Welcome to Gaia! ::

Yeah...just giving this a shot. This is a short story, also posted in my journal, which I've played around with for a few years. Hope somebody finds it interesting.

A wind rips through the night. Held in its arms is sand, and the voices of men. The sand is normal, this is the Wasteland, sand is everywhere. The voices, however, are unusual, nobody is awake at such a time, not when everyone is exhausted just staying alive. Here, in the desert that now covers the world, is a small village, about to become a ruin.
On a nearby ridge, men are gathered. Men who have been changed by the emptiness of the Wasteland, men who kill, steal, and destroy, because nothing should exist in this dead world. These men laugh and smile as they see the village. Such an easy target, such a peaceful people. Peace can not exist anymore, not in a place that makes life so hard.
A boy, just barely into his teenage years, sleeps in the village. He is awakened by the sounds of gunfire and screams. He quakes in his bed, not understanding the chaos he hears through the stone walls, or sees through the small cracks in those walls. He forces himself to go to his door, to see what the cause of this hell could be.
Gunfire, explosions, screams, and laughter accost his ears. He sees a man holding an automatic weapon, shooting anyone he sees. Near the man's feet lies his mother, bleeding into the sand. Tears fill his eyes, and he hears a voice cry out above the noise of the raid. He sees his father run out, roaring like a madman. The gunman is tackled to the ground, and the child watches his father revert to a beast, brutally killing the man who has murdered his wife.
Then the father is killed. The boy sees both his parents, dead, or dying. He runs out to them. Tears wet his face, but no longer flow from his eyes. He is no longer a boy, he is no longer even human. He does not know why his parents are dead. It does not matter, the reason does not change the result. Instead of running to his parents, he runs to the man, to the gun.
He raises the weapon, and looks at the monster who had shot his father, who had laughed and cheered as the other man had shot his mother. With a cold hand grasping his heart, the child, the avatar of vengeance, fires the rifle. One man is not enough for his vengeance. He walks calmly, his vision is not disturbed by wind, sand, tears, or the tang of the blood in the air.
He is dimly aware that other people from his village have begun to fight back. Even in his lust for vengeance, for justice, he does not loose his mind. He has lost all emotion, but he never fires on one of the people he grew up with.
Some time later, the sun rises on the Wasteland. Many people died this night, and many more will yet die from injuries and starvation, for the Wasteland is not an easy place to make a home, it does not care for its inhabitants. However, as the morning sun illuminates the rusty, blood stained sand, one person has been born this night.
The Wasteland has a hero. He is heartless, he is nameless, he is speechless. He does not have mercy, he does not have patience, he does not have fear. He is a mercenary, a soldier, a warrior. He walks away. This village is no longer his home, he can not live here. His home is the Wasteland.

There ya have it. I'll post the second and third bits if anyone shows interest.

Wow...Thanks for the comment. I didn't expect a response like that. Guess I will be typing up that third part, after all. For now, the second.
After the first short, I felt compelled to make at least one more entry into the world of The Wasteland, and it's Avatar.

The Wasteland is a desolate place. A world without law, where those with power take what they want, and those without live in fear. Even those with power live in fear, and band together, to increase their power, and push their fear away.
The Wasteland is a land without law, but it is not a land without justice. There is a man, spoken of in whispered voices by those who do evil, and spoken of in awe by those who live peacefully. He has no name, they refer to him only as 'The Avatar of the Wasteland.' He is a human embodiment of the land they live on, harsh, and without mercy.
Those who live by stealing and killing others fear the Avatar. The sun had set on one of the raider outposts. The air was filled with the voices of loud, bragging men. They spoke lout to hide the fear in their voices, because if such a man was afraid, such a man was soon dead.
A man walked into the outpost, he wore a gray shirt, and worn jeans. The tattered remains of a cloak clung to his torso. Two USP .45 handguns rested in a spot that might have been hidden by the ragged cloak. His eyes were a cold, stone gray, and held no kindness. His face was severe, like a man who has forgotten how to smile, or even frown.
The man walked into the sand-worn building the raiders used for a bar. Without a word, he raised both guns, and began to fire. Bullets flew with unerring accuracy, punching holes in cloth and flesh. The Avatar rotated, continuously squeezing the triggers.
When the Avatar ejected the ammunition clips, only four others stood in the bar. A very scared looking man behind the counter, a glass still held in his hand, two girls, much to young to be in such a place, and certainly not here of their will. The final man was a very angry looking raider, reaching for his gun. In a flash, the Avatar tossed one of his guns into the air, and hurled a knife, before snatching the gun before it dropped to the ground. As his hand touched the grip, the knife buried itself into the raider's throat.
The cloaked man reloaded his guns and walked calmly out of the bar, leaving the three remaining inhabitants breathless. The desert air blew, and a hail of bullets raced out toward the Avatar. His boots made contact with the sandy ground, even as the first bullets leaped from his guns.
The Avatar spun, still firing, and avoiding bullets. The shots charging toward him tore his clothing, and flew all around him, but never touched his flesh. The men who had dared to raise arms against him fell to the desert ground, along with all the spent casings. As the Avatar walked away, reloading his weapons, not a single man in the street still drew breath.
The Avatar's boots crunched on the sand as he left the raider's outpost, now nothing more than a mass grave for those evil men who had once dwelt there. He departed the town with the same expression his face had held as he entered, none at all. As the Avatar walked, rust colored sand, dyed by the blood of men, flew along side him, lifted by the winds.

This one shows the same child as from the previous story, only years later, a legend in his dying world. I tried to show how much he is actually connected to the planet with the wind and sand. And yeah, this is a direct rip from my journal. Part three, (soon to come) has yet to be posted anywhere. I wasn't sure it was worth the time to post it.

this is pretty good but now you have my imagination running. it'd be funny if i could somehow attach my dani to him. Have his rescue her and she decide to follow him around. She's like twelve but small and skinny. Mr. nameless sandman wouldn't hurt kids right? Dani is a theif, but only for survival.

ANd she would not get in the way because she has a nose that can smell trouble a mile away and she always seems to disapear just until it's over. XD sorry. weird idea. he would probably just find some way to desert her...maybe. She's all along since her brother killed her parents then disapeared himself. He's the bad guy of her story...XD what is malic and sandman showdowned... rofl

I love you story and I still want more information so my mind fills in funny blanks. pirate

ok. how's a planet manifest inside him and how did he get immortal?

Not exactly sure what inspired this, just can't get the Avatar out of my mind lately. Showed a bit more of his powers in this one, and made his connection to the planet even more obvious. The last one was meant to be the last, but I think I might end up writing a lot more about this character, now.
Part IV,
A solitary figure makes his way through the still night. The wasteland is silent this night, and the wind is dead. The figure hears something and turns to the sound, as he does the wind picks up, carrying the distant sounds to him. The sound is one he is familiar with, it has accompanied him since his rebirth, it is the sound of gunshots.
As he walks through the night, the ground seems to race beneath him, moving him closer to his destination with great speed. In moments, he traverses miles, and can now see the location of the violence. The wind and sand whip around him, stirring his cloak as he reaches for his weapons. Soundlessly, he continues to walk to the small village, not soul could notice him as he moves rapidly through the dark desert.
The figure walks past signs of life, the border of the small settlement. He can hear cries of pain and fear, and barbaric calls of rage and blood-lust. A visible tremor runs through the man, and the calm sky is suddenly wracked with thunder. Even though he has known of the conflict since the first drop of blood touched his sand, it still awakens part of him that still holds his humanity, his memories. This is an act he has not seen in some time, one that gave birth to him. There will be no mercy this night.
He sees men and women hiding, trying in vain to protect themselves from the murderous raiders attacking them. His bullet torn cloak flies in the wind as he grasps the worn handles of his guns. With out word or warning, bullets fly from his hands, bringing death to their recipients. His rage is strengthened as innocent blood spills into the Wasteland's sand. His sand.
The Avatar walks without fear through the village, rending souls from their vessels with each shot. His eyes glow yellow in the dark night, and sand swirls about him like a second cloak. Soon the raiders are aware of his presence among them. In their psychotic desire for carnage, they foolishly think to fight a being greater than they can even comprehend. A slight grin shows on his face, and his eyes seem to glow even brighter. This is why he exists, this is what he is. Judgment for the evil, protection for the innocent, and death to any who think to challenge him. He is no mere man, he is the Wasteland, he does not fear death, he does not even know pain. As he calmly reloads, spinning, moving, dodging bullets that pull only at his cloak, he senses the fear around him. It radiates from the vile men, even as it is lessened in the innocent.
Again bullets fly forth from his guns, and again men fall to the ground, their blood held around him in the wind and sand. The blood is mixed in with the sand, and the wind. It becomes a part of him, just as every other drop spilled at his hands. The rage he felt moments ago has subsided. He is now calm, knowing only that his task is accomplished, the raiders dead bodies lay all around him, and the blood flies away into the wasteland.
The surviving settlers do not approach him. They would not even think of it. He protected them, they did not understand him. Even more, all knew he was no longer a mere mortal. Their fear of the raiders is now replaced with a supernatural fear of him. Irrational, and respectful. With out a word of thanks, from them, or a word of acknowledgment from him, the figure departs into the Wasteland once again.
Well, there it is. As always, I love and appreciate any and all comments, criticism, and opinions.

It happened in the first part, the child is the Avatar, that moment was his birth/rebirth. There was no epic moment or anime-esque transformation, just a child fueled by rage and loss slowly connecting with the planet without even realizing it to become the Avatar.