Tag: open time

18

  By

Kepa looked up at a sky blue ceiling, flecks of grey peeking through peeling paint, and fell towards it. In the calm of the upwards descent, a voice spoke to him.

“Tell me a story.”

“What kind would you like? A story about heroes? Lovers? Ghosts? A story about beginnings or a story about endings? Something humorous or something more serious?”

“Tell me a story that’s true”.

“All stories are true”.

“Tell me a story about you”.

In the endless descent, Kepa breathed, feeling his lungs expand with every intake of breath, the cavity of his chest growing and then shrinking again as the warm air passed through his parted lips and escaped back out into the world.

As the air flowed out, he whispered his tale. He told the voice about his home in Old Town, about the middle aged women who gossiped on the stairwell of the tenement building, about the football league between the different floors, about his first goal and his first kiss- with Sam from the fourth floor who had been the goalkeeper on the opposing team.

He spoke about his first implant and how his father had threatened to throw him out of their two bedroom flat because of it- and eventually did after the third. He spoke of the summers outside under the Dome, and how, when he saw blue sky for the first time, he felt completely lost and so alone.

He described the gifting of his violin after his grandfather died, and how he was able to use it to grieve for the man who had been such a powerful influence on his life after he was kicked out of home. Not long afterwards, he did the same with his grandmother and mother.

In the infinite blue and grey there was a serene calm. There was no reason to hold anything back.

He began to talk about his initiation.

 

 

 

17

  By

He looks at his bloodied hands and pauses.

Sighing, he looks up and sees the note on the wall, a note he had left for himself many years before, to remind him why he did these things. Words he had chosen that meant something, though they had lost all value here long ago. Words whose form had to be altered enough so that a casual glance could not find a trace of the original.

He was no linguist so he had borrowed from an alien and little known language. Its script was perfectly suited to his needs. He had attacked the transliteration project as carefully and methodically as he would any other project. When he had finished, he printed the result out onto glossy paper, to make it look like it was part of the marketing campaign of some new sci-fi or fantasy movie. Like the rest of the paperwork in the office, he had made sure that it was crumpled and had at least one coffee stain on it before sticking it up on the wall.

There had been no need to go to such extremes though, not really. The only visitors he had down here were the custodians, and they never stayed long enough to see anything. It was just him and the work. He looked up at the note one more time before proceeding to the next stage.

 

http://www.omniglot.com/images/langsamples/udhr_kryptonian.gif

 

 

16

  By

Kepa is guided to a lift. Restricted Area, an automated voice announces as they rise.

 

A mute scientist prepares his tools. He does not have much time. He presses his thumb and middle finger against a panel of white plastic on the wall, and then returns to his preparations. From the area he touched, a transparent hand emerges, followed by an arm, torso, legs and, ultimately, a full-bodied, ghostlike image of the scientist himself. It steps towards the table in the middle of the room and begins to monitor life signs.

 

It takes 17 seconds before the voice begins again – Basement – After which, there is a regular two second interval between floor announcements. Nobody gets in, nobody leaves; they do not stop. After a minute passes, Kepa feels the temperature change. The bandage over his eyes means he still cannot see anything, but there is a warmth on his face that feels like sunshine. The lift must have moved outside the building.

 

The scientist gets to work on the body. He begins with the vital organs, carefully removing them from their host and placing them in individual containers that rise from the floor, next to the bed. The containers are filled with fluid that quickly turns from clear to pink, and each one is connected to another. He strips the rest of the body, piece by piece, until the only thing on the table is blood and hair, and the scientist is surrounded by a web of containers.

 

The announcements eventually stop and Kepa is lifted to his feet once again. He stumbles out of the lift, guided by his old friend. The sun has gone. He is placed sitting on a table and instructed, not unkindly, to lie down. As he slowly wheels his legs up onto the table, he feels the sunshine on his face again, and leans back. Human hands lift his head and unwind the bandage. Beside him, Pedro hands a slim case to a woman: “So this is the one who has been marked?” She removes a syringe and allows three drops to fall into Kepa’s sockets. She hands back the syringe. By the time Pedro has placed the instrument back in its case, Kepa can make out a woman in her fifties with younger skin but her own hair.

 

 

15

  By ,

A man lies slumped on the ground, as if drunk. A fresh bandage has been wrapped around his head, covering his eyes. Food remnants lie scattered around his unconscious body. Kepa sleeps. He does not know who keeps him trapped here but he knows that every time he wakes up from a sleep as deep as this one, that his dressing is fresh and he has been washed.

As he emerges from sleep, he tries once more to put the pieces together. They know who he is and they know what they have made a mistake. But who are they? The Burnt City. That had not been scheduled. That was why he went to investigate – there are no rumours when the burning is scheduled. It would not have been the work of vigilantes; Companies have too much to lose. Who was it? And why was he still alive?

Approaching footsteps echo from the far end of the chamber. It is a familiar gait, one he trusted still. It was a long time since someone remembered his birthday.  Pedro had been right, and Kepa was thankful he came from a large family. The money he received on his birthday during his childhood helped to pay off the last installment every year.

When the camps opened first, there had been hundreds of them but only a handful near his city, and his mother fretted about sending him so far away. The camps lay in designated areas outside urban settings and were lauded by critics for their ability to connect with the next generation of citizens, advance knowledge and ensure a healthy population. They began as state services, provided by the Council as a way to provide education programs and other activities to young inner city children who otherwise had little chance of accessing formal education. Each camp combined the standard education system requirements with special ‘development programs’. The camps were used as testing grounds for the latest pedagogical theories, they offered psychological services, intelligence tests, physical endurance tests, practical skills knowledge and much, much more. Each area was subdivided based on the percentage of human component in each candidate. Kepa could still remember the awful aftertaste of a blueish grey liquid he had to rinse with once a month. He had no idea now what it was for, it was simply something they all had to do.

What had begun as free, state-funded activities, however, were soon taken over by private investors. The introduction and increase of fees was slow enough to prevent widespread condemnation but fast enough to quickly affect poorer families. By then, Kepa had long since moved on.

Pedro stopped in front of his old friend and hoisted the weakened Kepa to his feet.

–          Where are we…?

–          I know someone who’s recycling fresh meat. Let’s go get you cleaned up.

 

14

  By

As he begins to prepare the room, tools clatter to the floor. Leaning towers of paper, sagging forlornly on desks and chairs, tumble. Among the medical paperwork empty tins of takeaway food rations, fliers and copies of local newspapers are revealed in the sudden whirlwind of activity.

 

 

 

 

traveltravel2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

sarifindustries

Image via Kotaku

 

 

 

Image via ReCode

Image via <Re/Code>

 

 

 

 

A small tablet falls from his pocket. It is set to Historical Popular Culture, subsections Medical and/or Technology.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DISCLAIMER

Some images here are not mine or I have altered images to suit the story. All credit to the original owners are provided through links under the respective image. The First cartoon image I created with ToonDoo: http://www.toondoo.com/

 

 

 

8

  By

As Kepa watched, the figure stepped over the threshold of the church, out of the shadow of the door frame and into a shaft of sunlight that poured in from a gap in the fallen roof. Small clouds of dust billowed up around black leather boots with the first step, and the next. Tucked inside the boots were the legs of a crisply kept pair of trousers. These, and the matching sharp jacket, appeared to be a mottled grey colour, almost identical to the shade of grey of the church’s stonework. As the figure moved from shade to light, Kepa noted with appreciation, the colour of the uniform also seemed to change. A holster hung loosely from either hip. Most of the face was hidden under a brimmed hat with a tinted visor, only the ghost of ginger stubble peaked out.

–          They left a calling card.

–          You’re getting sloppy, granddad.

The man made his way slowly down the aisle, creating dust storms with every step.

–          Big man now you’ve got big clothes, eh? Look.

Kepa turned his shoulder to the approaching uniform, and looked back to the window, gesturing.

–          A great big, intricate pane glass window, complete with industry logo.

The guard drew up next to Kepa. He was half a foot taller and twice as broad. He glowered.

–          I could hear you a mile away.

–          No wonder with those ears.

–          Cheeky.

–          Always.

For a split second neither said a word, then, before Kepa could move, the guard dropped the bags and grabbed him, swinging him up in the air, laughing a deep belly aching laugh.

–          You always were a little shit! Haha!

Then, as soon as it started, it finished. The guard jumped back, releasing Kepa, who stumbled slightly as his feet hit the floor again.

–          This is a restricted area. Identify yourself.

The laugh was gone, another voice had taken over, one which brooked no argument. It was the uniform, not the man who was talking now. Kepa had landed next to the violin case but whoever was seeing through the guard’s visor would know that he had seen the window, wouldn’t they?

4

  By

In the bunker of Montjuïc

It was still night and the Castle of Montjuïc overlooked the city with its stubborn look of suspicion, with the attitude of those whose only aim is to stand there with an aura of annoyance. In the bunker beneath the granite and slate mountain, the Commander of the infantry corps was standing for about thirty minutes, the time his speech lasted, and would remain standing during the brief round of questions that the members of the General Staff had presented to clarify what happened in Banyoles street last Monday at midday.

The expression in General Roel’s face did not change during the brief monologue of the Commander. Once considered the operative failed to intercept and eliminate Francesc Bastida before he arrived in Barcelona, and because of the danger that implied by the presence of such serious subversive elements in the capital, a decision was made to make him disappear sharply. The order to eliminate the target within a period not exceeding four hours was transmitted to the command of the special operating service of Barcelona .

When the command was about to carry out the action, they received two notifications that forced them to abort the mission. The Intelligence Services warned of the presence in Banyoles street, where the operation was to be developed, of those two police officers previously in charge of monitoring Bastida’s movements. In addition, the members of the special forces operative, hidden in Travessera de Gràcia, identified two people carrying a homemade bazooka, at a few meters distance from their position.

The two armed people advanced within less than a hundred meters from Banyoles street and fired a projectile that left one casualty, agent Pujol, and several wounded. These include agent Cabanillas, the employee of a burger bar and Bastida. Both the police and the bartender had already made statements at the police station, while Francesc Bastida, in custody at the Hospital de la Santa Creu i Sant Pau, suffered severe injuries that make his withdrawn to justice impossible.

Regarding the responsibility for the attack in Banyoles street, the first hypothesis suggest that the responsible are a rival group, not very numerous, but dynamic and with important contacts abroad. This faction was banned some months ago after the meeting in which Francesc Bastida emerged as the reinforced and undisputed leader of the Apparatus.

3

  By

An old violin case lay yawning at the feet of a tall, scrawny youth.  Eyes closed, the bow in his hand lightly touching the strings, he coaxed a serenade from the worn violin out into the soft evening.

The musician’s sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, a threadbare jacket draped on a nearby bough. There were buttons missing from his crumpled shirt and the tattered ends of his trousers were tucked inside a pair of scuffed boots.

Releasing the final note, he finished the performance with an unnecessary flourish of his bow. Somewhere, a cricket chirped in appreciation.

Looking into the empty case, Kepa frowned, tipped out the debris of leaves that had collected during his performance and carefully packed his violin away. Never trust a poet, especially one that owes you money. Lars had waxed lyrical about the volumes of people he had seen on this road. Oh, he had gone on and on. Surely, he had insisted, Kepa could make some cash by serenading the masses.

Why not? It was usually a busy enough spot. It was not on the route he had planned to take but if what Lars had said was true, well, he could do with the money. Besides, where there were people there was information.

Retrieving his jacket and shouldering the case, Kepa looked up and down the road. Not a sinner in either direction. The only thing that populated that part of the road was the lengthening shadows of the trees, and the faint sound of birdsong. Lying little shit. Funny though, Lars had never been that good a liar. But where was everyone?

It would be getting dark soon; he would have to find somewhere to stay for the night. Glancing up and down the road again, he slipped from the road into the forest, pine needles scrunching beneath his feet.  The temperature dropped marginally in the full shade of the canopy. Picking his way lightly but surely through the forest, he headed to the Three Sisters. If anyone knew what was going on, one of the sisters would.

2

  By

The wind rushed past, branches whipping at her legs and arms. The foliage was dense and abundant quickly entangling her falling body in vines, though they did little to slow her descent. Suddenly, the foliage cleared and she could see the forest floor hurtling towards her but before she could think, she bounced to a rough halt several feet above the ground.

Thick, course fibres dug into her face as the net closed in. Momentarily stunned, she tried to steady her nerves and find out where she was. With the net swinging gently, she manoeuvred herself around and onto her back and looked up. The net had been designed to close from the top, she was trapped. Who sets a trap this close to the cliff? And why? Of more immediate concern, however, was how she was going to get out of this trap before whoever owned it was alerted.

Turning back around she looked down to see that the tree trunks on either side had been shorn of branches. The floor below looked too far to simply drop. Perhaps she could climb upwards. There was foliage overhead, which meant that there had to be branches. It may be her only option.

Tucked inside her boot was a knife she had grabbed before escaping the city. She slipped it out and inspected it. The blade was old and worn but it was better than nothing. It just needed to be sharp enough to cut through the rope. Pushing one foot between a gap in the net to secure her weight, she chose an area of frayed rope and started to saw.

Eventually, the rope began to give way. She took the package and stuffed it inside her shirt, grasped the net with one hand and with the other cut the last strand. Pushing part of the net to one side, she reached up towards the canopy. The package suddenly shifted beneath her shirt and just before it fell, before her foot found a proper hold again, her hand shot out to catch it. There was no net this time, just a sudden stop and the sound of snapping bone. She clenched her teeth trying not to make a sound but the pain in her left leg was incredible. Darkness crept in from the edges of her vision. Just then, there was a crashing noise in front of her.  With great effort, she brought her face up and just before she blacked out, came face to face with a giant dog, a human body hanging limply from its jaws.

1

  By

The city burned. Everything she had or was; gone. But then, she thought, that hadn’t been much anyway. Tucking the package under her arm, she turned her back to the flames and made her way north, towards the crossroads.

Once there, she would have to decide; west to the coast or east to the capital. The choice was hers to make, the first in a long time, the first that she could remember, and the giddy anticipation was only just tempered by the knowledge that she would have to make it there unseen. The path she had to take, however, was the only one between the city and the crossroads and It usually it boasted a steady traffic of tourists, traders, political representatives and the military. Today was not a usual day though, and the road was graciously quiet. Most people had already fled, taken the southern route or been killed. Others hurried towards the crumbling city to try to help, salvage or steal whatever was left. She knew had to stay out of sight. Her clothes would mark her out to any traveller, and she could not be caught now.

After an hour of nervous but uneventful travel, she came to the crossroads. To her right lay scrubland. To her left and straight ahead, a steep cliff that descended into dense forest. Looking out, the sun was slowly climbing, gently spilling light onto the canopy. A cacophony of rousing creatures responded. Even from this vantage point at the top of the cliff you couldn’t see down past the first branches of trees. It was perfect.

Without warning, voices drifted up from the left where. There was a stairway on this side, steps that had been carved into the cliff face generations ago. There was also nowhere to hide on that part of the path. Glancing back to her right she quickly discarded the exposed scrubland as an option. She would be easy pickings. The voices grew louder, climbing steadily toward her. She looked around; no way down, no way across the open land to her right.  Someone grunted. Whoever it was, they were getting close.

She took out the package, gripped it to her chest and dipped her head. Turning on her heel, she headed back the way she had come. She had to think. There was nowhere to go. All paths were exposed. She could not be caught. Just as it seemed the voices would appear over the lip of the ledge, she stopped, spun around, and ran, fast and hard, straight ahead and into the arms of the forest.