Neo Chronicles
Episode 01: Someone’s got a New Sword
Table of Contents
((Yo, can you believe it again? We're going over this again? Again? Again, again? Dude what was wrong with the first re-write? Just look it over. Oh man, that was bad. Quick, get rid of it. Already gone. So you goin' back over all the other episodes. Nah dude, just the first two. I just needed to give this story a good start for where it's goin'. Here it is May 5, 2013. You started this all the way back on October 10, 2006. Then you restarted it December 29, 2009. You're 21 now! I'm 20! I know dude, I know.))
It's all about this sword. This sword—this ancient relic in this place of ancient relics. It is so old that it's vintage. One of the few objects that has survived not one, but two dark ages. There's history behind this object.
It was around when the sword was the weapon of choice for most men. It was around when the sword was abandoned in favor of the firearm. It was around still in the background. It moved around a lot. Country to country, imported and exported. It got lost a lot. Then it got found, but now—
Now it sits in a store collecting dust. What good is a piece of metal that was once used to cut. There are finer instruments in the world—those that don't rust. High powered lasers, beams that cut. Why stop there? Guns have been puncturing without the need to thrust. They not only shoot bullets, but fire lasers, turning objects into dust. Yes, they're more pulse like, concentrated, but still deadly.
Yet, even amongst all that, the sword remains still. Quietly waiting for some fine collector of arts to come in and purchase it, so it can sit along another wall. Little does the sword know—not that a sword knows much of anything that is—there is a customer approaching who seeks to answer the call.
His name is Christophe Martin Walker, and he's not the type of customer you'd expect in a store such as this. His black jacket, grey shirt, baggy pants—what's this? You may think of old men and women as being interested in old men and women things, but this dark skinned, blue haired fellow is just fourteen.
He peruses the shelves, window shopping mostly. Peeping in, peeping out and over, searching closely. He's been interested in "old stuff," as he calls it, for as long as he can remember. How people did the things they did back then without 30th century tech without getting dismembered, or tossing a temper, falling in embers, or even remember—Holdup, holdup, hold up. What's with this lame rhyme scheme you got goin' on here? What? Negro, these rhymes are legit. You see that flow? This is story telling on another level! And what's up with you calling me by my full out government name. “Christophe Martin Walker?” Even my mom's cool with just calling me Chris. Besides, I'm trying to get the people to know me as Nexus and—
Anyway.
The shelves he looks at now contain things that even predate the 2300's. That's where he finds it. The sword, finely crafted, refurbished, and well preserved. He knows of it. It's called a katana, and sitting next to it is its scabbard.
This isn't the first time Christophe has been in this store, and this isn't the first time he's laid eyes on that sword. He's wanted it for a while, and today is the day that he finally has enough money to get it.
He picks it up, careful not to damage it, holding it on both ends, examining the way its blade shines in the light. He picks up the accompanying scabbard. It's wrapped in a white bandage. Carefully, he puts the two together—sword inside sheath—and he makes his way to the store's owner up front.
He goes back to a time when he was young, well, younger. He would play outside with sticks, pretending they were swords. He would pretend he was the swordsman like in those old cartoons that were then recently uncovered from the old days and refurbished as something new. He would be a samurai, a knight, a ninja, maybe even a hero. Either way, he would have a sword. Now that's about to happen. He's about to have his very own sword.
He checks the price tag—two thousand and thirty credits. It will break him, but it will be worth it. He's been saving for this—birthdays, holidays, the works—and now it's all about to be worth it.
The store owner stands behind a glass-like stand. In side it, even more relics of old. On top of the countertop, Christophe places the sword, and takes out his card.
"Shouldn't you be in school?" the owner asks.
"I'm sorry, what?" young Christophe responds.
"You look a little young. Shouldn't you be in school?"
"Can I buy this please?"
"Ah, that is a nice sword. Sure, just let me see some ID."
"I don't have it on me."
"Do you have it at all?"
"I got this school ID."
"That'll do, let me see it." He examines it. "Sorry bub. You're outta luck."
"What? Why?"
"You know good an' well you're not old enough for this. Chrys kid, I could lose my license. Go get your mom or something."
"She's at work."
"Well then get your dad."
"He's dead."
The owner then mumbles something under his breath. Something along the lines of a “dangit, you had to be that guy” and then directly responds, “Look kid, I'm sorry, but I can't legally sell this to you. It may not look like much, but this is still considered a weapon. Come back with your mom and we can work something out.”
That's not good enough, though. Christophe needs it right now, and there's no way his mom will be cool with him having it. But there's nothing he can do about it. The man is keeping him down. The man always keeps him down. With a disappointed look on his face, Christophe leaves the shop.
A couple hours pass. In those hours, Christophe could have been in school. It is, after all, a weekday, and he has skipped one, two, ten too many days already, but this is too important to him. In those hours, the only thing on his mind was how to get it. Now, he has a plan. It's not a very well thought out plan, but it is something.
Run in when the guy isn't looking. Ring the sword up. Swipe the card, and leave.
He comes back. The owner is nowhere in sight. Without a moment's thought to it, he springs into action. He's in the store. What's that bell sound—crud! Of course there's a bell attached to the door. How else would the only worker in there know when he has a new customer? Quick, quick. Move it! No time, just run. He has to beat the clock. Crud, where is it? It was moved. Dat ol' white man done moved it! He's gotta search the—Oh, hey, that was easy. He didn't move it far. It was just one shelf over to the left. Christophe grabs it, and runs to the door. He's home free. In and out, it's just that easy. Wait a minute. No, he's no thief. He makes his way back to the counter and swipes his card. All his money—gone. The transaction is legal. He is now the official owner of this nice, finely crafted katana.
And now for the quick and crafty escape. In his haste, he only trips over his feet, knocks over a couple of shelves, shatters a few glass menageries, and slams his face into the door, but it's all good. He got the sword. That's all that matters. Surely, the racket will bring attention to him, but as soon as Christophe steps outside the door, he is gone. That's not an exaggeration, by the way. He is gone like the wind.
You see, every individual has a special trait to them. The cool kids call 'em ST's. These traits can be looked at as the next stage in human evolution. People in the 30th century are physically capable of performing feats that their forefathers have only dreamed of—in fact, they have dreamed of these traits many times before—Christophe should know with all the ancient cartoons and pictured books that he reads—Comics, dawg. They're called comics.
They were called super powers. In those cartoons and comic books that people used to read, super powers were thought of as genetic mutations. They were something that was so inconceivable, so fantastic, so mindblowingly impossible, that the only people who were even thought of to have such traits were to be the freaks of society. Now, some few centuries down the road, these “super powers” aren't so out of the ordinary. In fact it's more weird for a person not to have a special trait of some kind.
So when I say Christophe is gone with the wind, I mean he is literally gone with the wind, for the super power—the special trait that he possesses is super human speed.
Episode 01: Someone’s got a New Sword
Table of Contents
((Yo, can you believe it again? We're going over this again? Again? Again, again? Dude what was wrong with the first re-write? Just look it over. Oh man, that was bad. Quick, get rid of it. Already gone. So you goin' back over all the other episodes. Nah dude, just the first two. I just needed to give this story a good start for where it's goin'. Here it is May 5, 2013. You started this all the way back on October 10, 2006. Then you restarted it December 29, 2009. You're 21 now! I'm 20! I know dude, I know.))
It's all about this sword. This sword—this ancient relic in this place of ancient relics. It is so old that it's vintage. One of the few objects that has survived not one, but two dark ages. There's history behind this object.
It was around when the sword was the weapon of choice for most men. It was around when the sword was abandoned in favor of the firearm. It was around still in the background. It moved around a lot. Country to country, imported and exported. It got lost a lot. Then it got found, but now—
Now it sits in a store collecting dust. What good is a piece of metal that was once used to cut. There are finer instruments in the world—those that don't rust. High powered lasers, beams that cut. Why stop there? Guns have been puncturing without the need to thrust. They not only shoot bullets, but fire lasers, turning objects into dust. Yes, they're more pulse like, concentrated, but still deadly.
Yet, even amongst all that, the sword remains still. Quietly waiting for some fine collector of arts to come in and purchase it, so it can sit along another wall. Little does the sword know—not that a sword knows much of anything that is—there is a customer approaching who seeks to answer the call.
His name is Christophe Martin Walker, and he's not the type of customer you'd expect in a store such as this. His black jacket, grey shirt, baggy pants—what's this? You may think of old men and women as being interested in old men and women things, but this dark skinned, blue haired fellow is just fourteen.
He peruses the shelves, window shopping mostly. Peeping in, peeping out and over, searching closely. He's been interested in "old stuff," as he calls it, for as long as he can remember. How people did the things they did back then without 30th century tech without getting dismembered, or tossing a temper, falling in embers, or even remember—Holdup, holdup, hold up. What's with this lame rhyme scheme you got goin' on here? What? Negro, these rhymes are legit. You see that flow? This is story telling on another level! And what's up with you calling me by my full out government name. “Christophe Martin Walker?” Even my mom's cool with just calling me Chris. Besides, I'm trying to get the people to know me as Nexus and—
Anyway.
The shelves he looks at now contain things that even predate the 2300's. That's where he finds it. The sword, finely crafted, refurbished, and well preserved. He knows of it. It's called a katana, and sitting next to it is its scabbard.
This isn't the first time Christophe has been in this store, and this isn't the first time he's laid eyes on that sword. He's wanted it for a while, and today is the day that he finally has enough money to get it.
He picks it up, careful not to damage it, holding it on both ends, examining the way its blade shines in the light. He picks up the accompanying scabbard. It's wrapped in a white bandage. Carefully, he puts the two together—sword inside sheath—and he makes his way to the store's owner up front.
He goes back to a time when he was young, well, younger. He would play outside with sticks, pretending they were swords. He would pretend he was the swordsman like in those old cartoons that were then recently uncovered from the old days and refurbished as something new. He would be a samurai, a knight, a ninja, maybe even a hero. Either way, he would have a sword. Now that's about to happen. He's about to have his very own sword.
He checks the price tag—two thousand and thirty credits. It will break him, but it will be worth it. He's been saving for this—birthdays, holidays, the works—and now it's all about to be worth it.
The store owner stands behind a glass-like stand. In side it, even more relics of old. On top of the countertop, Christophe places the sword, and takes out his card.
"Shouldn't you be in school?" the owner asks.
"I'm sorry, what?" young Christophe responds.
"You look a little young. Shouldn't you be in school?"
"Can I buy this please?"
"Ah, that is a nice sword. Sure, just let me see some ID."
"I don't have it on me."
"Do you have it at all?"
"I got this school ID."
"That'll do, let me see it." He examines it. "Sorry bub. You're outta luck."
"What? Why?"
"You know good an' well you're not old enough for this. Chrys kid, I could lose my license. Go get your mom or something."
"She's at work."
"Well then get your dad."
"He's dead."
The owner then mumbles something under his breath. Something along the lines of a “dangit, you had to be that guy” and then directly responds, “Look kid, I'm sorry, but I can't legally sell this to you. It may not look like much, but this is still considered a weapon. Come back with your mom and we can work something out.”
That's not good enough, though. Christophe needs it right now, and there's no way his mom will be cool with him having it. But there's nothing he can do about it. The man is keeping him down. The man always keeps him down. With a disappointed look on his face, Christophe leaves the shop.
A couple hours pass. In those hours, Christophe could have been in school. It is, after all, a weekday, and he has skipped one, two, ten too many days already, but this is too important to him. In those hours, the only thing on his mind was how to get it. Now, he has a plan. It's not a very well thought out plan, but it is something.
Run in when the guy isn't looking. Ring the sword up. Swipe the card, and leave.
He comes back. The owner is nowhere in sight. Without a moment's thought to it, he springs into action. He's in the store. What's that bell sound—crud! Of course there's a bell attached to the door. How else would the only worker in there know when he has a new customer? Quick, quick. Move it! No time, just run. He has to beat the clock. Crud, where is it? It was moved. Dat ol' white man done moved it! He's gotta search the—Oh, hey, that was easy. He didn't move it far. It was just one shelf over to the left. Christophe grabs it, and runs to the door. He's home free. In and out, it's just that easy. Wait a minute. No, he's no thief. He makes his way back to the counter and swipes his card. All his money—gone. The transaction is legal. He is now the official owner of this nice, finely crafted katana.
And now for the quick and crafty escape. In his haste, he only trips over his feet, knocks over a couple of shelves, shatters a few glass menageries, and slams his face into the door, but it's all good. He got the sword. That's all that matters. Surely, the racket will bring attention to him, but as soon as Christophe steps outside the door, he is gone. That's not an exaggeration, by the way. He is gone like the wind.
You see, every individual has a special trait to them. The cool kids call 'em ST's. These traits can be looked at as the next stage in human evolution. People in the 30th century are physically capable of performing feats that their forefathers have only dreamed of—in fact, they have dreamed of these traits many times before—Christophe should know with all the ancient cartoons and pictured books that he reads—Comics, dawg. They're called comics.
They were called super powers. In those cartoons and comic books that people used to read, super powers were thought of as genetic mutations. They were something that was so inconceivable, so fantastic, so mindblowingly impossible, that the only people who were even thought of to have such traits were to be the freaks of society. Now, some few centuries down the road, these “super powers” aren't so out of the ordinary. In fact it's more weird for a person not to have a special trait of some kind.
So when I say Christophe is gone with the wind, I mean he is literally gone with the wind, for the super power—the special trait that he possesses is super human speed.
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