A/N: I blacked out and this happened. They said detective Mark and I got so excited. Waxing poetic from someone elseâs POV is so fun so I liked this one a lot. I was happy to keep going, but I wanted to get it out there. It was beta-read this time so Iâm disappointed I canât tag it as âno beta we die like Ladyâ.Â
Our boy is Yearning. Itâs from Space Detetcive Markâs POV. Switches from 1st person to 2nd person like halfway through. Also switches from past to present tense because I donât care lol. Celciâs in here for 2 seconds because she and Mark both have crushes on the Captain and I stand by that. Enjoy. Please for the love of God, enjoy. ALSO you guys should listen to Ramblings of a Lunatic by Bears in Trees. Unrelated to the fic but itâs the only thing I could think of for a title.
Word Count: 2.5k
I sat back in my chair, creaking as it went back and forth like the whines of a lost little puppy calling for its mama. The chair was old, older than me, I think. It was a nice chair, dark wood that bent a little at the connections of the back to the seat. Suppose it deserved a little flak. It was just a chair, it did its best. I liked the chair. Whatâs more I liked what I could see in the chair.Â
I could see the board, filled from edge to edge with images and clippings and papers, all connected with a red line that came back to one edge. No matter what way you go, where you go, what you do, it all comes back to this. It gave me a strange sense in my chest, a feeling I wasnât used to. Like I know this. Like Iâve been here before. But thatâs impossible. I didnât even know what we wanted to find out.Â
I could see out the window into the vast expanse of open space. The darkness and stars and distant planets and galaxies that we may get to see soon. The cold, unyielding, unloving embrace of the void with almost certain death within and beyond its grip. I could feel the existential dread in my bones, the fear in my heart, the adrenaline in my veins. It was terrifying.
It was wonderful.
âOh, to die surrounded by stars.â That was the quote theyâd hung up on the wall. Iâd asked where it came from, what it meant. They shrugged. They made it up. Isnât that something?
My favorite thing to look at, however, was the Captain. Oh Captain, my Captain. The one Iâve loved for so long but they just canât seem to see it. They wander around, trailing their hands over things theyâve seen a thousand times before and will see a thousand times more. Little, insignificant things. A book, a mug, a plant. But they look with such fervor, such intensity and passion, as if they will never see any of it again.
I like watching the Captain. I suppose thatâs a weird thing to say, but I do. I like seeing what they do when they think no one is looking. They sway and shift and tap their feet, always seem to be doing something, always seem to need something to do. Sometimes I wanted to walk over and take their hands in mine and tell them they donât have to do anything, theyâre perfect, they just need to exist for me to be happy with them, they could throw me out of the airlock and Iâd use my last few seconds of life to ask for forgiveness and wonder what Iâd done to deserve their anger, because I must have done something.Â
âSomething the matter, Captain?â I asked when theyâd stopped next to me, staring out the window. They were close. So close. They were always very close by, which I was grateful for, but my heart always sped up in the way that it did when you were 13 and met a cheerleader in a crop top for the first time. They were so handsome and/or beautiful and I couldnât help how my internal organs reacted. My heart beat, my stomach twisted, my muscles contracted, and at one point I thought I was dying because of how much was going on in my body. They never touched me except for a friendly handshake or appreciative pat on the shoulder or a⊠gentle squeeze of my bicep. Sometimes, they made me shake like a short-haired chihuahua in a January snowstorm in Toronto.
They simply shrugged in response, and kept staring. That was the Captain. Quiet. Always thinking. Always had something on their mind. I wanted to take their face in my hands and try to see what they were thinking. I wanted to say âTell me. Tell me whatâs going on in there. I want to know everything you think. I want to know your mind. I want you to tell me and no one else because Iâm the only one who gets to know you, really.â And maybe they would. Maybe theyâd allow me access to the dark recesses of their mind, all their odd and sad and bloody and happy thoughts that they never shared with anyone. Wouldnât that be something?
However, I just nodded. That was a thing I tended to do. Just nod when I know what I want to say, but canât say it. I canât tell them how much I want to be close to them. I canât tell them how absolutely handsome and/or beautiful they are. I canât tell them how sometimes, as Iâm drifting out of consciousness, I want to go out and find them and crawl into their bed and beg them to pay attention to me, please, hold my hand, pet my hair, show me some affection because I canât live without it and I need it and I need you and please donât ever leave me alone.
Iâm an independent man, but sometimes an independent man wants to be cuddled by his favorite person.
I decided to take a chance and look up at them, quickly regretting it. Beautiful baby greys staring, focused out into the distant black horizon. Stars twinkling in the reflections of their eyes. Millions of thoughts racing along, not one stopping to be known by anyone but them. I wanted them to tell me. I wanted to know. I wanted to know them as much as I could.Â
They were tense, tense as could be. Shoulders high, jaw set, eyebrows furrowed. They looked angry, but I knew they werenât. They were thinking. Thinking about anything and everything, all at once. Their nose scrunched in the most adorable and/or sexy way once and a while. I wanted to kiss the frown off their lips. I really, really wanted to.
Hands opening and closing, clenching like they wanted something to hold. Like they used to have something to hold. Like they didnât know what to do with them. I never knew what to do either, what, with them running through my mind every day. As much as I wanted to offer my own hand, I restrained myself. Itâs too early. Too much.
Handsome and/or beautiful. Pretty and/or hunky. Dapper and/or elegant and/or attractive and/or any compliment I could possibly think of because I loved them. I loved you.
Thereâs a thought, huh?Â
âI love you,â I mumbled, quieter than you could ever hear, quieter than even I could hear, basically just mouthing the words. You caught a glimpse, however, because you were always paying attention to me. Making sure I was okay and happy and comfortable. What did I ever do to deserve you?
You tilted your head in that way that you do, asking âwhat was that?â with a simple movement. I couldnât say, so I just smiled and shook my head. You wanted to press, I could tell you did, but you just nodded and turned back to the window. I wanted to say something. Something clever, something kind, something to make you blush and sputter and giggle and shove me playfully. I wanted so bad to make you happy. But I was too scared to make you sad.
And then Celci entered the room.
âCaptain, looking dashing and/or stunning as ever,â she said in that stupid nice voice reserved only for you, throwing a wink your way and a scowl in mine. She knew what she was doing when she made you blush. She knew how I felt. She knew how she felt. I didnât want to have to fight for your affection, but if it was against Celci, Iâd play dirty like a pig in the mud.
âCelci,â I growled. Once, you had said I growled like a wolf. It was a tease, I knew, meant to push my buttons, but I cherished it.
âMark,â She spat, venom lacing her tone. The wolf and the snake. Wonder who youâll pick.
Celci isnât a snake. Celciâs honest and hard-working and, deep down, we respect each other. Way deep down.
âShouldnât you be taking care of the colonists?â I asked.
âShouldnât you be fixing the ship?â She shot back.
âThe ship doesnât need fixing.â
âIâm sure youâll find something.â
âIâd rather be here.â
âWell, so would I.â
âDid the Captain ask for you?â
âDid they ask for you?â
You put out both hands, stopping the argument in its tracks. We both closed our mouths, knowing better than to piss off the boss.
That was another problem, huh? Youâre my boss, arenât you? Even if you did feel the same way about me that I feel about you, youâd never allow a relationship. Thereâs a power imbalance that youâd refuse to have. I love that about you. You know when to quit. I donât. I donât want to quit. I couldnât care less about any power imbalance, Iâd sooner quit my engineering career than drop my relationship with you. But you wouldnât let me. I know you wouldnât. I wonât make you choose between your job and me.
âThe Colonists are fine, Captain. I wanted to spend some time up here, with you. And Mark,â CC said, as if she wasnât completely ruining my night. Day. Whatever it was now. You started to nod because you enjoyed Celciâs company (almost) as much as mine, but I was tempted to ruin this. The desire to give in to any temptation that involved you ran deep in my blood. The Devil found a darling in me long ago.
I made a noise. A little one, in the back of my throat. Small enough that you could miss it or ignore it.
But you didnât. You listened and you heard and you turned to me and stared into my eyes and I didnât know what you saw but whatever you did made you dismiss Celci. She nodded and left, her lips pressed together and a grimace on her face, not wanting to disobey our Captain. My Captain. Cause youâre mine, arenât you? I somehow managed to become priority number one. I wormed my way into your soul and made a space for myself and refused to leave. I donât know how I did it, but you cared for me. It made me happier than a two-tailed dog, if Iâm being honest.
You didnât look at me again, but I wasnât mad. How could I be? Youâre you. You have your reasons, and I respect them. I knew you cared about me either way, you didnât have to look at me. Even if Iâd really prefer if you did. Even if I desperately want to stare into your eyes until I drown in them. Iâd settle for this, though. Our little room with a little chair and a little desk and a little conspiracy board and a big window looking out into the emptiness where we searched for meaning. Ours. And Celci said the windows were a bad idea. What does she know, anyway?
We were quiet for a while, and that was fine. We didn't need to make noise. I liked the silence, anyways. It wasn't loud, it was quiet. Neither of us had any words to be said. Neither of us wanted to interrupt the nothingness. We just wanted to be, and so we did, and so we were. I tried my absolute hardest not to stare, but I couldn't help myself. Baby greys, tension, flexing your hands. I stared at your hands. I really, really wanted to hold them. The temptation was getting to be too much.
Temptation. That's the problem, isn't it? The desire in my brain that I am too weak to resist. The urge to kiss and hold and love that I need to bury down but can't bring myself to. You're my best friend, my favorite person, my love, my life, the one that I want. The one that I need. You are my temptation. And who am I to deny myself?
I hesitantly reached out to your hand clenched into a fist. I laid my fingers on your wrist, asking permission. You looked at me and your face was unreadable. I worried I'd crossed a line, that Iâd misread the situation, that it was too much, too fast. You were my boss. You'd never let that happen. I'd made a mistake, hadn't I?
But you didn't jerk your hand back. You didn't turn and ask Celci to come back and hang out. You didn't request that I leave to go take care of the ship because there must be something to fix. You let me take your hand. I started to sweat.
I gently uncurled each finger from your palm, one at a time, massaging the knuckles because I knew you'd be a little sore in the joints. Your fingers twitched once and a while, and I paused to see if you'd ask me for anything. You never did, so I continued. Once I felt like I had taken care of that as well as I could, I pressed my own palm into yours. The angle was weird, I hadn't thought it through, but I managed to twist my arm around to line my fingers up with yours. I slid them in between, interlocking our hands, keeping us together even as we stayed apart. You didn't pull away, so I assumed it was alright.
I tried to quietly shift my chair towards you. âTriedâ and âquietlyâ being the key words here. The chair was old. It creaked like hell. I could barely move two inches without it sounding like the floor would collapse on itself. Goddamn chair. I donât like this chair.
You laughed, just a little, and that made the embarrassment worth it. You shuffled a little closer until you were standing behind me, and you paused for a moment. I was about to ask what you were doing, but you put a hand on my head. My eyes widened and I waited with bated breath. Blood rushed to my face and thoughts raced through my head.
Pet my hair, run your fingers through it, kiss the top of my head, something, anything, please, please, pleaseâ
You started to pet my head, gently, and it would be imperceptible if you let up any more. But I cherished it. My eyes fluttered closed and I sighed and leaned my head back.
I didnât know how much time had passed before I was about to drift out of the world of the awake. I heard the faint noise of voices in the hallwayâ Gunther complaining, Burt saying something profound, CC giving orders and everyone asking where the Captain was. I smiled to myself, knowing the answer. The Captain was with me. The Captain was mine. I was their best friend, their number one priority. All the rest of the crew could suck it. I had won. You mightâve been mine, you mightâve not been. But you were here, with me, nonetheless.
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I know itâs been a long time, but the series is finally ending. Unfortunately, I canât give you the proper finale you all deserve and have waited patiently for. Between school, work, and my own personal projects, I just donât have the time or energy to finish the final chapter. However, I will still post what has been written, and a summary of what would happen after the point where I ended writing. That should, hopefully, come out sometime this week. Again, Iâm sorry to keep you all waiting all this time just to end like this, but itâs really the best I can do.
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So for those who donât know the @spaceiplier au or arenât on the discord server, I spend the last few days reading through every single story and compiling all the quotes that I found memorable or important or just stuck out to me in some way.
I didnât realise how close it was to the 1 year anniversary of the blog when I set out to make this, but I figured Iâd say how much I appreciate and love you guys and all that you do.
You are amazing writers and artists and never fail to make me laugh and cry (the latter more often than the former). You are endless sources of inspiration and I am so glad to have met every single one of you.
I made another AU off of the amazing AU @spaceiplier! (Go check them out if you donât know who they are). Last time I did one for Matt, so now Iâm doing one for our bud Nate from NateWantsToBattle (and if you donât know who he is. Youtube.Go.Now.) The first part takes place before the events of Icarus, but soon brings you to our current screaming state. Another possible title for this was âThe Price of Livingâ, but I landed on this one since his look is based heavily on the Puppet (conscience, Pinnochio, get it? ;) I have thoughts for a part 2, but idk...) BTW- sentence italics are thoughts, in case someoneâs unfamiliar with this writing style. Enough stalling, here it is.
Five years ago
A quarantine- thatâs what everyone had been told. For the benefit of the people, Atria was under a strict quarantine. Every known Atrian had been required to return to their home planet. All known Atrian homes were swarming with GAAP agents.
The people were given masks, air secure pods, GAAPâs âdeepest condolences for the inconveniencesâ, and were booted back to Atria. A quarantine bubble was created to cover the entire circumference of the planet, immediately muting the song she sent to off worlders. Atrians didnât carry some unknown, deadly disease. Atrians werenât a threat to anyone or anything more than other citizens. Atrians were musicians; they were doctors.
As long as beings could strike a tune, music has been related to the soul. Certain melodies affect how people feel and react. Ordinary musicians can give audiences highs and lows with simple beats, for Atrians even more so. An Atrianâs music flows through the very souls and minds of their audiences.
As scientists linked music to brain activity, many Atrians found their way into the field of medicine. Simple strikes of a guitar could eradicate a tumor, and a complete song rose the deathly ill out of their beds. Atrian music had enough power to heal many of the galaxyâs complex diseases, and it scared GAAP. So, they locked the musicians up, claiming their healing energy had begun to emit deadly radioactive material.
With Atrians gone, medical advancements came to an abrupt halt. Viruses evolved. People needing an Atrianâs precise hand could no longer go under with a 100% guarantee that they would awake in a stable state of mind. No matter what people tried, nothing matched an Atrianâs abilities. Through it all, GAAP never budged on lifting the âquarantineâ.
No, there was no disease. Atria had been sealed up because GAAP was afraid. Afraid of what Atrians were capable of. They were afraid of what might happen should the planet ever find the skeletons in GAAPâs closet. They were right to be afraid.
Closing off Atria wasnât just to keep everyone in, either. Atriaâs core is one of a kind. Above ground, she sings and dances to the energy created by her people. The further down ventured, the richer, and older the layersâ energy becomes. The lifesongs of any who live, and lived, on Atria flow through her veins, giving all inhabitants the energy they need to make the music required to survive. Finally, the core of the planet. A beautiful crystal sphere with the power of ten blazing suns. Pulsating with life, the sphere once reached into her world, to her people amongst the stars with crystals of their own.
When GAAP closed off Atria, offworld Atrians began to lose their power, their very energy. Any Atrian who managed to avoid GAAP would be forced to scavenge for their own energy sources. They needed energy to make their music, and their music to live. Music is like sleep to Atrians. Take it away, and the consequences are devastating. Atrians refusing to return home found their calm nature turn into something twisted; mangled into beings beyond recognition as they fought to live.
.
.
.
Nate reclined in his cushioned chair. Red light from fake windows made his black velvet vest almost appear to shine, the red button up underneath the color of blood. Black hair slicked back, black eyeliner, porcelain makeup, and an ornate cane. He really was working the part. An anxious customer sat before his desk.
A kid, late teens, probably. Poor thingâs legs were bouncing up and down so fast Nate was sure one would spring off. The boyâs skin was completely white, almost to the point of glowing. The only color was his practically neon green eyes, and matching green hair. Stark white, with eyes and hair of the same color- a Danacan. He wrung his hands, eyes affixed to the floor.
âSo, youâre saying,â the boy began, âif I give you some of my energy, youâll help me?â
Four tumors, that was how many the boy had left in his body after five medical extractions. The things just wouldnât stop growing. Over the last two months, the monsters had become more aggressive; all had begun to converge on his brain. Doctors had given up hope on saving the boyâs life, and no one else would see him. Everyone believed he was a lost cause. When sayings like âlost causeâ, or âno hopeâ arise in situations, people find themselves in places never before imagined. For instance, the underground shop of a mysterious healer.
âLook, kid.â
âDan, my name is Dan.â The boy, Dan, offered a sad smile, for once looking up from the floor.
Poor kid. Nate knew he was Danâs last hope. The medical field had failed him, so he had turned to a shady (but effective) businessman. It was too bad that Nate couldnât offer his work for credits.
âOkay, Dan.â
Nate twirled his cane in his hands. The ornate rod held a perfectly sculpted crystal ball- Atrian crystal. Energy swirled inside in mesmerizing summersaults. If songs didnât entrance you, Atrian energy certainly would. Stare long enough, and the orbâs bottled energy would be the center of your attention, the outside world no longer a bother. It was no wonder people mistook Atrians for workers of dark arts in older times.
Nate silently stood from his chair. His shoes didnât make a sound as Nate glided towards a wooden shelf full of mysterious objects. Vials, scales, clouded jars, a small wooden box that flowed as a semisolid. Quite an impressive collection of mysterious trinkets Nate had assembled.
Nate spoke to Dan, âLife energy removal is no small matter, Dan. Your condition is serious. Doctors, nurses, therapists, they have all failed you...â
Nate spun on his heels, dramatically half sitting on the bottom shelf while leaning on his cane. A smile curled on his lips, white teeth shining, his eyeliner making his eyesâ devilish twinkle more pronounced, â... which brought you to me.â
Dan nodded. He was trying to look brave, but the flicker in his form quickly erased his false bravado. Desperation, nervousness, and a small sliver of hope. Nate could practically see an aura of energy radiate from Dan.
âWell, my dear friend,â Nate plucked a blue vial from behind his back, âyouâre in luck.â
Danâs eyes widened, âWhat is it?â
Nate gazed at the sparkling liquid. He held it at his eye level, showing its worth. The roomâs red light made the glass glimmer more than it already did.
âThis, dear boy, is what you came here for.â
Nate strode back to his desk. He slipped Dan the liquid. Its light danced in the boyâs eyes, but there was something more there. Dan held the vial so carefully, as if moving might break it. Hope; Dan believed the mystery serum would help him. Perfect.
âHow much do you need? E-energy, I mean.â
Nate idly sat on the corner of his desk. He tapped his cane to his chin, pretending to think.
âHmm⊠four months? Yeah, four months sounds good. Four months of life energy for a cure.â
Nate smiled. He pointed his cane at Dan, âWhat do ya say?â
Dan looked from Nate to the vial, then back to Nate, âI- I donât know.â
âOh, come on, kid! Four months in trade for a cure? Itâs nothing! You wonât even need further medical hands for the formula to work. You take it, you go home, get rest, later you find that youâve been cured. Itâs a miracle!â
Nate threw his arms into the air, and winked for good measure.
Dan sighed, âWill it hurt?â
âNot one bit, kid.â
The boy nodded, âOkay. Okay, letâs do it.â
âBrilliant!â Nate patted Danâs shoulder, causing him to flinch, âI knew youâd make the right choice. Just let me get everything set up.â
Nate quickly plucked the vial from Danâs hand, âHere, hold my cane, will ya? I need both hands for this.â He patted Danâs shoulder again, and turned to more equipment at the back of the shop.
The boy was still in the same position he had been in moments before, âWait, what? How-?â
âDonât worry, kid.â Nate pretended to fiddle with assorted props, âJust hold my cane. Mind checking if it needs polishing? I keep forgetting that.â
âBut, I, what⊠aboutâŠâ
Nate counted down in his head, Three, two, one.
Nate turned around to a familiar sight. His customer sat rigid at his desk, intently facing forward and holding the cane. From where he stood, Nate could see Danâs expression trapped in his crystal, dead to the world. All was as it should be. Nate placed the fake liquid cure back on its shelf, along with the other props and knick-knacks he had accumulated over the years.
He tapped an obscure code into the wall. There was a click, and a part of the wall slid open, revealing a sleek blue electric guitar. A giddiness arose in Nate that only came with the excitement of performing. He hungrily plucked the instrument from its hideout.
Nate leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, relaxed his shoulders, and played. The words werenât prepared, they never were in those situations, they just came to him like a calm breeze. The air in the room stilled. It was as if everything, possibly even the world itself, had stopped to listen.
When he opened his eyes the store was swimming with crackling white energy. The hairâs on Nateâs arms stood on end from the dancing white sparks. The guitarâs strings shined and vibrated from the force of his music. Everything was in a shimmering, twisting, beautifully chaotic state of raw energy. He took in a deep, satisfied breath.
Nate strode back toward the frozen Dan. Leaning down in front of him, he could see the boyâs eyes were glazed over, completely fixated on the Atrian orb. His mouth was still open mid sentence.
Nate quickly retrieved his cane from Danâs grasp. Holding it high above his head, Nate focused on the exact amount of energy he needed. Being drawn in by some unseen force, clusters of Danâs life energy swam into Nateâs crystal. Four months of energy, to be exact.
Most of the energy was stored into the orb, but a few crackling tendrils coursed down the cane and into Nateâs arm. Energy shot through his veins in twisting lanes. They rocketed upwards to his heart, vocal cords, and face. Finally, Nate felt the cracking parts in his being begin to mend. Lightning bolts of life restored what was crumbling in Nateâs mind. For a while, at least, the energy would keep him whole.
.
.
.
Rendezvous were almost always in public places. With plenty of people, a scene would cause many heads to turn. It gave the customers a sense of security. Of course, while large crowds can be an advantage, itâs easy to get lost in them. A whirlpool of chattering, towering skyscrapers with various programs, and news sprawling across their surfaces. A cry for help would be a soundless scream into a deaf void.
Nate drove Dan to meet his friends. After customersâ... operations⊠they were disoriented, sluggish, their minds easily bent to believe, or forget, certain details. Nate played the role of the customerâs chauffeur; an employee of the mystery healer. With patrons never truly remembering his face upon recollection, he earned the street name of âPhantomâ. It was cheesy, but in a good way.
Nate the Chauffeur always wore a mask to meet ups, his cane in the guise of an umbrella. It was a rusted-looking bronze, and covered his entire face. Anywhere else he would have drawn attention, but he was in the center of a bustling metropolis. A rainbow of different colored individuals, all with different shades of hair, numbers of limbs, and amounts of facial features clustered together in a flowing broom of passersby. No one batted an eye.
Only one customer was allowed in Phantomâs shop, but the customer could decide who took them home. Phantom Nate being the one to drive patrons home was too risky, for both him and his clients. A mystery man dropping you off at your doorstep was bound to raise neighborsâ eyebrows. No, instead he created the persona of Phantomâs masked driver. Pretending to be someone that he wasnât had become disturbingly easy for Nate ever since he became a lone wolf.
Half the cityâs skyscrapers were broadcasting on their windowsâ holoscreens. Reruns of popular shows, advertisements, statistics on peopleâs income and more all flashed in erratic motions in the square. Behind him, Nate caught sight of a familiar face. He was on his independent news/theory show, cracking bad jokes at the camera. Nateâs heart sank. When was the last time he had even seen Matt and Steph, in person, of course? Too long, for sure. As long as they were on screen, though, Nate knew they were okay.
Behind his mask, Nate smiled.
Well, at least one of us is doing alright.
âYou better not be bullshitting us.â
Dislodged from his thoughts, Nate sighed, âPhantom doesnât âbullshitâ his clients.â
Dan had two friends, both teen Danacans, pick him up. One was a timid, shorter boy with gray hair pulled into a ponytail. The other was rather vocal, with a purple mohawk. He stood before Nate with stubbornly crossed arms, and an irritated look.
Mohawk sneered, âYeah? Well where is he?â
Ponytail, who was struggling to hold up Dan in his groggy state, shot Mohawk a warning look.
âCome on, weâve got Dan. Letâs just go.â
So, youâre the voice of reason in the group? Nate thought.
âYou should listen to your friend. Give him a few weeks of recuperation, and heâll be alright.â
Mohawk stared at Nate, trying to pick any information he could off of Nateâs unreadable appearance. Good for him. Always question the motives of others, especially in Nateâs line of work. Mohawk opened his mouth to say something, when one voice rose above the others.
âAs many of you know, I try my best to diverge from political topics....â
Nate, and half the street, turned to the nearest news- broadcasting skyscraper. Trillions of pixels made the image of a brown haired man in front of a holographic screen. The spokesman was facing the camera, eyes practically burning with anger.
Matt, what are you doing?...
âMoments ago the planet Atriaâs quarantine bubble was rocked with a massive explosion.â
An image appeared behind him- Atria. A rock lodged itself in Nateâs throat. He couldnât remember the last time he had actually seen Atria; he had been off world when the quarantine was announced. The Atria on the screen he barely recognized. GAAPâs quarantine shield made seeing the planetâs surface hazy; what marked the planet that day wasnât able to be covered up. A giant scorch mark blemished the quarantineâs western hemisphere. Smoke was traveling fast underneath where the explosion made contact. Someone on ground had nuked the sphere. Without thinking, Nate took a curious step forward.
Matt ran a hand through his hair- a tick, something he did while thinking, âBefore the quarantine⊠good friends of mine were Atrian.â
Nate could practically feel Matt looking at him.
âI have overlooked many of GAAPâs actions, but Atria is my homeâs twin planet. For five years now Atrians have been cast aside, out of view. What did we do? We didnât question it. Atrians are not a violent race, but people are capable of anything in order to survive.â
Matt walked closer to the camera, so close that all you could see was from his shoulders up. An expression unlike any Nate had seen crossed Mattâs face. Anger? Determination? A bit of both? The wheels were visibly spinning in Mattâs eyes.
âI will be visiting Ahtretâs satellite station as soon as I can. If any GAAP agents wish to meet and offer a feasible explanation, that is where I will be, but I will not let this stand. That will be all for today.â
And just like that, the buildingâs screens went dark. Half of the formerly bustling street was staring up, mouths agape in disbelief.
What was he thinking? Maybe that was it- he wasnât. Years of not knowing what had happened to his sister planet, subsequently his own, and his friends, had finally pushed the Theorist to defiance. Part of Nate was proud of him, another felt guilty, and the last mortified. Matt might have been doing it for Atria, but Nate could tell he was doing it for him. Nate hadnât contacted him since the quarantine. Matt probably thought he was dead, or down the broken path for survival. Most likely the latter.
âDamnâ, a voice from behind- Mohawk, âif itâs enough to get Theory guy to cover itâŠâ
He stopped, a devious twinkle in his eye. Mohawk turned to his friend, who was losing his grip on the drowsy Dan.
âDo you think this is the start of a space war?â
The smaller boyâs eyes widen in fear, âWhat?â
âYeah, I mean, he doesnât cover it unless itâs serious, right?â
âSpace War? But datâs just a theeory. A space theory!â Drugged Dan booped his friend on the nose.
Nate awkwardly cleared his throat, âWell, if thatâs all, Iâll be off.â
They werenât listening.
âOh, come on, Hosuh! Donât you want a laser gun?â
â... Stephen, I donât even trust you to use a butter knife!â
âNah, nah, nah. Knives are too informal for war.â
âSpace war, pew peewwâŠ.â
Nate left as quickly as possible.
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Two left turns, one right, one left, in through a bakery shop, out the side door, and the twists continue. Nate had truly mastered the art of avoiding capture, but that night his mind was elsewhere. He took the beginning twists and sharp corners, however, somewhere in the mess of crowded concrete and a cluttered head, Nate found himself far off his beaten path.
The sun had nearly set. He was on alone, one way street, apartments hugging the road. With an exasperated sigh, Nate slid to sit on the sidewalk. The glow from his cane/umbrellaâs orb beat like a steady heart. He willed the orb to diminish its shine. A sweaty mask would do him no good if his umbrella was glowing suspiciously through the dark.
Nate thought back to earlier, the drop off, a moment that was supposed to be like any other closing for a client. Returning the customer just a formality, an act of humanitarianism on his part. If he wanted, Nate could let his clients wander outside of his shop, confused, gullible, their minds easily influenced. No, instead he went out of his way to ensure he maintained a clean image for his business.
All had gone well. He had his music, his energy, and the customer was satisfied. Then, disaster struck. The screens broadcasted his friendâs face to everyone. Mattâs determined expression, of utter disdain. He was walking a dangerous line.
Matt had always been so guarded with his information. When they spoke so long ago, even Nate had been unsure of everything Matt knew. His team was brilliant, one of the best in the galaxy, but did they know enough? Were they ready for GAAP? Call him crazy, but Nate doubted their ability to take on an intergalactic entity.
âUm, excuse me?â a male voice called from behind.
Nate started to turn, then thought better of it. His mask, he was still wearing the mask. In a city crowd, no one would care, but he didnât have the luxury of apathetic passersby. He was practically in the suburbs, the close-knit part of town where everyone knows everyone, and everyone knows everything.
Nate cleared his throat. He stood up, dusted off his clothes, and readjusted his mask.
âSorry to disturb you. Iâll be on my way.â
âWhat are you doing out here? Itâs completely dark.â
There was an edge to his voice. He suspected Nate of something, as he should. A stranger idling on your street is something to take note of.
âOh, nothing. Just got lost. You know how easy it is.â Nate tried to offer a lighthearted chuckle. The man did not reciprocate.
Part of him itched to reach into his coat pocket for the holo-guitar. A small, square object that would instantly project a holographic electric guitar. A few strums would be all he needed to calmly send the man back inside, but no. Survival instincts overthrew his desire to play. All that was needed was a cool retreat into the night.
âAnyway, goodnight, si-.â
Suddenly, Nate felt the muscles in his back tense up like taught guitar strings. Then came the electricity. It felt like the culmination of his entire being was on fire. His muscles started spamming. Nate hit the ground hard as he was sent into seizing convolutions. His mask flew off his face, bouncing until it stopped face down on the concrete, just like its owner.
A cloth was wrapped too tightly around Nateâs mouth. He had lost all use of his limbs. Nate was a rag doll on a side street in the middle of nowhere. His cane. Where was his cane?!
â... mask and a cane. Canât miss him!â
Wait, who was talking?
A hand reached forward, and pulled down his sleeve. He felt utterly exposed. His veins glowed white in the dark of night, the energy from before still being fully absorbed. It took time for foreign energy to adapt to its new host, sometimes hours, sometimes days.
The sudden reveal of his unique biology caused his attacker to pause, âWhat are you?â he whispered.
Someone whoâs gonna kick your ass if you donât back the hell up!
Of course, rendered immobile, Nate couldnât say these things. He was unable to protest as the attacker shrugged off his surprise, and inserted a needle into his arm. He was unable to object when the man examined his mask, then staggered back at the markings it had covered. He couldnât call out for help as his mind went numb, and the world went dark.
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The shop wasnât as busy as usual. Nate was calmly fixing the newest guitar. He twisted the knobs on the once broken guitar. A simple job, really, but not to modern people. Sadly, Nate found that he was one of the few true music shops around in his town.
Nate struck a few chords. A soothing rhythm flowed forth. It was perfect, all fixed. Nate smiled to himself. Nothing was quite as satisfying as a perfect instrument. As he expertly polished the wooden surface, Nate glanced around. Guitars, electric and acoustic, hung for sale behind him. Various woodwinds remained silent on their stands across from him. The drums in the back waited for someone to strike a beat.
He bit his lip, and glanced down at the guitar. Its newly shining surface beamed back at him, almost in a mocking way. Nate gave the front door a sideways glance. The customer wasnât supposed to return for another hour. Truly testing out the refurbished work would just be a part of the job, right? Ah, screw it. Nate slung the cleaning rag over his shoulder, and left the glass checkout counter. As he had left it, the âSorry, Weâre Closedâ sign was still on the door.
Paranoid, he chided himself.
Nate lifted the beautiful instrument off the counter, and rested it on his leg. Outside, the setting sky of Atria wavered with spirals of blue and gray. Music glided through the streets, lifting up on the wind and flowing to all waiting ears. Such a tangible thing, Atrian music.
You didnât need to see it to know that somewhere a celebration was underway. That was simply the way of Atria. Her energy met every soul, filling them to contentment. Nate closed his eyes, and smiled. He drifted into his music.
Nate wasnât sure how long he had been entranced. When he opened his eyes the store was swimming with crackling white energy. The guitarâs strings shone and vibrated from the power of his music. Everything was shimmering, and twisting in beautiful chaotic swirls of Nateâs music.
He took in a deep, satisfied breath. Nate put the instrument down, and watched as Atriaâs tangible energy danced across the store. It did tangos and ballets to the beat of whatever was playing outside. A large portion of the sparks concealed into a twisting mass. Without warning, the ball launched at Nate, sending him flying off his chair. He hit the wall, the guitar slid several feet away. Nate touched the tender spot, and recoiled from pain. The mass jerked from side to side, writhing, unsure of what form to take.
âWhat the hell?â
More and more energy was consumed by the mysterious bundle, each spark making its glow brighter. Nate shielded his eyes, and staggered to his feet. He felt the heap watching him as he hugged the wall, inching towards the door.
His hand was on the knob, ready to make a mad dash, when a massive weight knocked him in the gut. Glass and sparks flew in Nateâs vision. His body crashed into the concrete with a concerning âcrack!â. Nate tried to get up, but he could no longer see; the orb had grown to completely swallow his vision. It felt like the light was absorbing Nateâs entire being. He let out a gut-wrenching scream.
His head hit the concrete again, but this time it was smooth and cold. Sparks danced behind his stone eyelids. Nateâs body burned with pain. Had someone reached into his body, pulled every muscle out, then sewed him back together? If so, they did a sloppy job. It didnât feel like his hands moved when Nate called them to action.
Slowly, through the cotton in his ears, Nate began to make out human voices. They were all around him, fading in and out, whispering back and forth.
âIs he awake?â
Spoken in a normal voice, but it felt like the person shouted. Nate cringed from the growing migraine in his head.
âI believe so.â
âThat guy really did a number on him, huh?â
Who was talking? What was going on? Curiosity won over pain in the end. Groaning with effort, Nate slowly lifted his head. At first, all he saw were a few blurry figures in a dark room. When his vision cleared all he wanted to do was run.
Nate was in a small room, handcuffed to a holotable, no cane to be found. Four people were in front of him. A man and a woman sat across from him, and behind them stood two very alert, very armed guards, GAAP guards.
Well, shit.
Sitting down, the woman was taller than the man by a few good inches. Her silver hair was pulled back into a neat bun, blouse immaculate and pressed. She had full brown eyes, so it was impossible to read her emotions. Her body posture was so rigid Nate was positive that it hurt. Her hands were clasped calmly on the blue, glowing table.
The manâs appearance was exactly the same- neat to the point of impurity. A button up green uniform, thick black mustache, and cold green eyes. His demeanor was more relaxed than the womanâs. The man sat a little more slouched backwards in his chair. Â The man knew exactly where he was and exactly what was about to happen.
A smug smile tugged at his lips. He held up a small device, âShock collar. Jolted you pretty fast from dreamland. Hate to interrupt your slumber, princess.â
He twiddled the device, as if it werenât something that could violently wreck Nateâs neck. Wherever Nate was, there was a good chance that the man was in charge. He was clearly sadistic, and didnât look like he would be stopping soon; unease bound itself to Nate. He needed out.
The woman spoke up, âHello, Mr. Sharp. It is Sharp, isnât it?â
Nate didnât move, and not just because every molecule hurt. He refused to give these people any kind of satisfaction from his response. GAAP didnât own him, they didnât own his people, even if they thought they did. Silence was a counterattack to their pretentious attitude.
A couple of words was all he needed. They had a shock collar, but he could deal. The last time hadnât been too bad, in retrospect. Nate could subdue them, get his cane, and break out. Underground, deeper this time, maybe even another galaxy? Nihill was the opposite of desirable, but its streets were so crowded that one Atrian could surely make a little nook for themselves. His mind was already searching for the right words to the melody that would release him.
A spark of pain shot through his vocal chords, similar to the jolt from his dream, but stronger. Nate howled in pain. Tears rushed to his eyes while the pain spread up and around his entire neck. He instinctively reached for the injured area, but his hands were still cuffed. Across the table, the smirk hadnât left the manâs face.
âThe brace around your neck is restricting your vocal chords. You may talk, but a single hum will cause an electrical shock. Similarly, if you do not talk, there will be another shock. Each time you do not cooperate, the voltages will increase,â the woman explained.
A grin of deep satisfaction spread across the generalâs face, âWhat she means is simple- youâre our little puppet.â
Nate hadnât noticed before, but there was something looped around his neck. A metal, light, but a little heavier, and near his voice box.
Nate sighed, âNice accessory. I didnât know GAAP was into kinky stuff now.â
The man squinted his eyes. He looked about ready to shock Nate again.
âMy name is Marxca. I am apart of the intergalactic crime division of GAAP.â
Marxca shot the man a look, pushing him to an introduction of his own. He sighed, and put down the remote.
âGeneral Jobs. I am the overseer of illegal galactic crimes, and suspicious people.â He pointed a finger at Nate, âThat means you.â
Marxca typed on the table. Images instantly sprung up. A birth certificate, his high school diploma, the names of family and friends. Nateâs entire life was being presented to him through an interrogation room hologram. Thankfully, they only had one recent photo- him in the metal mask, hiding the deep, purple Atrian markings that ran like thick tear trails from his eyes. No mentions of his clients, or workshops appeared anywhere on the screen.
âA few weeks ago, we received an anonymous caller informing us about a suspicious man in a mask,â General Jobs said, âbut by the time we got there you were long gone. But thanks to that, we had a photo on you to go by. Of course, with a mask like that, we figured you were a criminal. We searched there, and the surrounding cities, until a certain civilian managed to trick you with a taser. Imagine our surprise to find that you werenât just a crook- you were an illegal Atrian.â
Nate ground his teeth, âI havenât committed any crime other than living!â
Jobs reached for the remote again, but Marxca stopped him. She typed again, and the images receded. Unlike before, Nate could see her clearly now. She was GAAP, they both were, and GAAP wanted him gone, but where? Back to Atria? No one could get in or out of the planet. Even if he could, with God knows what happening on the surface, Nate wasnât sure he wanted to. So, where did that leave Nate?
âExactly what charges are you holding me here for? Being Atrian, is that it? Because of your fake-.â
Time stopped. Nate felt his heart pounding in his ears. None of the people, no one in the room, was wearing radiation protection. Even basic GAAP soldiers wore some kind of protection, the minimum being masks. Everyone in the room- the agent, the general, the two guards, they werenât protected by anything. Nate knew that the Atrian cover up was deep; it left only a few of the higher ups aware of the truth. If the people surrounding him werenât basic GAAP agents and police, then who was he dealing with, and how afraid should he be?
âYou cannot return to Atria, you know that, Mr. Sharp. However, this doesnât have to mean jail time.â
Jail time. Oh, God, if someone found an Atrian in jail what would they do? Kill him out of fear? Would the guards muzzle him for the duration of his stay (life, presumably)? Nate wouldnât just be a fish out of water- he would be a fish on the chopping block, ready to be made into old-fashioned sushi.
âWhat would be the other option?â
General Jobs grew a wide smirk.
âThen,â Marxca said, âyou would work for General Jobs and his scientists. You would help them create new weapons.â
All the blood in Nateâs veins turned to ice, âNew⊠weapons?â
âYes.â Marxca reached below her seat, and retrieved an old friend. Nateâs one constant, the only thing keeping him alive was right in front of him, in a GAAP agentâs hands. A rag covered the orb, but just being within close proximity to it breathed life into Nate. His body involuntarily took in deep breaths of air. Energy from his previous client, and leftovers from others, sat within the beautiful crystal. The inside swirled as a storm, sometimes energy flashed like lightning in a bottle. Nate wanted it. He needed it. He needed to live. General Jobs chuckled, jolting Nate out of his daze. Only then did he realize that he had leaned so far forward, that he was out of his seat. Â
âWhat would you need me to do?â
âSing for us.â her response was immediate.
Nate blinked in complete shock, âIâm sorry?â
Marxca examined his cane, the orb in particular, âThe universe is expanding, Mr. Sharp. New dangers are arising, and we need people to be prepared. So, you can sing, play instruments, whatever you have to. You will create bombs imbedded with the energy that is held inside of this.â She pointed to his crystal.
Nate couldnât believe his ears. Work for GAAP? Create weapons through his music? It was all so crazy, so beyond impossible, but thatâs what made it a GAAP idea.
âYouâre joking, right? You- you canât just recreate Atrian energy! Our music is something weâre born with. Itâs apart of our biology!â
Marxca nodded in sad understanding. She took back his cane.
âI see, Mr. Sharp. Atrian music is a part of you, yes? Well, I guess itâs Mr. Jobsâ turn to take over.â
Marxca stood from her seat, and with it a deep sinkhole in Nateâs chest.
âWait, where are you going?â
She shrugged, âIsnât it obvious? You say music is your biology. If that is the case, then I suggest that General Jobsâ scientists start working.â
No words, there were no words that came out of Nate. Plenty were locked inside, exploding, reemerging and creating in a mad cyclone of unbelief. Nothing in him could properly connect the dots into verbal communication. Nothing, no complex argument that was boiling. No screaming fit that he just about fell into.
âWhy?â was all he could manage.
The GAAP agent smiled, âBecause we need you. You may not realize it yet, but your contribution is invaluable.â
Through his inner turmoil, he hadnât noticed Jobsâ absence, until a strong arm wrapped around his throat. Nate felt something penetrate his skin. His body went limp on the table, his entire life waiting to be shown just beneath its surface.
âThank you for your cooperation, Mr. Sharp.â
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Nate rammed against the black wall of his cell. His body burned from, what he assumed were, hours of hitting the wall.
He had been blindfolded for the entire trip to his prison, but the trip had seemed to drag on forever. Upon arrival, Nate had been carried out of the containment ship, a little more carefully than he would have preferred. The saying âDonât damage the goodsâ arose, and continued to linger in his mind.
Finally, Nate was given his sight back. Two GAAP agents had dropped him in a room made entirely of black crystal, and left him alone with General Jobs.
âThis is the most durable, and soundproof, material in the universe,â Jobs had smugly said over Nate.
âYou should feel honored. Only a few of these cells exist. They were made just for your kind. You special little Pipers.â
Pipers. Nate had felt like spitting on the man. Paralysis had robbed him of the opportunity, and Jobs had sauntered out the door. Nate had been a crumpled heap, alone in a dimly lit room where no one could hear him. In that moment, Nate had sworn he would survive. He would survive if for no other reason than to see the look on that bastardâs face when he escaped.
As soon as the paralysis wore off, he was in action. First, he screamed at the guards through the small, one-way mirror/hatch in the door. When that didnât work, he resorted to pounding his fists against the walls, then his shoulders, and at one point Nate used his entire body as a battering ram. Nothing worked.
Nate slumped painfully against a wall. The sad light overhead flickered. Crystalline walls made for a chilly interior. Nate hugged his body, rubbing up and down his arms in hopes of generating some sort of heat. So he was alone, no big deal. Nate had been alone for five years. He would get out.
This time isnât like the others, though.
No, scrapes he had gotten into before had never involved direct GAAP contact. Dodging local police and curious eyes, sure, but nothing the size of an intergalactic superpower. No, the intergalactic superpower. Nate still had determination, hope that he would escape, but the severity of the situation was finally setting in. Determination aside, he knew, in some way, he wouldnât leave the base without being royally screwed.
A clatter resounded through the crystal room like the echo of a deep base. Nate turned his head. A small cylinder sat on the floor in front of the door that seamlessly merged into the wall. Small and metal, it could have been anything. Of course, that was before the ends popped off.
White smoke erupted from both ends, spreading like a slick snake across the ground. Nate held his hand over his mouth in a vain attempt to hold his breath. He stumbled to the far end of the room, but it was no use. Within seconds, the vapor reached him. It was pooling around his feet, coiling up his legs like a living being. One breath was all it took for the chemicals to do their jobs. Nateâs eyelids grew heavy, and the world slipped away.
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The smell of rubbing alcohol. White, everything was too white. Masked forms shuffled around, never staying in one position for too long. The world was cold; its air sterile. His back was frigid; whatever he was laying on was unforgiving to the cold. Metal, Nate was on a metal table. He blinked his eyes a few times, trying to get his bearings.
Hands swooped in and held open his right eyelid. A cotton swab stroked away fluid from inside his eye. Nate tried to pull away, only to find that his head was strapped to the table. He tried his wrists, his knees, his ankles, nothing. He was completely imobile.
âWhat⊠whatâs going on?â Nate tried to ask, but he found a metal gag restraining him from speaking.
One of the people in full scrubs leaned over him, âMr. Sharp? My name is Doctor Visca. We are going to run some tests to evaluate your anatomy. We havenât had many Atrians, so if these sensations become too painful, let us know. I will be talking to you, describing what we are doingâ
Nateâs eyes widened in horror. Painful? What?
Doctor Visca strode away, only to be replaced by another doctor. They attached a strange metal device over his voice box where the shock collar had been. Out of his view, Nate felt stabs of pain in his hands. He tried to squirm away, but his efforts were once again thwarted.
âThe object around your neck is a vocal receiver.â Doctor Visca said, but it sounded like she was talking through a microphone. Was she in another room watching him? Were there other people there?
Doctor Visca continued, âThe nurses have just inserted microtubes into a few pressure points on your hands. Most Atrians seem to⊠ingest... outward energy into their bodies through their hands. Of course, we cannot use music to create energy, but we have a few substitutes. Depending on the level of energy your body receives, you will hum softly or powerfully. The voice receiver will take your excess energy. The more you give us, the sooner this will be over.â
Thatâs not how this works! There are no âsubstitutesâ, and I wonât help you!
Of course, Doctor Visca, nor the other doctors and nurses milling around, cared. Nate relaxed his body on the table. He closed his eyes, preparing for the pain. None of their tests would work, and Nate knew that there was no easy out for him. However, he would make it out. They wanted to play hard ball? Fine. Theyâd get hard ball. Â
Hit me with your best shot, motherfuckers. Â
A nurse administered the first energy surge.
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The battery of a small communicator did nothing. So, they moved to a holoscreenâs- still nothing. The power required to move a cyborg arm, a hoverboard, a small transportation vehicle. Â After that, the doctors decided it was too dangerous to try higher levels of electricity. The only results they were getting were sudden spasms through Nate, and some subtle laughter that the voice receiver picked up.Nate would have laughed more, if the last one hadnât hurt so much. GAAP had never had the true legal ability to test an Atrian, but Nate was practically a dead man on Atria, and GAAP didnât know about his business as âPhantomâ. No one would miss a dead man. Â
Over the weeks, frustration began to overflow. Doctors moved from electrical stimuli, to âbiological explorationâ. Through it all, Nate refused to sing. Whenever they allowed him to speak, they were met with creative intertwining of expletives, and the occasional bird.
However, despite his tough act, Nate felt himself wearing away. Each visit became more and more blurry. Every time he refused them he was a broken record. The number of people in his room dwindled, and their tests sloppy. Doctor Visca remained when others left. She was determined to find what made Nate tick.
Nate tried to explain, without giving away too much, the necessity of his cane. He maintained his resolve, but Nate felt his mind begin to trickle away. Nate could feel his veins try desperately to pump any kind of substantial energy to his body. Without his cane, he was barely running on fumes. Still, somehow, a little voice would always boost him up. He would get out. He was Nathan Sharp, the musician, the Atrian. He would beat GAAP.
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Nate tried to hold onto his sanity, the good in him. He could feel the black hand of chaos, of utter destruction, try to claw its way into his psyche. He pushed his temple against the cool rock wall. He would escape he had to.
Nate had been locked away for weeks. He assumed, of course. Time didnât pass for the imprisoned, but Nate felt every itching moment. Weeks were eternity for him. He hadnât touched a guitar. Every sliver of energy a song might generate was absorbed by the traitorous crystalline black walls. Lord only knew where his cane was, the life of Atrian adorning its head.
He was sweating profusely, black hair covering his face. Nate could barely sleep at night because of violent tremors. Nightmares haunted his mind and sanity. The darkness of the night began leaking into his waking world.
Get the cane.
Theyâll be sorry.
Insanity became an almost tangible being. It was a speck in the corner of his eye. He could see the outline, its shifting form, but if he focused too much it would fade away.
Nate slammed his hand against the wall. No. No, he would not give into the madness, no matter how much it beckoned him.
Fall into me, into blissful darkness. Itâs much quieter here.
No.
Itâs just a little ways. They wonât hurt you anymore.
Nate could practically feel the hand of insanity resting on his shoulder. He imagined the void as a humanoid, but made of utter darkness. Its body would sway without it even moving. It reached towards Nateâs mind.
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âSo, what do you think?â
Ash fiddled with her baton nervously, âYou know we arenât supposed to talk about it.â
Barryâs shoes squeaked on the pristine floors of the base, while his comrade floated anxiously. They made their way forward, but Ashâs mind was stuck in the past, to the⊠event. The video continued its replay over and over in her mind. It was a loop that Ash was confident would never cease.
He scoffed, âOh, come on. Itâs just me. All the doctors are prepping the examination room.â
Ash bit her lip, âI⊠I donât⊠I donât think it was right.â
Barryâs carefree strides halted outside the prisonerâs room. He gave her a questioning look, âAnd whyâs that? I mean, he was a criminal, and what happened after⊠I have no doubt that⊠that monster was on his side.â
Ashâs tail shifted back and forth, and back and forth. She shouldnât have shared her opinion. Barry could be so close minded and stubborn sometimes. Plus, she had no doubt that he was right. The horrified look on the doctorsâ faces before the man lunged. The fact that he attacked afterâŠ
Ash sighed. She didnât want to think about that day, about the carnage, about his death. What was done was done. Be that as it may, Ash knew deep in her soul that it had been wrong. She closed her eyes, thinking of the best way to make her friend understand. Best to dive in head first.
âBecause I met him.â
âYou what?â
âI met him, him and the entire crew.â
Ash opened her eyes, and turned to her friend. His skin was pale with shock. Would he believe her? They were friends, right? He should trust her judgement.
âTwo months ago Iyton and I were sent to out for security. Nothing special, really. Jobs just wanted to ensure that the perimeter hadnât been breached. So, Iyton and I took a stealth pod and set off.
We circled the area three times, just to be thorough. Of course, no one was there. We started to head back when we were hit. Those ships can be so slow, you know?...â
Ash shuddered at the memory. The ship had tilted so far sideways that Ashâs seatbelt was the only thing keeping her from falling onto Iyton. Alarms had bathed the room in red. Sirens screamed in their ears, as if to emphasize how bad the situation was. The force of the jolt had knocked Iyton sideways. Pink blood oozed from a sizable gash in his head.
They were soldiers; they were supposed to be the epitome of fearlessness. However, in that moment, she had seen the look of despair that flashed in her colleagueâs eyes.
Damage to ships wasnât uncommon in space. Debris and chunks of rock were bound to hit eventually, but that trip had been different. One of those one in a billion chances that crews end up talking about during down time.
âSo sad,â they would say.
âI mean, what are the odds?â
Then they would go back to their daily routine.
âOur CO2 converter and left engine had been hit,â Ash continued. âThis base isnât exactly well known and we were in a stealth pod. Iyton and I were practically in dead space. Hours away from a true repair station.
I mean, we tried our best. Iyton checked on the damage while I sent out distress call after distress call, but no one came⊠GAAP wasnât there, and, honestly,â Ash gave Barry a stern look, âI donât think they wouldâve risked a rescue even if they had heard us.â
Her friend was speechless. His skin was a shocked gray. She could see the wheels turning in his head. He knew what was coming.
âThen, then they showed up. A cyborg lady, an android, a weird robot, two dogs, a purple lady, a Graeldur, and⊠him.â
After all this time, I still remember their names: Amy, Ethan, Bing, Chica and Henry, Kathryn, Tyler, and Mark.
âThey rescued us, even made us food afterwards. One of the dogs wouldnât stop asking them how we were, and the other got so much goop on Iyton.â Ash chuckled a little at the memory.
âWhat happened next?â Barry asked.
Ash shrugged, âThey fixed up the converter and engine. He⊠Mark, insisted on getting us back to base, but, of course, we couldnât tell him. So, they repaired our ship, and left. They saved us⊠Theyâre good people, all of them. So, no, GAAP didnât do the right thing.â
It was Barryâs turn to stare blankly at the floor. He was silent for a minute, absorbing everything. Recalling that day, yes, she did get a shiver of horror. Those blazing lights, the feeling of utter hopelessness. Then, thinking about the Barrel crew, their kindness, gentle natures, willingness to listen, that almost made the fear go away. Plus, there were the dogs. Ash had always wanted a dog.
âKinda, kinda makes you think, doesnât it?â Barry, finally speaking, pulled Ash out of her thoughts.
âWhat do you mean?â
â... I mean, weâre here, guarding a man weâve never truly met. Why? Because GAAP said heâs a monster. That his kind radiate some awful disease, but you know⊠in all my time here, Iâve never seen the doctors wear any kind of radiation protection. I donât even think Jobs wears anything.â
Ash was taken aback by her friendâs words. He was right. Ash hadnât noticed it before, but hardly anyone on base wore any kind of protection. She and Barry wore masks, which she had assumed was enough. Then again, they were the only two that hauled the prisoner in and out of his cell. They administered the gas. They dragged him out through the smoke.
Was it really to fight disease, as they had been told? Or could it be simply to protect them from smoke inhalation? How had the conversation veered so off track? She had barely expected Barry to believe her, let alone fuel her doubt.
Ash gazed through the small slot in the prisonerâs door. Looks can be deceiving, but Ash could feel that something had changed. He just sat there, head against the crystal wall. The wall made just for his kind.
âHisâ, âhimâ, âheâ? Ash had guarded the Atrian for weeks, yet she hadnât even bothered to learn his name. A deep pit of regret opened in her stomach. It was so powerful, painful even. She thought it might swallow her from the inside out.
âAsh,â the same regret in her veins was mirrored in Barryâs voice. âAsh, what if weâre wrong?â
The guard couldnât take her eyes off the prisoner. His shaking form, the exhausted slump. When was the last time he had even fought them as he was dragged out? He was broken, and part of it was her fault.
âIâm- Iâm going to the console room. I need to check on Masters.â
Barry was still talking, but Ash couldnât hear him. She couldnât make herself tear her eyes away from the shaking form in his cage. Barryâs words rang like a gong in her soul.
âWhat if weâre wrong?â Â
.
.
.
Nate was strapped onto the operating table, like every other day. The guardâs smoke sedative made his soul like it was floating out of his body. He knew it would only last for a few more moments, but he found his muddled mind wander to other things- the guardsâ words. Something had happened, something big, but it seemed that only the two guards wanted to talk about it. Inside the operating room there was no sound but the shuffle of feet, and adjustment of equipment.Â
There were two doctors in the room. Nate had never learned their names, so he settled with calling the bald one âSpotâ, and the small girl âDitsyâ. Perched in a viewing room overhead behind a one-way mirror, Nate knew Doctor Visca was there. A deep tug pulled at his gut whenever he looked at the glass. It wasnât dread, nor fear, but something else. It was something Nate couldnât describe.
âI wish I couldâve been there.â Spot grumbled as she took Nateâs vitals.
Ditsy sighed, âYou wouldâve been a red splat on the wall, thanks to that maniac.â
Spot adjusted the overhead lamp. He flicked it on, and the machine whirred on. A blue light spun out, taking a peek into Nateâs insides. If only they had known that the inside didnât matter. Madness had followed him from his container. The humanoid void was a ghost on the edge of his vision. The more Nate tried to get a good look, the more it inched away, but it was there. Its thoughts itched to fully leak into Nateâs mind.
Theyâre going to kill you, just like they killed him.
There had been an execution, but who? Who was he, or more accurately, who had he been? Nate had never actually gotten a name through his eavesdropping.
âWho died?â his voice came out hoarse. Nate sounded like a rusted gear grinding noisily along its track. Lack of use, and electrocution had taken their toll on his vocal cords.
Spot and Ditsy froze. Their eyes were wide with shock and fear. The only times the doctors had heard his voice were muffled screams from Jobsâ at their hands. His speaking voice, as far as he could recall, had never been properly utilized between the three. Nate had always been too busy convulsing in pain to make conversation.
âUh,â Spot glanced nervously at Ditsy, who showed no signs of moving. She started breathing heavily, her hands slightly shaking. Was she, was she afraid? Interesting.
Spot cleared his throat, âNo one, um, no one of your concern.â Â
âAh, so someone I should be completely concerned about. Things really are escalating, arenât they?â
A smug smile tugged at Nateâs lips. What was he doing? Speaking still felt like he was gargling wet gravel, but there was something in the way they responded. They were afraid of him. He was weak, had no cane, and was barely running on fumes, but their fear⊠It sparked something deep inside him. An electric giddiness, like he was a child opening the first present on his birthday. He had nothing, but his very DNA still made them quiver. Nate hadnât noticed, but his smirk had widened into a mad grin. Insanity was smiling back.
âSir, if- if you keep talking, weâll have to put the collar back on.â
Spot straightened his back, but his facade of strength was quite pathetic. Still, if thatâs the game they wanted to play, so be it. Nate hadnât had true entertainment in weeks.
âHis name was Mark. Mark Fischbach.â
Ditsyâs words came out timidly. Her face was practically lodged in a holochart. She turned her back to twiddle with the vials on the counter, but her hands were shaking so bad she nearly dropped one. She was obviously doing everything she could to not look at Nate.
Mark, Mark Fischbach. Where have I heard that name before?
âIt doesnât matter now. Heâs gone, and weâre all the better for it. Hand me the-.â
A memory, so dusty it was like an ancient artifact, resurfaced. Nate had almost forgotten about it. A play, no, a musical, the Summer before everything went to Hell....
Nate was in a small workspace. A friend had contacted him about a short series he was doing. A horror musical based on some old Earth story he had dug up. Admittedly, the musical was odd, odd, but interesting. Interesting enough to make him say yes.
Nate gave a deep yawn, a small part of him regretting his decision.
Two in the morning. It was two in the morning. Nate had wrapped on his single scenes forty-five minutes ago, but they were still waiting for his absent co- actor to show.
Nate rested his head on an old computer prop, âYou sure heâll be here?â
The director, AJ, shouted from behind a fake wall, âYeah. Heâs done stuff like this before. Donât worry about it!â
Nate fought to keep his eyes open. One more minute and AJâs other actor would find himself working with a rag doll. He had been working all day on the project. His eyelids felt like two ton weights, his body weak from exhaustion. Would one nap really hurt?...
The door burst open. Nate jumped to attention far too quickly. His head swam around and around. Spots danced in his vision. Nateâs groggy haze did nothing to stop the newfound pounding in his head.
A newcomer stood in the doorway. His black hair was in a mad upheaval. He was panting, as if heâd made a mad dash onto set. Donning a snazzy gray wrinkled shirt, sweatpants, and tennis shoes it was clear that he was well prepared for a day of filming. Under his left arm was his wadded up costume.
âIâm sorry. Iâm so, so sorry. Iâm normally not like this. Iâve just been busy filling out GAAP papers all day, and I didnât realize what time it was untilâŠâ
The frazzled man noticed Nate taking an assessment of him. Nate shook his head, âDonât worry about it. Letâs just get these scenes done, and weâll be good to go. Right, AJ?â
âUh, yeah, but I will need you later for your full scenes.â AJ shouted from behind the wall.
He visibly relaxed, âOk. Thatâs good. I can do that.â
Nate held out his hand, âIâm Nathan, well, Nate. Nate Sharp.â
He smiled and shook Nateâs hand, âMark, Mark Fischbach.â
Nateâs memory froze. He felt his blood run cold as ice. There, in that moment, he couldnât move. Lively brown eyes looked back at him. He had a crooked smile Nate could tell was used often. Mark, how could he forget Mark?
Mark had helped Nate on a few of his songs. He wasnât Atrian, but Mark had a voice worth listening to. Up until his acceptance into GAAPâs school, they would collaborate. They werenât close- knit family types, but Nate considered him a friend.
Nate knew someone who had worked for GAAP.
Nate knew a man who could fly almost any spaceship.
Nate knew a dead man.
He was back in the operating chair, but stuck in the past. How had it happened? Was it painful? Did his friends know? The doctors were talking, Mark was acting, and Nate was caught somewhere hopelessly in between.
AJ yelled, âAction!â
âYouâve got the new antiseptic, right?â
Mark stumbled over his line, âUh, what exactly is this scene?â
A wetness slid down Nateâs arm. Something cool touched his skin, then a deep burning sensation. Nate was suffocating. He couldnât get the lyrics right. The doctors were reaching for metal clamps. Mark had started his lines. Spinning round and round. A cane, a guitar, a martyr.
Theyâre going to kill you. Youâre just a broken music box to them. Theyâre going to kill you just like they killed him, but they wonât stop. Oh, no, no, no, no. They will never stop. They wonât stop until every one of our kind is bleeding on their own tables.
No, Nateâs mind pleaded.
Yes, Insanity hissed.
âNo.â
A screeching halt. Markâs faces faded into memory. AJâs set disappeared. Nate felt something in his mind, something dark, almost otherworldly, snap to attention.
The world was sharp, sharper than it had ever been before. White walls, aluminum floors, everything was far too⊠fake. Nateâs left arm flaunted a deep, precise cut. The skin was clamped open; the bloodied hand of a doctor still held on.
Cold darkness fell over the room. The type of cold when clouds are the color of ash, and the air makes lips numb. Horror, bone chilling, unfathomable horror had fallen over the operating room.
The world around shifted and swirled in consistently darkening colors. Nate felt his eyes go black. His cheeks ached; it felt as if someone had taken a molten rod to the purple lines down his face. Nate found himself enjoying it. Pain meant he was alive.
Dark smoke began a graceful cascade over his eyelashes. A beautiful waterfall of black vapor pooling at his lashes, then falling down his purple Atrian lines. Insanity no longer danced in his peripheral. No, the beast had won over a new home. Unadulterated rage burned inside of him.
Nate saw it in the manâs eyes- the solid panic he was bleeding into the room that was once a prison. The doctorâs soul- twisted, pathetic. A being that tortured and broke simply because he could. Nate felt dirty just looking at him. He turned to the woman.
Similar to her colleague- she hadnât moved. She was a statue from the fear Nate was exuding. Terror personified, a ghost for the lack of color in her face. Mouth agape, horror racing through her eyes.
âUndo my cuffs.â
Despite the absence of his cane, and barely having proper energy, Ditsy moved towards his table. With quaking hands, she unfastened the wrist restraints, then the ankle ones, the knees, the head. She took several hasty steps back after finishing her work. Nate cautiously removed his right hand, flexed it, then the same with the left. He gave Ditsy an unnerving grin.
A crash, glass flew across Nateâs vision. He felt a dull throb in the back of his head. Whatever had happened, it was enough to push Ditsy over the edge. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed in a heap.
Nate turned towards his attacker. Spot held the broken end of a glass beaker in his hands. The doctor had assaulted him? Nate touched the back of his head, but was only mildly concerned when his fingertips came back a little red. In that moment, his only focus, his only rage, was centered at the doctor.
Nate stood from the table, rubbing and shaking the numbness out of his once bound hands. The doctor reeled back, only to hit a metal table. He was trapped. Â
âSTOP!â Â
Doctor Vasca stood behind him at the stairs leading to her observation room. Seeing her, Nateâs heart stopped. It wasnât because she snapped him out of his stalk towards the other doctor, or the fear in her eyes. Nate stopped because what stood before him was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Held high above her head, Doctor Vasca held Nateâs cane. She reminded him of an Earthen statue he had seen a picture of. Draped in a massive toga, chains broken at her feet, she had held a torch on a tiny island- a beacon of hope for travelers. Frozen in that moment, Nate supposed he felt what people seeing the statue from a forgeign boat had felt- hope. Nate had hope, pure hope, a hope that might was the darkness of his mind away.
Doctor Vasca was in terrible shape. Her hair was undone and in knots. Dark bags showed that she hadnât slept for nights.
She had probably been up studying your anatomy. What she had done to you.
Nate felt the seething rage boil inside him again. His hands clenched tighter. The waterfall of darkness flowed steadily down his face. Â
âI-â she stumbled, âIâm sorry. Iâm sorry for what weâve done to you, but please. He has a family- two daughters. They need him.â
A family. Nate glanced back at the cowering man. A familyâŠ
âDoes your family know what you do, sir?â Nate spat.
âIt- I⊠Iâm under oath.â
âHa! âUnder oathâ, thatâs a âNoâ, then. What would your daughters say if they knew what you did today?â Nate held up his bleeding arm. âWhat if they knew what you have been doing? What would they say? Would they be shocked? Appalled? Too afraid to even touch the monster that had been their father?â
Scenes were visibly playing through the manâs head. Of course his family would see him as a monster. He had cut a man open with no remorse, for weeks. He had cut through skin, ignoring Nateâs squirming to get away. He was a sick, vile monster.
âTie him up.â Nate told Doctor Visca.
âI- Iâm sorry?â
âYou heard me. Tie him up, and nothing will happen to him.â Â
Doctor Visca gingerly set down Nateâs cane. She held up her hands as she made her way to the man. Nate watched as she tied him onto the table. He watched to ensure that every strap was as secure as they had been for him.
Without taking his eyes off the two, Nate walked sideways towards his cane. It took everything in him not to snatch it hungrily. He had to be alert; he had to make sure the doctors didnât try anything. Nate slowly bent down sideways, and picked up his cane. The effect was immediate. Like water from a cool spring, energy ran from the orb, down the cane, and into Nateâs veins. His mind began to clear. The well of emptiness in his mind was being dried up.
âWhere is Jobs?â Nate asked.
Brown eyes emerged through the darkness. The black vapors stopped rolling, and his face resumed its natural form. Nate wore his purple Atrian stripes and clear mind once more.
âFascinating.â
Doctor Vascaâs words pulled him out of his serenity.
âI mean, I knew there was something to the Atrian crystal, but I never expected something so, so, vigorous. I mean, you look good as new!â
She took a step towards Nate, who took one step back.
âYouâre right- you didnât know. You didnât know because you wouldnât listen. Now, whereâs Jobs?â
Vasca didnât appear to even hear Nate, or she didnât care. Still rambling on about the possibilities his cane could have, Nate didnât pay attention until she mentioned him.
â... and of course, youâd be at the forefront!â
Nate blinked in confusion. âWhat?â
Doctor Vasca beamed, âThis is a whole new level of potential to aid GAAP you have! One without the other is useless, but I didnât understand the true purity of its power until now! Think of the possible advancements- faster communication, upgraded weapons-.â
âNo.â Nate held out his cane as his own weapon. âI will not be used by GAAP anymore. You finally listened to me, great, but you wonât get a single Atrian to do your work. Now, tell me where Jobs is.â
âIâm so sorry, NateâŠâ
Doctor Vasca reached into her pocket, and retrieved a thin holoboard. With one press, the door leading to the observation room, and Nateâs freedom, closed. The click of it locking felt like someone had slapped Nate across the face. His back was to Doctor Vasca, it didnât matter anymore. He wasnât escaping. That woman, that, beastâŠ
âI wasnât just going to give you the cane, Mr. Sharp. You were dying, and I was desperate. But it worked out for the better.â
Nate could feel her smiling, âYouâre going to bring in a new age for GAAP. All the equipment you want... â
Nateâs ears rang. Everything was buzzing. Little dots twinkled in his vision. He grasped his cane even tighter.
She lied to you. Darkness emerged once more, You were going to leave this place. You were going to forget everything, but look what she did! Think of what sheâll make you do! She made you dance like you were a puppet. The question is- what are you going to do now?
â... everything will be set right!â She exhaled, obviously proud of her speech, as if Nate had been listening. âWhat do you say, Mr. Sharp?â
Nate was on her in a moment. His hand was a vice grip around her throat. The pools of hatred were overflowing again, but he didnât care. Hate, rage, power, that was how he was going to get out of GAAPâs Hell.
Doctor Vascaâs face and neck were red. Nate wasnât holding on hard enough for her to suffocate, just enough to be uncomfortable. She gasped for air, and kicked at Nate in vain attempts to escape. Pathetic, just like her friend on the table. These people wouldnât change. Their kind never do. So far in themselves, their âintelligenceâ, the belief that the odds justify every mean. All of it blinded them. Nate was going to let them see.
âHmm,â Nate tapped his cane to his chin, as he had being a phantom healer what felt like decades ago. Phantom, maybe the street name had more weight than he had given it credit for. A shadowy figure, something you can almost see, but not quite. A being always in the edge of your view. He wasnât Nate. He wasnât âMr. Sharpâ. He was Phantom.
âYou know what I say, Doctor Vasca? You want to know what I say? Well,â Phantom chuckled at her horrified face, âI say GAAP can kiss my ass. Also, I sayâŠâ
Phantom swung the top of his cane at the man on the table, knocking him out cold. Vascaâs eyes were wide with terror, â.... I say that was for Atria. Finally,â Phatom flipped his cane around in a quick circle. He dug the orb as hard as he could into the womanâs chest. It wouldnât penetrate skin, but it would get close enough. Phantom began singing a bittersweet tune. He didnât go so deep as to put the doctor under, just enough to do the job. He wanted to know what happened when you push an Atrian too far? He would show her.
A few sparks of white emerged from her lab coat, then a few more. The sparks condensed and merged until they formed three lines of raw energy- energy streaming from her heart.
Doctor Vasca tried to scream, but there was nothing anyone could have done. Phantom leaned in, âI say- this is for Mark.â
Her skin shrivelled and hung loose from the bones. Her eyes sunk into her head, the terrified expression in them never faded. Her hair turned gray and brittle. Parts began to fall in clumps onto the otherwise sterile floor. Phantom never looked away as the light, however tainted it had been, drain from her eyes. Doctor Vascaâs mouth hung open in a silent scream through everything, and it would stay that way.
Phantom dropped her mummified corpse onto the ground unceremoniously. He dug into her coat pocket for the holoboard. One click, and his escape route was restored. Phantom glanced at the unconscious man on the table. He wasnât worth his time. The head restraint Doctor Vasca had secured prevented him from seeing Nateâs healing act. As for the good doctor- she was a smoking pile at his feet. The personnel and cameras? They were no concern. He would deal with the security footage on his way out.
Phantom looked into his crystal. Its once translucent interior swarmed with dark clouds. Gray energy surged off and on.
Stolen energy.
Phantom shook his head. He would have to deal with that annoying âstill, small voiceâ later. Survival came first. Survival, and clothes. Phantom quickly wrapped up his bleeding arm, then turned to the still doctor on the operating table. He undid the straps holding down the unconscious doctor. He slipped on the manâs scrubs, fastened back the restraints, and covered the doctor with his old hospital gown. Might as well let him have some dignity when he woke up. Â
As Phantom strode out the door, he recalled an old story from Earth. A tale of a man with a magic pipe. It was actually where the derogatory term âPiperâ had originated for Atrians. So the tale goes, a man was hired to extract all the rats from a village. When the people refused to pay him, he used his pipe to lure the children away. Some versions say the children were never seen again, others say they were led to their deaths, another that they were returned after the Piper had been paid his due several times the original amount.Â
Ascending the laboratory steps, Phantom finally understood why Atrians had been branded as Pipers. Not just because of their magical music, or that they used their gifts for work, it was something else. People thought they might end up like the rats, or the children. Racists referenced a potential murderer when they thought of Atrians. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps Atrians shouldnât wear âPipersâ as a brand, but a badge of honor.
âAtrians are not a violent race.â Mattâs voice rang back in his head. Â
â... but people are capable of anything in order to survive.â Phantom verbally retaliated.
Saying it out loud made him feel a little better about his past. All his actions were justified. He was trying to survive. Adapting to a changing, well, universe, it would seem, was what he was doing. Surviving during war got gruesome. That was what he was surviving- the carnage of battle.
GAAP had called Phantom to war. They had sealed off his planet, killed a friend, and had torn him apart. No, they had torn Nate apart, but Nate wasnât going to war. Nate had been left in a dark cell where no one could hear him scream. Phantom had risen as the poltergeist to nip at GAAPâs heels. Phantom was the avenger of his people, his friends, and who he had once been.
Phantom would make GAAP sorry for what they had done to all those before him. He would be the hand of justice for those GAAP had wronged. He idly twirled his cane, the smoke from his black eyes slid like ice down his Atrian markings. Fresh, dark energy spurred him onward. GAAP would regret the day they saw his face.