Five hundred years ago, the solar system was not as it was now, with one single planet housing the remaining populations after a great war. It was a vast, deep system, home to all kinds of life and ways of existence.
In a perfectly habitable zone across from the sun, lay the Augusta system, identified by three planets: Lintu, a mostly desert planet with strange vegetation. Oonossa, covered in lush, multi-colored pine trees with small rivers and streams. And finally, the Capitol planet Eniam, with an equal balance of green lands, mountains, oceans and huge modern cities. The Capitol itself called this planet home; a literal megaplex of law and order, centered like a spider in a web of buildings at the heart of the city. However, as beautiful as these three planets were, their many lands and people knew war and oppression well.
Lintu had only small villages in livable desert communities, but even there, unrest boiled between rival gangs or local authorities. Oonossa, a seemingly quiet and serene forest planet, actually allowed slavery in secret, hidden territories. But none of that compared to the shadow that loomed over the entire planet of Eniam, the most populated planet in the system. With an abundance of life, comes more control, reason and rule. And with more control, comes more resistance.
In the city streets, riots planned by many gangs and factions broke out almost daily. Capitol Security and Safety divisions struggled to maintain control. This day was no different. Beside the grey beach and below Ogunquit City, a local battle was raging heavy.
In the battered streets, a soulful, harsh force of fierce, dirty youths clashed with riot police, sending several lingering citizens screaming and dashing out of the way. This particular resistance force consisted of mostly young adults, and the bright colors they wore raged bright in the smoky air. Even their hair was painted in neon, still vivid under the coating of dirt and ash, with whimsical scarfs, capes and jackets blowing in the noxious air.
Blue blasts of plasma fire flew from stark white, modern rifles, hammering the rogue group with vicious energy. The city's security were attempting to regain control of the situation, blasting their way through the crowd, throwing people to the ground as they stomped forward.
Suddenly, two brash males scampered up the side of a building onto a small roof, grenades in each hand. Jumping down, they released them into the air, shouting a loud battle cry, leaping over cars, and splashing fiery bombs down on the helpless guards. As security returned fire, they ducked behind a few storage crates to regain their composer.
"This is wicked!" One of them screamed. The other quickly raised his head to the sky.
"We shall be memory for this. In stone!" He replied loudly over the blaster fire.
"And blood!" The other finished. They grasped each others hands.
Cluehead and Zoohair were their names. Obvious creative titles bestowed by their leader. Clue was named for his very slim body, that often resembled a question mark when he was hunched over creating bombs. He was lanky, with a thin face and hollow eyes. Bleach blonde hair atop shaved sides, with tattoos and scars from what seemed like the neck down.
Zoo had a more clean appearance. With dark skin, a bright button up cotton shirt, a scarf, almost new white sneakers, and more fat and muscle to round him out. His hair however, was a complete mess. Wiry and spastic, as if he had never once cared for it.
Yet it was their difference in dress that proved something vital. These people were from anywhere and everywhere. From any life, from any background. It was a clear indication of the time in which they lived. Street rats battled side by side with college students.
Without warning, their handshake was violently blown apart by a nearby bomb, flinging them to the ground in pile of rubble. "Zoo!" Clue yelled as they struggled to their feet.
"I'm good!" Zoo exclaimed, dusting his shirt. "Let's go, Clue! Back to the line!" His feet wavered under the shock as the battle raged on beside them. Bright colors clashing with dull blue and white security uniforms, screams and explosions echoing all around. The sky was blotted by clouds of smoke, the blasts from the plasma and bombs was deafening. They unholstered their own pistols and began firing blindly into the dust wall as they ran sideways through the thick smoke.
The fight continued on for some time, until a very distinct sound began to ring through the air. A noise like a sharp blade could be heard wafting through the land, like a trapped bird fluttering in an empty house. Sections of the resistance force stopped firing immediately, some beginning to yell as the sound drew closer. They had heard this before.
"...Solar Warden! Solar Warden!" A sudden shrill voice shouted from the crowd. But it was too late.
Suddenly, a dark figure draped down onto the battle field, wearing a short, hooded flowing crimson cape, surrounding a sleek coat of iron armor. Before they could even lay eyes on him, his massive, long sword began flying freely through bodies, sending each person tumbling through the air with a spray of red. The resistance reformed their group, rifles and other melee weapons churning aimlessly, desperately attempting with every breath to ward off their impending doom.
A huge man with a figure like a bear darted out of the crowd, latching himself onto the warrior's back. They thrashed for a moment, but it was of little use. He was thrown violently back into the mass of people, disappearing into the boiling mob. The rest were to follow. In one feel swoop, the lone warrior had beat off the entire force of young rebels. He was like a wind, slashing them clean like the heads of flowers, blowing them away like leaves. Eventually, the remnants were sent running in the opposite direction.
Clue and Zoo took this opportunity to run themselves, stumbling up a sand and grass hill between two buildings until they were almost at the top. As they ran by a large rock pillar, the warrior followed and loomed behind them. When they stopped and turned, they saw another person hiding behind another pillar below. He was waiting for the warrior to come, crouched to ambush with a giant personal gatling gun. Clue and Zoo knelt down to watch, smiling and throwing their firsts proudly at their brave friend.
With a burst of energy, he jumped out from behind the rock and began firing a point-blank assault as fast at the gun could spit. But before he had even realized what happened, the warrior knelt down and placed his huge oval shaped blade directly in front of his body, blocking all of the fire. When the gun ran dry, he quickly rose and slashed the man in half in one blink.
Stricken with new panic, Clue and Zoo immediately sprang to their feet, continuing their animalistic run down the other side of the hill. The warrior watched them as he attached the blade to his armor at the back of his cape, still glowing and steaming from the plasma blasts. He strode to the crest of the hill and gazed down at the fleeing men. The battle was over, no need to pursue the feeble rats. Yet still, he stood and stared for a long moment in silence, lost in distant thought.
Far past the other side of the hill at the end of the beach, toward the outskirts of the city, was the unknown headquarters of this resistance movement.
The government on Eniam had been falling apart for years. Everything was wrong in this place. Employment, healthcare, funding, decent living--all was failing. And after some time, violent resistances eventually formed, and one of these groups fell under the leadership of a man known as Kloven.
Kloven's headquarters were inside an industrial park owned originally by his grandparents, who were important leaders in the old government. Some time ago, before their deaths, the industrial park became privatized by his parents, who were servants of the Capitol. This meant that it was still under the jurisdiction of the government, but controlled by his family alone. Years ago, when Kloven had taken his father's seat in the Capitol, everything collapsed, and he soon found himself in a unique situation. Seeing clearly the inevitable end, as well as his own worth and power to begin anew. He wanted to see change, and he wanted change done his way. The right way. A way the government could not provide.
Contrary to popular belief, Kloven himself was actually a brilliant man. At the age of sixteen, he graduated from an arts school specializing in poetry, writing, painting and various other mediums, quickly achieving the status of a prodigy among his fellow students. It was these very students who formed the foundation of his resistance. Inspired, or perhaps brainwashed by his poetic statements on the world and civilization, they became obsessed with his words. Words that turned from general ideas into propaganda for a movement. After serving only half a term as a Capitol servant, he departed and was never seen again.
Until now.
Seeing an opportunity to take advantage of all the chaos, Kloven created an original faction called the 'Power Chord' as an artistic, progressive commune, as well as a radical, peaceful movement. And when the city finally became a war zone, he blended his faction into the battles, arming them with black market, off-world weapons acquired by his former military connections. At it's heart, the Power Chord was simply another chess piece for him to move into place, though it was unbeknownst to his followers. They were merely queens to clear the board as he moved in on the king.
As Clue and Zoo made their way across the beach, they climbed through old pavement lots and broken buildings. No resistance member returned home immediately, always hiding their tracks for hours in groups of two or three. When enough time had passed, they would crawl back out of the walls like mice, following footsteps into the shadows of the industrial park.
Although it was an industrial area, hardly anyone could tell that machines and products used to be built here. None of the factories ran anymore, even the robots that manufactured vehicles had shut down and been turned to scrap after the government received control. They did not require this facility anymore, so abandoned it became. Now it was a cold home for hundreds of lost youths. The walls, panels, archways, windows and steel beams were covered in almost every color imaginable. Tapestries, flags, banners and even huge murals of spray painted designs. One in particular helmed their name, with a unique slogan underneath painted over a thousand times:
"The Power Chord - Freedom through Strength!"
As the young men and women made their way through the sea of colors, they chanted and yelled, as if acting out a play. Some went to treat their wounds, while others undressed and redressed in new clothes. Various weapons were stacked against the wall. Shady figures loomed in a dark area, crushing up drugs and sucking the chemicals off their fingers. A few lingered in a kitchen area, hurrying down some canned food, while others down the next passage offered comfort to a man holding back tears. Across from him, two women knelt in front of an upright, open coffin in the doorway. They prayed, then watched as the body was sealed back into the wood and carried away. A daily ritual.
Clue sat down on a bench beside some cargo stacks while Zoo wandered over to him with a cup of fresh water. Suddenly, a vibrant, loud man covered in bright blue fur came storming through the hallway. "...Honor the dead!" he shouted. "We are memory! Today, we are the memory!" He exclaimed again and again, pounding on his chest.
This roused the troops. They returned his energy by screaming, "Blood and Stone!"
Clue and Zoo slapped his hands as he passed. This place was an endless pool violent, artistic of energy. "Today is the most fun I've had in a long time," said Clue. Zoo nodded quickly. "What a rush to be out there again!"
"And this time it was real," Zoo remarked deeply, becoming more excited with each word. "Front lines, real war! No basic rioting--a full on battle!"
"I want to go back. I want to go back again!" Clue yelped and barked. "I'm still hot!" He punched the wall beside him.
"We will, don't waste your energy!"
"I want to fight every hour of everyday," his face became red and intense. "What happened today tells me the gods are on our side."
Just then, another man who had been listening to their banter walked past them. "We lost today, that's all that happened." He said dryly.
Clue reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him around forcefully as his glasses flew off. "It's not about winning!" he stated fiercely. "It's about blood and battle. It's about the expression of rage and hatred in its most pure form. Becoming living art! That's why we're the message. That's why we're the memory. The change." He shook the man vigorously, which made them both very excited.
At that moment, a chime could be heard, like the sounds from a grandfather clock sweeping through the ceilings. Clue and Zoo looked up into the air as if searching for something. The rest around them did the same. But the odd moment required no explanation. It was time.
In minutes, crowds of colorful youths walked briskly and with purpose through the hallways, leading themselves into a large open area. Some of them added new colors and layers, or smeared paint on their lips and eyes. Now a gathering, they grouped around a vacant circular stage, with one walkway leading out to the center and one chair in the middle. All waited eagerly, as if a grand concert was about to begin. Before the crowd could get too wild, a hush fell over them as they caught sight of someone. A figure who now walked down the path toward the stage.
He was very large and looming, with the body of an oversized human and the face of a bear with an extended snout. Long ears like a rabbit pinned back his brow, bristled and burned with the scars of battle. His dress was basic; dark grey cargo gear, with a single belt holding a heavy gun. He was clean aside from his ash ridden hair, with catfish-like whiskers that stuck out from his upper lip.
His name was Wassador, an Animosh from the Albion system, as big and mean as they come. A skilled warrior in many respects, cunning when needed, and Kloven's second in command. Leader of the Power Chord's militant forces. As he strode toward them, the crowd began to utter words and silent prayers, his eyes glinting through a sullen stature, examining the crowd. Yet the crowd was not focused on him, for he had simply been leading the way. Behind him, Kloven stepped into sight.
As if courting a celebrity, the people began to cheer and shout louder, calling out lines of his poetry or offering words of encouragement and love. Young Kloven, now twenty-five years old, was dressed in a pale black jacket that looked as if it belonged to a ship captain. With simple dark pants, boots and big, round glasses that reflected in the dying sunlight. He wore a few scarfs and sashes given as tributes, along with bracelets, necklaces, and belts hung from his waist. He walked with ultimate pride, commanding their attention.
Wassador stepped behind him as he came to the front and faced the crowd. They reached up at him as if he were offering water in the desert, starved for his attention. Lifting his hands over them, he began to rub them together. "Let me warm my hands on this energy," he said in a soft voice, lowering his head to them. "This energy is the strongest. Warm and loving and ragefully present." The crowd responded with loud murmurs, completely entranced. "My inspiration lies with you!" his hands broke away from the crowd's grasp. "This movement, this force of nature like the oceans of the planet itself!" The crowd continued to respond, his poetic words piercing them. "We are the Power Chord!"
"Power Chord!" The crowd yelled as one. Clue and Zoo watched eagerly, lost among the faces.
"We are the revolution that will break against the tide of time, the very divide between two deadly forces. Forces that wish to oppress and control, starve you, kill you, leave you nameless and naked in the dark." he began to move around the stage to speak to every face. "Resist this! Be this change! Become the memory that will last in blood and stone!"
"Blood and stone!" The people chanted.
"You will be memory." He pointed around at the entire crowd. They closed their eyes, holding their arms in the sky as if blessed by some divine light. Kloven began to stride around the entire circle of the stage, running his hands through his hair awkwardly, adjusting his glasses, searching for the right words for the moment. As he found them, his hands rose and fell in artistic expression through the dusk air. "...The gods of the old world are dead!" he exclaimed. "All of you now stand in their places as the rightful owners of the planet."
The people cheered.
"We are perfection. We are beautiful creations, oppressed by a great shadow of doubt. Doubt through rule and law. But your oppression is our revolution! This is our new beginning!"
They cheered again.
"Believe not in the spirits of the great beyond, or puppets that claim ownership over these rights to your life and freedom. Represent nowhere. Speak up for yourself. Your life force shall be carved in the mountains. You will be the flesh of the earth itself. And those stones shall break the very wheels of existence. We shall remove the king's crown, and upon this movement we will lay it down at his feet. For a better world. With each day and each sacrifice, we eat heaven itself!" The crowd cheered wildly. But with those final words, his body seemed to slump as if the energy had left him. He wavered and fell backwards into the chair in the middle of the stage. The crowd quieted, listening for his next words.
Finally, he spoke once more, but this time very softly. "The world is shared souls, with arms and legs to move. But they lay still. Pull the rope with bleeding teeth to deny all order. Everlasting freedom is in your hands alone, for you hold the world. Each one of you. And it is yours to mold as the clay of time. You are the gods now." All stole the time to quietly absorb these powerful words, searching for their own meaning.
But before they could find any, another abrupt sound interrupted their silence. The unmistakable noise of ships coming to land.
As everyone in the crowd raised their heads, a T-shaped security ship from the city began to land just outside the small gate beside the stage. Three others hovered above, white lights brightly blinking on the wings. A small but mighty security force dressed in their official white and blue garb came trotting through the crowd. They pushed most out of the way, though members of the resistance shoved back, yelling poetic remarks into their ears.
Catching site of them, Kloven stood and remained still, centered on the stage as if frozen in the middle of an act. He sighed deeply to himself. A forgiving smile ran across his face. He dropped back into the chair once more as the security detail arrived in front of him. He began to clap slowly at them, slouched to one side, with an impressed expression across his face. "Nice surveillance, Captain!" He remarked in a mocking tone, halting his clap and straightening his posture. Wassador stepped forward, ready for a fight.
"You are on private territory." Wassador said solemnly with a grumble in his throat.
"It is officially part of the government," a security officer replied. "You know this."
"This is our land now. We will not be raided." Wassador returned.
"And who exactly will protect you? We are here to deal with your actions." The officer's tone was severe.
Kloven sat forward. "The law protects me. Your masters."
Just then, a younger, more brash officer stepped forward. "You defile law!" He shouted. Kloven slouched again. "The same tired acts you play! And every time, with the same results." He stared him down. "The time has come, we're here to deal with all of you." Kloven remained unresponsive. "Let us leave these antics--this theater!" He finished.
"Theater!" Kloven sprang up out of his chair and pointed at the security detail. "Yes indeed, that is exactly what this is. Exactly what you are." He made his way over to the front of the stage and bent himself over, looking more closely at the blue and white men.
"We are here to take you, Kloven. You must go." The officer said stepping forward.
"Me?" Kloven pointed to himself. "Whatever for?"
"A group of men from today's riot were tracked here. To this location."
"Rebels?" Kloven scanned the crowd. "I am a performer, and this is my audience, good sir."
"Likely."
"If one of these persons came to see me, how am I to know? Why is it my concern?" He turned away.
"And yet, someone came." The officer glared at Kloven, attempting intimidation.
"Did your master send you?" Kloven turned toward him. "Hm? You know, your masters. Your puppet masters."
The officer grew frustrated. Kloven stood tall once again and mimicked a man dancing with a puppet, hopping and bouncing, much to the delight of his audience.
"Enough of this!" The security officer shouted. "Bring someone now, or we will take you in for questioning."
"Dance marionette, dance! Oh how you dance so wonderfully!" He continued his new performance for a while longer. Then he stopped and walked closer to the officer again, the crowd laughing with each beat. "Well, you know what I say, Captain? I say, let the puppet strings sag." He drew out the last word and with it, made his body appear as a lifeless puppet, hung limp on it's strings. The officer was not amused. "No? Well then..." he walked backwards and eased himself into the chair again.
Wassador leaned toward him, attempting to find a conclusion in the situation. "Sir?" He said quietly.
"Very well, the theater will continue." Kloven replied without emotion, ever motionless in the comfort of the chair.
In the lively crowd, Clue and Zoo began to stir, as they saw a new opportunity for themselves in this situation. Someone needed to take the fall. Someone needed to go to jail. This would free Kloven's operations to continue without the public knowing the actual situation. As long as his followers continue to be jailed or killed in action, the government would simply classify it as terrorism and let the authorities deal with it. And all the while, Kloven's song went on. As long as free speech and action remained law, he could continue his poetic brainwashing through the tangled webs strung by his faction. If you happened to provide this tribute to Kloven, he would honor you forever.
"This is our chance, Clue. We have to speak up, say something now!" Zoo said eagerly, urging his friend to join.
Kloven sat forward and raised his hand into the air slowly. "Is there anyone willing to pay tribute tonight, on this day, in my name!" His voice echoed across the crowd.
All at once, horse voices came to life, shrieking from every direction like creatures of the night. All wanted a part in this play. However, it was two very strong, passionate cries coming from directly behind him that he noticed, almost piercing the back of his skull. His head swung around, eyes landing directly on the faces of both Clue and Zoo. "You!" he pointed to them. "Both of you! Go!" He smiled and ushered them toward the security force. "There are your men, Captain. Evil incarnate, they are. Take them away." He did not attempt to hide his sarcasm.
"Thank you, my Sir! My king!" Clue waved his arms around excitedly.
"My master!" Zoo added.
Both of them were immediately restrained and escorted to the ships by the security guards. They wriggled forcefully to maintain a better view of their leader.
"What are your names?" Kloven called to them.
"Cluehead, Sir!"
"Zoohair, Sir! My hair is as crazy and passionate as the Chord itself!"
The crowd cheered.
Kloven grinned thoughtfully and drooped his head, remembering the day he had given the names. Every single person in the crowd had gone through that brief, yet meaningful process. Your new name was a representation of your individuality. For in every aspect of this life, you must become living art. That was the way of the Power Chord. "I remember you," he stated. "And I will remember your faces today. You shall be memory to me." He offered a soft, kingly salute.
Clue and Zoo we elated. They cheered with the crowd all the way into the security ships, shouting remarks at each other, yelling and spitting in the ears of the guards. Finally, they had been chosen for something bigger, and now it was their new reality.
The security officer stepped forward once more, lifting a finger to Kloven. "The next time I see you, it will be to shut you down for good." He said proudly.
Kloven glanced down at him with pity. "The next time I see you, Captain, we shall feed the worms together." He held his icy stare until the officer and his men had returned to their ship. The sleek security vessel fired its engines and lifted off to join the others in the sky. As it turned, fresh graffiti painted on the side of the panel was revealed, a departing gift from the loving crowd.
Wassador turned to Kloven, who was still staring blankly into the air. "I grow tired of these situations." Kloven said quietly, almost to himself.
"New gods need new plans." Wassador bellowed softly, crossing his thick arms. "They may become wiser."
Kloven nodded once and began to flip a small, white book between his fingers.