What's this?! An makala from Blitz?! Does this mean what I think it means?
Yes, generic voice! I decided to return, whether wewe like it au not, since my grades are now a lot better, and, to be honest, I missed all of you. From here on, I'm gonna try to do a lot zaidi in the club, and try to get along better with this awesome family.
Here is part one of a new series I am starting.
With heavy steps, the blonde teen staggered down the corridor, slid his hotel key card into the slot, and stumbled into his room. The two other teens in the room looked at him, their eyes full of questions, but neither asked and he wouldn't have answered. With a word, he fell onto the kitanda closest to the opposite ukuta and took off his shoes, his feet throbbing. The two others went back to their awali activities, one watching TV and the other kusoma a book with headphones on. Richi laid on the kitanda for several minutes, replaying the events that had happened earlier in his mind. Finally, he readjusted his position so that his head was on the mto and his feet at the foot of the bed, and simply looked at the wall.
For what seemed like the millionth time, he replayed that bus shooting in his head, which had taken place four weeks prior to the present. The shooting which had only taken the lives of the two people he cared for the most at the same time. He knew who did it; he overheard the snipers while he had chased them. He didn't know how to track them, though he attempted nevertheless. Tears fell from his face and onto the sheets of the bed, and he choked back a sob.
The violet-haired girl in the room stopped looking at the TV and went over to Richi, her intention to comfort him, when the brunette stopped her with a simple look. Leave him alone. He needs to get through his pain kwa himself. Your comfort will just make it worse. The brunette seemed to say all this in a single glance. Being used to taking orders, the violet-haired girl nodded, and went back to the TV.
Richi got up from the bed, his face emotionless and dry of any tears. Still, that look of sadness remained in his dhahabu and brown eyes. The violet-haired girl knew what had happened; she had looked in his memories without meaning to. The brunette knew; the other girl told her. Neither acknowledged that they knew.
He put his shoes back on, and silently went out the door, motioning the girls to follow. They got up from their places and followed him out. The two knew where they weren't coming back, but made no songesha to pack. Everything they had when they checked in was still on them.
Just outside the room, Richi closed his eyes and was engulfed kwa a ball of dark energy. The ball melted, and there Richi stood in a white dress shirt, green vest, black trench coat, black jeans, black leather gloves, and an eye-patch over his right eye, which he tore off and replaced with small square glasses. Since the accident, his vision had become worse, forcing him to wear glasses. At his waist was a one-handed sword in its ala, scabbard on his right, radiating pure dark energy, and a loaded pistol on his left in its holster. In a special pouch on the back of his ukanda was an endless supply of clips, each loaded with zaidi bullets. He tied the trench kanzu, koti together, concealing his weapons, and with that scene in his mind, he set off once more, the girls right behind him. He was determined to find the Light and bring the souls of his Marafiki to peace, but first, he needed to visit some friends. He last heard they were in South America, Rio, so he hailed the nearest taxt, and traveled to the airport.
Richi's new Hell Costume