Mandela Catalogue stuff???

Story 9: Survivors AU

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WOOOOOO finally, an actual story and it's from the Survivors AU this time!

As mentioned in the introduction, I'm not sure who actually created this AU, but thank-you for coming up with this great idea!

TW: Blood / body horror, uncanny figures, mentions and descriptions of self-inflicted wounds / scars and attempted suicide, alcoholism, smoking, swearing etc. Stay safe please!

NOTE: This story is also from quite a while ago, but I've re-made it! This will also be divided into different chapters, but will stay on this page nonetheless. This is also my interpretation of the Survivors AU, so I'm very sorry if this isn't considered 'canon' in the original story (aka me liking the idea of them being survivors, but I don't want to fully steal it and create my own version in fear of what may happen to me if I do) :-).

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Chapter one: A familiar face.

Mark Heathcliff cautiously marched through the nearly desolate streets of Mandela County, every inch of his very being pleading him to turn away again and never look back. He had moved away for sixteen years and somehow manged to lose contact with everyone he knew in the process because of that damn alternate and his godforsaken paranoia, but now he'd returned. He didn't know why he decided to return, but he did nonetheless. He paced through the eerily silent roads of his childhood, the air being nearly foreign in his tobacco-filled lungs but reminding him of his home. Of Sarah. Of his childhood.

Of Cesar and the alternates that nearly made him take his own life.

He sighed before taking a long drag out of the cigarette held in his hand, the other reaching up to his forehead, where a pale, jagged gunshot wound pierced through his skin. Harsh smelling cigarette smoke filled the thin air around him as he traced his fingers over the rough lines that divided the skin and the scar, whilst reluctantly reminiscing on what had happened to cause such a wound. Nobody had come to save him then. Nobody came for him.

However, these bitter thoughts did not cause him pain. Nor sadness. He wasn't sure why. The streets he wandered through were empty and silent - most previous inhabitants of Mandela County had moved to other counties nearby, like Bythorne, where Mark moved to back in '92 - and his swift footsteps echoed around him.

If he was being completely honest, he mostly returned to see Sarah. Sixteen years of not knowing whether your little sister was even alive or not can really do things to someone, especially Mark. But he also returned to see Cesar. He doubted Cesar would actually be here in Mandela, or if he was even alive anyway. The last time Mark actually saw something that resembled Cesar was the alternate that taunted him for three full days before he tried to kill himself back in 1992. It was 2009 now. A cool September breeze drifted passed him, his short chestnut-brown, grey streaked hair flowing in the wind. His slowly burning cigarette rested between his fingers, loose tobacco falling to the concrete pavement and the grey smoke catching onto the gust of wind.

His mindless wandering soon led him to a church, pale and shimmering in the evening sunset. Again, it distinctively reminded him of his childhood. All the pictures his parents would take of him and Sarah, the countless early-morning drives to the bustling church on Sundays. He smiled at the memories drifting through his still aching mind, glancing up at the top of the church and taking in the breath-taking height of the cathedral stood towering before him. He'd only now realised how tall it truly was. It loomed over the man, a large, cool shadow engulfing him as the warm sun slowly scaled down the horizon. After a moment of staring in awe at the impressive scale of the cathedral, he glanced back down towards the large oak door leading to the interior of the building. Though Mark didn't exactly want to go inside, he reluctantly dropped the remains of the burning cigarette onto the pavement, crushing the cheap paper and tobacco tube with his worn boots as he slowly made his way towards the entrance. Mark slowly reached for the cold metal handle of the door, took a deep breath of what could be anticipation, and opened the door, a loud creak ringing through his ears as he did so. As he expected, the church was empty.