Subject: post 1 Date: Mon, 20 Apr 1998 16:29:37 EDT From: MrPsycho00 Roland and Alain rode through the blackened ruins of Gilead. There were bodies everywhere, both rebel and loyalist... but mostly loyalist. The two gunslingers silently observed the carnage, but the tears ran freely down their cheeks. This had been their home since the time they were children. They remembered a time where the days were peaceful and the Goodman John Farson was simply a nutcase intent on destryoing the Federation of Gilead. Now everything was gone. Roland stopped his horse and turned to Alain. He barely noticed as he dug his fingernails into his palms so hard that he drew blood. "We should have been here Alain." "Roland, we had our mission. How could we know..." "WE SHOULD HAVE BEEN HERE." Alain did not reply. "I'll find him, Alain. I'll find that bastard Farson and kill him." <2 years later> The shackles bit into Rolands wrists as he watched the whip cut into Alain's back. They had put up a good fight, but Farson was unbelievably huge. They'd put two bullets in his chest but he kept fighting, ignoring the pain. Now they were both going to die in some rat-infested dungeon, and Farson would get away with everything he'd done. Roland struggled to reach the metal splint he kept sewn into his shirt, but he was fighting a losing battle with fatigue and a good deal of blood was seeping from the wound in his leg. Alain cried out again as Farson mercilessly tortured the poor man. The sound drilled into Roland's mind. They would both die unless something was done. In a spurt of energy he strained his fingers and managed to get a firm hold on the small piece of metal. He clumsily worked it loose from the seam of his shirt and after a few minutes of fumbling, managed to get it in a position to pick the lock. Meanwhile, Alain was lying on the floor, a bloody mess. Suddenly tired of the game, Farson picked up a nearby six-shooter and aimed it at the back of Alain's head. As he was about to pull the trigger, he noticed an impossibly fast movement out of the corner of his eye. Roland finally released the lock on the shackles and, free of his bonds, his instinct took over. A sudden calm enveloped him that should not have been there. The pain lessened and his mind snapped into focus. He had never experienced such a feeling before, but intended to make the best use of it he could Farson swiveled the gun to aim at Roland's head and pulled the trigger, but the gunslinger dove and rolled towards his own abandoned weapon. Coming out of the maneuver with pistol in hand, he aimed at Farson's grinning face and was about to blow it to hell when he noticed Alain hanging limply beside the rebel. And then he saw Farson's own gun shoved down Alain's throat. He stood up from his crouch, gun still trained on Farson's head. The rebel laughed. "Time to choose gunslinger: revenge or your friend's life. What's it gonna be?" Roland's cold blue eyes grew somehow icier. He saw the destruction of Gilead, the mangled bodies of his friends, his parents dangling from crosses, and he screamed in rage. Then he blacked out. When he awoke, Roland almost vomited. Farson was indeed dead, but so was Alain. It was too much. He dropped his guns and stumbled out of the dungeon. Half-crazed he just started walking. Without food or water he began walking straight into the desert. <2 days later> Roland looked horrible. Sunburned, windburned, and dying of thirst, Roland was more animal than man. He had stumbled so far into the desert that by the time he wanted to turn around and go back, it was too late. A buzzard landed at his head, expecting a free meal at any moment. Roland tried to shoo it away, but his arm refused to obey his mind's command. He was going to die alone in the desert. Reality was hard to take but somehow comforting. Anywhere would be better than his own world. Everything good was dying. He remembered the stories of how beautiful his home was once... before the world moved on. Since then almost all the old ways had been forgotten. No longer could they make the great machines of old, and the ones that had survived this long barely functioned. Nobody understood how to work them, or in some cases, what they actually did when they were working. Only the guns were still held sacred, and Roland had abandoned these in the dungeon, barely thinking. Now he was alone in the desert without his guns, food, or water. It was hopeless. Roland closed his eyes and waited for death to come. Suddenly, he felt a cool breeze blow over him. He opened his eyes and saw that the sky was rapdily changing color. Everything was spinning, his head hurt, and the breeze was growing stronger and stronger. Sand thrown up from the growing windstorm blinded him, and he covered his face in terror. For the second time in a few days, Roland blacked out. He awoke on a bed and looked around the small room. His head throbbed but his body felt surprisingly strong. He rose and looked at the window. He was in the middle of a forest somewhere. Roland opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. A voice with a pseudo-Scottish accent came from behind him, "Hold it, where do you think you're going?" Roland turned and saw and old man in front of him holding an axe. Disoriented and surprised, Roland dipped for his guns, only to remember that he had lost them... how long ago was it? He didn't know. The old man gave him a puzzled look. "What'd you think you're doing out of bed? Glad to see you awake, but you should lie still for a bit, boy. And what did you hope to find at your hips, boy?" "My guns. I am Roland of Gilead, a gunslinger. I appreciate how you have cared for me, but I need to go now." The man laughed. "Guns?!? Those are just a pipe dream, lad, they'll never work. Greg has been trying for years to find some of that fabled 'black powder,' but it'll never happen. Just a myth. And I must insist that ye go back to sleep, my boy." Roland blinked. "Didn't you hear me? I am from Gilead, center of the Federation. You must have heard of us, even if Farson has taken over, you surely remember the Federation." "I've been all over, son, and I don't remember hearing about a place called Gilead. I found you out in the woods 3 days ago, all bloody and near starving. I brought you here, cleaned you up, and fed you. You were delusional, kept talking about a vor -tex and someone called 'Li', but I think ye was just feverish. Now please go back to sleep." Roland brushed the man aside. "I appreciate your kindness, but I need to go. I need to figure out what's happened to me. Why I'm not dead, how I got here, and what I'm supposed to do here. None of this makes any sense. Good day." Roland opened the front door and stepped outside.