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Edited by Sandtrap:
8/19/2015 7:30:17 AM
1
Another story of mine that I've started. Rough in progress draft.
[spoiler] [i]I’m writing this, in case somebody ever finds this. I don’t know what’s going to happen after today. The Seeders are serious in their claims and insistency. The Earth governments, have labeled any in this affair as a fugitive and a traitor. I’m a fugitive, now, as I write this. I am, an offender to my entire planet. To my species.
I’m a doctor. All I’ve ever done was try to help people. The Seeders. They’re alien. They are……so far beyond what anybody ever expected. And yet, here we are. Practically at war. Seeder starships are converging. The Earth governments are beginning to panic. They want all of us dead or captured. But they won’t let the Seeders go through with it either. This is our home too. Even if we have made mistakes.
I want anybody to know that the reason I’m doing this, whatever happens after today, however bad history paints me as. I did it because it was right. It was the right thing to do. And I believe that. That’s what makes us so different from them. The Seeders don’t see things like we do. They are singular. To them, our species represents chaos itself.
And the fugitive we’re protecting. Na’Kesh’. That name is an alien name. It doesn’t belong as a part of our species. But that doesn’t make it any different from any other name out there. I, and those of us that are left, are doing this because everybody deserves to be free. Everybody, no matter who they are. Alien, or Human. Race, sex, or even species.
Whatever happens after today. Please find it in your heart and mind to understand.
Please forgive me.[/i][/spoiler]
[spoiler] Dust swirled across the road, and smog filled the air in a thick choking blanket, as traffic wound its way through the streets, packed like together like cans on an assembly line. People packed themselves in with the traffic, on foot, winding between the maze of vehicles, all donning masks or some going so far as to wear entire suits.
Moreau was never one to wear more than a mask. It was the dust that you could breathe in, that was harmful. But contact with it, although quickly coating one and making their efforts at cleanliness vain, wasn’t a worry. Today was another work day. Early morning to be precise.
He was on call again. What else was new? A trained doctor was a rare sight these days. Of course, he wasn’t a true doctor. He remembered the days, before the dust, before the scorching fires, cramped into the back of an ambulance, working to stabilize people on their way to the hospital.
On his way to the hospital he was then, and still, here he was now. Where things were no different from the outside world. People stuffed into the buildings like they were on the streets. He paused, standing still on the remnants of perhaps an old road, or the sidewalk, being pushed aside by passerby as they continued on towards their own destinations.
Moreau looked up to the sky, to see only dust and smog. And a few stray blotches of sunlight, smothered out by the clouds, shining down on old infrastructure. Oh how they had stood tall once. The skyscrapers of old, now broken and shattered, some of them bent and splintered apart like matchsticks.
He used to be a paramedic. Now graciously given the title of doctor by higher authorities, those that were left, at least. He was the doctor and it was his job to fix everybody. An impossible task the he couldn’t manage. How could he? When the sky was wrong, when those old skyscrapers were blown apart like toys, when people were forced to push underground and live there, away from the radiation and the clouds, and when the world governments, those that were left standing, couldn’t fix it, what chance did he stand?
Moreau turned his sights back down to the ground, to the dust and the people.
The world was broken and dying.
Maybe he couldn’t fix everybody. But if he could, he could, perhaps, try. Maybe even, make whatever time they had left peaceful.
[/spoiler]
[spoiler]Moreau sat with his head back on the chair he rested in, eyes closed. Every day was like this. A mad scramble of people, buzz and noise, crowds. People sick, or dying, injured and all wanting somebody to fix it. Him and the current shift of staff where all doing the same now.
Lunch break. Some peace and quiet in a cramped lobby stuffed with chairs. Armed guards outside the doors who would hold back the tides of people, if they needed to. Under old fluorescent light, flickering in some patches, in a corner of the room, sat an old TV, propped up on a chair.
Even still, with all of this, the news managed to drone on, and on. Moreau tuned it out, disappearing from the lobby he was in. It was all disappointing anyway. Even back then when things were better. He couldn’t help but smile. Nobody was ever satisfied. There was always something to complain about.
And then, everybody really had something to complain about. The world, changing. Nature shifting in balance and falling apart, dragging everybody down with it. Environmental collapse. And then, the inevitable. World superpowers stirred in the dust and storms, clutching to their old empires, wanting to reclaim them and restore them to the glory that once was.
The gears of war turned as the last breath of whatever strength remained in people called and rallied, and turned their sights on the only thing left standing. Old hatreds.
Moreau opened his eyes to the feeling of shockwaves, a blast traveling through the old building, shaking it on its foundation. Lights flickered, going out before finally struggling to come back on again. Moreau sighed, leaning his head back on his chair.
Car bomb? Gas explosion? Maybe, some old warhead or tank going off. It didn’t matter. Nobody in the lobby so much as stirred as another aftershock rolled through the building’s foundation, stirring up dust and beating the old, tired electronics inside.
A buzzer went off, old metal ringing before the annoyance of it spurred somebody to move and shut it off.
Lunch time was over. Moreau opened his eyes and stared out the windows of the makeshift lobby. Smog and ash. He shook his head.
Back to work. Who could say?
They might even receive some new inpatients from the recent explosions.
[/spoiler]
Rough draft and all that. But I'm having a hard time putting words together properly right now. If anybody even reads this, and you happen to spot something that doesn't sit right with you in terms of, well, linguistics, feel free to point it out please. Squeezed in the rest of what I have so far down below in the sub-conversation.
English
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Last little bit I couldn't quite fit in. [spoiler]The day passed Moreau by, busy like it always was. A mad scramble from patient to patient, hurried talking, on the verge of shouting above the gathered and packed crowds. Mad dashes from here to there, scrambling to work on somebody as they were moved along in stretchers, or pushed along on hospital beds. The days were always like this. At the end of his shift, he could hardly stand. But still, he found it in him to consider walking back home. And walk he did, winding down in the night as old streetlights, those that were still standing, those that worked, came on, with some effort as they flickered weakly. Not that it made much of a difference in the dark haze of the night. Smog, ash, and dust still prevailed. But the city took on a quieter light. As people, and not just Moreau, called it quits for the day. He didn’t have to struggle so hard to pass through crowds now, as they thinned out for the night. But, even as the crowds thinned, life endured. The night life, speaking precisely. The usual shady sorts began to wake up for the evening, appearing in more number as Moreau made his way home. It was strange to him. How “normal” everybody tried to be. Like there was no dust. No ash. No ruins. Like the wars never happened. The disasters never happened. Life went on. But Moreau knew otherwise. Since the wars, and the fire. Since the great storms or the collapsing environment. There wasn’t much left. Cancer rates were skyrocketing. Mutations were occurring, more and more common, in the wake of lingering radiation and toxins. And through all of it, like the truest, darkest side to all of this. Old hatreds persisted. All this ruin and people still found the strength to throw life away, when now, more than ever, Moreau knew that every life counted. And then, in the middle of all the dying and the dirt, like some profound miracle, they came. Moreau stopped in his tracks as the wind howled and blew dust over him in the night, as a commotion in the streets rose, met with the shouts of some people, surprise or sudden terror. The wind picked up, blowing harder across Moreau’s face mask, as a whining sound like whirring metal broke out through the howl of the wind. Dust was pushed aside, along with people who fled the premises in the wake of what was descending upon them. Bright light and mechanical whirring blasted through the streets as Moreau stood still in the middle of the road, along with traffic or other people, watching as an immense building sized hunk of rock descended from the ash and fog, parting it in the wake of its powerful engines. Loud whirring persisted, shaking the street and swaying the lamp posts with heavy vibrations, and Moreau watched as a wall of orange light appeared, starting at the end of the street, before passing down along through everything, silently and easily gliding through whatever it passed over. Seeders. Moreau stood still as the orange wall approached him quickly, passing through him and the people around him effortlessly, before it finished its sweep of the street. Without a warning, the machinery embedded into the roughly one story tall, building sized dark rock that stayed suspended high in the choked air effortlessly ignited once more, wailing and whirring with impressive force as the broken and cracked pavement rattled at Moreau’s feet. Dust blew across the streets, as the engines ignited in full, and with one final push, the ship rose suddenly, disappearing into the night, leaving the small gap in the ash and dust choked streets to close up again. The usual sound of common wind picked up again. And slowly, but surely, with the return of normalcy, people emerged and continued about with their business. Moreau smiled under his mask, something laced not with happiness or humor, but that of quiet resignation. Some miracle they were. Not even first contact changed things. [/spoiler]
