Neo Chronicles
Episode 6: To Serve and Protect
Table of Contents
((So what it do my homies? Guess I can finally set this thing off for real. College is doin' it's thing an' tryin' it's best to kill me, but I'm still doin' my thing. So take this. Read it, critique it. Then be happy. Opening Theme))
It doesn't take long for them to get there. Their sirens foretell of their arrival. A high pitched wailing alarming the fast accumulating crowd. And then they come into sight—blue and white wheel-less cars skating on air, a few feet from the ground. Lynn can hardly fight off the gravity of the situation. “To serve and protect” is what's etched on their doors. She can't help but laugh at the statement because neither of which is going to happen in this moment.
The three boys are still caught up in the fight. It's like they don't even see how much trouble they're in. All they care about is knocking the other guy out by any means necessary. Jamal doesn't care if he burns either one with the fire he shoots forth from his hands. He doesn't care if it misses and sets the nearest building ablaze. Noah doesn't care if his ice constructs encase either of the two. He doesn't care if it gets out of hand. He doesn't care if this sidewalk—now battleground—becomes a danger zone. As for Chris, he just doesn't care about anything. His finely crafted, antique, Japanese sword is his latest and greatest toy. All he cares about doing is swinging it around to and fro. Whether it hits something or not is of no concern to him.
This is bad. Lynn thinks. She thought it would be funny. She thought it'd be worth the laugh, but now, as she's in the middle of it, as she's trying her best to break it up, as she sees the cops running in on foot, with stun guns and all, she can see this has gone too far. She can't tell if that cold chill she feels crawling down her spine is from Noah or her nerves. She tries desperately to think of a way to end this.
She looks around to see if there's a way out. If she could find something—cover within a nearby alley maybe? No, the crowd is too thick. You'd think people walking would keep walking. Why is everyone so compelled to stick their nose in someone else's business? She can hear them chatting it up, too. “Are they crazy?” “What's wrong with them?” “I bet they're fighting over her.” “It's always about a girl.” “A white girl, too?” “Kids these days.” “Negroes.” “Ghetto people know they be stupid.” “Damn, that looked like it hurt.” “Someone should do somethin'.” It gathers and builds, piling in and on itself, becoming a roar—a loud collective roar of voices—coming from every which way, coming from way too many people with nothing better to do. We are so screwed.
“Alright! Everybody back off!”
It's a strong and deep voice. Stern and authoritative in manner. It comes from a tall, strongly built man, one clad in the standard issue riot control armor: a powered exoskeleton coating him from the neck down and a helmet with a tinted visor. He is one of many. Two, three, four, Lynn counts five—no—six of them, all armed with clubs and batons and DEW's. It serves well to intimidate, seeing as how the crowd quickly dissipates. There are stragglers of course, the nosy ones, but the cops do well to shoo them away, too.
Within moments, it's down to just the four kids. Can you believe Chris, Noah, and Jamal are still at each others' throats? After all this—after the crowd, the sirens, the cops, and property damage—they're still fighting tooth and nail to kill each other. The policemen are quick to move in. They were called to shut down a level 3 skirmish. 3 out of a scale from 1 to 5. Outbreaks of this type are a serious offense. In a world where people have the power to start fires with their minds, cause earthquakes with a tantrum, or topple buildings with a scream, any type of brawl could be catastrophic to not only those involved, but also the many spectators in the vicinity. That is why the cops are quick to act. That is why this has to stop now.
It comes in with a loud high pitched screech that catches the brawlers by surprise. An ultrasonic weapon in the form of a hand-held firearm is more than enough to bring all four of the kids to their knees. Everything's spinning, none of them know up from down, right from left. The sound is so loud, it feels like their eardrums are about to explode. It's the longest, most excruciatingly horrible three seconds of their lives, and when it's over, they feel like throwing up. Before they know it, they're all in cuffs that cover their whole forearms, even Lynn, and the only thing that comes to mind is, We are so screwed.
Chris doesn't like this. Really, nobody likes this, but Chris in particular is the first to react to it. Always the fast one. He's the only one who tries to break free. Sadly, he gets nowhere, and it doesn't take long for the others to realize that their special traits aren't working either. There's a slight tingling sensation in the back of their head. There's an LED on the side of the braces cuffing the children's arms. It flashes when Chris tries to break away with a burst of speed. To his surprise, the speed doesn't come. He's slow, just like everyone else. He's certainly not one for cussing, it's part of some moral code his mom instilled in him, but if he were the cussing type, he could think of a few choice words to utter as he watches as one of the officers quickly move to subdue him.
If you were to ask the officer, he'd say he was merely acting in as efficient a way as he could to put an end to this, but it certainly doesn't look that way. Chris swears he sees the man smile underneath that see through visor. The officer lashes out in as brutally a way as legally permitted. It's a horrible sight to see, really—the man hauling over a boy who's already gone down, beating and beating and beating. Four sharp blows to the stomach. Four loud, gut-wrenching screams. This is way more than Lynn asked for. Right now, she just wants the day to end. That's the only thing crossing her mind. She just wants it all to be over.
The next thing they know, the four of them are all in the back seat of one of the police cruisers as it travels through air traffic. It's very uncomfortable, being scrunched between each other like peanut butter between sliced bread, not to mention how terrible the conditions of the back seat are to begin with. The seats are hard, the space is cramped, all of them have to practically hunch over in a ball just to fit. There's no room to move, no room to breathe, and if that wasn't enough, they're completely cut off from even communicating with the cops in the front.
To Lynn's surprise, with the exception of Chris, everyone looks okay albeit a few scrapes, cuts, and bruises. It doesn't make Lynn feel any better about the situation, though. It actually makes her feel worse. The thought of this little get together being all for nothing makes her upset. If she wasn't restrained by these nasty arm cuffs, she'd do something to make her feel better. She can only fantasize about it, though.
“I can't believe you dragged me into this, Chris,” she says.
“Nexus,” Chris utters with a disgruntled moan. “You're supposed to call me Nexus.”
“Do you even know what the word means?”
“Don't care. It sounds cool.”
“Just shut up, Nexus.”
“You shoulda known better.”
“This is stupid,” Jamal says.
“It really is,” Noah says. “And it's all your fault, too.”
“My fault?”
“Yeah, you just wouldn't hear me out.”
“Like I'd want to hear whatever you had to say about it.”
“I do.” Lynn speaks out. “Please, someone enlighten me. I'd at least like to know why my life is about to end.”
“No one's life's gonna end. This ain't no big deal,” Chris says. “They're just gonna take us down to the station, keep us in a holding cell or somethin', then wait for our parents to pick us up. Drive shouldn't take more than five minutes.”
“Sounds t'me like you're speaking from experience.” Noah points out.
“I might be. The power dampeners are new, though.”
“Might have something to do with us almost about to destroy the city block.”
“Might be.”
The rest of the ride is just as awkward as it is now. Lynn can't help but play through the events over and over again. How could it have been different? What should have happened? Why did this happen to begin with? What's going to happen when her mom finds out? A cold sweat travels down her face. Despite the tight space, she's antsy. She hates that she's here, she hates who she's with, but most of all, she hates that everyone else is keeping it together better than she is.
And then things take a turn for the worst. A chill unlike any other breaks its way into the car. Those inside instantly succumb to its deathly presence, but the one hit the hardest by its embrace is the driver. “Damn, where'd this draft come from?” He reaches for the controls to the heater on the car's own touchscreen dashboard. Within moments, a more pleasant air fills the vacant space between them, but only for a moment. The frigid windchill is as pervasive as ever, and it is all formulating on him—from him—through him.
He doesn't know why or where it even comes from. He's but a meager police officer. His name, Tyrone Murphy, isn't one to be remembered as he is one of many. The only distinctive feature to him is his aggressiveness on the field. He's always the one who's seen charging in first, always the first one to draw forth his firearm, always the first one to shoot. He was the one who gave Chris his beating. But beyond that he is nothing. Just another nameless officer on the force. Maybe it is for that reason, and that reason alone he's suffering.
The cruiser swerves off course. All are immediately jerked to the left. This was supposed to be a five minute drive. The station was actually in sight, but then something happened to the driver, something strange. “s**t Murphy, get a hold of yourself!” His partner in the passenger seat attempts to seize control of the wheel, but Murphy knocks him out cold with a sharp elbow.
“I'm sorry,” he says, “a great darkness is coming, and I have to stop it before it's too late.”
The kids in the back are really shaken up. All of them, yelling and screaming and shouting out something or another. Jamal gets his head knocked against the low end ceiling of the car, and he certainly expresses his displeasure towards that. The force just about knocks his glasses off. None of them know what's going on. They can hear the sirens turn on as the cruiser recklessly zooms between the aerial traffic coming and going. It's quite clear that something is very wrong.
“'Ey, what the crud is goin' on!?” “Are you out of your mind!?” “Let us out!” Their cries fall on deaf ears, for this driver ceases for no one. There's nothing in the world that will stop him from reaching his destination. You can see it in his eyes—that unyielding determination, that indignant fire, that unrelenting spirit. He is set in his cause, and he believes his cause is just.
“I'm sorry it has to be this way,” he says. “I'm sorry you're a part of this now.”
Finally the cruiser slows to a halt, right in front of an old, run down building—a warehouse from the looks of it—in the middle of an empty lot. It's been marked for demolition for some time, but no one has come to do the deed. Now, it looks to be the site of something major, something beyond the comprehension of most mortals. How some low down, dirty, crooked cop who enjoys abusing his authority suddenly became aware of it is anyone's guess.
“I'm sorry, but the fate of the world is at stake.”
((Ending Theme))
Episode 6: To Serve and Protect
Table of Contents
((So what it do my homies? Guess I can finally set this thing off for real. College is doin' it's thing an' tryin' it's best to kill me, but I'm still doin' my thing. So take this. Read it, critique it. Then be happy. Opening Theme))
It doesn't take long for them to get there. Their sirens foretell of their arrival. A high pitched wailing alarming the fast accumulating crowd. And then they come into sight—blue and white wheel-less cars skating on air, a few feet from the ground. Lynn can hardly fight off the gravity of the situation. “To serve and protect” is what's etched on their doors. She can't help but laugh at the statement because neither of which is going to happen in this moment.
The three boys are still caught up in the fight. It's like they don't even see how much trouble they're in. All they care about is knocking the other guy out by any means necessary. Jamal doesn't care if he burns either one with the fire he shoots forth from his hands. He doesn't care if it misses and sets the nearest building ablaze. Noah doesn't care if his ice constructs encase either of the two. He doesn't care if it gets out of hand. He doesn't care if this sidewalk—now battleground—becomes a danger zone. As for Chris, he just doesn't care about anything. His finely crafted, antique, Japanese sword is his latest and greatest toy. All he cares about doing is swinging it around to and fro. Whether it hits something or not is of no concern to him.
This is bad. Lynn thinks. She thought it would be funny. She thought it'd be worth the laugh, but now, as she's in the middle of it, as she's trying her best to break it up, as she sees the cops running in on foot, with stun guns and all, she can see this has gone too far. She can't tell if that cold chill she feels crawling down her spine is from Noah or her nerves. She tries desperately to think of a way to end this.
She looks around to see if there's a way out. If she could find something—cover within a nearby alley maybe? No, the crowd is too thick. You'd think people walking would keep walking. Why is everyone so compelled to stick their nose in someone else's business? She can hear them chatting it up, too. “Are they crazy?” “What's wrong with them?” “I bet they're fighting over her.” “It's always about a girl.” “A white girl, too?” “Kids these days.” “Negroes.” “Ghetto people know they be stupid.” “Damn, that looked like it hurt.” “Someone should do somethin'.” It gathers and builds, piling in and on itself, becoming a roar—a loud collective roar of voices—coming from every which way, coming from way too many people with nothing better to do. We are so screwed.
“Alright! Everybody back off!”
It's a strong and deep voice. Stern and authoritative in manner. It comes from a tall, strongly built man, one clad in the standard issue riot control armor: a powered exoskeleton coating him from the neck down and a helmet with a tinted visor. He is one of many. Two, three, four, Lynn counts five—no—six of them, all armed with clubs and batons and DEW's. It serves well to intimidate, seeing as how the crowd quickly dissipates. There are stragglers of course, the nosy ones, but the cops do well to shoo them away, too.
Within moments, it's down to just the four kids. Can you believe Chris, Noah, and Jamal are still at each others' throats? After all this—after the crowd, the sirens, the cops, and property damage—they're still fighting tooth and nail to kill each other. The policemen are quick to move in. They were called to shut down a level 3 skirmish. 3 out of a scale from 1 to 5. Outbreaks of this type are a serious offense. In a world where people have the power to start fires with their minds, cause earthquakes with a tantrum, or topple buildings with a scream, any type of brawl could be catastrophic to not only those involved, but also the many spectators in the vicinity. That is why the cops are quick to act. That is why this has to stop now.
It comes in with a loud high pitched screech that catches the brawlers by surprise. An ultrasonic weapon in the form of a hand-held firearm is more than enough to bring all four of the kids to their knees. Everything's spinning, none of them know up from down, right from left. The sound is so loud, it feels like their eardrums are about to explode. It's the longest, most excruciatingly horrible three seconds of their lives, and when it's over, they feel like throwing up. Before they know it, they're all in cuffs that cover their whole forearms, even Lynn, and the only thing that comes to mind is, We are so screwed.
Chris doesn't like this. Really, nobody likes this, but Chris in particular is the first to react to it. Always the fast one. He's the only one who tries to break free. Sadly, he gets nowhere, and it doesn't take long for the others to realize that their special traits aren't working either. There's a slight tingling sensation in the back of their head. There's an LED on the side of the braces cuffing the children's arms. It flashes when Chris tries to break away with a burst of speed. To his surprise, the speed doesn't come. He's slow, just like everyone else. He's certainly not one for cussing, it's part of some moral code his mom instilled in him, but if he were the cussing type, he could think of a few choice words to utter as he watches as one of the officers quickly move to subdue him.
If you were to ask the officer, he'd say he was merely acting in as efficient a way as he could to put an end to this, but it certainly doesn't look that way. Chris swears he sees the man smile underneath that see through visor. The officer lashes out in as brutally a way as legally permitted. It's a horrible sight to see, really—the man hauling over a boy who's already gone down, beating and beating and beating. Four sharp blows to the stomach. Four loud, gut-wrenching screams. This is way more than Lynn asked for. Right now, she just wants the day to end. That's the only thing crossing her mind. She just wants it all to be over.
The next thing they know, the four of them are all in the back seat of one of the police cruisers as it travels through air traffic. It's very uncomfortable, being scrunched between each other like peanut butter between sliced bread, not to mention how terrible the conditions of the back seat are to begin with. The seats are hard, the space is cramped, all of them have to practically hunch over in a ball just to fit. There's no room to move, no room to breathe, and if that wasn't enough, they're completely cut off from even communicating with the cops in the front.
To Lynn's surprise, with the exception of Chris, everyone looks okay albeit a few scrapes, cuts, and bruises. It doesn't make Lynn feel any better about the situation, though. It actually makes her feel worse. The thought of this little get together being all for nothing makes her upset. If she wasn't restrained by these nasty arm cuffs, she'd do something to make her feel better. She can only fantasize about it, though.
“I can't believe you dragged me into this, Chris,” she says.
“Nexus,” Chris utters with a disgruntled moan. “You're supposed to call me Nexus.”
“Do you even know what the word means?”
“Don't care. It sounds cool.”
“Just shut up, Nexus.”
“You shoulda known better.”
“This is stupid,” Jamal says.
“It really is,” Noah says. “And it's all your fault, too.”
“My fault?”
“Yeah, you just wouldn't hear me out.”
“Like I'd want to hear whatever you had to say about it.”
“I do.” Lynn speaks out. “Please, someone enlighten me. I'd at least like to know why my life is about to end.”
“No one's life's gonna end. This ain't no big deal,” Chris says. “They're just gonna take us down to the station, keep us in a holding cell or somethin', then wait for our parents to pick us up. Drive shouldn't take more than five minutes.”
“Sounds t'me like you're speaking from experience.” Noah points out.
“I might be. The power dampeners are new, though.”
“Might have something to do with us almost about to destroy the city block.”
“Might be.”
The rest of the ride is just as awkward as it is now. Lynn can't help but play through the events over and over again. How could it have been different? What should have happened? Why did this happen to begin with? What's going to happen when her mom finds out? A cold sweat travels down her face. Despite the tight space, she's antsy. She hates that she's here, she hates who she's with, but most of all, she hates that everyone else is keeping it together better than she is.
And then things take a turn for the worst. A chill unlike any other breaks its way into the car. Those inside instantly succumb to its deathly presence, but the one hit the hardest by its embrace is the driver. “Damn, where'd this draft come from?” He reaches for the controls to the heater on the car's own touchscreen dashboard. Within moments, a more pleasant air fills the vacant space between them, but only for a moment. The frigid windchill is as pervasive as ever, and it is all formulating on him—from him—through him.
He doesn't know why or where it even comes from. He's but a meager police officer. His name, Tyrone Murphy, isn't one to be remembered as he is one of many. The only distinctive feature to him is his aggressiveness on the field. He's always the one who's seen charging in first, always the first one to draw forth his firearm, always the first one to shoot. He was the one who gave Chris his beating. But beyond that he is nothing. Just another nameless officer on the force. Maybe it is for that reason, and that reason alone he's suffering.
The cruiser swerves off course. All are immediately jerked to the left. This was supposed to be a five minute drive. The station was actually in sight, but then something happened to the driver, something strange. “s**t Murphy, get a hold of yourself!” His partner in the passenger seat attempts to seize control of the wheel, but Murphy knocks him out cold with a sharp elbow.
“I'm sorry,” he says, “a great darkness is coming, and I have to stop it before it's too late.”
The kids in the back are really shaken up. All of them, yelling and screaming and shouting out something or another. Jamal gets his head knocked against the low end ceiling of the car, and he certainly expresses his displeasure towards that. The force just about knocks his glasses off. None of them know what's going on. They can hear the sirens turn on as the cruiser recklessly zooms between the aerial traffic coming and going. It's quite clear that something is very wrong.
“'Ey, what the crud is goin' on!?” “Are you out of your mind!?” “Let us out!” Their cries fall on deaf ears, for this driver ceases for no one. There's nothing in the world that will stop him from reaching his destination. You can see it in his eyes—that unyielding determination, that indignant fire, that unrelenting spirit. He is set in his cause, and he believes his cause is just.
“I'm sorry it has to be this way,” he says. “I'm sorry you're a part of this now.”
Finally the cruiser slows to a halt, right in front of an old, run down building—a warehouse from the looks of it—in the middle of an empty lot. It's been marked for demolition for some time, but no one has come to do the deed. Now, it looks to be the site of something major, something beyond the comprehension of most mortals. How some low down, dirty, crooked cop who enjoys abusing his authority suddenly became aware of it is anyone's guess.
“I'm sorry, but the fate of the world is at stake.”
((Ending Theme))
Community Member
that's all I can say for now.