So I’m writing a post-apoc thing

I honestly don’t know how long it’s going to last, because I have a bad habit of ‘losing steam’ on projects really quickly. BUT I adore post-apoc stuff, so here goes nothing, I guess.

EDIT: I changed some stuff. Well, really, a lot of stuff.
---

I leaned back in my seat. I really shouldn't be relaxing, there were more important things to think about. Like, for instance, the 'E' on the gas tank and the flashing 'low power' readouts that swarmed the back of the old Toyota Land Cruiser. Low on gas, mother fucker flashed on the small readout screen. Thank the gods for home modding.

In reality, it probably couldn't be called a 'Land Cruiser' anymore. The bottom of it already had to be reinforced to accommodate the ridiculous amount of circuitry I had crammed on board, as well as the assault rifle on the top, not to mention the hodge-podge of solar panels that covered nearly all of the remaining exterior surface of the four-wheeler. The thing was a beast. If anything, it deserved a name, but I hated naming things on the account of the fact that everything I had named had died.

I reached back with a lazy hand to turn down the brightness on the screen jungle that so enveloped the interior of the vehicle. As the lights dimmed, I flicked on the headlights, and the car came to life with a dull roar. Have to find some gas, I thought, and pulled out onto the battered roadway.

No one drove this early anyway. It was just past morning, and the dirty red of the sun was just piercing through the morning smog over the horizon. There was smog everywhere, now, the cities are always burning somewhere. There wasn't a signal out here, and the Net was bound to have some new news with the factions. Chasing the signal, that's all his life amounted to now. Chase the signal and find some new job to do to get some new food or water or gas. Or ass, really. Whatever you need to get along in New Earth.

That's what they called it, the idealists. 'New Earth', like those fucking neo-christians. Like they know a fucking thing.

I wiped a stray hair from my eye. The road was broken and barren, no one bothered to fix up the roads when most of the cars were defunct. Most travelers preferred to walk anyway, like the one up ahead.

He stuck out a gloved thumb in the dim light, seeing my headlights. The Land Cruiser slowed as I approached the traveler, who was clothed in a ratty poncho and carried nothing but a backpack and a silver cross on a string around his neck.

That cross would have stopped me, had I seen it, but I didn't, so the wheels slowed to a stop in front of the traveler. The traveler jogged up to the passenger side window, and I rolled it down from a switch on the interior. His face was young, but muddied from weeks of walking on the road. Damn road kids and their lack of common sense.

“Hey kid, what the fuck do you think you're doing?”

“I'm just looking for a ride out to Oregon country, man. You willing to help out?”

“Do you know what the fuck could happen to you if you're just walking on the fucking highway? I'm not an asshole, but there are a fuck-ton of them out here.

“What are you waiting for? Get in the car.” Maybe I swear a bit too much. That's what loneliness can do to you.

The traveler cracked a half-smile and opened the door, clambering into the beaten Toyota. The cross off his neck bounced off his chest, catching the early morning light

“Just, uh, just throw your pack in the back. Find a spot.” Nathan said, his eyes back on the road.

“What's your name, kid?”

“It's- it's Alex, Alex Houston,” he extended a gloved hand to me. I took it and we shook. The kid couldn't be that bad.

“So... what's all this stuff back there?” Alex said, gesturing to the forest of towers and screens in the back of my SUV.

“That? That's just, uh, some of my shit. I like to pick stuff up. Why do you ask?”

“I'm just wondering. I can barely find a place to throw my pack. That's a lot of electronics, man. Where did you find all this stuff?”

“I look around. Most people think computers and junk are worthless nowadays, because no one has a use for most of the software. That's not really true, but popular opinion holds. What can you do, you know?”

I swerved on the roadway around a body. There were a lot of those out on the highway nowadays. After the 'poc hit, most people who survived were forced out of their hideaways to roam the badlands. Most couldn't take the pressure, or couldn't find enough food and water to keep walking.

“Hey, I never got your name.”

“It's Nathan. Nathan Kyheart.”

Alex stifled a laugh. This is why I avoid people.

“Really, dude? Kyheart? Shit sounds like it came out of some old fantasy novel.”

“You know, I could just throw you out of the car now if you'd like, or I could wait until we run into a group of shotgun-wielding hicks with a taste for your thighs. Your choice, kid.”

Alex looked away, fiddling with the cross on his neck.

“Sorry.”

“Don't- don't worry about it. Just don't make fun of my name, 'kay?”

A short beep emanated from the center console of the Toyota. Low on gas, mother fucker.

Connor’s Garden up for download.

You can snag the .doc here. You can grab the .pdf here.

I recommend OpenOffice.org for the .doc, and Foxit Reader for the .pdf. Both of these are great free programs, and better than their respective Microsoft and Adobe counterparts.

I spent a good bit of time on this, I hope you enjoy it.

You can also read it in parts on this site here. I do have some minor edits I made in the downloadable version that didn’t make it to the blog, so it’s probably the superior version. Also, there’s a whole new chapter in the book. So yeah. It’s kind of better.

Story Table of Contents

I’m doing this mainly for Alice, but it’s probably useful for everyone. I still don’t have a title for sure, but I’m thinking of calling it Connor’s Garden, so here we go. Connor’s Garden… it has a nice ring to it.

These are kind of meant to be read in this order, too, so it’ll make the most sense this way.

Prologue

Just Not How It Works

More Than Their God-Given Ability

Talking With The Other Side

GoodHealth

Connor's Garden

Diary of Isaac/The End

There will also be an .odt/.pdf that I will put up for download real soon here that will have one or two extra chapters. Keep watching out for that.

Untitled: Diary of Isaac and The End

(Last ‘chapter’ of my story.)

 

TAKEN FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF ISAAC YOUNG

DATED 31 DECEMBER 2008

Roberts had ended our interview prematurely, but it was clear that we were done. Roberts had shifted. His entire body language. Honestly, I didn't understand most of it. He seemed to be talking nonsense, I don't know how much of it was real and how much was his ramblings. The man is a convict, for chrissakes.

He seemed so confident, though. Confident in what he was saying, confident in what he believed was true. Sometimes I wish I could say the same about me. I smoke too many cigarettes, I have far too few romantic entanglements, and shit, I don't know what I'm doing in my life other than this goddamn job. But I keep going anyway, maybe that's my destiny. Die alone with my microphone. Fitting.

The guards had escorted me out of the building. It was dark by then. I got into a taxi back to my hotel, and that's where I am now. Nothing special happened, no ghosts or hallucinations or any of that shit. I don't know why I was expecting that, exactly... just something about Roberts that got me a bit jumpy.

You know, tomorrow is sounding like a good day. Maybe I'll get a new job somewhere, get a better jacket, go to a high-class bar and find an attractive girl with not too many Type 3s to turn me off. That's what normal people do, right? Look for the average or something. Funny, it's what makes us unique that keeps us away from what we really want. We want to stand out, but we know that standing out is most often standing alone.

What's better, though? Being unique and alone or mediocre and with company? God, I don't know. I'm no philosopher. I just want a nice bed and a woman next to me. Fuck, even a man next to me. There's enough clubs in this town for me to find one of either. It's just company that we all crave, company we strive for. I'll just think about that tomorrow.

 

 

TAKEN FROM THE JAMES COUNTY COURIER

SECTION D5, OBITUARIES

2 JANUARY 2009

Isaac Alexander Young, a reporter from San Francisco, California, was found dead in his hotel room yesterday. He was found in his bed, and it is assumed he died in the vicinity of 10:00 AM on Thursday. The death is so far seen to be of natural causes. He had no immediate or extended family to notify. A memorial service is to be held in Agate Hall, San Francisco, at noon on Sunday. The memorial is being held by his former employers at the Tribune National.

 

END OF RECORDS

 

(Licensed Under the GNU GPL3.0, 2010, Dante Douglas)

Untitled: Connor’s Garden

(Next chapter in story-thing)

 

TAKEN FROM AN INTERVIEW WITH CONNOR ROBERTS, BY ISAAC YOUNG

JAMES COUNTY JAIL, INDIANA

31 DECEMBER 2008

Connor Roberts. The name sounds somewhat harmless, really. Nothing to match the man to whom it belongs. Connor Roberts is the famed outlaw, the rallying cry of many a would-be revolutionary in today's world of office chair rebels.

Two years ago, Connor Roberts was taken in by paralegals underneath a bridge in California, outside of San Francisco. He had then been on the run for twelve years, a string of bloody killings dogging his footsteps.

Acquiring a pass to interview him was an ordeal, but my connections with the law have helped, I'm not going to lie. You're a reporter, you get to know people. People help you out.

The James County Jail is well-known in the country as the highest-security prison on this side of the world. Connor Roberts, naturally, was very well assumed to be placed there in lieu of another jail.

The imposing steel doors loom over me as I walk in. There are armed guards every few feet, watching every set of feet walking down the halls. It's clear that they have no intention of letting me do anything out of the ordinary.

I am allowed my notepad, but not my camera or any other recording equipment. My camera will not snap the gray walls of this place, nor will my microphone catch the soft tap of feet on concrete. This is a time only for me and my pencil.

After an extensive security search (the specifics of which I do not feel inclined to recount), I am led to a small room with a table. I am instructed to sit down.

The door on the opposite wall opens, and a small, disheveled looking young man enters, flanked by guards and entangled in chains and entrapments. This, this man cannot be the fearsome Connor Roberts, I think, this man is barely over twenty.

He sits down across from me, and the guards position themselves at the corners of the room. They do not relax their grips on their rifles, and the barrels are still inclined towards the man across from me. Connor Roberts. I take out my pencil and begin to talk with him.

Are you Connor Roberts?

Yes, I am.

(His tone is aloof, almost careless to his predicament. He seems utterly unfazed by his situation, almost bored.)

Connor, you were brought here two years, ago, correct?

That is correct.

Before that, you were on the run for twelve years?

That is also correct.

Forgive me for asking, but, wouldn't that make you a bit... older?

I am forty-seven now, and I am not ashamed to say it.

But... you seem so young.

I have my methods of appearing younger, just as many do.

I'm straying from the point here. Before you were taken in by authorities, what were you doing under that bridge, specifically?

I'd assume my lawyers wouldn't want me to say this, but I'm already under four or five life sentences. I lose count, and the point is, I'm scheduled to die in here.

That bridge... that bridge. I was there for a night, I recall. I was taking refuge there for a short time. It's very simple, really. It was the most convenient and simple place to go.

You were convicted of the murder of two young campers before then, and that was the latest charge attributed to you at that time. You pleaded innocent then, at the trial. If I were to ask you now if you had killed those campers, what would you say?

I'm not going to lie to you. Those campers were killed by me.

They were?

Yes. I killed them. The only reason I pleaded innocent then was on the advice of my lawyers. I'm not a stupid man, it was my best chance to get out of this mess.

This mess, you call it? What is 'this mess'?

The whole business with the trials, mainly. I don't give a damn about the trials. I have a question for you. Have you ever thought about what motivates a man to kill?

Yes, it was something we covered in many of my reports. Jealousy, confusion, often just simple anger.

No, see, the error you have in that reasoning is apparent. Men do not kill for jealousy. They may kill out of confusion, possibly, or anger, but they do not kill for anger. They use anger as their tool to deal the death blow, but they do not kill for anger.

Most men who kill feel remorse. They feel bad for what they did afterwards. They see the err of their ways. They try to conceal what they've done. They hide. They run. Whatever. They try and escape what they did.

But I'm different.

I do not escape what I did.

Are you familiar with the term 'Takers'?

Is that what they're still calling me? I must say, it's fitting.

It's fitting?

Well, yes. What would you call it? I take. I take things from people. I'm a thief of the worst kind, because what I take, you can't ever get back.

Could you explain?

Certainly. You see, I'm sure you know what virtuim is, yes? The thing that makes us unique, the life-blood of our species. We probably couldn't survive without it. It's a genetic wildcard, you never know what you're going to get, really. There's a certain amount of connection with psychology, or so some doctors say, but I've known many people who don't at all connect with their virtuim.

So, we have virtuim. It makes us different from other species, it makes us special. Some of us, arguably, more special than others. Some of us have effects that most of the general public would rather pretend was nonexistent. I have one of those effects. I have a rather unique ability to take... what is not mine.

Do you know why I wear these chains? Why there are always armed patrols around me? It's because I have enough power to kill everyone here. I have enough power to destroy all that you know as human civilization. I am the strongest human being to ever walk the earth.

All through the taking.

Over the years, I've ripped out that which makes people inherently human, and used it to make me less human. Paradoxical, maybe, but satisfying. Have you caught on yet?

No, I can't say I have.

Of course not. You can't even visualize it. It's so ingrained in what you do, how you live, you don't even think about it. Isaac, I've already got you. You're already in my garden.

I don't know what you mean.

You never will. What are you feeling right now?

A bit confused, honestly.

That'll pass, you'll subside in a bit to a life of droll mediocrity, and you'll blend right in with the rest.

Goodbye, Isaac.

 

(Licensed under the GNU GPL3.0, 2010, Dante Douglas)

Untitled: GoodHealth

(Next ‘chapter’ of a somewhat ongoing thing of mine.")

 

TAKEN FROM AN INTERVIEW WITH SALLY GRANT, HEAD WARD OF GOODHEALTH PSYCHIATRICS, SEATTLE BRANCH

BY ISAAC YOUNG

21 DECEMBER 2008

In order to better understand the effects (both positive and negative) that virtuim has on the human body, as well as research the more unknown effects, I decided to stop in at GoodHealth Psychiatrics.

The company prides itself on the care it takes of its patients, both physically and mentally. The head ward is a Ms. Sally Grant, a forefront figure in both the field of psychiatrics and of virtuology. I managed to obtain a meeting time with her at 1:00, in the cafeteria of the main building.

The building itself is imposing, a behemoth of white stone and assorted marble. Obviously, the GoodHealth team spent no time worrying about money costs when designing the building.

I walked in the glass front doors to find a large reception room. An attractive young secretary behind the counter asked where I was going, and I asked her where the cafeteria was. She smiled politely, showing years of dental care, and directed me to the west wing of the building.

Walking down the halls you feel a sense of awe, as the many previous Head Wards stare down at you from their picture frames, and a large historical facade trails down the hall on the opposite side. From the exhibit, I learned that the hospital was built soon after the industrialization of the Seattle area, in the early 20^th century.

Originally, the hospital was a Catholic outpost, much like many hospitals of the time. But after the GoodHealth corporation took control of the building in the early 1980s, they restyled and redesigned the hospital to better reflect the 'GoodHealth Principles'. History in a nutshell.

The cafeteria unfolds past another set of cheery glass doors. The room seems unnaturally empty in the late afternoon, the only diners a small group of employees chatting in a corner table. One of them has a large wingspan, with the feather dyes so popular for the college students nowadays. The white down is interlaced with vibrant greens and blues, taking the appearance of an overlarge macaque. Another is decorated with a number of bone protrusions from his upper arms, filed down to a reasonable size and dulled. The other two have no obvious traits.

It appears the dress code at GoodHealth is fairly lax.

I sit down in a table overlooking the room, placing my camera and notepad on the table before me. Sally Grant enters the cafeteria, brandishing a clipboard and an award-winning smile. After a quick bite of (pretty good, I must say) french fries and a small drink, I launch into my questions, which she is more than happy to answer.

What are the typical cases that GoodHealth treats at this branch?

Mainly GoodHealth specializes in psychological cases, or people who were born with birth defects, physical or mental. We pride ourselves in our superior comfort for our patients, as well as our excellent staff. We've actually gone out of our way to find the best doctors for each patient, due to each person's individual needs. (she smiles widely)

Have you ever had any unusual cases? Any that you would be implied to discuss?

Well... um... (she hesitates, obviously the question has caught her off guard) To be frank, we- I don't know exactly what you would mean by unusual. We've had a couple high-profile patients, celebrities and the like... is that what you mean?

Not exactly. I was wondering if you've ever encountered some rare or unknown abilities in people, specifically virtuim-related effects.

Okay, alright then. In that case, I do have a better idea of what you're talking about. (she giggles, a strange childish sound from such a professional woman) I have seen quite a few different abilities in my time as Head Ward... Some quite disturbing, in fact.

Now, I assume that you know that I cannot release names due to legal reasons, but I'm sure that it won't be a problem if I just describe their... ah... abilities, as it were.

To answer your question more accurately, I must inform you of the registration process here at GoodHealth. When we receive a patient, they must sign release forms that, among other things, ask to describe their abilities.

For legal and privacy reasons, this particular line on the form is optional, unless the case is dire. Many patients opt out of filling that line out, for personal reasons. Obviously, some abilities cannot be exactly “hidden”, but those that can often are.

It's a complicated situation for us in the medical business, for sometimes it's necessary to know one's ability, and if the patient cannot tell us what it is, we have to resort to observation and reporting, or even worse, plain guessing. There are specific treatments for specific abilities, and if you administer the wrong one (for example, electroshock treatment to an electropath, you could get severe damage to the brain or electropathic nerves. Worst case scenario would be an energy overload to the person, causing not only death, but a costly and destructive explosion) you could get some pretty bad problems.

So often we will get patients who do not fill out that line. Most of the times we are able to deduce what the ability is within a day or two, either by conversation, observation, or eventual caving-in and just telling us. And most of the time it isn't a major problem. Most of the time.

Only once or twice we have encountered someone who was out of control, either mentally or physically. I'm sure you've heard the ghost stories of people who come back from the dead, or have ways of killing people and taking control of them, or their abilities. I've never seen that. The weirdest things we've seen here at GoodHealth aren't enough to make you too worried. A few psychotics, a few ravager types, nothing we couldn't handle. Yet, at least.

So you acknowledge that there could be worse things out there?

Sure, I guess. The same way you do, I'm sure. There's always stuff we haven't seen. Some people are just more receptive to the idea, that's all. Some people take too much account into what they believe, rather than what they see.

 

(Licensed under the GNU GPL3.0, 2010, Dante Douglas)

Untitled: The Rev. Arnold Fernsworth

(Third ‘chapter’)

THE FOLLOWING IS AN EXCERPT FROM THE REVEREND ARNOLD FERNSWORTH'S THEOLOGICAL ESSAY ON VIRTUIM IN RELATION TO ORIGINAL SIN

COPYRIGHT 2001 FERNSWORTH ESTATES

Under the eyes of the Lord, were Adam and Eve evil?

Some would say no. But I say, I PREACH, that YES! Adam and Eve were evil! Why? Why were they evil, you ask?

Well, that answer is easy. You see, Adam and Eve were the ones who opened their eyes to EVIL, and in that, turned ALL of future humanity to EVIL. And what is that evil? It is original sin. When Adam and Eve first partake from the forbidden fruit, (Genesis 3:7) they “gain the wings of angels” and “were as gods”.

That is INDISPUTABLE proof that this theory of 'virtuim' is simply ORIGINAL SIN. So I ask these 'scientists' to look at what they're doing to their spirit! To their soul! They should not be researching how to help those with virtuim disabilities, they should be researching how to CLEANSE US of this stigmata!

Jesus Christ was pure, the scriptures tell us this. Some say that they mean this in a sense of his spiritual purity. But I say NAY. Jesus CHRIST was pure in the fact that he HAD NO SIN.

And having no SIN means having no virtuim, as the scientists say. So we must rally! Man is not meant to be God! GOD is meant to be GOD.

Virtuim cleansing must be a national goal. I propose a call to all Christians of this nation to join together, to realize our SIN and to work to cleanse it. As a new baptism, we must learn to shed our sin and be subservient completely to GOD.

TALKING WITH THE OTHER SIDE

TAKEN FROM AN INTERVIEW WITH ARNOLD FERNSWORTH

BY ISAAC YOUNG

18 DECEMBER 2008

Reverend Arnold Fernsworth's fiery speeches have inflamed the political right-wing of the nation in previous years. I felt that if I were to understand the idea of virtuim completely, and to understand 'Takers', I should look at both sides of the issue.

Fernsworth's estate looks like any other rich heir's mansion. Odd, considering his emphasis on shedding greed and wanting to be subservient before god. As I walk in, two men escort me to the doorstep, clad in red suits with a telltale AF on each lapel. Any attempt to initiate a conversation is met with stoic impassivity. I feel as if I've been slapped.

After a lengthy and awkward ride in a small cart, we reach the doorstep, which has been decorated in a fitting manner for a humble reverend. Roman towers push up the facade that decorates the upper walls. The entire house has been built to resemble a temple.

The escorts seem unfazed. I note this. They don't seem to have much emotion at all, in fact. Must ask Fernsworth about this.

When I finally pass through the antechamber to Fernsworth's gargantuan study, I see the man himself, seated in a chair, that charismatic smile throwing daggers at me as he gestures to sit. I do, in a large armchair. I will skip the pleasantries in our conversation, but I assure you, there were many.

He speaks with a strong Texan accent.

So, Reverend, can I begin questioning you now?

Yes sir, you can. I have nothing to hide, except my best wine. (he laughs, a large booming sound)

Very well. As a reverend who preaches about humility and generosity, how do you choose to live in such a... grand location?

Well, son, you have to understand. As a servant of the lord, I am bound to be humble, and to give what I can. And I do! I give millions each year to a number of charities.

As for the house (he gestures widely), I can only say that all of this was given to me. Given to me by god!

I'm sorry, could you explain?

Well sure. You see, my weekly television program, Wings of The Lord, has a donation service. I'm not going to lie, I do also use some methods of advertising, but only by good christian names! (he laughs) So, you see, none of this was my doing. I only used the money that God was so kind to give to me.

How can you use so much on a personal living space? Wouldn't that money be better used in community causes or charities?

Lemme be straight with you, son. I am using this money in community causes. My flock expects me to use some of it for some worldly pleasures, but if God knows that I'm not attached, then I know that I'm safe. And I KNOW that God knows that. I am positive.

Then, you would of course give the house up in a heartbeat to the needy or the disabled?

Yes sir, I would.

Very well. Your critics have accused you of supporting the practice of virtucision, which has been widely investigated to be a cruel and degrading process. What do you say to that?

Son, if you would take a look at any of my published works, I'm sure you would see why I feel this way. There is a cost in virtucision, yes, but it is redeemed in your soul! Yes, God knows that those who are virtucized are going to heaven. For they have rejected the sin inside them.

You see, we are all sinners, son. We all have a bit of the devil in us, way back all the way to Adam and that wretched Eve. If she had only listened to God, we wouldn't be in this mess anyways! (he chuckles on the last line.)

Have you been virtucized?

I will tell you now that all of the men working on this estate are working out of the good of their hearts and have been virtucized willfully. Every man here is on his way to the pearly gates, and not by their own means, but by God's!

Yes, Reverend, but have you been virtucized?

I'm sorry, son. I don't feel that I am comfortable answering that question. Virtucision is not a cause to be taken lightly, it's your own immortal soul at stake!

Have you ever attended a virtucision?

No sir, I have not. What one man does with his own body is between him and God.

Switching gears, have you heard of the idea of Takers?

Yes sir, I have. You see, what many people don't know is that Adam and Eve were Takers. Yes, that's right. In Genesis, you can easily see that they displayed the same... uh... characteristics of what we now call Takers.

God told them not to eat from the Tree of Knowledge, and as soon as they did, sin entered them, in the form of what those darn scientists call 'virtuim'. Dumb name, in my opinion. Call it what it is: sin.

 

 

(Licensed under GNU GPL3.0, 2010, Dante Douglas)

Untitled: Just Not How It Works

(Second ‘chapter’ of this story-thing of mine.)

 

JUST NOT HOW IT WORKS

TAKEN FROM AN INTERVIEW WITH PROFESSOR ALEXANDRA BOLOVICH, PROFESSOR OF VIRTUIM IN WORLD HISTORIES AT HARVARD UNIVERSITY

BY ISAAC YOUNG

DECEMBER 14, 2008

To look at this 'Taker' phenomenon, I decided to look back, into the past. Bolovich is widely known as a virtuim specialist. The name 'Taker' has a lot of stigma behind it, I wondered if the scientific community had any ideas about it.

To start at the beginning, what is virtuim?

Virtuim is what makes us unique. The theory of virtuim is still somewhat contested, especially in the fields of theology and biology. Some would say it doesn't even exist. But to a growing number of scientists, Virtuim is proving to be a very real thing.

Virtuim is the name for a specialized genome, on the human chromosome 16. This genome does not reoccur in any other known species, and it appears to generate at random. No two person's virtuim signature is exactly the same, however, outward appearances can be very similar, almost identical. As far as deciphering the genetic code, however, we are quite limited. We don't know which combinations of which chemicals produce what effect.

What effects, for example, have been observed?

Well, I'm sure you have seen many of the 'Category 1' effects. As virtuim scientists, we sort the effects into three categories.

There is Category 3, or outward physical changes. These are the most obvious. Extra appendages, the change of pigment in a body part, or bone growths are the most common of the Category 3 effects.

Next there is Category 2 effects, which are inward physical effects. Muscle augmentation, bone density or physical property changes, and increased reaction time are examples. Most of the time, a Category 1 effect will manifest alongside a Category 2 effect in the same human.

Finally, there are Category 1 effects. These are the ones that people tend to keep to themselves, as a social norm in Western culture. In many other 'third world', pardon the term, or 'uncivilized' countries, effects are a mark of social status. Many Category 1 effects have not been completely studied, as gaining license to research on these effects is hard to obtain, and volunteers even harder. However, we do know a certain number of these effects.

Telepathy and telekinesis (with its variants) are the most seen. Elemental connectivity marks a close second. As it stands, though, we have only heard unverified rumors of other effects, none of which could be proven.

Is it true that virtuim effects only manifest in full effect by about the age of 25?

Well, yes and no. Technically, effects are in 'full power' by puberty, almost developing overnight. But most adolescents are unaware of their abilities, and many reject them outright. Rumors, unfortunately, still abound about the 'changing' of one's effects and such. None of these, we are proud to say, are true. None.

Once your effects are manifest, they are, in terms, complete. They do not 'rise in power' as you grow, or something of the sort. Your abilities are in direct correlation to your physical strength, that is, you cannot overexert yourself and still have some 'magical' reserve of energy. (she giggles, apparently this is a joke among the professors)

Have you heard of the idea of Takers? What are your views on the subject?

Takers? No, I cannot say I've heard the term. Could you be referring to, as they say, grafters?

No, not nearly as extreme. Although, on that subject, what do you know about grafters?

Only that the idea is not only absurd, it is completely wrong. There is, as yet, no way to acquire another person's virtuim effects. You can't just... absorb genomic makeup. That's not how it works.

 

(Licensed under GNU GPL3.0, 2010, Dante Douglas)

Untitled: More Than Their God-given Ability

(This is the first ‘chapter’ of this story thing of mine. Reading/etc is appreciated)

 

DISCLAIMER

The events detailed in the following reports, essays, excerpts, and interviews are not necessarily the views of THE TRIBUNE, the staff of THE TRIBUNE, or any authors involved in the writing. THE TRIBUNE has released these documents without the permission of the United States Government.

All interviews, unless otherwise noted, were taken by Isaac Alexander Young. The editing was also done by Isaac Alexander Young. We, the editors of THE TRIBUNE, have seen it fit to not change his words. This collection of documents were all taken with the full consent of the interviewee before the interview.

MORE THAN THEIR GOD-GIVEN ABILITY

TAKEN FROM AN INTERVIEW WITH TOM EBERNATHY, BY ISAAC YOUNG

SKITTISH, WASHINGTON

DECEMBER 12, 2008

The bar looked like any other in the lower-end part of town. As a freelance journalist for the national magazine THE TRIBUNE, I was sent to interview the local bartender, a man named Tom Ebernathy. When I entered the town, I was informed that a series of local murders and unexplained deaths had rocked the town only a couple years before, and Tom's son, David, was one of the victims. Tom, so it goes, has been bitter and callous since.

If you don't feel too bad talking about it, what happened here two years ago? What did you know, or hear about?

Other than my son dying? (he laughs, a completely humorless chuckle) Not much. Rumor was a pyro kid came down from Seattle and decided to have some fun. To be honest, I don't think it was that at all.

You see, most killers like that aren't calculated. They don't think about their kills, they do it for fun. Sloppily, you know? No sense of control. Not like our killer.

(he reaches for a mug of beer. A thin frost coats the outside as he talks.)

They... they had a name for the killer. You know, like we name our natural hurricanes or whatever. They called him the 'Flaming Dagger'. Pretty inventive, eh? (He scratches his rough beard.) Funny thing was, he didn't seem to burn his victims. Not... not before they died. Or so the feds think. Every body they found has been completely charred. Burned as much as someone can burn another. I can't help but think the guy must have gotten exhausted at some point. That's just too much, you know? Too much for one guy.

When did the attacks start?

Oh, gosh... Must have been late July, about two years ago. They had found a body up near the coast, but they thought it was suicide or something. I don't know. The next thing we knew, someone was attacked in their house. Some guy. I think his name was Jones... yeah, Richard Jones.

[Jones] didn't really have any enemies, if I remember correctly he was just a normal guy, didn't have family or kids around... Just him and his dog. Someone said he was an accountant or something or other, but he had come in here a couple times and I was sure he was doing something in boating.

Anyways, they found his body on the docks. Completely burnt, down to a crisp. Nothing could be found on him, but some medium or something-or-other came in from the cops and somehow they found out who he was. I'm not too good with... what do they call it, forensics, but I think that's what they did.

If you don't want to answer this question, feel free not to. At what time was your son attacked?

Oh lord... (tears well in his eyes, he stops, composes himself, and continues to talk.) My son... David... David was attacked at some point mid-October. Or that's what the government goons say, at any rate. No offense meant.

None taken.

I don't mind you asking the question, I've been to therapy and counseling and I think it's good to talk about these sorts of things. (He takes a long drink from the mug) David was found... he was found in his house, over on Elk street. Same situation as that damn Jones fellow. Just... ashes. Barely anything but ashes.

But the real clincher, the fact that got the most publicity, was not the burn damage. It was the fact that the killer seemed to have attempted to cover up some... things. There were large areas of what seemed to be drenched and then burned carpet. Like there was some fight.

Now, I can make things cold, and so could my wife, bless her soul. But David, David couldn't. David was a plant guy, you know, a plantepath or whatever. He did a lot of nature work in the Rockies and down in the [Willamette] Valley. And he couldn't have done that. But neither could the killer. The killer could burn stuff. No one can do more than their god-given ability.

3:7 And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons.

3:8 And under the eyes of the LORD God did they gain the wings of angels, and under the eyes of the LORD did they rise, knowing all and seeing all, and taking much.

--Excerpt from the Christian King James Bible, where the term 'Taker' first arose. (Genesis)

 

(Licensed under GNU GPL3.0, 2010, Dante Douglas

Untitled: Prologue.

(Yeah, I know, it’s already posted, whatever)

The president stood up and stretched his wings.

It was January. The cold of winter was complete. His office was cold, colder than his wife on a bad day, which today happened to be. The president had not shaved in a week, he looked ragged, his usual charisma faded from his gaunt face.

It was Monday. Not the best day to start a week on. Not a good day at all, the president thought. Riots, gang violence, and suspicious rumors were his alarm clock. Not a cheery beep. Not even a jostle from his wife. Not a poke, not a prod. No, today, today was a day to get up early. There was work to be done.

The president sat down.

A report came through the intercom. Shirley, the desk girl. Shirley with the blonde hair like Mildred's back when he married her. The call was not unexpected, he was always expecting someone. Always.

Like always, he sent them in. And like always, they didn't knock.

They walk in, their badges glinting in the morning light. Federal Bureau of Control and Investigation. FBCI, the highest badge an officer of the law could wear. The three men walk with a brisk gait, and dark glasses obscure their eyes, but they were not for protection from the sun.

“Mr. President, we have received reports that a Taker has surfaced.”

A Taker, then. That was what all the fuss was about. Typical FBCI, always jumping the gun on rumors. But then again, these men are where rumors begin.

A portfolio flies from the foremost man's hand, landing on the desk in front of the president. Mathers was always a showoff, and this was center stage. The portfolio opened. Lines of text like a teeming jungle, each leaf another fact, another idea, another life spent in law enforcement. This codex was important.

“Why, Mathers, why? We have enough on our plate already. The Church is on my ass about the new Virtucision bill, the riots in the South are reaching breaking point, and you come to me with some report of some Taker kid? I don't have time for this.” The president ruffled his feathers in annoyance. Don't these men have better things to do?

“Sir, we would like you to grant us permission to track the Taker.” Mathers spoke with precision, with poise learned after years in FBCI social norms classes. His tempered demeanor now fit his tempered hairstyle.

“Very well, send some guys on the job. I couldn't care less. Now leave me alone, I have work to do.”

The three men looked at each other and the president in acknowledgment, and turned to leave. The door shut behind them.

The president swiveled his chair to look over the Capitol. It was not a perfect city, the smoke of factories could be seen in the distance, the Air Force troops still circled the sky, but it was his imperfect city, and that made all the difference.

The president rose, and stretched his wings.

Maybe today won't be so bad.

(Licensed under GNU GPL3.0, Dante Douglas 2010)

Short Story Thing.

It’s gonna be posted. Soon. Be excited. Be very excited.