Categories > Cartoons > Class of the Titans > Practice
This is my attempt at a fan-fic. I've never done one before, but there's something about the Class of the Titans story that's just so writable :). This fic is based on the idea that Zeus was warned about Cronus's escaping when the heroes went back in time, but this time he remembered and actually prevented the God of Time's escape. Therefore there wasn't any need for 7 heroes, and the 7 never met. But then, 10 years after the origional events, Cronus broke free again. Smarter and stronger for the extra millenia in Tartarus, he then proceeds to hunt down the 7. Well, there's more to it than that, but it's no fun if I tell you everything eh?
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She wasn’t like her brothers and sisters, her father or her children. She kept photos. In an old book tucked away where her husband couldn’t pry, the glossy images were preserved. She took them out every now and then, sitting in front of her hearth to warm her old bones, and fingered through the pages. The images, some faded from years of exposure, some fresh as the day they were taken, came to life in front of her eyes, linking to memories that lay dormant in her mind until she opened the old album once more. Of course, her’s was a more peculiar album, as she’d been around much longer than the traditional camera, and in fact, the album contained no more than 7 people. Strangely, the youngest and oldest photos seemed the freshest, while the images covering a short two year span were the most worn, as if somehow they’d been taken first. There was a brown-haired boy she had images of since he was a child, up until the newest pictures of him sitting behind an elegant desk, his name engraved in a bronze plaque on his desk Jay. A girl with bright orange hair in pigtails played in a sandbox in one image, and in the next she was riding a pony under the watchful eye of a well-groomed man. The images then flashed forward to a woman in a full length graduation gown, standing at a podium in front of a crowd of similarly dressed individuals. There was also a boy with strange purple hair, whose abnormal color followed him through a series of pictures which suggested that that was his natural color. In one image he was doubled over in the back of a library, blue hoodie over his head and eyes glued to a book held inches from his face. The title on the side could barely be interpreted as Iliad. In another, a full grown man was throwing a javelin in front of a cheering crowd, the sun reflecting on the yellow metal of a brace on one leg. In yet another, a small black baby was on the floor with a rifled handbag, amusing himself with a calculator he seemed to have procured from inside. In the next image he was a young man, beard on his face, bending over a computer with a look of satisfaction on his face. A girl with flare-red hair dominated the next sets of photos, as a young toddler running after a dog, as a young woman hiking through the forest, and a very recent photo of her and a brown-haired man with dreads. Next was another brown-haired boy, but he seemed much larger than the first. Even when shown as a baby fiercely hugging a brown teddy bear, an elderly woman watching over them. In a more recent photo he appeared as a bearded man, a pretty brown-haired woman next to him who had a visibly swollen stomach, smiles on both their faces. Finally, there were many images in many stages of life concerning a bleach-blond boy, as if proportionally he had more images of himself existing in the world than the other 6, and this ratio had to be represented in the album.
They were all precious to her, and in a strange twist of fate she found herself unable to reach out to them as she once had. It was one of the reasons the album had become to sacred to her. In fact, it was all she had to remember them by, her husband had removed everything else from the mountain. If he ever found her album, he’d remove that too. He’d made an oath to himself that this time around, that those children would be left out of things. Everyone, including herself, was forbidden to contact them, to interact with them in any way. So these days, she sat in front of her hearth, and cracked open the old leather of the photo album.
Mind you, every now and then, she did add a new photograph.
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She wasn’t like her brothers and sisters, her father or her children. She kept photos. In an old book tucked away where her husband couldn’t pry, the glossy images were preserved. She took them out every now and then, sitting in front of her hearth to warm her old bones, and fingered through the pages. The images, some faded from years of exposure, some fresh as the day they were taken, came to life in front of her eyes, linking to memories that lay dormant in her mind until she opened the old album once more. Of course, her’s was a more peculiar album, as she’d been around much longer than the traditional camera, and in fact, the album contained no more than 7 people. Strangely, the youngest and oldest photos seemed the freshest, while the images covering a short two year span were the most worn, as if somehow they’d been taken first. There was a brown-haired boy she had images of since he was a child, up until the newest pictures of him sitting behind an elegant desk, his name engraved in a bronze plaque on his desk Jay. A girl with bright orange hair in pigtails played in a sandbox in one image, and in the next she was riding a pony under the watchful eye of a well-groomed man. The images then flashed forward to a woman in a full length graduation gown, standing at a podium in front of a crowd of similarly dressed individuals. There was also a boy with strange purple hair, whose abnormal color followed him through a series of pictures which suggested that that was his natural color. In one image he was doubled over in the back of a library, blue hoodie over his head and eyes glued to a book held inches from his face. The title on the side could barely be interpreted as Iliad. In another, a full grown man was throwing a javelin in front of a cheering crowd, the sun reflecting on the yellow metal of a brace on one leg. In yet another, a small black baby was on the floor with a rifled handbag, amusing himself with a calculator he seemed to have procured from inside. In the next image he was a young man, beard on his face, bending over a computer with a look of satisfaction on his face. A girl with flare-red hair dominated the next sets of photos, as a young toddler running after a dog, as a young woman hiking through the forest, and a very recent photo of her and a brown-haired man with dreads. Next was another brown-haired boy, but he seemed much larger than the first. Even when shown as a baby fiercely hugging a brown teddy bear, an elderly woman watching over them. In a more recent photo he appeared as a bearded man, a pretty brown-haired woman next to him who had a visibly swollen stomach, smiles on both their faces. Finally, there were many images in many stages of life concerning a bleach-blond boy, as if proportionally he had more images of himself existing in the world than the other 6, and this ratio had to be represented in the album.
They were all precious to her, and in a strange twist of fate she found herself unable to reach out to them as she once had. It was one of the reasons the album had become to sacred to her. In fact, it was all she had to remember them by, her husband had removed everything else from the mountain. If he ever found her album, he’d remove that too. He’d made an oath to himself that this time around, that those children would be left out of things. Everyone, including herself, was forbidden to contact them, to interact with them in any way. So these days, she sat in front of her hearth, and cracked open the old leather of the photo album.
Mind you, every now and then, she did add a new photograph.
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