logan-k-strong

[logan-k-strong]

Heavy Is The Head, pt. 1

He generally preferred a medium-dark roast blend, but this particular blonde surprised him. The citrus notes were remarkably subtle, and balanced. Certainly less offensive than the last time he tried to broaden his horizons. On the other hand, he knew with absolute certainty that the acidity would catch up to him around noon. He double-checked the shelves behind his bathroom mirror to ensure antacids were in stock, very few sensations being more disagreeable than a subtle, though constant burn. 

He was lucky, all considered. At least, that’s what he was told. 

Just before the Dreaming, the world finally caught on fire. For decades, most expected the end of civilized Earth to arise from warfare. Nuclear missiles leveling entire cities, civil wars crippling countries, etc. The truth was that it simply got too hot. Of course, anyone who was actually paying attention knew that it would, but that had long since become a point well past arguing. It was just a matter of getting on with life in the new world. So, he did.

For the most part. Charlotte still crept into his waking thoughts from time to time; most often the wrong time, as if some vengeful spectre, or a debt collector. For the most part, his resolve was sound. He could steel himself against the memory, swallow the burn. But she could find and exploit even the slightest gap of doubt in his armor with those stilettos, and she had proven that fact time and time again.

He cursed as his bleary eyes wandered to the clock above the stove; he realized he would be late. He shoved two antacids down his throat, drained the rest of his now cold coffee, and hit the door.

The Guardians arrived three days after the wildfires began. Earth had myriad spectators, but most were just that. The vast majority of the audience casually looked on with the same aloof schadenfreude with which the human populace once mainlined reality television. The problems were just too plentiful, and human-kind too stubborn for most to even consider lending aid. The general consensus was to let the (barely) sentient life die out, and then mine the husk for whatever resources could be gleaned. Sell them to the highest bidder, and set up a strip-mall. 

The Guardians had other plans. The humans in power were by and large obstinate, and cruel, filled to overflowing with hubris, and woe-fully war-minded. However, the level at which the race had progressed in such a short amount of time was at least mildly impressive, showing significant promise. The Guardians only tuned in every hundred years or so (on the commercial breaks, one could suppose), and every single time they did, there was some groundbreaking development, more often than not several. A new disease discovered and subsequently conquered; mitigated, at the very least. A humanitarian crisis of some sort or another quelled and en route post-haste to recovery. So they began to watch more closely, more frequently. The prominent conclusion from the data was that the human mind, when presented with a problem, was (in working theory) malleable enough to adapt and conquer nearly any number of adverse scenarios if applied in controlled, uniform measures. 

And that was more valuable than any other chemical compound on the planet. With a species this resilient, this adaptable, this prolific, the possibilities were difficult to truly quantify. However, they fully intended to try.

They put out the fires in one fell swoop.

 They promised a solution. The remaining human life would be suspended in an artificial animation, a paradise of sorts, until the Earth was prepared to be re-inhabited, they said. The data gathered over the past few millennia would serve this purpose. It was simple enough. In truth, most of the populace followed the same pattern anyway. It was easy to replicate. And so it was that human-kind began to dream, for the first time since man saw fit to govern man. In sleep, they were given freedom from fear. In sleep, they forged their own reality from nothing more than hope and a promise. In sleep, they would soon learn to wake up. 

In the real world, this sidewalk was a cacophony of blaring horns; angry pedestrians launching all manner of obscenities this way, and that; one hot dog guy blatantly slandering the other hot dog guy fifty feet down the way, and vice/versa; frantic street preachers shouting doomsday. The works. 

It remained as bustling as it ever was; however, the general overtone was vastly more favorable. Passersby smiled and greeted one another. The hot dog vendors agreed to disagree. A hurried, albeit forgiving stream of business professionals flowed efficiently down the avenue, pedestrians and motorists alike, their previous grievances assuaged by the vacation they now inhabited. They still went to work, sure. They still felt the stresses and strains of the life known before, but they were kinder, gentler. There existed no cause for quarrel in this dream, no true sting housed within the framework. Why should one disrupt it?