In this sci-fi visual novel, test your resolve by controlling the power to read people’s minds. Within a galaxy of terraformed planets, a secret war rages between two intergalactic agencies. One of them—ARCHON—is developing the technology to invade people’s minds. Its agents have already tyrannized a planet called Teballai, and hope to use their mind-reading technology to spread their power across the galaxy. A second organization—FOE (Freedom Organization of Elites)—wants to destroy ARCHON’s technology in the name of freedom. When a young FOE soldier (you choose the gender) named Blaire obtains the ability to read minds from an ARCHON experiment, she finds her loyalty torn between both sides. Whether Blaire helps the enemy or defeats them depends upon your use of her power.
I’ve been bad about posting regularly, I know. I have two words for you: job hunting. But I am still creating stories as always and ever, whether they pay the bills or not. So here’s a little tidbit from an un-published story of mine to whet your imagination. Enjoy!
Sire of Flames
Several weeks after my one night stand, I felt my body changing. At first I feared the obvious: pregnancy. I got so stressed and worried about the possibility, I couldn’t focus on my school work. My period didn’t come when scheduled. Finally, I ran to the drug store and bought a pregnancy test.
But I wasn’t pregnant.
Staring at the little pink line on the urine strip, I knew I didn’t need to retest. Except for missing my period, none of my mystery symptoms resembled pregnancy at all. College pregnancy was an easy way to justify—and cling to—my burrowing fears. But they went deeper than I could explain.
Ever since my torrid evening with the young man named Desmond, I perceived everyone around me … differently. My fellow students, my professors, my friends, my own father. In one sense I knew more about them than I ever had before, and all I had to do was stand a few feet away, or hear them talk, or brush against them in the hallway. In another, the excess of information flooding my brain confused me beyond the point of usefulness. When I listened to my dad on the phone, I could hardly hear his voice. Instead I heard wind whispering through the trees, or felt a nonexistent breeze against my skin.
I became a very good listener—at least as long as I only had one person to focus on. Everyone who spoke transfixed me. I could easily forget the ones that stared in fright at my scarred face, or whispered about it behind my back. Some people could distract me just by moving. Just as my father gave me a sensation like wind, other people also reminded me of nature, of elements. One professor made me feel cool and gritty, and when he talked I smelled earth. A girl made my head spin and I felt every drop of water in my body, soft and flowing. One boy walked with pumped fists and brisk steps—he reminded me of fire, warm against my skin, bright orange on the edges of my vision.
Desmond made me feel that way. He was my first sexual partner, that’s true, but the feelings I experienced surpassed the typical sensations of losing one’s virginity. I woke up the next morning like a phoenix reborn from her ashes. And sometimes, when I was all alone, I felt the fire again.
I remembered how I felt that night, underneath him, watching the sweat bead over his pale face, his eyes sparkle. But something changed in retrospection. In reality, Desmond had possessed long blond hair and bright blue eyes. When the memories returned to me of their own will, dark cedar brown suffused his irises and hair. His chin had a boxy shape, and his shoulders were a little broader. I remembered—whether in the false or rational memory, I don’t know—that when we came together, flames leapt in his dark eyes, the world turned red, and my body burned like an ember.
What the hell did he do to me? And why did he choose me?
The sensation of fire was nothing new to me. I’m what people like to call a pyromaniac—that is, I used to be, and I am again now, but I wasn’t when I met Desmond. When I was ten years old, I played with fire in the shed where Dad wouldn’t see me. He disapproved of the hobby. I had a friend with me, a girl my age named Faith, and I wanted to show off. But one trick went awry: you know, the one where you release some extra gas from the lighter before shooting a spark? My jacket caught fire. I stared in awe at the disaster crawling up my arm until the full punch of pain set in. By the time I threw the jacket onto the ground, it was too strong to put out. I kept staring at the fire, mesmerized. Faith had a little sense, and shouted, “We have to put it out! Your dad will be so mad!” And she was right. The shed was made of wood, and it slowly caught fire, too.
But I didn’t help her put out the fire. Not enough, anyway. I kept watching it, the way it flashed and undulated, like it could swim through air. I watched it spread up the walls on either side of me. I flapped my blanket along with Faith, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. The fire was too strong.
The fire trapped us in. Faith had asthma, so the smoke got to her first. By the time the flames licked the side of my face, I considered myself dead. My dad came in time to pull me out, but Faith wasn’t so lucky. I swore after that I would never play with fire again.
Nine years later I met Desmond, and he was the first person attracted to all of me–even the wrinkled flesh on one half of my face. The scar itself intrigued him, and he didn’t shy away from asking me how I got it. But after our one night together, before I could rationalize how, I sensed I had already broken my oath and played with fire once more. Desmond made me feel the way I felt that day in the shed, watching the flames multiply, letting them. And I loved it.
Today’s vignette offers a little of what’s to come in the novelization of “Serafina’s Saga.” I confess it’s a little awkward adapting my own script and drawings into novel format; usually, if I adapt any of my own work, I do so in the opposite order! But it’s kind of fun, also. So here’s a little scene from the animation, fleshed out for the novel. I hope you enjoy it.
Nikolaos expected to collapse into the grass at any given moment.
Yesterday, he had intended to scout only a brief distance—perhaps fifteen miles from camp. He planned to have plenty of time to return to base and sleep snugly in a tent with a belly full of warm stew. Camp rations were low, but at least at night he could usually expect a big slosh of watery soup full of scraps from the daily gathering. After adding a dash of chili powder, Nikolaos could almost imagine the stew delighting his senses with exotic spices. Then he would have sat next to a campfire and shared his scouting adventures with his fellow soldiers. He liked to narrate his wanderings in such a way that captured peoples’ interest and inspired them, rather than just reporting his work as a scout. Doing so made his own job seem more glamorous, and he rather enjoyed the attention. Finally he would return to his tent, throw off his grubby clothes, stretch his limbs over his blanket, and sleep like a baby.
That’s how he would have liked last night to play out. Instead, he had lost his way—a grave sin for a scout like himself.
Scouts should never get lost. They should be capable of distinguishing slight changes in the landscape, tracing every slope and plant into memory, so they could describe it in detail to their superiors or even draw out a map. Nikolaos should be able to guide his comrades into new terrain with confidence and reliability. More than that, he should be able to look beyond the superficial appearance of the landscape enough to assess its potential as a source of security, supplies, or strategic placement.
Not Nikolaos. Not yesterday.
He blamed his hunger. The large servings of stew every night usually satisfied him enough to grant a good night’s sleep. But the night before this fateful outing, he’d felt the first ache of hunger before tasting sweet slumber. Breakfast did nothing to satiate him, like a weak puff of air against a ravenous flame. His hunger had consumed him by midday, making his limbs drag and his thoughts tangle. The fact that the damn savanna looked the same in every direction didn’t help matters—just endless yellow grass and occasional trees stretching into a circle of sky. He had tried to return to camp, only to wander further into strange territory. When the sun started falling, he focused on finding shelter instead.
Now, after another day of wandering, he still had no idea where he was, and his hunger had become a monster possessing his faculties. He could concentrate on nothing but food, yet he couldn’t think clearly about how to obtain it. He only knew that when he saw a blur of green foliage in the distance, promising water and wildlife, he moved fervently towards it. What other hope did he have of finding food?
He ignored all the warnings he had ever heard about the jungles of Darzia. The darkness beneath the canopy harbored incredible danger, he knew, including a wide variety of animals and plants in every shape and size imaginable. Meanwhile, every single one of those strange plants and animals possessed its own unique way of killing enemies. Poisonous plants mimicked safe ones. Small creatures with frail bodies compensated with quick cleverness and sharp memory. An animal wearing the guise of prey could easily lead him into a maze of foliage from which he’d never escape. And as for the larger beasts, such as bears of griffins… well, they could just kill him with one blow.
But starvation worried him now more than any conceivable creature. So he continued moving towards the jungle, one heavy step at a time, heaving slow breaths of air through his leathery mouth. Everything exhausted him—even breathing, even holding his eyes open. The sword hanging from his hip felt like it tried to pull him into the soil below. His blue cloak, draped over one shoulder in the old Elborn fashion, yanked at his torso as it flapped in the wind. His ear-length black hair slapped his face and open eyes. He wanted to fling off his burdens and maybe chop off his lashing locks. But even doing all that would require too much effort.
So he stared vacantly ahead, watching the dark entrance of the jungle yawn wider. Even through the fog of his weary mind, he wondered briefly what he intended to do once he got inside. Hunt for an animal? In his current state, he’d never catch one. Search for water? That was a start. Surely the water of the jungle wasn’t poisonous, was it? He would have to take his chances. Maybe then, at least, he would feel good enough to hunt. If not, he would have to try eating a plant. He had no idea which ones were safe, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t matter. Even people who spent years studying botany struggled to analyze the plant-life of Darzian’s jungles, which were full of tricks and surprises. Once again, he would just have to try his luck.
He looked briefly towards the heavens and thought of his god, the mysterious Lokke, lord of mischief. Normally, Nikolaos didn’t bother praying, even though he worshiped Lokke devoutly. He didn’t think Lokke appreciated typical prayers the way other gods did. Even so, he whispered hoarsely, “Please Lokke, lend me some luck, would you?”
He dropped his head again, for it felt too heavy to tilt skyward. He watched his boots crunching through the dry yellow grass.
He noticed something shift on the top edge of his vision, towards the mouth of the jungle. He looked up reluctantly. Then he froze in his tracks.
A girl. No… a young woman. Or someone caught directly between the two stages. But not awkwardly, he thought. On the contrary, she seemed to embody the brilliance of youth and adulthood. She moved with incredible speed, even as she came to a sudden halt at the edge of the forest. An aura of wildness surrounded her as solidly as the jungle itself; she had bright red hair that tangled around her face and shoulders like a lion’s mane. She wore a small brown tunic, tattered and dirty, leaving most her arms and legs bare. But she seemed neither scantily clad or fully-dressed: merely a girl in her natural state. Her body was small altogether, but even from a distance he could see the firm flow of her muscles, and the steadiness of her grip as she twirled a spear at her side.
Then she stopped and saw him, too.
He felt stricken with a lightning bolt. Her big green eyes affixed him as surely as if she had thrown her spear into his stomach. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. Just stare straight back at her and wonder what she would do next.
She turned around and darted back into the jungle.
“Hey, wait!” he cried hoarsely. But it was already too late, and he knew without a doubt he had no chance of catching her.