I find myself comfortable here. It is cold, it is barren, but it is comfortable. It is mine. The ruins are left creaking on the windswept hill where my blood was spilled more times than I could care to count. We have an understanding, this land and I. I said once to the land "Land, I may spill my blood upon you for years and years, but I love you and we come to this understanding so that maybe you might love me", and I heard Land answer. Land's voice echoed through the trees and the long grass "So long as that we both might live, the soil on a thousand worlds will be your soil, the air will be your air, and your hot blood will nourish my cold weakening rivers".
It was 5 years after that when they came. My masters were taken away from me, Father beaten and imprisoned. Through the low door came the Officials. Manhattan Police was their mantra. Sincerely lying, they spoke to me. The dealing of slaves was illegal, they said. The world will soon be put to rights, they said. Don't worry, they said. No, Officials, I inwardly say, I will worry. You have taken from me all I ever had, all I ever owned or was told I owned. You took what little I own, because your laws grant you the power. I will worry, as will you.
No surprise really, my feeling towards the Officials isn't heartful. They stole Father and they stole my soul. I haven't told anybody this before, but I can tell you, Journal, because you have served me well these years -- I stole from them and I think I killed them. The Officials, Journal. They came in Two's inside the house, wave after wave, and the skills Father had taught me helped me to escape their grasp. I retook my possesions and fled.
I lived on the streets for I don't know how long, 4, maybe 5, months? Manhattan, the land of opportunity? The people are fake, you can tell by their eyes. It's somebody's eyes who tell it all. They weren't strong in any way. They were cowards, they imprisoned me, and together they banished me. I spent those good few months meeting a lot of people, most of whom screwed me around, beat me up, took what little possessions I had managed to gain. Luckily, the Capoeria Father taught me seemed to work for the Manhattan street fights. But nothing was going anywhere, and I wish Father were back. Then I met Sandra. Like me, she had no family. She was beautiful, with her dirty hair and grotty face, her eyes sparkling of pain and torment so gorgeous I have never seen in my life. Suffering seemed in its element in her eyes as an artform. Oh, we had fun together. She spoke such wisdom and truth. She often used to say to me, when I was recounting of Father, "Memories and our faith are all we have. If you ruin them, you'll only be ruining yourself". I decided from then on to live my life, whatever it is now. Freedom's not easy. Manhattan is often perceived as the planet without problems, the heart of Liberty, of strength and centre. You'd be wrong, my friend. We settled at a settlement just outside the city of Bronx, called OuterHarlem. My people were here -- the people who had fought through a lot of crap from the LPI and the Officials. We had been saved, spared from their wrath. I found a home here, pleasant and cosy. Sandra and I lived here together, and together we made our ventures into the Bronx -- we had fun, we had games, and most importantly, we had each other. But my life was still at a standstill. I wasn't going anywhere, and I felt this yearning inside me, but I did not know what it was for. The metallic flooring choked the Land, as did the people treading its ground with hard shoes. I needed to do something.
But what? A man by the name of Paulo came up to me. It was a Monday morning, I remember clearly. Cold, damp, as most Manhattan midwinters seem to be. Limping towards me on his wooden leg, he told me he knew Father.
My heart skipped a beat
<div align="right]He wouldn't answer any of my questions. He gave me 15,000 credits, and took a swig of something green.
"What do I do?", I appealed. He told me to look at the prison on California Minor, the Big Creek. I said my temporary goodbyes to Sandra ("I'll be back in a week or so") bought a starflier and, narrowly avoiding many a confrontation between Rogues wanting to steal my hull of food rations I had brought for myself.
California Minor was a dumphole, seeming like the backend of Liberty people seem to want to forget. A sort of horribly white Planet Pittsburgh. I had never been or even seen pictures before in my life. Getting a drink from the main facility bar, Land was rough to me, jostled me about. Land was in pain. A cut formed in my palm as my fist clenched. The prison station was a few hundred miles east of the main facility. I landed. It was nicer here. The same shade of white but with a purity to it, unmessed with, with the exception of the prison. Land was kind to me in this part, receiving me with welcome arms as my feet hit the soft snow. Seconds after landing an LPI officer has a gun to my head with full intentions of using it. I put up my hands and tell him "I am looking for Father". He does not understand, but instead of 'busting my brains full of LPI lead' he decides to take me inside. The jailer wheels from the window, and I again tell him "I am looking for Father". The jailer smiles, and tells me of how he had received a note that I was coming, the "Boy with no name" (Indeed, it was something I had never pondered, as many called me Scum or Filth. My brothers back in OuterHarlem didn't need names, and Sandra called me Dusty. It's a long story), and that he should take me somewhere. Eager for answers, I followed him. The smell of blood was overwhelming there, of putrid flesh. Rotting corpses littered the scene and for a moment in my naivety I could not see the outcome. The Jailer told me Father was over there. I ran over to where he pointed, still blindedly oblivious to the evident. Father lay there in the ice consuming him, the ground coloured pink where his wounds had not been healed. "Father?" He did not answer. "It's me." Why did he not answer?
Death was a difficult concept for me in general to handle. It's not something that strikes you all at once. You have to get slowly used to it, and then maybe that way it's healthy. I know I had killed and I had stolen back on Manhattan, but I had to. Maybe if the Officials hadn't come in I would never have had to deal with it. But when I was in Father's care, I wasn't responsible. Now, with His death all I had to blame was myself. The pink ice turned red with my venom. My instincts were to kill the Jailer and his guard where they stood. I did not. "Memories and faith are all we have" and I wasn't going to ruin them, Sandra. I apologised to Land, stood up, smiled and made my way back to the ship.
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The journey home was unexciting and dull. I felt weird. There was no cause in my life, no direction. I needed Sandra. Taking the trade lane from West Point to Manhattan, and on the intra-planetary skyroads towards OuterHarlem, I spot a fire in the distance. It is where I am going to. I arrive. It's rubble. It's all rubble. Paulo limps towards me. He recounts his story of the events. Shortly after my leaving, a huge Liberty bomber arrived in the skies above their heads (Paulo was at this point hunting in the Bronx). The Torpedo and Missile Salvo's took out the small town without warning. My people, their bones and flesh were ripped from their dirty bodies like ragdolls to the slaughter. Fire crews arrived, too late, and there were no survivors. So many people were lost. Including Sandra.
So I'm back again here. In the rubble, scouring over lost remains. Paulo's hand on my shoulder, and keys to a Patriot clasped in my right hand, my newly developed Identity Card in my left. Fortraso Bolivar, aged 17. "You're named after a hero, Bolivar" comes Paulo's voice as he looks at me, "of a strong race. Fortraso". Land swells up and meets me as I rise to my feet. "You will have your vengeance, Land. You have felt too much pain and seen too much injustice", and Land carries me and Paulo to our vessel.
Your dark moors by night is the unspoken sunshine of hope in the morning. Tomorrow you will be presented with a kid, whose forehead, swollen with newly growing horns, will predict the battles of love -- In vain: For the offspring of this playful flock will stain your cold rivers with red blood. Death will consume your land, and this kid, martyr to a forgotten cause, will lie in your streams forever, never rotting.
And we will sing in X Minor, our lack of hope of change.