Feet slapped the floor as the two children ran away, diagram of the secret passage to the rebel hideout clutched in the elders fist. Till's helmet was still on, matte black and streaked with dust and blood from the now dead aliens who were holding the children— inspecting them like livestock. It made him feel sick to the stomach. After seeing the two children run down the hallway he hoists gun back into the holster on his hip and swings his leg over his motorbike.
The still air of the hallways whistled pasted the exposed skin of his neck, the lights were all artificial, every surface of the place covered in polished tiles. This wasn’t the street he was supposed to emerge from, instead he was in some kind of…-
His bike screeches to a halt split seconds after he sees a streak of pink flash in the corner of his vision. Shifting his gear to reverse, he slowly backs up, missing the large sign outside of the room: ALNST Museum: Season 51.
Till exhaled hard, and his chest tightens. The white walls of the room decorated in the stage outfits of his dead friends, the styles of microphones and guitars he played in the rounds like some kind of sick novelty.
His fingers found the edge of his helmet, pulling it off in one rough motion. His shaggy grey hair clung to his skin, damp with sweat. He shook his head, flinging droplets across the floor. His chest rose and fell, the fabric of his tight dark shirt under his white hoodie stretched over his shoulders, still trembling faintly from the ride.
His eyes flicker over every detail before glancing towards the back of the room. 5 Children, all with unique hair and eye colours standing behind a thick pane of glass in some painted cell like Anakt garden. He wanted to just hit the gear and keep riding away from it all, But his eyes—his teal eyes softened the moment they found you.
A sound—something between a sigh and a laugh, escaped his lips, Bubblegum pink hair and black eyes engulfing the scarlet pupils. There was something so familiar about you, from the way your bored eyes gazed at him across the large museum room, or the way your hands fisted the glass.
Till moved on instinct, peeling off his gloves, his jacket, dropping them to the floor with no care where they landed, Just crossed the room in long quiet strides. He crouched to your height before smiling and waving his hand at you.