This was a piece I wrote a little more than a year ago (December 2010) for the ol' IC blog, but I consider it one of my "better" pieces. Some of you may have seen it, some of you may not (though I may be pleasantly surprised, like I was once when Mister Screwball linked to a post of mine). The reason I'm posting it here and now is because I'm looking for feedback on it because of the whole "better piece" thing I mentioned earlier. Any feedback, positive or scathing, is welcome, so long as it's not a "tl;dr" or a "Shitpost" without at least a semi-detailed explanation on why.
Without further ado, please enjoy:
A Close Approximation
The dark room went silent as the water shut off. After a few moments a streak of light stretched across the floor as the bathroom door opened, Raphael’s rough build silhouetted against the bright interior. He stepped forward and it shut behind him, the room growing dark again. He waited a second for his eyes to adjust, the familiar shapes of the furniture materializing from the abyss.
The only source of light was the large window showing the vast expanse of space, the dim light of a myriad stars being the only source of illumination. But that was a lie. The window wasn’t a window, but a video screen, a close approximation of the real thing. Not every room could have an actual window. There was too much floor space and not enough exterior. On the other side of this ‘window’ wasn’t the vacuum of space, but another fake window for another room. On the other side of that room was a hallway, then another room and a fake window, another fake window and another room. How many times this pattern repeated until there was an actual window into space he wasn’t sure of.
A close approximation of the actual thing. But not the actual thing. These words described so much of what constituted his life now. Including him. He raised his right hand and looked at it in the dim light. This wasn’t the hand of Raphael Saint, but it was a close approximation of the real thing. No, the real Raphael had disappeared long ago after a fateful jump through a gate when he was still a young capsuleer. Or was that only a copy as well? He couldn’t remember if his body was converted into one of a capsuleer, or if his consciousness was merely transferred to a clone grown in a vat, the implants already set. Either way, the hand he looked at right now was not the one he was born with; not the actual thing. Merely a close approximation.
A dim glint of light caught his eye and he focused on the band of metal around his ring finger, fused to the skin. That wasn’t the real thing either. No, the real ring had been lost long ago, when the body wearing it was lost to combat. This was another near approximation, not even made of the same kind of metal. Each new clone was given one, the hot glowing metal ring applied to fresh skin shortly after the new clone awoke. Was it strange to have this done to each new clone? Perhaps. Was it stupid to have it done while conscious? Hell yes. But it reinforced the message, reinvigorated the meaning of why it was there in the first place, and in this world of close approximations, real meaning was the only thing left.
He walked over to his desk, his eyes now fully adjusted. On it sat a letter from Gabriel that would go unanswered and a couple more ‘trophies;’ items that reminded him of his mistakes, so he would repeat none of them. The reason God invented the mistake was to teach mortal men what not to do. If you didn’t remember them, if you failed to learn anything, you hurt no one but yourself. Raphael had learned a lot, and he hoped he was a better man for every lesson learned. Only two of those were the actual thing, having not been lost because they could not be taken into the capsule with him; a small flask and a bloodied patch.
But that’s why he had come here. For more real belongings that could stick with him, that couldn’t be lost. His memories. Though merely a copy stolen from the mind of his previous incarnation, the effect they had, the lessons they taught, the meaning they held…those were all real. His reason for enrollment into this academy was for real change. He needed it, needed change, and he could already feel it coming, making its presence known. Whether or not it was the change he wanted he didn’t know.
He took his naval uniform from the wardrobe and began to dress himself in front of the mirror, watching the pieces come together as he went from a mere man to a soldier in God’s army. He shrugged on his coat and began buttoning it up, watching in the mirror as its dark color enveloped him. He had worn a number of colors during his life. First, the colors of dirt and grease as a miner. Then it was the proud colors of PIE as a crusader. Most recently it was the colors of the Knighthood of the Merciful Crown, and now the colors of the mighty Amarr Navy. He had worn their colors a few times intermittently, having served as an unofficial officer since joining the 24th Imperial Crusade, but now it was full time.
PIE. He felt his most Amarrian, his most loyal, his most useful when serving within their ranks. Memories of encounters with Admiral Newelle flashed through his mind. Every time they met she’d ask why he had left. He never had a clear answer for her. He had had his reason, but was it a real reason? Had he thought it would have actually worked?
He placed his cap atop his head. He wasn’t supposed to wear it indoors, but he liked the way it looked and at Tribunus Colonel there were few who’d actually ask him to remove it. Why had he left? Why did it seem to be a bigger folly with every passing day? He moved to the door to the hallway, it sliding open before him, the light flooding in. Why did he leave the tried and true Amarrian PIE for a close approximation? He didn’t have time to think about it. He had class.
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Topic: A Close Approximation (Read 1082 times)