[center][h1][color 33ec06]Field Trip[/color][/h1][/center] [center][color 33ec06]An Autobiography by Marcus Howell[/color][/center] [center][img]http://i.imgur.com/XZCyPaz.png[/img][/center] [hr] After everything that had been done, they were being shoved into a crowded APC yet again. After the luxurious trip in the limo had spoiled his taste for transportation, Marcus was starting to get sick and tired of APCs. Perhaps he was just associating them with everything that had gone wrong so far; Wisford, their very first battle – hell, an APC was how this little chapter of his life had kicked off, or at least wasn’t very far into the prologue of this one-of-a-kind story. A story that defied genre, but was quickly becoming his own personal horror novel. The slideshow of sights and quick stops helped to emphasize the length of the journey. The dull purring of the engine threatened to carry him off to another world of nightmares; a trip that he adamantly refused to allow happen. His eyes didn’t dare to shut, nor did he dare to make any lasting eye-contact with any of his classmates, limiting himself to quick glances over their weary and fallen faces. Yet as Marcus sat there, staring out the window, it seemed like there was one brief moment when fatigue took a hold of him. A brief second as the world funneled from view and he felt his mind drifting off into… [hider Rewind][i] As Marcus sat there, staring out the window, it seemed like there was one brief moment when fatigue took a hold of him. A brief second as the world funneled from view and he felt his mind drifting off into unconsciousness. As if he’d pass out from either pain or fear as both threatened to swallow him. He was certain he wouldn’t wake up if he did. It would be merciful, but the adrenaline wouldn't allow it. It promised. He heard the nonexistent voice whisper to him. It always promised. Lies. Truth. Both in the same unheard breath. The window he stared out of was shattered into a veritable art piece of edges and contours, the frame slightly crushed as glass rattled around the interior. A massive stalagmite peeked through the spot where a gear shift would normally go, it's disappearance promising to severely hamper his escape. [b]The teeth.[/b] The roof buckled some more as he felt everything shift. The glass in the bottom of the car shifted to the back, the sound like perverse wind-chimes as it clattered across dented metal. It looked at him directly through the cracked windshield, displaying something far more frightening than hunger or malice. There was Nothing. [b]The eyes.[/b] That should have been his end. He should have met his end so many different ways. It didn't allow him though, and as things continued in slow motion, he found himself wondering the same question he’d wondered many times: [color 33ec06]Why?[/color] It didn’t answer. It never did. Or if it did, he was never permitted to remember. He was accelerating quickly. The spike disappeared through the floor. The glass fell past his face to rest on the ceiling. His good arm grasped for anything as he went weightless, the world tumbling and spinning outside that windshield: the shattered projection screen for his nightmares for over three months now. [/i][/hider] …sleep. He jerked upright suddenly, as confusion cemented itself in his brain. Had he fallen asleep? What time was it? The seemingly endless journey of their transport had already done a fine job of keeping him disconnected with time and location. The setting sun was the only indication of how long he’d been asleep…but had it been setting before he drifted off? His brain was confused and cloudy – desperately trying to piece together information he hadn’t been paying attention to. He shifted nervously in his seat, trying to alleviate the slight numbness in his legs. For a subnatural whose powers revolved around time, he wasn’t doing a very good job of tracking it. Something flickered in his mind; like someone saying something he already knew. Something obvious. Something that wasn't worth mentioning. [hr] The smell of saltwater comforted him as he stood on the porch of the estate. This smell was exclusively from better days – the days when Max and him would pack up all their shit and drive for hours just to spend a day at Wallis. Sure, it had been a fair distance away, but they’d just sit and talk, and it seemed like time passed by so quickly when they could just relax and chat. Plus, it beat going to Long Island, where everyone and their grandmother would flock to. Trying to get past an old woman drowning in 6 inches of ocean water quickly grated on the nerves. He found himself sadly reminiscing those days as the moon faintly illuminated the trees, and the comforting smell of the ocean was muted beneath the chemical taint of the chlorinated pool nearby. Did Wallis even exist anymore? Did the brothers still give lessons from their little beach shack up the road? When he retired to his room for the night, he simply lay in his bed. He didn’t change, and he only had the presence of mind to remove his shoes after a fair amount of time had passed. The back of his arm, unprotected by a sleeve, sent a slight shiver down his body as it met with the cold blanket. It all seemed too cold; unwelcoming even. Lavish places like this had led to nothing but strife in D.C, and he couldn’t help but wonder if there would be a pattern to the madness. This wasn’t home. Home was a small cul-de-sac on the outskirts of the larger town. It wasn’t a huge estate attended by butlers and maids, all of whom put Marcus’s senses on some kind of unease. Butlers and maids the Marcus had deliberately tried to avoid on his trip to the welcome solace of his assigned room. He had eyed them as he passed, keeping them in his frame of vision until he was at his determined approximate safe distance. Despite his pleas against it, he couldn’t help it when exhaustion finally set in, sometime far too early in the morning for the normal populace. When his blurry eyes finally failed him and his wandering mind clouded with darkness. He expected the nightmares to come. The reminders of his sins and failures. The crimes he’d committed back in D.C. He expected to see that unnamed man’s face, open and bloody, the gunshot in his face a mirror image of Emma’s as they both lurched towards him. But the nightmares never came. Marcus slept soundly that night, with nothing polluting his dreams. Nothing came to him, no manifestation of guilt, no damned illusion of remorse come to terrorize him. He didn't wake up until late in the morning, far more hours of sleep than he'd grown accustomed to receiving. That frightened him more than the nightmares.