- May 6th, 3186 -

“Did you know that an A in: [English] that is placed at or near the end of a syllable is always emphasized as -ay?

“Recall your usage of ku-ra (koo-ray.)”

A solid point. Illian was sure to write that one down in his slate: a single folder lost at sea with dozens of other solid points, possibly never to be seen again. But he had to prepare for anything. His morning had begun at 3:00am. No sign of the Maiorian’s rendezvous yet. Illian suspected they’re giving him the slip. It was in that realization that the Messenger considered countermeasures for the walls they were erecting against him.

He created a direct message channel to Zerc-si; only, their conversation was being hosted on an underground network the boys back on Boros used to shoot the piss during work hours. It acted as a scramble proxy for IP addresses. Not even the Rayvine would be able to break Terminoux handiwork.

For better or worse, the system went by many names, chief among them being variations of the acronym, “Jailbreak.” Its text deciphered with each character some dialect variation—both current and primitive vernacular. Sounding out its transcript would slur messily.

Slowly, he panned his ring finger over the chat display, anticipated a response while his left hand tapped all fingers in a wave motion against his monitor’s outer casing. A keyboard appeared.

As if a summoning gesture, Zerc’s window pinged with activity, alive with (hopefully) open arms since they’d last spoke. Finally, his message delivered. “Sup wat u need, illian??”

His muddled Boros slang butchered the translation; it frequently misspelled and even when it didn’t, lacked any formal punctuation. Illian’s translator couldn’t be assed, either.

“Hey, Zerc. Long time. I was wondering if you could help me with some interference issues.”

“no free jobs IJ,” sent Zerc, “wats wrong??”

“I suspect some tampering with my systems here. I need to set up a line and trace their breach. Get even lol. And Boros still pays in Frosx right? Never can tell down there.”

At confirmation of his sent message—sailed away from a tap on his enter key mockup—Illian salvaged Zerc’s slow reply rate and returned to his crash course on the Maiorian language. No more now a curiosity …

… than it was a preparation for war.

But first, he had to hydrate.

Retreating from his base of operations, Illian snagged a drink in his pajamas: plaid boxers and a tank top. What a trooper he was turning out to be. Daringly without a light drone, he trekked through the battlefield that was his cabin floor. He made his way to a minifridge tucked in a segmented kitchen space. Quaint was a way to describe it; the kitchen cornered a small divide that ran the circumference of the aquarium strut. A small fluorescent glow creaked open with the fridge’s door. Their contents were sparse, to say the least.

On the top shelf, a baker’s dozen bottles of carbonated drink, with a brown hue labeled ‘Ecco-cola.’ They, his generals, guided the battle to best Maiorian late-night gossip. Finally, the bell tolled. Zerc-si shot a message in the chat, a digital vibration emitting to notify only a moment after the previous. “Frosx r fine.”

“Okay.”

“Ill get it setup 2nite.” Whatever that meant. Zerc then doubled up on columns, one more message shot off right after the other. “And congratulations on mesenger :)”

- May 10th, 3186 -

“Maiorian may take some time to get used to. It is important that you practice in-person whenever you get the chance.

“Onto the next lesson. Shura.

(Shoo-ra)

“Now, remember: since shura is mainly an additive, we don’t pronounce the ending A, as emphasized beforehand, but as though you were saying -ah. Shura is commonly referred to as a way to say ‘you are.’”

“Pleasure, Sol.”

Illian passed Maiora’s prodigy yet again down the hall; he itched that this process, his being here was too clockwork for Shaintro’s busy schedule.

Shut up, you’re being paranoid.

“Ku-ra,” said Illian. He had an amateur’s slur, but Shaintro smiled greatly and kept onto his duties.

Then he noticed a familiar glow emit from his uni-translator. Instead of blue, the device emitted a ruby red when he spoke. Maybe an oversight on the boy’s part; these colors must correspond to the transfer language, not what’s being received.

His systems weren’t compromised after all. And that alone made Illian the only one playing foul. For hours then on, he wagered reasons on how to proceed: whether he should ditch his software, or keep digging with his contraband pickaxe.

This guilt dissipated come 3:00am, where the boy was greeted by another oddity in his functions.

Child locks?

His uni-translator deactivated and stubbornly refused to be turned back on. He lamented, cheeks tight, lip locked with a disapproving nod. This was a game then.

He opened an application then reverted his monitor to a portable slate, sliding the glass keyboard to overlay the display. Illian was livid. He began pacing about his room—a lurking vulture. The boy beaded at his slate, beaded at Jailbreak’s lucrative, most dangerous options. Like a gift from Gaia, one option promised Illian vengeance: a Disruption Tracker. Illian opened the window; vector lines scribed this software’s jargon and spanned the station’s delegate commons. These pings converged deep blue tethers together from an outside anchor. All but one. An orange line blinked rapidly. Zerc’s usage tips—filled out in the text chat—trained that this was a breach in communications. And that line was rushing out the hallway silently, right next to Illian’s door. There, whispers creaked by as if unable to bypass this certain wing of the station.

Cheeky.

They, the saboteur, rounded a corner, en-route to the food court. It was here where their steps stopped then cut ties with Illian’s device.

With a fidget touch, the boy activated his translator. A gesture that made him so mad, he had to quell his inner fire, snatching his drink and devouring its contents with hardy chugs until it was empty. He frothed fizz from his mouth, growling as he tossed the bottle to safety on a pile of dirty clothes.

At least his coat was intact. He followed its colored seamlines, its silky pockets as to ask forgiveness for going against one of Guardium’s Messengers.

What was he to do, charge out and follow this person to the end? Illian charged through to his door. He scoured a dark jungle made of mysterious barriers, eager for the chase. No time to lose, no time-

His eyes peaked upward from his electronics midway through. A mound of filth was festering on his floors beside him. Each night, the glow becoming increasingly dimmer, unbeknownst to the boy’s obsession.

When did he lose control?

If he kept going, he’d just add to—all this. Now was not the time to lose sight. He had a straight line feed to track. He had names and a small handle on their current locations, and where the Maiorians were heading for their rendezvous. There was no need to rush out right now. Rather, he could bide his time for one more night, gather another day’s worth of intel. Uninvitedly, a yawn scuttled through his resolve.

His thoughts spilled out sloppily like a cherry jar gushing out all its juicy contents. And the last thing he needed was another pile of crap to clean.

“I should do some laundry …”