The figure turns to us, and begins making it's way across the room. I move forward, and the rest of my friends follow as we make our way to the center of the room. The room is massive so it takes several minutes before we are close enough to discern what the figure looks like. As we come in range the figure waves it's hand, and a table appears, eight chairs on one side and one on the other.
The figure is obviously a male due to his broad shoulders, and thick chest, though I can't really tell if it's his chest or the armor he's wearing. He's roughly six and a half feet tall, with a commanding stride that exudes confidence. The armor itself looks to be made out of starlight, not bright, but gleaming. The chest piece has three large downturned arrowhead shaped plates on top of one another, with a fourth one on the bottom that is flat and leads into the leg pieces. The rest of the armor looks like this, except the gloves and boots which are made of some kind of leather. There is no helm upon his head, so his straight long black hair falls onto his shoulders, and is swept back so it does not obscure his face.
His eyes are the same color as his armor, however all the armor he wears or the commanding air he breaths doesn't distract from his most distinguishing feature. His skin is a soft blue, like clear blue water, and even this doesn't take away from his face. All of his feature are striking, but the scowl on his face gives them a marred, feature that diminishes their appeal.
Just from looking at him, a soft bubble of hate works it's way into my stomach. I can't identify why, but just by the way he looks, walks, breathes, or really anything, it presents me with nothing but loathing. It's through this way of thinking that I think about my dream and the armor on the figure that had killed the president. A fierce scowl takes root in my face as he sits at the table and motions for us to do the same.
We all sit and he looks to me, with a slight hint of amusement, crossing over the deep set scowl. He then speaks in a voice that matches the scowl perfectly.
"So, you are what passes to be guardians these days."
"Guardians?" Josh asks looking confused.
"I could sit here for years explaining and your feeble minds wouldn't understand even a fraction of what I say." He says sneering.
"If so why even bother talking to us?" I asks sneering right back. He smiles a cruel smile and turns to me.
"I have come to offer you a, oh what do they call it here, an olive branch so to say."
"And why do that if our minds are so feeble?" I ask harshly. My friends look at me with questioning looks, but I ignore them, as focused as I was on my hate.
"Because Fang, my armies grow few in numbers, and I could use some fresh recruits." He says my nickname with exaggerated patients, and continues in a tone that makes it seem he would rather jump off a cliff than to say so.
"That's Felix to you, and I'm sorry I didn't catch your name."
"I am Tearrance-" He starts.
"Well Tearrance you can shove that olive branch right up your-"
"Fang." Sierra says cutting me off.
"What is the expression, whipped I think it is." Tearrance says mockingly.
"And I suppose you're a virgin with that kind of face." I say laughing cruelly.
"Please, I have raped more women than you have ever seen." Tearrance says looking at the girls.
"Probably after they ran screaming from your face." I say keeping my composure, but an even bigger bubble of hate replacing the one I had before.
A strange darkness covers his face as he stands, slamming his hands down on the table, so hard it breaks.
YOU ARE READING
The Strange Life Of Felix Grant
Science FictionFelix was an average teenager with the usual teenage troubles, but what happens when his life and everything he has know is turned sideways over the course of a week full of suspense, pain, and discovery? I own only what I have created. This is a bi...
