[first] [prev] [next] The landscape below was destroyed. Parks riven and cold, destroyed buildings covered with a rime of frost from where the atmosphere had frozen to the surfaces when the dome had been breached, vehicles strewn around. There was still the flicker of neon and holograms. And the white flicker of shades. "Where are we?" Herod asked as the domed city slowly passed beneath him, as if he wasn't moving at nearly two thousand miles an hour. "Over the Layer Sigma Worker Housing Area Niner Epsilon Three Area," Sam-UL answered. "How many people worked in here when it was active?" Herod asked, watching at the shattered edge of the dome slid by. "Two hundred fifty three thousand four hundred nineteen 'Pure Strain Humans', eighty-three Digital Sentiences, eighty three thousand two hundred nineteen 'gene-jacks', one-hundred sixteen thousand two hundred forty two Cybernetic Collective Citizens, fifteen thousand Treana'ad exactly, nineteen million eight hundred fifteen thousand six hundred seventy six Born Whole maintenance clones," Sam answered. Herod closed his eyes, no longer the robotic looking eyes his physical interaction frame had started with, and pushed his palms against the eye sockets. "They all killed each other," Sam choked. "Steady, Sam," Herod said. The other DS had been alternating between raving and weeping for a few hours prior. "There's just so many of them. So many of them," Sam's voice trailed off into a whisper. "Steady, Sam," Herod said. He looked down at Wally, the little robot that had been accompanying him. Wally could get to the mass storage areas much faster and easier than Herod could. And unlike Sam and Herod, Wally didn't see the Shades. Another destroyed dome went by, frozen trees and fields of gain in the darkness. The only light was the pale white flicker of shades moving about, the psychic residue of the last moments of beings driven insane. "How much further," Herod asked. "Half an hour," Sam-UL said. "What do I need to repair?" Herod asked. Below a complex railyard passed, with the rails moving up into the air. Behold mine works I doth craft in mine madness and despair, ye who art still burdened with thy sanity, Herod quoted to himself as the mag-lev passenger car passed a train frozen still on the tracks and covered in a layer of frost. "Main power switching system. Not the computers, but the physical links," Sam said. He coughed, the wet bubbling cough of a man with a punctured lung. "It used old Stappenbury Superconductors." Herod nodded. That type was room temperature and above but quickly increased impedance the colder it got, a direct reversal of most conductors. It also excreted flourine gas as it got colder and hydrogen gas as it got hotter. One of the earliest strange matter applications. "I'll manufacture the Stappenbury when I see what I have to replace. Do you have a visual on it?" Herod asked, opening up his virtual keyboard and setting to work. "No. I've got the blueprint, but like we saw in the matter shipment switchback what is on the blueprint and what is reality are two different things," Sam said. He paused for a moment. "It's OK. Don't cry. Let's go find your mommy." Herod tried to block out the last part. So, so many children, went through his mind before he could push the thought away. The power switching section supplied power to the habitats and at first Herod couldn't see why Sam wanted it fixed. It was the tertiary backup power system for the Born Whole hash system. The bare necessary power for the cold storage to be accessed, much less move base hashes to the 'griddle' to be warmed up and 'grown' so that the 'buds' could be harvested and made into full hashes. Herod thought for second. There was a reason that any hashes that had been cooked up when the Glassing happened couldn't be used. They would all be mad. And Herod had found himself becoming more and more educated on the different flavors of being mad. The mental image of himself in an ice cream shop, between Treana'ad matrons, picking out a cone of madness to taste made him start giggling. The giggles turned to sobbing laughter. The sobbing laughter began to mix with laughing sobs. The laughing sobs and sobbing laughs turned to screams. Wally snapped him out of it, patting his back and making soothing musical chirps. Herod hugged the robot close, weeping, for a long moment. Finally he straightened up, wiping the moisture from his face, and looked outside the tram. There was one of the fusion generators masquerading as a sun moving by underneath him, the polarized section facing Herod, so that it was shining light down on the section of the inside of the sphere below him. Huge tanks, the size of massive cargo ships, slowly moved by beneath him. There were red emergency lights on, bathing the whole place a surreal reddish color. He could see the flickering pale white of the Shades among the tanks, gathering in number, until he passed over a destroyed area where the Shades were thick. "Volatile Noble Gas Storage," Sam said suddenly in Herod's ear. His voice was calmer. Herod managed to keep from screaming. "Born Whole short life clones, driven mad by the attack, swarmed the workers, killed them, and ate them. The attack damaged the kill-switches in them so the Pubvians working in that section were outnumbered a thousand to one," Herod said. "They held out here, hoping to keep the clones from overrunning their housing." "Did it work?" Herod asked. "It didn't matter. Their wives and children had been driven mad," Sam-UL said softly. He hitched a sob. "So many of them need comfort, need the trauma of their last insane moments eased," he said. "I can't do this, Herod. I can't bear it." "We will do as we must," Herod said, doing his best to keep his voice firm. "There is no-one but us who can do this." Sam-UL gave another choking sob. "Why, Herod? Why would they bring their children to this place?" "It wouldn't have mattered," Herod said, watching the dome that was obviously the Pubvians habitat slowly move by underneath him. "Here, Terra, Pubvia, Rigel, it wouldn't have mattered. The Mantid killed over seventy-percent of the Republic's citizens." "And only managed to kill less than ten percent of its military," Sam-UL laughed. The laughter suddenly cut off and Sam was silent for a long moment. "How, Herod? How did they do it?" "The Mantid?" Herod asked. He was staring down at long highways, railways, mag-lev tubes below him. "No. Our parents," Sam-UL said. "How did they forgive the Mantid with the fires of the Glassing still burning on Terra and on Pubvia?" "Because they did," Herod said. "I don't know. Just being this close to it all, I can feel the hatred beating at me like heat from standing too close to a fusion furnace." "The sheer pleasure the Speakers and Warriors felt, pushing the deaths of every kill back into SolNet and the SoulNet, it's obscene," Sam-UL said. "They are extinct now, Sam-UL. Killed by the Immortals and the endless might of the Imperium of Light," Herod reminded the other DS. "No Queens, No Masters." Sam giggled. "It was thousands of years ago, Sam-UL," Herod said quietly, hugging Wally. "It's ancient history now." "Dust in the wind," Sam-UL sang softly. "Just dust in the wind." Below him there was a huge portal to the next layer, a permeable force field that flickered and wavered in the visual spectrum. Herod knew it was an older model, one of the first generations of such a thing. "The screen generators are damaged," Herod said, leaning down and squinting to activate his telescopic vision. He could see three damaged points in the ring. "Looks like explosive." "Power switching station first," Sam-UL said. "I know," Herod sighed. "I wish I knew what kind of subsystems depend on the flourine or the hydrogen secondary product. It would be safer to use Duvalier Systems Superconductor in that kind of mechanism," Herod said. He sighed again. "I kind of wish Flowerpatch was here." "She would have never made it," Sam-UL said. "The Mat-Trans would have torn her apart." "Still," Herod sighed. "Me too," Sam-UL admitted. "There's just not enough of me, not enough of you. I can touch the face of eternity, feel her tears, and hear the cries of the dead calling out for succor." "Steady, Sam," Herod said, looking down through the huge circular gate. He estimated it was three or four hundred miles wide. He could see lights in the darkness beyond. The portal slid by. "Herod, can I have your access codes?" Sam-UL suddenly asked. "Sure, why not," Herod said. He felt what seemed like a warm finger touch inside his brain and gasped. "Thank you," Sam-UL said. "You're almost there." Herod felt the mag-lev car slow down, starting the braking system working. The mag-lev car shuddered and vibrated, tiny flakes of neo-aluminum floating down from the ceiling. "I'll have Wally warm up the nano-forge," Herod said. He closed his eyes for a long moment. "I can do this because I must." --------------------- "Where do you think they are?" Torturer asked, staring at the security camera feed. The combined team had only just managed to get the cameras turned back on and the security system to access the feed. There were patches and lockouts all through the system. "Not sure," Vanishing Point said. He leaned forward. "Look at the stuff scattered around. What were they doing?" The gathered Digital Sentiences all turned and looked at the small slight woman with short black hair, sunglasses, and a pistol in the armpit of her black suit. "I will not confirm or deny any theories as to what they were doing," she said, her voice soft but somehow menacing. The Digital Sentiences all turned their attention back to the camera feed. "Looks like they were coating something in something," Torturer mumbled. He waited a second. "Flowerpatch?" They turned and looked at the only DS physically present, who was using a nanite cloud as a distributed network to host her intellect. She leaned forward, smiling. "Looks like they used strange matter to coat, hmm, judging from the marks left of the floor, it looks like extreme environment hazard suits." "Why would they need hazard suits?" Nexus asked. "Unknown," Sigma said, cocking his head. "Herod withdrew equipment before he vanished." "What equipment?" Flowerpatch asked. "He ran off a template for a replica of a Third Republic 12mm force pistol," Sigma said. "He then created two hazardous environmental suits, then withdrew three mass tanks, a strange-matter Class XIV nano-forge using historical archive Third Republic designs, three Class XII graviton power generators that were actually pre-Diasporia designs, and two Class XI zero-point difference reactors that were Second Republic design," Sigma pointed at the laboratory. "There are no reactors or power generators." Flowerpatch had tossed up the specs for the equipment and rocked back suddenly. "All of this came from the historical archives. It's all Pre-Glassing technology." "Surely you are mistaken," Nexus said. "No. Look at the dates of the templates he used. All of them are pre-Glassing using only pre-Glassing methods and materials. They chose for inefficency rather than higher efficency and energy to matter conversion rates," Flowerpatch said. "Why would they do that?" Torturer asked. He turned to the slight woman. "Do you know?" Flowerpatch was looking right at her when she shook her head and saw, again, something that apparently only she could see. The bio Terran had a digital presence. It was slightly off, maybe a nanosecond, but she still saw the oddly colored and oddly shaped digital presence of the small woman. It was all gray, silvery, and moved more like water or a thick gas than a pure digital representation. Flowerpatch filed it away as just another curiosity. "What could they have wanted that equipment for?" Nexus asked. He pointed at where some kind of hexagonal chamber had been built in the corner of the room. "And what is this? He used one of the larger creation engines to build it, but the template for that is nowhere to be found." "The creation engine in his lab is under some kind of lockout," Delta said. He turned to the bioform. "Can you unlock it so we can see what he built?" Again she shook her head. "No. The interlocks are older code, core code. Any attempt to even move the creation engine will cause it to fuse out." Flowerpatch looked close at the lab. "Is the creation engine why none of us can enter?" She nodded slowly. "Yes." "How old was the template he used to create that object?" Flowerpatch asked. The small female Terran held still for a long moment. "Before your people were born. Sam-UL managed to hack out the schematics and created a template from the schematics using Legion's access codes." Everyone went still. "It predated creation engines?" Delta choked out. "Yes," the woman said. "And Sam-UL has Legion's access codes?" Torturer said. She nodded. "Why didn't you do anything?" "Legion gave instructions that we are to ignore all hacking and data theft by Sam-UL with highest priority," she said. She shrugged. "He found something, something nobody else did. Legion's codes were hacked after the Case Omaha went out." Another of the petite women came in and looked at Flowerpatch. "You are required," she said. Her voice brooked no argument and Flowerpatch could hear the order repeated in digital space. Flowerpatch stood up, dusting off her hands. "Complying." She followed the petite woman out even as Torturer argued that Sam-UL had somehow escaped the Black Box with Herod and left everyone else to rot. They wound through the hallways until they stopped at a heavy door. The slight woman put her hand next to the door and her palm was scanned and her digital identification was read. The slate pinged and went dark as the door unlocked. "You are the only one with physical form. We lack the empathy to carry out what must be attended to," the woman said. "You're part of an Immortal, aren't you?" Flowerpatch asked. She nodded. "Yes." "The Case Omaha took part of your mind with it, didn't it?" Flowerpatch asked. She shook her head. "No. My sister's and I's souls. Our Father fights to preserve Holy TerraSol. We carry out his will in the universe beyond so that the enemies of mankind will not triumph." The door finally finished unlocking and slowly opened. Flowerpatch noted it was two meters thick warsteel and opened into a hallway. "Are you all the same?" Flowerpatch asked as she followed the small woman, who most people thought of as a "Confederate Intelligence Agent', down the hallways. "We are all complete," the woman said. "We live, we die, we live again. We do not forget yesterday but we stand today looking toward tomorrow." Flowerpatch managed not to shiver as the petite woman opened another door. It took long moments before the door raised. "Do you know where Herod and Sam-UL went?" Flowerpatch asked. "I cannot confirm or deny any knowledge regarding any such potential individuals nor their possible activity," the woman said. She made a gesture. "After you." Flowerpatch walked in and stopped. There were cryo-tubes in the room. Surgical ones, where nanites and robotic surgeons could work on someone in cold storage. The room was warm, the cryo-tubes covered with moisture. The petite woman walked up to one that was dry, putting her hand on the top. Flowerpatch walked up next to her, watching it confirm the woman's identity. For the first time, concentrating, she saw it as it flowed by. SANDRA-BLAKE-33928A43 "He will need you," the woman said. "He has recovered from his illness. Legion, my Father's brother, has delivered him from the grasp of Hades." The tube cracked open and Flowerpatch stared in shock at the body inside. It shuddered and opened its eyes, staring at Flowerpatch. "Mommy, I had a dream I had been sick," the young Dogboy said, reaching for her. Flowerpatch took his hand. "It's OK now, sweetie, momma's here." [first] [prev] [next]
7 days until 2020. It was a delightful day when Charles Hexagon stepped into the building where their Christmas party took place. His sister Charlotte followed, clumsily tripping over an empty ice-cone box and almost falling, with Charles catching her like he was already expecting it to happen. It was the evening during Christmas, and the place was filled with decorations. Charles sat down and talked with some friends, when a man with sunglasses and a dark-purple suit came towards him. He introduced himself as Timothy Baxter and asked Charles some questions about the “events of last Fall”, something Charles was present at. Charles remembered how a strange thing happened during the last camp. Someone had created a Supercomputer that had sucked three people into its game-world and tried to eliminate them. Then some of the enemies came out of the screen, everyone defeated those, and the three heroes eventually destroyed the computer. Charles thought for a second, then told the man what he witnessed, that he had guided others to safety when the enemies spawned. Timothy listened. Somewhat bored, it strangely seemed, and told Charles he’d like to know if anything mysterious would happen again. He left, leaving Charles thinking deeply about what exactly Timothy wanted out of this. 5 days until 2020. Charles was a blonde with a pale face and his sister looked nearly the same, but with enormous round glasses covering her blue eyes like the ones her brother had. It was two days later and they were driving towards Norway where, two months ago, Høstcamp, or Fall camp, took place. Only now it was a darker and colder winter month and it was time for Romjulscamp. Charles asked Charlotte if she’d be all right, and trying to reply she accidentally swallowed some of her ice coffee and started coughing loudly. Responding with a ‘yes’ with tears still in her eyes, Charles wondered how much he’d have to look after her. Since what happened two months ago, she had become more quiet and clumsy than usual, and Charles told her time and time again to act carefully and keep herself from accidents. He felt like she wasn’t taking him seriously, just acting too unsafe. What could happen if she was alone? He calmed down after telling himself she’d be fine, and events like what happened last Fall would probably never happen again. Probably. After a long drive they reached the new hotel that was recently finished. The siblings wished each other good night and went to their own rooms where they met up with their friends. It was late in the evening and everyone went to bed. 4 days until 2020. The square outside was filled with people and after a fun little show for the opening, the activities started again. Charles hadn’t chosen any. Too risky. Anything could happen. Just like... well, he preferred not to think about it. He saw the news was playing on a tv inside a barista. It told about strange circled icons appearing all over the world, with the artist unknown, which were impossible to remove. They looked kinda familiar. He watched as his sister safely started their coffee-making workshop with the group. Surrounded by this many friends, she’d be safe, but now he had to find something to do. Maybe check upon the others. But then he saw someone who’d watched the news as well and was now taking notes. It was Timothy, walking with two others dressed exactly like him. Sunglasses, suit, somewhat looking like secret agents. He could see how Timothy passed a picture to his colleague. Charles recognized the person in it. It was Serena Foxtrot. Finding it pretty suspicious, Charles walked to them and asked what activities they were going to do. Timothy was quiet for a few seconds, then said he wasn’t participating, being part of a special group who took care of other things, without mentioning he was looking for someone. Charles, finding Timothy now too suspicious, decided to find Serena before Timothy would. He didn’t tell him he knew the Foxtrots already. Inside of the gigantic game-room, three players were playing a weird game with flying cacti in it. The youngest, a twelve-year-old boy, was crushing the other two; a fourteen-year-old and his two-year-older sister. Dorran had come out on top for the fourth time that morning, while Benjamin celebrated his victory, and Serena became bored. It wasn’t until Charles came by and asked Serena if he could talk to her for a minute. They stood in a hallway while Charles said who he was and explained his thoughts about the agent-like people who were looking for her. Serena was confused, and asked if it was because she had entered and destroyed the Supercomputer. It was that very moment Charles found out she was one of the three. That’s definitely why they were looking for her, and maybe the other two. But his thoughts quickly turned back. He begged Serena not to give more information than what could’ve been observed, explaining that the “agents” were with multiple colleagues who acted suspiciously. He just wanted to avoid the worst. Serena, still confused, but seeing in his eyes that Charles meant what he said, promised not to tell more than was necessary. After saying she’d tell Dorran the same, but that the third guy who’d defeated the Supercomputer, Bryan, wasn’t here, Charles left to look for him. A strange feeling led Charles on the mission. Maybe it was just the cold, but... no, he felt a negative gut feeling, like danger was coming. A feeling he had felt multiple times throughout his life, but never this big. When he went by the barista where, normally, everyone would be learning how to make coffee, he saw a fallen sign, people standing outside and when he checked the inside, he noticed a huge amount of ice, covering the entire room. It had a weird, light-orange color inside of it. He asked what happened, and one of Charlotte’s friends replied, saying his sister was missing. 3 days until 2020. Nowhere to be found, no way to be contacted. She hadn’t come back to her hotel room, not to the barista, and wasn’t seen by anyone. Charles looked everywhere for her, yet no sign of Charlotte was found. The only evidence they had, was that layer of ice that’d somehow appeared. Charles had informed everyone about her absence, but no group leaders, nor the police, had found her yet. Charles was worried. He’d contacted his family, and soon the word had spread: Charlotte Hexagon was missing. The temperatures had dropped and it had started to snow a lot. The activities and the search continued, but Charles didn’t participate in the camp any longer. He went back to the empty barista, where the ice was somehow still standing, and there he was again: Timothy. First he shows up, in his stupid costume, looking for someone in secret, while he could’ve just asked, and now Charlotte disappeared, and once again he only observes when everyone has already left. Charles, wanting to know what was going on, decided to secretly but safely follow Baxter when he left. He followed him all the way to a long forgotten, little and black building with a white roof right outside of the forest, which hadn’t been used for years now. He climbed a big trash can next to the building, and peeked through the window as Timothy went inside. There were more men and women, looking the same and sitting around a table. He could only just hear what Timothy said. ‘...the ice isn’t a coincidence. You’ve seen the evidence. Whatever these magic hassles are, they’re real. I’ve asked around, and everyone talks the same about those video-game enemies that attacked them. I was hoping to get more information from one of the three that went inside of the Supercomputer. Unfortunately, Serena said she couldn’t explain more than others. But now, now we’ve had those icons appearing across the globe, a clump of ice in a barista, and a Hexagon is missing. A Hexagon! You wanna know why that fascinates me? For the same reason I asked mostly anyone related closest to the Catamaran family about anything extraordinary that happened!’ Charles’s thoughts went rapidly. Timothy talked about magic, actual, impossible to explain magic, being real for sure. But that couldn’t possibly be true, right? What’s more, he also mentioned the Catamaran family... After that the group mentioned one of the icons lying close to where they were, therefore joining the hikers tomorrow. Then they all silently went on their computers, so Charles left quietly. He needed to share this, but not with everyone. Just one person. Serena was probably the best option. She had listened to Charles’s story. He thanked Serena for keeping as much a secret as possible. They thought of a plan to reveal the “agents” their true motives, and answer all questions that were born. Serena chose to leave the gaming-activity for what it was, as she had gotten bored of Dorran and Benjamin, still aggressively playing, beating her every round. They’d follow Timothy by joining the hikers as well. Serena would hide herself from Timothy, not having signed up for the hiking group. Despite more snow continuing to fall from the sky and temperatures colder than eight degrees Fahrenheit, the trip went fine, and they witnessed amazing Norwegian landscapes, covered with even more snow than usual. It didn’t take long before they’d walked around a mountain, and saw something unnatural. It was one of the icons. A gigantic smiley, exactly similar to the logo of the camps. Who’d done this? As Charles came closer, he’d notice millions of tiny holes in the circle. At this point, the snow had turned into a light snowstorm, and everyone took cover in a cave. Charles would keep an eye on Timothy the entire time and Serena, trying to brighten up the situation, decided to play a song and do some silly dance moves with everyone. She was just showing the others how to do The Charleston while turning up the volume of her headphones, when out of nowhere, blue sparks emitted from her hands. She was shocked for a moment, then tried again. Blue and purple lights shined out of her hands and she started to emanate light, while little sparks appeared around her headphones. Everyone witnessed the phenomenon, and while amazed at what was happening, but not forgetting his mission, Charles took a look at Timothy, except he was standing all the way back near the entrance, calling someone. Charles chased him, but another light from behind filled the room, and Serena fired a massive music-note-shaped light beam towards the entrance. Charles could only just dug away before it floated outside. Timothy turned around and witnessed Charles close to him, then Serena, who’s scarf had fallen off and face was now visible. She was supposed to be with the gamers. Serena had stopped whatever she was doing, worried it might happen again, and Timothy asked Charles what they were doing. Charles asked what he was talking about, but Timothy said he wasn’t stupid, and aware that Charles was here to spy on him, apparently now with Serena as well. Charles was just angrily about to admit why, when the snowstorm had grown to the point winds where tearing apart trees and it was so cold that even Charles’s three vests and thick winter jacket could not withstand the cold. But the weirdest appearance were the strange sounds that came from the sky. And then Charles witnessed a glimmer in a tree, and he recognized the shape. His mind just went blank. He straight up ran outside, himself wanting to stop but his legs just continuing to move. Timothy warned him loudly, as he climbed the tree. Through the snow, fast winds and loud noises he grabbed the object, without thinking clearly, before the thin tree started to crack and fall down, into the snow. Timothy had come by to help him stand up, and together they ran back inside. Charles showed Timothy the object he recognized as Charlotte’s glasses. She had been here. How and why the heck right here no one knew, but she had been here. Charles was still in shock by what he just did. He’d normally never act this unsafe. But Timothy had come by to help him... Eventually a rescue team came to save everyone from the storm, but Charles was struggling to come with them. His sister might be out there, alone... Serena meanwhile had noticed how the music note she created had been floating in the sky, miles away. If Charlotte’s glasses were here, maybe she was close. What if that’s why the music note was hanging there? What if... she tried again? She redid the dance, but made sure to turn her headphones on first. She lit up, and another smaller, but similar music note appeared, and it connected with the one in the sky. Serena didn’t know for sure why, but she said they had to go there to find a clue. She’d encourage Charles to come look for Charlotte, and not leave her alone. Charles thought deeply. He did not like the potential danger, but, if it meant finding Charlotte... He agreed to come with Serena, even though his arm slightly hurt, probably because of the fall. Timothy came as well, as he arranged a jeep for them to use. And during the trip Timothy explained his team was created after someone built the Supercomputer. They wanted to find answers, but mostly keep the ones visiting the camps safe. The ride took hours. It had become extremely cold outside, the thermometer now displaying minus 28 degrees Celsius. The dark and the snowstorm prevented Timothy from seeing almost anything, and at a certain point the snow-covered floor left everyone not knowing where the road had went, until the moment the jeep sank deep in the snow and a loud crack could be heard. And then more, and more. They were standing on thin ice! Immediately Charles screamed to jump out, and they were just in time to flee before the ice shattered and the jeep sank into a large, deep lake. Charles wanted to say that they’d already gone too far, but Serena interrupted him and pointed at the music note. It was floating halfway on top of a mountain and underneath was a giant, orange, hexagonal-shaped ice sculpture. Phenomenal, and they would’ve never found it without leaving the car. That’s where Charlotte was. It must be. But the freezing cold became too much, and the storm in the pitch black dark blinded their sight. They were stuck in the middle of nowhere, it seemed. Timothy called for help on his phone, as they started walking. He looked at his watch. It just turned midnight. but before they could get any more steps closer, they passed out. 2 days until 2020. When waking up Charles was lying on a couch, close to a fireplace, in an unknown living room. His arm was bandaged and next to a Christmas tree were Serena and Timothy and his team sitting and talking. Charles asked where they were. Timothy said they were in one of the homes of his friends, hiding from Charlotte herself. He explained that it were her magical ice-powers, or something close to it, that was causing the bad weather, the strange sounds and the ice-sculpture. After his team had taken them here they had begun thinking of a plan to make her stop what she was probably not doing deliberately, before the whole south-east part of Norway would freeze by the extremely low temperatures. They’d taken pieces of the orange-colored ice, and were unable to melt it, until the orange glow had disappeared and only the ice remained. But the bigger the piece, the longer that took. And although the magic was most likely tied to Charlotte’s thoughts and feelings, just like Serena’s, they could not figure out why she was letting out all of the magic right now. But Charles realized it. He understood. He knew why Charlotte had suppressed all of her feelings and magic that she now couldn’t hold in any longer. It was his fault. He kept telling her, again and again, to stay more careful, too safe. If anyone would be hurt, if she’d be hurt... IT WAS HIS FAULT! He could’ve prevented it! He needed to do something now! Charles admitted everything he did, and would do anything to make things right. And so, the team headed out into the storm, using a snowplow, snow-scooters and fifteen layers of clothing. Charles’s arm hurt again, and very shortly he hesitated. It was because he wildly ran outside that he injured himself. Though Serena said that, although sacrifices were made today, they had also gotten closer to Charlotte because of them, and they were still alive and okay. And Charles said that at this point, any sacrifice would be worth it to save her. They would’ve never reached the giant hexagonal iceberg if it wasn’t for the enormous machines that the agent-like team questionably arranged, but finally they started to break the layers of frozen water, combined with the unknown element. Serena meanwhile kept trying to use whatever her powers were, hoping it was strong enough to break the ice. Everyone was slashing and hammering, hoping to free the girl trapped inside. But the closer they got, the louder a voice screaming inside of Charles’s mind became. And then he suddenly recognized it. It wasn’t inside of his mind, it was Charlotte, screaming. The ice. Breaking the ice was hurting her! He commanded everyone to stop. But what could they do? They couldn’t melt the ice. How else would they free her? Maybe there was something Serena could do. But she was still struggling. They was no other way. Everyone would freeze to death if they waited. He asked of Timothy to make the last swing, but covered his ears. Timothy swung his axe and a hole was created. They went in, and saw more ice and orange lights and in the middle, a body, stuck in between spikes of ice reaching out of the hands and feet. Crying. There she was. Charles started to run towards her, apologizing and saying he’d make things right. It seemed she wasn’t listening at all. He had gotten close to her, but still got scared of how wild the ice floating around her was. Charles told her to stop, but then Charlotte seemed to get mad, as his feet froze to the ground and ice shaped as claws were reaching for him, only for Serena to come in between him and the attack, and destroy the ice with her magic. She started dancing, and finally understood that if she had the headphones on and listened to whatever relevant music would make her heart start pumping wildly, she just... knew what do to. Or rather, it knew. She had let trying to control something inside of her go, perform a dance relevant to what was needed, and the magic feeling would flow through her body like chills down her spine she’d feel with any good song. It’s like the magic itself knew what to do. She would say this to Charles, but he was barely listening. Charlotte wasn’t free yet. He kept saying to her to calm down and control the magic, but then she let out another loud cry, and spikes of ice came from underneath and cut through his jacket, picking him up and lifting him into the air. Another one of Charlotte’s outbursts released a giant cloud, and everyone would freeze. All except Charles, who was now hanging about 300 yards in the sky. He then noticed the giant music note Serena had made, that led them here in the first place, and grabbed it. What now? He had to save Charlotte, Timothy, everyone! He must do something, he must... did Serena say control? Charles thought about what he had said. Any sacrifice would be worth it to save her. But not from the others. Him. He let his own thoughts go. Just like when he received the glasses. He was done living life too carefully, and boring. Even if it meant getting hurt. He held the music note, took of his jacket, and jumped, having no idea if this was going to work. He loosened him bandages, raised his fist with Serena’s music note in it, and believed, like she said, in the magic. He let go of his control. If this wouldn’t work, he would have at least tried. He closed his eyes. Feeling his left arm becoming colder and colder, and with the ground coming closer and closer. ‘I’m sorry, Charlotte. I promise I won’t hurt you again after this!’ He opened his eyes. The music note had turned into purple, sparkling ice. His arm was covered with the same substance of ice like Charlotte’s, but before thinking about it, he hit the gigantic ice-sculpture right on the top. With a flash of light it broke into millions of pieces. Charlotte got released from the ice, and started falling as well, but a wave of Serena’s purple streams picked up both of them and they safely landed. 12 hours until 2020. A hot cup of cocoa did everyone well. Charlotte had felt extreme guilt after the story was told, but Charles said that he should take all the blame. He made up with her, and Timothy. Everyone had a fun last day of 2019, and twelve hours later, they witnessed and amazing firework show. A new year had started. January 7th, 2020 Charles looked at the beam of light going up into the sky. Hopefully he could finally check out what those smileys exactly meant while visiting his friends, but then his trip was quickly interrupted by a phone call. When he picked up and listened to what his father had said, he hit the brakes hard and turned the wheel, to drive back home as fast as possible. Meanwhile, Timothy had done it. He’d finally unlocked the file. He opened it. It contained a message. A very strange message. Strange, but frightening. And the writer’s name shocked him to the point he jumped from his chair and rewinded to read the words again: Ton Catamaran. An End
Hello there, and welcome. I’ll keep introductions brief, as I’m here to share a writing story, not my life story, yes? This is my first time posting here, so I do hope this is up to snuff. It’s been a long time since I’ve put anything on display for public consumption, but it’s been suggested to me that this might be a good place to share this little project, and find potentially useful feedback, criticisms, and more. “Sea of Hope” is an ongoing passion project being worked on by multiple people. It’s been a labor of love that’s been in development for a long time, undergoing constant evolution. There’s a lot of plot and history that’s been developed, and much, much more still in development. We wanted to share some of that with you, in hopes that you might be interested in going on that journey with us, and discover why we’re as passionate about it as we are. Thanks for your time, and enjoy the show. Links [Part 2] >>//0740 Hours, 08 January, 2168 >>//Location: Old Gemini/Lost Twin >>//Sublocation: Clone Civil War Memorial >>//Terra Nova, Anastasis System, Mare Spera The ruins of the original Gemini Base were just as he remembered them: A desolate heap of rubble, destroyed far beyond any hope of repair. YC-012, “Bourbon”—As he was now known, much to his chagrin—stared up at the massive obelisk that loomed over the ruins. To say it towered above his head would be a pitiful understatement; it stretched so far above him that he could not see the top from where he sat. Its width was much more tangible, at least in the sense that one could circumnavigate the thing in a reasonable amount of time. All the same, he wouldn’t want to run a circuit around it; it would just as well become a marathon. The hexagonal pillar was darker than the abyss itself, a solemn reminder of the deaths it represented. The memorial’s surface constantly rippled and shimmered, forming fleeting constellations against the void of space. Those faux stars, however, consisted of the names of those who had fallen in the Clone Civil War; scrolling, flickering, fading, and appearing once again upon its surface from time to time. It was imperceptible from any sort of distance, and even up close one might find difficulty reading them due to the near-nanoscopic size of the text. The sheer number of names encompassed by the monolith demanded it. The trillions of names demanded it. At night, it was only visible due to the spotlights that were constantly shone against it, ensuring that it could never go unseen, the lives lost never forgotten. Bourbon supposed it likewise served the infinitely more mundane purpose of a safety precaution, of course, to avoid potential issues with any air traffic that may have been arriving or departing from the intact sibling base some distance away. As its name implied, Gemini had been built as two installations, conjoined by a tram system that ran between the two. It was, in essence, the Coalition of Clone Systems’ capitol. He could still remember when it was first constructed. They’d been the Coalition of Clone Nations back then. He could remember when nothing stood on Terra Nova, and the day they first stepped foot on it. How long has it been? He wondered to himself. He looked down at the stones he held in his hand, bits of and pieces of rubble that had been exposed to the elements long enough to begin eroding them. He rolled them about in his palm idly, contemplating the base’s state. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen it in this condition, though his last visit had seen him in a far less observant state. He would have bet money that these were the same stones he’d been fondling during his last visit, if he had any cash on him. Given that the CCS didn’t use currency, however, that would’ve made for a fairly hollow bet. That didn’t stop him from collecting banknotes from Earth whenever he could, of course. Earth memorabilia was still valuable on its own to the right individual. He continued to ponder the question he’d posed. How long had it been since the last time he’d seen the military installation intact? November 5th, 2048, he recalled. That was just under 120 years ago now. It was burned into his mind, as it was for many other denizens of the Coalition. That was the date that everything had fallen apart. Any clone who’d lived through that day would remember it well. Not just those who’d been stationed at Gemini, or even on Terra Nova, but across all of Mare Spera. It had been a lifetime ago now. No—Two…? Three…? He struggled to recount how many times he’d transferred from one body to another now, how many times he’d undergone transference. Sometimes he struggled to recount a lot of things, other times they came naturally. His mind swung like a pendulum between trying to erase it all and desperately clinging to whatever threads remained of his memory. So much had come unraveled. It was maddening, though part of it was his own fault. They didn’t call him “Bourbon” for nothing. He found one such thread, and took hold. He followed it backwards through time to revisit—Not for the first time, nor the last he suspected— the day of the surprise attack that launched the insurgency to come. Mounting tensions had come to a head, and fractured the Coalition. The rebels splintered off into their own faction, the Unified Clone Nations, and both sides spent plenty of time killing each other for the next two decades, leaving long-lasting wounds that still had never healed completely. Bastards didn’t even have the decency to come up with an original name. “Penny for your thoughts?” came the familiar drawl of an old friend. He reeled himself back in, looking up from his hand. He adjusted his sunglasses to peer over their rims at the man who’d addressed him. YC-087, “Bull,” stood ahead of him. The Coalition’s Commander-in-Chief was half-turned towards him, free of his aides for at least a moment. Bourbon wished he had a camera. The morning sun cast its soft golden rays across him, painting an image of him that many of the Coalition would’ve very much liked to see. He was wearing the full extent of his formal attire, sporting the deep red, pristine white, and dark blue uniform that was unique to his station. They were the colors of the Coalition’s flag. The blue was indicative of the void of space. The red and white represented the collided galaxies that formed “Mare Spera,” the “Sea of Hope.” It also served as a slight allusion to the Coalition’s Earthly origins in the United States military. He sported his ceremonial pauldron on his left shoulder, a remnant or replication of the retired GPAU armor. The GPAU had been their first real armor, as opposed to simple plate carriers and ballistic padding. It had since been replaced by the M-RAU and its subsequent iterations, a much more advanced armor system, befitting a civilization that trod the stars. Its purpose as a part of his uniform was purely for symbolism and aesthetics, with his other shoulder and forearms sporting the segmented angular plating that had become incredibly commonplace amongst Coalition uniform designs. The creases in his face seemed more apparent every time Bourbon saw him, and the circles under his eyes grew darker. It was hard to place the age of his current body, as it seemed keen on catching up to the age of his mind. Bull came into being in 1988, which put him at 179 years old as it was. Physical age meant nothing to a clone aside from the need for another body transfer and the physical therapy associated with it before they could get back to their duties, but to say age was “just a number” would be disingenuous. The wind blew gently through Bull’s cropped black hair. Bourbon could remember when Bull fancied himself a charmer, his hair longer and slicked back with pomade. At the time, paired with his personality, it had evoked the image of someone from an old Western movie. He played the part well, complete with drawl and Southern charm. While he had yet to lose his accent, and he could still play the part of the charismatic leader, he seemed to have lost interest in playing cowboy. Something subtle in his dark eyes told Bourbon that there might have been some hidden level of concern. That was fair, if he was being honest with himself. Bull was the one who’d discovered him here during his last visit five years prior, which had been a sordid affair. Bourbon realized he’d been staring stupidly at him as opposed to giving him an answer. Seeing Bull after all this time still felt strange to him. All the same, he’d left an uncomfortable amount of time between the question and a response. It took him a moment to remember what the question even was. He chuffed as he remembered, finally answering in his typical low, sultry voice as he readjusted his shades. “You couldn’t possibly hope to afford all my thoughts even at a penny a piece.” Bull turned to face him fully. “No? How about a dollar for the bushel, then?” Bourbon grinned, seizing the moment. He mimed a microphone with his free hand. “A penny for your thoughts, but a dollar for your insides, or a fortune for your disaster?” he belted out with gusto. He let his hand fall and shrugged, stating the next line with far less bravado. “I’m just a painter, and I’m drawing a blank.” “Your musical prowess leaves nothing to be desired,” Bull said, his tone flat in spite of an amused expression. “Save, perhaps, an answer to my question.” Bourbon took a deep breath and sighed, planting his elbows on his knees. He stared back down at the stones in his hand. He rolled one between his finger and his thumb, then let it drop. “Frankly, I would have been far happier had I never been made to step foot in this festering dungheap ever again,” he said. “Too many memories.” He rolled the stones in his palm again, hearing the clattering. He let another drop. His brow furrowed, and he nodded in the direction of the monument. “Too many ghosts.” He looked back up. “Had you told me when last we met here that I would once more find myself seated upon this same pile of rubble? I believe I promptly would have told you to shoot me on the spot.” Bull gave him a smug look. “You could always choose another assortment of rocks to perch on,” he offered. He gestured somewhere off to his side. “Those ones look mighty comfortable. You’re certainly not starved for choice.” Bourbon glanced towards the pile Bull had indicated. It was a spiny sea urchin of debris, bits and pieces of rebar thrusting outwards at all angles. He let yet another stone drop, shrugging. “I’ll pass,” he said, waving dismissively. “I prefer my seating arrangements a tad less likely to give me a case of tetanus.” “Well. You could always… Stand. Presuming that’s not too… Pedestrian for you,” Bull retorted, rocking on his heels as he emphasized the word. Bourbon gave a look of mock offense. “Like some kind of plebeian?” he gasped. “That you have the gall.” He paused and sighed, letting all the stones fall from his hand. He dusted his hands off, and pushed himself to stand. He held his arms out wide. “Satisfied?” he asked with a smirk. Bull chuckled, looking around at all the debris himself. There was a pause before he spoke again. When he did, there was a solemnity to his voice. “You know, when the orbital elevator collapsed,” he began slowly, pointing towards a spot not too far from where either of them stood. “I was standing… Right about there.” Bourbon followed his direction, then glanced back upwards towards the monument. “We were trying to secure the elevator. Just when we were sure we had it on lock, they must’ve detonated charges they’d placed somewhere up above.” The monument stood now where the orbital elevator once had, on its massive raised platform. It mimicked the shape as the elevator had, large and hexagonal, though not quite the same scale. It was centered the same, positioned the same, though lacking in dimension. Especially vertically. Saying such didn’t diminish the monument’s grandeur in any way, but rather put things into perspective. It was hard to compare anything to something that stretched beyond a planet’s atmosphere. Bull continued, looking upwards towards the sky, shaking his head. “Worst sound I ever heard, haven’t heard anything quite like it since. The whole thing started to flounder about, not being anchored anymore. Sound of metal twisting and groaning, that odd twang the cables made as they thrashed about. I looked up to watch as it warped and began to shake pieces off of it.” He squinted, clearly envisioning the moment. “You know what the damnedest thing is though?” Bourbon had a feeling he knew where Bull was going with the story, but didn’t interrupt. Instead he stood and listened, knowing Bull would continue of his own volition. “Watching the other half of it going up into space. One of the craziest things you can imagine, watching something that big just getting sucked out into the sky like that. That ain’t even the worst of it, though.” He turned back to Bourbon. “Worst of it was that I could make out something else moving up there. A ship.” He put on an expression of amusement, though he was certain it was only to cover the resentment he’d felt. “I could see that ship move in and intercept the station the elevator was anchored to. And they hauled the whole damned station away. Must’ve loaded up the elevator with as much as they could and figured to steal whatever they had still left on the thing. I can’t even begin to tell you what was running through my mind as I watched those bastards steal our elevator.” He chuckled, a hint of bitterness behind it. “Of all the outrageous things I’ve seen, I don’t think anything’s got my goat quite as much as that.” Bourbon glanced around. He replayed the events of the attack in his head. Things had been utter chaos the whole time, which distorted the timeline in his head to some degree. It didn’t help matters that it had been over a century ago. “I believe that was shortly after we secured the armory, or somewhere abouts. Chi had ventured off to retake the motor pool shortly prior, and I was off with a contingent of my own to take back the nursery.” So much of that day blended together, but he recalled the scene unfolding at the cloning facility well enough—He might have managed to scrub it from his memory, were it not for the fact that a living reminder of it was hounding him constantly as of late. “I recall it was near the end of the attack, at any rate. Seemed pretty apparent that we had the upper hand at that point, if it could be said as such.” He scoffed, turning his nose up at a thought. “Frankly, I’m still insulted by their choice of cliché. November 5th? Really? They really had to go and pick a date already associated with treason?” He rolled his eyes, taking a few slow paces forward, holding his arms aloft as he posed his rhetorical question. “They decided to go the route of “Remember, remember, the 5th of November,”enact their treason, then stole our bloody name while they were at it? What a joke, with a terrible punchline at that.” Bull arched a brow at him. “Would you rather they’d have chosen the 1st of November instead, or would you instead be chiding them for their missed opportunity?” “I would rather they’d not betrayed us at all, if we’re talking semantics,” Bourbon retorted. “Point,” Bull acknowledged. Bourbon gave him a shit-eating grin. “All the same, you would, however, be absolutely correct in assuming that I’d have simply taken the other stance. They’d be taking the piss from me in either instance.” He chuckled, moving towards the monument itself. The monument stood atop the platform their orbital elevator had once occupied, which thankfully had meant that it had a stable foundation as it was. It also made for a very large foundation. A few other things occupied the space as such. Presently, an entire assembly of people occupied the platform, in preparation for the ceremonies to come. Today marked the fifth-year anniversary of the officially declared end of the Hybridas Conflict. Yet another catastrophic war, though not one that the Coalition had in any way perpetrated. Rather, they’d been invaded by an outside force, the Hybridas. Giving the Hybridas any simple description was a relatively futile effort, though he’d have all day to revisit a description for them. They’d come from the nearby galaxy of Ptolmyra, which was governed by the Ptolmyran Confederacy. The Confederacy was, as one might anticipate, comprised of different groups of Xenos who’d banded together to form an alliance within their own space. The Hybridas were the product of a race who had not been playing by the Confederacy’s rules. Somehow, they slipped under the radar into Mare Spera, where it promptly started destroying entire Coalition worlds. Oops. The Hybridas weren’t their only creations. Nor were they the first of their creations to fuck over the Coalition in some capacity. No, they managed to wreak havoc on them far earlier on, during the Sigtri incident… Which would end up being one of the things to spark the Civil War in the first place. And as it would seem, they shared an even deeper history. In the end, they’d had far more influence over the Coalition’s history than they ever should have—Considering that their entire race had been dead before the Coalition ever even left Earth. A fact they only discovered when they tried to hunt them down, and found the Confederacy instead. With the Hybridas Conflict wrapped up, Confederate and Coalition leaders were ready to finally sit down and have a chat. They were expecting the Confederate leaders soon. Meanwhile, all of the Coalition’s major players were already assembled and waiting. He gave a sidelong glance at everyone as he strode closer to the structure, mentally taking note of everyone there. He knew he was the odd man out; he had far less business being present than everyone else. Andyet here you stand, Colonel, with a fraction of a galaxy in the palm of your hand… Aside from the entirety of Coalition High Command, there were the far more permanent objects around the monolith, namely a few terminals placed at regular intervals around the dark object. There was one larger, central terminal at what was deemed the front of the monument, which could be used to control the display on the obsidian surface. That was more or less to be the center point for the whole shindig, and Bull would be using it as a podium as he addressed the alien delegates upon their arrival. It could be setting to multiple different settings, all serving purposes more or less particular. The way in which the names appeared and disappeared, or scrolled, or even the ability to pull up specific units, ships, or other such things. Ship emblems or even silhouettes could cross the memorial’s dark surface, fleets crossing the space between stars as surely as the stars themselves were on it. Whoever had designed it had surely put a great deal of effort into it. Its default setting showed the constellations that made up their galaxy, and the names of the fallen made up their stars. The individual stars were comprised of the names of those who came from those systems. The idea was to represent their lives, as opposed to their deaths. It had been built after the Civil War, during a dark time. They’d won, but it seemed they’d lost infinitely more. Many lost the will to go on, and soon ceased to be. They had a new fight to win. A fight to survive, to keep people from giving up. The “Survivor’s War,” they called it. An apt, if uninspired description. The memorial had been painstakingly constructed in an attempt to commemorate the fallen, and hopefully raise morale. Whether or not it saw any level of success was certainly up for debate. He knew it didn’t do very much for him, not that he’d had many opportunities to witness it. Mare Spera was a big galaxy, and he didn’t spend much time around Terra Nova after the war. The obsidian obelisk represented something more than that, however. It was a promise. The monument itself was aptly named “The End,” which encompassed many things. It promised that the war was at an end, the violence was at an end. It promised that those who had met their end would not be forgotten. But most of all, it promised the end of death itself for the Coalition. The Lazarus Division of the CRDA managed to reconstruct their ability to create neural templates, mental back-ups. A “save point” in the event of death, to be recovered and transferred into a new body. One would lose their memories beyond that checkpoint, but they would live again, missing only a few months’ worth of time. There was the argument, of course, that it wasn’t really the same person. Whoever that person was, they had still died. This was a replication. This was how transference worked as well. When one’s body was no longer fit for the tour of duty, a new one was created. If one was lucky, they could get a solid 30 years or so out of a single body before having to switch. The mind was replicated, and they would shed their old body in favor of a new one, physically and genetically identical to their last—So long as they chose not to make any modifications, of course. The new body would contain the same consciousness as the last, the memories, knowledge, and feelings. There was an adjustment period as one went through physical therapy to become accustomed to their new self, and life went on for them. Everyone either had done it, or would do it at some point. Bourbon had done it, Bull had done it. And they would do it time and time again, for so long as they endured. For all intents and purposes, they had achieved some sense of immortality, so long as they chose not to terminate their line. Bourbon didn’t know if they’d ever permanently lost anyone after that, with the exceptions being those who voluntarily chose the end. He knew of only one odd instance where the backups were lost, for a single person, and it was still being investigated. Oddly enough, it was Chi, who he’d referenced mere moments ago in his conversation with Bull. Something about that didn’t sit well with him. Many things about her disappearance didn’t sit well with him. Of course, that was true of many things these days. Many would label him as conspiratorial, an alarmist, or in general just distasteful. They weren’t wrong, per se. He acknowledged that he was all of those things—Including distasteful, at times, depending on how much he was living up to his namesake. That didn’t mean he was wrong either, despite how often people discredited his efforts to raise concern about certain issues. It was all a matter of perspective, and he just continued to hang on to things that many considered dead and in the ground. Idealism and pessimism were a stone’s throw apart, and he had become quite adept at slinging stones. He realized that at some point while he’d been mulling things over, he’d found himself in front of one of the terminals. Not the main podium, but one of the smaller, plaque-like exhibits surrounding the structure. They could be used to pull up a great deal of information on the war, ranging from the particulars of separate battles to individuals’ entire service records. He idly inspected it, running a finger across its surface. Clean. It seemed someone had taken the time to dust them off for the ceremony to follow. A sense of uncertainty plagued him. He didn’t really know how long he’d been standing there staring at the thing. He felt a pang within him, a certain call, and a thousand images flashed before his eyes. One particular scene played out before him, as it had time and again. Something dark stirred in the corner of his vision, and a chorus of whispers, familiar yet unintelligible, echoed in the recesses of his mind. It wouldn’t do him any good to push them aside. There were few sounds he could recall from the memory, and none of them were words. There was a question that burned within him, longing to be answered. He contemplated using the terminal, but something else began to burn. Something in the back of his skull felt like it was on fire, and he felt like he was on high alert. Eyes. He could feel Bull’s attention on him. He was waiting expectantly. They both knew exactly what Bourbon was thinking about as he stood in front of the terminal. What he didn’t know, however, was whether Bull would be looking directly at him, or if he would be watching him out of his peripherals. Would he be pretending not to notice, or only marginally aware? Or staring directly at him? He wasn’t sure which scenario he liked better. None of them appealed, really. He was too sober for this shit. His hand fell away from the terminal. He decided to play it off. He closed his eyes and spun on his heel, running his hands through his long, dirty-blond hair to perform an exaggerated hair flip. When he opened his eyes, he put on his cockiest grin, bracing for impact. Bull wasn’t looking at him. He released the breath he didn’t know he was holding. Bourbon would’ve been in his peripheral vision, but the Coalition’s leader hadn’t turned to watch. That was the outcome he’d expected, and admittedly preferred. Bull wasn’t stupid, he knew what had just happened. He was undoubtedly aware that Bourbon knew that he was watching, directly or indirectly. He was feigning ignorance for Bourbon’s sake, rather than make him feel as though he was under the magnifying glass. He was thankful for it. He was waiting for Bourbon to approach the subject of his own accord, rather than initiate a confrontation himself. That was Bull’s way of operating. When it came to decisions that required immediate action, he didn’t hesitate. When it came to smaller things, however, he preferred a more tactful approach. He seemed to instead prefer putting pieces in place and setting them in motion, letting them unfold how they would. He always provided a way deeper in, and a way out. The door was open for whenever Bourbon wanted to confront the subject. If he wanted to. It was the secret he’d kept from the universe, the one thing nobody was ever meant to know. Bourbon had made the admission to him already, but hadn’t spoken of it again. It wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have. He hoped he’d be able to one day, but for now, he couldn’t. Bourbon stepped away from the wretched thing, before he made a stupid decision by changing his mind. “You know…” he began slowly, employing a mischievous tone. “I find myself thinking about how relentlessly dour this place truly is.” He sauntered towards Bull again, coming to stand at his side. He tilted his head to the side as he met his friend’s gaze. He gestured behind him. “The obsidian tombstone’s really quite nice, whoever put it together did a fantastic job. No sarcasm, full truth.” Bull’s stare was fixed straight ahead, in the direction they expected the rest of their party to come from. He took in a deep breath, bracing himself. “There’s either a “but” or a continuation to this line of thought.” “Oh, I’m simply idly musing at the idea of using the grounds as a venue for a heavy metal concert. We’ve already got an appropriate backdrop, and plenty of space. Set up a few pyrotechnics, and we could put on quite a show.” He stroked his chin as he pretended to be in deep thought, feeling his fingers running through his facial hair. “Maybe host it on the anniversary of the war’s end? The idea of the monument was to celebrate their lives, what better way to celebrate than with a music festival?” The Commander-in-Chief slowly turned his head to stare straight at him. His expression was utterly blank, and his eyes bore straight through him. “You’re proposing that we host a rock concert on what some people would view as being tantamount to Holy ground, and others would view as the graveyard of our hopes and dreams?” “Absolutely. And a fancy barbecue.” Bourbon wasn’t even remotely serious. He was moreso just trying to get a laugh out of Bull. He imagined the man didn’t do much of that these days. “The United States had Memorial Day back on Earth, right? Celebrate the lives of the fallen by hosting giant cookouts every year? Sometimes with fireworks and such? Would it truly be any different?” Bull’s stare turned incredulous, though his intonation remained flat. Bourbon was beginning to wonder if Bull actually realized that he was joking. “And I imagine you’d like to volunteer yourself to orchestrate the entire event?” “Who, me? No. I would never. Bull, I would never. Well. I might. Maybe. I might maybe definitely do that.” He shrugged. “Who better? Gaelia?” Bull stared for a moment longer, but the idea of CWAD’s cold leader hosting any kind of festivities was enough to finally break Bull’s composure. He finally cracked a smile and chuckled, and let out a sigh that might have been relief. “No, I suppose leaving such things to the professionals would be a better choice. Especially now that you seem to fancy yourself a rock legend anyway.” “Fancy myself?” Bourbon shifted his weight onto one foot, crossing his arms. “Oh, darling, everyone fancies me, regardless of whether or not they’re willing to admit it. They always have. I’m the idol everyone craves, here to bring some sound and vision to the dull, colorless lives of our people.” He made an exaggerated gesture towards the sky. “And beyond.” “How very noble of you.” “What can I say except “You’re welcome?" “And extraordinarily humble,” Bull chuckled, turning his gaze forward again. “Just remember what Lee said. As much as I’m sure the idea of amassing a collective of alien groupies is amongst your highest aspirations, and I know you do solong to wow them, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask that we keep our Summit as…” He paused. "Professional as possible. Save the dazzling for after we get into their good graces, if you would be so kind.” Bourbon mimed shock, placing a hand over his chest so as to indicate himself. He let out a mock gasp. “Are you implying that I would jeopardize our relationship with the Xenos? Good sir, I am surprised at you. When have I ever given you reason to believe I wouldn’t take such a thing seriously?” Bull gave him an incredulous look. “Okay, fine, you’ve made your point. And yet, here I stand. Normal uniform, no personal touches, as requested." He tugged at his leather jacket, spinning in place to display that he’d made no modifications to it. It only displayed the patches associated with himself and his unit, even as vibrant as they were. Other than that, there were only the fairly standard bits of armor that were part of many Coalition uniforms. His featured an armored collar that melded into a plating that protected his neck, upper back, and uppermost parts of his shoulders. The segmented plates likewise graced his upper arms and forearms. If he needed to get into a close-quarters fight, he would have been fairly well off. The jacket had seen minimal use. Bourbon had another similar jacket that he typically wore instead—One which featured a number of more personal details. The only “exotic” part of his outfit were his sunglasses, a pair of semi-square, angular aviators with side shields around the temples. The framing around the eyes were black and gold metal, while the arms were made of a matte black plastic. They sported red-mirrored lenses presently due to being in a polarized state, but he could transition them to clear if he so desired. He could use them as a Heads-Up Display in the event that he didn’t want to use his implants, which made them a useful piece of tech. He’d be taking them off when their company started arriving in full, for the sake of formalities and good manners. “I made sure to tidy up as much as possible,” he continued, extending a leg to indicate the crease in his pant leg. He then pulled up the pant leg itself to show off the shine to his boots. “And I’m sober.” He frowned deeply. "Painfully sober. I didn’t even take a shot before I came here. Surely that counts for something?” “It does. Speaking of dazzling, how’s that outfit of yours coming along anyway?” Satisfied, Bourbon crossed his arms. “It’s done. Had to sort of figure it all out myself, we don’t exactly have an overabundance of sequins lying about.” He smirked. “At least, we didn’t. But we did have an overabundance of gemstones that nobody was using…” “Oh no.” “Oh, yes, darling. I’d have worn it today if I could’ve gotten away with it. Niki wouldn’t even let me apply any eyeliner.” Bull blinked, momentarily taken aback by the remark. It only took him a moment to recover. “I don’t know how or why that statement surprises me, yet here we are. You’re committed to this bit now, aren’t you?” Bourbon huffed, baring a toothy grin. “Don’t you know who I think I am?” he shot back, harkening back to his earlier song reference. Not his favorite band, nor preferred genre, but he’d be damned if he was going to pass up the opportunity to make a musical reference. “The short answer is yes. Besides, I should think that given the day’s events, playing my part should be preferable, would it not? At least later on, when it becomes relevant. The long answer is that I’ve always been this way, just… More subdued? I should hope you’ve not forgotten.” “My office hasn’t rendered me senile, no.” “Yet.” “Yet,” Bull agreed. “All the same, no, I’ve not forgotten. You’ve always been one for theatrics.” He gave a subtle grin. “I suppose the HUB’s just finally given you an outlet for it. Now the Coalition as a whole gets to see what levels of madness you’ve hidden away from us.” Bourbon gave Bull a smirk. “Bingo, although, come to think of it…” He turned his attention towards the rest of the assembly again. “I suppose most of them would very likely shoot me if I went for the full Monty on this one as it is.” They were all off in their own worlds, tending to their last-minute business. He hadn’t really paid much attention to them until now, though his moment of self-consciousness made him more aware of them. Not the matter of making a spectacle of himself; No, he had no shame, he couldn’t possibly embarrass himself. But the feelings that this place brought to him, the things that had happened here, he didn’t much care to make visible to these people. [Part 2]
Hello there, and welcome. I’ll keep introductions brief, as I’m here to share a writing story, not my life story, yes? This is my first time posting here, so I do hope this is up to snuff. It’s been a long time since I’ve put anything on display for public consumption, but it’s been suggested to me that this might be a good place to share this little project, and find potentially useful feedback, criticisms, and more. “Sea of Hope” is an ongoing passion project being worked on by multiple people. It’s been a labor of love that’s been in development for a long time, undergoing constant evolution. There’s a lot of plot and history that’s been developed, and much, much more still in development. We wanted to share some of that with you, in hopes that you might be interested in going on that journey with us, and discover why we’re as passionate about it as we are. Thanks for your time, and enjoy the show. Links [Part 2] >>//0740 Hours, 08 January, 2168 >>//Location: Old Gemini/Lost Twin >>//Sublocation: Clone Civil War Memorial >>//Terra Nova, Anastasis System, Mare Spera The ruins of the original Gemini Base were just as he remembered them: A desolate heap of rubble, destroyed far beyond any hope of repair. YC-012, “Bourbon”—As he was now known, much to his chagrin—stared up at the massive obelisk that loomed over the ruins. To say it towered above his head would be a pitiful understatement; it stretched so far above him that he could not see the top from where he sat. Its width was much more tangible, at least in the sense that one could circumnavigate the thing in a reasonable amount of time. All the same, he wouldn’t want to run a circuit around it; it would just as well become a marathon. The hexagonal pillar was darker than the abyss itself, a solemn reminder of the deaths it represented. The memorial’s surface constantly rippled and shimmered, forming fleeting constellations against the void of space. Those faux stars, however, consisted of the names of those who had fallen in the Clone Civil War; scrolling, flickering, fading, and appearing once again upon its surface from time to time. It was imperceptible from any sort of distance, and even up close one might find difficulty reading them due to the near-nanoscopic size of the text. The sheer number of names encompassed by the monolith demanded it. The trillions of names demanded it. At night, it was only visible due to the spotlights that were constantly shone against it, ensuring that it could never go unseen, the lives lost never forgotten. Bourbon supposed it likewise served the infinitely more mundane purpose of a safety precaution, of course, to avoid potential issues with any air traffic that may have been arriving or departing from the intact sibling base some distance away. As its name implied, Gemini had been built as two installations, conjoined by a tram system that ran between the two. It was, in essence, the Coalition of Clone Systems’ capitol. He could still remember when it was first constructed. They’d been the Coalition of Clone Nations back then. He could remember when nothing stood on Terra Nova, and the day they first stepped foot on it. How long has it been? He wondered to himself. He looked down at the stones he held in his hand, bits of and pieces of rubble that had been exposed to the elements long enough to begin eroding them. He rolled them about in his palm idly, contemplating the base’s state. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen it in this condition, though his last visit had seen him in a far less observant state. He would have bet money that these were the same stones he’d been fondling during his last visit, if he had any cash on him. Given that the CCS didn’t use currency, however, that would’ve made for a fairly hollow bet. That didn’t stop him from collecting banknotes from Earth whenever he could, of course. Earth memorabilia was still valuable on its own to the right individual. He continued to ponder the question he’d posed. How long had it been since the last time he’d seen the military installation intact? November 5th, 2048, he recalled. That was just under 120 years ago now. It was burned into his mind, as it was for many other denizens of the Coalition. That was the date that everything had fallen apart. Any clone who’d lived through that day would remember it well. Not just those who’d been stationed at Gemini, or even on Terra Nova, but across all of Mare Spera. It had been a lifetime ago now. No—Two…? Three…? He struggled to recount how many times he’d transferred from one body to another now, how many times he’d undergone transference. Sometimes he struggled to recount a lot of things, other times they came naturally. His mind swung like a pendulum between trying to erase it all and desperately clinging to whatever threads remained of his memory. So much had come unraveled. It was maddening, though part of it was his own fault. They didn’t call him “Bourbon” for nothing. He found one such thread, and took hold. He followed it backwards through time to revisit—Not for the first time, nor the last he suspected— the day of the surprise attack that launched the insurgency to come. Mounting tensions had come to a head, and fractured the Coalition. The rebels splintered off into their own faction, the Unified Clone Nations, and both sides spent plenty of time killing each other for the next two decades, leaving long-lasting wounds that still had never healed completely. Bastards didn’t even have the decency to come up with an original name. “Penny for your thoughts?” came the familiar drawl of an old friend. He reeled himself back in, looking up from his hand. He adjusted his sunglasses to peer over their rims at the man who’d addressed him. YC-087, “Bull,” stood ahead of him. The Coalition’s Commander-in-Chief was half-turned towards him, free of his aides for at least a moment. Bourbon wished he had a camera. The morning sun cast its soft golden rays across him, painting an image of him that many of the Coalition would’ve very much liked to see. He was wearing the full extent of his formal attire, sporting the deep red, pristine white, and dark blue uniform that was unique to his station. They were the colors of the Coalition’s flag. The blue was indicative of the void of space. The red and white represented the collided galaxies that formed “Mare Spera,” the “Sea of Hope.” It also served as a slight allusion to the Coalition’s Earthly origins in the United States military. He sported his ceremonial pauldron on his left shoulder, a remnant or replication of the retired GPAU armor. The GPAU had been their first real armor, as opposed to simple plate carriers and ballistic padding. It had since been replaced by the M-RAU and its subsequent iterations, a much more advanced armor system, befitting a civilization that trod the stars. Its purpose as a part of his uniform was purely for symbolism and aesthetics, with his other shoulder and forearms sporting the segmented angular plating that had become incredibly commonplace amongst Coalition uniform designs. The creases in his face seemed more apparent every time Bourbon saw him, and the circles under his eyes grew darker. It was hard to place the age of his current body, as it seemed keen on catching up to the age of his mind. Bull came into being in 1988, which put him at 179 years old as it was. Physical age meant nothing to a clone aside from the need for another body transfer and the physical therapy associated with it before they could get back to their duties, but to say age was “just a number” would be disingenuous. The wind blew gently through Bull’s cropped black hair. Bourbon could remember when Bull fancied himself a charmer, his hair longer and slicked back with pomade. At the time, paired with his personality, it had evoked the image of someone from an old Western movie. He played the part well, complete with drawl and Southern charm. While he had yet to lose his accent, and he could still play the part of the charismatic leader, he seemed to have lost interest in playing cowboy. Something subtle in his dark eyes told Bourbon that there might have been some hidden level of concern. That was fair, if he was being honest with himself. Bull was the one who’d discovered him here during his last visit five years prior, which had been a sordid affair. Bourbon realized he’d been staring stupidly at him as opposed to giving him an answer. Seeing Bull after all this time still felt strange to him. All the same, he’d left an uncomfortable amount of time between the question and a response. It took him a moment to remember what the question even was. He chuffed as he remembered, finally answering in his typical low, sultry voice as he readjusted his shades. “You couldn’t possibly hope to afford all my thoughts even at a penny a piece.” Bull turned to face him fully. “No? How about a dollar for the bushel, then?” Bourbon grinned, seizing the moment. He mimed a microphone with his free hand. “A penny for your thoughts, but a dollar for your insides, or a fortune for your disaster?” he belted out with gusto. He let his hand fall and shrugged, stating the next line with far less bravado. “I’m just a painter, and I’m drawing a blank.” “Your musical prowess leaves nothing to be desired,” Bull said, his tone flat in spite of an amused expression. “Save, perhaps, an answer to my question.” Bourbon took a deep breath and sighed, planting his elbows on his knees. He stared back down at the stones in his hand. He rolled one between his finger and his thumb, then let it drop. “Frankly, I would have been far happier had I never been made to step foot in this festering dungheap ever again,” he said. “Too many memories.” He rolled the stones in his palm again, hearing the clattering. He let another drop. His brow furrowed, and he nodded in the direction of the monument. “Too many ghosts.” He looked back up. “Had you told me when last we met here that I would once more find myself seated upon this same pile of rubble? I believe I promptly would have told you to shoot me on the spot.” Bull gave him a smug look. “You could always choose another assortment of rocks to perch on,” he offered. He gestured somewhere off to his side. “Those ones look mighty comfortable. You’re certainly not starved for choice.” Bourbon glanced towards the pile Bull had indicated. It was a spiny sea urchin of debris, bits and pieces of rebar thrusting outwards at all angles. He let yet another stone drop, shrugging. “I’ll pass,” he said, waving dismissively. “I prefer my seating arrangements a tad less likely to give me a case of tetanus.” “Well. You could always… Stand. Presuming that’s not too… Pedestrian for you,” Bull retorted, rocking on his heels as he emphasized the word. Bourbon gave a look of mock offense. “Like some kind of plebeian?” he gasped. “That you have the gall.” He paused and sighed, letting all the stones fall from his hand. He dusted his hands off, and pushed himself to stand. He held his arms out wide. “Satisfied?” he asked with a smirk. Bull chuckled, looking around at all the debris himself. There was a pause before he spoke again. When he did, there was a solemnity to his voice. “You know, when the orbital elevator collapsed,” he began slowly, pointing towards a spot not too far from where either of them stood. “I was standing… Right about there.” Bourbon followed his direction, then glanced back upwards towards the monument. “We were trying to secure the elevator. Just when we were sure we had it on lock, they must’ve detonated charges they’d placed somewhere up above.” The monument stood now where the orbital elevator once had, on its massive raised platform. It mimicked the shape as the elevator had, large and hexagonal, though not quite the same scale. It was centered the same, positioned the same, though lacking in dimension. Especially vertically. Saying such didn’t diminish the monument’s grandeur in any way, but rather put things into perspective. It was hard to compare anything to something that stretched beyond a planet’s atmosphere. Bull continued, looking upwards towards the sky, shaking his head. “Worst sound I ever heard, haven’t heard anything quite like it since. The whole thing started to flounder about, not being anchored anymore. Sound of metal twisting and groaning, that odd twang the cables made as they thrashed about. I looked up to watch as it warped and began to shake pieces off of it.” He squinted, clearly envisioning the moment. “You know what the damnedest thing is though?” Bourbon had a feeling he knew where Bull was going with the story, but didn’t interrupt. Instead he stood and listened, knowing Bull would continue of his own volition. “Watching the other half of it going up into space. One of the craziest things you can imagine, watching something that big just getting sucked out into the sky like that. That ain’t even the worst of it, though.” He turned back to Bourbon. “Worst of it was that I could make out something else moving up there. A ship.” He put on an expression of amusement, though he was certain it was only to cover the resentment he’d felt. “I could see that ship move in and intercept the station the elevator was anchored to. And they hauled the whole damned station away. Must’ve loaded up the elevator with as much as they could and figured to steal whatever they had still left on the thing. I can’t even begin to tell you what was running through my mind as I watched those bastards steal our elevator.” He chuckled, a hint of bitterness behind it. “Of all the outrageous things I’ve seen, I don’t think anything’s got my goat quite as much as that.” Bourbon glanced around. He replayed the events of the attack in his head. Things had been utter chaos the whole time, which distorted the timeline in his head to some degree. It didn’t help matters that it had been over a century ago. “I believe that was shortly after we secured the armory, or somewhere abouts. Chi had ventured off to retake the motor pool shortly prior, and I was off with a contingent of my own to take back the nursery.” So much of that day blended together, but he recalled the scene unfolding at the cloning facility well enough—He might have managed to scrub it from his memory, were it not for the fact that a living reminder of it was hounding him constantly as of late. “I recall it was near the end of the attack, at any rate. Seemed pretty apparent that we had the upper hand at that point, if it could be said as such.” He scoffed, turning his nose up at a thought. “Frankly, I’m still insulted by their choice of cliché. November 5th? Really? They really had to go and pick a date already associated with treason?” He rolled his eyes, taking a few slow paces forward, holding his arms aloft as he posed his rhetorical question. “They decided to go the route of “Remember, remember, the 5th of November,”enact their treason, then stole our bloody name while they were at it? What a joke, with a terrible punchline at that.” Bull arched a brow at him. “Would you rather they’d have chosen the 1st of November instead, or would you instead be chiding them for their missed opportunity?” “I would rather they’d not betrayed us at all, if we’re talking semantics,” Bourbon retorted. “Point,” Bull acknowledged. Bourbon gave him a shit-eating grin. “All the same, you would, however, be absolutely correct in assuming that I’d have simply taken the other stance. They’d be taking the piss from me in either instance.” He chuckled, moving towards the monument itself. The monument stood atop the platform their orbital elevator had once occupied, which thankfully had meant that it had a stable foundation as it was. It also made for a very large foundation. A few other things occupied the space as such. Presently, an entire assembly of people occupied the platform, in preparation for the ceremonies to come. Today marked the fifth-year anniversary of the officially declared end of the Hybridas Conflict. Yet another catastrophic war, though not one that the Coalition had in any way perpetrated. Rather, they’d been invaded by an outside force, the Hybridas. Giving the Hybridas any simple description was a relatively futile effort, though he’d have all day to revisit a description for them. They’d come from the nearby galaxy of Ptolmyra, which was governed by the Ptolmyran Confederacy. The Confederacy was, as one might anticipate, comprised of different groups of Xenos who’d banded together to form an alliance within their own space. The Hybridas were the product of a race who had not been playing by the Confederacy’s rules. Somehow, they slipped under the radar into Mare Spera, where it promptly started destroying entire Coalition worlds. Oops. The Hybridas weren’t their only creations. Nor were they the first of their creations to fuck over the Coalition in some capacity. No, they managed to wreak havoc on them far earlier on, during the Sigtri incident… Which would end up being one of the things to spark the Civil War in the first place. And as it would seem, they shared an even deeper history. In the end, they’d had far more influence over the Coalition’s history than they ever should have—Considering that their entire race had been dead before the Coalition ever even left Earth. A fact they only discovered when they tried to hunt them down, and found the Confederacy instead. With the Hybridas Conflict wrapped up, Confederate and Coalition leaders were ready to finally sit down and have a chat. They were expecting the Confederate leaders soon. Meanwhile, all of the Coalition’s major players were already assembled and waiting. He gave a sidelong glance at everyone as he strode closer to the structure, mentally taking note of everyone there. He knew he was the odd man out; he had far less business being present than everyone else. Andyet here you stand, Colonel, with a fraction of a galaxy in the palm of your hand… Aside from the entirety of Coalition High Command, there were the far more permanent objects around the monolith, namely a few terminals placed at regular intervals around the dark object. There was one larger, central terminal at what was deemed the front of the monument, which could be used to control the display on the obsidian surface. That was more or less to be the center point for the whole shindig, and Bull would be using it as a podium as he addressed the alien delegates upon their arrival. It could be setting to multiple different settings, all serving purposes more or less particular. The way in which the names appeared and disappeared, or scrolled, or even the ability to pull up specific units, ships, or other such things. Ship emblems or even silhouettes could cross the memorial’s dark surface, fleets crossing the space between stars as surely as the stars themselves were on it. Whoever had designed it had surely put a great deal of effort into it. Its default setting showed the constellations that made up their galaxy, and the names of the fallen made up their stars. The individual stars were comprised of the names of those who came from those systems. The idea was to represent their lives, as opposed to their deaths. It had been built after the Civil War, during a dark time. They’d won, but it seemed they’d lost infinitely more. Many lost the will to go on, and soon ceased to be. They had a new fight to win. A fight to survive, to keep people from giving up. The “Survivor’s War,” they called it. An apt, if uninspired description. The memorial had been painstakingly constructed in an attempt to commemorate the fallen, and hopefully raise morale. Whether or not it saw any level of success was certainly up for debate. He knew it didn’t do very much for him, not that he’d had many opportunities to witness it. Mare Spera was a big galaxy, and he didn’t spend much time around Terra Nova after the war. The obsidian obelisk represented something more than that, however. It was a promise. The monument itself was aptly named “The End,” which encompassed many things. It promised that the war was at an end, the violence was at an end. It promised that those who had met their end would not be forgotten. But most of all, it promised the end of death itself for the Coalition. The Lazarus Division of the CRDA managed to reconstruct their ability to create neural templates, mental back-ups. A “save point” in the event of death, to be recovered and transferred into a new body. One would lose their memories beyond that checkpoint, but they would live again, missing only a few months’ worth of time. There was the argument, of course, that it wasn’t really the same person. Whoever that person was, they had still died. This was a replication. This was how transference worked as well. When one’s body was no longer fit for the tour of duty, a new one was created. If one was lucky, they could get a solid 30 years or so out of a single body before having to switch. The mind was replicated, and they would shed their old body in favor of a new one, physically and genetically identical to their last—So long as they chose not to make any modifications, of course. The new body would contain the same consciousness as the last, the memories, knowledge, and feelings. There was an adjustment period as one went through physical therapy to become accustomed to their new self, and life went on for them. Everyone either had done it, or would do it at some point. Bourbon had done it, Bull had done it. And they would do it time and time again, for so long as they endured. For all intents and purposes, they had achieved some sense of immortality, so long as they chose not to terminate their line. Bourbon didn’t know if they’d ever permanently lost anyone after that, with the exceptions being those who voluntarily chose the end. He knew of only one odd instance where the backups were lost, for a single person, and it was still being investigated. Oddly enough, it was Chi, who he’d referenced mere moments ago in his conversation with Bull. Something about that didn’t sit well with him. Many things about her disappearance didn’t sit well with him. Of course, that was true of many things these days. Many would label him as conspiratorial, an alarmist, or in general just distasteful. They weren’t wrong, per se. He acknowledged that he was all of those things—Including distasteful, at times, depending on how much he was living up to his namesake. That didn’t mean he was wrong either, despite how often people discredited his efforts to raise concern about certain issues. It was all a matter of perspective, and he just continued to hang on to things that many considered dead and in the ground. Idealism and pessimism were a stone’s throw apart, and he had become quite adept at slinging stones. He realized that at some point while he’d been mulling things over, he’d found himself in front of one of the terminals. Not the main podium, but one of the smaller, plaque-like exhibits surrounding the structure. They could be used to pull up a great deal of information on the war, ranging from the particulars of separate battles to individuals’ entire service records. He idly inspected it, running a finger across its surface. Clean. It seemed someone had taken the time to dust them off for the ceremony to follow. A sense of uncertainty plagued him. He didn’t really know how long he’d been standing there staring at the thing. He felt a pang within him, a certain call, and a thousand images flashed before his eyes. One particular scene played out before him, as it had time and again. Something dark stirred in the corner of his vision, and a chorus of whispers, familiar yet unintelligible, echoed in the recesses of his mind. It wouldn’t do him any good to push them aside. There were few sounds he could recall from the memory, and none of them were words. There was a question that burned within him, longing to be answered. He contemplated using the terminal, but something else began to burn. Something in the back of his skull felt like it was on fire, and he felt like he was on high alert. Eyes. He could feel Bull’s attention on him. He was waiting expectantly. They both knew exactly what Bourbon was thinking about as he stood in front of the terminal. What he didn’t know, however, was whether Bull would be looking directly at him, or if he would be watching him out of his peripherals. Would he be pretending not to notice, or only marginally aware? Or staring directly at him? He wasn’t sure which scenario he liked better. None of them appealed, really. He was too sober for this shit. His hand fell away from the terminal. He decided to play it off. He closed his eyes and spun on his heel, running his hands through his long, dirty-blond hair to perform an exaggerated hair flip. When he opened his eyes, he put on his cockiest grin, bracing for impact. Bull wasn’t looking at him. He released the breath he didn’t know he was holding. Bourbon would’ve been in his peripheral vision, but the Coalition’s leader hadn’t turned to watch. That was the outcome he’d expected, and admittedly preferred. Bull wasn’t stupid, he knew what had just happened. He was undoubtedly aware that Bourbon knew that he was watching, directly or indirectly. He was feigning ignorance for Bourbon’s sake, rather than make him feel as though he was under the magnifying glass. He was thankful for it. He was waiting for Bourbon to approach the subject of his own accord, rather than initiate a confrontation himself. That was Bull’s way of operating. When it came to decisions that required immediate action, he didn’t hesitate. When it came to smaller things, however, he preferred a more tactful approach. He seemed to instead prefer putting pieces in place and setting them in motion, letting them unfold how they would. He always provided a way deeper in, and a way out. The door was open for whenever Bourbon wanted to confront the subject. If he wanted to. It was the secret he’d kept from the universe, the one thing nobody was ever meant to know. Bourbon had made the admission to him already, but hadn’t spoken of it again. It wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have. He hoped he’d be able to one day, but for now, he couldn’t. Bourbon stepped away from the wretched thing, before he made a stupid decision by changing his mind. “You know…” he began slowly, employing a mischievous tone. “I find myself thinking about how relentlessly dour this place truly is.” He sauntered towards Bull again, coming to stand at his side. He tilted his head to the side as he met his friend’s gaze. He gestured behind him. “The obsidian tombstone’s really quite nice, whoever put it together did a fantastic job. No sarcasm, full truth.” Bull’s stare was fixed straight ahead, in the direction they expected the rest of their party to come from. He took in a deep breath, bracing himself. “There’s either a “but” or a continuation to this line of thought.” “Oh, I’m simply idly musing at the idea of using the grounds as a venue for a heavy metal concert. We’ve already got an appropriate backdrop, and plenty of space. Set up a few pyrotechnics, and we could put on quite a show.” He stroked his chin as he pretended to be in deep thought, feeling his fingers running through his facial hair. “Maybe host it on the anniversary of the war’s end? The idea of the monument was to celebrate their lives, what better way to celebrate than with a music festival?” The Commander-in-Chief slowly turned his head to stare straight at him. His expression was utterly blank, and his eyes bore straight through him. “You’re proposing that we host a rock concert on what some people would view as being tantamount to Holy ground, and others would view as the graveyard of our hopes and dreams?” “Absolutely. And a fancy barbecue.” Bourbon wasn’t even remotely serious. He was moreso just trying to get a laugh out of Bull. He imagined the man didn’t do much of that these days. “The United States had Memorial Day back on Earth, right? Celebrate the lives of the fallen by hosting giant cookouts every year? Sometimes with fireworks and such? Would it truly be any different?” Bull’s stare turned incredulous, though his intonation remained flat. Bourbon was beginning to wonder if Bull actually realized that he was joking. “And I imagine you’d like to volunteer yourself to orchestrate the entire event?” “Who, me? No. I would never. Bull, I would never. Well. I might. Maybe. I might maybe definitely do that.” He shrugged. “Who better? Gaelia?” Bull stared for a moment longer, but the idea of CWAD’s cold leader hosting any kind of festivities was enough to finally break Bull’s composure. He finally cracked a smile and chuckled, and let out a sigh that might have been relief. “No, I suppose leaving such things to the professionals would be a better choice. Especially now that you seem to fancy yourself a rock legend anyway.” “Fancy myself?” Bourbon shifted his weight onto one foot, crossing his arms. “Oh, darling, everyone fancies me, regardless of whether or not they’re willing to admit it. They always have. I’m the idol everyone craves, here to bring some sound and vision to the dull, colorless lives of our people.” He made an exaggerated gesture towards the sky. “And beyond.” “How very noble of you.” “What can I say except “You’re welcome?" “And extraordinarily humble,” Bull chuckled, turning his gaze forward again. “Just remember what Lee said. As much as I’m sure the idea of amassing a collective of alien groupies is amongst your highest aspirations, and I know you do solong to wow them, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask that we keep our Summit as…” He paused. "Professional as possible. Save the dazzling for after we get into their good graces, if you would be so kind.” Bourbon mimed shock, placing a hand over his chest so as to indicate himself. He let out a mock gasp. “Are you implying that I would jeopardize our relationship with the Xenos? Good sir, I am surprised at you. When have I ever given you reason to believe I wouldn’t take such a thing seriously?” Bull gave him an incredulous look. “Okay, fine, you’ve made your point. And yet, here I stand. Normal uniform, no personal touches, as requested." He tugged at his leather jacket, spinning in place to display that he’d made no modifications to it. It only displayed the patches associated with himself and his unit, even as vibrant as they were. Other than that, there were only the fairly standard bits of armor that were part of many Coalition uniforms. His featured an armored collar that melded into a plating that protected his neck, upper back, and uppermost parts of his shoulders. The segmented plates likewise graced his upper arms and forearms. If he needed to get into a close-quarters fight, he would have been fairly well off. The jacket had seen minimal use. Bourbon had another similar jacket that he typically wore instead—One which featured a number of more personal details. The only “exotic” part of his outfit were his sunglasses, a pair of semi-square, angular aviators with side shields around the temples. The framing around the eyes were black and gold metal, while the arms were made of a matte black plastic. They sported red-mirrored lenses presently due to being in a polarized state, but he could transition them to clear if he so desired. He could use them as a Heads-Up Display in the event that he didn’t want to use his implants, which made them a useful piece of tech. He’d be taking them off when their company started arriving in full, for the sake of formalities and good manners. “I made sure to tidy up as much as possible,” he continued, extending a leg to indicate the crease in his pant leg. He then pulled up the pant leg itself to show off the shine to his boots. “And I’m sober.” He frowned deeply. "Painfully sober. I didn’t even take a shot before I came here. Surely that counts for something?” “It does. Speaking of dazzling, how’s that outfit of yours coming along anyway?” Satisfied, Bourbon crossed his arms. “It’s done. Had to sort of figure it all out myself, we don’t exactly have an overabundance of sequins lying about.” He smirked. “At least, we didn’t. But we did have an overabundance of gemstones that nobody was using…” “Oh no.” “Oh, yes, darling. I’d have worn it today if I could’ve gotten away with it. Niki wouldn’t even let me apply any eyeliner.” Bull blinked, momentarily taken aback by the remark. It only took him a moment to recover. “I don’t know how or why that statement surprises me, yet here we are. You’re committed to this bit now, aren’t you?” Bourbon huffed, baring a toothy grin. “Don’t you know who I think I am?” he shot back, harkening back to his earlier song reference. Not his favorite band, nor preferred genre, but he’d be damned if he was going to pass up the opportunity to make a musical reference. “The short answer is yes. Besides, I should think that given the day’s events, playing my part should be preferable, would it not? At least later on, when it becomes relevant. The long answer is that I’ve always been this way, just… More subdued? I should hope you’ve not forgotten.” “My office hasn’t rendered me senile, no.” “Yet.” “Yet,” Bull agreed. “All the same, no, I’ve not forgotten. You’ve always been one for theatrics.” He gave a subtle grin. “I suppose the HUB’s just finally given you an outlet for it. Now the Coalition as a whole gets to see what levels of madness you’ve hidden away from us.” Bourbon gave Bull a smirk. “Bingo, although, come to think of it…” He turned his attention towards the rest of the assembly again. “I suppose most of them would very likely shoot me if I went for the full Monty on this one as it is.” They were all off in their own worlds, tending to their last-minute business. He hadn’t really paid much attention to them until now, though his moment of self-consciousness made him more aware of them. Not the matter of making a spectacle of himself; No, he had no shame, he couldn’t possibly embarrass himself. But the feelings that this place brought to him, the things that had happened here, he didn’t much care to make visible to these people. [Part 2]
Choosing new sunglasses for everyday wear isn’t exactly rocket science, but there are a few things to consider before investing in your next pair. First, decide on the functional elements you need — like polarized lenses or coatings that combat reflections, water and oil — then pick out a frame shape that complements your face. The goal is to accentuate your best features, and in general Sunglasses for Square face shape. If you’re shopping for sunglasses for a square face, choose curved sunglasses designs that are wider – these will help soften sharp angles and balance your cheekbones. And for a bold statement, give cat-eye shades a try. Shop Glasses >> The hexagonal shape is inspired by the geometric designs of '50s and '60s. $95; WarbyParker.com Avoid sunglass blind spots with a frameless style. $168; Coach.com Next: 3 flattering pairs for a square face shape The Best Sunglasses for Every Face Shape Sure, sunglasses protect your eyes and help you see, but they can also lend an instant, undeniable cool factor to just about anyone. Aug 13, 2019 - Explore Mennah's board "Hexagon sunglasses" on Pinterest. See more ideas about hexagon sunglasses, sunglasses, sunglasses women. Diamond shaped face: If your face is narrow on your forehead and hairline is balanced with the chin, you can buy John Lennon's style of sunglasses (any color) or oversize. For example: Fendi - DeFender, Illesteva - Beak 53 , Valentino - Hexagonal oversized vlogo acetate. If you've got an oval-shaped face, lucky you! It's the easiest face shape to find shades for. It's characterized by balanced proportions, a narrow forehead and jaw line, a chin that is slightly Glasses for Round Face Shapes. Here’s a rundown of the best style and shapes of glasses to pair with a round face shape. When someone has what’s considered to be a round face shape, the height and width of the face are almost equal, and their cheekbones and jawline aren’t very prominent or defined. Choose your next sunglasses or eyeglasses based on your face shape. There’s a vast selection of Ray-Ban products for round faces and all other face types: discover how to pick sunglasses for your face shape by answering three simple question. There are different glasses for each face shape type. If the bottom half of your face is longer than the top half, you might have an oblong face shape. Ray-Ban Hexagonal Sunglasses, $153, Amazon; Ray-Ban Hexagonal Sunglasses $153.00. Amazon $153.00.
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