Dunno if anyone will read this. I really don't know anything about the dynamics of this site since I came from a different one. Everything's probably going to change a lot once I get a hang of the ropes. Until then, anyone who reads will have to bear with me.

Updates will generally be few and far between.

Characters you recognize are not mine.

Intro:

The last thing he notices is the red-white-yellow blur of lights in the distance.

Then he's knocked off to the side, his seatbelt straining against the force that threatens to tear him out of his seat. He hears the distance sound of glass shattering, feels the metal buckle around him, ducks as the ceiling caves in above (below?) him.

The world is instantly its heels, spinning around in a dreadful hyptonizing swirl of dark and light and concrete and a warm, wet redness that spreads along his body like fire. He hears the distant whirring of sirens, muffled by the unyielding ringing in his ears and the continued screeching of (un)yielding metal and the deafening whispers of the people surrounding.

His hand fumbles at his seatbelt. There's something vaguely familiar about everything, like a dream that never was a dream or one of those movies you fall asleep watching and you keep seeing it in your head even though you aren't concious anymore. He only remembers this - the unending monotony, the vague memory of a memory - didn't this happen already?

The pounding in his head doesn't allow for the thought to live long, however. He fumbles with the seatbelt (he instinctively knows where the button is, even hanging upside down in a half-wreck of a car) again, succeeding in pressing it this time. It deposits him firmly onto the ground (ceiling?), head first.

A voice calls to him. "Can you hear me, sir?"

He smiles. "Yes," he says. He feels slightly drowsy now. The world wraps around him like a familiar, fuzzy blanket. His dad would kill him, he thinks, surveying the close-ranged destruction about him.

"Can you hear me, sir?"

He's slightly annoyed now. He's tired, and the ceiling's padded enough for comfort despite the small space. He slumps against the windshield, admiring the maroon streaks on the wall. Whoever painted it didn't do that good of a job, though - he missed some places. Was probably done by some idiot kindergarteners who found their daddy's cans of paint in the basement and found his car nearby. Stupid kids. He wondered why he ever decided to take up tutoring.

"Can you hear me, sir?"

Why won't they let him sleep?

"Are you sure there's anyone in there, sir? It doesn't seem like it from here."

Just five more minutes, and then I'll get up. Please?

"I'm certain I saw - "

It's a white blanket. That's nice.

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Ugh. Fail intro is fail.

I am also (not actively) looking for a co-author.