Chapter 7 — Jetski
And thus begins Chapter Seven.
Now, children.
I walked.
In the general direction of the jet ski.
No map.
No plan.
No certainty that the thing I had seen from across the beach even belonged to a rentable establishment.
Just:
Fast water machine went that way.
Therefore,
Nuo goes that way.
The council nods.
Navigation had evolved.
Along the shore,
stalls appeared.
Food.
Children.
Actual food.
Smells.
Things frying.
Things sizzling.
The kind of smells that reach into your stomach and remind it that cigarettes are not technically nutrition.
The council looks toward me.
I walked past.
Why?
Budget.
The council lowers its head.
Food was currently a luxury item.
Children.
The great Varkala economy had become brutal.
Half my money had already been sacrificed to the auto.
The bone relic required tribute.
And whatever remained had to survive the rest of the wandering.
So food?
Optional.
Apparently.
The council disapproves.
My stomach filed an appeal.
Denied.
And onward I walked.
Sand.
Sea.
People.
Then
there.
The council leans forward.
Jet skis.
Three of them.
Parked near the water.
And beside them
three men.
The headquarters.
The council pauses.
Headquarters?
Children.
Let us not overstate the infrastructure.
Three men.
Three jet skis.
Beach.
That was the kingdom.
But I had found it.
Quest destination acquired.
I walked up.
And for once,
communication required no struggle.
No broken English.
No frantic hand gestures.
No translating through vibes.
The council applauds.
Home territory.
Kerala.
I asked.
How much?
One of the men explained.
Five hundred rupees.
The council nods.
For?
A ride.
Meaning:
Someone competent drives.
You sit behind them.
Hold on.
Try not to become ocean debris.
The council considers.
Reasonable.
Children.
The peasant package.
The council immediately objects.
Peasant?
Yes.
Passenger.
No control.
No glory.
No direct access to questionable speed.
Unacceptable.
Then came the second option.
One thousand rupees.
The council grows interested.
Solo.
I drive.
The council goes silent.
Royalty.
Children.
That was the package.
Full control.
No responsible adult sitting in front.
No one capable of intervening when Nuo inevitably interprets a machine as a personal challenge.
The council becomes worried.
Perfect.
There was only one problem.
Money.
The council checks treasury.
Five hundred?
Cannot afford.
One thousand?
Absolutely cannot afford.
Children.
I had successfully arrived at the exact location of the quest
only to discover that the quest required capitalism.
The council mourns.
Now.
There are moments in a man’s life where dignity becomes important.
You accept your limitations.
Walk away.
Say:
Perhaps next time.
There are other moments
the council looks toward me.
Where you call Dad.
The council erupts.
THE OVERLORD.
Children.
The sacred emergency treasury.
The financier of last resort.
I reached for my phone.
Called.
And deployed one of the oldest spells known to offspring.
“Daaaaaaad.
Pleeeeeeease.”
The council grows solemn.
Powerful magic.
Was there negotiation?
Probably.
Was there judgment?
Almost certainly.
Did money eventually materialize?
Children.
Yes.
The council cheers.
Royal status restored.
I returned to the men.
Paid.
Children.
One thousand rupees.
A catastrophic percentage of the Unbegun’s remaining economic output.
But irrelevant.
Because I was about to drive a jet ski.
The council nods.
Priorities.
Now.
The man gave me instructions.
Important instructions.
Safety instructions.
Operational instructions.
The sort of thing one should listen to very carefully before piloting a fast machine across open water.
The council prepares to record.
And the part that remained in my brain?
“Hold on tight.”
The council stares.
That’s all?
That’s all I remember.
Children.
Perhaps he said more.
Almost certainly he said more.
The Archive has chosen violence.
But the one law engraved upon my soul was:
Hold.
On.
Tight.
The council points at me.
Remember that.
I climbed on.
The machine floated beneath me.
Engine humming.
The man pointed me toward the open water.
And there I was.
Children.
Alone.
On a jet ski.
In the Arabian Sea.
No family member yelling:
Slow down.
No friend sitting behind me:
Bro, maybe don’t.
No responsible driver controlling the machine.
Royal package.
Full autonomy.
The council grows very concerned.
I twisted the throttle gently.
The jet ski moved.
Slowly.
I tested it.
Turned slightly.
Felt how responsive it was.
Children.
For perhaps thirty seconds,
I behaved intelligently.
The council gasps.
Mark the date.
Then I understood the power.
And naturally
full throttle.
The council collapses.
The engine screamed.
The machine surged.
And gods.
Children.
Glorious.
Wind hit my face.
Water sprayed beside me.
The shoreline began shrinking.
The jet ski bounced across little waves.
My stomach dropped with every impact.
And somewhere in my brain appeared the very specific feeling:
I might die.
The council pauses.
Fear?
No.
Adrenaline.
The council sighs.
Of course.
Children.
There is a particular joy in controlled terror.
That line where your body believes:
THIS IS A TERRIBLE IDEA.
While your brain replies:
FASTER.
And for those few seconds,
I understood why people loved these things.
The sea opened ahead.
Nothing blocking me.
Nothing beside me.
Just machine,
water,
wind,
speed.
The council listens.
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
No one there to hear it.
Just me.
The ocean.
And an engine trying to convince me I had recently developed competence.
The council shakes its head.
Then
I turned.
The council becomes silent.
Children.
Remember the instruction?
Hold on tight.
Correct.
The single surviving command.
The one piece of information I had successfully retained.
The one thing I absolutely needed to do.
I turned the handlebars.
The jet ski turned.
Physics activated.
The council leans forward.
Inertia.
Children.
Inertia is a cruel mistress.
The machine changed direction.
I?
Did not.
The council erupts.
For one beautiful,
horrifying second,
Nuo continued travelling along the original vector.
The jet ski went one way.
I went forward.
Without the jet ski.
Children.
I launched myself off it.
The council collapses.
Not slipped.
Not rolled.
Launched.
Human projectile.
The ocean arrived very quickly.
Splash.
Water.
Disorientation.
Salt.
Sky.
Sea.
Where is up?
Where is down?
Why am I no longer royalty?
The council panics.
Eventually,
I surfaced.
Alive.
The council cheers.
The jet ski?
Somewhere.
Probably offended.
Possibly still moving briefly without its monarch.
And from the shore
reaction.
Children.
The professionals had apparently noticed that their thousand rupee customer had transformed into floating debris.
Rescue mission.
The council nods.
Someone came.
I was collected.
Retrieved.
Returned.
The specifics?
Archive corrupted by embarrassment.
One moment:
open ocean.
Next:
shore.
The ancient Fast Rescue protocol.
The council laughs.
Eventually,
I stood on sand again.
Alive.
Dignity?
Missing.
Jet ski?
Recovered,
presumably.
The council checks.
Good enough.
I looked at the men.
Children.
What does one say after being given one instruction,
ignoring it,
and launching oneself from an expensive machine within approximately thirty seconds?
“Sorry.”
The council nods.
Adequate.
I apologized.
They accepted,
or at least did not murder me.
I collected my belongings.
Phone.
Wallet.
Shoes.
Again.
The shoe vault had survived another quest.
I put the shoes back on.
Wet feet.
Wet shoes.
Existentially moist.
The council sighs.
And then
I walked away.
No triumphant exit.
No second attempt.
No:
I nearly had it.
Children.
Mission complete.
Technically.
I had driven the jet ski.
The quest never specified duration.
The council laughs.
Approximately thirty seconds of royalty.
Followed by aquatic exile.
Fair.
Now.
Where did I walk?
I have no idea.
The council pauses.
Completely lost?
Not exactly.
More
disoriented.
The jet ski had rearranged my internal compass.
Perhaps the rescue did.
Perhaps the adrenaline.
Perhaps I simply never knew where I was to begin with.
All I understood was:
Sand.
Walk.
So I walked.
The council nods.
And then,
children,
something rare happened.
I became self aware.
The council gasps.
Dangerous.
I replayed the event.
Saw myself
a man with limited funds
calling his father
to upgrade from the safe passenger option
to the solo package
so he could pilot a machine he had never used before.
Then immediately violating the only instruction he remembered
and firing himself into the sea.
The council waits.
And I thought:
That was so Unbegun of me.
The council pauses.
Because here’s the thing.
The mythology makes me sound reckless.
And often,
fair.
Children.
The Archive contains evidence.
But wandering had taught me something too.
Not fear.
Not caution in the boring sense.
Awareness.
The ability to look at my own stupidity after the fact and say:
Ah.
Yes.
That one was unnecessary.
The council nods approvingly.
Perhaps I was evolving.
Slowly.
Painfully.
At considerable financial cost.
But evolving.
I continued down the shore.
Shoes squishing.
Clothes drying badly.
Adrenaline fading.
No idea where I was going.
And somewhere behind me,
three jet ski men probably discussed the idiot who paid the royal rate
only to abandon the throne in under a minute.
The council laughs.
A legend.
Not the good kind.
Still
I smiled.
Because even stupidity can become funny once survival is confirmed.
The council nods.
Ancient law.
Thus concludes Chapter Seven.
The Jet Ski Headquarters.
The Peasant Package.
The Royal Package.
The Sacred Call To The Overlord.
The Thirty Seconds Of Glory.
And The Betrayal Of Inertia.
Children.
I had followed a jet ski because it looked cool.
Found one.
Could not afford it.
Begged for money.
Paid extra to drive it myself.
Then launched myself directly into the Arabian Sea.
The council grows quiet.
A complete narrative arc.
Beginning.
Middle.
Splash.
And as I wandered away,
slightly poorer,
significantly wetter,
and freshly reacquainted with physics,
the Unbegun discovered a rare and unsettling new ability.
Self awareness.
The council nods.
Terrible.
Let’s hope it doesn’t last.
