Second World - Chapter 1: Prologue "First Impregnator"
Warnings: non
Disclaimers: all Viewfinder characters belong to Yamane Ayano
Rating: G
Prologue
First Impregnator
Fortress deep in the Mongolian Steppe
“I want to see him.”
The men handed over field glasses. Yoh steadied his elbows into the recess of one of the fortress’ deep loop-hole windows, adjusting the binoculars to his eyesight. Perfect - a complete panorama of the whole contest area, on which the hippies were now camping out. Batik dyed tents gaily dotted the green brown of Mongolian summer Steppe.
Yoh began moving the high precision military twin telescopes, methodically scanning the whole expanse. Sunny, specked images flitted across his field of vision, large and strangely silent.
This wouldn’t have been necessary, was really more a way of calming himself, since he hadn’t needed any visual aid to immediately spot a tiny, glowing, black and white speck of a figure.
He had won.
The people surrounding him didn’t get the slightest inkling of this, but his heart almost burst out of his chest. Black shiny tresses filled his view for a split second, shaking, then instantly vanishing again, making him hover and backtrack, trying to recapture this sight. Until they finally remained in focus, framing … his face…
It was all he could do to keep from fainting.
Almost there.
But not quite.
***
“You think they’re watching us?”
The black haired beauty stretched out lazily in the grass, surveying the grass lands stretching to the horizon, pointedly avoiding to look in the direction of the fortress. He arched back his head, half closing his dark almond eyes, the sun reflecting from the eye slits in mesmerizing violet sparks. The smooth, tan skin of his exposed neck glowed under the scorching rays of a Central Asian mid-summer sun.
He appeared utterly relaxed, and yet poised. A white, Indian cotton blouse flowed from his shoulders, translucent against the sun, revealing a slender, muscular male torso. His hair cascaded over the gleaming white in a starkly contrasting cloud of opalescent black, pooling on the fragrant wild grass. Even for a hippy this was really fine long hair. A tight fitting pair of faded patched jeans, fashionably torn at the knee, showed him to be quite a well endowed male specimen.
***
Male was the state of affairs to be expected - female life forms hadn’t been sighted for a long time.
Somehow nobody spoke about this, there was no mourning.
Instead, with the pragmatism characteristic of the remaining half of humanity, a flurry of activity broke out.
Scientists, engineers, biologists, surgeons …
People who hadn’t given a damn about the concept of childbearing, who had uttered statements like “but what about my freedom”, - “they are no better than parasites”, - “nerve wracking little blighters”, - “diaper-terrorists”, - “who needs another nail in the coffin of overpopulation?” - they were now falling over each other to make this possible.
And they came up with a procedure. Everything was thought over and lab tested a hundredfold. The military doctors and scientists exulted and wanted to rush towards the next stage: to test this on a life form, an animal life form. But here, for the first time, problems arose.
Hippy problems.
Why this subculture of the 1960’s/70’s was resurfacing, with the relentless tenacity of a cockroach infestation, was being discussed at length in the newly freed media (a progress not everyone welcomed).
The long hair, the androgynous look, the “mother earth” philosophy … suggested a return of humanity’s missing half, making man whole again! The “peace sign”! Natural materials (who could be so sure the “female disaster” hadn’t been caused by pollution?) Freedom … the military regime might be justified in times of crisis, but wasn’t that over now? And then - the hippies had such a relaxed way of relating to each other! Might be worth having a look at?
At any rate articulate hippy spokes-men never tired of indoctrinating a deeply sceptical “square” rest of humanity that it wasn‘t all about drugs.
In the beginning, only a few small communities sprang back into public focus. They had weathered over the decades in back lands, secluded woods or ramshackle, occupied town houses. Scattered, tribe-like communities, thought to be long extinct, were drawing all sorts of people. People who felt lost and threatened by a world that had sunk back into tyranny.
The army, headed by a board of war leaders, wielded complete political power, and only a more or less underground resistance movement was offering opposition. The hippies were part of this, though not all hippies were politically active. For some it was more a question of life style - which of course they felt to be a political statement in itself, some loudly declaring so, some just having fun.
A lot of people were surprised that the person to get the first “extra equipment”, as it was colloquially called, was a hippy. But there hadn‘t been all that many applicants - getting “knocked up” was, after all, a deeply scary notion to most men. And the hippy chosen, they all had to admit, was a damn fine specimen. One even the none-gay amongst them (who understandably had rather a hard time adapting) could imagine not shoving out of bed.
The number of applicants for First Impregnator skyrocketed.
Almost everyone agreed, though, that this privilege should be fought out amongst the war leaders, all of them very fine, hyper masculine specimens. (The hippies themselves still had no vote and hadn’t been asked, of course.)
***
“Master Yoh - you need not watch him from afar. It is your right to claim him now.”
Yoh laid away the field glasses and slowly straightened up. A ripple went through the assembled men. None of them would have made the mistake of underestimating this quiet man anymore. His smouldering, deep blue green eyes, suggesting mixed heritage in a handsomely gaunt Asian face, could make anyone cringe. His famous hypnotic voice. Not only was he current First War Leader, but also hugely popular, rising from the most simple origins and proceeding to turn a system with all potential for terror regime into a firm and just reign. Many had secretly hoped he would win, and everyone agreed the hippy had better be more than content with his lot.
***
Watching the contests closely, though, some had observed that the war lord from Japan, Asami, had not really gone all out. There was gossip of an encounter with a hippy from his own territory, a young kindergarten teacher, whose class in Tokyo had ceased to exist. (The same was happening all over the globe, as procreation stalled).
This friendly, open, shaggy haired young man (not all hippies had long hair) was everyone‘s bet for the first male mommy. There were wild speculations as to why he hadn’t applied. Most blamed the charismatic Asami, whom the scandal press joyously declared as unable to maintain a relationship - because of an overdeveloped sex drive.
But the whole procedure threatened to fail anyway, since hippy activists had just succeeded in prohibiting abuse of animals in research. On the very contest area banners of the last demo still littered the grassy field. It was hugely annoying.
Then, surprisingly, Test Person One, Liu Fei Long himself, a mysterious, beautiful, and rumoured to be rich activist from Hong Kong, came forth and declared himself the first “test animal”. Everyone, even a lot of the hippies, put him down as mad. Secretly, though, they all breathed relief - nobody really wanted to die out (though a few hippy guru’s did maintain that the less men on earth, the better that was for our planet).
Thank goodness Mr. Liu met the medical requirements, and things could go on.
Asami having sort of backed out of the contest, the final competition was furiously under the way between Yoh and a warlord from Russia.
The media prophesied a walk over - no one thought they had to take Mikhail Arbatov seriously. The wavy blond, outspoken goofball had introduced himself as “messed up”, and comments like “You think you’re messed up? You haven’t seen anything yet, Gospodín* Arbatov” were among the more harmless.
But public opinion proved wrong. Arbatov fought cunningly and in dead earnest. Did he so desperately crave the glory of “First Impregnator”? Or were his reasons more personal? His fair skin betrayed him to be clearly blushing when facing the Test Person …
Commander Yoh and Mikhail Arbatov were battling within an inch of both of their lives, and everyone was beginning to wonder if it was such a good idea to have them kill each other. Possibly someone might even miss crazy Arbatov. And Yoh? It just wasn‘t worth it! Anxiety arose.
Then, suddenly, on the third day of the contest, the Russian war leader was abruptly excluded. Rumours exploded, but nobody could tell for sure. A traitorous detail from Arbatov’s shady past? Something to do with the Test Person himself? A pulling of strings by Asami, who was known (and appreciated) for favouring Yoh?
Whatever the reason, out Arbatov was, and Yoh was left reeling …
***
“This is not entirely accurate, is it?” Yoh stared down the senior scientist.
“I recall you mentioning … a ‘win over rite’.”
The anaemic, dried up scientist averted his eyes and cleared his throat nervously.
“Er … yes, sir.”
***
“You know him, don’t you?”
Fei Long startled up, his hair spilling over his glowing face, spinning around to face his old friend.
Akihito looked at him closely, amused and touched.
How cute, his super cool older macho comrade - acting for all the world just like a flustered bride. Blushing.
He had a flashback of the other Fei Long, scrambling over barbed wire, leading demos with a megaphone, negotiating with politicians, flying the “Antonov” … eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses, hair stuffed beneath a soldier’s helmet, coolly focussing on the confusing mass of controls in the cockpit. Their most daring cloak-and-dagger operation together. Hijacking the giant old soviet transporter, successfully evacuating the entire population of that doomed Turkish rebel’s village.
How could his young friend tell?
“What makes you think so, Akihito?” Fei Long schooled his features back into their characteristic, aloof loveliness. Quite intimidating, actually.
To anyone but this young wildcard.
“Come on, sweetie. You’re as obvious as … as a cherry tree in full blossom. And sorry, you’re not exactly the martyr type. You gotta have a reason for this pioneer act. I mean, aren’t you scared?”
Scared? Scared didn‘t even begin to describe how he felt. But he had to do this.
He wheeled around in the opposite direction, facing the fortress after all, his face and stance suddenly agonised, as if writhing in fire.
Akihito watched him, a thousand thoughts whirling through his mind, the first and foremost being whether he would feel the same when doing this for Asami.
***
* “Gospodín”: Russian for “Mr.”
chapter 2 “ Faith Switch issues" (~ 5100 words)
Disclaimers: all Viewfinder characters belong to Yamane Ayano
Rating: G
Prologue
First Impregnator
Fortress deep in the Mongolian Steppe
“I want to see him.”
The men handed over field glasses. Yoh steadied his elbows into the recess of one of the fortress’ deep loop-hole windows, adjusting the binoculars to his eyesight. Perfect - a complete panorama of the whole contest area, on which the hippies were now camping out. Batik dyed tents gaily dotted the green brown of Mongolian summer Steppe.
Yoh began moving the high precision military twin telescopes, methodically scanning the whole expanse. Sunny, specked images flitted across his field of vision, large and strangely silent.
This wouldn’t have been necessary, was really more a way of calming himself, since he hadn’t needed any visual aid to immediately spot a tiny, glowing, black and white speck of a figure.
He had won.
The people surrounding him didn’t get the slightest inkling of this, but his heart almost burst out of his chest. Black shiny tresses filled his view for a split second, shaking, then instantly vanishing again, making him hover and backtrack, trying to recapture this sight. Until they finally remained in focus, framing … his face…
It was all he could do to keep from fainting.
Almost there.
But not quite.
***
“You think they’re watching us?”
The black haired beauty stretched out lazily in the grass, surveying the grass lands stretching to the horizon, pointedly avoiding to look in the direction of the fortress. He arched back his head, half closing his dark almond eyes, the sun reflecting from the eye slits in mesmerizing violet sparks. The smooth, tan skin of his exposed neck glowed under the scorching rays of a Central Asian mid-summer sun.
He appeared utterly relaxed, and yet poised. A white, Indian cotton blouse flowed from his shoulders, translucent against the sun, revealing a slender, muscular male torso. His hair cascaded over the gleaming white in a starkly contrasting cloud of opalescent black, pooling on the fragrant wild grass. Even for a hippy this was really fine long hair. A tight fitting pair of faded patched jeans, fashionably torn at the knee, showed him to be quite a well endowed male specimen.
***
Male was the state of affairs to be expected - female life forms hadn’t been sighted for a long time.
Somehow nobody spoke about this, there was no mourning.
Instead, with the pragmatism characteristic of the remaining half of humanity, a flurry of activity broke out.
Scientists, engineers, biologists, surgeons …
People who hadn’t given a damn about the concept of childbearing, who had uttered statements like “but what about my freedom”, - “they are no better than parasites”, - “nerve wracking little blighters”, - “diaper-terrorists”, - “who needs another nail in the coffin of overpopulation?” - they were now falling over each other to make this possible.
And they came up with a procedure. Everything was thought over and lab tested a hundredfold. The military doctors and scientists exulted and wanted to rush towards the next stage: to test this on a life form, an animal life form. But here, for the first time, problems arose.
Hippy problems.
Why this subculture of the 1960’s/70’s was resurfacing, with the relentless tenacity of a cockroach infestation, was being discussed at length in the newly freed media (a progress not everyone welcomed).
The long hair, the androgynous look, the “mother earth” philosophy … suggested a return of humanity’s missing half, making man whole again! The “peace sign”! Natural materials (who could be so sure the “female disaster” hadn’t been caused by pollution?) Freedom … the military regime might be justified in times of crisis, but wasn’t that over now? And then - the hippies had such a relaxed way of relating to each other! Might be worth having a look at?
At any rate articulate hippy spokes-men never tired of indoctrinating a deeply sceptical “square” rest of humanity that it wasn‘t all about drugs.
In the beginning, only a few small communities sprang back into public focus. They had weathered over the decades in back lands, secluded woods or ramshackle, occupied town houses. Scattered, tribe-like communities, thought to be long extinct, were drawing all sorts of people. People who felt lost and threatened by a world that had sunk back into tyranny.
The army, headed by a board of war leaders, wielded complete political power, and only a more or less underground resistance movement was offering opposition. The hippies were part of this, though not all hippies were politically active. For some it was more a question of life style - which of course they felt to be a political statement in itself, some loudly declaring so, some just having fun.
A lot of people were surprised that the person to get the first “extra equipment”, as it was colloquially called, was a hippy. But there hadn‘t been all that many applicants - getting “knocked up” was, after all, a deeply scary notion to most men. And the hippy chosen, they all had to admit, was a damn fine specimen. One even the none-gay amongst them (who understandably had rather a hard time adapting) could imagine not shoving out of bed.
The number of applicants for First Impregnator skyrocketed.
Almost everyone agreed, though, that this privilege should be fought out amongst the war leaders, all of them very fine, hyper masculine specimens. (The hippies themselves still had no vote and hadn’t been asked, of course.)
***
“Master Yoh - you need not watch him from afar. It is your right to claim him now.”
Yoh laid away the field glasses and slowly straightened up. A ripple went through the assembled men. None of them would have made the mistake of underestimating this quiet man anymore. His smouldering, deep blue green eyes, suggesting mixed heritage in a handsomely gaunt Asian face, could make anyone cringe. His famous hypnotic voice. Not only was he current First War Leader, but also hugely popular, rising from the most simple origins and proceeding to turn a system with all potential for terror regime into a firm and just reign. Many had secretly hoped he would win, and everyone agreed the hippy had better be more than content with his lot.
***
Watching the contests closely, though, some had observed that the war lord from Japan, Asami, had not really gone all out. There was gossip of an encounter with a hippy from his own territory, a young kindergarten teacher, whose class in Tokyo had ceased to exist. (The same was happening all over the globe, as procreation stalled).
This friendly, open, shaggy haired young man (not all hippies had long hair) was everyone‘s bet for the first male mommy. There were wild speculations as to why he hadn’t applied. Most blamed the charismatic Asami, whom the scandal press joyously declared as unable to maintain a relationship - because of an overdeveloped sex drive.
But the whole procedure threatened to fail anyway, since hippy activists had just succeeded in prohibiting abuse of animals in research. On the very contest area banners of the last demo still littered the grassy field. It was hugely annoying.
Then, surprisingly, Test Person One, Liu Fei Long himself, a mysterious, beautiful, and rumoured to be rich activist from Hong Kong, came forth and declared himself the first “test animal”. Everyone, even a lot of the hippies, put him down as mad. Secretly, though, they all breathed relief - nobody really wanted to die out (though a few hippy guru’s did maintain that the less men on earth, the better that was for our planet).
Thank goodness Mr. Liu met the medical requirements, and things could go on.
Asami having sort of backed out of the contest, the final competition was furiously under the way between Yoh and a warlord from Russia.
The media prophesied a walk over - no one thought they had to take Mikhail Arbatov seriously. The wavy blond, outspoken goofball had introduced himself as “messed up”, and comments like “You think you’re messed up? You haven’t seen anything yet, Gospodín* Arbatov” were among the more harmless.
But public opinion proved wrong. Arbatov fought cunningly and in dead earnest. Did he so desperately crave the glory of “First Impregnator”? Or were his reasons more personal? His fair skin betrayed him to be clearly blushing when facing the Test Person …
Commander Yoh and Mikhail Arbatov were battling within an inch of both of their lives, and everyone was beginning to wonder if it was such a good idea to have them kill each other. Possibly someone might even miss crazy Arbatov. And Yoh? It just wasn‘t worth it! Anxiety arose.
Then, suddenly, on the third day of the contest, the Russian war leader was abruptly excluded. Rumours exploded, but nobody could tell for sure. A traitorous detail from Arbatov’s shady past? Something to do with the Test Person himself? A pulling of strings by Asami, who was known (and appreciated) for favouring Yoh?
Whatever the reason, out Arbatov was, and Yoh was left reeling …
***
“This is not entirely accurate, is it?” Yoh stared down the senior scientist.
“I recall you mentioning … a ‘win over rite’.”
The anaemic, dried up scientist averted his eyes and cleared his throat nervously.
“Er … yes, sir.”
***
“You know him, don’t you?”
Fei Long startled up, his hair spilling over his glowing face, spinning around to face his old friend.
Akihito looked at him closely, amused and touched.
How cute, his super cool older macho comrade - acting for all the world just like a flustered bride. Blushing.
He had a flashback of the other Fei Long, scrambling over barbed wire, leading demos with a megaphone, negotiating with politicians, flying the “Antonov” … eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses, hair stuffed beneath a soldier’s helmet, coolly focussing on the confusing mass of controls in the cockpit. Their most daring cloak-and-dagger operation together. Hijacking the giant old soviet transporter, successfully evacuating the entire population of that doomed Turkish rebel’s village.
How could his young friend tell?
“What makes you think so, Akihito?” Fei Long schooled his features back into their characteristic, aloof loveliness. Quite intimidating, actually.
To anyone but this young wildcard.
“Come on, sweetie. You’re as obvious as … as a cherry tree in full blossom. And sorry, you’re not exactly the martyr type. You gotta have a reason for this pioneer act. I mean, aren’t you scared?”
Scared? Scared didn‘t even begin to describe how he felt. But he had to do this.
He wheeled around in the opposite direction, facing the fortress after all, his face and stance suddenly agonised, as if writhing in fire.
Akihito watched him, a thousand thoughts whirling through his mind, the first and foremost being whether he would feel the same when doing this for Asami.
***
* “Gospodín”: Russian for “Mr.”
chapter 2 “ Faith Switch issues" (~ 5100 words)