So, what's up neglected yet faithful readers? I have a couple chapters that I want to share still, and I really want to hold myself accountable to post on Sunday again. It's not like I'm doing anything with my time on Sunday anyway. Well, nothing that requires me to not be at a computer.
I've been unenthused to write just out of being exhausted for no reason whatsoever. It's not like I have kids to sap my energy, but working in an office and doing classwork has been leaving me with a strong desire to just switch off my mind, relax, and float down stream.
The downside is that it doesn't afford me much creative juice to forge on ahead in the novel this close to the end. But I'm still determined to have Version 2.0 complete by the end of the year. NaNoWriMo is going to be a serious obstacle, and I'm also feeling worried going into the challenge if I'm going to be successful at it.
So, I'm just going to dive right in. I believe we're on chapter 18 now. Beginning Act 3. The heroes are returning home to cross the final thresholds into manhood. And threshold they meet.
This hasn't won many upvotes, so the chapter probably still needs some work. It was largely unchanged from its original version, and still seems contextually relevant, even though it was inspired by Occupy Wall Street and the suppression of the movement. Especially since the movement is looked at as a failure, opposed to the silencing of the voice of the people, and the turning of the American people against each other again.The heavy handed metaphor of a corporate sponsored rebellion of the slave class that permeates the novel? That's what it was inspired by.
That's another reason why I've been silent for the week. I'm so burnt out on people talking politics everywhere I turn. Especially the partisan answers and how fucking smug everyone's been about it. I worry and fret over the results of this election, because seriously, the damage is going to be great. We're going to be stuck with a tepid fraud or a delusional megalomaniac. I mean, that's not really that different than any other nation's choice, but America has done a pretty decent job of not electing tyrants up to this point. Your feelings on the subject may change depending on if you believe Johnny Booth or Spielberg.
Whatever, we're far beyond the point of voting. A definite line has been crossed in American history at some point, and unfortunately it's as crass as the gang wars of the '90s, all about Red vs. Blue. Once again our eyes are off the real enemies. The slaves fight among themselves to their master's delight. Because at the end of this fight, unless we look at who benefits from everyone salivating at the mouth to lash out at someone who is out of line with their groupthink, we'll end up back in the same old rut.
See, this is why I didn't want to blog.
C:\>18_Goin'_Back_2_Holly
"Seriously, we’re having this go
around again? Ask any plain Jane, if you hand somebody a copy, no matter how
identical, the copy is still inferior on a personal level." Trip's hand
punctuated his sentences. Over cracked backroad highways, their stolen beater
jerked to the right each time he lightened his grip on the steering wheel.
Decker blew smoke out the passenger window,
"Exactly, 'on, a personal
level.' You can't be so self-absorbed to say everybody yearns for an original copy." He pushed the found
mirrorshades up his nose. They had the same sun aged smell as the car’s
interior, even though they were buried in the center console. Built
surprisingly well for a pre-war model, still rocking 2029 tags, the hardest
part of getting the car road ready was finding compatibility drivers for the
onboard computer.
"I'm not being self-absorbed. What I'm
saying is–"
"–Hell, all the oldweb data we have
today is a recovered backup of recopied backups. We're living repeats of like the
rebooted Library of Congress or Microsoft servers, or something." Another
cigarette drag blown out the window.
"What I'm saying is," Trip white
knuckle gripped the wheel, "people naturally react to copies as if they're
inferior. Even if you give someone a perfect replica of something made from the
same materials, the value drops because it's a replica."
"But what about mass production? Exact
copies of stuff printed out for mass consumption." Decker hung his head
out the window, billowing smoke from the sides of his mouth.
"When I say replica, I'm talking about
you make something and then you make the exact same thing in the exact same
way, but like five years later," Trip grabbed about for his giant soda.
"In the day and age of matter
reassembly, I fail to see how that argument is valid," said Decker. "Everything
in this world is, like, recycled. Converted to something else, then used as
fuel to power something else, right?"
"Mmmhmm," Trip nodded, still
sucking deep through his straw.
"Anyway, I just don't see the
difference between clones and normal humans besides mode of production. And
even then, IVF babies have been a thing since like, forever. Sweeps is a
conglomerate of like eighty random strands like building blocked together. That's
basically a normal person's genetic make-up, just, he's got a weirder face than
most."
"But he was built to look that way."
"How's that any different than,
shudder," Decker cringed, making a nasal voice, "breeeeeding?"
"Our parents didn't expect us to be nothing
but public servants when we were born," Trip said.
Decker snapped back, "There’s a lotta people
out there that expect their kids to be servants."
"That's only some people, dude."
"After spending the last few months
neck deep in clones, they're some
people. You'd be pretty fraggin’ passionate if your existence was threatened
just by being the wrong kind of people."
“You know I’m pro clone,” Trip said, “but
aren’t you, like, tired of all the violence?”
“Yes. All of us are, clone or not. But
we’re all just human, and violence is a logical last resort in the name of
survival.”
“Exactly, a last resort. We basically
helped them right into a war. You, me,” Trip righted the car, “personally had a
hand in kick-starting a revolution. And now we’re fugitives.”
“What, so they should be happy to just stay
in our kitchens and clean up our trash? It’s A-OK to gawk at them when we want
entertainment, but they better get back across the Bridgeover when the show’s
over?”
“You saw the way our crew looked at us when
they flew away. We’re the enemy to them.”
“I don’t really blame them. Sometimes your
best friend can be an enemy.” Decker turned his face away from Trip, cheeks flushing
hot.
Highway wind and twangy static from a
Confederacy FM station were the only sounds. Decker's hand played outside on
the air currents. He stopped to take a sip from an energy drink.
Trip sagged in his seat, swallowing dry,
"You been sleeping ok?"
"Haven't had much time for that as of
late," Decker's tone was tight. He took another drink to mask leveling his
mood, "When I do, still, you know, nightmares and skag," Decker
glanced at Trip sideways.
"You know, man, they're just dreams. A
body isn't built for the punishment you put yours through," Trip stopped
paying attention to the highway to catch Decker's eye.
Decker fished out another cigarette,
"Dreams can get you into some fragged up situations."
"Only if you let ‘em, man," Trip
shrugged, turning back to the road.
Decker laughed through his nose,
"Thanks, buddy."
Trip said, "Oh, you've picked up,
'bud,' now?"
"What can I say? It spreads like
cancer," Decker winked at Trip and smiled.
Trying his best to keep the car steady,
Trip waved off cigarette smoke, “Speaking of cancer, I know you’re all modded
up and skag, but I’m not.”
Rushing winds pulled the filterless smoke
away from Decker’s brown fingers, tumbling end over end to join the rest of The
Wastes blasted landscape.
A minute of silence and radio static passed
before Decker said, "Trip?"
"Yeah?"
Decker mustered the courage to look at his
friend, “I know I don’t really say it, or show it, but I love you, dude.”
Trip gave Decker a sheepish smile and a
consoling pat on the knee, then jerked back onto the cracked highway. “I love
you too, dude.”
*
As the sunrise took hold in the rearview,
LSV702's border lit the horizon. Decker poked Trip, who was sawing logs in the
passenger seat.
"Dude. Dude," more prodding.
"Get up, man. Check it out."
With a little stretch and a bend, Trip
looked around the tiny car, grasping to remember where he was. He rubbed his
eyes. He did it again to make sure the sprawl of light in the desert's dawn
wasn't a mirage.
"Whoa."
"I know right?" Decker smiled
until he noticed the road ahead was lit in swirling red and blue, "Oh–"
"Em–"
"Game over, dude. We're fragged, we're
so fragged," Decker suffocated the steering wheel with his grip.
A checkpoint of black and white UAV's cut
the highway to LSV702 down to a pair of lanes, in and out. Decker let the car
glide up to Western State Coalition border patrol, trying with no success at
steadying his heart rate.
"I am so sick of dealing with pocs," Decker groaned.
"Just play it cool, and be respectful.
Officers like that," Trip offered.
"You really expect that outta me right
now?"
A border patroller rapped on the driver
side glass. Cold sweat prickled over his skin, met by cool dry air as Decker
rolled down the window.
"Buenos dias,” He grinned like a
cakehole beneath his visor. “What’s a couple of fine young gentlemen like yourselves doing all the way out
here?"
"Just a couple of tired Hollywood
residents coming back home for the holidays, sir," Trip smiled from across
the front seat.
"Decker Ames and Trevor Dawson. Legal
residents of 19436 Hamlin in SFV818?” The poc leaned in to get a better look at
the interior.
Trip said, "Yes, sir."
The Border Patrol officer chuckled to
himself and waved a few of his buddies over for inspection time.
"You fellas haven't been out towards
Ocean City lately, have you?"
Decker started to talk but no words came
“You in a state to be operating a motor
vehicle of this condition, son?”
"Yes,” Trip said.
“I asked him, boy. Speak when you’re spoken
to,” Border patrol said. “Pop the trunk and hood, please.”
“We were contracted to separate divisions
of Roplaxive Pharmaceuticals; we're returning home at the cessation of our
contracts." Decker beamed back into the LED light the poc shined in his
face.
"The same Roplaxive Pharmaceuticals
that put out an arrest warrant and extradition request of Decker Ames and
Trevor Dawson?" The border patroller projected Trip and Decker's rap sheet
on their windshield.
Decker’s face fell, “Oh, so you’ve heard of
them.”
"Step out of the vehicle please,
boys."
A poc had already popped open the passenger
door and undid Trip's safety belt. Trip struggled, "Hey, we're legal
citizens of Hollywood, man. You're
not really going to send us back to Ocean City, are you?"
The invading patrol officer restrained
Trip's hands, "Citizen of Hollywood, huh? Then why does this car have Metro
City plates?
A metallic chunk sounded at the trunk of
the car. Patroller number three said, “We got word to be on the lookout for
fugitive terrorists, wanted by the Metro City government board. "Heard it
was a buncha clones in a stolen helicopter. But I’m sure neither of you boys
would know anything about that.”
Decker stepped out of the car, showing his
hands at all times. For his compliance he was thrust against the hood of the
car, "Whatever are you insinuating, officer?"
His patroller whipped his extension baton
to length for effect, "At this point, whatever the hell we want to,"
and cracked Decker across the knee. On the floor, Decker's wrists were
manacled.
Trip's officer wolf whistled, "Who
wants to take bets on how long a pharmacist and a small time computer criminal
could last in The Colony?"
"Funny you should ask”, Decker laughed
through the pain, getting road grit all over his tongue. “we've had this
conversation before,"
Trip wanted to face palm, "Decker, I
don't think now–“
"–I still say that if I keep my
augments, I'd totes dominate. Even against some of the Gladiators," Decker
said.
"That's ridiculous and you know it,” Trip
said. “For one, you are nowhere near as fast, strong or agile enough to go toe
to toe with anyone. You have a body of a late stage tapeworm victim and you're
talking about taking down someone like Zaxxus."
Decker scoffed. “I don’t need muscle; I’ve
got street smarts.”
“Oh, you’ve got street smarts,” Trip was
thrown to the ground next to Decker.
“And frag Zaxxus, I’m shocked someone
hasn’t popped a shiv in him for being a posterboy punk.” Decker twisted his
head to get a better look at Trip. “Literally every time I watch Capital
Punishment and they have Zaxxus working his glamor muscles on the yard, I’m
like, ‘this is a prime opportunity to just jam a sharpened toothbrush handle
into his neck.’ And no one ever fraggin’ does it.”
His officer pressed the baton harder into
his back, crushing his ribs into the dirt, "I happen to know Zax. I'll let
him know you said that."
"Tell him I said he’s a punk cissy,” Decker
sprayed a blast of sand with his laugh. “I'll be planting proximity mines all
around Krakka Stompa and Nitro while you fall into some kind of obvious death
trap, Trip."
"Dude that was one time, and I told
you that the tripwire was totes pixilated."
"Shut
up," staccato shouted the arresting officer.
Still holding Decker's wrists in place, he
pulled a blocky neuroclamp from his utility belt and snapped it on Decker's neck.
The officer pulled Decker upright, grinning from ear to ear.
"Load 'em up, men. We bagged ourselves
a couple of clone loving terrorists."
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