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Angel Island High School (Open to all, duh.); Join in the wacky adventures of the completely-original-do-not-steal hedgehog Cinos, and his friends from all walks of life!
Topic Started: Feb 15 2017, 09:55 AM (15 Views)
Dopey
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Angel Island Act 2
Through all the hubbub of the startlingly busy Grand Metropolis Zone Airport; through the immense stampede of middle-age commuters & elderly pensioners off on their holidays to Heaven-only-knows-where, a looming fountain was visible, so tall, in fact, that you could view it from just about any angle. It lay contently in the centre of the heavily-packed foyer, with only a small group of people, tourist or otherwise, encircling it.

Cinos Porter, an amethyst hedgehog with upturned quills, almost-neon orange hair and brilliant azure eyes, fit awkwardly into this group.

Tall, gangling, and wild looking, the thirteen-year-old sat on the low wall which protected the fountain water from flooding out onto the pristine marble floor of the airport, which made it resemble a very upper-class bank; the sort in which various billionaires' stacks upon stacks of paper money resided--people like Douglas Schmidt, or Conan Priestly: real superstars that a great deal of people the world over recognized and idolized.

To briefly distract himself from the heavy from the tedium of irritating children screaming, yelling, crying and other such inconveniences, Cinos pictured what an utter snob such as Conan Priestly might be doing right now.

He was probably lounging on an expensive deck chair on his enormously expensive patio, sipping an expensive glass of scotch, puffing an expensive Cuban cigar that would probably kill him faster than, say, one imported from West-Side or South Island, having sloppy kisses planted onto his old lips by his completely plastic, gold digging wife, Arle, who was only waiting for him to die so she could inherit his whole estate, along with all of his money.

Cinos felt himself scowling; scowling at how anybody gave half a shit about a family of talentless, poncey arseholes such as the Priestlies who were only famous because they had most of the money (and children) this side of the Pacific; and he shook the thought from his head.

Had he not, however, his musings would have been cut short anyway, by the familiar yet always annoying "bing, bong!" of the intercom ringing out across the entire foyer. A bored lady, who sounded like the sort of unmotivated, nasally hospital receptionist who really hated her job and was on, like, twelve kinds of anti-depressants an hour had this to say:

"Would all the students and staff departing for Angel Island High School please make their ways to Gate Seven. Thank you."

This was it; Angel Island High School. Cinos had applied for a place about a year before, and, obviously, he had been accepted. But, still, as he stood up and began following the roughly 1500 children and adults standing up and leaving themselves, there was an odd sense of nervousness in his stomach. The kind you get before an interview, or an important test. He had no choice but to resist it.
Dopey
Feb 15 2017, 09:55 AM
Through all the hubbub of the startlingly busy Grand Metropolis Zone Airport; through the immense stampede of middle-age commuters & elderly pensioners off on their holidays to Heaven-only-knows-where, a looming fountain was visible, so tall, in fact, that you could view it from just about any angle. It lay contently in the centre of the heavily-packed foyer, with only a small group of people, tourist or otherwise, encircling it.

Cinos Porter, an amethyst hedgehog with upturned quills, almost-neon orange hair and brilliant azure eyes, fit awkwardly into this group.

Tall, gangling, and wild looking, the thirteen-year-old sat on the low wall which protected the fountain water from flooding out onto the pristine marble floor of the airport, which made it resemble a very upper-class bank; the sort in which various billionaires' stacks upon stacks of paper money resided--people like Douglas Schmidt, or Conan Priestly: real superstars that a great deal of people the world over recognized and idolized.

To briefly distract himself from the heavy from the tedium of irritating children screaming, yelling, crying and other such inconveniences, Cinos pictured what an utter snob such as Conan Priestly might be doing right now.

He was probably lounging on an expensive deck chair on his enormously expensive patio, sipping an expensive glass of scotch, puffing an expensive Cuban cigar that would probably kill him faster than, say, one imported from West-Side or South Island, having sloppy kisses planted onto his old lips by his completely plastic, gold digging wife, Arle, who was only waiting for him to die so she could inherit his whole estate, along with all of his money.

Cinos felt himself scowling; scowling at how anybody gave half a shit about a family of talentless, poncey arseholes such as the Priestlies who were only famous because they had most of the money (and children) this side of the Pacific; and he shook the thought from his head.

Had he not, however, his musings would have been cut short anyway, by the familiar yet always annoying "bing, bong!" of the intercom ringing out across the entire foyer. A bored lady, who sounded like the sort of unmotivated, nasally hospital receptionist who really hated her job and was on, like, twelve kinds of anti-depressants an hour had this to say:

"Would all the students and staff departing for Angel Island High School please make their ways to Gate Seven. Thank you."

This was it; Angel Island High School. Cinos had applied for a place about a year before, and, obviously, he had been accepted. But, still, as he stood up and began following the roughly 1500 children and adults standing up and leaving themselves, there was an odd sense of nervousness in his stomach. The kind you get before an interview, or an important test. He had no choice but to resist it.
HEY YOU! Ignore this! It's going private ;)
Edited by Dopey, Feb 15 2017, 11:30 AM.
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