Aesthetika

Aesthetika (noun)--

1. The primary energy source, the lifeblood of Morkar.

2. The foundation of knowledge for Spinozans, and the foundation of invention for Teslans.

3. System of mystique meant to make fundamental physical corrections to ensure use, longevity, and pleasure to the eye.

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The ascent carried more stylistic grandiosity, more spectacle-fueled purpose than anything else. Pure propaganda was all it was, so Gnash thought as he stood in chagrined awe aside the oak where he and Kalavan always met up. The two met up with increasing scarcity; their friendship, while harmless, was seen as a societal taboo. Spinozans and Teslans were typically acquaintances at best, side-by-side in mutual understanding rather than appreciation. They were not even allowed to be on the same horizontal half of Dogma until Gnash’s own lifetime. So naturally the spite of differences persisted.

These are the issues, Gnash pondered further in silence, that ought to be fixated upon within the Dogma Monarchy. But instead political greed prevailed once more, more concerned with the expansion of land and property, fueled by a self-induced savior complex that most every citizen, Teslan and Spinozan, had found themselves addicted to amongst the campaigns of the Manifest Galaxy Initiative.

When the ship was a mere speck in the magenta sky, Gnash lowered his gaze to see Kalavan slumped against the trunk of a tree, his straw hat lowered over his eyes, unsubtly disinterested in the ship’s leave.

“Doesn’t that bother you?” Gnash inquired.

“Why bother being bothered?” Kalavan had his answer ready.

Folding in the freshly-feathered wings between his shoulder-blades, Gnash knelt down, contemplating his friend’s stance of apathy. Seeing Kalavan’s head lower even more, and assuming he was ready to doze off, Gnash lifted his leftmost two fingers on his right hand and, having a Sirenite clasped between the two, pressed his fingers together just a moment to emit a brief yet insufferable high pitch that caused Kalavan to snap awake once more.

Kalavan grunted: “Fucking Teslans and your tech.”

Almost smirking at the old-man chagrin that Kalavan wore, Gnash further inquired: “It’s Spinozan Aesthetika that my people are using; how does that not even vaguely upset you?

Adjusting the straw hat with the claw of his fingertip to see Gnash more clearly, Kalavan retorted: “Why be upset? The whole known world is going to know what Spinozans have learned. And you winged fucks always scoffed at our ideas, turning your nose up at the thicker texts to play with your toys.” He chuckled.

“Perhaps,” Gnash replied, “But now my people are the ones exploiting it. Don’t you have a distant cousin on that ship that just took off? You think the Teslans are going to treat him well?”

“You mean Myruk?” Kalavan raised two of his fingers in a way akin to Gnash; a small glimmer of energy formulated right above the fingertips, as if creating a miniature star out of nothing: “I’ve known his parents my entire life. Dumb kid knows how to take care of himself…” Another chuckle.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Gnash paced the grass-infused clay dirt and unfolded the wings on his back, as if he could take off and stop the long-gone ship himself. “It’s not premature or hypocritical, to you? That our two kinds just recently formed a truce, and rather than heal the wound of centuries we’re re-enslaving your kind in the name of calling new soil our own?”

Finally, Kalavan pushed down on the tail-end of the straw hat, revealing his face with a grin that complimented the fangs in his mouth. While not malicious, Gnash knew that the teeth-showing smirk was a sign of optimism, but rather another argument on its own for his own nihilism.

“You know,” he began, “My elders have always told me to be wary of you and your Teslan family… See, they told me how my ancestors, upon first seeing your kind soaring in the air centuries past, against the backdrop of an emerald sky, and even from that distance they saw your inherent dishonesty.”

Gnash, certainly stunned but unsure if he should be offended, stood still, awaiting elaboration.

“They said,” Kalavan continued, “That while you may be the ones who manufacture and build things, we were the ones of true insight, intuition and such. Therefore, your kind, wings and all, are more akin to the vultures who dig up corpses in the deserts of Dogma than that of any angel from any religious texts…”

A beat.

“So naturally,” Kalavan concluded, “Yes, I’m distraught, one could even say miserable… I’ve been wallowing for some time, but that’s another story… But I’m similarly miserable as the rest of my clan as well as yourself. I’m just not surprised or carrying any of your faux concerns.”

Gnash stepped toward him. “You’re accusing me of being disingenuous?”

Kalavan lowered his head once more: “I’m not saying your feelings aren’t real. What I am saying is that no matter how much you feign true understanding, you’ll never quite grasp it.”

Behind a stone-like stern demeanor Gnash felt himself begin to seeth, and, unsure where to direct this anger, looked inward, not knowing how much (if any) truth there was to the words that Kalavan spoke. Progressive as he and his family thought themselves to be, he could not help but ponder how often he saw Spinozans, donned in their cloaks and quietly clicking their claws rhythmically as they walked, and assumed the worst.

And then there was the past five years, where Spinozans had developed their less abstract version of Aesthetika. For in achieving an inner Nirvana that so greatly contrasted the chaos of technicalities and technologies of Teslan minds, many (and then most) of them found themselves granted the abilities to manifest light and and energy and even found themselves floating, levitating gently, mere inches off of the ground.

Of course the Teslans, who up until the most recent century had, in many cities and geographical pockets of Dogma, enslaved the Spinozans, saw this new branch of Aesthetika as nothing shy of a pending threat. After initial arrests, protests, riots, and civil rights claims and actions that continue and likely proceed through Gnash and Kalavan’s dialog, however, the Teslans would go on and see this Aesthetika paired with the recent compliance of the Spinozans as an opportunity.

For the inventive minds of Teslans had long looked outward through the abyss of black and stars and found a multitude of other planets, but was yet to conjure the courage to even attempt to embrace them physically, despite having the technology to do so. This changed, however, when the dust settled of the new Spinozan Aesthetika; and, under a newfound narrative of making the galaxy better through the usage of their energy, further manifested in the Teslan weaponry, the Teslans began to round up and recruit Spinozans (possibly some by force) to take on their new journey to colonize these planets, whether its inhabitants liked it or not.

And so they had set off this very morning, planning to land on Orocle in the coming fortnight, acting as though they were spreading gospellian peace of mind while their sole aim was to reign supreme over its denizens.

What Kalavan’s people have endured, as would the Orocleans.

Gnash, feeling as caught off-guard as he did betrayed, gazed around dumbly, looking for an answer in the patch of trees where their friendship was permissible.

“So…” he began, Kalavan looked up as Gnash tried to articulate what he wanted to say, “So you’re saying that the winged are inherently lesser than the fanged?”

“Pardon?” Kalavan asked, condescendingly playing dumb.

“You’re saying that I simply cannot attain a true depth of understanding,” Gnash went on, “Solely because of my race? You know I made no conscious decision on how I was born.”

“Don’t be coy,” Kalavan responded stoically, “I’m just informing you, politely, that you are incapable of understanding what it’s like to be looked at solely by your race; I’m not saying one is lesser than the other in any true inherent respect. I’m just telling you that the modern Teslan cannot truly fathom what a Spinozan has endured, not in a modern context and certainly not in a historical one.”

Offended, Gnash turned away, scoffing at the idea of his being ignorant. He knew his family to be very entrepreneurial and lauded for their engineering capabilities. And he did not see the society of Dogma, which was soon to be the society of a whole galaxy, as nothing shy of a mechanical being, operating with the same blueprints, workings, and ever errs as their Dogmatic minds.

“I meant no disrespect, my friend,” he heard Kalavan say, “For my sole intent for inviting you to speak with me was merely to ‘ground’ you, so to speak…”

Gnash turned back and looked at him: “Is now the time to be grounded?”

“There’s nothing either of us can do; Spinozan or Teslan, neither of us work in the language or system of politics.”

Gnash stepped forward, approaching Kalavan more confrontationally: “Do you see yourself as an ally to these atrocities?”

Kalavan exhaled. “What?”

“Is the Manifest Galaxy Initiative something you support? Had you been committed or even interested in a political career, would you be on that ship at this very moment?”

“Of course not,” Kalavan said calmly. “But I just don’t see the use in being worked up. When you’re as powerless and young as we are, the world is scarcely something you control. It’s something that happens to you. Maybe it’ll happen to us, or maybe this will be glossed over in the history books to come. Who knows, all I’m saying is there is no use in fretting over these things.”

“What you’re truly saying,” Gnash said, not letting up, “Was that our racial histories will always divide our two species. And that, I have to say, Kalavan, is a shame in and of itself. A true pity.”

“And why’s that?”

“Should we not allow the past to dissolve itself, ugliness and all,” Gnash explained, “We only allow the scars of history to divide us; it shall pull us apart, not make us closer.”

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way.”

Another scoff: “Is that it, really? Why explain something, why have me walk all the way out here to explain it in the first place, if you act contemptuously to my confusion?”

“I’m not being contemptuous,” Kalavan said lamely, “But I’ve said all there is to say, in the simplest ways possible.” He got up. “And I’m afraid I must be going now.” He brushed off the dirt and grass blades from his cloak and began to walk away.

Walking away from Gnash, he got several yards away when he heard him say “Hold on.”

Kalavan sighed, rolled his eyes, and turned around: “Yes? What is it?”

“I have hardly seen you these past two years, Kalavan, and when I do you act so indifferent. Why is that?”

“Well,” Kalavan scratched his head, “I have known for a long while that many of us grow apart, races and species aside… With the current and ongoing social critique I thought I’d take it upon myself to get your take on this whole ugliness, and to try to ‘enlighten’ you, so-to-speak, with my perspective. Nevertheless, you don’t seem all-too interested.”

Kalavan turned away and kept to his walk, only to be stopped again by another outburst by Gnash.

“This is why we keep controlling your kind.”

Kalavan, feeling the first stir of emotion of the day, turned back: “My ‘kind,’ huh?”

Gnash went forward with his case: “All Spinozans I’ve come across–”

“And how many would that be? Three? Four? Five?”

“A lot,” Gnash shot back, “All of them, they’re so… Meek. Docile. They’ve allowed my kind to just walk all over them. It isn’t right.

Kalavan took another step forward: “Perhaps,” he said, “It’s because we’ve historically lost so many fights that we feel inclined to opt out of fighting again.”

Gnash was silent.

“Have you considered that?” Kalavan asked, “Have you once considered that?”

Gnash rebuked: “I thought, after the dawn of your newfound branch of Aesthetika, that you all would fight harder, but it's like you’re somehow even more indifferent to what happens to you.”

“Easy for you to say,” Kalavan quipped, “When you’re born into a wealthy family, when you go to one of the first schools to integrate both Spinozan and Teslan learning, all in the name of touting your ‘progressive’ nature to align your ‘progressive’ family. I think that led to a generation of Teslan arrogance. So many of you think you know so much through the books that we wrote and now–”

He was cut off by Gnash drawing a blade, one that grew upon Gnash hitting a button on the side of a half-circle handle strapped to his belt; the sound was sharp, and more importantly loud, as if interrupting his friend was his only intention.

“Go on,” Gnash said, “Go on about my decrepit socialite family, please.”

“Ah, fuck off,” Kalavan scoffed, “Your family always perceived me as though I were a penniless orphan. You were always giving me things because you thought I needed them, you didn’t even think I had parents for the first year you knew me. And by the time we were adolescents, your family just invited me to parties as a goddamn token.”

Gnash was visibly seething now, eyes fixed on Kalavan, blade vibrating in his shaking hands.

“Gnash,” Kalavan said, still enthralled by anger, “Quit playing the goddamn martyr; you know full well you’re just another part of the problem.”

Lowering the blade in a singular quick movement, Gnash pressed the button again and the blade sprung from its handle, propelling straight toward Kalavan, piercing his shoulder and knocking him downward.

Adrenaline now pumping through Kalavan’s veins, he begrudgingly sat upward, shocked and angered about this new technology; he was familiar with the blades, but did not realize it could strike from several yard distances nor even that it could shoot from the blade.

Quickly and without a moment’s thought, Kalavan proceeded to wrap his fingers around the blade, and, digging his skin into the metallic sharpness, he yanked with his bloody hand and the blade came thrusting out of his skin with an accompanying screech from the Spinozan.

And during all this, Kalavan could hear the steady running, paralleled with the flapping of Gnash’s wings, as he approached and leapt.

Kalavan looked up, it was a classic move pulled by his people in wartime and combat. He was out to knock him unconscious, to punish him for his misdeed, for speaking out-of-turn. Kalavan put his palms together to begin to form Aesthetika-fueled energy, creating a large charge which could render Gnash unconscious.

But as he felt the energy grow, he began to realize the depth and weight of it; for he had let it grow out of hand, and it would have the potential to handicap or even kill his (former) friend.

Realizing this, Kalavan snuffed the energy at just the right moment, whereas Gnash, noticing him draw Aesthetik energy in the first place, chose then to strike harder and faster and closer to Kalavan’s neck.

The impact killed Kalavan instantly, his Adam’s apple and portions of his throat being shot from his neck and onto the dirt beside him. He felt final breaths as he lay there, but it was not long before the final light drifted from his yellow eyes.

Lost in confusion and cooling from his heated anger, Gnash sat several feet away, feeling too intensely mortified by what had just occurred to move. The worst part, he concluded silently, about his killing of his friend that it would not matter who he told about it, for Gnash whole-heartedly knew that he would get away with it. He was just a Spinozan, after all.