Thor

thor. An epic by Milos Part 1: Resonant Disc ===========

This is my attempt at crafting a post-apocyliptic world and incorporating homoerotic elements. I can't say much that hasn't already been said in the way of warnings, but if you are offended by gay themes, or love between boys and men, please don't read further. If these themes are illegal in your area, please don't read further. If you would like to drop me a critique, please feel free to send an email to writer_milos@yahoo.co.uk. This work is completely, and very obviously, fiction. Take the rest with a grain of salt.

--Milos

(Written exclusively for the Nifty Archives) ===========

In the distant future...

Chapter 1

There is a strange, metallic hum when the wind blows. It's a lonely sound that reminds us of the palpable truths of this war. As I lie on my side, looking out this cold portal, I can see hazy clouds in the distance; a neighboring city, backlit by what's left of the moon, lulls past the window and disappears. It's a sad reminder that these feet have not touched earth in two years.

The inner post of the up-most plate is grinding hard against the tension wires that tether us to the ground; it's amazing that the people living up there ever get any sleep at all. You can feel the vibration through the whole structure.

A fine rain of ice crystals starts tapping the portal window, and somewhere far below the blast of an artillery explosion gives off an unsettling sonic tremor. You find yourself wondering how close it is. They say that if you feel yourself falling in a dream - it's not a dream at all. It takes three minutes for the bottom disc of a city to hit earth if it falls out of the sky. I sigh and wonder about the people, our forefathers, who slept many nights on the surface never heeding the possibility of their worst nightmares.

These sheets don't do much to protect a person from the cold. Most people on the wing sleep on a shred of micro-fiber stretched taut over a suspended frame. It's hard on the back. Most people on the wing also share their quarters with six other people. I guess I am one of the lucky ones. An old lieutenant committed suicide by breeching an air-lock and taking the leap. When I got here, they didn't have enough room in any of the dorms, so they placed me in his old quarters temporarily. I was able "convince" certain individuals higher in the ranks to let me keep my quarters. Becoming a scribe only sealed the deal, but with so much death promotion comes fast.

My mind is running, and it looks like I won't be getting much sleep. I wonder to myself if there are any panels that need to be decrypted and then muster up enough energy to turn myself over on this sagging bed - a lame effort to get more comfortable. Before I can doze again, I am troubled to find someone standing in my room staring at me. A narrow glint of light pulls a glint off their eyes.

I am afraid to move for a moment. I can hear my breathing becoming more panicked over the ringing in my ears.

The disk has made a full revolution toward the moon, and a pale light fills my domicile. A long shadow stems from the feet of my visitor, and moves about his base like a sundial. Before the moon has a chance to escape alignment with my window again, I sit up in bed and squint into the darkness.

"Thor?"

He stands still and silent, a new monument in my cramped living space; vulnerable. I wave my hand over a half-orb next to my bed, which begins to emit enough of a blue glow to light up my room. I inspect the door to find that it is presently latched. The heavy steel locks make enough noise to be heard in the next disc up.

I rub my eyes and sit up, "How did you get in here?"

Before me stands a scrawny being of about seven. He is in nothing more than regulation undergarments - a pair of black skids and a high cut tank. Thor looks flushed, his eyes are puffy and bloodshot; not a nice compliment to the black eye he received a few days ago in a fight with one of the other transients. He has been crying.

"Thor?"

"I saw Pabbi in my sleep," he mumbles quietly, hindered by thick accent. He sniffles.

"You saw your dad?" It's hard to sound genial when you've been woken up like this. You are told when you get here to kill your own bleeding heart- not to get too attached to anyone.

He nods, not looking up at me. Thor was found on a pass over the former Icelandic nation, alive amidst the rubble of a Reykjavík settlement. Nobody really knows much about him, other than he watched as his own father was brutally murdered in front of him. Odd, further, is a small, unidentified tattoo on his right shoulder blade. I was asked to examine the marking on his back when he was brought here - to see if I could figure out what it was. It reminds me of a coat of arms every time I lay eyes on it, but it still perplexes me.

"Come wrap up, tell me about it." I grab my blanket and hold it out for him. He just stands there hugging his arms. "What's the matter, mate?"

"I... I..." He lets out a visible shudder. "Pissed in bed."

In this low light I have failed to realize that his skids are soaked. I sit boggled at the situation. "Erm, hang on."

Attached on to my domicile is a small room barely big enough to stretch your elbows on any side. There is a small metal latrine and a mirror on the wall. With my lanky legs, I usually have to keep the door open when I use the bathroom. I snag a large towel off the hook, still a bit damp from my evening shower. "Here, clean off a bit and let me find you something clean to wear."

I unlatch the door and grab my ID card off the table. I run up a thin corridor to the main hallway. Rows of fluorescent lights tint everything green and sickly. I go up five steps to a platform, up five more to a conjoined hall and continue down to the hospital wing. There is someone new at the desk - an older man reading a paper with moving ink. An advert on the bottom corner catches my eye - it's blinking, red, and obnoxious.

The man looks up at me. "Yes?"

"Where's Helge?"

He glances back at his paper, "He was transferred to the B Level infirmary."

I forgot that he was sick of being a receptionist, and that he had put in a request for a transfer several weeks ago. "Shite," I whisper under my breath.

"Is there something I can help you with?"

"No... yeah - erm... One of the children in the transient wing wet the bed. I just wanted to get some scrubs or something. Some skids?"

"Do I look like I'm issuing fatigues?"

"I am looking for a change of clothes for an seven year old boy, not someone going into battle." I lean in slightly, "Have you got something or not?"

The man looks at me for a beat, blinks a couple of times, then puts down his paper as if it's an inconvenience to his very existence. He meanders down the hallway, walks around the corner, and pulls open a cabinet where they keep gauze, catheters, medical tape, and other little medical oddities. He comes back holding two small, white plastic packets that are as thick as my hand. They are labeled only with the word small.

"What's this, then?"

The American looks at me quizzically, "Incontinence products, smart ass."

"He just needs a change of pants, not a fucking nappy."

"A kid wets the bed, he gets put into diapers for a few days. He keeps wetting the bed, he sees a doctor." He picks up his paper and continues placating me, "It's called protocol."

"Protocol?"

He glances at me with a smug pressed grin, "Protocol. Good luck."

I shake my head at him as I start to walk off. I hurry back to my domicile. I step in, softly shut the door, and force the latch back over; it's a two handed job. I turn around to find him sitting in the middle of the room, wrapped in, and with his face buried in, my blanket. His wet skids are on the floor on top of my towel. I make a mental note to move my laundry day to tomorrow.

I start to tear into the package, "Sorry, mate; this is all the guy at the infirmary would give me." I unfold the papery, plastic lined garment and hold it open by the waistband. It reminds me of an antique athletic supporter; a three centimeter paper elastic band that fits around the waist, an absorbent cup-like pad in the front with leak-guards that go from the top of the band and around the back of the scrotum, and a strap that goes from the back of the cup, through the crack and to the back side of the waistband. There is a tab where the back strap can be adjusted for fit.

He gives me an alien stare.

"Come on, then. It's better than nothing. I won't tell anyone."

He blinks at me for a moment then gets to his feet. He wallows over with the blanket pulled tightly around his shoulders, and looks up at me with questioning eyes.

"One food after the other, mate. Go on - I'll hold it open for you."

He sheds the blanket - standing humbly before me in nothing more than a simple shirt that's cropped off just below his diaphragm. His foreskin is bunched forward and wrinkled, red from the moisture of being in his skids. His testes are pulled snug into his body. He is lithe and willowy; not too thin for his age but svelte. He grabs one of my arms and holds it for support, wobbling on one foot as he lifts the other through the odd looking apparel in my hands. The other leg finds its way through the straps, and I pull them the rest of the way up, resting them on his waste and running my fingers down the sides of the leak guards to make sure they are sitting properly. He squirms a bit as I accidentally tickle the back of his scrotum with my fingernail.

"Sorry," I say quietly.

He looks down and sighs quietly. I tighten the back strap a bit, then pick up the blanket and wrap it around his shoulders. I pick him up and set him in my bedding. He buries his face in the blanket again.

"Want to talk about your nightmare?"

He shakes his head.

I sigh and think for a moment. His bed is more than likely covered in urine. Unless it has a hole in it, which is probably does, it is either pooled or absorbed into his blanket. If I were to clean it I would wake up everyone in his dorm. "What to do about you, then." I sigh. "Too cold for either of us to sleep on the floor, and it's getting on half three, so there'd be no officers to room you. Guess I should see if the infirmary could take you."

He sharply looks up at me, "No please!"

"Please, then, take the guest bed. Where will you sleep, mate?"

He hugs his knees and rests his chin on them. "Can please I stay here?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Look, if I say yes, then I'm taking you to your commanding officer tomorrow and you're dealing with the wet bed thing yourself. Understood?"

He nods sadly.

I get into bed and try to stay as far to the left side as I can. He is still sitting, wrapped up in my blanket. "Come on, then. It's the only blanket I've got. Share the wealth."

He stares blankly and then lies down next to me. He tries to stay to one side, but ends up sliding into the middle of the sagging bed screen and resting up against me. His skin is cold to the touch.

"You okay there?" I ask him before running my hand over the orb to turn off the light.

He mumbles something and pulls the blanket up under his chin. I take some of the blanket and tuck myself in.

After a few seconds in the dark, he wraps his arms around me and puts his top leg over my body, his face nuzzled into the side of my arm. He has fallen fast asleep, and for the moment, I assume that he feels safe again.

For the moment...