Mecha is Another Word for Death Deux

His fists clenched, knuckles turning white as he raised his superior against the wall. “Where is she!?!”

“I don’t know.” The superiors voice came calm and collected.

“I’ll kill you–” He slammed his superior against the wall again. “–I promise you!”

His threat cackled as tears streamed down his cheeks, reminding the superior of just how young the boy was, only in his late teens and expected to fight a war – to see family perish.

“Zack. I am sorry, we will find her.” The superior said to him in a tempered voice, desolate of authority or animosity.

Zack’s lips moved his grip loosening, but no words were heard as red sirens blared over his voice, an emergency voice on the speaker. “Superior Crain, we are under attack, a giant target is approaching us at mach ten speeds. Four Raptors have been deployed to intercept as procedural protocol, awaiting further instructions.”

Crain put his hands against Zack’s arms lowering them down. “I promise.” He gave him a final glance as he walked away to the deck, taking a few flight of stairs down. Crains voice boomed, screaming to initiate delta formations and to prepare the Blaze.

The Blaze stood upon a craned system, two giant metallic beams supported it, both wretched upon its archaic wing system which helped propel it in aerial battles. It was a machine past its time but it remained like a haunted dream from the first battle upon the mechanical contrivances were founded. The Blaze ran upon hydraulic systems which were faulty, still using a leathered induction system, which fueled oil to its joints, often freezing them up in the midst of battle, but Zack felt it differently, it was capable of infusing its pilots spirit, by reading biorhythms; an archaic project in which the conviction that humans and machines were only an organic link away.

He knew Crain would not let him pilot it, not after his outburst, it was a cardinal rule to never let a hotheaded pilot on the field, yet the world pilot never sat right, as with the Blaze it was not as if he piloted it — he willed it to be his right hand, his legs and his own convictions — but it was piloting him.

“Superior Crain!” A soldier dressed in camouflage approached his way, handing an radio with an incoming transmission. “We have the Blaze’s pilot sister, and we demand his surrender immediately to the pilot of the mecha we have deployed. Comply or we will destroy her…” The voices crackled on the transmission but it was clearly that of General Prevair. “…and the rest of you.”

Those words pierced his delicate heart and time became a blur, Zack had forced himself onto the boarding pass over the Blaze, hopping down through its entry shaft into a leather seat that flexed at his weight. Within the Blaze it was nothing but darkness, the convoy to his soul, but there was no need for luster for his hands knew where to press, as mechanical whirs took on musical cues, intricate triggers lighting up, followed by the camera-ed screen that gave him view of the outside, at every sheet of metal upon the machine were cameras situated flush along its body that helped the pilot see their constant position in proportion to the world around them.

The screen lit in front of him, a curdling cue of the computers logic board. Its legs moved heavily, still not at full operation, hydraulic fluid still running from its central processors, filling its veins with the blood it needed to function. He pushed it forward it, past Superior Crain and his soldiers, lining it up with the launchpad as the metal braces clipped its wings.

The Blazes heart beat with a synchronized beat as the day it was born, a machine driven, lifeless, involuntary matter-of-fact operation. Its cores were now running at 75% according to the on board computers.

He had no intention of waiting to let the beast wake as he was its soul and the soul drives the heart and body farther than they can ever imagine, the ephemeral being he had become to the machine, pushed it to the point of no return as sirens beeped with the ceiling opening, the launchpad cleared and the machine jutted upwards.

Centrifuge force pressed upon his body, unable to ever get used to the exalting thrust of walking a monstrous behemoth he tumbled into the air, the machine turning sideways its limbs pressed down by gravity yet the catapulting force was still driving it upward its waist and chest jutting upwards. It corrected its trajectory now rising from its grave, now his hands at the controls, he gave it purpose.

The sun no longer blinded his view, but now he saw Raptor Jet fighters explode as if they were fireworks shining in the bright sunny day, behind them the red and black machine shimmered, slicing them with its bare extremity. The machine was a newer generation — belonging to a first world continent while Blaze was reflecting of a transient second world technology attempting to keep up — obvious by the reflection of its paint coating, its sheen and harsher edges which made it stand out against the Blazes black and green tones.

The Blaze’s thrusters picked up, emanating from the winged thrusters upon its behind midsection. No weapons were in its metallic cold hands, nor did it need them, for when it collided against the other machine it used the strength of inertia to plunge the hard steel into the body of the other machine.

“Kill him or your…” The words hesitated through the new generation machines intercom. “…brother dies at the hands of this enemy machine.”

The mecha grasped its red hands against the archaic machine, pressing it backwards, where it lacked in experience it made up in technology, its thrusters gave it enough power to drive the other one jetting its body into a nearby skyscraper, sending it rumbling collapsing against the force of two giants.

He lost focus as his mecha was scraping along the tall rise, its body creating debris which cackled against the aged machines body. “Sister…no…” His voice rose through the ashes. “Where is she!?!”

The Blaze didn’t rise, the concrete ashes filling its grave. The other machine hovered above it, its body swatting like a fly attempting to keep a leveraged float. “May…I see my brother now…” She spoke in a hushed tone, eyes blood shot, her legs beginning to shiver again, the medication no longer holding the same lengthy healing on her body. “Please…just let me see him, I don’t want to–”

“–die without…seeing..” Before she could finish her words the Blaze came surging from the rubble, its surged upwards its grip with an open palm, it rushed through the first layering of defenses on the new age mecha, tearing through its underside, aiming straight for the pilots cabinet harbored within the middle of the robotic machine, the core and soul that once stripped would leave the machine dwindling to its dissolution.

Around her tiny frame came tumbling the cabinet, impenetrable fingers rose around her, tightening their grasp at her, not a single tear rolled down her cheek, the clear blue sky shone through the fragmented cabinet and in between the metallic claws crushing in on her, she saw one final sun and made one final wish. “If I could have only seen him before I–”

Then her words went deaf as the stannic leaden womb shut around her, shattering his promise to never kill as he commanded the womb to close, suffocating the life from her.

Mecha is Another Word for Death

The hanger shined in its dull glow, military in aesthetics with the exception of the giant metal body that gleamed in the hanger, acting as a mirror spotlight reflecting every overhead glow upon its inorganic skin. It did not breath or more, it merely waited for a soul to fill its hollowed veins and beat its machine heart, till then its eyes were a dull color, that of a hollowed ore.
She stood barely the height of its concave foot, brushed in a red metallic complexion. “I can’t do it. I cannot convince her to pilot it.”

“But you must.” His voice responded walking past the robotic apparition as if it was no different than the other Lockheed Raptor jet fighters.

“She cannot pilot it. She will die.”

He grimaces, a forced intent on his lips. “We kidnapped her for a reason, she is the only one who can pilot it it the way we need.”

They led up to a clear window within it a girl withered in the corner, her legs twitched. She had been kidnapped and not to be used as a ransom, for he was convinced she could replicate what her brother had done; pilot a machine mocked up in human posture that tore through their ranks and within it destroyed their operations leaving them relegated to a last military bastion.

“Will she have to infuse a blood sample to it?” The female asked, wrinkles forming along her eyes, years of stress building upon her fatigued face.

“No. The drugs we have given her make her stronger than having the machine compatible with her DNA.”

“Promise me she’ll live General Prevair.” A guilt rested on her conscience, having kidnapped the girl, who prior till a few weeks ago was unable to walk, legs crippled in a collapsing building that shattered under a terrorist attack, one of which her general had also lost his sister in, reigning his uncaring emotions through his own distorted pained past.

He turned raising his hand to run through the blond commanding officers hair. “I give you my word Samantha, once she kills him, she will be able to live a normal life.”

Upon his words she entered the isolated chamber, he watched in idle delight as she spoke to the girl, her hand caressing her blondish pink hair. She pulled out a syringe and tightened the girls arm, she whispered a few words into her as she injected her with the opaque liquid that seeped from the needles tip into the girls body, poisoning her being with an endless thirst, a temporary solution to a permanent problem. She was broken physically but now they had broken her psychologically; a porcelain doll etched in disaster.

General Prevair smiled, knowing that this was the drug that had made her better, capable of regenerating synoptic response in any human body, but it had catastrophic side effects, synoptic nerves became overworked, unforgiving in their response time and often required consistence use of the solution to sustain the cured state but that’s what made her so special, she was better than before, her legs no longer twitched and as they eased her into the cockpit she merely had to know what her brother knew and that was how to pilot it with the efficiency to defeat her enemies.

The blond officer watched her as she set off in the lumbering machine, it hissed a sound of pleasure, hydraulics and gears churning as it came to life using the strawberry haired girl to feed its own parasitic sustenance.

She forced the last words to her as she left the hang, they came in a whisper. “Destroy the machine that destroyed you and plans to destroy your brother. It will be paired in black and green.”

With those words the machine churned two engines, each compacted under its shoulders, with blades that spun like those in a jet, except within them seethed enough plasma to catapult cosmonauts of the early 21st century out of the Earth’s atmosphere.

The engines roared into a boisterous howl that gave the red mechanical entity a fearsome persona, which overshadowed the sounds of metallic guads rising from the hangers base to support the mechas emanating energy that blasted it from the hanger, it came soaring through the air, mach’s falling at its mercy as it rose to mach ten with a twenty second time frame, it had never functioned with such perfection and with a merciless endurance as it detonated towards its target.

Her mind flashed back to fifty-eight weeks ago, when her brother had first enlisted. She tugged upon his arm, begging him to not join the allied forces.

He smiled at her, the warm defending smile he always had and promised her that he was doing this for her.

“Don’t kill anyone…just save people…” She clung onto his thighs, her legs would’ve collapsed had it not been for the wheel chair that supported her. “…please.”

Now she was the irony, one willing to kill to save him.

He turned around on that autumn day, stuck his hand out, pinky extended. “I will never kill, only save. I promise.”

Becoming Death

The results were set in stone, tampered in dark ink, except none meant anything except for one in the middle of the achromic page; it spoke with a single word, positive.

Fingers tightened around the edges, tears dampened the page. How could I be positive was all her thoughts could muster in thought while her body shivered in fright.

“Ma’am, the next patient is ready, I’m going to have to ask you to leave this area.”

Hazel eyes lift to look up at the nurse remembering that courtesy need not apply at the free clinics, she gets up dragging her body past an open door adjacent to a glass window where another nurse calls out to her. “Miss we have to register you in our systems, we do this with all of our positive patients.”

Suddenly in one surge the sadness became anger, she would not be bagged and tagged for having this disease, regardless if she was now a ticking time bomb to herself and others, she didn’t care. Her heels pressed against the ground and she rushed out the door, leaving behind the rushing voices after her.

Outside the clinic a mild downpour created puddles in the urban area, neon lights lit down the street wavered in streams of reflected puddles. An upside martini cup reflects in a puddle a distance away with an olive going in the middle of the cup.

She chuckles to herself, a drink wouldn’t kill her at this point, as her body has already chosen the vehicle which will kill her. Zombified and morbid she makes it to the bar down the street, drinks charming their way to her lips.

Misery wallows into her soul feeling desolate and broken, she now had become a statistic, an unlikely one, one unable to understand warmth, compassion and ever looked at in the same light.

“Dollface, that little body can’t pound all those drinks like a sailor.” A voice creeps behind her, its body taking a seat next to her, a straggly look man dressed in an overcoat, hiding a slim figure.

“This body could kill.” She whispers under her breath as the glass reaches her lips drowning the last of her words.

He smiles at her, “Let me get you a drink then maybe we can see what that body can really do.”

A tab opens at the bar, full cups that quickly go empty from an iridescence of colors to a clear opaque. The anger and sadness in her mind was now stirring in the cauldron of spirits and she’d become clear that she didn’t want to be alone.

Her memory hazes, her steps wobble, before she knows she’s at his door, then laying naked at his bedside, legs crossed, knees touching. She raises her head to see his naked body, a bit of latex on the top of it, his bodies definition also rippled, muscles upon a thin body though his face remained as homely as ever.

His body touches her, pressing her back into the sheets spreading her legs, their motions change, from top to bottom to being handled in reverse, finally he releases and qoes limber under her. She leans over him, her hips rubbing against his thighs, her head to his ears giving his lobe a few kisses.

she whispers gently into it. “I don’t feel alone anymore.”

Warm Abandonment

“Eventually I’m going to let you go, this won’t always be the way it is.”

“Stop saying things like that.”

“Just being honest.”

“You’re putting a lot of pressure on our friendship by using that as a constant reminder.”

“I know.”

In my world it is easily possible to be proficient on building and breaking friendships, two sides to the same coin, just one toss away.

What stems from the desire to destroy what is built? Some sort of mental imbalance? Desire for loneliness? No. Nobody desires to be lonely, maybe alone, but never lonely.

Its abandonment. Sounds pathetic, doesn’t it? But that’s the case of most who suffer from abandonment issues, they view it as an inherent weakness and inability to draw close to others. I don’t speak abandonment in the common form, not the type bred in regular conventional settings; divorce, family abuse. No, the type of persuasion that takes a more ambiguous form, detached from a lucid social norm that sort of abandonment.

What it does is create a safeguard made of daggers, an arrogate shield, appealing at first, full of promise an safety, but upon a touch it becomes a prickling of blades that is abandonment.

In this case its a prolific set of memories; being stripped from a home one is born to, a land who’s familiar soil was under ones feet, childhood friends and family. When your life abandons you, you’re forced to find a new one. In a new home, a new land, its empty. Suddenly the language difference is just the skin acting as a mantle to the veins and organs of mental differences that lay underneath.

The whole world has become a stranger, even the semblance of peace and love in your parents is now foreign, as they work feverishly to build decades of stability in a meager few years, you’re now just another burden.

What becomes of the next decade is a growth into and out of your teens, moving on a scale of maturity that is stunted by misconstrued emotions and confused experiences. Dozens of friends come and go, few remain, the feelings behind it are indifferent for this has become an all familiar sensuality.

In fact, it has now become a craving, the sensuality of being alone, the cradling touch of loneliness. It’s a feeling of being alive. The prying desire of warm hands plucking at the strings of the heart creates an unprecedented excitement. Many become lured in, seduced by promises that particular heart cannot through on.

So this is the apology, sorry, an apology to all the lovers that have been burnt and all the true friends that have been betrayed. There is a reason they are no longer around. Once again, sorry that there will never be change for abandonment is a weakness, a singular selfishness that one cannot overcome, a need to be in charge of bane than be left at the mercy of fate.

In the end I’d rather choose to be alone than be left alone.

The Light of Hope

My friend passed away the other day. 

It reminded me of the recurring question that we Middle Easterners are often asked.

Where is the Middle-Eastern hope? the ones who will rise the Middle East to freedom without hues of crimson violence. Ones who urges us through nonviolent struggles for freedom from colonized forces and Israeli military rule. It seems that Arabs are by nature destructive and their violence is their language. The world sits on the stands and pleads for us to mediate with Israel and the rest of the world, to show our own plight and wisdom through non-violent means.

My friend passed away the other day.

An Israeli soldier killed him at a nonviolent demonstration against Israel occupation of Palestenian land. He was a Middle-Eastern hope, one of many , who believed nonviolence will save us. But with the many falling, what does that leave us with?

Lonely Rehearsal

I remember when she’d left me, in a trail of my own self-pity, a provenience that had been freed when the window to her heart had shut on me.

I spent plenty of time rehearsing our relationship; with every iteration her flaws dimmed, while the rosy moments gained an added luster to their radiance.

With every script there was always the one constant, the imperfect inattentive main character. I winced at how insensible this character was and how they could’ve ever been so blindsided. It’s as if I had nothing in common with them.

Its uncomplicated to view the recent actions of our past as foolish with the help of 20/20 hindsight. It takes what was a complicated situation and simplifies it to a common denominator.

The conscience continued to churn convulsing the third person narrative into a first person recollection.

Then it hit home, this wasn’t about some nobody, someone I didn’t care for, this was a person I unconditionally loved and loathed all at once. For I unconditionally shared every breath, thought and moment with.

A terrifying chill crawls up the spine in the proclamation of this thought, a spider sprawled under the skin, treading the premise of my spine as a vine, arms with a glued brushed touch tapping against my nerves, soon it wasn’t just one spider but a colony of them under the flesh that bounded my being together.

Their thoughts perpetuating into my own, what was so flawed that I couldn’t be hers? What possessed these cells and microorganisms to have the colonized thought to stick together and be me in one unified instance and when would one decide to give up on me, leading a rebellion to my death? What did they wait for?

They waited for their epoch, their time, same as love does. We don’t fall in love with the one we always dreamt of, but when it is our duration we fall in love with the one across from us. Ultimately time was all we waited for, the one constant; the right time, the right moment in place.

So they waited for their duration, for their love to end for me, that one cell would crumble in a cancerous peal leading into a glorious avalanche that ends without a sound.

Stones, Ceramic and Vinyl

Sticks and stones. They will break your bones. We spend all of our lives trying to avoid being broken. The concept behind being broken is that what is broken will never be whole again, but with human perseverance that becomes a fallacy. We are almost shaped as a magical teapot, once broken we can be rebuilt of better china, brighter acrylics with extensive designs. The scars of time, burning of our emotions are just designs, accents that embellish us to stand out.

As we age though, we find a groove, we become a vinyl record; no longer new, now we have grooves causing the same skip every time, nothing unpredictable, knowing exactly what notes you’ll hear. Like an old vinyl record, we can’t hear new sounds, can’t play new sounds and ultimately never understand the sounds we used to be able to play. It’s a tragic comfort that we take a weak unanimity in.

In both of these analogies there’s always a stick stirring in the pot, a stick propping up the needle that plays an orchestrated intonation. We’re on the receiving end of the stick growing up, fitting into society and ultimately we follow someone elses beat and beat downs.

But like any way to control a group, you merely find one of your own opposition give them the stick you beat them with and tell them that now it is their duty, their responsibility to beat their own fellow man. That realization, at that moment twists our fiber, manipulates our need to aspire and fit in. We become that which we were jousting against.

There in lies the fallacy of man, we are willing to do anything for our own sake, as our own righteous trumpet blows, we march forward plowing those in our path with the phantasm devotion that we are bettering the world around us by merely bettering ourselves.

So when asked if I hate man kind. The answer is simple.

I do, wholeheartedly I do. I despise the weakness man takes opulence in.

Do I exlude myself from this equation? No. That’d be foolish. I am man, someday I will age to become a ceramic showcase and the grooves in my skin will play the same tired tone of self-worship.

The Phoenix

He was the voice.

A voice of my youth, my belief. A voice that you listen to does not stutter, does not speak ill and is always indiscriminate of fault.

Fowaz was the Imam. A Palestinian by birth but never spoke of himself as one. Not was he unpronounced of his ethnic association. No. He transcended it. We were a nation of Muslims, not of countries, our allegiance was not to the dirt under our feet but to the faith in our hearts, to the one God that let us bask in His light and darkness.

He understood the adversity of youth and religion. Youth was the livelihood if impulses. Religion was the grounds of strength which we tread. The unseen brick road amongst the obstacles of impulses. Faults were uncertain, perhaps that was my admiration to him. He let me, no, us be just human. Our faults were not to damn us, but to teach us.

For a decade, every Eid(Islamic holiday) twice a year he would bring us to prayer, bowing our heads to the one unified God. It was the one and only time I ever wanted to have my voice heard, The cords that lined my throat were to be God’s tool, vocals strummed to whatever He chose.

Then it came, Nine Eleven. An important day of history that is now easily dismissed. Like any action that isn’t repeated in succession it will wash away along like footprints along the sands shore. Only if we are to renew them, repeat, let it happen again will we remember. though in the heat of those times, it came…

…His fall. His spirit that burnt like a fire that guided others faith must’ve burnt brighter in his youth. He spoke of how the Jewish populace were holding us down, oppressing their own cousins(whether they were or weren’t is irrelevant in this story.)

A phoenix burnt bright in him, the phoenix of faith and it drove him to speak loudly, voice booming, pillars crumbling at the impulses of his youth. While we sometimes outgrow youth, sometimes its actions are illustrious.

Fowaz was held for crimes, for the rallies he attended for his display of passion and faith. The courts held him in their contempt, he awaited in jail as his trial arose and then was driven to be expelled from the United States with no entry or visitation again.

In all of Allah’s, in all of God’s mercy. There was none for him. For over a decade he had served, repented and moved past a childish youth. With his leave my faith quavered. For all of us we have to have a light that beckons our faith, a commensurate physical aspect to an invisible unprovable faith. I had no desire to follow in his footsteps as he sat in a jail cell awaiting his eminent sentence and I had no desire to face the powers that were faced against us. The social, political and religious plight that drove us to the edge.

I took it hard, selfishly it somehow became about me, for at that moment he became human(he always had been in his own eyes.) I couldn’t forgive him for I had forced my trust on him and let him cradle my faith, give it life, growth and rebirth. He was guilty of letting me down and in his humanity he had strewn a path for himself of a fallen believer.

But with every fall there is a rise. One must realize whether to abandon their faith and wash the ashes off or to give birth to a new phoenix born of the tattered ashes and broken spirit.

I don’t know which path he chose, wether to strengthen the bonds of his faith under the tempers of fire or crack under the unforgiven heat. I can only account for where I will tread from here. An invisible battle reminiscient of all faith.

Ohayocon 2009

Coming off the heels of Ohayocon, I can finally rub off the stupid smile it had plastered on my face for the whole weekend.

From start to finish I was awed and in love with the atmosphere, programming and hotel. There’s a lot of fanboying I can do over how much I enjoyed this ohayocon and particularly the company I was with(Picture of them to come.)

Having been spending quite a bit of time jumping from con to con in the past year, almost in some sick twisted ritual, I have to say that its been one hell of an experience and hopefully will continue to be.

I’ll update some pictures of the cosplays I did, but for now here’s a video of a masquerade walk on my group and I did. Yes. It comes from Cowboy Bebop. Did you expect anything else from me?




Cast away Love

Blood hardened along his back, a reminder of hours that past, his heart requited a quiet pace. fingers tingled with an empty sorrow.

Eyes reflected along a tall mirror, a sad visage of a torn interior. The sheets uncovered his lower half, pressed abs along a slender body, built thighs covered in modest hair, in between an asleep phallus lay, no need for an early beckoning but a slight tingle rose it along with the freshly coursed blood.

The sheets moved with the grace of an oceans wave, revealing another figure cradled within the beds sheets. Her skin glowed a pale glow as the sheets slid off her bare body. They followed her curves meticulously revealing a forbidden beauty, her eyes were closed revealing a peaceful beauty, perfect white breasts set upon tiny nipples, along a pierced belly. Her legs cleanly waxed, wrapped around each other, tilted in his direction.

A thrilling beauty, but his eyes switch focus away from her with a gentle close focusing away from the mirror and her own encompassed feel. Under the blankets of his eyes her figure replayed, cradled upon him, thighs tightened around his waist, deeply taking him inside, she smiles a sorrowful smile blessed with lust. She slides upon him, taking his whole inside of her. A shudder crawls along her back, arching to give a perfect march to her breasts.

Her hands settle along his chest, nails gently filing along his skin. His body shivers in response, his own hands cradling her hips, pressing her closer to him. A moment of loneliness disguised in lust. They grind together to be one, to please another, living in a void of emptiness.

She moans a call to him, he responds with a grunt, a fortitude of emptiness filling him. Sentences, syllables and adjectives formed together don’t break his hearts seal. His emotions bound in a locked cage, an empty prison filled with a white clout.

A nights throw before she didn’t exist in his life, but tonight she shared a sacred bond, shattered to defend a torn soul, a crying call of an existence. He pleaded to have his heart heard, his eyes read, but only through the bellows of lust and physical love is his call heard.

A temporary escape.

Her fingers tighten settling up on his shoulders, finding a spot near his back, nails digging, only to be broken as he thrust him off her tossed across the bed, her eyes bewildered as he pins her arms. A smile falling upon his for their eyes connect, her hair streaming past her face unable to hide the intimacy of the moment.

Their lips and tongues utter not a word of comprehension, their primal instinct and burning eyes providing enough understanding of what the other felt. Two abandoned cascaded souls finding a moment of solace from a destitute existence.

His hands tighten around her wrists, entering her once again, her body kicks, pushing him quickly in her a quiet anxiety spoke in her motions. He leans forward lips pressing against her neck, tasting the sweet nectar of her scent. His lips lick along her jaw line making their way to her lips.

A strung out kiss that leaves their tongues tied and a numbness along his lips of knowing these kisses are not to last. As his eyes open one again, he finds his hands pressing against his own lips, looking once again towards her peaceful figure.

The sheets bumble off his body as he leaves the bed, quietly standing up to make not a sound. He heads to a lone window looking at the still dark skies a wondering thought through his mind;

What love can befall one who has castaway true love in favor of temporary passion to bate loneliness.

None.