JOHANNESBURG, 1976

It was a beautiful winter in Johannesburg. Brisk and cold in the morning, but warm in direct sunlight. Then the cool winter air would rush in at night, making snuggling under the covers a comforting delight.

My orphanage, a small-holding of half an acre, was out in the suburbs of the West Rand. A converted building considered posh by some standards, but for me it was all the comfort I had ever known. An old double-story farmhouse with outbuildings, an orchard and plenty of yard space filled with random jungle gyms, old tractor tires and swings for all us unruly orphans.

There was never a day that you couldn’t find a ball or piece of rope lying around somewhere in that place. For all its size and position it was certainly not new, certainly not luxury, but it was what the State provided and it was all that I knew. I had been here since I was three months old.

There was a tree outside the main farmhouse. Huge by any standards. A loquat tree that provided plentiful fruit during the summer months and often included belly aches for all who plucked from its bounty too greedily.

My special branch led straight to my window. A route I used often, clambering from the second story window out into its robust branches. That is, until I slipped and fell, breaking my wrist and ankle on impact. The matron had tanned my behind despite the plaster-of-Paris casts on arm and leg and I had accepted it stoically.

“Why…” smack! “do you…” smack! “ insist…” smack! “on climbing out your window?” smack!

The song of crocodile tears and sobs had been as much for her benefit to show that the punishment was indeed severe enough, as it was an outlet for the pain. I didn’t hold it against her though. After all, she had told me many times I couldn’t use the tree as my personal stairs. and that one day I would fall. I hated that she was right about that. Even so, did she really have to smack me so hard? I was only seven years old.

It was while I recuperated from that fall that I first heard the mew’s. Soft, plaintive and insistent. It had the entire dorm in a tizz. The search began in earnest to find the mewling creature.

We all knew that Lizzy, the local farm cat, was going to have another litter of kittens. She had not been seen for a week and there were bets on how many kittens she was going to grace us with.

The night she had got pregnant, the night that Tom, a wild cat that called from time to time had mated with her, had been a topic of much introspection that we orphans discussed in great detail. The goings on of mating animals were not new to us, but seldom had an animal squealed and hissed so much as Lizzy had on that night. I remember wanting to chase Tom away, because it sounded like she was in terrible agony, but in the next minute her crooning purrs would make me question if I hadn’t imagined her cries of pain moments before. Anyone who has heard mating cats would know how conflicted my young mind must have been.

As the search went on, where every cupboard, every nook and cranny was explored, the mews still echoed plaintively within the large halls of the farmhouse, and eventually even the matron and her staff were embroiled in the search. It was typical of Lizzy to hide and give birth, and we all wanted to find her litter and be right in our respective guesses as to the number of new kittens we would have to play with.

Sadly when Jacob, the caretaker of the farm, crawled under the house, beneath the wooden floorboards, he discovered a grisly sight.

Lizzy had died giving birth, the old cat that she was, and the rats had found her. They fed on her and the kittens, with only a single kitten somehow able to survive and escape the horrors that the rats had inflicted. This single little kitty had survived against all odds, and Jacob rescued her, and since one of her ears had been chewed as well as one of her legs, we called her Scar.

She was the sweetest little thing I had ever seen, and I fell in love the moment I held her little body in my one trembling hand. (The other, still enmeshed in plaster-of-Paris). I was terrified I would crush her. She was so fragile and half-starved.

Her little scrunched face and blind blue-tinged eyes nuzzled my small fingers and I wanted nothing else in all the world but to care for her and help her heal and grow up to be our new cat on the plot. The Matron saw how I looked at her little quivering body and the way I held the doll's milk bottle she was suckling from, her little paws kneading my hand, and the matron's stern face softened.

“It looks like we have a volunteer.” The matron told Jacob matter of factly, as they both smiled while I puffed out my little chest, trying not to fall over at the weight of my leg caste. They needed to see I was man enough for the task.

“Now Piet, you need to know that her chances of survival are small. She’s so young and really needs her mother. Without her mother, you need to step up, you hear? She will need feeding every four hours. Can you manage that? If she makes it past the first few weeks, then we can try weaning her. This early time is crucial.”

I nodded enthusiastically. Nothing like sleep would keep me from this sacred duty.

It was with immense pride that Scar was given into my care because I didn’t have to attend school for the next two weeks due to my injury. I couldn’t have been happier.

The matron showed me how to warm water and then place the little plastic bottle with mixed baby milk formula into it. Then, when it was warm enough, how to present the teat and let Scar do all the work. We put medicine on her wounds and cleaned her. She purred in satisfaction as we washed her coat with warm comforting water. The matron even showed me how to use a tissue to stimulate her to pee and poop. It was magical and a little disgusting. Even so, I knew it was important. That this little creature, robbed of parents, needed me to help. I could do no less. Her precious little form meant the world to me.

I managed to keep up the regime for five days straight. An old windup clock my constant reminder of feeding time. Five days of hell on Earth for my little mind, because the responsibility was crushing me. I remember falling asleep while waiting for the kettle to boil. I just fell asleep and toppled over. Of course I was wide awake after the fall, but it was way more responsibility than a seven year old should have had. I stuck to it stoically.

Tragedy struck on the sixth day, when Scar developed a fever and started drinking less. The hot gusts of her voided bowels left me disturbed and a little angry. Why wouldn’t she take my care?

“Come on Scar, can’t you see that I love you? Everything I’m doing is going to help you. Please drink a little more. Please? I really want to sleep now. Okay, come with me to bed. I will keep you warm.” I picked her up from her little shoebox and snuggled with her against my chest and fell asleep. I had completely forgotten to reset the alarm.

When sunlight trickled in through the window to brush against my exhausted lids, I became aware of movement. Of noises from outside. A persistent nagging that something was not done. A nagging in the back of my mind that this slumber was wonderful, but not right. Then the dreariness of my healing body and lack of sleep collided and I slept more. Only to wake with a start. “Scar!”

I sat up and to my horror discovered her still and rigid body under my own, where I had either crushed her, smothered her or let her starve to death beneath me. Something broke inside me and my life changed forever.

“It’s not your fault Piet, you must know that she had a small chance of survival. You gave her love and comfort for her last few days after the terror of her birth.” The matron was trying to console me, to comfort me. I was inconsolable. I sat in sullen silence. My thoughts scattered in turmoil. My guilt was so clear for all to see. I could not hide from this. It was so final, so defined, that even my young mind could not fail to learn this lesson. I wanted to cry, I wanted to wail out my outrage, my belief that life wasn’t being fair. I wanted to bang my fists until they broke something, but somehow I knew that it would do no good. It would not be right for me to release my grief. I needed to take it in. Feel every aspect of it and shape it to better myself. It would be the last time I would hurt someone I cared about, I could never shirk my duty again.

A lesson that would shape me into a focussed, dedicated and completely determined person, determined never to fail and to fully embrace responsibility and to never again neglect those responsibilities.

These were strong thoughts for a seven year old. A strong lesson. So much so, that I refused to grieve. I could not. I was empty.

Shocked that a moment of respite, a moment of self-indulgence could lead to such tragic circumstances. I wondered in an offhand way, perhaps more fleeting than conscious deliberation at that age. I wondered if my mother had had the same epiphany when she gave birth to me and died from the experience. I wondered if I had killed her too.

I “Oomphed!” as a boot interrupted my not so peaceful sleep and I sat up wiping my face hurriedly, wiping away my shame and grief at one of my earliest memories. The wet trails from my eyes crusting with the dirt all over me. I was back on the Scalar world and my childish memories were not fitting of who I had become. I felt a throb on my chest and reached up to rub at the wasp tattoo. It was itching and I knew on some level that my dreams of late were a direct result of my interactions with Avihs. The memories of crucial moments that shaped me into the man that I was now.

Before I could take stock of why I had been booted awake, a familiar and welcome popup appeared in my vision.

Assimilation 10%, Host contact error.

Welcome Petros, I am back online….error..error..

Before I could reply as to who exactly had made contact, the boot made another imprint on my belly and I gasped and huddled in a foetal position. Trying my best to minimize any further damage.

I cracked my eyes to see one of the gnomes standing above me. His sneer of disgust was unmistakable. He barked out some words and it took a while before I could filter them into sense.

“Wake up miserable cretin! We march. You walk today!”

The words seemed to make more sense than before, although he was speaking his mixed Dwarven tongue and another popup appeared.

Lucid Languages activated

You have learned the Gnomish language.

Oh yeah! My abilities were coming back. I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face. The smile only broadened as the Gnome dude took a step back, my smile unsettling him. Good, be afraid my little crack-addict. Because when I get loose from my bonds, I’m taking those boots back!

I reflected inwardly that my life experiences had fashioned my iron will to never give up, and the dream was an apt reminder that I had to succeed. I could not give in to despair. I had to channel my failures to be successful, the way I had fashioned my previous life. I was more than my failings. So much more. It was time I started acting like it. I had been given enormous powers and the ability to reason through them. I needed to remember to be accountable for my actions. It wasn't going to be easy, but then, the only easy day was yesterday.

The sharp throb of the tattoo seemed to resonate in concert with these slightly more positive thoughts and the word RESPONSIBILITY echoed around the halls of my consciousness in a way that was both strange and exhilarating.