“I am so very sorry, My Lady.” He raked his hands in agitation through his mussed hair, forcing himself to meet her confused gaze. She was alluring, beautiful, her lips swollen from their kisses. “I am despicable and ashamed of my actions toward you. Please name any honor price and I shall redeem my reprehensible offense.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Lynden adjusted her clothing as she rolled her eyes. “Are you for real?”
Coal whispered, “I used you.”
“Yeah, that was the idea. Why’d you stop?”
“I beg your pardon?” Coal stared, further horrified. “You wished for me to take advantage of you?”
“That’s what I said. Shit, who cares? People hook up all the time. You needed to forget your pain and I was available.”
He furrowed his brows. “You are worth far more than this moment or my needs. I would never wish to treat you with such dishonor...” His words trailed off as panic renewed within him. “I am so very sorry. No woman has ever offered me her body before, and you are not even my wife.”
Lynden played with the band on her thumb and lowered her eyes. “God, you really mean it, don’t you?”
“Upon my oath as a man,” Coal said, seeking her eyes, “I never wish to take from you what is not truly mine to have.”
“Um, a bit over the top, don’t you think? My body is mine to give away, but if you don’t want me, then fine.” Lynden stalked across the room and tossed him his shirt. “She’s a really lucky girl.”
“Please, wait.” Coal took her hand in his as she breezed by, catching her off guard. She wrenched her hand back and visibly cowered, and Coal’s heart sank. Eyes wide, she stared at him, as if he might ... he refused to finish the thought, horrified.
“Lynden,” he whispered, embarrassed. “I would never physically harm you. Although strangers, I shall labor without rest to earn the favor of your trust, and will consider every moment a worthy endeavor.” Her eyes watered and she looked away. “I only wished to say, before I so carelessly reached for you, that whoever claims your heart is the lucky one.”
A beautiful smile shone on her face as she blushed, almost vulnerable. It was a fleeting response before she nibbled on her lip ring in what Coal came to realize was a nervous gesture. But as usual, her emotions shut off quickly and she hid behind a mask of unimpressed arrogance.
“I don’t believe in fairy tales or happy endings, so whatever.” She paused at the door. “Be ready in three hours, Mr. Awesome, and kiss your old life goodbye.”
He nodded. When the door clicked shut, he walked over to the bed and fell face first into the folds, biting into the blanket to silence his scream. She was the poisoned apple, and he felt the fatal spell leach into his bloodstream.
He needed to remain level-headed. She had already been grievously hurt by a man. He would not add to her life’s sorrows. Her father employed him to guard her, and already he failed. His chest heaved as his pulse attempted to quiet and find rest, but it could not. Pain shot through him again and tears cooled his flushed skin, his mind flooded with thoughts of Oaklee, his home, his family, Norah, and Joel in a never-ending cycle of internal torment.
Coal rolled to his back and stared with desperation at the ceiling, suddenly remembering the whiskey. Three hours was enough time to get drunk and then sleep it off. There was nothing else to do, and he no longer wished to think anymore.
***
Escapism seems to be the primary draw to the larper, but this feeling ultimately blossoms into something different. The common portrayal of the larper is someone who escapes from their insufferable routine into the fantastic. I think this feeling changes into a need to invade our lives with the fantastic. Instead of running away from our lives, we instead are given the ability to run into them. Pretending makes this possible. Visualization is a common practice in goal oriented task resolution. Being able to see ourselves in the imagination accomplish something of great difficulty becomes the fuel needed to accomplish such tasks in our real life.
— Dave Funk, “LARP Definition,” LARPing.org, 2013 *
***
Saturday, October 17, 2054
New Eden Township, Salton Sea, California
The warm mineral water blanketed Fillion’s bare skin and he sighed, inwardly and outwardly. His muscles ached from the long days and hard labor. There was nothing simple about New Eden Township. Not. One. Damn. Thing. And yet, this was the definition of living simplistically, according to his world. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Or his body. God, the ache was unbearable.
With eyes closed, he dipped beneath the surface and combed through his floating hair. Bubbles grazed his face as he released the air in his lungs. Then, his head emerged from the water and he wiped the droplets from his eyes. Satisfied with the tingly sensation on his scalp, he swam over to a boulder on the edge of the hot spring, warmed by the steam.
Tropical flowers grew alongside the water, bursting in sunset colors of red, yellow, and orange. Long, tangled tentacles, belonging to orchids and other epiphytes, draped over the stone walls that lined the pool. Fillion leaned against the warm boulder and peered up at the dome ceiling. It was a full moon and the reflective panels sheathed New Eden in an otherworldly glow.
Bathing solo was glorious. Men and women bathed once a week at The Waters on alternating nights, following the evening meal. Rock walls scaled three sides of the enclosure and the front was hedged in with trained shrubbery. A wooden screen shielded the entrance to ensure privacy before everyone undressed. Then, the men bathed Roman style, turning what Fillion had always considered a private affair into a communal activity. It was a social event, complete with debates, discussions, and typical male humor. Awkward didn’t even begin to describe the experience.
Many of the first-generation men possessed tattoos like him, unlike men from the second generation. Compared to other young men his age, Fillion was a bit on the scrawny side. He’d always been lean, somewhat toned—he walked everywhere and danced until he dripped with sweat at raves—but his culture was soft, prizing an androgynous look. Most jobs were mechanized and automated. Very few occupations in his world worked the body like daily living did in New Eden.
Naked or dressed, he didn’t fit in. He was used to having every detail of his life aired in the media. But in the dome, with every marked difference fully exposed, it felt more personal. It made this private bathing session all the more enjoyable.
He was supposed to be in bed but, for the first time in two weeks, he couldn’t sleep. He was cold, too. The nights in the main dome were frigid. So he ventured out of his apartment, while the community slept, to The Waters to soak in the natural bath, even though it violated the so-called rules of trust. So many damn rules.
Water droplets glistened silver across Fillion’s exposed skin. His eyes roamed over his tattoos, eventually resting on the pomegranate tree on fire on his bicep. The flames sprawled onto his shoulder and singed the feather tips from the wings stretched across his chest.
The symbol of New Eden Enterprises, etched onto The Door, had glinted with the fire of redemption the day he was enclosed. But it was hard to stay focused on anything. Even on his mission to figure out the Watson deaths. Pieces of him were dying. And sometimes he felt as though his identity was shrouded on a funeral pyre, waiting for the torch to ignite his soul and his convictions. He couldn’t decide if he cared about anything anymore. Or if the caring was so intense he was shutting down.
Cremation was as disturbing as he thought it would be. The smell of burnt, charred human flesh was permanently imprinted in his nose. He inhaled the fumes and flyaway ash of the woman, who just one day earlier, wanted to bless him and shared that his legacy was love. Nobody else thought the experience was horrific. To New Eden, it was a beautiful ceremony and they bonded over the idea of communing with Norah through the nutrients her ashes would give the gardens. Eating dead people was on the disturbing end of the creepy spectrum. The very idea, no matter how naturally the medieval hip
pies packaged it, was barbaric and some serious Green Moron shit. His progressive mind had no place for such a notion; and he involuntarily shuddered as memories of that week flashed through his head.
To distract himself, he let his vision wander around and soak in the sights and sensations while his mind downloaded various thoughts. He considered firing up his vid feed while secluded and returning Mack’s calls. But he wasn’t ready. The rituals of death plagued Fillion’s psyche. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with his old life, let alone his new life. He didn’t want to talk to Mack. Or Lynden. And he had zero desire to talk to his mom or dad, who spammed him with messages via Jeff and The Aether to contact them.
Fillion just wanted to be left alone and have time to sort through the paradigm shift that was patching the operating system of his mind. The “real world” was comprised of more meaningless, fake, fantasy moments than this pretend world. Each experience in New Eden forced him to cull the incorrect data from the annals of his life and recalibrate his personal truth.
Are you ready to discover what is real?
Fillion finally understood the mockery of the hologram’s statement on Exchange Day. The machine was a product of physics and human engineering. The digital humanoid mimicked life, but it never breathed, didn’t possess a heartbeat. And yet, it invited Fillion to learn what was real. Human ingenuity of another kind had preserved Earth’s natural cycle of a closed loop system. Sealing it away within the largest machine in existence. One that breathed and possessed a heartbeat, the biomimicry not only reflecting life but sustaining it. The biospherics engineering tantalized Fillion. As much as he wanted, he couldn’t resist crushing over the physics of the Kingdom he’d soon inherit. Or the real world it conserved.
But no matter how prodigious the miracle that was New Eden Township, he always went back to the same question. Why would anyone want to live on Mars? Despite the human race’s consistent track record as a terrible owner, Earth was a perfect place for life. And yet pockets of civilization wanted to chain themselves to an enclosure, an ecological prison in space. He would be ushering in this new age as owner of New Eden Biospherics & Research. Crazy. He couldn’t do it. As beautiful as this recreated world was, it was a mark of defeat and denial. Man couldn’t save Earth from himself, so he would go and destroy another planet’s surface and atmosphere? Stupid.
Once again, he became outraged that humans—more specifically his dad—would rather invest in something pointless than the people right in front of them. Would Earth still suffer and need movements dedicated to its healing if humankind was rooted in reality? He needed healing, and the sickening truth that Hanley cared more for eco-business than his own son was a bitter pill to swallow.
Fillion touched the water and watched the concentric circles ripple across the gunmetal gray surface. A heavy sigh escaped and he bit the inside of his cheek.
With a grunt, he pushed himself up onto the large rock, pulling his knees up to his chest. The air was comfortable and he needed to dry off before dressing. Damp clothes would increase the chill this Fall night, and probably wouldn’t dry by morning. His fingers found a small rock and he skipped it across the surface of the hot spring, listening to the light plinks and final plunk. Fillion rested his head on top of his knees and closed his eyes. He really needed to snap out of this existential trance and focus on an immediate issue. Like the community.
The atmosphere in New Eden was strange. Fillion could see glimpses of what the Township was probably like before Joel died. But now, the air crackled with tension. Two fights broke out in the Mediterranean dome. One man was knocked out. Rain was appointed the new Water Element over her older sister, Mist, making Rain the youngest head noble in New Eden. Villagers poured into lines day in and day out to list their grievances before their newly exposed King. Leaf listened with astute attention and remained steadfast, even when settling disagreements between community members. The Great Hall, once loud and boisterous each meal, dimmed to a low hum of conversation. People hurled insults at each other as they passed by. The worst offense was to be in support of joining the Outside world.
It was illogical. All of it. But this kind of fear never thrives on logic. Rather, its existence is fueled by irrational responses. And there were plenty in New Eden.
The Son of Earth had his hands full, and the stress hung on the young noble like a second layer of clothing. Residents now referred to Leaf as His Majesty and graced Willow as Her Highness. Little girls regularly brought Ember and Willow flowers, star-struck by the idea that a queen and a princess walked among them.
Although Willow accepted the flowers with a gracious smile, it quickly faded once the little girls ran away, sometimes with Laurel in the lead. Since Norah died and Leaf publicly announced he was The Aether, Willow had withdrawn, her face expressionless. She rarely attended meals and, when she did, she shuffled the food around on her plate in aimless circles. At times, she appeared skittish, glancing over her shoulder and jumping at the slightest sounds. Ember and Leaf often excused her absences as headaches and exhaustion from a labor intensive day.
Fillion had stopped by the Watson apartment a few times after dinner the last two weeks to discuss with Leaf the reformation and future of the community. Willow would knit with needles made from bone or make lace with a complicated process involving tiny bobbins. She ignored all the commotion and conversation, especially him, isolating herself in a corner while occupying her hands. If she wasn’t working so often in the meadow near the Forge—cleaning, carding, and processing wool and flax—he would hardly see her.
At The Forge, Willow’s tools were placed along a back wall, and she would slip in and out. Nonetheless, whenever she entered the workshop, Fillion quickly hid a certain project. One he hoped was finished before her sixteenth birthday. Sometimes he worked on it after dinner to kill time, taking smaller pieces back to his apartment. Otherwise, he was busy fixing chairs, tables, bed frames, gardening tools, doors, fences, and flooring, using archaic tools and pine pitch for glue. Never had he worked so hard in his life, and every inch of his body felt it. Most nights he fell into bed and slept solid until morning. Unlike tonight.
Yesterday, Fillion pulled out Willow’s large, free-standing loom from a storage shed near The Forge so she could join other weavers in the meadow. He had never seen a loom before, and he was intrigued by the engineering and how such a simple wooden device could create something so essential. During his smoke breaks, Fillion leaned against the outer wall of The Forge, enraptured. Willow sat among the tall grasses and wildflowers as she wove fabric under the soft reflective sunlight. Children ran by her on several occasions and she watched them pass with a wistful expression before returning to dedicated concentration on her task. She was so beautiful. He never tired of drinking in her image.
The thought made him roll his eyes. Even though it was a good thing his and Willow’s initial sparks dissolved into the community’s atmosphere, he knew he was pathetically lovesick. Borderline fool.
He needed to think of something else. He really wasn’t in the mood, but he knew he probably should call Mack so his friend didn’t think the Martians enslaved him or something. Mack had called him five times today, and he never did that unless it was important. Either that, or his friend was getting antsy since it had been over a week since they last spoke.
Goosebumps erupted on Fillion’s skin as he moved off of the heated rock. He had tossed his garments on another naturally warmed stone to get that fresh out of the dryer feeling. In a matter of minutes he was dressed and he brushed his fingers through his hair a few times before lifting the hood on his wool cloak. His mind was still too alert and so he decided to walk through the forest.
In a whisper, he commanded, “Cranium, phone Mackenzie Ferguson.” He walked across the meadow and through the small opening to the willow oak tree in the heart of the forest. The outgoing signal beeped in his head. No video chat session. He was out in the open and the hologram would be too bright.
“Oh. My.
God. He lives!” Mack’s words slurred together and a small humored smile formed despite Fillion’s dispirited state. The recent tongue ring Mack acquired made his friend’s speech worse. Loud music blared from the background, the drop-beat reverberating throughout Fillion’s body. God, he missed being in the heat of music. And he missed his guitar. When Fillion didn’t reply, Mack asked, “Wait? Are you alive?”
“Barely.”
“Hey everyone, he’s alive!” Mack laughed as a female cheered in the background, and Fillion hoped it wasn’t Lynden. Mack had to be at The Crypt. “I thought you had become green slime.”
“Something like that.” Fillion hunted the forest for any signs of human life. None.
“You OK? Computer quiet isn’t your thing, boss.”
“Yeah, just tired. My schedule flipped and I now work days as a carpenter. I think my body’s broken.”
“No shit. It’s good for your hikikomori soul. You’ll be a wood-building ninja when you integrate back into modern society. Tree origami chikara—put all other public art to shame.” His friend’s musings when drunk always made Fillion smile. “Farm Boy, toss the bottle.” Who was Farm Boy? Must be Coal, Fillion concluded, snickering at the nickname. The music volume turned down and Fillion sighed. He wanted to listen longer. “Couldn’t hear you, bishounen,” Mack began again. “We’re at my place, hanging for the night. Going to the underground in a few days. Farm Boy’s tats still need to cool. Did you get the links I sent you?”
Tats? “Sorry, mate. First time I’ve fired up the Cranium in a week.”
“Damn. Are you sure they aren’t probing you or anything?”
Fillion smirked. “Jealous?”
“Hellz yeah.”
“How are you passing off Farm Boy in the underground?”
“He’s my UK cousin, cage fighter, works at the New Eden Enterprises London office.”
Elements (The Biodome Chronicles series Book 2) Page 27