quick writing exercise. (The Old Guard Eats Breakfast On Mars.)

I sat down earlier today, with the idea to write a little something that wasn't my novel. It's a fragment of some other silly story roaming around my brain. It was fun to write, and I have no plans yet for it. But i thought I'd share it, just because.

The Old Guard Eats Breakfast On Mars.

“The Near Future,” is here on Mars, sitting in a diner: his electric teeth making short work of some better than average Martian Bacon.  He dips his one flesh and blood finger into the eggs, piercing the yolk, watching it burst open a bright green martian yolk, as green as your favourite Earth egg is yellow, and as delicious, as he feels his pulse with his tongue whilst licking the green goo from his last human finger, he looks up and across to his dining companion, and former sidekick: the former “Sparky Jones Jr.” is now more often than not called Morty, by everyone he still talks to, which really is very few given his self imposed exile here on Mars, away from all the action of the Earth, or her Moon. 

Morty still has his patented, trademarked, copyrighted and whatknotted “Spark” powers, inherited from his father, the World War 2 Guardian: Sparky Jones. Morty never got to sidekick, or team-up with his father, who disappeared with half the so called “Old Guardians,” the heroes of the second war to end all wars during some invasion from another dimension. The mainstream media called their sacrifice valiant, and has written them off as dead. 

The Guardian community, though has a million reasons to believe that their fallen forebears will someday return. That’s how the Hero game works doesn’t it. Sometimes you die, but well, not really.

The Near Future, or ‘Neary, ’ as his friends and comrades call him familiarly, despite the fact that he’s made it known for decades that he hates that particular term of endearment. He knows they mean well. After all; he can see in the near future, that’s his power, aside from being half robot, that is. The decades of training with and fighting alongside folks with superhuman level fighting skills and strength has given him an edge in his powered dotage that he is glad to have.

Neary burps, ands flushes red, embarrassed, behind his motorized smile. Even his so called bionic eye seems to glow a deeper red... “Well look Junior, you gotta know why I’m here, you don’t have to be a Seer, or a mind reader to know that, do you?”

“If you call me Junior again I will fry every circuit in your robot hide, my name is ‘Morty,’ or even ‘Mort.’ ‘Morton’ is out of the question. ‘Jones’, would be acceptable, some of the old gang in the New York days, what was that the early 80’s, they used to call me Jones, and I dug it. I do think I know why you are here Neary, but why don’t you just tell me. We’re not arch enemies or anything, no need for all the jousting, capiche?”

The Near Future smiled, his mechanical teeth spun round, so they were this creepy ‘too white’ colour, that gave everyone who saw them the shivers, “Call me ‘Jim’ or ‘Jimmy,’ and we have a deal, on that front. As for the jousting, sorry man, I’m not retired like y’all, I’m ‘on’ far too much of the time. I used to love my secret identity era, before the android thing, having days off. Man that would be cool. But, why am I here? Well, as you think you know, your Dad, My Dad and my Mom, as well as a bunch of other Old W.W.2 Guardians, you know that I’ve seen them return. The current Team Leaders asked me to come to you for advice, why I’m not sure, but they think you will have some insight, that the rest of us don’t.”

The Former sidekick to many, Sparky Jones Jr, his eyes glinted briefly as he smiled, it was Morty who spoke though, “Hmm, I’m not sure what I can add to the think tank on this one, as like you I was only Eleven when it happened, my powers hadn’t manifested at all, but if they are coming back, and you are getting the old band back together, some hinky apocalypse scenario must be trailing them, am I right about that, former Frequent Team-Up pal of mine?”

The Near Future blanched, if that is possible, he felt his blood pressure and oil pressure soar in the two disparate parts of his body, as he recalled what he had see, “They were the Apocalypse I saw. They were changed, darker, stronger, and bent on our destruction.”

“It figures,” Morty signalled the waiter, a human that was Martian born, the Martian lad drifted lazily over to their table and handled the transaction in a haze of distracted jabber, that neither patron could understand as English. The Near future put their unfinished breakfasts on his Guardian Credit card chip, embedded under his fingernail. He was overdrawn again this month, but he never paid attention to things like money.

Morty made a show of sighing, and acting his age, as he limped after his half robotic former team mate. They walked together under the martian moonlight, refracted through the dome they were in; they trod, in the light gravity, harder than either of them needed to toward the Shuttle port across the other side of the dome. They by passed customs when their chips were read, and boarded a shuttle set to leave for Manhattan in the Sky, high above the crater that used to be New York City, back in their day, back before that last apocalypse, or was it the one before that.

The Shuttle was one of those Spheroid designs, created by Dr. Dragonicus before his timely death at the hands of “The Near Future,” in the not so distant past. Both veteran Guardians were impressed with the design, and the silent effortless propulsion, and speeds that got them to Earth’s atmosphere in two days (standard Earth days) of Space Travel. 

While the two were travelling, they rarely spoke, except to talk of their next meal, or whether they wanted to watch a movie, play some ping pong, something to pass the time. The Near future wondered if it was as funny as he thought, that this two day sub-light space trip is the the best vacation he had had in years.