Saturday, April 4, 2009


On the Road in a Tamaraw, From the Gray Area, Headed to the Pincian Region; Personal Computer
Date: XX/XX/XX
Subject: How I met Xanther Zeimlich and Welsche Bidansi
Password Protected: Yes

At the moment, I don't at all feel well enough to create a journal entry. But as my schedule demands the next five hours to be used for it as well as the travel time back to my hometown, I have to make the most of it. Even though my great distress is lowering my intelligence by forty percent at the moment. The reason as to why my handkerchief is soaking wet and why the commuter sitting next to me has been inching away every few minutes, I should save for after I tell this story.

I have already mentioned in my previous posts who Zeimlich is in my life, but I have only mentioned Welsche once. For starters, Zeimlich is my mentor. He is a White, currently receiving on the job training in Capitoline Hospital as well as a recommendation for residency. One of the many near-perfect straight-A Maroons under the University roof, Zeimlich is one of the two young men who have made a great impact on the way I live and the way I think at the moment. The other young man is, of course, Welsche Bidansi. The less discreet of the two Turk minor commanders, Welsche is my classmate, a fellow White, my friend, and my best friend's infatuation.

It's just so normal here to be surrounded by brainy people who study half their day and perfect their exams during the second half, I feel that I don't need to describe Welsche to that extent. Asides from the fact that Welsche is a tad bit more handsome than my mentor, you could say that they could be fraternal twins by the way they act or work together on assignment.

Agent Z-332 is a special-ops Assassin who's on his way to becoming an E.C. by the end of the economic-gain driven operation season. Well, when Zeimlich turns his current badge over for an Espionage Clandestine badge, that would move his rank up from minor to marshal commander. It's a long way off, but I have all the confidence in him. Agent Bw-329, who graduated from his Scout badge the operation season after we met, is currently an Illusionist. The stress from all our paperwork, not to mention the shifts in house, must be causing him to slack a bit. At any rate, the Assassins waltzing around the city could eliminate any of us if we're not careful. But I think that for as long as we are loyal to the Turks, that won't be necessary. I'm praying that Welsche lives through it all, because, despite his brilliance in chemistry and physics, which is exactly what an Illusionist attaches his life to, his heart and mouth usually compete with his gray matter.

Now that I've put down a bit about these two Whites, I might as well demonstrate their marksmanship and bravery.

This is how I met Xanther Zeimlich and Welsche Bidansi.

In the mid-year break of my third year as a Pathologist and a White Maroon, I packed my belongings and boarded a Tamaraw for home. The compact public vehicle, which fit ten people exactly, had myself, a mother and child, two other Whites, a psychology Organ, an elderly couple, and the driver. Commuters' belongings which took up the rest of the passenger space were either in our laps or under our seats. In my case, I propped mine in the adjacent seat, parallel to one of the two Whites aboard, and perpendicular to the younger one.

It was customary for fellow Maroons to take no notice of each other outside acquaintences and group reports; at that moment, I rather found myself breaking the custom as both young men caught my eyes for their perfectly shaped faces.

The older White had a very sincere and open face, framed by short jet-black locks that smoothed out until they jutted evenly at his neck. His bright blue eyes gave me the impression he must have been born a half-blood, inheriting one of his parent's native traits to Capitoline and the eyes of a foreign parent. His smile was so sincere and open, I couldn't help but gawk for a moment, my own face hidden behind my bag. His scrub suit told me the rest of his story, or so I thought.

Next to my bag sat the younger White. It was my mistake to think they were siblings, for after all, he had shocking blond hair and the same bright blue eyes as the young man who sat infront of me. Something about how this one stared innocently into the distance told me that he was just as immature and whiny as I could be at times. At times during the ride, he would eye his black-haired companion, who would return with a squint of the brows or a nod of the head. Finally after some time, the younger one settled with a small mid-frown, not quite a smile, but not a miserable pout either. I deduced that one of their parents must be foreign, for native people of Capitol carried either green or hazel eyes, quite rarer than their shocking blue.

My daydreaming skidded to a halt as did the Tamaraw, and all the passengers were thrown forward, or rather stayed put while inertia forced the van fro, pushing us against our original positions. This caused a rather big bruise to my forehead and pocketed belongings to come jangling out of their respective owners' bodies. Out of the corner of my eye, white, bead-sized crystals of jagged edges spilled out of the younger White's scrub; they were crushed into a fine powder under the weight of our baggage and our stamping feet.

I thought, 'The van's out of plasma juice. Just great!' Bursting out of the side pocket of my backpack was my water supply for the five-hour trip. It drenched everything on the floor of the Tamaraw nearest to the door.

Faintly at first, smoke hissed from my ankles up, fuming a stinging, greenish white gas that burned my nostrils. Expectedly, the other passengers began to panic; I automatically reached for the door handle, when the younger White swung it open before I could move.

"Everyone out!" he manhandled. I pushed lightly on the elderly couple and the mother, who had a handkerchief over her son's mouth, and her son move out ahead of me. Count on a true Maroon to be the last to save himself. Even the Organ, who sat in the passenger's seat in front with the driver, made sure the engine was off and that the wiring of the Tamaraw wasn't viable to explode the way the chemicals did on the floor.

At the end of a very long five minutes, I felt myself gasping for air, for the sodium gas fumes started to rake my esophagus and ---

"Miss, step out right now!" the young voice of the blonde white startled me to alertness and I hastily hoisted myself out with my valuables. Everyone moved to the side of the road; from there I could see we were on a much unvisited highway and that the Tamaraw was smoking on both ends, the back and the front.

"Zan, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have kept a supply on me, " the younger White turned to his brother. "I screwed up again, I can't believe this!"

"Welsche, I can't say it isn't foolish to keep a supply of highly reactive chemicals in your scrub suit," Zan told the blonde. "For now, help the driver check the engine while I take care of the civilians here."

"I don't even know who's water it was that caused my Neigh to explode like that," Welsche said, approaching the front of the vehicle. "This is so not good for me!"

"Let's at least be thankful most of your sodium got powdered before the water reacted with it or there would be more serious injuries. Go, Welsche." Zan said, opening the back door of the van all the way so the remaining fumes fanned out.

I just stood there and stayed quiet as I was brought up. They sounded very much like they were used to being life guards or soldiers or police officers or something of the like. It was quite awesome to watch. The Organ kept the other passengers busy with chit-chat on their level.

"Miss," Zan approached me. My heart leapt, then sank. He looked very serious. "It would be great if you'd tend to the baggage. Just to make sure no one's things get stolen or similar, if you please. Maroons can stare each other in the eye and tell thief from truth teller, right?"

"Of course," I said. The right side of my brains said that they could stare at each other all day if they had to.

It wasn't long before---

"All right, punks, give me all your valuables and this guy gets to live!" the sound of a gun clip went click. And pointed straight behind Zan's back.

To be continued.

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