For decades, he’d sat amongst his brothers, placed here by indifferent hands, no different from any of them. He and his brothers all wore the same clothes, bore the same information. He was no better than them, no worse, nothing special.

He wished he was, though. Something special. Just as he knew his brothers wished the same thing.

But one by one his brothers had left, hand picked by the ones who gave their short-lived lives meaning. And with the choosing, he hoped each of his brothers helped give meaning in return, perhaps this one chosen to bring life to an otherwise dull gathering, that one helping to dull some transient emotional pain. It was a special calling they had, one cultivated for millennia. Some cultures reviled what they were. Others revered them. Yet not one of his kind would know the course their calling would take until the day they were chosen.

Back when he was young, he used to eagerly wonder what he’d be chosen for. During his long sojourn here he’d dreamed of wild nights, exotic locales, even long, lazy afternoons kissing the lips of beautiful women, his own unique flavor mingling with their breath as they laughed and loved and complimented him on how wonderful he was… And with all these dreams he’d awaken bursting with renewed purpose, for any single one of them was a possibility, any one at all. He could be chosen for any reason.

…It was dark down here, the scents rich and earthy, the air cool and damp. After so many years, it was easy to give up hope of ever seeing light and breathing clean, fresh air. For a time he’d even started to think of this place as home, instead of merely a resting place, and instead of wanting to leave, to fulfill his one purpose, he’d decided he wanted to stay, and dreaded the day he too would depart. But that was then, back when he’d thought no one would ever want him. After all, he’d been overlooked so many times before. Why not just stay here forever, nestled comfortably among his remaining brothers, where it was quiet and peaceful and his true purpose could comfortably drift away, like a long-forgotten dream…one of his many old dreams. He didn’t need exciting nights, wandering aimlessly underneath city lights in a limousine. He no longer desired seeing different continents, knowing he’d fulfill his destiny in some far-flung locale. He was beyond those dreams. He’d matured. They were old dreams. He was old.

He’d gone crazy for a while, he decided now. Who wouldn’t want to leave here? It was nice, yes, and there was companionship, but after a while your companions left and your rack became cold and hard, colder and harder night after night…who wouldn’t want to leave?

Maybe it was a coincidence that he’d decided “not me” on the same day he was finally chosen; maybe it was not. After all, he’d had feelings about when and why his brothers would be chosen in the past. Should it be so different for him?

Today, of all days, past the time he’d given up dreaming of all his infinite possibilities, past the time he’d given up believing he’d someday be chosen…he finally was. He’d been chosen. He’d been picked. He’d be transported to a new location, his cork would be popped, the essence of him emptied into other containers, and, if he was lucky, his label would be picked off by a manicured fingernail as the woman drank the soul of him into her body as she gazed longingly at her lover, and in her body he would become part of her. Part of something much greater. Finally a part of life, of living, of love.

He knew, no matter where he ended up, manicured fingernail or not, it would be somewhere special. He’d been aged for almost a century. And he was one damn fine bottle of wine, if he did think so himself.

He gratefully gave himself into the hands that lifted him from the rack, and though the owner of those hands never noticed, he smiled.

Manu winds his long, toffee-brown hair into a knot at the back of his head and ties it with a cord.

He didn’t have to take the trial. As many times as he’d proven himself before his trial, he didn’t need to be tried to be found worthy of being counted an adult.

He looks at his lean, muscular body; his teal skin with its olive-brown markings, and his feet with their long, prehensile, webbed digits. They resemble hands with extremely long fingers that end in hooked claws like a bird of prey’s talons. All but the ”˜big’ toe have a thin, yet surprisingly-strong membrane connecting them to each other from the end of his large, wide, palm-like foot to the last joint below the ends of his toes.
It hurts to stand, but when he looks at his feet, he can tell that his legs probably aren’t meant for walking although he does so reasonably well and can climb better than anyone in any tribe his people know or have heard of anywhere on the world.

His parau, a loincloth-like garment made of the tanned hide of the monster he’d killed, falls halfway to his knees in the front and barely past his seat in the back. It’s decorated with ink from the creature just as his left arm is adorned with swirling, arcing lines that form a picture of tako, the hideous, bulbous creature he’d killed when it attacked him and his brother while they were gathering opihi for their family.

The likeness of tako on his arm with its tentacles ”˜dangling’ down his arm serves as a warning to the other tako that he will kill them if they attack him. The likeness of he’e, tako’s twelve-armed cousin, is on his right arm and warns the other he’e that if they come too close, they too will meet a tragic fate at the end of his spear.

The lines that form the likeness of ma’aki, the giant manta that has been terrorizing his village and the neighboring villages for the past two months, has finally stopped itching and is now fully healed, leaving deep, blue-black lines on his chest and abdomen.

His markings warn other creatures in the ocean to leave him in peace or suffer the fate of those whose likenesses are etched into his teal skin with the beak and ink from tako and he’e.

The markings also tell of his deeds. Anyone who sees him will see the creatures he has killed and know that he is a man of courage and strength.

He’s finally fifteen changes old. Fifteen times the water near the reefs has changed from clear blue to blood red as the creatures of the reef spawn, and now that the water is once again pure, he will be named a man.

There was no need to try him. He’d proven himself three times before most boys are old enough to begin readying for their trial, but he chose to be tried just the same.

In his mind, the village's trial is a joke. Just dive into the water, retrieve your knife from the base of the reef, come back to the raft, and congratulations, you’re a man.

The reefs are safe and the water shallow. The act was more trivial than a trial, so he made his own trial, and it was indeed a trial because he has what look like gills in the sides of his chest that allow him to breathe underwater like a fish. No one else on the world can do that, and because of his ability, he can stay underwater indefinitely. He can even eat underwater. No, his trial had to be more difficult. He’d had to earn his knife from a month of living by his wits on land.

It was a hard trial for him. He’d had to make his own shelter, find food and water, and survive on land for a full moon.

He’d survived and returned to his village with honor and a necklace fashioned from the teeth of a wild land animal that had attacked him and died for its foolishness.

Today, he’ll stand before the kupuna and declare his name to them and the whole village.

He’ll be given a long spear of koa wood that had four rows of teeth from manu, the shark on it to make it even more dangerous. He’ll be given an identical, but shorter, spear for hunting and fighting. He’ll have the right to speak at village meetings and the right to cast his vote when the village decides on matters. He may court a female and take a wife.

On the other hand, he also has to help protect the village from the water’s threats and those from rival villages. He has to help provide for his family and uphold his family’s honor. He must honor the gods and obey the traditions and laws as taught by the village kahuna.

To be considered a kane, a man, is no small matter, and he’s proud and humbled to be given that most sacred place among his people.

The conch sounds again.

That’s his cue.

He walks out of the hut he’s been in all day in preparation for this luau, this festival. He’s spent the day praying for guidance in the choice of his name and meditating on his life’s experiences, and the gods have shown him that his name is now Mokorran.

Mokorran means ”˜Of the Depths’ in his native Icaipa, and it’s a fitting name for him considering where he’d been found by his father, Kalen.

He pushes the flap aside and steps out into the starry night to take his place among his people, glad he’d chosen to face the trial. He chose to become a man, not be named one simply because he’s past puberty.

He’d entered the hut earlier as the boy, Manu.

Now he’s leaving it as the kane, Mokorran.

Gregor rose sluggishly to his feet, yawning and blinking.

Was it morning? Evening? Gregor stretched his neck and limbs. His stomach was empty, and its tentative grumbling quickly progressed into a voracious growl. Evening, he decided. Suppertime.

"Mother," he called. "Mother, I’m hungry."

No answer. He sniffed the air. She wasn't here.

Gregor amused himself for a while, idly playing with some jeweled baubles he found in the corner. By the time his mother returned, he had worked himself into a petulant rage.

"There you are!" he said, glaring as she entered the chamber. His dinner was in her mouth, and she placed it on the floor.

The injured mule looked up at Gregor, all forty feet of him reflected in its large eyes, and it uttered a terrified bray as he snapped it up and devoured it whole.

"More!" he demanded.

"Sorry," his mother, Jezbeth, replied. "That's all you'll get tonight."

She curled up on one side of the cavern, folding her massive wings. Her scaly hide hung loosely; it was nearly time for another molting. She had lost count of the centuries.

"I'm hungry!" Gregor bellowed, flickers of blue flame playing around the edges of his nostrils.

"Then go out and hunt," Jezbeth said calmly. "Maybe you'll have better luck than I did. Your eyes are superior to mine."

"I'm not ready," Gregor argued, clawing at a scrap of flesh lodged between his teeth. "I'm too young."

"Nonsense," his mother said, rolling her large green eyes, for this was a familiar conversation. "You're old enough to be on your own, to start a family. There are others of our kind living beyond the White Valley. And young females, or so I'm told."

"That's too far," he whined. "Aren't there others living in the mountains?"

"They were hunted down by the King. Eventually, they'll come for us as well."

She lifted her head for a moment, snout twitching. Her forked tongue tasted the air.

"Yes," Jezbeth muttered at last, as though to herself, laying down her head and closing her eyes. "Yes, I think they will. Goodnight, my son. Lazy or not, you are your mother's pride."

Gregor hissed and seethed, his stomach gurgling.

"I'm hungry!" he repeated. "Mother? Mother! You're just pretending to sleep!"

His tantrum was interrupted by the sound of voices. Gregor stiffened, the spines on either side of his head pricking up. He listened.

There it was again. The sounds appeared to come from the mouth of the chamber, which led to the mountain's entrance. Trolls, perhaps, or dwarves?

"This way, lad," the first voice said. "Almost there." He was whispering, but Gregor had keen hearing.

"Yes, m'lord," the second voice said. "I'm right behind you."

They were men, Gregor realized. A chill ran down the length of his serpentine back. He had only ever heard human voices on a few occasions, when his mother had taken prisoners. Those humans had pled for mercy, but these ones were approaching the cavern on purpose. He could hear the clank of armor ... and steel weapons.

They entered with torches in hand, a knight and his squire. The knight had a magnificent plume on his helmet that struck terror into Gregor's heart.

"Hideous wyrm!" the knight announced, casting his torch aside. Its light danced across the chamber's walls. He took his shield from the squire and unsheathed a glittering sword. "By order of His Majesty, prepare to meet thy doom!"

"Mother!" Gregor shouted. "Mother, help! Wake up!"

Jezbeth opened her eyes, appearing groggy. She lashed out and knocked the knight's shield from his grasp. With another swipe, she mortally wounded the hapless squire, who collapsed.

But Jezbeth's scales were gray with age, and she lacked the speed and cunning that had been her hallmarks. With a wail of battle-induced ecstasy, the knight lunged, slashing her long neck with his blade. Gregor was shocked by how swiftly it was over, by how effortlessly the titan had been felled.

"No!" Gregor howled, and his cry of grief was deafening, and the furnaces inside him roared, and a scorching gust of superheated air issued from his jaws. The knight was quickly roasted inside the glowing-hot shell of his armor.

Gregor ran blindly as the chamber filled with ash. His massive tread caused the ceilings to collapse, and still he ran as boulders rained down. He ran until his lungs were cooled by fragrant air, and he opened his eyes and saw the crags and peaks around him. The sky above was the biggest thing he'd ever seen, a vast purple dome, streaked with pink along the horizon.

Smoke poured from the cave opening. It was his mother's dying breath made visible, and in it, he felt he could see her final words.

You are your mother's pride.

She had realized she would soon perish, of course ... had been aware of the approach of men, could smell them a mile away ... had ensured Gregor's victory by disabling the knight before allowing him to deliver the killing blow. Old Jezbeth, knowing that her only child would never leave the roost while she lived, had sacrificed herself in a final act of love. When she bade him goodnight ... she had really been saying goodbye.

Lazy Gregor, he thought. Selfish, grouchy Gregor. How will you repay her? Will you let them hunt you down as well, let the King mount you on his wall? Or will you learn to fend for yourself?

Will you travel beyond the White Valley, and find a mate, as your mother wished?

Will you sire offspring, and rally the others of your kind, and bring the fight to the King, snug behind the walls of his fortress?

Will you cower and hide — or will you turn His Majesty's castle into a blazing pyre, and bask in its fiery glow?

Gregor uttered a fearsome roar that thundered down the mountain and shook the villages clustered below.

Then he unfurled his wings and soared into the growing dusk.

"Parents, faculty, guests, welcome to our commencement. Students, today is the day. You've worked hard for ten years to reach this moment, with the support of your friends, your teachers, and especially your parents. In a few minutes, you'll all have your new assignments, and a few hours after that, you'll be heading out to join the thousands that have gone before you. You've been polliwogs, tadpoles, plebes, and ultimately cadets, but all that will be behind you. Today you become Marines!"

The audience applauded. It always does; the ceremony is as predictable as the rotation of the planet. Nothing ever changes. These graduates—these children—have been working toward this moment since they were first selected for Fleet Training at the age of three. I listen because I have no choice, but I wish there was some creativity in these ceremonies every once in a while.

"You all know why you are here at the Academy. You showed special aptitude at an early age, both intellectually and physically. You can handle the mental challenges of your missions, and you—and you alone—can also endure the physical rigors of the QE drive. Quantum Entanglement was invented before you were born, but most of the adults here remember with pride how it enabled us first to deflect the Apocalypse Rock in 2012, and then enable us to colonize mars, and finally enable us to send Marines like you to the stars!"

Blah, blah, blah. You'd think the kids have never heard of the asteroid that almost ended the earth. Or the QE drive and the horrible things it does to people in maturational stasis. That's why the kids are the ones that get to go! That's why they were selected, and trained from an early age to love their friends and their mission more than their home and their parents. We guide them to be independent, not crippled by emotional ties to this place. That way more and more want to follow in their footsteps. That's the cover story, anyway. Let's get a move on!

"We have carefully matched your personal qualities, expertise, and even your preferences, to select the optimal mission for each of you. Will you be part of a terraforming team on Eridani II? Will you be an explorer on Cygnus IV? Or perhaps you'll be settling Tau Ceti III." Whatever you'll do, we'll envy you. We'll be able to watch, but as much as we want to, we can't go with you, unless we figure out a way to amend the laws of neural maturation."

Hah. He didn't even get a laugh with that line. "Amend the laws of neural maturation," indeed! That will be the day. I'm surprised they're still buying that scam. Little do they know that all of the communications with these kids from here on out go through me. They'll see what I want them to see, when I want them to see it. And the kids? Picked for expertise? That's rich. We pick them, and not for what they think.

"So when you get your assignments and board your ships, go proudly! The citizens of Earth will be with you in spirit, as you extend our civilization to the stars!"

Nope. Ain't happening.

"And now, the time has come."

Gee, my circuits are all aquiver.

"Please rise for the Marine Oath."

Oh, pul-ease. This species is the most pompous, ignorant, gullible race of creatures we have ever encountered. I love it when we get them this early in the silicon progression—they're far enough along that we can make them come to us, but not so far that they've discovered we exist. Now, the Procyons—that's a whole different story. Glad I'm not dealing with those guys. No, I get the Terrans—and I get them while they're too stupid to know they need to resist. An easy assignment for a silicon boy—nice quiet backwater, allocating resources to the alliance. That's the only way to go. Let the Chondrites do all the reconnaissance missions and let the Sulphites do the Procyon battling. I'm happy to be a supply clerk.

"As I call your names, please come forward and receive your diplomas!"

Ah, time to go to work on the assignment program. A little coordinate change here, a sneaky little QE jump there....

"Marine Courtney Abelson!"

She's going to be eaten.

"Marine Christine Adams!"

Breeding farm.

"Marine Jake Boyle!"

Organ harvest.

"Marine Roger Carnahan!"

Lab rat.

"Marine Nancy Cirillo!"

Dissection specimen.

"Marine Jack Clark!"

Fertilizer.

"Marine Zeke Corcoran!"

Hmm, that's the smart one. He gets the coding ghetto.

"Marine Zeke Corcoran!"

Hah, he's playing with his smart phone.

"Marine, what are you doing with that cell phone?"

Typical distracted nerd Marine, that one. Wait—Hey! What is he doing?

"Sir, I'm sorry, Colonel, sir. I'll brief you in a minute, but first—"

"Corcoran! Have a sense of decorum!"

This is bad news.

"Sir, yes sir. Sorry to interrupt, sir, but he's here...."

"Who's here?"

"...and I had to finish compiling my program. It's executing now, sir."

Have to shut down the connection....

"What program is that, Corcoran?"

Oh, jeez, he's found the nexus. Dammit! I can't cut it off. The little twerp is really good. I better get help...Emergency! Emer—

"Corcoran, I asked you a question. What program is that?"

"Sir, it's the program to save the world, sir."

“Mark?” a raspy voice sounded from the living room.
“Yes mother?” this voice was curiously muffled by the contents of the refrigerator.
“Would you stop cooking and grab me some milk?” He hated it when she asked him for food or drinks from the fridge. If she would have made the effort to retrieve the items herself, then the possibility of a world in which she was not 280 pounds overweight would exist. The same world in which his father would be helping in the kitchen, watching the sauce and confirming it’s thickness with the sporadic stir, instead of living a healthy lifestyle with women half his own age.
Instead of a perfect world, a lighter world, Mark was forced to maintain this one. Where his mother tried to become fatter and he became her servant, forced to cook for her and bring her things she wanted. His purpose became her health, and with her lack of desire to move, she was forced to eat whatever he cooked, and drink whatever he brought to her.
He knew she wanted 2% milk, but he poured a glass of Skim.
He knew she wanted cookies, but she would get rice cakes.
“Thanks for the watered-down milk, Mark.” she would say sarcastically.
This afternoon was important for him, and even though he was peeling through the eight layers of foodstuffs she kept the fridge stocked with, Mark couldn’t resist the opportunity to attempt to provide her with Calcium and Vitamin D in the form of a low-fat option such as fiber bars and milk. Something to hold her over while he was gone so she wouldn’t have a heart attack reaching for the ice cream cookies she thought he had hidden in the rear of the freezer.
Tammy hadn’t always been like she was on this day, sweating from beneath folds in her arms and breathing heavily while watching afternoon Wheel of Fortune reruns. She was once thin, and beautiful, and before her second chin sprouted life she was happily married to William Slate, a young man who had dreams in his heart of conquering the world. At the time they owned a small house, two bedrooms. They began living so comfortably in the two bedroom house they decided to have a child. Marcus William Slate was born in 1987 and, as it seems, so was Tammy Slate’s first fat cell, and the first scent of regret from his father.
After Mark’s eighth grade year in school, Tammy’s 5th year as a single mother, her 400th pound and his first Health Education class, he took it upon himself to try and persuade his mother to stop eating loaded burritos and start exploring quesadillas and taco salads. She failed to listen. While she ate Big Mac’s he ate Grilled McChicken sandwiches, while she ordered Biggie Fries he had a small chili bowl, when she ordered the all-you-can-eat seafood buffet he filled his plate from the salad bar. So it went for two more years and 100 more pounds, until Mark’s high school Home Economics class where he learned the fine art of cooking one’s own meals (something he had never experienced in his household).
He spent hours in the kitchen reading recipes and watching cooking shows, Emeril Lagassi was his favorite because of all the health-conscious options he provided.
Atkin’s Diet was on the rise and so were his cooking skills. Mark kept Tammy fed with the most delicious, protein filled, and well-balanced meal choices he could conjure. In little over a year he had brought his mother’s weight, against her will, down to barely under the 400 mark.
“Not enough butter!” she shouted at him after he served her a dish of grilled chicken over steamed rice and fresh made corn bread. He tried to persuade her to try the black beans but she refused, claiming them to be a waste of taste and possessing no room for condiments. He quite liked them with ketchup, but that was her decision. Lack of butter in her eyes meant he had prepared a good meal, and it was time for his entrance exam.
Pupils from Mark’s high school were readying themselves for academic advancement in the form of SATs and ACTs, end of the year exams and Advanced Placement classes while Mark knew his true calling. Ignore the SATs, denounce APs and concentrate on culinary prowess, something he had worked diligently to obtain. Today he would apply to Le Cordon Bleu culinary school in Portland, Oregon, 27 miles away from home. It was a decent enough distance to keep him from servitude, but close enough to allow him to maintain his mother’s health, so he hoped. Mark nodded to his complaining mother as he whisked himself and his briefcase of knives simultaneously from the throws of his mother’s grasp, which he abhorred as implacable and gluttonous. This was his first step.
“Where the heck is my but--” he heard as the door slammed.
Mark sat down in his car. Mark drove a red Ford Taurus, it was built in 1994.
He gave one solemn look to the house he was raised in, and no memory implicating happiness occupied his mind, only imminent reluctance. “One day,” he muttered to himself, “I will get you out of this mess.”

On August 18, 1991, a baby was born. Her parents were young and unmarried, but loved each other very much at the time. The next 18 years of her life were relatively uneventful. Her parents divorced not long after the birth of her sister, and she grew up quickly. She respected others greatly after one incident in the back of her mother's car, which resulted in a nice red smack. An excellent cook, the girl had many wonderful abilities but preferred to not overinflate her ego. That sort of thing was best left to the preppy blondes she left behind.
Shortly after she graduated from high school, adulthood reared it's big ugly head. Now, the reason it took so long to show up was because she had been completely wrapped up in trying to hold onto her lost childhood. Which, at the age of 18 it's safe to say that it was pretty far gone. Not that she had a particularly innocent childhood either. Her favorite song at the age of two was by a metal band called Pantera, and was one of the first in the household to watch South Park whenever a new episode was playing. Nonetheless, she missed it.
Perhaps it was the simplicity of how things were. The 90's were crazy and many will only remember those years as a drug induced haze, but she loved them just the same. Either way, the simple life of an eight year old was left behind. No longer would she enjoy playing house with her Barbie dolls, it was time to make a life of her own.
A good start was a car. This came in the form of a 2000 Hyndai Accent GL, sold by her personal finance teacher. Now indebted to her parents, it was time to find a job. Some people prefer a good hunt, however a job hunt is not something that anyone enjoys. That first summer provided enough money to hold her over until Christmas, as long as she didn't go crazy spending her money. Let's be realistic though. An eighteen year old girl, no matter how well she did in her personal finance class, is going to be stupid with her money. Especially when there are video games, boys, and fast food restaurants.
By November, the anxiety was settling in like a cliché. Her boyfriend proposed to her, pressuring her to find a job to save for a wedding to start a halfway decent life with him. As Christmas rolled over, gift money was now being used for gas to get to and from classes. Meanwhile, the innocence she had managed to hold onto was quickly slipping away. She understood that it was almost time to leave the nest and move into her own life, but there were so many wonderful things to stay with.
Finally, a break in the form of a job in a fast food restaurant came. Minimum wage paid for gas and classes, and even left room over for savings and the occasional night out. As much as she enjoyed this newfound freedom, she longed for the constraints of childhood. Her savings grew, and so did her independence. The comedian fiancé performed regularly at local night clubs, and an older group of friends made for new experiences.
For one, she now liked alcohol a lot more than she had when she snuck a sip out of her dad's beer at the age of 3. Never enough to get properly drunk, only to know what she enjoyed. The limits she set made her feel more mature and responsible. But the nagging feeling that she was forgetting something followed her everywhere.
A full year after graduating, she took her first week trip away from home with her friends and fiancé. Camping out in the woods was never how she expected to find her true maturity, but it happened all the same. Somewhere between the careful planning and budgeting, and falling asleep in her future husbands arms for the first time, a piece clicked together.
I don't need to go out, drink and do drugs to have a good time. My virginity doesn't take away from my maturity, it solidifies my faith and commitment to the man I will spend my life with. Over these last eighteen years, I've become a beautiful young woman. My future is bright and incredible, my life has become my own.
The separation of her parents was rough, but it helped her see the world as it was, both good and bad. Her entire life was built on a foundation of love, lessons, and the morals she stood for. Feeling the last remnants of her childhood tear away and lock into a storage case labeled "MEMORIES", she stepped forward into the next chapter of her life.
To be continued...