The Chronicles of Neos

Lloyd Denizan fell on his back lazily, his body weary and sore. Having an excellent view of the sky, he studied the hazy atmosphere with interest. While hardly the prettiest thing for him to look at, it was the most natural. It was not grey with the workings of steel, nor complicated with the means of war. It was bluish, in a way, and peppered with small specs of green. It saddened him, the way the sky shimmered in timid glory. It was as if it were being smothered by some celestial antagonist that was intent on hiding color from the world of humanity altogether. A thin line of blackened cloud crawled sadistically across the horizon, spinning a web of dreary opaqueness.

I would kill to see the sky brightened, he mused boldly.

His thoughts were interrupted as he was hauled off of the ground by his sparring partner, Cronos Dark. It was almost scary the way he was lifted so easily, especially considering his carefully crafted 190 pounds. Lloyd shrugged off Cronos’ arm and stood at his full height, squaring off against his master.

Lloyd figured he would be more intimidating if he weren’t a full twelve inches shorter than the 6’10” figure in front of him.

“How many times have I told you, boy,” Cronos snapped, his hard face tightening. “No jokes during training.” His loud voice held a note of authority.

Lloyd rubbed his chest where Cronos had shoved him a moment before. He huffed and leered at Cronos with mock seriousness, curling his lips in a sneer and twitching his eyes spasmodically.

“Don’t talk to me like that, boy,” Lloyd mocked. “I have a stick rammed so far up my butt that I can’t have any fun.” Lloyd maintained his facial expression as Cronos’ knuckles cracked loudly. He continued heedlessly. “How many times do I have to tell you…”

Uncoiling like a snake, Cronos struck his massive curled fist into Lloyd’s stomach, sending him soaring into a stack of mechanical equipment several feet away. A cloud of dust exploded into the air as the heavy equipment fell on top of him, knocking the air out of his lungs. A loud groan escaped Lloyd’s clenched teeth.

He heard Cronos’ footsteps approach softly, deliberately.

“That’s enough for today,” his master said in disgust, and walked off.

Lloyd slid the equipment off of him and stood up, smoothing out the wrinkles in his clothing. Smiling, he looked around him at the large open courtyard, grey steel walls encompassing. That was almost worth the pain, he thought, chuckling.

He limped out of the enclosed courtyard and locked the gate, enabling the technologically genius defense mechanism. The intricate gratings of steel and gold buzzed with the workings of electricity, a force easily engendered by various solar receptors spread out along the edges of the fence. Lloyd climbed onto his lonely Model 35 Cheetah, everyone having left hours ago. Cronos’ training methods tended to be harsher and longer than was normal.

His black and red striped Cheetah was the latest in technology, a typical air-propelled hovercraft that looked like a skinny boat without sails or oars. Lloyd adjusted his plush cushion and placed his hand on the fingerprint ignition on the front dashboard. The Cheetah emitted a low pitched noise and quickly rose in both height and pitch. After it was a couple feet from the ground, Lloyd put on the sensory metal gloves that were lying on the dual seat beside him. Tapping his fingers in a personalized, unique password, the Cheetah hummed again as he activated the thrusters. Air puffed out behind the vehicle as Lloyd twisted his wrist, and he soon was riding to the south towards the Golden Plains.

As he rode, the unforgiving vacuum of companionship that had enveloped Lloyd for the past few days finally caught up to him and suspended his typical good mood. It drove him into a deep funk that further grayed the world around him. He had to report to Taylor’s Bend by tomorrow morning for a mission debriefing. When there was a debriefing, there was a dangerous venture. Apparently Deter Helios, the prestigious general of Taylor’s Bend, had a plan that would break the hold of the Daemons to the west. Or was it to the north? Lloyd swore again. He seemed to be getting worse at remembering things. He was used to simple things like farming. Why couldn’t war be more like farming?
Lloyd continued to brood as he maneuvered around the large buildings that began to appear around vast stretches of fertile land. Beans, corn, squash and potatoes were among the many crops grown in the synthetic fertile ground of the Golden Plains. Trees, bushes, and other fruit-bearing plants were also common, lined up like soldiers in neat, orderly rows as if getting their morning’s rations.

Lloyd cursed once again, mad at himself for comparing humankind’s food to soldiers. Food seemed to be the only thing not comparable to war nowadays. It was an escape that gave temporary nourishment and satisfaction in the midst of so much confusion and pain.

Lloyed swore, swearing at his cursing habit. His mom would not approve. He had been meaning to rid himself of the dirty habit he picked up a few years ago at training camp. The military academy at Prodin, where he trained for a long two years, was excellent at teaching military tactics and survival skills, but proved to be terrible when it came to upholding ethics. He would have to concentrate to make sure he didn’t let an accidental word fly to ears it didn’t belong.

At last his destination came into view, a small farm with a barn and two houses sprawled out across five acres of growing produce. As he neared the nearest of the two houses, he heard a shout over the pulsating flow of wind.