Author Notes: And this is where you say. "Err, what?" I have been absent from ficpress for too long. And yet I say, I've been writing something every day. My New Year's Resolution was to write something every day, and so I have. This story started in 2008, but I've figured out where I'm going to end it and what all has to happen before that. It's not a one-shot but it's shorter than anything I've planned or written before. Not quite finished but close enough.

Now, about the story: as it says it's a short story of the Human Resistance series, which has been discontinued and in the process of its last re-write (hopefully, good grief). This happens after everything in the main series, but only hints at what happened before through memories of the characters. I was thinking of using this as an intro to the series, actually, as in something I would release before trying to get HR published.

Sorry for the long Author's Note but one last thing: I'm not sure how many days are going to go into this yet, but I'm guessing around 5. Each "day" is a chapter. And will follow one or two characters. As for Day 1 we get to see Trent and Josh. The suspect and detective in a murder plot. "ooo real original" yeah I know. Shoot me later.

-IN MEMORY-

A Short Story of the "Human Resistance" Series

Earth: Year: 3997
Day 1

Rain fell onto earth, concrete, hover-cars, people, and the rare and valuable books possessed by very few. One such lucky man walked through the bleak storm, a large book cradled against his chest, keeping it shielded from the wet drops.

Dark eyes shifted from point to point, catching all, seeing nothing. His footsteps added to the noise and bustle of men and women hurrying home. His long black trench coat, which reached from his shoulders to near the ground, swayed at every paced step. A hood covered his head from the rain and kept his frantic eyes from the peering gazes of strangers.

He mumbled words beneath his breath, repeating directions as he walked. Never pausing, never rushing forward, always constant, he glided through the city, passing the newly built skyscrapers, a sight he used to dream of. Eventually, he steered further away from the crowds and entered quiet solitude on the roads.

"Right on Independence. Left on Liberty. Right on Volcanic." Directions…to his own house.

Because of a tragedy enacted several years ago, Trent Durnhill had to fight a battle every day with his mind. During the Resistance Wars, he had been captured in a mission, captured by the infamous Xenese, an alien race who fed and lived on memories – Human memories especially. Though he had survived thanks to people he couldn't truly remember, his memories had been shattered, and he had been trying to force them back ever since.

Head down, repeating his directions in an effort to not forget them, Trent didn't see the man with the gun until the shot rang through the air. Immediately, his head snapped up, seeing a dying man on the pavement and another one with a gun, shaking as if caught in the shock of his own deed.

Drills pumped his mind into action. Without thought, Trent moved forward across the slick pavement, puddles of water sloshing against his boots. Because of training inbred – but couldn't recall – he managed to grapple the gun away from the killer.

Unfortunately, that's where his drill stopped. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with the weapon now in his grasp. Before he could attempt to puzzle out his situation, sirens exploded into the night air. The killer kicked him to the ground, leaving the gun, and took off running in a random direction – or at least random to Trent's dazed eyes.

He stared into the night sky, already forgetting what had happened, not sure why it had happened. Why was he lying on the ground? Where was the book?

The book!

Sitting up, Trent looked around frantically, slouching his shoulders when he saw the precious book lying in a puddle, soaking up water like a sponge. It's ruined…

"You there! Stand up!"

Blinking at the rough voice, the sound of slamming doors, Trent fell into the only rhythm he could fall into easily nowadays: following orders. He stood up and at another barked order, put his hands behind his head. The gun lay at his feet.

A police officer, face covered by the helmet, pointed his own firearm at Trent. Three more had surrounded him. Two cars waited on the street, lights flashing yellow, red, yellow, red, a constant cycle back and forth. The lights bounced off of the tall buildings in the area and the pavement and the blood.

The blood! A man had been killed. Trent moved to see and one of the policemen stepped behind him, grabbing his hands, snapping his wrists behind him. "Don't move. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law." While the cop recited the words, which went in Trent's mind and were lost, he was led to a car and shoved inside the backseat.

So much was confusing him. It was all out of order. This wasn't right, but he couldn't remember what had happened. Sitting back in the seat, he sighed, and then looked for the book; it would have the answer. Wait.

The book!

"Josh, wake up! Drink that coffee and stop day dreaming; we have a serious case."

Blinking his eyes awake, Josh Hunters looked down at the mug of coffee in his hand and groaned. It was too early for a serious case. But then again, things never happened the way he wanted. Even though he came into work on time, he was never working on time. Unless something 'serious' called for his attention. Typically, they called him over for something minor anyway and he would go back to sleeping with his eyes open – a trick he mastered as a boy in old Earth history classes.

Refusing to hide back a yawn, he sauntered over to Jennifer Sanders' position. She would read the newest case requests and decide which detective team got the privilege of solving them. Damn Sanders always asked him, too.

"The newest Council member, Ryan Terr was shot last night, killed shortly after a meeting while he was on his way home."

As Sanders spoke, Josh sipped his coffee. It didn't surprise him. Council members were always targeted, and Ryan was a naïve arrogant punk who didn't take security with him everywhere he went. Not to mention he was a blasted leftist wanting more and more government control. True, people were stupid, but the few controlling the many was an idea that had failed in the past and would fail again. But Josh couldn't let his own ideals distract him from solving a case.

"One man was found on the scene of the crime. He won't admit to anything the police ask him."

Sip. "What's new?"

Sanders sighed. "Josh, this one is different. He had a book with him."

Sip. A book. Huh. While different, he didn't see the importance. "Right, and a book makes him more or less likely to kill someone? Make more sense, Sanders. Just because he reads, doesn't mean he's innocent – "

"But, Josh, the book's language…it's not from Earth. It's a journal from Jerchu, from the time of the Great Resistance."

Sip. "Right. A journal from Jerchu during the Great Resistance. More interesting. But what does it have to do with the case, Sanders? Damn it all, this coffee is terrible."

"Like always," Sanders said with a grin. "I guess that means something's bugging you."

Leaning against the chair she sat in – looking past her black curls, past the flat screen where she was reading her information, into his mind's memory of information where a pen was tapping against a school book wondering why the Jerchu and Dheru spaceships were important to Earth history… He began to tap his finger against the back of her chair, forgetting the coffee in his other hand.

"It has nothing to do with the case, or maybe it does, but whose journal was this man carrying? I thought the Council took all artifacts from the Great Resistance and made sure they were locked in a museum only, away from curious hands. Why would some man, which by the way you still haven't told me his name, have such an artifact? And if he had anything to do with the Great Resistance himself, he wouldn't be living in this ridiculous run down city or denying the cops information, don't you think? Something's wrong."

As he spoke, Sanders scanned through the data on the computer until she found the information he sought. "Ah, here, it's… Now I'm really curious."

"What?" Sip.

"It's a girl's journal; well, to be more precise, a demongirl. Reda."

The fingers stopped tapping. The coffee was suddenly not worth sipping. "He has her journal?" He placed his mug on her desk and leaned forward, perhaps a little close to her personal space, smelling her rose petal perfume, but he didn't care. Reda's journal! In their hands!

"So are you going to talk to him?" Sanders asked.

Forcing himself back to case mode, Josh stepped back, loosened his tie and patted down his pockets until he came up with a small cell-phone like device. "Hell yeah, and if he won't answer, I want to see his memories. I want to know how he got a hold of her journal. Damn! It's only been fifteen years since…everything…I wonder if they're still alive…"

As he walked away, trying not to rush, he could hear her warning. "Don't forget. This guy could be a murderer. Watch your step and stay focused, Josh." But didn't he always do that?

Suspect, Name: Trent Durnhill

Age: 32

Homeland: Earth

Occupation: Retired Veteran, served in the Great Resistance

Complications: Memory Loss; Possesses Reda Suki's journal – an artifact from one of the Resistance heroes.

Josh sighed. So much for getting information. After hours of questioning, this was the best he could come up with. No wonder the man gave the cops a hard time; he couldn't remember anything. He seemed harmless, too. And every once in a while…

"Where am I? What happened?"

Putting his face in his hands, Josh heaved another sigh. That was the tenth time in the past hour. "You are a witness to a murder and a possible suspect, I'm afraid to say. Seeing as your fingerprints are on the murder weapon."

"I didn't do it. At least, I don't think I did." Trent groaned. "I hate this. I can't ever remember anything anymore."

"Yeah, I noticed." To cool his frustration, Josh began to flip his small device. He hated to use it. Memivro: a memory locator and extractor. He hated to use it on Trent because the man hardly had any memories to begin with. But, if they were just lost in the back of his mind, the device would be able to pull everything to the surface and his memory problem would just…well…just be a memory.

Of course, everything had a down side. If he didn't have easy-to-access memories, the damn radioactive device could melt his brain. Or steal the memories for good.

"The book! Do you have the book? I lost it. She wouldn't like it if I lost it…"

Raising an eyebrow, Josh leaned forward in his chair, hands on his legs, eyes focused on the poor man in front of him. "That's the first time you've mentioned a 'she.' Who are you talking about?"

"Why, Reda, of course."

He remembered her name. Then all was not lost!

"I don't really remember anyone else, however hard I try, but she…she gave me her journal so that I wouldn't forget."

Strange. Why is he remembering now? Is he lying? Is he capable of lying? About this?

Flicking his wrist, he attempted to flip the device in his hand, but he miscalculated the timing and the small electronic fell to the floor. When he bent over to retrieve it, he realized why Trent was remembering. The memivro was activated. Odd, though, because he had never turned it on or directed it to anyone. But it was picking up on Trent for some reason.

"There were others. I met them in the Xenese ship. Damn Xenese. They messed everything up. They took it all."

The Xenese! Of course! But…I thought that part about the aliens who could eat memories…I thought it was just a lie.

"It took me so long to remember her. I had forgotten about all of them. I think my father rescued me; that doesn't make sense, though. Or does it? I can't remember the details, anymore. My father used to praise me on my photographic memory, and my skill to remember codes that matched even Jake Reed…" After saying the name, Trent froze. His eyes blank. His eyebrows furrowed together. He was trying hard to remember. Trying so hard.

Josh, of course, knew who Jake Reed was. The green eyed, black haired, hero of the Resistance. He was the one to find Reda, to fall in love with a demongirl, who in turn befriended the Elvian Commander, Takahashi. Without the three of them, the wars on the space front would have failed, and if they had failed in space, on the other planets, Earth would surely have been trapped in continual conflict with the Xenese and Elvian fleet. The three very different leaders had saved humanity.

And Trent Durnhill had, apparently, known at least two of them personally, and the man couldn't remember!

With a sigh, Josh looked back at the memivro, seeing the light was blinking. It was full. No wonder Trent wasn't remembering anymore. Sad. Groaning slightly, Josh picked up his clipboard and memivro and stood up to leave.

"I guess that's as far as we'll get tonight. I'll be back shortly. I'll make sure the cops don't harass you, even if you're the only proof that's turned up."

Trent didn't respond, just stared back with that blank look on his face. Josh shook his head and left the poor man alone.

"Sanders, do you have any kind of report about the body? Or the murder weapon? They did say there were two fresh sets of fingerprints on the gun, didn't they? Have they traced the other prints yet?"

Sadly, Sanders just shook her head, black curls bouncing against a round face. Her eyes were focused on her information screen. Her hands were settled on her keyboard, flying across the keys every once in a while as she searched and pulled up more information.

"Did you find anything interesting from your little device?" She asked instead.

He laughed softly. "Not yet. I haven't had time to load everything. Give me more than five minutes before you ask."

Silence filled the office. There wasn't even an old clock ticking, nothing to keep time. Not that Josh cared. When on a case, he made his own time. The white walls around him seemed bright for a background, but he had gotten used to it over the past three years. The black desks: Sanders with the flat screen, his with the clipboards and portable handheld computers. It was all so black and white and gray. Like an old movie. The only color was the blue light flashing from the memivro device.

"All right, let's see what this thing managed to steal."

"Reda, run!" The black haired man, Jake, yelled down the corridor. Doors filled the hallway, cells. One was the way out. Trent knew it. He had come from one of them, but he was having trouble remembering. Why was he having trouble remembering?

Beside him, the girl, Reda pulled out two guns and blasted down the hallway, missing Jake by inches. "I said run, not shoot me!" Jake shouted at her, but two of the film-skinned aliens fell from her shots. Trent thought Reda was supposed to use a sword like Jake, but apparently at some point in the war she had switched to being more useful at long range combat.

"We go together, Jake. I'm not leaving you again; I won't do it again, I swear."

There was some hidden meaning behind the words. Trent, young and immature, had yet to understand. But Jake smiled. And then he was running with them.

"So, boy, where's the door you came through? Where's the correct escape route? You must realize we can't keep opening doors until the right one shows itself. We don't have time."

Trent winced. "I can't…remember."

The two of them went silent. Their footsteps echoed in the corridor. A door opened and another Xenese alien stepped out, skin gray, eyes white, fingers and toes webbed like some kind of water creature. One of those hands reached for him, too fast to dodge, but Jake's katana was faster.

The sword came down. An arm fell off. Trent took a breath, realizing he had gasped, probably squeaked in fear, when the alien had shown itself. A gun shot rang through his ears and then the alien fell backwards, a strange bubbly white substance gushing from its neck.

"Trent, that's your name, right? Your father said you have the best memory of the squad here, a code-memory like Jake's here. Prove it. Which door?"

"There's too much going on! I can't think! They all look the same now! I-I…"

Jake laughed and stopped. Reda, confused, skidded to a stop, too. Trent, just following the two fighters, nearly fell backwards in an attempt to stop as suddenly. "Kid, fear is in everyone. I can tell you're afraid, and that's what your problem is. I shouldn't be able to tell. Being afraid isn't bad. Showing it off and letting it mess with your mind – that's the problem. Take a breath, and push it away. Then we'll continue. Otherwise we might as well do things my way."

Nodding, Trent closed his eyes.

"Jake! Not everyone has trained before!"

"I never trained, either! I just…okay, I guess that was training. But this kid hasn't exactly had a nice life."

"Yeah, but he hasn't been forced into situations like this all his life. This is new for him. He can't just…"

"I remember!" Trent shouted, his eyes open. "We take a right up ahead and then go through the fifth door. That'll lead to the escape pods…Are you sure Takahashi is outside waiting for us?"

As if in answer, the entire ship shook as if having been hit. Jake and Reda maintained balance pretty well – Jake was lucky to be leaning on a wall in the first place. Trent, however, stumbled and tripped over his feet, failing to stand tall like the two heroic figures above him. Being around them was just a bit intimidating.

"Told ya so, demongirl."

"Ja-a-a-ke." Reda complained with a sigh, and then they were off again.

"I wish I had memories that detailed." The first comment came from Sanders, who was standing over his personal screen watching what the memivro had stolen.

He had expected something abnormal, but not this. History nerds would have gone crazy to have seen this. A memory from the Great Resistance. "Wow." Most citizens who had met one of three heroes decided to keep their memories to themselves, only talking about them, never giving them up to the devices. No wonder. Jake and Reda seemed to have had the ability to fly through enemies on a whim. Whether or not this certain memory had them trying to escape, their fighting capacity was something out of a child's novel. No one could actually knock out that many aliens that fast…right?

"Lucky bastard. He gets colors, perfect shapes, even complete sentences!" Sanders kept right on talking, her arms crossed as she showed her envy.

Josh sighed. "He's not so lucky. He couldn't remember anything until the memivro was activated – and now the device has the memories, not him."

"Damn," she muttered in response.

He waved a hand in the air. "Stop watching over my shoulder. Keep searching for information."

With a disappointed grunt, Sanders left him alone, brooding at her own desk. "You're the detective. You're supposed to search for information, not spend time watching memories like a television show."

"I am searching for information. This is the same thing as interrogation. He can't remember anything, so he can't cooperate normally. Maybe this little thing found a memory of that night."

"Yeah, right. You're hoping for more scenes with Jake and Reda, aren't you?"

He shrugged. "Riku Takahashi was always my favorite, ever since I first heard the stories."

"What's going on, Father? Why are they fighting?" Trent whispered from a covered, hopefully hidden, hole in the ground.

His father, Commander of the ground troops in this section of the Human Resistance, stood beside him. Being quiet. Watching the fight in the distance.

Zoranian troops had landed and were watching as well. They were out in the open, though. They had superior weaponry and definitely superior numbers. They were the reason Trent and his father were hiding and just watching. Reda was already in their hands, her huge sword and twin pistols confiscated. Everyone was watching. Waiting to see what would happen. Would the two kill each other?

"Idiots. They're too young for this."

His father, Commander Bradley Durnhill, whispered something, his annoyance obvious. Trent was trying to decide if he was having a nightmare, but when his father finally spoke, he knew it was real. His father never spoke in his dreams.

So it was true. Riku Takahashi, a master of the Elvian's shifting bo-staff, was locked in a serious battle with Jake Reed, the Black Eagle, the proclaimed hero of the Resistance. Trent couldn't believe it. His eyes watched as they flew back and forth across the ground, like warriors from the past. Jake always used his katana, the single weapon he had been allowed back on the Zoranian planet and the one weapon he had mastered and cared to use – even though Reda, Riku, and everyone else tried to convince him to try something more modern. Having been robbed of his modern weaponry, Takahashi was using his staff that could change shapes. One moment it was a single longsword, then it was double daggers, then it was a staff again, then a rapier, a scythe, a scimitar…constantly changing, becoming stranger things as the fight progressed. It would have been amazing to watch, if the two weren't ignoring the Zoranians around them, if the two hadn't been so intent on killing the other.

It wasn't right. They were supposed to work together. What would happen to the Resistance if one of them fell? They needed Riku to keep contact with the Elvian fleets; he made sure the Elvians were on their side. Without him…

"What's going to happen, Father?"

Instead of answering, Bradley pointed up, toward one of the Zoranian spaceship ramps where laser gunmen stood poised, waiting for a command. Without a word, his father shook his head and turned to leave.

"Tell me what happens, Trent. I don't want to see it. I couldn't bear to watch our hope die so foolishly."

"Amazing," Josh muttered. "Heroes are always fools."

Shaking his wrists to get some feeling back into his arms, he pulled his special device out of the computer and stood up to see if Sanders had anything new. This case needed to be solved, help from suspect memories or not. A council member was dead and somewhere in Trent's fragile mind laid the answer. The problem was putting the pieces together and pulling out the memories that would actually help, not just the ones that interested Josh's curiosity. Damn job ruining all the fun.

A/N: So, comments? If there's interest in this, I'll update on a timely basis. If not, I don't see a reason to reveal anymore.