Spirit Of The Century

I got into a game a while back, called Spirit of the Century. It's a bit like Dungeons and Dragons, but its set usually in the era between World Wars I and II. In this game you can create anyone you want. My old GM told me that the first character you truly connect with and play well is the person you are on the inside, or who you want to be.

My first character was a young man named Adam Jefferson, later expanded on as Adam Archimedes Jefferson. The apprentice of Nikola Tesla, and the science hero of our adventures. He could hit any machine and bring it back to life and he used a Tesla coil wand powered by a backpack as a weapon, kinda Ghostbuster-styled thing. This game works like active storytelling. It's an RPG game with all the walls broken down. You can go anywhere, do anything, be anyone. Throughout our many misadventures I watched him change and grow.

Some time later I began to GM for my group of friends and so young Adam grew. Years of adventuring, fighting and growing turned him into a marvellous man, the Gandalf of this universe, if you will. He became one of the finest minds of their world, founding a company that brought the world into a new age and with his help, they rebuilt America into New America after it was decimated. I just wanted to share a little tidbit of a tale about him. Note that most of the characters mentioned are actual players, so if you want to know more kindly ask. I can probably introduce one of them to you.

The Life of a Veteran

The laboratory was dark and cold, just the way he liked it. He sat in his lab, half-completed inventions and prototypes cluttered his little workshop, but he could tell you where every misplaced screw, nut and bolt went. His gaze was trained upon a single shining spec trapped within a crosshair of beams, like a star. A familiar and reassuring weight rested upon his right leg. His pack, the last legacy of his master, Nikola Tesla.

No, that was not true. He was his last legacy. He let a sad smile cross his weary features as he gazed upon the messy laboratory.

“Just like home, isn’t it master?”  he muttered to no one in particular. This, all of this, was Nikola Tesla’s legacy. Mjolnir, the droids, all his inventions. Jeffersontech too.

“Master would be so proud.”

He was not a young man. He first boarded that plane to Poland at age twenty two. The fateful flight that began him on a journey to the furthest reaches of reality. Where he battled gods and demons, sea monsters and vampires, met the most amazing people in the world, crossed the most dangerous men and women in existence. Hell, he was best friends with one of the greatest magicians to have ever graced the stages of New America and he has lain with the most beautiful woman any man has met in the past century. Sixteen years have passed. Sixteen years of fighting, adventuring and discovery. He has seen more in his sixteen years than most see in a hundred lifetimes.

As he sipped on some of the finest coffee money could buy, he heard the doors to his lab swoosh open and bare feet padded in lazily as a tall dark figure entered.

“Adam, it is three in the morning. You have not eaten or slept in two days, is something wrong?” came the familiar lilting Spanish accent of Amaranth. A gentle hand rested upon his shoulder as she gazed not at the little star that floated within the containment tube, but at him. She could be surprisingly gentle when Pillowtalk was away. Most knew her as Amaranth the Sanguinary. Blood red dress and a sword to match, usually from the dead bodies behind her. He knew her as Amaranth the Lover, Amaranth the Friend and Amaranth the Potato Hog. Not a day went by that she did not have mashed potatoes.

“I’m fine, Rojo. I just feel restless. Go back to bed, I’ll be just fine.” He placed his hand atop hers reassuringly. It took her a while, but eventually she learned how to speak English. All that time spent on an adventure and she understood nothing from him or Gareth. How they stayed alive for so long must be a damned miracle.

“Adam Archimedes Jefferson, you are going to kill yourself over your work and I am not a necrophiliac. I will not have my darling boy toy exhausted the next time I need him, now head to bed or I will carry you up!” Adam silently chuckled and began to rise from his seat. She always did know best, even though she didn’t always use the most conventional reasoning. He shut off the containment field and picked Mjolnir up, slinging it across his back as he made his way up to the top of the villa.

The Spanish seaside was beautiful, even in the dead of night the sea lapped at the rocky shores. Adam liked it because it reminded him of the Sea Dragon. Nautilus and his crew, V01D, Toji, even Red Fool had a fond place in his memory, if only marginally so. His bedroom faced the open waters. Amaranth and him always awoke to a breath-taking sunrise, he would never get tired of the simple wonders of the universe.

“Do you remember when we first met?” Adam asked, watching the waters of the sea ripple and churn.

“In Poland? You and a certain overweight magician landed strapped to each other in front of the Princess and me. Who would have thought we’d be here, sixteen years later, enjoying a quiet life in Spain?” Amaranth lay down in bed, an image that few men would ever see, and fewer still would ever enjoy.

“Don’t you miss it, Rojo? The adventures, seeing new lands, meeting new people-“

“Getting thrown in new prisons?” Amaranth smirked as she got comfortable beneath the covers.

“As long as Gareth isn’t my cellmate, sure. I just feel… Restless. I don’t know, maybe it’s my age catching up with me. I just wish we were back out there, fighting the good fight. It’s been so quiet. I’ve gotten so much work done, but it’s not the same.”

“Looks like my nerd has become quite the warrior, eh?” Adam felt warm arms encircle his torso and a head resting on his left shoulder. “What’s stopping you then? I’m up for a little fun, I’ve been getting fat and lazy with your pampering and the droids to do everything around here.  How about it Sparky? One more adventure, then we can get fat and lazy.” She smirked and suddenly her embrace was gone. It wasn’t five seconds later that he heard the clacking of heels. He spun around to see Amaranth in her outfit, with Pillowtalk at her side.

“Dios mío, I can’t believe it still fits so well. So how do I look Sparky?” she batted her gorgeous eyes at Adam while striking a pose.

“As beautiful as the first time I saw you in it.” He grinned as he pressed his palm into a scanner in the corner of the room. The floor at his feet hissed as a cylinder rose from the ground. Within was a mannequin clothed in a dark trench coat, thick gloves, heavy boots and trousers. He donned his garb, fitting like a second skin. Over the years he made a multitude of changes to it. Nanoweave mesh, flame retardant fabrics, polarised dye, it was as good as wearing a bulletproof hazmat suit. But infinitely more stylish. The final piece clicked in place when he donned Mjolnir.

*Tunk tunk*

A low hum could be heard as his pack came to life. Adam fought to keep a smile off his face as the tesla coil crackled to life.

“Where to?” Amaranth inquired as they made their way out to the courtyard where a massive plane awaited them.

“You pick, last time I chose we almost got killed by a god and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

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A work in progress, but I think it would be interesting to put my vets in something new. I also had an alternative idea for the story, but I ought to leave that for another time.

Insecurity

I don't show many people my stories anymore. I'll be honest, I'm afraid. I have a multitude of stories just sitting in fragments in my computer. I can't bring myself to put them up.

"It's not good enough!"
"It's not finished!"
"It's a stupid story!"
"The language is so crap!"

So if you're reading this, I know. I know its not amazing. But I need to write something. I need to get some thoughts out. Some ideas. I promised whoever still reads this corpse of a blog that I'd have stories. And so they shall have stories.

Inanis

Freak.
Loser.
Monster.
I used to hear those words more often than anything. Thanks, mom. Love you too.

I used to be called Breasal, before being given those lovely nicknames by mother dearest. She is quite fond of "waste of space" now though.

I live in a world full of superhuman beings, metahumans as they are called. Evolution has chosen them to be the next level in the human gene pool. Most of them turn into heroes straight out of a comic strip. Headed by the Lordship Five, our age has flourished.

Well, most of our age. Metahumans that discover their powers are sent to the Academy to be trained, they are to become the next Guardians, the "vanguards of tomorrow, the heralds of our future" as those stupid news stands called them. Me? I'm a freak.

When I was about fifteen, things went downhill for me. I got bullied a lot, I never really fit in with anyone. I had a knack for things like writing, so I used to sit alone in the library and write stories rather than, say, play football or something. But the jocks never were the kind to pass up the opportunity to toss me in a trash can or dumpster or somewhere equally disgusting.

I had no one to rely on, I was pretty much on my own and this was the time I saw what depression felt like. Not that "Oh my god I failed a test, I'm so depressed." No, shut the fuck up. That's upset. You are upset. You do not feel depressed. You do not feel anything when you're depressed. When I wasn't being picked on by someone or rather, I was alone writing things like "Someone save me from this place" on my notebook hoping someone would read it. And someone did. Too bad it was the jocks that emptied out my backpack into a puddle, effectively destroying my precious stories and most of my belongings. That day changed my life.

I sat in a corner of my room, tears streaming down my face as I fought to salvage what I could from my notebook. Most of my stories were nothing but ink splatters on the page now though.

Now you may think I'm overreacting, but bear in mind I had no friends. I ate lunch alone in a secluded stairwell that no one ever used. The lighting was absolute shit, it was stuffy and there was dead. It felt like a tomb. Fitting, isn't it? You'll get that in a bit. Anyways, I had no one. I went weeks without saying a word to another human being. People actually thought I was a mute or something. All I had were my stories. I explored vast worlds, went on adventures, did amazing things, met amazing people. It was a world where I mattered. But now it was gone. The one thing that kept me sane.

I was numb, I couldn't cry any more tears after a while. I just sat there, all feeling faded. My world had lost all colour.

"You deserve this, you loser."
"Go home and cry you goddamn pussy."
"Do us all a favour and kill yourself."

For a world filled with superheroes, it was a pretty shitty existence. The numbness was too much. I couldn't take it. So I cut. I cut till I had shredded my entire arm up. Each time the blade cut into my skin, pain seared through my arm. It was glorious. I felt things. For that brief moment, I could feel. The blood was enthralling, the first drops of colour in my grey scale world were scarlet red. Each cut was a reminder that I deserved this. I had to stop only because I ran out of space. Not bad for a first session, I thought.

I began carrying blades to school, rather than write stories I would relieve myself of the numbness, lift the cloud of grey and bring life back to my veins for a bit. Long sleeves and some bandages do wonders, no one suspected a thing.

But, strange things happened. In the beginning they stayed a while and scarred. Over time, they healed faster and faster. No need to worry about running out of space, I used to think. But the scars remained.They always stayed. I began doing more so I could feel again, the cuts just weren't enough anymore. Heating up the blades cauterized the open wound, and it hurt like hell. But in a matter of hours, they were scars.

Great, I managed to fuck up self harming too. Was I...? No, it couldn't be. Look at me, I'm a teenager going nowhere in life. People like me don't become metahumans. You expect me to save people? I can't save myself, how on earth am I to be a hero?!

This is a story in progress, I don't think this origin story is amazing so suggestions are welcome. But as you can predict, it's the beginning to the long awaited story about my depressed superhero. I have more planned for him when he is already established. I was more or less venting here, so it may not even make much sense.