Chapter One: Zero Enna's Journal, Part One
After a grueling day of training, Zero Enna slipped back to the room he shared with Clay Cliff Fortran and Hiead Gner. He peeked into the bathroom, then inspected the corner where Hiead sometimes sat. After a quick glance at the clock, he took off his boots, rummaged under the mattress, and sat on his bed.
He placed a pen and a thick journal with a blue cover on the bed, and after reviewing the previous entry, began writing.
~Tuesday, 25 August 4209~
~Some days, I wonder if the goddesses have put me here for their own amusement. Take today. Between Azuma reaming me out for being too enthusiastic, Kizna calling me a dickweed, and Hiead threatening to snap off my cojones and force-feed them to me, I almost wanted to face the VICTIM mothership. At least there, I'd know what I was up against.
~Not that today was all bad---the Pro-Ing sessions went well, and I so totally rocked---just that I wasn't ready for the triple whammy at the end. Oh well.
~I really would like a skip day: I'd spend half of it sleeping, and the other half stargazing. But I think the instructor would probably thrash me, then make me run 500 laps and write a 60-page essay on the importance of training. And for fun, he'd probably make me wait on my partner, wearing a sign that reads, "I'm Dead From The Neck Up," so nobody misses the point.
~And what, pray tell, is the point? Repeat after me boys and girls: "Zero Enna is an obnoxious, loud, self-absorbed flake!" Granted, I'm not as bright as Clay. I can't formulate a battle strategy the way that Hiead does. I don't have Kizna's knack for mechanics, or the sweet temper that Roose does. Sure, I can crack jokes, and I know I've cheered up people in the past. Most of the time, I don't mind being Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky.
~Lately, though, I don't much feel like being the butt of the joke. I do a pretty fair job of busting my knuckles on the walls, the headboard, occasionally on Hiead's jaw---but, truth be told, I'd rather be by myself these days. Ha. Like I can get away with telling everyone, "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on," when I'm in a foul mood. Oh, no. Zero Enna never has a bad day. He always bounces back in any situation.
~Oh, my dear, dear friends, I have a news flash for you: today, I do not want to bounce back. I want to scream till I have no voice. I want to start the biggest food fight in that hellhole they call a cafeteria. I want to lie back and have a long, long cry. I'm tired of putting on a damned fake smile.
~Whew. Okay, I'm almost done venting. It's not like I want to stay sullen and pissed off forever---just wouldn't mind being able to sit down and talk with someone. Kizna would tell me to do something constructive. Hiead would laugh himself stupid. As for Clay, I think he'd probably try to psychoanalyze me. And Erts is a little too far away. E-mail's not the same as a live human being who sees, hears, and understands you.
~And frankly, I'm not sure I understand myself. I thought the dreams I had of my home colony, and of my mother, were weird. The dreams I've been having these past few weeks are something else. And the most recent one is a kicker: I'm eight years old, in some apartment, in a city, with a man old enough to be my father (well, he tells me he's my father) beating the crap out of me for bringing home a carton of chocolate milk from the grocery. I try to tell him the lady who runs the store gave it to me, in addition to the bread and milk I bought for us. He calls me a liar, a snotty runt, and lays into me with a belt. Says, "Should have known a little ingrate like you would disobey me." Lays into me again, and tells me, "You should have been stillborn."
~It ends like a lot of dreams have, these days: with me climbing into bed, clinging to some ratty little toy elephant, and crying myself to sleep. I know that's not really my father. I never lived in a big city. Mother was never that harsh, not even when I did step out of line. But it feels so--- like one of those visions where angels wound saints, and they see the world in a new light. And I have woken up, more than once, with welts and bruise marks. Once I woke up, with slashes across my back. I know I didn't get these in any fight. I'd like to know where I did get them.
~I've been getting up early, just to see where I've been marked up, and to clean myself without drawing attention. Not an easy feat. Especially since, lately, Hiead has been waking up at odd hours. Why? Who knows? It's all so surreal.
~Well, I think I'll head off to dinner. Mother Kannon, deliver me! ~
Zero closed the journal, hiding it and the pen under the mattress. He then glanced around the room again, and trudged to the cafeteria. Showtime, Enna. Let's give them what they want.
Author's Notes
I did say ahead of time that this was going to be R-rated. Please do bear with me. "Cojones" is Spanish for testicles.
Coming up: an entry in Hiead Gner's journal. What's kept him up of late? Why are the two Zenoahs acting so strange? And how does this affect them? Stay tuned.
As always, I welcome your input. Thank you.
Antoinette (poetisa)
After a grueling day of training, Zero Enna slipped back to the room he shared with Clay Cliff Fortran and Hiead Gner. He peeked into the bathroom, then inspected the corner where Hiead sometimes sat. After a quick glance at the clock, he took off his boots, rummaged under the mattress, and sat on his bed.
He placed a pen and a thick journal with a blue cover on the bed, and after reviewing the previous entry, began writing.
~Tuesday, 25 August 4209~
~Some days, I wonder if the goddesses have put me here for their own amusement. Take today. Between Azuma reaming me out for being too enthusiastic, Kizna calling me a dickweed, and Hiead threatening to snap off my cojones and force-feed them to me, I almost wanted to face the VICTIM mothership. At least there, I'd know what I was up against.
~Not that today was all bad---the Pro-Ing sessions went well, and I so totally rocked---just that I wasn't ready for the triple whammy at the end. Oh well.
~I really would like a skip day: I'd spend half of it sleeping, and the other half stargazing. But I think the instructor would probably thrash me, then make me run 500 laps and write a 60-page essay on the importance of training. And for fun, he'd probably make me wait on my partner, wearing a sign that reads, "I'm Dead From The Neck Up," so nobody misses the point.
~And what, pray tell, is the point? Repeat after me boys and girls: "Zero Enna is an obnoxious, loud, self-absorbed flake!" Granted, I'm not as bright as Clay. I can't formulate a battle strategy the way that Hiead does. I don't have Kizna's knack for mechanics, or the sweet temper that Roose does. Sure, I can crack jokes, and I know I've cheered up people in the past. Most of the time, I don't mind being Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky.
~Lately, though, I don't much feel like being the butt of the joke. I do a pretty fair job of busting my knuckles on the walls, the headboard, occasionally on Hiead's jaw---but, truth be told, I'd rather be by myself these days. Ha. Like I can get away with telling everyone, "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on," when I'm in a foul mood. Oh, no. Zero Enna never has a bad day. He always bounces back in any situation.
~Oh, my dear, dear friends, I have a news flash for you: today, I do not want to bounce back. I want to scream till I have no voice. I want to start the biggest food fight in that hellhole they call a cafeteria. I want to lie back and have a long, long cry. I'm tired of putting on a damned fake smile.
~Whew. Okay, I'm almost done venting. It's not like I want to stay sullen and pissed off forever---just wouldn't mind being able to sit down and talk with someone. Kizna would tell me to do something constructive. Hiead would laugh himself stupid. As for Clay, I think he'd probably try to psychoanalyze me. And Erts is a little too far away. E-mail's not the same as a live human being who sees, hears, and understands you.
~And frankly, I'm not sure I understand myself. I thought the dreams I had of my home colony, and of my mother, were weird. The dreams I've been having these past few weeks are something else. And the most recent one is a kicker: I'm eight years old, in some apartment, in a city, with a man old enough to be my father (well, he tells me he's my father) beating the crap out of me for bringing home a carton of chocolate milk from the grocery. I try to tell him the lady who runs the store gave it to me, in addition to the bread and milk I bought for us. He calls me a liar, a snotty runt, and lays into me with a belt. Says, "Should have known a little ingrate like you would disobey me." Lays into me again, and tells me, "You should have been stillborn."
~It ends like a lot of dreams have, these days: with me climbing into bed, clinging to some ratty little toy elephant, and crying myself to sleep. I know that's not really my father. I never lived in a big city. Mother was never that harsh, not even when I did step out of line. But it feels so--- like one of those visions where angels wound saints, and they see the world in a new light. And I have woken up, more than once, with welts and bruise marks. Once I woke up, with slashes across my back. I know I didn't get these in any fight. I'd like to know where I did get them.
~I've been getting up early, just to see where I've been marked up, and to clean myself without drawing attention. Not an easy feat. Especially since, lately, Hiead has been waking up at odd hours. Why? Who knows? It's all so surreal.
~Well, I think I'll head off to dinner. Mother Kannon, deliver me! ~
Zero closed the journal, hiding it and the pen under the mattress. He then glanced around the room again, and trudged to the cafeteria. Showtime, Enna. Let's give them what they want.
Author's Notes
I did say ahead of time that this was going to be R-rated. Please do bear with me. "Cojones" is Spanish for testicles.
Coming up: an entry in Hiead Gner's journal. What's kept him up of late? Why are the two Zenoahs acting so strange? And how does this affect them? Stay tuned.
As always, I welcome your input. Thank you.
Antoinette (poetisa)