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Wed Apr 29, 2009 9:42pm (XFF:

I'm writing for the sake of writing. Not a CD. Not a Beer Run. Not a mission. Post if you want.


The common room was quiet. Stale. The Stomping Ground air conditioner was off and halls are humid. A fan swirled its blades with more effort than the drowsy tone of the room. It turned its wide head from the loveseat to the couch while grounded in its pivot. There is a hum to the fan's swirling. It's faint. Not louder than the news on the window-size flat screen monitor.

"Is anyone still watching this?"

no one answered.

A reploid in casual clothes leaned forward off his cushioned seat of the couch. He didn't straighten his legs. He leaned forward, pressed the power button on the remote, then rolled back on his heels to sit back down. Those that didn't hear the fan before, heard the humming now.

For the mercenary, watching the news can become a study. Things happen and we watch to see how it's covered up, what is omitted, how briefly the issue is addressed. Some understand the influence of the news. For many families, the news is their only outlet to the world, or to their neighbor. Whatever is important to the news, is important to the watcher. When the news panics, the watcher panics. When the news is off, the watcher is off.

The evening broadcast is a lullaby.

The reploids are on stand-by.

Asleep. Some heavy eyelids. Others just have their eyes closed, resting, and waiting to be chilled by the fan when it points to them again. Across the loveseat, diagonal to the fan, beside the couch, stands the wobbly four-legged table. Pawn sat on the side that had too short of a leg. He took off his helmet then scratched his scalp away from the apex as if brushing his hair.

Sitting at a table, a reploid awoke suddenly. She perked up in his chair. She inhaled deeply, looking at his whereabouts with wide eyes then squinting them with a torso stretch and exhale. Pawn nodded to her as a gesture for "hello, back to reality." He looked away at his fingers on the table. It was a delayed start to a conversation, past the moment of awkward silence and moving your mind to something else.

"Hi," she said.

"Good evening." Pawn said, turning back towards her with a smile.

She wasn't talking to Pawn. A friend of hers walked into the common room. But he caught the attention of them anyway: the girl and the guy. The girl and Pawn spoke at the same time: the girl apologized for misleading, Pawn apologized for misunderstanding.

"What happened?" The guy said.

Pawn and the girl looked at each other. The girl broke eye contact and answered the guy after a "good to see you again hug."

"I had this weird dream," she said "Some kids come up to me, grinning and all their little hands point bread slices in a my face. They say 'toast it, toast it.' I'm offended and disgusted, but grab each slice and press them between my palms. They run away before I'm done with all them. One of them screams and giggles, 'See! She is a toaster!' I was very upset and still had someone's slice of bread in my palms."

"That's it?" The guy asks.

The girl paused for a second.

"No. I can't remember some of it, but then it jumped to all these people around me. Paparazzi, I want to say. And they were shoving anything from paper, to shoelaces in my hands and telling me to 'toast it, toast it.' Hoping to capture it on camera."

Pawn was looking at her. The guy looking at her too. They waited for her to finish.

"And that was the end."

"Is there a moral to this dream?"

"I told you it was weird."

"Not this weird. I think your just crazy. Maverick perhaps," he said, playfully backing away from her.

She nudged him, laughing. Pawn turned away from the guy's innocent "crying wolf" remark.

Reploids do dream. It's like a computer periodically cleaning the hard drive of temporary files and cookies and disk defragmenting. Files are being scanned through so fast, things mush together.

Pawn dreamed recently about being armorless in a jungle and mosquitoes were sucking his robot fluids and were then transformed to little mosquito-bots. The mosqiuto-bots then went to the trees and infected them with their robotica. Then the tree-bots seeped robotness into the ground through their roots, and the dirt was plated in silver metal.

But the water stayed water.

And the water began to rust away everything. Even Pawn.

Then it ended.

Eh... just writing. Post if you want. Interact with Pawn if you want.

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