The Hooded Hero

Prologue

Every act of rebellion expresses a nostalgia for innocence and an appeal to essence of being.
-Albert Camus

The world as we know it had collapsed. The actions of man had led to its own destruction. Society had collapsed on itself after the phenomena that future generations would dub "The Scorch". Resources were near extinct, desperation seeped in and wars were waged. In the end, it was an unsightly end. Mankind was at the brink of extinction before they realised the repercussions of their actions. In an attempt to salvage what little was left, the remnants banded together and formed a new society. Gone was democracy and in its place came a hierarchy.

It worked well for a few centuries before it all went to hell. Resources had reached an all time low. The man in charge was a dictator in all but name. He segregated the people and oppressed one group. He seemed one set better than the rest and in the place of centuries of peace came unrest. Needless to say, they revolted.

A massacre ensued.

The opposing side were left with no choice but to surrender. This came to be known as the First Remnant War. The defeated were pushed to the edges of society and labelled as the Fallen. The had lost no only the lives of their love ones but their dignities.

To the victors go the spoils rang through. They had forced the Fallen into subservience in all but name. The Imperials, as they were now dubbed, stood at the stop.

This is the new era. And this is where our story begins.

It was a chilly night in the silent area known as the Fallen Territory. The sun had long since taken its daily stroll across the blue sky and had at long last returned to slumber. In its place, a crescent moon shone in brilliant silver streaks.

The area wasn't a sight to behold. In fact, it was near dreadful. Tall and proud structures were now a shadow of their former selves; slowly crumbling under the harsh elements. Rich ivory walls were reduced to rubble, where rambunctious boys would engage in their games. The few places that could stand the weather were the chosen habitats for those that lived in the rundown place. The place itself could be liken to a wasteland. It was not an uncommon sight to see discarded machinery from the army lying around. Burnt out battle ship parts and rusted relics of an era long gone littered the gravel roads.

Most of the citizens had already turned in for the night with downtrodden moralities. The only sounds were the soft whispering of the wind and the scurrying of creatures of the night. Despite the downgraded state, the night had a sense of homely feelings. Pitter patter of light shone throughout semi-closed windows. Shadows moved and shifted throughout the windowsill, evident of persons preparing for a night's rest.

But despite all this, one person wasn't in bed and wouldn't be for a long time. A shadowy figure sprinted across a gravel pathway with a small group on its tail. Gruff sounds of protests bellowed after the figure as it spun off the gravelly path and slipped in between two buildings. The narrow alley gave it an advantage over its pursuers.

Breaking out on the other side of the alley, silver lighting from the celestial body above revealed the figure. A crimson cloak with a hood covering the person's head. A red scarf wrapped around its neck going up to the bridge of the nose. Eyes as green as emeralds were the only featured as they danced and skimmed over the surroundings.

Landing from its leap, the figure twisted slightly, shifting its weight before sprinting off in a different direction, heading towards a small shop with burnt orange bricks. The cloaked person immersed itself in the shadows to avoid detection. Losing its tail was a slightly difficult job, but the person was nimble and a lot faster than its pursuers. Seconds later, the unmistakable sounds of metal meeting gravel crunched its way in the opposite direction. A group of four individuals - who were obviously military, donning the sleek black armour of the army - ran off to where they had assumed their target had went.