The Primordials: Death's Fury (Book One)

Chapter I: Intuitions

      I mentally signed out of my c-chip. The newest model of the small circular device my family's company, Cerebral Tech, created decades ago is worn just behind the ear. They're like the old cell phones people used long ago, except they have way more capabilities and are controlled mentally. Honestly, the design's a little tacky if you ask me, but I can't imagine living without one.

      The rattling of the train caused me to refocus, reeling me back into reality. It dawned on me that I'd been so engrossed in my thoughts that I wasn't even aware of my name being called.

      "...Lisa? Lisaaa," Trik floated towards me from his room of the train's suite we rented while waving his arm impatiently. He's a sarcastic, self-assured, pompous yet mildly emotional, theatric little ass – I mean prick – who, for some reason, refers to anyone other than me by their last name.

      Physically, he's a sophisticated AI system in a four-foot-tall, floating, expensive, robotic body capable of detecting the immense energy signals of the Primordials from great distances. But let's just shorten it to SAS or, to be ethnically correct, "technological being." That's what he prefers anyway.

      I told him he reminds me of a female robot I saw on an old streaming device. She was from some ancient children's movie where the robot descended on earth and fell in love with some trash disposal robot: except Trik has arms, a black screen for a face, a silver body, and blue LED lights for eyes, eyebrows, and a mouth. He wasn't too fond of the comparison since he's already sensitive about his slender build, so he usually stays in his camouflage form where he looks more like a 5'5" 17-year-old.

      Today, he wore a red shirt, black shorts, and blue socks (he doesn't like shoes). As always, he was perfectly tanned and had perfect brown hair. I never get jealous, though, since I know it's all artificial.

      "Sorry, Trik, what were you saying?"

      "Jeez, I've been calling your name for five minutes. What were you doing anyway," he asked with a hint of exasperation. "Don't tell me you were fantasizing, again."

      "I wasn't," I replied sharply. "Not that I would tell you if I were."

      A few months ago, I started receiving these painful headaches that would completely debilitate me. They're usually associated with images followed by a muffled voice. Though they're no longer as straining, whether I'm awake or asleep, my mind constantly slips to visions of some barren wasteland where I come across a faceless lost boy. I try approaching him, but the dream then shifts to me plummeting through the sky. Each time this happens, I'm falling while desperately clinging to a disfigured and bloodied figure as we approach terminal velocity. It should've been an awful and terrifying experience, but it felt like I was more concerned for whoever the figure was than us crashing into the ground.

      Of course, Trik caught a glimpse of that part a couple of weeks ago and assumed it was some weird fantasy. How did he manage to glimpse part of my dreams? I'd forgotten my c-chip was set to display (stupid me), so anything I was visualizing in my head was being shown on a holo-screen emitted from a unique bracelet that comes with every c-chip.

      I tried explaining it to him before, but I couldn't even explain it to myself, so it's no surprise he didn't buy it.

      "Just recording my first memory log. I told you I'm trying to help the next Watcher as much as possible, so I'm going to log all of the events and experiences I go through so they can learn from my past."

      "You were serious about that?" he asked.

      "Yes. Simply training us until we're 19 and sending us out with a starter pack doesn't help a Watcher get through the civilizations or wilderness encountered during the mission. There's nothing to go from. No past lessons learned, no information about skills or tricks discovered that could help, nothing! The family leaders just sit there on their thrones and bark orders to the rest of us, Mom and Dad included. Just think of all the Watchers who have probably repeated the same mistakes as the last and never knew because they want to 'keep us on our toes,' or what was it Dad said? Oh yeah, 'be creative,'" I said, using my fingers as quotations."