Free Children of the Program by Brad Cox

unquenchable thirst for a good story to tell, right?
                  Invigorated by spontaneity, I beamed toward the shroud of mystery known as Area 51.  I could allow my imagination to be abducted for a few hours; the desert rendezvous was a loose timetable.  Able to explore my indescribable obsession with ancient alien theory, I found my way to Route 375, gazed and let fantasy unfold.  Devoid of UFO sightings or unexpected attacks from resident Greys, the calm allowed my taxed mind a moment to decompress and enjoy the view of nature's simplicity.
                  When I shimmied back into my exasperated car, I heard the familiar song, “Life is a Highway.”  I never knew how motivational and poetic Tom Cochrane could be.  So long as it wasn't another cryptic message from the omnipresent spirit guides, I was content to allow the one-hit wonder to blare through my rickety Toyota Tercel cabin. 
                  “This song is terrible, but great!” I debated.  “It's terrible.”
                  I knew the Painted Desert was calling; I was refreshed and ready to knock out the ends of my travel.  With one foot comfortably secured out of the driver's side window and a fresh fag lit, life was 'Just alright with me!' 
                  The last few hours were a time machine to wits’ end.  Dazed and confused, I emerged from the bone-weary vehicle.
                  “Well done, Neco!  Walk north.  I am with you,” said an angelic voice.
                  The gravity of the situation gave my wobbly legs reason for pause.  It felt like the entire weight of the unknown had been placed upon my cramped shoulders.  Reluctantly, I soldiered into the vast desert.  It took roughly an hour of dust, sweat and tears, before I stumbled upon the target.  Feeling lost in solitary, suspense mounted.  I paced the pattern beneath, before another cannon fired from the loud speaker in my head.
                  “You have arrived.  Wait,” said the voice.
                  It was then I heard another unforgettable voice.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    chapter 9
    the gathering and the mission
     
     
    Icarus Kali was a not-so gentle giant.  He stood a towering 6' 11'' and was the first of his classmates to grow a beard.  He was born in the Hellenic Republic in Southern Europe.  It was a fitting cognomen, considering the rich mythology and history surrounding Greece.  He played football for St. Catherine's British School, while in upper school and planned to attend Athens College in Psychiko, Greece.  His parents imposed high academic standards, but knew his brawn would inevitably do the bulk of his bidding. 
                  Piercing cold blue eyes radiated from his mammoth skull like the waters of Antarctica.  His heart would seemingly beat out of his thick chest with each deep, brooding and oxygen-starved breath.  A caged animal lurked within, awaiting the day it would finally be unleashed upon an unsuspecting society of lemmings.  He would someday reign supreme and be sculpted by the elite, as his namesake and birthright demanded.  He was greater than myth and the embodiment of God's perfect strokes, upon the canvass of human development.
                  His stature ensured a justifiable arrogance, only tamed by his father's matching height and experience.  The spoils of a lush background only fueled his expectations.  His mother was a successful defense attorney and his father a businessman; trouble could be quashed by money and justify his withdrawn empathy.  They took turns disciplining, Icarus, physically.  It was important to show dominance and to impose memorable guidelines for his troublesome and often aggressive behavior.  It was the only method he responded to, but also reinforced projection. 
                  They'd created a monster!
                  He