Tales Of A JetPunker

Note: These chapters contain depictions of violence, weapons, and suicide.

Long story short, I'm in jail.

Why, do you ask?

It all started three years ago...

I'm getting ready for my interview with the JetPunk Official Council. I'm trying to score my position as director of notifications. The last one tragically died after drowning in the lake of Recent User Quizzes.

After getting dressed in a suit and tie, which somehow makes me look childish, I rush to my Uber.

"Where you goin'?" the driver asks.

"Have a job interview at the Notification center. Quick, hurry up!"

The driver promptly starts driving five miles over the speed limit and we reach the Notification center. I thank him with a wave. He gives me a rather smug smile.

As I walk up to the Notification center the doors are locked. "Damnit!" I say, refraining from getting more pissed off. I have to wait thirty, thirty, minutes until someone comes along to open the door for me.

"Profile, Quizmaker rank?" the stranger asks.

I hand him my card and he lets me pass. "Good to go."

I feel like I know this place all too well, even though I've never been inside before. The floor is a glassy, perfect tile, and the walls are plain white. There's a little too much white for my eyes in here, even the elevator is white as I head up to the 5th floor.

After finally arriving, the waiting interviewers add a section to my official blog post and probably add the fact that I was 20 minutes late.

An average-sized woman stands up. She's a little cute but absolutely terrifying. I think she'd make a really good assassin.

"Mr. Nova, we're going to start asking your interview questions. Answer them carefully, or else you could end up as director of JetPunk Premium."

Everyone laughs. Nobody buys JetPunk Premium.

I cross my legs and brace myself for the first question like I'm about to be run over by a train.

"Why do you want to become Director of Notifications?" the woman asks with a smile.

After thinking for about two seconds I come up with an answer. "Well, I really need more quiz takes, my money is really tight. Also, I think I'd make the system - uh, much better.

The lady immediately asks me another question. "What do you expect from this job, Mr. Nova?

My reply comes out more smoothly this time. "I expect that it won't be an easy job, but I'm really passionate about what I've heard about it. I'd love to make an impact on the JetPunk community." I take a breath. "And I could utilize the system to help with the war against Sporcle, which wou-

The room falls silent. Everyone's eyes are in disbelief.

Oh NO, I think.

An alarm goes off. There's panicked screams and chaos everywhere.

HE SAID THE...THE WORD!!! WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!

I can even here kids sobbing as their mothers rush them as far as possible from the crime scene.

Because of me.

The police are here now. They sent the most elite police officers to take care of me. "Hand. Yourself. Over. Now." 

I'm frozen. It's like I'm an ice cube and can't move until I have an emotional breakdown and melt.

Another officer comes up through the crowd. "We won't ask again. If you don't hand yourself over right now, we'll leave you to suffer and die in the hands of Orcspel."

That's all I can take. I unlease all my anger and punch the guy as hard as I can in the jaw and make a run for it.

GET HIM! I'm dashing down the hallway until I hear a gunshot, likely a bullet similar to a tranq dart, but a thousand times more painful. Instead of hitting me it hits a window leading outside, and it shatters into a million pieces. I don't hesitate to jump out, and the realization hits me too late that it'll be a long drop.

I've ruined my life. I've broken the one forbidden JetPunk law. Now I'm a fugitive, if they catch me I'll probably get killed on the spot, likely worse.ve ruined my life. I've broken the one forbidden JetPunk law. Now I'm a fugitive, if they catch me I'll probably get killed on the spot.

All children must attend a mandatory class with all the rules, guidelines, and goals about our society. Everything we need to know, from booing Spo-erm, Orcspel to capitalizing the P in JetPunk.

Hey, it's a good thing I'm about to break in to that exact classroom!

I land with a thud. My leg was smacked at a really awkward angle against the pavement. Now it's gushing blood. The police are right on my tail, and the only place to go is inside the classroom. I swing open the door and run inside.

Thirty very curious eyes are staring at me.

"Teacher, is this your husband?" a very innocent girl says. She looks about six years old.

I get the words "Um, actually" out before the teacher turns around and screams at me. Looks like the police have caught up. I leap over the row of desks and run out the classroom, into the hallway. You'd wonder why the JetPunk Council decided to put an elementary school right next to one of the most important buildings in the city, but I guess that's just how the Council's brain works.

That's my cue to get out of the room. I dash out of the classroom, weaving through desks, until I reach an open hallway. An officer is already coming towards me with a tranq gun. I run as fast as I can down the hall until I can't anymore, then take a turn left into a gym.

Perfect. A gym.

I dive in the closet, turn off the lights, and close the door.

The officer walks in and speaks. "Come out, right now, and I'll take five years off of your sentence."

We both know that that's a lie. I'm probably going to be hung or tortured or become a servant of the Quizmaster, at the very least.

Several more police officers come in, probably scanning for my badge.

S***, I think. I must of left it or dropped it somewhere. At least I can't be scanned now.

I hear a loud bang and the officers say an excessive amount of cuss words. They leave the room.

My heart is pounding and I am breathing hard. I don't dare make a move. Anyone could still be out there.

After waiting for about 30 minutes (I think), I finally decide to leave. I have to make a plan on how I'm going to leave, my country, my friends, all the work I've put in to this life.

I walk out. I see a guard right in front of me...and a mysterious figure attacking the guard. Their clothing is too dark for me to see. I can't tell if it's a girl or a boy. But before I can figure anything out, another guard shoots a tranq dart at me. I feel a sharp pain in my chest, and before I know it, everything goes blank.

When I wake up, my first thought is that I actually still exist, and I'm not hanging by a rope or strapped to a raft in the middle of the ocean. I take a quick glance at my surroundings. It's dull and boring in here, but for some reason the grays are too bright, like they're neon. Leave it to the brightest, most inventive people in the city to invent the color of neon gray.

This isn't the average prison cell. It looks more like a half-decent hotel. There's a twin bed, a couch, and even a microwave oven. I even got a window.

Leave it to the brightest, most inventive people in the city to give prisoners happiness and rob it from them a few days later.

I hear a 'ding!' from the other side of the room. I turn around and see a plate of food, with barbeque chicken, corn on the cob, and mashed potatoes. Mmm, my favorite. I gobble everything up with my bare hands because I wasn't given a fork, then crash down on the bed. The matress is soft and a bit too fluffy for my liking.

After a few hours, a voice wakes me up. There's a tall, lanky man outside my window. He asks, "how was your meal?"

"Pretty good", I reply. "It would be nice if I had a fork though."

"We used to give inmates forks, but last year someone decided to use it as a weapon. They broke the window of their cell and electrocuted several of the officiers. We just found them again a few days ago."

"Mmmmm", I reply.

"News on your execution will be coming soon." the man says.

I'm looking forward to my execution. I wonder how they'll do it. And judging by my quizzing record, some people won't be happy about it.

It takes forever for me to finally fall asleep again.

When I wake up, I realize that I am actually in a dream. It's usually a treat to have a lucid dream, right now it's not. It's a lucid nightmare.

There's a red figure descending from the sky, and it's too late for me to run.

Several people appear in a ring around me. They hold weapons. Torture weapons, like whips and special maces that are not meant to kill but make the target feel immense pain.

To my surprise, they all drop their weapons by my feet. They beg me to kill themselves. Every last one of them.

I start to recognize the forms. They are all the people I've disappointed in my life.

My father. Mother. My brother and sister. Even my 4th grade science teacher.

I can't take it anymore. Instead of killing them...I kill myself.

I wake up with my heart racing. Did I just kill myself? What was that dream? I don't suffer from that kind of emotional pain. I use it to get what I want.

I never wanted any of those people, bloodshot eyes and desperate faces, to die at my feet, their blood staining my hands. Yet, they all did.

I slap myself in the face to stop my useless train of thought and force myself onto the floor.

The same man from yesterday brings me a sheet of paper with a worried look on his face. He quickly shimmies away.

𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙋𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙧, 𝙒𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙮 𝙩𝙤 𝙞𝙣𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙛𝙚𝙬 𝙙𝙖𝙮𝙨. 𝙒𝙚'𝙫𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙘𝙮. 𝘽𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙛𝙞𝙡𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙖 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙖𝙣, 𝙬𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙢𝙞𝙯𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙥𝙪𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩. 𝙄𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙜 36 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙟𝙖𝙞𝙡, 𝙬𝙚'𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩. 𝙄𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙚 𝙙𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙣𝙤𝙬, 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙚𝙖𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩. 𝙃𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚!

- 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙋𝙤𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙚

I grab the microwave oven beside me and chuck it across the room. Actually, I throw everything inside my room until it shatters into a million pieces.

I scream.

"SERIOUSLY!?"

In case you don't know what the Blood Eagle is, it's best you don't search it up. That's exactly what I did using the computer in my cell (it's broken now too). Nobody has used that punishment since the good 'ol days when JetPunk was a broke travel agency. Apparently, they could barely afford food for half the city.

Even though I love my city, sometimes it can be a really cruel place.

This is my first attempt at writing a novel. This means that there may be grammatical errors, a terrible structure, or very boring, long paragraphs. I'm not an author. If you have any recommendations, suggestions, or ways to make this story better, pleace give me feedback in the comments.

I also plan to potray some of my favorite JetPunkers in this series. If you don't want to be in one of my stories, please let me know (if you do appear, you won't have a 100% accurate representation, far from that, actually. Again, if you want to be removed, please let me know.)

Anyways...

Whether you skipped to the end or actually read the entire thing, thank you for reading! I hope to become a better writer with your help :)