The Smiling Sword Chapter 1: Chapter 1: I Should've Paid the Bill

Read chapter 1 of The Smiling Sword by IchorX on NovelPedia.

Hello. My name is Reid Russell, nineteen years of age with a sister. Remember that. I live in a world called Erisen, divided into five big continents very creatively named the North, South, East, West and Central continents, and our world runs on an energy called chronoplasma (Chrona for short). Chrona is an infinite resource both natural and artificial and powers just about everything you can think of in Erisen - transport, weapons of mass destruction, orbital lasers, mechs, automatons and all the homes in the world. Ten years ago an alien mothership bigger than the largest city in the world crash-landed in the Southern-continent. The inhabitants were unfortunately not interested in peace talks and turned out to be bloodthirsty beasts, and since the World Church denounced them as 'Unholy Fucking Organisms' (UFOs) we've been at war. The war killed my parents when I was twelve and I've raised my younger sister Esinara Russell alone since. This year I scraped together enough money to send her to a good boarding school in the next city. As for me? I am currently getting chased through the quiet streets of my neighbourhood in the middle of the night by a pack of men dressed in black, wielding weapons of murder and climbing walls like spiders. Usually this bullshit does not happen in my home continent of the North, so please don't get the wrong idea. And fuckin' hell, someone help me. ***A few moments earlier*** My alarm blares in my head, bouncing around my skull, and I jolt awake, almost falling off my bed in the process. "Ugh…" Wrenching my earphones out and tossing them to the ground, I fall heavily back into my pillow, groaning and half awake. I'm never drinking that much that late again. That was a shit idea, even for the last day of term. Warm sunlight spills through the screen over the windows of my Pod, bathing my room in a warm glow. Messy information boards covering the walls still blink, and the chronalights on the ceiling are still on. "Shit!!" That wakes me up. I fly out of bed, bound to the switch and mash it my fist. Who's to know how far the bill's gonna rocket up!?!?!? My Pod is small, but not "I'm fucking broke" small. Cozily small. It's efficient, clean and everything folds into something else if you glare at it hard enough. The bill still scares me. I yank open my wardrobe and it politely unfolds like it’s showing off. Two shirts hover forward on micro-rails, both tagged with the same stupid green warning sticker: PROPERTY OF NORTHWARD PUBLIC EDUCATION. DO NOT ALTER. I alter it anyway. I peel it off and stick it to my mirror. Because why not? I stumble into the kitchenette, slap my palm on the counter, and the chronaplates beneath it hum awake. A small kettle rises out of the surface like a metal flower and starts heating water with that smug “I’m better than fire” attitude. My eyes drift to my wall-board next to my stove, still blinking with my unfinished term project. WAR IN THE SOUTH: ANALYSIS OF UFO BEHAVIOUR AND CHRONAPLASMA UTILIZATION. DUE: YESTERDAY, 23:59 I squint at it. It squints back. We both know who won. “Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, scratching my hair. “I’ll do it. I swear.” The board flashes: LIE DETECTED. I give it the one-finger salute. DOCUMENTED. I hate smart houses. The kettle clicks. I drop a tea pouch in a mug and watch it steep like a tiny universe forming. Outside, my neighbourhood is calm. North Continent calm. That special brand of peaceful where the streets are clean enough to eat off and nobody actually eats off them because we’re not animals. My mind wanders and I take an unconscious sip of my tea while leaning against the counter. Immediate regret. It’s still too hot. It burns. I hiss. I swallow anyway because I’m stubborn and stupid, which is basically the North’s official personality, and while I'm still blowing into my mouth my commband vibrates on the counter. I glance at the ID and it says, CAESAR I pause with the mug half-raised. My best friend Caesar’s not the “good morning what