I can feel it. It's like its right here, in my head. It's close. It's calling me, calling me back, pulling me to where I belong.
*
Zarah made a conscious effort to ignore the thought, shoving it back down in her head, as deeply as it could go. She tried not to think about how that same set of words could apply to other things she wanted. She tried not to think at all. Perhaps that was the best way to ignore the unwanted thoughts - not thinking anything at all.
Despite the ravaged landscape and shredded civilisation covering the vast majority of the world, a landscape bearing the scars and side effects of war in its fullest and most evil force, some fairly normal civilisations still remained. Those in natural safe areas, such as in valleys or behind hills. Those small enough to not be targets, or to be missing completely from maps. And, those with the strongholds and sheer manpower to rebuild after the devastation.
Town Moch, or Moch-City, often simply referred to as Mocha by its inhabitants, was one such place. It fell in to the latter of the three formats - a sprawling, bloated metropolis of several hundred million human beings living alongside the evolutionary peak of the planet's organic life in chaotic harmony. A world of glistening silver, full of technology and cutting edge mechanics, with streets that glowed warm shades of yellow and white at all hours and buildings lit from both inside and out like multi-coloured Christmas trees, hanging vines like electric creepers and speeding cars rushing about with places to be and people to connect. Mocha had been an industrial powerhouse, a lavish world of even modestly luxurious living, and a world of thriving intellect. Although like any human city it was plagued by the poverty line, corrupt politics and crime, Mocha's standards were high and its bar even higher. Poverty meant a small single-story house, plain organic meals and no personal delivery services. Subscriptions to the more feature rich entertainment systems were a want, not a need. Classes went to Level 18, where the more expensive, and now optional, advanced learning on offer was often traded out for work. On the other end of the spectrum, living rich meant an apartment with personal lift access, private rooftops, and secluded personal garage-sized lockers anywhere in the city, and home-pay employment in sought-after roles in media and the ever revered Advancement. Although poorness was present, the word "homeless" meant little here.
But that had all been before the war. A war not started by the city, but a war felt by it nonetheless. Mocha was torn to shreds by explosions, devastated by armies, ensnared in chaos by fighting. The chaos of invasions sewed doom and destruction down every street. Lavish apartments with their electric attendants and private access turned to the scenes of horrific slaughter and vicious rape. Many died. Homes were razed, businesses drained and destroyed. Lives were ruined. The city lost its spark in a tornado of death and destruction that few saw coming, and fewer still would live through.
But live they did. Bunkers miles below ground were used. The strong fought and small pockets of rebellion were formed. When the oppressive wave of evil washed over them, people banded together and took the war to the enemy on their own streets. Eventually, after much suffering, the waves passed, and the waters receded, to reveal the destruction they had sought.
That had been long ago now, and since it had happened, the people of Moch-City had rebuilt and re-banded. New families began in the emptiness of old homes, new business began in the shells of old, new lives started where old ones had ended. It was, slowly but surely, becoming a home again.
Zarah was young. She couldn't remember the war, it was from a time before her birth. But she could see its wake, experience its pain. In one way or another, she was a part of the disaster that it was. Some said it was fought between countries in turmoil, neighbours without room left in their hearts for compassion. Many others told her that it was a war between man, and a version of it that had - somehow, no one seemed clear on it - had lost its humanity. Whatever had caused it, Zarah knew she wanted nothing more than for it never to return. She wasn't sure she could handle fighting as a pawn-like soldier in someone else's army, unable to think or act, ordered to fight, ordered to kill... Ordered to die.
Being ordered feels so nice... Thoughtlessly obeying feels good.
Tall and curvaceous, Zarah was a buxom woman of the energetic age of 21. She bore a boastful but modestly hidden away bosom and wide, accentually curvaceous hips, which she also kept stowed in smart work pants, lengthy, attractive skirts, or when at home, shorts and track pants. A bouncing bob of clean brown hair flowed from her head, flowing over her womanly shoulders and reaching towards her lower extremities, playfully falling about her chest, down her back, and over her arms. She frequently brushed it away, but left it long - she liked the vain sensation of power the uniquely long length of hair gave her as a girl facing the world. Plus, as long as it was, she could always do new things with it - plat it into a lush rope she could wrap three times around her arm, or pull it into twin tails that would hang over her breasts. Or, as she usually did, pull it tightly back and let it flow until the blonding tips of it swung across her butt.
It calls me. It wants me back. I want it back. I want the pleasure it gave me... Can give me...
Zarah shook her head once more. She was on her way to work. It was early, and she carried a binder of papers clutched in her chest. She had worn a conservative black, long-sleeved shirt and pants and elegant but efficient black shoes, and her glasses sat as always on her nose, enhancing her bright, wide brown eyes. She bumped shoulders with a man, who apologised as she rushed past, but the space in Zarah's head that had been reserved for apologising to men she bumped in the street had been taken over by the effort she was putting into suppressing these abnormal but unshakable thoughts. The man took his apology in the form of a look at Zarah's swinging backside, and went on his way. Zarah was unusually flustered today, her brain all sorts of scattered, which hadn't helped her normally peaceful morning preparations for work. She had woken up late and horny, forgotten to brush her teeth, left the soap out of the shower, put sugar into her flask and used coffee as sweetener, and fully left the property before she realised she still had her slippers on. Luckily, the return to the house had helped her realise her pants were on backwards, which was why her zipper was neither up nor present at her pants front. Things hadn't gone much better once she was on her way on the short walk to work.
Bursting through the front doors, Zarah quickly went to her desk in the back of the floor, dumping her binder down and sitting quickly in the chair her ass had become quite familiar with in the past two years working here. She took a breath, exhaled through her expertly lipsticked lips, and collected herself, trying to still her beating heart.
What the hell has gotten into me?
She wondered, as she turned in her chair and started up her PC. Something in her mind replied to the question before she could stop it, but it wasn't words she imagined. Again, shaking away the lewd image her mind had cooked up without request, Zarah felt her face flushing.
This was ridiculous! She wasn't even into that stuff! Was she?
'Zarah?'
'Huh?' Zarah looked up with a rude mumble. Kristina was looking back at her through her ultra-thick glasses, her paper-white skin almost shining from inside the ring of pitch black curled hair that flowed from her head in all downward directions. 'Oh, Hey Kristie.'
'I said how was your night?' The perfectly-skinned dark hair repeated, leaning on the desk. She lowered the clipboard in her arm, and the shadows of her bosom were revealed past it. Although she wasn't either gay or bisexual, Zarah had to make an effort to ignore it - something she only succeeded in after a good two seconds of staring.
'It was great, really great. And yours?' she stammered a little.
Why great? She's going to ask you why it was so great, you idiot. Why the hell did you say great?
