Elinor Chapter 6

Posted on by

Finally got done slacking off working very hard, so I was able to finish this up for y’all! 🙂

 

 

Chapter 6

 

 

The thing that had been Ell’s mother rose from its seat, wrapping its cold fingers around Ell’s neck, staring down at her with bloodshot, lidless eyes.

“You’ve lost so much, Elinor. Your home, your mother, your sanity. You blocked it all away. You hid in your fantasy. You coward.”

Ell let out a strangled gasp as its grip tightened .

“It’s your fault. You made this happen. I would have loved you forever, dear. You were my precious little girl, my baby girl. And you paid me back with this.”

Bones shrieked as the Whisper tried to move its head, succeeding only in further tearing its decomposing neck muscles.

Ell struggled to draw breath, rasping out words in short bursts. “I… didn’t…”

“You did. You did, you did, you did. The knife was sharp, but your wrist was weak. You left me like this, to drown in my own blood, to die on the floor! Can you imagine the pain as my life leaked away? I couldn’t even scream. All I could do was lie there as you stared at me, waiting to make sure I would die. Do. You. Remember?”

And Ell did remember. She remembered forgetting something, purposely cutting it out of her mind forever… and she never, ever wanted it to come back.

As if sensing her thoughts, the Whisper increased pressure, shaking Ell like a rag doll. Its voice grew more menacing with every passing second, turning slowly from human to monster.

“You don’t deserve this, Elinor. I loved you, yet you are the one still alive. I cared for you, but in the end you get a warm home and I get a little box under the ground, with no light and no air and no one but the worms to talk to. You hateful little creature. You should be the dead one.”

“Stop… please…”

The school was peeling away, the walls stripped to bare boards, the floor rolling like the ocean. The roof tore away, whirling up into a cyclone of eyes turning in the Whisper’s black pupils. Its mouth opened, stretching grotesquely, wide enough to encompass Ell’s whole head as it slurred out words. Every syllable seemed to drag, as if played from a wind-up music box that had run down.

“Die for me, dear. Show your remorse. Show me that you love me. Join me here. Join me in this pretty little grave. A quick stab would be enough, plenty of glass and sharp wood around you. Or a jump through the window. The power box has loose cables; a little shock, a minute’s pain, and you’ll be with me. We’ll be together, Ell. Together forever.” Its voice became a shade more human, “I miss you, Ell.”

Ell felt hot tears running down both cheeks. She couldn’t breath. Her head hurt. It was taking all her will to stay sane this close to the Whisper. And the sad truth was, she really did want to die.

She had lived all this time in her own world, alone, safe, happy. Mei was there if she wanted a friend, a friend who never left, who would never disappear, who would always listen, always care about her. But now she saw how things truly were. She thought she had been rescued, but in truth she had never left that little white room. Inside there was pain, but the pain was familiar. Outside there was chaos and terror and new ways to hurt. For all these years, she had shut it out. And now this thing, this monster in her mother’s skin, stood before her, stood inside her unbreakable fortress, and there was only one way out. An awful, unthinkable way, a freedom from the guilt that ate at her, from the past she had buried.

She looked up, and the Whisper was no longer there. The room had filled with a wispy fog, hiding whatever lurked near her, but she could still feel its stare. It was there, wrapped in the mists, waiting. Watching.

A breath of wind wormed through the cracks in the roof, toying with Ell’s hair as she approached the closest wall. Her limbs felt stiff, her eyes glazed and unfocused. The gym’s paneling was intact; the destruction of the room had been a figment of her imagination, a nightmare brought on by the sudden madness.

Ell rapped her knuckles against the hardwood, testing its strength. Sturdy, but weather-beaten. There were weak spots, mildew-eaten patches. One such section was about her size, waterlogged and sagging inward. She lifted a leg, lashing out with her heel.

The first kick hurt her foot; there was a support beam behind the wall. A drop of white-hot anger fell in the emotional void consuming her heart, and she struck the wall again, this time with all her strength. The wood bucked and caved with a crack like a gunshot, tumbling outward into the empty night.

It landed moments later, splintering on the pavement far below.

Ell peered out the opening, observing the outside world with disinterest. From where she was, it was a two-story drop down. At ground level was the school’s entry road, cracked and old and full of potholes. To her left, the road lead around to the front of the school, back toward the direction she had come from. To the right, it twisted off into the blackness of the forest. Everything was shades of shadow, colorless in the night.

The fog had grown thicker, curling up around her, creeping across the street below. It smelled odd, too, a familiar acrid scent. She ignored it, focusing on the task at hand. Two stories wasn’t far, but if she did it right and landed on her head…

Or she could fail, and break her legs or back instead. No one would find her here, and she could never drag herself to civilization with a broken bone. The prospect of slowly dying of starvation was not an appealing one. The thought of dying at all made her eyes begin to tear up again. Father would never know what happened to his little girl. No one would ever find her body. And poor Mei…

Then she finally saw it. Something that, until that point, been hidden in the low fog. Her eyes widened briefly as realization slowly dawned on her, and her mouth turned upwards in a surprised smile.

Mei was there on the ground, arms stretched wide, waiting to catch her if she fell.

Footsteps clattered behind her; the whisper had felt her mood change, had grasped what was occurring. Ell turned slightly, saw it lunging at her, its face contorted in a rictus of hate… and, with a smile still on her lips, she let herself drop.

The fall was a short one. A sudden rush of air, a blur of stone and fog as the walls rushed past, and Ell landed squarely in Mei’s arms.

The impact jarred them both, and Mei staggered a bit, half-dropping her human friend. Ell regained her footing as quickly as she could, wincing slightly as her feet struck the solid earth. Her heart was pounding from the adrenaline rush, thundering in her ears, but as far as she could tell, she had remained uninjured from the fall.

The Whisper had jumped, too. Ell didn’t realize it until the thing came crashing down a yard away, its tortured lungs letting out the most hideous scream she had ever heard in her life.

Bones snapped, something squished, and the Whisper lay still.

Ell blinked, taking a step back. She half-expected it to spring back to life, to lunge up and strike at her, but it did not. The grotesque creature remained where it was, slowly melting into the concrete.

A gust of wind shook the trees around the girl, sending a chill rattling up her spine. The hole she had jumped from seemed an eternity away, a great darkness high in the wall. It was only from below that she truly realized how long a drop it had been. If Mei had not been there to catch her…

“Thank you, Mei… I thought I was going to die.”

Mei nodded weakly, shrinking back down onto the pavement. Shadows weren’t supposed to be three-dimensional, but this wasn’t the first time she had left the flatness of the planes she usually occupied. Doing so wore her out, however, and she didn’t do it much. Ell generally discouraged it for fear that the shadow girl would overexert herself, but this time she was very glad for it indeed.

She took a tentative step forward, wincing as her foot came down. The landing had hurt, but at least she wasn’t…

Wasn’t dead. She let herself think it, and the thought made her feel ill. She could have really died. She could have vanished from the world, just like the others she had seen back home. Her body would have stayed, but her mind would be a big black hole, with no Ell inside.

“I… I don’t feel well at all. I think… I think I need food. I haven’t eaten for a bit now. Not that I’m complaining, you see. Just daddy says I need to eat, or I… I won’t… ugh…”

She bent over and vomited on the pavement. She hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours, so it didn’t take long to empty her stomach. Dry heaves followed, one after the other, until she was left curled in a ball, arms around her knees, shaking.

Mei curled around Ell, conforming to the human girl’s silhouette on the pavement. Her head pressed against Ell’s, her round eyes arched upward in worry.

“It’s… okay. I’m okay. Just feel a bit… sick. Need to eat something soon.”

A cloud of cold fog rolled over the pair, blown by the light wind. The breeze also carried the sharp, stinging smell of wood smoke.

Ell lifted herself up on one arm, scanning the woods for the telltale flare of a campfire. The possibility of encountering other people out in the wilderness didn’t even register; the light was all she needed. A glow to pass the night under.

Glancing about she found the source of the smoke, and her heart sank.

The school was on fire. Smoke was curling from the first-floor windows, and an ominous orange glow radiated through cracks in the wall. The blaze was spreading, too, tracing a slow but steady path through the bowels of the building. The muffled crackle of burning wood became the roaring crash of a floor collapsing, and flames began to curl about the second-story window frames.

Ell rose slowly to her feet, carefully avoiding the mess she had left on the road. “Fire… but the wood was soaked. There was nothing to burn…”

Mei signed a few words, her outline growing more distinct in the increasing light of the fire. B-A-D W-I-R-E-S.

“Wires… oh, electrical wires. I guess that could start a fire. I wonder why they left the power on? No one’s been here for forever. All the books have been moved out, too. Daddy said that regular schools have tons of books, and I didn’t even see-”

A man rounded the corner of the school, and Ell nearly jumped out of her skin.

He was not a short man, but he didn’t seem unusually large, either. A dark-colored mask of some sort covered his face, the firelight reflecting off the round glass eyes. Aside from the mask, his build and looks culminated in the sort of ordinary that people tend to ignore, right down to his battered leather jacket and worn jeans.

The man saw her immediately, freezing in his tracks. He was holding a plastic canister in his left hand, an object Ell instantly recognized. Marylin, the gardener back home, used one to refill the lawn mower when it ran out of gas. A fuel canister. But why would he need that…

It was the other hand that worried her more. She new little of guns, but even so, she could tell that the weapon the man held was somewhat more sophisticated than a standard hunting rifle.

A gun designed for hunting people, not animals.

With great care, the man set down the gas can, moving his weapon so that his body partially obscured it. His voice, when he spoke, was largely muffled by the mask he wore, but Ell was still able to make it out.

“Are you… Ellie?”

Ell didn’t answer.

“It’s okay, Ell. I’m Roy Morwin, I work with Lakewood Search and Rescue. I’m here to help you. Are you hurt?” He took a step forward, the gun clicking against something metal in his back pocket.

Ell took a step back. “How did you find me?”

The man hesitated. “We found the train. There weren’t many people on board, so we figured out you were missing pretty quickly. I’ve been tracking you all night.”

“Will you take me home?”

Another pause. “Yeah. My car’s a bit far off, but if we go to it, I’ll drive you right home. I’m sure they miss you, Ellie. Let’s hurry now, okay? Everything is okay.”

He was lying.

She didn’t know how she knew, but there was no doubt in her mind. The way he said the words, the way he held himself, the smooth, calming tone he used, like how one speaks to a cornered dog. She didn’t trust him at all.

“Why do you have a gas can?”

Roy stopped again. The only sound was his breath hissing softly in and out of the mask’s respirators. Inside the school, the fire had almost reached the second floor, and the muted roar of the inferno blended with a cacophony of snapping, flaring wood.

“Ell, listen to me…”

Ell inched back a step, and Roy moved like a striking snake, whipping the rifle up, locking the bolt in the same motion. Ell tried to duck out of the way, knowing that it was futile; Roy was only fifteen feet away, a point-blank shot, even with a rifle. A novice could have hit her at that range, and there was no way Roy was a novice. He had clearly done this before.

In the end, he never pulled the trigger. A deafening crash from the now-skeletal remains of the school turned his head; it also saved his life. A massive beam, engulfed in roiling flames, had come lose from the wall, tipping outward, descending on the two like a heaven-sent sword of fire. Roy hurled himself backwards as the building continued its collapse, showering him with live embers and bits of burning material. The gas can he had been carrying was mostly empty, but there was still a small quantity left, enough to ignite with a dull thump under the sudden firestorm.

Roy batted away a burning chunk of drywall with his forearm, swearing as something burned his leg. He brought his rifle up to face-level, aiming blindly into the cloud of sparks and smoke.

Something moved beyond the blaze, and he squeezed off three shots in rapid succession.

He thought he saw his target stagger slightly; then the cloud of smoke consumed him in choking, churning blackness.

 

As the wall peeled away, falling in fiery ruin on her assailant, Ell didn’t waste a single moment. Pausing only to grab Mei’s hand, she turned and ran up the road, away from the school, away from Roy and his black mask, away from the memories now burning in that great funeral pyre. It did not matter that she ran into the darkness. There was no thought now but flight, escape from the immanent danger of the hollow orange light. Her feet pounded on the pitted pavement, drumming out all other noise.

A sharp crack sounded behind her, and an old tree to her left splintered, wood chips stinging her cheek. The second bullet missed as well, passing her at incredible speed, thudding against something far ahead.

The third shot struck her shoulder, knocking her forward. She almost fell, but righted herself quickly, still running, not comprehending what had happened.

The pain came an instant later, a crimson wash of agony that ripped into her brain with deadly ferocity. Her arm went numb, flopping uselessly at her side, sending waves of pain hammering into her skull with every step. The stars grew black above her; what little light there was faded away.

Her knees struck the pavement, her leg muscles still twitching, trying to propel her onward. With the last of her strength, she reached out, grasping at the air, searching for something, anything…

And Mei was there, standing before her, gripping her hand with a soft strength no human could hope to muster.

“Mei,” she whispered, and her thoughts became tiny bubbles, popping one by one, until all that remained was a dream floating in the darkness. A quiet dream, comforting in its terror.

A dream of a white room…

Of Light and Metal: The Droplets Fall (Pt.1)

Posted on by

Ave, peoples!

Below is the beginning of a random short story project I imagined recently. There isn’t much I need to say about it, except that it’s subject to change and currently unrelated to any other of my former, present, or future works. (Note: There is slight profanity in it, and you will see more in Pt.2, thus why I’m placing this short story in “Restricted”. Just a quick warning here.)

Basically, I wanted to put something out there I was comfortable sharing, to show that I’m still writing! 🙂

 

 

Observer sat placidly on his work stool, crafting a sculpture of solidified cerulean light utilizing a simplistic carving nail and hammer from a block of the material six feet high and two feet in diameter. The Hardlight glowed faintly and white filaments inhabited its mass.

Its shaper turned the nail in his six-fingered, ghost-pale hand to the correct angle for his next cut, and impacted the peg’s rear with a deliberate hammer blow; a thin shard, separated from its body, flew from the to-be sculpture and fell to the ground by Observers feet. Weakened, it struck the ground and shattered like feeble glass.

Observer cut again, and again, every blow perfectly executed. The carving took shape. A towering spire of immaculate design, characterized by smaller barbicans jutting from its slating sides, windows, balconies, and grooves etched from its base to pinnacle. After a spell, he stepped back to inspect his work, and found it pleasing. ‘Two billion, seven fifty six million, one hundred four one thousand, nine three eight hundred.’ Noted the craftsman.

Time had no basis with Observer, but he could have estimated the carving of this creation consumed a mere four hours. He retired his nail and hammer to their resting places in the stool’s compartments, and looked about him to refresh himself.

His surroundings comprised a white environ of great expanse; there existed no skyline, only an atmosphere of eternal pure-white. Observer called it his “work habitation”; one of three sections in his semi-pocket dimension hidden in the universe.

‘That should do for the moment.’ He decided, referring to his latest creation. Following this decision, he walked to the right and set both feet on an invisible trigger. A square of ground before him separated into equally-sized steps as thin and flat as blades that formed a straight, descending staircase. Observer went down these steps to a chamber forty feet below the “work habitation”.

The chamber was dedicated to a multifarious collection of every sculpture and construct the craftsman had ever made. Every imaginable shade of Hardlight material illuminated the chamber halls. As Observer continued forth, he glanced indifferently at his reflection in one of the many glass windows that encased the carvings.

He was lanky, with long arms and gangly legs, six fingers and six toes on each hand and foot. His skin was ghostly white and had the texture of sandpaper. His face, like that of a human, held black and green eyes, and a mouth which was never opened. He possessed no hair, and wore a simple robe of the selfsame white as most else in his dwelling.

Observer did not tarry long in the Collection Chamber, walking along a forward row of sculptures to a nameless door on the far end. He touched its surface with three fingers and it promptly dissipated to nothingness. He entered the zone beyond. Once he was in, the door reappeared, barring the entrance once more.

He now stood on the plateau overlooking an immeasurable ocean several dozen feet below. Behind him, the great expanse of white dominated, but for a small crystalline device three meters from the plateaus end. This “device” was the Deathsum; it retained the arcane ability to sense all sentient life in the universe. Whenever a being perished, when life’s withdrawal seized them, the Deathsum released a droplet of water from a miniscule spout that then fell into a small basin. From the basin, the droplets were diverted along a groove in the ground running from it to the plateaus end, where they plummeted down to assimilate with the incalculable ocean. Presently, it dripped consistently, though not quite a stream.

Observer managed the Deathsum, and had witnessed for a time so vast he could not recall its full length, the water droplets that solemnly represented every death wrought in the wayward universe…

 

* * *

“If this doesn’t count as an obstruction of general maintenance code,” mumbled Creain Crosspiece, “than I could get away with murder.”

He stared, infuriated, at the remnants of his Entrant H.A.-Ver.55 Mech, which was now a heap of heat-blackened metal armor, weaponry, and sophisticated components. Creain had piloted the once-proud war machine in the 7th Altercations Skirmish three days ago; the battle was fought in and around a canyon on Destitute (a partly terraformed moon orbiting the inhabitable planet Ezinth) and transpired over a grueling period of approximately two weeks from 22:00 hours on April 19th to 6:00 Hours on May 3rd (Earth time). Creain had been given orders to position his mech on the edge of the canyon and rain explosive hell on the enemy below. Two other Entrant H.A.-class mechs had accompanied him, and for the better part of the first week they carried out their task without major incident.

Then, the opposition got privy to the Heavy Artillery units pertinence to the decimation of their forces, and sent A.L. Hybrid Pernix Mechs to dispatch them. The Pernix Mechs were several fractions smaller than the Entrant H.A.-class war machines, and what was more, Creain and his companions had their vehicles in “Emplacement” mode; thus, the team of twelve Pernix-class Mechs overwhelmed them. Even with the perimeter defense capabilities active, the opposition utilized their superior speed and agility to wreck the Heavy Artillery units. Marx’s, one of the two other Mech Pilots, had sustained enough damage his Mech’s core had nearly gone critical and he was ultimately killed. The second pilot, Sevent, escaped to fight another day just like Creain had, but also just like Creain, his Entrant was a mess of scrap.

After the end of the two weeks, Creain’s people—the New Allied Humans (N.A.H.)—had stepped from the smoke of battle victorious. Sinew Canyon, as it was called, belonged to N.A.H. forces now.

Creain’s wrecked Entrant underwent transport from its destruction site to the Mech Bay on the N.A.H. Land Invasion Transporter Mother of Operations IV. The L.I.T.’s, an odd acronym, as military abbreviations tendency is, were mobile operations platforms of formidable size. They carried troopers, armaments, ammunition, supplies, and vehicles from Command Cruisers in the atmosphere and transported them planet-side. L.I.T.’s can either land on the given planet’s surface, or can suspend themselves midair wherever is possible; the platforms themselves were intimidating movable fortresses with personal defense and offense capabilities, and were utilized as in-field Command Centers. Some L.I.T. even had I.C.B.M. Launch Capabilities.

Now, as Creain stood aboard the Mother of Operations IV inspecting his ruined war machine from a scaffold, someone shouted up at him.

“Hey, Crosspiece!” Creain turned his attention to a lone man on the bay floor below, who promptly waved his arms to further beckon the distressed Mech Pilot.

Creain strolled down to floor level, and was greeted by the upbeat persona of J. Gerrisan, Tactical Strike Pilot of a K.Z.R.-98 Jet. Gerrisan typically used Frag-ballistics missiles as his payload; strafing the enemy side of the combat zone with exploding, napalm-packed shrapnel was a hallmark he made whenever cleared for a bombardment run. Moreso he was ordered in for Tactical Strikes, as was his designation, but salvo runs had always been his true style. Creain would have sworn he was a hyperactive killing machine when immersed in the adrenaline of combat, judging by his flight techniques, maniacal stunts, and average kill rate; and who would be the wiser on that subject? They were lifelong friends, after all.

“Creain! It’s good to see you in one piece!” the Jet Pilot said enthusiastically, having met his friend at the scaffold’s bottom. “Can’t say the same for your machine there, though.”

“Thank you, Jirrn. I would’ve never come up with that diagnostic.” Creain returned irritably, using his friend’s first, rarely-mentioned name. Almost everyone referred to him as “Gerrisan”, minus Creain, a Gunship Pilot both knew as a friend, and occasionally their superiors.

Gerrisan frowned. “Your sarcasm is blatantly obvious, friend.”

“Well, what of it?” returned Creain.

“Come on, your machine got busted—I get that. But lighten up, man! We took the Canyon!” Gerrisan threw up his arms to emphasize the excitement. “Those bastards will have to leave Destitute if we keep this up! After the 8th or 9th Altercations Skirmish, the statistics say we will hold the entire rock.”

The Mech Pilot grunted. “The statistics have been wrong before.” He noted begrudgingly.

“Yes… but we’ve been gathering data for weeks. How likely is it—”

“Very likely.”

Gerrisan crossed his arms and sighed. “You are never optimistic, Creain.”

“It’s a war, Jirrn; don’t expect anything to have changed.”

“Specifically, your attitude or the lives we’ve lost?”

“What?”

“Or maybe even the growing conflictions back on Earth, eh? The innocents massacred?” Gerrisan said, his emotions mounting. “And dare I say it—the plague. What about all that?”

“Jirrn…” Creain began, realizing he may have gone too far with his last comment. J. Gerrisan’s persona was inherently upbeat, but it wasn’t as though he couldn’t be a serious man.

“Things have changed, Creain, and a whole lot of them. One blasted Mech,” he pointed a reproving finger at the ruined Entrant. “Is nothing compared to what humankind has endured in the last several years. We’re looking to create refuge on a moon called Destitute, for heaven’s sake!”

Gerrisan put his arms to his sides and shifted with contained fury. He directed his attention to the floor, avoiding Creain’s stare.

Although the information was neglected before, it shall be noted now: J. Gerrisan joined the N.A.H. Air and Space Forces six years ago, after finishing his military school term and passing the tests and regulations to pilot a K.Z.R.-98 Jet at age 20. He was sent off-world soon after obtaining his Jet; his mission was to reinforce a brigade of defenders on the (terraformed) planet Mars who were combating an opposition of renegade human warmongers. The mission was successful, but it was shadowed by a terrible event—the plague hit Earth. Millions died from this previously unseen pandemic with no cure to cease the spread of its terminal illness.

J. Gerrisan was not there when the outbreak began and he, as with the other human forces there, was ordered to remain on Mars. However, his pregnant wife was on Earth during the plague’s premiere and was one of those unfortunate souls who were infected. Gerrisan managed to secure a com line with her, and they talked to her last breath. Millions upon millions of miles away, Gerrisan watched helplessly to his wife die with child in womb.

Approximately one week following, the contagion was identified as a biological terrorist attack. An act of war.

J. Gerrisan knew the pain warfare could cause and fought ever harder to end it.

Creain had surmised his crazy style in combat and his optimistic, buoyant personality was a cover up to hide the scars of his torn being.

Silence hung in the air. Then, “I’m sorry, Jirrn.” Creain apologized. “I didn’t mean anything by it… and, you’re right. We should be thankful just to be alive. A single scrap heap is replaceable. People aren’t.”

Gerrisan looked up hesitantly and attempt to regain his former posture. An uncertain smirk appeared on his face. “Thank you, Creain.” He said, clearing his throat.

The Mech Pilot exhaled and released a slight smirk of his own. He knew they were all right again. He was about to suggestion something, when a blaring alarm resounded through the L.I.T. Red warning lights activated, brightening the dull grays of the walls, ceiling, and floor with spinning color.

Through the L.I.T.’s interior message relay system, the Captain of the Mother of Operations IV announced, “Our scanners have discovered that opposition forces are deploying for what appears to be an all-out final offensive. They are presently on course to a primary generator base the New Allied Humans established in the massive Veridep sinkhole. Your Unit Commanders will be with you momentarily. Prepare yourselves. We return to combat in ten.” Then the speakers deactivated, leaving way for the repetitive sirens to dominate the sounds of the L.I.T.

The blast doors to the Mech Bay slid open, permitting the Pilots and Unit Commanders. The relatively quiet Bay transformed into a fray of activity in seconds.

“I’d better get moving,” Gerrisan said, starting to turn about for a run. “I’ll see you after the fight!” Then he was off running to his own designated Air Bay.

“Creain!” The Unit Commander of the Entrant H.A.-Ver.55 Company yelled, catching the attention of the Mech Pilot. The Commander ran over, otherwise he’d have to yell everything he had to say.

“Yes sir?”

“I’ve assigned you as a secondary pilot in Sevent Graves’ newly-assigned Entrant.” The Commander explained. Unfortunately, we couldn’t obtain you another machine in time for this out-of-the-blue attack, so you’re stuck as second man for now. Got that?”

Creain didn’t appreciate being a “second man”, but who was he to argue? It was a war, not a casual pick-and-choose game. ‘As long as I’m not a backhand manual core maintainer.’ He thought.

“Yes sir.” Replied Creain.

“Good then. May fate favor you.” With those words, the Commander moved on to continue situating his men and their machines to disembark.

‘Back into the affray we go.’ Creain mused, and began jogging to the zone where Sevent and his new Mech were waiting to deploy.

Trust–Epilogue

Posted on by

Epilogue

EJ’s Journal

May 1st

Today John was different than usual. He decided we’d take a drive, something we don’t do very often. Without a plan or a map, we drove to some where deep in the heart of France. It was a lovely drive, the top down on our convertible something-or-other, and our hair blowing in the breeze. The smell of life in the air, and the feeling of romance only France can evoke. We arrived in a small town and found a restaurant.

Beautiful is the perfect word for the place, with its beauty-laced curtains and dishes. It had dark wooden trim, with a light butter-colored paint covering the walls. The decor was practically nonexistent because it blended so well with the setting. Woven baskets held the napkins, and the waitresses had cute, white, old-fashioned dresses on, with black aprons.

Perfect was another descriptive word that came to mind.

John asked the waitress to order for him, and I stared at him. His usual practice is to interrogate the waitress about what, exactly, goes into nearly every dish. Only after this interrogation does he decide that he’ll, “just have a salad or something.”

It was not so today.

I ordered something, I don’t remember what, and looked at John. “Why’d you do that?” I asked. “Do what?” “Let her surprise you…” He shrugged. “I trust her.”

I looked at him, smirking, trying to make him admit his joke. He said nothing, and sipped his water.

Then, I decided to break the news.

“What’s your favorite thing in the world?” I asked. “Besides you?” he says with a smile. “Yes,” I sigh, “besides me.” He pauses. Thinking, I assume. “Freedom,” he decides.

“Freedom,” I breathe. “That’ll work both ways…” He looks at me inquisitively.

“Oh, nothing,” I say. “I was just trying to figure out a name for our next kid.”

I hint with my eyes, and his eyes light up. Then I see something go out in his eyes. I didn’t notice until it was gone but there was a light in his eyes. The light went out, and I could see him panicking. Then calm flooded his eyes and he flashed a huge smile.

“Double the order!” he shouted to the cook. “We’re eating for three!”

He gave me a kiss, and I realized my old John was here to stay.

June 14th

I haven’t been able to write because of the amazing transformation my life has taken! John has decided to be a “People Investor,” as he calls it. He’s going to use his money to invest in people that are looking for a big break. People that can’t go to college can’t get the necessary degrees to do what they love (or just the opportunity), so John is going to help them.

He struck a deal with his boss that will give him a management job. The best part is that he gets to stay home! He spends more time with me and the kids, and with his new passion, than he does at work!

I’m so excited because John is now attacking work more than ever, and he’s winning. He finishes his daily work by seven in the morning, and he usually will work on some kid’s future until noon, then the rest of the day is fun! I’m so happy for him! He’s finally excited about things, and he’s so much nicer! He’s always helping people, and you can tell that he’s loving it. Freedom is on the way, and John’s already looking for a bigger house. He says down south, because he thinks there’s a lot of unrecognized athletic talent.

He’s back, John the adventurous man I married. I realize now, that it’s because he trusts. He trusts in people. That’s why the People Investing business is so good for him. He has faith.

Faith is being sure of what you hope for, and certain of what you do not see.

I think trust is a little like the first step towards faith. It helps you be sure, and certain, of what lies ahead. That’s one thing my John has now.

Trust.

Trust–Chapter Six

Posted on by

Chapter Six: Who I Am

The man takes a breath, and I stare intently. He sighs, and I follow his gaze, which he’s directed towards the roiling waters.

“John,” he says, as if he’s known me his whole life. “Are you sure you want to know this?”

I hesitate. My mind plays a slideshow of myself, graying over the years, and my soul crumbling due to the unbearable burden of knowledge. I also see the shadow of life, a hope uncertain, but tantalizing. Something inside me is drawn to it.

“Yes,” I reply confidently.

“I’ve already told you that you’re meant to help others. You could notice this in the way you’d pretend to be a firefighter as a kid. You’re mother later discouraged you from that.”

He pauses, allowing me to remember, and I nod as I do.

“Your current job reflects your helpful personality. You work with an insurance company: a company that, supposedly, helps people when they’re in need. The only reason that this insurance thing keeps coming up, John, isn’t that it’s bad, but that you’re doing it for the wrong reasons! You do it for monetary security rather than the benefit of others. You do it for your own benefit, and that’s why you’re not doing what you want to.”

I consume his points, chewing each one before digesting it. I realize I’ve always known, subconsciously, that my personality and nature was to help others, and I wonder if that’s all he has to say.

“I know,” I say, hoping to evoke some sort of further explanation.

“Then why do you continue to do this? Why do you continue to be what your not?”

I know he isn’t angry, but I am still afraid of him. Just like I am with any other person who asks a question I can’t answer.

“I don’t know,” I mumble shakily.

“Know this,” he says. “You are better than this. You were once an adventurous person! You were bold and daring! You took chances! Do you remember the first investment you made? You invested in your brother’s cookie stand. That ramshackle cardboard box, with those awful Oreo knockoff cookies. No one else encouraged him, they told him he couldn’t do it. You knew he could do it. Do you remember how satisfying it was to reap the benefits? You’re an entrepreneur! You’re an artist in many forms! You are a great–ah, what do they call it?–humanitarian! You help those in need, and you have talents that you can use to help them even more! You are a helper. And you need to help.”

My breath comes short and quick, I am slightly taken aback at the answer he gave. My adult life has been spent making safe choices that are sure to stay neutral. I know I only invest, wether monetarily or otherwise, in things that will neither rise nor fall. My world is spinning, yet I have no one to blame. I invited this upon myself. I asked my question. I received my answer.

“Now, John,” he says. “You know now that you’re meant for something different. You’re meant to live outside of the normal comfort zone. You’re meant to be wild, to live life to the full, and to trust that you won’t fall.”

I nod.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he continues. “This is no invitation to jump off mountains and expect to live. This doesn’t meant that you have special favor with God. What it does mean is that whatever happens, God is planning it, for your benefit.”

I nod again, recognizing his point.

“Now, do you accept the challenge? The challenge to do what you’re meant to do? Will you take chances, because you have nothing to lose? Will you believe in others because you trust that your God will catch you when you fall, and lead you when you are lost?”

I stare into the mans eyes. I see them clearly now. I recognize the man. His eyes twinkle, acknowledging my recognition. The deep eyes are too colorful for my own eyes, and so deep I feel as though I’m drowning. I do not struggle, I just stare.

“You’re on,” I say.

Trust–Chapter Five

Posted on by

Chapter Five–Who Am I

I look to my right, and a man is sitting beside me. I flinch, frightened.

You weren’t there a second ago, I think.

“How’d you do that?” I ask.

He laughs, a genuine laugh. His smile tells me I might never know. He is silent.

“Who are you?” I wonder aloud.

He looks at me again, this time with an amused look, like I should know better.

“Who do you think?”

“An angel?”

I cannot retain any knowledge of the man’s appearance. An instant later I can’t recall his expression, or complexion, but I realize his appearance only in the now.

“No,” he laughs, “Not an angel, but I am a messenger. What my name is does not matter now. No, the true question is who are you.”

I don’t hear him, I’m too busy wondering what he looks like. I see kindness in his smile, and I hear laughter in his voice. I see love in his eyes, and his expression warns me of his incredible caring. Yet I cannot determine anything, from nationality to age, from height to weight. The man is either ever-shifting from appearance to appearance, or all-in-one.

“Who are you?” he reiterates.

“I, uh, I’m, uh… you want to know who I am?”

“Yes, what do you call yourself?”

I pause, searching for the correct answer.

“John Chamberlain, I am an insurance marketer, with a one hundred percent success rate.”

I didn’t quite know why I went so far, as the man I was talking to didn’t seem like one to enjoy bragging matches.

“That’s it?”

His words sting like bees, but more intentional, and thus more personal.

“Yes, ‘that’s all,’. I just happen to work for Robinson Home Insurance! One of the most prestigious Insurance companies in the world! Not only that, but just last month I was named Head Marketer for the entire company, and I will soon be getting pay raise that is just over a four hundred percent increase. How about that?”

I am slightly disappointed in myself for the bragging, but the flurry of accomplishments flowed easily after the months of attempting to answer my question. I was talking more to myself, than to him. Proving myself, if to no one else, to myself.

“Interesting. And of your personal life?”

I blink, but refusing to talk seems like walking away from something that I don’t like, but will help me. (Green beans come to mind.)

“I’ve got my wife, and we have our kids.”

“What do you do for fun?”

“Well, honestly, I work on cars. It seems funny, I know, but creative marketers can still love the sound of a machine, or the feeling of success after conquering a difficult alternator, or,” I laugh. “Changing a lightbulb on an HHR.”

The man laughs with me, apparently familiar with the nigh on impossibility an HHR presents in the way of lightbulb-changing.

“So do you get to work on cars often?”

“Not anymore,” I say, and realize the words’ truth. “I have very little time. I try to spend time with my family, but some times work comes home, and I end up ruining an evening by not participating.”

I surprised myself again with sudden openness. I realize that I feel peace exuding from the man, but I have no clue why I’m telling him anything.

The man hums in understanding, and nods his head. He turns to me after looking at the sea.

“Why are you a marketer?” he asks. “Why don’t you fix cars?”

“Uh, well, because of the money,” I reply. “I knew I wanted to have a family some day, but the money wasn’t good enough in the auto repair business, unless you owned the shop, but that’s something that I didn’t want to do.”

“Why not?” he asked, the acuteness of the question slicing through the damp, pre-storm air.

“Why would I? There’s too much risk! So many supplies, plus rent, and employees, to get something like that off the ground, it’d be way, way too much money.”

“Why don’t you take the risk? The pros are much greater than the cons. What do you lose? A little money. Believe me, there’s always more money.”

I look at him, contemplating his words.

“Yeah…” I finally say.

“So why don’t you try to believe in something. I know you don’t want to be a marketer. It’s just what you do. I see it in your eyes, that you want to be helping people. That’s the reason you chose insurance, you thought it was a worthy cause.  But you found it wasn’t what you wanted. You brainwashed yourself into thinking that you loved your job, because you loved your money.”

I felt my hair bristling as I got defensive.

“I do like my job!” I burst. “I love the creativity, the scheming, and the business end. I do like it!”

“I know that,” replies the man, in a calming way. “You don’t hate your job, you just weren’t made for it. When you don’t do what you’re made to do you fight it. Deep down in your soul there’s an unreachable itch. You can’t sit still until you scratch it. Your itch is to do something else. You–”

“It’s too late anyway,” I interrupt, drowning in self-pity as I realize everything he said was true. “I already went to college, and I can’t do it again, I don’t have the money.”

The man suddenly rises, he motions for me to join him. I stand and wipe of my pants.

“Do you hear the thunder?” he says, and gesturing to the clouds on the horizon.

I nod.

“Do you hear the sea?”

I nod again.

“Do you see the magnificence in it all?”

“Yes.”

“Then, not to get all bibley on you, but if God takes care of the flowers and the birds, and the ocean, and the fish, and everything else, why wouldn’t he help you?”

“I dunno,” I say grumpily.

“Have you thought about this?” asks the man, more sternly.

“Yes, but I don’t know, it just seems ridiculous. Why would he care?”

“Because–again, I’m just saying the truth, nothing weird and religious–God loves you. He made you!”

I snort, somewhat derisively, and mostly just to make myself feel confident. It doesn’t work.

“Don’t be skeptical. You have a wife and kids, right?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, unable to see where he’s going with this.

“And when you work you earn the money so you can help them live comfortably, right?”

“Uh-huh…”

“You buy food, clothes, shoes, countless daily necessities, and you pay for gas, and electric, and water, and you pay the bank for your lovely house. In other words you look after your family, and you help them.”

I nod.

“Now think about it another way. Say you just made a… a… an animal of your choice. You want to show it to the world and say ‘Look what I made,’. Imagine it. Do it.”

“Okay,” I say. I imagine it, reluctantly.

“Now imagine the animal,” he pauses. “What’d you imagine?”

I look at my imagination, and see a platypus.

“A platypus,” I state, without thinking.

“A marvelous choice, one of my favorites,” the man replied. “Okay, so imagine that the platypus gets cold? What would you do?”

“I would get him a blanket?” I say hesitantly.

“Yes, exactly! You would fix it, you’d stop the problem. You’d help you’re little creation so it would be comfortable.”

I nod, understanding now.

“Picture this!” he continued excitedly. “The platypus jumps–you know what,” he said interrupting himself. “This is the part of the analogy where a child would be more apt to play the part.”

He strokes his chin, which may or may not have a beard. I can’t tell, even as I strain to see.

“Do you have a son?” he asks.

“Yeah, Tommy,” I reply.

“Okay, forgot the platypus, put Tommy and yourself at the community pool. Tommy’s on the water slide and he won’t come down unless you promise to catch him. As soon as you say, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll catch you, Tommy!’ he puts his fears aside and jumps. He trusts you.”

I see where he’s taking this.

“So when Tommy trusts his father, he gets the excitement and thrill of the slide–the experience of it–and then if he doesn’t like it, he tries the diving board, again using the trust principal. But, if he does like it, then he can take more risks, sliding down backwards, for example. Again, this is a metaphor, but I’m sure you can apply it to real life.”

I see his point but I still feel a cautious skepticism that is making me uncomfortable. I wince as I plan to ask a question.

This isn’t something you can forget, I think. You’ll know forever, and it will eat away at you if you don’t do what you learn.

I take a deep breath and let it out. Lightning strikes in the distance, and I wait until the thunder rolls by.

“What am I made to do?”

Trust–Chapter Four

Posted on by

Chapter Four: Stranger Surprise

I take in the beautiful panorama, breathing deeply through my nose. The scent of ocean, salt, sweat, and victory are vivid. My eyes are amazed by the beautiful blues and grays of the day.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” says a deep, thoughtful voice behind me.

I say nothing but just nod. I don’t turn around, because I don’t care who is talking to me. In fact, I don’t want him here at all. I close my eyes and try to focus. I felt like the question had disappeared. I feel strangely because the question had been so vivid up until I crested the cliff. I don’t quite feel satisfied, but the question isn’t asking itself.

I push all of my thoughts out of my mind. I just feel. The air, the beauty, everything, I just feel it.

My mind–no, my soul–feels that this man is at fault. He’s driven away my question. In my soul I feel he’s answered the question, but I can’t determine the answer. I feel my mind racing, racing towards nowhere, and getting there fast. It doesn’t know what to think, but it also doesn’t know what to believe. I feel my internal doubt wrestling with the knowledge that the man is thrusting upon me.

I know now it’s the man; I feel it somehow. I don’t know what to do, and I feel there is no need to do anything. My being is receiving overwhelming knowledge and information, and my brain can detect it, but I have know clue what any of it means. I know, somehow, that the information is important, but I have no key, or password, to unlock the labyrinth of information.

A seagull cries above me, and my ears are pierced with the noise. Suddenly the gray skies are more foreboding–majestic even–than they were before. I hear the waves crashing on the craggy face of the cliff. The air smells like a storm, and I feel a droplet of rain. I glance to my right, away from the man, and spot a tree.

I note the lack of thunder in the air, and decide that the tree is my best source of shelter. I walk straight towards it, my back to the man the entire time. I reach the tree and see that it has remarkably protective leaves. They form a tight seal repelling all water, and, most likely, driving them towards the tree’s extended roots.

I harrumph, interested and amused. I think of the things I’ve seen on my vacation, and I find that they are all ingenious in some way. I think of God, a topic I don’t give a whole lot of time, and wonder if he cares.

Early on in my life, I know, I decided God made everything. My struggle is, and was in believing he cared about me, or other people. There was–is–too much death, too much destruction. I don’t care about the sappy feel-good “true” stories, I want real life. Not some Disney fabricated happy ending, because I know that’s not how it ends.

I sit down, and rest my back on the tree, exhaling.

What are you doing, John? What is this? Did you really think this would work?

My mind wanders to questions of my own sanity as my eyes search for something. The questions swim in my mind, repeating, or varying slightly.

What am I looking for? I ask subconsciously. The man, my subconscious replies.

I frown, and sit up straighter. I think of how he could have slipped past me. I don’t think it’s possible.

No, he couldn’t have…

My thoughts trail off, and I have no idea what is going on. For some reason I am extremely disturbed by his disappearance.

It wouldn’t be a disappearance if he wasn’t even…

Again I trail off.

“You’re looking for me” stated the same, deep, thoughtful voice.

Trust–Chapter Three

Posted on by

Chapter Three: Internal Surprise

“Who are you, and where’s John?” I hear EJ ask.

I grin at her joke; the joke that she’s used since we got married. If I’m ever distant or acting strange, she’ll ask me that, and I’ll realize what I’m doing.

I experience just such a moment, and I am astounded by her perceptiveness. I give her a side-hug as we stand at our balcony. I think back over our week, and forward to the final week, my mind registers my distance. The mental, and emotional distance I’ve suspected but not quite given credibility.

“You’ve been like this for too long, John. Haven’t you noticed?”

It all becomes clear. I suddenly see why my wife and I are enjoying the southern shore of France at the expense of my business. I have no passion any more. My boss sees it. My parents see it. My wife, obviously, sees it.

In other words, I realize, I’m no fun any more.

“I have noticed,” I say softly, still embracing her.

“What happened? Do you know?”

“I can’t say, because I don’t know. There isn’t anything in the world I would trade my life for. I can see that I have a good job, a good retirement plan, and a good family, and a beautiful wife.”

She giggles, and my heart glows. I love it when she giggles.

“There’s something missing. I have no desire. I am not chasing anything,” I say, the words pouring out of my mouth, as if I am not saying them. “I lost my purpose, and I am now passively waiting for life to control me. I’m just rolling with the punches.”

EJ looks up at me, and she mmm’s. She’s my favorite person to talk to because I can bounce things off of her.

“I don’t have anything to fight for. It’s all taken care of. I’ve got my girl. I’ve got my job. I’ve got my plans. I’m set, I’ve got the life I wanted. Or… the one I thought I wanted.”

The urge to run, fills my breast, and I feel my muscles crying for freedom.

“I’ll be back!” I shout over my shoulder, as I sprint towards the lovely cliff my wife and I enjoy picnics on.

“What are you doing?” EJ returns.

“I’m finding John!”

My spirits soar as a navigate the rough terrain in my khaki cargo shorts and polo. The lovely crisp coastal air whips around my body, and finally I’m forced to slow down.

My mind races as my adrenaline-pumped body starts sloshing through the Atlantic Ocean’s water. I realize I’m insane, but I have wanted to climb the sheer cliff since I arrived at my beautiful villa. I close my eyes and dive under the water. My eyes adjust to the water, and I see a small school of fish. I swim towards the cliff which is barely fifty feet away.

Upon reaching the rock my inner cautiousness takes over, and I nearly submit to panic.

“No,” I growl, and fiercely begin attacking the wall. The cliff is an extremely difficult climb, even for someone with my semi-experience. The only helpful feature is the fact that the cliff leans back. Thus, when standing on a foot hold, you can let go of your handhold easier.

“What am I doing!” I think out loud, but half way up, I have no answer. I must continue.

My mind suddenly wanders from the current task; not a good thing. I begin dissecting the question again. My mind is suddenly separate, or, at least, I feel it is. My body seems to be guided in its steps, not missing once. It doesn’t falter it just climbs. Mechanically almost, but more beautifully than a machine could. All the while my mind was spinning, swirling my thoughts, like a bored party guest swirls his wine. I was thinking about the question, and I kept getting a mental ‘NO!’, with each answer I provide.

I suddenly realize were I am: on top of the cliff. Adrenaline and testosterone course through my veins, and I let out a man-roar for the ages.

Then I fall to my knees, weak, I assume, from the climb. My mind hears whispers, warm, loving whispers.

You’re not who you think you are, John. You’re not who you’ve become.

I realize within myself… something. I have no explanation but the voice has made everything very clear.

Orphan of Love

Posted on by

Ave, peoples!

While getting ready for the day this morning, I thought about this file I created several months ago, which contains an unfinished (unofficial) prequel story idea for my series, Kindred Spirits: Formation. So, I thought I would find it and post the story here. I have little confidence it’s anything but perfect (jotted scrap is more like it); still, I’ll let you decide that for yourself.

To the group writers specifically: I did state I wouldn’t be around much for a while, but, as it turns out, I’ve had some technical difficulties with the other project, and I cannot help myself but to write.

One more subject before I head out of here and leave the story to speak for itself. 🙂 I’m probably going to be asked this, so I will explain now: Why first-person for the primary protagonist? The reason for this specific POV I decided on was because I felt it fit, and truthfully, it was really neat to “experience” a slice of the M.C.’s life.

Due to the first-person perspective, I am quite a mite more vague than I typically am when beginning to explore characters and the overall story, and I suppose it’s simply the nature of this writing style (at least for myself as of the present). You get some third-person with the second M.C., so that’s probably where most of the explanation went.

Now, without further ado, Orphan of Love:

 

 

“Anusree,” A familiar female voice says softly as I feel a hand gently shake my shoulder, pulling me out of sleep. “You need to wake up now, Anusree. Everyone else is already downstairs having breakfast.”

I groan softly, rolling over on my side, away from the person trying to get me up.

I snuggle closer to the warm sheets and blankets of my bed, pushing my head deeper into my pillow, wanting to fall back asleep. Wanting to stay in my refuge of warmth.

I don’t want to face the cold, unforgiving world today.

“Come on, Anusree,” The familiar female voice continues to prompt as I hear footsteps walking around to the side of my bed that I’m facing. “You can’t stay in bed all day, no matter how hard you want to.”

I feel the owner of the voice sit down on my bed, next to where my legs would’ve been outstretched, hadn’t I already pulled them close to my body.

Moments pass, and I hear no further movement or talking from the girl trying to get me up. Suddenly, a soft, feminine hand gently brushes across my forehead, pushing away some of my long, dark-brown hair that had been resting on it.

At this, I sit up almost instantly, my eyelids coming open, my legs shooting out from my body. I don’t like to be touched, no matter who’s doing it.

The first thing I see as my eyes come open is the girl who, now, is successful in completely waking me up. She has long, sandy-blond hair, longer than my dark-brown hair, which is an uncombed mess around her shoulders. Her blue eyes and freckle-less face shine in the sunlight coming through the nearby window, her skin seeming to soak in the natural light and radiate it back out. She’s wearing a light-pink nightgown, which drapes down over her tall, lean body until just a little bit above her ankles, and her feet are bare. Even though she’s sitting, I can still tell she’s five-foot-something, and has superior height over myself.

The girl is fourteen year-old Marcy Quinn, my roommate, and only friend.

“I’m sorry about that, Anusree.” Marcy apologizes solemnly; both her hands now back at her sides. “I know you don’t like to be touched, and it was wrong of me to do it anyway.”

I stare at my friend, not saying a word, not moving, once again bewildered on her actions regarding me. Marcy has always been nice to me, a good friend to me, the only person I’ve ever been able to count on. And when she messes up, she has always apologized, taken responsibly, and never just throws out excuses or jokes to avoid the fact of what she did. She is truly the best friend a person like me could have.

We’ve known each other for almost all our lives, she the outgoing, confident, strong one; me the shy, small, weak one. You could say we compliment each other, she being the strong one, me being the weak one, though I don’t know what I have to offer Marcy besides someone to protect.

Yes, sometimes I need protecting. Though I won’t admit it to Marcy or any of the other girls here, especially the ones who I need protecting from. Specifically the sixteen-year-old girl Karyan, who not only leads the mockery against me, but focuses on making sure the majority of the mockery is about how small I am for my age of fourteen years. She has plenty to go off of, unfortunately. I am quite small.

“Marcy, Anusree!” A strong female voice, sounding to belong to someone around the age of forty or so, suddenly says sternly. “You two girls should already be downstairs at the breakfast table!”

Both Marcy and I turn to face where the voice had come from, and find one of the caretakers here, Mrs. Camiline, standing in the doorway to our room. The expression on her face immediately betrays the fact that she isn’t pleased.

“I’m sorry, ma’ am.” Marcy says, getting off my bed and proceeding to walk towards the open door. “We’ll go downstairs now. Come on, Anusree.”

I stay where I am for a moment, sitting up in bed, pondering on whether or not to say anything, and then push the covers of my bed away in a conscious decision to get up. I don’t want to be on the wrong side of Mrs. Camiline, as she is one of the head caretakers here.

I swing my legs over the side of my bed, and slide off. My delicate, bare feet come to rest on the cold, hardwood floor of Marcy and I’s room, making me shiver.

I quickly shrug off the unpleasant cold, and walk over to where Marcy and Mrs. Camiline are waiting in the nearby doorway, the lower-portion my nightgown waving around my legs. (My nightgown is exactly the same as Marcy’s, just smaller to fit my unusually small body.)

Marcy leaves the doorway as I approach, and starts heading towards the large staircase that leads to the downstairs of this big building which I have lived in all my life.

I arrive at the doorway, next to Mrs. Camiline, and go to follow Marcy, but I am stopped by the stern voice of the caretaker.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Anusree?” Mrs. Camaline asks, not moving from her place in the doorway.

“N-No, m-ma’ am.” I stutter in response, bowing my head, not wanting to look into the face of Mrs. Camaline. “I-I’m sorry, m-ma’ am.”

I get no response for a moment. A long, tormenting moment, until Mrs. Camaline finally says something. “You are forgiven, Anusree.” Comes an unexpected reply from the old caretaker. “Now run along, and go follow Marcy down to the breakfast table.”

I slowly raise my head, shocked at the kind reply, and look back at Mrs. Camaline, who I find to have a small smile on her face. It’s very rare that I see any sort smile on her face, and I stare at her, wondering why she would be smiling now.

She seems to read my thoughts, as she says, “It’s not like I don’t ever smile.”

“O-Oh, m-ma’ am, I didn’t—“ I start, thinking that Mrs. Camaline took my silence the wrong way, but am interrupted.

“Anusree, it’s fine, you have nothing to worry about.” Mrs. Camaline says, letting out a short laugh. “Just get downstairs to the breakfast table!”

I can’t help but to sheepishly smile back. It’s not often I smile, given the situation of my life, but Mrs. Camaline’s smile just urged me to, and it actually felt sort of good.

“O-Of course, yes ma’ am.” I stutter, and then quickly head off down the hallway to catch up with Marcy, wondering what else this day will hold for me…

 

* * *

Bill J. Gates, renounced detective for the Secret Service, once a US soldier in Iraq, multi-millionaire, high-level field-agent for the US Defense Force, and personal friend of the President of the United States of America, sat at a meeting (in the White House) between himself and several other high-ranking members of the US government, President Hannen included.

The meeting was primarily about the recent capture of one of the biggest drug and underworld dealers, Casno Hyund, who had been apprehended by Gates (who did quite a bit of field work) exactly one week before.

Thus far, the meeting had just been concerning legal and political items involving the underworld dealer, but that part of the meeting was soon to end.

“Alright, now that the legal items are out of the way, we can be finished here.” One of the senators present at the meeting, Mr. Ebon, announced, placing Casnos file and several other items into a specially designed bulletproof briefcase. “Unless, of course, anyone has something to say?”

“Actually, I do.” Bill said from his place at the large table that the attendants of this meeting where seated at.

“How surprising, Mr. Gates.” The senator said, sarcasm evident in his voice. Bill was known to voice his opinions, and this, especially since he was the one who had brought Casno Hyund to justice, was no exception.

Also, Bill J. Gates was known to offer sarcasm of his own.

“What I find surprising, senator Ebon, is why I don’t yet know where Casno is being held.” Bill said, throwing the senators sarcasm right back in his face. “Through this entire meeting, nothing has been said about the whereabouts of Casno Hyund. I spoke to the President before this meeting, and he doesn’t even know where Casno is being held.”

“The ‘whereabouts’ of Casno Hyund are unimportant at this moment, Mr. Gates, and if you—“

At that, Bill stood up; both his fists going down onto the polished wood table before him, stopping the senator mid-sentence.

“Unimportant?!” Bill yelled, incredulous. “How the heck is his location unimportant?! Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t be worried about where he currently is after I saw him last, Mr. Ebon?! Casno Hyund is one of the biggest drug and weapons dealers in the criminal underworld, and you’re saying to me that it doesn’t matter where he is!”

“Gates…” The President warned, moving up in his chair at the head of the long table.

Bill paid little attention to the Presidents warning.

“Give me one good reason, senator. One good reason to why I shouldn’t be at liberty to know where the criminal mastermind I put out of business is.” Bill challenged, staring straight at Ebon.

The senator seemed stunned. He didn’t even make a move for a few moments, just simply staring back at Bill, his composure having lost some of its authority.

Silence fell upon the meeting. Silence that seemed to go on forever.

Gates staring at Ebon, Ebon staring at Gates, the rest of the meetings occupants tensely waiting for the outcome of this short senator-vs.-detective argument.

Gates wasn’t known to get into unnecessary fist fights, though it was unusual of him to slam his fists down as he had done. The reason he had slammed his fists down, was because of how sensitive this subject was for him.

Casno Hyund was, after all, technically his arch-nemesis.

Gates had first encountered Casno on an assignment to the criminal underworld, an assignment in which Gates had later discovered to be more difficult than first thought. The drug and weapons dealer was the person he had been assigned to apprehend, and since that eventful mission, Casno Hyund had become Gates prime enemy.

Casno was a worthy enemy, cunning, shrewd, and had this thing for being strangely good at escaping. He kept Gates on his toes whenever they crossed paths, and he was an extremely hard man to capture.

Gates had put him in prison before, but to avail. Casno had escaped every time.

Now, having recently apprehended him, Gates had to ensure he stayed in prison. But how could he do that, if he didn’t know where Casno was?

Thus this argument with the senator.

“This meeting is adjourned.” The President said, breaking the silence and ending both meeting and argument. “Mr. Gates, I wish to talk to you,” The President added, looking over at Bill. “Privately.”

* * *

I slow my pace has I near the closed door in which leads to the meal area, the large room in which I have eaten all my breakfasts, lunches, and dinners for as long as I can remember.

Marcy, standing next to the door, is waiting for me.

“There you are.” Marcy says as I approach. “Where have you been?”

“I was talking to Mrs. Camaline.” I explain bluntly, stopping next to my friend.

I’m not one to talk much, somewhat due to the fact I have very few people who will actually listen, I don’t really have a great deal to talk about, and my shyness. Though, I also tend to be very curious (which isn’t always a good thing), and have my rare moments of chattering.

“Talking to Mrs. Camaline?” Marcy says, looking surprised. “Was she scolding you?”

“No, she was actually being nice to me.” I reply, still a bit surprised by it myself.

“Maybe she just has pity on you, it’s not like you’re special or anything.” A female voice, not belonging to Marcy, says.

I look over; towards the direction the voice came from, and find my antagonist, Karyan, walking towards Marcy and me.

She’s the girl I need protecting from, the person who has been out to embarrass me since I arrived here.

Karyan is as tall and lean as Marcy, but she’s nothing like my friend. Karyan has long, night-black hair, pale skin, and her eyes are an ominous blue shade. She has a mean personality, and is known around here for bullying, specifically me.

None of the other girls here, except Marcy, will stand up to her.

“You asked you, Karyan?” Marcy rebuttals, automatically defending me.

Karyan stops in front of Marcy, and returns smugly, “You stay out of this. I can talk to Anusree without you’re input.”

Marcy glares back, unyielding. “Not if you’re just going to bully her. You know Anusree won’t defend herself, all this time you’ve known it, and yet you bully her anyway!”

“She deserves it!”

“How?! Just because she’s small doesn’t mean she deserves to be bullied!”

Marcy and Karyan’s argument intensifies, and all the while, I just stand here, off to the side, not knowing what I should do.

Marcy and Karyan have argued before, more times than I can remember, so it’s not that it’s an unusual thing; I’ve just never known how to react; except to stand quietly off to the side.

My fighting spirit was tucked away a long time ago, crushed, but not destroyed, by the prodding doubts and mockery inflected on me over the years. It’s one of the reasons I need protecting; I won’t defend myself. I won’t fight back.

It’s one of my biggest weaknesses, and without Marcy, I would be bullied on an unthinkable level.

Karyan suddenly gives Marcy a shove, startling both her and me. Karyan almost never becomes physical with anyone, even me.

Marcy, after a silent moment, seems to recover from her shock at Karyan’s action, and bolts forward towards Karyan; something in her eyes I rarely see: Anger.

Marcy, her right arm in front of her like a ram, slams into Karyan. Both of them go down, Marcy on top, Karyan pressed against the hard, marble floor.

Marcy, before Karyan can fight back, begins a fury of attacks with her fists; landing blows on her face, arms, and chest area.

Utterly shocked, I stare wide-eyed at my friend attack Karyan, bruising her features and even making her bleed in some places.

Marcy never attacks anyone like this, especially with the obvious anger she has now.

Karyan suddenly roars, and pushes Marcy off of her, sending my friend sprawling onto the floor. Then, before Marcy can get up, Karyan jumps on her, and begins to attack her as she had done.

Marcy tries to escape Karyan’s ferocious attacks, but the sixteen-year-old girl is on top of her, and Marcy can’t break free. She’s trapped, and Karyan is beating her.

This is too much for me; I can’t just stand here and watch my best friend be beaten like this. I have to do something, but what?

By the time I find a caretaker, Marcy will be a beaten mess; it will take too long. There’s only one other thing I can do…

I suddenly rush towards the brawl, barely thinking, just knowing I have to save my friend no matter what.

I collide into Karyan with all the strength I can muster, instantly throwing her off Marcy and into a wall. Karyan slumps face-first to the ground, her head having made hard contact with the wall moments ago.

I quickly go to my friends’ side, and rest her bruised head in my lap, trying to make it more comfortable for her. I begin to cry as I see what Karyan did to her, and pray that she’s alright.

“Marcy? Marcy, are you okay?” I ask through an emotion-cracked voice, tears beginning to stream down my face. “Y-You’ve got to be okay….”

Marcy doesn’t respond, her eyes remain closed. Her breathing is faint, and when I check her pulse, I can barely feel anything.

Karyan nearly killed her, and if I don’t find help soon…

Suddenly, I feel someone’s body make contact with mine, and I am thrown away from my dying friend by the force, colliding back-first with the wall opposite the one Karyan had collided with.

Dazed by the impact, my vision is blurred, and when it returns, I only have a small glimpse of Karyan standing over me before I am thrown across the floor.

This time, I crash into a small nearby table, and feel my back slam into the hard wood, knocking the air out of me and sending terrible pain through my body.

“I’m going to end you here and now, you stupid little Anlorian!” Karyan screams at me, and through my distorted vision, I see her strolling towards me, apparently intent on more than just giving me a few bruises.

A nasty gash is present on her forehead, blood oozing down from it and creating a stream of the red liquid horizontally down her face.

Why did she refer to me as an, ‘Anlorian’? I’ve never heard the word before.

Karyan is about to reach me, her face contorted and filled with hatred, when a familiar voice rings out through the hall. The voice of Mrs. Camaline.

“Stop this right now, Karyan!” Mrs. Camaline screams, walking in a restrained jog towards the area of our brawl.

Two more caretakers follow along behind Mrs. Camaline, and one goes to Marcy, well the other walks over to Karyan to try and calm her down.

Mrs. Camaline heads straight for me, her eyes clouded with worry.

I, having recovered from the air being knocked out of me, try to move just before Mrs. Camaline bents down next to me.

I have to go to Marcy; I have to see if she’s alright.

Mrs. Camaline gently moves me away from the now damaged table, setting me down softly on the floor next to it and resting my head down on her lap.

I try to move again, to get up, but she tenderly stops me.

“Don’t move, Anusree,” Mrs. Camaline says softly, one hand resting on my shoulder. “You need to lie still.”

“But… Marcy…” I say weakly, slowly looking over towards the direction of my friend.

I notice that paramedics have arrived, along with a few police officers, and Marcy is being carefully loaded onto a stretcher.

On the other side of the hallway, another stretcher is stationed next to the far wall; and two police officers, each having one of Karyan’s arms as she struggles and screams to escape their grasp, hold her; while a paramedic, carrying a small syringe, approaches. The paramedic injects Karyan with whatever was in the syringe, and after a few moments, she stops struggling and falls limp in the officers’ arms, unconscious.

“Marcy is going to be okay, Anusree,” Mrs. Camaline reassures as my friend is wheeled out of the hallway on the stretcher she was placed on by two paramedics. “And I know she wants you to be okay yourself, so please lie still until another stretcher arrives.”

I yield, somewhat reassured by the fact that my friend is on her way to the hospital, and lay still.

Soon, Karyan is also wheeled out of the hallway on a stretcher, one of the policemen escorting her out with a paramedic.

As police officers, and someone who looks like a detective, roam about the hallway, and a single paramedic is walking over towards Mrs. Camaline and me, I begin to feel pain that I hadn’t noticed before.

I groan as it intensifies, squirming a little, the impacts that were inflected on me catching up.

“Lay still, Anusree. I know it hurts, but you have to remain still.” Mrs. Camaline says softly, as the paramedic bends down next to me and produces two pills from his shirt pocket.

“If you’re feeling any pain, you can take these.” The paramedic informs, speaking to me as he places the pills in Mrs. Camaline’s hand. Then he turns to Mrs. Camaline and says, “The stretcher will arrive soon.”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Camaline says to the paramedic, taking one of the pills and holding it near my mouth.

I know that she wants me to take them, so I obey and open up.

Soon, I’ve taken both pills, which make me feel drowsy, and the stretcher arrives.

The paramedic who supplied the pills, and another who came in with the stretcher, place me on it carefully, and then we begin to exit the hallway.

Whatever was in the pills soon overtakes me, and I fall asleep before we can even get outside, the fright and unanswered questions of what had happened swirling around in my mind….

 

* * *

“Gates, I understand your worry and dedication for making certain Casno is in prison, but what you did out there was completely unnecessary,” The President said, mustering his will to remain calm with Bill J. Gates. “You looked like you were angry enough to attack senator Ebon, and how do you think that made him and all the others present think of you?”

Bill, far too frustrated and stressed that he still didn’t know where his arch-nemesis was, was standing by a window in the President’s office while he spoke.

“It doesn’t matter what they think right now, Mr. President, and I would repeat that meeting over again to get answers if so necessary.” Bill replied, his voice stained with frustration.

“You’re impossible, Bill,” The President said, sighing; though his sigh quickly turned into a short chuckle. “You wonder why I adopted you.”

Bill turned from the window, and walked over to the President’s desk, which the leader of the US government was seated behind.

“Well, only you would know that.” Bill returned, a smirk on his own face as he sat down across from the President; though his frustration was most-definitely not gone, and his exasperation could be heard in the tone he used.

“I think a lot about it now, Bill; how far we’ve come since that first day.” The President said, his eyes and voice distant. “To think, I was just an average man, and you just a boy…”

“I know, sir, and I don’t want to talk about it. The past is the past, and in my case, it’s better not to think about it.” Gates said, looking uncomfortable and troubled, and not just because of the outcome of the recent meeting. “I owe you a lot, and I really appreciate what you did for me, but I don’t want to think about what happened.”

Bill turned back to the window, unable to control the rush of memories that suddenly came back to the surface from deep within; memories of his distant past.

It started when he was merely six years old, about thirty years ago; Gates now being thirty-six.

It was just another normal, innocent afternoon. Or it had been, until the accident happened. Bill was waiting at the school he attended in Washington D.C., close to where he lived with his two loving parents.

One of the teachers had told him his parents where on the way, which probably meant they were driving. Unfortunately, Bills assumption was correct; they had been driving.

Bill waited by the parking lot for much longer than it should have taken his parents to arrive, and as he had started to become impatient, a teacher had emerged from the nearby school building and hesitantly informed him of what had delayed them.

Bills parents were… dead. Instantly killed in a terrible car accident.

This was, at first, hard for him to understand, but as he had realized that his parents were actually dead, it shattered his world.

Everything he knew suddenly had changed. He was taken out of the D.C. school he had attended, placed in an orphanage in Warrenton, Virginia, and none other of his still-living relatives wanted him. The life he had known had disappeared, never to be the same again.

Years later, when Bill was about ten, a fire of unknown source had engulfed the orphanage, destroying the building.

During the burning of the building, several children and a few caretakers were killed; including Bills best friend, who he had met and become friends with at the orphanage, and also Bills personal caretaker, who he had viewed as a sort of mother to him.

This added ever more so to his hurt. He had lost everything twice, and his thoughts had turned to whether or not there was any point in living.

Gladly, someone had helped to change his mind about the prospect of suicide; the person who would help define who he would become.

That person, was twenty-one year old Carter Hannen, who would later take up the job he worked at now: Being the President of the United States of America.

He adopted Bill at the post-fire adoption that had been quickly setup by the person in charge of the orphanage. They had to find a home for as many children as possible, otherwise drastic measures would have had to be taken, or the orphans would’ve had to have slept in the streets.

So, Carter had adopted Gates, and he became the would-be Presidents son. Then, Carter had been a simple police officer.

There was a lot of pain in Bills past, from the events that occurred in his shattered life, but Carter coming in and adopting him had shown a bright light on his bleak and seemingly hopeless situation.

Since then, things had improved for Bill J. Gates, and he was now the adopted son of the President and a  multi-billionaire.

Not only these things, but he had picked up some very useful skills.

“I understand, Bill. We don’t have to talk about it.” Carter said, bringing Bill out of thought.

“Thank you, sir.” Bill returned, then an awkward silence followed. Gates, not particularly comfortable with this silence, rose out of his chair after it had been present for quite a few moments, and said, “Well, I must be going.”

“Of course.” Carter said, rising out of his own chair. He held out his hand for Gates to shake.

Gates took it, then released his grip and stepped away. “Have a nice day, Mr. President.” He said.

“You also, Bill.” The President replied.

Then Gates exited the President’s office.

…

After making his way through The White House, Gates exited through a front door, and began walking down towards the sport-class Ferrari that was awaiting him.

BUG, his small drone friend and assistant, greeted him as he climbed into the very expensive vehicle.

“Hello, sir.” BUG said in its computerized voice, hovering near Bill’s shoulder.

BUG, black with some chrome trimmings, was quite small, especially for its capabilities, and at most was only two or three inches in height. Normally, the tiny machine will hover around on two micro repulsers fitted into its two small wings, but can also land and instead utilize very small tracks that are embedded into its wings outfacing sides; these tracks are amazingly durable for their size, can be retracted into the wings and concealed when not in use.

The wings can also serve with the universal port plug-in that can be put out and retracted; each wing carries a single one of these. These port plug-ins allow BUG to hookup to nearly all known computer ports and consoles. He also carries a powerful onboard wireless system, making it so he can connect to devices and networks without the need of ports.

BUG’s computer brain is a specially designed Nanotech system, and is stored within the two panels—which are relatively as thick as its wings—that are positioned on either side of its strong, well-structured body that holds its entirety together. The computer brain is also partly located in this body, and connects the two panels so that they may communicate with ease. The processing power and memory space that are available via this computer brain give BUG incredibly high capabilities concerning the quality and speed of the operations and tasks he can perform. Generally speaking, he has the combined power of several supercomputers.

This Nanotech computer brain also makes BUG an advanced artificial intelligence drone, and, as Gates would say, ‘he has a personality of his own’.

The panels also have micro holographic projectors in them, which allow BUG to create 1D, 2D, and 3D holographic projections; the maximum size of hologram BUG can create is exactly one hundred inches by one hundred inches.

BUG’s two photo-processors (eyes)—which are relatively tiny, but still allow for excellent sight—are positioned in the front of his body, and feature a Heads Up Display (HUD), night vision, infra-red, and x-ray.

BUG’s power source is a partly self-sustaining core battery unit, positioned in his body and mostly comprised of energy-generating Nanotech. This core battery—on full charge—will averagely give BUG an entire day of usage, and will continually recharge itself, allowing for even multiple days of usage without having to plug-up and recharge manually. However, not recharging after a full day of use can prove to slow some of BUG’s systems, if strained without recharge for extended periods of time.

BUG’s outer shell is comprised of a very durable material, and he is designed to be able to survive shocks and impact without damage or harm to his systems.

BUG has other accessories and such available to it, but they are not exactly as notable, nor are used often.

“Hey, buddy,” Bill greeted back, starting up his Ferrari.

“Did your meeting go well, sir?” BUG asked.

Bill pulled the Ferrari out of The White House driveway, and began the drive home.

Gates sighed; not at BUG, but at the thought of the recent meeting. “Unfortunately, no. I still have no clue where Casno is.”

“That is unfortunate.” BUG said, the disappointment evident in its computerized voice. “I have been attempting to locate him via my connection to the world’s satellites, but I have also been unsuccessful.”

BUG has always been Gates faithful companion, and its loyalty is undivided. It has assisted him almost from the beginning of his career as a detective; and BUG is an invaluable ally in Gates line of work. They have experienced many adventures together, and BUG has saved Gates life more than once.

Along with the President, BUG is one of Gates greatest friends.

“It’s okay, BUG. We’ll find him eventually, we always have.” Bill reassured.

“Indeed.” Agreed the tiny AI drone. “How will we precede, sir?”

“I’m trying to weight my options right now, so we’ll head home and figure out what to do next from there.” Answered Gates, speeding down the road before them.

“Should I inform Sirloom to prepare anything, sir?”

“Yes. Inform him that I’ll be having dinner in my office tonight, and after that, he has the rest of the evening off.”

“Are we going to be hacking tonight, sir?”

Bill chuckled. “You know me too well, BUG.”

 

* * *

Her beaten features, crippled body, bleeding face. The shallow breathing, the weak pulse.

“Marcy? Marcy, are you okay? Y-You’ve got to be okay….”

So close to death. So far from hope.

“I’m going to end you here and now, you stupid little Anlorian!”

The merciless attacks. The unforgiving beating.

The pain…. The distress…. The anger…..

All because of me…

…

I awake with a start, jolting into a sitting position and gasping for breath.

My eyes dart around the room, searching for my friend. Searching for Marcy.

But all I find around me is my room. The two dressers, both with mirrors above them; a closet, my bed (which I’m on), Marcy’s bed, the single window between the two beds on the wall, the bedside table below the window with a light on it, and the light fixture on the ceiling.

The door to the room is shut, and I am the only one here.

I recall that they were taking Marcy to the hospital, and I thought they were taking me along with her, but I guess they decided I didn’t need hospital-level care for the minimum wounds I sustained from the fight. So Mrs. Camaline must’ve taken me back to my room. That’s how I got here.

I push the covers off slowly, and climb out of bed.

I have to find Mrs. Camaline to ask her how Marcy’s doing.

I notice the throbbing bruises and pain as my feet touch the floor, but ignore them. I have to know about Marcy, and a little pain will not stop me.

As I’m making my way towards the door, something catches my eye to the right of me. My reflection.

There’s a big mirror on one of the doors to the closet, and my reflection is staring back at me in it.

I’m small, having far less height than I should for a fourteen year-old teenager, and could quite easily pass for someone many years younger than I actually am; I’m just under three feet tall. Puberty never seemed to kick in with me, though at this point I’m starting to believe that that isn’t the problem.

Dark-brown hair—that isn’t so long, but still goes down to my shoulder blades—sits in a mess around my shoulder blades and back. Freckles are present all over my face, adding moreso to my ‘little girl’ appearance. Brown eyes stare back at me. I have fair skin, freckles dotting my body all over. My body is slender and well-formed, though my muscles give me little strength.

“Oh, Anusree, you’re awake!”

I turn away from my reflection, and discover Mrs. Camaline in the doorway to mine and Marcy’s room.

She comes in, walks over to me, and bends down to my level.

“How are you feeling?” She asks.

“Is Marcy okay?” I ask, not worried about how I’m doing.

Mrs. Camaline’s composure drops suddenly at this question. Her face drops to the floor with an uncertain look. After a moment, she slowly looks back to me.

“You don’t have to worry about Marcy right now, Anusree, you need—”

I know something’s wrong. I can read it on Mrs. Camaline’s face. In her voice. And it makes me worried.

“Is Marcy okay?” I ask again, not allowing my question to be put off. I don’t want to be rude, but I can’t go on not knowing what happened to her after I saw her last.

“Anusree—”

“Please, ma’ am, I need to know…” I continue to prompt, tears building up. “It—it’s my fault; I can’t go on not knowing….”

“Anusree, it’s not your fault,” Mrs. Camaline says kindly, gently putting a comforting hand on my shoulder, trying to reassure me. “Karyan was the one who hurt Marcy, not you.”

“But it would’ve never started if it wasn’t for me!” I retort, emotions coming to the surface, tears beginning to fall down my cheeks. “It w-would’ve never started…”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself. Things happen.”

“Y-you don’t understand!” I say through my sobbing, my voice slightly raised. “This is m-my fault! Marcy and Karyan would’ve n-never fought if I didn’t exist!”

“Oh, Anusree,” The caretaker says, reaching to hold me in a comforting embrace.

I step back, not allowing her to.

“N-no! You don’t u-understand!” I blurt through the tears. “It’s my f-fault!….”

I rush past her and out of the room, running down the hall as fast as I can.

She calls my name behind me, but I don’t stop.

Emotions and tears spilling out, I don’t stop.

 

…

 

Curled up in a dark corner in one of the stairway storage closets under a rear staircase, I sit crying in trembling sobs, head in my hands. Tears stain my face and I know my eyes must be red from the crying by now. But I can’t stop. Mrs. Camaline’s face told the whole story, even if she didn’t mean it to: Marcy died. She died, sticking out for me.

“Why? Why?”

My friend, my only friend, is gone. Gone because of a disagreement over me. It’s my fault.

“W—Why?!” I blurt into the darkness. “Why did she h-have to die?….”

My sentence trails off and is drowned out by a new round of sobbing.

After it feels like I’ve been in here for an eternity, crying, wondering helplessly why Marcy is gone, light pours into the storage space. I lift my head out of my hands and look up.

A teenage girl is crouching in the storage space’s open doorway, a surprised and worried look on her face. I realize the girl is Theta, a sixteen-year-old with a younger sister named Lalita.

“Anusree?” Theta says. “Anusree? Is that you?”

I can’t reply. My throat is too choked up and the crying hiccups make it hard to even try. The sobs continue.

Theta crawls into the space and pulls me close to her. “Shhh, Anusree. It’s okay.” She hushes, rocking me back and forth with her arms. “Shhh, little child. I’m here now.”

I don’t recoil or pull away. I don’t care anymore. It’s all sadness, an impenetrable feeling of loss. Loss, and the feeling of ill-fated responsibly for my friend’s death.

With these feelings dominating me, exhaustion and Theta’s rocking lull me to sleep.

After waking up again and going back to my room, I slept fitfully for the rest of the day, voluntarily confined to my bed.

 

* * *

Gates Castle, Heart Island, Alexandria Bay, NY

Bill J. Gates sat in his office, behind his polished-wood desk.

His office, a regal room, was comprised of three different styles: Medieval, Victorian, and modern era, all combined into one harmonious layout. It was on the fifth floor of his house, Gates Castle; the former Boldt Castle of Heart Island in the Thousand Islands. Bill purchased the ‘castle’, the island, and every other structure on it a few years back from the Thousand Islands Bridge Authority for a substantial sum, under the condition that the basis of the original design and all structures would be kept intact. Bill agreed, and as a further gesture, he promised to keep the name for the island, Heart Island, that George Boldt had given it.

After purchasing it, Gates did touch up work, finished every room in the ‘castle’, and added some modern innovations and the third style to occupy the building, modern. The island and ‘castle’ were already beautiful, and he didn’t change much of anything on the outside. He did, however, do work under the island. Bill had several ‘basement’ levels built under Heart Island, which the first level of served as a garage and personal repair area for Gates’s expensive vehicles. These basement levels also served as the entrance from the underwater car tunnel that he had had constructed from the mainland, along the bay floor, and then to the basements, where a car elevator would take a vehicle up to the garage. A person elevator in the center of the room could then take you up into Gates Castle.

Bill enjoyed living on Heart Island. It was beautiful, off the mainland living that offered privacy and his own chuck of free-standing land.

BUG was resting on the desk next to the keyboard, plugged into the computer via a custom port by its universal plug-in.

“Commencing worldwide satellite connection.” BUG announced.

The computer’s screen switched from standard desktop to a satellite-fed view of planet Earth as a 3-dimensional model. A number of satellites, orbiters, and communication towers were identified around the world and showed up on the screen.

Bill accessed a satellite over California, and had it pinpoint a compound on the outskirts of L.A. The compound was an underworld dealer’s pickup spot, where merchandise would be exchanged between drug suppliers and their benefactors. Black market transactions were from time to time conducted there as well, with a variation of illegal arms and tech. The compound was technically neutral and served only as a discreet location to make trade-offs and finish deals.

All this was irrelevant now, to the annoyance of many underworld families. Bill J. Gates and an L.A. S.W.A.T. team had stormed the compound during a drug transaction concerning Casno Hyund, the supplier, and the benefactor, a man who went by Goral Pate. The siege went less smoothly than Gates or the S.W.A.T. team had hoped. Goral Pate had successfully killed an S.W.A.T. member before being impaled by a volley of semi-automatic fire, and there was a short skirmish amongst the remaining S.W.A.T., Goral’s men, and Casno’s people, with a few further casualties to the criminal side. Casno was apprehended in the end, with several others who had managed not to get killed.

After the scene was all sorted out, the offenders were taken away by prison van. Bill hadn’t seen Casno Hyund since. And because some certain people were strangely reluctant to divulge his arch-nemeses’ whereabouts, Gates decided he would take the matter into his own hands.

Bill had begun the hobby of computer hacking at a young age in the Warrenton orphanage, as something to occupy himself and keep away the nagging sorrows of his loneliness. Once, using the orphanage’s desktop computer, eight-year-old Bill had wirelessly hacked security at a local Warrenton bank without anyone detecting his presence. It was exhilarating accomplishment for him. However, the orphanage caretakers weren’t so pleased with his ‘accomplishment’, and he was restricted from computer use for the better portion of a month afterward.

Since then, Bill had become a dedicated hacker. He used his skill not for criminal activities, but for good, and occasionally when he needed (or wanted) to know something that was classified or people simply wouldn’t inform him of.

“Sync with the satellites memory base and retrieve feed from the compound site, twenty-three-hundred hours.” Bill instructed.

This particular satellite was fitted with a long-range precision optics camera—one that could take video feed of things on the ground with relatively good quality, depending of course on weather conditions and cloud cover. Fortunately for Gates, the night of the compound siege had been a decently clear one.

BUG replied by following the command. A vid-feed from about twenty-three-hundred hours the night of the siege appeared on the screen. Police and S.W.A.T. had by then swarmed the building and bordered-off the area. L.A. Police cruisers spotted the perimeter, and a prison van was being loaded up with the reprobates.

“Put a tracking blip on the prison van.” Bill said. “I want to know where it went to.”

A red, computer-generated, pulsing blip appeared on the van and stuck to the vehicle as it drove away from the compound and headed for the L.A. Police station. Bill had been preoccupied with something back at the compound, and had not overseen the prisoner transport. He regretted it now. The van arrived at the station, dropped off the prisoners…

“Hold it.” Bill said, suspicions arisen. “The group of prisoners who entered the building, none of them were Casno.”

“That is correct, sir. I ran a quick identification scan, and none of those men could possibly be Casno Hyund.”

“Resume the feed. Continue following the van. I want to know where Casno was and where they took him.”

The situation with the unknown whereabouts of the underworld dealer to both the detective (Bill) and the President of the United States himself were unsettling and unusual. The government seemed to know the location of Casno, but were evidently closed to divulging the information. Was someone trying to hide him? What scenario could be so sensitive that the President was kept in the dark?

‘Whatever the reason, I’m starting to get a sense this isn’t going to be a regular ‘search and fine’ type thing. Everything always has to be complicated. What’s next? I’ll start a family?’

He would’ve chuckled to himself, but he wasn’t in the mood to laugh pointlessly at his own jokes.

The feed continued, zooming out gradually as the vehicle-in-question went farther and farther away from the cameras center point (which Gates had set as the compound before the siege that night) and headed in the general direction of a corporate park. Nonetheless, the blip kept the van identified and Gates did not lose it.

It arrived at the corporate park and stopped at a company building called “Sid’s Processing Service”. Unfortunately, the camera could not get feed from up-close, so Bill could not clearly see the activity going on there. It was obvious that a man had been dragged from the van and into the building, but the feed quality was blurry and only general shapes and colors could be made out from this range. The reason he even knew the name of the company building was because BUG had put it on the screen.

The van backtracked to the police station and parked in one of garages, and that was all.

“I want to know everything about ‘Sid’s Processing Service’, BUG. And although with the way the feed is it might not be possible, I want you to run an ID scan on the man that was dragged inside. If that was Casno, than Sid’s is the focus of our investigation.”

“Right away, sir.”

“I’m going to get into some government files. See if Casno Hyund’s most recent capture was even logged in the system.” Bill said, hands beginning to fly across the keyboard.

‘If it wasn’t Casno who was mysteriously missing, I would actually enjoy this tonight… No matter. There will be plenty more opportunities to hack under much less stressing situations. And finding Casno is far more important than enjoyment, wherever he is.’

 

Trust–Chapter Two

Posted on by

Chapter Two: Personal Surprise

I park my car in my messy garage, and then I sneak to the door that leads to the mud-room. I slip out of my work shoes, their proud, normally polished surfaces scuffed from my excitement. I tiptoe down the hallway, making sure to avoid the loose boards.

EJ, as I guessed is cleaning up from a PB and J lunch with Kylie and Tommy, our two kids. Five-year-old Kylie is singing her own version of the Star Spangled Banner, and Tommy, four, is pounding on his stuffed animals.

Maybe if we buy him a boxing bag, he’ll snuggle with it at night, I muse.

I try to avoid their innate Dad-O-Meter, but fail miserably. Soon their squeals of glee ring throughout the home, and EJ, excited, looks at me curiously.

“I’m home,” I say, intentionally leaving out an explanation, and ignoring her obvious inquisitive looks.

“I see.”

She reaches for me, and we kiss hello as the kids climb our legs.

“Why are you home?” she asks, cutting to the chase.

I sigh.

“Fine,” I relent. “If you must know, I’m home so we can pack.”

“Pack for what?”

“Guess.”

My wife gives me the look that means I’m in trouble, but sort of in a good way.

“Is it business related?” she says, rolling her eyes and resting her hands on her hips.

“Yes. How’d you know?”

“Those are the only trips we take,” she explains.

The comment stings, but I know that the revelation of the vacation will be even better for it.

“Is it in the US?” she asks.

“No.”

“Okay, I have my answer. We’re going to the annual InsuranceFest in Toronto!” she says, mocking me.

“Are you saying you didn’t enjoy the trip to Minnesota?” I ask feigning surprise.

She glares at me and growls. “No, sir, I did not like that trip,” she says stiffly.

“Well, you’re wrong, because it isn’t in Canada, and the only reason its business related is because its a company vacation. We’re going to France, EJ!”

“Your kidding,” EJ says, but I can see she knows I’m not.

I grin back at her and I open my arms. She attempts to crack my ribs in a hug.

“Just you and me,” I say, and I kiss the top of her beautiful, blonde head. “Just you, and me.”

***

I lazily loll my head on EJ’s shoulder enjoying the bliss of the moment. The plane is dark, excepting A21 who is an avid reader, and is just beginning another Dean Koontz book. I take a deep breath, the thick scent of coconut in her hair overpowers my senses. My already tired eyes close and I find myself drifting off into sleep.

I snuggle a little closer as the blackness edges closer, tucking my eyes in for the night. Then my pleasant thoughts are pricked by a painful needle. The needle is the same blasted question that I’ve been asking myself.

Why do I work for an insurance company.

Surprising myself, I begin to reassess the question. Despite the drowsy state of my mind, I imagine that the question is something else.

Why do I work as a marketer? I mentally rephrase. Because I have a creative side that nicely compliments my businessman side. Why do I work? Because I love my family, and I want to provide a house, food, some occasional fun, and a certain amount of overall comfort to them.

I pause, confused as to the nature of the beast. I try to discern what the question is. Is it a ungrateful question? An unsatisfied question?

A calling.

It comes to me, and I can’t refuse it. I suddenly know that’s what it is. Inexplicably, I know I’m right.

Okay, if it’s a calling, then what is it calling me to do? What can I do differently? I already went to college. I’ve already got the rest of my life planned. Move up in the company, and then retire. 

My mind falters, and I feel sleep creeping towards me. I do not fight, but merely leave the question hanging. It is a very un-me thing to do, but I cannot wonder why I do it. The blackness swallows my mind, and I enter the realm of sleep.

Trust–Chapter One

Posted on by

Chapter One: Corporate Surprise

I look down at my left shoulder where my boss’s hand has just surprised me. Then I turn to face him. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I have a good guess.

“John,” he says. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

I groan inwardly.

“Have a good time on your trip.”

“What trip?” I inquire cautiously.

“This one,” he says, plopping a fat manilla envelope on my desk. I close my eyes as I reach for the package. I open the seal, and find ten one-hundred dollar bills staring at me. Each green rendition of of Ben Franklin’s face says to my mind, “Ka-Ching.”

Still shocked I burrowed for what I knew was there. Plane tickets. To–

“You didn’t,” I say, standing from my desk chair. “You’re pulling my leg,” I yell now, almost angry at this obvious practical joke.

“I’ve rented a villa in French countryside. You’ll be able to enjoy it with your wife for two weeks.”

I sink back into my chair. My head spins, and in my drab cubicle the manilla envelope looks like technicolor gone wild. I get slightly dizzy as I rise again, and when I extend my hand towards my boss, it’s more to steady myself than to thank him.

“Thank you,” I exclaim, already packing my bags mentally. “When do I leave?”

“Right now, John,” my boss beams.

“Oh no! My kids! Who will they stay with? I don’t know if–no, she’s not, that’s right, she’s out of town,” I look up at him, realizing I’m not talking to him. “Sorry, I was thinking out loud.”

My spirits fall as I realize the hole in the figurative bubble. I can’t believe that this whole thing can be called off for one detail.

“Don’t you trust me?” he asks. “I’ve had this whole thing planned for months with your parents. They agreed it was time for a getaway. Your kids will be with them.”

I spring from my chair and embrace him in a bear hug, my nose buried in his shoulder. In my excitement I fail to be offended by the stench of his cologne. The usually awful smell brings joy to my heart.

“I’ve got your back,” he says quietly. “What are friends for, anyways?”

I step back and smile a toothy grin, he returns it with a laugh, and pushes me out of my cubicle.

I rush to the elevator with my briefcase trailing behind, I hurriedly push the “down” arrow. The doors slide shut in a painfully slow manner. I stare at the sign above the polished silver doors. It reads: Robinson Home Insurance–Integrity is a necessity.

Goodbye! I think. I won’t be seeing you anymore! Good riddance.

As the elevator descends, my mind wanders to a question I ask myself more often by the day: Why do I work for an insurance company?

I know I’m a grounded man, and I wonder why I ask this question.

Am I not satisfied? That would be ridiculous, especially after the recent developments.

My mind frees itself from the drudgery of heavy thought as the elevator opens, revealing the lobby. I smile widely as I stride to the front door. I run into the crash bar, swinging the door wide open, the smell of freedom enters my nostrils, along with the fragrance of the May flowers that decorate the front of the Robinson Home Insurance corporate building.

I sprint to my Chevy Cruze, and I laugh, while my tie flaps behind me, probably wondering what on earth I’m running for.

My suitcase is promptly thrown in the back, and I start my car. Its small engine wobbles to life. I turn around to back up, and I drive out of the parking lot.

My brain immediately starts running through the creative, and playful ways to surprise my wife.

“Honey, we’re going to France!” I practice.