Chapter Text
an ancient deity is awoken by a strange offering to his moss-covered, decrepit altar. an odd shaped thing, two sharp ends sticking on one side, and a bright, striking pink that stands out like a sore thumb in the midst of nature's hues.
bending deep to her knees in front of the altar is an even more oddly-dressed young girl with pleas leaving her mouth in a foreign language. her hands come together harshly, and a clap rings out, followed by the girl sinking to her knees in desperation.
he gives the object at his doorstep a thought. a personal momento, perhaps? humans have long attached themselves to common objects, giving it meaning that only matters to them. it doesn't quite give it any face value, or 'offering' value, in this case. in the past, he wouldn't have bothered to grant any wishes to such a humiliating attempt of a prayer — no one would quite dare to try. but times have changed, and his followers' bloodlines have dried out. all that is left to him is a feeble, wrinkly mortal who's end is by the next morrow.
and if life has given him this one oddly-shaped lemon at the brink of his doom, he must squeeze out every last drop.
if only the human's mutterings made any sense to him.
she grabs the object — rude to take back your offering — and shakes it, staring at the black screen with hopeful, expecting eyes. after a quiet silence of nothing, she returns it and resumes her pleas.
a broken toy, then. it lifts his spirits, somewhat. the offering was not meant to be a momento, but a toy that would amuse him for a minute. how thoughtful.
very well. since his standards for gifts has fallen into such a poverty-stricken cavern, he will grant the foreigner's wish. there is not a mortal in this greedy world who would not cry tears of joy for gold.
and this mortal shrieked.
oh,
that was not in joy.
●
"my phone!" you scream in horror as the scene before you processed in your already-despaired mind. after a flash of silver light that seemed — definitely was — out of this world, your phone turned into a bar of gold right before your eyes. no, you could not make this up. no, this was not a dream. you reach for the remnants of your last hope with trembling hands. a shaky finger pokes it and you immediately recoil.
it was true. this was real.
your phone had turned into gold.
your bottom meets the ground in a very pathetic, short-budgeted cinematic drama scene.
"oh my god." you whisper to yourself, still in the awkward position of a toad. "i'm dead. i'm actually screwed. sun's almost down and i have no signal — signal? I have no phone! i can't contact anyone and there's bears and hyenas and snakes and god knows what else in this forest and my stupid friends probably haven't even noticed i'm gone and i—" you choke, "i have a fucking gold bar."
your fingers dig into your hair, eyes clenching shut, "what am i gonna do with a fucking. . . gold bar. .?"
now, manic does a lot to a person. fear-stricken manic in the middle of an unfamiliar forest can do worse things, for example, make a person completely disregard the supernatural event that would probably have any sane person running for the hills — half in fear and half in hysteria over the proof of a god's existence. However, manic can instead make one sob over their lost, dead, pink, cat-eared, five year old smartphone.
"my photos?" you cry, cradling the metal, "my poor photos."
eventually, the heavy bar begins straining your wrists. you carefully put it back on the pedestal, as if laying a dead pet hamster to rest, and stand up. the sky is melting into muted greys, and there was, at most, an hour to full darkness without a flashlight, or a torch, or anything at all, really. you'd lost your hiking backpack a while back when you slipped on the cliff. apart from the phone — god rest its soul — there is only one other object you had on your person. you shake the steel canister, and survey the liquid inside before taking a large gulp.
in catharsis, you are calmed by the fact that you wouldn't be dying of thirst anytime soon.
"alright," you turn around, finding your steps out of the dilapidated temple, "this is fine. it happens all the time with people. they get lost, and even their stupid friends can notice they're not back by sundown, and they send search and rescue teams, and dogs can find your scent and it will all work out. really, i'm stressed over nothing, bah!" you roll your teary eyes, "and its not like the end of the world. the dogs will find me, i just have to— AH!"
you scream, whirling around to the direction of the rustling sounds in the bushes. something slithers through the grass before climbing up a nearby trunk.
your feet are moving before any thought can form. instinct guides you through the dense forest, squinted eyes trying to identify the dark objects on the ground. you jump more than you run, your panic counting anything and everything to be hostile and after your dear life. a thick root make you trip, you catch yourself on your hands. a sting registers and is quickly forgotten as you weave through the bushes and the thick trunks trying to find an opening out of this personal hellhole you've found yourself in.
adrenaline is a powerful thing. it made you push on with full force for a solid ten minutes before the concussion caught up with you. your vision swims, and your hands scramble to find the nearest support, but they fall right through as your balance dips.
the last thing you remember is your face slamming against the muddy ground.
●
Humidity was a terrible thing. It seeped into your clothes, your skin, your hair and everything is sweaty, and annoying and. . "ugh!" you pull the thin sheet of blanket off your shoulders. still too warm, you throw it off the cot entirely and begin to sit up.
"no." the guard that kept you in metal anguish demands.
"angie, i can't take this anymore!"
"you will."
"why?!"
"because someone decided it would be a good idea to just waddle off away from your group in the middle of a goddamn forest—"
"i told you, i fell."
"— and then lose their tracker,"
"which was in my backpack that also fell with me—"
"and their goddamn phone."
"it turned into a gold bar!"
angie gives you the most deadpanned look she could muster. you plop back into your uncomfortable cot and stare at the cracks of the makeshift hut. after a moment of silence, your begin twiddling your fingers. "so like, nobody found my phone? really?"
"no."
"did you try the 'find-my— "
"your phone is dead."
"jeez," you mutter, "could have laid it on me gently." you catch her staring intently on her phone from the corner of your eyes. her leg rocks back and forth, moving the rope-strewn cot she lazily lounged on. her eyes read over the text she received, and her thumbs move across the keyboard with a quick reply.
you sigh, moving your gaze back to the sky.
she'd never text me that fast.
absentmindedly, you caress the bandage on your forehead.
at least, she stuck around.
the others had left to the city shortly after you were found, suffering from wi-fi withdrawals. the small village that found you advised you not to travel in your state, saying 'the mind is still weak, need time to work again. here, eat some persimmons.' or, as translated by the app on angie's phone. they did not mean persimmons, because persimmons were orange, and the stuff they handed you was not orange, but a weird glob in a bowl. you politely declined, and thankfully, your overprotective captor shared the same distaste and didn't force you to commit food poisoning.
angie, the ever-so-self-proclaimed-doctor, managed to deduce that you had a concussion, and you had gotten it right after your fall down the mountain. you can't argue, considering you remember very little from that point onwards, and whatever you do remember was made up by your barely-functioning brain, especially. . .
especially your phone's magical transformation.
feeling a headache forming, you sigh out loudly.
"quit sighing, you're literally fine."
your mouth opens in shock, "oh, i'm sorry, i thought i had a concussion?"
she throws her phone down on her chest and groans, hands moving to fix her auburn hair tighter in the ponytail, "this fucking heat. ."
you squint your left eye and frame the sky with your hands, as if taking a snapshot, "it's going to rain."
"gee," angie sits up, "didn't know."
you frown, "why are you so pissed?"
"why do you think i'm pissed?" angie waves her arms around, "is this no reason to not be pissed?"
you purse your lips, feeling the weight of her blame on your back, "you know i didn't want to get lost. or get a head injury, and fucking see things." you finally sit up, "and if this bothers you so much, then why didn't you just go with marce and jules? its not like i forced you to be here—"
"because i promised our fucking mom, okay?"
you freeze.
"you— "
"i don't wanna talk about this. not here, not now, and definitely not in this fucking weather."
"angie, what do you mean— "
she gets up harshly and grabs her phone, not letting you finish before walking out the makeshift door, "catch a fucking break, y/n."
you sit in the silence, broken only by the creaking of her still swaying cot.
after a moment, knowing she wasn't going to come back inside, you release a breath and prop your head on the pillow gently. a slow, sinking feeling starts up your chest, a familiar one, and guilt takes a swirl around your mind. you don't like fighting with your older sister, you never have. not since she's all that's left to you.
but sometimes she can really. .
really get on your nerves.
you pinch the bridge of your nose, "way to go, me, now you have to win her back."