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Cosmic [pro-ch1/6]

*edit* N E W S *edit* This is a First Draft. It is complete and currently Undergoing Rewrite.

how this all got started: well, something like more than 10 years ago while listening to Jamiroquai's Traveling Without Moving cd, track numero 2, Cosmic Girl and reading this trashy futuristic romance novel, E and i laid out the proper premise for the SkyPirates (called Sigh Surfer's) in the Realms belonging to Vai. Unfortunately, we tend to have a lot of ideas and a propensity for procrastination and laziness bordering on criminal (forgive us), and as such our main Surfer, - Jack - has a name that has already been made famous, damn you Disney. For right now we're leaving it Jack, because well, you'll see if we should ever get to his story properly instead of him existing vicariously through your learning about members of Jack's crew. So the name will likely change to Jax or Jace (grr none of which bear the proper ring to it combined with his Legendary Name: Ice Eyes) but we're feeling nostalgic; 10 yrs plus, we finally finished a book dammit, w00t! . . . now its just typing it *sighs*, this is our only priority til its done.

Oh by the way, it reads very odd, you have to think about two people telling the same story with different priorities on what's important to divulge, lots of commas, half-assed sentences and what could be run on sentences -- not all of them, though, some are pure negligence.

We're not hiding this one. we're proud. can we do that?

Cosmic © property of Kenen and E. Entity. Do not repost. Do not repost and claim as your own. Do read. Do enjoy. Do comment.


“Dammit, Jack, what are you so upset about!” The small ship shuddered and groaned as it barely weathered another hit. Its pilot was bathed in crimson luminescence that caused his blue skin to glow lavender, warning sirens blaring in his wispy ears. His long, tapered fingers flew over the control panel, one golden eye on the cracked screen before him, the other on the craft’s heating gauge. The thermometer was slowly but surely reaching maximum heat. Amber lips barely moved as he swore under his breath.

Ice Eyes Jack Jacy, the most infamous Sigh Surfer in all of the cosmos, was not going easy on him. The Surfer’s old fashioned ship, The Merry Death, had its sails fully extended and blazed with crystal power. The canons were being reloaded by a bustling crew as Jack Jacy peered through a scope at Alinon’s own, broken, stolen craft. The Merry Death was easily gaining on him.

“Alinon Galica . . . giving . . . three seconds!” Jack’s voice cackled over the failing communicator.

“Oh, come off it, Jacy, I told you what I was after when you found me on,” Alinon growled back. Fingers tapped over the control panel. His query was for an industrial planet nearby that he could safely crash on. While he rebuilt his shuttle he could hide out from Jack until the Sigh pillager’s anger cooled. Hopefully, I won’t die before then, Alinon thought morbidly.

“ . . . Three . . .”

The damaged system took three extra nanoseconds to process a suggestion. Alinon’s already failing humor completely blackened. Where in Vai’s Breath did that lunatic take us? But there was no choice for Alinon if he couldn’t talk Jack Jacy out of this snit the Surfer had worked himself into. “Oh come on now, Jack, you liked me well enough before this happened. Did you think I was playing around?”

“Think . . . am? . . . Two.”

Alinon exhaled gustily in complete annoyance and then bit his golden hued bottom lip as he confirmed the course. The blast from The Merry Death’s canon should give the shuttle the extra boost it needed to make it. “Jacy, you’re being completely unreasonable.”

“ . . . How unfortunate . . . One.”



Alinon groaned and placed one hand to the back of his aching skull. The landing hadn’t been one of his best. At least the shuttle hadn’t blown up. He sat back slowly, wincing as a his neck twanged in outcry and a scab he hadn’t been aware of ripped, causing light blue blood to ooze down his forehead. The communicator was fizzling. Jack Jacy’s voice, very faint, anxiously called to him.

“Alinon Galica, so help me, if you’re dead . . .”

The blue pilot touched his forehead, winced and then grumbled, “Dammit Jack, you’re not supposed to sound so worried.”

“I lost my temper,” Jack mumbled, barely intelligible over the ruptured system.

Alinon groaned again but for a completely different reason. He could imagine Merrec, the Surfer’s voice of reason, glowering at Jack for the incident that had just occurred. Alinon decided to be forgiving, if only to smooth it over between them. “Stop. It’s not very intimidating for the most nefarious Surfer of Vai’s Sigh to apologize.”

Though technically, Alinon thought, Jack didn’t say he was sorry.

Alinon sighed tiredly. “Just come down here and pick me up and we’ll call it quits.”

There was a pause and Alinon feared the severely malfunctioning communicator had finally died. But then Jack’s voice cackled through it to fill the crimson stained pilot cabin. “No.”

“What!” Alinon jerked his head up as though he could see Jack Jacy before him; he instantly regretted the movement. Pain danced along his spine making his vision blur and head swim.

“You can give me a call when you’re ready to apologize.”

“Jack . . .”

“If I can admit when I’m wrong so can you. You stole from me remember?”

Technically, the alien wanted to say, but decided it best to save that argument for another time.

“Jack . . .” Alinon repeated a little more urgently.

“Are you injured?” the Surfer queried.

“Yes,” Alinon answered in a tone that suggested that his condition should have been obvious.

“Good,” Jack chirped. “Stay there for a while and heal up the old fashioned way.”

“Dammit Jack!” Alinon’s golden lips pursed together in irritation. Ice Eyes Jack Jacy was well named; especially if he could endure the disappointed glare Merrec was undoubtedly leveling him. Alinon waited to see if the captain would say more or maybe change his mind. However, the cabin remained quiet but for a few sparks occasionally flickering through the computer’s wrecked system. If Jack Jacy had wanted to punish the blue-skinned stowaway he had succeeded beyond his wildest imagination. “You bastard, Jack Jacy, you could at least tell me what an ‘Earth’ is.”

By: Kenen and E.
Warnings: Unbetaed, nude moments of a self-gratifying nature, male x male, hetero attraction, stereotyping.

Chapter 1

Just one more class, Leonard Dukakis thought as he spun the combination to his locker. One more fifty-five minute session of pleasure or hell and then he would be free for the next month or forever depending upon what he decided. He had enough credits to graduate from high school now instead of in the spring, but there was something holding him back. And as he turned his head slightly to the side, and peered up the hallway he saw it on the arm of Curtis Gage, quarterback, and resident asshole of Precise Excellence Academy. He was also the boyfriend of Jennifer Sexton, the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen in his life.

It wasn’t that Jennifer even knew of his existence, he was fairly sure that peripherally, somewhere in the back of her gorgeous mind, she had seen him; would know him in a lineup. But in graduating early Leonard would lose almost -- read all -- chances of seeing her at least for one more semester. Five and a half months of distantly worshipping golden blonde hair, intelligent forest green eyes, and generous lips that rarely saw make-up. She had freckles all over her body and Leonard imagined each one to be a tiny erotic spot. She wore thin, pink rimmed glasses; though, once or twice, on picture days, Leonard had seen her in contacts. She was way too good for Curtis.

Unfortunately, Curtis Gage did not think the same as he scanned the hallway and happened to notice Leonard’s gaze. “You looking at my girlfriend, dweeb?” he was demanded.

Leonard Dukakis was acutely aware of the other students bustling down the hallways to their other classes, or making a pit stop as he was to their lockers. He was also consciously aware of most of that activity stopping, taking keen interest in Curtis Gage, their hero, addressing his lowly self for having dared befoul what Curtis claimed as his with Leonard’s myopic eyes.

“I asked you a question.”

Leonard pushed thick glasses further onto his nose and took a deep breath, trying to look anywhere but at Curtis Gage. His idea was to let ‘big, alpha male baboon’ parade, show his ass, beat on his chest, the works, if he didn’t make eye contact then Curtis would have proven his dominance and subsequently leave him alone. Leonard was no good at the supremacy game. No good for that chest thumping, playful punching ritual those larger males tended toward.

He was supposed to be doing something, apologizing, something to take the stares and Curtis Gage’s regard from his person. Leo shook his head almost steadily in denial. “Nothing,” he answered.

He supposed it was what Curtis wanted to hear. He turned in to his locker wanting it to be over with; hoping he was small and pitiful enough to not warrant further humiliation. To an extent he was. He felt better about the situation – Curtis, not so much. Gage seemed angry at the capitulation, thwarted whatever pleasure he received from picking on those smaller than himself. Leonard was oblivious to the danger. He placed the books in his locker and closed it, turned to see Curtis Gage, scowl still firmly in place. Leonard felt he had severely miscalculated something. It was . . . unlike him.

By all accounts, Curtis should have done his manly protector of all things Jennifer Sexton dance and disappeared. But he hadn’t yet, and Leonard felt very small indeed. His book bag was slapped from his hands and he let it fall. Ah, he thought. Threats not enough today. Dominance games were tiresome; today it would be physical. A reminder of why Curtis dated Jennifer. A parody of competition.

His sweater was seized in a meaty fist and he was hoisted at least five inches from the linoleum. “See that you keep looking at nothing,” he was ordered.

He was then left to gravity and fell to his knees. Already forcefully bent low he began to retrieve his fallen bag. Curtis Gage left, he would be late for practice if he dallied any longer.

And then something out of the ordinary occurred. Something he never would have considered in all his life. Jennifer Sexton, waiting in the wings until Curtis’ form disappeared around a corner, knelt beside him and helped to replace the few pens and loose notebooks that had fallen from his open bag. It was no good, Leonard was a wreck.

How many times had he wondered if she had noticed him? How many times had he wished for a moment much like this one – reversed; he should be helping her, proper Homo sapiens after a Neanderthal's fumbling with the courtesies and speech of civilized men.

“I’m sorry about him,” she said. Her voice was steady to Leonard, always firm and sure of what she was going to say.

Leonard’s mouth quirked, “It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“Why?” she queried, head tilted, their eyes met.

“Because . . .” there was no nice way to say it, and no need to sugarcoat it as she’d already acknowledged what her boyfriend did wrong. “That’s what your boyfriend does.”

“Yes . . .” A pause, a push to the glasses on her face, and then, “Yes, but I feel I should make it up to you somehow.” She smiled, dimpled her cheeks, making little bowls of freckles. “You should come to my party.”

Leonard blinked, unsure if his thick glasses had somehow confused his ears, because Jennifer Sexton, the girl of his fantasies, had just asked him to her Christmas party. It was invite only. It happened every year. Only those considered ‘cool’ were ever encouraged to show their faces there. Cool, but otherwise the dregs of humanity; the popular kids. The ones with artificial feelings, superficial faces, inconsequential brains. It was no good, Leonard did not want to attend even if it was Jennifer Sexton who stood beside him digging in her checkered pink book bag to produce an invitation wrapped in an ornate Christmas envelop.

She handed it to him like it was her most prized possession, and Leonard Dukakis, five foot nothing, blinded by dimples that looked like mini containers of corn flakes, couldn’t refuse.

He should feel elated, but he didn’t. Jennifer Sexton was the girl he had watched from afar since moving from the English countryside to the America’s when he was eight. She was the ‘older woman’, two grades his senior until he’d been tested and found above average than his peers. When his parents asked if he wanted to skip a grade or two, of course he had said yes. Not completely because of Jennifer, no, but she had come into consideration. Then she had been the pretty, freckled, pigtailed redhead – which had since dulled to a burnished blonde.

In fifth grade they had competed in a school-wide spelling bee together. She had lost in the final round and he’d gone on to be the victor. She had given him a hug then, and said congratulations without malice – which, coincidentally enough, was the word she had misspelled.

In eighth grade they’d been lab partners in Biology. She hadn’t been squeamish as they dissected reptiles or studied dragonflies pinned to a collector’s board. She hadn’t begged not to be paired with the little nerd with the thick glasses over her boyfriend at the time. Though they’d met up on numerous occasions over the years, Leonard could honestly say it had been a rather detached relationship.

The boundaries had never blurred, and never hoped too.

But he had a much coveted Jennifer Sexton invite in his hands and perhaps his years of idol worship would finally pay off.

For once, people stepped out of his path rather than in to it – or through it – as he navigated to fencing, his last class of the day. He changed in to the required jacket, three weapon mask, and gloves. He left the mask up as he chose his favorite foil. The blades were real enough, though very dull, and had a protective rubber barrier over the tip. He had all this and more in much better quality at home. Jacket, plastron, mask, glove, pants, and a custom made electric sabre, all that a two-time regional fencing champion would need to take the title once again.

He stretched with his classmates, enough to keep the class from cancellation, but an odd numbering. Leonard usually paired with the instructor as he’d been fencing since he was six. His father had suggested a sport then, something to even the odds for him against children who refused to grow at a normal rate. The choices had been fencing, fútbol, football, or track. Leonard supposed if he hadn’t chosen one of them his overprotective father would have chosen dueling pistols or worse. His father had claimed he needed to build character, of course, learn to survive. Because all second graders should be familiar with the art of pistol whipping bullies. Still, Leonard was grateful to his father. At the time, at best, he could have been called clumsy, a living breathing invitation for mockery. In training with a heavy practice epee against foes with longer reach he had learned a quick grace that had saved him from many disasters.

Now as he fell into the familiar repertoire of defense, attack, block, everything returned to proper perspective. He should toss Jennifer Sexton’s invite in to the trash on his way home – get rid of it, get rid of the proof that she had deigned to defy Curtis Gage, resident God and porta-potty of Precise, and help him after being accosted. Ignore that this was what he’d wanted all his life: Jennifer Sexton looking at him in concern for more than her grade or where she had fallen short.

The invitation remained safely in his book bag all the way home.