The World from a Madman's Point of View

[pchwang]

Gregory Michaels stared out into the vast, eeriely green expanse that was Alaska space through one of the porthole-like windows that lined the secure levels of Prison Station Fairbanks. Strange, amoeba-like organisms floated mindlessly about in the mediumless void. Though Fairbanks was much more advanced that these creatures, something was clear though. This was their home. They were comfortable here, and Fairbanks was not.

Michaels chewed on the end of the cigar that the Deputy Director had insisted that he take. He had refused the light. After all, the stuff was horrible tasting and probably bad for his lungs as well.

This was a relegation.

A chewed up cigar fell to the ground. Humans did not belong here, and he should not been here. Gregory Michaels stared outside the porthole-like window. In a way, he was not so different from Rolf Kestner. Perhaps, if they got to know each other better, they could even be friends. Michaels mused at the probability for a few seconds before he heard a series of quick clicks. Heels, though Michaels.

He turned towards the sound and saw a young woman striding towards him, folder in hand. Michaels studied the young woman. Pretty, but intellectual, he thought. He decided to ignore her and turned his attention to one of amoeba-like creatures that had plastered itself to the surface of the station.

Michaels heard the clicks go past him, studying the creature. Suddenly, the clicks stopped.

"Is this yours?"

Michaels turned around to find the young woman holding up his chewed up cigar.

"Errr," began Michaels, "Ummm..."

"Well, this isn't a trash dump," said the woman sharply. She held the cigar out at Michaels.

"Thanks for the heads-up," smiled Michaels, putting the cigar back in his mouth.

She squinted at him. "That's been on the floor!"

"I've had dirtier."

The young woman shook her head, tossing some of her short golden brown hair behind her shoulder, and laughed at Michaels. Her voice had a charming, ringing tone that seemed to lighten the melancholy that seemed to permeate the entire base. Michaels couldn't help but smile.

"I'll take it out of my mouth if you'll let me buy you a drink," he said, holding the cigar between his teeth.

The woman laughed and nodded.

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"Kester, this is your cell," said Robert Lewis, the chief warden of Fairbanks. The man wore a standard Liberty Navy uniform. Unlike most of the prisons in Liberty space, Fairbanks was fully maintained by the Liberty Navy, not the LPI. After all, companies could not be trusted with prisoners like Rolf Kestner. Fairbanks was for the worst of the worst and those who really did not belong in prison. Essentially, it was where the Liberty bureaucracy kept those whom they did not want the public to know about. From a BPA officer who came close to uncovering a military coverup to a former mistress of a senator from Denver, Fairbanks housed them all.

Of course, the station was also used as a base for the Liberty fighter patrols in the area. Juneau base was close to the gate, but Fairbanks was further into the Alaska system. As a result, the station was well supplied, well-armed, and well defended, possessing five fighter wings.

Lewis walked into the room that would become Rolf Kestner's cell and checked the thin mattress and scanned every corner of the room. Kestner was dangerous, but he also required the tools of his trade. The guard was careful to look for anything in the room that could be used as some kind of weapon.

The Director of Defense and Lewis had made sure that Kestner would not be able to pull his usual tricks. The newly built prison liner Vanguardhad an answer: state-of-the-art prison cells designed to contain one prisoner. The room only had three walls, a ceiling, and a floor. The door was actually a modified, high density, molecular shield pioneered by Ageira Technologies that ran on an independent power source. This way, even if the Vanguard's engines failed, the shield would be maintained, and Kestner would have no way to escape.

The last time Kestner was kept in Sugarland, he had somehow managed to synthesize thermite from the iron in the bars of his cell, killing his cell mate and severely burning an unsuspecting prison guard. This time, they were sure that these incidents would not happen again.

Lewis scruitinized the room one last time. When he was sure that it was clear, he motioned for the other guards to move Kestner into the cell. The room did not even have an air vent. This time, Kestner would not escape, thought the guard. It was only a pity that the Director of Defense would not be able to see them off.

The guards shoved Rolf Kestner into the room with his feet and hand still chained. Kestner sat on the thin mattress and grinned at the guards. Snickering, Lewis pushed a button on a panel next to the cell wall and activated the shields.

"Stay put." Lewis pointed a menacing finger at Kestner. "Or I'll rip that smile off your face myself."

Kestner grinned wickedly.

Suddenly, Kestner lept from the mattress with amazing alacrity and slammed his mechanical left forearm into the shield wall. The wall turned a fuzzy yellow and screamed with excitement. Lewis and the other guards jumped back. Kestner grinned and laughed, returning to the mattress and lying down.

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"And of course, I told him that it would never happen," said the young woman to Michaels, laughing over a cup of Liberty ale. They were the only people in the small, but cozy bar on Fairbanks.

Michaels laughed, not exactly getting the joke. In a sense, it was quite funny, since he was just about as giddy as the young woman.

"You know," began Michaels, but he was interrupted by a heavy, inhuman, hand on his shoulder. Michaels turned around.

"Greg Michaels?" asked a voice. Michaels leapt up. It was Kestner!

"Rolf Kestner?" exclaimed Michaels, "What the Hell?!"

He turned to the young woman, who was still double over, laughing.

"I think it's time for a little bodily restoriation," said Kestner, grinning wildly. With sudden speed, Kestner seized Michael's forehead with his left arm.

Michaels sat up in a cold sweat, somewhat dazed. Nightmare, he thought., panting. Just a nightmare.

"You okay?"

Michaels turned and glanced at Sophia, who was still tucked in next to him.

"Yeah," he murmured, "I'm fine. I need a drink."

"Okay," she replied.

Getting out of bed, Michaels walked into the small bathroom in his quarters. He stared at the mirror and put his hand to his forehead. Nothing there, nothing gone. It was just a dream, he thought. Just a dream.

---

[7:42:05 PM][6:51:36 PM] Igor (Smokey): btw terry
[6:51:48 PM] Terrance Cooper: Ye?
[6:52:00 PM] Igor (Smokey): nothin
[6:52:03 PM] Igor (Smokey): just sayin btw
[6:52:05 PM] Terrance Cooper: <_<

Johnny_Haas: you shot anti criuse speed rockets!!!
Johnny_Haas: but why????
Johnny_Haas: ??
Johnny_Haas: why you shoot criuse speed rockets?