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GESB: History Book

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Myitt:
Hi everyone!  Since Estelore had such a great idea with character backstory, dreams and visions, I think it'd be fun if we got to see a bit more of our characters' pasts.  It'll be a great character development tool, and it'll help us build on our characters' storylines and rationales for doing what they do today in the Galaxy's Edge Space Bar.

To start off, I've provided little insights into events from the lives of three of my characters.

Yeah, most of it is pretty angsty, but hey.  It's been a rough road.  And I started out with something a bit more lighthearted.

---


It was warm.

Sun beat down on my back, my face.  I aimed my Dracon very carefully. 

“Clear!” I called, gesturing to the Hork-Bajir on the other side of the gigantic nawin tree. 

The Dracon burned hot in my calloused hands, its cells worked to near full capacity.

CRRRRAAACKKK!  The ear-splitting noise just barely made it through the waxy substance that protected my host’s hearing.  It was louder than the Dracon blast that had melted the tree at the base, evaporating wood and boiling through hundreds of gallons of sap. 

I hopped back on big reptilian feet, watching the massive living thing, over one hundred standard feet in circumference, teeter dangerously.  It listed to the left for a moment, but I had done this before.  The calculations wouldn’t fail me.

I watched as the gigantic tree fell and fell, taking branches of adjacent trees with it.

I could feel the ground rumble, nearly knocking me off my feet, as it hit the ground.  I was standing almost eighty meters away, and still I had to settle myself with my tail. 

A few hoots and calls of a successful tree-felling echoed through the vast woods, and I waved back to my people on the other end as they took to searing off half of the tree trunk.

A muffled voice from behind me.  I peel out the ear protectors and arch my neck toward the sound.

“I said, ‘You’re getting better at it’,” repeats the male Hork-Bajir, standing behind me.  His Hork-Bajir mouth is bared in a grin.

“Corliss Three-Eight-Two,” I reply, grinning back.  “May the Kandrona ever shine and strengthen you, brother.”

“And you,” Corliss replies, turning to survey the destruction.  “You may as well face the inevitable truth, however.  You will never be as good a shot as me.”

“Is that so?” I say, stepping closer to him.  His male Hork-Bajir host is a bit smaller than my female, just enough that I can glower down at him if I stand on the tips of my toes. 

“Yes, it is,” Corliss replies nonchalantly, trying to match my height.  “It isn’t all that difficult to shoot a gigantic tree, even at this distance.”

“I’d like to see you try it,” I challenge.  This was an old game, one we had played even on the homeworld, barely out of grubhood. 

Corliss tilts his head side to side in the manner of his Hork-Bajir’s tribe.  An indication of boldness. 

“All right, I will,” he says, drawing his Dracon from his shoulder strap and aiming it at a tree. 

“Corliss!” I hiss.  “You can’t be serious, if my commander finds out who--“

“Be quiet,” my brother snaps.  “You’re breaking my concentration.”

My hearts feel like they’re hammering away in my neck as I watch him squint at the tree.

Corliss’ finger tightens on the Dracon trigger.

TSSEEEEEEEEEEEEWWW!

FWUMPH!

Something falls, dead and smoking, sixty meters away.  A dead chadoo, only a few feet long, feathers still sizzling. 

Corliss looks back at me with a look that can only be triumphant.

“Your turn,” he says with a smile.

---

Someone was screaming. 

Tara sighed and plopped down on the couch.  Another of her sister’s tantrums.  She was nine, Cattie was four.  There was medicine for the seizures, but not for the tantrums.

The doctors had told mom and dad that Cattie was lucky to be alive.  Tara LaFauci was glad, because it could have been a lot worse. 

“Honey, calm down,” said mom, in that voice that seemed to be the only thing that could break through the little girl.  “It’s just bedtime.  Do you want mommy to sleep with you?”

Screaming again.  Wailing and kicking and crying.  Tonight the voice wasn’t working.

Tara rubbed at her eyes and picked up the remote control, clicking on the television.  Cartoons made everything better, right?

“Stay tuned, we’ll be back to the show after these messages!”

“Commercials,” Tara muttered, rolling her eyes.  None of the commercials were good this late at night.  They all asked for your credit card, and you had to be ‘18 years or older to order’.  The only reason cartoons were on this late was because they were airing a new show.  Trying to get a new demographic.  Tara had learned that word in social studies.  She wondered who at the cartoon studio thought any kid in their right mind would be up this late, without parents to usher them to bed?

Or without a little sister, crying and screaming in the other room, and dad out late at the office. 

That was okay.  Just get lost in the excitement of a new cartoon show.  Maybe it would be as good as Ren and Stimpy.  She smiled to herself, tapping her fingers together like an old TV villain.  It was fun to pretend like that, to be the villain who really everybody liked, better than the hero. 

Screaming.

“Oh, the popcorn!” Tara cries, bolting off the couch toward the kitchen.  She coughs on the acrid smell of burnt popcorn, waving her hand in front of the white plastic microwave.  She punches the door button and the waving becomes more vigorous, as she plucks the charred bag from the glass plate and tosses it onto the white kitchen counter. 

“Ow,” she whispers, shaking her hand back and forth and sticking a finger in her mouth.

Something was still burning.  Now there was the smell of burning meat, like on the barbecue over at grandpa’s. 

She was going to miss the cartoons…

---

Myitt’s eyes snapped open as the memory flickered away.  White walls.  The powerful smell of antiseptic. 

Her throat hurt.  Something wet and warm was plastered on her neck.  Her ear…not responding.  More pain there, too.

She gasped for breath, her eyes rolling left to right in dry sockets. 

Struggling, she tried to pull herself free from the restraints at her arms and legs.  Nevermind the humiliation of opaque white tubes digging into her host’s veins.  She was vaguely aware of how long she had been here, because of how many tubes were sticking in places she didn’t even want to think about.  Had it been a week?  Two weeks?  Yes, certainly more than a week. 

And they had kept her alive.  Feeding her with a refined current.  Not letting her slip away into blissful death. 

What had she told them?  What hadn’t she told them?

Pressure, under her chin.  At her forehead.  At the back of her skull. 

The thing that was attached to her head.  Yes, it was causing this pain.  The starvation, that was its own little deadly spike in her sluglike body.  This thing…with its slimy wires in her head…it was what was making her scream in agony.

Why?  Why don’t they just kill me? she wondered desperately. 

<I want to go home,> Tara sobbed.  <Oh, God, I don’t want to die like this!>

The room turned bright orange, the floor rumbled up through the table. 

Good, another dreamlike vision.  Sink back into her host’s mind. 

That was all right.

The last thing she heard through the ear that still functioned was the sound of voices shouting.  Something loud, an explosion, nearby. 

Warmth, baking down on her emaciated human body.  It was so nice to be warm.

Chad32:
Claxter was a young Aristh in the military academy. The Yeerk war had been going on for decades, but the news was always optimistic. The Andalites would win. It was only a matter of time. Calxter's days were filled with training. Simulation after simulation. Obstacle course. His Prince Foosal Yelling at him. No matter how well he did Foosal always yelled at him.

<I think I did well today, prince Foosal.> He would say after a near perfect success.

<Who cares what you think? You're just a Arish. I'll tell you what to think. Run it again!>

Why did he have to get assigned to such a harsh prince? But finally the day came. It seemed to come out of nowhere.

<Claxter. I'm promoting you to Warrior. Today will be your first battle>

He was so happy. Finally a promotion! He galloped behind his Prince in anticipation, and looked with his stalk eyes to the other Princes and warriors there. Why did they looked worried? Shouldn't they be happy for him? One of the nicer princes pulled him aside.

<Claxter. Be careful out there. Personally I think this may be a little too much for you, but we don't really have the choice. Wear your new rank proudly.>

<I will sir.>

--------------------------------------------

Noises. Noises everywhere. lasers firing in every direction. Blood. So much blood. His friends were dead. He saw them die beside him, or run off and not come back. He had been fighting for...how long? How many Hork-Bajir had he seen? How many bugfighters or Andalite fighters had he seen fly over head or crash into the ground? Where was his Prince? Where was anyone!?

They were coming for him. Hork-Bajir looking to hack him to pieces like they had done so many times before. He ran. He had to find safety. He found an open hatch for a fighter, and ordered it closed. They tried to get in. Blasting the door with their dracons. He had to get away. He fired the ship up, and headed for atmosphere. It still wasn't safe, though. Bugfighters were everywhere. The only safety was Z-Space.

KitsuneMarie:
“I’m home,” I called into the entryway.

There was no response, something that struck me as strange—which immediately struck me as strange that it should seem strange. Even though my father had been practically waiting at the door for me to come home from school every day since November, it was impossible to forget how apathetic he had been during the first thirteen years of my life.

As I emerged into the living room, my father came hurrying towards me from his bedroom, radiating enthusiasm. “Hey, honey! I didn’t hear you come in!” He gave a big smile.

“I made as much racket as usual,” I shrugged and flopped onto the couch, turning on the television and flicking through the channels.

He eased into a nearby chair. I could feel his eyes on me. “Good last day of school?”

“Yup." Teenager monosyllabism.

He shifted. “I have some exciting news, Elayne.”

“Yeah?” He had my attention now. I turned to face him and muted the television, only dimly noting that it had landed on NBC.

“I’ve been offered a job in California.” Only in the past few months had he really started to care about his bioengineering career. I supposed the feverish pace at which he was speaking was just a physical manifestation of a new level of enthusiasm. “It’s a big advancement,” he continued, gesturing vaguely. “Enough that we could live very comfortably, even considering how expensive it is out there. But I didn’t want to accept the offer until I’d talked with you, to make sure you’d be okay with it.”

California, I had to admit, sounded... nice. Everyone said it was a nice place to live with nice weather and nice, multicultural cities. Besides, I did not feel any particular affection for the Colorado countryside in which I lived.

Still, the weird, nagging feeling I had been getting since November was tickling the back of my mind.

In an attempt to shove it away, I looked aside to collect my thoughts. My eyes darted reflexively to the television as the Friends rerun was interrupted by Tom Brokaw’s somber face.

Frowning at the untimely broadcast, I hit the mute button again, and words began to accompany his moving mouth. “—fatal disaster has struck the U.S.S. George Washington. Located several hours off the West Coast, the aircraft carrier suffered heavy damage; although no estimates have been made as to the death toll, it is almost certain that the lives of military personnel have been lost. These video segments have just been released to the media.”

His image was replaced with an aerial shot of the smoking carrier, which looked like it had been thoroughly scorched and bombed. The usually orderly lines of jets were in total disarray, and the tiny forms of men and women in uniform could be seen fighting their way through the wreckage to regroup and assist the prostrate bodies lying around them.

As the camera slowly zoomed in on the horrific scene, my eyes were caught by something odd—almost like a lizard, only huge—crushed by a toppled jet.

Abruptly, the screen went black.

“Dad, what—?”

“I can’t watch that. I’m sorry, Elayne,” he said in a gruff voice that would have reminded me of how he always used to speak, except now it was full of emotion. He must have picked up the remote control after I hit the mute button, because it was in his hand now. I caught a glimpse of moisture in his eyes as he stood and walked out of the room, setting the remote on a side table on his way.

He had fought in Vietnam. Depictions of war, particularly of American soldiers being killed, always bothered him. Still, I'd never seen him cry over it.

I stared at his back until he turned the corner. My sensitivity towards his grief was overshadowed by my interest in the horrible news story, so I turned the television back on with the sound muted.

Whatever strange image I had seen was no longer in the shot. I had probably imagined it, anyway.

Stephquiem:
((For the record: The "I" in the first one is the spirit, and "Fiona" in the second is the host. Yes, the spirit's part is meant to be that disjointed. XD))

The first thing I remember: Darkness. Heavy, suffocating darkness.

And the noise. God, the noise. Couldn't block it out. When I tried, instead of being muffled it became louder, somehow, until it reverbrated through my entire being. No. No. No, no, no!

And then...

Light. Shapes. Movement. Get away, get away, get away.

Move. Did I move? Must have. Panic, propelling me forward, away from the noise. I grab hold of something. Warmth! I cling to it, willing the noise back, away, and finally it fades.

Then... a new noise. Different. Loud. I push against it. It pushes back. I push again, harder this time. It yields, and after one more push it's silent. At last. For good. I'm alone.

--

He's doing it again.

Fiona peeks over her textbook. Sure enough, there he is, pretending not be looking her way. She's caught him quickly looking down at his own book at least three times now.

She smiles. He's cute, she thinks. She wishes he'd just come over and talk to her. This was starting to get silly.

Fiona goes back to reading. After a moment, though, she glances up again, and this time catches his eye. She smiles. He returns it, sheepishly, before finally gathering up his books and crossing the lawn that separates them.

He sets his books down on her table. "Hi," he says. Up close now, Fiona can see the tops of his ears turning bright red. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

"Sure." She moves aside her textbooks to make room for him. "I'm Fiona." She sticks out her hand.

He shakes it, smiling. "Adam. Nice to meet you."

--

((Side note? Adam's... umm... "friend" needs a name. -_- So badly.))

Chad32:
Sub-Visser 12, known to some as Temrash 946, came out of the ship onto the battleground. He barked orders, and his plans were followed. They were attempting to secure a spot on a mountain for their prime ground base, and the Andalite battalion was attempting to intercept them.

<Sub-Visser 12! We meet at last!> An Andalite said as he approached.

"So, someone sneaked by my defenses."

<With your death, the forces will scatter, and I will have my revenge.>

"What is it with you people and revenge. Why is it that for every Andalite I kill, three more have to show up shouting for revenge? It's getting annoying."

The Andalite charged, and they fought. The rocky area was more suitable for Hork-Bajir, which was a big reason he chose this location. The Andalite fought hard, screaming for blood for his brother. However he slipped on the rocks, and fell.

"I never cared to remember the name of your brother. When another of your relatives or friends show up, I will have forgotten you as well." He said as he pushed the Andalite down the mountain. Three controllers came running up.

"Apologies Sub-Visser. We were coming to your aide as fast as we could."

"Go back to your post. If I need help I'll ask for it."

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