ten,
Two to fifteen ticts meant a full proc,
A half a proc meant four full procs,
And a full proc meant certain, electrified death.
If you did not show within one full proc, the roving sentries or the foot troops would be immediately alerted and given orders to hunt you down. Eventually with their Bio-scanners, they would find you, torture you, and then infuse your weary soul.
“Come on Tim! Tally Time !” Beaver said, stomping his foot on the ground.
“ I’m done ! Let’s run to the dugout , it will only take a tict …” Timmy said, as he dashed towards a very unkempt part of Stowelowly.
The area was probably the worst in all of New Judah. The beams from partially collapsed buildings littered the streets. There was the dank smell of rotting garbage around every turn that they made. Sar-rats could be seen almost dancing throughout the filth of this yardage of Stowelowly. This emanation of pestilence was why Timmy2845 chose the area to be the location of his storage dugout. This was the one place that none of the high-minded, arrogant Elites would ever go. The duo stopped in front of a crumbling mid-ancient office with boarded up windows. The steel-clad door had an electrolock that only Tim knew the combination. Tim quickly slid his fingers in the correct sequence, as if it were a grand piano.
“Enter … Timmy ” the lock bellowed. He quickly slipped into the darkness inside with his arms loaded with wares.
The exterior of the one-time plate glass window was covered with wood, so that no one could look inside. It was obviously done before the Great Conflict, or perhaps at the very beginning. All of the buildings and homes surrounding were in shambles. Some were completely collapsed into rubble. In fact, it was that very rubble that had kept the Dugout, hidden from obvious view. Somehow, this one office had somewhat survived without catastrophic damages. It bore the red painted words still alive in a hurried scrawl upon the weathered plywood. As Tim would scurry in his secret place, Beaver would always stand and wonder if the original occupants of this building actually survived, or was this a written work done in false hope.
“All done! Let’s run --” Tim said, interrupting Beaver’s pondering.
“ Yes--Right .” Beaver spoke, in a broken tone. The two ran as fast as they could towards the trackstreet. There was a hidden path that only they knew, leading back to the populated area.
“There’s the last one! Come on Beaver !” Tim yelled, pointing towards the transport. Even though he had almost super-human strength from the Academy’s conditioning, Beaver could never run as fast as Timmy. The transport began to move, as Tim leaped into his seat. A few second later, Beaver once again swung from the Rev-pole into his seat.
“ Safety is Empirical ” a familiar voice stated.
Tim and Beaver were too out of breath this time to laugh.
“ Yeah … Empirical. Got it … ” Tim huffed, as he gasped for more air.
“ Made … it … ” Beaver panted with a slight wheeze.
As Beaver sat in recovery from their sprint, he suddenly remembered the strange man from earlier that sat nearby. He cautiously scanned the transport for him, but he was nowhere to be found.
Morgan --Beaver mused.
He wondered to himself why he didn’t give a bio-numeral with his name. Since the advent of the Academy powers, every citizen was given a unique bio-numeral that was attached to his name. Like the dog-tags of the mid-ancient period, it was a requirement to give your bio-numeral when addressing any Elite or Academy official. It was drilled with military precision, in so much that everyone used their bio-numeral when addressing almost anyone. This greatly puzzled Beaver as to why he simply called himself Morgan. Beaver knew there must be something different about him, but what … he did not know.
The transport whirred down the trackstreet on its slow trek to Westbrook. The pair once again regained normalcy.
“I am
Two to fifteen ticts meant a full proc,
A half a proc meant four full procs,
And a full proc meant certain, electrified death.
If you did not show within one full proc, the roving sentries or the foot troops would be immediately alerted and given orders to hunt you down. Eventually with their Bio-scanners, they would find you, torture you, and then infuse your weary soul.
“Come on Tim! Tally Time !” Beaver said, stomping his foot on the ground.
“ I’m done ! Let’s run to the dugout , it will only take a tict …” Timmy said, as he dashed towards a very unkempt part of Stowelowly.
The area was probably the worst in all of New Judah. The beams from partially collapsed buildings littered the streets. There was the dank smell of rotting garbage around every turn that they made. Sar-rats could be seen almost dancing throughout the filth of this yardage of Stowelowly. This emanation of pestilence was why Timmy2845 chose the area to be the location of his storage dugout. This was the one place that none of the high-minded, arrogant Elites would ever go. The duo stopped in front of a crumbling mid-ancient office with boarded up windows. The steel-clad door had an electrolock that only Tim knew the combination. Tim quickly slid his fingers in the correct sequence, as if it were a grand piano.
“Enter … Timmy ” the lock bellowed. He quickly slipped into the darkness inside with his arms loaded with wares.
The exterior of the one-time plate glass window was covered with wood, so that no one could look inside. It was obviously done before the Great Conflict, or perhaps at the very beginning. All of the buildings and homes surrounding were in shambles. Some were completely collapsed into rubble. In fact, it was that very rubble that had kept the Dugout, hidden from obvious view. Somehow, this one office had somewhat survived without catastrophic damages. It bore the red painted words still alive in a hurried scrawl upon the weathered plywood. As Tim would scurry in his secret place, Beaver would always stand and wonder if the original occupants of this building actually survived, or was this a written work done in false hope.
“All done! Let’s run --” Tim said, interrupting Beaver’s pondering.
“ Yes--Right .” Beaver spoke, in a broken tone. The two ran as fast as they could towards the trackstreet. There was a hidden path that only they knew, leading back to the populated area.
“There’s the last one! Come on Beaver !” Tim yelled, pointing towards the transport. Even though he had almost super-human strength from the Academy’s conditioning, Beaver could never run as fast as Timmy. The transport began to move, as Tim leaped into his seat. A few second later, Beaver once again swung from the Rev-pole into his seat.
“ Safety is Empirical ” a familiar voice stated.
Tim and Beaver were too out of breath this time to laugh.
“ Yeah … Empirical. Got it … ” Tim huffed, as he gasped for more air.
“ Made … it … ” Beaver panted with a slight wheeze.
As Beaver sat in recovery from their sprint, he suddenly remembered the strange man from earlier that sat nearby. He cautiously scanned the transport for him, but he was nowhere to be found.
Morgan --Beaver mused.
He wondered to himself why he didn’t give a bio-numeral with his name. Since the advent of the Academy powers, every citizen was given a unique bio-numeral that was attached to his name. Like the dog-tags of the mid-ancient period, it was a requirement to give your bio-numeral when addressing any Elite or Academy official. It was drilled with military precision, in so much that everyone used their bio-numeral when addressing almost anyone. This greatly puzzled Beaver as to why he simply called himself Morgan. Beaver knew there must be something different about him, but what … he did not know.
The transport whirred down the trackstreet on its slow trek to Westbrook. The pair once again regained normalcy.
“I am
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