The Day After . . .

7-A Desperate Escape

He felt a little light-headed. He had wrapped his wounds in shreds of his uniform as soon as he could afford to pause, but the rags were soaked through with his blood. And the elevation he had climbed to didn't help matters.

He had managed to get a good head start on his pursuers, but the tracking device implanted in his head since shortly after his birth would lead them to him sooner or latter. He had managed to find a crevice in a mountain face that he could reach, even in his condition. The ancient granite around him managed to block the signal, at least temporarily, but the closed quarters didn't make breathing any easier. And what he was about to do may very well make it impossible.

He hadn't known the tracking device could be made "invisible" do Drakon's satellites, but he had seen the confusion the rocky canyons had caused among his pursuers. They always reacted when he would pop into view while jumping over a crest, falling behind when he left their line of sight. They also hadn't detonated the chip, yet.

Programmed to detonate if it did not receive the proper signals in the proper sequence--one from an overhead satellite, one from his heartbeat, one a neurologic impulse--it had not yet gone off. Perhaps, in case an officer had to leave an accessible site--to go underground, like in the sewer--a delay was placed on the chip, so the officer could complete the mission.

Ripping a steel band that had beam woven into the seam of his pants, 387 blasted it with a bio-blast, cleansing it like a scalpel.

"Uhhh . . ." The exertion almost knocked him from the narrow ledge he had perched on. It had to be now.

"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

He started screaming even before the thin steel rod penetrated his nasal cavity, lodging itself in the silicon-metal chip below his hypothalamus. Blood poured along the rod and out his nostrils. If he had any more strength left, the rod would have punched straight through the chip setting, puncturing his brain and killing him instantly. As it was, he collapsed backwards, convulsing, but alive.

Unconsciousness wrapped its warm arms around him.

And the wolves drew closer, but they had lost the scent.

An Unexpected Thought Experiment

So, first off, that disclaimer at the bottom of the page that says all content on this site is trademark and copywrite Larry O'Keefe? Not entirely applicable to this picture. And, yes, that is me . . . sadly.

I'm not going to go into the details of why I'm wearing a crop top and mini-skirt (and, yes, I am covering my navel), but regardless of the why, I learned some interesting things in the act.

It WAS Halloween. A comic-book store Halloween party to be exact (thanks, Strange Adventures--it was lots of fun!). I prepared for the party as anyone would . . . by drinking heavily. Upon arrival with two friends--a coworker and his girlfriend--the bouncers announced, "IDs please", which prompted me to dig in my purse (look at the costume; do you THINK I had a pocket?). I fished out my wallet, opened it to my driver's license, and handed it to the bouncer. Now, I'm not going to sit here and pretend that I think I look like a woman, but I SWEAR TO GOD he looked at my ID and glanced up really quickly and said, "Interesting costume."

In his defence, it WAS dark.

Observation #1.

Anyway, after getting into the party and hiding in a corner--and taking my coat off--I was introduced to several people who all had questions about the costume. Several of the women noted that I was pulling it off fairly well, but I digress. Finding a dark corner of the bar, I was shocked to be approached by FIVE DIFFERENT WOMEN asking to take my picture; one, a very cute Silent Hill character, wanted her picture taken WITH ME.

Now, to some who may be reading this, it may not seem like such a big deal. But to clarify: I am a geek. No, scratch that: I am a dork. I have NEVER been approached in a bar by a woman (okay, maybe once in University, but I managed to kill that quite quickly).

Observation #2.

After finishing my first beer--obtained quickly on the way in--I determined that I would require further alcohol. Girding my will, I--after about 20 minutes of fidgeting--made my way to the bar. Now, as I said: I'm a dork. And, as a dork, I have noticed that the one place I can normally rely on obtaining a woman's attention is when ordering a beer, whether by waitress or female bartender. Any male can get a smile and a quick-witted comment when a tip is on the line. So as I stood at the bar, waiting for this treasured interaction, I found myself somewhat shocked when--and this happened every time I went back--the rather attractive bartenders hit me with a polite but entirely businesslike, "What can I get you?" No smile. No nod. No flash of cleavage (okay, that doesn't ALWAYS happen, but sometimes . . .).

Observation #3.

As I said, the party was sponsered by a local comic-book shop. And, as part of the party, they had two photographers--one male and one female. The female, intentionally or not, took my picture seven times. The male caught my leg accidentally once.

Observation #4.

So, what is my point? I'm not sure. But I do know that people definitely treated me differently based on how I was dressed. And this may require further study--not that I have any idea how to further study the issue.

But, all in all, it was a fascinating experience.

And, as it turns out, blondes really DO have more fun!

Sooooooo . . . . . .

So I left 10 copies of my first comic book at my LCBS--local comic book shop for the uninitiated. And now, I wait for feedback.

If I get any.

This is REALLY stressful for me.

You know, in the past . . . ooohhh . . . three months or so, I have done three things that I never thought I could do . . . and, no, even though I don't think anyone is reading this, I'm not going to say what those three things were. I will say that the third thing was leaving these comic books open for criticism.

And I will also say that the first two didn't QUITE work out the way I had hoped. They didn't COMPLETELY backfire, but . . .

ANYWAY . . . so now I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I think I'm gonna plotz.

p.s. They are FREE, if you're interested (and if #2 on my list happens to read this, I'll give YOU a signed copy for free).

p.p.s. If #1 on my list happens to read this, it's nothing personal, but I REALLY want a window.

The Day After . . .

6-Vertigo

The appointed time came far sooner than 387 had hoped. For his failure to apprehend the rebels, and the death of 1, he was to face punishment in Drakon's name. Two guards came to his barracks as the sun rose over what were once the Himalayan Mountains, although they had long since lost the majesty that had once made them seem unconquerable.

As he stood and went out into the courtyard to honour his master, 387's thoughts drifted back to that moment in the sewer when his eyes gazed upon the child. He had only seen one female genie before--although several of the female rebels were rumoured to have physical prowess thought to be beyond natural achievement--when, as a child, he had glimpsed a girl in the academy across the street from his own. Although against the rules, he had snuck through an opening in the front gate. The guard likely would have noticed him if not for a sudden commotion in the yard across the lane. A female, apparently about his age, actually used a bio-blast, similar to his own, to blow an opening in her gate that mirrored his own exactly. But while he was quite comfortable with his ability, she seemed almost . . . frightened by it. She stumbled out into the street, screaming in pain and terror. Immediately the guards at both gates fired their own blasts. The girl was reduced to ashes, and the image burned into 387’s mind. It wasn't the first death he had witnessed, but he had never seen such terror in the object of the kill.

"How sad," he had thought; not that she had died, but that she did not believe that her life energy would live on, empowering Drakon.

So why had he been unable to stop the rebels once he had seen the child?

He stepped in front of a row of his fellow officers, Drakon's Jury, and realized that now his turn had finally come to honour and empower Drakon.

Drakon's Jury consisted of 24 "predator" genies. Each of them had one mangled claw for a hand, and rather than for a bio-blast consisting of electromagnetic energy, the nails of the claw could actually be fired from their natural position. Covered in toxins, the target of the claws was drained of life relatively slowly and painfully, so as to insure that the victim knew that this was punishment for failure--a penance to Drakon, not a gift.

387 watched as 24 misshapen hands rose towards him. The jury formed a semi-circle about him and took up his entire range of view.

"All goodness comes from Drakon," the courtyard prayed in unison.

"All goodness comes from Drakon," 387 repeated aloud.

An officer standing on a deck overlooking the proceedings extended his right arm upwards, "Aim . . ."

387 looked upon the jury, willing to accept his fate as a true soldier of Drakon. Strangely, images from his past flooded into his mind; he remembered his days as a youth, training in a courtyard much like this one, pairing off with other future soldiers to battle one another hand-to-hand. How many times had he imagined facing a terrifying alien or reprehensible rebel, and taking the evil to hell with him for the greatness of Drakon. He remembered when his bio-blast first emerged. How only the markings on his hands had indicated his future potential until his seventh year, when the energy erupted from his hands. It startled him at first. And the pain! But soon his friends had surrounded him, and so many cheers made the pain fade quickly. If they hadn't been there, though, he might have been just as frightened as that young female in the street. And he saw the angel's eyes again. He looked out on his assassins and saw those eyes on the young girl from the street as she stood between him and death.

"Fire!"

120 talons flew from their gauntlets only to meet the concrete wall surrounding the courtyard. It was a simple back flip for 387 to clear the wall. He had not been restrained, for no one was foolish enough to run. One bio-blast ripped through the outer fence surrounding the installation. Sirens and alarms echoed across the open field that was home to the structure, and the officers responded as quickly as could be expected, but they all knew 387; knew that his love for Drakon made his death something that he greeted not only willingly, but joyously. And so it was that only a few flesh wounds managed to draw the runner's blood as he dove into a rocky chasm at the edge of the field.

Gasping for breath, one thought raced through his mind. That was his daughter, and he would not let her die like that girl in the street. Not with the terror that he had seen. And more, he just had to see those eyes again. Because in those eyes was goodness--a goodness beyond even Drakon.

BODY, No

Age Unknown--It is with an indeterminate amount of sadness today that we announce the passing of nobody. While almost certainly Nobody had a name, no record could be found of it. Nobody accomplished nothing in his life. Professionally, his name appears on no published documents, replaced by more important individuals who read his work, possibly. Nobody, while determined to be of above-average intelligence, has no educational records, as all the schools Nobody attended no longer exist. Nobody can, however, claim the honour of having been called an idiot in at least nine languages.

Nobody had no athletic ability at all, and was unable to locate a single geocache in his single short-lived hobby. Nobody was unable to ever ask out a woman, and, in fact, was lucky to even be able to dial a phone. As such, Nobody has no family outside of his extended family, who would rather not acknowledge Nobody's existence. Nobody died of a self-inflicted blow to the head believed to be a combination of blood-alcohol content, abnormal temperatures, and the constant pacing of Nobody's upstairs neighbours. Nobody is survived by nobody. Donations may be made to the Conservative Party of Canada since Nobody could care less.

The Day After . . .

5-A Chance Meeting


"386 . . . 387! You're with me!"
The order barked by his commander startled Special Forces Officer 21-387. It had been close to a year since he had participated in the birthing ritual, but occasionally his mind still drifted back to the angel in the white room. It seemed worse whenever he was taking part in a civil action. The burning buildings and screaming citizens had never bothered him before, but now, standing on an abandoned street corner bordered on all sides by the ruins of tenements, still smouldering from the electromagnetic blasts that had all but levelled them, his whole being yearned for his little piece of heaven in the white room.
Not that he didn't understand why he had to take part in creating this personal hell. Central Intelligence reported that those damn revolutionaries were sighted in the area. He couldn't understand why those stupid women would not just accept Drakon's rule. After all, all goodness comes from Drakon, so without Drakon's goodness, why live?
"387, cover us. We're going to check the sewer. 386, you've got point. Go!"
Number 1 was a good soldier. He had lead countless legions of genies into battle against the enemies of Drakon, even after spending ten years in Routine Forces, policing the general populace. With most positions determined at birth, it was almost unheard of that a genie would be promoted to a higher battalion, but 1 had excelled to such a degree that it was determined wasting such a talent on common criminals--of which few remained--when the revolutionaries were such an ongoing threat, was a crime in itself. And so, the soon to be number 1 was there at the battle of New Jordan, when the old number 1 was slaughtered by the woman "Viper." The new number 1 stepped into the leadership role with ease, and lead squadron 21 to victory. Even now, only a week from his thirtieth birthday, when the ascension would take place, 1 actively led his squadron yet again to glorious victory in Drakon's name.
"SKREEEEEEE!!!!!"
An energy blast from beneath the manhole cover snapped 387 to attention. "Resistance met! Officers under fire in sewer below manhole 12," 387 barked over his satphone." Drakon be with me, . . ." he trailed off as, with a gasp he dove into the hole. UV glasses kicked in quickly enabling him to see, but the tears from the fetid stench that invaded his nostrils still distracted him momentarily. The cold splash of water and who-knows-what-else that hit him as he landed at the bottom of the sewer snapped 387 back to his senses--just in time for a foot to send him reeling backwards into a hard concrete-and-steel wall. Neither blow being enough to stop a true soldier of Drakon, 387 dove behind the limp charred body lying in the cesspool before him.
A loud bang echoed through the cavernous sewer as 387 shot his natural energy back at the female attacking him. His hands tingled as they began to recharge, even as his ears tingled from the sound of the blast, amplified by the closed quarters.
Before him, a woman dressed in what appeared to be discarded bones, had lunged into the sewer water to avoid his blast.
"Wings?" 387 was a bit startled by the large body appendages apparently growing from the woman's back. So much so that he almost did not see number 1, chained and gagged, fall backwards behind the wings, his charred corpse now the only hostage the women surrounded him would have to torture.
"This is 387--1 has been caught in my crossfire . . . 386 down . . . require assistance NOW!"
387 knew that his fellow officers--the ones that remained--were on the next street, and would not be able to assist him for at least the next few seconds. He would likely follow 1 and 386 as martyrs, but if only he could hold on so that the females could not escape . . .
A soft touch on his shoulder spun 387 around in the muck, prepared to fire a second bio-blast. Unfortunately, he slipped on some feces and fell backwards, inhaling toilet water as his next breath. Choking on equal portions of water, vomit, and pride, 387 nonetheless shoved his body upward with arm outstretched to fire a killing blast.
"Wait . . .," a voice called out, a delicate, gentle hush, determined but not fearful.
His eyes, blinking to clear the cobwebs focused on brown-red waterfalls filling deep green pools.
"You . . .," his exasperated voice came, gasping for breath. But no sooner had he said this than he realized it was not. Although hauntingly similar, this was not the face of his angel.
This false angel then continued, "You said 387, and your uniforms are squadron 21. You're my sister's repro-partner!"
Startled by this revelation, 387 cursed the few words the angel had coaxed out of him. Words were not permitted during the ritual, but he could not refuse her whispered request during a moment of respite. He had said who he was, hoping that someday they may meet again, perhaps when the alien threat had been appeased.
"I . . ," he struggled for words.
"Soldiers above! We have to go!" A high-pitched voice cried out from somewhere behind or above him. It was hard to tell while lying in a pool of human/genie waste.
"This is the daughter she . . . my sister . . . died protecting," the woman standing over him lowered her gaze, opening her arms slightly. Clasped to her breast, a small child somehow familiar to him.
The child’s hands flailed and he saw the birthmarks of a genie on her hands--the same birthmarks that ran across his own knuckles. But this was a female! And she had an angel's eyes . . .

Two Days in Paradise

. . . to be continued . . .