UNTITLED: Book One

DAY 108

In the void

Only will powers you forward

Otherwise you get trapped by infinite choices

The cool breeze was always the best part. The way it carried the smell of the infinite ocean, no matter how far inland you were. Regardless, everyone would always credit the same thing, the sunrise. Perhaps there was something with how the light of the Sun touched on the reflective surface, possibly unlocking its potential. But nonetheless, time and time again they proved that they did not appreciate the infinite ocean, their most precious, most untapped, resource. Their only escape. Because how could they when there was always the Sun… The…Sun. The…

There was always the Sun. Most, of all that they ever needed, was in the… the… -the infinite ocean, but whooo… the helll …could see all of that when the Sun was always above it blinding anyone who dared to look. Even if you managed to look at the ocean, the reflection of the Sun would blind you and discourage you with the pain. Blinding you, that is, to what was below the surface.

{

Well. The Sun shines. The Sun blinds. The Sun kills, and gives life—just to take it away again when it flares when something is wrong, then—often, a single solar flare is catastrophic. But the Sun does not care, because it was only just a whim. The Sun wakes you when you need rest, then leaves when you grow accustomed to it.

}

Us or the Sun. Who needs the other more? The Broker thinks to himself as he slowly returns to his senses. Struggling still to form his thoughts.

Sitting upright, supported by all the rubble around him, he takes one final look at his obliterated warehouse, before he tries to stand himself up. Unbalanced, he fails and falls onto one knee, under attack by his uncontrolled coughing. The smoke and particles must still be caught in his lungs—AND, at some point he got himself a concussion. When? Who knows. He could pick damn-near any moment and it could have been that one. He is only human, unlike them. He turns his head back around at a mound of rubble to see what he can only assume is Solara and Aiye resting at the top of it like a throne that they do not even respect, and yet still sought. Like how they did with his home, his city, his warehouse.

He can only see their silhouettes because he is blinded by the Sun. He sneers in their direction and then scoffs at their natural ability to always force themselves above the rest of everyone else. Even above their own mess they have created. Their forms sit there casually in silent judgement. Unmoving. Observing as if they were gods on a mountain top, or a person observing insects go about their day-to-day existence.

He scowls up at them and tries a few more times to stand before he finally gets to his feet. They are still just staring down at him. A challenge? A test? Fuck them either way. Language be damned. I do not need my resilience to be tested by children gifted superhuman ability.

He spits blood in their direction. They have been given the power to move mountains and they choose instead to destroy them. Children! all of them! Throwing a tantrum that he and his people must suffer—his people! He whirls back around toward the warehouse only to realize they were down below. It seems Solara and Aiye placed his unconscious body atop his own pile of rubble, just above his own people.

His people look too frightened to approach—but hopeful, as he finally notices them. They clearly want to rush toward him and check on him, but he notices them all steal glances at the two behind him and quickly change their minds. How long have they been stayed there in fright? How long have they been doing this mental dance?

A sudden rush of anger flows through him. It was a 80-20 split, where most of it was towards Aiye and Solara for what they have done to him and his people—this position they have put him in. While the other 20% being towards his people. He would die for them, yes. Fight for them, yes. Even lead and be led by them, but in this moment, perhaps he wished they would do the same. Or tried. Or were willing to try. Because maybe he was tired of the burde- -agh. Stop. Calm. He looks up to the sky with a sigh, then the release.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots one of the pulse staffs, not too far from where he is currently standing—unsure if this was a test or not. But, he always held within himself a passionate dislike for bystanders, constantly fearing them to be the true evil, which left him to always tow the line when trying to distinguish between one, or someone that simply just needed…a push. Only one way to find out.

Initially, he readied himself to lunge at the weapon, but then a sudden realization hit, they are daring him to pick it up…are they not? With that, he begins to walk in a graceful stride. Purposeful, with his head held high, for not just the two murderous Demi-god children, but for his people in hopes that they gain the much-needed confidence necessary for their survival for this new, treacherous journey they are about to embark on. We are out of options.

He has never once tried to be a symbol, but he has also never backed down from responsibility when it looked his way—win or lose. At some point he has likely become a symbol anyway. Nowhere near the warrior his parents were, in terms of physical ability, but as their son he was not lacking either. Knowing this, he had confidence that he could at least make a statement in this very moment.

The pulse staff lays there under some rubble. He could just yank the staff from under it all. Nothing too challenging, especially if he activates the staff while trying to do so... especially if he were. The effects of using a pulse staff as a regular human could be—no, will likely be unpleasant. Should I? He stops right in front of it, and with the same grace that he used to approach it. Already knowing the answer to his question, he now reaches down to firmly grasp the portion of the staff that is sticking out.

Inhale. Breath. Do it. He tells himself. He hesitates ever-so-slightly before him gives it another firm grip to activate it. Suddenly the power of its vibrations are coursing through his arm and filling his entire body, threatening to obliterate it like it was doing to the rubble right now.

He watches as the rubble basically dissolves into a mound of sand, serving as a very clearly warning to him of what is to come if he cannot soon gain control of the weapon. He hears audible gasps, and a few screams from his people. Everyone is watching and it would be a shame to see his prideful theatrics end with him turning into scattering dust. Scattering into dust along with their hopes as they stare with their awestruck faces, or maybe it is what they need to wake them out of this nightmare and take initiative. Maybe it would be for the best if-…

Wait. Suddenly, The Broker remembers what he learned of these weapons from both his parents and the intel he has gathered over the years. They are are the same weapons that were used in the war—never changed, because they were not necessarily made by those now known as Solaris. They simply used them, just like that floating city. These weapons react directly to your strength. What he originally thought was referring to the physical, due to the insane strength of the New Wave and Old Guard, he realizes, in this moment, that these weapons, not made by anyone from this land, were more reactive to his strength of will than his physical strength.

Does their superhuman physical abilities must allow them to compensate for the strain if they are lacking in will? Or does that mean that the god-complex of the New Wave parallel willpower? No, it is likely that they are just so strong it does not matter. URGH! As the weapon powers up, the pain increases in intensity and knocks him out of his thought process. But the realization about willpower gives him the necessary strength to withstand what he now assumes are the mental effects of the weapon. He then inhales, imagining himself to be the center of ‘the flow’, as his parents taught him—drilled him on, rather, every single day of his adolescence until it was seared into his memory.

They prepared him for this very moment, as if they knew this day would come. Perhaps they only taught him this breathing technique because it was also seared into their minds, or did they believe that one day those of the surface and those in the sky would be united? He scoffs at that. The two strongest people of the surface that he ever knew were considered mere fodder because these monsters exist. Most likely that man taught those of the surface because he assumed they would not survive to share it. A test to find out who was worthy of being fodder for his cause, and now, he finds himself in the same situation. But he will not let their teachings go to waste. He will honor them, with this breathing technique as consolation.

With that, he rediscovers the conviction he had found in the warehouse right before passing out. It comes rushing back to him all at once. Giving him the focus he needed to reign in the control the weapon. His will, now held together by his fury and desire for vengeance.

The sound of awe can be heard from his people as he stands strong while his nose and eyes leak blood. The ground directly beneath his feet is vibrating with the pulse of the staff. It is under his complete control, for now. It will not last long. He only has a minute or so before he is overtaken. But instead of getting right to it, what he planned to do with it, he uses the moment to stare up at the silhouetted Aiye and Solara—still watching him in silence.

He boldly and loudly addresses them directly, this time in a way they can understand, while he stands strong—staff in hand—for his people to see and hear. He delivers his battle cry:

{

“HEAR ME Sun’s soldiers. I am The Broker! Familiar with Solaris’ gifts. I have always known who ‘Sollar’ is, and what lives in the dark nest the Sun fears. What its worth is, and how to find it. I am the vessel in which my parents fought to breathe life in. Born a Son kissed by the Sun tears I am refined in. I now know my purpose for what you call ‘surface’—hearth of the Sun’s furnace. We were reminded when you two hurt us, after being embraced by this surface you ran to. What did you do? Destroy our lives—our food—you FOOLS! So whatever happens next depends on what YOU choose. You will escort us to the New Wave’s food storage and help us claim it. Rectify your mistakes and help me save them—my people. Only then we will fight your war and defeat the Warden. Because only I know his secret. I AM THE BROKER!”

}

He did it! He spoke their way to them, and judging by Thema’s reaction to Aiye earlier in the warehouse, he knows they will not like it. Good! He thinks to himself as he processes the rush of adrenaline flowing through him. He is feeling stronger and stronger but he knows it just the weapon pulsating with his heart beat, making him feel that way for a price. If he holds this much longer he will not last long.

He looks at their silhouettes again. He knows that they heard him, but now they will feel it. Now they know that he has what they desire. Except, what happens next, is death… or death. Either, he is killed here by them for this, or by whatever this brings next. Still, he has done it.

He controls his breathing to keep the weapon under control, only seconds left before he has to drop this. Behind him, the growing sound of his people banging their chest in unison, finally brave enough to stand together. Now, he will not stop until he is dead. He cannot. The real fight begins. He readies himself.

On cue, Solara’s silhouette stands up slowly until straightened. Her head cocks slightly to the side as she presumably looks down at him. She crouches. Then, all of a sudden she lunges down at him with violent speed, like something fired out of a cannon. The rubble perch she stood on explodes like a demolished building under the force of her push-off. He reflexively holds up the staff just in time to shield himself.

Although he lacks the knowledge and strength on how to draw out its power like the Old Guard and New Wave so casually do, the pulse staff’s latent power is more than enough to absorb the blow from Solara. It is the best he can do in that moment and it saves his life, but does not prevent him from being blown back by her attack. He never loosens his grip of the staff, not even a little.

He scrambles to his feet again. After reflexively summoning even that small amount of energy, the vibrations he was holding back with sheer will have now bled into his brain and chest. He throws up blood, but still he manages to stand just as Solara lunges at him once again. This time though, he is ready for her and with one last burst of his willpower, gripping now with two hands, he swings the staff screaming at the top of his lungs and eyes closed.

The thunderous drum strikes once…