Seven Seeds are Sown

Møller I

Globe, Arizona
07/26/2141

A lone cockroach skitters across the filthy, trash-covered floor of the nursing home apartment. It hugs the decrepit walls, keeping away from the harsh light from the television and the old man on the beat-up recliner, staring into it.

This is not a happy place. It's where an old man was sent to die.

Thirty years ago, no one would have believed that General Asbörn Møller would ever be living in such a sorry state. He was THE General for the Thule Pact during World War 3, known as 'The Undefeated' and was the most effective at both saving AND taking lives, on a massive scale. Many didn't like the fact that he used nuclear and chemical weapons to do it, but those voices were drowned out by the hundreds of millions of its citizens who were just happy that someone was turning the tide and not particularly caring if some rules were broken or if a few Alliance cities were destroyed. Despite it all, he was loved, considered his generation's Patton.

So how did it all come to this?

The old man sees the cockroach as it passes by, glaring at it hatefully through his only eye. He had cut an imposing figure once, a stark grey dress-uniform which couldn't hide his muscles, numerous facial scars, a head full of black hair and a patch over his left eye socket which made him look even more intimidating, though even as a General he got his fair share of pirate jokes. Now? Well, he kept the scars and he's still got the eye-patch though he doesn't wear it that often, but the muscles and hair are long gone, he burned the uniform over a decade ago. Now, when he looks in the mirror, all he sees the wrinkled face of a man well past his prime, finally defeated by the most insidious foe: time.

All that's left is a bitter old man, ruined and (perhaps) unfairly punished for a single mistake, a world-ending mistake...

As if sensing his angry gaze, the cockroach skitters away through a gap in the floor board and 'Andrew Smith' lets out a sigh.

Alone again.

He shifts in his seat before returning his focus to the screen, tapping 'unpause' on the remote. Fox News' Gavriella Torres continues:

"-king news tonight as Alliance Chairman Kou Iat Seng announced in a press conference the planned launch date of the Alliance's Colony Ship, the Akatsuki on August 8th, 2148, just over seven years from now. This comes just weeks after President Dwight Walker himself announced the planned launch date of The Intrepid in 2147. Morgan Adams, Chief Political Correspondent, has been gauging the mood in New York since the Alliance press conference ended 45 minutes ago. Morgan?"

The screen shifts, now showing two windows, the left one with Gavriella and right with the political correspondent. In contrast to the primly dressed Latina, the white man on the right can be best described as artfully scruffy, from his clothes to his hair and goatee.

"Thanks, Gavvy. As you could probably imagine, Chairman Kou's announcement has been met here at the Senate Building with equal amounts distress and disdain. As you know, Gavvy, the Alliance, for years, had been struggling to pay off the heavy, but fair, indemnities it was forced to pay after the war. It was only a few years ago that it's economy was considered solvent enough for long-term investment, and yet now we're meant to believe that they're able to afford the trillions in spending required for building a spaceship meant to ferry 40,000 people through space for a thousand years? While that is just half the occupancy of Intrepid, yes, many here are openly skeptical and see this as simple posturing, but many more are also hesitant to simply write them off. Regardless, this announcement, whether it was the intention or not, has really kicked the hornet's nest over here. In any case, intelligence sources within the CIA do suggest that, while the Alliance may, and I stress that word 'may,' be able to match the Thule Pact's launch schedule, they certainly can't match the tens of trillions funneled into the Vault Project. Gavvy."

"Thank you Morgan, we'll speak again soon. In other news, the Al Saud family are again in the news today, following another wave of con-"
"Dad?"

'Andrew' quickly switches off the TV and stands up as his eldest son enters the small kitchenette/living room. After two knee surgeries and a hip replacement, his legs shake under his own weight but he resolves to stay standing. In contrast to his father, John is still young, and looks like Asbörn had in his prime, though with both eyes. He's tall and quite muscular, and still has a youthfulness and vitality despite being near 40. Walking into the room, he takes measured steps and his eyes quickly scan the place. Even on leave, he still has the Army in his stance, his walk, everything.

Good, it'll keep him alive, with my name he'll need it.

Some days, Asbörn has hardly even look at his son, not without being reminded of his own failings, not only because he reminds him of what he's lost, but because of how John's been harmed by Asbörn's ruined reputation. Having served in the Army for 17 years, and with his exemplary service, John should have been made a Lieutenant Colonel by now, but because of his name, his superiors have conspired to find any reason to keep him below the rank of Major. Neither of them have any proof of course, but-

"Christ, Dad! This place is a pigsty, what happened?"

John starts picking up trash off the floor but Asbörn waves him off, the action causing him to violently cough into his hand, it's a wet, hacking cough, and exactly as painful as it sounds. The sight and sound of it are enough to cause John to drop the trash on the counter and really look at his father. He sees his pale skin and red eyes, his shaking legs, and his old and bony hand clutching so tightly to the armrest of the beat-up chair that his knuckles are white. What he doesn't see are the red spots on the hand he used to cover the cough.

"Dad! What happened? Why aren't they taking care of you?"

Asbörn lets out the barest chuckle, the best his aching lungs can manage.

"They stopped cleaning the place or checking on me weeks ago. I think..." he gets a far-away look in his eye for a second, "I found some money missing, I think they were looking for something to take and found the medals, the ones the government didn't already take away."

Another round of coughs strikes Asbörn as his son looks at him in dawning horror, just realizing how bad his father's health has gotten, but still not noticing the blood mist on his father's hand. Once the cough has subsided, he firmly sits his father back on the chair, Asbörn's first instinct is to fight it but he sees the determination in his son's eyes and relents.

"Dad! You look like Hel! This place is no good, I'm getting you out of here." The old man starts to complain but John isn't taking no for an answer. "Eric and Sarah can take you for a month or two while I figure something out. Wait here, don't get up, I'll get a wheelchair." John is already rushing out the door before Asbörn can argue.

He knows John's plan won't work. Eric, the youngest of his two sons, has hated his father his whole life. There's no way in the old man's mind that he'll let him stay even an hour, let alone a month! Disobeying his son, Asbörn slowly lifts himself from the recliner and hobbles over to a cabinet, opening it. He burnt the uniform, more as a sacrifice than out of malice, but kept the few medals his government hadn't stripped from him, as well as his Mjölnir pendant, a keepsake from when he was a fervent Ásatrúi and still worshipped old gods such as Thunar and Wêda, commonly known as Thor and Odin.

Grabbing a plastic bag off the floor, Asbørn starts stuffing his medals, eyepatch, and whatever else will fit inside it before another painful coughing fit starts, worse than any before. Once it's passed, Asbörn looks down at his hand. There's more blood coating his palm than he's ever seen before. Suddenly feeling incredibly faint, he collapses to the floor, the pain from hitting the hard wood hurts little compared to the pain in his lungs and the fear stabbing at his heart. Through it all, he can't help but stare at his hands.

Blood on my hands. Blood on my hands.

Not like this...

After a few moments of incredible pain, a veil of darkness descends and Asbörn Møller knows no more.