Date: 11th of Choiku, 223 AC, Voice:_____, Weather: Partly Cloudy
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Driving along the mountainside was one of the few breaths of fresh air Harold Wayming had from his suffocating responsibilities. The subtle shift of his body as the car turned left implied a weightlessness that Harold longed for, far away from the supposed love he was obliged to give his family.
“That bitch,” he muttered to himself.
“Telling me I’m thoughtless for not bringing along her brother to the goddamn club. He didn’t even want to go!”
His fingers clasped the steering wheel in rage, drawing the blood out and leaving them white as wallpaper. But his anger was open for no more than a minute before a mild wave of guilt set in, spreading from his heart outwards.
“Yeah, I guess it was thoughtless. I should’ve asked.”
Harold absent-mindedly listened to the NDG radio station. The chipper voice of the host was followed by a soft ballad from Harold's teenage years, lyricising about heartbreak but pounding on the rhythm of a funky soul.
All at once, the road straightened and Harold’s mind returned to the present. Ahead was a downslope of sharp curves, a test for advanced drivers. But with 252,200 KM on his small, blue, junkyard sedan, Harold was seasoned. He glided along the sharp bends with grace, slowing ever so slightly on the angular turns, maintaining a nigh-consistent speed through to the end of it.
At last, the road straightened again, allowing Harold’s mind to wander again. He thought back earlier on the day when he was smoking a cigarette next to the town hall building. He had just come back from a meeting discussing alternative sources of water for the town of Hagou. The current source, the river Chepps, had recently been tested and was found to have several contaminants. Harold thought it wasn't that much of a problem since rivers are moving bodies of water and thus would eventually just move the contaminants out into the sea. By his logic, at least.
As he smoked his cigarette, an old woman being pushed in a wheelchair by her daughter passed in front of him. Harold instinctually held his breath and lowered his cigarette downwards to the ground to prevent any smoke from getting in the way of the old lady, lest she combust. By his logic, at least.
But after this fond memory, he heard his wife Imogen scolding him in that sweet, melodious, passive-aggressive tone which somehow whittled away his self-esteem. It was puzzling to him how murderous he felt after a conversation with her despite her seemingly placid demeanour. Was he a bad person? Were other husbands any better? Was he doing good like the old preacher preached?
These thoughts promulgated through his consciousness so far that he nearly didn’t notice the person who fell from the sky onto the side of the road. The asphalt under his car popped as he slowly came to a stop, and he looked in the side mirror to check it out, but there was nothing apparent. He decided to get out to get a better look. He looked over at where he'd thought some object had fallen, but there was nothing evidently obvious, so he strode closer.
His work boots were imperceptible on the dense asphalt due to the mild winds which flew gracefully through his greying beard. He pinched his eyes to prevent tears from forming, but also to help focus on the area of interest. Across the guard rail, it was quite monochromatic, just random directions of grey rock, but in the distance he saw a faint sliver of colour other than grey. He approached closer and suddenly his eyes widened and he frantically jumped over. It was a human hand.
The hand was attached to a body, fortunately, which was enveloped in a pile of loose gravel that was swept away by Harold's brown overcoat. Sweeping away the gravel revealed the body of a young boy, no older than his son, with matte black hair and a formal uniform of some kind, singed in some places. Harold kneeled down and pressed his fingers into the boy’s neck to check his pulse. He was alive, but barely. He began gently slapping the boy on the cheek, beckoning him to wake up.
“Come on kid. Wake up. I know you’re in there.” Frantic pragmatic thoughts raced through Harold’s mind.
'I gotta get to a doctor. Nearest one's in Hagou, about 45 minutes away. Actually, maybe it’d be quicker to go home and get Imogen to-- oh god. I don't want to see that bit– her again.’
But this wasn’t the time to let his marital troubles endanger the life of a boy. He gently slapped the boy’s cheek again out of blind faith but this time, miraculously, the boy’s face started twitching, slightly annoyed by the middle-aged man slapping him incessantly.
Harold ceased his massage and stepped back cautiously, patiently waiting for the boy to speak. The boy stared back, patiently waiting for Harold to speak.
Both held curious eye contact for a few moments before the boy finally let out a nonchalant
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Harold replied.
Seconds of silence…
He began nodding his head in meaningless solidarity, to which the boy imitated as he looked around at his surroundings.
“Uh. Where am I?” the boy asked as he slowly pushed himself off the ground.
Harold pointed to the surroundings. “This road’s along the Delimin Mountains. Nearest town’s Hagou, ‘bout forty five minutes away.”
The boy continued to look at the surroundings in confusion.
“I have no clue where any of those are. Which district?”
Harold scratched his head.
“District? Well, we don’t have an official one. I guess the area, well, the state, is Winsol. That ring a bell?”
The boy muttered to himself. “States…states. Winsol? Wait."
He looked at Harold. "This isn’t Proxima.”
Harold nodded his head no.
“One level below it. Dista.”
A puzzled expression crossed the boy's face. He looked upwards and, sure enough, the plane of Proxima was suspended in space above the world he was standing on.
Harold eased as he saw the boy was more-or-less functional.
“You want a ride into town, son? See if you can contact anybody there.”
The boy nodded his head.
“Follow me, then.”
Harold turned back to his car and within two steps heard a blunt ‘THUD’, indicating the boy wasn’t fully functional and needed medical help fast. With military efficiency, Harold ran towards the boy’s fallen body, picked him up onto his shoulders, and powered back to the back seat of his car where he lay the boy. Quickly, he entered the driver’s seat and raced off to his home.
The Delimin mountain road dissolves into the long stretch of the Novela desert. The sand is cerulean-blue and coruscates from the divine light of the lifestar. Animals are sparse in the desert, but the few that exist are at home in the arid climate. One can observe the hoptries, furry animals akin to alpacas who hop around as their primary means of transport as they only have three legs. They attentively observe the cerulean floor, carefully looking out for curved stems signifying the location of Gogol fruits. When pulled out, the round-flat fruit lights up in a soothing rose hue as it reacts with the air surrounding it. The hoptries toss it into the air and gulp it down in one strong bite. Their heads shake spasmodically as the acidity of the fruit and popping quality of the stem work in tandem to provide an intense sensual experience and sufficient nutrition to the hoptri sense and diet.
As Harold’s junkyard sedan sped along the road a small group of hoptries frantically jumped out of the way, their silky fur waving furiously from the car's windy wake. The boy woke up to the ambient rumble of the car and turned himself over to look out the window. He noticed something peculiar. Up ahead the sand seemed to be a constant blue but on the side, where the sand was racing past him, it took on a variegated quality. As he thought about an explanation for this phenomenon, Harold noticed the boy alive in the rearview mirror.
He chuckled in relief. “Make up your mind, kid. You clocked out or not?”
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
The boy considered the question seriously and responded soberly.
“I’m…not sure how I’ll be. I’m not hurting anywhere, I just feel, tired.”
Harold nodded his head in understanding.
“Alright. Well, while you’re still kicking, why don’t we introduce ourselves. What’s your name?”
The boy was about to respond but held himself back, hesitant to answer the question immediately.
After a quiet deliberation, he finally let his name out.
“Apec.” he manufactured.
Harold nodded his head again, apparently understanding, but asserted flatly.
“You’re lying.”
A lump of fear formed in the boy’s throat. He suddenly had a feeling he was trapped in the rusty car, like it was a metal prison. He looked around irrationally for a means of escape until his eyes caught Harold’s gaze in the rearview mirror. He was smiling pleasantly and explained to the boy, “I’m a Laetig.”
The boy sighed in defeat, knowing it was useless to try and lie.
“Mathis,” the boy exhumed.
“Mathis…Mathis.” Harold repeated the name quietly, attempting to locate where it was from. “Mathis. That’s uh, from, uh…no…Yeah I don’t know.”
“As far as I know, somewhere in Deuts. In Proxima.” Mathis informed.
“Ah! Deuts. They’re known for uh, whiskey, right?”
“Yeah. Right.”
“Are you from Deuts?”
“No. I’m from the Violet Sea District. It’s a little town called Pomohei.”
“Oh! Pomohei! Yeah. I’ve been there!”
Mathis twisted his head slightly.
“How do you…when?”
“It was a meeting in Ibanka. We stopped over in Pomohei, had lunch at–what was it called? Tap–,Tapestry? No. Tepos, tepis”
“Tepista Farmhouse” Mathis finished.
“Yeah, yeah. Tepista Farmhouse. I remember having a beautiful panini sandwich there. Damn bread was flavourful! Washed it down with a gorgeous hourglass fog. Looked great, tasted even better! I even bought one of those local drinks from a distillery. That was a—holy crap—” Harold turned in excitement and faced Mathis.
“Y'all a bunch of drunks. No offense.”
Mathis nodded his head amusedly.
As Harold toned down, he looked off in the distance with nostalgic eyes.
“Yeah. I liked that place. How’s it standing today? Tepista, I mean.”
“Got burned down a couple years ago.”
“Oh.”
After a few seconds, Mathis explained.
“It got run-down by a group of Pomohei natives.”
“Yeah. That makes sense. I’ve heard mountain people don’t really take kindly to Terran imports.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“How about you? Are you a native, or–”
“Haven’t a clue. Don’t know my parents.”
Harold raised his eyebrow.
“An orphan? In a native Rhylean town? How in god’s name did you survive?”
Mathis shrugged his shoulders.
“Kept to myself for the most part. My guardian was also pretty tough on any vandals.”
“Who was your guardian?”
“Guy named Percy Meilsto.”
“Sounds like a decent lad, taking care of you and whatnot.”
Mathis winced as he had his own opinions of Percy, but agreed nonetheless.
“Yeah. I guess.”
Harold sensed Mathis’ reticence, but let it go out of respect.
“I never really understood that, the whole family-above-all thing. I mean, I understand the benefits of having a family. I, you know, love mine.” Harold himself winced at the statement, grateful he wasn’t with another Laetig.
“But to cast out another person for not having those roots. I mean, it’s mean, isn’t it? It’s like if someone told you he was feeling lonely and you just insult him, calling him a loner and a loser, that it’s his fault, blah blah. No! That guy needs help more than anything! He needs your help to feel that he matters in the world and that others would be there for him. Same with the orphans. They feel lonely not having a family and whatnot. You don’t outcast them! Or lynch them! Or treat them like stray dogs! They need your help in feeling that they do have a family! You should be adopting those kids! Not reproaching them!”
Harold looked over at Mathis, waiting for an affirmation of his points. “You know?”
Mathis had tuned out a little, but he’d gone over this argument so many times with Percy and others that he was familiar with the rebuttal a native Rhylean would likely make. “Yeah. That would be nice. But in the stories, it’s the adopted orphan who ends up imploding the family at the root, causing immense destruction to the entire village.” Mathis waved his hands around to comically signify the magnitude of such a travesty.
“Bleh. It’s a damn story, not reality. I swear, we gotta get out of this mediaeval mindset that the most important quality of an individual is the family he’s born in, and his life destiny is to carry on his mother’s legacy as a…hut maker or something. I mean, Terra brought ideals of individuality and social mobility. The cities that have adopted it have been prosperous as anything! It’s these damn nobody towns that refuse to let go of the past a--” Harold stopped sharply out of fear he’d accidentally gone too far and offended Mathis, but when he looked back and saw him nodding in agreement, he loosened in relief.
“Sorry for just going on like that.”
“No! No. It was, interesting. I agree. These towns do need to grow up. But, I don’t know. I guess in another lifetime.”
A gas station approached the junkyard sedan, reminding Harold to check his fuel situation.
“I gotta fill up ahead. You want something? Drink? Snack?”
Mathis was about to refuse, but a parchedness in his throat spoke otherwise. He nodded yes.
“Anything in particular?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
The junkyard sedan slowed to a stop upon the blue sandstone of the remote gas station. On the front, a neon sign blazed ‘STEM PODS 3.99,’ and below it an angular metal ice cooler. Harold exited the car and fumbled around his wallet whilst Mathis looked out the window in amazement at a hoptri balancing solely on its front leg, its hind legs parallel to the floor. He wondered if a human could do something like that.
‘Must require a great deal of core strength’.
When Harold left the car for the station shop, Mathis opened the door to test if he could walk again. His first step was wobbly, but he pressed on, placing his other leg on the floor and balancing himself by holding on to the car door. He then took a few steps towards the edge of the gas station, each one better than the previous, until all at once his knees buckled and he fell onto the blue sand. On his knees, he observed the sand pass through his fingers. It didn’t seem to stick at all. He exercised his fingers, balling them into a fist and stretching them out as far as possible, repeatedly. He then decided to see if his Kan abilities still worked as well. From his left arm, he summoned a blade which looked strong as ever from the outside, but Mathis knew and felt it was internally lacking intensity. But, for what he’d just been through, it was a hopeful development.
As the blade receded back into his arm, Mathis noticed something odd in the sand. It looked like a curved stem of sorts. Mathis’ curiosity overtook him and he impulsively pulled it out. The stem broke, leaving whatever was still under grounded in the sand. Mathis investigated the broken stem closer, taking acute notice of the irregular bumps and ridges which embedded the loop. He decided to put half the stick in his mouth to see what it tasted like and immediately felt a surprising but welcome series of pops which traversed the entirety of his tongue and mouth. After the popping sensation subsided, a pleasing sweetness promulgated through every one of his taste buds, mixing with saliva and ultimately creating a small deposit of saccharine liquid which Mathis swallowed heartily. He looked back at the hoptri standing on one leg and noticed the same twig hanging out of its leather mouth. He chuckled.
With heavy breaths, Mathis stood himself up and walked around the gas station lot. He breathed in through his nose and exhaled through his mouth. After a few breaths, his nose was dry as bone, and he began to realise just how barren the climate was here. He looked back towards the shop and saw Harold browsing through a selection of cold drinks with a couple of snacks pressed against his chest. A small pang of homesickness stabbed his stomach but it receded just as quickly by a salient rumbling, signalling his ravenous hunger.
All of a sudden a brash wind passed behind Mathis, prompting him to turn around in curiosity. He was puzzled by the mechanical man who stood inert on the desert road. He was seven feet tall and looked to be composed entirely of robotics save his left arm which was inhumanly muscular.
But Mathis wasn’t quite sure if the man was really there or not as the setting sun began forming long, hollow shadows on the landscape. The image of the man also shimmered in and out, prompting Mathis to believe it must have been some kind of mirage.
Regardless, he approached the man, curious to know his name, but as he got closer the man seemed to morph into another being. This one was slightly shorter and had shoulder length hair with piercing red eyes. Mathis’ heart skipped a beat and he stopped in his tracks. From the back of this man a beautiful linework of butterfly wings arose. They were prominent closer to the man’s body, but they were ephemeral as they spread outwards. The image of the man began to fade as well, leaving hollow imprints of the dusky landscape.
Two steps closer to this strange figure and the long hair became ever longer and the man became a mature woman. At this, Mathis completely froze. The woman was divinely beautiful. Her face was flawless and her body was curved in a near-perfect hourglass. She was the kind of figure that would intimidate most people by her sheer beauty, but her eyes spoke a gentle loving quality, inviting anyone in. Something in Mathis stirred. A yearning for the care and attention of this woman possessed him yet his feet remained planted on the ground.
As he stared in awe at the divinity in front of him, the figure began passing away into the ether. Suddenly, multiple people began appearing in front of him, tableauxing in dramatic scenes which Mathis swore he’d never seen before. Yet, they seemed so familiar. The images came and went phantasmagorically, and eventually they were all that occupied Mathis’ consciousness. He was enveloped in the living dreams and slowly forgot about the gas station and his previous life. This was a new world…
Harold exited the shop and called out to Mathis while looking at the nutrition information on the peppermint tea bottle. “Bad news Mathis. The communications towers have been shot in the Violet Sea District. It might be a while before y–” he noticed Mathis laying on the sandstone unconscious.
Quickly, he placed the drink and snacks on the hood of the car and ran towards Mathis’ unconscious body to check his pulse.
There was none.