Monthly Short Story for May: Wearing Power Armor to a Magic School Side Story 6 I Woke Up To A Burning World (Patreon)

Hello Commissioned Pioneers! :D As promised as always, in accordance with the results of last month's poll, I present to you the Bonus Story of the Month! There were a total of four choices again, with a majority voting for Wearing Power Armor to a Magic School Side Story 6.

This time we jump back to Earth, in the late 28th century, as we see more hints of some strange occurrences happening on Earth! This hearkens back to some of the things we were hinted at from the Interview With an Author bonus story so you guys should check that out too! 

Let's jump right to it then! I'd like to proudly present, Wearing Power Armor to a Magic School's sixth side story! :D

I Woke Up To A Burning World

Earth - NAU - Union Megacity - City of Los Angeles - MicroStudio Leasing Solutions - Unit 27A - Studio 10A

25/09/2793

22:00

The howling of the wind was just one of the few oddities that I was met with upon ending the recording session. Next up on the list were the echoey booms of thunder, the pitter patter of the rain, and of course, the sight of my whole setup all but drenched in the waters of the monsoon week.

Though that was probably the least of my worries in the grand scheme of things. As it wasn’t the ruined studio, the meticulously sabotaged gear, or even the cleverly disguised signal scramblers that was currently throwing me off, no.

That title was reserved for the man who stood in front of me, who stared at me with a fractured expression that bordered on the manic; and the gun he held pointed straight between my eyes.

“I’m sorry Allen.” My co-host spoke frantically, his voice echoing ominously within the empty and dead confines of the studio.

“Lee… what the fuck is all of this?” I managed out with a hoarse breath, my whole body freezing like a deer in headlights. Every single muscle in my body clenched tight, and refused to budge even an inch.

The man refused to answer, his eyes looked almost glazed over, as he maintained that impossibly steady aim that I knew for a fact he wasn’t capable of.

This wasn’t the man I knew.

This couldn’t be him.

“Listen, if this was about tonight, then you’re blowing this way out of proportion.” I attempted to reason with him.

He remained silent, the only sounds interrupting the silence were the violent assaults from nature creeping into the room via the open doors and windows.

“You know I’d never be mad at you for missing a show.” I continued. “And I know you’re not dumb enough to make a fuss about a single no-show, let alone doing… whatever the fuck this is. So tell me, what the hell is all of this about, Lee?”

Something compelled me to try taking a few steps forward at that point.

It was probably something I saw on another show, or some advice some hostage-defusal specialist gave on one of the earlier episodes.

“Come on man-”

BANG

=====

2 Hours Prior

“Live from a 20th century studio inside of a 28th century simulacrum, and streaming on all major service providers courtesy of our blue-coat boys from INT-COM’s SME-2 subsidies, it’s the Good Morning, Afternoon, and Goodnight Show with your host, Allen Truval!”

A round of simulated applause grew out of the tail end of that cheesy intro, followed promptly by a small jazz number, and an increasingly uproarious crowd that harkened back to the 20th-century vintage fashion currently in-vogue across the talk show scene.

Indeed, it wasn’t just the set, the sound design, and the general atmosphere that had been modified to suit this hopefully short-lived craze, but also my avatar and model design that just felt far too old to be taken seriously. It was the fashion to be quite honest, and also the boring hairstyles of the 20th and 21st.

I was just glad all of this was virtual, and I didn’t have to commit to changing my hair color for the season.

“Goooood Morning, Good Afternoon and Goodnight and welcome to another enthralling episode of Mystery Mondays. Now, you may notice that my co-host is nowhere to be seen.” The virtual camera began ‘panning’ across the desk that was clearly designed for two, but currently had me as its sole occupant. “But I promise you it most certainly wasn’t the fault of the cultists of Hab-Station 324, or the runaway superintendent of Townsend Station, nor was it even the result of an interdimensional rip in spacetime pulling our beloved Lee Torvald into an alternate dimension of spare keys and loose change.” I paused, pressing the cringe-worthy laugh track for added effect, seeing that no one in the livestream today seemed to be willing to go along with the joke. “Now, while my charming co-host may be MIA, that doesn’t mean our show’s dead in the water. Oh, no, because here at GM-GA-GN, we’re committed to keeping our 2000-episode streak, and today is no exception. Especially when we’re expecting a rather exceptional gentleman here today. So without further ado, please give a warm, enthusiastic welcome to today’s guest: a father, a veteran, a frontiersman, and above all a patriot and a fervent supporter of the Centaurian Spirit. Listeners and viewers, let’s give the floor now to Commodore Steven Hastings!”

A round of applause filled the virtual room, but once again, it was me who needed to keep the act up.

Despite the view count rising, engagement was absolutely pathetic. But I really couldn’t perform the show and do back-end duty at the same time, and especially not without Lee’s help.

The elderly man’s presence was brought on through less than conventional means, a 2D plain-ass webcam to be precise.

It was probably just an LREF thing.

Whatever the case was, his live-feed came through smoothly, which took a huge weight off my shoulders as I didn’t need that extra complication.

“Thank you, I’m happy to be here.” The Commodore spoke with a voice I more or less expected from an LREF frontiersman: gruff, gravely, yet surprisingly composed and put-together.

“And we’re honored to have you here on the show, Commodore.”

“Just Steven is alright, son. I’m retired anywhos, and Commodore’s quite a mouthful so I wouldn’t blame ya for snipping it for the sake of your runtime.” The Commodore quickly corrected.

“It’s not often we have a guest mindful of the limited runtime, sir. Just an observation of course, I’m definitely not complaining.”

“Eh, you get mindful of these things when you’re out on long patrol. While the incorporated territories’ com-lines are up to scuff, they’re nowhere near as densely developed as inner-space proper. So you get used to keeping things tight and brief, to save on bandwidth.”

I nodded along, getting the smalltalk out of the way first before we dove deep into the topic at hand.

“So, Steven, your career is easily one of the most heavily scrutinized in the post-war era.  Why do you think that is?”

“We’re a free country.” The man shrugged. “Anyone can say what they want, or think what they want. This usually ain’t a problem until we start treading into territory involving resource allocation, and therein lies the greatest sin of my career.”

“Your propensity for proposing policies and roadmaps that are in direct opposition to the expected trend of post-war demilitarization?”

“When put eloquently, that is correct, yes. But that’s just part of my job, son. The LREF stands as the first line of defense, the bulwark, the sentinels against existential threats.”

“Existential threats which your critics say are quote: overblown and phantoms at best?” I shot back at the Commodore. Not so much attacking him, but pushing him in the right direction.

“They say that, because their exposure to the military goes as far as the SECDEF’s spreadsheets. They see the military as just another department to be allocated resources to, but in actuality, that couldn’t be any further from the truth.”

“Can you elaborate on that?”

“When push comes to shove, when emergent threats find their way to our borders, no amount of resource reallocation can make up for lost time. Time is the thing they’re not accounting for. The time necessary to construct ships, infrastructure, equipment, and so on and so forth. The time necessary to train up a generation of experienced personnel to fill those roles. The time that we would be throwing down the drain if we had downsized. The military immediately post-war was a shining beacon of human progress. I fought to protect the progress my predecessors had created, in case of the unthinkable, in case of the inevitable.”

“Now I’m not too well versed in the military, but isn’t the mothball fleet designed explicitly to make sure we don’t waste the perfectly good ships we have-”

“The mothball fleet is a joke, Mr. Truval.” The Commodore interjected sharply. “The time-to-mobilization numbers the Committee for the Study of War conjured up is heavily skewed by wishful thinking and completely hypothetical values. Values which assume zero disruption in the supply chain, in the availability of components, and the availability of personnel needed for the repairs in the first place. We’ve seen how the mothball fleet did in the Third Intersolar Wars, haven't we?”

“I can only imagine that this was a major sticking point for your many hearings and inquiries within the Assembly. However, I wanted to steer the conversation back to what I wanted to touch on if that’s alright with you?”

The Commodore once more shrugged, raising both hands in my general direction. “Of course, by all means. This is your ship after all.”

“Thank you.” I gave the man a respectful nod before continuing. “Many have talked about your very vocal stance, yet not many have really dug into why you feel the way you do.”

“Like I said, it’s my duty to protect us against existential threats.” The man spoke emphatically.

“Duty and personal passion can become easily conflated.” I pushed further. “Most flag officers born after the war don’t seem to hold the same values as you do, Steven, or at least they aren’t as vocal about it as yourself. The only other crowd that sees eye to eye with you are those venerable veterans from the war, and even they sometimes openly question your stance on things. So considering all of this, I wanted to ask you, why are you the outlier here? What pushed you towards maintaining such a vocal stance, so much so that you’ve openly risked your own career more times than I can even count?”

The Commodore went silent for a moment, the first time out of the whole interview so far where he looked to be actively pondering a question.

About half of interviewees, when pressed into an uncomfortable spot, would simply refuse and deflect. The other half would give answers ranging from half-hearted platitudes to reluctant admissions to some vague personal stories. Only a few went all out and actually answered in a way that fit the scope of the question.

And it was clear by the Commodore’s eyes, that he was perhaps going to be one of those rare few that went all in.

“You know, I might as well go ahead and address this. I’m not getting any younger, and I’m well into retirement as is.”

I gestured for the man to continue, practically giving him the floor now.

“Do you often dream when you sleep, Mr. Truval?”

“I mean, as much as the next person I guess, why?”

“Because for the longest time, I didn’t. Ever since I was a child, I wasn’t one to dream, or perhaps I just never really remembered my dreams. Whatever the case was, dreams just weren’t all that significant to me. That was, until I had this one, very distinct dream. A dream that had no consistent narrative or storyline, but one with imagery so powerful that I found it impossible to forget. The vividness extended not just to sight, but sound, touch, and smell as well. It was an overwhelming kaleidoscope of senses, far more immersive than the most immersive of VR suits. Honestly… it almost felt like I was waking up in another world.” The man paused, taking a moment to clear his throat.

“So what was it? What did you see in that dream?” I shot back, urging him to continue.

“Death. Destruction. The apocalypse incarnate. Skies turning from pale blue to a deep crimson in a fraction of a second, asphalt melting into concrete, cars turning to slag, and people… melting alive. I woke up to see a burning world, Mr. Truval. And by the end of it, I saw the complete annihilation of a species, with what was left of the race was smothered by the tides.” The man’s features darkened, his eyes stared intensely into the camera with an intensity that made me feel like I was there with him.

It was at that point that the room went deathly silent. Thoughts bounced around in my head but none truly stuck.

I was truly at a loss for words, and I wasn’t used to that.

“Don’t get me wrong, My. Truval. For the longest time, I simply ignored it as a dream. A vivid one, most certainly, but a dream all the same. To that end, I assumed that this was perhaps a latent, buried memory. Perhaps my subconscious was attempting to make sense of a series of films, books, or poems that I might’ve consumed over the course of my life. But when I saw the images brought to life in a near one-to-one fashion, that’s when I knew that it might have been something more than a simple dream.”

“I’m sorry for interrupting, but what do you mean when you say you saw the images brought to life? Like, were you hallucinating or-”

“No, no.” The man interjected. “Nothing like that. No, what I mean by that is, well, perhaps a bit of context may be necessary. See, my wife, Larissa, she’s an artist by trade. She does contract work for the State, you know, murals and whatnot. She also does a bit of painting and private commission work on the side as well. Given the hectic nature of her career, she rarely has the time to dedicated to her own projects, which means that she puts an incredible amount of thought and effort before committing to a personal project. So you can imagine the feelings going through my head when I saw the results of an entire year’s worth of personal labor, when I saw the canvas dominated by a crimson landscape, and a one-to-one replica of the devastation from my dreams.”

“And this painting was done after your dreams? What’s to say that you might’ve accidentally mentioned it over a meal, or during casual conversation?”

The Commodore shifted in place once more, before leaning in forward closer to the camera. “She revealed this painting to me on the morning after my first dream, Mr. Truval.”

A chill ran down my spine as I attempted to compose myself, the elderly man taking this opportunity to finish his thoughts.

“And on that note, she started the painting over a year prior to my first dream.”

“And your wife, she never talked to you about this painting or perhaps a concept that might’ve set off your dreams?”

“I was on long patrol for that entire year, Mr. Truval. This involves an entire year of radio silence from family and friends, if that needed to be said. I only started having the dreams when I returned home.”

I let out a huge sigh, adjusting my virtual tie in the virtual world, as I fiddled with the set of mics affixed to my neck in real life. “And this dream. I fail to see how it relates to your-”

“It just kept evolving.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The dream, this… vivid image. Remember when I told you there was no rhyme or reason to it? That it was just a collection of sensory input?”

“Yes, you did state that.”

“Whilst the images remained the same, the thoughts, feelings, and emotions associated with it kept getting more… intense. In that, whilst I had no context to the dream itself, I could infer the meaning of it just by feeling alone. To that end, it was my wife who seemed to be experiencing more of a narrative-driven version of the dream. As we pieced two and two together, and compiled a story of a doomed world, one with close allegorical similarities to our own.”

“So are you saying that your entire career, your entire stance, this decades-long roadmap you forged… all of it stemmed from this… dream?”

“Not all of it.” The man spoke with definitive certainty. “My father was a Captain in the UN Extra-atmospheric Forces. My uncle was a logistics-train officer in the UN Terrestrial and Space Expeditionary Command. Half of my family are career-lifers who experienced the war, which gave me a strange mix of a desire to join the military, but also a desire to steer clear of the branches my folks chose. That’s why I wanted to join the LREF, the post-war blues had me looking outward into the distant stars of the recently incorporated territories with wanderlust and a desire to explore. However… this was tempered by the same post-war blues that had me looking outwards in the first place. Whilst I wanted nothing more than to look outwards with hope, I couldn’t help but to feel… concerned for what we might find. Yet I was never really decided on whether or not I leaned more towards hope, or more towards pessimism. I honestly would have remained on that undecided neutrality, if it wasn’t for the dream. There was something about it that gave me pause for concern. There was something there that pushed me from simply staying the course. There was something about it that made me worry about what lurked out there in the shadows. And since the LREF was established for both exploration and expeditionary warfare, I believed it would be best if we simply prepared. For humanity’s sake.”

There was a pause that descended on the both of us as I rushed in to ensure the awkward silence didn’t eat away at the interview. “So, these paintings. Is it possible for us to see them?”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“And why is that?”

“Those were the ones stolen in the robbery you probably already know of. It was on national news for a little bit." 

It was at this point that I reflexively pulled up a ‘newspaper clipping’ style collage of all the articles involving the scandal, superimposing it next to my avatar’s face for added effect. I knew it would be brought up sooner or later, but I never thought it’d be brought up like this.

“The incident was actually one of the things I wanted to touch on.” I spoke with a certain level of intrigue. “Police are still baffled by the motive. Moreover, nobody was able to make any sense of the turn of events. Do you mind if I recounted the events, or would you like to give your side of the story, Steven?”

“I think everyone by now will know of the incident, so allow me to state my side of the story just for the record.”

“By all means.”

“Around a week before the robbery, Larissa was contacted by a local art gallery about potentially putting a few of her works up on display as part of some local artist outreach program. The art gallery told us that two representatives from the gallery were supposed to arrive that weekend to pick and choose which of Larissa’s personal pieces should be chosen; and arrive they did. They had the credentials, they had the right outfits that’s for sure, and they even had a truck with the art gallery’s details painted on its side. Things went well at first, we chatted and whatnot, though Larissa found them to be a bit dull and vaguely underwhelming for supposed big-shot art gallery reps. Anyways, they seemed to be really transfixed on the five paintings Larissa did on our dreams. But what’s weirder is they seemed to be particularly interested in a weird historical knick-knack Larissa got before I arrived back from the long patrol, a wardrobe-sized window that looked like it’d come straight out of the pre-industrial era. She said she got it because it helped her muse, and I mean… I could see an improvement in her creativity after she got it, so I didn’t complain too much. But yeah, the two art reps seemed focused on that too.  Even though it was just… a literal window sitting awkwardly at the corner of Larissa’s studio. They were insistent on taking not just the five paintings, but the window as well. It was at this point that we left the room, talked about it in private for about five minutes, then heard the truck leaving. When we got back into the studio, we found that they’d taken the five paintings, and the window. After that, we contacted the police, and… well, you know the rest.”

“Your account seems to match public records. The police later found the two actual reps knocked out locked in another unmarked vehicle, later linked to the two suspects. They concluded that the two criminals assumed the art rep’s identities, for reasons still unknown. Because the ultimate fate of all of the stolen goods, and the criminals themselves… is utterly bizarre.”

“The police found the truck, the two crooks, and everything else, completely charred right?” The Commodore quickly shot back. 

“Yes, after a short 12 hour investigation, they tracked the truck to the desert, where it would seem as if they lit the truck, the contents within, and themselves on fire.” I paused, taking a moment to look the Commodore straight in the eyes. “With what you've revealed about the content of these paintings… do you believe there’s something else to this mystery, Steven? Do you think there’s some insight you could share or any further opinions you have on this mysterious case?”

The Commodore, as I expected, simply shrugged in response. “Your guess is as good as mine here, Mr. Truval. I admit, it is a bit eerie they chose the five dream paintings without Larissa’s prompting that they were a collection. And the whole tragic end to this whole thing just doesn’t make a lick of sense to me. I guess… it’ll just remain a mystery then.”

The Mystery Mondays theme played just as the Commodore uttered those magic words. 

“And on that note, we’re fresh out of time folks. Commodore, thank you so much again for coming onto the show.”

“Thank you for having me, son.”

“Any last words you have for the audience?”

“This is not sponsored or endorsed by the UN-LREF. But young folks, you should be looking to join it. The UN-ODC, and the UN-EWCC are full, please, we need more bodies exploring and defending the frontier.”

It was at that point that I started playing the outro music, and finally removed my headset… only to reveal the studio completely pitch-dark, and a loud draft coming in from all sides.

Panicked, I began running out of the recording booth, and back into the studio only to see Lee at the controls of the computers, messing about with the stream.

What was more worrying though, was the fact he had a fucking gun.

=====

Back in the Present

I could feel my fucking ears ringing, my whole body was shaking to its very core, as I opened my eyes to see the smoking barrel of the gun pointed just a few inches away from my head.

The target wasn’t me. Instead, it was the local NAS right next to me, the same one where we backed up all of our recent recordings.

Lee seemed dazed, his eyes focused squarely on the destroyed NAS, as I decided this was the time to strike.

I tackled the man to the ground, attempting to wrestle the gun away from him only to find that he just… let it go without a fight.

It was around that same time that Lee’s glazed-over eyes suddenly showed some signs of emotion. Namely: panic, and confusion. “Wh-where the fuck, what, how did, what’s-?!”

He began rolling around on the ruined studio floor haphazardly, which prompted me to slap him hard against the face. I hated doing it to a friend but… the dude literally just pulled a gun on me. “Dude! What the fuck man?!”

“Allen? Why the fuck are you hitting me?! Where the fuck are we? How the fuck did I get here? What-”

“You come in here, tearing the place apart, screwing up with the livestream purposefully, point a gun at me, and you have the fucking nerve to play dumb?!”

The man’s expressions were still nothing short of downright confusion, as he looked around, still clearly trying to regain his bearings as his eyes landed on the drenched room and the now shot-up NAS. “Are you telling me I did all of this?”

“Yes! And more too! You screwed with the broadcast whilst I was hooked up and plugged in! You fucked with the stream, it was on demo-mode, it never went live!”

I began walking towards the destroyed NAS, and the last remnants of the hour-long interview we’d been building up to over the past year… just gone. “You got some explaining to do, Lee.”

“I… I really don’t remember any of this. The last thing I remember was the little side quest I tried pulling in order to dig further into the Commodore’s whole burglary story. I drove out to the wreck, trying to find some clues, and I came across just charred dirt, with something buried underneath.”

It was at this point that I let my curiosity take over, my anger simmering a bit as I listened intently. “Go on?”

“I tried digging it up, it turned out to be a windowframe, charred, but still in one piece as far as I could tell. I only got about a quarter of the way in before I just… blacked out. The next thing I know, I’m here, in the studio, with you slapping me hard across the face.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The whole story just got weirder and weirder still… but it was at this point that I knew we had to call it. This whole thing wasn’t worth it. “Alright. Let’s just forget this whole thing ever happened.” I managed out with a sigh.

“But, the studio, the mess, the interview and-”

“We can salvage the studio, we can fix the mess, but I don’t wanna mess with whatever the fuck this whole situation is anymore. I’m not going to risk my life for Mystery Mondays for crying out loud.”