Broken Ascension

The Home of the Brave

Tired from exertions, wounded. Time to go home, to the succor of the abode. Bishop got off the MTV at Kensington stop three. It was monument to practicality of the new United Kingdom that he had literally got on a bus after killing two (the first was arguably a suicide) and probably permanently damaging a third. It did wonders for the budget, no tax payers’ money for him to zoom around in some ostentatious vehicle. In truth, the organization probably couldn’t afford a real car, such antiques as they were. How was your day love? Well got on the MTV and wiped out these three fanatics. Then got back on the MTV to come home. Didn’t have time to stop for cream tea. Frightful, his sense of humor was getting somewhat out of hand. He was sliding into an old man with a wink and his lager on Thursday nights. But a cup of tea he did need, and home would get him a cuppa. Never a lager or an ale, his job didn’t allow such luxuries. And he had all the stimulants he needed from it, so it was also ixnay on the coffee.

Ah Kensington. Home to his home. The statue was still there, respectably maintained; albeit half of the people living thereabout had no idea what it represented. ‘Some ancient ode to p********a?’ A neighbor had once remarked. No it was Pan, and ode to eternal youth. Immortality then. If he could have a measure of that now. Ah Kensington. Still maintained its respectability when most of the rich ones left London. City sprawl no longer for the rich, only the gardens and the waterways for them. Now the City was only for the Plebs, willing to ride such monstrosities as MTVs. He would probably have to go Society Orientation training for using the word Pleb. Even Mayfair had gone common and so did many other former playgrounds of the rich. And some of the less savory areas had been rezoned and redone and achieved some status. Ah Kensington, not much changed here though; and never did attain prime borough status, but it was fine as it is. For someone like him anyway. All he needed was a place to sleep and recover. It was a small indulgence on his part that he didn’t live in a New Block Unit, one of which he had very recently been well accustomed with. He lived in a restored apartment block, all railing and gables and eaves. Even if inside it was no different from any NBU. But to have a little beauty in his life. There was always some small satisfaction before entering the main doors and stepping into what was effectively a box. He reached his building merely a few paces off the stop. There it was that façade of beauty hiding plain pragmatism. But it will do, as it had always had.

He went through the main entrance of the building with its old gilded doors and stepped into the lift. The familiar drone of the lift made him feel better already. Coming out of it, there was a woman waiting. She gave him a warm smile and he tried to return it. Wasn’t sure how successful he was but she didn’t look alarmed so perhaps success.

“Home for tea?” She asked, still smiling.

“Actually yes.”

“Have a good one.”

“Ah yes, you too.” She stepped into the lift still smiling. He was still in the lift, her having surprised him and she tried to go around him. He fumbled out and she gave a short laugh as the doors closed. Suave. Had he met her before, she lived on his floor? He wasn’t a social person. He didn’t encourage it, didn’t suit his work. Well, she didn’t run screaming in fear so it wasn’t all bad. A sense of normalcy helped. Grounded him somewhat, stopped people asking too many questions. What could be more normal than having a cup of tea? He stepped into his sparse apartment. That was the sparse, after Spartan and it was apt for him. That’s what he was, a Spartan living for the fight. Nothing else to live for but the encounter with the woman made him wonder. Spartan’s did have s*x didn’t they? He almost was embarrassed with that thought. He hadn’t been with anyone in a long while. Perhaps. No that wasn’t his life. This sparseness was. There were no bric bracs, no object d’arts, no collectibles. It had what he needed that was all. A bed, a chair, a table, a desk. An auto kitch – because he was the last person on earth to be doing any gourmet cooking. Did he have any hobbies? He read a nook or two on tactics, strategy, some bits on history. He did have a bible stashed somewhere. He had bought it on impulse off a street store. A vintage leather bound copy. King James, if not mistaken. It seemed appropriate considering the structure and theme of the Godsmen. When he had mentioned this to one of the Cardinals, the man had smirked and replied,

“Catholics don’t read the Bible mostly, you should get a copy of the New Catholic Catechism.” Well, he had it, the Bible and it was somewhere. He thought to look for it and went into his room. There were some very old things in his closet so he looked there first. On the overhead shelf was a book. Ah that was it, he remembered very clearly. He reached out and took it. It was the New Catechism. Well what do you know? He put it back on the shelf. Had he at one point threw the Bible and replaced it with this? But the Bible was very clear to him, he could even smell it, the dusky musky leather. The very first words on it;

‘In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.’

He remembered it all clearly. What happened? Cognitive dissonance? Too many knocks to the knob? Anyway, time to look to his wounds. He was not one for reflection anyway. Not one for deep thoughts and contemplation. In the olden days there had been two types of monks. One had taken to a bucolic life and spent their days contemplating God while the other served God by means of war. Warrior monks, Knights Templars. He identified with the latter, no chanting hymns for him in the low light of evening among rose briars. Ah such poetry, probably inspired by his memory of the King James. He took off his clothes in front of the full length mirror and studied his naked body. The full length mirror was not for his vanity, far from it. It was for situations like this. He looked at his wound. The knife wound was deeper than he thought and still bleeding despite the patch he’d put over it from his health kit. Suturing will be needed. Otherwise just the usual bruises that will take care of itself over time. In normal circumstances the knife s***h wouldn’t have cut at all, couldn’t have gotten past his polymer reinforced clothes. But the guy had been strong and his knife was probably enhanced with carbonadium or something. If he had been wearing ordinary clothes he would have paid his pound in flesh. He went to the Health Module and opened it. The Health Module, such an important part of his life. There were a few gadgets in there but he picked up the Spider. Didn’t really know what it was called but everyone called it the Spider. It would have been more appropriate to call it the Weaver he supposed, that’s what it did but with the extendable clamps Spider did come to mind. He flicked the switch and the clamps extended. He fixed them over his shoulder, positioning the base unit over his wound. Done, he activated the Spider. A slow beeping started, the scanning mode. It took about two minutes and then the Spider started weaving. Its needle points were extremely fine, unseen to the human eye. As a result, there was little pain as the needles went in and out through the skin. The sutures were extremely fine as well. In five minutes, it was done. He removed the Spider, which had deactivated by itself and folded back the clamps. Placing it back in the Health Module, he went to inspect its handiwork in the mirror. You could barely see the wound. Just a ghost of a line. Such beauty it was in modern technology. Headspace orchestras and game body patches were all fine and dandy, but inventions such as the Spider was the true beauty of the future. He had memories of quite a few injuries but his body told no story of them. Perhaps they were less severe than he had thought them to be at that time or medical technology had done very well indeed. For example this wound, with such fine suturing, it wouldn’t leave a scar. And a spider saved my life, he said to the fly.

He went over and checked his gun – still fine. Over the years, there had been inventions like the Starkar who had promised to take over guns as the main weapon of choice. But through the centuries the standard gun had ruled supreme and had barely changed at all – the same concept of gunpowder combustion was still the heart of gun technology. Except gunpowder was no longer used. A mixture called Pyroleaven now was the most part standard material. It was more stable, and it could get wet. You could shoot your gun underwater with no issue. The humble gun. So little had changed. Necessity was the mother of invention and well the gun got rid of a lot of mothers. Effective piece of tool. Simple, hardly elegant. So much of the future it had dictated, so much of the past it had drenched in blood. Its day may come, but not just yet. I mean even today, he’d won over someone with a supposedly superior tool; so until then the gun would keeps its status. He didn’t love it like some people did. It was tool that helped that was all. He appreciated its usefulness but he never treated his gun like a lover. No caresses for you he thought and threw the gun on the bed. Body was fine or would be fine, gun fine. He looked down at his crotch and wondered if that was fine but closed the thought out again. Maybe it had been too long and he just needed to join the human race for a bit. There were options aplenty if he really needed to.

Now to see to tea. That was the thing, countries would fall and regimes would change. But tea. Tea was forever. O Britannia!

He threw on some lounge clothes and went to his tiny but serviceable kitchen. Opening his cabinet he confronted himself with a terrible decision. Loose leaf or bag? In the end, he decided to take the time to measure out the leaves. The process itself was therapeutic. Opening the canister and smelling the fragrance. If the woman at the lift had worn a perfume of tea he’d might get with her. Lord, it definitely was too long. Perhaps a shower, cold cold one. After tea. There was always the option of the autokitch giving out boiling water, but he held on to his trusty electric kettle. Some deep part of him appealed to this, never could explain to anyone why. But it wasn’t tea if it wasn’t from the kettle. If he could, he ‘d light a gas stove, but no such things were to be had now. Except in museums. Well, yes he did have a hobby. Walking around in museums when he had the time. He had a penchant for old things he supposed. The British Museum was a ghost of what it was, so much of its exhibits returned to the rightful countries. But it did have gas stoves and petrol cars and that most delightful of exhibits, a television. God, people used to watch stuff on a box. Retina Screening was the rage now, but the worse you could do was activate a pad. Once holographic screening had been the in thing but it got mighty irritating when people so often walked through your latest episode of Dr Who. Ah there was tea. All is right with the world. Maybe he will stream some episodes of Dr Who. The show that had gone on for more than a hundred years. The story of a person who had survived centuries. Somehow, it felt all very appropriate.