That warehouse in the old train depot district... that's where things started to change. I had found a rusted-out hole in the corrugated metal walls along the side of the building and, stepping through it, I think I can recall feeling a strange sensation - almost imperceptible - but I remember thinking it odd that this metal should have a build-up of static electricity. When I didn't actually receive the expected shock of any kind, I dismissed the thought and my mind gave over to a state of investigatory curiosity.
I was searching for something the police had missed three months ago when this had been a “location of interest” - the last known whereabouts, according to closed-circuit security video, of Ms. Stacy Malone-Edwards. It didn't stay a location of interest for long, though. as missing persons cases in this part of the country only stay active as long as the missing person is white, young, attractive and, usually, from a family of some means. Stacy was none of these things. A black woman, poor from birth, in her late forties and showing every day of her age after raising 3 children on her own, Stacy's disappearance hardly made the 24-hour news cycle at all. A brief announcement was made several days after her family - that it, her mother and her eldest son - had reported her missing. It appeared on the local nightly news with a request that anyone with any information please call the number on the screen... and that was it.
The local police had done their usual "missing person" search here, but when nothing substantial had turned up, it was presumed that she had simply "run away" - abandoned her whole life and family - or perhaps a secret suicide where she'd jumped off a bridge and the body was never found. These things were known to happen once in a blue moon, but... her family said that was impossible. Insane, even. And I tend to agree.
I met Stacy four years ago when I became her social worker. Technically, I was the social worker for her eldest son, David, as he had been in and out of juvenile hall several times before turning 16. So, at 17, he was out on a probation that required close tabs to be kept on him and his home life as he prepared to step into adulthood. That’s where I came in. "David is a good kid," she insisted. Now, all social workers have heard this from almost every parent that gives a damn about their child. Sometimes it was true, sometimes I wasn't convinced by the mere mention of a claim. But Stacy wasn't pleading with me to believe her; she was stating this, not even as an opinion, but as if it had been proven scientifically. She knew that David was a good kid, as a matter of pure fact. She was bold and determined in her pronouncement of his character. And this made me take it on faith (much more than I usually would) that she was absolutely right.
"But he's a product of his environment," she continued. "And this city - and the white, affluent communities all around us, and even taking over our neighborhood - can turn a good kid into a 'hood', a thug, a gangster... any kind of boogeyman they want to suit their narrative. I've known that all my life and I've done everything I could think of to keep that from happening."
I sat at my desk, across from Ms. Malone-Edwards, in my office, forearms on my desk, leaning in, brow furrowed and ears pricked, to listen and absorb her declaration. And she explained it all to me in no uncertain terms.
"But when a young man wants to feel some sense of control over his life… when he's growing up in these streets, where we all feel powerless and afraid - afraid of a million kinds of violence, and even death, on a daily basis - he's gonna do whatever he has to do. A young man - hell, anyone out here! - will take a life without giving it a second thought... if it means he gets to live another day and have a say in what path his life goes down."
That summer, I helped Stacy get David on a different track. He's in college now, and doing much better. But today, he and his younger brother and sister, are without a mother... at least for the time-being.
The battle cry of the mighty Klyngorn - a Class-5 mechabeast - was a deafening, high-pitched, electronic screech with low-end tones that’s hook the ground beneath their feet.
The beast was 4 meters high and 5 or 6 in length, though it was difficult to estimate as it swung its massive, robotic, exoskeletal frame and prominent tail back and forth in an attempt to swipe at the soldiers surrounding it.
“FALL BACK,” cried Captain Grek of the 403rd division of the Styrnon Prime Planetary Command - a military outfit charged with protection and advancement of the sentient races of Strynon Prime. Even with the use of sonic implants used to communicate from command units to soldiers directly thorough their auditory channels, the captain had to yell at the top of voice to be heard. “RETREAT!” He screamed. “FAAAALLLL BAAAACK!”
Grek’s soldiers sporadically got the word. The units facing the front end of the violent mech began backing away from the massive constructed beast. Continuing to bombard it with K5 En-Bolt blasts, the troops created a buffer of safety between the razor-sharp blades at the end the Klyngorn’s forelimbs and themselves.
It was a futile battle, Grek knew, and the fate of his troopers was at the whim of the cybernetic functions of the glimmering metallic beast towering over them. If it chose to swipe a limb or whip a tail in a certain direction, the troops in its path could be killed in an instant. Even with their advanced plasteel armor and lightweight padding, the impact alone was shattering their bones, concussing their brains and, in some cases, even slicing them open. And the gashes were so deep, they were simply left to lay on the ground and wait for the darkness to overtake them – usually within moments. There was no way to destroy this leviathan with the tools they had with them now.
“REGROUP AT POSITION TWO!” Grek screamed. “POSITION TWO!”
Seventy-two had initially set out on this mission. In the end, only 45 troops returned. It was a catastrophic loss for an already depleted unit. The 403rd had been deployed for 4,008 days now. The battle of Try-Orn 980 days ago had cut their unit numbers by half, and they were already down over 400 troops since deployment by then. The War was nowhere near over, as far as anyone could tell. It was a matter of how fast the enemy could produce battle units and how soon the Planetary Command could infiltrate and destroy their strongholds and factories. And that was anyone’s guess, as the enemy’s bases and strongholds were always on the move. How they actually managed to transport so quickly and stealthily was still yet to be discovered.
Once back in Position 2 - a small cave roughly 40 meters south of the Klyngorn’s arena, into which the beast itself could not fit - the 403rd troopers looked around at one another with exhaustion and defeat in their eyes. There was nothing gained by going out on this mission today. No ground was taken, only lives were lost. The only thing they’d gotten for their trouble was the intel that the Klyngorn was not just another mech that could be brought down with pure firepower. This was something new. This was something dangerous. This was a new phase in the war. This was a harbinger of things to come.
An initial scan of the metal menace showed no discernible data, as it was obviously able to jam the unit’s scanners with an entirely novel algorithm. The intel chiefs at Planetary Command had decoded all previous algorithms and even devised a system by which they could predict future jamming algorithms. But now, with the Klyngorn, scanning seemed impossible. They had instantly transmitted the info to HQ that scans were being jammed, but the analysts on duty this day were stumped. Nothing seemed to be working. New, potentially viable algorithms were implemented on the spot, but… alas, no joy. The only intel they would bring back to the higher-ups was their live video feeds - from which analysts and A.I. software would determine certain intel based on its movements and response speed. Much could be told about the Klyngorn from this information, but not enough. Not about how to bring it down.
The battle cry of the mighty Klyngorn - a Class-5 mechabeast - was a deafening, high-pitched, electronic screech with low-end tones that’s hook the ground beneath their feet.
The beast was 4 meters high and 5 or 6 in length, though it was difficult to estimate as it swung its massive, robotic, exoskeletal frame and prominent tail back and forth in an attempt to swipe at the soldiers surrounding it.
“FALL BACK,” cried Captain Grek of the 403rd division of the Styrnon Prime Planetary Command - a military outfit charged with protection and advancement of the sentient races of Strynon Prime. Even with the use of sonic implants used to communicate from command units to soldiers directly thorough their auditory channels, the captain had to yell at the top of voice to be heard. “RETREAT!” He screamed. “FAAAALLLL BAAAACK!”
Grek’s soldiers sporadically got the word. The units facing the front end of the violent mech began backing away from the massive constructed beast. Continuing to bombard it with K5 En-Bolt blasts, the troops created a buffer of safety between the razor-sharp blades at the end the Klyngorn’s forelimbs and themselves.
It was a futile battle, Grek knew, and the fate of his troopers was at the whim of the cybernetic functions of the glimmering metallic beast towering over them. If it chose to swipe a limb or whip a tail in a certain direction, the troops in its path could be killed in an instant. Even with their advanced plasteel armor and lightweight padding, the impact alone was shattering their bones, concussing their brains and, in some cases, even slicing them open. And the gashes were so deep, they were simply left to lay on the ground and wait for the darkness to overtake them – usually within moments. There was no way to destroy this leviathan with the tools they had with them now.
“REGROUP AT POSITION TWO!” Grek screamed. “POSITION TWO!”
Seventy-two had initially set out on this mission. In the end, only 45 troops returned. It was a catastrophic loss for an already depleted unit. The 403rd had been deployed for 4,008 days now. The battle of Try-Orn 980 days ago had cut their unit numbers by half, and they were already down over 400 troops since deployment by then. The War was nowhere near over, as far as anyone could tell. It was a matter of how fast the enemy could produce battle units and how soon the Planetary Command could infiltrate and destroy their strongholds and factories. And that was anyone’s guess, as the enemy’s bases and strongholds were always on the move. How they actually managed to transport so quickly and stealthily was still yet to be discovered.
Once back in Position 2 - a small cave roughly 40 meters south of the Klyngorn’s arena, into which the beast itself could not fit - the 403rd troopers looked around at one another with exhaustion and defeat in their eyes. There was nothing gained by going out on this mission today. No ground was taken, only loves were lost. The only thing they’d gotten for their trouble was the intel that the Klyngorn was not just another mech that could be brought down with pure firepower. This was something new. This was something dangerous. This was a new phase in the war. This was a harbinger of things to come.
An initial scan of the metal menace showed no discernible data, as it was obviously able to jam the unit’s scanners with an entirely novel algorithm. The intel chiefs at Planetary Command had decoded all previous algorithms and even devised a system by which they could predict future jamming algorithms. But now, with the Klyngorn, scanning seemed impossible. They had instantly transmitted the info to HQ that scans were being jammed, but the analysts on duty this day were stumped. Nothing seemed to be working. New, potentially viable algorithms were implemented on the spot, but… alas, no joy. The only intel they would bring back to the higher-ups was their live video feeds - from which analysts and A.I. software would determine certain intel based on its movements and response speed. Much could be told about the Klyngorn from this information, but not enough. Not about how to bring it down.
