Chapter 1.0

 

My name's Arycella, and before you ask how to say it, it's pronounced "Air-eh-sell-ah". The set of boobs the mixologist is staring at behind me belong to my sister Raydenne, "Ray-den". Half-sister, if you want to get technical. If we look familiar, you've probably seen our moms Abbey and Estrella Sperie on the cover of some adventure magazine; no autographs please. We each take after our own mom to the tee, minus our eyes, but that's a story for another day.

Tonight, I'll just get us more acquainted since you're going to be observing our lives and the lives of our descendants. Here's a better view of Raydenne and the man she's currently eye fucking. He goes by the name of Duane Keys and is the mixologist of Joe's Garage here in Queenstown. Normally, I wouldn't spend my evenings at this dive, or at any dive bar for that matter, but lately my sister has needed a logical brain around.

Ray's what you'd call... easy I suppose. Too easy even. Every time she hits the bar it begins the same way. First come the coy glances, followed by some not-so-innocent flirting and later, suggestive remarks. 

As the hours tick by slower than the drinks she's downing, the comments turn lewd and soon the bartender is making provocative gestures and my sister is getting ready to take him home.

It's at this point that the bartender realizes one of three things. One: That he is so getting laid tonight. Two: That she is drunk, and going home with her wouldn't be the right thing to do. Or three: That she's that girl that's been sleeping around with the bartenders at *insert any bar name here*.

Tonight, our bartender has landed upon the second option and is subsequently trying to appear distracted and uninteresting in hopes to fend off her drunken advances. I wouldn't blame him either. Watching a girl miss her mouth while trying to drink is never that sexy.

Before you get too many hard feelings for her, I should take a moment to light upon her good side. Ever since she was little, the canvas has spoken to her and these days she's making her money with a brush in hand. During the daylight hours, she's a doll, albeit a little dramatic and snobby. Even so we get along almost perfectly, but that may be because I'm usually immersed in my own work.

If I'm not at home, you can usually find me at the junk yard digging through trash piles in search of viable material. Inventing gizmos and what-cha-ma-call-its is my passion, it's almost as if the metal speaks to me. It may sound crazy, but I wouldn't change my profession for the world.

Back in the present, it's time to make my leave of this dump. Since it's obvious that the bartender is no longer interested, my duty as rational adviser is done and I can go home to sleep in peace. Whatever my sister does at this point won't even make my "Top 100 Things I Care About" list; she's on her own. I have a long day of inventing planned for tomorrow, so I will need every ounce of sleep I can get, and at this hour I'll be happy if  I can get 6 hours in.

That's the difference between Raydenne and I. I'll spend days planning each prototype before I even touch metal, but all she has to do is throw paint at her easel and lo-and-behold, a masterpiece is born. There's a touch of animosity towards each other deep under our skin, just like any other set of siblings; we're generally good at keeping it in check, but the more desperate Ray becomes, the harder it gets to hold it in. It's better off for us to make our way home separately, preventing any possible arguments along the way. In the morning, we'll each wake up and shake off the bad memories and get back to being friends again, but for tonight we'll go our separate ways.