“Welcome to the future, today.”
He had just landed on the big
stage, flying on his Exo-Suit, in front of a thousand people. They all had gathered
around to watch the invention that would “redefine
humanity”. The tech that would change the lives of many, improve, sustain,
develop.
Yet he casually flew down. It was
like riding his bike to school or just walking subconsciously towards home
sweet home. As he walked down the wooden floor, the suit started to retract, while
the thrusters and the mechanical palms fumed from the tantalizing heat.
First the arms, retracting behind
his back, showing off his skinny hands and glimpses of an expensive tailor made
black suit. Then the legs and the waist support, looking so fluid as they
turned into a solid mass of metal behind his back, resembling a metallic suitcase
that glowed bright red.
He looked at the audience with
eyes wide open, a strong glare and determination that could pierce through the
strongest of spirits. Project Hercules was born.
“Today we are showing off Project
Hercules, a device that will change the shape of humanity.”
“Made from carbon fiber, enriched
with crystal titanium and carbon carbon, it has immense potential.”
“Actions speak louder than words,
so let me demonstrate instead, rather than showing you a interesting
presentation that satisfies only lust and fantasy.”
His words echoed like a grenade
in the room. He was brimming with confidence and they could tell.
He was holding 3 small silver
balls in his hands, in the shape of a small nut. He played with them for a few
seconds, then threw them to the ground.
They stuck on each other, and then
the suit started to power on again. It looked like a robot, with legs firmly
rooted on the ground and arms streched open, with a gaping hole in the middle.
It was big enough for a human to get inside and be engulfed from steel and
thunder.
He got inside. The arms closed.
The legs too. The chest was barely visible after the pieces were bolted
automatically, while a light blue glass covered his eyes. The disk on his back
glowed green, it looked like a spinal cord made of bright green liquid.
“Maximum strength!”, he said with
a booming voice.
The disk on his back spinned to
the right, turning into dark passion red. He looked bulked up, like the god of
war ready to unleash fury on his opponents. The screws and the metallic ropes
tightened when he turned his attention to a small car that was hiding in the
scene. Just a little everyday car from the 70’s, with sticky plastic seats, no
air-conditioning, a coughing engine and a windshield battered from the air and
rain.
He grabs the car from beneath.
Then, to the amazement of everyone in the room he just picks it up like a toy
and lifts it up above his head.
“Titanic Strength. Similar to how
Atlas of the Greek Mythology was holding the world on his shoulders, you can
have immense strength with Project Hercules, making the hardest of tasks a
simple everyday deed.”
Whispers amongst the shadows,
small talk and discussion between the audience. Amazement and fear in the
atmosphere, you could smell it in the air, like the scent that’s left after the
storm.
Everything is going according to
plan. He is there, in front of all those people, feeling confident, with a car
hovering above his head, light as a balloon.
What is going on? The scenery is
fading. The walls crumble like paper, being blown away by the wind like ashes,
the clear faces of the people around being turned into faceless voids, his feet
trembling beneath the burden of reality, his hands shaking from the problems of
humanity. He looks up and knows this is the time. It’s his harajuku moment.
He falls on his knees. There is
no strength here. He is losing the signal. The car starts to drop down on his
head, sulking him into the abyss.
He wakes up sweaty, with a shiver
sent up his spine, hearing a horrible noise, like a ticking bomb. There’s no
suit to protect him, nothing to cure him off the headache and the pain that
will follow up. He is no hero, no mastermind, no evil genius to take the world
by storm. Yet…
The sound is the alarm clock, the
headache is his father’s voice calling him for work, his sheets on the floor,
leaving him vulnerable.
Reluctantly he picks up his
glasses. He slams the clock. He wears a beat down white shirt with holes that
used to be yellow, a pair of jeans and his trusty old destroyed sneakers. He
coughs and leaves a breath, equal to the sounds of a thousand dead whispering
their problems through the air. He stands up and heads to the exit door.
Snap back to reality Kostas. It’s
time to go to work.
Welcome to Greece Kostas. 5 more
days.
