Day Eighty One : Fissile

Fissile

Definition

1 : capable of or prone to being split or divided in the direction of the grain or along natural planes of cleavage

2 : capable of undergoing fission

When scientists first used fissile back in the 1600s, the notion of splitting the nucleus of an atom would have seemed far-fetched indeed. In those days, people thought that atoms were the smallest particles of matter that existed and therefore could not be split. Fissile (which can be traced back to Latin findere, meaning "to split" or "to cleave") was used in reference to things like rocks. When we hear about fissile materials today, the reference is usually to nuclear fission: the splitting of an atomic nucleus that releases a huge amount of energy. But there is still a place in our language for the original sense of fissile (and for the noun fissility, meaning "the quality of being fissile"). A geologist, for example, might refer to slate as being fissile.

Once upon a time, there was a land of bountiful plentiness, filled with all kinds of fish and fowl, flora and fauna. Lit by a brilliant blue sky and nurtured by an ending blue sea. The trees used to rise above your heads for miles and the grass stretched for eternity under your feet.

Until, by man's greed, the land was split asunder and our gentle land was no more. 

So said the pastel coloured political poster in front of me. 

'Wow,' I thought to myself. 'the religious nuts really are coming out full force this election season. What was their candidate again - some sort of lump of inanimate rock?I guess, at least, they're right about the fact it can't lie. But then I'm not sure how a piece of dirt is supposed to run a country either. Not that the current dirtbags in power are doing that great a job at the moment.'

As if to underscore my metal point, as shower of debris dumped itself on my head from a stray laser shot. 

Nice. Real nice.

I was currently huddled behind one of the writing desks in the central post office. I'd only come to collect a letter, sent to me by my distant cousin with whom I was still in cordial relations with (mainly, or at least in part, due to our shared love of ancient earth period dramas - hence why we loved sending each other 'old style' written letters - which also had the benefit of being much harder to trace or breach and thus kept my movements and my own private business secret from my old family), despite having been ostracized by the rest of my family due to irrevocable differences in our opinions about what constituted a 'good life'. My family firmly believed that if you were well off, well fed, comfortable and had minions that cringed over every word that came out of your mouth, it was a good life. I maintained that if you, in order to maintain said life, had to occasionally burn down buildings, slice off people's extremities and rob others blind of everything they owed due to a dodgy contract they hadn't realised they;d signed, then no, this was not a 'good life'. In fact, in my opinion, it was a bad one. 

they'd kicked me out of the house and told me to survive on my own for a year - no doubt thinking that the harsh outside world, starvation and some more than likely physical and mental assault would have be back on their doorstep, begging to come back in and promising to obey their every word for as long as I lived. 

It's now been five years since I left. 

I won't lie, the first six months were horrendous beyond belief. As awful as my parents were to anyone who wasn't family, they were devoted and wonderful parents who spend all of their ill-gotten gains ensuring the safety and well being of their children. We truly were like royalty raised in an ivory tower. Despite being disgusted by my parent's work, I'd had no idea how much they'd been protecting my siblings and myself from the harsh and brutal realities of the outside world. 

I learnt those realities fast. Very fast. And, even now, I'm sure that I didn't even see the worst of what this world has to offer. In fact, I am certain that, even after kicking me out, my parents arranged for a small group of bodyguards to assist me from the shadows in case it looked like I was in a life threatening situation. Quite frankly, it it the only explanation for my naive self not to have been killed, raped, sold or cut up for spare parts in the first six months of living in the outside world. 

I never relied on them to keep me safe (who knew when they'd be ordered back to the main estate after all) but I sure did appreciate them covering for me while I tried to find my feet in such a dangerous world. 

After six months I had my sea feet under me and I began to seriously advance my plan to become a normal member of the outside world permanently. I got a permanent place - only a room in a shared house but it was mine and mine alone, paid for with money I had earned myself. It was warm, dry and relatively safe. It was my castle.

I had also managed to earn, and retain, a position as a sales girl in the bakery department of a nearby food store - not a small achievement as a stable job like that, especially one which practically guaranteed you could take food home, was like gold dust.

I was enjoying my life. It might not be grand or spectacular but I loved it. 

I think this was when my parents started to panic. They had assumed I'd come running back to them in tears, begging for their help. However, this was not happening, in fact, their worst nightmare was coming true. 

I wasn't coming back home. 

The first thing they did was recall the group of bodyguards (that I wasn't even supposed to know about in the first place - although I suspected they left one behind, just in case). This made surprisingly little difference to me. By this point I was well aware of the danger held in my current surroundings and had been taking adequate measures to deal with the day to day risks for months now. I had never relied on the bodyguards to save me (but I must be honest and admit that I had needed them when I had first been exiled, no doubt about that. I simply had not known enough about the outside world to guard myself against it. Then. Now was a completely different story.)

The next thing they did was burn down my house. This, to me, seemed like somewhat of an extreme jump. Luckily no one was hurt but it meant we were all completely homeless. When I looked at the crying faces of my housemates, who had lost everything to the flames, my heart hardened. I was never going back to a place where they thought arson was an acceptable way to deal with an unruly child. 

My parents protested mightily against my accusations when I demanded an explanation and recompense for my house mates. They said that they would never do something that would run the risk of endangering me. However, how long had I been their child? Long enough to recognise the scent of their favourite accelerant, long enough to know from the path of a fire whether it was deliberately set or an accident, long enough to know that they had detailed knowledge of my daily routine.

Long enough to know that yes, this is something that they would do. 

I wore them down far enough that they (as a gesture of goodwill they said) paid for my housemates to find new accommodation and employment. then, just as they were patting themselves on the back for a job well done, I vanished. 

I had always know, deep in my heart, that my parents loved me absolutely. In that respect, they were wonderful parents. However, I also knew that my parents thought that they knew best about what would make me happy (like many a parent) and that, even if I disagreed with them, I would come around to it once I saw that they were right. 

I could never agree with my parents way of life. It was true that I could see the many benefits of it, even more so now that I had been outside for nearly a year, but the truth was I just couldn't stomach it. And I think if I could get to a point where I could, then I wouldn't be me anymore.

But I just couldn't seem to make my parents understand this. 

And so, Operation Bolt, which I had been planning as a back up, back up plan since I was kicked out of the house nearly a year ago, was put into play. 

In our, now basically destroyed world, it is relatively easy to vanish, as long as you don't mind how dangerous or clean your living areas are, even with a family as powerful as my own. You just simply had to disregard all your usual views on your personal safety and go where only a crazy person would consider viable. 

And no, I did not go live with the cannibals. I'm not that crazy.

I moved to Cyborg Town.

You'd think that living which a bunch of emotionally wounded and unstable half human half machine creatures made for War would be a bit dramatic. I know many of the other species thought so and, apart from a few rare individuals like myself, Cyborg Town was populated by Cyborgs only. However, i loved it. They had been incredibly welcoming to me when I applied for citizenship - especially when i said i was here to open a bakery (apparently delicate machinery does not mix well with the gloopy dough that eventually becomes bread) and i did a bustling trade. Plus not even my family would ever consider piking a fight with a cyborg - even if they sent a whole troop it would be nothing but a slaughter if they tried to take on one, let alone a whole town. 

It was blissful. 

However, I still had to go into the more cosmopolitan areas for supplies and to pick up my letters, so I was extra on guard whenever I went. If it was just supplies sometimes I asked one of the Cyborg residents to pick it up for me for a small charge, but if i knew there was a letter waiting, I went myself. I did not want the residents to get mixed up in the awfulness that could be my family. I still woke up from nightmares about the expressions on my previous housemates faces when they realised their home had burnt down to the ground. 

And so, now i was here, in the Post Office, waiting for the idiots trying to rob it to realise what a hideous mistake they had made. 

A giant armored crocodile burst through the front doors, roaring furiously. The robbers immediately dropped their guns, hands thrusting into the air. One of them peed themselves. I crinkled my nose as the smell. 

The crocodile started herding them towards the holding cells (seriously, what idiot would rob the Post Office, of all places. Don't they know how insane these people were? They delivered post all over for heaven's sake - and you expect them to be afraid of a gun? Wonders never ceased).

I settled back against the desk. Clean up would take a while and I assumed they'd want statements at some point, so I might as well read my letter in the meantime. 

I opened the envelope. 

"My Dearest Cousin,

I do hope my missive finds you well and without harm. I must confess to the most alarming news, my dearest cousin...

Oh sod it. It's your mother. She's tracked you down.

She's coming to see you.

Oh. Shit..........