Bad Touch Yakushi
Active member
Today was set to be the longest day of Comrad Daley’s life. 1003 years long, to be precise.
7 : 4 6 P M
“Catch it Dad!” the younger Daley shouted, pelting the ball far above Comrad’s head into the far distance.
‘That’s my boy’ the proud father thought, the kid’s kick was improving, though he’d have to teach him aim and self-restraint next if he didn’t plan on going to fetch the ball every time his son touched the thing. He stared expectantly back at his Dad, smiling eagerly. This kid would be the death of him one day and at the very least put his back out.
As usual, Coach Comrad sighed comically and walked off the red shrubbery to fetch it back. He was a good kid, he had to remind himself that sometimes- he had his Father’s distinctive, animated eyes, shining bright blue but definitely had the patience of his Mother. Comrad pulled back his thinning grey hair and sighed, this time for real. A deep, heavy sigh he daren’t question or think about too hard. He lit a cigarette and tried to recall the last time he’d gotten a good night’s sleep. God, I need to stop bringing the office back home with me, he thought- trying to clear his head. Spending his precious four hours in-between labour shifts fetching footballs like a dog was hardly what he had envisioned for himself and his family when he started his life over on, the Beckham Base Colony (the ‘Garden of Mars’ my arse’ he had said before.)
"Ah, man." He said under his breath as he pulled it out of the red lake, a sickly light red, like watered-down blood or faded paint. Comrad was so compliant to the demands of paternal life he almost assumed it was something for him to repaint. He half-laughed at himself, joylessly.
‘You can’t fix everything, Dad.’ He said dryly to himself, he looked through groggy eyes at his reflection in the crimson water. A tired, near-unrecognisable face. His stubble turned white over the years, his eyes significantly greener than he remembered and his smile, Jesus-his smile.
Comrad Daley tried with all his might to smile, as if the muscles simply wouldn’t obey- the smile was too heavy to hold. The image of his son shot into his head, that young soul beaming brightly...as if his own flesh and blood had drained him and stolen the smile from his soul, wearing it as his own. Before this thought could last, a sudden sting surged through Daley’s head. As if violating every atom of his nervous system, the shock lasted only a second- but was enough. Comrad Daley fell into the pool of red before him.
7 : 4 9 P M
“-cking repeated conquests of your ripest slut!” shouted a furious Yank, a crazed animal dressed in a blue trench-coat and chains. Daley fortunately only woke up in time to catch the rear-end of the furious curse. The blonde-haired beast kept shouting, thrashing around in his chains in the cell at the end of the cell-block. Chains. Comrad snapped awake in shock, finding his own hands in a lock of their own, an impossibly heavy Cuff-lock Seal. His hands were magnetically sealed, which resulted in the reaction one would expect:
“Help me! Lord, help me, fuck!”
The scream fell into a murky sea of wailing cries, swears and moans. The exclamation was as desperate as it was futile as Comrad Daley found himself just one of many men locked away, big lumbering barbarians to smaller, sneakier types, shaking ominously, nutters- the lot of them. What in high heavens was he doing here among them? Had the last few days of his life been wiped?! On whose authority? This was one hell of an admin screw-up, and one he would sue into the ground. Except…no, it hadn’t been days, more like minutes. He caught view of a giant marble clock mounted to the wall of the cell, an Imperial-white, spotless clock standing out amongst the black, dirty concrete of the room displaying the time and date digitally.
He shook at his bars, reinforced metal that didn’t buckle or bend an inch as he caught sight of the Space Pirate Yank at the far end of the room facing him, realising his chains were his own- decorative and now slightly ironic. Jesus wept, Space Pirates were still a thing? In this day and age? Seeing this gargantuan man spit and swear restlessly allowed it to sink in for him just how out of his depth he truly was. Trapped, far from home, fucked.
Through his tearful eyes, Comrad realised his shouts were in vain and made a conscious decision to stop shouting, realising keeping quiet made him louder than any other man in the room. Disorientated and confused, the boisterous and hopeless cellblock song went on.
8 : 0 0 P M
---
Comrad Daley stood in shocked silence, identified and violated. They didn’t keep that detail of information on the public record. Who was this old man? As if reading his mind, the Doctor stuck out his hand.
“Dr. Randall Roache, pleasure.” His voice was small and scratchy, but he spoke with the precision of a sniper rifle. His extended arm fake-paused, as if expecting to be shook. A cruel joke for the cuff-deadlocked Daley and yet the Doctor showed no sign of a smile or pride. Comrad could think of nothing better to do than shakily laugh along at his joke, wondering if he could flatter his way out of this mess. Fletcher silently held paper cups, almost to a comical effect.
“You can’t charm your way out of chains, Dahley.” He said coldly. “Ugh, the state of you. A drink?”
Suddenly, Comrad’s brain informed him just how parched he truly was and noticing the reaction this gesture got from the convicts around them, he took it politely, thanking him sincerely before guzzling it desperately. Almost instantly, the lights of the room seemed to flicker. Some prisoners watched on frantically curious, those who knew averted their eyes. Randall Roache’s genius had begun to unravel.
“What have…you done to me?” He said, struggling to form or make sense of sentences. He fell backwards, but the experience felt different somehow. Had something happened to the gravity?
“Apologies again.” He said, unapologetically. “I’ve spiked your drink. Volatile subjects don’t exactly respond well to being offered pills. I think you’re ready for a time-out.”
“Please, Sir. Doctor, there’s no….neeeed.” He said, his words slurring and his sentence structuring slowing down. His brain was going full speed but it’s as if his lips were struggling to keep up.
“For an inhuman mass murderer, there’s every need.” He spat with new-found venom. “Now pay attention, we have little time before you serve your sentence.”
“You have the wrong guy.” He repeated, insistent but his eyes alive with terror, but Roache’s glasses reflected nothing back as he pressed on with his schedule. “Let’s not play dumb, you’re familiar with The Foresight, because everybody with half a brain cell knows about Crime Forecasting. Our prediction technology caught you before you could commit Class-A precipitated Murder.”
7 : 4 6 P M
“Catch it Dad!” the younger Daley shouted, pelting the ball far above Comrad’s head into the far distance.
‘That’s my boy’ the proud father thought, the kid’s kick was improving, though he’d have to teach him aim and self-restraint next if he didn’t plan on going to fetch the ball every time his son touched the thing. He stared expectantly back at his Dad, smiling eagerly. This kid would be the death of him one day and at the very least put his back out.
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As usual, Coach Comrad sighed comically and walked off the red shrubbery to fetch it back. He was a good kid, he had to remind himself that sometimes- he had his Father’s distinctive, animated eyes, shining bright blue but definitely had the patience of his Mother. Comrad pulled back his thinning grey hair and sighed, this time for real. A deep, heavy sigh he daren’t question or think about too hard. He lit a cigarette and tried to recall the last time he’d gotten a good night’s sleep. God, I need to stop bringing the office back home with me, he thought- trying to clear his head. Spending his precious four hours in-between labour shifts fetching footballs like a dog was hardly what he had envisioned for himself and his family when he started his life over on, the Beckham Base Colony (the ‘Garden of Mars’ my arse’ he had said before.)
"Ah, man." He said under his breath as he pulled it out of the red lake, a sickly light red, like watered-down blood or faded paint. Comrad was so compliant to the demands of paternal life he almost assumed it was something for him to repaint. He half-laughed at himself, joylessly.
‘You can’t fix everything, Dad.’ He said dryly to himself, he looked through groggy eyes at his reflection in the crimson water. A tired, near-unrecognisable face. His stubble turned white over the years, his eyes significantly greener than he remembered and his smile, Jesus-his smile.
Comrad Daley tried with all his might to smile, as if the muscles simply wouldn’t obey- the smile was too heavy to hold. The image of his son shot into his head, that young soul beaming brightly...as if his own flesh and blood had drained him and stolen the smile from his soul, wearing it as his own. Before this thought could last, a sudden sting surged through Daley’s head. As if violating every atom of his nervous system, the shock lasted only a second- but was enough. Comrad Daley fell into the pool of red before him.
7 : 4 9 P M
“-cking repeated conquests of your ripest slut!” shouted a furious Yank, a crazed animal dressed in a blue trench-coat and chains. Daley fortunately only woke up in time to catch the rear-end of the furious curse. The blonde-haired beast kept shouting, thrashing around in his chains in the cell at the end of the cell-block. Chains. Comrad snapped awake in shock, finding his own hands in a lock of their own, an impossibly heavy Cuff-lock Seal. His hands were magnetically sealed, which resulted in the reaction one would expect:
“Help me! Lord, help me, fuck!”
The scream fell into a murky sea of wailing cries, swears and moans. The exclamation was as desperate as it was futile as Comrad Daley found himself just one of many men locked away, big lumbering barbarians to smaller, sneakier types, shaking ominously, nutters- the lot of them. What in high heavens was he doing here among them? Had the last few days of his life been wiped?! On whose authority? This was one hell of an admin screw-up, and one he would sue into the ground. Except…no, it hadn’t been days, more like minutes. He caught view of a giant marble clock mounted to the wall of the cell, an Imperial-white, spotless clock standing out amongst the black, dirty concrete of the room displaying the time and date digitally.
He shook at his bars, reinforced metal that didn’t buckle or bend an inch as he caught sight of the Space Pirate Yank at the far end of the room facing him, realising his chains were his own- decorative and now slightly ironic. Jesus wept, Space Pirates were still a thing? In this day and age? Seeing this gargantuan man spit and swear restlessly allowed it to sink in for him just how out of his depth he truly was. Trapped, far from home, fucked.
Through his tearful eyes, Comrad realised his shouts were in vain and made a conscious decision to stop shouting, realising keeping quiet made him louder than any other man in the room. Disorientated and confused, the boisterous and hopeless cellblock song went on.
8 : 0 0 P M
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As the clock struck eight, a door unlocked- perfectly on the beat. The entire room fell silent in an instant as a terrifying titan of a man opened the vault door and walked down the steps into the cell. Comrad looked up desperately for answers and broke the silence with a small gasp, he recognized this giant…Diamondback Fletcher, infamous leader of an Australian crime syndicate. His name reached even Mars during his role in events of the Great Capital Purge of ’81. He had hated this man since he heard of him, signed petitions and ranted at his TV at his very mention. And now face to face with him he was…despondent, impossibly tall and…unconscious. He lingered at the end of the corridor dealing with the Pirate, his roars continuing like a boisterous, untamed lion taught to swear.
Fletcher’s huge frame covered Conrad’s view but he seemed to be quietly interacting with the prisoner, monster to monster. Suddenly, the Pirate fell silent mid-sentence, a silence that lasted a full minute. An ominous silence reverbing around the block before ending with a loud metal clunk. The pirate’s cell was open, Conrad and the other prisoners watched in awe as the silenced man simply strolled out of the prison a well-behaved, silent but free man.
“Thank you Fletcher, now. GUILTY-340, there’s a good boy.” Spoke up a mysterious voice.
From behind Diamondback Fletcher pottered out a strange, small little man. Looking to be in his 60s, a bearded, tidy man adjusted his glasses- a sensible, work brand that obscured his eyes. Puzzled further, Daley stepped back and realised the change in atmosphere had been summoned by him, not his brain-dead Hulk of an assistant.
“GUILTY-340?” He called in a shrill voice, browsing the cells casually. “Ah, no. Dahly rather, Mr Dahly.” Snapping his calculated gaze to Comrad as if he knew his location the whole time. “Now, we have an appointment.” Comrad edged to the bars, uncertain of the man but relieved for a bit of normality. This OAP seemed even more out of place than him among these criminals, clearly intelligent- a science division by the uniform.
“It’s uh, Mr Daley actually, but I rather think there’s been some kin-“
“Mistake? No mistake here.
“No really, it’s Daley.”
“Comrad Dahley. Your unusual surname is of Irish descent, inherited from Gengo and Joyce Dahley. 45, Blood type O, Father of two, Capricorn. Enthusiast of gardening, football and lesbian porn.” He said flatly, somehow speaking without emphasis, inflection or irony. “Apologies, I like to be precise. Seems you’ve been mispronouncing your own surname, is all.”
Fletcher’s huge frame covered Conrad’s view but he seemed to be quietly interacting with the prisoner, monster to monster. Suddenly, the Pirate fell silent mid-sentence, a silence that lasted a full minute. An ominous silence reverbing around the block before ending with a loud metal clunk. The pirate’s cell was open, Conrad and the other prisoners watched in awe as the silenced man simply strolled out of the prison a well-behaved, silent but free man.
“Thank you Fletcher, now. GUILTY-340, there’s a good boy.” Spoke up a mysterious voice.
From behind Diamondback Fletcher pottered out a strange, small little man. Looking to be in his 60s, a bearded, tidy man adjusted his glasses- a sensible, work brand that obscured his eyes. Puzzled further, Daley stepped back and realised the change in atmosphere had been summoned by him, not his brain-dead Hulk of an assistant.
“GUILTY-340?” He called in a shrill voice, browsing the cells casually. “Ah, no. Dahly rather, Mr Dahly.” Snapping his calculated gaze to Comrad as if he knew his location the whole time. “Now, we have an appointment.” Comrad edged to the bars, uncertain of the man but relieved for a bit of normality. This OAP seemed even more out of place than him among these criminals, clearly intelligent- a science division by the uniform.
“It’s uh, Mr Daley actually, but I rather think there’s been some kin-“
“Mistake? No mistake here.
“No really, it’s Daley.”
“Comrad Dahley. Your unusual surname is of Irish descent, inherited from Gengo and Joyce Dahley. 45, Blood type O, Father of two, Capricorn. Enthusiast of gardening, football and lesbian porn.” He said flatly, somehow speaking without emphasis, inflection or irony. “Apologies, I like to be precise. Seems you’ve been mispronouncing your own surname, is all.”
---
Comrad Daley stood in shocked silence, identified and violated. They didn’t keep that detail of information on the public record. Who was this old man? As if reading his mind, the Doctor stuck out his hand.
“Dr. Randall Roache, pleasure.” His voice was small and scratchy, but he spoke with the precision of a sniper rifle. His extended arm fake-paused, as if expecting to be shook. A cruel joke for the cuff-deadlocked Daley and yet the Doctor showed no sign of a smile or pride. Comrad could think of nothing better to do than shakily laugh along at his joke, wondering if he could flatter his way out of this mess. Fletcher silently held paper cups, almost to a comical effect.
“You can’t charm your way out of chains, Dahley.” He said coldly. “Ugh, the state of you. A drink?”
Suddenly, Comrad’s brain informed him just how parched he truly was and noticing the reaction this gesture got from the convicts around them, he took it politely, thanking him sincerely before guzzling it desperately. Almost instantly, the lights of the room seemed to flicker. Some prisoners watched on frantically curious, those who knew averted their eyes. Randall Roache’s genius had begun to unravel.
“What have…you done to me?” He said, struggling to form or make sense of sentences. He fell backwards, but the experience felt different somehow. Had something happened to the gravity?
“Apologies again.” He said, unapologetically. “I’ve spiked your drink. Volatile subjects don’t exactly respond well to being offered pills. I think you’re ready for a time-out.”
“Please, Sir. Doctor, there’s no….neeeed.” He said, his words slurring and his sentence structuring slowing down. His brain was going full speed but it’s as if his lips were struggling to keep up.
“For an inhuman mass murderer, there’s every need.” He spat with new-found venom. “Now pay attention, we have little time before you serve your sentence.”
“You have the wrong guy.” He repeated, insistent but his eyes alive with terror, but Roache’s glasses reflected nothing back as he pressed on with his schedule. “Let’s not play dumb, you’re familiar with The Foresight, because everybody with half a brain cell knows about Crime Forecasting. Our prediction technology caught you before you could commit Class-A precipitated Murder.”
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