Kit

October 12, 2002- 2003

Bleep.

CH. 1

G’s mind was blank at the moment. Blissfully blank, free of any thoughts, feelings or flying fish. At that particular moment, she sat on a rather stiff bunk bed, listening to chitchat of Korean students down the hall, and trying to relax. If such thing as relaxation was even possible in this wind-up community. Through the window, grayish light seeped in, throwing rays of blinking substance on a sleeping bag, table and all the other contents of the room.
And the room was, mildly stating, a mess. Piles upon piles of clothing, cardboard boxes, half-done reports, broken flower pots and mostly-eaten TV dinners took up the space right in front of a massive steel door, (always opened, so as to not cause too much of a fire hazard. Though, in G’s opinion, piles of junk alone would take anywhere from 5 minutes to an hour to cross, and by that time, the place would have already burned down to the ground.) Clumsy-looking bunk bed hugged the right wall- G’s domain, and in the left corner, separated from reality by a symbolic wall of cloth, dwelled the mysterious Roomie.
G twitched, as a gray shape wandered into the room. Dark figure, with long, dirty blonde hair falling down to its rear, squeaked upon seeing her, and, showing grace and agility impossible with the figure’s bulk, dived behind a Persian rug, suspended from ceiling on the far left. The rug served as a first among a bunch of hangings, walls and booby traps that separated the dwelling of this particular individual from the outside world. As all Roomies, G’s own has just shown up one day, waved, produced an enormous amount of substance from the two ruffled, old bags and has been living in the far left corner ever since, emerging only for the sake of classes and toilet causes. G’s long since given up on trying to figure out the Roomie’s background, preferences, name or gender (she wasn’t too sure that this creature knew her own, either. Or that the creature even cared a whole bunch.)- in the long run, it didn’t really matter. The only conflict they’ve ever had was over a goldfish incident, over a month ago, - after which G made sure to explain, while standing next to the rug, that crucifying a goldfish (especially –her goldfish) and hanging it on the door with letters “Enter=Suffer” in fake blood above it, is not acceptable. With that, the incident ended.
As G discovered just a few weeks later, making a scandal over the goldfish was a waste of time: for no goldfish has ever stayed alive with a resident point around. And there were plenty of those: apparently, someone’s forgotten the P-rule and exclaimed, “ You have a point!” in broad daylight. And so, a point has appeared in the dorm. It could be seen every day, washing itself in the sink, marching, tail-up, with someone’s chewed-up shoe down the hall, or nibbling on a leftover Snickers bar. For unapparent reason, the point has appointed room #1 its official layer, and has been dragging junk there ever since.
G acquired an amused expression, looking at the latest addition, just being squeezed through the doorway- a wide-screen TV with the owner attached, still trying to pry it from point’s miniature jaws. Of course, that was a hopeless battle- despite their size, all points were extremely stubborn (not to mention amazingly strong), and the stuff that’s gotten into their nest stayed there till they disappeared back into wherever points went after this world. The only negative thing about the resident point was that it didn’t want to disappear, but hung about, the room, reorganizing things and sang quietly in the evenings.
G looked blankly at the owner of the TV, who was staring at her expectantly, and left a room with a loud sigh.

CH.2.

Its not as though the community of Frequent Creek was amounting to anything like a community of claustrophobic sugar gliders, stuck in a 2-by-2 feet cage. This community was twice as bad. Or that’s what G’s been thinking ever since her first year here. Her first hour, in fact. Stuffed into a small, closet-like space with ten other kids, and hearing some random mumble of the instructor, explaining the basic system and rules of the school. Since then, it hasn’t gotten much better. Three classes a day, project and PE. Janitorial work and community events. Every so often, the normal flow of things was interrupted by some world event or another, but in a few hours to days, the community would fall back into its monotonous buzz, droning through another week, month, year. The couches on which the students sat were leathery, green and dusty.
G stared at the ceiling. That room had a large window, facing the cornfield and polka-dotted cinderblocks, curtsey of one of the older alumni students, returning for one occasion or another, and deciding that the “Dorm Room #1” wasn’t dorm-like or spotty enough.
And the 20 minutes in silence, every morning.
Soul-engulfing silence.
Thought-provoking space between nothing and nothing, a piece of ‘now’, condensed into a tiny fraction of her life. According to some graduate from the previous year, the only way to avoid this silence was to completely skip it. In the thick air of the room, where 500-some people were perpetually stuck once a day, thoughts coiled and swam, much like dust in the ray of light. Slow swirling of color; or whatever it was that made these odd things visible, attracted people’s attention and distracted them from doing what they were actually supposed to be doing: seeking the inner light. According to one of the few conversation G’s ever had with The Roomie, there was no light. Or God. Or anything along these lines.
From what G understood, Roomie’s role as a character in this odd scene of life was to exist. Not that it was a bad role; though according to piles of philosophy books stacked right behind the first ‘rug of defense’ in Roomie’s corner, that notion of surviving has been trampled and left to die in dust right after a few human individuals decided to become rich and invent God. For herself, G wasn’t quite sure as to what to believe in. Stranded among the group of rather liberal-minded and strange individuals, being a drone was hard. And not very productive as a general. She did have proof of thought and some form of human soul- her self-knowledge and 17 years of unconscious existence, ending with a single year of consciousness.
Again, according to the Roomie, consciousness was an irrelevant term. “A term meant for scaring little children. Big scary monsters under the bed are going to come and get you.. How does one perceive those monsters if they are always surrounded by this thick blanket of other people’s standards and ideals? Do you feel much when you’re a drone? Or are you just stimulating a natural response, much like any instinct-related ones? Fear, anger, passion. Shame, strong desire to be an alpha individual, jealousy. So simple.” That was spoken by a trench coat clad figure sitting in the shadow of its own carpet one of those depressing winter days. “However, it is safer to be one of many and an average.” G replied to that, downing another can of Sprite.
“Would you have lived in this world and not feel anything or see color and feelings blossom all around us, even if it was for just a year or three?”
“In the end, we all die, so either one would be rather pointless.” She tossed a can across the room at the trashcan and could still remember it bouncing off with a light aluminum clink, roll across the floor and being attacked/torn to shreds by a resident point, who was just defending its territory.
“Are you disturbed by your own ability to perceive and think about your ability to be disturbed so?” Playing with a lock of long, curly hair, Roomie did not seem to be all that concerned with the idea.
“Who isn’t?”
“You’ll become average drone or an outcast once you leave here, you know.”
“I know”.
Looking back at the conversation, G felt a tang of bitter resentment on the entire system and how strongly its been etched into some of their minds. Now that she had a chance to think about it deeply, Roomie did everything to live against the system. Crucified goldfish and corner-of-the-carpet just proved it. Trying to find its own identity and individuality. Along with many other people in this school, city, country. Going along the same line as many others: acting rebellious and even outright wrong.
Smiling bitterly at the irony, G continued to stare at the pinkish dots on the ceiling.

A point stuck its head out of her backpack and squeaked. G decisively pushed it back down, jerking her hand out of there as soon as it’s connected with point’s razor-sharp claws. Point’s way of protesting.
Somewhere in the front of the classroom, the teacher droned on about advanced biology quiz later in the week and finally moved down to hand out the review sheets.
G blinked dully, staring at the pile of pages in front of her. “10. Double sided?”
Comments followed like ripples on the water after a pebble dared to intrude upon its surface. “Didn’t know we’ve studied genetics here..”
“Wow. Happy college prep land!”
“I’m optimistically doomed.”
“If I’ll pay you a 1k $, will you let me take it later?”
Point finally managed to plop out and down, viciously attacking the notebook on the floor in front of it. G blinked, absent-mindedly, watching the tiny apparition destroy a semester’s worth of notes. Things like that seemed irrelevant after a while.
Walking up the stairs into blinding blue light, she reflected that the entire life has been much like that. Watching things happen and walking through events, like a bad soap-operish novel. “I see people passing through me. Casting shadows above me. Catching light. In the darkness, where nothing is for sure. They are like angels, bright. Containing light.” Proclaimed an apparently male, unfamiliar voice right behind her, the sentence-followed by a light, musical chuckle. This chuckling sound, dark velvet against her back, followed her all the way to the dormitory. Comforting in a strange way, it brought a feeling of dislocation and disassociation. “That too.” She shrugged a bit, continuing on her way up the stairs. There was no use looking behind- whoever said it wouldn’t have been there after she as much as blinked. Thus was a property of a place where thoughts swam like leeches through water. For quite a while after coming to Frequent Creek, she thought that thoughts were just like points, brought into this world and leaving it in a few days or weeks. After encountering some rather strange ones in the most unlikely places, she changed her mind. Lurking for centuries, feelings lingered over locations associated with them, spoken by many voices of many people, often mentioning names. Over time, they’ve become deformed and the sounds mutated, but meaning stayed the same.
Walking through some parts of the campus was much like swimming in a hot tub. Most of the time, not literally.
Point meowed, demanding for someone to open the door. Shivering, G reached out and fulfilled the request, stepping into the twilight of the building as well. Couches lined the walls, and quiet clicking of the keyboard was heard from the secretary’s office. A few individuals lurked around, their conversation, a murmur through the silence and gloom.
“Not much of a cheery place, is it?” Asked the same exact voice. To some extent, it seemed a lot more material.
“Its not.” G checked the message board for anything of relevance, than turned toward the stairs of her dorm. A pale mark of question intruded upon her ever-present contemplation of past and present events. All was known in this small group, and the speaker wasn’t anyone known.
“I’m trying to make a conversation here!” Stated the voice, gaining even more substance behind it.
“Checked into the office?” G’s eyes were now firmly focused on the floor, for, according to her own experience, looking at the source of unseen was as bad as looking for the source of a thought, only just a bit more dangerous.
“Sorry, ‘m on an appointment.” It’s now gained a cheery quality, and seemed to relocate a bit to the right. “This is Frequent Creek community dorms, correct?”
“What do you want?” Appointment business (presumably, nonexistent in this section of Iowa) did not raise G’s personal feelings and emotions out from whatever deep water they’ve been thrown in with a big rock around their neck, though it did come pretty close to doing so. Heading toward the room, she reinstated to herself that this week; no bathrooms or telephones have been broken so far.
“Nothing.” Replied a voice, moving once again – this time, to block her path. She continued staring at the floor, or, rather, at the tips of somewhat business-looking shoes. “I’ll be haunting here up to further notice from the management.”
G raised an eyebrow, finally looking up at the speaker. One thing that was plainly not possible in this location was certainly here. Alive. Dazzling fanged smile of a young man, by all looks-someone of an alpha drone type.
“Great. Sure. Yah.” G nodded and smiled politely, ducking around the shape. Just to freeze in mid-step, and turn her head to face him again. “Haunt?”
“Vampire of boredom, at your service!” With an elaborate bow, the guy picked up and kissed her hand.
“Since when did we need one of your kind around?” G pulled out a pink ball of (clean) tissue, rubbing her hand with it, more to remove the feeling of dullness than the actual symbolic feeling of such a kiss.
“You didn’t. Management thought that I could do some fieldwork… I think they’ve mentioned something about attitude. Can’t seem to remember.” He shrugged, staring past her at the poster of a half-naked female group, labeled “Senior-class 1994 Shower Party!”
G nodded silently and continued down the hall, turning at her room and carefully avoiding looking at the following shadow.
“Yo, roomie? We’ll be having a defective vampire around from now on.. You mind?”
The grunt coming from behind the rugs could’ve meant anything, though G calmly assumed the worst.

Ch. 3

Snow sifted from the sky onto the open expanses of bare ground and G was annoyed. Very, very annoyed. Homework was done, projects-completed and room-mostly clean. But, point was hibernating on top of her mug of tea and Vamp has grown increasingly happy and fun loving. Which was, according to the original purpose of that creature, a bad thing. Though it’s kind of hard to look at the original purpose when your room is being thrashed by a dozen students, attempting to play football, free-style.
Opposition to fun, happiness and public-school likeness has arisen from more than one corner of the community: every evening, a group of students gathered in the library, did their schoolwork and bitched about the fact that the vamp was stealing all of their sulking and lurking time. And every evening, the group decreased in numbers. There have yet been no attempts to chain the newcomer to some tree and burn him, and G suspected that the vamp would tear out the tree instead and laugh at their futile attempts. Yet, every day brought a piece of change, varying from bright pink couches to actually clean windows to the main (something unheard of in G’s lifetime.). Dronedom was coming.
“When are you planning to drain the fun out of this place, again?” G asked one night, while sitting on top of point’s TV and attempting to tear a wrapper off a package of cupcakes. “When its full moon, the time is right and I am bored, of course!” Proclaimed the vamp from the opposite corner of the room, surrounded by a wall of preppy-looking, oou-ing and aaa-ing girls.
Roomie peeked out of its carpeted corner, throwing an empty soda can somewhere into that crowd “Then get them out of my room, at least.”
“As you wish, my dear!”
G stared at the line of marching people for a while, trying to calculate something in her head. “How the heck did he fit half the school in here?”
Roomie shrugged, emerging from the carpets fully. Clad in robe and wielding yet another can of coke, it’s represented a formidable opponent. “He must be stopped.”
“Amen.” G’s dry chuckle echoed through now-empty expanse of the room. Outside, the snow still drifted in silence, spreading tendrils of white-blue over the dark earth.
With a ground-shaking roar, Roomie made its first move: beat the point out of its oblivion with an exceptionally precise (half-full) can of coke. Point squealed. Roomie dove behind the carpet. And chaos was upon them.

A few hours later, picking up stray pieces of semi-wearable clothing and mostly-squished cupcake packs, G wondered what happened.
Loud squealing noises still issued from the hallway, as the angry point continued to thrash the campus. Gunshots and sirens were distinct above the noise, as well as more screams and Roomie’s battle cry.
“A.. Mess.” Commented Vamp, wandering back into the room and shaking his gloved finger at G. “Isn’t there something in the code of rules about not having a flaming TV squeezed into your mattress?”
The TV, which successfully crackled and spat under her bed chose exactly that moment to burst into full flame. G shrugged and went out to get the fire extinguisher. “Life goes on.” “Woe, to my beloved and hand-picked surroundings, who went running into the walls and jumping out the windows as the blue-haired beast bore down upon them! Woe to my House of FQC, which defeated its purpose and turned into something exactly opposite of boredom! Woe, woe, woe…” Vamp’s proclamations followed her down the hall and into the bathroom. Which, of course, was stuffed chock-full of people. Who desperately wanted to get out, and could not decide which way to turn. Bluish-pink smoke floated above and over all, giving the people’s faces surreal look of somebody almost nonexistent. Perhaps, none of them were. But then, G couldn’t think of any other way to explain the prevailing scent of sweat in the air.
As she reached for the miniature fire extinguisher on the wall, three things registered, crystal-clear, in her brain. Firstly, there were no working fire extinguishers in the school. Fire was just never the case. Spreading one, anyway. Something in the air tended to keep it in check, or lead it to certain locations, allowing it to blossom in the usual, expected areas. Secondly, all the people have finally located the exit and were scrambling frantically for it, herself-on everybody’s way. Thirdly, there was a rather upset point in the doorway.
For a single split second before any action could take place, G’s also realized that she was not wearing matching socks.
The people raced through the doorway and walls, stampede of ethereal images, only given color by her own imagination. Fire extinguisher dropped down, resting reassuringly in the pale palm of her hand, and the point leaped, its’ jaws-opened wide, at the stampede of ghosts. Just to receive a full can of something in the snout.
The fuzzy ball of blue and pink rolled down the hallway, away from the bathroom, squeaking angrily. Not typical point behavior, but then, again, G couldn’t have cared less. According to configurations of the sinks and stalls and the color of floor tiles (semi-clean, no mushrooms) the bathroom was not a female one. And, if so, she definitely had worse things to worry about at the moment.
It seemed to be a good afternoon for realizations: just another one popped into her head as she stood there, on bluish tiles, calmly observing the dust specks float in the beams of light from the under-ceiling windows. It was quiet. Too quiet. Worrisomely quiet.
Turning around, G almost bumped into a slender form of a Vamp, who has been standing there, as of frozen solid, with the exact same bewildered expression she was wearing right now. “This wasn’t here before..” With that, Vamp flicked a handful of auburn hair out of his face and tapped on the sink with a free left hand. “Nice stuff.”
His finger left a clean, white trail. “Dusty, too.”
“Life goes on”. Shuddering, G turned back to the doorway. Or the lack of. “.. or not. Did you put out the TV?”
Vamp practically glided from one corner to the other, turning into the shower stalls. His voice, however, carries. “It put itself out. Don’t think that point is going to be happy, but it’d just have to find another one….” The sentence ended with something akin a loud “!”
Looking at the tiles, G wondered if cupcakes were really better fried. Light in the windows began to dim, seemingly seeping into cracks and darker corners, enclosing the bathroom in complete and total blackness.
Standing in the one tiny spot of light remaining, G also wondered if it was time to be bored.
Boredom, as many other emotions, comes from the heart. It isn’t a seeking honey-touchy feeling, nor is it a boiling cuddly ball of rage thing. Its something that makes you seat down and whine, for hours at an end. Or sleep. For the current situation, neither horror or panic seemed viable; confessing her eternal love (and the lack of) for Vamp nor trying to get herself out of this place was out of question. Boredom remained.
Leaning against the wall-that-was-once-door-frame, G contemplated on panic. For a moment, it actually seemed like a good idea- running up and down the room, breaking all the glassy and breakable things and squealing her lungs out. Unfortunately, it wasn’t very productive and was also an energy waster. So, boredom was definitely there for the meanwhile. But then, again, thinking was also an option…
Embracing her thoughts, G almost avoided hearing the last outcry for help, coming from the general direction of shower stalls. As she straightened up and looked around the corner, a limp, outstretched hand was just disappearing behind one of the curtains. G raised an eyebrow. Since panic was definitely not an option, moving the curtain and looking what’s behind it seemed like a good idea.
A thin stream of blood leaked out from under it, reforming into a small puddle in the middle of the passageway. Blood was strangely purple in color, chrome-tinted and glossy. Its stench was bittersweet, much like some exotic fruit or acid.
“No little male bonding jokes, please.”- muttered G, tagging on the curtain, which promptly swept aside to reveal two highly amused people, holding each other’s mouths as to not laugh. Taking a stance before them and spreading her arms out in an aggressive come-forth stance, G wondered if it was time to get another bunk bed.
A cavity behind Vamp and the other gave a decent outlook on cornfields, along with dim crimson fluffs of clouds , reflecting the setting sun. Partially, it was blocked by myriad of wires and cables, snaking into a box-like thing bolted to the side of the school itself. Judging by the position of the trees and lack of other buildings, this living space could have only been the forbidden room #19, solid black door of which has decorated the end of the hallway since the beginning of times and the interiors of which bore creepy crackling noises once in a while. The door, of course, has also been bolted, chained and nailed solid a few years back.
In the unbearable depth of the sky above, a massive snow-giant still dropped its last specks of white onto the frozen ground.
“Why are we here and how did we get here, is my question.” With that, G glared at the second person, a seemingly male individual in baggy pants and shirt, whose fingers were seemingly unconsciously tapping into the keyboard of a small laptop computer, placed directly on the floor.
Blood was no longer dripping from Vamp’s self-inflicted wounds, and he was also the one who responded. “Freak, here, has been locked in for the past year or so. He’s saying that he’ll help us if we’ll also get him and his equipment out of here.”
G continued to glare at the peculiar individual, who calmly returned her stare with blank look from underneath a pair of solid-looking wire-rimmed glasses. “Why should we need your help, again?”
Vamp poked at the wall, coming off with a dirty finger and a clean streak on the mostly-gray surface. “Finding the door, mainly.”

Ch. 4

G did not understand the idea of male bonding time. It seemed that in only a few seconds, any two human males could communicate an infinite amount of useless info between them and , incidentally, become either best buds or worst enemies. She also wondered if the following concept applied to vampires, and vampires of boredom in particular: considering that vampirism was basically a disease effecting the blood, and the form for boredom did not have a cure and influenced the brain quite a lot, probably in the worst way possible.
Apparently, it did apply. Along with a new bunk bed, the free corner of the room magically transformed into something akin to a military base, stock-full of wires and odd objects. A free wireless web access to all the members of the room was established. Which was, by the way, getting exceedingly crowded, especially since the point decided that the server did not have enough shiny things attached and been dragging in everything from candy wrappers to mirrors, and arranging the latter in the most reflective (read: blinding) manner.
Other than that, all was well in the room #1. 3/4th of the year was over, and spring break dawned upon them in a way a red-tailed hawk looms above a terrified field mouse, which started its life only a few weeks ago. Going home, or, at least, to the house of someone you knew (or did not), was required..
Either way, G did not know of any legal place she could stay, since the preposterous idea of friends has been abandoned in the first month and the first year of school and she hasn’t heard from her family since that very first summer. In the deeper corner of her soul, she wasn’t even sure that they did exist. PC freak’s idea of spontaneous human generations had to take its roots from somewhere, after all.
PC Freak, after a little domesticalization, turned out to be quite a loveable person, soul-mate of the Vamp and an amazingly shy and quiet guy, who wasted his days pouring over next years’ worth of homework, playing counterstrike against the community of Norwegian programmers and who, sometimes, could be caught serenely browsing porn with a small, ironic smile on his face. It didn’t seem apparent, in fact, that any of the inhabitants were concerned with their spring break plan, till G actually decided to plea for some sort of a shelter of her own.
That request, when announced, was received with a wave of panic: Apparently, Vamp’s forgotten all about his initial assignment to spread boredom to the place, while PC_f’s been stuck in room #19 for too long to even remember his home phone number. Point , of course, decided that two shrieking people were not enough and added its own high-pitched wails. For a change, Roomie remained perfectly calm, whipping out a small card out of a spiffy leather wallet, dangling from a solid-looking chain on its neck.
With a facial expression, composed carefully into a smirk, it announced that “Residents didn’t have to leave”.
“Didn’t know you were a staff member..” Muttered G, looking quizzically at the overflowing closet. “Wish we’d get more closet space instead of bed space..” A stream of migrating caterpillars parted in three steady streams around her feet, continuing on its way out the door. Roomie replied with an unlikely for it tap-dance. “Whoever said that I was one?”
A loud squeaking noise brought their attention to the far right corner of the room, where a shrouded-in-shadows Freak proceeded to wrestle his wireless card from the deadly ball of blue and pink. His eyeglass-clad muzzle twitched in a grimace, glancing up. “That means we could just stay here and have you host us?” A momentary break was all that the point needed, as it gave the situation last hearty pull and bounced off with the card to the location where it was most needed. (Aka about a meter away, between a piece of broken mirror, a mirror in perfect condition and another piece of broken mirror.)
G stretched out on the lower bed, contemplating over the warmth of cotton pajamas and a poem, written on the bottom of the upper bunk with some green markers. “Why not, actually? We could get our own munchies and party the entire week. It’d be fun.”
Roomie muttered something about required activities and slithered out to class, leaving the smell of mothballs and carpet cleaner drifting through the room.
“We could, couldn’t we…?” Timid question, pronounced by Freak’s rustling voice, drifted through the air as well, firmly supported by the rooms’ smell and atmosphere, which, alone, was highly unlike that of any other four-person living space.
G glanced down at him, sitting on the floor cross-legged and bare-chested, with black, somewhat bulky headphones crowning his head and that odd half-grin, just starting to disappear off his face. “Get your mind, out of the gutter, duder.”
“My mind can’t survive without it.” Glance was returned with one of those rare porn-browsing smiles, although the guy’s eyes were already on the screen, and, thus, it did not count as anything directed at herself.
After a moments’ thought, G diverted her attention on the poem and read the first few lines out-loud.
“One could sing of heroes long gone..
And read books of those who never exited.
Then continue through icy path in existence
Leave a lifetime of stories behind..”
Further lines seemed harder and harder to distinguish, fading away into the darkness of the wood.
“Know who wrote that?” Asked G, scratching the fading lines and not really expecting an answer.
“Don’t you know?” A pair of coffee-colored eyes was on her in a second, searching for some sign of recognition.
“Nah.. that was before my time.”
“It was written by this one guy about role playing games. That was before computers were cheap and easy to get. Right after Tolkien’s rage was on and a bunch of tabletop rpgs started springing up. He was trying to capture the essence of feelings involved in those things. In a way, he’s succeeded. Or, at least, the tune to that one was catchy.” After some shuffling and sound of falling objects, a hand with exceptionally long fingers waved a diskette in front of G’s face. “Have more of his stuff, if you want. They’re pretty common as forwards.”
“Nah.. don’t even have a computer anymore.” G shrugged it off, rolling over to face the wall and attempting to catch some Zs before her next class.
She dreamed of wrecked remains of that particular piece of technological equipment resting somewhere in a creek, brought there by currents from upstream, where epic battle between reality and text proceeded ages ago.

G was bored. Bored to the point of no return, to the point of clawing her eyes out and playing basketball with the eyeballs, bored to the point of trying to investigate the contents of Roomies’ corner. Boredom, unfortunately, has been one of the main states of the room ever since the spring break started. The group, munchies, and a blue-with-pink-stripes point were stuck in , legally, Roomie’s domain of personal, paid-for campus space, which did not include the bathrooms or any source of flowing water.
And thus, finals for the block were over, homework’s been turned in, and the spring break’s been going for entire twenty minutes. Nevertheless, G was horribly, terribly bored. With lack of things due, things to avoid till the last minute in order to weed as much fun out of the sacred semi-free time, her brain was slowly suspending into the state of dull, nagging depression. Points’ pile and the server were decorated with half a dozen of randomly piled up grocery bags. Brown plastic material of them rustled each time the above-mentioned point passed, in its everlasting vigil over the hoard. In the far right corner, methodical clicking of the keyboard announced a presence of Freak, enveloped in his domain of MUDs and forums, Roomie was, presumably, reading philosophy books behind the carpet.
Then, a voice came up above, in a manner so much like that of some sort of a divine intervention: “What do you know.. more kid make-up!” G found herself staring at an upside-down screen of a tiny TV and a wall of hair behind it, signifying that Vamp wanted to share this particular bit of commercials.
“Ever been to one of those fancy Italian restaurants where they serve deserts by spoonfuls and pour sauce all over it to make it seem bigger?” Asked G.
“Can’t say I have. What brings that up?” Two raised eyebrows, pointy nose and odd, off-color eyes would’ve looked rather cool, were they right side up. Upside down, they merely looked as though a steamroller run over that particular face and some house-wife hung it upside down, so all the features could get run down by a favor of gravity.
“Dunno. I think I want some of that.”
G picked a splinter on one of the bedposts, letting her eyes rest on its dark brown gloss. Letting inner fears and worries out came hard to such as her. “It’s getting boring in here.”
“I say we go on a quest.” Proclaimed Vamp, shutting off the TV and bouncing off the upper bunk.
“BS.” Hollered Freak from the corner, shrill voice that physically hurt the ears.
“Eh?”
“Those bastards!!” Getting up, freak paced in circles for a bit, before resting his case in front of a now-upright group of two. Looking at him, G couldn’t help but smile: a guy with headphones, in boxers , hugging an armful of printouts couldn’t look more amusing.
“You know what they did?! They cancelled my account! Why? For looting a damn corpse!” Sinking to the floor, he continued to mutter something about “damn Tibia”.
“A quest is, indeed, in order.” Nodded G, looking at a human being falling apart before her eyes. “Gather the minions.”
The Quest was a long-standing tradition in some of the quieter rooms in the dorms, in the case of any extreme emergency, such as boredom. Once a quest was called, a game master was announced and a session of nonstop role-playing (with reality factors, and, sometimes, substance or alcohol consumption) was started. This role-playing generally lasted till all of the participants passed out from lack of sleep, food, liquid or oxygen.
The records of every single game and every character were kept in a large blue notebook, suspended from the ceiling in the middle of the main hallway by a force field of unknown-to-most nature and origin. (Some NASA scientists visited and attempted to examine this mysterious creation, but quickly retreated after having their fingers singed by the same force that, to this day, kept Freaks everywhere up for 72 or more hours, staring at rows of words rolling down computer screens.)
In mere ten minutes, the game board was opened, the dice were out and four participants were set and ready to spend the next few hours in another verbal dimension.

Small streams of clear water ran down her skin, around and over the breasts and down the stomach, engulfing her body in illusionary warmth, impossible in the deep space she was currently floating in. Shower cabin walls vibrated slightly from the output of generators, located right behind the toilet unit. That used to bother her, as any machine-based, unnatural vibration. That fear, of sorts, came out from her first encounter with ‘civilization’, as it is: smell of explosives, sounds in the far distance, miles upon miles of wrecked forest. No birds, no animals, no food.
That seemed like decades ago, that last journey through treetops of giant munkoiu trees, splinter of branches as they splintered under a constant stream of bullets, fall, or almost a fall.. Catching herself at the last second, grabbing and releasing some vines , bounding onto the ground and crouching in attacking position. Just to discover that there was no one to attack. Trenches left by the giant metallic things and smoking remains of trees, plus some hard-coated bodies, fried to the point of being uneatable. At that time, she didn’t know what a war was. Neither did she know a reason for such disruption of her own personal little world of humidity, bugs, meat and nice clear creeks, making their way down below the canopies, in the dusk of a tropical forest. For days, situation stayed the same. Loud noises in the distance, and, once, she even caught a glimpse of something huge, breaking through the forest without seemingly any knowledge of well-used path just a little to the left of its current location. In just weeks, she found herself on a small island of still surviving vegetation, irritated and hungry.
That last half-fall brought something entirely different into her world: a moan of unknown to her origin, and an appendage blindly groping out from an edge of a crater. Getting a handhold, pulling an entire body up. A body much like any of those dead ones on the ground, except for this one actually breathed. Most of it was muscular, with burnt remains of clothing and a shiny thing for one of the arms. The latter made her cringe; it seemed that most of those shiny things did not bode well to her environment, her food, or herself.
At that point, she decided to investigate, and, crab-crawling out into the clearing, suddenly found herself gazing into the eyes of a living human being.
That train of thought was promptly disrupted by a further shaking of the cabin: this time, from the pounding on the shower door and muffled yells. Something along the lines of “Get the hell out, others need to shower!”
Shrugging and turning the shower-handle to the right (as learned the hard way), she stepped out onto the fake wooden floor of the ‘common’ room, if that is what one would call a sleeping, eating and loafing around area about the same size as two average closets combined. A neat plastic-coated ladder was already dropped down from somewhere up above, where the members of the crew had their bunks. She made her way, dripping, onto the opposite corner of the ‘room’, ignoring an angry glare of Volkov, the manager and prime director of this particular crew, ship and organization, all in one.
With a disdainful sniff and a comment of “Cover your rear, while you still have some left.”, he stepped into the shower cabin, closed, and slammed the door. She didn’t mind. For all it was worth, those were just words and she just could not understand how anything can be seriously tied to any intentions. Words are just words, after all. Sort of a trial runs of actions, but also very helpful at telling others what is where and begging for food. She blinked, a couple of times, dropping that line of thought and looking over herself in the mirror. (Which was, incidentally, one of the good things about civilization, allowing one self-browsing at any time, almost anywhere.)
Orange bristled hair, short enough to stand straight up, small round nose and high cheekbones, fierce orange eyes, like slits in the skull, where sparks of anything from curiosity to violent rage tended to show at any time, anywhere. Colorless lips and a sharp, fox-like shape of face gave her slightly fox-like features, although the rest of the body moved in a way that was more feline than anything. She trailed a finger down the ribs, counting them. Will said that bones were not supposed to show on females. She didn’t see how that would be possible: for her, they always have and always will, no matter how much he tries to stuff her with civilized foods. Sure, she’ll eat everything that’s offered: her hunger can not be satiated with anything but raw flesh, most of the vegetable stuff just passes right through her system, adding the need for toilet use, something that she personally thought of as silly and outrageous. Though, if, as Will said, there were places where people literally lived on top of each other, she would’ve been willing to adapt.
A head stuck out from above, catching her lost in her own thoughts, straightforward and oblivious as they might be, once again. “He’s right about the clothing part. Put something on, will you?”
She glanced up, noting familiar sarcastic grin from the other –normal- human being in this small, closed space, and , with a sigh, began to pull on a pair of tights. A white sleeveless shirt followed. Clothing did serve well as an isolator from cold, but at all other times, the other members’ notions of trying to get her into something feasible were some of the very few things that seriously irritated her. After a long and tiresome argument with Will, that lasted almost eight minutes and during which she used and reused all of her known vocabulary to try and make him see her point, they’ve finally decided on as little clothing as possible, such as a sleeveless and tights, and a pair of sandals. She liked the latter way more than either of the former: shoes did come in handy. Volkov’s offer of a thong/bra outfit was firmly refused after a decision that strings are easy to snap on things, and upper body is not meant to be hugged by anything, even if its pink and fluffy.
And the scents.. scents of metal, fake leather, wood and immortal knows what else were everywhere. Soaking the air in a way much worse than any swamp gas or decaying flesh she’s ever scented. Fixing the buckle on a leather construction called a belt, she used the free arm to propel herself onto the top bunk, into the vision field of her comrade and the captain, pilot and maintenance crew of this ship: William Mediocre Gibson.
“Not control place?” She cocked her head at him, curling up in ‘her’ corner of the bunk, pulling the sleeping mat and an inconvenient tangle of belts, assigned for strapping people in so they wouldn’t fall out during turbulence and break their necks. She always thought that those were meant as a punishment to all non-working members of the three-person crew: neither Will nor Volkov wore them.
“Autopilot”. Came a short reply from a bulky occupant, currently attempting to get comfortable with his out of place metal appendix, mildly reminding her of those cannons in old history books. Of course, as she was fascinated to discover, the ‘hand’ had many more uses, doubling up as machine gun, navigational aid and a laptop computer, not to mention a whole set of screwdrivers and a few other things she’s never witnessed but was sure to, in the next couple of weeks, month or years.
She nodded, stretching out and hand and scratching his rib, for little reason other than touching something alive. Days upon days of book and web surfing without much contact with living things made her edgy, wishing for more and more food, for sunbathing on wide branches under rays of leaf-tinted, green light, for anything of old.
Turning over, the other human being just looked at her silently. That was another thing that she had to get used to; those long, haunting staring contests which ended only when he thought she was looking: or when he fell asleep. According to Volkov (no doubt trying to point something out, although the point avoided her completely), William’s natural (pink and fleshy) arm was lost to the same cause as his original home, trying to rescue someone close, someone whom he needed a lot.
She stared back, remembering questions long asked, questions from the time when language just started to come back to her. Silly questions, asked out of simplicity of heart and carelessness. She’s learned a lot since then. But still remembers the question of who was that other person was, whom he cared enough for to give up a part of himself. And still remembers the answer.
“We’ve met in a village, long time ago. We’ve stayed there for a few days, partying, trying to forget into the hell we were heading into. She was among the natives, I was just another technician supplement to a squad, marching to the front lines.
I first saw her peeking out from behind the shoulders of the warriors in that place, men who were trying to protect something they knew and understood.
But then, a few days onto the route, I thought I saw a pair of hazel eyes peering from the foliage, and then a fleeting shadow with a mane of gold, jumping away from rock to rock like a deer, and laughter like crystal-clear waters to my soul.
I wouldn’t bore you with all the details of that unsuccessful expedition, except that I made it out alive and on retreat, made it a point to take the same route back, no matter how risky. Played a hero for a while and warned the civilians. Helped to move out. Though I didn’t speak their language and they didn’t speak mine. The next few days were exhausting, continues movement through rain-swelled creeks and muddy basins. We lost the main group, or were left behind, a few women and myself. Sometimes I had to literally drag some, or they’d fall over and die, whether from disease or fatigue, I do not know. Perhaps some did. In the end, it was just she and I. Staggering out into an encampment of ally forces, where I was forced to defend our position and flee, in the end, attempting to salvage my shattered arm that was dangling by a few blood-soaked strands. It hurt worse than anything I’ve experienced before, although after a while, the pain ceased into something like a dull throbbing on the side of my body. Those were nightmarish days, as well as the most treasured ones. For she stuck around and at least attempted to make survival easier. I don’t know what caused her to do so: I certainly didn’t do anything to provoke that kindness. I don’t know..” The story ended abruptly there, interrupted by a muffled sound of some sort.
She didn’t understand the good 3/4th of that, although more and more became clear to her as her language-wielding skills increased. She also didn’t understand the sharp air intake, along with a muffled sob and him, turning to face the wall. Looking at the still form next to her, she reflected that there was a lot of things that she didn’t actually understand, as of yet.

Roomie caught a flung, half-full soda can in his fist and looked at Vamp expectantly. The following sat across from her cross-legged, glaring for all he was worth, and toying with the corner of his character sheet.
“You’re making me sound like a wussy and a crack head, to boot..”
“Live with it.” It said, taking a sip from the soda can. “And throw Coke, next time. Not the ‘wussy’ 7-up.”
G looked at the board, which resembled some sort of an archaic rune puzzle rather than the representation of the world and everything in it. “Two words, guys. Shut up and play.”
“That would be four words.” Commented Freak, originating a soda fight, unintentionally. “Plus, I haven’t even come in yet..”
“Oh, you’re in!” Announced Roomie with a happy grin that could only mean doom to everything around it.
“That could only mean that..?”
“P_L_A_Y.” Hissed G , baring her teeth and doing the best to look serious.
Which only resulted in roomie clapping its hands and asking everyone to roll for meteor survival. (1d100. Anything below 99 means instant death.)
Considering that all three human characters needed oxygen for survival, were in then same closed space and two of them failed their saving throws, the GM was voted out as unreasonable, four to one. (Point showed interest in rolling around wildly just as it was time for the players’ turn to vote.)
Vamp tried to look innocent as he hid the fixed die back in his sleeve.

The wyvern screamed, emitting a cloud of sulfuric smoke, and was silent.

Quest was done, the players were stuffed with Chinese take-out and cupcakes, and the book was delivered back in its original lair in the middle of the hallway. That was how life went, after all. Too fast and too unnecessary detailed at parts.
G walked the trail to the pond, humming softly to herself. Evening settled in, cornfields were all around her, isolating her from that campus of silence and incomprehension just minutes away. Waters of a small pond rippled ahead of her, iron gray, reflecting the skies above, mildly pink to the edge. Cattails, with their splintered ends, rustled a greeting song to summer.
On barely leafed trees to her left, a group of black birds squawked and quarreled, shaking their molting black wings with a single spot of red on the shoulder. G looked into the sky, rolling clouds and silence of mid-Iowa. And the sky was filled with consciousness.

Ch.5

G silently followed a flying mango. The silent part was not, of course, necessary, but it made her feel better about this particular quest.
And, alas, a quest it was! Down the stairs! Through the girls' dorm! Down the fire escape! Across a dirt road! Around the prairie!! In circles!
The mango wasn't about to stop just because the terrain was repeating itself. Not that the terrain cared, either.
Out the hole, back into the hole. Terrain, unfortunately, did not have the option of moving around as much by anything other than itself. Which is, amazingly enough, boring as hell. Most of the time, terrain was not conscious enough to even realize that its been stuck in the same routine for years. Although, it’s had its moments.
As far as the quality of itself went, with cornfields occupying almost 90 % of itself and Quaker cemeteries/school-the other 10%, this terrain was at particular peace with itself as a placement.
Life, not being fair, and Quakers, not being alive; this combination led to good self-knowledge. Commonly referred to as boredom.
And thus, Terrain walked after G, dragging its rooted appendages across the frozen ground, muttering something about a lost hat.
G didn't bother looking at this particular one: there was no reason to and all of them were similar enough: the size , smell and state of a half-decomposed human corpse. Sometimes, it was a squirrel or coyote corpse, or maybe even a one of rotting apple. G, herself, preferred something mildly humanoid with at least a semblance of valid speech.
Mango zigzagged across into the middle of the highway and was hit by a passing truck (driven, incidentally, by the father of G’s future arch-nemesis, although neither G nor the relative actually cared), Terrain sunk back into oblivion (i.e. middle of the trail, to be discovered later by an innocent passing student couple. Although the innocent part is still in question.) And G walked back to school, slowing down as to not bump into an angry mob of the local Iowa town residents, coming to burn it down.

Ch 6

“What about stability?” A banana peel flew from behind the oriental rugs, landing on G’s head.
G neatly removed the following off her skull, depositing it into a purple trash can (presumably, school’s property). “Brings back your earlier point about too much blank words and not enough meaning.”
“See!? That’s exactly what you’re doing right now!” Announced roomie, actually sticking out its banana-eating face and grimacing in G’s general direction. “Ranting on about meaning and existence while not saying worth a maggot!”
“And what about stability?” She raised an eyebrow, resting elbow on the knee and preparing for a few minutes of hollering one-sided discussions that the Roomie was so famous for.
“Its everywhere, that’s what! Even in our group! Whatever fish you’ve ordered for supper…” The exclamations went down to low muttering, following by its disappearance off the scene of uncommitted crime. G blinked.
And just then, out of nowhere, came yet another voice. “We always think of ourselves in terms of individuals. Read books, play games. Everywhere, you see a sign of growing desire to stand out. Why?”
“Why, indeed.” Chuckled G, throwing on a rugged leather jacket and leaving the room.
From the room, carried an answer; seemingly random, yet spoken in voice unheard of for centuries. “We are but some in the herd, my friend. What’s the point in creating new world for everything we do, what’s the point in being original?”
The voice floated with her to the pre-calculus class, ringing among the still empty desks with preciseness of a dropped penny. “There is no originality; just a few variations of a single rhythm, single color. Ice cream is like meatballs, life is like death. Why have either?”
Looking up, at the floating form of something or other in the still air of the classroom, G smiled. “Why not have both?”

Ch.7

Apple’s bright, poisonous-red crust gave in to a perfectly rounded edge of a pocketknife, with a sound not unlike that of a silent chain saw, slicing nylon. G was reflecting, sitting under a tree with a couple of apples and methodically devouring them. Out of 9 months, only one and ¾ of one remained. Sometimes she wondered what college might be like. (For none of her current classes were any help on the subject.)
Looking up into the gray, near-rain sky, she treasured her emotions in that particular moment, all emotions, fear included. Oddness of that did not, as usual, strike her, although there was a bit of recognition of her own actions. Such things tend to come to you after a couple of years of self-discovery.
It was mostly silent, a calm before the storm. In that moment, G did not feel like getting up and going anywhere, doing anything. Silence and self-fulfilling monologues were enough. Desolate corners of one’s soul.
She smiled, looking into the distance and not thinking of anything that would’ve been considered useful by human kind.
“For another bloody crime I shall return.” Lyrics rang from the window up above, and the sounds of hoof beats echoed on the empty Iowan road. “Why am I born..” G stared off into the distance, watching nightmares pass by. “…Can’t stop what’s going on..”.
Music lived its own life, thrilling notes of nothing but pure rhythm. After all, there is rhythm even to a complete chaos. Hence, its completion.
World did not work the way it was meant to be, and everything had its own mind and point of view: G did not either like or dislike that, for that was how it was meant to be. Basic structure with a cloud of uncertainty for anyone who tried to wander up there. To understand the workings of whatever created us. Coincidentally, whatever created us has had no idea what the heck it (or he? Or she?) was doing, either. Getting up, she went back to the dorm. And, thus, reality itself.
“… Why am I born..?”

Bleep in reality.

Dance with me demon,
In the moonlight on the dirt road;
Tell me your tales under sunset’s purple light
For I am useless, shattered by betrayal
Nothing but an animal,
Born to live, live to mate, mate and die.
G ran. Inside her mind, dreams danced and school was collapsing around her very feet. Somewhere above her, shrill voice of Roomie announced the end of the year. Cascades of points and students descended down the ancient stairs, into the sunlit courtyard to the arms of awaiting parents. In the surreal building, blood pulsed down her neck in a rhythm very unlike itself. Blue beast trailed her steps.
Jumping from rock to rock in sinking structure, she reflected that a job was in order. Sunlight hit her on the way out, almost as strong as the friendly pats and slaps of the guys.
“So much for school, eh?” Questioned she, looking at the chaos of the brilliant green meadow. Vamp nodded sagely, shaking some dust off his cloak.
A hand then was thrown around G’s shoulders and a soft voice said. “Now that we’re done for and dead, why don’t we make a world and inhibit it with players?”
Looking into pale face of Freak, G smiled. “Will we get paid?”
To that, he blinked and closed eyes for a bit to think. “No… but all of the participants will get free housing.”
Due to the fact that Vamp’s been recently kicked out of his agency for the lack of effect (IE: Boredom in the community) and Roomie’s living quarters were being destroyed by the angry spirits of graduates from a 100 years back and G feared boredom, instant agreement was achieved.

++++

The apartment was junked to a state far beyond the now-deceased Room #1. Dropping her duffel bag onto the chip-covered floor, G looked around in disbelief at the multi-colored walls, covered with everything from tools of Freaks’ trade to anime posters, massive wooden desk (a thing of stability in the middle of chaos), potted cacti on the small dresser by the window and Christmas lights, hanging in bunches off the ceiling.
It smelled of sage and mint, scent that mellowed down the always-present new-computer-part odor, which those close to Freak have gotten used to, over the year. Two bedrooms, kitchen and a bathroom (toilet-separately); it wasn’t too shabby of a place for Peoria suburbs. Freak grinned victoriously, spreading his arms wide in a gesture of hospitable regret. “You may use any of this. Pay back if you break something, however.. or else.”
With nods all around, the group proceeded to unpack. Odd smells drifted from the fridge, somewhy located in the bathroom, and G reflected that there wasn’t all that much she actually knew about this mysterious pale inhabitant of the web. He was oddly childish at some moments, immensely concentrated in the next, had oddest contacts among the decaying community of MUDders and wrapped all of those qualities up with a cloak of compassion, extending to anyone at least semi-friendly. While his addiction severely limited the hang-out time, his skills and willingness to share them did a great job of making up for that.
Freak, meanwhile, took the liberty of getting a vat of Sprite out of the before-mentioned fridge and pass a round of plastic cups to all participants with a proclamation of “To World and to college!”
Vamp nodded enthusiastically. Roomie made an unidentifiable sound that could only be taken as agreement. G proceeded to imitate Vamp.
“You know.. I used to know this ballad that was sung to college students in Chicago the day before finals to guide and inspire them onto the path of light.. “, - Commented Freak, scratching his nose absent-mindedly. Some part of machinery in the corner beeped and started smoking.
“Spill it.” –Advised Roomie, sharp as ever.
Thus, they drank the fuzzy liquid of eternal waking.

Ch. 8.

Lightning broke sky into small pieces, tore it open, bouncing along the clouds and making them glitter like pieces of broken mirror. Rain’s heavy threads fell upon the ground in an underlying thunder. There was a room, and there was a table with a lamp above it. And there was a girl whose path in the world was yet to be determined. At that point, she was sitting on a small chair next to this big, white table, and desperately tried to concentrate on anything to draw, anything at all. Before her, acrylic paints, colored pencils, canvas paper and ink pens were thrown in a messy array, paint droplets stained the walls. The truth was, G lacked inspiration and was not consistent enough to keep working and perfecting, for hours on an end. Lowering her face into her arms, she dedicated a few well-chosen moments to moping and asking whatever godly powers there were about the reason of her acceptance to a decent art school. Godly powers did not answer. Lifting her head, she continued to stare at the art materials with the most unfriendly expression on her face. Merely a month in Freak’s apartment has sunk her morale to the new depth, forcing her to pick up the thing that she was going to college to study: fine arts. Painting, drawing, etc. Glancing up at the ceiling, she glumly reflected that she wouldn’t have had the patience for math or science, either. Silence lay upon the closet, as deep as the rumbling of rain outside.
“You should quit putting yourself down, you know,” Commented Vamp, dropping in and taking the liberties of swiping the materials off the table and stretching out on the latter.
G stared at him in uncomprehension, then leaned to pick up and close some of the paint-bottles.
“Its not like you can’t transfer, after all!” Continued Vamp, untouched by her current state of mind.
For just a single minute in all her life, G gave in and argued, about lack of ability and lack of self-esteem. Vamp proceeded to duct-tape her to the chair and dragging her over to the main room, where the rest of the population was enjoying some Slayers videos, as well as, (in Freak’s case), a hot round of yahoo.com voice-chat action.

P.S. This paragraph was written mainly for the author’s peace of soul, and has no relevance to the general plot whatsoever.