Playing with Fire

Chapter 1 - Part 3

The music room was mostly deserted after the alarm.

Except, a teenager was lying on the floor, unconscious.

Fainted.

Odin blinked open his eyes, chest beginning to rise and fall more visibly, and in fact, more desperately. He laid on the carpeted floor, not moving. His fingers twitched unwillingly, and he winced, a little grunt escaping from his dry, peeling lips.

It hurts.

A lot.

He surveyed the room, head barely turning, as if the boy didn't even want to turn his head at all. His pupils flitted at all directions, trying to find something.

Something that would give me hope.

The room was as it was, empty and dim, with the instruments spread across the spacious room. Except, the smartboard was flickering, a white screen displayed whenever the matte screen connected with the wired circuits. A haze coated his vision, lowering the visibility of anything that he saw, and his eyes began to itch. He could barely see any of the instruments

He tried pulling up his arm again, paving around the floor for his cello case. The carpet was dusty, filled with soot that now coated his pale white fingers. He could feel nothing else, not the bulky, hard cloth surface of his case. Pain stabbed across his feeble arm, but in a much lesser intensity than before.

I should probably get up and check.

He groaned as he tried to push himself up into a sitting position. Every creak of his muscles and bones made him wince painfully, an 'ow' escaping from his mouth every few seconds. Odin's face was red from the fall, ears' tips more red than usual. Sweat glistened down his neck, dribbling down to his wet back, shirt soaked wet.

What happened to the AC?

He was now sitting normally, legs still stiff. Odin rubbed his eyes with his clean hand, rubbing of the dust in the process. His vision began to clear, each images turning sharper and sharper. The soot started to clear, slinking out from the little rim open above and below the door. More fluid pumped into his eye, and he could now see the deserted room.

The second this happened, his gaze was immediately transfixed on the door, face molding into horror as he took the scene in.

Apparently, the smoking brass handle of the wooden door didn't bother him.

His eyes slowed lowered to the bottom of the door, where we had left his cello.

It's gone.

He took a shaky breath, laying down on the carpet once more.

"It's gone," he said flatly, his expression blank and emotionless.

I used my allowance, saved up with hard-work just for that expensive shit, and-

"It's gone," he repeated, swallowing hard.

Sorry Oak. Can't worry about you right now.

He grunted and groaned as he pushed himself up. His legs trembled as he stood up straight, and pain still ached through his frail frame.

He approached the door slowly, eyes now fixed on the hissing brass handle.

Something's wrong.

Before he could touch the metal, a spark fizzed out, twinkling like orange-white stars, and disappearing into a haze of smoke.

How?

He tore of his tie, wrapping the cloth around his right hand tightly, making sure that not one bit of skin was exposed. His gingerly touched the handle with his makeshift-glove covered hand. A sigh escaped his dry lips as nothing happened, not even a twinge of shock. He curled his gloved fingers around it and opened the door.