The world used to be a better place. A place where people could live in peace in between their own little plot of four walls with a roof over their heads without worry of impending rockets or, worse, magic. This was before the regime of course, a time when the world had come under the power of a small consortium of magicians who held most of the power at the time. The regime was instituted after the war; practically nothing was left after the war. The world was a desolated mass of communities built upon outcrops, the mere survivors of extreme destruction.
This gave way to the age where we struggle in strife. I am merely a traveler in this world, but the only constant thing I’ve seen is pain and its consequences. Maybe that’s why I found myself suddenly back first on the ground, covered head to toe in ashes and soot, a chubby face above me staring down with wide, ice blue eyes. The child opened their mouth, a high pitched gurgle leaving it, but not one I could understand. Figured the ashes didn’t only cover my body; they had invaded my insides as well. The thumping footsteps signaled another guest who suddenly appeared above me, curly brown hair arranged carefully into one ponytail. Both figures grabbed my arms and began to pull, the ash flying everywhere and causing me to cough raucously.
It took a few minutes of pulling –in addition to a little work on my end– before I could finally move again, having been freed from my ash-filled prison. I coughed, my lungs still filled with the dark black soot surrounding the whole scene. There had been an explosion, that I did remember. It was still engraved in my skin, my heart, my lungs. There didn’t seem to be a reason; I had looked around afterwards in my confused state from the ground and couldn’t see anything, though the vantage point I was afforded wasn’t really the best. The two who had dug me out were staring up at me with wide eyes, the kind kids love to shoot you to give them a new puppy or toy or action figure. I mumbled a thank you to which both kids grinned.