Countdown

APRIL 6TH, 2029


There are 86, 400 seconds immersed within the span of a single day. Within that day, lie countless recollections of simple logistics. Humanity is flawed in a variety of methods, but I fear so little these days that it's difficult to compete. I recall an era quite premature to the current one, strewn with rebellion and previous glances of hope. The world was entirely blank, void of all true destruction. Beings believed that it had been a appalling point, the worst in eons. Belief reigned the beginning of the end based on a fool apocalypse. Abruptly, 86, 400 seconds appeared slim.
I've been sworn to secrecy, and yet my knowledge allows a limited set of boundaries. I'm not particularly aware of the events pre-apocalypse, and nor am I scholarly concerning the immediate "recovery". And yet, I can assure you I'm quite knowledgeable in present. If there was ever a moment in history that the universe would find appropriate to cease within, today would be that day.
It'll be any of these days, really.
The zones have since expanded, growing increasingly corrupt as time has passed. I've taken note of subtle progressions and regressions. The regressions outweigh the progressions. It's entirely possible for immediate annihilation of the human race, but perhaps I'm simply over-dramatizing.
I recall the edges of the Killjoy era, the era abundant with hope. Brightly-shaded ray guns infused with pristine weaponry battled among the colorless environment, the beginnings of an anarchy and yet a dictatorship rapidly arising. Killjoys were rebels, those who rejected the obligatory medication and sedation. I was seven years old when my father met his ultimate fate.
They say he was a Killjoy, my father. In fact, they note that perhaps he was a predominant Killjoy in history. He strode around in a gang with jackets that swerved from the norm of the period, Better Living Industries always persistent among their trail. My recollections include a beat-up Trans Am, a man with flaming locks as my father's best friend, and a modestly designed system. A girl- I claim her title corresponding to that of Grace- existed as well. She was a mere year above me and as far as my existence plagued the gang was entirely infatuated with her.
I can't possible comprehend why.
I'd sit cooped in the corners of an elderly diner, blatant gaze protruding the window, head tucked complacently beneath my knees. And there she'd frolic with my father and his blasted group as though she simply belonged. But she withstood the inability to belong. Only I could belong. I was his son, after all.
They apprehended the title of the Fabulous Killjoys, consisting four men and luminescent weaponry. Certainly, this included a spunky nine-year-old, trotting along as though life consisted entirely of light-weight fantasies. I hate her. I hate her so much it claws from the wreckage within my soul. Oftentimes, my nightmares consist of her wringing my throat, her childish laughter- or all I can recall of it, anyhow- constricting my senses. She hoarded my father's love and attention. She was a Fabulous Killjoy, while I was tucked within.
One day, I'm going to kill her, I promise.
My father's prominent concerns consisted of measly soldiers labeled as "Draculoids", drugged counterparts of the association. They ranked below that of the S.C.A.R.E.C.R.O.W. unit, specially trained assassins. Both assemblies existed within the hold of the alleged Better Living Industries, a cooperation that would eventually expand to initiate chaos. This was certainly inevitable.
Their most entirely difficult enemy resided as Korse. The man contained a sickening paleness and superiority. He strode through the halls of the buildings with absolute vengeance and hatred. His mere purpose was to exterminate the Killjoy existence. His absolute hatred resided in the Fabulous Killjoys. And it is quite a correct accusation to state that he refused to cease his actions until they proved evident.
They did.
On November 3rd, 2019, my father and the remainder of the gang infiltrated Better Living Industries headquarters at the hearth of Battery City. Their conquest was the result of a mere child with astounding importance. Grace.
Grace was rescued.
The Fabulous Killjoys were all exterminated.
I'm going to kill her.
I hate her.
I'm not entirely alone, simply oblivious to the outcries of those surrounding me. The Rebellion consists, residing in an entirely more serious tone than previous. The term Killjoy has faded. We're a force now, an undermining struggle within society. Or whatever exists of society anymore. I'm not exclusively positive I quite comprehend it. Has society expired or have we?
I don't know.
It's been assured to me that my father was a hero, a birthright to fulfill by his mere sanity. He boasted the zones with competence and poise and his inspiration and influence allowed for an overwhelming sense of hope… or at least, that's what they've allowed me to humbly recognize. As a child, I wasn't quite aware of his presence. I was never alike the average population of children, but instead I was alarmingly different. I refused utter conversation with the remainder of the human population. I trusted no one, not even my own father.
I miss my mother.
She had perished within the clutches of the Apocalypse, and yet I never cease to crave her love. I haven't a single idea of her appearance or existence, but quite frankly I adore her. Because she never was allowed the moments in time to betray me.
I was betrothed the role of a hero that I've yet to accept. I reject my fate entirely. Or perhaps my fate entirely rejects me. My father was Fun Ghoul. He was a hero.
But I don't want to be like him.
I am Miles Iero, and this is my story.