safe until he could escape their light. The fire spread, eager to consume the already dying city, until Alder eventually closed his eyes entirely and let his memory take him down the streets as he knew them.
When he opened his eyes he could no longer see the glow. Instead, his eyes opened to a greater darkness than he had ever seen. Though he knew it was impossible, it seemed brighter when his eyes were closed. As he looked up he could see nothing which could be labeled as sky. No way of telling if the atmosphere stretched miles or feet above him.
A raspy voice called him forward, but Alder could not tell from which direction it came. As he walked forward, the darkness thickened, pressing against him, threatening to squeeze the air from his lungs.
“There are darker roads than these,” the voice whispered from the deepest recesses of Alder's mind. “Would you walk them?”
He did not respond, could not, but only walked forward, allowing the darkness to crush him as he exhaled his last breath.
