August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 4:00PM, Sunday; December 16th, 2007)______________________________________________________________________
Technology still had a ways to go in my opinion.
At the crossroad I was presently at, I was sorely tempted to get my spare blaster out from underneath the workbench and just shoot the damned bike!
Fuck-! I was so pissed at the thing!
The intake valves were fixed and the filters cleaned, but then something else reared its ugly head and I had even more work to contend with. (Honestly? I didn't even know how Calis did it half the time. The old man was a wizard when it came to machines and stuff like that. Me? I was just a green novice. An ace pilot for the Viper X-1, but a stinkin' greenie with hoverbikes. I remember the times my mom would always yell at me to take care of my "at-home" equipment even better than I did my auto-frame. Calis cautioned me on the same subject many times over--but I was hard of hearing; and often (than I care to admit), I paid for my follies.
No, this time, the fuel pumps themselves were the sticking point. And without them fixed, I had no way of making it out to the Mile Road marker 200 clicks out from the home fort.
My bike would die out in the middle of nowhere squared and most likely I would to--even with the proper precautionary measures.
The tiny valve-compressors and the drive-piston assembly were the problem--with the latter hopelessly gummed up with sand.
Nothing I did could alleviate the problem.
The only solution was to head into Shark's Bay for a replacement. Stratos City was a secondary possibilty, but without reliable transportation, I was screwed every which way towards next Thursday.
And the 450-mile journey on foot was like asking me to commit suicide or something. Roving bandit gangs would pick me off faster than the elements would in a heartbeat.
But I knew then that in order to make the call, I would have to think of a way of improvising on the spot. There just had to be something in this shed that I could use as a replacement for the pump's lining mechanism. This was what caused the fuel pump assembly to conk out of commission.
However, I believed that Calis and I had already shielded the pumps from the harsh elements; but I guess not now. The damaged pumps were proof that more work needed to be done.
I spent some time contemplating the problem--trying to pull a miracle out of my hat. The compressor valve was the easiest thing to replace--I had parts for that. So did Calis.
But it would take me more time to replace the compressor--and that was something I didn't have the time for. So the lining was the only thing which presented itself to be a quick fix.
The only problem was that I didn't have a replacement lining pad which could fit in each of the valve compartments.
Unfortunately, someone opened the door at that time and it turned out to be my brother, Trell.
Naturally, I yelled at him after I threw my jacket on the fuel pump assembly. I didn't need anymore headaches than I had now. I had just spent 4.5 hours working. Trell did apologize for what he did and just wanted me to know that it was time for breakfast.
I had too much work on my hands to worry about eating--and looked at my handiwork in general.
Trell was hoping that I would come so he could take a quick shower and get to work on the comm screen. I immediately turned on him about the whole thing--which he in turn pointed out that I had sent him to bed before he could effect repairs.
Arguing about it was the last thing either of us wanted--even though my youngest bro informed me that he managed to jury-rig the whole thing. The repairs wouldn't last long--as he told me--so I'd better hurry up.
But it made me wonder why mom didn't just scrap the whole contraption and invest in a new comm system. I know we didn't have enough money--and I could've loaned her some for a new comm--but the thought still remained in my head for a while longer.
I offered my next solution as a way of an informal truce between myself and my youngest sibling; informing him that I would join him for breakfast.
'Let's go before mom thinks I've jumped ship,' I recalled Trell telling me on that day.
Of course, I figured that a refueling op might be just the thing I needed to fix the pumps.
So I let my brother take the lead.
At least...just this once.
Isis
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Saturday, November 10, 2007
LITTLE MISS BIKE MECHANIC.
August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 1:50PM, Saturday; November 10th, 2007)______________________________________________________________________
The morning was a lot colder than I imagined.
You would think that living on a desert planet, our weather would remain constant and filled with few surprises in this day and age...?
Don't bet on it.
Standing from where I was that morning, the wind was unnaturally cruel to me; biting at my face--causing my breath to vapor?
It was a good thing that I had the common sense to install heaters in the outshed awhile ago.
I'd think it was going to start snowing before too long if this kept up. (Yes, I know much about this rare phenomenon. The South Circle is the only place on this world of mine that has such a thing. A small patch of snow and ice measuring only 500 miles in diameter; shrinks during the summer and grows during the winter. Calis told me once that the world I lived in was much different so long ago. And I always wondered how he knew that; his fantastic tales of a dead civilization filling my mind from time to time. He says that the South Circle is the only remnant left of a world alien to me.)
The wind of course enjoyed playing with my long tresses--messing with each stray strand of hair. Naturally--as days had me--I didn't brush my hair as often as I should.
Out in the Golan Desert...what was the point?
But the skies above me where shockingly clear--devoid of anything.
Even clouds.
But I could still see the whispering bands of sand in the distance and the recalcitrant cloud bank some 500 miles distant. All light brown as one looked up--before vanishing into the skies--but at the bottom?
Dark and uninviting!
Not the kind of thing I would go joyriding in first thing in the morning.
But gauging the distance between me and that cloud bank, I would say it was not even close to Shark's Bay. Maybe in the Rail Mine area--where Old Coy used to sit. (Now abandoned.)
So no immediate danger to me.
That was a good sign.
Looking around, I saw that last night's action didn't do a whole lot of damage to the area around me.
The last one (from my childhood memories) took out a whole side to our old maintenance barn--leaving my father to rebuild it from scratch. Two years ago, another storm like it stripped off some paint--leaving it with an odd two-tone coloration that I couldn't fix in a moment's notice.
It still stood there--a lone and proud sentinel to a time filled with happier memories. But now, it was just a lurking ghost. A reminder of things lost and forgotten.
The outshed was built to withstand anything that Mother Nature could throw at it.
And that's where my destination was to be today. The storm may not have done any appreciable damage to the surrounding landscape, but my bike took a beating like none other.
Especially with all that sand still gummed up in the intake valves and filters.
I was sure that it wasn't running at peak efficiency. And the last thing I needed (as I jumped down the small flight of stairs--taking off towards to the outshed), was to be stalled halfway to my goal.
And that would really suck!
Getting the latch off to the door was easy enough. But the sand had piled up during the night and so I spent the next couple of minutes shuffling out as much as I could with my feet.
The winds picked up on my little game and played along with me--blowing what I shoveled back and around. For a small while, I was surrounding in a golden cloud of glittering sand.
Opening the door became easier after that--as I turned on the overhead light--bathing the place in a soft yellow glow.
Closing the door behind me, I heard the wind thumping miserably against it--desperate to come in and play some more. But I would have none of that.
If I was going to fix my bike, I didn't need anymore havoc for the time being.
Technology had made it so that fixing any problem would be a cinch. (That is, if you lived up in Stratos City.)
But down here on the surface, technology had become hardened and a stubborn mistress. It only worked if you paid loving attention to it and cared for it on equal terms.
With that in mind, I dragged my machine over to the diagnostic platform at the center of the shed: A circular dias next to a metal pole with a mushroom-shaped plunger button built right into the control panel beneath it.
Simple enough for me, no? Here, I didn't have anything fancy past the diagnostic computer. I couldn't afford it anyways. But out here, fancy and attractive technologies either was stolen underfoot, or...?
Killed by the harsh and unforgiving environment.
These days, I needed the hard stuff. I couldn't have survived without it. The luxuries up in that burnished top above my head would have to wait for a later time.
Hitting the button, I watched as the platform rose to a grinding halt--reminding me (later on), that I would have to oil the chassis beneath it.
Or fix it.
Whichever came first.
Stopping at eye-level, I reached over to play with the small interface on the junction box--which brought the back end of my bike to face me.
Nothing wrong there, I saw. So I changed positions again--this time, revealing the small access panel on the left side of my ride.
Instead of opening it, I went to the farthest corner of the outshed and lugged out a wheeled diagnostic computer terminal. The wheels screeched horrendously, but I was used to it. If they didn't...?
I would worry.
After a final visual inspection of my bike, I turned on the computer terminal and went to retrieve a connection probe off the work table close to the door.
Walking back, I undid the panel above the hover control chassis and jacked in one end of the connection and uncoiled the connector leads--carefully working out the kinks as I went.
I attached the leads solidly into the side panel of the computer terminal and entered an experimental command into the interface.
Everything checked out.
I then imputted another request into the system and asked for a Level 1 diagnostic of my hovercycle.
The machine hummered and whirred to itself in response--as it accessed my bike's onboard systems--and I had nothing to do for the next few minutes but wait.
(I hated this!)
A beeping noise grabbed my attention back to the present, and a beautiful tri-visual image resolved itself before me: An internal schematic detailing every aspect of my hovercycle.
The thing was in a green and blue overlay, which made things even more breath-taking. But the angry red flashes on some areas made me shit my pants--and I swore as a result.
What the hell did I do to piss off the gods with this bullshit???
This was really getting on my fucking nerves! I was expecting some minor problems--some things that the computer could correct on its own--but this...?
Stomping back to the work table in a huff, I grabbed my personalized tool box off the top shelf (the one adorned with a plethora of cute stickers and headlining sayings), and started back to my bike.
Piece of shit! I silently called it--as I popped the access cover off the engine housing--and set it down carefully. I undid the side panels as well: Exposing half of my bike's insides to the outside air and stray elements.
And sighed.
I was right: This thing was a piece of shit!
So what if I had too much faith in my bike? It was the only thing I had--besides my Viper X-1.
And I was the only one who could fix it!
Though...it would most likely take a few hours.
From my points of view, the engines and their manifold intakes of the Strokov-623 didn't look at all damaged.
Plus for me!
Carefully, I probed the divide seperating the two together--making sure that nothing out of the ordinary would present itself; once I began systematic repairs here.
I didn't need any more headaches than I already had.
Pulling my hands free, I ventured deeper into the machine, past the thrust initiators, past the various energy relays, some of the connection leads, and other things critical to the bike's operation, I quickly found the problem where the computer still displayed it as.
Certainly no easy task. That was for sure!
After untangling myself from the guts of my own bike, I placed a repair probe on top of the spot (to mark it) and then went back for my tool box.
I grabbed a magnetic decoupler and its companion auto-rotator head out of the tray (of specially designed tools), and undid the instrument probe attached.
I carefully threaded the decoupler through the maze of wires until I hit the spot in question: The connections holding air intake valves and the fuel-mixer components together.
The first connector was easily dispatched from where I sat hunched down--and I pocketed the six lead heads. Then I carefully plucked the tubing apparatus with a box-like shape attached to the end connectors on both sides.
I sat it aside carefully. And then repeated the process with the other three.
The engine core took on the appearance of a partially gutted fish--and I'm sure Calis would have a field day with me for doing this on my own. But I knew enough about my own road hog to take it apart and put it back together in one piece. (Luckily for me, the terminal would tell me if the thing was functioning--if and when I put it back together in working order.)
I removed the housing covers for the two fuel-regulator pumps and found the first to be okay.
The second?
Shit!
The computer was right: The internal components operating the micro-pumps had jammed from too much sand again.
But at least they weren't fused. If they were...?
I'd be shit out of the luck.
However, I wouldn't know the extent of the damage to the pumps and the surrounding filters themselves until I took the whole thing apart. But what pissed me off sorely was that the fuel pumps didn't come cheap. They were the second most expensive piece of machinery outside of the hover conversion system.
And as such, it was going to take me a hell of a lot longer to fix than just screwing something on and plugging it back in.
I fished out the delicate pumps from their snap-on foundations and set them on the driver seat.
Then I grabbed one of the air intake valves and began to work on the problem at hand--knowing that my day was shot to shit as it is.
Isis
Saturday, September 29, 2007
MORNING REFLECTION
August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 10:57PM, Sunday; September 29th, 2007)______________________________________________________________________
You think that by now, I would've remembered to shut off that damned alarm clock--again!
Duh...um...nope. >shakes head<
I'm always thinking that one of these days, my lazy brother would get off his duff and give me something that didn't have to involve committing homicide against the infernal noisemaker. But I remembered that Trell was still in trouble from last night and no amount of pleading from his camp was going to change Mom's mind one iota.
I stayed up late at night--getting some chores done and spending time in my room cleaning my blaster and practicing up on my martial arts. They used to have a name for what I was doing--but the Old Ways had died so long ago--that Calis doesn't even know. He just showed me some study discs of his own one day and told me to start practicing.
Right after I turned 10 no less. The holo-projector and the mono-tone voice would be my teacher for the next three years--until I had progressed well enough on my own to consider being self-taught.
My weapons' training came at the hands of my mom shortly after my dad was imprisoned. It made sense--seeing how I was the oldest in the family. My youngest brother still was too young to properly weild a weapon of any kind; and I didn't know what my mom was thinking--giving a loaded blaster to a 7-year-old girl.
But Calis told me later that it was "better to be safe than sorry."
In the Barren Wastelands, you had no second chance. People had died being unprepared and unprotected these days.
I didn't want to be just another forgotten memory or a land-based statistic.
My birthday was in two more months. And being 15 would take on a whole new dimension by then.
But it left me wondering if I would go gray early like my mom had when she was young?
Life on the surface was no picnic. Let me tell you. People had a habit of aging more quickly in some cases and slower in others.
It depended on their trade in life. Most of scavengers and foragers did. So did a few pilots.
I was the exception to the rule. I wore my age well on the corner of my sleeve. So I figured I would be be mistaken for someone much younger--once I got to a certain point. (Let's hope!)
At any rate, I managed to get up and unplug the alarm clock; silencing it's racket once more.
I stretched and yawned--feeling how tired I was. Not just me. But my whole body.
I ached in places I didn't think was possible. But yesterday's encounter with the storm was more than I bargained for. Not only did I get beat around like an insolent child, but I was almost hit by lightning on my way up the stairs.
The damned bolt came close to blowing my face off--instead was content in knocking me flat on my ass in the process. I could not remember if I had been knocked out or was stunned, or what. But I came to after a few minutes and had nothing but stars before my eyes and an earnest ringing in my ears.
I changed clothes as quickly as I could--knowing that I couldn't afford to stall much longer; not when Calis was expecting me this morning.
Putting on a pair of faded blue jeans, I felt the patch ride up on my leg--a reminder of a hovercycle accident not too long ago.
I smiled at the memory invoked by my own actions and continued to dress myself. Once I finished, I hopped out into the hallway--bypassing some familiarly-frame photos of happier times with myself and my family.
I stopped next to the one that showed me after my hard won victory at the Desert Storm last year--parked right next to three photographs of my father; a man I worshipped greatly in my heart.
And the pang of absence which still lingered. Oh, how I missed him!
I reached out to touch the features of his youthfully framed face--marveling on how happy he was back then; during a family photo session. We were too poor to afford holographic pictures, so we opted for the film prints.
They lasted longer than anything currently on the market--but they didn't have the staying power as the optically-transferred, digital reproductions had.
200 years at least. By then, one of our descendants would have to get replacements.
The picture of me was such an impish one. I could not believe that my mom allowed me to dress in such a hideous outfit! (I shuddered at this point.)
But I suppose it was one of the sacrifices one had to make for an eternal memory wrapped up by time itself.
My mother looked younger than she did these days. I could see a little bit of me in her and I was left wondering if that's whom I would like look like as I grew older with each passing year.
My baby brother looked so adorable in his little sailor's uniform--leaving me to sigh.
No matter what, the most thing I missed in the world was a family. And no matter how hard I tried, I could not recapture those lost moments in time.
Resentment and anger filled me then--as I blamed the Praetorial Guard for what happened to us.
To my brother.
To my mother.
To my father.
And especially...me.
No matter what happened--even if I got my father back--I would still hold the Praetorial Guard responsible for stealing all those years away from us. That much was a certainty.
Of course, people would tell me that I had to take responsibility for my own actions and stop blaming others.
Naturally, that would be the appropriate response.
But this world and the one I live in are so vastly different. Blame was assigned to one thing and not one person. We lived a much different life than the one you know.
The Guard was formed as the answer to humanity's problems. And even though things started out well enough, shit went south for the winter real fast--and we started looking at the Praetorial Guard as the bane in our lives.
Not our saviors as some claimed them to be.
That's the reason why I objected so strongly in going up against Calis's wishes. I did not desire another encounter with the Guard.
I'm sure that they didn't like me, but the feeling was mutual.
I had no love or trust in those stupid turtleheads!
But a promise was a promise nonetheless. And I could not back off now.
It was 5:30 in the morning by the time I went into the kitchen and grabbed some leftover pepperstew (or chili as my mom sometimes called it), and I wolfed it down as quickly as I could; worrying about the heart burn later.
After taking care of my dishes, I left the house soon after.
Isis
You think that by now, I would've remembered to shut off that damned alarm clock--again!
Duh...um...nope. >shakes head<
I'm always thinking that one of these days, my lazy brother would get off his duff and give me something that didn't have to involve committing homicide against the infernal noisemaker. But I remembered that Trell was still in trouble from last night and no amount of pleading from his camp was going to change Mom's mind one iota.
I stayed up late at night--getting some chores done and spending time in my room cleaning my blaster and practicing up on my martial arts. They used to have a name for what I was doing--but the Old Ways had died so long ago--that Calis doesn't even know. He just showed me some study discs of his own one day and told me to start practicing.
Right after I turned 10 no less. The holo-projector and the mono-tone voice would be my teacher for the next three years--until I had progressed well enough on my own to consider being self-taught.
My weapons' training came at the hands of my mom shortly after my dad was imprisoned. It made sense--seeing how I was the oldest in the family. My youngest brother still was too young to properly weild a weapon of any kind; and I didn't know what my mom was thinking--giving a loaded blaster to a 7-year-old girl.
But Calis told me later that it was "better to be safe than sorry."
In the Barren Wastelands, you had no second chance. People had died being unprepared and unprotected these days.
I didn't want to be just another forgotten memory or a land-based statistic.
My birthday was in two more months. And being 15 would take on a whole new dimension by then.
But it left me wondering if I would go gray early like my mom had when she was young?
Life on the surface was no picnic. Let me tell you. People had a habit of aging more quickly in some cases and slower in others.
It depended on their trade in life. Most of scavengers and foragers did. So did a few pilots.
I was the exception to the rule. I wore my age well on the corner of my sleeve. So I figured I would be be mistaken for someone much younger--once I got to a certain point. (Let's hope!)
At any rate, I managed to get up and unplug the alarm clock; silencing it's racket once more.
I stretched and yawned--feeling how tired I was. Not just me. But my whole body.
I ached in places I didn't think was possible. But yesterday's encounter with the storm was more than I bargained for. Not only did I get beat around like an insolent child, but I was almost hit by lightning on my way up the stairs.
The damned bolt came close to blowing my face off--instead was content in knocking me flat on my ass in the process. I could not remember if I had been knocked out or was stunned, or what. But I came to after a few minutes and had nothing but stars before my eyes and an earnest ringing in my ears.
I changed clothes as quickly as I could--knowing that I couldn't afford to stall much longer; not when Calis was expecting me this morning.
Putting on a pair of faded blue jeans, I felt the patch ride up on my leg--a reminder of a hovercycle accident not too long ago.
I smiled at the memory invoked by my own actions and continued to dress myself. Once I finished, I hopped out into the hallway--bypassing some familiarly-frame photos of happier times with myself and my family.
I stopped next to the one that showed me after my hard won victory at the Desert Storm last year--parked right next to three photographs of my father; a man I worshipped greatly in my heart.
And the pang of absence which still lingered. Oh, how I missed him!
I reached out to touch the features of his youthfully framed face--marveling on how happy he was back then; during a family photo session. We were too poor to afford holographic pictures, so we opted for the film prints.
They lasted longer than anything currently on the market--but they didn't have the staying power as the optically-transferred, digital reproductions had.
200 years at least. By then, one of our descendants would have to get replacements.
The picture of me was such an impish one. I could not believe that my mom allowed me to dress in such a hideous outfit! (I shuddered at this point.)
But I suppose it was one of the sacrifices one had to make for an eternal memory wrapped up by time itself.
My mother looked younger than she did these days. I could see a little bit of me in her and I was left wondering if that's whom I would like look like as I grew older with each passing year.
My baby brother looked so adorable in his little sailor's uniform--leaving me to sigh.
No matter what, the most thing I missed in the world was a family. And no matter how hard I tried, I could not recapture those lost moments in time.
Resentment and anger filled me then--as I blamed the Praetorial Guard for what happened to us.
To my brother.
To my mother.
To my father.
And especially...me.
No matter what happened--even if I got my father back--I would still hold the Praetorial Guard responsible for stealing all those years away from us. That much was a certainty.
Of course, people would tell me that I had to take responsibility for my own actions and stop blaming others.
Naturally, that would be the appropriate response.
But this world and the one I live in are so vastly different. Blame was assigned to one thing and not one person. We lived a much different life than the one you know.
The Guard was formed as the answer to humanity's problems. And even though things started out well enough, shit went south for the winter real fast--and we started looking at the Praetorial Guard as the bane in our lives.
Not our saviors as some claimed them to be.
That's the reason why I objected so strongly in going up against Calis's wishes. I did not desire another encounter with the Guard.
I'm sure that they didn't like me, but the feeling was mutual.
I had no love or trust in those stupid turtleheads!
But a promise was a promise nonetheless. And I could not back off now.
It was 5:30 in the morning by the time I went into the kitchen and grabbed some leftover pepperstew (or chili as my mom sometimes called it), and I wolfed it down as quickly as I could; worrying about the heart burn later.
After taking care of my dishes, I left the house soon after.
Isis
Sunday, August 26, 2007
STANDING UP FOR WHAT YOU BELIEVE IN
August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 8:14PM, Sunday; August 26th, 2007)___________________________________________________________________
I guess--from my perspective--Trell had it coming.
Mom yelling at him and all.
But I could have none of that. I simply could not. After all, the little shrimp is my brother. And since mom didn't have any kids after Trell was born, it would make no sense killing him for doing what he did.
But grounding him did.
Again, mom didn't know from what. We had very little as it was, and Trell was very much needed around the house while I was out doing my things.
And since Dad wasn't here to pick up the slack...?
However, that didn't stop my mom from chewing him out. I got the distinct feeling that Maye took great satisfaction that she could still carry weight and authority with her voice.
Like her, I was also worried about my brother becoming an addict.
After all, there were no documented reports of someone remotely surviving after eating 3 cases of energy bar rations. Especially those that are tailored to my metabolism. (Maybe it was because he was younger--and his body still had yet to get rid of all that energy?)
My own battles with addiction is fairly evident--and it was so much easier becoming one in the world I now grew up in. Nobody I knew didn't have a dark and secret past--one tinged with embarrassment or scandal.
We all had something to hide from the outside world. Humanity may have advanced technologically in some areas over the last 10,000 years--but there were still some arenas which basic instinct was still very much the barbarian.
Cruelty, selfishness, depravity...?
They still had their place. This world of mine just made them all that much stronger.
And harder to ignore.
I partly listened to my mom still going on about her own worst-case scenarios involving my stupid brother--until I hit on an idea.
“I can go into town tomorrow and get a vial of Viraxain from Calis and give it to Trell by injecting him with a hypo spray.” I recall volunteering. “It should shut down the excess energy and jumpstart his body back to normal.”
(Heh. Whatever the hell that was. But I said this to calm my irate mother--and shock her back to her senses. Nobody was in any real danger of dying. My brother ate the 3 cases over a period of a month or so--not all at once. But even that much excess was too much for the average human body.)
I waited until Trell finished eating and then watched him scoot off for bed. I took care of the mess he left behind on the table and got myself something to eat--then sat down.
What I was going to tell her was damned difficult as it was.
When I did open my mouth to tell her--my mom blew everything out of proportion by instantly thinking that I had become addicted!
Worse...
She thought I was pregnant! (laughing here)
I may be naive at times, but stupid I wasn't. There was no way in hell I was going to get knocked up at such an early age! (But you know moms these days...?)
I tried to soother her fears by letting her know that I was neither--and then told her what Calis wanted me to go an do.
Like a bomb going off, my mother laid down the letter of the law:
“You are not going!” She told me in a tight voice, one that spoke of heavy menace. “And that’s that!”
(Moms...you gotta give them points for being up front with their feelings--especially those that involve their kids.)
Naturally, I agreed with her. I thought the old man was crazy too. But what else could I have done?
Mom told me all the "horrible" things that go up in Stratos City (y'know: The horror stories which adults use to scare kids with), and I told her not to worry. I had a blaster, my martial arts--I could handle myself in a pinch if needed.
Typically, mom wasn't convinced. But I told her that I was going anyway. I had to.
Maye asked me why.
I told her about the things which Calis told me. Things which made sense to my ears. Mom blew it all off as some 'wishful thinking' and 'an old man's fantasy'.
I countered her of course--as any good daughter would. I may be upstart and 14-years-old, but I never backed down from a fight or a challenge.
Even those from my own mother--no matter how much I loved and respected her.
Mom thought I was just gulliable, but I told her I wasn't. But her remarks sowed some self-doubt in me. I asked her what I should really do.
She told me it was up to me. I was old enough to make my own decisions (even though in the modern world--that was usually reserved for teens 18 or 19 years of age. Not those who were just on the edge of turning 15--like me--for instance.)
I told her that I would go--seeing how a surface dweller hadn't been up there for 300 years or something to that effect. Mom corrected me--of course--but I had always been under the distinct impression that nobody from the surface had actually visited the space complex in so long. (Of course, Calis would later tell me that it had been no less than 50 years since he last visited.)
Maye grew concerned over my lack of accurate historical knowledge--and asked me what it was that Calis was using for my study periods. I told her what we had gone through--and it confirmed my mom's earlier suspicions.
She told me flat out that my views were skewed and I fired back with some logic of my own--dropping me into an argument which borderlined on surface dweller prejudice. I used everything at my disposal--which set my mother back a bit.
I guess she wasn't expecting me to debate her in such an adult manner. But my outbursts with her reminded her of herself--when she was my age. However, nothing could change the time-honored friction which lay between both mother and daughter.
And that's what made me and my mom so...different...in our views of the world around us.
Isis
I guess--from my perspective--Trell had it coming.
Mom yelling at him and all.
But I could have none of that. I simply could not. After all, the little shrimp is my brother. And since mom didn't have any kids after Trell was born, it would make no sense killing him for doing what he did.
But grounding him did.
Again, mom didn't know from what. We had very little as it was, and Trell was very much needed around the house while I was out doing my things.
And since Dad wasn't here to pick up the slack...?
However, that didn't stop my mom from chewing him out. I got the distinct feeling that Maye took great satisfaction that she could still carry weight and authority with her voice.
Like her, I was also worried about my brother becoming an addict.
After all, there were no documented reports of someone remotely surviving after eating 3 cases of energy bar rations. Especially those that are tailored to my metabolism. (Maybe it was because he was younger--and his body still had yet to get rid of all that energy?)
My own battles with addiction is fairly evident--and it was so much easier becoming one in the world I now grew up in. Nobody I knew didn't have a dark and secret past--one tinged with embarrassment or scandal.
We all had something to hide from the outside world. Humanity may have advanced technologically in some areas over the last 10,000 years--but there were still some arenas which basic instinct was still very much the barbarian.
Cruelty, selfishness, depravity...?
They still had their place. This world of mine just made them all that much stronger.
And harder to ignore.
I partly listened to my mom still going on about her own worst-case scenarios involving my stupid brother--until I hit on an idea.
“I can go into town tomorrow and get a vial of Viraxain from Calis and give it to Trell by injecting him with a hypo spray.” I recall volunteering. “It should shut down the excess energy and jumpstart his body back to normal.”
(Heh. Whatever the hell that was. But I said this to calm my irate mother--and shock her back to her senses. Nobody was in any real danger of dying. My brother ate the 3 cases over a period of a month or so--not all at once. But even that much excess was too much for the average human body.)
I waited until Trell finished eating and then watched him scoot off for bed. I took care of the mess he left behind on the table and got myself something to eat--then sat down.
What I was going to tell her was damned difficult as it was.
When I did open my mouth to tell her--my mom blew everything out of proportion by instantly thinking that I had become addicted!
Worse...
She thought I was pregnant! (laughing here)
I may be naive at times, but stupid I wasn't. There was no way in hell I was going to get knocked up at such an early age! (But you know moms these days...?)
I tried to soother her fears by letting her know that I was neither--and then told her what Calis wanted me to go an do.
Like a bomb going off, my mother laid down the letter of the law:
“You are not going!” She told me in a tight voice, one that spoke of heavy menace. “And that’s that!”
(Moms...you gotta give them points for being up front with their feelings--especially those that involve their kids.)
Naturally, I agreed with her. I thought the old man was crazy too. But what else could I have done?
Mom told me all the "horrible" things that go up in Stratos City (y'know: The horror stories which adults use to scare kids with), and I told her not to worry. I had a blaster, my martial arts--I could handle myself in a pinch if needed.
Typically, mom wasn't convinced. But I told her that I was going anyway. I had to.
Maye asked me why.
I told her about the things which Calis told me. Things which made sense to my ears. Mom blew it all off as some 'wishful thinking' and 'an old man's fantasy'.
I countered her of course--as any good daughter would. I may be upstart and 14-years-old, but I never backed down from a fight or a challenge.
Even those from my own mother--no matter how much I loved and respected her.
Mom thought I was just gulliable, but I told her I wasn't. But her remarks sowed some self-doubt in me. I asked her what I should really do.
She told me it was up to me. I was old enough to make my own decisions (even though in the modern world--that was usually reserved for teens 18 or 19 years of age. Not those who were just on the edge of turning 15--like me--for instance.)
I told her that I would go--seeing how a surface dweller hadn't been up there for 300 years or something to that effect. Mom corrected me--of course--but I had always been under the distinct impression that nobody from the surface had actually visited the space complex in so long. (Of course, Calis would later tell me that it had been no less than 50 years since he last visited.)
Maye grew concerned over my lack of accurate historical knowledge--and asked me what it was that Calis was using for my study periods. I told her what we had gone through--and it confirmed my mom's earlier suspicions.
She told me flat out that my views were skewed and I fired back with some logic of my own--dropping me into an argument which borderlined on surface dweller prejudice. I used everything at my disposal--which set my mother back a bit.
I guess she wasn't expecting me to debate her in such an adult manner. But my outbursts with her reminded her of herself--when she was my age. However, nothing could change the time-honored friction which lay between both mother and daughter.
And that's what made me and my mom so...different...in our views of the world around us.
Isis
Friday, July 27, 2007
MY BROTHER'S FOLLY
August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 5:36PM, Friday; June 27th, 2007)___________________________________________________________________
My brother's room is a disaster in the making. I could not recall the last time Trell actually spent cleaning his room. Mom rarely gets on his case long enough to get him to do anything about it. I do recall the times either she or I strong-armed him to do any cleaning--both of us were subjected to a litany of complaints and mutterings (which lasted the better part of the week) about how he couldn't find anything of stellar importance. (Much like the author of The Starchild. Everytime he cleans up, he can't find anything either! :0P )
Mom would give up on him often; citing that "little boys like him are impossible to deal with."
I tried to reassure her that this wasn't so.
She looks at me sometimes with a curious expression and asks me the obvious.
I said, "Little boys like him get a butt-kicking from me--if they don't toe the family line."
My mother would pat me on the head at times, smile, and even chuckle at my choice of options. She knows that I am just playfully jesting when I threaten physical violence against my brother.
However, there are moments that I wished I wasn't. And this was one of them.
I nearly tripped over some of his shit getting into his room--thanking whatever higher power was upstairs that I didn't die on my way to the corner of my brother's crowded and disheveled workstation.
"Do you ever clean up?" I wanted to bark at him--before I settled down to wring his neck for traversing this dump of his. Instead of that, I scared him badly with a rambunctious: "HEY!"--and caused him to almost electrocute himself in the process.
(Yes, there were some things I enjoyed most of all: That being a big pain in the ass. Sister's perogative and all that.)
Trell accused me of trying to kill him out of spite, but I knew that he was just exaggerating. The crossed voltage wouldn't be permanently damaging.
I told him that dinner was ready and that he should come--but Trell wouldn't come just yet.
Knowing that I got something out of him, I disappeared for a second to go retrieve my pack. I had almost forgotten about it--being so wrapped up in my own past--and the implications that I would eventually uncover from my little brother.
It's odd--as I write this--that I know what will happen, before it happened. But the memories of this day was too strong for me to ignore. There was simply too much anguish and pain to be had.
But I came back and gave him his power convertor. Overjoyment isn't what I had in mind when he jumped up suddenly and grabbed me in a crushing bear hug! (For a second there, I swore I saw my life flash before me! I couldn't believe that my scrawny fence-post of a brother had that much strength in him!)
"Oxygen!" I recalled croaking out. "Oxygen!" When that didn't work, I began smacking Trell on the head.
I was close to passing out from the lack of it and being dizzy all that the same time. I accused him of trying to kill me, but Trell feigned innocence. I really wanted to kill him myself, but I decided to let it pass and get the two of us to dinner.
Trell refused and I threatened to kick his butt right then and there.
I asked him how long it would be before he keeled over from a lack of food. His deflection of the subject suggested something else. Something which I later kicked myself mentally for: I had left a spare box of rations in the laundry room--within easy reach for anyone to get into; should they want something to mosh on.
But I never knew that my own flesh and blood would take the entire box and eat it!
He said two words and I just about lost it: "Energy rations."
Correction: I did lose it!
On him!
Oh, I railed against him for a few seconds before cooler heads prevailed. Then I started doing some damage control on the situation by asking him all sorts of questions. Trell answered them in kind, but I could tell that--by some further grilling--that he was scared.
My brother believed that he somehow killed himself--or he was in mortal danger of dying.
(Judging by how many wrappers were on the floor during my search of his room later on--I was surprised that he hadn't kicked off yet.)
I tried to reassure him that he would be fine.
But I was certain that my mom would be wanting a piece of him at any rate.
Once she found out what he had gone and done.
-Isis
My brother's room is a disaster in the making. I could not recall the last time Trell actually spent cleaning his room. Mom rarely gets on his case long enough to get him to do anything about it. I do recall the times either she or I strong-armed him to do any cleaning--both of us were subjected to a litany of complaints and mutterings (which lasted the better part of the week) about how he couldn't find anything of stellar importance. (Much like the author of The Starchild. Everytime he cleans up, he can't find anything either! :0P )
Mom would give up on him often; citing that "little boys like him are impossible to deal with."
I tried to reassure her that this wasn't so.
She looks at me sometimes with a curious expression and asks me the obvious.
I said, "Little boys like him get a butt-kicking from me--if they don't toe the family line."
My mother would pat me on the head at times, smile, and even chuckle at my choice of options. She knows that I am just playfully jesting when I threaten physical violence against my brother.
However, there are moments that I wished I wasn't. And this was one of them.
I nearly tripped over some of his shit getting into his room--thanking whatever higher power was upstairs that I didn't die on my way to the corner of my brother's crowded and disheveled workstation.
"Do you ever clean up?" I wanted to bark at him--before I settled down to wring his neck for traversing this dump of his. Instead of that, I scared him badly with a rambunctious: "HEY!"--and caused him to almost electrocute himself in the process.
(Yes, there were some things I enjoyed most of all: That being a big pain in the ass. Sister's perogative and all that.)
Trell accused me of trying to kill him out of spite, but I knew that he was just exaggerating. The crossed voltage wouldn't be permanently damaging.
I told him that dinner was ready and that he should come--but Trell wouldn't come just yet.
Knowing that I got something out of him, I disappeared for a second to go retrieve my pack. I had almost forgotten about it--being so wrapped up in my own past--and the implications that I would eventually uncover from my little brother.
It's odd--as I write this--that I know what will happen, before it happened. But the memories of this day was too strong for me to ignore. There was simply too much anguish and pain to be had.
But I came back and gave him his power convertor. Overjoyment isn't what I had in mind when he jumped up suddenly and grabbed me in a crushing bear hug! (For a second there, I swore I saw my life flash before me! I couldn't believe that my scrawny fence-post of a brother had that much strength in him!)
"Oxygen!" I recalled croaking out. "Oxygen!" When that didn't work, I began smacking Trell on the head.
I was close to passing out from the lack of it and being dizzy all that the same time. I accused him of trying to kill me, but Trell feigned innocence. I really wanted to kill him myself, but I decided to let it pass and get the two of us to dinner.
Trell refused and I threatened to kick his butt right then and there.
I asked him how long it would be before he keeled over from a lack of food. His deflection of the subject suggested something else. Something which I later kicked myself mentally for: I had left a spare box of rations in the laundry room--within easy reach for anyone to get into; should they want something to mosh on.
But I never knew that my own flesh and blood would take the entire box and eat it!
He said two words and I just about lost it: "Energy rations."
Correction: I did lose it!
On him!
Oh, I railed against him for a few seconds before cooler heads prevailed. Then I started doing some damage control on the situation by asking him all sorts of questions. Trell answered them in kind, but I could tell that--by some further grilling--that he was scared.
My brother believed that he somehow killed himself--or he was in mortal danger of dying.
(Judging by how many wrappers were on the floor during my search of his room later on--I was surprised that he hadn't kicked off yet.)
I tried to reassure him that he would be fine.
But I was certain that my mom would be wanting a piece of him at any rate.
Once she found out what he had gone and done.
-Isis
Saturday, June 30, 2007
MY OWN BATTLES WITH DRUG ADDICTION
August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 12:17AM, Saturday; May 30th, 2007)___________________________________________________________________
I must be quite frank with you on something. Something upon which the author of The Starchild had never touched based on: My own battle with drug addiction.
While I am going to tell you what happened with my brother Trell, first, I must tell you something about me. Something so personal and painful, I had completely shut it out of my mind.
In the world you live in, you have to constantly battle with all kinds of problems stemming from substance abuse. And it can take so many forms. Some of it more obvious than others.
For myself...? My world is a much more dangerous place. And it's not just the perps and thugs which I have to deal with on a monthly basis. There are days when I have to deal with the local drug runners, spacers, and e-dicts (those people who are so hopelessly addicted to the E-Net, that nothing can bring them around to the reality in which they live in).
When I walked in on Trell--to get him to come to dinner--I didn't know what kind of a deadly secret he had been keeping from both mom and me. And while I love my brother to pieces sometimes, his recent choice in snacks had me floored.
E-rations!
And not just the type which is made for the civilian sector of the planet, but ones that pilots like me were conditioned for!
And the fucking idiot had to eat one case after another--while almost starving himself to death doing it! I was furious!
But it also brought back fleeting memories of an earlier time--almost five years ago--when I had gone with Calis to a place called Rock Point. It was supposed to be a pilot's hangout/staging area.
But all it was, was a large mesa area full of sand, hazards, and plenty of rocky protrusions which had been sheltered so nicely
At least that's what Calis told me.
Here, he said, "Isis. This is where you will be testing your skills early on--in a Seacord T-5."
I was ten back then--so full of vim and vinegar--eager to prove myself as an apprentice pilot.
And that's where I met Snake Eyes.
The local drug runner for this area of Plaines Bluff. Of course, he didn't care who his customers were. To him, money was money.
(And if I had the ability to go back in time, I would've shot the fucking sleazeball for doing what he did to me that day.
It made me feel so horrible, dirty, and ashamed of myself, I still wanted to run away from home and hide myself from the world in general!)
Calis didn't introduce me to him--which is what I suspected pissed off Snake Eyes. Instead, we went straight to one of the racing coordinators for Rock Point and signed up for some training exercises on the old Seacord.
I did fairly well--for a beginner--which I suspected caught the attention of ol' Snake Eyes.
Of course--while I was being congratulated for a good start--Calis had only seperated from me for only a moment or two to get me something to drink.
One minute he was there, and the next...? He was gone.
Naturally, I didn't think too much of it. I was too much engrossed in the after-race adrenalish; the moment all pilots speak of when the world opens up and reveals itself to you in just a few fleeting seconds.
Where the open skies above and the whispering sands below come together in harmony and speak softly to you in a singular voice.
I remember thinking then: 'This is what I wanted to do.'
Become a legendary pilot in my own right.
I felt a tap on my shoulder then and turned--thinking it was Calis; coming back with my drink.
But it wasn't.
It was Snake Eyes.
The man's pasty oily sheen complexion reflected brightly in the hot desert sun--that much I can remember.
He handed me something--which I thought was a drink.
"Here." He sneered to me. "You need this."
Not knowing completely right from wrong, I took the proferred bottle.
And sipped.
Almost immediately, whatever was in the bottle hit my young system immediately. The alcohol I could taste, but there was something else, something...I could not identify. It had a bitter taste. Much like the aspirin you take to get rid of a headache.
Within a minute of ingesting, I started to feel weirded out. (To borrow a phrase.) The world about me spun lazily around. For awhile, I believed it to be just the heat finally getting to me, but it wasn't the heat.
It was what was inside the bottle!
"Stupid little girl." I heard Snake Eye's voice chide me hautily. "You should know better than to take something from complete strangers. Didn't your parents teach you anything?"
The world went nuts then; colors swirling around me.
Even Snake Eyes form started to distort, started to change. And that's when I really, really, really started to panic!
I remember screaming. Screaming because I was scared, screaming because I didn't know what was happening to me.
People were running towards me then, while Snake Eyes stood there and laughed his head off at my reaction.
"Good?" He asked me. "Here: Drink some more." And with that, he ripped the bottle out of my hand and then forced the rest of the drink down my throat.
I had no choice but to drink the concoction down on a reflexive level. I thought I was going to die...
***
I remember the trip back--hours later--after Snake Eyes had been arrested for assaulting a minor with an illegally-laced sports drink. (Some kind of LSD-type inhibitor with a shot of a Kaon-3 mental enhancer. The type which is used to condition oneself in the hard grip of vacuum.)
I must be quite frank with you on something. Something upon which the author of The Starchild had never touched based on: My own battle with drug addiction.
While I am going to tell you what happened with my brother Trell, first, I must tell you something about me. Something so personal and painful, I had completely shut it out of my mind.
In the world you live in, you have to constantly battle with all kinds of problems stemming from substance abuse. And it can take so many forms. Some of it more obvious than others.
For myself...? My world is a much more dangerous place. And it's not just the perps and thugs which I have to deal with on a monthly basis. There are days when I have to deal with the local drug runners, spacers, and e-dicts (those people who are so hopelessly addicted to the E-Net, that nothing can bring them around to the reality in which they live in).
When I walked in on Trell--to get him to come to dinner--I didn't know what kind of a deadly secret he had been keeping from both mom and me. And while I love my brother to pieces sometimes, his recent choice in snacks had me floored.
E-rations!
And not just the type which is made for the civilian sector of the planet, but ones that pilots like me were conditioned for!
And the fucking idiot had to eat one case after another--while almost starving himself to death doing it! I was furious!
But it also brought back fleeting memories of an earlier time--almost five years ago--when I had gone with Calis to a place called Rock Point. It was supposed to be a pilot's hangout/staging area.
But all it was, was a large mesa area full of sand, hazards, and plenty of rocky protrusions which had been sheltered so nicely
At least that's what Calis told me.
Here, he said, "Isis. This is where you will be testing your skills early on--in a Seacord T-5."
I was ten back then--so full of vim and vinegar--eager to prove myself as an apprentice pilot.
And that's where I met Snake Eyes.
The local drug runner for this area of Plaines Bluff. Of course, he didn't care who his customers were. To him, money was money.
(And if I had the ability to go back in time, I would've shot the fucking sleazeball for doing what he did to me that day.
It made me feel so horrible, dirty, and ashamed of myself, I still wanted to run away from home and hide myself from the world in general!)
Calis didn't introduce me to him--which is what I suspected pissed off Snake Eyes. Instead, we went straight to one of the racing coordinators for Rock Point and signed up for some training exercises on the old Seacord.
I did fairly well--for a beginner--which I suspected caught the attention of ol' Snake Eyes.
Of course--while I was being congratulated for a good start--Calis had only seperated from me for only a moment or two to get me something to drink.
One minute he was there, and the next...? He was gone.
Naturally, I didn't think too much of it. I was too much engrossed in the after-race adrenalish; the moment all pilots speak of when the world opens up and reveals itself to you in just a few fleeting seconds.
Where the open skies above and the whispering sands below come together in harmony and speak softly to you in a singular voice.
I remember thinking then: 'This is what I wanted to do.'
Become a legendary pilot in my own right.
I felt a tap on my shoulder then and turned--thinking it was Calis; coming back with my drink.
But it wasn't.
It was Snake Eyes.
The man's pasty oily sheen complexion reflected brightly in the hot desert sun--that much I can remember.
He handed me something--which I thought was a drink.
"Here." He sneered to me. "You need this."
Not knowing completely right from wrong, I took the proferred bottle.
And sipped.
Almost immediately, whatever was in the bottle hit my young system immediately. The alcohol I could taste, but there was something else, something...I could not identify. It had a bitter taste. Much like the aspirin you take to get rid of a headache.
Within a minute of ingesting, I started to feel weirded out. (To borrow a phrase.) The world about me spun lazily around. For awhile, I believed it to be just the heat finally getting to me, but it wasn't the heat.
It was what was inside the bottle!
"Stupid little girl." I heard Snake Eye's voice chide me hautily. "You should know better than to take something from complete strangers. Didn't your parents teach you anything?"
The world went nuts then; colors swirling around me.
Even Snake Eyes form started to distort, started to change. And that's when I really, really, really started to panic!
I remember screaming. Screaming because I was scared, screaming because I didn't know what was happening to me.
People were running towards me then, while Snake Eyes stood there and laughed his head off at my reaction.
"Good?" He asked me. "Here: Drink some more." And with that, he ripped the bottle out of my hand and then forced the rest of the drink down my throat.
I had no choice but to drink the concoction down on a reflexive level. I thought I was going to die...
***
I remember the trip back--hours later--after Snake Eyes had been arrested for assaulting a minor with an illegally-laced sports drink. (Some kind of LSD-type inhibitor with a shot of a Kaon-3 mental enhancer. The type which is used to condition oneself in the hard grip of vacuum.)
Calis was trying to apologize to me for had happened. The whole affair had left him deeply shaken and tramautized. Even to this day, I had never seen him like this.
All I know is that I told him it was, "Okay. I'm okay." But the old man wouldn't accept that as an answer from me.
In the end, it took me six months for the powerful drugs to run their course. I had the shakes and the "bloosies"--as my mother called them; reality-altering phantasms that only existed in the depths of my own consciousness.
And what I saw...?
Let's just say that I was a terrified little girl for some of those long six months. And the others-?
I just didn't want to talk about it--despite Calis's best efforts. I didn't want to relive the nightmares I saw.
I just didn't.
But seeing my brother the way he was...?
It just brought back all the pain, all the anguish. And everything that I had left dead and buried from so long ago. From my perspective anyways.
I wanted to hurt him--because all it did was resurrect ghosts from my own past. But hell or high water, I was going to teach the little vermin a lesson in humility.
Isis
Sunday, May 27, 2007
A STORM'S FURY & CHILDHOOD REFLECTIONS
August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 4:45PM, Sunday; May 27th, 2007)___________________________________________________________________
Getting home proved to be a giant pain in my ass. Right after I had left Calis's workshop, the storm proved to be much worse than I first thought. Of course, when you're a surface dweller like I am, you expect the worse.
There are no second chances with the life I live. You either adapt or you die. It's as simple as that.
Visibility for myself was next to zero. Even the bike's forward and rear-mounted lights could not help dispel the colossal fury of the storm. I sped on alone--and on instinct--hoping that I could remember where I lived in the Golan Desert.
By the time I got home, the storm was at its peak and I could see (and hear) nothing but a black darkness, roiling clouds, thunder, lightning, and high winds. I wasn't sure if we were sucked into the middle of the thing by now, or just a victim of circumstance.
Unfortunately for me, my hovercycle cut out just a few hundred feet from the house. I hopped off soon after and discovered that the intake vents were filled with sand.
I cursed at my own misfortune--even as the storm continued to rally against my best efforts to get home. This was definitely going to set me back a bit. But there was nothing that I could do.
I had to get home and the only way I saw it, was to trek the last few hundred feet by foot--pulling this lumbering hog of mine to the outshed. Of course, it was nothing more than a classic game of tug of war--between me and the storm--but I managed to win out at the cost of myself and all of my energy.
By the time I got the hovercycle inside the outshed, I was pooped! Never before had I to fight the elements just for the sake of one's own innocent sanity. But I did. Only because my machine wasn't just for my own personal entertainment, but my only source of transportation.
I also did this because I had no choice. I wasn't about to come back when the storm was over and find my ride buried in a twenty foot sand drift again. (I had experienced this many times over the last several years. The last time--9 months ago--was at the behest of my mother; whom insisted that I could retrieve it later after the storm had passed. I found it--through Calis's own generosity. He had a mind to have a locator beacon installed inside the machine's engine housing before hand. I used a device of my own devising to find it--though I had to endure my younger brother's ribbing after digging it out. I solved the problem of getting it cleaned easily enough by forcing Trell to clean out all the sand caked inside my bike's blocked engine manifold. I don't normally torture him, but in that case, that little worm of mine deserved it nonetheless. My mother of course gave me some piece of her mind, but I told her that my brother had to learn a little respect for his older sister!)
After securing the outshed, I proceeded towards the house--thinking that I was going to get inside before anything else happened.
How wrong I was!
I had completely forgotten about the conductive nature of a human body lathered in static electricity after riding naked and exposed out in the storm like this one. Not only that, I had completely forgotten to ask Calis for anti-static flak jacket to cover myself in before I left the workshop.
(I sighed.)
Too late for that now--I supposed then.
A giant bolt of lightning nearly struck me in front of the house--just six feet from the top of the stairwell. The sudden explosion of light, power, and thunder knocked me off my feet and I landed hard on my back.
I remember the storm howling around me--as I lay there in a daze. The sand particles swirling around and washing over me like crazy. I don't recall much after that. The force had knocked me partially unconscious. It took me some time to come to and gather my wits about me.
But when I rose to my feet, I was extruciatingly sore and in a bit of pain as well. My ears had an odd ringing to it, and I couldn't discern anything else but that sound, and the distant roar of the storm.
Whatever happened, I was lucky enough to be alive. Strikes like that had a bad habit of killing people in the Barren Wastelands, and I would've been just another figure--had both luck and fate not stepped in to shield me from Death's grip.
I managed to climb the stairs more easily this time, but my body still ached from earlier. I'm sure my mother would think it was the storm's doing--if she ever asked me why I was hurting so--but she would never believe me if I told her the truth.
And if she did, she would accept it as part of life. There was nothing that could be done. Surface dwellers are a much hardier bunch than our sky dancer counterparts. We've lived the life of the destitute, the unwanted, and sometimes, the forgotten. But we didn't just roll over and die when the going got tough. We adapted, we lived, and we flourished.
Much like our ancestors did when they first came down from Stratos City some 5000 years ago--after the complex was constructed.
I opened the door to our modest home and got inside--but the storm wasn't finished with me. Not by a long shot. It still had its quirks and mischievous pranks to play on an unsuspecting girl like me: It blew the door open and then turned it around and smacked me in the butt when I least expected it!
I yelped in pain--where it had hit me--and my mother asked me then what was going on. I told her it was just my pride being injured and nothing more. She then asked me if I got the part I went out for and I told her that I did.
But every part of me was filled with sand. My boots, my socks...
You would think that having desert attire would spare me the worst of the onslaught by the storm, but...?
Naive, I suppose--that, or putting too much faith in my own invulnerability. (heh)
I stripped off my boots, socks, and shook out my pant legs, before tossing my socks onto the back of the sofa. I put my boots--where the others were in the entry way, cleaned up the mess I made--and joined my mother in the living room.
I asked her where my brother was, and she told me that he was in his room--still messing with the broken down communications array.
Privately, I was amazed that my brother could do such things at his age (12), but he was never really into auto-frame racing like I was. Trell was a master tinkerer. It all got started when he was seven years old; when Calis introduced him to a failed power modulator stripped from a 30-year-old Crescent J-18 auto-frame.
Of course--from what I can recall from way back when--the old man was naturally frustrated with the thing, and so he told my brother he could mess with it. (Assuming that it was lost cause and there was nothing that he could do.)
Being ten at the time, Calis introduced me to what would later become my Viper X-1. The machine was a shell of its former self--literally--and its chassis had been suspended above my head; as he worked on the under carriage.
He said that this was a design that him and my father had been working on prior to his unfortunate jailing--but the project had been killed on the account that my father had kept most of the design plans secret and under wraps.
It was only a trip starside that Calis was able to get the okay from my father and begin construction of the massive auto-frame. But he said that it would be a couple of years before it was ready.
I remember asking Calis if I could pilot it--since I had a fierce (and secret) love of auto-frame racing by that time. Ever since my father was taken from me, I vowed to follow in his footsteps (but not my mom's), and wanted to know everything there was about what he did in his spare time.
It was only through Calis's relenting assurances, that I began to understand what it was my father had been--long before I was born. Fifteen years in fact.
My father was a legendary auto-frame pilot, and he had commanded that Crescent J-18 which my brother was working on--in part.
Calis had reservations about my request. He didn't want to think he was going to force me to pilot his newest creation (or my father's--it was hard to tell), and I was sure he was thinking that my mother wouldn't allow it either.
He told me he would think about it. But he also told me that pilots are normally trained at a much older age than I was now. Having one so young was virtually unheard of. Fortunately for the two of us, there were no laws or rules regarding the absolute age limit one could participate and enter in.
I myself had seen plenty of kids toy around defunct and broken auto-frames--and a few times, hear them begging their parents to pilot a neighbor's working one. Just for shits and giggles. But these were kids much younger than me! I can recall the days playing on my father's old dilapidated Hydra sand racer--while listening to my brother go on about how much he loved that thing.
So I asked when I could start my training--and Calis made no promises on that yet. He said that I would have to undergo a strict regimen and a kind of combat conditioning--which is common with all pilots. It was done so that they could withstand the amount of stress and wear that is always there when they jump into their machines and took off like a bat out of hell.
I had to be patient.
After talking with Calis, I went back to the other room adjoining the hanger bay, and discovered that my brother was immersed in the guts of the power modulator. He had systematically taken it apart and laid each piece side by side, and was busy tinkering with the insides of the more critical components inherent in these bulky pieces. (No one ever said that each part to an auto-frame was ever graceful or fluid. Just what you see on the outside...)
I remember Calis's surprised expression and his utter bafflement when I called back to him--telling the old man that my brother had broken it! (lol) When he arrived, he took in the scene and just shook his head in amazement. He had never thought to doing such a complete strip down with this particular component. He told me on that day, he was just considering having the workshop's computer do a diagnostic on the piece and then try to do a remote repair job.
But never like this!
My brother--of course--looked at us both with a "What?"-kind've expression. But neither of us punished him for doing what he did. Nor did my mom--when she found out about the whole episode. It was a while longer before that discovery eventually blossomed into my brother's fondness for broken down shit and other electronics. A specialty which sometimes came in quite handy during some of the more trying times in all our lives.
Which brings me back to the present.
I told my mom that I had been hung up coming back from Shark's Bay--but I never told her what happened to me. She had more than dinner to worry about--and my own safety was only secondary to that.
Maye asked me to go get him for dinner and I postulated as to why? What's the point? He eats everything off the table as it is.
Naturally, my mom always puts her foot down. And when it comes down, that means the argument is over. I lose. End of story.
She points out that my brother is a growing boy and he needs to eat. Just like I do. But I don't make a pig of myself like he does. I've seen him eat so much at one time--I wondered if he was bestowed with a second stomach or something when he was born!
Looking at my mother, I can almost see an older version of myself standing pat in 20 years or so--holding a bowl with a laddle, and making the sauce for dinner--wearing nothing but long brown pants, a shirt, a wrap-around white apron, small sandals on my feet, with blue eyes, and deep auburn-red hair tied off in a pony-tail. (Mine was a fiery red--nothing like my mother's. But I don't think that will last long. With time, I'll be like her.)
But Maye broke my concentration and personal reflection on that day, and told me to go get my brother. I made no promises I would be successful, but my mom was adamant. What she said translated in my mind to: "Twist his arm if you have to--but I want you both at the dinner table."
I was resigned to the fact that I wasn't yet old enough to freely make my own decisions in life--and I was still going to be a little girl in my mom's eyes--long after I had grown up.
So I went to fetch my brother--as an obedient daughter should.
Getting home proved to be a giant pain in my ass. Right after I had left Calis's workshop, the storm proved to be much worse than I first thought. Of course, when you're a surface dweller like I am, you expect the worse.
There are no second chances with the life I live. You either adapt or you die. It's as simple as that.
Visibility for myself was next to zero. Even the bike's forward and rear-mounted lights could not help dispel the colossal fury of the storm. I sped on alone--and on instinct--hoping that I could remember where I lived in the Golan Desert.
By the time I got home, the storm was at its peak and I could see (and hear) nothing but a black darkness, roiling clouds, thunder, lightning, and high winds. I wasn't sure if we were sucked into the middle of the thing by now, or just a victim of circumstance.
Unfortunately for me, my hovercycle cut out just a few hundred feet from the house. I hopped off soon after and discovered that the intake vents were filled with sand.
I cursed at my own misfortune--even as the storm continued to rally against my best efforts to get home. This was definitely going to set me back a bit. But there was nothing that I could do.
I had to get home and the only way I saw it, was to trek the last few hundred feet by foot--pulling this lumbering hog of mine to the outshed. Of course, it was nothing more than a classic game of tug of war--between me and the storm--but I managed to win out at the cost of myself and all of my energy.
By the time I got the hovercycle inside the outshed, I was pooped! Never before had I to fight the elements just for the sake of one's own innocent sanity. But I did. Only because my machine wasn't just for my own personal entertainment, but my only source of transportation.
I also did this because I had no choice. I wasn't about to come back when the storm was over and find my ride buried in a twenty foot sand drift again. (I had experienced this many times over the last several years. The last time--9 months ago--was at the behest of my mother; whom insisted that I could retrieve it later after the storm had passed. I found it--through Calis's own generosity. He had a mind to have a locator beacon installed inside the machine's engine housing before hand. I used a device of my own devising to find it--though I had to endure my younger brother's ribbing after digging it out. I solved the problem of getting it cleaned easily enough by forcing Trell to clean out all the sand caked inside my bike's blocked engine manifold. I don't normally torture him, but in that case, that little worm of mine deserved it nonetheless. My mother of course gave me some piece of her mind, but I told her that my brother had to learn a little respect for his older sister!)
After securing the outshed, I proceeded towards the house--thinking that I was going to get inside before anything else happened.
How wrong I was!
I had completely forgotten about the conductive nature of a human body lathered in static electricity after riding naked and exposed out in the storm like this one. Not only that, I had completely forgotten to ask Calis for anti-static flak jacket to cover myself in before I left the workshop.
(I sighed.)
Damn...!
Too late for that now--I supposed then.
A giant bolt of lightning nearly struck me in front of the house--just six feet from the top of the stairwell. The sudden explosion of light, power, and thunder knocked me off my feet and I landed hard on my back.
I remember the storm howling around me--as I lay there in a daze. The sand particles swirling around and washing over me like crazy. I don't recall much after that. The force had knocked me partially unconscious. It took me some time to come to and gather my wits about me.
But when I rose to my feet, I was extruciatingly sore and in a bit of pain as well. My ears had an odd ringing to it, and I couldn't discern anything else but that sound, and the distant roar of the storm.
Whatever happened, I was lucky enough to be alive. Strikes like that had a bad habit of killing people in the Barren Wastelands, and I would've been just another figure--had both luck and fate not stepped in to shield me from Death's grip.
I managed to climb the stairs more easily this time, but my body still ached from earlier. I'm sure my mother would think it was the storm's doing--if she ever asked me why I was hurting so--but she would never believe me if I told her the truth.
And if she did, she would accept it as part of life. There was nothing that could be done. Surface dwellers are a much hardier bunch than our sky dancer counterparts. We've lived the life of the destitute, the unwanted, and sometimes, the forgotten. But we didn't just roll over and die when the going got tough. We adapted, we lived, and we flourished.
Much like our ancestors did when they first came down from Stratos City some 5000 years ago--after the complex was constructed.
I opened the door to our modest home and got inside--but the storm wasn't finished with me. Not by a long shot. It still had its quirks and mischievous pranks to play on an unsuspecting girl like me: It blew the door open and then turned it around and smacked me in the butt when I least expected it!
I yelped in pain--where it had hit me--and my mother asked me then what was going on. I told her it was just my pride being injured and nothing more. She then asked me if I got the part I went out for and I told her that I did.
But every part of me was filled with sand. My boots, my socks...
You would think that having desert attire would spare me the worst of the onslaught by the storm, but...?
Naive, I suppose--that, or putting too much faith in my own invulnerability. (heh)
I stripped off my boots, socks, and shook out my pant legs, before tossing my socks onto the back of the sofa. I put my boots--where the others were in the entry way, cleaned up the mess I made--and joined my mother in the living room.
I asked her where my brother was, and she told me that he was in his room--still messing with the broken down communications array.
Privately, I was amazed that my brother could do such things at his age (12), but he was never really into auto-frame racing like I was. Trell was a master tinkerer. It all got started when he was seven years old; when Calis introduced him to a failed power modulator stripped from a 30-year-old Crescent J-18 auto-frame.
Of course--from what I can recall from way back when--the old man was naturally frustrated with the thing, and so he told my brother he could mess with it. (Assuming that it was lost cause and there was nothing that he could do.)
Being ten at the time, Calis introduced me to what would later become my Viper X-1. The machine was a shell of its former self--literally--and its chassis had been suspended above my head; as he worked on the under carriage.
He said that this was a design that him and my father had been working on prior to his unfortunate jailing--but the project had been killed on the account that my father had kept most of the design plans secret and under wraps.
It was only a trip starside that Calis was able to get the okay from my father and begin construction of the massive auto-frame. But he said that it would be a couple of years before it was ready.
I remember asking Calis if I could pilot it--since I had a fierce (and secret) love of auto-frame racing by that time. Ever since my father was taken from me, I vowed to follow in his footsteps (but not my mom's), and wanted to know everything there was about what he did in his spare time.
It was only through Calis's relenting assurances, that I began to understand what it was my father had been--long before I was born. Fifteen years in fact.
My father was a legendary auto-frame pilot, and he had commanded that Crescent J-18 which my brother was working on--in part.
Calis had reservations about my request. He didn't want to think he was going to force me to pilot his newest creation (or my father's--it was hard to tell), and I was sure he was thinking that my mother wouldn't allow it either.
He told me he would think about it. But he also told me that pilots are normally trained at a much older age than I was now. Having one so young was virtually unheard of. Fortunately for the two of us, there were no laws or rules regarding the absolute age limit one could participate and enter in.
I myself had seen plenty of kids toy around defunct and broken auto-frames--and a few times, hear them begging their parents to pilot a neighbor's working one. Just for shits and giggles. But these were kids much younger than me! I can recall the days playing on my father's old dilapidated Hydra sand racer--while listening to my brother go on about how much he loved that thing.
So I asked when I could start my training--and Calis made no promises on that yet. He said that I would have to undergo a strict regimen and a kind of combat conditioning--which is common with all pilots. It was done so that they could withstand the amount of stress and wear that is always there when they jump into their machines and took off like a bat out of hell.
I had to be patient.
After talking with Calis, I went back to the other room adjoining the hanger bay, and discovered that my brother was immersed in the guts of the power modulator. He had systematically taken it apart and laid each piece side by side, and was busy tinkering with the insides of the more critical components inherent in these bulky pieces. (No one ever said that each part to an auto-frame was ever graceful or fluid. Just what you see on the outside...)
I remember Calis's surprised expression and his utter bafflement when I called back to him--telling the old man that my brother had broken it! (lol) When he arrived, he took in the scene and just shook his head in amazement. He had never thought to doing such a complete strip down with this particular component. He told me on that day, he was just considering having the workshop's computer do a diagnostic on the piece and then try to do a remote repair job.
But never like this!
My brother--of course--looked at us both with a "What?"-kind've expression. But neither of us punished him for doing what he did. Nor did my mom--when she found out about the whole episode. It was a while longer before that discovery eventually blossomed into my brother's fondness for broken down shit and other electronics. A specialty which sometimes came in quite handy during some of the more trying times in all our lives.
Which brings me back to the present.
I told my mom that I had been hung up coming back from Shark's Bay--but I never told her what happened to me. She had more than dinner to worry about--and my own safety was only secondary to that.
Maye asked me to go get him for dinner and I postulated as to why? What's the point? He eats everything off the table as it is.
Naturally, my mom always puts her foot down. And when it comes down, that means the argument is over. I lose. End of story.
She points out that my brother is a growing boy and he needs to eat. Just like I do. But I don't make a pig of myself like he does. I've seen him eat so much at one time--I wondered if he was bestowed with a second stomach or something when he was born!
Looking at my mother, I can almost see an older version of myself standing pat in 20 years or so--holding a bowl with a laddle, and making the sauce for dinner--wearing nothing but long brown pants, a shirt, a wrap-around white apron, small sandals on my feet, with blue eyes, and deep auburn-red hair tied off in a pony-tail. (Mine was a fiery red--nothing like my mother's. But I don't think that will last long. With time, I'll be like her.)
But Maye broke my concentration and personal reflection on that day, and told me to go get my brother. I made no promises I would be successful, but my mom was adamant. What she said translated in my mind to: "Twist his arm if you have to--but I want you both at the dinner table."
I was resigned to the fact that I wasn't yet old enough to freely make my own decisions in life--and I was still going to be a little girl in my mom's eyes--long after I had grown up.
So I went to fetch my brother--as an obedient daughter should.
Isis
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
ALWAYS WEAR PROTECTIVE GEAR WHEN PLAYING TAG
August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 12:29AM, Saturday; April 24th, 2007)___________________________________________________________________
Okay, so as you might already know, the trip into town was no picnic for me. The place I called my personal stomping grounds was little more than an old and dilapidated outpost which had clearly seen better days. But Shark's Bay had its proud century-old heritage to uphold to, and nothing--not even the storm--could easily erase that; despite past successes.
Home to approximately 1,500 people, the town was clearly one of the most run down places in the Barren Wastelands--even worse than the city of Hallis.
But I never complained. I liked gallivanting into this place when I was a little girl. Every place held a story, every building had its secrets--and I enjoyed uncovering them all.
Even as I approached the outskirts of the town, I could see a plethora of run-down buildings and other smaller shops arranged in simple colonnades, but well protected by a broken concrete wall lining most of the town’s 12-mile parameter on the outside.
Some reinforcing had been done here and there over time--that I knew from what Calis told me. I easily caught a passing glimpse of familiar steel support beams. But I knew that--from past inspections, there wasn't much left of them. Time and nature were cruel hosts and they did nothing to spare the sentinels which were swallowed up by those unforgiving and shifting sands. Of course, I went much farther back on occasion and found some relatively intact ones.
But upon further excavation, they turned out be nothing more than twisted shadows of their former selves.
Ghosts of a long buried past.
I rocketed into Shark's Bay easily: Choosing a predetermined--and favorite--path of mine.
But as always I was coming in much too quick. In the next few seconds, I would end up pasted on the walls beyond my limited range of vision. (I didn't think either Mom or Calis would appreciate me spending another seven hours in the regeneration tank--explaining why I was in another accident so soon after leaving!)
So I had to do another speed dump--which let me alternate forward and rear thrusters--and I squeezed through the space I was in with inches to spare.
Or so I thought.
And ear-splitting shriek of metal, and I sensed that I had taken some paint off with that last pass. If I was lucky, my port thruster assembly would only have a few dings which I could easily buff out. A dent or two, and I would be spending the next ten minutes explaining to Calis what happened to my hovercycle--as he doesn't like having to overall my bike without sufficient reason.
Like any good teenage hotrider, I'm supposed to take good care of my equipment. Money and parts don't exactly grow like trees, y'know. (Something I picked up from Calis--during my long hours of personal schooling. The old man is so full of quirks and nuances! But I love him dearly for it...)
So anyway...
Where was I?
Ah, yes: My little trip into Shark's Bay. (I swear: My attention span problems are only getting worse as I get older!)
I had ended up inside the town parameter with space and speed to spare. The area in question was so small, I could technically get in this way, but would have to come out the other side just to make one complete loop. (It's not like I could simply back my ass up and turn around. This place didn't have the inches to spare for me and my sleek machine.)
I passed the Great Fountain which had withstood the testament of time--if little else. Calis tells me that this used to be a great tourist attraction, but I never saw the attraction in this rusted piece of junk.
But it was shielded by a piece of metal hanging overhead like a loose lip--held together by a dizzying array of dead power leads and other wires. (Each crisscrossed a bit--once in each pass--but the rest simply snaked underneath and out the other side: Only to be connected to some parts of the run down buildings on each side of my cyc.)
And this area was probably the only place not affected by the storm. A lull if you will in the eye of some monster hurricane. But it didn't offer full protection from the elements. I still ate my fair share of shitty sand grit and everything else--each time I opened my mouth to get in a good lungful of fresh air.
But the air itself was tinged with ozone and loaded with static electricity. Every breath burned my lungs and made me gag with absolute regret.
So I had to assume a fetal position to shield myself from the worst the storm could throw at me, but my goggles took a fucking beating to beat the band. In less time it took me to whip out my blaster, I was left blinded to the world around me.
At this point, I had to hop off my bike blindly and wipe the crap out of my goggles--then hop back on and motor down towards the lower sector of Shark's Bay. This place was as desolate and barren as an old woman.
There was no sign of any living soul which I could see. So I guess I was the unofficially elected dummy to go braving this part of the burg during one of the worst blows of the season.
Duh!
Of course it would have to be me! Who else would be this daring in a 168mph gale? Not anyone else, I can tell you this much--though I did envy those who sought shelter; cause the skies above me looked like they were going to puke black shit on me in a fleeting second.
Lightning discharges were roiling over my head, and I felt their explosive reports rattle right through me like my Viper X-1 on a flash burn turn over at Sherman's Pass.
As such, the building in front of me suddenly collapsed like my father's deck of playing cards--something of an old relic from times past; a gift from Calis when I was three. I could never make out what those funny pictures were, but he let me play with them because it kept me out of trouble half the time.
At any rate, the structure went down faster than I was going towards it. But that wasn't the only one to finally succumb to the power of the storm. Three more caved in--and suddenly an odd wailing sound filled the air.
Unused sirens belched out their ancient noise in an effort to warn the other residents to stay clear of the area in question. I thought it was something to warn of an impending Praetorial Guard attack from the last spat of wars to hit this region in god knows how long.
Calis once told me that these things were used as a defense against the unknown, but nobody knew from what exactly.
But I past these buildings--these structures which sometimes housed the homeless. In retrospect, you would never know how many actually fit that description: Fit the profile of roving and desperate bands of human beings.
I knew that some of these places housed them--as a caveat--but little else I recalled about them.
I shuddered then--thinking about how lucky I was with what meager shelter I had left to me. It was never much, but it was a place I could proudly call home.
I came across some more of the same two-story structures, finding that life still existed inside a few of them, but didn't see anyone out and about. Of course, they would be as stupid as I was suicidal in the next second: A gust of wind had suddenly sideswiped me and my bike sideways!
I struggled against my unseen foe then, my engines fighting against the pull of the wind--as I tugged the other way--all in a vain effort to free myself.
My display panel was in the red-zone, but I wasn't going to give up this fight without, well...a fight! (lol)
But stupid me...
I had completely forgotten that my bike had other built-in safety features. It deployed them: Shutting down my engines in a heartbeat.
With no force to act against it, the wind promptly picked up both my bike and me--and tossed us 30 feet into the air. I acted immediately and overrode the other safties, and deployed a parachute/drag system.
This allowed the bike to come to a complete (and jerking) stop without question.
And save my ass from a serious bruising!
I also engaged full thrusters and tried to maneuver my metal pig into a soft landing, but I ended up smashing the rear right into the side wall of a vacant building--buckling it with so much ease.
I also ended up smacking my noggin' too in the process. After my head cleared, I swore I would get a freakin' helmet!
But after a time, I found that I had suffered no serious injury to myself. My bike was okay.
So I continued to my destination unhindered.
Isis
Okay, so as you might already know, the trip into town was no picnic for me. The place I called my personal stomping grounds was little more than an old and dilapidated outpost which had clearly seen better days. But Shark's Bay had its proud century-old heritage to uphold to, and nothing--not even the storm--could easily erase that; despite past successes.
Home to approximately 1,500 people, the town was clearly one of the most run down places in the Barren Wastelands--even worse than the city of Hallis.
But I never complained. I liked gallivanting into this place when I was a little girl. Every place held a story, every building had its secrets--and I enjoyed uncovering them all.
Even as I approached the outskirts of the town, I could see a plethora of run-down buildings and other smaller shops arranged in simple colonnades, but well protected by a broken concrete wall lining most of the town’s 12-mile parameter on the outside.
Some reinforcing had been done here and there over time--that I knew from what Calis told me. I easily caught a passing glimpse of familiar steel support beams. But I knew that--from past inspections, there wasn't much left of them. Time and nature were cruel hosts and they did nothing to spare the sentinels which were swallowed up by those unforgiving and shifting sands. Of course, I went much farther back on occasion and found some relatively intact ones.
But upon further excavation, they turned out be nothing more than twisted shadows of their former selves.
Ghosts of a long buried past.
I rocketed into Shark's Bay easily: Choosing a predetermined--and favorite--path of mine.
But as always I was coming in much too quick. In the next few seconds, I would end up pasted on the walls beyond my limited range of vision. (I didn't think either Mom or Calis would appreciate me spending another seven hours in the regeneration tank--explaining why I was in another accident so soon after leaving!)
So I had to do another speed dump--which let me alternate forward and rear thrusters--and I squeezed through the space I was in with inches to spare.
Or so I thought.
And ear-splitting shriek of metal, and I sensed that I had taken some paint off with that last pass. If I was lucky, my port thruster assembly would only have a few dings which I could easily buff out. A dent or two, and I would be spending the next ten minutes explaining to Calis what happened to my hovercycle--as he doesn't like having to overall my bike without sufficient reason.
Like any good teenage hotrider, I'm supposed to take good care of my equipment. Money and parts don't exactly grow like trees, y'know. (Something I picked up from Calis--during my long hours of personal schooling. The old man is so full of quirks and nuances! But I love him dearly for it...)
So anyway...
Where was I?
Ah, yes: My little trip into Shark's Bay. (I swear: My attention span problems are only getting worse as I get older!)
I had ended up inside the town parameter with space and speed to spare. The area in question was so small, I could technically get in this way, but would have to come out the other side just to make one complete loop. (It's not like I could simply back my ass up and turn around. This place didn't have the inches to spare for me and my sleek machine.)
I passed the Great Fountain which had withstood the testament of time--if little else. Calis tells me that this used to be a great tourist attraction, but I never saw the attraction in this rusted piece of junk.
But it was shielded by a piece of metal hanging overhead like a loose lip--held together by a dizzying array of dead power leads and other wires. (Each crisscrossed a bit--once in each pass--but the rest simply snaked underneath and out the other side: Only to be connected to some parts of the run down buildings on each side of my cyc.)
And this area was probably the only place not affected by the storm. A lull if you will in the eye of some monster hurricane. But it didn't offer full protection from the elements. I still ate my fair share of shitty sand grit and everything else--each time I opened my mouth to get in a good lungful of fresh air.
But the air itself was tinged with ozone and loaded with static electricity. Every breath burned my lungs and made me gag with absolute regret.
So I had to assume a fetal position to shield myself from the worst the storm could throw at me, but my goggles took a fucking beating to beat the band. In less time it took me to whip out my blaster, I was left blinded to the world around me.
At this point, I had to hop off my bike blindly and wipe the crap out of my goggles--then hop back on and motor down towards the lower sector of Shark's Bay. This place was as desolate and barren as an old woman.
There was no sign of any living soul which I could see. So I guess I was the unofficially elected dummy to go braving this part of the burg during one of the worst blows of the season.
Duh!
Of course it would have to be me! Who else would be this daring in a 168mph gale? Not anyone else, I can tell you this much--though I did envy those who sought shelter; cause the skies above me looked like they were going to puke black shit on me in a fleeting second.
Lightning discharges were roiling over my head, and I felt their explosive reports rattle right through me like my Viper X-1 on a flash burn turn over at Sherman's Pass.
As such, the building in front of me suddenly collapsed like my father's deck of playing cards--something of an old relic from times past; a gift from Calis when I was three. I could never make out what those funny pictures were, but he let me play with them because it kept me out of trouble half the time.
At any rate, the structure went down faster than I was going towards it. But that wasn't the only one to finally succumb to the power of the storm. Three more caved in--and suddenly an odd wailing sound filled the air.
Unused sirens belched out their ancient noise in an effort to warn the other residents to stay clear of the area in question. I thought it was something to warn of an impending Praetorial Guard attack from the last spat of wars to hit this region in god knows how long.
Calis once told me that these things were used as a defense against the unknown, but nobody knew from what exactly.
But I past these buildings--these structures which sometimes housed the homeless. In retrospect, you would never know how many actually fit that description: Fit the profile of roving and desperate bands of human beings.
I knew that some of these places housed them--as a caveat--but little else I recalled about them.
I shuddered then--thinking about how lucky I was with what meager shelter I had left to me. It was never much, but it was a place I could proudly call home.
I came across some more of the same two-story structures, finding that life still existed inside a few of them, but didn't see anyone out and about. Of course, they would be as stupid as I was suicidal in the next second: A gust of wind had suddenly sideswiped me and my bike sideways!
I struggled against my unseen foe then, my engines fighting against the pull of the wind--as I tugged the other way--all in a vain effort to free myself.
My display panel was in the red-zone, but I wasn't going to give up this fight without, well...a fight! (lol)
But stupid me...
I had completely forgotten that my bike had other built-in safety features. It deployed them: Shutting down my engines in a heartbeat.
With no force to act against it, the wind promptly picked up both my bike and me--and tossed us 30 feet into the air. I acted immediately and overrode the other safties, and deployed a parachute/drag system.
This allowed the bike to come to a complete (and jerking) stop without question.
And save my ass from a serious bruising!
I also engaged full thrusters and tried to maneuver my metal pig into a soft landing, but I ended up smashing the rear right into the side wall of a vacant building--buckling it with so much ease.
I also ended up smacking my noggin' too in the process. After my head cleared, I swore I would get a freakin' helmet!
But after a time, I found that I had suffered no serious injury to myself. My bike was okay.
So I continued to my destination unhindered.
Isis
Saturday, March 10, 2007
ONE WILD RIDE INTO TOWN!
August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 12:10AM, Saturday; March 10th, 2007)
___________________________________________________________________
Desert life is something else.
Apart from the stillness in the air and the absence of life, the panoramic views of the Golan Desert is a vision to behold.
Sharply rising dunes of golden sand, the marble blue skies, and the flat expanses between my place and Shark's Bay, gives me something to reflect on--making me feel like I am alone and insignificant out here in the middle of nowhere.
My trip into the old town settlement was going to take me awhile to get there--and it wasn't because of any problems with my custom-build Strokov-623 hovercycle.
Nope.
This time, it was the storm in back of me which was the problem. Did I forget to mention something? Life out here is no picnic.
Aside from the usual run-ins with what my mom and I call prairie bandits, we also have to deal with the usual hurricane-styled blows which Old Mother throws at us every month.
Some of these storms are unlike anything you would normally associate with hurricanes and thunderstorms--gathering from what I know from my host's memories. No, these storms pack a much larger punch and can last up to a week--even two--in some cases.
And it usually isn't healthy to remain out here.
Without the proper protection, many unfortunate souls can easily die: as the heat robs precious moisture from the human body.
So when you've lived out here as long as I have, it is vital that you wear the appropriate desert-style clothing. Special long pants, turtleneck shirts, tees, rugged socks, and desert boots are the name of the game.
Most travelers wouldn't be caught dead without such attire. The worst thing you have to worry about besides the storms are yellowback scorpions. These things are about a foot long when mature and have an 8-inch tail with a large stinger protruding from it. Despite its ungainly size, this critter is deadly--and is lethal within 3 weeks after being born. Anti-vetox is the standard anti-venom derivative, but on the surface, it is the most precious commodity for thousands of miles.
And as such, it is usually stocked and sometimes hoarded for obvioius reasons--seeing how I almost died from one such encounter when I was a little girl.
As for the storm itself...?
>Sigh<
I really hate racing in the desert. Don't get me wrong: I live for speed. But when you're talking about being out in the open and traveling The Highway at speeds of 150+mph, and you have a monster barreling down on you from the west...?
It doesn't...um...pay to stick around.
No sooner had I left my place, did the storm finally catch up. In most respects, it is a beautiful phenomenon which is usually captured with paints and canvases--portraits which normally fetch a pretty credit these days--only to be mounted on some rich stiff's mantle starside in Stratos City. (I don't like the rich for what they are. To me, they are a drain on society, and only serve to remind people like me why the poor and struggling castes of the surface continue to rebel from time to time against all odds. To me, money is to be spent on the living and on anything which will further your goals to survive in life. If it isn't used, it's a waste.)
Outracing it would be a test of my mettle and superb skills as a pilot of the Viper X-1. Of course, I gauged it to be about 20-30 minutes behind me, but the leading edge of the storm usually stretches for tens of miles ahead of the core front. And as such, it likes to play with anything caught out in the middle of nowhere.
(Fine time for me to go hotdogging out on The Highway this morning. But I did promise my brother I would get him a Type III power convertor! And Calis is expecting me at any rate. No need to let the old man down so early in the day.)
I poured on the speed--opening up the afterburners on this old cyc--proud of the job that both me and Calis did on the old girl. She may look like your average Harley Davidson, but it's what is under the chassis which counts the most: A Havoc-4 fuel injection/turbo-charger.
Of course, I should've known that the G-Shock acceleration would've done me in at this point. I never worry about having to wear a helmet--let alone a seatbelt.
But I wish I did!
The damned machine almost dumped me on my ass--as I took off like a rocket!
In mere seconds, I screamed across the open expanse clocking in at an impressive 608 miles per hour.
I sustained a myriad of bumps and bruises in the excitement, but I came through okay.
As a result, the 450-mile journey ended much sooner than I thought.
Shark's Bay was just visible over the rise.
Down the inclining gultch I went, and I motored for the town settlement--with the storm licking at my back.
Of course, I still need to get Calis to install a seatbelt and give me a helmet after this ride! (tee-hee!)
Isis
___________________________________________________________________
Desert life is something else.
Apart from the stillness in the air and the absence of life, the panoramic views of the Golan Desert is a vision to behold.
Sharply rising dunes of golden sand, the marble blue skies, and the flat expanses between my place and Shark's Bay, gives me something to reflect on--making me feel like I am alone and insignificant out here in the middle of nowhere.
My trip into the old town settlement was going to take me awhile to get there--and it wasn't because of any problems with my custom-build Strokov-623 hovercycle.
Nope.
This time, it was the storm in back of me which was the problem. Did I forget to mention something? Life out here is no picnic.
Aside from the usual run-ins with what my mom and I call prairie bandits, we also have to deal with the usual hurricane-styled blows which Old Mother throws at us every month.
Some of these storms are unlike anything you would normally associate with hurricanes and thunderstorms--gathering from what I know from my host's memories. No, these storms pack a much larger punch and can last up to a week--even two--in some cases.
And it usually isn't healthy to remain out here.
Without the proper protection, many unfortunate souls can easily die: as the heat robs precious moisture from the human body.
So when you've lived out here as long as I have, it is vital that you wear the appropriate desert-style clothing. Special long pants, turtleneck shirts, tees, rugged socks, and desert boots are the name of the game.
Most travelers wouldn't be caught dead without such attire. The worst thing you have to worry about besides the storms are yellowback scorpions. These things are about a foot long when mature and have an 8-inch tail with a large stinger protruding from it. Despite its ungainly size, this critter is deadly--and is lethal within 3 weeks after being born. Anti-vetox is the standard anti-venom derivative, but on the surface, it is the most precious commodity for thousands of miles.
And as such, it is usually stocked and sometimes hoarded for obvioius reasons--seeing how I almost died from one such encounter when I was a little girl.
As for the storm itself...?
>Sigh<
I really hate racing in the desert. Don't get me wrong: I live for speed. But when you're talking about being out in the open and traveling The Highway at speeds of 150+mph, and you have a monster barreling down on you from the west...?
It doesn't...um...pay to stick around.
No sooner had I left my place, did the storm finally catch up. In most respects, it is a beautiful phenomenon which is usually captured with paints and canvases--portraits which normally fetch a pretty credit these days--only to be mounted on some rich stiff's mantle starside in Stratos City. (I don't like the rich for what they are. To me, they are a drain on society, and only serve to remind people like me why the poor and struggling castes of the surface continue to rebel from time to time against all odds. To me, money is to be spent on the living and on anything which will further your goals to survive in life. If it isn't used, it's a waste.)
Outracing it would be a test of my mettle and superb skills as a pilot of the Viper X-1. Of course, I gauged it to be about 20-30 minutes behind me, but the leading edge of the storm usually stretches for tens of miles ahead of the core front. And as such, it likes to play with anything caught out in the middle of nowhere.
(Fine time for me to go hotdogging out on The Highway this morning. But I did promise my brother I would get him a Type III power convertor! And Calis is expecting me at any rate. No need to let the old man down so early in the day.)
I poured on the speed--opening up the afterburners on this old cyc--proud of the job that both me and Calis did on the old girl. She may look like your average Harley Davidson, but it's what is under the chassis which counts the most: A Havoc-4 fuel injection/turbo-charger.
Of course, I should've known that the G-Shock acceleration would've done me in at this point. I never worry about having to wear a helmet--let alone a seatbelt.
But I wish I did!
The damned machine almost dumped me on my ass--as I took off like a rocket!
In mere seconds, I screamed across the open expanse clocking in at an impressive 608 miles per hour.
I sustained a myriad of bumps and bruises in the excitement, but I came through okay.
As a result, the 450-mile journey ended much sooner than I thought.
Shark's Bay was just visible over the rise.
Down the inclining gultch I went, and I motored for the town settlement--with the storm licking at my back.
Of course, I still need to get Calis to install a seatbelt and give me a helmet after this ride! (tee-hee!)
Isis
Sunday, February 4, 2007
MORNING REFLECTIONS...
August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 9:29PM, Sunday; February 4th, 2007)
___________________________________________________________________
So much is going on today, I don't know where to begin. Last night, I promised my mom that I would go and grab a power converter for my pesky younger brother, Trell, this morning. But you know...?
I hate mornings.
I woke up this morning, irritatingly aware that the alarm clock was going off again. I thought my brother had taken care of the problem which plagues its archaic functions, but I guess not.
I silenced the damn thing with my boot--knocking it off with one clean shot. (Don't fault me: I've made it my life to be a pretty good shot. This life of mine is unforgiving and therefore doesn't offer much in the way of a comfortable quarter.)
Afterwards, I got up and began to move on my own accord--well aware that early mornings did not improve my mood much. I usually preferred to sleep in; and worked much better when I got a full night's sleep (as my host memories typically pointed out many times), but this morning I would have to make an exception to the rule.
It was my choice. One that I would have to live with.
My own room is bare of anything you would recognize. There isn't anything like what you have in terms of personal items or something symbolic which would reflect the times we all live in.
My time has sheltered me in ways that you couldn't possibly comprehend or guess at. But it is a world which I had grown up with--living on very little and making every things we have count.
In some ways, my host's living conditions and mine aren't all that dissimilar. We both have been raised in poverty, we both had to struggle to make a living, and each of us faced insurmountable odds to get where we are today.
By far where he is a writer and a dreamer of things, I am a teenager whose own dreams stretch to the mundane and obvious: To become a legendary auto-frame pilot.
My father, Kelin, is a great man. As far as I can recall, he was also an auto-frame pilot like I am now. And though--when I look at the pictures in the hallway from time to time--I wonder if there was something more about my father which I don't know myself. Don't get me wrong, I remember my father being a wise and strong man; someone I could grow up to emulate to some degree. (Which I have. My mother tells me often that I have adopted the same stubborn streak that my father had when they first married so long ago. It's a worrisome trait--for children to inherit from their parents. But in this world of mine, it's always better to have something which will either protect you or assist your at every step of the way in life--than to have nothing at all.)
I became an auto-frame pilot in part to honor my father's memory. No, he isn't dead. Just...gone.
Torn from my life so callously, without reason, without word. And leaving both my family and myself without a father figure in which to grow up with.
And like my host, I also retreated into a world of fantasy and make-believe--all in an attempt to make a desperation connection to the world I live in now, to events of the past which seems so far apart from the life I know.
It's silly...being caught up in childish dreams of make-believe, wishing that there was something that you could've done to change events.
But I guess that--in my case--there was nothing I could've done to stop the Praetorial Guard from taking my father away from his little girl. It crushed my mother, but had a devastating effect on me.
I felt powerless!
There were days when I wish I had the power to change events, to rescue my father, and to really put the scare of God into those who have wronged us so. But I keep finding myself shaking an admonishing finger at my younger selves--and telling them that it isn't just so anymore.
People and this desolate world I live in...doesn't give much in the ways of opportunities. We all have to make our own destinies.
And like me, my host is doing what he can to make his own--though I get the impression that not many people understand his overall objectives.
Believe it or not, my mother did not understand my desire to become an auto-frame pilot the first time out either. She said that I lacked the training and full understanding of what becoming a pilot really meant.
I had always believed that becoming one would entail me to riches and fame beyond my own dreams of wanting and avarice. But I've found that--in life--things didn't always turn out the way we've wanted or originally thought.
However, I'm pleased to say that I've managed to make a comfortable living myself in a short time. I don't have much in the ways of money or material possessions.
As I've stated before, my room is pretty much devoid of that. In fact, I don't think I would know what to do with such things if I had them to begin with.
A sentiment shared with my host. He has led a life of living with the bare essentials. I wonder--if he had more money available to him--what would he do if he had the option of acquiring such things.
Based on the fact that he has a book to sell in a few years, he may get that chance.
But even if he doesn't, I know that it doesn't matter.
Wealth and fame can be a useful tool, but as I know all too well, it can also be very destructive.
I'll post some more later as soon as I get dressed. There's a lot going on, and I need to think with a clear head if I'm going to make it Shark's Bay by myself.
Isis
___________________________________________________________________
So much is going on today, I don't know where to begin. Last night, I promised my mom that I would go and grab a power converter for my pesky younger brother, Trell, this morning. But you know...?
I hate mornings.
I woke up this morning, irritatingly aware that the alarm clock was going off again. I thought my brother had taken care of the problem which plagues its archaic functions, but I guess not.
I silenced the damn thing with my boot--knocking it off with one clean shot. (Don't fault me: I've made it my life to be a pretty good shot. This life of mine is unforgiving and therefore doesn't offer much in the way of a comfortable quarter.)
Afterwards, I got up and began to move on my own accord--well aware that early mornings did not improve my mood much. I usually preferred to sleep in; and worked much better when I got a full night's sleep (as my host memories typically pointed out many times), but this morning I would have to make an exception to the rule.
It was my choice. One that I would have to live with.
My own room is bare of anything you would recognize. There isn't anything like what you have in terms of personal items or something symbolic which would reflect the times we all live in.
My time has sheltered me in ways that you couldn't possibly comprehend or guess at. But it is a world which I had grown up with--living on very little and making every things we have count.
In some ways, my host's living conditions and mine aren't all that dissimilar. We both have been raised in poverty, we both had to struggle to make a living, and each of us faced insurmountable odds to get where we are today.
By far where he is a writer and a dreamer of things, I am a teenager whose own dreams stretch to the mundane and obvious: To become a legendary auto-frame pilot.
My father, Kelin, is a great man. As far as I can recall, he was also an auto-frame pilot like I am now. And though--when I look at the pictures in the hallway from time to time--I wonder if there was something more about my father which I don't know myself. Don't get me wrong, I remember my father being a wise and strong man; someone I could grow up to emulate to some degree. (Which I have. My mother tells me often that I have adopted the same stubborn streak that my father had when they first married so long ago. It's a worrisome trait--for children to inherit from their parents. But in this world of mine, it's always better to have something which will either protect you or assist your at every step of the way in life--than to have nothing at all.)
I became an auto-frame pilot in part to honor my father's memory. No, he isn't dead. Just...gone.
Torn from my life so callously, without reason, without word. And leaving both my family and myself without a father figure in which to grow up with.
And like my host, I also retreated into a world of fantasy and make-believe--all in an attempt to make a desperation connection to the world I live in now, to events of the past which seems so far apart from the life I know.
It's silly...being caught up in childish dreams of make-believe, wishing that there was something that you could've done to change events.
But I guess that--in my case--there was nothing I could've done to stop the Praetorial Guard from taking my father away from his little girl. It crushed my mother, but had a devastating effect on me.
I felt powerless!
There were days when I wish I had the power to change events, to rescue my father, and to really put the scare of God into those who have wronged us so. But I keep finding myself shaking an admonishing finger at my younger selves--and telling them that it isn't just so anymore.
People and this desolate world I live in...doesn't give much in the ways of opportunities. We all have to make our own destinies.
And like me, my host is doing what he can to make his own--though I get the impression that not many people understand his overall objectives.
Believe it or not, my mother did not understand my desire to become an auto-frame pilot the first time out either. She said that I lacked the training and full understanding of what becoming a pilot really meant.
I had always believed that becoming one would entail me to riches and fame beyond my own dreams of wanting and avarice. But I've found that--in life--things didn't always turn out the way we've wanted or originally thought.
However, I'm pleased to say that I've managed to make a comfortable living myself in a short time. I don't have much in the ways of money or material possessions.
As I've stated before, my room is pretty much devoid of that. In fact, I don't think I would know what to do with such things if I had them to begin with.
A sentiment shared with my host. He has led a life of living with the bare essentials. I wonder--if he had more money available to him--what would he do if he had the option of acquiring such things.
Based on the fact that he has a book to sell in a few years, he may get that chance.
But even if he doesn't, I know that it doesn't matter.
Wealth and fame can be a useful tool, but as I know all too well, it can also be very destructive.
I'll post some more later as soon as I get dressed. There's a lot going on, and I need to think with a clear head if I'm going to make it Shark's Bay by myself.
Isis
Thursday, January 11, 2007
INTRODUCTIONS FROM A TIME-DISPLACED SURFACE DWELLER
August 13th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 6:18PM, Thursday; January 11th, 2007)
__________________________________________________________________
I don't know how to use these things very well. I've never heard of blogger.com or what you people call the internet. We usually don't have these sort of things were I come from--say about 10,000 years into your future?--but I guess I have to make do with what I've got at my disposal.
It sucks because I remember going to bed last night--getting ready to go to Calis's first thing in the morning--and I wake up in the body of this cute guy with long brown hair; using his obsolete computer terminal with an equally odd-looking something...(what was that? It's called a what again? A keyboard?)...to type what I think is either a good dream gone bad, or the known fact that I shouldn't have had that extra helping of pepper stew before going to sleep.
>shakes head<
Oh, well. I guess while I'm here, I might as well tell you people who I am.
My name is Isis McGowan. I'm 14-years-old--going on 15 in a couple of months or so. (And since I have access to my host's memories, I am suddenly aware that there are a lot of perverts out there who think that it is okay to hook up with pre-teens like me on this internet thing of yours for sex. Well, I'm not the least bit interested, so don't bother asking me!)
I live in the Barren Wastelands area, on the outskirts of Shark's Bay--in a place called the Golan Desert with my mother Maye, and my obstinate brother, Trell. (And yes, having a brother can be a pain in the ass, but I love him very much.)
My father, Kelin, is currently serving a prison sentence up in the orbiting space complex called Stratos City. And even though the trial was a farce, I hope that some day I'll be able to see him again.
There are times when I am torn apart by guilt because of my failure to keep my father safe, but I resigned myself to the fact that there was nothing which I could do to keep those stupid turtleheads from taking him away from me.
And by 'stupid turtleheads' I mean those bastard Praetorial Guardsmen! I can't begin to tell you how much pain I felt at the hands of those uncaring assholes--when I saw my father being led away.
But each day that passes by, I find myself fantasizing about how I would rescue him. And so far, I haven't been able to come up with a way to do it. Every avenue, every option, has led me to a dead end.
And all I can do, is sit here...frustrated and pounding away on my host's keyboard, and just tell you what I feel right now.
Normally, I wouldn't be trusting anyone to anything these days--because where I come from, trust usually ends up with you having an unsuspecting blade in the chest or back.
You don't trust people where I live. Everyone is out to get you. It's a sad and savage world I live in. And sometimes, you have to be cruel right back--whether you like it or not.
I'm not a bitch by any means. I tend to be trusting and a good confidant. But there are those kinds of people I'd rather take a blaster to or plant my foot up their ass--than just look at them.
I have what you call a basic education. From what I can assimilate from my host's memories, we have no school institutions, or anything which would resemble civilization for that matter. But I know enough to function adequately--and independently--on my own.
Of course, Calis thinks otherwise, but the old man doesn't know jack shit these days. I am my own person--whether he likes it or not.
I love him like any student of his would--his only student so far--but sometimes his methods of philosophical debate really piss me off. He expects me to learn everything the right way--"because it's a big and uncaring world out there Isis" (no shit old man!)--and I simply think that there are other ways around it.
I even tell him this at times--when I'm not being a royal pain the ass--but the old coot is more patient with me than my mom would be.
I sometimes hate that about him. But what can I do? I am a slave to his teachings. And if I don't start buckling down, some asshole is going to tag my unsuspecting ass one of these days.
Sigh...
I hate being a teenager. The adults are always ruining it for me--even though I hold a Class A liscense as an auto-frame pilot.
I thought being a pilot for the Viper X-1 would grant me some special reprieve and allow me some flexibility in my life, but nooo....!
People around me still treat me as though I'm some kind of uneducated zero. Like I don't know anything, and I keep asking myself: "What more can I learn that I already don't know?"
Well, I'm going to post this and see what happens. I don't expect a lot of people to respond, but anything would be nice. Maybe someone can tell me what the secret to life is besides the one I already am familiar with.
I dunno.
I'm hoping that people will understand my side of story as a teenage girl and all. Don't get me wrong: I find that having a good education is important, but sometimes I think the adults are trying too hard to impress things upon me which won't have any relevant importance later on in life.
But gauging on what my host's memories have shown me, I'm beginning to think along different lines here already.
And for me, that's not a good thing.
I'll be posting more stuff later.
Isis
__________________________________________________________________
I don't know how to use these things very well. I've never heard of blogger.com or what you people call the internet. We usually don't have these sort of things were I come from--say about 10,000 years into your future?--but I guess I have to make do with what I've got at my disposal.
It sucks because I remember going to bed last night--getting ready to go to Calis's first thing in the morning--and I wake up in the body of this cute guy with long brown hair; using his obsolete computer terminal with an equally odd-looking something...(what was that? It's called a what again? A keyboard?)...to type what I think is either a good dream gone bad, or the known fact that I shouldn't have had that extra helping of pepper stew before going to sleep.
>shakes head<
Oh, well. I guess while I'm here, I might as well tell you people who I am.
My name is Isis McGowan. I'm 14-years-old--going on 15 in a couple of months or so. (And since I have access to my host's memories, I am suddenly aware that there are a lot of perverts out there who think that it is okay to hook up with pre-teens like me on this internet thing of yours for sex. Well, I'm not the least bit interested, so don't bother asking me!)
I live in the Barren Wastelands area, on the outskirts of Shark's Bay--in a place called the Golan Desert with my mother Maye, and my obstinate brother, Trell. (And yes, having a brother can be a pain in the ass, but I love him very much.)
My father, Kelin, is currently serving a prison sentence up in the orbiting space complex called Stratos City. And even though the trial was a farce, I hope that some day I'll be able to see him again.
There are times when I am torn apart by guilt because of my failure to keep my father safe, but I resigned myself to the fact that there was nothing which I could do to keep those stupid turtleheads from taking him away from me.
And by 'stupid turtleheads' I mean those bastard Praetorial Guardsmen! I can't begin to tell you how much pain I felt at the hands of those uncaring assholes--when I saw my father being led away.
But each day that passes by, I find myself fantasizing about how I would rescue him. And so far, I haven't been able to come up with a way to do it. Every avenue, every option, has led me to a dead end.
And all I can do, is sit here...frustrated and pounding away on my host's keyboard, and just tell you what I feel right now.
Normally, I wouldn't be trusting anyone to anything these days--because where I come from, trust usually ends up with you having an unsuspecting blade in the chest or back.
You don't trust people where I live. Everyone is out to get you. It's a sad and savage world I live in. And sometimes, you have to be cruel right back--whether you like it or not.
I'm not a bitch by any means. I tend to be trusting and a good confidant. But there are those kinds of people I'd rather take a blaster to or plant my foot up their ass--than just look at them.
I have what you call a basic education. From what I can assimilate from my host's memories, we have no school institutions, or anything which would resemble civilization for that matter. But I know enough to function adequately--and independently--on my own.
Of course, Calis thinks otherwise, but the old man doesn't know jack shit these days. I am my own person--whether he likes it or not.
I love him like any student of his would--his only student so far--but sometimes his methods of philosophical debate really piss me off. He expects me to learn everything the right way--"because it's a big and uncaring world out there Isis" (no shit old man!)--and I simply think that there are other ways around it.
I even tell him this at times--when I'm not being a royal pain the ass--but the old coot is more patient with me than my mom would be.
I sometimes hate that about him. But what can I do? I am a slave to his teachings. And if I don't start buckling down, some asshole is going to tag my unsuspecting ass one of these days.
Sigh...
I hate being a teenager. The adults are always ruining it for me--even though I hold a Class A liscense as an auto-frame pilot.
I thought being a pilot for the Viper X-1 would grant me some special reprieve and allow me some flexibility in my life, but nooo....!
People around me still treat me as though I'm some kind of uneducated zero. Like I don't know anything, and I keep asking myself: "What more can I learn that I already don't know?"
Well, I'm going to post this and see what happens. I don't expect a lot of people to respond, but anything would be nice. Maybe someone can tell me what the secret to life is besides the one I already am familiar with.
I dunno.
I'm hoping that people will understand my side of story as a teenage girl and all. Don't get me wrong: I find that having a good education is important, but sometimes I think the adults are trying too hard to impress things upon me which won't have any relevant importance later on in life.
But gauging on what my host's memories have shown me, I'm beginning to think along different lines here already.
And for me, that's not a good thing.
I'll be posting more stuff later.
Isis
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