It's been decades since the Re-Establishment was taken down for good. Everyone grew up, settled down, had a few kids even.
What would happen if Aaron Warner and Juliette Ferrars' no nonsense son fell head over heels for Kenji Kishimoto and Nazeera...
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Do you know what's really hard?
Finding out your family lied to you your whole life.
The people I trusted. The family who said that we didn't tell lies, that we worked together, that that was the Kishimoto way.
That we worked together.
Now, I was locked in a cell somewhere by some psychopath that I didn't know existed other than a bedtime story, trying to come to terms with... everything.
My case in point:
1. My parents did not meet during the reconstruction of the new republic. My parents met when my mother came over from Aisa, hated my dad, slept with him then nearly drugged him to death before saving him and everyone else and marrying him and having myself and Niko.
2. Paris Anderson was actually Supreme Commander of North America for years, was involved in Operation Synthesis and was friends with my actual grandad and apparently comes back to life a lot.
3. Juliette Ferrars is a fake name. I knew that not. Apparently her birth name is Ella Sommers but her mom and dad, well, second mom and dad, were evil and were also the Supremes of Oceania? And she was 'the executioner' whatever that is.
Oh, and did I mention that Aaron Warner was abused his whole life because I never knew that. Turns out I didn't know a lot.
Trust your family, they said. It'd be worth it, they said.
I was sat, back against this stupid wall, trying to drown out the screams. Whether they were in my own head or people, I don't know. They took me away from my mom and dad and everyone else and shoved me into this.. private cell.
Real cozy. True five star accommodations.
Stone walls. 4, boxy stone walls that engulfed me, a small window looking out onto the lands. The lands that were fresher, with birds. Or maybe I was hallucinating that too. Real or fake was unknown anymore.
The bed, which was in the corner, pushed against the wall, was constructed of metal pipes, a thin and unforgiving threadbare blanket atop a matress that definitely was not a matress. A small pillow was position at the top of the bed after I moved it a few times, trying to find the perfect position. I think I found hell. Genuine hell.
They let me out to shower, on occasion. The water was freezing, ice running down my back, sticking my hair to my forehead. Two minutes, give or take. I counted. 129 seconds. You get pretty bored after however many days I had been here, so counting, identifying the types of sobs, categorising the wails and shouts of pain and working out the type of stone on the walls was my only form of entertainment.
And the meals. Not much better. When they fed me, they were definitely dosed with some shit. Drag out meals and hydration just long enough so that I was starving, desperate enough to eat what they fed me. That was when the colours started. The walls would shift, slow at first. I didn't recognise it at first. I have done some sketchy stuff, but being drugged was not one. The colours bled into each other and I had no choice but to lay down and stare at the ceiling while the colours spun and the voices dulled. It was quite nice, actually. A break from the silence.
