User:Sev40/What's my name?

What's My Name? is a short story created to fulfil the author's submission for Week 86 of The Weekly. It centres around an escaped flash-clone, who roams the city of Castiglione on in an attempt to discover their identity.

Character Cast

 * Flash Clone #471
 * Baal Defense Solutions

Rushing around the corner as quickly as he could, a young boy shivers from the cold of the rain. He leans against the brick wall behind him, panting as he grips and vigorously rubs his wet clothes like some clingy friend. He starts to slow his breath, sighing in relief before carefully scanning the area for... something.

Wherever that monster is, it's not coming anymore. He continues to breathe in relief, sitting his pre-pubescent body down on the concrete concourse. For whatever reason, something just feels so wrong. He felt no memory of anything before today - the earliest memory he has is being strapped to a chair, which his head told him occurred hours ago. Yet at the same time, it also whispered to him that there should be a memory before that. He closes his eyes as tight as he can, trying as hard as his young mind can to search for it, until he was forced to take a deep breath. Defeated, he looks around the derelict street, when he finally realises what had been nagging him before.

"What is my name?" He started ravaging his clothes, trying to find some marking for his name. He slaps his body with haste, until it hit a patterned section on his chest. He pulls it up, squinting at the alien symbols to determine what they mean. Suddenly, he enthusiastically jumps to his feet. "Four... Seven... One! My name is Four-Seven-One!"

Thrilled to know his name, he automatically curled the sides of his lips upwards - he did not know what this meant, yet he knew it felt good. It overshadowed the discomfort from the rain he felt before. Standing up, he takes in his surroundings; a flat section of rock flanked on both sides by two imposing structures, with tall shiny pillars providing illumination. Small impacts from the rain bounced on the cover above him, and he could even hear an uncountable number of low-pitched beeps in the distance. Even the rotten smell of garbage mixed with the cleanness of the rain holds him in captivation. That was, until, he started reading the neon signs mounted at a set interval on the roof. These used an entirely new alphabet, one which the symbols on his shirt were not mixed with; the nearest one even had a weird shape of a person, with a bump where the chest should be.