solomon the jitterbug. (aggravates) wrote in invol_rpg, @ 2013-02-11 15:42:00 |
|
|||
It was painstakingly and punitively hot. One could imagine generations of prisoners and criminals shuttled off to this hellhole of a continent and sweating out their lives in this heat. The arse end of the world. Sun beating down as if it had a personal vendetta against each and every human being crawling across the surface of Australia, nearly slamming them into the dirt with the oppressive weight of it. Over thirty degrees meant that the boys were in low-slung shorts and wifebeaters, squinting into the too-blue sky and feeling their skin slick with sweat. More importantly, it meant the campus grounds being near-abandoned at lunchtime, apart from their brief glimpse of one student in the garden (absorbing the sunlight for their powers? probably). These two, however, seemed to be out for a stroll. They sauntered past the Parakeet garden, past the warehouses, towards the practice fields – but then they veered left. The boys eventually came to a halt with hands buried in pockets, shoulders slumped and staring at the grey stucco in the harsh, almost eye-watering sunlight. “Huh,” Solomon said. “Hnngh,” Omar said. The grounds of the International Vol Institute were familiar, but only ever as far as staff allowed. Barbed wire fences surrounded in every direction, the force-field beyond that. The access gate to the east was a distant memory, and buildings to the north only glimpsed. The gardens, the practice fields, the lake, the barbed-wire fences were all familiar, but only because they were allowed to be. “Up?” “Up,” Sol agreed. He took another two steps inside Omar’s personal space, almost uncomfortably intimate. Moments later they were floating through the air in a pocket of space without gravity. Practiced form meant they moved at an angle, up and over, though caution also meant linking their arms to prevent Sol accidentally tumbling out of the sphere. Sol kept his other hand braced against his friend as the ground slowly, dizzyingly fell away beneath them. “Oh, Superman, carry me away from all o’ this,” he deadpanned, but he kept staring downwards. Sol’s heart was in his throat and his grip tightened as they rose. Sheer emptiness stretched out beneath, above, and around them – it was almost suffocatingly hot up here (heat rises), but a fresh breeze made it bearable. “We'll wait 'til we're above it, then just drop down,” Omar explained. “Like hitting a bullseye with a human cannon.” “Just gotta time it right.” “You practiced this enough, mate, or gonna accidentally kill us both right here?” “Nah, just you.” “Fucking draggin’ you down with me,” Sol scoffed, glancing to the side long enough to see his friend smirking at him. “We’ll both splatter on the desert. ‘Here lies Calderón and Tyler, and let it be known that they bloody well tried.’” Their ascent went slowly. It was like being at the weightless apex of a rollercoaster, but with the sensation dragged out, extended into minute after minute. They’d taken little trips before, but Sol’s body struggled to cope with being so high up for so long, feet dangling in the air. Omar, on the other hand, looked positively at ease. “Have some faith,” came Omar's reply. “Been a while since I done anything this big, but I've got this.” The real danger was floating too high and ending up in the force-field. It was like walking an invisible tightrope – or tiptoeing between the frying pan and the fire, when you couldn’t even tell where the frying pan ended. They kept waiting for a distinctive hum or a tell-tale shimmer in the air, but the forcefield remained infuriatingly imperceptible. “Wait – what the fuck’s that?” Solomon shifted in mid-air, peering at the faraway building. There was sudden movement beneath them, conspicuous in the empty plain. Hurrying shapes that looked like... “Institute staffers, is it?” "With guns." A pause. "Motherfuckers seem serious." The building was still meters ahead of them, a lifetime at the slow pace they were going. From their vantage point it was obvious the roof had no entrance, and between that and the growing number of IVF staff members yelling at them from the ground, things didn't look good. Sol’s face twisted into a frown, his mind already racing to piece together their excuses. There was tension in both their shoulders; he could feel it rippling through their shared space in the zero-g sphere. “Joyride,” he hissed to the Puerto Rican. Their stomachs lurched again as Omar let his foot off the metaphorical throttle and they started descending earlier than planned, grudgingly, still far off from their planned target. But there was no arguing with guards with guns – drawing steadily closer, the boys could now see their disgruntled expressions – and they both knew it. “This area is off limits.” “Oh, is it? Didn't know.” “This area is off limits.” “Heard you the first time, Jesus. Just going for a joyride, didn't know the air was off limits.” One guard nodded to another, and soon hands were on the Vols' arms, marching them back toward the familiar part of campus. “Guess we’ll joyride over the lake instead,” one of the boys quipped, with something partway between a grin and a scowl. “You got any laws against that?” |