Astian Year 400

July 23rd

PinkShell Village

Annaguaua

A boy sighed to himself on the beach.

“It’s always the same.”

He looked out at the ocean before him, surveying the blue for the slightest hint of…anything. He flipped open a small brown notebook. The cover was made with the dried hide of a goat he had skinned several years ago. It was bound to torn pages with strips of old boat rope wound around the makeshift spine. He took no pleasure in harming creatures, even if it was just an animal. But his host insisted that there was a season for everything. Including a time to heal, and a time to kill.

He flipped away until he came upon an empty page and began to scribble away with a broken pencil that he had previously wedged between it.

“July 23rd, 400,

The scene is the same today. Not much to see during the closed season.  The waves still crash lazily on the nearby grotto, and the usual ocean birds continue their circling. Nothing else to note as far as the sea is concerned.”

He flipped the page.

“I did hear something interesting, though. A group of fishers talked about a wrecked patrol ship that the tide brought in. It’s just a Skimmer, but a destroyed Hold ship is strange nonetheless. Especially in these parts. Probably some reckless NHF Captain ripping too close to the reefs. Either way, the looters and vagrants will ransack the place before any agents can recover it.”

The book plopped closed as he sighed again. He felt the cool ocean swash bundle between his toes as it raced to the shore. He took a deep breath and let the sea breeze sting his lungs before he exhaled and started his trek over the dune.

His footprints sank deep as he trudged up the beach to the two-story, wooden inn before him. He had been living there with his host for almost ten years now, but the time passed had been kinder to him than the building. A decade of sea blast had accelerated the wood’s decay, leading to several planks being replaced each year. He’d never understand why the old man wouldn’t knock the place down. He had saved up more than enough from his lifetime of fishing to relocate to one of the gated communities in Annnaguaua. Yet he insisted on keeping the inn open, though most days it was only the two of them in the whole building.

Still, it was home.

He knocked the caked sand off his slides as he stepped onto the rear porch. The cold water from the nearby tap made his legs shiver as he washed the remaining grains from his feet. 

“You’re up early, kid,” a voice above him noted.

He whipped his head upwards and used his hand to partially cover his face from the sunlight beaming down on his skin. Above him stood an elderly man with a smile too young for his years. He was stout, but had broad shoulders and a frame that spoke to his decades of labour. His hands were calloused, and his face had scars that looked like they each told a story. This was the host of BrownShave Inn, Sacclin Kim. The village folk said his name sounded like a mouthful and started calling him “Saccim” instead, much to his annoyance.

“Morning, Mr. Kim,” he started as he slipped into his usual sneakers.

“I thought if I watched the waves earlier, I’d see something different.” 

Saccim laughed boisterously, his voice much too vigorous for his age.

“Nothin’ to see out there but blue, son. Especially during the closed season.”

“Yeah…I guess.”

An awkward silence lingered between them.

“Anyways,” Saccim continued, “might as well head out early, you’ll see a lot more on the road than on the surf.”

“Way ahead of you,” the boy chuckled as he wheeled out his bicycle. It had seen better years. The red paint was flaked all over its exterior, and the rubber was flopping lazily off one of the handlebars.

Saccim tossed his backpack over the railing, and the boy raised one arm into the air, letting a strap fall around it and catching it before it hit the ground. 

“Well, I’m off then,” he said as he kicked up the stand and adjusted himself to leave.

“Hey kid,” Saccim started. The boy looked up curiously.

“Don’t forget who you are, Kai.”

The boy paused for a few seconds before nodding and pedalling to the front of the inn and upwards the road that led to them. 

Saccim sighed to himself as he turned to head back inside.

“Trust me, kid, it’s better this way.”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He hadn’t forgotten who he was. He was Kai Smith, son of Mary Smith and whoever his father was. He was a young caucasian male, dark haired, fifteen years old, living in PinkShell village for all of those fifteen years. Annaguaua was a small island in an archipelago of islands known as the ITCU (Inter-Tropical Conservative Union). Their existence was the only one in Astia that had resisted complete assimilation into the Hold’s monoculture-like civilization. They promoted traditions and customs of the Old World and were considered divergents in the empire. They did not possess the extreme practices and customs that those of the Old World would refer to as ‘religion’, but their living was still vastly different enough to consider them an outlier in the western world.  

Due to their traditionalist nature, they rejected most Astian philosophies and prohibited the introduction of advanced technology in fear of being lured into the lifestyles that most Astians sought. It was confusing to many why the Hold empire had allowed these insignificant islands to unionize and moreover, reject their ideals. However, the empire remained silent on the matter, and the ITCU continued to be a public counter-existence to the Astian philosophical existence while being mostly exclusive to the islands’ natives. 

The question was, where did Kai fit in this complex system of political, geographical, and ideological war-game? In truth, he had no idea himself. He had no knowledge of his ancestry, and his only known relative, Mary Smith, had passed away when he was only six years old. He had been living alongside Mr. Sacclin Kim in the BrownShave since then. There was no strong stance for him to take on any of the affairs. On one hand, Saccim and his late mother had spoken negatively of Astian ideals and refused to ever travel outside the ITCU. On the other hand, he had read magazines and media posts on his Fass-Pod about the wonderful civilizations that existed in the Astian mainland and the myriad of advancements, engagements, and industries that existed out there. Not to mention their boasts about creating a perfect society, unrivaled throughout history. The two notions constantly gnawed at him as he longed for change but ultimately held the parent figures in his life in greater esteem.

Either way, for now, he was here. PinkShell was never quiet, especially at this time of day. Being a seaside village, there was constant noise from arguing vendors, playful children, and the bustling masses. People walked back and forth across the road with no regard for traffic … or their life, it appeared, but he had grown accustomed to maneuvering through the crowd. Several greetings and hails from familiar faces really sank in the feeling of community. With his bike, he cut through the crowd around an old unpaved road to circle to his school uninterrupted.

However, unknown to him, two shadowy figures loomed above, perched on the hill he circled, and were watching his every move.