Tagged: invasion
Third Wheel
Dear Planet Earth,
The top floors of the hotel have been turned into a makeshift medical wing, tending to the many injuries from our last epic battle. No one’s talking about it yet, but a lot of the liberated slaves here seem to be suffering from malnutrition, and their conditions will only worsen as everyone’s rations continue to get smaller and smaller. Deja vu.
I found Karter and Maria up there today. They were in a corner, engaged in what looked like a serious conversation until I butt in. Maria gave me a hug and asked if I was feeling okay. It was the nicest she’s ever been to me. They both looked about five years older than they were just a few months ago, covered in new wrinkles, scars, and sunburns from their brief bondage. I felt guilty as hell again and couldn’t think of anything to say.
They said I should stop by their room tonight — apparently they’re sharing a room now — to talk about what’s going on in our heads after all that’s happened. I might just take them up on that.
Nepotistic Non-Neglect
Dear Planet Earth,
I’m not going to mind getting used to living out of five star hotels for the duration of the invasion. I won’t give any more information about our locations other than that from now on since it’s become disturbingly apparent that the mole people can and have been reading this blog all along.
When I’m not catching up on much needed sleep, taking advantage of this electric razor I scored, and enjoying the oft-neglected luxury of two-ply toilet paper, I’m getting piss drunk with old friends. Today was Dr. Eimer.
He was in the best spirits I’ve ever seen him. We’ve all been, really, since the successful raid and liberation of the slave labor camp. He was fascinated by the mole man manifesto Perry gave me. Eimer read entire passages aloud last night, as giddy as a school girl. A Japanese school girl.
I told him he could borrow the book since I think I already found the important parts I needed. It served as an uncomfortable reminder too, I guess. As my comrades were forced to work to the bone all day, many to the point of death, I was living it up in a shady room with three square meals a day. They’ve all been doing a good job of hiding their contempt, which by all accounts must be there. Hell, it’d be there for me if I was in their shoes.
Whatever the case, Eimer showed his ecstatic appreciation by giving me his bottle of vodka. And that lasted for a fun hour.
Early Epilogue
Dear Planet Earth,
Like I guessed, it was General Talpa and his resistance fighters who attacked the transport truck outside of the slave labor camp. Mr. Ozawa, the homie spy, ran back to the mole men with his tail between his legs, which let Talpa’s crew rescue Rachel, Randall, and Mrs. Bing. (Mrs. Bing is apparently in an even worse state than before right now.)
They planned a 200% more organized assault than we did, scouting the area and getting the tanks in position. When they finally attacked, the mole people and their homeless underlings had practically no time to get together a defense. We rolled out together with few casualties about an hour later.
We’re all in pretty high spirits — happy to be reunited with lost friends, invigorated that all hope is not lost, and planning our next attack on our clearly vulnerable invaders.
The Pit
Dear Planet Earth,
I finally finished my debriefing with General Talpa and the other nerds who saved my life. They gave me a lot of new info to think over, but for now, I just want to finish uploading all the pictures I took from the battle.
Here’s a good one I got just as we were pulling away in the transport trucks full of former slaves and (hopefully) new allies. You can see the mole people’s drill peeking up from out of the top of the labor camp.
I didn’t get any decent pictures of the fighting actually inside the camp itself. Just try to imagine the sarlaac pit from Tatooine on fire, screaming, but a hundred times more frightening.
Green
Dear Planet Earth,
Karter gave me a green bandana and told me to wrap it around my left arm. I noticed he too had a green bandana around his arm. He said it was so we could tell our own people apart from the mole men and the homies battling outside. He opened the rusty hatch that reminded me of a submarine and we were instantly propelled into a scene from a war movie.
Large plumes of smoke grew on all sides. Mortar blasts continuously pummeled groups of short people I had to assume were mole people. The steampunk towers creaked and melted from the constant volleys.
Karter lifted his rifle and started firing wildly at a troop of people clearly not wearing green bandanas. He yelled something back at me, but I had screams, explosions, and gunfire in surround sound. I followed closely behind him, crouched like a ninja, just as we did when we first tried to sneak into this tenth circle of hell.
We scrambled up the slope of a dune, climbing over the corpses of about a dozen mole men, the red eyes from their masks watching us all the way. We saw human bodies too, homies and our own people, if their left arms could be believed. I tried not to view too much of those images.
We made it to the lip of the desert bowl where we greeted by a familiar-looking boy. He was firing toward the battle below and quickly pointed his rifle toward us. The hardened look on his face swiftly changed to fear to shock to relief before letting us pass out of the contained war zone and into freedom.
Song of Sirens
Dear Planet Earth,
A familiar feeling swept over my deaf, dusty body after Private Karter blew open my cell door with a surprisingly effective hand grenade. I forced myself up and sauntered to my new gaping opportunity of freedom, ignoring the ringing song of sirens playing in my head. A blurry version of Karter grabbed my arm and guided me through the fresh rubble. Some other, logical mirror of myself must have been active, because I somehow remembered to grab my laptop, broken walkie talkie, and the book, A History of the Inheritors.
I regained my senses faster than I would have expected. My vision cleared and I was able to make out dozens of jail cells identical to my own — all lined up like in a mental asylum, all empty. I had no time to interpret what this meant. Even now, I have few logical explanations as to why I was the only one in that underground mole people prison.
When we got to the end of the hallway, I could make out some earthen stairs and my ears had healed to the point that I could hear Karter say, “Eddy? Ah . . . oo . . . ee? Ah . . .” He shook me by the shoulders.
“Are you ready?”
I took deep breaths, flexed my muscles. The light coming from the surface was so sweet it blinded me in a whole new way, yet I managed to retain focus.
“I think so.”
“Trust me,” Karter said with a trademark grin. “You aren’t.”
Liberation Day
Dear Planet Earth,
It’s been a seemingly unending series of ups and downs, battles that would determine the outcome of the entire world, and the ever-present threat of dying, unremembered and unmourned at any second. Yet this small, precious achievement is clear — we are free.
I awoke last week to the sound of distant explosions that became louder and louder with each successive blast. The ground shook and instantly made me think of earthquakes as I fell from my bed. I rubbed the newest bump on my head and corrected myself. Mortars.
I ran to the window of my cell door, desperate for any clue of what was going on. It was a long wait, repeatedly looking up and down the musty hallway populated only by rats and my own echoing pleas. An answer finally came half an hour later with the drumming of footsteps and someone shouting, “Hello? Anyone here?”
“Here!” I screamed. “I’m in here!”
I could feel tears and a smile starting to form; I tried my best to stop them in case this was all some cruel joke the mole people had orchestrated. The man came closer.
“Just you down here?”
“I think so,” I said, straining my neck to see who my savior was. “Karter?”
He looked starved and dirty. His hallowed cheeks and sunburned skin told me he had been put to work on the labor camp as I feared.
“Scotty-boy? Thought you were dead.”
I was about to ask him about Maria, and Rachel, and a hundred other people who I really didn’t want to know the fates of.
“No key, huh?” he said after quickly examining the door. He reached behind his back for something small. “My last one. Hope you’re worth it.”
He placed the unpinned grenade in front of the door and bounded away. I did the same.
POOOOM!
Then I lost my hearing.
Homos
Dear Planet Earth,
More noteworthy notes from the intriguing A History of the Inheritors:
“Homo soricomorpha and homo sapien evolved simultaneously and somewhat peacefully — at first. Their numerous shared characteristics are too dominant to ignore. They are nearly identical physically, both bipedal and with two upper appendages infinitely useful for their respective tools.
“However, the humans can easily be discerned by their comparatively colossal height. Though some fully-developed humans do resemble the Inheritors’ short stature, no significant studies have yet found a common link between these supposed ‘dwarves’ and homo soricomorpha. Humans also deviate in that they are virtually hairless. Both sexes grow ample hair on the tops of their heads, and some males do often sprout more on other parts of their bodies, yet they still contrast greatly with the superior Inheritors.
“Those who have had the opportunity to study both of these species up close generally agree that the most striking difference between them lies in the eyes. Humans are notorious for having a wide spectrum of pigments in their eyes due to the constant strain of adapting to both sunlight and natural darkness. This, in addition to their oftentimes darker skin, make them an odd sight next to the familiar whiteness of their evolutionary cousins. Interestingly, there are some cases of humans born with naturally light skin, hair, and eyes who display an extreme aversion to sunlight, though as with the ‘dwarves,’ it is unlikely that they share any ancestry with homo soricomorpha.”
No
Dear Planet Earth,
Something’s coming. Something big if Perry’s anxiety can be believed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s just screwing with me though; he’s been playing psychological warfare since this father-son kidnapping adventure began, and the fact that he can read this blog means I’m literally an open book. Maybe not literally.
He came in and took his usual seat at my small table. He was breathing heavily and his eyes were as big as golf balls. I was about to offer him a drink using my best Dr. No impression, which (I’m not ashamed to say) I’d been practicing for much of the day, but he beat me to the punch by asking if I’d been in contact with any of my military comrades.
I almost flat out told him no. Instead I asked what it mattered, would he really believe me either way. He didn’t seem to give that a lot of thought and just went into his other accusatory questions.
Did I know where my friends from LA were? Did I see who attacked the overturned truck outside the camp? Where exactly was the library we camped out at? I gave him some more contemplative non-answers, and he ignored every one of them.
We went on like this for about ten minutes until he finally looked me straight in the eyes and urged me not to try to leave. And then he left.
Ryan
Dear Planet Earth,
It was the first day in a while that Perry hasn’t come by to dispense fatherly advice or spread the Good Word about the mole people. He’s been trying to interpret passages for me from A History of the Inheritors, the ancient manifesto of our underground overlords. It’s all bullshit, and I’ve told him as much since he started his temptation to bring me to the dark side and join him so that we may rule the galaxy as father and son.
I did have another awkward conversation with my gruffy gaoler to make up for Perry’s absence. He dropped off my usual gruel at the usual time, and I asked him, “What’s your name?”
He looked through the window suspiciously.
“Why?”
“It seems important,” I said. “You feed me everyday, recharge my laptop, clean my bedpan. But I don’t even know what to call you.”
His gaze eased, perhaps understanding the bigger conflict on my mind.
“Ryan.”
I nodded.
“Well, nice to meet you, Ryan.”
I briefly considered offering him my hand. He was about to go, but I stopped him with another question.
“You have any kids, Ryan?”
“Look, pal, this ain’t the Marriott here. You’re not a guest and I’m not your friend. Any issues you got with The Big Guy are between you and him.”
He stormed off after that, leaving me with a half-full bedpan and dreams of a paternal relationship I never knew I wanted.
