Tibby’s list of Happy Thoughts

As I race through the infested forest of Belate, a jungle as thick as your amazons, running for my life so this lizard-snakes mother doesn’t chomp its jaws down on my blue behind, I try to run through brain exercises to distract myself from my impending doom.

Think happy thoughts, Tiberia. Think happy thoughts.

Ah, scalpels. Yes, scalpels make me happy. Specifically, my scalpels. Cleaning them in cloric acid, watching the silver shine through.

Money. Money makes me happy. Money makes me very happy. Perchance, if I had some money, I would not be running for my life, with a dead snake head in my sack, and its mother slithering behind me, “Ah!”

I jumped with a screech as the snake clamped down on my tail. The poor thing, I had just grown that back.

With its length, it whipped its head back and yanked me off the ground. In an effort to save myself, I pulled a scalpel from my boot, twisted my body and sliced my own skin, cutting my tail as close to its jaws I could get, and fell back down against the vine floor.

Dirt. I was now really happy for dirt. Nice, soft dirt. For if it weren’t for dirt, I would probably have a shattered collar bone, or worse, a broken spine.

And a tail that grew back. Yes, I was very happy for a regenerating tail. My balance would be off for a day or two, but my tail was a rather resilient limb, in that it would stop bleeding after an hour or two and slowly grow itself back. In fact, as most species would consider it a pest during battle, I cherished my tail, as it could hold the light when I did not have a proper lab with the proper lighting to do my work in.

I huffed and clawed at the ground to get back to my feet, blood spilling from my gaping would. That would need to be clamped soon, though, so I did not attract more ferocious animals.

Running once more while this mother Spiner finished off what little of my tail she had devoured, I scanned the area around me for a plant that would paralyze, or poison the beast. My eyes and nose were of average use to me, I was happy that my thirst for knowledge has trained them in the ways of botany.

There, in front of me were gooberries, a blue carnivorous plant that released a sweet paralyzing goo as it touched your tasteful, before shooting thorns from the fruit to rip an eaters throat and stomach open.

I had never been more happier to spot a carnivorous plant. I snagged the base of the plant and tugged as hard as I could. I was yanked off my feet, unable to uproot the plant with my strength, and fell flat on my back. Oh for the love of science, why did I have to be so weak!

The beast slowed its slithering, reeled its head back and dove straight down to swallow me in one blow. My mono-blade stuck in my backpack, I had no time to retrieve it before I was Spiner food. I let go and rolled away as far as I could, happy for my quick thinking skills. The large snake dug its teeth into the dirt, snapped down on the gooberries and swallowed.

I finally stopped in a pile of ivy, and covered my head counting backwards from  three,

Two,

One.

The Spiner’s stomach bulged out and exploded, shooting its guts twenty feet outward. If it had not been for my weak strength, it may not have swallowed those gooberries. And for that, I was very happy that I had spent my lifetime training my mind and not my body.

As I was a female of science and not religion, I did not put much faith into divine intervention. However, I did believe in luck. And I was very happy of how lucky I had been these past few weeks.

I stood and brushed the snakes guts and ivy from my chest and legs, happy and delighted to be born a Torbe, a species that was naturally resilient to most poisonous plants.

I took a moment to clamp my tail, hissing in pain. Then, I retrieved my mono-blade from my sack, cut part of the Spiner’s head off, the part with the venom, and retraced my steps back to civilization, to claim my reward.

Thoughts for Food

When did crude become eloquent,
Crass become unique
And vulgarity become beauty?
What is a name?
When borders blur like smudges on chalk boards,
He is her,
She is him,
We are you,
And you are not blameless,
When judged by more than that which we define ourselves as.

But,
Whats in a name?
When defined, we defy
What lies next to our thesauruses?
It’s changed so frequently,
Typos in societies context,
Sue becomes Mary,
Mary becomes Glenda,
And Glenda becomes famous.

When the name has been used up
And tossed away,
Does it remain true to oneself.
If you are your own definition
No matter what they say you are,
Are you still defined?
Or merely rolling down the pages
Until Glenda arrives?

Then, who are you to define yourself?
Others are greater than the mere you.
When does majority not rule?

A food’s thought ends at a luncheon ajourned.
Am I still me?
And will your proclamations ever prove otherwise?

Tibby’s Important Life – part 4

(The autobiography of a young, self-centered Torbe, struggling through space to be the best doctor in the universe, as told through journal entries. Based on the rpg, “Stars Without Number”.)

November 26th, 3225,

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Sacrificial Protestent Kristan Monk (Courtesy of Pinterest)

With the last 50,000 credits, I finally escaped the slum planet of Belate, only to dive right into the heart of death. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as the Terran saying goes, I suppose. Trudging through the black market (which is practically “the” market on Belate), I was able to find the grittiest smuggler around to sneak me onto the next ship that touched down.

I should have wired him the money when I was finally safe. We got just on the other side of the landing bay when he demanded his payment and bolted back over the wall. I also should have asked for information on the ship I was boarding, because if I had known that I was sneaking into a minor cruizer that belonged to the Sacrificial Protestent Kristans, I would have spent the rest of my credits on a whole medical crew. A brave one of course.

You see, the Sacrificial Protestent Kristans are a religious sect that, I was soon to learn, conquer and sacrifice entire planets to replenish their soldiers, empty zombie like corpses animated by cyberware known as revenant wiring, which allows the nearly dead or once living to attack and accomplish tasks given by a central AI.

Yes. Through a narrow vent, I snaked my way through their vast and complex cooling system, which I assume kept the specimens from decomposing prematurely, into the lower holding cells where the Not-yet-converted resided, until they were lifeless enough for the Ministers to perform the conversion process.

A process, by the way, which melds the cybernetic revenant wiring with the organic material by accelerated fission. A sight more beautiful than a binary star dance through a meteor shower.

After witnessing this event, I decided that I must experience and perform this process myself. After much observation, however, I did discover that the Ministers were able to perform this process by using their own psionic powers. A power I did not possess, nor would I want to. This mind was far too great to chance on losing from a terminal aneurysm or another “Scream”.

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Tibby (I do not own this)

However, this did raise my interest in psionics. If I ever met one willing enough, I would at the very least love to hook up some wires to their head and watch the monitors light

up from their brain activity. At the most, slice up their brain into one inch samples to place and preserve in slides, so that I could study them for years to come. (Now, that is something this mind is worth trading for.)

Hiding behind the dead, and given the fact that I was lucky enough that I already smelled like the dead, a scent that never truly left me once I started carving up bodies, I avoided their senses long enough for them to travel through spike drive to the next planet. Then I stole a few specimens I had not yet studied, along with some reverent wiring, and hightailed it out of there.

I did lose a few inches on my tail, as well as the reverent wiring, on the way out the landing bay doors. At least my tail would grow back.

Now, I remain hunkered down under a mortuary, hiding for my life, until the Sacrificial Protestent Kristans give up in their search for me, and of course, the total domination of the planet.

Tibby’s Important Life – part 3

(The autobiography of a young, self-centered Torbe, struggling through space to be the best doctor in the universe, as told through journal entries. Based on the rpg, “Stars Without Number”.)

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(My icon for Tibby in my rpg group. I don’t own this.)

September 13th, 3225,

I have spent the last three months applying as a physician among this low tech, perpetulant place of a planet, Belate, dragging from city to city in what they consider “high class” carriers, and staying in “five star” residencies, within the “upper class” part of town. I swear by the all holy prophet Tiberius himself, if I spend another moment in this forsaken Badland under belly, I will begin to lose I.Q. points.

I took a job as an “assistant” to a local physician, and he gave me a crude knife to to amputate an arm infested with Gangreblu! A knife, for Crohn’s sake! (What? Just because I don’t believe Dr. Tiberius was a prophet, doesn’t mean I cannot use his name in vain, if I choose to.) I can guarantee that patient would have preferred to be swallowed whole by the parasite counterpart to the Terran’s infamous “Gangrenous necrosis”, than suffer through the pain and agony that would ensue from the infections a crude knife would have given him, and eventually die of Gangreblu anyway!

Then, that foctling doctor fired me when I incinerated it! Oh, the science of the matter! I swear, I will get off this forsaken planet if it is the last breath this Torbe breathes.

Feel Different

Image by IHeXeDI

He. Eheh… Um… So, while surfing my own webpages on the internet (someone has to), I came across this journal entry from Deviant Art. … Yeah, this was the year I graduated highschool… Hey, we all make bad decisions as teens, mine were just… Slightly more inner hateful than most…

“April 15, 2011,

It doesn’t cut. I tried and I tried, but it never cuts. I want to feel it, see it, taste it, but it never cuts.

I want to make it cut, stab it, destroy it, rip it to pieces. But, it never works for me. Why does it never work for me?

I couldn’t kill myself if I wanted to, I could hurt myself if I wanted to, I couldn’t become sick if I wanted to, I couldn’t even puke if I wanted to.

But, I want to, I so want to. I want to feel the pain, the sorrow. Being stuck in the normality is worse than being beaten, worse than dying, worse than rape, worse than torn families, worse than broken bones, torn clothes, homelessness, poverty.

… Because, when everyone else has something bad to talk about, you could never understand them, you’re just too normal.

Listening to: The screaming pain of you complaining
Reading: Your eulogy
Watching: You burn
Playing: With your mind
Eating: Your sorrow
Drinking: Tea

Tibby’s Important Life – part 2

(The autobiography of a young, self-centered Torbe, struggling through space to be the best doctor in the universe, as told through journal entries. Based on the rpg, “Stars Without Number”.)

tibby2
(My icon for Tibby in my rpg group. I don’t own this.)

May 31st, 3225,

Though my travels have taken me to many sectors, I still only have a small amount of twenty-three different species studied, nineteen of them being unintelligent creatures, and fourteen of those were animals. My first travels led me aboard Crow-Ian Sphtew, a carrier fleet, where I worked “pro-bono”, as they say, for the first six months, in order to keep a constant flow of specimens. It was easier to set up as a doctor and have them come to you, then to go out looking for consensual lifeforms.

A decision I greatly regret to this day. After two transplants, and five amputee-cybernetic enhancements, all of which I had to pay for myself, I was beginning to receive complaints of my work. Apparently, most humans prefer frail body parts, to steel, mechanically engineered ones. The mercenaries never complained, though, it was usually just the tech crew.

After traveling with the Crow-Ian Sphtew for about three months, their Captain, Du-gon, sent me down to the planet of Belate to gather some more medicals supplies. And of course, he ordered the pilot to leave as quickly as he had landed, once I was on the ground. A disappointing endeavor, as I am down to my last hundred grand of credits.

Belate is where I lay my new bed, and my pen, for the evening. Tomorrow marks a new day, and new days bring new chances to change the understanding of science as we know it today.

Look out, tomorrow. Tonight, you sleep so soundlessly, but at the dawning of the birth, you will be at the mercy of my operating table.

(What, have I now become a poet in the absence of specimens to study?)

Tibby’s Important Life – part I

(The autobiography of a young, self-centered Torbe, struggling through space to be the best doctor in the universe, as told through journal entries. Based on the rpg, “Stars Without Number”.)

tibby2
(My icon for Tibby in my RPG group. I do not own this.)

 

September 28th, 3223,

I was around the age of twelve when my parents discovered that I was not like the normal, good little behaved Torbe. Madra and Pit’dre caught me delicately slicing open their neighbors dead Terracat, out behind our Sucrose fiends, in the old hut, which I had cleverly converted to my own laboratory. Of course, I knew far before then that I had already risen above the Believers of the Sky in intelligence and wisdom, and prepared myself for my punishment of harsh whippings, harvest duty with the day workers and a hundred page essay summarizing the Book of the Sky and the teachings of the additional Testaments from the past nine hundred years. A drag of an afternoon that was.

Little did they know that Mr. Whips had already died by the time I found him. And I was not about to let the freshest specimen I had ever encountered go to waste. Science would not allow it, and neither would I.

I have always been fascinated by the many different species in our vast universe, and the inner workings of each being. And while I excelled in the religious teachings from school, I never practiced them at home. And nothing ever interesting me more than that of living flesh. And what it does when it dies.

Being the only daughter of the elders of Zhang-Guo-Lao, my “disturbing” inquiries of the Torbe body, and the study of many other creatures from Voulgaris, had to be covered up some way or another. In return for my silence to the outside word, my parents furnished my hut into a fully functional Lab, where I could continue my work, in peace.

They always threatened to have it torn down when my visits to the mortuary became front page news, but they never truly followed through with that one.

Passing grade school at an early age of sixteen, I was provided with a much larger research lab, and my own living quarters, in the bigger city, where I would attend medical school. “Perhaps moving her “studies” out of town will quell her constant state of embarrassment for us,” I remember Madra telling Pit’dre one evening, before they broke the big news to me.

And I applaud them for their efforts, I really do. I also do not intentionally disrupt others faith in their elder status. I simply refuse to keep quiet on the matter of science. It must be shared with the world.

I believe it was just after graduation, when I had announced that I would be working as a professor at my old school in Zhang-Guo-Lao, that my parents made their final decision on their daughter’s fate.

They have spent the last few months making all of the necessary changes and connections, to ensure the move goes as smoothly as possible. They have even provided a small staple of 300,000 credits to get me off to a good start on my journey.

Yes. Tomorrow, I leave my home world, Zhang-Guo-Lao and Voulgaris, to start my traveling from planet to planet, analyzing and dissecting every known species in the universe. Madra Sea-La Mermani and Pit’dre Mao Mermani, I hope that when we finally meet again, it is when I can prove, without a doubt, that science is greater and more important that your “Book of the Sky”.

Although, I still do not see why they were so surprised that I never swallowed that religious garbage in the first place. When you name your short daughter Tiberia, after the “Prophet” Tiberius Crohn, how did you expect her to react? While I admit that Tiberius Crohn is a fascinating figure to read about, I know full well that he is no prophet. It’s all in the writing they told me to read. A shame they could not see that for themselves.

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(Another icon for Tibby’s body style. I don’t own this, either.)

My name is Tiberia Cri Mermali. I was born on Sundai, December 17th, 3200, into the Torbe’ race, in the over-religious Tribe Zhang-Guo-Lao, from the highly advanced, yet frozen planet Voulgaris. We are a curious and dominant kind of humanlike creatures, with skin like the blue sky, markings like tattoos, ears like fins and tails as long as we are tall. (An average height being around 6’5” to 6’9”. I myself am considered a runt at 6’1”.)

I am fascinated by the “Scream” and the real Dr. Tiberius Crohn, and my dream is to study every living species in the universe, known or otherwise.