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417782 aka Hill

"I love you, Civilian Leader."

0 · 150 views · located in The Ruined World

a character in “Alas Poor World”, as played by TheFinalOne


Name/Designation: 417782

Nicknames/Aliases: Hill

Age: 27

Gender: Male

Occupation: Civilian

Height: 5'7"

Weight: 60 kilos.

Physical Description: Hill is a small man, both in size and build. Undernourished since birth, Hill is by far the smallest in his biological family. He has black hair, very short, and dark brown eyes, like his biological father. He lost his little finger on his right hand in an accident some years though he does not remember exactly when. A fake finger was attached so "he does feel not out of place".

His cheeks are shallow and his upper jaw is prominently visible. He does not keep a beard though due to lack of razors on some days he has a stubble. He is quite skinny and so his standard uniform is too big for him. But he is model civilian so he does not complain.

Personality: Hill has never believed in the teachings of the Leader. He does not publicly denounce MK-2's society or even talk about it, but he does wonder if life has always been like this.

He is like a bird stuck in a cage. Due to his build he has never been the physical labor kind; he is more of a thinker. But that is a dangerous thing to be and he knows that.

Even though he does not wish to remain in MK-2 he does not believe in the stories of Prospero. He feels that these stories and the incident were cooked up by the Citizen Leader and her cohorts. He considers people who believe in the tales as fools; fools who do not deserve any better.

But would he, if given a good solution, get out of MK-2 borders and on to the dead plains? Yes! A hundred time yes!

Skills: His poor health does not allow him to do much manual labor so he works for an upperclassman who sells the propaganda of the Civilian Leader.

Weaknesses: He is quite weak and cannot bear much pain.

Brief History: Born to people of 'passable genes', Hill has yet to eat a full meal. He has lived his entire life under the 'care' of the Civilian Leader. He was taught how to behave and why MK-2 is a great place and the the only place to be.
He has lived his life in much poverty though he got 'everything' from the great Civilian Leader so he cannot consider himself poor.
His mind has always been hazy, never remembering dates or minor details. "It's in the vaccination!" his friend had cried. During the crackdown after the Prospero incident his friend vanished.

So begins...

417782 aka Hill's Story

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Character Portrait: 417782 aka Hill
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In the crevices of the brain, now lay dead the remnants of life. The morning brought no joy, no peace, no comfort. The night brought no sense of accomplishment. Each day was exactly like the yesterday and the tomorrow. Matter not what time it was outside; matter only the ringing and the ticking the clocks in the dome.

Prospero may be only the figment, the last figment, of imagination of a desperate soul; a broken soul that wishes only for a taste of freedom, of true peace and quiet. But the soul was not its own master. And yet, the soul administered hope in itself; hope for change. Would the tired soul be bestowed upon with happiness? Never, if it stayed in MK-2. The quantum of solace would destroy it.

Early morning stirred a tired scrawny body. The demons and servants would commemorate him by Hill, till they could remember no more. The body lay on a dirty white bunk bed covered with a torn white pillow. The pillow was merely for name, a piece of cloth stitched with rocks inside. His body ached, a sign that this wasn't how it was supposed to be, but his mind shooed away the thought, fearing deadly repercussions.

"Wake up," a voice box screamed. The half-broken piece of iron screamed again. With all his soulless might he slammed his palms against the top of the voice-box; silence and pain the rewards of the action.

His body moved in the motions he had learned oh! so many half eaten memories ago. Somewhere in his mind a jingle began, one that his mother said. Kee' you' 'ight leg dow', kee' you' left leg dow', now stan' up and wa'k arou'. He still followed what his mother had asserted each fine morning, till she was gone. Just, gone.

He kept one leg down on the squeaky clean grey floor, winced as the cold sensation shot through his leg, put his other leg down, winced again and stood up. For a moment, all the blood gushed out of his brain, rushing through his veins to his legs; he felt nauseated but his weak heart beat on. Blood come back to the brain like a forgotten lover and his mind was at relative peace again.

Even with his bated breath, he managed to command his hand to remove yesterday's, and tomorrow's, clothes. He slipped into his second pair of hand-me-downs not like a man in the woman he loved, but a truck through a shop window. The shadow of perfection had left him years ago, when the requiem for the better sperms was held in his mother's womb.

He had dreamed of a stormy night. His dream had always been vivid; a caricature of desires, a painting of his hopes. But this one had been different. "My son," a low voice spoke. Hill was standing at the edge of the cliff as the rain battered against him and thunderstorms provided light. Not one of the raindrops, he felt. He had never felt raindrops consciously so how could this dream know what to project, what lies to spin?

Hill turned to the voice, and saw no soul. He was all alone. Yet, the low voice continued, "My son, be free..." Hill's body shook... It was Prospero---

RING!RING! The doorbell chimed. RING!RING! it chimed again. Hill had fallen asleep again. He was taking support of the side of the bed as he slept. Quickly, his muscle contracted and relaxed, and he was at the door. A throaty voice accompanied the creaking of the door, "Let's go." He followed the man quietly. There was work to do.