"Craft, Code and Continuum are not merely part of existence. They are existence."

                                                                                                   -Archivist Geome Harvest

Marvus Blackenwhite realized, as he looked up at the teal sky, a remarkable occurrence.

The atmosphere perfectly matches my look today.

While that may or may not have been true, he nonetheless took his opinion as such and used it to power his day. The Sun brought magnificent illumination to his ruddy brown skin and a polished sheen to crow feather, ducktail hair. It almost, almost, made Marvus forget the biting cold wind the burghal of Masara was infamous for.

The emerald green caftan jacket, loose short sleeves, an irregular, scarf-like collar, hugged his narrow body as it trailed down to split coattail blowing in said wind. Passersby could make out Marvus' majestic six pack, visible through the tight, ribbed, canary yellow silk shirt, tucked into a pair of loose fitting scarlet trousers. On any day of the week, this budding historian and fledgling watercolor artist chose a monotone dress arrangement. Every single day, all red, all yellow, or all green. But today, promotion day, well, that called for all three.

Marvus buttoned his jacket and picked up the pace, flat white cotton shoes, the type preferred by those who did martial exercises in The Mounds, scraped the intricately laid out cobblestones of Premiere Walkway. This proved a good decision, for, unbeknownst to him, his preoccupation with the sky and its supposed analogous alignment with his apparel kept him in the doorway of the newly minted Museum of the Unison. The best museum in the Tetrarchy Coalition. The best in the Aubade Kinship even. A second home. His home. The new job.

"Secondary Archivist!"

He yelled it as he tucked chin into uneven scarf collar, for the ill wind increased its glacial acrimony coming down from the Gelica Ice Shelf. Yes, his ankles were cold, despite the thick woolen gold socks, but the air cut right through the cotton shoes. Marvus passed by others with a bit more seasonal sensibilities than he, but it did not deter him. The job was his. He would work directly with Archivist Geome Harvest, the greatest historian, much less archaeologist, in the last century, who was there when the final signatures were put to paper to form five once hostile nations into the Kinship. He would get to hear those tales on lunch breaks between wholesome bites of stir fry noodles and spicy mushrooms, ask what it was like to visit First Dance, the sole burghal in the Synchim Tribal States. Marvus had been attached at the hip to Masara from birth, a city boy, and the idea of the countryside was, to him, a fearful exercise as much as a phenomenal possibility.

The wind snapped him back to reality. Cold. Unabiding cold. The sole positive of this arctic gale was the trees along the Walkway. These olive green, bronze and autumnal red sculptures were fake, of course, with broad leaves turning solar might into electrical indulgence, the spinning vertical upper trunks converting the wind's fury into stored power below the burghal streets. Absorb, store, moderate, share. Aubade Kinship Law of Usage Article One. The Walkway contained so many of the trees that it doubled along its five kilometer stretch as its own public park, loaded with ornate iron benches hosting power recharge stations shaped into seashells or shining steel modern art pieces. Marvus passed between the trees, the shortcut his daily mode of travel, and the usual dull hum of the pseudo flora had accentuated into vibrant cicada sibilations.

The young historian cast beryl eyes ahead to the long, convex windows of the seven-story Verdure Charter Grounds, central courthouse for the four burghals of the Tetrarchy. All of the walls were glass, clean, with thin steel support beams for structural strength. Up above, thick timbers jutted out and up from the slanted roof not unlike a crown of the old days when this land was known as the Neerian Tetrarchy and monarchies fought for control. At the tip of each timber, a weighty sculpture, gunmetal flower petals held rounded light pods for illuminating the Walkway come evening. As it was now the depths of fall, those lights would come on soon. Marvus briefly imagined the backyard of the Grounds, where he once sat debating legal nuances with elders, a spacious oval of greenery, a hedge maze even, for legalists needed a soft place of recluse in between feisty court dramas. Between the timbers and the glass, a stone strip held the carved words in the ancient Neerian alphabet:

                                                             CODE - MATH - LOGIC - COMMUNITY

                                                   FOR THE LAND - THE KINSHIP - THE PEOPLE

                                                           BY THESE MERITS WE RIGHTLY ABIDE

What the young historian sought out rested to the left of the Verdure Charter Grounds, the humble cube of short red bricks from the old days, a survivor, with a sign singing in the wind gleefully creaking, the words POTBELLIED WIG flying high. Sighting the relic, Marvus picked up his pace into a hot skipping jog, blew hot breath into cupped hands, and stormed the elderly oak door with the semicircular window.

The atmosphere of the Wig had one of many a tavern in that it invited dim lighting, sound absorption for privacy, stained glass windows showing images of wine barrels and vineyards. But the hearty fireplace (rare these days, but some of the nostalgic things could be found here and about) gave the Wig a salty sustenance to its air, gave visitors a sense that this burghal far from shore might have once invited pirates who braved the many crater seas in search of vessels to raid. Ahead of the fire, a metaluna stand of solid granite often supported a local band, but this early in the day, it was devoid of musicality. Marvus glided a finger along the crescent shape of the polished bar, and followed its curvature until eyes fell on those whom he sought.

"Marv!" a lady's voice, smooth but firm, directed him to the right, around the bar and its many and varied glasses and bottles, through the light filtered through stained glass and green bottles, forming a series of straight line rainbows at the rear of the Potbellied Wig. The oval table held four seats, one of them free, and its proximity to the fireplace encouraged Marvus to take off the caftan jacket.

"Daya. Jonn. Oh, hey, Salima." Marvus lost his cool when he realized Salima Greenwake was there, eyeing him, smiling perfect. Quickly, he gave her the awkward half grin of the common introvert and moved to sit down and find a subject of discussion.

"So...did you guys find out while you were waiting?" He snapped fingers for the waitress, a move based more on excitement than conceit. Tesha, a waifish blonde with an upbeat gait, came his way, carrying a tray with his favorite drink.

"Here you are, Marv! Enjoy!" Tesha tilted her head left to right, her ponytail full of tiny gem webbing bobbing about.

Marvus whipped out a gray rod, his personal profile cord, containing his data and linked to every financial account he owned. One of these accounts, after Tesha scanned it with a palm reader, paid for the drink.

"Thanks," Marvus replied, taking the drink, a fizzy, sour cocktail in a copper tankard. But he remained fixated on his pals, awaiting their response and trying hard to dodge the winsome, smoky, seductive gaze of Salima. And, yes, where she sat, light beams hit her just right so that her platinum hair resonated a flamboyant effulgence, even giving an added gleam to her soft, carnation lips.

"Did we find out what?" asked Jonn Logcarver, Marvus' oldest friend, from way back in the heady days of delinquency in the Ranir Street Complexes."Is this about your obvious lack of ability in matching colors?" Ah, Jonn. Sarcasm first. But, it kept the young legalist different from his often more serious peers. He leaned back, all black poncho shifting to his left, leather bag full of paper cases hanging from the shoulder like an iron anchor. He stared into people with piercing hazel eyes, arms crossed, as if court was forever in session. But otherwise, he seemed in height and build similar to Marvus, aside from a darker shade of skin tone.

"No, you were waiting a long time, right? Sorry about that. The promotion meeting went much longer than I thought. I mean, did Larant tell you why this is called the Potbellied Wig?"

"Nope. Don't care." Jonn always got right to the point, post sarcasm.

"Ah," Daya Leem, sculptor, illustrator, all around great up lifter to humanity, gave the question a thorough mental gargling. "Yeah, that's a no. After the fiftieth-or-so time three months ago, I came to the startling realization Larant will never divulge to we Idealists such a grand secret as to the origin of the oldest building in Masara." She raised a glass of ale to toast, mockingly, a dozen silver braided bracelets on the wrist tinkling, only to find Jonn take a gulp, laughing at leaving her hanging, and Salima, her best friend, paying her no mind. Daya shrugged, incoming light reflecting off of the emeralds along the shoulders of her gilded silk blouse that acted as a second skin before flowing out into a frilly circular skirt with silver lining. Deep brown hair, cut into a buzzcut bob, shone and highlighted her yellowish skin, strong facial features, slender mauve eyes and elegant motions.

"Right, right." Marvus realized distraction was going nowhere. Sip. Think. Wring out the hands. "So, the promotion..."

"Yes!" Jonn reached across the table to shake the hand of his friend. "Congratulations. After all those years on the Grounds faking to be a legalist, and just as much time in the Artisan Houses deluding yourself into thinking you could make a career out of watercolor, you finally got a notch on your belt that matters." He raised his glass to Marvus, and this was the height of a compliment from Jonn Logcarver, with a wink for added sass.

"Tell us about it," Salima said, "every detail. I never tire of hearing about history, especially the way you tell it. And, you're now in the prime locale. I almost envy you." She moved closer, a lush face of icy beauty from up north looked into the soul of Marvus, and froze it solid. This was not her intention, rather the opposite. But as usual, Salima, the epitome of the hourglass figure and sultry perfection, assumed her motions and gazes would entice. In every other circumstance with a man, she won the battle of the wills, hands down. Here, under the white and green bottle light beams of the Potbellied Wig, her umpteenth attempt at seducing Marvus fell utterly flat.

He gulped. Intercourse. This word flowed down his consciousness like a flooded river, wiping out the buildings and infrastructure of his mental stability. Intercourse represented the sole word on the subject of nude intimacy Marvus could think of without the illness of the gut and mind taking him over. Salima lived off of sexuality, closeness, though she was a very loyal lover, despite a few insidious rumors about her. Marvus, from day one, took a different course: solitude, deep study, and remained, as ever, an absolute asexual man. Why was this so hard to understand? The more he told her, nine years of friendship now, and she only tried harder. Salima made a loyal ally, a great empathetic historian to talk Continuum with. But the hard sell all the time, and from a strong woman who (from his viewpoint) did not need to do so...

And then there was the issue of the aura. Salima's? Opalescent at this point. Now, no one saw a person's aura, but a few of the Idealists, artists, legalists and historians, could feel them and affect them for the better. Scientists in the Artisan Houses proved people had individual auras and exchanged them emotionally in every interaction. But Idealists, a minority anyway, fondled these energies from arm's length subconsciously. Add to that, and if one such Idealist spoke in their wheelhouse, one could feel the aura lighten, brighten, the person affected, uplifted. At least, for a time. Artisans helped the senses, appreciation of color and Nature and perception, intuition. Legalists could impart self control, heightened morality, a stronger sense of the communal. Historians gave out a sense of smallness. How was that helpful? It gave people awareness that self did not matter more than the link of the people across time, enabled them to read the past to find patterns that could help write a better future. These gifts were not spiritual or the superhuman prowess by some storied writer, but merely an enhancement of the natural aura/emotive sensing all people had but rarely used.

Idealists had it better, maybe by training or birth. Who knew? But this gift became public knowledge twenty years or so ago, and it only served to help enrich the Aubade Kinship and its goals of natural living, better civilization and peace to all.

Marvus Blackenwhite could affect auras in the ways all three Idealists could. He was, in the words of his old instructor Ghilda Tame, "an exception among anomalies". He was the sole person able to do this in such a broad, multi-spectral way.

He found out about this nine years back, meeting Salima the first time. Their discussion on art history got so deep, here, in these same seats at the Potbellied Wig, that she jumped into his lap and demanded intercourse (she used words much more colorful and varied). Marvus responded by dropping her on her bum, running to the bathroom with its red, black and gold checkered walls and vomiting. He was at once enthralled by her figure, the images of what she might look like undressed, and simultaneously repulsed by her vigorous details on what they could do to each other. Fascination and detestation at the same time. Two things that never go together, and Marvus did all he could in life to never experience it again.

And she smells so good, too. Shame. Such an amazing mind and body. Why are the women I find the most wonderful also the ones who want from me the one thing I can't give?

"Um, I'm too excited to go into detail, Salima. Hey, let's get some food, and make this celebration a feast. What do you say?" He felt Daya's aura contract, a sure sign she had gone into self absorption as she studied an empty ale glass. Jonn radiated with an aura of curiosity and mirthful humor as he watched the interplay between alluring, intelligent, deep down lonely Salima and uncomfortable, twitchy, conflicted Marv.

The food came in, courtesy of the bubbly Tesha. Trays of roasted vegetables were first, succulent, well seasoned, accented by five different vegetable dips in bright green, deep red, golden brown, off white creamy and spicy violet.

The roasted goods broke the glaciers Salim unwittingly produced, and the foursome entertained other verbal avenues in their lives and beyond. Daya was finally done with her year long sculpture of a fourteen-meter high solar absorbing vine tree, similar to the jungle flora in the rain forests farther south. She called it 'Mother's Binding' and let out a long huff of relief after describing her emotional and mental ordeal in making it at once realistic, functional and the brightest shade of orange she could mix up.

After her enlightening tale, and the revelation that Daya's art was on the list for consideration to establish at the southern tip of the Premiere Walkway, Tesha brought out more drinks, and with them, the main meals.

Portico roots can and are fried, baked and mashed into several dozen forms and recipes. But today, they were served up in thick cutlets, fried in a miniscule amount of the plant's own oil, and set beside heaping spoonfuls of mashed yellow tatos full of herbs that brought peace to the mind after a good whiff. Portico had as much protein as meat, and was grown far and wide that, by this time, those of Marvus' generation had never tasted the flesh of an animal. Such an idea, now seventy years removed, its slaughterhouse wreckage long since cleared away and cleaned up, would evoke only a repulsive response from anyone in the Wig. The Kinship began by swearing to make everything better for everyone. A century later, it stood tall as the sole government in the history of the world to live up to most of its promises.

Marvus ate hearty, as did Daya. Jonn and Salima chit chatted about a book the two had read for a book club, something about the suffering of a philologist being tried for altering old texts to suit his version of history. This cascaded into a full on debate about the right of the historian to dissect the past and illuminate what matters most to the public (as Salima saw things) versus the lack of transparency, which was basically asking to be arrested (as Jonn discerned the matter). As neither Daya nor Marvus had read The Secret Diary of the Philo, they kept their mouths in their meals.

Food. Drinks. More ale for Daya. Another fizzy concoction for Marvus, the pink foam rye latte Salima loved so and two more watered down shots for Jonn (he awoke very early in the morning, unlike these layabouts). Happy feelings made for lighthearted auras from all involved. The air, warm. The mood, gallant. The camaraderie, stupendous.

Five hours breezed by in the breadth of a second. Next thing they knew, Daya noticed the hour and panicked. She had a meeting of the Sculptors For the Needy five minutes ago! Hugs exchanged, deep, abiding ones from a quartet who found they were seeing each other less and less. As Marvus hugged Salima, he dreaded the inevitable offer of lust.

"I love you, Marv, happy for you, but I'm so, so sorry I make you feel bad. Forgive me."

The aura! Its utter, sad, truthful, heartfelt notations became barbs digging into his abdomen. As she whispered those words in his ears within the confines of the embrace, he felt her curves. Oh, how nice it would be to crawl into bed with her every night, feel breasts rise and fall in his hands like the tide, sleep in absolute peace. The softness of woman, how her body in every square inch moved with supple inundations, not stiff like the reptilian hairiness of the male. He could say he wanted to do just so, right now, and she would squeal with delight. But, Marvus knew what it would come to. One touch meant her joy, stimulation that would enact the intercourse. Intensive physical lust would lead to those evictions the body gives off during those times, the feel of which, the scent, the knowing of them, made mind and body dig their own graves. He would yell out something, words about the toxicity of these matters, and they would wound her being. His utterances would shatter her resolve like a castoff vase against a mountain, never to be the same. And, it would be his fault. Not intentionally, for he was who he was, just as Salima was Salima, but there it lay all the same.

Five girlfriends later, all very good relationships, and he ruined each one. So they said, at the end of each. Most of the world wanted the same thing at the end of the day. Heat. Deep seated, unequivocal, give-me-everything-you-got-put-your-back-into-it heat. And Marvus, well, he had the capability to desire, to touch, to kiss and to love, but not for the All the Way. He and it had never met face to face.

"Thank you," he whispered back, even offering a platonic peck on her cheek, which garnered him one of her amazing smiles. True, the feeling he had was one of conflict and gratitude, but Marvus took comfort in one sole thought.

Salima Greenwake could not discern the aura of Marvus Blackenwhite. This made his deep, passionate ramblings inside, and her inability to read him left Salima flailing outward for a way to make him hers.

"Maybe we can get together in a few weeks?" Salima proposed to the group as weary Jonn was halfway to the old door. I'll be back from the Tribal States by then--"

"You're going to the States?!" Marvus about blew his stack over joy for her, irritation for himself. "The Masara Primary School got approval for a tour?"

Salima blushed. "Well, keep in mind the Museum of the Unison may be the largest historical reference site in the Kinship, but it's also the newest. We've been petitioning our kin for three years now." She flicked her long platinum hair with an ample amount of pride and jutted her hip over to the right. Skintight slate lined body gown. Black boots, loose about the ankles, studded with copper stars. Intellect. Depth. Heart. Compassion. Anyone's dream come true. And now, first of the Quartet to leave home for the broader world.

"Well, congratulations, fellow lover of the Olde," Marvus gave her a vigorous handshake and, to his surprise, a second hug. He envisioned her in tight fitting jungle gear (even though most of the Tribal States was desert surrounded by reedy shoreline), learning another language (Saima spoke four already), making new friends with ease, and returning with epic stories and award winning artifacts. He knew she could, and had done, these very things. It made him proud to be in her company, and Jonn, and Daya,talented people who weren't jackasses and had a love for the Kin and progress. For Marvus, everyday, a battle. Hide it on the outside, wallow in despair on the inside.

A further set of hugs from Daya, who never voiced emotion on her face, only in her actions, and the Quartet made the countdown to three, two...

One.

Marvus Blackenwhite observed as each of his friends got into a separate electric cab, funny little things with purring engines, fast acceleration and buggy, fiery orange aerodynamic bubble frames. Off they went. No one lived farther than two kilometers, but the liquor did its work on them splendidly.

It did the job on Marvus also. He never imbibed more than one glass of his beloved fizzy, but the good, no, GREAT news, the talking, the food, got him off his center. Either the liquor warmed his innards, or the wind died down, he didn't know for sure. He simply saw the lights of the final cab go out of sight, and began to walk, skip, walk down the Premiere Walkway.

Positive emanations shared by fellow Idealists did his spirit a world of good. Marvus felt as if he might skip up to the dawning night sky, to traipse about the asteroid belt forming a halo around the Moon, and beyond to kiss wisps of starlight. What was the history of the universe? Why did the second moon explode before the days of Man and rain down death craters that split the seas and killed millions for centuries? Was it random? Could he count the scientific probability for the why like sand grains? Was it divine? Did some cosmic menace, or, worse, thoughtless entity, lob rocks at this puny species for little or no reason?

Was the falling sky why everyone went to war for so long, since the dawn of recorded time? It was the year 4350, yes? Liquor thinking made the brain sloshy. Come now, historian! You must get serious, for your future begins tomorrow morning, sharp! And, four thousand one hundred and thirty of those years were wasted on resource taking, superiority complexes by tyrannical kingdoms and blood soaked wars.

Well, truth be told the Aubade Kinship's five nations had had peace for over a century now. For everyone else in the world, however...

He brushed out the tangled hair mass of bad thinking to enjoy the uplifted aura he now possessed. Marvus could and would carry this flamboyant energy with him into the Museum of the Unison at sunrise, confident, illustrious as the glowing pseudo flora even now giving off excess solar light from the day's consumption. Archivist Harvest would be astounded. He could even share it with the old man, make him feel half his age. Oh, the things they might accomplish in the many galleries on Day One!

And then, crash. Like from a sugar high, or sideswiped by a racing auto, the exceptional increase in mood collapsed, and Marvus felt the weight of its replacement. Depression. Angst. Dread from nowhere. He made it the kilometer and a half down the way to just outside of his apartment, a flat walled rectangular complex with a domed roof, the walls covered in street art of brilliant migratory insects being captured in jars by happy children. Had the building, his home sucked him dry?

No, no, no! What...where has my euphoria gone? He looked down at the cobblestones. Not there, nor was it slithering to the nearest storm drain. Only another person might--

"Excuse me," a stiff masculine voice spoke, "but aren't you the newest historian at the Museum of the Unison."

Marvus shook. He whipped around and saw, in the pseudo flora, a man. His suit, bright white, a glowing communique watch on the right wrist between the sleeve and a black glove. He was older, maybe twice Marvus' age, tall in a regal way, a black-gray checkered scarf wrapped three times about the collar bones. He walked over, fast, boots click-stomping on stone. On the approach, the young historian noticed the rapid pace, dress coat blowing, the locked in stare.

Holster under the left armpit.

A...? Gun? Is it? Who carries a gun? Guns were artifacts in the Kinship after they gave up war and political incorporation for natural living and isolation. He's illegal! A criminal, no doubt. I should call Jonn. I need to call Jonn. No! Drunk. I need to call the Constables.

Despite its best efforts, life in the Aubade Kinship was never one hundred percent. There were, for lack of a better term, people 'disposed to the negative'. Ones who liked taking rather than giving, found theft thrilling and violence empowering. One could never change every soul, and no one was so naive as to believe it could be done, but most followed the laws because they were, at long last, just. For the others, well, this time of night, no one around, was their calling card.

"Terribly sorry to frighten you," the man stated, "but I love long night walks and this afforded me an ample opportunity to get the lay of your land, and avoid my entourage." He offered no smile, only the stare. Not necessarily bad. Not exactly good, either.

Marvus realized he was shaking the man's hand, and stopped. "Wait. What?" He found the loss of words and awkwardness to strike right when he needed to remember how to throw a left hook or kick a man when he's down. If he could get him down, that is.

Add to that, the negative got worse. Every second he was next to this, this, raider, the further down the spire of darkness Marvus slid. No one knew better than he how auras interacted, or how much more an Idealist might absorb or be affected by others. But this...attack...hit like nothing he had a reference for.

"I apologize. My name is Klavin. Klavin Dearkind. I am an Estatesman ambassador. I arrived just two days ago, staying at the embassy nine blocks from the Grounds." He produced a badge, one with the appropriate Kinship transit seals, before tucking it back into the dress coat pocket.

"Yes," Marvus answered, woozy. "Grounds."

"This is my first time in the East, so I readily digest any news you people put out. I saw your promotion in this day's printout of the Continual Register. Fascinating. You really print everything going on, full disclosure. No one takes advantage of this?"

"No." Marvus felt some fight welling up inside him, a smidgen, but a worthwhile one. "Free press is a national treasure. We've got the most objective journalists the legalists can put out." He almost said historian, but last second remembered journalism fell under the present state, and thus was monitored by Code, not Continuum.

"Yes, well, too much data can...anyway, I would never see so much openness in the Gem Estates. I wonder if I might trouble you for a tour of the new museum tomorrow? I have a pressing schedule, meeting with your Trade Court, Boundary Court, Share Assembly," he paused there, as if trying to understand what the last term spoken meant. "And others. But tomorrow, tomorrow is good."

"Sure. I will, let the Archivist know you're coming." Why are you saying yes? He's an Estatesman! Gem Estates is the biggest empire on Earth! The dogmasters. Bloodspillers! They started the Crowning War, for crying out loud! Say no!

"It will...be fun to learn from another culture," Marvus mumbled.

Inside, his brain screamed, its outcry echoed across a valley of self condemnation.

Another handshake, and Marvus encountered the drain once again. With a quickness he pulled his hand out of the embrace and made for the door. Fingers fumbled for the key. Good thing only the outer door of two needed a key! Second one locked from the inside, and no one in Masara locked their personal door once upstairs.

He breathed heavy. The night world blurred, his heart pulled in different directions. Doubts not experienced since childhood reemerged.

"Very well," said Ambassador Klavin. "I shall see you then. Stay safe from harm this eve."

Marvus turned to face him as the fingers continued to jangle the key and the doorknob. "What do you mean by that?" It was a peculiar saying, for, even considering the slim notion of crime, no one ever made the evening sound so ominous. Klavin's voice had deepened at the last few words, like the music in a film right before a an actor gets brutally slain.

"This is an age of deception, my new friend. Spies. Politics. Lies wrapped in truth and secret executions. Trust is, I'm embarrassed to say, nominal. Shame, really, how the Kinship has made you all so gullible."

"Why you--!"

Klavin raised up hands and smiled. Not a happy smile, mind you. Marvus never encountered such before, a smile lacking emotional context. It was simply, there, as if drawn on.

"I mean you no harm, only, a hope to make you aware. Sorry again for disturbing your solitude. Let me return before my bodyguards get nervous and begin rounding up suspects. Good night."

He walked away, boot click stomps echoing across Masara like audible harbingers of doom. Marvus finally got into the first door, lifted up the hinge to free the lock on the second, and entered the hallway, panting. Sweat.

Was I elated earlier? The aura upgrade had left him with such force as to make him disbelieve he'd ever received it to begin with.

Safe at home, but bereft of safety within, he made it up the stairs to his apartment. The green painted door with the square bronze knob greeted him. Marvus opened the door, stepped inside, lit several meditation candles, and collapsed on a pillow ladened peach futon.

He stared at the carved squares along the ceiling, the fifty-year old wooden ceiling fan, a power coil snaking down the corner that brought solar energy made electric into the place, and let out a harsh, unsatisfying sigh. He had scaled the top of the tallest mountain, screamed victory this day...and promptly fell right off of it.

"Round up suspects? Gullible? What is going on in my country?"

[NOTE: this is my first foray into the wonderful realm of solarpunk and greenpunk, and my first time as an ace author writing an asexual character. This also marks, for those who've never read my stuff on Wattpad, the longest first chapter I've ever written, and this was done over the course of one fast evening. I hope you'll vote, comment, and come back for more each time I lay down a new chapter. This is an entire world that will study a better tomorrow, how it got there, its pros and cons, war, human rights and other bg issues, plus introduce a cool government fighting to keep an actual good thing it has produced. It is also about feelings and reason, and how to overcome your own hurdles. Let me know what you think, and I'll keep putting out the wordage.]