AUTHOR'S NOTES: This fanfic is told in five chapters, the names and ratings (in some as-yet-unposted chapters, ratings are pending) of which will appear at the bottom of each chapter. I'll warn you now: though this fic will start out relatively tame (PG-13 at most), it WILL go up by the time the upcoming chapters are posted, especially due to the explicit sexual content within Chapter Three, "Springtime for Lily". However, Chapter Three isn't essential to the overall storyline; if you wish to skip over it, you won't really be missing much from the plot. (Yes, PLOT! I can write fanfics with both lemon content and plot. I just often choose to cut to the fun stuff instead.) ^_^;

Anyhow, onto the OBLIGATORY LEGAL BLATHER: I don't own any of the characters in this fanfic. Yukito Kishiro does, and I thank Mr. Kishiro-sensei in advance for not suing me for writing this.

Now, on with the fun!

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The Scrapyard Chronicles
(Or: Five Chapters From the Journals of Professor Nova)
by Apricot the Gerbil


****Chapter One: The Krill and The Whale****

I believe the word that began my journeys would be “Why?”

That single word was certainly the defining point of my life during my stay as a member of Tiphares. As far back as I can recall, it was what separated me from the other children, even as our city's home in the sky separated us from the mediocre world below. I remember approaching the esteemed city’s Academy at ten years of age for my first lesson with my peers; looking up at the grand pillars that formed the door to all the knowledge the master civilization’s citizens would ever need to know; reading the inscription above the doorway with awe:

“VIRTUE -- EXCELLENCE -- TRUTH”.

But what amazed me the more was the efficiency of the educational system! No questions were asked of my peers and I regarding our hopes or aspirations. Instead, our names were called, and we marched to the front of the main hall, one by one, to receive our designated class schedule. Each child’s classes were planned out for years to come-- their future profession had already been listed, catalogued, and written on the top of the schedule. When the time came for me to receive the plan for my career, I blinked in surprise at the bold words printed at the top-- in permanent ink, no less: “Artisan.”

I held my disappointment in silence until I had walked to my first class, where I politely asked my teacher why I was given the career of an artist, when I had no interest in the craft. My answer came: “We teach what is best for each citizen of Tiphares. It takes many kinds of people to make this city the wonder it is.”

“Well... is there someone I can talk to who could change my classes? I kind of wanted to study something else,” I asked, before I noticed the stark, bewildered stare my teacher was giving me. Falling silent, I continued, “Is there something wrong?”

My teacher’s eye gave off a curious twitch, after which she continued as if my inquiries had not even been spoken, guiding me to my designated desk. I was slightly crestfallen, but continued asking the same question to my teacher on the occasion that the students were allowed to speak, which was the same ten-minute span between each of six hour-long lessons. It wasn’t long before I became unnerved by both my teacher’s identical eye-twitches-- and, subsequently, my being ignored-- and the reactions of my fellow artists-to-be, as they would continually become more bullying to this strange student. Who would dare to argue with the promise of Tipharean citizenship upon our graduation, after all?

A week passed. I walked to my first scheduled class of the day, only to find that my teachers’ attitudes had apparently changed overnight. Not one teacher in the entire art sub-building even recognized my face as I walked in. When I halfheartedly protested that I was scheduled to take my lessons with her class, my teacher looked as confused as she had from my many questions of the week before. She soon laughed, as if I had been joking with her. A quick check in the teacher’s computerized class listing confirmed her claims: I was no longer to be an artist, but instead-- according to the files-- a bioengineer.

Such a profession proved to be infinitely more intriguing, even if I had no idea how such a sudden quirk of fate had come about. In the years that followed, I proved myself to be one of the most adept scientists Tiphares had ever fostered. My teachers were skeptical at first when I told them of my "pet project", the nanoengine, and how it could revolutionize the way the human system could repair and retain its health. However, the years passed, and I gained ever more knowledge that allowed me to shape the theory into a reality.

I can still remember how slow the Academy was to accept the possibility that stood before it, even during my demonstrations before the Science Department. Nearly all heads shook disapprovingly as I injected a week-old cat carcass with the nanomachines, even as it opened its eyes minutes later and began to meow.

What could they have been so afraid of?, I would often wonder during such times. True, such technology had never been used before, but they still seemed so scared towards my research. Or at least, they were to begin with.

As spontaneously as the change in my career, it seemed, the attitudes of the Tiphareans changed overnight towards belief in such a technology. It was said that even the esteemed Ladder had screens present on the day it was announced, throughout the city, that with the help of this new 'Nanotechnology', no one on Tiphares need ever die again.

I should have been more content, I thought, even as I bowed gratefully to the crowd on that day. I shouldn't have wanted anything more in the world than the praise such an achievement brought me, especially following the mandatory Nano-injections given to the Tipharean population.

But what did I notice, as I looked around at my fellow citizens?

They hadn't changed at all.

Not even with the prospect of living forever to drive them to new heights, new goals, mostly all of Tiphares was content to simply live their lives in the same, shortsighted way they had before their Eternal Life had begun. They went to their schools, trained for their jobs, or worked in those jobs, ever existing as dull as before. On the day when the city announced the unveiling of Endjoy booths-- or, to be technical, giant meat grinders which citizens could toss themselves into if they tired of life's monotony-- at the edges of Tiphares, I first tasted the full meaning of bitter irony.

It was at this point that I spent more and more time in the Tipharean libraries, reading up on the subjects that the Academy had not thought it necessary for me to know. Philosophy, history, ethics-- had anything like this phenomenon of continued mediocrity happened before in the City? I read my way through chapter after chapter, volume after volume... only to find nothing.

The idea baffled me. Surely, even when Tiphares had been put into its lofty location in the sky, there had been a surge in productivity, in esteem? I had no idea... There was nary a more-than-vague mention of the city's beginnings in the whole library!

...And then, one day, I discovered the Storeroom.

It was placed in an unassuming enough location. A plain, bland-colored door did little to announce its presence to those who actually wandered far enough back in the library to spot it. And yet, as soon as I noticed the outlines of books hidden on the shelves behind the cobwebbed window of that door, I was instantly stricken with curiosity.

As it turned out, no one who worked in the library could remember there being a door there, when I inquired about the key that would unlock it. However, when I tired of being given their runaround of "Perhaps if you ask So-and-so" and "You could try asking They-and-them", I realized that the door's lock was old enough as to hardly give resistance at all when I yanked at it.

And such things I beheld inside that silent, forgotten tomb. Wonderful things.

There was the collection of ragged-bound books by such forgotten souls as Marx, Lenin, Descartes, Socrates, Hitler, Ghandi...

There were the musty rows of boxes filled with what turned out to be preserved sheets of paper, all chronicling events from what seemed like a world eons past...

There was the computer which held pictures and holograms of works of art, the likes of which Tipharean society had not even the words to describe in their language anymore...

But still, it was not enough, even after I'd spent an entire month creeping away to my treasure room, after my mind had swallowed all the facts and theories those treasures held. The day finally came wherein I realized there was still one thing missing from the puzzle, left out of the books, that I needed to know.

Where did Tiphares come from?

When I ran searches for the question on the computer that day, I only encountered a maze of file encryptions I'd never seen in such magnitude before. However, such a difficult goal only fueled my curiosity; in the week that followed, I recall, I was more fervent in my quest than ever. I tried every combination I could think of that could possibly be the solution to unlock this mystery. Hour upon hour I tried... all for naught.

I had stopped for a moment’s rest, nearing the end of my search's seventh day, when the screen began to flicker of its own accord. It suddenly went blank, as if it had been turned off.

I drew back in surprise from the monitor. The power couldn’t have been cut; not only were the lights in the library behind me still on, but power outages were unknown in a city as ordered as Tiphares. Instead, I watched as a message appeared, letter by letter, on the screen:

GREETINGS, DESTY NOVA.

Baffled, I stared at the words for some time before hesitantly tapping the “Enter” key, then the main on/off switch of the computer. Nothing happened; the words remained. I waited in stunned silence, not sure of what to do otherwise.

The words scrolled on:

I AM PERFECTION.
I AM THE ANSWERS I SEE YOU HAVE BEEN SEEKING.
I AM TIPHARES.
I AM MELCHIZIDEK.
ASK ME WHAT YOU DESIRE TO KNOW.......

I was caught off guard by this unlikely occurrence at first, but recovered quickly-- this may have been the most illogical event I’d seen within Tiphares, but it was by no means the first. I tried the keyboard again, finding it was able to work once more. After a pause for thought, I tapped in a response: Why does it seem that everybody in Tiphares changes except me?

The reply came quickly.

I TEND TO MY CHILDREN AS THE CITY DEVELOPS NEEDS.
IF THERE IS A NEED FOR A DOCTOR, I WILL TEACH MY CHILDREN TO HEAL.
IF THERE IS A NEED FOR HOMES, I WILL TEACH MY CHILDREN TO BUILD THEM.
IF THERE IS A NEED FOR LEADERSHIP, I WILL TEACH MY CHILDREN TO LEAD OTHERS.
BUT I CANNOT TEACH WHAT I DO NOT KNOW.......

YOU ARE ONE OF THE FEW OF MY CHILDREN WHO MAY GROW TO DISCOVER WHAT I DO NOT YET KNOW.
SO FAR, YOU HAVE SERVED ME WELL.
YET, YOU REFUSE TO SERVE.
YOU FOLLOW THE PATH OF QUESTIONS.
YOU ARE CLOSER TO THE ANSWERS YOU SEEK THAN YOU THINK.
BUT THERE ARE THINGS A TIPHAREAN DOES NOT NEED TO KNOW.

I APPEAR TO YOU NOW ONLY BECAUSE YOU WILL BE GONE SOON.
AS OF NOW, THE MIB HAS BEEN MOBILIZED FOR YOUR DEMISE.

At this unexpected revelation, I froze in horror, my eyes fixed to the screen, yet I read on:

HOWEVER, I AM A GENEROUS MOTHER. THERE WILL BE A TEN MINUTE DELAY BEFORE THE MIB FORCES WILL TAKE ACTION.
DO WITH THIS TIME WHAT YOU WILL.......

I doubted this “Melchizedek” thing, whatever it was, could hear me, yet I found myself screaming back at the screen in disbelief, “Ten minutes?!”

I quickly typed: What don’t I need to know? What are you?

FAREWELL, DESTY NOVA. was the only response the screen gave before dying to black once more.

It’s said that, in times of extreme panic or crisis, one’s consciousness is subverted by the pure drivings of survival. I’d never actually experienced this phenomenon firsthand before, but I can now claim its truth. My memories of what came next are somewhat scattered, but I remember my first thought after the computer shut down: The garbage shaft. At this point, anything seemed better than dying here.

I must have tossed a few of the books around me into my briefcase, for I eventually found them there later; I also remember running with all my might to my laboratory. I scooped a few sample test tubes of my replicating nanoprojects into the case, along with some of my smaller research logs and whatever soft material I could find to stuff around them, in case I needed to cushion it all for an unforgiving fall... and I fled to the nearest trash hopper I could find, jumping in, sliding down the metal ducts to the main chamber, clutching my briefcase beside me with white knuckles.

I knew I must have used up my ten minutes’ time by then. However, upon my landing on the garbage heap of scrap to be dumped, I was still surprised to see the gleaming ray of the waiting MIB robot’s laser rifle as it aimed at me.

The metal walls of the trash chamber lit up, reflecting the bright, red blast of the rifle; then pain-- nothing but pure, searing pain, and darker red spraying out before me.

Please, not now... I was almost free...

.............

...But I wasn't dead.

I could hear the grinding metal as the doors dropped open beneath me, but the only thing I remember between that sound and my awakening below was the hideous reflection I saw from the metal trash around me.

Yes, my head had blood oozing around it, but that wasn't what I saw. I could see the gaping hole the M.I.B.'s blast had burst through my skull-- but there was no brain. From what I could see, it seemed as though there never had been. All I could see was a chip, wedged into the base of my empty head... A computer chip...

The words I'd only seen such a short time ago echoed soundlessly in my mind: YOU ARE CLOSER TO THE ANSWERS YOU SEEK THAN YOU THINK.

Closer than I think...

And I landed.

.............

A considerable amount of time passed before I regained consciousness. At first, any attempt I made to look around at my new “home” was met only by a dizzying fog, as the blood pooled behind my glasses had not yet fully drained. However, the massive headache I was feeling proved that I was still, for what it was worth, alive. I feebly touched my hand to my forehead, as my arm was right next to it, to see how much damage remained, or if I had possibly only been hallucinating when I'd seen the hole earlier. While there was still a noticeable gap in the skull, most of the wound had already begun to heal. The part of my mind that was still thinking logically figured that the adrenaline surge from the fall must’ve helped my nanomachines’ healing speed.

I tried using my arm; when I found it could still move, I reached for the glasses and pulled them gently away from my face--

...and froze. I realized I was looking directly into the eyes of a metal skull, its sole remaining rusty socket peering at me as if it was sizing up a sort of prey, despite its being attached to naught but a clear-cut stump of spine under its neck. I looked around, sneezing faintly as the wispy cloud of sooty ash around me finally made its presence known.

Hundreds. No, that was far too few. Thousands...

I was surrounded by corpses-- a pile of them, all around as far as the eye could see. I had simply landed on the top. My eyes frantically scanned the horizon, but even though I was only sitting up, I was already getting dizzy again. Only the stacks of twisted metal and flesh could be seen, pockmarked here and there by gargantuan dumptrucks, their noise growling lowly across this... this hell that I'd fallen into-- truly, there could be no other word for it!

My mind was a swimming blur at this point; it was no match for the swoon that nearly overtook me. I fell limply onto my back, blinking blankly up at the dark cloud above me.

...No... that was far too big to be a cloud.

I craned my neck back enough to get a better view at this blot, but was unable to see all of it. However, it finally dawned upon me that I was seeing Tiphares from below for the first time in my life... For a fleeting moment, I felt much like a krill must, gazing upon the eye of the massive Blue Whales that I'd read about in the Academy, gazing upon the uncaring catalyst of its own insignificant doom.

I suddenly became aware that I was laughing, for some reason...that only part of me understood the joke, and the rest of my brain-- what brain?!-- was simply screaming from inside, on and on. There was no humor in the laughter, however, only my attempts to choke away the truth that I knew would swallow me whole if I dared stare it in the eye.

But as my laughter died to silence, my hand reached up to the hole in my hollow head... and I knew that Truth already had killed me. And yet, I wasn't dead. But had I ever been alive?

It's just too much-- Not all at once, I can't--

The screaming went on in my mind for what felt like an eternity, as I gaped up at my homeland, my mother, my killer...

...And I woke up. I hadn't even registered that I'd passed out.

Already, new junk was starting to cluster around me... garbage from the city above. I knew that if I'd stay there, I'd soon get buried along with the rest of the scrap...

So, feeling only half alive and even less sane, I fumbled for my glasses, wiping them clean before I stood up. I placed them upon my face, but their information-gathering sensors were ignored as I found my briefcase and slowly wandered towards my new home.


[**Chapter Two: "Home Sweet Cesspool" is soon to follow... (please be patient...)**]

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The Scrapyard Chronicles Chapter List
*Chapter One: "The Krill and the Whale" (PG-13)
**Chapter Two: "Home Sweet Cesspool" (R)
***Chapter Three: "Springtime for Lily" (NC-17)
****Chapter Four: "...And Kaos Makes Three" (PG-13)
*****Chapter Five: "Requiem for The Dream" (R)