Some prefacing followed by a partial novelization of one perspective during The Castle's "present day". Just a sample, a little confusing, but I'd love some feedback.

     The alien-human allied sectors, which exist mainly on the outer planets, are under attack from rebel forces seeking to engage civil war. The rebels’ mission is simple: to strike fear into the hearts of these gruesome displays of opposition to the struggle for dominance. They will destroy allied cities, dividing the people and separating the classes. Forming the separatist groups are the alien sects, and the human sects. Even though their philosophies are in essence the same, they do not get on peacefully; their position of patriotism is fuelled by hatred for the other race. Victory is still to be had.

     All people in these developments [settlements, towns, cities] are being delivered the same messages – be it the harsh and clear reasoning of self-preservationist friends, or the themed innuendos and implications of media broadcasting – they are, “Watch out!” and, “Get out!”

     Many inhabitants, the suburbanites, fight for their peaceful beliefs. They will sacrifice their potential , immediate freedom by remaining among the chaos. They are reformers and good hypocrites, who stand still in the eyes of the angry face that is fear. Others feel that while history will be made of their home, there is no war to be won there, because they are enemies of all these: The state, the guerrilla rebels, and the governing quarter of all their Humanity or their “Triganglity” (that is, considered to be an insulting human-slang for the Alien race) – or at least, they are not among their governing quarters’ highest graces, because the modern recruitment projects failed to gather any response from these regions. In Hippie towns there are no soldiers.

     So the latter group, the ‘preservationists’ of a sort, they look around at their homes and their families, and those communities, and they feel in their hearts this kind of overbearing greatness. This sense, it is the life that has come on through these things and in this place, and of what is being brought unto it now, and how the individual has come through it, and the pressing question of how they will come out. The preservationist knows: by doing nothing he is something; a few commemorative lines or paragraphs in a textbook, 25 to 50 years from now, in secondary schools for the common student whose history is brought to him or her more gradually than the rest: the children of the United Forces and their planets, candidates for the Menzäki Institute, the daughter of a politician, the son of an imperial Judge. Two lines, thinks the preservationist-of-a-sort, if this war is won by the imperial governments that adopted it; perhaps a paragraph or more, if somehow these little developments and their shrouded ideals come to envelope the war-torn hearts of the state in its furious shame, the guerrilla rebels, by crushing them, and climbs the influential latter all the way to separate quarters of highest government where it strikes down a handy Ace at the top of a deck, between two enemies and their all-but-exhausted hands. Then, thinks the ‘preservationist’, there could be a potential for peace. So the children and all of the young people might be taught how to stand strong in the face of fear…

     Two lines, thinks the suburbanite, preservationist.

     And so he chooses to do something, and be something different entirely.

     The human Frederick Christopher Nicolson peered across the raw-construct half of a lightless, midnight basement, focused on the mess of storage strewn across its whole quarter, piled onto irrelevant furniture and stacked in heaps across the floor. He can divide his personal belongings, his cardboard boxes (almost unheard of, now, as a packaging medium in the bigger cities where everyone uses nano-leaf plastic crates distributed by Sealtech™), from most of the rest. His are distinguishable, by having been opened once or twice, some left gaping at the ceiling with their contents spilling lazily over the side, some just unfastened, partially unpacked, and left with Tepee’d flaps to invite both spiders and, the preclusion of the efficiency that could be gained by re-stacking them in an orderly fashion.

     He thinks about the relocation of all of these things. That the time for him to really put some thought and care into their condition and their whereabouts is drawing dangerously near. Twenty-one years of collected stuff exactly, from today’s gum wrappers, straight back to a Mylar balloon that came to be his the day he was born.

     Frederick Christopher, whose friends and immediate family call ‘Chris’, has wondered over this balloon since he came to repossess it at the age of 18. In all the years it had been stored away and moved and let alone, unpacked and repacked, let alone again, it still retained its full shape as the air within had hardly leaked an ounce. He thought this was somewhat miraculous, and that the miracle was symbolic of some personal ability to strive, and that by being somewhat adamant about its protection he preserved, as well, some will to persevere. He had a strange sense about magic, like a kind that could bind those two things – the immortality of the balloon, the preservation of his will – so that how he chose to treat that belonging was a test of sorts, whose outcome may have actually affected what exists.

     He must teach himself that such superstitions are ridiculous, he thought. That over-appreciation of such a thing is consolidation to no one; that these things are not bound, and so they cannot be divided. He needed to let go.

     Chris looked briefly over all of the things he needed to let go of. He thought only of the time and energy required to send most of them away. So when he spoke lowly to himself the words, “I have a lot to do”, he envisioned the physical herding and sorting of the storage, without yet tempting himself to imagine what herding and sorting of thoughts and feelings brought on by memory and the conditioning to hold fast to these, would need to occur inside of him as he watched the clock and the Celaeno-Sun and the walls, in order to keep a one-track mind. Most precedent must be made a single thought, its urgency substantiated by the expectations of others, and thereby truer than all other things: a time for action was there, and then.

     Chris thought, “Here” and “now”.

The End

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