Not at all sure when I wrote this, nor do I know where I was really going with it. It has the feel of a sole scene that was in my mind with no full story really to flesh it out, but as I read through it, I am finding myself chuckling!
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I figure all my problems began that pesky day my brain decided that I needed mission, a reason, for my life. Mind you, I can't tell you what day exactly that was, nor do I even really know what my mission actually is, but I guarantee you that that is what started this all. And, of course, I couldn't be happy with teaching the geniuses of the next generation or helping to cure the sick, I had to be one of those "off to save the universe" type of mission girls. No, literally, I went off, half-cocked, to save the friggin universe. Probably, no, definitely the reason said universe is about to be, well, destroyed is a pleasant term for what's about to happen, and I get to watch. Actually, the view to the party is sort of an accidental coincidence, I just happen to be standing in the perfect spot as I wait for them to remember that I'm here and scheduled for...what did they call it? Oh yeah, Cessation. Okay, so sometime in the next few bits, I'm going to Cease To Be...goodie. I wonder if the grand old plan of experiencing death first-hand was in my mission plan the day my brain wrote it. I'm guessing not. I'm guessing not. I'm also guessing it's not going to be all that grand. Note to self: rebellions are meant to be read about, not lived, for enjoyment. Living them just. plain. sucks.
If I had to blame anything for this brilliantly stupid plan of mine, you know, the one that started the end? It'd have to be the writers--yeah, those ones--the good ones, the ones who craft their storylines so perfectly that you wish you lived them, the ones who know how to make you feel and believe in everything the hero or heroine does, the ones who have never set foot outside their safe, mid-level homes and don't know a friggin thing about how the real world works. Then I would blame space engineers. I mean really, who builds starships with the capacity to carry hundreds of people across thousands of light-years and doesn't think of ways to keep the children of said people and crews out of trouble. Yup, boredom, a plethra of fictional stories, and starships simply chuck full of places and things I'm suppose to "not get into"...that is SO a recipe for trouble.
My maternal figure was a navagationalist, and the paternal figure some kind of engineering genius, and me, I was the one who got taught just enough about building, flying, and explosion-proofing (and thus how to explode them) said starships, to make me Really dangerous. I learned really fast that those red, flashing emergency lights and the sirens, yeah, those usually get me into trouble. Disabling them is your primary task when going somewhere you're not suppose to be, getting Out of where you're not suppose to be when things really start going wrong is your next, and lying convincingly to the parental and authority figures, right up there as a third...
You read enough adventure writings, no matter how many places you go or how adventurous your life already is, you start twitching to go and do More.
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I have this vague feeling that this wasn't a story about the heroine of a situation...more about someone who bumbles her way into a rebellion, ends up somehow contributing to the big bad that is going to occur, whether on purpose or just by accident, and MAYBE ends up getting saved at the last minute by the hero/ine....maybe.
I'm not sure if it will ever develop into more than what it is...but it's a cute scribble! I wish I Could remember when and where I wrote it and what inspired it (perhaps it was a Doctor Who-inspired ramble...it has that glow to it...)
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