Hatchetfield.

Ride The Cyclone

A man in a denim jacket with slicked back greasy hair tossed a green apple up into the air. He leaned across the counter in his phone booth as a shooting pain passed through his head. He winced, unable to prevent the vision in front of his irises. One which showed tragedy and horror. Of six teenagers, tumbling down, down, down until splat. Death, chaos and destruction would once again consume the island. Six funerals. Six intricately placed graves in a graveyard. He knew who was going to die. He knew when they were going to die. Monday, September 14th 2020, here at Watcher World, at 6:19 PM.

There they came, looking as nervous as ever. The oldest of the group, with the grey beanie and the long brunette hair was right beside a girl who wore butterfly clips in her hair. They paid their tickets and got on the ride. Next came a boy arguing with someone almost identical to him, save the height difference. He abandoned the other boy, paid his ticket and got on the ride. Beside him sat a boy with brunette hair in a sleeveless hoodie who'd just abandoned his friend, who had brown braids. The man at the counter predicted this was a blossoming romance, even as young as they appeared. Suddenly, another boy with black hair grabbed the hand of Braids and paid for two tickets. They went on the ride. He at the counter made sure that they were in the seats alright before heading back to the booth. He clicked the button, waiting for the inevitable fate that occurred.

It was unfortunate, but it was unable to be prevented. As six bodies tumbled from their carts on the climax of the loop. As six bodies hit the ground, scattering. Blood dribbled off the track. People screamed. The cops were called. He at the counter vanished. He at the counter vanished, re-emerging in a realm of black.

He heard the rumble and felt the ebbing of a bloodied wave against the soles of his rotting boots. Every step he took underneath the spotlight of the twisted night's sky recreated his outfit. His hair became cleaner, more of a reddish brunette. His eyes died down from a stunning, stabbing green to one more natural. Almost teal. Almost back to the natural genetic blues he'd been born with. Out of his denim ensemble and into a more professional appearing one. A long-sleeved white button up with the sleeve cuffs undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows became glued to his chest, fastened in place by a navy sweater vest. His denim jeans became that of black denim. His shoes became newer. Still the combat boot style but now, polishable. The slightest blood-stained tie became fastened under his collar, and he readjusted himself. He hid his dog tags underneath the tie.

Blood ran down the walls, adding to the sea of redness beneath his feet as he approached an oaken table. Bloodied waves hit the table legs, splashing on to the table itself. Splashing into the glass of a skinny figure who held it, toying with the rim of the glass. With long, pale fingers, the man flicked the rim of the glass, taking a sip of the replacement wine he had originally been drinking. He wrinkled his nose up at the taste, setting the glass back on the table. He kicked his feet up and he dressed in blue got a better look at who he was supposed to be dealing with.

He was aware of all five Lords in Black and one Queen in White. He'd done business with all five Lords in Black now. He had become their one real profitable source ever since he stepped through that portal 16 years ago and he chose not to look back on his old life. His old life consisted of a man who was overly protective of a young boy with too much of a future ahead of him for him to deal with. He was too much of a good soul to let go to waste. He willingly stepped through that portal. He was not returning to that realm by force, but more by request. Now he was serving for eldritch gods. It was fun.

This eldritch god in particular was one of his favourites. Of course, nothing could beat he who had enlightened him to begin with. This one, though, was the one who dealt with space, time and everything in between. He pulled a small vial of whiskey out from the breast pocket of a dirtied white button up, now a more ivory colour. Over the top, he wore a regal black jacket with intricate detailing on it, only visible in certain lights. His trousers were made of fake leather, covering the unnaturally long legs he had on him. His shoes were made to fit his curved feet, more royal than anything. A heeled boot was the style of choice. His long blonde hair was tied into a long braid, reaching his mid back, fastened by a black bow and a ruffle collar sat on his chest, white in colour. His manic blue eyes struggled to keep focus on the subject before him. He was mainly blind. Living in a completely black realm had him adapted to the night. Underneath the spotlight stood the subject and his eyes had to readapt to light.