TVY: Designated Rebirth

By Leo Crawford

TVY is a series about youth in a chaotic, and contrived world. Most teenagers can barely remember the invasion, but the empire pervades almost every aspect of their lives, and seems to be constantly testing its boundaries.
The series is episodic, avant-garde, and even the full name is a spoiler.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leo Crawford
• Release date: Dec 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005315559

Leo Crawford

I was born.I continue to breath oxygen, and I have a cat.I believe the cat also breaths oxygen, but can not confirm.

Book preview

Chapter 1:

Care and Nurture

Dr. Traily tilted her finger on the switch, gently pressing on the plastic until it clicked, and the canopy of lights on the ceiling flickered and ignited, bathing the room in a warm light. She walked through the brightness of the sterile tiles and benches, high boots clacking faintly.

Coming up to the long counter that met the back wall, she leant forward, eyes narrowed with pride. She slowly caressed the surfaces of the dozen or so large pale eggs that covered the bench, housed in yellow foam.

Sensing another being enter the lab she turned, and saw her co-worker, Doctor Hailo stepping inside the room. As always Hailo was wearing a heavy lab-coat, and his curved spine gave the impression that he sagged slightly under the weight. She raised a hand and made a quick greeting sign.

He came to a stop by her side, and stood almost motionless, towering at least a metre above her, despite his almost decimated appearance. Traily watched his yellow glazed eyes fix on the eggs, watched the green cracks of their veins twisting left and right as he took in the whole batch.

Dr. Hailo straightened, and gestured toward the eggs, in his slow but amazingly delicate manner. Staring at his minutely outstretched arm, which gave the impression of being suspended by an invisible wire, rather than Hailo’s own muscles, it took a second for Dr. Traily to realise he was speaking.

When will they be ready? He asked, in a warm croaking voice, as air was forced through the vocal cords somewhere in his chest.

She turned away from her foreign company, staring at the eggs instead.

Soon. She said, Within the week.

Dr. Hailo made a sound, vaguely reminiscent of a fond sigh.

The sound, which was also rather comparable to that of a small disembowelment, prompted Traily to turn back to her companion.

He continued They will help to cleanse a great deal of the surface world.

Dr. Traily nodded, serenely, as she resumed stroking the eggs, pale hands rustling over the smooth shells.

Dr. Hailo, while used to the behaviour raised his naked brow, causing his upper scalp to remould over his skull. Would you mind terribly, wearing gloves?

Dr. Traily flushed, causing her clasped hands to turn a pale shade of orange.

Of course not. She answered briskly, searching for a clean pair. As she plucked them from a dispenser, she heard Hailo murmuring, sounding rather like a snoring bird-of-prey.

So unprofessional…the risk of it!

Still glowing Dr. Traily slid the gloves on and returned to find Dr. Hailo holding a large shining syringe over the eggs. Moving the tool like an addition to his own hand he gently slid the thin needle into one of the eggs, clicking his tongue comfortingly, almost like a mother giving milk to her children.

He eyed Dr. Traily in what could have been a quiet smile.

Just giving them a little mix of energiser and antidepressant, After all, when things get going, they’re going to need it.

Traily nodded sagely, resting her face on her palm, and watched Hailo injecting another egg with what seemed like loving care.

You think this will get the attention, of them? You know, the uh, Rulers.

Dr. Hailo slid the syringe out, and placed it on a tray, leading Traily to realize he was using a separate needle for each egg-just another thought she’d overlooked which showed why he was in charge. Straightening after the last egg, Traily’s tall companion regarded her.

They already have a very large involvement in this project. They will take an even more prominent role after the young are… ready.

Dr. Traily nodded, feeling a nervous turn of her stomach.

Have you… ever seen them? She asked suddenly.

Dr. Hailo made a choking-cobra chuckle.

Traily, dear, even I myself am not in such a high position as to meet one of the Rulers. I can tell you though- They are not of… my kind.

Dr. Traily looked up at her co-worker.

How do you know? She asked, trying to imagine a number of Hailos sitting around a polished table, sipping from water glasses, and giving speeches.

Dr. Hailo straightened again, smoothly becoming even taller.

I have my ways. He issued. Changing the topic, he extended a hand, slowly twisting his triple-jointed fingers in the air, like an insect’s antennas.

Surprising Traily, he asked, Could the heating in here be dropped by a few units?

Eager to prove herself, Dr. Traily started for the door with a reply of, I’ll see what I can do.

As her frame shrank into the distance, Dr. Hailo watched her.

He nodded, almost imperceptibly, save for the unusual sound it produced. She did look like a stuffed toy from far away.

Turning away from the expanse of the corridor, Hailo lent over the eggs, resting either elbow on the desk in a half embrace of the objects.

He gazed at them, with open fondness, and wonderingly explored his own emotions.

He was proud. He decided. Very proud. Almost as if he had laid the eggs himself. Muffling a laugh at the thought Hailo pulled his lipless mouth into a smile.

You, my dear creations, He said softly to the eggs, voice turning into the warm fuzz of a record, Are going to do the sickness of this world a lot of good.

Repeating the statement in his native tongue, Hailo resisted the urge to grab one of the eggs, to cradle it.

Be careful out there.

Chapter 2:

Track, Ring and Lockers

The mid-afternoon sun warmed Mark’s blond hair as he stretched, sending heat creeping into his skull. With one arm pulled over his head he looked out, surveying the running track. Despite the heat, it was not very bright. Courtesy of a large orange cloud dragging over the sun.

Happy he would not be staring into an eye dazzling heat haze as he ran Mark took one last look around, spotting a few people lingering nearby the fence of the park. Unsure if they were watching him, Mark subdued the thought and began jogging down the flat gravel, warming up for a sprint.

Despite his bubbling energy, Mark felt a slight inclination to go slower, wanting to delay the transfer from the pleasant marmalade tinted course to the cool semi-darkness of the boxing room.

Starting to push his legs harder, he wondered what the upcoming fight would be like. He was, he had already determined, always uneasy before a match in the boxing ring.

In his experience, the challenge presented by seeing his actual opponent for the first time, whether they were larger than him, and so deserved to be humbled, or smaller, and needed to be put in their place, settled him, and his unease was usually replaced by a fierce energy by the time punches were being swung.

As he turned a corner, feeling gravel grinding under his heel, Mark let his mind drift. Overcoming trepidation about the fight with the almost sickening anticipation of his future trip to the North.

He soon found himself standing at the end of the track, fair skin be-dewed with droplets of sweat, and muscles loose and flexible, images of snow-capped mountains and great log huts still swimming through his mind. Not wanting to waste his sun-warmed vigour he fell into a quick walk, heading for the boxing-room.

His opponent, as it turned out, was a grey eyed boy, only a few centimetres taller than himself. While he prepared, tying the red gloves over his fists, and adopting a tooth guard, Mark tried to read his opponent.

High shouldered and well balanced in stance he was obviously experienced in the sport. He did surprisingly well at tightening the second glove. Same implication, probably smarter that he looked as well.

He seemed unexcited about the fight, almost apathetic.

His only sign of any emotion seemed to be a recurring shift of his grey eyes from the exit and back. So, Mark decided, impatient to leave. Maybe expected somewhere else.

Biting down on the plastic in his mouth Mark decided he would be happy to end the battle as soon as possible.

As was noted, on several occasions by Mark’s trainer, the boy had no real interest in boxing. It merely fell under the category of activity which he enjoyed. Thus, he wasn’t specifically motivated.

Even more peculiar than his willingness to be battered and bruised for the sake of a sport he didn’t particularly enjoy, his trainer claimed, was his unnatural calm during matches.

Mark, it seemed, held no ill feeling toward any of his opponents, didn’t get angry, and didn’t gain any enjoyment in his attacks, beyond that of a well performed manoeuvre.

Mark- his trainer had concluded- was perfectly suited for the role of President, and that he should be considering this in his free time, should the position ever become available again.

As well as practicing his rather sloppy counter-block.

Mark, on the other hand, considered himself much more cut out for the role of a shrink.

Easily vaulting over the ropes of the ring, he stood in his corner, and waited for the trainer to blow the whistle. His opponent made another glance at the door, and Mark resisted the unprofessional urge to ask whether his challenger had a phobia of enclosed spaces.

The referee unexpectedly gave a shrill blast on the whistle, making Mark’s eyes flash open. Just in time he was able to dodge his attacker’s rapid assault, managing to strike his opponent in the chest as he turned.

Grey-eyes made another lunge, this one a feint, and Mark felt a pang of self-disappointment as he fell for it, moving to dodge, and having his opponents second strike smack into his jaw.

Undeterred Mark was able to bait the grey eyed boy into striking range and landed two solid punches. As his body acted on instinct and training Mark let himself relax in the tranquillity of his mind and considered his opponent.

After a few more scuffles, and second awakening blow to the head, Mark found his gaze fixed on a point just above his opponents left shoulder.

Curious to the reasoning of his subconscious mind, Mark made a quick hollow strike in the proximity of the area.

To his satisfaction he found his theory to be correct.

The grey-eyed boy seemed to have a very sluggish, possibly restricted ability to defend the left side of his head.

Numb lips smiling over his rough tooth guard, Mark allowed Grey-Eyes a few good blows, resisting the urge to back away from the throbbing impacts on his chest and arms. As his opposition got close enough Mark strafed to the left, and taking a deep breath, managed to send two fists in quick succession, slamming into the boy’s upper jaw.

Almost before Mark felt his glove bounce of the boy’s cheek, his opponent stumbled backward, as if suddenly drunken, just managing to grab onto the ropes and hold himself up.

Giving a sigh of relief, Mark allowed himself to relax, shoulders dropping away from his head, as his body slouched forward.

Following his, slightly questionable victory in the battle, Mark retreated to the changing room to retrieve his regular clothing and catch his breath.

He didn’t however allow himself to entirely un-tense.

His own experiences had taught him that some people, generally those larger them him, felt cheated by their defeat. Grey-eyes hadn’t seemed like the type, but Mark would be the first to admit his victory might have been slightly underhand. Suppose his opponent’s weakness was the result of a damaged tendon or a permanent injury.

Mark’s opinion on fighting, at least in the boxing ring, was based on do-to-as-would-be-done-by. But then again, he didn’t have any permanent injuries affecting his boxing.

Mulling over these thoughts Mark was just beginning to settle, when a sudden metallic clang made him jump. Instantly on edge, his gaze flew to the entry into the room. The door however was still shut.

A second bang echoed through the empty space, making Mark’s spine tingle. Turning, he scanned the room. He was alone, the noise seemed to be coming from one of the lockers.

Staring, Mark stood slowly, brows furrowed. Stepping up to the closest ajar locker, he pushed his arm forward, to pull it further open.

But before he could touch the dented metal, the locker door flew wide open.

There was a flash across Mark’s vision, and a deep bodied whirring filled his ears, as something sharp rammed into his shoulder, and his vision blurred.

Chapter 3:

The Comforting Blur

Lilian slumped in the chair beside her study-desk, sneakers resting on its edge, knees raised in her characteristic posture, which was somewhat reminiscent of a pithed mannequin.

Twisting her head around against the back of the chair she regarded her room, which has well illuminated by a scatter