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| Australia; No man's land, and the Crystal Palace where God sits in judgement of the world. | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: May 24 2010, 06:35 AM (189 Views) | |
| Vernand | May 24 2010, 06:35 AM Post #1 |
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Recruit
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The year was 2355, but Mother Nature didn’t care about the units of measurement that mankind used to describe the passing ages. No, to her, in this place, time was insubstantial. It was as if time didn’t move whatsoever, or as if time didn’t exist at all. All that mattered was the enduring circle of life, the endless ballet of kill, or be killed, eat or be eaten, death and the renewal of life in each season. It was a time of celebration, deep in the Australian desert. It was a rare time of the year when the great majority of the desert was covered in flowers. It was a time of miracles. When people thought of the Australian desert, they thought of a great sandy expanse of land, dead and inherently lifeless, just another wasteland where no life could prevail. Yet, they were wrong. Life strived and flourished here, just as it did everywhere else, but perhaps on a smaller scale. Small lizards scampered across the cooling desert sands, between the flowers, searching for their next meal among the swarming insects just emerging from their daylight burrows to go about their business in the evening air. If you looked closely and carefully, keeping a watchful eye, you might spot the odd mammalian creature scampering about in the wan light, hunting for lizards still unused to the change in the landscape now covered with yellow, purple, and white flowers. If you were very lucky, you might even see one of the few remaining camel herds feasting like kings on the unexpected bounty they found covering the desert floor. This was the Lucky Country, a country untouched by war for hundreds of years until now, and even in this most recent war, they were only the smallest part of it, the small population unable to be more than just a cursory part of the engagement. It was the Lucky Country, but as everyone knows, sooner or later, luck will always run out. It was like an act of God. The heavens opened, and the clouds parted, revealing what looked like the fiery eye of a vengeful god. Bright defense beams and surface to air missiles streaked up at the descending ball of fire, hoping to break it up so that its component parts would burn up safely in the atmosphere or at least lessen the damage as the debris hit the earth. Almost as if in answer, the falling colony swayed in the sky, avoiding the beams as they lanced towards it. Fiery darts shot forth from the burning space station in the sky, detonating the oncoming missiles at a harmless range. The people cried at the impossibility of the situation, and wailed as they asked themselves how such a thing could be possible. Yet it didn’t matter, the answer to their question would have been meaningless, as within an hour, they were all dead. The burning colony hit the desert sand, and a huge explosion erupted from the wreckage as the titanic nuclear reactors of the space station ruptured and overloaded. The initial shockwave sent out a violent wave of irradiated sand, now turned to glass, to every corner of the continent. Those that lived in the more rural areas that stood outside to watch the spectacle were all shredded alive, unable to outrun the expanding cloud. Those on the coasts that huddled indoors, praying just to survive, were condemned to a slow and painful death as they were overcome by radiation poisoning. The scant few left alive were the ones that made it to the underground fallout shelters, left to survive on packaged goods, and stored water. The deserts were now vast plains of glass, the flowers covering the desert floor burned to cinders, giving the crystalline aftermath a fragrant scent that would inexplicably linger for centuries to come, as if the landscape was haunted by the memory of what it had lost. Australia once was known for its array of deadly fauna. From the smallest spider, to its largest reptile, all were potentially deadly. Post-cataclysm, it was no different. Although the bulk of Australia was now covered in the fallout, the poison seeping into the lands very bones, the coasts were saved from the brunt of the tragedy by the high mountain ranges and dense forests dividing the desert from the coast. This usually wouldn’t have been enough to save the wildlife from certain death, but an unknown element attributed to their survival. Some ventured that the downed colony was used to test chemical weapons, isolated safely in the closed environment in the space colony. They may have been right, as the fauna, post-cataclysm, reproduced wildly, their numbers expanding to unprecedented levels. If this were all that changed, the survivors would have been ecstatic, celebrating at this windfall. However, the animals were changed in other ways. Each and every one of them, even the herbivores, to defy all logic, hungered for flesh. They fed on each other, for the most part, in an endless give and take that left no species with a clear advantage, each species retaining its numbers with stubborn reproduction. Yet, humanity was to become their favored food, as if preternaturally sensing that they were without radioactive taint and hunting them above all other prey. As the survivors ventured out of their closed shelters for supplies and for salvage, they would find themselves hunted, and ambushed, in droves by wildlife. Brave survivors were torn apart by mobs of hideously overgrown kangaroo’s, or cornered and devoured by smaller creatures. Survivors would find the entrances of their shelters entrenched by spiders, just waiting for an unwary survivor to venture out from the entrance and into their layered webs. Life for the survivors was a constant battlefield, and they fought it to the best of their ability, walking a fine line between extinction and survival. And then they appeared. Legends would be told of how their coming was heralded by the crying of infants coming from the winds flowing from the glass wastes of the irradiated desert. Months later, they could be seen walking through the ruins of the cities, seemingly immune to the effects of the radiation, wearing only dust masks, goggles, and clothes scavenged from the dead. They appeared not as children, but as adults, defying the logic behind the infantile cries on the wind. When the survivors of the cataclysm approached these newcomers, they learned nothing, receiving only icy stares from their unearthly violet eyes. For a while, the survivors thought that the newcomers were mute, alien-like creatures, unable to communicate or understand them or their language. That theory was shattered one cold October morning, when they discovered a sharp rapping at the door on the main and most populated shelter. It was a child of twelve years old, her eyes hardened like a soldiers, her expression fierce like an angry warlord. She came alone. There were talks, discussions, and agreements. The twelve year old bargained as hard and expertly as someone five times her age. She gave away little, but took in a lot. The inner territories of the reflective desert were to be forbidden to outsiders, on pain of death. In exchange, they would protect the surviving citizenry and cull the animals around their shelters, while also opening a line of trade for both precious minerals and ores in exchange for machine parts and circuitry. Culled, not exterminated, she had said, adamant about leaving the mutated fauna alive, remarking that her god had ordained it. This confused the survivors, but they accepted it, believing the child to come from a more simplistic and feral background, and that her peers were savages, reverted back to tribalism after the cataclysm. Yet, that did not account for her eyes, those unsettling eyes, and her apparent immunity to the radiation that had seeped into the very bones of the land, making it almost completely uninhabitable but for the shelters. After a week, she left the shelter, still alone, but before she left, she was asked for names. She was asked for both her name, and what to call her people. ‘Vernand’, the little girl answered, before continuing, ‘We are all Vernand. But you may call me Perfidy,’ Then she departed, heading back towards the crystal centre of the continent, leaving the native survivors deeply unsettled, and apprehensive, that the talks that they had made, and the agreements that had been solidified between their two peoples had been with a juvenile girl whose name was synonymous with a deliberate betrayal of trust. Edited by Vernand, May 24 2010, 06:51 PM.
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| Vernand | May 24 2010, 10:51 AM Post #2 |
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Recruit
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Perfidy She sat with a scowl, propped up in her chair by a bundle of old books just so she could see above the table. The other people looked at her expectantly, and rightly so, as they had bombarded her with questions all morning, the answer to all, a mute and angered glare until they had settled down to wait for her to speak. They had dressed her in pink, pink of all colors, thinking she was a child. Their excuse being that they were the only clean clothes of her size, but she knew differently. They thought her a child. A Child. The thought of her being a child made her want to laugh, as that was exactly the point why they had sent her to broker contact and negotiation. It would be easier to gain the advantage, when the survivors thought they were superior of mind. Yet how wrong they were. If she concentrated, and let her eyes close for just a moment, she could see the thoughts that came to the surface of their minds, and feel the strongest emotions each harbored. Of the nine people sitting at the table with her, they were almost all the same. They were afraid, excited, and hopeful. They thought questions of why, and how to better themselves. They were selfish, and this was also to be to her advantage. It was the third day of negotiation. Well within the expected parameters, although her God had projected that things shouldn't take much longer than a week. Still, she had yet to get them past questions of the outside world, and her people. Some had even asked questions of their lost, a hilarious concept to her, as if they actually believed that any of them that had ventured outside were still alive. She knew, like all her Brothers and Sisters, that the outside world was a minefield, waiting to kill anyone that ventured out into it in a hundred different ways. 'Are we going to talk, or is this just a waste of what little time we have left?' Asked the man at the other head of the table. Perfidy looked over at the gentleman heading the opposite side of the table with hidden amusement. This man was different. He wasn't afraid or excited with the others, and she couldn't sense any surface thoughts on his mind. Instead, he broadcast an aura of weariness, and pessimism. When she looked at his eyes, she had the impression of someone who had given up on life a long time ago. 'Of course not, Chancellor. You'll have to forgive me. I'm a little overawed by my surroundings.' She lied, playing her role of the young and unworldly child that she was supposed to be. She closed her eyes for just a second, and could tell that almost all of them swallowed the lie without a second thought. Almost all of them, but not the so called Chancellor, it seemed. He was almost a closed book to her, and without needing to use her latent abilities, she could sense that he regarded her with deep suspicion. He would be hard to win over, but when she did, it would be well worth the time and effort. 'So today we were to talk about how your people would help us?' The Chancellor forwarded with a trace of bitterness in his tone, as if he already believed the world burned. 'Yes,' She replied simply, giving away nothing else. 'And how could your people help us?' The Chancellor asked, before continuing before she could reply, 'Personally, I care nothing for your God, as in my opinion he abandoned us the day the colony fell. We don't need religion here. The lands above are uninhabitable, and what little aid we receive from other nations is infrequent in delivery due our people going missing, the moment the step foot outside. We need food, clothing, medicine. We need books, ores, and other resources. We need space, to house our people. These are the things we need, and how do you suppose your people could provide them?' Perfidy took a deep breathe, and then used it to sigh heavily. She heard a whisper in her ear, the voice of an angel. It brought calming words, as well as authorization to give a little bit more. 'The food, we can scavenge from stores, long life produce still good despite the fallout. The clothing, we can take from the dead, and from the stores. Anything you might need, you can then scrub to clear the radiation. Medicine, we can get from your defunct hospitals, as well as any equipment. Electricity to use that equipment, our God will show us the way to provide you with that.' She answered. The Chancellor leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful pose, and then leaned forward again, his stubble spattered chin rested on his folded hands. 'Your God will show you the way? We are to put our faith in a God we've never seen, or heard from. A God that abandoned us when the colony fell?' He asked derisively. 'Yes. She will.' Perfidy replied, her teeth grinding at the implied insult to her faith, before offering her rebuttal. 'Our God isn't your old God. For one, our God is real. She talks to us, she teaches us, she raises us, and she leads us towards the future. We came from the center of the glass wastes, with our God leading the way. We survive the attacks from the animals that roam the lands. We survive the fallout by our Gods grace. I feel you are blind if you think our God incapable of helping us to supply you with the basics of life you require, when she has provided us with so much more.' The Chancellor leaned forward and sneered in reply, 'So you've stated that you and your people are practiced grave robbers. What you are offering is extortion. You're taking what was once ours, and you aim to trade it back to us? You offer to courier to us, the aid from foreign countries in exchange for just what exactly?' Perfidy pushed herself down from her chair and headed towards the door, speaking in an angry tone, while the eight other people at the table exploded in an uproar, arguing both for and against refusing her peoples aid. 'I didn't come here to be insulted, I came here to work out terms for your continued survival. I would have thought this would have been clear to you all. In terms of survival, you are doomed to extinction. We have come offering you a way to avoid that. We are offering you much, but asking little in return.' The Chancellor stood up and motioned for her to stop. Seeing this, she did. He sat back down again, and watched as she struggled back up the chair, to sit back down on the bundle of books. When he spoke again, he spoke in a conciliatory manner. 'I apologize. My words were out of turn, but your words beg the question of what exactly is it you want?' 'We need circuitry. We need parts. We need...' She said, and then hesitated. The group looked at her blankly, expectant for more. '...We need the wildlife to be culled, not killed. They must remain, for our god deems them Holy.' She said, knowing the consequences of her words. As expected, they ended in uproar. The party at the table were all standing and yelling. Some of those shouts were directed at her, others at each other. The volume rose into a cacophony as insults from one party to another had begun to be hurled. All except for the Chancellor who, she noticed, had remained seated and was watching her back with a quiet stare. When he was sure he had her gaze, he motioned for her to follow him out of the room. She got down from the chair and did as he signaled, leaving the unruly group behind. Once they had exited the room, he shut the door behind her and lit a cigarette. He looked at her for a long time before talking. 'Let's just be clear,' he said, and then continued, 'I don't agree with any notion of your God. I lost my faith when I lost my family.' He sighed, taking a long drag before saying anything more. '...But you made a point in there. Our survival isn't measured in decades and, the way things are going, we could measure it on a calendar. These talks are just a formality. Whatever you ask for, we'll agree to. We have to, to survive. Just as long as you provide what you promise, you'll have the full co-operation of our shelter and, with all probability, all the others.' Perfidy thought about this and then nodded. The angel had whispered in her ear. It had said, "You can trust this one". 'We do not ask for much. Our survival is your survival. We seek only the parts we need to build a weapon to guard humanity, and Australia.' She said seriously. 'You seek to build a mobile suit? A gundam?' The Chancellor asked in disbelief. 'Yes.' She replied simply. The Chancellor seemed to think about this and then nodded. 'Can we trust you not to use it against us, when it is built?' He asked. She looked at him with a sly glance. 'Sir, it's already built, and already operational. It has weaponry with nuclear potential. We're just waiting for the right pilot. The circuits and parts are just to improve its operation. If we wanted to use it against you, we would have brought it here and bargained with you as masters over slaves. Instead, we came to you as equals.' She laughed, and to her surprise, he laughed too. 'Against all reason, I like you,' he said and continued, 'I think the others underestimate you. You're not a little girl at all, despite how we've dressed you. You walked the desert alone, you wandered the forests and mountains, surviving against all odds and reason, and you came here with us to bargain as equals. I have just one more question for you, and then I'll leave you to the others to hash our the finer details of our survival, as I have other matters of importance to attend to.' 'The question?' She asked. 'If I asked you what the gundam were to guard us against, would you tell me? Is it other the nations? Space?' He answered in question. She looked at him with eyes hardened from living in the center of the glass wastes, with eyes that had never experienced childhood, and eyes that only knew the harsh reality of survival. 'That was three questions and, as a gift, I'll answer all three. The other nations, and space, are not the threat. They could invade, take over, and kill us all. Yet they are not what truly threatens us. We have a God, who made her Angels, and who then gave life to us, the Guardians.' The Chancellor looked at her expectantly, asking 'And my first question? Would you tell me what you were to guard us against?' Perfidy looked away, genuinely feeling fear as she replied. 'No.' |
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| Vernand | May 24 2010, 03:13 PM Post #3 |
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Recruit
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The Crystal Palace Present Day It sat in the centre of the desert, and unlike its namesake, it was not actually made of crystal. Rather, it sat in a sea of crystal, the rolling dunes of glass as its kingdom to rule over. The air sparkled here, the wind picking up the tiniest fragments of glass dust, and carrying it into the upper atmosphere where it came back down again in a perpetual sparkling rain. Like everything else in Australia, post-cataclysm, it was deadly here like everywhere else. The glass desert dropped to below freezing at night, and during the day, it rose to insane temperatures, the glass absorbing and reflecting the heat and light. It was said that if you looked upon the glass wastes in daylight without sunglasses or eye protection, you'd go blind instantly. Still, if you could cross the desert without freezing or baking in the heat, you yet had to deal with the escalating levels of radiation towards the epicenter of the original explosion, not to mention the freak rains of glass shards or their wear and tear on your equipment. It was said that being caught in a glass storm could flense the skin from your body, and there was plenty of evidence of that if you were unlucky enough to find the remains of a recent expedition. Yet, if you did make it that far, you would see the expansive Crystal Palace. It was built from the bones of the fallen colony, peiced together piecemeal by unseen hands, finished long before the first inhabitant had ever walked its halls. It was a marvel of construction, but left little to aesthetic. It was funtional for its environment. It was a rough half dome, with another smaller half dome nestled inside it, like a shell hiding within another shell. Yet that was just the surface, like any iceberg, nine-tenths of it was underneath, and the Crystal Palace's bulk was hidden deep within the earth. It had been dug by simple robots, nothing spectacular or fancy, but bare frames compared to their no doubt advanced bretheren. They were made for one purpose, to build, dig, and then break. It had been a long time since they had broken, and while some of them had been repaired to carry on other duties, most of them still littered the hallways and dead ends as a tribute to their tireless hard work. In the years since the first contact with the natives, the palace had become even more sophisticated, filling out the underground rooms to each have their own special purpose. The most important however, were found at the very bottom levels. The second last was the shrine to their God, and the last absolutely forbidden on pain of instant death and damnation. It was in this shrine that the most sacred ritual they had was about to commence, The Joining of Angels, and it was not a ritual to be taken lightly. Perfidy stood before a metal bench, looking down at the body occupying it. Its' chest rose and fell, and it was unconsious due to the seditives that fed into its arm via a tube attached on one end to his wrist by needle, and the other end to a drip bag held high on a metal pole. The body was all but naked on the operating table, its' chest opened up to display its beating organs and its right eye removed. Several large machines looked overhead, each one working on a different part of the body, inserting bundles of circuits in metallic casings, and making minute adjustments to their operation with miniscule surgical impliments. She was a grown woman of twenty years of age now, two thirds of her life expectancy complete. She knew she had been cheated of at least a decade of those years, but she didn't mind. Time crept slowly in the glass wastes, and she felt like she had already lived a full life. She'd seen the shelters go from nothing but holes in the ground to become thriving underground habitats, self powered and able to cater to all its citizens needs, with near unlimited room to expand further underground. No one from the shelters actually even needed to leave their safety these days. A few still did though, and sacrifced themselves in order to hold up their end of the agreement by taking the suicidal journey through the glass wastes to bring them what they required. Any others that left the safety of the shelters were the scavengers and salvage hunters, most of which were still killed by the local wildlife. She had seen her brothers and sisters grow up around her, most more slowly than herself, and others that did seem to age more rapidly than they should were stored in suspension tanks to wait until a time when their skills were needed. It amazed her, when she had studied the records of the cataclysm, back in her younger days at Sydney Shelter, that the dropped colony had provided so much for them. It had also been where her kind had first woken up, which could be of no small coincidence. It was almost like someone had planned for these exact circumstances... A voice woke her gently from her revelry. It was kind and soft voice, that of a young girl, and it spoke with a slightly concerned tone. The voice of God. 'How is he?' Perfidy didn't even bother to look up. Her God was everywhere as well as anywhere, and she had long become used to Her voice coming from anywhere and at any time. 'My little brother is doing fine, you shouldn't worry.' Perfidy replied, her hand reaching forward to touch the hand of the male on the operating table. 'I worry about all of you. I can only do so much until I'm completely connected.' Her God replied. 'Yes, but we've performed the joining plenty of times. Maybe not this extensively, but he is strong. Tough. Resilient. That's why he was chosen.' Perfidy spoke again, trying to assuage her Gods worries. 'I worry that I expect too much of him. He will have a lot of responsibility.' 'Yes, but I'll be at his side. Figuratively. He'll also have one of your Angels to guide him.' Perfidy tried again, desperate to build her Deity up with confidence in its own plan. 'If only we had another option, but sadly we are running out of time. At this, Perfidy laughed and turned around to look at a giant monitor dominating a wall of the shrine. A small childs face looked out serenely from the monitor, her visage dominating most of the screen. She looked puzzled before working out why Perfidy was laughing. As she did, they both spoke together. 'If if's and but's were chips and nuts, we'd have ourselves a party.' 'If if's and but's were chips and nuts, we'd have ourselves a party.' 'That's what you always used to tell me.' Perfidy explained, even though she knew she didn't need to. She turned back to look at the body on the table and clenched her hand around his. 'I wish this wasn't the life I had to plan for you all... I want peace for all of you.' 'So do I, but we both know the consequences if we don't start. We must hold Hell's Gate closed for as long as possible, at least until we can deal with Him. Little Cray is our only hope for our immediate future.' Perfidy sighed, her own responsibilities weighing heavily on her. She watched grimly as the machines attending her brother began finishing the operation, sewing up the skin and knitting together tissue with precision. The machine hovering over his head slipped an eyeball back into its socket, the eye much changed and mostly artificial as compared to when it was first popped out. Small flexible instruments dextrously slipped underneath his right eye's lid and lithely slid around the eye to the back of the socket, repairing any damage to the optic nerve that may have occured during the procedure. Little Cray, she thought with slight remorse. Maybe our lady is right, maybe we are putting too much pressure on you. On the operating table the machines finished their chore, the ritual completed. Perfidy looked down at the slumbering figure and nodded to herself, heading back towards the staircase to see the rest of her brethren. On the screen dominating the wall, the image of their God looked down and wept. She cried both from sorrow and from joy. She cried because she was sending her beloved son out into the world to live, and to die. There was no other way. Edited by Vernand, May 24 2010, 06:58 PM.
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| Vernand | May 24 2010, 06:46 PM Post #4 |
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Recruit
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Cray Vernand and Holly Present Day He awoke with the barrel of a gun in his mouth with the muzzle pushed to the palate. He took a slow breath and opened his eyes, letting out a sigh of relief. It was his gun, and he was the one holding it again. His finger eased off the trigger and he pulled the gun barrel out frpm his mouth, resting his unique pistol on the side table next to his bed. All his brothers and sisters were starting to wake up around him in the dormitory. The harsh white fluorescent lights started to flicker on, and he could hear a few of them cuss at the lights and turn over in bed. None of them were morning people, a Vernand genetic trait, if something like that could even be passed on through genetics. At least the rest didn't seem to suffer from a chronic case of morning-gun-in-mouth but, luckily, his sleeping self had yet to find the guts to pull the trigger. He doubted it ever would, yet he still took the precaution of making sure it was unloaded before he fell asleep. He had tried to hide his gun a few times before slumber, but his sleeping self would always find it and he would still wake up with it pushed firmly placed inside his mouth, ready to place a bullet straight through his brain cage. Even locking it in a drawer didn't make a difference. On a whim, he'd even locked the gun in his drawer and swallowed the key. The only result of that endeavour was that he woke up once again, the next morning, with the gun in his mouth, with the only difference of also being covered in vomit. He liked to think that this morning ritual played out to show that somewhere, deep inside him, he still had a working conscience. God knew that he had done enough questionable things in his life so far, that a bullet in the head would be a mercy. He would despair at his life, but he couldn't afford the luxury of regret. Instead, he channelled the energy into propelling his legs out of bed and onto the cold steel floor. The sweet smell of coffee rose his upper half from the mattress straight into the eyeline of a little sister, holding the mug out like a sacred relic. She was young, still a pre-teen. As his blurry eyes blinked away the sleep, he made out more detail and recognised her as little Saya. The others picked on her, and she'd found solace in his company, a kindred spirit. The other children of his generation had picked on him too, until they were all pitted against each other in a series of morbid games of survival. He was the only one left alive, and part of that was his lack of a conscience. The wildlife were not the only ones to claim the lives of his brethren. At least two owed their deaths directly to his hands. Three others had probably died indirectly because of him. Still, it was all for the greater good, and their sacrifice had prevented countless other lives being lost. Saya pushed the mug out towards him, too respectful of his morning fragility to mutter a word. She wore a bright and hopeful expression, occasionally ruined by the odd facial twitch. He took the proffered mug and took a long draw, being careful not to show how awful it actually tasted. Saya had the baffling talent of making coffee taste so terrible, it would be considered a weapon in any other country. What made it worse was that he had his coffee black, no sugar, requiring nothing more boiling water and two teaspoons of coffee to prepare. Heaven knew how she ruined a coffee in less than three steps. She also had those odd facial ticks, the result of a botched Joining ritual, and the current object of her peers mockery. The children had taken to calling her "Spooky" Electric, a rather unfair nickname in his opinion. They called her "Spooky" because the lights tended to dim slightly whenever she entered a room, and they called her electric, because of her occasional facial ticks that made her seem as if she received a regular electric shock. As he watched her happy face, finishing the terrible coffee, he wondered if her facial twitches were due to an electric shock. Maybe a wire was loose and hitting the side of the metallic plating, generating a shock. Still, she had never admitted to any pain from the twitches, so it was probably due to some other reason. He handed the mug back to her, grunting his thanks, and ruffling her long hair, as he got up and pulled on his clothes. He looked down to see her still staring expectantly at him. 'You want something, Saya?' He asked, performing his second morning ritual. 'Do the thing! Do the thing!' She yelled excitedly, playing her part of the same ritual. 'For the love of God, Cray, do your thing to shut her up!' One of his sisters yelled from under her pillow in an adjacent bed, still vainly trying to fight the reality of morning. Cray winked at Saya and pulled his hand back towards his chest, keeping the palm open and faced towards her. He forced the hand forward, focusing as much newtype potential as he could muster into the manoeuvre. He stopped his fist just before it hit her, and watched as a freakish wind caught her, blowing her long hair horizontally in behind her. Cray had been born as what people called a Newtype, someone with a psychic potential. He had no real outstanding talent in reading peoples surface thoughts, or communicating over long distances, but what he lacked in that, he more than made up for in telekinetic ability. She giggled and yelled out for him to do it again. 'I swear to Our Lady, Cray, if you don't take that brat out of here right now, you'll both be leaving in body bags.' The same snoozing sister yelled. Cray picked up Saya and draped her over his shoulder. He ducked down to pick up his gun, holstering it at his side, before walking out of the room with his giggling younger sister. He carried her to the sun room and set her down on the bright tile floor, feeling the artificial sunlight shine down on him, warming away the remainder of the night's chills. She looked at him expectantly again, and he shook his head to decline a repeat performance. 'Not again today, young one. You'll be able to do that yourself soon, if you keep practicing.' He sighed, trying to feel remorse for what he was about to tell her. To be honest, he was surprised that she didn't already know he was leaving. Everyone else seemed to, and it was an inside joke that rumor travelled faster than the speed of sound in the Family Vernand. Saya shook her head and frowned, another gesture ruined as her right eye rapidly narrowed and the right side of her lip curled up in one of her trademark twitches. 'They all tease me because I can't do anything yet.' Saya sobbed, then caught herself and immediately toughened up again to hide it. If Cray had a heart to break, it would have broken at the sight of her trying to emulate his stoic demeanor. It wasn't that he actively tried to be that way, it had just happened somewhere along the way. He couldn't remember when he stopped feeling emotions like sadness, happiness, joy, or any such similar emotion. The only emotion he knew he definately felt these days was anger. Sure, he could probably feel others as well, but the spectrum of emotion was so far and wide that he only counted the emotions he felt when they occured. 'You'll get the hang of it one day, Saya. You remember what they said about me?' He asked her. 'Sharp as a watermelon?' She asked, a playful grin on her face. 'You got it. But I kept at it and now I'm the best here at it.' He replied. She nodded enthusiastically, running to the door before pausing to yell 'I'ma practise now!'. Cray watched her as she ran down the hall, away from the sun room. A small part of him was relieved he didn't have to say goodbye to her, as he had no idea what he should feel while doing so. There was always the chance that if he had tried to explain he was leaving and tried to fake a feeling, she would have picked up on it. She might think that he never cared, which wasn't true. Having her as part of his morning rituals was comfortable, as if it fit into a place that would have felt empty otherwise. He shook his head, shaking the thoughts from his mind. Someone else would tell her after he was gone. It would be easier that way. Emotional goodbyes were just not naturally his thing. Green writing scrolled down on the right side of his vision and he clenched his eyes tight, the feeling giving him an icecream headache, as the third morning ritual started. 'Good Morning, Cray. I trust you had a pleasant sleep?' A sweet voice echoed in his head. Cray opened his eyes to see the ghost of slender arms pass over his shoulders from behind him, in the mockery of a hug. He stood up and started to walk to the central staircase. 'Good Morning, Holly. How did you enjoy my dreams?' Cray mumbled under his breath, knowing she'd hear him anyway. 'I'll let you know the day you actually dream.' Holly retorted, with a practiced laugh. 'Will you let Our Lady know I'm on my way?' Cray asked politely. It never did to get on the bad side of something that could make you piss your pants at a moments notice, a side affect to his Joining ritual, and one that his Angel, Holly, loved to tease him with. 'She already knows, and wishes to inform you that the GP02 designation "Physalis" is ready to depart when you are ready.' Cray headed down the stairs towards the hanger bay, where his charge was awaiting him. It took him ten minutes just to get there, the hanger situated a fair distance from the main living area of the Crystal Palace, with good reason too. If any of his siblings ever got woken up in the morning because of him either taking a test flight, or returning from one, he'd be dead before he left the cockpit. When he did arrive though, his breath was taken away. Seeing the GP02 designation "Physalis" sparkling in the morning sunlight always took his breath away. There was just something about so much destructive potential condensed into a single form that gave him pause. The fact that it now, more or less, belonged to him, did nothing to assuage that feeling. 'Holly,' he whispered, 'Let Our Lady know that I'll be leaving now.' 'Affirmative. She wishes you good luck, by the way' Cray paused in his step and considered the monumental task infront of him. I'll need it, he thought. Edited by Vernand, May 24 2010, 07:45 PM.
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| Vernand | May 28 2010, 08:53 AM Post #5 |
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Recruit
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A wild animal, cornered, is always the most dangerous. Nighttime in the Crystal Palace was always a quiet affair. The habitat was strictly controlled, regulating the circadian rhythms of its occupants to a strict fourteen hours of light and ten hours of darkness. Most of the younger Vernand's fell asleep rather quickly, with their older brothers and sisters eventually following suit. Generally, after midnight, the halls of the crystal palace were deathly quiet, not a sound to be heard in the darkness. Yet tonight, there was a sound to be heard. It came in the form of gentle sobbing that echoed quietly through the corridors, heard by no one. Not even their God seemed to take notice of the silent tears in the middle of the night. The weeping figure, hugging her knee's while sitting on the cold steel floor of the hall, was alone. It wasn't the solitude of the night that brought her to tears, nor was it bad dreams. It was the soul destroying feeling of having no one around that would care. Saya buried her head in her knee's, biting the sleeves of her sweater to hide her shuddering intakes of breath. Her brothers and sisters had kicked her out of the dormitory earlier that night, locking the door, because their computer slates inexplicably powered down whenever she was around. They had fallen asleep, forgetting about her, leaving her out in the cold and sterile hallway to freeze in the night air. The facility was set, that after a certain time, the temperature control everywhere but in the dormitories powered down in order to conserve power. This wouldn't have been a problem, but the night air in the glass wastes dipped close to freezing, and that cold would eventually seep throughout the Palace, covering everything in its icy chill. It wouldn't kill her, she knew, if she remained awake through the entire night. All she had to do was stay awake until morning, when one of her elder brothers or sisters would find her and bring her to the sick bay for treatment. After all, this wasn't the first time this had happened. Yet at least, with all those other times, she would always eventually find the courage to wake up her brother Cray, where he would let her sleep in his bed for the night, like a parent would do with a frightened child. Cray wasn't here any more though, and when he had left, without even saying goodbye, she had felt her last place of refuge get ripped away. She kept asking herself why he had left her, never quite coming to a conclusion that she liked. She wondered why he couldn't have taken her with him when he left, again only thinking of the worst case scenario. Had he cared? Had he ever cared? The question kept coming to her, in the darkness, and she felt herself come to the logical conclusion. After all, he hadn't even bothered to say goodbye. The cold night air bit deeper into her bones, and she felt herself shiver. It was so cold now, that she couldn't tell if it was because she was cold, or because she was crying. She hugged her knees tighter, effectively curling herself into a ball to ward off the chill. The tears that clung to her cheeks felt like rivulets of ice against her skin. As she exhaled, she could see her breath take form in the air. Over and over again, Cray kept creeping into her mind, memories of previous times spend with him. She remembered the stories he used to tell her, as he tinkered with the metal giant stored in the giant hanger a little way away from the main living quarters. She used to go there, to be with him, whenever her siblings insults and name calling became too much for her to handle. He used to tell her stories of how his brothers and sisters would do the same. He'd then tell her how he killed them. She'd watch his eyes as he spoke of their deaths and, behind his impassive expression, she could see the sadness in his eyes. It was like he buried the emotions so deep, they couldn't come out in any way, and were just left to settle behind his eyes, unseen to all those except for those who knew where to look. One story came to her, as she waited in the darkness for morning to finally arrive. He had told of the first time he had killed a sibling. He had said that they had all been paired into groups of two, and sent out into the far reaches of the continent, each holding a sealed message which they were to read once they got to their determined destinations. Firstly, they had to survive the trip through the glass wastes. He had told her how he'd been partnered with a girl, but that he couldn't remember her name. He said that she was scrawny, and her eyelids were always drooped as if she was perpetually half asleep or just waking up. They had traveled the glass desert together, and he had sheltered her from the worst of the storms, making sure she was covered while his face was open to the elements. Saya had decided that was how he had received the scars that covered parts of his face. He told her of how her carried the girl through the heat, when she couldn't walk any more, the heat being too intense for her to endure. Of how, when they reached the outskirts of the desert, he had hunted the local wildlife in order to feed them both. Finally he told her of how, when they could finally see the ocean, they had both opened their sealed messages and read them both together. They had learned that if they both survived the crossing of the wasteland, they now had to kill the other in order to be allowed to return. The girl had struck him instantly, clawing at him viciously, spitting names at him and curses. He had fought her off, and run away. Saya had decided that she hated the girl. How could anyone have acted like that, towards someone else that had treated them with nothing but good will. How could she have turned on him that easily, severing the connection that they had. Yes, Saya had known that Cray was right to kill that girl. People who turned on another, giving them nothing but misery deserved to die. Cray had then told her of how it ended, how he had crept back in the middle of the night, with the cover of darkness, to knock her unconscious. He had tied her to a tree, using her own clothes to bind her, and then climbed up another tree and waited for dawn. She had woken up before the sun had risen, and realized her predicament. She had called out to him, first for forgiveness, pleading for him to untie her. Her words had then turned again to curses and insults, chiding him with the contemptible names he had been plagued with since his childhood. Her last cries had been of pain and horror, as the wildlife crept forward in the morning light, feeding from her still living body. Cray had told her, that through all of that, he had watched, and then returned to the Palace alone. He had told Saya that the story had meanings, lessons that their god had wanted him to learn. The lesson Cray had learned that day, was that no amount of kindness could cure an already evil heart. He had learned that those with evil hearts would wind up dying at the hands of the people they mistreated. Saya raised her head and peered into the darkness, an inspiration coming to her in the dead of the cold night. Cray had cared about her. He had cared about her so much, that he had been trying to tell her what she should do, even then. People who turned on another, giving them nothing but misery, deserved to die. He had tried to teach her that her brothers and sisters had evil hearts, and no matter how hard she tried to be loved by them, like they loved one another, their malign cores would never heal. She knew then, that eventually, she would have to kill them all. The lights flickered on above her, and she looked up in surprise, watching each light in a line down the hallway come alight, as if trying to lead her down a path. She stood up, trying to ignore the cold that gnawed at her, and followed them, taking it as a sign that she should follow. The lights led her towards the kitchens, where her older brothers and sisters usually worked in a rotating roster. She had never been in there, the kitchens being off limits to all those who were not on kitchen duty, and she was still far too young to get assigned any shifts there. The kitchen was draped in complete darkness, except for one light illuminated at the far end. A bright glint caught her eye, under the light, as she took a step forward towards it. As she approached, the glint resolved itself into a knife, left lying on the bench. She picked the knife up, feeling its weight in her hand. If the lights hadn't been enough to convince her, the knife was like reading a message on a wall. It was as if fate was telling her what she needed to do, as if every moment from that point onwards was preordained, just waiting for her to follow its plan. The light in the kitchen turned off, leaving her in darkness, and the lights in the hall were like a beacon, beckoning her forward. Saya walked back down the hall, the lights flickering off behind her as she returned to her dormitory. When she reached the door, it pulled apart automatically, as if it was never locked by her peers. Her facial muscles twitched, one of her trademark spasms, and she hesitated. Her heart felt fear at what she was about to do, but all it took to alleviate that feeling was to think of Cray and what he was once driven to do. She found herself standing next to a girl named Bellamy. She wasn't sure why she had picked her first, but she distinctly remembered Bellamy always picking on her more than the others. Perhaps it was also because she was the soundest sleeper. Almost nothing could wake Bellamy up until she had finished her allotted eight hours of rest. Saya climbed on top of her, pinning Bellamy's arms to the bed with her knees, letting gravity do the work for her. She raised the knife above her head and brought it down in a quick stroke towards her siblings neck. Arterial blood spurt up into Saya's face, but she barely blinked, too busy staring into her sisters eyes as she woke up and struggled for breath. Bellamy's mouth opened and closed, unable to make a sound as it filled with blood, her lungs rapidly filling as well. She struggled in vain, her thrashing barely making a sound on the soft sheets, hardly able to move under the pressure of Saya's weight. Saya watched and waited, just as Cray had done, until she stopped moving and her bright violet eyes glazed over. She felt nothing for what she had done. As she wandered over to another bed, to repeat the process, wondering if Cray had felt anything when he had killed his siblings. Probably not she decided, as she brought the knife down again. Blood splattered over her sweater, and she watched the life drain out of her kin. A droplet of blood on her face, mixed with her previous tears, ran down to her lip and she licked at it with her tongue. It tasted sweet, yet salty, and she looked at the horror in her dying brothers face as he finally slipped away. How Spooky would you find me now, she thought, wondering what her dead brother would say if he were still alive. Would he regret teasing her? She hoped so, but doubted it, as his heart had been poisoned with wretchedness. Any regret he would have felt, would have been false at best. Her third victim almost managed to push her off, as he struggled, the adrenaline panic almost being too much for her. Yet, she brought the knife blade down again and again, into his throat to make sure he died quicker and couldn't alert anyone else as to what was happening. Blood now covered her, warming her as it dripped from her clothing, the heat solidifying her conviction and convincing her that she was doing the right thing. The fourth died without even a struggle, the knife buried in her sister, Natalya's, neck so deep that the knife tip broke off in her spine. It must have severed her spine, as only Natalya's eyes opened, and she died in mere moments. Her fifth, and final victim, she relished the most. He was the one that plagued her the most, and had always been the loudest when it came to calling her names. He had always pushed her around the most violently. He had been the one who had locked her out of the dormitory tonight, leaving her out in the cold and on her own. She walked over to the side of his bed, and ran the length of the broken blade against his neck. Benson woke up as the blade was halfway through his neck, his eyes locking with hers. He managed to push her off, and throw her to the ground, standing up to tower over her. One of his hands grasped his neck, trying to hold it closed but failing, the blood still filling his lungs and pouring down his nightshirt. His lips framed the question, "Why?", and then he seemed to realize. His lips framed the words, "I'm sorry", and he fell back against the bed, choking and coughing as death claimed him. The lights flickered on, and Saya stood up, looking around in panic, knowing in her bones that daylight was still hours away. A monitor attached to the wall switched on, and Saya saw the soft face of her God stare back at her, accusation painted across Her features. There was also a question nestled in that accusing look, and Saya knew what it was. Her God wanted to know why. Saya dropped the knife, fear gripping her as the conviction left her under the steady gaze of her Deity. She mumbled the name "Cray", and looked towards the floor. 'Cray killed because he had to, you have killed because you wanted to.' The reality of the statement sunk deep into Saya, and tears ran down her cheeks once again. The shame of what she had done, threatening to overwhelm her. 'Run, little Saya. When the others find out, they will never forgive you. You have to run, and never come back.' Saya nodded, pulling her outdoor gear from the locker at the foot of her bed and quickly dressing. Within the hour, she had dressed and packed for the journey. She paced quietly up the stairs to the ground floor of the Palace, and stole out into the night, alone and still crying for what she had done. When she closed her eyes, she could see the faces of the Siblings she had killed, each one with eyes that framed that same question, "Why?". Saya could feel her throat burn with sadness, not being able to bring herself to answer those faces in her mind. Before first light hit the glass floor of the wastes, she was long gone. Back in the dormitory, now an abattoir, her God looked on at the scene and smiled. |
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