This is one of the most keeping story I have ever created because of the similarities between the settings and characters to that one favourite game of mine. Sort of anyways but if you ever play FF XII, you would kow about half of the settings and how the customs are done inside this one.
Here we go.
The dark sky was made darker by the contrast of flames that was licking the whole city, spreading from one rooftop to another and the chaos within the buildings themselves are making grim of the city's fate. There were bodies, bloodied or blackened, scattered everywhere. The war had taken the north gate first, the armies of the great Empire, led by the Lord General Haxin himself, had crashed through magical barriers and physical alike. The hand crafted duralumin gate now stood bended and broken by it's hinges. Starting from there, the bodies were piled up one after another at the sides of roads, marking women and children as well as men in shining armor. Now, their eyes stared into void, claiming for a cause to end this war.
At the center of The Shining City, Rousce, the armies of Great Emperor of the Cena was immobilizing. The march had continued from the north gate to the adjacent east gate, where the enemies now stood, marking their territories, a magical barrier between them and the 7th Platoon, a whole 500 men wielding pikes in bulky armor, even now eyeing the barrier as suspciously as the gathering men on the other side. One of them shifted his shoulder muscles, trying to adjust to the strain on his left one. His arms were slapped with a metal clang from another man coming from behind.
"Get ready, the mages are bringing the paling down. Once it's down, we are sure to meet the fury of Rousce's defenders. Those guys out there are really asking for it," the man from behind addressed to those within earshot, causing a turbulence in the straight line. He was wearing a helmet like all the others but his looks older than any of them and looks weary from repaired dents. His was also decorated with chips and carvings only a master craftsman could've appreciate, matching the ones on his gauntlets down to his metal boots. Evidence of fighting bloodied the chips now.
"Yes, sir! Sir... Why are we even at the East gate? We could've charged through to the center and take the city before dinner," the pikeman asked.
Silence filled in amongst shifting men, each of them looking at the new recruit. The man in decorated armor looked at him, his eye holes seem to be frowning. Yet, he looked away almost immediately and went to the front. He turned around and looked from one of the line to the other. Five stretches of men, each of them designed at their places specifically. The great wall of Haxin, some called them. That would be an understatement. This wall are fearless and they could charge through thousands of man within minutes. But they are also made to be the first one to fall.
"Listen! Rousce will fall tonight because of its betrayal of our treaty! They will know despair throughout Cena! We stand here to mark that betrayal and to strike fear into the other nations! The mighty Empire will not fall down tonight! I ask plenty of you all. So, I will ask again tonight! Who are the defenders?"
As an answer all of the pikesmen hauled up their spears and roared out a single word. "Men!"
The commander in front took up his halberd. "Who are the men?"
The rows of men brought their pikes down and slant it towards an angle, with their big shields covering their ranks, shouting "Ingrods!"
Commander Faam turned to face the other armies, now getting ready to meet them as well, with their long and short swords. After this, I am done with all of these wars, he said inside. Outward, he asked one last question.
"Who are the Ingrods?"
"Us!"
The Paling was down even as the question asked. The men Rousce charged on like cornered rats, fighting a futile battle against them. That day, the Ingrods won but none of them cheered when the charge was cleared. Another wave was coming and they were marched to the south gate. Inside those steel helmets, the men of Ingrods frowned in grim determination. A madman was leading them, from one place to another.
The only reason they are delaying the succumb of the city was because the madman wanted the Shining City to surrender. Not to be destroyed instantly. Instead, the madman wanted to make the Emporer of the Cera crawl to his legs and beg for peace. A madman was leading these grim men. And none of them could breath a word of defiance.
The night was long and the battle hard. But the Ingrods stood high and tall throughout, claiming their name of the Wall of Haxin.
Nov 11, 2013
Sadness inside for the truth that she hides
10th November 2013
Around 2.00 P.M.
Room
Around the descriptions of the date above, I knew now that I was right. I was right about everything, and I was right about the part about when I look at people and I know what their inner feelings are before they even open their mouths. But hey, I've been thinking that that is a bad thing and I should stop it. Being the perhaps some small percentage of the world's population that has been able to do this, I do not consider myself unique. Unique is word you describe a three headed lamb with each head having two mouths and a three-pairing birth mark on their foreheads.
I am a complicated man with a simple heart. That's all there is to it. These may not be the feelings I've shown to other people but hey, a man can have many secrets. And INFJs have more than you can imagine. They are like the solitary piece of Orihalcum in a mine of Quicksilver. You don't know what I'm talking about? Good, neither do I most of the time. Don't ask me what I'm writing because free hand writing is what I do best and I am doing it right now. What's an INFJ, you ask? Well, its an archetype of psyches that has been categorized by... a lot of psychologists and whatnot.
The name of that categorization is the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBIT) that has been used for a long time it seems. Wikipedia doesn't say anything about that. Short story : MBIT categorizes the general people into GENERAL types. Imagine a plate of chicken chop, with nothing else. Just the chicken. Some people would think it's too simple and decides to go to the shopping and mall and buy some black pepper sauce in a bottle to spice things up a bit. Some other people would think it's just nice, plain chicken and plain chop. Some other people would look at this dish and thinks to himself, "How much calorie would this have?" and eat it anyway because she's hungry. But some few people would look at it and thinks to himself "Chicken chops... chicken shops.... Hicken Shops... Hicken Shop of Weaponry... Hicken Glare of the Northen Wind with his best sorting of weapons that he had made himself... Hicken Glare who wrought the piece of blade that had destroyed the last of the dragons..." And he ends up eating the chicken while all kinds of stories appear inside his head like mushrooms until he doesn't have space at all for barely anything else and he doesn't even know it's happening. It feels like a curse if that happens.
Long story... well the one before was long but this one is longer. MBIT is made up of two broad categories; Extrovert and Introvert. Extrovert means you are in the "real" world much more than the Introvert, who lives inside his head. Then there's more categorization. The way you make decisions, by perceiving (Intuition or Sensing) or by judging (Thinking and Feeling). Remember, though, that these are theories. And in theories you cannot really know a true definite answer. These are just guidelines for yourselves. I've long since really put honest trust in these kinds of labeling. I hate labeling for one. It's like having a price tag on your personality and the world is trying to buy you as cheap as possible with rubbish bargains. The way I see these categorization is that it makes it easier for us to understand who we really are, and try not to feel bad about it. I don't feel bad about it.
So, after sifting through the webs, I came to this website. CelebrityTypes is a website that takes the MBIT test a step further by giving famous personalities a personality test. Most are famous history-making people like Socrates, Plato, Hitler, Mahatman Ghandi or Roosevelt. Some are less obscure like Marilyn Manson. Whatever it is, there's a test that you can take on that page and once you done it, you would be generally categorize as one of the 16 broad categories. Congratulations, you have set a price on your toe. Now its up to you to increase or let it decrease. Want it or not, the world is like that. I may live inside my head, but that doesn't mean I don't look out the windows. I do. A lot of times. And it's very ugly outside. I don't want to go outside.
I am INFJ and I do not feel unique. Trust me, for our kind, feeling unique is what we detest the most. About 7 years before, when I was in secondary school, I would've given anything to become like other people; fit, talkative, social, likable, handsome and so on. Instead, I became this... socially awkward (like "Hi... Erm..." socially awkward) with a complete suspicion that everyone is plotting against me. The world was evil and I was the victim. So, around when I was 14 or 15, I decided to make myself a hero. I did. A lot of times too. It nearly felt as good as sex would've been... if I know what sex feels that is. I didn't stop making myself a hero, except that... it became more than that. I started to write things down. Names, plots, details of the world and so on until it became second nature to me to just look at one thing, let my mind wander and boom, a novel out of nowhere. I haven't even gone to make it into a trilogy yet, so don't go anywhere. Eff why I, I did make a trilogy but... it became more than that. See what I mean by curse?
Anyways, try and go to CelebrityTypes and take the test, it's in the left margin of the page, you can't miss it. If you miss it, you're blind and I suggest going to the Optimitrist and preparing several hundred dollars for a pair of concave or convex glass, held by plastic frames. Don't feel bad, blind people. A lot of people are blind actually. Blind about the truths that has been under their very noses... Such arrogance. And they call me ignorant. Butt-sniffing bastards. I'm not talking about dogs by the way. Just so you know. Ahem.
Did I mention that INFJs are people who think Intuitively inside and Feeling outside? No? Well I am now. That either means I have a serious problem saying what I mean to say or not saying what I mean to say and making other people really confused of what I'm trying to say. There you go. Oh and don't go to chats and say that you are INFJs and that makes you feel good because you are the 1% of the global population. One percent of 6.9 billion is a lot. We may come rare these days but look at the world now... almost everyone has a smart phone with a touchscreen. Thirty years ago you would've paid more than 3000 dollars for a 500 MB hard disk. I'm not even kidding.
And as always... Look out for a guy named Hicken Glare for the next weeks of the month. I'm sure I'm going to think something up. God, I hate it when I think up stuff and I missed a floor from my room. Mind you, I went up an extra floor, not left one behind. And only realising it when I nearly went into "my" room. THESE AREN'T MY UNDERWEARS.
Around 2.00 P.M.
Room
Around the descriptions of the date above, I knew now that I was right. I was right about everything, and I was right about the part about when I look at people and I know what their inner feelings are before they even open their mouths. But hey, I've been thinking that that is a bad thing and I should stop it. Being the perhaps some small percentage of the world's population that has been able to do this, I do not consider myself unique. Unique is word you describe a three headed lamb with each head having two mouths and a three-pairing birth mark on their foreheads.
I am a complicated man with a simple heart. That's all there is to it. These may not be the feelings I've shown to other people but hey, a man can have many secrets. And INFJs have more than you can imagine. They are like the solitary piece of Orihalcum in a mine of Quicksilver. You don't know what I'm talking about? Good, neither do I most of the time. Don't ask me what I'm writing because free hand writing is what I do best and I am doing it right now. What's an INFJ, you ask? Well, its an archetype of psyches that has been categorized by... a lot of psychologists and whatnot.
The name of that categorization is the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBIT) that has been used for a long time it seems. Wikipedia doesn't say anything about that. Short story : MBIT categorizes the general people into GENERAL types. Imagine a plate of chicken chop, with nothing else. Just the chicken. Some people would think it's too simple and decides to go to the shopping and mall and buy some black pepper sauce in a bottle to spice things up a bit. Some other people would think it's just nice, plain chicken and plain chop. Some other people would look at this dish and thinks to himself, "How much calorie would this have?" and eat it anyway because she's hungry. But some few people would look at it and thinks to himself "Chicken chops... chicken shops.... Hicken Shops... Hicken Shop of Weaponry... Hicken Glare of the Northen Wind with his best sorting of weapons that he had made himself... Hicken Glare who wrought the piece of blade that had destroyed the last of the dragons..." And he ends up eating the chicken while all kinds of stories appear inside his head like mushrooms until he doesn't have space at all for barely anything else and he doesn't even know it's happening. It feels like a curse if that happens.
Long story... well the one before was long but this one is longer. MBIT is made up of two broad categories; Extrovert and Introvert. Extrovert means you are in the "real" world much more than the Introvert, who lives inside his head. Then there's more categorization. The way you make decisions, by perceiving (Intuition or Sensing) or by judging (Thinking and Feeling). Remember, though, that these are theories. And in theories you cannot really know a true definite answer. These are just guidelines for yourselves. I've long since really put honest trust in these kinds of labeling. I hate labeling for one. It's like having a price tag on your personality and the world is trying to buy you as cheap as possible with rubbish bargains. The way I see these categorization is that it makes it easier for us to understand who we really are, and try not to feel bad about it. I don't feel bad about it.
So, after sifting through the webs, I came to this website. CelebrityTypes is a website that takes the MBIT test a step further by giving famous personalities a personality test. Most are famous history-making people like Socrates, Plato, Hitler, Mahatman Ghandi or Roosevelt. Some are less obscure like Marilyn Manson. Whatever it is, there's a test that you can take on that page and once you done it, you would be generally categorize as one of the 16 broad categories. Congratulations, you have set a price on your toe. Now its up to you to increase or let it decrease. Want it or not, the world is like that. I may live inside my head, but that doesn't mean I don't look out the windows. I do. A lot of times. And it's very ugly outside. I don't want to go outside.
I am INFJ and I do not feel unique. Trust me, for our kind, feeling unique is what we detest the most. About 7 years before, when I was in secondary school, I would've given anything to become like other people; fit, talkative, social, likable, handsome and so on. Instead, I became this... socially awkward (like "Hi... Erm..." socially awkward) with a complete suspicion that everyone is plotting against me. The world was evil and I was the victim. So, around when I was 14 or 15, I decided to make myself a hero. I did. A lot of times too. It nearly felt as good as sex would've been... if I know what sex feels that is. I didn't stop making myself a hero, except that... it became more than that. I started to write things down. Names, plots, details of the world and so on until it became second nature to me to just look at one thing, let my mind wander and boom, a novel out of nowhere. I haven't even gone to make it into a trilogy yet, so don't go anywhere. Eff why I, I did make a trilogy but... it became more than that. See what I mean by curse?
Anyways, try and go to CelebrityTypes and take the test, it's in the left margin of the page, you can't miss it. If you miss it, you're blind and I suggest going to the Optimitrist and preparing several hundred dollars for a pair of concave or convex glass, held by plastic frames. Don't feel bad, blind people. A lot of people are blind actually. Blind about the truths that has been under their very noses... Such arrogance. And they call me ignorant. Butt-sniffing bastards. I'm not talking about dogs by the way. Just so you know. Ahem.
Did I mention that INFJs are people who think Intuitively inside and Feeling outside? No? Well I am now. That either means I have a serious problem saying what I mean to say or not saying what I mean to say and making other people really confused of what I'm trying to say. There you go. Oh and don't go to chats and say that you are INFJs and that makes you feel good because you are the 1% of the global population. One percent of 6.9 billion is a lot. We may come rare these days but look at the world now... almost everyone has a smart phone with a touchscreen. Thirty years ago you would've paid more than 3000 dollars for a 500 MB hard disk. I'm not even kidding.
And as always... Look out for a guy named Hicken Glare for the next weeks of the month. I'm sure I'm going to think something up. God, I hate it when I think up stuff and I missed a floor from my room. Mind you, I went up an extra floor, not left one behind. And only realising it when I nearly went into "my" room. THESE AREN'T MY UNDERWEARS.
Aug 30, 2013
FictionPress
Yesterday, or rather today's earliest mornings, I was chatting with Rabbia on Facebook and you know what it's all about. I tried to find out what she likes the most, like talking about a specific topic or something, but so far... we just miss each other too much it seems.
But talking about me is not going to get far, so today I'm talking about this site I found. It is the equivalent of deviantArt for writers. Writers and roleplayers it seems as I tried to find out digging through all that stuff...
fictionpress.com is the place where you can post your stories, doubtless copyrighted to your name I hope, and I think it 's a good way for amuteur writers to try to get some feedback from total strangers. Remember that long ass draft you did when you just needed to write something, like I am right now? Yeah, you can post some of it here (I say some because I'm still trying to find out how under the Light do they keep copyrights) and strangers will click and read through it, or a portion of it, and they will write reviews of it. If they deem it suits their styles.
Personally, the ones I've read so far has that beginner's style of writing. It reminded me of younger times when I tried to write down several words without seemingly to repeat them. One way or another, I'm probably one of them, despite me trying to improve further on. I felt at home there for a while until I came to the forums.
Oh the forums. Some of those threads are YEARS old and at least few of them are still active. The forums are divided into stories and general but if you're thinking to discuss an important aspect of writing, be ready to dig through all those words because MY WORD, there are so many roleplaying threads here! Seriously, guys, roleplaying is cool but can we get some words in about character personalization, plotting, improving styles, or dialog writing. I did stumble about this thread, comparing each other's dialogs and battle scenes, it was cool first until I noticed the date the thread was created. It was created 5 years ago. My sister is 5 years old. God.
Ah well, I felt at home right there and then though. Writing samples, reading stories, and even people that apparently enjoys a little bit (even if it's too much) roleplaying.
Oh and, I noticed a lack of a beginner's section. Where the heck is the Introduction thread?
But talking about me is not going to get far, so today I'm talking about this site I found. It is the equivalent of deviantArt for writers. Writers and roleplayers it seems as I tried to find out digging through all that stuff...
fictionpress.com is the place where you can post your stories, doubtless copyrighted to your name I hope, and I think it 's a good way for amuteur writers to try to get some feedback from total strangers. Remember that long ass draft you did when you just needed to write something, like I am right now? Yeah, you can post some of it here (I say some because I'm still trying to find out how under the Light do they keep copyrights) and strangers will click and read through it, or a portion of it, and they will write reviews of it. If they deem it suits their styles.
Personally, the ones I've read so far has that beginner's style of writing. It reminded me of younger times when I tried to write down several words without seemingly to repeat them. One way or another, I'm probably one of them, despite me trying to improve further on. I felt at home there for a while until I came to the forums.
Oh the forums. Some of those threads are YEARS old and at least few of them are still active. The forums are divided into stories and general but if you're thinking to discuss an important aspect of writing, be ready to dig through all those words because MY WORD, there are so many roleplaying threads here! Seriously, guys, roleplaying is cool but can we get some words in about character personalization, plotting, improving styles, or dialog writing. I did stumble about this thread, comparing each other's dialogs and battle scenes, it was cool first until I noticed the date the thread was created. It was created 5 years ago. My sister is 5 years old. God.
Ah well, I felt at home right there and then though. Writing samples, reading stories, and even people that apparently enjoys a little bit (even if it's too much) roleplaying.
Oh and, I noticed a lack of a beginner's section. Where the heck is the Introduction thread?
Aug 27, 2013
Electric Feel
The days are becoming shorter. It always is when most of it was gone to being with the local gangsters. Not really. They're not really gangsters, or loan sharks but his days with them are being seen as one of them. Most of the time, he watched the other guys do the dirty jobs. Most of it. Whenever he felt particularly filthy that day, there's always his brass knuckles. Those brass knuckles are what saved him most of the time when the days are just bad. That, and his disgust towards himself.
He couldn't bring himself to leave them. There's always a reason. It has to do with this honor situation where you don't really leave them, you just take a vacation somewhere and when you feel it back again, you can go back. You're still part of them. The whole thing seems like a joke to him but the more days he spent, looking at the other guys burning someone's wife, or punching someone to the brink of death, or even just strutting about like they own the world, the more he realize he's being part of them. You can't just leave when you're part of something like this. More thoughts became from that single thought. Tonight though, he can't seem to think other than that one day.
The house was burning. He was holding the matchbox. It all seemed reasonable before. The guy didn't pay up for what he borrowed from them. He's been warned three times and they don't usually go three times. You either pay up the first time, or there won't be a second time. The day was Thursday, he remembered vividly because Johnny Killer was premiered that day and he loved that series. That episode, Johny 'Killer' Bern had a job to take out a couple of villains who stole from the National Bank. The plot was the usual; hero gets job, hero finds clues, hero finds villain, villain took something from hero, hero took it back with revenge and completed the job in the meantime. It was a pure joke, straight from the studio.
His family was in there. Burning to death or choking from all that smoke. The whole building was on fire and it seemed like a party with a bonfire in the middle. The other guys laugh histericaly while he stared at that fire, straining his ears for screaming. The guy had 2 kids, probably 6 and 8 both. A beautiful wife, it was strange the guys don't drag her out with him too. There was a lot of oil and there he was, the only one with a lighter. It all seemed like a dream. The guy was screaming, shouting for his wife and children while being gagged and kicked by the other guys. He stared at that fire long after the man was already dead from all that beating.
Then, Hewlitt happened. The first company to bring Crysta. Some chemical crap mixed together with some hard to pronounce stuff that emits electricity. Actually emit the stuff, he saw on the tele the other day. Globally needed, Crysta was all out and in energy. You just buy the stuff from the Hewlitt branch. It sold like hot pies on a rainy day. Their factories grew like mushrooms. Even the other guys were into it. Mainly because it also emits a strong hallucination from the clouds of smoke the stuff emits. It wasn't toxic but who knows. Crysta was the meth of energy that the world desperately needed. But times change, and not long after 6 months, the city of Iskandar was transformed into an all out industrial area. Main occupant: Hewlitt.
He didn't approve the use of the stuff. He never did. But he can see the transformation it brings. Business was business but business with Crysta is another matter. Soon, the gang was involved in the black market. It brings in more money daily and doesn't need much time to handle. They were rich once, then the whole thing collapsed with a new invention from that some company. Nicknamed, Juara, which means Hero. The over powered security robot was custom designed to track misuse of Crysta. Even the police avoid them. They roam around town, the Hewlitt practically own the town, and about 100 of those things could be seen, walking around with those blue eyes. Powered by that electricity - emitting stuff, those androids don't give up easily.
Then news reached his ear like a thunder. Some guys died when they tried to over heat the crystal-like substance, in order to make more of that cloudy smoke. He barely reached the place before the authority got there. It was a mess. Blood was on everything and there wasn't even a hint where the body was before... something happened. Nobody was alive to tell the tale. Including one of his own. That guy wasn't the nicest but sometimes he helped him through times. At that time, that reason was enough to track down what happened. He dug for information about Crysta, traded for infomation. Twice, he nearly got caught by the Juara, trading some drugs for information. Apparently, the police got their hands on those things and made some adjustments. It was apparent that the mafia age was coming to an end.
He got this contact with a cop. He hasn't had sleep for the last 3 days, not even naps. He was desperate to get to the bottom of this. One of his contact had successfully convinced a cop to reveal some really top secret stuff about the Juara, and the usage of Crysta. He found out that Crysta was made from acid or something, he can't pronounce it, but the other stuff what made him surprised. Originally, the substance was found on Mars, some space guys got ahold of it and brought it back to earth for study. Then those guys in suits found out that they can actually reproduce the stuff, taking like a stem from it and copy it again and again with some really scientific notations and procedures. He skipped that part. After heating the plant-like substance, they heat it at high temperature, making it 'sweat' or some stuff. The 'sweat' was what was mixed into acid and eventually it will clot into this piece of rock that emits light and electricity. They call it Crysta.
That was before he met the cop. Now, he's sitting in a chinese stall, eating some kind of noodle with a spicy soup. His leather jacket was making him sweat but he doesn't want to reveal to the shopkeeper the numerous amounts of tattoo he has around his arms. People will see that too and some are wiser than most to call the police or worse, a Juara. The bright bulb, that lonely little bulb, was the only thing lighting the place up. Behind him was a road, filled with cars and people, so the place wasn't that dark. It was just in a corner and the light doesn't go well there. It was a wonder why he chose that spot for the meeting. Someone said the place had good food but it seems he lost his sense of taste.
Not long after he finished halfway through the noodle, a guy sat slid into the stall beside him. He doesn't need to look up to know that his contacts was right. It was a cop. With that aura around him, and that sense of neatness. It was a good cop too. Probably was in the force not long ago, with some SWAT or something but now too old or too wise to be ordered around like a tool. He probably asked to be an inspector or something. He was wearing that bloody shoe. That dark and shiny shoe that every cop there seems to think it's stylish. It's not. Especially when you're wearing a shirt like that.
"You're the guy? I thought so," the cop said. He was an indian. With that accent that rang out like he was singing while talking. But that small smile all indian has is gone from that face. He looks weary and old. Probably bored to death now that the Juara are taking up all his jobs. Probably has a grudge or two. "Didn't expect a Malay to get into this kind of stuff. Where's the payment?" Tch. He didn't lose his sense of ordering people like dogs though. He hated being ordered around. So, he slurped the rest of the noodle before meeting eye to eye with the guy.
"I see the papers, you see the payment, ya?" he asked.
The cop was no idiot, he gave credit to that. He knows a dangerous man when he sees one. And he was more than that. Cautiously, he stood up and took out some folded papers from his pocket. The trousers are slick, neat and he bet his last cent that it was ironed before he came here. The papers were a little crumpled but the information was there. He made no move to grab at it. He knew better not to.
"The payment?" the guy said.
He took one look at the papers and decided that it was real. Cops like that don't lie, even if the order of the day wasn't that honest. He slipped a hand into his jacket, felt for his left pocket. The other guy was readying into a stance, he can see it. He gave off a little smile, amused. Then he took out some Black Crysta, the pure stuff. These things emit double the amount of hallucination smoke than the regular ones but sucks in conducting electricity. Better, and safer. He practically lived on the money he made selling that stuff around. The other guy's eyes glitter like seeing naked lady in front of him, swallowing.
"Good," he said and put the papers on the table, beside the bowl of noodles. "There, now give me that."
He didn't even reach his hand out fully before it was snatched away. The guy was probably addicted to the stuff. Poor guy is dead within years if he does. Months if he doesn't regulate like the others. The smoke itself wasn't toxic but when it reached into the lungs and fused with your blood, the iron inside the blood loses to the stuff and if you don't regulate your treatment, your blood will lose that taste of iron and soon you may found yourself unable to breath, move or do pretty much anything else. The stuff eats your blood inside out. It was horrific but that's probably what happened in a lot of cases. No more blood, no more you. Simple as that.
The indian guy left in a hurry, probably back to his nest. Soon, the chinese guy holding the stall came to him, asking what happened to him. He said the guy just left, and took his order. He was a full and happy man that night.
Until he reached his car, started the engine, opened the air-conditioner, switched on the indoor lights, and took a look at the papers. There was a lot of notations here and there, markings. None of it makes sense except one part. That part made him read that same sentence twice, three times before he looked up.
"Juara is equipped with the most advanced technology of modern times and the AI is based on a super-controlled part of the human race. It's brain is developed into an actual size of the human's and powered by life itself, a Crysta in it's heart core. But that isn't enough for the Juara programming. It needed another ingredient, a secret one that can make the Juara the most human-like response towards a lot of things. That is this: "
"The human brain," he whispered the word. "A live one."
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and gulped down saliva. When he opened them up again, he was looking at a street corner, a dark alley where nobody would care about anything there, if there was anybody. But there was somebody there. It looked like a boy. No, it's coming closer. There's something wrong with it. He switched on the lights and move his head forward.
"Oh shi-"
The silencer made two burst of twitch. Both the bullets took him at the temple, right at the head. He was dead. The culprit made his way to the car, pulled at the door, and shoot him twice more. Just to make sure. Then he reached inside, took the papers, now bloodied, took a look and turned away. The light on the car was still on, it's engine still burning. The culprit reached the end of the alley and ran. A smoke escaped the back of his head, now noisy with sounds of respiration, like a steam train. But it ran on forward, towards a factory that marked as 'Hewlitt'.
It was 50 years after that when Iskandar City was renamed as Hewlitton. Crysta was becoming better and better and a new model of Juara came out, named Juara Runner. A smaller frame, almost boyish teenage outer layer and a whole new system to it. It was powered by Crysta, of couse, and every 30 minutes or so, a smoke of yet-to-be-toxic substance escaped from the back of it's head. Right about then, a 19 year old boy stumbled into an amazing discovery in his small secret cave beneath the city. His name is Tuah and he discovered what a dead man discovered 50 years before. He was not surprised.
He couldn't bring himself to leave them. There's always a reason. It has to do with this honor situation where you don't really leave them, you just take a vacation somewhere and when you feel it back again, you can go back. You're still part of them. The whole thing seems like a joke to him but the more days he spent, looking at the other guys burning someone's wife, or punching someone to the brink of death, or even just strutting about like they own the world, the more he realize he's being part of them. You can't just leave when you're part of something like this. More thoughts became from that single thought. Tonight though, he can't seem to think other than that one day.
The house was burning. He was holding the matchbox. It all seemed reasonable before. The guy didn't pay up for what he borrowed from them. He's been warned three times and they don't usually go three times. You either pay up the first time, or there won't be a second time. The day was Thursday, he remembered vividly because Johnny Killer was premiered that day and he loved that series. That episode, Johny 'Killer' Bern had a job to take out a couple of villains who stole from the National Bank. The plot was the usual; hero gets job, hero finds clues, hero finds villain, villain took something from hero, hero took it back with revenge and completed the job in the meantime. It was a pure joke, straight from the studio.
His family was in there. Burning to death or choking from all that smoke. The whole building was on fire and it seemed like a party with a bonfire in the middle. The other guys laugh histericaly while he stared at that fire, straining his ears for screaming. The guy had 2 kids, probably 6 and 8 both. A beautiful wife, it was strange the guys don't drag her out with him too. There was a lot of oil and there he was, the only one with a lighter. It all seemed like a dream. The guy was screaming, shouting for his wife and children while being gagged and kicked by the other guys. He stared at that fire long after the man was already dead from all that beating.
Then, Hewlitt happened. The first company to bring Crysta. Some chemical crap mixed together with some hard to pronounce stuff that emits electricity. Actually emit the stuff, he saw on the tele the other day. Globally needed, Crysta was all out and in energy. You just buy the stuff from the Hewlitt branch. It sold like hot pies on a rainy day. Their factories grew like mushrooms. Even the other guys were into it. Mainly because it also emits a strong hallucination from the clouds of smoke the stuff emits. It wasn't toxic but who knows. Crysta was the meth of energy that the world desperately needed. But times change, and not long after 6 months, the city of Iskandar was transformed into an all out industrial area. Main occupant: Hewlitt.
He didn't approve the use of the stuff. He never did. But he can see the transformation it brings. Business was business but business with Crysta is another matter. Soon, the gang was involved in the black market. It brings in more money daily and doesn't need much time to handle. They were rich once, then the whole thing collapsed with a new invention from that some company. Nicknamed, Juara, which means Hero. The over powered security robot was custom designed to track misuse of Crysta. Even the police avoid them. They roam around town, the Hewlitt practically own the town, and about 100 of those things could be seen, walking around with those blue eyes. Powered by that electricity - emitting stuff, those androids don't give up easily.
Then news reached his ear like a thunder. Some guys died when they tried to over heat the crystal-like substance, in order to make more of that cloudy smoke. He barely reached the place before the authority got there. It was a mess. Blood was on everything and there wasn't even a hint where the body was before... something happened. Nobody was alive to tell the tale. Including one of his own. That guy wasn't the nicest but sometimes he helped him through times. At that time, that reason was enough to track down what happened. He dug for information about Crysta, traded for infomation. Twice, he nearly got caught by the Juara, trading some drugs for information. Apparently, the police got their hands on those things and made some adjustments. It was apparent that the mafia age was coming to an end.
He got this contact with a cop. He hasn't had sleep for the last 3 days, not even naps. He was desperate to get to the bottom of this. One of his contact had successfully convinced a cop to reveal some really top secret stuff about the Juara, and the usage of Crysta. He found out that Crysta was made from acid or something, he can't pronounce it, but the other stuff what made him surprised. Originally, the substance was found on Mars, some space guys got ahold of it and brought it back to earth for study. Then those guys in suits found out that they can actually reproduce the stuff, taking like a stem from it and copy it again and again with some really scientific notations and procedures. He skipped that part. After heating the plant-like substance, they heat it at high temperature, making it 'sweat' or some stuff. The 'sweat' was what was mixed into acid and eventually it will clot into this piece of rock that emits light and electricity. They call it Crysta.
That was before he met the cop. Now, he's sitting in a chinese stall, eating some kind of noodle with a spicy soup. His leather jacket was making him sweat but he doesn't want to reveal to the shopkeeper the numerous amounts of tattoo he has around his arms. People will see that too and some are wiser than most to call the police or worse, a Juara. The bright bulb, that lonely little bulb, was the only thing lighting the place up. Behind him was a road, filled with cars and people, so the place wasn't that dark. It was just in a corner and the light doesn't go well there. It was a wonder why he chose that spot for the meeting. Someone said the place had good food but it seems he lost his sense of taste.
Not long after he finished halfway through the noodle, a guy sat slid into the stall beside him. He doesn't need to look up to know that his contacts was right. It was a cop. With that aura around him, and that sense of neatness. It was a good cop too. Probably was in the force not long ago, with some SWAT or something but now too old or too wise to be ordered around like a tool. He probably asked to be an inspector or something. He was wearing that bloody shoe. That dark and shiny shoe that every cop there seems to think it's stylish. It's not. Especially when you're wearing a shirt like that.
"You're the guy? I thought so," the cop said. He was an indian. With that accent that rang out like he was singing while talking. But that small smile all indian has is gone from that face. He looks weary and old. Probably bored to death now that the Juara are taking up all his jobs. Probably has a grudge or two. "Didn't expect a Malay to get into this kind of stuff. Where's the payment?" Tch. He didn't lose his sense of ordering people like dogs though. He hated being ordered around. So, he slurped the rest of the noodle before meeting eye to eye with the guy.
"I see the papers, you see the payment, ya?" he asked.
The cop was no idiot, he gave credit to that. He knows a dangerous man when he sees one. And he was more than that. Cautiously, he stood up and took out some folded papers from his pocket. The trousers are slick, neat and he bet his last cent that it was ironed before he came here. The papers were a little crumpled but the information was there. He made no move to grab at it. He knew better not to.
"The payment?" the guy said.
He took one look at the papers and decided that it was real. Cops like that don't lie, even if the order of the day wasn't that honest. He slipped a hand into his jacket, felt for his left pocket. The other guy was readying into a stance, he can see it. He gave off a little smile, amused. Then he took out some Black Crysta, the pure stuff. These things emit double the amount of hallucination smoke than the regular ones but sucks in conducting electricity. Better, and safer. He practically lived on the money he made selling that stuff around. The other guy's eyes glitter like seeing naked lady in front of him, swallowing.
"Good," he said and put the papers on the table, beside the bowl of noodles. "There, now give me that."
He didn't even reach his hand out fully before it was snatched away. The guy was probably addicted to the stuff. Poor guy is dead within years if he does. Months if he doesn't regulate like the others. The smoke itself wasn't toxic but when it reached into the lungs and fused with your blood, the iron inside the blood loses to the stuff and if you don't regulate your treatment, your blood will lose that taste of iron and soon you may found yourself unable to breath, move or do pretty much anything else. The stuff eats your blood inside out. It was horrific but that's probably what happened in a lot of cases. No more blood, no more you. Simple as that.
The indian guy left in a hurry, probably back to his nest. Soon, the chinese guy holding the stall came to him, asking what happened to him. He said the guy just left, and took his order. He was a full and happy man that night.
Until he reached his car, started the engine, opened the air-conditioner, switched on the indoor lights, and took a look at the papers. There was a lot of notations here and there, markings. None of it makes sense except one part. That part made him read that same sentence twice, three times before he looked up.
"Juara is equipped with the most advanced technology of modern times and the AI is based on a super-controlled part of the human race. It's brain is developed into an actual size of the human's and powered by life itself, a Crysta in it's heart core. But that isn't enough for the Juara programming. It needed another ingredient, a secret one that can make the Juara the most human-like response towards a lot of things. That is this: "
"The human brain," he whispered the word. "A live one."
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and gulped down saliva. When he opened them up again, he was looking at a street corner, a dark alley where nobody would care about anything there, if there was anybody. But there was somebody there. It looked like a boy. No, it's coming closer. There's something wrong with it. He switched on the lights and move his head forward.
"Oh shi-"
The silencer made two burst of twitch. Both the bullets took him at the temple, right at the head. He was dead. The culprit made his way to the car, pulled at the door, and shoot him twice more. Just to make sure. Then he reached inside, took the papers, now bloodied, took a look and turned away. The light on the car was still on, it's engine still burning. The culprit reached the end of the alley and ran. A smoke escaped the back of his head, now noisy with sounds of respiration, like a steam train. But it ran on forward, towards a factory that marked as 'Hewlitt'.
It was 50 years after that when Iskandar City was renamed as Hewlitton. Crysta was becoming better and better and a new model of Juara came out, named Juara Runner. A smaller frame, almost boyish teenage outer layer and a whole new system to it. It was powered by Crysta, of couse, and every 30 minutes or so, a smoke of yet-to-be-toxic substance escaped from the back of it's head. Right about then, a 19 year old boy stumbled into an amazing discovery in his small secret cave beneath the city. His name is Tuah and he discovered what a dead man discovered 50 years before. He was not surprised.
Aug 12, 2013
It is times like these
where I just want to ask:
Why can't I sleep?
Why can't I play games?
Why can't I write?
Why can't I do a job?
Why can't I stop thinking?
Why can't I stop thinking about her?
Why can't I stop thinking what's going to happen?
Why can't I stop thinking I have to do something really important and be done with it?
Why can't I stop asking why can't I stop asking things?
My God. Seriously.
It's time like these where I just want to ask
Why, for everything that is within the boundaries of the sky and earth, do I feel like a bird with torn wings in an unlocked, open cage?
The world just went upside down in a month and here you are, still trying to sit on the sky, forgetting that the sky has turned into the ground and the ground has turned into the sky.
Get a grip on yourself. Final exam is 3 weeks away and here you are fumbling like an idiot. I'm probably going through one of those phases, but being a uni student just makes it damn more difficult to handle with.
Well... at least there's 5 more hours until morning.
How can tomorrow be so far away? I mean, really. All I want now is... dammit.
What have you done to me, Rabbia?
Why can't I sleep?
Why can't I play games?
Why can't I write?
Why can't I do a job?
Why can't I stop thinking?
Why can't I stop thinking about her?
Why can't I stop thinking what's going to happen?
Why can't I stop thinking I have to do something really important and be done with it?
Why can't I stop asking why can't I stop asking things?
My God. Seriously.
It's time like these where I just want to ask
Why, for everything that is within the boundaries of the sky and earth, do I feel like a bird with torn wings in an unlocked, open cage?
The world just went upside down in a month and here you are, still trying to sit on the sky, forgetting that the sky has turned into the ground and the ground has turned into the sky.
Get a grip on yourself. Final exam is 3 weeks away and here you are fumbling like an idiot. I'm probably going through one of those phases, but being a uni student just makes it damn more difficult to handle with.
Well... at least there's 5 more hours until morning.
How can tomorrow be so far away? I mean, really. All I want now is... dammit.
What have you done to me, Rabbia?
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