[KoAII][Round Two]Krillin VS. Zangya

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    • [KoAII][Round Two]Krillin VS. Zangya

      Scenario: After a grim report from the doctor, it has been discovered that you have a fatal illness and only have a week to live. Please describe how you would spend this time.

      POV: 3rd Person narrative.

      Level: 3 Hard

      [Bonus Points have been Eleminated]

      INSTRUCTIONS: PM me your assignment within 5 days! If entries are not received, the person who did will be graded and win the round, and you will be eliminated automatically and receive no consolation prizes.




      [SIZE=2]Vad: Found my dicks btw
      Vad: *DISCS
      Kaz: XD!!!!XDXDXD!!
      Kaz: oh man
      Kaz: that was an awesome typo!
      Vad: I MEANT ROUND CYLINDRICAL THINGS
      Kaz: XD XD XD
      Kaz: HAHAHHHAHHHAHA[/SIZE]

    • [KoAII][Round Two]Krillin VS. Zangya

      [size=6]Krillin[/size]







      The room was silence. Not merely quiet, but pure, extracted silence that filled every sharp, sterile corner, and muted her breathing. Clean breathing. O2 in, CO2 out. The doctor shut the door behind him and walked to the opposite end of the room, shattering the room with thin sheets of transparency that carried a representation of her lungs. After he placed six sheets in a particular order, he turned and looked through her eyes into the wall behind her.

      “It isn’t good.”

      Her heart fluttered.

      “You have lung cancer, and it is advanced. The cancer has metastasized.”

      She smoothed her flaxen hair into her neck. “Cancer. How long?”

      “One week.”

      Her eyes swept across the uneven stucco above her, allowing the news to sink in with relish. “One week,” she repeated, with a chuckle.

      The doctor was fifty-four, and had sentenced far too many people to be surprised at her reaction. He gave her the important information, told her who to call, how to make the arrangements, and the other mechanics following such a diagnosis. His tongue rattled while his mind locked-on the turkey chili his wife had promised him for tonight. Only two more hours.

      She was thirty-one, a smoker of eleven long years before quitting four months ago after she noticed the yellowing of her teeth. She was not married, and never had been, but had aborted two babies before her third trimester, so her figure was, to say the least, flawless. She had matured into a gorgeous, if somewhat flawed, woman who still had a decade left of beauty before age took its toll. As the doctor explained the general necessities, her mind locked upon the tongue depressors lodged haphazardly in the basin a few feet away. A splinter would be delightful right about now, perhaps in her pupil, or nipple. It really didn’t matter. She was filled with a sense of finality, and nothing would please her more than a heaping helping of pain.

      She had been on the very edge for years, through bulimia in high school, through the sex in college, through the tramps and romps of her later 20’s, and the cigarettes all along. She had wanted to finish it all for some time, as a final fuck-you to the great big Nobody that identified her as something slightly less than human, but could never work up the gumption.

      But finally, a reason. Only a week to live. She had long known, of course, that she would die eventually. Everyone does. But she had always planned to make it with great purpose. Her final act, a willing embrace of the victory that is death.

      In her madness, she constructed plans of how she would do it. Currently, she had twenty-seven catalogued plans with the passion of an engineer fresh out of graduate school. It would be her twenty-eighth that would bring it all about.

      She opened the door, and, immediately, removed her brassiere. She wouldn’t be needing that anymore. Next came her glasses, crunched underfoot. Her keys were thrown against the wall and into a potted plant. The potted plant was overturned. It was a symphonic mess of freedom. Her kitchen, which had previously been kept meticulous, had gained years of neglect in a few short acts.

      From the closet, her contraption. It was brilliant, really. A simple device, fitted to her oven, that would simultaneously turn the oven on 450 degrees (the temperature for lasagna, her favorite meal), allow the door to shut, and lock it firmly in place. Her heart was strong, but the rest of her wasn’t. She wasn’t a doctor. Cancer was weakening her cells and blood, why not her spirit?

      No note, no pen, no scribble, no carving. She opened the door.

      She crawled in.

      She flipped the switch.

      One minute later, she was screaming loud enough to alert the neighbors, who would be far too late to save her, let alone the house.

      Two minutes later, she was medically dead.

      Those who knew her best would say, however, that she had been stillborn. Dead from birth. Mutilated by some horror in a past life, perhaps, or a chemical imbalance in the brain. She was misunderstood, a quiet person, with a somewhat scary twinkle in her eye from now and then.

      The oven was merely a meaningless baptism. Only the living can die, and she did not qualify.




      [SIZE=2]Vad: Found my dicks btw
      Vad: *DISCS
      Kaz: XD!!!!XDXDXD!!
      Kaz: oh man
      Kaz: that was an awesome typo!
      Vad: I MEANT ROUND CYLINDRICAL THINGS
      Kaz: XD XD XD
      Kaz: HAHAHHHAHHHAHA[/SIZE]

    • [KoAII][Round Two]Krillin VS. Zangya

      [size=6]Zangya[/size]





      In our world, life is not taken as seriously or held as preciously as it should. Only when someone is standing at the feet of the Reaper, his hand outstretched, preparing to take them through the cast iron gates to the afterlife do we ever truly look back on what we had and realize that we took it all for granted. By then, however, it is too late; at that time, even in that divine realization, no deity with a golden touch will come down and smite the Reaper for doing his duty; nothing can save you. It is simply your burden to bear that perhaps your life and death has truly meant nothing to you in the grand scheme of things, and you will be forced, throughout time as you sit in the Devil’s realm or on the steps to God’s throne, to ponder your mistakes.

      In 1816, the world first tasted death by cholera—it began on the Indian subcontinent, in Bengal, a region which now is mostly part of the country of Bangladesh. By the year 1820, India had been covered with the pandemic; people were dropping like flies, as cholera is a deadly disease, with death occurring from hours to several days after the symptoms are discovered. And when you reach that stage of the disease, there is no going back. The plague eventually spread to China and the Caspian Sea before finally receding in 1826. Even as the first cholera epidemic was fizzling out, however, the second was on its way, and eventually, cholera would become a prominent disease in the world—so prominent, in fact, that it remains even today.

      Now, take those two themes, and combine them into one and you find the basis of our story. Randall Fowler was a man whose outlook on life was easy going and relaxed—he had what some would describe as “the good life,” living in relative wealth, having a high position in his company, AmeriINK, which was a company based in New York City that outsourced to India for cheap labor. Randall didn’t always agree with his company’s methods, but he brought in a good deal of money because of them, so he didn’t ask too many questions. In fact, it had been a routine trip to India to check up on the company’s ink factories in New Delhi that had changed his life—or what was left of it.

      The date that his new life began was August 6th, 2008. He was flying Air India back to the States—their first stop was to be Los Angeles for a refueling, as the flight from New Delhi to New York was way too long for a no-stop flight—and found himself to have a little stomachache. He shook it off as nothing, and continued to watch the in-flight movie, an Indian language version of Forrest Gump with English subtitles. Finding it difficult to watch the film, as having to read the subtitles annoyed him greatly, he took off the headphones and began to read the TIME magazine he’d bought at the airport newsstand. It had an article about how man did not appreciate life enough in it, and thinking it all to be hippie bull, he quickly shoved it back into his suitcase and found himself sitting idly.

      The stomachache soon began to overwhelm him, and he quickly found himself having to use the restroom on the flight. He got up from his seat and rushed to the bathroom, but for some reason, he just couldn’t shake the stomachache no matter how much he used the restroom. He knew he had diarrhea; that much was quite obvious. But he didn’t know what could have caused it, unless he just had a bad reaction to the Indian food. He sat on the toilet for a good twenty minutes before finally standing up. He reached for the door, preparing to flip the sign back to ‘Vacant’ before heading back to his seat, but as his fingers grasped the switch he vomited on his hand. He put his hand to his mouth so as to not throw up on anything else and quickly knelt by the toilet and spit up some more.

      He got a short break from vomiting about three minutes later, and reached for the door. Pulling it open, he yelled quickly, “Get—a—doctor!” before spurting out more vomit. Turning back to the toilet, he continued spitting up as a passenger who happened to be a doctor rushed to the bathroom and cradled him. “Doc,” Randall spurted, “I don’t know what’s going on…” The doctor felt his forehead and declared that he had an abnormally high fever. His pulse was extremely fast, and the doctor ordered they land immediately.

      ---


      Honolulu, Hawaii. Maybe one of the best places to die—but also one of the best places to live your life to the fullest. The plane skidded to a halt on the runway of an airport in Oahu, and a stretcher carried Randall Fowler to the ambulance that would take him to what would become his final home—the hospital. The ambulance ride was torture. Paramedics were sticking needles in him, asking him questions and the like, but all he wanted was to be left alone. Somehow, in this state of torture, as he sat in the back of the ambulance, his breaths uneven and his body feeling more decrepit by the second, he knew death was coming for him.

      Call it a premonition, but he sat there, smiling at the light at the end of the tunnel. The diarrhea and vomit were still pouring from his body as he just lied there on the stretcher, and slowly the paramedics were panicking. They both seemed new to the job, and didn’t exactly have any idea what was going on. He smiled at them and their naivety; even through the pain and through the torture, a grin seeped onto his face. An ideal patient, to be sure—an optimist through and through. Slowly but surely, he was beginning to realize why he felt happy in sadness; it was because he was finally learning to appreciate his life.

      But the trials weren’t over yet. The worst was yet to come.

      ---


      The doctor looked traditional, though more scientific than usual, perhaps. He had ruffled brown hair, squared glasses that didn’t quite fit his face, a milky-white lab coat rifled with stains from blood and chemicals, and a pair of blue-green scrubs underneath. He wore whatever shoes doctors wear—Fowler didn’t care enough to know. He simply sat there, hand clasped against his gut, awaiting the doctor’s announcement of when and why he was going to die. He knew that would be the answer—the pain had been too inexplicable for him not to die.

      “Mr. Fowler,” the doctor spoke to Randall—the scientist had told the businessman his name before, but Randall knew he wouldn’t have to remember it for long, so he had already cast it from his mind, “I’m afraid that you’ve got a very deadly disease. It’s called cholera—”

      “Cholera? Crap,” Randall said humorously, but just the mention of the word ‘crap’ caused him to allow even just a bit of diarrhea through, “So, how long have I got, doc?” Randall had read all the warnings about cholera in India—it hadn’t been exactly uncommon there. He’d known the risks when he waded into the Ganges, nearly bare, to bathe ceremoniously with his Indian colleagues—and for what, to attempt to schmooze them into a good business deal?

      He’d heard of your company being your first priority, even before your life, but he had never expected it to be taken so literally. Suddenly, the doctor’s face turned grim, but Randall smiled. There was really nothing to be all that sad about. He’d lived a relatively happy life, right?

      “A week, at the most.”

      ---


      “A week?”

      “A week.”

      And that week went by fast. They allowed him to go home, and gave him a type of special pills that put off the pain. He rested for the first of his last seven days—the beginning of the end. Nothing really special occurred. He stayed far away from Angie, his wife, even though she tried to stay close to him throughout his final days. He did not want her to get infected—he wanted her to live on, even if she refused to after he died.

      He continued to rest for the rest of the week. He didn’t want to leave his bed. It wasn’t because he was somber; it was because he wanted others to be able to live more.

      Finally, on the sixth day, the night before the doctor had claimed he would die, Angie walked into the room while he was asleep. He turned away from her unconsciously, and Angie felt a tear roll down her cheek. She crawled onto the bed and rolled him onto his back, leaning down and kissing him in one last, passionate kiss. Then, she reached into her pocket and pulled out an envelope, sitting it precariously on his chest before hurrying away. He slept for the rest of the night, soundly, before awakening to no one the next morning. Angie had gone. She had disappeared.

      Then he remembered the letter. Reaching for it on the bedside table, where he had left it, he opened it, and pulled it out. It read:

      Randy,

      I know you don’t want to hear
      this. I know all you want is our
      safety. I know that you want me
      and all of your friends to live long,
      happy lives after you are gone.
      And maybe some of us can do
      that. But I couldn’t be happy
      if you were gone, Randy.
      So I took long out of
      the equation. I got some
      of your germs last night,
      Randy. I’ll see you soon—
      in Heaven, where you belong.

      Angie


      Randall Fowler, thirty-five years of age, folded up the letter, set it on the bedside table, and, as he sat on his bed, knowing that the love of his life would soon join him in his new home, he fell to the mattress, his eyelids rolled over his glazed pupils, his breath halted, his heart became lax in its rhythmic music, and he died.




      [SIZE=2]Vad: Found my dicks btw
      Vad: *DISCS
      Kaz: XD!!!!XDXDXD!!
      Kaz: oh man
      Kaz: that was an awesome typo!
      Vad: I MEANT ROUND CYLINDRICAL THINGS
      Kaz: XD XD XD
      Kaz: HAHAHHHAHHHAHA[/SIZE]

    • [KoAII][Round Two]Krillin VS. Zangya





      [size=6]Krillin[/size]

      OVER



      [size=6]Zangya[/size]




      It was a close call.





      [SIZE=2]Vad: Found my dicks btw
      Vad: *DISCS
      Kaz: XD!!!!XDXDXD!!
      Kaz: oh man
      Kaz: that was an awesome typo!
      Vad: I MEANT ROUND CYLINDRICAL THINGS
      Kaz: XD XD XD
      Kaz: HAHAHHHAHHHAHA[/SIZE]