It’s all a part of the WarDiv propaganda.
█ act one: way down we go
▸ Ritman High, Football Field.
▸Interacting with everyone.
Samuel sits in the back of a cab, one street down, idling at a stop sign when the driver, again, glares at him through the rear view mirror. Bloodshot eyes scan over every visible tattoo: from his branded throat and penned fingers laced over his mouth whilst he gazed through the smoke-fogged window and ignored the vibrating presence of his cell balanced on his knee. Idle chit-chat had been exchanged for uneasy silence, a brooding after thought that plagued Samuel that this was mistake, a trap, his paranoia crested high from the earlier flight to the hailing of the taxi service and putting himself up in a hotel for a couple days. His father offered the guest bedroom earlier in the week, but Sam had declined on whispered refusals - his new wife, step-mother he thinks, didn't much enjoy his looming figure, much to his expectation. Which was fine, he told himself and his father, he'd see them over the holidays and they could catch a beer or two tomorrow, right pops?
"Right here is fine, actually" Samuel announces suddenly, leaning forward and fishing his wallet from his pocket and fingers a few bills, "How much...?"
"Thirty even." Comes a clipped reply, suspicion evident there, who was this heavily tattooed man in their town, prowling after hours no less.
"Here's forty, keep the change." He pays the fare, no hesitation as he procures a smoke and cups his hand around the flame he flicks to life from his Bic. One shuddering pull and an exhale later, Samuel walks the rest of the way to Ritman through a haze of smoke. He avoided going to the opening affair to this stroll down memory trauma lane, for he was not a confident man when it came to hashing over history with nothing but glass tumblers and amber liquids separating then from the now. Samuel procured his earbuds on reflex, their wireless function immediately resuming his every evolving playlist to accompany his short-ranged vigil. Nostalgia perfumed the air, taking form in wisps of white and muttered lyrics that formed a symphony for the melancholic mortals that stalked this night in memoriam. Booted feet fell in tandem to a personal beat, following a path not taken in so long, easily strung upon reflexes as he had walked this path through both reality and dreams.
A gap in the fence, a gateway to the inferno, he poetically mused, the rusting gate flaking beneath inked gestures that shook. The figures came first, haloed by light and framed in shadow, and Samuel carefully removed his earbuds as the voices came to then, pinging upon remembrance of snide remarks and comments, to the pitying glances and whispered rumors that saw to Samuel's harrowing graduation. Would they even recognize him, donned and embellished as he was, hair dyed and the weight shredded through vices and determination: his person a phoenix that was risen from the ashes of his incinerated childhood. There was no going back as Samuel crossed onto the field, hands tucked away in his back pockets after he rucked his sleeves up to his elbows. Printed black on black, the logo of Black Arrow embellished across his chest and down the back with his own design advertised. There was no precursor to the words that followed his debut, but he did straighten his posture at least, spine suddenly rigid as many introduced and reminisced.
"Hey, Billy- uh." A deep timbre coiled, his grin turned suddenly sheepish. "Marco.. Everyone. Here to open the capsule, yeah.." He glanced down, first at his boots and then to mascot still embossed there, as if searching for a distraction before he rocked back onto his heels. "It's Sabiston, by the by. Samuel."