The stars beckoned behind the cracked sky. The world seemed askew beneath my feet. As I looked ahead, trying to deduce where my life would lead me, The Fragment of the Universe seemed to pull me, possess me, taint me. It was a reminder of humanity’s failed gambit and a monument to the end of the world.

My current silence here can be attributed to a few things, chiefly of which is the fact that I have been working on an interactive webcomic, called Diaspora. The model of which I have borrowed from, mainly, MSPaint Adventures. This means that the action is largely controlled by the suggestions of the readership, which seemed like a good way to force me to produce material, since I can delude myself into thinking that I’m not entirely responsible for the narrative, if it ends up not as good as I envisioned. Which isn’t to say I won’t give all I have to make it work and be enjoyable. My problem is over-thinking things, only starting to write when I have every single detail down. This model forces me to improvise and try to become comfortable without being in perfect control, which may be just what I need.

I had promised myself I would start putting things up on the 21st of December, for a kind of obvious internet reference. However, a few things, not least of which my self-doubt (which only decided to give me some space with the help of some great friends’ support), got in the way. But now here it is. I have already delineated most of the main events of the story and the first page is already up. I hope you’ll at least give it a chance and, if you can espy a chance at potential, spread the word around.

For that reason, this site may have to double as a development blog, so be on the look out for tidbits and notices here. I already know how the story, if it gets enough wind to get there, will end, but it’s with the twists and turns that you readers will help me. That will possibly present an amazing journey for both you and me.

Diaspora

Night closed up like a curtain above Tristan Perrault and the Place du Palais.

The laughter of young drunkards echoed through the streets below, the music of bars reverberating on the walls of the hotels that circled the plaza. The alleyways of Nice were the epitome of cleanness, when compared to its rooftops. Tristan’s eyes seemed to belong to another world while he, standing atop a hotel, calculated all movement necessary to reach the next roof at a vertiginous speed. The plan was simple: get enough velocity to jump from the roof and grab a ledge in the face of the clock tower not farther than four meters, but at a height of eight from the ground.

The world held its breath. Tristan’s feet seemed to keep an intricate dance with the rest of his body while he bolted and the adrenaline filled him, numbing the sounds that came from below. His body was propelled beyond a protection grid and his foot gave him the last push towards the tower. Tristan launched himself, stretching his arms to hold on to the parapet. 

Incredulity silenced desperation, as the tip of his fingers brushed the tower’s paint off and his body dived into the darkness below. His eyes, wide with fear, focused involuntarily on a window in one of the nearby hotels, where the light was off and the pane closed. His body produced a cocktail of emotions and adrenaline that forced him to beg, even if that made him crazy, that he could once again dislocate from a place of absolute uselessness and desperation to one of security. Even if he has passed the last years denying it to himself, he knew what he had felt all those years ago, when his situation was as precarious as the current one. In the thousandth of a second that it took for all this thought process to take place, abandonment took over and drowned him, but his eyes were kept locked at the window. Fear became hatred and he allowed himself to scream, the violent wind invading his lungs.

He remembered the darkness of the alley. The glint of the knife. The blood. He was 12, and he never ran so much in his life. He couldn’t remember the dead girl’s name anymore, although he remembers the police speaking it many times, the following day. By then, he was more interested in understanding how fleeing from a murderer and ending up with a broken leg, from having jumped a flight of stairs too high for his weak self, could have made him appear inside his room, before blacking out. All he remembers is the desperation and exhaustion and the way the world seemed to tremble and go out of focus, as he looked intently to his room’s window in the second floor, dozens of meters away. And then his senses were overwhelmed by the different odors, sounds and lighting from his room. After that incident, he began therapy and trained parkour, now his only escape.

In the plaza below, more than a hundred frightened heads turned skywards, seeing nothing but the clock tower, framed by the veil of the french night.

The hotel room was empty, the smell of newly-laid linen and detergent invaded Tristan’s nostrils. Gravity’s acceleration threw him with great force against the bed, breaking one of its legs and leaving him in utter pain. Tears rolled down his face and were wiped by the bed sheets as he tried, with his eyelids firmly closed, to understand what had just happened. His brain seemed to be turned off, his body seemed full of anesthesia. The numbness went away gradually and he soon realized that, apart from a few bruises and an insistent discomfort, he was all right. Even better than what he had ever been. 

Unsteadily, he exited the hotel, his eyes unable to extricate from the place where, a few minutes prior, he had almost died. His body shook uncontrollably as he walked towards the nearest street. And he laughed, enjoying the return of his normal breathing.

Getting home proved to be a greater effort than what he had foreseen. The taxi driver seemed to not know the city and Tristan’s euphoria deprived him of perfect dialogue. Better than any drug, he was sure. He could get off of that taxi and instantly be home, without even having to walk. But a part of him pushed back into rationalization. He would find an isolated place and there, yes, he would try to identify exactly what had made him teleport. But for today, he would sleep like never before.

Introduction for a character I used in a RPG campaign that never really took off, unfortunately. A sort of Battle Royale with super-powered people. I liked it enough to translate it into English and put it up here, as I wait for my block to vanish. Never really thought about a title for it, until now. It shows.

Prologue

THESE ARE THE SHACKLES of Life. See how they glitter and glisten in the darkness of the soul. Marvel at the crimson glow over its surface as it travels rushedly like the blood of ages, like the flow of time. These are the laws that bind us, the rules we impose ourselves into obeying. This is the restraint our mind works deep into our being. See how they shine its arrogant red light. See how they believe in their own unbreakability.

Let me show you how easily they can shatter.

But before I can indulge you, oh reader, in matters that you most definitely are not ready to face, I must prepare my and, why not, your ground. To be able to do that, I must introduce you to your humble narrator. The name you will be hopefully able to sympathize and shall later despise is as simple as I thought my life was and convenient to my outcome. An ironic play of life, one would be inclined to think: Andrew Green will be the label of a concept of existence as you probably never witnessed, or even pondered on. And I must be perfectly honest with you and say that I no longer know how old I am, as I recall being 42, 37, 25, 13 and even five years of age…

Today.

Do forgive me, but my story is neither simple nor linear enough for me to simply put into words. To illustrate the exquisite circumstance I find myself in, I will confide in you to a little secret. As I write these very words and imagine what my hand might create for the next lines, thousands of drops of the most impure water fail to touch the ground around me, halting in mid-fall from a purple sky. Through their reflections I can see a deserted and dark road above of which seven birds, blackened by the inebriating night, are frozen as if nailed to the firmament.

My time is over, but even before that, it is standing still.

And the Green Light. The foul and main cause of my current distress. Can you even imagine how you would feel if every single thing you have lived, and all you think you knew, was destroyed and replaced by a new reality, a new scheme, a new equation that mocks you in front of your very eyes? You may think that I am overreacting, and you wouldn’t be the first. To show you my reason, I must tell you my story and whether or not you will believe it, or even read it, is entirely your decision to make.

The Green Light is a light post.

Several years ago, a friend of mine took a picture of a light post, its light oddly green. This sparked me to write a story that soon became a book, as my ideas often do. And, as always, the more I delved into its intricacies, the more complex and unwritable it became to me. All I ever really wrote and kind of liked was its prologue. And here it is. Perhaps one day I’ll pick this one up again, I can now finally relate to the main character, at least.

An immaterial train eases into the station. Often times, you take it.

The train takes you to a safe place, but not always. Some times it takes you to an uncomfortable one, an introspective one or an overwhelming one. Through the journey, you see expansive vistas, surreal ones or embracing ones. But you can never really choose your destination, even if at times it seems like you can control the trajectory. But it is the uncertain journey that makes you keep taking the train.

Every so often, though, you miss it. You stand absentmindedly at the platform, the steam making it hard to see anything. And you wonder what it could have been. But sometimes, rarer times, you simply decide to let it go. You become content with seeing its silhouette disappearing in the distance.

And you know it won’t be long until the next one.

Night at the rim was a cold one. Sometimes, it was like a good drink. It started cold and thought-provoking until it filled you up inside, it warmed you, it made you aware of what was home. Other times, it went down clawing its way through, leaving a sour taste, deep remorse and dirtying the sidewalk. Life in the rim was as simple as it was dangerous, just like the best beverages.

The raggedy cloth was made to spread the filth, not clean it. I grab the nearest glass, the dim light of the bar can just about read the dirty inscription on its bottom. No self-respecting bar in the rim was actually clean. It would intimidate the good customers. And the best customers were the ones that no one else would welcome, the outcasts. Those like me.

You hear a lot of stories when you are a barkeep, and you quickly learn to stay out of other’s businesses. It’s a survival thing. In the rim, you keep your head down and you spread the filth out of those glasses. But sometimes, hearing the tales of woe of clients is your only source of entertainment. You can barely understand the phrases, but the tale therein lives on. Life in the rim is diverse and all stories find their way sooner or later to my bar. Their stories help me forget just like the alcohol inebriates these fools. It’s a reciprocal relationship.

I know, though, as soon as the man enters the bar, that my introspection would be tested. He comes purposefully to the bar, making more eye contact than any other customer would care to make. His clothes were odd and you must understand the severity of that statement. My bar welcomes people from all over the rim, that means a bunch of different fashions, several of which I can’t even begin to understand. But this is a bar, no one cares what you wear as long as you wear something. News travels fast these days, even all the way out here, but in varying speeds. I see people wearing what I imagine is the latest trend sharing a drink with someone that dresses like my grandfather used to. But as soon as that man showed up, I realized a sudden change of atmosphere on the place. No one stopped talking and the music didn’t stop playing, but there was something different. The conversations were more hushed now, the music didn’t seem to have the same flair. The man wore spurs and a black hat, two silver bullets attached to it by a ribbon. I kept wondering how he could have found such old apparel. Bullets? Who even had those anymore? The trench coat was a bit much, I thought. But the noise of his spurs kept everyone on edge. Nothing like an obvious bounty hunter to bring a room down. I hate it when they are sober.

“What can I get you, sir?” My voice was certain. I returned the cold look with a warm one. Two can play this game.

“Information. I hear you have a regular by the name of Tryles.”

“No one here says their real name.”

“I know you know him and I need to talk to him. You’ll tell me where he is.”

I tried to suppress the chuckle, I did. But kids nowadays are too arrogant. The signal was for Zack, the muscle I keep around for rainy days and hustling barrels. We don’t need to make this into something it isn’t. Overeager bounty hunters are as easy to come by as they are to be dealt with.

“I keep the habit of only talking to customers, you see. Can’t have the pleasure of my company for free. Or you think people come down here for the liquor?” Arrogant, I know. But in my experience, most of these in-your-face outsiders can only be met with an arrogant counterattack. 

“I’m done with your games, old man” 

The cold metal of the pistol reflects the liquid in my glass.

“You’re an outer rim boy, aren’t you?” He can barely contain his widening eyes.

“What makes you say that?” Bad actor.

“Outer rim bars are outdated. You can’t shoot in here. Dampeners.” It works. The man ponders and visibly gives up. He’s making it too easy.

“Alright. Give me something.”

“Haha. I’ll not hold that responsibility. Choose something.”

“How about a Blue Wahl?”

“Sure thing.” The douche drink was already half-way done when he finally said it. Good. He couldn’t read the bottom of the glass. Would’ve been odd, out of context.

“Now tell me about Tryles.”

“You’re his brother, right?”

The silence is answer enough.

“You look like him, down to the same drink.”

“So you do know him. God damn it, old man! Is he gone?” The drink spills while his wide-eyes survey the bar.

“Don’t worry, he’s not been here today.”

“Tell me where he is!”

“None of my business really, but I have been where you are.”

“Old-timer, I don’t care about your story. Where’s my brother?”

“He’ll be here later. But are you really thinking about killing him?”

His poker face could use a little work.

“Don’t worry, I don’t know that. I can read it in you. Used to be a ‘hunter myself, lifetime ago.”

“Uh… really? Why did you quit?”

“Hah! Come back in a few years and ask me that again.”

“Whatever. You said you’ve been in my shoes…”

“Hired to hunt a relative that made too many wrong choices… It doesn’t matter what you say, it’s not simply pulling the trigger.”

He had become silent now, way too focused on his drink. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“The Galaxy was another place back then, you either smuggled or hunted. Otherwise, you’d starve. Law enforcement only really worked for the big guys. And sometimes not even for them, with the right kind of money. Everyone’s a bounty hunter, one way or the other. It is just a matter of price. My price didn’t have zeroes in it, though.

Back then, life in the Core could get harder than in the farthest planets of the Outer Rim. Politics took precedence over everything, even people. Even my wife. And it is simple, too easy, to break a person, to make him resort to the worst, to realize the worst in him. And once he realizes vengeance won’t bring her back, won’t numb the pain, he’ll keep on hunting. Because by then, it’s all he knows how to do, isn’t it? And each job numbs you more, makes life bearable a little more. Until comes a contract for another relative of yours, and the relationship between you two feels so far away, stored beneath years of painkillers. And you tell yourself you have to do it, it’s a job, and he probably deserves it. But you know you’re no different than him. Your brother took to drinking and ended up from drug to drug, looking for something to fill the void left by your mother’s death, your father’s absence. Your drug was different, but just as addictive.

People today often think that Bounty Hunting is a glamorous profession. They force themselves to not think about the blood and the lies and the awful cleaning up. They see in movies and think that bounty hunting is about looking cool and spewing cliches. But after every job, when all the flair and imposingness of the profession wears thin and you realize there’s nothing really attractive about it… that’s when you realize that one day it will all catch up to you and whatever you did, you’ll have to live with it.”

At that point, leaving him to ponder with his drink seemed the best move. He was in his last drops, after all, and there’s nothing more thought-provoking than an empty glass. I’m sure it will help that he’ll read beneath the glass the words “You’ll have to live with it”.

Another old one while I make sense of some things. This was yet another story developed to try and flesh out a science fiction setting with my cousin. I don’t really like how this one came out, maybe someday I’ll revisit it.