The Tales of Sol 79A By Joe at3unit3@yahoo.com
This is a fictional story; it is not intended to imply that any members of the Backstreet Boys, Nsync, or 98 Degrees are gay, or any of the other celebrities mentioned are homosexuals. If you are not old enough to read these stories, do yourself a favor and don't get caught. The same goes for those people whose countries have these sites made illegal. And for everyone else enjoy
Captain Planet and related characters were created by R.E Turner and copyrighted by AOL Time Warner Company and Trademark by TBS Productions
Babylon 5 and all related characters and props were created by Michael Straczynski and copyrighted by Warner Bros.
Star Trek and all related characters created by Gene Roddenberry. Copyright Paramount
Transformers and all related characters, and props are trademarked by Hasbro Inc. Copyright Rhino Home Videos and AOL Time Warner Entertainment CO
He-Man, She-Ra, related characters, and props are trademarked by Filmation 1980s
Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, Angel, and all related characters created by Joss Whedon. Copyright 20th Century Fox.
Batman, and all related characters created by Bob Kane. Copyright DC Comics and Warner Bros.
X-MEN and all related characters were created by Stan Lee. Copyright Marvel Comics and 20th Century Fox.
To those who've been reading Tales of Sol. I want you to know that there is sex in this story. That is not its sole purpose and yes I do hope the sex sense makes you all hard and gets you off.
Sol is an adaptation from my childhood favorite show Captain Planet and the Planeteers. The cartoon showed us that the world can be a better place if we take a few moments to care for it.
Tales of Sol is meant to express hope.
It also shows how music can have an impact in our lives. I don't know if my favorite bands 98 Degrees, Backstreet Boys, or Nsync have ever read this. They saw me through some of the hardest moments of my life and offered in their own way hope. To them, I say thank you.
I dedicate the Tales of Sol to all of my brothers and sisters of the US Armed Service past, present, and future.
I like to thank my friends whom I had the privilege of showing these chapters with. They helped with editing and inspiration, John Rivera, Albert-Russ Alan Rivera-Odum, Derbe.D. Hunte Yvette Ortiz Samuel Diaz Jr for all their help in Making The Tales of Sol an enjoyable story to write.
And I have a few other names starting with the beginner of this universe.
James is the author of Tales of a Real Dark Knight. I still hope to reconnect with you dear friend and all the rest of this series.
Blake the author of Tales of a New Phoenix
Jeremi author of the Tales of Young Mutants
I am adding a few more remarks. I have entered into the 21st century of AI editing, I have been using various AI programs to help with grammar checks, clarity, and improvements to my story.
This story was edited with the help of GPT Workspace, Grammarly, Microsoft Copilot, and Quill Bot AI software.
AI Use Disclosure: I used GPT Workspace to generate some text for my story, Grammarly to check my grammar and spelling, Microsoft Copilot to write some code snippets, and Quillbot to paraphrase some sentences. I verified the accuracy and originality of the AI-generated content and cited the sources that I used for reference.
References:
GPT Workspace. (2024, January 9). Version 1.0. [AI tool]. GPT Workspace Inc. https://gptworkspace.com/
Grammarly. (2024, January 9). Version 5.6. [AI tool]. Grammarly Inc. https://www.grammarly.com/
Microsoft Copilot. (2024, January 9). Version 2.3. [AI tool]. Microsoft Corporation. https://copilot.github.com/
Quillbot. (2024, January 9). Version 4.2. [AI tool]. Quillbot Inc. https://quillbot.com/
The Tales of Sol 79A
Bringing Hope
The day was consumed with the work of restoration, but by twilight, the rubbish and recyclables had been tidied and whisked away, leaving the venue prepared for what was to come. Outside, eager fans queued, their anticipation palpable in the growing dusk. Soon, the Backstreet Boys would bring their music to the heart of Hilo.
Side stage, I stood alongside Stacey, sharing a quiet moment before the spectacle unfolded. "Mike, I can't quite figure out how, but I have no doubt you played a big part in getting this setup done in time," she remarked, her tone laden with appreciation.
Just then, the familiar strains of "I Want It That Way" filled the air, the instrumental intro washing over us. As the melody enveloped the space, a sense of calm settled within me. The music, with its soothing undertones and nostalgic tempo, served as a salve, penetrating the layers of despondency that had lingered after the day's trials. It was the balm I didn't realize I needed, and I absorbed it gratefully, gearing up for whatever lay ahead.
The resonance of the song caused a shift within me, a vibrancy that dulled the sharper edges of recent memories. "This music, this moment--it's as much for my healing as it is for the island's," I murmured, barely audible, yet the sentiment as strong as the music itself.
Raising my voice so Stacy could hear, I added, "This concert is a turning point, a necessary catharsis. What unfolds on that stage tonight isn't just for entertainment--it's a symbol of recovery, of resilience."
Stacy's gaze lingered on me, her understanding dawning slowly. Seeking to bridge the gap in comprehension, I continued, "It represents a community coming together to heal through the universal language of music. It's hope manifesting--through harmony, rhythm, and the shared experience of song. This will be a memory that shapes futures, that reminds us all why we rise after falling, and how we find light amidst the darkest times."
"Stacy, this concert--it's a milestone for everyone here. We've all witnessed the formidable power of nature, a force that's sculpted forever the face of this island," I explained, tying the volcanic activity of Mauna Loa to the gravity of this event.
Her brows drew together in a frown, the pieces not fully connecting for her. "But what's the relevance of having a concert now?" she queried, her confusion clear.
The answer flowed from a place of understanding deep within me, a fusion of Captain Planet's legacy with Sol's mission. "This performance--it's a declaration. It's defiance in the face of destruction and a celebration of survival. It's about taking this moment of transformation and fear and turning it into an affirmation of life. It's a beckoning call for strength and solidarity in the aftermath, a reminder that we are resilient, and not defined by the adversity we face but by how we rise together after it strikes," I shared, the conviction in my words echoing the sentiment of heroes past and present.
"Stacy, look at it this way: just as nature finds a way to emerge stronger from ruin, so does the human spirit," I offered, as if drawing a parallel that branches beyond the physical realm. "Sure, Mauna Loa's wrath has reshaped the terrain, but from its ashes, new life, and new possibilities will inevitably bloom. The land will reinvent itself."
I gestured towards where the stage stood as a proud testament to our unbowed resolve. "That's exactly what hope does--it takes the remnants of turmoil and molds it into a force for good. The concert tonight isn't merely a performance; it's a symbol of that transformation. Folks aren't flocking here just as fans--they're coming for that palpable sense of beginning anew, for that collective surge of strength that tells them 'We can rise again. We can rebuild.'"
With each word, I could see the realization dawn upon Stacy, her expression morphing from uncertainty to reverence. "This event--it's about more than just music. It's a beacon of renewal and solidarity for Hilo and everyone who calls it home," I concluded, knowing full well that the rhythms and melodies would soon weave together the tapestry of recovery for a community in need of healing.
"Mike, what you're saying--it carries a lot of significance," Stacy acknowledged, her voice tinged with a newfound understanding and respect. "Your perspective--it adds a profound depth to what we're doing here tonight. Thank you for that clarity," she said, reflecting upon the insight I had provided and how it resonated with the larger picture of the community's journey to recovery.
The energized strum of "Larger Than Life" reverberated throughout the venue as Brian took to the stage, his voice anchoring the performance. The fans erupted, their adoration palpable, singing along to the renowned lyrics: "Every time we're down, you can make it right. That makes you larger than life." Each word Brian crooned amplified the crowd's fervor.
Rob Thomas graced the stage, his voice melding with Brian's, infusing the seminal Backstreet Boys track with a unique timbre. The collaboration was seamless, a harmony of different worlds, and it electrified the atmosphere.
Stacy looked on, amazement etched into her features. "You were right, Mike. This was necessary," she affirmed, witnessing the effect the music had on everyone present, the upliftment it brought after days of fear and uncertainty.
As the concert unfolded, the Backstreet Boys dazzled--belting out classics, teasing with new tunes, each number a strand in the tapestry of this night's narrative. Other artists took the stage at their invitation, each contributing their essence to what was rapidly becoming an unforgettable gathering.
Amid the success, I was gently tugged away from the festivities. It was Johnny on the line, his reason for reaching out undoubtedly important. Whatever he wanted to discuss, I knew the night's spirit of resilience and hope would not be dimmed. Even as I stepped away to take his call, the music and the message it carried continued to resonate.
Nestled away in a serene corner, I dialed Johnny's number, my curiosity piqued. "Hey, Johnny. What's the news?" I ventured as the call connected.
Johnny's voice burst forth, a torrent of excitement. "Mike! The concert's an absolute smash hit, a knockout success," he enthused, his words brimming with elation. "It's brilliant that you got Stacy to go through with it," he continued, attributing the decision to my persuasion.
Holding the phone steady, I felt compelled to clarify. "Johnny, you should know Stacy was just being prudent," I stated firmly, eager to advocate for her initial judgment. "The concert's success isn't about mismanagement on her end. She had every legitimate concern to call things off -- we've been lucky it all turned out well," I explained, stressing that Stacy's stance was one of rational caution, not managerial failure.
"Oh, I do, Mike, I do. Seeing the images out of Hilo, who wouldn't?" Johnny replied, his tone a mixture of relief and exuberance. "I was squarely behind her call--you know that. But I'm overjoyed to see how things panned out. You, the Boys, putting on a show amidst it all? It's nothing short of heroic," he said, his delight virtually palpable over the phone.
"Johnny, it's heartening to know you support Stacy. She was in a tough spot, what with the extent of the calamity here," I assured him, comforted by his understanding.
My attention was momentarily diverted by something flickering in my peripheral vision. "Hey, Johnny, I've got to bounce," I interjected, the urgency in my voice snipping our call short.
From lively to instant concern, Johnny's mood shifted. "What's going on? Talk to me, Mike," he pressed, his worry clear as day, anticipating another episode in the day's saga of unexpected turns.
"There's a situation here--I need to check it out," I stated, the seriousness evident in my voice. With that, I ended the call and approached the figure lingering in the periphery of the event's brightness.
It was Steve La'Tola, the former director of the USGS, now just a silhouette among the shadows. My approach was tinged with a hint of the scorn he'd brandished towards me previously, reversing the roles from our last encounter.
As I neared, it was clear the tables had turned. Gone was the brash, dismissive air he had carried. Instead, the man stood deflated, his posture sagging with defeat. In his eyes, I read a story of downfall and desperation--his spirit seemingly crushed, the weight of his public failure a heavy mantle.
Approaching with caution, I prepared to deal with this unexpected visitor. There was no telling what his state of mind might bring about in these tumultuous times.
"I came to say I'm sorry," he said, surprising me with his humble attitude.
"I'm sorry?" I wasn't expecting an apology from La'Tola, not that I was even expecting him to show up to an impromptu concert.
Steve La'Tola's words caught me off guard, a whisper of contrition in his voice. "I came to say I'm sorry," he mumbled, a shadow of his former self.
"Excuse me?" I was still at a loss, the word a mirror reflecting his regret. La'Tola apologizing, and at a concert no less -- this was a reality I hadn't anticipated.
"You were spot on," he continued, his voice heavy with the weight of his errors. "Had I heeded your warnings and alerted the public, we could have spared so many from the devastation." His frankness was revealing, a departure from the facade of confidence he'd upheld before.
"As much as I tried to convince you otherwise, downplay the risk, deep down, I saw the truth in your eyes. You weren't swayed by my reassurances. And you were right not to be," he conceded.
His admission was a testament to the gravity of the outcome had I not intervened. It also spoke volumes of his own evolution, the growth that comes when one faces the consequences of their actions head-on.
"You're only human, La'Tola. Mistakes are part of the job," I stated, my tone even, devoid of any particular sympathy for the man before me. His own actions had led to this moment, and while his apology was a step towards amends, it was the consequences he'd now have to live with.
Steve shook his head and verbal venom was coming out of his mouth, all of it directed back at himself, "You don't get it. I lost colleagues trying to prove you wrong on the slopes of Mauna Loa. Our parks lost some of its most knowledgeable people who had been with the USGS for years, and they all said the exact same thing you did: those numbers didn't lie. And I led them to their deaths," he said, breaking down. Steve was a broken man. I couldn't sense any hope left in him. Before we could continue our conversation, La'Tola left without another word. I was a bit shaken. Absentmindedly I returned to the concert not sure what just happened. It took my love musically voice to bring me back around.
At Kilauea's rugged edge, a solitary figure stood, gazing into the fiery belly of the volcano. In his hands, he clutched a photograph--a talisman of happier times--depicting a young boy, his son, radiating innocence and happiness. The man, Steve La'Tola, was lost in a sea of remorse, his voice echoing with anguish across the molten landscape.
"My pride... my damned pride," he lamented, the sorrow in his words as palpable as the heat that rose in waves before him. "I had the power to save so many, to spare them from this... and most of all, to protect you, Tag."
The photo trembled in his grip as he was momentarily lost in the memory of his son's admiration for the grandeur of Mount Kilauea, for the deities that governed the island's fiery heart.
Tears streaked tracks through the ash on his face as he beseeched the silent gods, his plea a raw, ragged thing that pierced the smoldering silence. "Why? Why take my boy?" Steve La'Tola's grief was a father's deepest lament--a soul crying out for the cherished life lost, for the chance never taken, for the warning never heeded.
Painful clarity dawned on Steve La'Tola in that desolate moment as he clutched the photo of his son. He understood the ferocity of Pele's response--a divine indignation towards his own negligence. The realization left him shattered, a man irreparably pierced by guilt.
"I should have heeded the signs," he whispered into the searing winds. The tales of a Guardian -- a legend foretold among their people -- had materialized before him in flesh and bone, bringing forth a premonition of catastrophe. "He stood before me, a harbinger of what was to come, and I turned him away," La'Tola conceded, each admission a knife to his own heart. "In my hubris, I failed you, my son."
The grief-stricken father recognized the Guardian's hidden hand in the events of that night--the concert that uplifted the spirits of a beleaguered community. "Guardian, you are our sentinel, the light in our darkest times. I now see that it was you who ensured the Backstreet Boys--the band you adored--lifted our spirits." His voice was laced with a profound reverence for the hero who had offered solace amidst loss.
He envisioned his son, Tag, jubilant and vibrant, where he should have been--in the pulsing heart of the crowd, not a casualty of his father's folly. "You should have been celebrating, not commemorated," La'Tola's voice broke.
Surrendering the cherished photograph to the elements, he watched as it spiraled down into Kilauea's molten maw--a final, searing tribute. The flames embraced the image, claiming it in an instant, a symbol of closure for a father who'd trade anything for a chance to rewrite the past.
Amidst the loss and the embers of regret, Steve La'Tola's resolve took on a somber finality. "I'm coming, son," he whispered--a statement as much for himself as for the boy he'd loved and lost. His eyes, filled with the pain of realization, gazed upon the churning inferno. "This is where I was meant to be," he murmured, the path forward now laid bare by the sacrifice he could not undo, but toward which he felt inexorably drawn.,
With heavy steps, Steve La'Tola moved toward the precipice, his form silhouetted against the fiery glow of Kilauea. He relinquished his hold on the world, surrendering to the chasm's infernal embrace. As he descended, his voice carried a final plea, "Pele, accept this offering -- safeguard my people from my failings."
The fires closed over him, the lava claiming him in its fervent clasp, and just like that, his presence was extinguished, swallowed by the Earth's raw elemental power. In his final act, he sought absolution, hoping his sacrifice to Pele would atone for his mistakes and perhaps, in some small way, protect those he had left behind.
Back at the makeshift event the concert unfolded into a truly epic performance, one that transcended the majesty of mere performance. As the melodies wove through the crowd, every note seemed to knit the fragmented spirits back together. The joy was palpable, each song an anthem of resilience, a testament to the enduring power of community and shared experience.
In a profound moment, voices united in a choral offering that harkened back to the collaborative spirit of the Bravo All Stars. "Let the Music Heal Your Soul" cascaded through the venue, a poignant reminder of music's restorative strength. Lyrics and harmonies offered solace, a balm for wounded hearts.
It was more than a concert. It was a collective exhale, a gathering where the island's inhabitants could lose themselves in the catharsis of rhythm and song, where they could find solace in shared humanity. As the Backstreet Boys and fellow artists sang, it wasn't just the music that soothed their souls--it was the promise, the memory, and the confirmation that even in the darkest times, healing was possible, one note at a time.
Rob Thomas' presence lent an extra layer of warmth and richness to the night. As the final notes of the last song faded, a collective sense of accomplishment permeated the air. The exhaustion was the good kind, the kind that comes after shared laughter, cathartic tears, and the unfettered release of pent-up emotions into a healing atmosphere.
We all departed from the arena feeling lighter, our steps easier, and our hearts a little more whole. As Brian and I returned to our hotel room, I marveled silently at his visage -- even wearied from the day's events, he exuded a quiet radiance.
He flopped onto the bed, his voice a mixture of contentment and fatigue. "Mike, it was just what we needed," he yawned, reaffirming the concert's transformative power.
Before I could respond, my phone interrupted the intimacy of the moment. "Get some rest, love. I'll be with you soon," I reassured him, watching as he settled into the soft sheets, his body already yielding to sleep's gentle embrace.
I stepped to the side, my hand reaching for the phone. "Hello?" I answered, my voice subdued,
"Mike it is Dave," I heard my mentor
I quickly said, "Give me a moment Dave Brian has finally fallen asleep," easing out of the door to take the call as Brian drifted into a well-deserved slumber.
When I found a seat in the living space I said, "Okay Dave what is up?"
Dave apologized, "I am sorry for keeping you from Brian, especially after that amazing concert, but I have some terrible news,"
I didn't respond, I heard Dave's voice carry a somber timbre. "Mike, there's been a development. Steve La'Tola... he's passed," he delivered the grave tidings, his words striking like a sudden chill.
A wave of sorrow and disbelief washed over me. Despite the tumult we'd all witnessed, I carried a sliver of hope that tragedy had not claimed Steve. "How did it happen?" I found myself asking, clinging to the need for some semblance of reason.
"The USGS has footage. He... he walked into the heart of Kilauea," Dave shared, the truth of this revelation echoing hollowly between us. "As for why he did it, that remains a mystery," he admitted.
I exhaled a heavy breath, the weight of this news settling over me. There was a raw finality to it, an ending that left more questions than closure. With few words left to exchange, Dave said goodbye, and I ended the call, the screen's glow dimming alongside the conversation.
In silence, I joined Brian in bed, my movements careful not to rouse him from his rest. As I lay beside him, the reality of Steve's end a stark contrast to the warmth of my partner beside me, I pondered the fragile line between despair and hope, and the continuous thread of life--and loss--that binds us all.
The moment I was within reach, Brian's arms enveloped me in a reflexive gesture of comfort. With his head resting wearily upon mine, he sensed the disturbance in my demeanor. "What's going on?" he murmured, barely above a whisper.
I didn't mask the sadness in my voice as I relayed the news. "La'Tola... he's gone. He took his own life after the concert," I confided, the stark words falling into the stillness of our room.
The revelation jolted Brian from the cusp of sleep, his body tensing as he sat bolt upright. "Are you shitting me! You can't be serious!" he gasped, the weight of the information cutting through the fog of fatigue.
I nodded solemnly, sitting up alongside him as I shared the details of La'Tola's unexpected apology and admission during the concert--that he had come to terms with the grievous outcome of his inaction regarding Mauna Loa. It was clear in his final words that the burden of regret had been too much to bear. "If that wasn't proof enough, Dave says there are records at the USGS of the former director walking into Mount Kilauea"
Brian softly swore, "Damn"
We clung to one another in the quiet of the night, the sadness and shock binding us together in mutual solace. As Brian listened, a depth of understanding in his eyes, I poured out my remembrances and regrets. "If only I'd known, maybe...," I lamented, the weight of 'what ifs' heavy in my heart. But Gaia's teachings echoed in my mind--a reminder that even with powers like mine, the scope of salvation had its bounds.
Exhausted from the emotion, Brian sank back into the softness of his pillow, drawing me along. We held each other tight, seeking the consolation that only proximity could provide. Softly, yet with conviction, Brian voiced a prayer into the stillness, "May you find peace and forgiveness, Steve La'Tola," a gentle plea for serenity in the aftermath of regret.
Wrapped in each other's arms, we found a rare moment of peace amidst the turbulence of the day's events--a sanctuary within the storm that had claimed more than we had prepared for. Our embrace was a lifeline, and in it, we found the strength to face the uncertainty of the days to come.
To be continued
Hawaiian volcanoes aren't the only things that explode, while I never said there wasn't going to be sex in my story I hope those who find them in my story get off on them. There is going to be plenty more sex to come, but they aren't the reason for this story. Hawaii is about to come to an end with only a few more chapters to go. There are still some things to come both good and bad.
Please remember to Donate to Nifty
Please tell me what you think at3unit3@yahoo.com
All comments are welcome
I also recommend the following stories. It was because of them I got into writing in the first place.
"Tales of a Real Dark Knight" by authorjames
"Marvel Knights" also by authorjames
"Tales of the New Phoenix" by Blake
"Tales of a Superhero Band" by Leo
"Tales of a Young Mutant" by Jeremi
"Tales of a Thunder God" by Tony Justiss