NationStates Jolt Archive

He looked into her eyes. It was beautiful. More than anything he could hope for. More than Beren and Lutien. They were alone, on the tallest tower in Port-Allanea. It was slightly cold, for the sun has already set. The city was wonderful – a marvellous display of lights, messages, letters, from the lights of the cars deep below on the ground to the laser-drawn corporate logos in the sky. To some, it might have been disgusting, a symbol of greed and selfishness. To him, it was the symbol of freedom. Of peace. Of life defeating death – of his people livng again, as if the War has never happened… and he was proud. His people. He has created Allanea, as surely as if he has made it rise from the ocean himself, like the Valar of old…. His city.

- I love your city, Alex. You know, it’s like you in a way…
- You mean you love me, Miriel? – he lifted an eyebrow in surprise
- Yes, Alex. I love you.

He woke up. The first thing he saw was the fungi that were starting to cover the ceiling of the working-class appartment, somewhere in Aissur. He smiled. “I wonder how I got here… the last thing I remember I was talking to Miriel…” Then he jolted upright, now completely awake.

It. Wasn’t. Real.

He stared blankly into the cracked mirror in front of him. He hated those dreams. The other kind, the nightmares, where much easier to survive. Those – the vivid, beautiful dreams of love – of something he never had and never could have – have driven him running from Revenia and here, to Aissur. He didn’t know why. It sure wouldn’t make him feel better. Nothing would, ever again.

Alexander walked up to the window. It was raining again. Whether it was the smog of the huge gun factories next to the town, or just the time of the year, he did not know. For that matter, he did not care what time of the year it was. He just wanted time to pass.

He dropped on the floor, still almost naked. Time to start the morning. Push-ups. One, two, three… eighty six, eighty seven… his seemingly slender, weak body was amazingly strong once it came to the test. And, what was only more troubling, he was possessed of much more endurance than it seemed. It was a problem, now. He wanted it to be tired. He hated his body. He hated himself.

I don't suppose I could persuade you to show me some of the more classy, and shall we say... less-touristy parts of the city?"

The former President remembered the vision clearly. Too clearly, really. He didn’t know how it came to him – perhaps Iluvatar’s ultimate punishment for his sins, worse than if Stark had killed him – which he couldn’t if he had tried. But, whichever it was, he remembered the vision, from the moment Sharan – Sharan, it was? – approached Miriel. He saw it vividly in every nightmare. In slow-motion, like in bad movies, where you see the bullet approach the victim, giving you seconds to realise what is happening, but noting to do to prevent it, staring helplessly as it approaches to do it’s dirty work. He watched them walk off, to the supposed shuttle.

"I hope you're a good teacher..."

One hundred twenty seven push-ups. His arms hurt. Even more importantly – he could have continued for a while more – it failed to distract him. He kept thinking of the vision. Of it’s minute details. Of the way she smiled. The way the Necrontyr’s voice sounded. Alexander’s logic told him the vision cut off – they could have proceeded apart after this, perhaps never seeing each other again – or remained friends. He knew – he didn’t know how – that it wasn’t the case. That something worse – infinitely worse – has happened.

He had to do something different. Fast. Or he would go insane. He needed to distract himself from those thoughts, thought Kazansky. Otherwise… he jumped up. He must continue, he thought… continue through the day.

Toothbrush. Shower – a cold one, there was no hot water. Jeans. Boots. Shirt. Gun belt. All fast, very fast, distracting himself by concentrating on how to do it as fast as possible. Then, the former President of The United States of Allanea ran – nearly dropped – down the stairs. His day was beginning…


OOC: Do me a favour. If you ignore/hate Allanea, do not post here about it. Message me about if you wish. Leave me alone and don't spam my threads with it. That is all.

OOC: Not really an RP, just a story.

The Dead Air descended slowly, circling as a vulture above the colonists. They pointed their rifles at the immense vessel, knowing already they could do nothing – but that they had to do something. Even now, he respected them – and indeed, they were worthy of it – far more than the creatures in the attacking vessel.

The crew of the ship pretended they were working in the name of civilisation, legitimised by the name of some great court out there. But in fact they were trampling on the very principled at the base of that, and their court was nothing more than a band of thugs with the Dead Air as their paid enforcer.

Just as he thought that, the ship fired.

He woke up screaming. It was the same every day. Either a dream of sweetness and happynes, which only hurt him more when he woke up and realised the truth of it, or an outright nightmare. By now, he far preferred the nightmares.

But something had to be done about this, he thought. He must, somehow, take his mind off the pain. Hard work has not helped – he has taken up a job as a miner (he was surprised both that they took him on and that nobody recognised him), designed a small spacecraft, and even started on a book. Drugs didn’t help – he tried nearly everything from the endless arsenal that Allanea’s shops had to offered. So, something else had to be tried – he did not know yet what, exactly, but he had an approximate idea. He packed up a large tourist bag, slamme the door open, and shoved two miniature earphones up his ears.

The music was not loud enough to blot out the sound of the door slamming shut. In an hour, the former Presiden of the United States of Allanea walked out of the town.