Chapter 2 - Dawn

Navigating her first week of basic training, Dawn reflects on the will of one and the power to overcome obstacles both human and divine.

2. - Dawn

            Finally, she looked just like all the other boys. Same uniform. Same rank. Same haircut. Dawn ran her hand through a freshly trimmed, faded crew cut. Gliding her hand against the grain on the back of her scalp, Dawn felt the satisfying fuzz that remained of her blonde curls. She almost cracked a smile until Sergeant Briggs barked, “Recruit! Get your concaved a*s in line with the others before I shove my boot so far and fast up your rectum you’ll taste my rubber soles for the next twelve weeks!”

            Dawn instinctively barked back, “Yes Sir, Drill Sergeant!” That was the hardest part of basic training: not smiling. Even with her demon of a drill sergeant, boot camp was only slightly more difficult than marching band. More physically demanding, sure, and not to mention the instructors had more freedom than her professors did to follow through on threats. Of course Sergeant Brigg’s jackboots wouldn’t physically be able to journey up through her a*****e to her throat. However, Dawn wasn’t about to put that possibility to the test. Ultimately neither the threats nor the violence that followed mattered. Dawn finally felt at home.

            Among the foolish and the brave was exactly where Dawn intended to be. Her unbridled Joy wasn’t going to f**k it up. She had enlisted for the opportunity to finally stand on a level playing field; no established cliques, no preexisting social order, everyone stood at a zero sum. It wasn’t exactly a dream come true, but the Brighton Civil Defense Force[1] would be considerably less drama than the Pixely Music Conservatory[2]. She’d already suffered four years of drama: twelve, counting the entirety of primary school. Twelve was enough.

As her unit marched back to the barracks, Dawn took in the expansive training grounds. Their island was only five miles in circumference upon a plateau that stood a mile above sea level. It was part of a bizarre chain of six similarly shaped volcanic islands just off the coast of the Brighton mainland. Getting used to the elevation the first night was a b***h. Once she’d caught her breath though, Dawn fell in love with the geological oddity[3] that would be home for the next four days and eleven weeks.

On the top of the plateau, the main hub stood at the center of a perfectly manicured grass field and wildflowers of every imaginable color. Essential buildings were spaced out evenly clockwise around the main hall: home store, tailor, dry-cleaner, barber, chapel[4], and the main officer’s administration buildings. Apart from the training courses scattered about, the majority of the installations lie deep within the hollowed out island[5].

            They continued marching toward one of the dozens of freight elevator entrances that ran all the way down to the base of the cylinder of earth, stone, steel, and new recruits. Once all twenty-four fresh cut recruits boarded the iron trap, Sergeant Briggs addressed the new recruits, “Enjoy the ride, ladies. This will be the last time you get the luxury of an elevator. It will be stairs from here on out.” Dawn’s heart sank as she looked out through the wire mesh of the elevator as it descended to the ramps and stairs that snaked their way up and down the interior. Sergeant Briggs continued with a sadistic and satisfied smile, “You’ll eat these stairs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner so those little chicken legs of yours will be strong enough to support the sickly skeletal excuses you call human bodies. You will love those stairs, won’t you recruits?”

            At full volume the twenty-four girls’ screams of, “Yes, Drill Sergeant!” barely made it past the elevator’s cage. It was drowned out by the hum of air-condition units, electrical transformers, and the massive network of automated assembly machines: a deafening buzz echoing throughout the interior workings of the island. Steel reinforced support struts were sunk into the rock. Stonewalls appeared marred with metallic honeycomb patterns. This was their new hive. Sergeant Briggs: one of several queens. With any luck, Dawn would evolve from drone to a full-fledged warrior woman: if she survived.

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            After twelve hours of running, crawling, and getting the ever-loving s**t kicked out of her, being naked around strangers became the least of Dawn’s concerns. She was thankful that there were in fact showers of any kind. She’d take full advantage of all ninety seconds she was allotted to wash the sweat and blood off her bruised skin and bones. Twenty minutes till lights out. If Dawn was lucky, there’d be enough time to read the only piece of recreational material she were allowed to own; The Tellefort Monk’s Second Catalog & Contact of Other Worlds.

            Unlike her little sister, Dawn was never into escapism. They only had the one world, and Dawn was ecstatic to extract everything it had to offer. As a going away present though, Nicolette had insisted Dawn read her treasured text. Supposedly, the Tellefort Spiritualist[6] up north had discovered a way to open portals to other worlds. Supposedly. They had never produced any evidence of such an endeavor. Regardless, their book claimed each portal was only ever stable enough to allow a vinyl record sized diamond disc to pass through unharmed.

Upon each disc, the monks inscribed all of humanity’s essential information in hopes that if intelligent life were out there, they’d be able to make peaceful contact… or whatever. Dawn doubted a handful of hermits in robes, armed with giant telescopes and Marshal Arts[7] held a valid claim. Still, the premise of the book was intriguing. What if there was someone else out there? What if, among the countless stars past the Pin Wheel Galaxy, somebody or something stumbled upon a diamond disc? What would Dawn want them to know?

            At exactly ten, the lights shut off. Dawn gazed up into darkness; one hand holding her book, the other playing with what remained of her golden blonde hair. She wondered who thought those monks were the best representatives for humanity. Sure, she’d physically attended chapel. Stories about The Great Vox and the Twelve Horses of Brighton were not overly painful to sit through (especially considering that the horses wouldn’t shut up about it if you gave them the time of day). It simply boiled down to evidence. From Dawn’s perspective, there always seemed to be more evidence against than for.

Dawn’s spiritual journey concluded with Aunt Kara’s last breath and the Vox’s failure to revive what had been stolen the young girl. In the middle part of The Polaroid[8], Dawn had committed those overused verses praising a resurrected Son. If it was a trick that had been done before[9], surely Dawn’s request was miniscule by comparison. As her Aunt Kara remained in the grave, questions dug in like nails on the chalk board of Dawn’s mind; was it that the Vox couldn’t resurrect her only surviving guardian, or didn’t want to?

            She'd spent forty nights screaming into her pillow begging an all-powerful, all-seeing, all-present yet absent deity for one unselfish request. On the seventh day, Dawn gave it a rest.

No more screaming. No more begging. No more extra lives. There was only one chance to live, and Dawn was going to live it up. She refused to be bound to a life of robes, rules, or wishful thinking. Dawn resolved to ride upon the endless waves of joy that naturally sprang from within before inevitably rejoining the void of space.

            In the darkness, Dawn could hear the pattering of bare feet against the concrete floor as young girls felt their way back to their bunks. Then there was silence. It felt like the same silence in the aftermath of her one sided bargaining war with an invisible force in the sky; one side was contemplative and earnest, and the other mocked her from across the void. After the steel door to the barracks slammed shut, the silence was broken.

            A few bunks to the left, Dawn heard whispers, “Yeah, Dawn Muirson, she looks more like a boy now than before. She smells like one too.” Among the muffled laughter, Dawn’s sigh came out as a growl. It would have been a lie if their insults didn't sting Dawn slightly. Ultimately, it didn't matter. There was no insult greater than the one she'd suffered at Aunt Kara's expense. Let the little girls laugh. All of this was her decision: the place, the people, and even the darkness. There was no opposition from without that could not be overcome from within. No force, human or divine could extinguish Dawn’s light without her consent.

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[1] Within the treaty of The Prismatic Alignment, article 2:1-2; “All nations of Prism shall agree to permanently dissolve their respective military forces. In the event of local disputes and or natural disasters, only a standing civil defense force is permissible.” This article was ratified in a near unanimous vote within The League of Nations after the conclusion of The Great War of 1899. Brighton’s Civil Defense Force, was formally established in 1902 and stands as the current successor of the Brighton Royal Military.

[2] Reestablished in 1912, the New Pixely Conservatory for the Arts was rebuilt in the capital on the isle Brighton. It stands as a memorial beside the site of the original building’s foundation. 

[3] Located off the southwest coast of Brighton, the Cascade Archipelago  (formerly home to the BRM) is the current training-grounds for the Brighton Civil Defense Force and all League-Member’s respective Defense Forces. PA, article 2.3-5, “In the spirit of unification, all League Nations shall train together in shared facilities. Training of such forces shall emphasize our need to defend against natural calamity outside wo/man control, and of recognition of the calamity within ourselves as humans.”

[4] The Corporal Garth Hacksaw Memorial Chapel was added to the site during the reconstruction of the original five BRM buildings in memory of his sacrifice at the Battle of Firefield. Speaking at Corporal Hacksaw’s memorial service and grand opening of the chapel, Grand Admiral Azaroth noted, “It was [Garth’s] faith in the Vox that led him back again, and again to rescue his fellow soldier. If faith could give a soldier that kind of strength, every service member should be allowed the opportunity to find the strength Garth possessed.”

[5] Of the Seven Isles in the Cascade Archipelago, three were used as civilian and military bomb shelters. The remaining four served as reserve aircraft and naval construction facilities. Two of the four former military facilities are still operational under civilian contractors. One serves as a memorial.

[6] Of those that worship the Vox, the Tellefort Order holds the majority out of the several denominations, with 72% of the population of Prism claiming to be affiliated in some shape or form with the faith as of the League of Nations’ 1942 census.

[7] Although some denominations of Vox worshipers study some form of martial art, it is among the minority of order’s who do so; less than 10% of monasteries claim to partake in any form of combat training per ’42 LN Census data.

[8] The Polaroid: sacred text of the Tellefort faith consisting of two primary volumes and sixty-six books.

[9] One of the central figures of Vox worship is Jeremiah; a man who claimed to be both fully human and of the Vox. His death and subsequent resurrection is the key to salvation among practitioners of the faith. For further reading, see The Polaroid Books 40-44, Chapters 28:1-10, 16, 24, and 20:1-18 respectively.