Legend of The Scale, Ch. 1 Trako

Author's note: So yeah. I published a work with a similar beginning a while ago, and this is the revised/continued piece. It's twice as long, and is just me experimenting with beginnings.

Trako hated running with a passion. Fleeing from danger, escaping the clutches of his enemy. He preferred to stand and face them off, showing them he wasn’t afraid. That he never would be.

Things rarely worked out that way. The entirety of his day seemed to be filled with stuff he didn’t feel like doing. Running from danger and school were only a few of the many calamities he faced during the daylight hours.

Night was even worse.

A brief summary of his average night: Run for a few hours on roads, rooftops—everything. Fitfully sleep for a while before having to take to the road again, putting as much distance between him and his pursuers.

The scrolvs.

The name sent shivers down his back. It belonged to the creatures who'd killed his parents. The creatures that followed him wherever he went, in the hope they could kill him. The creatures that were as cold-blooded and evil as the one who commanded them.

They hadn’t caught onto his most recent ploy—not yet. Instead of beginning the night on the ground, he climbed to a rooftop in the hope that it would slow them down. So far it had. He hadn’t seen nor heard them in hours, a record for him.

The sun had set behind the horizon a long time before, but there was still plenty of light to see. The city before him was so bright—so superbly illuminated by the millions of bulbs glaring before him—that he could see everything that happened down below. He could see people from all walks of life going to their homes for the night or even heading out. Something he didn’t recommend.

It was common knowledge that it was dangerous to be out after dark. He knew that too, but had no choice.

He was alone.

The one thing that separated him from the rest of the world more than anything else, the entire human race. Everyone had someone they could rely on, a place of refuge where they could hide out or seek advice—something. His only place of refuge were the rooftops of Parinol. And sometimes they weren’t very cordial to him, either.

Sweat rolled off his temple, tracing its way slowly down his cheek. He lifted his hand and wiped the sweat off with a frown. Sweating already? The night hadn’t even begun.

A sound echoed from the alley to his right and he spun around instantly—his eyes searching before his mind processed everything. The outline of the alley, the run-down store front whose neon lights seemed out of place. The trash bins that leaned against the graffiti stained buildings. Litter and garbage covering the ground like a multi-colored mulch. Nothing escaped his gaze.

But no one was there.

His body relaxed, but his mind remained acute to the sounds of the street. After years of self-conditioning, he was always on the watch. Even without actually thinking about danger, he was always on the lookout for it.

He continued to keep an eye on the street, but he allowed himself to wander. The alley below wasn’t the only place where scrolvs loved to wait.

He stood up and walked around on the flat roof. It was bone dry, thanks to the Gorgos desert surrounding the city, giving them no rain, no green—only sand. Sand in everything, down his clothes, inside his shoes grating against his toes, pelting the streets in endless barrages of tan. Annoying was the least word to be applied to that horrid stuff. That helped him walk soundlessly. He was pleased about that at first because it helped him become more inconspicuous, but then he remembered that whatever advantage it gave to him was also given to the scrolvs.

If he was quiet while walking on it, so were they.

He took his attention off the street. They weren’t attacking from there. Something just told him so. A hunch, gut feeling—whatever he wanted to call it. He just knew.

A sound to his left alerted him once again, and he was attentive once more. No, more than one sound. Many sounds. The skitter of feet he heard when someone heavy attempted to remain silent. He tried to distinguish the noises, to break them up and determine how many of them there were.

Impossible. The sounds muddled together in one uniform noise. Footprints. Just footprints. It was a messenger of what was to come soon, a precursor of the terror he knew would follow if he didn’t take action.

The street below was unoccupied. Alleys were things to be avoided—darkness clouding over anything lurking around, and the heavy smell of chemical smoke. A stench so potent and putrid, it left you gasping for clean air.

Disgusting or not, he had to get down there. But one small issue confronted him, and no matter how he looked at it—there was only one angle he could. Down—he couldn’t see a way to get to the alley. Since he had places himself so beautifully on the rooftop to see the picturesque sand of Parinol, and since the ladder he had used was far behind (probably thrown down by the scrolvs in their mad rush to go after him), he was without a way off the roof. Perfect.

He continued on, the footsteps not slowing but approaching as stealthily as they had before. In this section of Parinol, he knew he could walk on for hours and never reach the end of the rooftop. Normally, he would have loved this because it meant he could walk on and on, never paying attention to time nor trouble. But today…. Today it posed a serious issue.

It meant he would have to run till he reached the end of the stringing rooftops, or until the scrolvs caught him. He hoped for the first, dreaded the second—but still considered the latter the more plausible ending for the night.

There were other solutions to the issue, and he could deal with them by—

No. He shook his head in a vain attempt to clear his mind of any violent tendencies—there were too many to count—and focus on escape rather than battle. But he couldn’t ignore the obvious. He couldn’t ignore the easy solution, even if it meant an exhausting night for him—and a few smoldering corpses on the alley floor by morning.

He opened his hand and a spark danced across his palm. The spark morphed into a stream of flame, circling his hand like a whirlwind until he allowed a puff of wind to blow it out, tendrils of smoke floating away into the night. Beautiful, but so deadly.

He bit his lip. “It is nothing more than they deserve,” he muttered. The words were for himself, but he said them loud enough for anyone close to hear—if anyone would care to listen. Scrolvs would, he knew. But he didn’t care.

“Come for me, then.” His voice grew with every word. Surely, the scrolvs would hear his voice and come for him. Surely, the flame had brought their attention to him and his ability.

From the distance, he could now see the scrolvs approaching. The night sky lent no light to the situation, as they were seemingly extinguished by the great manmade stars of Parinol—those millions of bulbs glaring out at Trako’s night activity—something everyone, including him, knew was forbidden.

But ten o’clock curfews were for people with homes. Or at least, that was how Trako rationalized it in his mind. And apparently the scrolvs did so, as well.

The scrolv’s faces were now illuminated by fluorescents, their hideous faces sneering back at Trako. He knew anyone who had never seen one before would scream, possibly faint—from either fright or sudden exposure to ugliness, he wasn’t sure. But he had seen them before. He saw them every night, both during his escapes and in his nightmares afterward.

Even their shadows were daunting, tall and wide, but their actual bodies made even the bravest doubt their decisions and loyalty. If it weren’t for the disfigured features—the face that looked like a soccer ball, after being in a fight with one too many dogs, and huge, lumpy ears shaped like an O—they may have looked like oversize people. But their eyes finished destroying the possibility of fitting in with the rest of humanity. They were bloodshot and cruel, not seeming to have a pupil but more of a single crimson color, making their eyes look like molten lava. Their gaze felt like that, too. Scorching. Tattoos covered all visible skin, and were no doubt scattered all over the body, even in places untalked about, Trako was sure. It seemed like their way. Huge biceps seeming as big as his entire leg strained on their plain tee-shirts, making their arms look like lumpy balloons.

In a word, they were one thing: Scrolvs.

They were twenty yards from him now, in plain sight. Their weapons glinted in their hands all too clearly, a battle-axe held by each of them. He was grateful there were only two—so far, at least. He knew he could handle that many. Probably.

“What do you want?” He kept his voice low and monotone, allowing no emotions to leak through. None of his intense hate to show itself via speech. Let that be reserved for their bodies.

“We only want to kill you. Nothing more,” a scrolv said. “If you would be so kind as to lower the weapon, we would be very grateful.”

“Lower the weapon? What wea—” He felt something in his hand, and glanced down. A single spire of flame burned in his hand, interwoven through his fingers. A steely blaze eager to be used. “Oh,” he said, and lunged forward.