Thunder Craft : Weaponized Chaos

Introduction

Hey there, reader-person-guy/girl-chick/dude. This is my story. I may or may not lie while telling it, but who cares, right? I mean, what are you going to do, sue me? Well, buckle up and enjoy the ride because this is the start of something pretty wild.

It was 01/01/2043, the day before my birthday and the anniversary of our departure from Earth. (I'll get into all of that soon, so don't squirm in your seat because of my uniquely ass-backward way of telling stories.)

Oh, you're probably wondering what my name is. I haven't had the chance to introduce myself yet because of all the loud squeaking of your chair as you shuffle uncomfortably while reading. So, calm down and listen. Or read. Whatever. Anyway, my name is Thunder Craft, and yes, my name is Thunder. If you've got something to say about it, I dare you. Go ahead, poke fun. I mean, it is literally my job to kill...

Prologue

I hear a distinct creaking sound as I roll over in bed after yesterday's grueling workout session. The ache in my muscles is still fresh, but instincts kick in before I even open my eyes. In a flash, I grab the knife I keep under my pillow and roll off the bed, stopping just centimeters from my mother's neck.

"A bit paranoid this morning, Thun-Bun?" she says, unbothered by the blade.

Pause.

Let me explain my mother real quick. Danny Beyna: mid-fifties, though she'll threaten to kill you if you ask her age. She's got these sharp, emerald green eyes that don't miss a single thing and dark brown hair, streaked with what looks like a grey highlight but is just plain ol' grey hair. Pretty badass, if you ask me. Honestly, I hope to rock those grey streaks when I'm older, maybe in a burgundy robe, pretending to be some knockoff Hugh Hefner.

Play.

"Mom, can you please stop calling me that?" I ask, lowering the knife. "I mean, you already named me Thunder. Why make it even more humiliating?"

"Back in my day, kids would've killed for a name like yours!" she says, crossing her arms and smirking.

"Yeah, well, show me those kids so we can swap names. I'll even handle the burial arrangements."

"Ha. Ha. Ha. Did I mention ha?"

"No, Mom. I think you missed a ha or two."

She rolls her eyes, the smirk still on her lips. "Smart-ass. Get ready for school, you've got Archery 3 today."

I sigh dramatically, the kind that makes your lungs want to file a formal complaint. Archery class. Again. I've been the star student since Archery 1, and I still don't get why she insists I show up on time. But whatever. I drag myself out of bed.

"Daaaaaaad!" I call out through the house. From the basement, I hear a muffled series of curses: "Oh, Dick! Godfuckit, shit!!"

My dad, ladies and gentlemen. The man can't curse to save his life. Every time he tries, it sounds like a scene from a low-budget porno.

"THUNDERP!! WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT YELLING WHEN I'M WORKING?!" he bellows from below.

"You said not to do it!" I yell back.

"Then WHY the SHIT are you still YELLING?!"

"Because your cursing amuses me!"

"Ha ha, and did I mention ha?" he shouts, and I can practically hear the grin on his face.

"You and Mom really need to remember to add a few more ha's to your smart-ass deposits."

"Why would we? You'd withdraw it all within an hour!"

"Nice comeback. But, hey, I was just trying to inform you that your bike's on fire."

I hear the mad thumping of footsteps and the squeak of tennis shoes as Dad bolts up the basement stairs and out into the backyard. There's a moment of silence before his voice rings out.

"What the shit, Thunder?" he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. His beloved bike stands perfectly fine.

"So, uh, can you give me a ride to school?" I ask, sheepishly inching toward Betsy, his pride and joy—a Tier-4 battle bike. The custom purple lightning streak along the trim? Chef's kiss. He handcrafted this beauty himself, leather seats and all. I'm supposed to inherit it when I turn eighteen.

"No. Not until you're eighteen. And I'm not changing my mind."

"But, Dad! My birthday's tomorrow, and I missed the bus! I'm gonna be late!"

"And? You're still in your pajamas, and it's nearly seven."

I glance down. Yep, still in my PJs. Wow, scatter-brained much? But hey, we've all got our pros and cons. Like you—you're reading a crappy, not-so-edited prototype of a book. Yeah, there goes the fourth wall. I know. Moving on.

I head back inside, into our house, which is pretty decent compared to the others in Ilius. Wait, have I even explained where we are? Or why we left Earth? I should probably do that, huh?

Backstory: Earth's Fall

It was 12/21/2045, the day humanity messed up for good. Scientists were racing against the clock to find cures for cancer, Parkinson's, and HIV. With funding drying up, they resorted to something experimental: cross-species genetics.

Their first big idea? Mix a starfish with a cockroach, combining longevity and regenerative properties. Next? A spider with a lizard. (Yeah, sounds straight out of a comic book, I know.) Surprisingly, the results looked promising at first. But then, as you probably guessed, something went catastrophically wrong.

Somehow, the genetic material from the lizards and spiders mixed with the cockroaches and created a new species. Humanoid, violent, and pretty much invincible. They could regenerate limbs, reproduce at alarming rates, and within days, they had overrun Earth. The lucky few—including my family—managed to escape to Ilius, a habitable planet we found just in time.

Back in my room, I pull on my Gago-suit carefully. One wrong button, and this thing could kill me. As I suit up, I can't help but feel the weight of tomorrow looming over me. My eighteenth birthday. Maybe by then, I'll be ready for everything that comes with it.

To be continued...