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Snippet #2454274

located in The Medialoum, a part of Coffee in Hell, one of the many universes on RPG.

The Medialoum

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Character Portrait: Charlie Fletcher
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He was back in Stockwell, crouched with a group of boys around a firecracker that someone had snuck in. It was Guy Fawkes Day, after all, and what was it without explosives? They'd lit the end of it, and everyone held their breath as the spark grew nearer and nearer towards the firecracker itself. "Madam Stockwell won't like this," a skinny, bespectacled boy by the name of James fretted. "Oh, shut up, Jimmy. Don't ya see we're just tryin' to, ah, celebrate Mr. Fawkes?" one of the older boys sniggered. Charlie's eyes flitted around the room nervously. He knew, he knew that this was bad, and he knew that they'd all get one hell of a whipping, but he wanted to fit in. He wanted to be like everyone else. "Oy, shut it, the lot of you! It's gonna go off," the oldest boy, Robert (who insisted that everyone call him "Robber") snapped. Everyone watched with eager anticipation as the fiery little spark flirted with the boundary between the wick and the explosive- even James drew a little closer. Charlie's heart beat faster, and faster, and he saw the little thing about to go off, and he couldn't, and hisheartbeatfasterandharderuntilitwasabouttoburst! With a spectacular bang, the firecracker went off, filling the entire room with a blinding, brilliant light. Multicolored lights floated through his vision as a thick smoke filled the room. Charlie choked on it, a cough rising in his throat. "Well, that was just bully!" Robber exclaimed happily. "What did you boys do?" a rough female voice demanded as everyone in the entire room, save for Robber, blanched.

Charlie's eyes flew open, still choking on something, his lungs heavy with smoke. The sky was a heather gray, the same color of his sweater. His head pounded, and he felt blood trickle down his forehead. He lifted up his hand to gingerly dab at it, and winced as his nails accidentally made contact with the cut. Charlie clutched his head as a jolt of pain shot through his skull like lightning. "Lightning," he mused. Lightning like that firecracker. Damage done all around him like it had done in the splintering hardwood floor of that awful institution.

But no. Charlie was not in Stockwell, but he did not seem to be anywhere. At least, not that he could tell. "Where am I?" he asked to no one in particular, his voice gravelly and strained from his earlier coughing fit. He hoisted himself up with a grunt and looked at his surroundings. Unimpressed, Charlie started walking along, hoping to find someone who'd tell him where he was. His foot caught onto something, and he fell, his arms splayed out to attempt to catch his fall. Charlie looked behind him, and to his utmost horror, he'd tripped over someone's outstretched arm. "What is this place?"