The Fight For The Movellas Throne

In the kingdom of Movellas, King Jordan Philips ruled over the people, and everyone was happy. Until, that is, the neighboring kingdom, the land of the Directioners, declared war. Townsfolk were forced into hiding, and soon the Royals of the Kingdom had disappeared. Few must rise up, to help conquer the Directioners once and for all, and find the Royals of Movellas!

WARNING: This is an anti-One Direction fiction. I'm very much against them in my writing, so please don't have a go at me, saying 'How could you say that?' because IT'S A BIT OF A JOKE. NO OFFENCE INTENDED. THANKS. Anyways, enjoy!

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10. Chapter 8

The central figure swaggered forward, he features barely distinguishable from under a curly mop of hair; Harold had been the one to speak.

"Don't look so shocked, losers. Who were you expecting?"

Zoe, Imogen and Lia were in stunned silence - the rulers truly were as stupid as the rumours said?

The other four were now trailing behind, all readjusting their hair in one way or another, laughing a stupid, whiny laugh.

"Jordan, have you told them 'bout that challengy-fing?" The one on the end, with the notably spikiest hair, asked dumbly.

"All in good time, Zayn. All in good time." Jordan smirked.

"What are you talking about? What challenge?" Lia gasped, as Writer's Block continued to afflict her.

"Patience," Jordan muttered, "is a virtue you Movellians don't seem to high up on, hm? All will be explained... but first, you all look tired. Why not have a little... sleep, for now?"

And with that, the five fools exited as Jordan slammed the prison door behind him, the blot plainly audible; they were trapped. 

"Sleep tight," Jordan called, as an odd hissing noise filled the chamber. "don't let the- Oh, I forgot; you're half-dead anyway."

The strange hiss reached a crescendo, and soon enough a strange, white gas was seeping through the cracks in the damp cobblestones, obscuring Imogen's view of her companions and the royals to nothing but dark, shadowy figures. She tried to cry out, but the gas had clogged up her vocal chords, and now proceeded to fog her brain. She watched in horror as each Movellian's figure around her fell against the wall with a soft thud, as if in slow motion. 

The whole world was slowing down, grinding to a halt, as Imogen felt her muscles loosen uncontrollably; she had lost all sense or movement in her body. It was that point, where you're half-asleep, unable to quite let go, but not capable of getting up either. Just before you get that horrible feeling, where you fall and rise all at once, then-

 

✎ ✏ 

 

Kameka bustled down the long hallway that connected each of the Movellains' rooms, carrying armfuls of cold flannels, dusty tomes and a selection of various feathers; almost every author in the building had fallen ill following Adam's departure. In fact, Writer's Block had become so widespread that everyone was confined to their rooms, bar the few healthy souls left who had been appointed nurses.

Finally, at the end of the corridor, she reached the room that had preciously balonged to Adam, but now served as a storehouse for any resources that could be used to revive the sick. Every book on his multitude of shelves had been meticulously skimmed through for any medical knowledge, but to no avail; Adam only held a soft spot for fiction.

As she was laying down her bundle of supplies on the floor in the middle of the room, Dann and J.K. pushed the door open, wrestling a squirming Tolchock between them.

"Ow! Stupid cat," J.K. yelped. "Don't bite me, I'm trying to be nice to you."

"That's a first; you never could bear him, before-" Kameka paused. She didn't want to finish her sentence, and bring up the incident of a few days ago again.

"We thought," Dann began, brushing cat hairs off himself as he let Tolchock go, "that taking pussy here round to the sickies might help, or at least, you know, strike a chord somewhere."

"What do you mean?" Kameka looked up, confused.

"He mean's they're not the same, Kam." J.K. said, dropping the cat on the floor, then wincing slightly at the strangled MREOW! that followed. "It's.. changing them. Here, come look at Inkball next-door.

Sure enough, J.K. was right. Inkball looked pale, bleak, empty. Her lilac hair was sprawled out in a messy gang of snakes' tails, not neatly combed and trimmed as usual.

"Oh my fountain pen," Kameka stuttered. Then, springing into action, she ran to Inkball's bedside. "Inkball? Are you okay?"

But Inkball might as well have not heard her. She continued staring into space, mumbling:

"Na na na na na na na na na na..."

"Oh no..." J.K. stammered. "This is bad. Very bad."

"Wait," Dann interrupted, bending down. "Look at her arm."

He was right. Words, were forming on Inkball's arm, swirling into various letters in a harsh black ink, until it read, in a terrible attempt at rhyming:

 

Movellians are ill,

Movellians are poorly,

Getting worse day by day,

Now I bet you sorely

Wish you'd just surrendered.

 

So on one of your own,

The score we've penned:

We've kidnapped of yours three,

And they'll meet a sticky end,

If you don't save the day.

 

At that moment, a note blew through the window. Dann picked it up and read aloud:

"U hav 24 ours left. Hurry or those 3ll be ded sn. Come and fite or dy - what does this say? Tring? Trung? Trying! Oh, god - or die trying...losers! Eurghthey will b facing a task of they're owne."

 

"Wait, Dann: look at Inkball."

As she closed her eyes for the last time, the words previously on her arm disappeared, and were replaced by a few new words:

 

One down, the rest of you to go...

 

"That is it." Dann whispered. "I'm leaving. Tonight."

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