Stickdom
I’m a fixer. I fix broken things. It’s what I do.
Somewhere over the Atlantic...
Having commandeered one of your family's private jets, luxury was a commodity you never seemed to be lacking, though even the numerous expensive distractions could not stave off boredom and drowsiness forever. The plush couch was soft and inviting, and when you were awakened, the sky outside was beginning to dull into purple twilight, far opposite the bright blue sky you had last seen when you closed your eyes. The cause of your sudden awakening was the appearance of a flight attendant, who is lightly tapping you on your shoulder, waking you from the light doze you had not noticed yourself falling into. You cannot resist the urge to stretch, and something falls out of your shirt's breast pocket, fluttering daintily onto the floor. You catch a glimpse of the card you had obtained from that fortune teller several days before, but not having remembered taking it with you, you could have sworn you had actually thrown it out.
The sound of a throat being cleared catches your attention quickly, snapping your thoughts back to the happenings of this moment. The young man standing over you is a nameless, faceless accessory, no one in particular to you personally, though he must have some connection to your family's conglomerate corporation if he was able to secure such a position of employment from them. Even the family's dining staff, private cooks and caterers, as well as the drivers, maids, and housekeepers on multiple estates, each individual was brand loyal to the Hale name. It was almost disgusting to you how your family could have brainwashed and inducted so many people under their monopolistic sway, you are just glad that you have an escape and an excuse to do so. But all that aside, the steward lowers a platter towards you like an elegant butler, a smartphone laying on it, the screen lit up with a stream of message notifications. "Your private line was unavailable, so they contacted the emergency phone, sir," the steward explains flatly. Everyone insists on calling you sir, though you hardly openly rebuke the title, deep down you would prefer more and more to be associated less and less with your heritage. You can see the messages flashing on the phone, the number is identical from one to the next, one you recognize. It is your mother. Of course it would be, you can't escape from her however you try, even taking a plane to... where are you going anyway?
(Apologies for the super long delay, I had meant to post this quite a while ago, but left it as a half-finished draft on accident...)
Having commandeered one of your family's private jets, luxury was a commodity you never seemed to be lacking, though even the numerous expensive distractions could not stave off boredom and drowsiness forever. The plush couch was soft and inviting, and when you were awakened, the sky outside was beginning to dull into purple twilight, far opposite the bright blue sky you had last seen when you closed your eyes. The cause of your sudden awakening was the appearance of a flight attendant, who is lightly tapping you on your shoulder, waking you from the light doze you had not noticed yourself falling into. You cannot resist the urge to stretch, and something falls out of your shirt's breast pocket, fluttering daintily onto the floor. You catch a glimpse of the card you had obtained from that fortune teller several days before, but not having remembered taking it with you, you could have sworn you had actually thrown it out.
The sound of a throat being cleared catches your attention quickly, snapping your thoughts back to the happenings of this moment. The young man standing over you is a nameless, faceless accessory, no one in particular to you personally, though he must have some connection to your family's conglomerate corporation if he was able to secure such a position of employment from them. Even the family's dining staff, private cooks and caterers, as well as the drivers, maids, and housekeepers on multiple estates, each individual was brand loyal to the Hale name. It was almost disgusting to you how your family could have brainwashed and inducted so many people under their monopolistic sway, you are just glad that you have an escape and an excuse to do so. But all that aside, the steward lowers a platter towards you like an elegant butler, a smartphone laying on it, the screen lit up with a stream of message notifications. "Your private line was unavailable, so they contacted the emergency phone, sir," the steward explains flatly. Everyone insists on calling you sir, though you hardly openly rebuke the title, deep down you would prefer more and more to be associated less and less with your heritage. You can see the messages flashing on the phone, the number is identical from one to the next, one you recognize. It is your mother. Of course it would be, you can't escape from her however you try, even taking a plane to... where are you going anyway?
(Apologies for the super long delay, I had meant to post this quite a while ago, but left it as a half-finished draft on accident...)
