by Marc Mulero
“Ovar survived this battle, and disavowed his title in the fights to come. He seemingly abandoned his prideful people, fading into exile in defeat, as a boundless.”
Eres’ curiosity was piqued. This story in some way may have shed some light on his father’s path. He had a hard time believing that Agden was a war hero, because he just didn’t exude the same rawness as Ovar, but perhaps there was some struggle, some reason that he had to leave the Factions, for some grand purpose that he, Eres, could not yet comprehend.
These thoughts spawned many other questions. How many boundless are there? Are they all pursued by the Factions, or do some live peacefully? He wanted to ask Windel, wanted to trust her, but the stern faces of his ooma and fata stopped his action like a door that had just slammed shut and locked itself.
The next images that slid across the screen were of Ovar’s face, only his head was now shaven, and where there were once armored sleeves now existed bare muscular arms covered in a torn cloak.
“Ovar sought counsel in the underworld – he enquired about how to exist in the shadows, when he was once the one casting them. It was said that most revered boundless mocked and snickered at him, kicking the legend when he was already down. After their hazing, however, they did give him tips on how to exist with this new identity, out of reach of the developing Factions. How to obtain information. Then he ventured to the Skrols, who openly had a few boundless among them, and did not necessarily operate within the confines of Faction rules. This is where I pull a quote from a wise Skrol in history’s past, Gafana Bur: ‘Though his legend was broken, his cheeks hollowed, and his muscles thinned, one thing remained static after the Eplon’s triumph over Ovar’s forces - the look in his eyes. It never changed. Ovar may have convinced the rest of the world that he’d given up, but not me. Not the Skrols.’” Proctor Vasa scanned the class, perusing the sea of engaged, unblinking eyes, and lingering here and there to make sure all of her students were still with her.
Eres could’ve sworn that her gaze stopped on him when she said, “Skrols.” But he just tightened his lips and shook his head to get the crazy thought out. If he started down this path… where would it end? That would be two proctors that he would have suspected in two days.
“Besides, I have an eye at Kor to watch over him.” He remembered his father, Agden, smirk at Lorfa before uttering the saying in Umboro.
Proctor Vasa clapped shut the old book in her hand and resumed. “As it turns out, Gafana was right. Over time, Ovar went back to the organized boundless and sought more teachings, pleaded, begged, whatever he had to do to learn how to exist without attention. I would tell you the methods, for they are very, very interesting, but Kor guidelines do not permit us proctors to delve.”
Eres grinned, feeling for the first time that he had a leg up on the class. Windel caught the brief gesture, narrowed her eyes and lingeringly turned back to the front.
“So in short, Ovar became what he was determined to be, a boundless shadow. And to the surprise of his disbelieving teachers, he did not use such talents merely to survive. Instead, he infiltrated the great technological capital of Sklar Ben Dee, Eplon territory.” A star burst on the map far above her to amplify the destination.
“It was there where he waited, gathering scraps of information. Schedules of famous scientists, the greatest armament developers - their whereabouts, their friends, their tendencies, and their preferences. Over time, the information was all his. His target became clear after much research. Kovella Bernise Powl - chief designer of the first rifle. She spent her days honing pressurized chambers of model rifles and testing them to endless failure - backfires and explosions, and much to the contrary of the Eplon people’s beliefs, spent her nights praying for her fallen siblings who decided to participate in the wars. Kovella was determined to end this seemingly endless conflict, to push back the Swuls. And that is precisely what she did…”
The room became dark like night had fallen abruptly. The map retracted, leaving sparse stars sprinkled about the curved ceiling. Herim Vasa’s bodiless voice became amplified as the screen was pulled even wider, like a movie theater. Eres’ senses were now on overload. He thought nothing could ever top Proctor Ren’s incredible simulation-type display, but Proctor Vasa’s theatrical presentation had heart that simply could not be rivaled. A live show was something Eres had never seen, and what a treat it was.
“In the time of Ovar’s stalking, he found that half of the Eplons were in celebration – for they were heroes to the entire Osa Sphere - and the other half were hard at work, perfecting how Faction life should be handled. It was a second chance, a time to learn from history, to create a Doctrine of Rights for Ingora. But then there was Kovella, not participating in either side of her people, drawing the stalker’s attention not only for her stark contributions to the turning point, but for her remorse. Her nights that were once spent praying were now consumed by grief. The responsibility she felt for the mass death of stubborn Swuls brought only tears after the deed was done. What’s worse, her advancements to armaments meant that she made killing easier forever more. The nail in the coffin, and in her heart, was that avenging her fallen kin, while it felt good for a moment in time, had a hollow ending.”
The images that accompanied the monologue were stenciled and briefly animated with the finest artists’ rendering of how they expected these events took place. The next reel depicted a low spire surrounded by trees, which had multiple metal bracelets orbiting it like Saturn’s rings. Two points of the image twinkled: Kovella’s tears from a balcony of the spire, and Ovar’s looking glass in the nearby forest.
“Ovar endlessly observed as the silent queen of War Tech dismissed her family, her guards, and even the men that Eplon women try so vigilantly to woo. She would have none of it. Neither interest nor drive plagued her any longer. Only strife. It was a perfect concoction of circumstance for the former Swul hero. Finally, when she decided that her room became too clouded with guilt, Kovella went for an innocent stroll in her landscaped lawn, never to be seen again by her people.”
The class gasped.
“It was said that although the Eplon was shocked, she didn’t put up an ounce of struggle. Kovella knew every inch of her enemies, so when their eyes met, it was clear that her reaper had come. What she wasn’t aware of, however, was that Ovar was not here for revenge. He had come for revolution.”
Proctor Vasa’s voice cut out and an animated short film came to life. Simulated winds blew all around the dome as the students watched the screen. Through the hazy blowing sands appeared an image of Kovella trekking eastward. Her head was slumped, making it seem as though she was balancing a boulder on her neck, mouth muzzled and leashed like a horse, all while she was trailed closely by her captor. Their journey to the dark winds of Okabin was long, and along the way, Ovar looked suspiciously at his prisoner who didn’t moan or complain. She didn’t drag her feet or look back even once. Her legs only marched onward as jagged pebbles lashed at her delicate skin. The captor’s expression was of satisfying anger for most of the trip – like he was teaching her some valuable lesson, but there was no satisfaction in scolding someone who didn’t show fear… and because of this, that expression eventually softened to what appeared to be curiosity. Talking down to these races that the Swuls despised had pulled a veil over his eyes for decades, and now, it was slowly lifting. There was more to the Eplons than their sharp minds. Physical endurance and determination were Swul traits, and yet it was clear that Kovella had possessed them.
Soon the winds grew darker, more ominous, outlined in fiery orange to make the area look like it was being covered by thick, endless blankets. Finally, Ovar walked past Kovella, knelt to track the signs that led to his home, and kicked black sand from his path. A few more steps led to a large round cover that took much of his strength to lift and cast aside. He straightened and motioned for her to step down into the pit first. Making brief eye contact, Kovella took a breath and entered without hesitation. Ovar followed
and closed them in. Dim lights flickered on as he undid her muzzle.
She stared at him calmly, and spoke, “Ovar Octanious, war hero of the Swuls, successful invader of six Dagos regions and four Eplon regions. The double-bladed executioner. I would ask why I was dragged to the wasteland of Okabin, but I suspect that I already know.”
Ovar snorted and spit out blackened saliva. He looked like he was going to speak, but instead reached over to fill two clay cups of water.
She persisted, “You’ve abandoned your armies in a quest for revenge? No… perhaps you spared them, because you knew that your weapons were no match for mine. Are you a noble warrior, General Octanious, like your ancestors before you?”
He simpered at her brazenness and ran a massive hand over his bald head to rid it of dirt. “You are curious, Eplon. Tougher than I could have dreamt… and far less wise.”
She laughed, which formed quickly into a cough from the sand of the desert.
“Drink, fool.”
She drank, slowly, and then lowered her cup to spread both arms, displaying the metallic sleeves around her elbows. “You still show dignity, although the Swuls despise our differences. Why?”
Eres leaned over to Windel. “Dignity? Because Ovar covered the female Eplon’s privates? Is that what she’s referring to?” he whispered.
“Yes, shh!” She almost giggled.
“There are certain respects that you have already earned on the way here. And I can see, that if I am a war hero, then you would be a war architect.”
She looked as though she was just punched in the gut.
“Which is something that you loath. I’ve been watching you for some time, Kovella Bernise Powl. And although a part of me wanted to teach you a grave lesson of what it means to be tortured, it appears that you already have been.”
“I’m face to face with my sister’s killer, and you with your peoples’ destroyer. Isn’t that so? Yet we’re here, having a strange conversation underneath the shrouds of Okabin. I give up, hero, why?”
Now it was Windel’s turn to lean over, unable to control herself. “I want her hair,” she whispered to Eres.
“Shh!” He’d been waiting to get her back.
Kovella rose as Ovar turned to reveal the back of the cave. Her features were slightly sharper than those of a uemon’s, but they were still soft and welcoming. Her hair was like a slew of foxtails twisted together, smooth and glistening despite the harsh conditions she traveled. And her irises were carved differently than the other races, like lightning bolts were slicing down and stopping at their centers.
“This, architect, will be your new lair. Although we’ve both been crushed by one another, fate brings us together regardless.”
“No, you brought this on yourself,” she corrected. “Causality is the origin of the Swuls. Not fate, not god, not some incalculable anomaly. Just your actions, which incurred mine.”
Ovar turned and marched into her personal space, the first sign of emotion on both sides emerging. “You grew up in a spire, and before you could walk, you were tinkering in labs. That plus talent and drive molded you into who you are today. Replace some variables, Eplon. Remove spire and add barracks… subtract tinkering in labs and insert fighting in arenas. I can see no clearer wheel of fate than that.”
Kovella backed up, a nervous, slender hand scratching her chest. When she recomposed herself, she looked amused. “Swuls are supposed to be dense.”
“And Eplons are supposed to be great thinkers. But it seems there are many dimensions to talent. Yours are narrower than I could ever have imagined.” He scoffed before turning to his lab.
“Is it my new purpose now to trade backhanded compliments and insults with a Swul hero?”
“No more than it is mine to charge into battle again.”
“Then what?”
“Swuls existed in honor, competition, earned triumph after countless failures. The balance of our people was measured in training and combat, amongst lesser activities. You stole our personality, Kovella, and now we will work together to undo all that you’ve done.”
She scoffed back at him. “You know that’s impossible. Once a war technology is out, it can never be retracted, only built upon.”
“Narrower than I could’ve imagined,” he repeated. “Come, I’ve spent much of my time in boundless regions gathering the rarest and most obscure materials. You will undo the damage not by unmaking, but by forging something impervious to your bullets. Something light in weight that can be worn at all times, and that can be mass produced. You will render your greatest achievement obsolete… and hand back my people what they lost. In return, I will give you my life.”
Kovella was speechless, more from Ovar’s words than his great collection of raw materials.
“Should I take your silence as acceptance?” He turned again to face her. “Do we have a deal? I can think of no greater motivator than trading an eye for an eye so that my people may find their way in this world again.”
“So they could conquer again?”
Ovar laughed sarcastically. “No, architect, the Factions were a brilliant solution to stop us from getting out of hand, which we were. Purpose for the Swuls is all I require, not dominance.”
“I should not give up the Eplon’s upper militaristic hand in the newly developed Factions. They could crumble at the slightest gust in the wrong direction.”
Ovar waited in anticipation for Kovella to finish her vocal thought.
“Though I see no version of the future that will be bright with these weapons in place. We have a deal, hero. I will design your solution.”
The voices cut out, transforming the next phases of the tale into a silent movie as Proctor Vasa reappeared in front of her students.
“They spent the next four years in solitude, leaving the Factions to grow from infancy to adolescence unbeknownst to them,” Herim spoke. “Kovella was right, the Eplons commanded since they were the ones who saved the other races from Swul dominance, but not for long…”
The images showed Ovar and Kovella bickering at first, yelling and pointing at different materials in disagreement. Then it swayed into silent tinkering, exchanging designs and testing the wide array of resources that was laid out before them. And back to shouting. The hero left to gather more, knowing that she wouldn’t leave with the dark winds blocking any chance of escape, and not with the great promise of claiming his life at the finish line of this venture. But when he returned, the captive was gone. Ovar dropped all of what he had just recently scavenged, appearing shocked, then saddened, confused, and finally, awe took over. He stomped into the lab to see a design that was immaculate, if it ever could be produced. Reading the menu of ingredients it would take to concoct such a suit made its pursuance seem ambitious. Knowing he had most of what was needed already there, he wondered, did she leave him here to produce it by himself? Was this a final cursing gesture to the hero that took her sister?
Two large-knuckled fists slammed the stone workstation and the entire cave shook. But as he was about to go and search for her, the heavy stone door scratched against the side of the cave, leaving trails of soot to trickle back in. After she struggled to heave it open, there was enough space for Kovella to slip through, and when she did, cloaked and equipped with goggles, he smiled. The sound resumed.
She gestured to the open cover where the endless sound of a screaming banshee screeched outside. “Do you mind putting those stupid arms to use and close the top?”
He peered at her, more impressed than he ever was with her courage, and eternally grateful that she’d returned. His silent climb and readjustment of the manhole cover was as good as a hug.
“Frel beads are under the black sand of Okabin, not randomly scattered about. This sack has more than enough for our first prototype. What would you do without me?”
When Ovar climbed back down the ladder, he looked at her softly in the eyes. “I would fail, Kovella.”
Her dirt spattered face flushed pink. She quickly pus
hed him back with one arm and scurried into the lab, all while he lingered.
“Ugh, did I come back to some Umboro saint? Where’s the Swul hero?” she muttered just loud enough for him to hear before raising her voice. “Are we building this thing, or what?”
For some reason, Eres’ mind put himself in place of Ovar, and Windel in place of Kovella. He wanted that, even if it was birthed from hate. A journey, a relationship, a purpose. Goosebumps rose all over his body, and he glanced sideways at her, hopeful that she couldn’t sense his thoughts and his reactions to them.
The Eplon and the Swul built and refined… built and refined… tore down and rebuilt. Over and over, all the while he stole glances of admiration, of pride, of love. And when the first prototype of armor caught and crumpled the bullet from a gun, he kissed her.
Kovella shed a tear for her sister, and another for her people, but her lips responded in kind. The scene faded for the next to take its place. More time had passed – the armor looked more refined, sleek, durable.
“What should we call it?” Ovar questioned.
“Impervious to a gun…” she thought aloud.
“Light as a feather.”
“Then Glite armor it will be,” she announced.
The scene faded again, and another came into focus.
Ovar swung a flaming blade that sliced clean through their precious Glite before the fire puffed like it had been snuffed out. “Crule is the only element that counteracts with the Frel chemical, but we can’t reapply it every time. It’s too cumbersome.”
“Of course not, hero.” She smirked. “We will pile stones that contain Crule into the base of each weapon, and have elements in the air replenish what was lost, similar to a fliser. The process will be slow, so armor breaking attacks will have to be tactical… but what more could an old Swul want than a game of careful precision?”
