Friday 8 March 2013
A/N: Part of a fanfiction I will be writing, it'll consist of Mirror's Edge and hopefully Assassin's Creed if I can somehow get Desmond's team into the storyline. Hopefully I can get the prologue done soon, so the crossover will make at least some sense.
Two hands hit against the floor, one naked but the other clad in a striking red fingerless glove, the owner of the parts leaned forward, her body already curled tightly together in a loose squat, twisting slightly, she managed an awkward roll across the smoothed sterile-white surface of the City’s many rooftops, and in a fleeting second, she was up and running once more. The place she navigated, far above the real estate, was a network of aerial byways known only to the insurgents who manoeuvred atop them. It was a state of existence for these forerunners – the Mirror’s Edge – their personal playground which they utilized to cheat the rules of their time. It wasn’t a safe job, and it certainly wasn’t easy; but it shined a new light to the individuals who ran this dirty and dangerous underground. Their ideology (if nine out of ten things in this godforsaken city was a crime); why live a life without freedom? Even if it took them to their graves; at least they would be remembered as the ones who plagued the system. It was a small process, but significant in its own way, for with each package delivered whispered a more sinister reputation to the ears of the law and those who supported it.
They were the Runners, a small but deadly poison to the government, noted as insignificant at first, but it grew into an expansion supposedly so large that it can no longer be contained. They are the motion of the city; an illegal courier group working for the insubordinates that society had pushed aside and papered as the transformations passed over them. Little people the City had forgotten, but not gone, still breathing rebellion and ever tarnishing the name of the rulers above them; Abstergo Industries. Their couriers are the unobserved and the mythical – but that’s just the way they like it. Their reputation precedes them; when, in reality, they’re little more than iconic groups of rogues struggling to survive against the pace of convention; trying to find a humanistic flow and momentum in a highly mechanised world. But the flow, that is what keeps them functioning, what keeps them constant and awake. All they see is the sky. All they feel is the air and all they hear is their own heartbeat.
___ ____ ___ ____ ___
Two hands hit against the floor, one naked but the other clad in a striking red fingerless glove, the owner of the parts leaned forward, her body already curled tightly together in a loose squat, twisting slightly, she managed an awkward roll across the smoothed sterile-white surface of the City’s many rooftops, and in a fleeting second, she was up and running once more. The place she navigated, far above the real estate, was a network of aerial byways known only to the insurgents who manoeuvred atop them. It was a state of existence for these forerunners – the Mirror’s Edge – their personal playground which they utilized to cheat the rules of their time. It wasn’t a safe job, and it certainly wasn’t easy; but it shined a new light to the individuals who ran this dirty and dangerous underground. Their ideology (if nine out of ten things in this godforsaken city was a crime); why live a life without freedom? Even if it took them to their graves; at least they would be remembered as the ones who plagued the system. It was a small process, but significant in its own way, for with each package delivered whispered a more sinister reputation to the ears of the law and those who supported it.
They were the Runners, a small but deadly poison to the government, noted as insignificant at first, but it grew into an expansion supposedly so large that it can no longer be contained. They are the motion of the city; an illegal courier group working for the insubordinates that society had pushed aside and papered as the transformations passed over them. Little people the City had forgotten, but not gone, still breathing rebellion and ever tarnishing the name of the rulers above them; Abstergo Industries. Their couriers are the unobserved and the mythical – but that’s just the way they like it. Their reputation precedes them; when, in reality, they’re little more than iconic groups of rogues struggling to survive against the pace of convention; trying to find a humanistic flow and momentum in a highly mechanised world. But the flow, that is what keeps them functioning, what keeps them constant and awake. All they see is the sky. All they feel is the air and all they hear is their own heartbeat.
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