Chapter 3
Mystech, or technology powered by myst, uses a condensed myst crystal as a power source. These artificially grown crystals of compressed myst are made up of a single type or fusion of two of the fourteen elemental types. The most common myst crystal batteries used for personal tools are either fire (a single myst type), or electric (a fusion of two myst elements).
Now, you're going to want to ready yourself for this next bit. My story honestly starts here, and it's a dark and bloody start. It’s also the start of a long string of traumas.
The screw gave a shrieking squeal before it popped free. I plucked up the loud bit of metal between my thumb and forefinger before setting it aside and pressing it into a flat of cardboard alongside its brethren. I placed each screw set into the board in the mirror location from where it had been removed. Methodically, I set down my screwdriver before raising my hands over my partly dismantled victim. I bit the lower lip of my small yet eager smile even as my fingers began dancing like a spider over its prey. With practiced precision, I plucked off the back of the myst storage battery to reveal its internals. This nifty little toy I found in the garbage in town was quite the prize for me. This MK 3.2 V-tech battery also doubled as a backup generator. I picked my way around the internals, examining wires and checking the circuits for damage, all while being careful not to touch the capacitor. You only touch a live capacitor once. After that, you either learn your lesson, or you were literally cooked meat. You also had to keep in mind that even if the device was unplugged or its batteries were dead, the capacitor could still hold a charge for a while afterward. I pulled free a circuit board from the control panel, unplugging all the links as I went to reveal what I was looking for. The battery charging rack. What made this model so important for my needs was that, unlike other battery/generators, which had one or two massive rechargeable myst crystals, or RMCs for short, this model had thirty-six smaller RMCs that were designed to be swapped when they broke down.
From the looks of the internals, this poor toy was trashed because of a broken connector from the control panel. I set aside the quartz board in my hands and plucked up one of my rubber-handled flathead screwdrivers to dismantle the copper mounting brackets and disconnect the high-capacity wires leading to the capacitor. I pulled free the rack of crystals and gave it a close inspection. Some of the dead ones had cracks or chips. Clearly, the device was literally thrown into the trash. But there were a couple of crystals still glowing with a bright, charged yellow. No doubt there would have been more if so many of the crystals were not damaged. It was such a pain when you damaged a myst crystal. Ninety-five percent of the time, a chipped or cracked crystal would leak myst till the once glowing crystal was just a chunk of clear glass-like rock. But with elements like fire and electricity, there was still that slight chance that the power crystal could explode, which could range from a sharp sting and pulling shards from your hand to third-degree burns and/or myst poisoning.
I plucked free the first of the eight crystals, holding it up to the light between the thumb and forefinger. It was a small thing, about an inch and a quarter tall, with a one-centimeter diameter. These ones were mostly straight as an arrow, only tapering down to a dull point on either end for mounting purposes. For the past couple of years, I had been completely fascinated with everything about Mystech. I think it all started with the blacksmith when he would show me his projects. That got me into crafting. Then, I wanted to learn about mechanical devices. From there, my fascination evolved into an obsession with Mystech and all things Myst-powered. My eighth-grade class had recently gone over only the most basic of the concepts, like what myst crystals were made of, how dangerous they were, and how most technologies were based on rune script, sigil components, mechanical components, and/or electrical components. But I wanted to know more. How did the rune script work? What kinds of components were there? How could those components be put together? So many questions, but all the teachers just kept telling me I could learn more when I was older because it was dangerous. My father thought my interest was odd, but to me, the technology was simple. You made a thing, and it did what you made it for. If you got it wrong, then it just wouldn’t work. Circuits, wires, and gears never got angry at you for no reason or hurt you because you looked strange.
The only person I knew who didn’t hurt me was my father. Well, Father only hurt me when I did something wrong, like if I broke something or got annoying, but he still was nice at times. He tucked me into bed and gave me hugs after I got picked on by the other boys. He made sure I always had food, clothes, and a home.
I took one battery and stepped around the kitchen table to pick up my toy hover disk. I had noticed that the silver disk decorated with blinking lights had been slowing down. It didn’t hover as high as it used to, didn’t come back as fast as it should, and the lights were kind of dull now. I figured it must’ve been running low on power.
I picked up the disk, turned it over, and popped open the battery hatch. Sure enough, the crystal there was glowing a dull red. I thought it was odd that the battery was red, but maybe they worked like the power indicators on some other things that flashed red when they needed a new power source. I pulled out the old battery and plugged in the fresh one. Carefully, I set the dying crystal on the table before I clicked shut the hatch on my toy and flipped the switch. I watched in joy as I heard it spin up, and the lights began to display. But then it started making this odd ringing sound, and one by one, the lights popped with tiny pops. In a panic, I dropped the disk. As it struck the floor, I heard something else break inside with a loud crack, and the remaining lights all blew at once. It went quiet as smoke began creeping up from the battery hatch.
“Damn it!” I cursed.
“What was that?” My father’s voice came from upstairs. His tone carried a note of warning.
“Nothing, Father!” I replied in panic. I wasn’t sure if he was asking about the curse or the broken toy, but I’d rather not find out. In my panic, I rushed to pick up the disk before he found it. The disk was hot to the touch, and to keep myself from getting burned, I tossed it from hand to hand like a hot potato. Suddenly, the toy burst into blue-yellow flames. I heard my father coming down the stairs, his steps landing heavily, meaning that he had been drinking. My panic escalated. In desperation, I hurled the flaming toy into the fireplace. As my father stepped into the room, flask in hand, I saw the aggravation on his face and braced myself for the pain to come.
He shuffled across the room in a manner only an experienced drunk could, to prevent staggering to fall into his armchair with a heavy ‘foomph’ sound as the leather cushion compressed under his weight. He had walked right past my tiny disaster and was now looking away from it. He clearly was so drunk that his perception was limited.
“Stop playing with your gizmos, boy. I think you should go out and practice hunting. A ranger needs to master hunting. While you have made good progress in tracking, evasion, and wilderness survival, you have yet to make a single kill. You haven’t brought home a single rabbit. Either you’re a terrible marksman, or you don’t have the stomach to make a kill. Either way, I don’t want you coming home until you have put down something and brought the body home for skinning, gutting, and cooking.”
I let out a silent sigh at his words before speaking. “Yes, Father.” I stood upright, hands behind my back, as my gaze flitted from the back of my father’s head to the burning mess in the hearth. “May I please use the rifle? I can’t work the bow as well.”
“No. You need to know the drive and skill it takes to kill something. There is a meaning in a kill made with a bow that is lost behind the trigger. Go get your bow and quiver. Remember to take those arrows I made for you. And don’t come home until you have an animal corpse with you.” Father rumbled before he took another sip from his flask.
“But... what if I catch an elk or something big? I can’t drag that back.”
He gave a disgruntled sigh, causing me to flinch in reaction. “Then take a knife and bring me its head. I’ll bring the sled and drag it back myself.”
“Yes, Father.” I said in sullen resignation as I made my way back to my room to gather my gear. As soon as I was out of my father's earshot, I began cursing violently under my breath, any curse I could think of, if childishly profane. I continued even as I gathered my recurve bow, hunting knife, and the quiver of arrows crafted by Father.
I made my way back downstairs, pulling my bow over my head to rest on my shoulder. I had a thought as I reached the bottom of the steps. Stepping into the living room, I faced my father, my hands held together in front of me in trepidation.
“Hey, father, if I make a noteworthy kill, can I please get a therra-node?”
His response was an indignant snort. “You can buy your own once you sell enough pelts and meat.”
I clenched my teeth at this response, trying to hide the sneer that wanted to creep across my face. “Then, if I bring something back, could you please tell me something about my mother? You’ve told me nothing about her, and I feel like I should know something about the parent that actually gave birth to me.”
I watched as his body responded with a flash of rage before he tamped down on it. I could hear him grinding his shark-like teeth even as I saw him flex his fists before visibly forcing himself to relax. “Maybe.” was all he said before aggressively pointing to the front door. I took the message, and as I made my way to the door, he gave one last statement. “And Iver,” His tone was gentle, a shock to me after his display of constrained aggression. “Don’t forget my rule about a monster or restless dead. You see a monster, hide and get back here as soon as you see an opening. If you stumble across one of the restless dead, I don’t care if you think you can handle it; get back here as fast as you can.” His voice turned hard but with a tinge of concern. “Do not stop till you get back.”
I stepped out from the cabin and into our yard, only barely distinguishable from the wilds beyond. Looking toward the sun above, I shielded my eyes even as I guessed the time to be around 10:00 AM. I turned my gaze from the sky with only sparse clouds down the dirt path that led into town. That town was my personal hell. Anyone my age went out of their way to either mock me or beat me. The adults were all too busy, swapping stories about how I might have come to be there or ignoring me, to help. From the adults, the most I would ever get were curses, telling me to leave, or blatant glares that all conveyed the same message. I turned away from the path that led to my misery to the wilds in the opposite direction. There, I found a thick braiding of trees and bushes that marked the end of the domain of the Sophic Species and the start of the world of nature.
Anyone who lived near nature knew just how hard it actively tried to take back its domain that the Sophic Species claimed as home. My father had to cut back the foliage every three days and spread herbicide around the perimeter every week. The perimeter of our land was also marked with a fence. Now, this was no chain-link fence like in the city or woodboard fence like in the suburbs. This was an eight-foot high, electrified, razer wire fence with seven-inch thick steel posts every six feet. Anyone from a purely urban environment would think this looked like defenses for war. In truth, this was standard wildlife management. Towns and cities had their defensive walls to keep out monsters and nature, so those who lived out in the middle of nowhere needed a smaller version to keep homes and property safe. Even rural farms needed similar perimeters, but since most farms were corporation-owned, the fat lizards normally flipped the bill to protect their goods.
I unlocked the small gate to my father’s standard hunting path and passed from the confines of control and into the freedom of the wilds. Within that grove just behind our home, I found peace. No one mocked me or attacked me there among the trees. Out there, creatures fled from me. To the rabbits and squirrels, I was a creature of power to be feared and respected. I pressed into the woods, trekking deep, barely leaving any mark on the land as I passed through. Father taught me how to move through nature with minimal traces. As I went, I left no tracks, broke no branches, and became all but invisible to the surrounding creatures. The few small animals that noticed me fled into the brush, each time giving me a sense of power that let me feel like I was worth something more than a child who was too sensitive to kill another living thing. With every step, I rallied my will, only to second guess it over and over again.
I wanted to know about my mother. Father refused to tell me anything other than she was a Darkling, that she dropped me off in the dead of night in a panic, and that the man raising me, Fermose, was not my biological father. He only told me the last bit one night when he had drunk far too much, and I was too young to understand. When he told me I remembered, I made sure to remember this because I needed to know more.
I pushed into the forest, searching, seeking, for something big enough to be worth earning even the smallest bit of info about my mother. Don’t get me wrong. I was dying to have a therra-node, the most modern communication and interactive device that replaced cell phones. It was the big thing to have among the student body, but if I had a chance to learn about my mother, that meant so much more to me.
As I dwelled on the thought and fantasized about what kind of person my mother was, I caught sight of something an hour into my hunt. Movement larger than any rabbit or squirrel; I focused on the large shape to find that it was a deer. A buck, a ten-point buck that was grazing beside a pond, completely unaware of me. I flashed a victorious smile as I pulled my bow, nocked an arrow, and drew the bowstring. I drew my line of aim to the stag’s heart as he grazed. I pulled the string back even farther as I thought about the stories of my mother I could get. The muscles of my back were pulled as taut as the bowstring I had in hand.
I was about to loose the arrow and kill the creature when it raised its head and looked right at me. In that moment, when we locked eyes, I saw so much. Innocence with no desire beyond that to live. An understanding of its own life in all its aspects. Respect for those greater than it, and an understanding that it would one day die. These realizations stayed my hand, but that last bit of understanding gave me a reason to pity. His life was full of fear, just as mine was, waiting for pain to come from another creature, pain that would define my reason when my end came. This feeling was so hard to explain or express. Like no one would understand it unless they were just as alone as me.
I looked at that stag and saw myself, and I just couldn’t end its life. I felt my arm losing strength, and in panic, I redirected my shot. As my fingers slipped, the arrow flew into a nearby tree, the shaft burrowing five inches past the head of the arrow into an old oak. The stag fled with the twang of the bowstring. I watched the creature flee deeper into the woods and couldn’t help but watch it go. I turned and made my way back home in shame. I couldn’t kill it. I couldn’t take another life. What right did I have to cut short the existence of another breathing thing? Let them live so they could learn to love and understand the world, something I still couldn’t quite understand myself.
I knew full well that Father would strike me for this, but I didn’t care. I would not take another life unless it deserved to be ended. As I made my way home, I tried to think of things that I could kill without shame. Wolves, bears, or monsters? Creatures that killed others. Those were the ones who deserved to die.