Hi @Jo Zebedee, @Joshua Jones, @DLCroix, @tinkerdan, @Narcissus and anyone else who is interested, here is part 2 of chapter 1 of act 2 of story 1 (phew).
Here, our female protagonist gets a better gauge of her surroundings. The crux for me isn't so much here but how this transitions to a perspective change for the next segment. I will post that next week. Thanks in advance.
She moves closer to the mirror for a better look. The pan up and down is nod-worthy, but the face…; still a blank. She pokes her tongue out just to make sure she can. Even then, there’s not a flicker of emotion on it.
She zeroes in on the face, and it’s an odd one – recognizable in some ways, alien in others. There are several ticks in the human checkbox – two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and a skull-shaped head beneath all that flesh. But the details are wrong; the skin is thick and mint-cream in colour; there’s plastic hatching where there should be eyebrows; something like congealed wax on the eyelashes; a strange, webbed veneer across the nostrils and lips; and cartoon stitch lines crisscrossing the cheeks.
It’s like some kooky AI accidentally lost my real face and had to make a new one out of putty, Tejo.
And still no smile, not even a twitch of a muscle – but that’s not surprising anymore. Suddenly, it’s as clear as day. This is just who she is – cool and unmoved, inside and out.
And the calm is self-perpetuating. It might be the only thing she truly knows about herself, but it’s the one thing that really counts. As such, with the ‘who’ sorted, her thoughts totally bypass the ‘why’. It’s not important right now and she’s knows deep down she’s not the type to sweat over something that’ll come to her in time.
So, on to ‘where’? Why is it so dark in here? Just a couple of spotlights over the mirror, enough to make out a reflection… and more reflections behind that.
She spins to see six glass-topped caskets propped on pedestals at waist level in a dry-ice mist. Straight away, there’s a ‘what’ and more ‘who’s to add to the ‘where’. But at least the ‘how’ has been answered.
Stasis pods.
Then she hears something new: a muffled commotion. It’s bouncing around the room – and it is a room she’s in. She can see the corners now. But whatever’s making the sound isn’t in with her – it’s outside.
But where is outside?
She quickly spots a cool green glow off to her right, next to a tall strip of yellow: a light, shining through a crack-opened door. And as the sounds begin to register as voices – several of them – she squares up to the inch-wide slit for an eyeful of whom they belong to. Instantly, she can see an animated debate between four men in the next room, with the legs of the fifth just out of shot.
…and suddenly, my get up is a statement of artistic restraint, Tejo. It’s a crazy clown solider convention.
Look at this first guy. NA23 – everyone must get a four-character I.D. – and, no denying, he out clowns and out-hoops me, hands down, Tejo, with yellow, red and black banded armour that’s almost as loud as his voice. Doesn’t suit his afterthought of a mouth, though, nor his lean and wiry frame – not that he’s shirking in the face of his oversized opponent, clown two…
…and yuck – who the hell dropped the giant barrel of ugly on his head – GZ42? Listening to that ugly voice, he might actually have swallowed it. With those floor-scraping knuckles, maybe he just skipped an evolutionary cycle or ten – no, that’s an affront to primates everywhere, just like his jade, red & yellow soldier suit is an affront to fashion. And I don’t know if his skin is genuinely orange or if that’s just the side-effects of all the ranting and raving.
Pity the man stood between the two, then, facing away from me. A slight guy in a red suit and helmet with a big number three painted on his back paneling, I think he thinks he’s playing peacemaker. Really, he’s more like the toothbrush in the knife drawer.
Opposite him, clown four, RW06 – and I can see him face on. Young guy, from my neck of the woods maybe… He looks like he’s sulking, maybe over the split lip someone gave him – green barrel man, I’d guess. Outfit-wise, he’s not actually half bad to look at, even if the red flashes on his blue speed racer outfit are a bit squint-worthy by way of contrast.
Well, whatever the argument is about – pretending for a second that pissing contests like this aren’t always about control – it’s shifting off to the right for some reason, out of sight. What do you reckon, Tejo? Shall I go in there and introduce myself?
Again, there’s no response, but there’s a new dimension to his absence now. Like an ink sketch dropped in a pond, the impression she had of Tejo’s face has dissolved. It’s like reality is erasing him from existence. Only the name remains in her memory, along with a sense of burden – of responsibility.
For a split second, she’s unnerved. Then ice blood floods her veins.
Her hand hangs over the green glow that she’s sure is a sensor switch. Sure enough, the door panel slides stutteringly open to reveal a room far gloomier than the strip of light suggested.
And her appearance goes entirely unnoticed, such is the volume of the quarrel. Only one man – the fifth, and sole abstainer – sees her as he evades the conversational tornado and scurries over to the left-hand side of the room. Even then, it’s news he doesn’t appear to be willing to share.
Judging by the fading grimace and the slight smile, AR29 might even be happy to see me. If his docile expression and soggy body language is anything to go by, I think he’s just content that barrel man no longer represents twenty percent of the life in the room.
I can’t promise he won’t still be fifty-one percent of the noise, though, but I will be owning the silence. I’m the ice queen of silence, aren’t I Tejo?
That’s right, I’m still talking to you whether you’re real or not. You don’t get off the hook that easy.
She taps a finger to her lips to ensure AR29’s silence, filters out the noise, and begins soaking in the detail of this dim room; one with a distinct configuration, tea-green stone cladding aside. It’s a convergence of two curving walls and a rolling roof, with a wide, if filthy, dark window wrapped around its nose, a slanted dash sweeping around beneath that, and five executive pedestal chairs stationed evenly around it, the left-most of which AR sits slowly down in.
There’s just one thing missing from this picture.
And with that at the forefront of her mind, she crosses the threshold.
Here, our female protagonist gets a better gauge of her surroundings. The crux for me isn't so much here but how this transitions to a perspective change for the next segment. I will post that next week. Thanks in advance.
She moves closer to the mirror for a better look. The pan up and down is nod-worthy, but the face…; still a blank. She pokes her tongue out just to make sure she can. Even then, there’s not a flicker of emotion on it.
She zeroes in on the face, and it’s an odd one – recognizable in some ways, alien in others. There are several ticks in the human checkbox – two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and a skull-shaped head beneath all that flesh. But the details are wrong; the skin is thick and mint-cream in colour; there’s plastic hatching where there should be eyebrows; something like congealed wax on the eyelashes; a strange, webbed veneer across the nostrils and lips; and cartoon stitch lines crisscrossing the cheeks.
It’s like some kooky AI accidentally lost my real face and had to make a new one out of putty, Tejo.
And still no smile, not even a twitch of a muscle – but that’s not surprising anymore. Suddenly, it’s as clear as day. This is just who she is – cool and unmoved, inside and out.
And the calm is self-perpetuating. It might be the only thing she truly knows about herself, but it’s the one thing that really counts. As such, with the ‘who’ sorted, her thoughts totally bypass the ‘why’. It’s not important right now and she’s knows deep down she’s not the type to sweat over something that’ll come to her in time.
So, on to ‘where’? Why is it so dark in here? Just a couple of spotlights over the mirror, enough to make out a reflection… and more reflections behind that.
She spins to see six glass-topped caskets propped on pedestals at waist level in a dry-ice mist. Straight away, there’s a ‘what’ and more ‘who’s to add to the ‘where’. But at least the ‘how’ has been answered.
Stasis pods.
Then she hears something new: a muffled commotion. It’s bouncing around the room – and it is a room she’s in. She can see the corners now. But whatever’s making the sound isn’t in with her – it’s outside.
But where is outside?
She quickly spots a cool green glow off to her right, next to a tall strip of yellow: a light, shining through a crack-opened door. And as the sounds begin to register as voices – several of them – she squares up to the inch-wide slit for an eyeful of whom they belong to. Instantly, she can see an animated debate between four men in the next room, with the legs of the fifth just out of shot.
…and suddenly, my get up is a statement of artistic restraint, Tejo. It’s a crazy clown solider convention.
Look at this first guy. NA23 – everyone must get a four-character I.D. – and, no denying, he out clowns and out-hoops me, hands down, Tejo, with yellow, red and black banded armour that’s almost as loud as his voice. Doesn’t suit his afterthought of a mouth, though, nor his lean and wiry frame – not that he’s shirking in the face of his oversized opponent, clown two…
…and yuck – who the hell dropped the giant barrel of ugly on his head – GZ42? Listening to that ugly voice, he might actually have swallowed it. With those floor-scraping knuckles, maybe he just skipped an evolutionary cycle or ten – no, that’s an affront to primates everywhere, just like his jade, red & yellow soldier suit is an affront to fashion. And I don’t know if his skin is genuinely orange or if that’s just the side-effects of all the ranting and raving.
Pity the man stood between the two, then, facing away from me. A slight guy in a red suit and helmet with a big number three painted on his back paneling, I think he thinks he’s playing peacemaker. Really, he’s more like the toothbrush in the knife drawer.
Opposite him, clown four, RW06 – and I can see him face on. Young guy, from my neck of the woods maybe… He looks like he’s sulking, maybe over the split lip someone gave him – green barrel man, I’d guess. Outfit-wise, he’s not actually half bad to look at, even if the red flashes on his blue speed racer outfit are a bit squint-worthy by way of contrast.
Well, whatever the argument is about – pretending for a second that pissing contests like this aren’t always about control – it’s shifting off to the right for some reason, out of sight. What do you reckon, Tejo? Shall I go in there and introduce myself?
Again, there’s no response, but there’s a new dimension to his absence now. Like an ink sketch dropped in a pond, the impression she had of Tejo’s face has dissolved. It’s like reality is erasing him from existence. Only the name remains in her memory, along with a sense of burden – of responsibility.
For a split second, she’s unnerved. Then ice blood floods her veins.
Her hand hangs over the green glow that she’s sure is a sensor switch. Sure enough, the door panel slides stutteringly open to reveal a room far gloomier than the strip of light suggested.
And her appearance goes entirely unnoticed, such is the volume of the quarrel. Only one man – the fifth, and sole abstainer – sees her as he evades the conversational tornado and scurries over to the left-hand side of the room. Even then, it’s news he doesn’t appear to be willing to share.
Judging by the fading grimace and the slight smile, AR29 might even be happy to see me. If his docile expression and soggy body language is anything to go by, I think he’s just content that barrel man no longer represents twenty percent of the life in the room.
I can’t promise he won’t still be fifty-one percent of the noise, though, but I will be owning the silence. I’m the ice queen of silence, aren’t I Tejo?
That’s right, I’m still talking to you whether you’re real or not. You don’t get off the hook that easy.
She taps a finger to her lips to ensure AR29’s silence, filters out the noise, and begins soaking in the detail of this dim room; one with a distinct configuration, tea-green stone cladding aside. It’s a convergence of two curving walls and a rolling roof, with a wide, if filthy, dark window wrapped around its nose, a slanted dash sweeping around beneath that, and five executive pedestal chairs stationed evenly around it, the left-most of which AR sits slowly down in.
There’s just one thing missing from this picture.
And with that at the forefront of her mind, she crosses the threshold.
