More republishing

content/post/2018/01/31-dont-look-back/index.markdown

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+layout =	"post"
+title =	"Frenetic Scribblings #31: Don’t look back"
+date =	"2018-01-01"
+categories = ["writing"]
+tags = ["freneticscribblings"]
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++++
+Every writer is different. Not just in their particular turn of phrase. Not just in their writing style, though that is often the difference most apparent.
+
+Writers are different because writing is different. Writing flows from experience, it is intrinsically personal.
+
+Everyone writes differently.
+
+Maybe you plan, maybe the words just stream from you without thinking.
+
+Maybe you edit obsessively. Or maybe you do the barest of checks before tossing the piece into the wild.
+
+Maybe you write frenetically when the mood takes you, and then suddenly stop. Maybe you write at a set time each day.
+
+Personally, I don’t know how I write. I just kind of…think onto paper. Inspiration particles strike me at random, setting off a web of lightning within my brain. Then the words stream forth, without thought. Or sometimes the words have to be coaxed out, dragged from the darkest recesses.
+
+The reason I sometimes have a massive coalescence in my draft hell is because I suffer from editor’s block. Sometimes, I write a piece, but hitting publish then and there doesn’t feel right. For one reason or another, the words that flowed out . So it sits, and I inevitably return to it. Edit and re-edit, but something still doesn’t feel right.
+
+I get caught in the trap of desire. Desire for perfection. A perfection impossible to achieve, so it becomes a cyclical death spiral. The only solution is to say ‘to hell with it’ and hit publish anyway. Spend too long looking backwards and you’ll inevitably trip over. Keep moving forward, keep publishing. It won’t be perfect — but is anything?
+
+That’s how I break out of editor’s block. Just hitting publish.
+
+Infinitely easier said than done. I have to stop myself obsessing over stats. I have to remind myself that each piece is an imperfect fragment in a still more imperfect overarching work. Writing is not easy, publishing is not easy. But it **is** worth it.
+
+How you write doesn’t matter.
+
+The important thing is that it is written.
+
+Tell your story, **yell it loud**. Nobody else will.
+
+Because nobody else can.
+
+> Thought for the day: Making mistakes is better than faking perfections  

content/post/2018/01/33-dropping-of-the-hammer/index.markdown

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+layout =	"post"
+title =	"Frenetic Scribblings #33: Dropping of the hammer"
+date =	"2018-01-03"
+categories = ["writing"]
+tags = ["freneticscribblings"]
+[[resources]]
+  name = "header thumbnail"
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++++
+I believe I wrote a few Scribblings ago about my observed law of good chasing bad and vica versa.
+
+This idea tends to taint good times since I am expecting something bad around every corner. Always a few clouds in the sky as it were. I don’t hate it, though. It makes me better prepared for the inevitably of when those clouds roll across the sun.
+
+The storm always hits in the end.
+
+But it also always passes in the end.
+
+Just as good times always end, so must the bad.
+
+The storm always breaks, eventually.
+
+This knowledge makes weathering the storm easier.
+
+Circumstances mean I must cut this short. The storm has just begun, after all.
+
+
+> Thought for the day: There are some things you can only learn in a storm.  

content/post/2018/01/34-magic-of-the-4am-silence/index.markdown

@@ -2,7 +2,7 @@
 categories = ["thoughts"]
 date = "2018-01-04T00:00:00Z"
 title = "Frenetic Scribblings #34: Magic of the 4am silence"
-
+tags = ["freneticscribblings"]
 [[resources]]
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content/post/2018/01/burn-fierce-burn-bright/index.markdown

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+categories = ["poetic"]
+date = "2018-01-01"
+title = "Burn fierce, burn bright"
+
+[[resources]]
+  name = "header thumbnail"
+  src = "**MaUmG4lXNv3gyWEvruDQFA*"
++++
+Crimson like full lusty lips, beckoning you into a kiss. The flame of passion.
+
+Electric blue like the roar of a blowtorch, the crackle and snap of lightning sparks. The flame of drive.
+
+Clear like open air, shimmering on a hot summers day. The flame of spirit.
+
+White like a melded rainbow, colours melted together into searing snow. The flame of hope.
+
+Yellow like gilt leaf wrought defiant on crisp white page, glowing against. The flame of optimism.
+
+Cherry red like the core of a star, the roaring celestial furnace. The flame of strength.
+
+Blood red like the torrential force pumping through your veins, the rush of power and vitality. The flame of life.
+
+Pink like petals on the most delicate of roses, wafer thin and dancing to the breeze. The flame of love.
+
+Crimson, Electric blue, Clear, White, Yellow, Cherry red, Blood red, Pink.
+
+These are the flames.
+
+Passion, drive, spirit, hope, optimism, strength, life, love.
+
+These are **your** flames.
+
+Let them burn bright.
+
+  

content/post/2018/01/four-horsemen-of-humanity/index.markdown

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+layout =	"post"
+title =	"Four Horsemen of Humanity"
+date =	"2018-01-15"
+categories = ["writing", "fiction"]
+[[resources]]
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++++
+*Foreword: My fiction muscle is horribly rusty. This is the first step towards knocking the rust off and as a result I am not proud of it. The fact it was written with minutes to spare before the deadline does not help. Regardless, I’ll publish it anyway. I might come back and rework the concept. Equally I might not. I am at the mercy of my Muse (she too rides a horse)*
+
+Hoofbeats rolling like thunder. The sun blotted out by a rising swell of strangling darkness. Other sounds rise to accompany the thunder: metal clashing frantically, a great gnashing of teeth; a sonorous tolling of bells and an eerie buzzing as if gigantic flies swirled in the foul clouds that covered the sun.
+
+Four mounted figures rose over the horizon. Despite the rolling gallop that deafened all around, the shapes glided through the murk.
+
+War sat astride a mountainous horse, steaming masses of rolling muscle and dark flesh. Both figure and beast were clad in obsidian black armor. Behind the shadowed eyeslit of the imposing helmet danced a red flicker.
+
+Famine was dwarfed in comparison to this great bulk of armour and muscle. Her horse skeletal, barest slivers of tendons articulating the faded bones, she herself is gaunt, sunken eyes bottomless pits that in turn draw the eye of the unfortunate observer.
+
+The horse of Pestilence, huge swaths of rotting skin cling to the exposed bone, blood and foul black rot dripping constantly, a cloud of flies envelopng horse and rider, masking any distinguishing features of the pustulent bulk that sits astride the decaying nag.
+
+The fourth hourseman, by contrast indistinct, a whisper of clouded air, the hint of leg here, suggestion of skull there, the illusion completed by the impossibility of looking directly at the figure, the eye slips, refusing to look. Refusing to see. Refusing to acknowledge the manifestation of Death
+
+Suddenly, the clamor died away. The riders stopped their rapid and murderous advance, halted as if they had run…no…glided…headlong into a solid wall. The black mist roiled angrily, as if frustrated.
+
+The sound of bells came again. But not deep and ominous any longer. High and angelic.
+
+War’s horse reared, letting out a great bellow. The mist shifted, and recoiled. In its retreat it revealed four new figures. Four more horsemen.
+
+Peace, Plenty, Health and Life.
+
+Four white horses, and four perfect men and woman astride them. Skin like painted porcelain, clad only in silky robes that billowed joyfully. White for peace, yellow for plenty, green for health and red for life.
+
+“Ugh, such goddamn killjoys” growled the spiked helmet that rode between War’s shoulders.
+
+Famine agreed in a voice as thin and reedy as her figure. Barely audible. Pestilence just laughed,a great thundering gurgle punctuated by explosive coughs.
+
+Death did not speak. But what Death *said* was, “Poor fools. Chaos *always* wins.”
+
+The Horsemen of Humanity heard. They heard, and knew it was true. But nevertheless, they fought. Moving as one, all withdrew shining blades flickering with the white flame of hope.
+
+They fought, lost, fought again. Never giving up. A metaphor for humanity’s struggle against darkness. Ultimately futile, but meaningful despite this.
+
+[*Original inspiration — [WP] Everyone knows the story of The Four Horsemen. What most people don’t realize is that the reason The Horsemen haven’t destroyed the world yet is they have brothers; Peace, Plenty, Health, and Life. But don’t let their hippy names fool you, they’re just as badass. Tell us their story.*](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/7qixjy/wp_everyone_knows_the_story_of_the_four_horsemen/)
+
+*Thanks to *[*Where Angels Fear*](https://medium.com/u/6c8bcd0d1a65)* for catching my tense mishaps.*
+
+  

content/post/2018/01/i-dont-want/index.markdown

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+layout =	"post"
+title =	"I don’t want"
+date =	"2018-01-12"
+categories = ["poetic"]
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++++
+**I don’t want the future**, bright **but** so uncertain
+
+**If** only it weren’t so, but it is.
+
+**I** want the warmth of the past
+
+Time I **spend** is gone, forever
+
+If only there were **any** way to wind back the clock
+
+Bright memory fades as time grows **longer**
+
+**Looking** for you, always
+
+Looking **back**, always
+
+**My** heart yearns
+
+My **neck** twisted to face you
+
+My **will** not enough
+
+Past torn away, present **snap**s back
+
+*Now read only the bold.*
+
+  

content/post/2018/01/some-things-stick/index.markdown

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+layout =	"post"
+title =	"Some things stick"
+date =	"2018-01-02"
+categories = ["life"]
+tags = ["aphantasia"]
+[[resources]]
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++++
+My blind mind’s eye pretty effectively neuters my memory. Because I can’t recall the image of a situation, I often can’t recall it at all. Forgetting where I put things is the rule, not the exception, for me.
+
+Cruel joke of the gods, that. Give a man who’s greatest fear is loss a memory that deprecates rapidly. Moments come and go. Memories mostly go. It is the way of things, and there isn’t a great deal I can do about it. So I bear it.
+
+Some things stick, though.
+
+A moment with a sufficient degree of emotional resonance will stick with me, even if I remain unable to recall the image of it in my head.
+
+Moments like the splintering of an innocent heart. Theirs, or mine.
+
+Moments like the ignition of passion. Spark striking flame, a mushroom fireball.
+
+Moments like those of greatest gain. And of greatest loss.
+
+My mind is like a sieve, selecting if not the particularly good or bad, but the significant of all kinds. Mostly, though, the sand of time streams through. Always a blessing and a curse.
+
+  

content/post/2018/01/the-backhanded-blessing-of-bearing-an-unusual-name/index.markdown

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+layout =	"post"
+title =	"The backhanded blessing of bearing an unusual name"
+date =	"2018-01-10"
+categories = ["life"]
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++++
+So many times have I been asked ‘how do you spell that?’ I reflexively suffix ‘My name is Arona’ with ‘spelt A..R…’.
+
+Having an unusual name is both a blessing and a curse. It singles you out from the crowd.
+
+To be singled out from the crowd is itself a double edged sword. Throughout my school years I was subject to torment with rhyming nicknames. Each group seemed to delight in discovering a particular schoolyard slang that rhymes nicely with Arona. Each thinking they were the first, and each wrong.
+
+The ‘rhyming thing’ still follows me, though these days it is rhymed with more adult things. Like Corona (with lime please!). Sometimes I wish I could change it — and I suppose I could now, if I wanted to. But I don’t wish to anymore.
+
+I’ve come to love the uniqueness it lends, to wear it with pride. My name is my brand, one of the few constants in a life of flux as I persist in trying to figure out *what* and *who* I am.
+
+It is a conversation starter, one that makes it difficult to hide. Searching my name on the Internet is incredibly effective — SEO? Never needed it! A blessing when I myself am trying to be heard. A curse if — as I often do — I’d prefer to go unseen, to slip into the crowd. A blessing and a curse.
+
+The story of of my name is by now well worn. I understand people’s curiosity, but it doesn’t make it any less…well…boring…to retread why I — a young white Briton — bear a name in the ancient Maori tongue.
+
+It’s also not a story I’ll tell now. Partly because I don’t care for telling it, but mostly because *my *name isn’t the point.
+
+Second only to appearance, a name is the foremost that you learn about a person.
+
+It is a part of who we are, and yet we did not choose it.
+
+We may be able to change ‘what we would like to be called’, but we cannot change *what others call us*.
+
+There are names in the sense of names that we possess, that are ours and used to identify us to others. And then there are names that others use to identify us. These are not always the same.
+
+If words are weapons — and they must be, if the pen truly is mightier than the sword — names are thermonuclear warheads.
+
+  

content/post/2018/01/to-be-immortal/index.markdown

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++++
+layout =	"post"
+title =	"To be immortal"
+date =	"2018-01-02"
+categories = ["writing", "life"]
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++++
+There are two paths to immortality.
+
+> Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing. — Benjamin FranklinWhich will you choose?
+
+I admit to cheating a little. Life’s unfair, after all, so why should we be fair back? I choose both.
+
+I will do. I will do crazy things, just because I can. Better to ask ‘why not?’ than ‘why?’. And I will strive to touch the lives of others, in the most positive way that I can. Make the biggest splash, so that it may take the longest to fade away.
+
+I will write and write. Write with fury, attack with definite quantity and hopeful quality. In this I hope to produce something worth reading. In this I hope to produce a work that carries my name into immortality.
+
+
+> Do you not know that a man is not dead while his name is still spoken? — Terry PratchettFor I fear death above all things.
+
+But, I’ll not spend (waste) my whole life waiting to start living. Instead I’ll spend it living as hard as I can.
+
+> If you don’t turn your life into a story, you just become part of someone else’s story. — Terry PratchettI fear death. It is human nature to fear change, to cling to what we know. More than that, I fear loss. Fear the changing of the guard. The out with the old, even if it brings in the new. And death is the ultimate among losses, so it stands to reason that it is the ultimate of my many fears.
+
+Perhaps not the best driving force, the fear of death. It sure as hell lights a fire under me, though. For that I am oddly grateful.
+
+Live hard so that you may be immortal, even if only in name.
+
+GNU Terry Pratchett
+
+  

content/post/2018/07/prising-open-a-deathgrip/index.markdown

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+categories = ["me"]
+tags = ["aphantasia"]
+date = "2018-07-24"
+title = "Prising open a deathgrip"
+layout = "post"
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++++
+I live in the present. What else can I do, when [I have no memory](https://medium.com/frenetic-scribblings/flickering-like-candle-flame-in-the-wind-3ac0c9537402).
+
+Look to the future? Psh. I am indeed prone to daydreaming about what *might be *but there’s no inherent danger in that. Not while I keep it in check.
+
+No. My problem is clinging to the present. Not to the past, to the present.
+
+I do not give up that which I have. Not without a fight. Not without deep [clawmarks on every fading memory](/post/2018/07/clawmarks-on-my-memories/).
+
+As a result…I take loss badly. I flat out fear it. I don’t like to look forward too far, and I can’t look back so…I hold tight to what I have. There’s a damn good reason I fear death so bad. This is a — large — part of it.
+
+The thing about holding tightly is that it smothers…
+
+By nature, I death grip at slivers of life. It makes me possessive. It makes me…intense. It makes me suffocating.
+
+But without a memory, I don’t know how to let go. I’ve got to though, otherwise I always kill that which I’m trying to preserve.
+
+I refuse to let myself love like this. I don’t know how to love lightly. And anything else isn’t really love. Not the crushing fake-image attachment that I previously labelled love. I struggle with the ‘L word’ in general at the moment. Not least because [I’ve had it subverted before.](https://medium.com/myfuckingfeelings/an-acidic-introduction-to-hate-love-c275655eb869)
+
+Maybe I’ve learnt enough lessons…maybe I’m lucky in that regard…but that’s a story for another time…
+
+Now, a note that my insufferably sincere side refuses to let me omit. This is a public self reflection (standalone piece on the whys of that coming whenever it frees from draft hell) made while mildly tipsy. Caution advised.
+
+But I suppose, isn’t honesty the best policy in writing? I don’t know. I don’t know if I know anything anymore…Maybe that’s okay.
+
+Well, rambling now. Goodnight!
+
+  

content/post/2018/08/indebted-to-hate/index.markdown

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+date = "2018-08-16"
+layout = "post"
+title = "Indebted to hate"
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++++
+I previously described in [my *fucking* feelings](https://medium.com/myfuckingfeelings/an-acidic-introduction-to-hate-love-c275655eb869) the pivot point of my life to date.
+
+The knife through the heart about which I spin, if you will.
+
+Whether discovery or reformation, that experience and those adjacent changed me fundamentally. It was a exemplar case of what is becoming, for better or worse³, my brand. Perfectly Awful.
+
+Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong person.
+
+Wrong relationship.
+
+So very wrong that…
+
+…
+
+…
+
+You thought I might say so many wrongs made a right, didn’t you.
+
+Hell no. Life Is Shit. All the wrongs made a worse. I skipped right along into [the minefield](https://medium.com/@aronajones/they-are-supposed-to-be-minefield-warning-flags-not-mile-markers-note-to-self-remember-that-f9748ced9286). I even had the audacity to be *surprised* when it blew up in my face!
+
+But, those wrongs did make a write. *(Sorry!¹)*
+
+Without all of that, all of that raucous emotion, I’d have nothing to write about. But I also wouldn’t have thought to write to begin with.
+
+That is what I mean when I say indebted to hate. I am who I am *because* of what She did. No. What We did.
+
+You see, while we flew we dreamed. There it is again… Flew.
+
+Together we built a beautiful fantasy. Doomed — as all fantasies are — to [shattering](https://medium.com/frenetic-scribblings/we-fell-too-hard-too-fast-83d79fb4680c) on slightest brush with reality…but bear with me a moment.
+
+A fantasy in which we found our wings. Flew together, slew our daemons together. On wings of fire we fought and won. Ever together.
+
+A fantasy we dreamed together. The very best writing ever to flow from my fingers. The very **very** best.
+
+That’s why it hurt so damn much when we crashed.
+
+Because in reality we never had… Anything. We were two people dating a little bit, then it didn’t work out. Happens all the time. Just a part of life. What we lost in reality… Ain’t shit.
+
+It was the collapse of the skies that hurt. The burning out of the flame that we’d mutually kindled. We’d lived a thousand lives in our words.
+
+A fundamentally unsustainable thing to do. Deeply toxic even. And I see that now. But at the time it was Perfect.
+
+Maybe she didn’t even realise how much the world we built meant to me. Means to me. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t.
+
+I may have lost what we had together but I have not lost what we created. I still remember. How could I hope to forget.
+
+I suppose, if I wanted to be optimistic, it means I could remember how to fly.
+
+I shall leave you with word of Hers. Words I, for better or worse³, will always carry with me.
+
+*The best way out is always through. Angels got their halos walking through the fires of hell.*
+
+<hr>
+
+¹ Am I ever⸮²
+
+² [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irony\_punctuation](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irony_punctuation)
+
+³ All⁴ swords must have their two edges, after all…
+
+⁴ Yes I know about katanas and the various others. Don’t get pedantic with me here. It’s *metaphor*, see.
+
+  

content/post/2018/10/mission-echo-returns/index.markdown

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++++
+categories = ["writing", "fiction"]
+tags = ["prompt"]
+date = "2018-10-24"
+images = ["/img/1*JpjpU2gIO2RmIVUfHfiwmw.jpeg"]
+layout = "post"
+title = "Mission Echo Returns"
+[[resources]]
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++++
+(The most ‘spacey’ one I could find!)
+
+#### **Writing Prompt: A colony mission sent from Earth loses contact, discouraging further missions. Hundreds of years later, the colony has established a powerful interstellar frontier and has regained contact with Earth, pledging their allegiance to the world’s leaders.**
+
+Surprisingly quietly, the dropship’s landing legs settled into the dust, under the shadow of the gigantic ex-colony ship hanging in low-Earth orbit. Scarcely had the dust settled when the ship’s belly split open, a battered metal ramp crashing to the dirt. Another heartbeat of silence came and went, as if it itself were afraid. Then a rush of movement and humanoid figures filed out, sweeping the area with the glowing weapons clasped in their gloved hands. Each figure had an expressionless mirrored visor and wore a streamlined but tough looking exosuit. When the metallic creatures had established a perimeter, a new figure stepped from the ship.
+
+Piercing red eyes glowed from within the figure’s metal visage, points of light blazing from sunken sockets. A fixed and malicious grin was carved into the mask under arching cheekbones. Light glinted off it, then scurried away as fast as it could manage. Several of the members of the welcoming committee that Earth had sent out to meet this unknown force recoiled at the grim sight. Other than the visor, the ironclad form was much the same as any of the other figures. So deeply black was their armour it seemed to absorb light from around them — though this was surely a mere illusion. Here and there bright metal shone through fresh scars in the compact plate. For a minute that dragged, kicking and screaming, into forever, nobody moved.
+
+Then the skull-masked figure’s face opened — almost seeming to dissolve. It revealed, not some blue-skinned sharp-faced alien, not some steely robot — but a human. The woman’s face was tough and craggy with a lingering hint of something alien — but definitely, undoubtedly human. Well, all human except for her left eye, which shone just as the sockets of her mask had — a blood jewel set into shining metal that merged seamlessly into her worn flesh. A long, raised scar ran across her face, interrupted by the metal. Clearly from the wound that had taken her eye. Her mouth was set in a distinct grimace that too, almost matched her mask. Moments later, her gravelly voice boomed out, “Which among you is of the highest rank?” The words were uttered with an inflection foreign to Earth, but carried absolute authority. This woman was used to giving orders. Orders that were promptly obeyed.
+
+“I suppose that would be me” replied a short, grey haired man sandwiched between two gnarled men whose muscles strained at the seams of their traditional dress suits.
+
+“I am technically in command of this planet’s armed forces, what remains of them at least” he said, quietly. Inwardly, he wondered about the assumption that the planet would be governed under military rule.
+
+“I am Captain Octavius of PDF Special Forces. I headed Colony Mission Echo that left Earth in 2036. Now we return.” The Earth Delegation had so far been doing well at maintaining their composure — they had been training for this much of their lives after all. But these words caused visible shock to pass across every member of the Earth Delegation’s faces. “How…”, the aged man began to mutter, but was curtly interrupted.
+
+“The original mission parameters: self-substantiating colonisation of the worlds orbiting Epsilon Eridani, and establishment of a forward base. Accomplished within a decade. Then *they *struck…” The inflection on the word they carried an ominous meaning, and once again questions began to bubble up from the earthers.
+
+The Captain raised a hand for silence, and it fell like a cast stone. “The attack was swift and merciless, and most importantly cut off our contact with the outside world. With High Command. With Earth.” At that, the faintest crack in her marble facade could be seen, a slight hoarseness to her voice. Directing a statement at the Earth leader as if she were sighting a shot she asked, “Can we continue this briefing somewhere else? Somewhere more secure?” While not a military man at heart, he understood the gravitas of the situation and thus nodded once, then spun on his heel, his aides swarming around him. The space marines closed up into a tight formation around their own leader, and the group moved off in quick flawlessly synchronised lockstep. The crowd of reporters that had gathered around the ship were left standing in the dust, cameras panning to cover the disappearing backs of the two groups.
+
+Not long later, the groups were seated at each side of a long, dark mahogany table, facing each other. The Earthers reclined into the plush chairs, while the soldiers sat ramrod straight. Octavius reached up and smoothly removed her helmet, shaking out a cascade of raven-black hair. As one, the rest of the squad made the same maneuver, revealing a host of faces each as battle-scarred as their leader’s. Here and there, metal shone where flesh should have sweated — these warriors clearly could not afford to have their fighting ability compromised. Visible shock and more than a hint of disgust scrawled itself across the faces of the soft men and women that reclined away from these looming warriors.
+
+No doubt Octavius noticed the emotion on display. She displayed none of her own. Instead, her impassive gaze swept once again to the short man, now seated opposite her. He squirmed almost imperceptibly under the concentrated, attentive stare as if he could feel her eyes reading him.
+
+Stiffening a little, the man spoke before Octavius could get a chance. As he did so, the flicker of a smile tugged at Octavius’s mouth, as if she were pleasantly surprised and amused by the man’s sudden growth of a spine.
+
+“Before you continue your…report, I must ask a question. When you arrived, you carried with you the assumption that this planet would be governed militarily, correct?”
+
+“Absolutely. How could it not be?”
+
+“The last soldier on this planet laid down arms almost thirty years ago.”
+
+“Ah, so the squabbling petty disputes were resolved at last. But, by laid down arms you surely mean ceased to actively fight, not ceased to train in the event of war…?”
+
+“I mean that people like you…soldiers, no longer exist. Globally. The concept of war is scarcely remembered. We are at peace.”
+
+This crashed through Octavius’s expressionless facade like a hammer, her shock laid bare for all to see. Then in a second the walls were back up, the face neutral once more.
+
+“I…see. The situation is far worse than I had imagined. Time is now absolutely of the essence”
+
+“What do you…”
+
+“Of the essence. That means no time for interruptions” Octavius cut in
+
+“Yes, M’am.” The man tilted his head to imply deference. Now it was the turn of several of the Earth Delegation to look visibly shocked, clearly not anticipating the leader of Earth to treat the commander of a colony mission this way.
+
+Several hours passed before Octavius had managed to fill the world leaders in on what precisely had transpired several star systems away. She spoke slowly and deliberately, “Missions Alpha and Bravo failed, the seed-ship unable to reach its destination. Charlie was initially successful, but the colony’s governance structure collapsed rapidly. The inhabitants of Ship Delta simply never woke up. I now understand that the missions ceased after Echo, as we suspected they might after being unable to establish contact with Earth, to tell of our success. We thought this contact failure was simply technical problems. This turned out to be a grave error of judgement.”
+
+A veritable barrage of questions followed and then a rather pregnant silence.
+
+Octavius had no qualms breaking the silence, “The population of Earth needs to be told. Everyone must prepare.” Instantly objections came from across the room, some dissent even sourced from within Octavius’s own contingent, although these were quickly silenced with a laser glare. Her gaze had such intensity one might wonder if a look from that glowing bionic eye might actually kill.
+
+“That will cause mass panic!” shouted one particularly bold Earther. Murmurs of agreement followed, almost unanimous.
+
+“She is right” The leader that Octavius had first addressed spoke conversationally, not raising his voice. And yet somehow the authority that permeated and those deployed words allowed their message to slice through the clamour, and silenced the room.
+
+Octavius nodded her thanks to the man, as casual as if they had just agreed on where to eat dinner rather than a decision that could change the lives of literal billions of people.
+
+Now it was all a matter of logistics. Something Earth fortunately remained quite good at, despite the total lack of military capability. There was already a system in place to allow the man now revealed to be titled The President of Earth to address the entire population through every one of the unanimous screens scattered through the population, portable and otherwise. The camera was prepared, the room deathly silent. All Octavius had to do was give the signal, and her words would be instantly broadcast to the entire planet. A technological marvel. She signalled her readiness, still maintaining her casual demeanor but sitting stiffly and staring squarely into the gleaming lens of the waiting camera.
+
+“I am Captain Octavius of Colony Mission Echo.” She paused here, aware of the shocking effects her words would be having.
+
+“Few among you will be familiar with the history of the Colony Missions. None among you will know why they lost contact. Until now.
+
+Mission Echo have been engaged in a fight for survival since moments after landing. And not just against inhospitable conditions and severely limited resources, although those certainly played their part.
+
+Not just against that. Against hostile beings. Aliens.
+
+Aliens that seem to want us erased from existence.
+
+We are faced with a choice. Submit and be annihilated, or fight. Petty differences have been put aside, humanity living in peace with one another at last. Wars forgotten. Now we must re-learn the art of war.
+
+This is about the fate of a species. Our species. I have battled to survive for years, and am not about to give up now. Who is with me?“
+
+The camera panned across to Earth’s leader seated beside her.
+
+“I am.”
+
+Across the world, old embers sparked, fresh defiant flame licking upwards triumphantly. Old spirits, old warlike natures reignited by the rousing, heartfelt words spilling from Octavius’ battle-worn form.
+
+Be it whispered, spoken or screamed, humanity in unison said “I am.”
+
+*This was on /r/WritingPrompts a loooong while ago. I’ll try and find the link if I can. This draft has been sitting in my folder almost as long. Finally decided to clean it up and publish it, even if I’m still not quite happy with it. Medium is a silly place to publish fiction anyway!*
+
+