SpontaneousCombustion: Hello Psychonaut fans! Guess who's back? That's right, here is the promised sequel to Next Generation, Igne Imbre!
And boy, this one's gonna be good, if I have anything to say about it.
Disclaimer: I don't own Psychonauts, just my characters and the story.
Arabella doesn't answer Her brother, too intent on finishing the messy chalk drawing staining Her pale hands and the knees of Her jeans yellow-red-orange.
"Arabella, you're going to get in trouble again. You're not supposed to draw on your floor. Or the walls. Or the ceiling."
Well, Arabella thinks, then maybe They should've given Her more paper when She asked for it. Her hands continue to move the chalk tirelessly, adding lines and shading and definition. Another pair of hands reach out and cover Hers, and She stills, looking up into the eyes of the hands' owner; eyes the same shade of sea blue as Her own.
"Bella," Peter says gently, "It's time for you to go." She stares at him for a moment, Her glassy blue eyes gaining a brief semblance of clarity as She stands up and walks out of Her room-cell, down the hall to see the Good Doctor.
She knows that, when she returns, Peter will have washed the images of Her dreams off the walls and the floor (and the ceiling), and he'll have gotten Her more paper like She wanted. But now was not the time to think of Peter, because now She is with the Good Doctor, and it is time for questions.
"Good morning, Arabella. How are you?"
She is as well as can be expected.
"Did you sleep well?"
No. She had terrible dreams.
"What did you dream about, Arabella?"
And this, Arabella thinks, is the Stupidest Question of Them All. The Good Doctor knows what She dreams about, because it is always the same. It has been for years. Always, always the same.
Arabella Galochio dreams of fire.
SC: Yep, that's what you've all been waiting about a year for. I know, I fail epically. But this is just the prologue- which I basically wrote just to get the juices pumping again. I'll get the next chapter up soon, promise. Well, soon as my hectic life allows, at least.