CNF Studios, New York, USA.
Sergio Sampson was the shit. Flies landed on him -- and he was fly. He liked that word: “Fly”. It was empowering and encapsulating of his general dogma, which was complicated but involved looking down on people.
When people turned on their televisions they’d invariably see him before the end of the day. Not that long-nosed bitch who wears teal too much from QMC News -- but him. How many people can say that of themselves? How many people truly fly on the attention of others?
Not only was life going good for Sergio, but with the pesky whore of a wife now out of the picture, his focus was even more on his work -- more to himself. Sergio was a man of self improvement.
When the first few grey hairs of his midlife suddenly sounded the questions which demanded answers, he finally found solace in the philosophy that life was his for the taking; Sergio versus the world -- at least, when he was into the coke. Why had he stopped trying to enjoy it to the fullest? He knew what he wanted and how to perpetuate that.
And you know what? Fuck Maya. What does she know about the industry anyways? What does anyone know about this industry? It’s fucking complicated. Seriously.
As the teleprompter began its tedious run of impact words Sergio found them flowing out of his mouth with little to no resistance. He had long since stopped reading what lie before him. The mind is tricky and Sergio had learned certain ‘tricks’ could be used to whisk away irrelevancies to what his job at CNF was: Carrying on a conversation. He could make words become social universes which he often opened and closed within the span of six months to a year -- but that didn’t mean he had to play god and understand all these concepts. Fuck that. Instead of being paid to do extra, he simply did less and used this mental leeway to ponder some more of the finer details of his life, in between stories.
Perhaps this week he would purchase an animal of some sorts...
“And in other news CNF wants to remind you that this Monday marks the 7th anniversary of the December 21st attack on American sovereignty and we will be with you Live from both Tsarion Complex A and B. Also, in other news, Michael Jackson once again seems to have something new to worry about -- you’ll find out the news coming up after the break. I’m Sergio Sampson and you’re watching the Midday Daily…”
“And… cut.”
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Violet’s Apartment, Los Angeles, USA. (rewrite perhaps? Needs to be more fluid)
It was quite late for Violet. She should have been in bed, but yet she found herself online, talking to a complete stranger. She likely shouldn’t have been talking to a complete stranger, but she was. She likely shouldn’t have been doing a lot of things lately, but she was.
Jah: “Government cover-ups? Hmm… where do I begin?”
V for Violet: “Anywhere would be fine, I think.”
Jah: “Alright, well the thing you have to keep in mind is that in the sense that history is written by the winners, those winning governments especially, write the truth they want to be known for its citizens. Their truth is not the Truth -- which is much more complicated, if such a thing can exist at all.
Violet nodded to the words on her laptop’s screen. Her delicate fingers danced over random keys in thought as she pondered her next sentence. How legit was this guy (or girl)? How seriously should she take this? What is she doing up at 4:52am? Why can’t she just let this go?
The chat site she had stumbled over in her continued fit of annoyance over work problems was surprisingly professional looking for the name, in her mind. “Truthseekas.com” had delivered on the aesthetic front at least.
She sat in the chat room talking to the only other person online.
V for Violet: “Ok, I think I’m with you so far.”
Jah: “Ok, well there are different ‘secrets’, and there sort of always has been when you think about it. The question is: Is the ‘cover up’ for the good of the American people or not?
V for Violet: “Isn’t it our right as the people to decide though?”
Jah: “What if I said that it’s simply not possible, and never has been? That... the process of informing the general public of certain things would potentially create more damage?”
V for Violet: “... I would say I have to think about it.”
Jah: “Do that.”
V for Violet: “Ok well what about.... big things? Say for example the article on this site talking the Tsarion Event, and that the government accomplished it with advanced weapons, etc. I mean how could they do that and not have someone spill the beans? It seems impossible. ”
Jah: “Impossible? Violet I’m sorry to say that I regret you suffer from a lack of imagination.”
V for Violet: “Well... that’s pretty rude now isn’t it?”
Violet felt the familiar rage building within, obscuring logic with it’s delightful sense of escapism. Just tell this guy to fuck off Violet, you know you want to.....
Jah: “Hardly, just a statement of the facts for your benefit. Somewhat like revealing the answer to a riddle that you just can’t get. The point is that you are here, looking, so in a way doesn’t that answer your question? They don’t get away with it. People like you notice that something is wrong, because you are acutely observant of the world you live in. You know when you are being lied to. Use the anger you are likely feeling as a guide towards your true thoughts. Are you mad with a stranger on the internet or yourself?
She felt the anger start to die down a bit as she processed the message.
V for Violet: “I’m not mad at anyone, so stop playing psychologist.”
Jah: “Alright.”
Jah: “I’m just referring to the origins of secrets. It’s nothing new, I’m simply pointing out a historical concept which goes back to the days of Caesar and further. They maintain this secrecy by trying (often unsuccessfully) to control what people like you and me think to be possible.
V for Violet: “Well who are we talking about here? Are you one of those people who thinks the world is run by a small room of men or something?”
Jah: “I wouldn’t say that. I just think that in politics there is a front and a back stage. It seems like everyone sort of agrees with me on that part.”
Violet typed with passion and earnest, her interest growing along with her trust in this newfound internet friend. It was his take on the world, and it was a refreshingly disturbing one. Fear seemed to be becoming preferable to control at this point in her life.
The soft glow of the monitor’s light stroked the young detective’s face gently. This newfound logic igniting emotional reserves she had not tapped since early adolescent summer romances.
Violet would not sleep that night.
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-“HELP” Wellness Center. Los Angeles, CA (break up with some dialogue)
Jocelyn knew all about depression, of course.
Having studied the theoretical aspect in depth, it seemed, made living out the effects much more intimidating. What’s worse than knowing the answer to your problem and not being able to do anything about it? Somewhere along the lines, she figured, her consciousness had automated her brain to such a degree it had tripped, but was not aware of it -- or perhaps not aware how. Like a toy robot on its side she continued to make the walking motions. Overhead a presence watches the feeble emotional mechanisms stuck on repeat -- but that’s all it is, a presence.
The presence watched as the hands below the desk fumbled to open the case on her new prescription. Pathetic, she couldn’t even open the fucking case on her antidepressant pills.
“Doctor, what you have to realize is that you don’t need to know everything. You need to stop with these stupid personal questions about past lovers and stuff. I wanted to prove to you I have a gift of sorts, but this is sort of making me rethink my decision.” Lynus shook his head slightly, seeing her with the bottle again.
The new dose was a MAO inhibitor with some sort of new variation she did not understand. Nowadays all it seemed she needed to understand was that a new twist usually meant a twist she would enjoy. With as smile she popped the safety lid off of the familiar bottle.
Lynus gave his head a shake again from his position: this time sitting lazily on the couch. His seating choice had brought a small smile to the once poised mouth of the youth Psychologist, but as per usual the session had opened up more questions than answers found.
He had put her perspective to scale, and what she saw could not be erased. She knew that now at least. It wasn’t much but it was a place to start.
The young patient of hers described it as tapping into a giant set of subconscious records. Jocelyn remembered him using the word ‘perusal’ somewhere in the explanation, one he had done so with such carefree brevity -- astonishing to witness. He was a psychic of some sorts, of this much Jocelyn was sure, but she didn’t quite think Lynus really understood the consequences of such a thing. She felt a genuine empathy for him, as she was on the receiving end of his gift, and it had nearly broken her sanity.
“Yo, Doc are you listening? I have… something special to tell you today. I know you are a little shaken up, but I know that you will be able to help me. The others could not…”
“Yes, I am listening Lynus, but I’m not sure if I can handle anything more right now. Just…give me a second.”
The only thing she would not touch was Humphries. Of course, it killed her not to know where he went after his ‘selection’, but if his intelligent and charming exterior turned out to be filled with darkness, then she truly would lose any shred of sanity she seemed to have left. She loved him, despite how infrequent she seemed to admit this.
“Please stop with the pills” Lynus began, his piercing blue eyes focused on her for a moment before rolling upward in thought “You’re…you’re supposed to helping me and you spend all day drugged up. We…”
He paused for a moment in speech, and already Jocelyn found her attention drifting from the patient -- she thought she heard him say something about time running out. Fuck, Jocelyn, you’re pathetic, she thought shaking her head to herself. Keep up.
“You are a drug, Lynus! I mean… you’re… do you even know what you do to people? It’s not fair.” Jocelyn retorted as quickly as her state would allow after processing his communication in the same way. She was making no sense and she knew it. The shrink took a small breath of air before trying to continue but it was getting hard, so hard -- like she had to push every meaningful thought around her defunct head, manually cranking the cranium shaft. “You just….I don’t know what to do…” she finally breathed.
Jocelyn started to cry softly.
It seemed to come by surprise and she made no move to cover it up . She did not care if he heard because at this point, in this pit of despair she’d seem to have slipped into, Lynus was all she had. He was the man with the answers after all -- surely he could help her somehow? The two of them were fully entrenched in it now, and this was a battle which none could have envisioned. Somehow the thought of handing Lynus over to someone else, even within the building, didn’t seem to sit well. Not at this point at least. Tully was right, she could do this, but she needed to dig herself out of this hole.
....
In previous sessions she’d listen to him effortlessly list off facts about her life there was simply no way he could know -- how could he know? She sat there like a fool thinking --knowing-- that she could handle the implications.
Arrogant.
It seemed, in fact, that Lynus knew nearly anything she could think to ask; though when she asked him if he knew everything he said ‘no’. This seemed intuitively correct but from what she could tell the only question he couldn’t answer was that one. She didn’t understand. It also seemed that Jocelyn did not truly know how to wield her own curiousness, as a wild sense of exploration had only worsened her depression.
All of this was beyond psychology in any real conceptualization -- she recognized that in between sobs as she fumbled to keep composed.
Seeing the young psychologist’s collapse into an utter and total hopelessness, Lynus watched her for a moment or two, contemplating, before he swung off of the couch and started to make his way towards Jocelyn’s desk. Wearing a simple pair of jeans and small black t-shirt, the young man ran his hand through his short white hair, his blue eyes glistening pools of potential -- the aura of a genius. “Dr. I’ve told you a great deal of things different things, but don’t you think it’s sort of strange why I haven’t told you why you’re so saddened by all of this?”
Lynus’ words cut through the sicky mental syrup permeating Jocelyn’s mind like an IHOP pancake knife. Yes, why hadn’t she asked him this? It was so simple. The revelation was profound and it offered the young woman a bit of energy upon its arrival. “Yes…” she started, sniffing a bit, and wiping a few tears from her eyes as she sat upright again. “I suppose…but I sort of know what the problem is already. I’m a psychologist, after all.”
“What problem is that?”
“You can’t put yourself in the place of diagnosing detriments to the individual ego of another without in doing so, diagnose yourself as well -- which you don’t seem to be able to do -- not that I blame you.” It was slow and thought out, but the doctor did pull it together enough to deliver her point. Somewhere, deep down she knew she was smart ‘in real life’.
Lynus sat down in the chair before her desk once again and focused his gaze on the young woman. She could almost feel the intensity of his full attention on him; no longer staring through his perspective towards some unseen pool of concepts; but rather focused solely on her. “Well… Do you want to hear what I think?”
Jocelyn looked up to meet the kid in the eyes -- his stare was so powerful, so delving. “Yes” she said simply, straining not to let her voice quiver before the strange young man with the white hair.
“I have no idea why you’re depressed” Lynus shrugged out, a small grin breaking onto his face.
.Jocelyn continued to stare long after the anti-climatic response had sunken in, frozen in thought and subsequent action. “… I’m sort of relieved, actually” she finally concluded, more to herself than Lynus.
It was at this point she started to become light-headed.
“Doctor Voubon please listen to me! I trust in you, and I hope that by now you trust in me. Either way… you may not have much of a choice. There are things coming, I think, and I need your help.”
Once again Jocelyn was snapped out of her increasingly dreary state by Lynus. “Wait… what do you mean? I am trying to help.”
“Well… it’s…” He paused, looking around the room instinctively, “Did you feel that ‘thing’ everyone has been talking about last week?” he asked, standing again and pacing about the room.
“Yes, I did feel it! That was half the reason I felt I had to up my dosage…”
“Well… I know what it was, but I cannot grasp it in its entirety. This is weird for you to hear, I know, but the best I can describe it is that a very special baby was born at that moment.”
“A baby? Special in what way?”
“Like I said, it is hard for me to say -- that is why I need your help.”
“Look Lynus, I am trying, you know? You are a very speci--“
“No, not that. Look…. am I depressed? I don’t know, it seems like we all are. My parents seemed to hold me to a sort of strange unspoken standard that I never thought I could live up to…” he said, stopping mid-pace and turning to her. “The whole reason I am here is because I put on a bit of an act. I have done it in the past, as well, to other shrinks…”
“But…?”
Other shrinks? She had been used all this time, and here she was truly trying to help, even if from a deep corridor somewhere within the pharmaceutical labyrinth in her head.
“But I did not think I could trust them -- in fact I knew I couldn’t trust them.” He smiled warmly, “You are a good person, Dr. Vaubon --perhaps a little materialistic-- but good intentioned. I know this.”
Jocelyn frowned slightly at the materialistic comment. Materialistic? How is that bad? She was about to argue, but that was out of the question as she struggled to hold onto the cliffs of consciousness. No motivation to think and a burning desire to let go into the shadows below.
“Look, Doctor! I need your help, as you are the only one I can talk to in private. Do you understand? I am watched. You must get off your meds if you are to help yourself or me.”
Jocelyn honestly tried to process the strange boy’s request, but simply could not. She fainted back into her chair, motionless for the time being.
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-“HELP” Wellness Center, Los Angeles, USA.
Lynus didn’t have to check her pulse to see Jocelyn’s collapse was nothing more than a faint. She should sleep on the information anyways.
The boy with the white hair fell into thought for a few minutes in the classic hand on chin pose. With one leg on the ground he rocked the chair back and forth a bit.
The agents were already outside of Jocelyn’s office in the waiting area, waiting for him. If he did not come out soon they would come in and retrieve him. Of this he was more certain than anything. Their potential was something he knew well because in part, they knew his. For Lynus, the trick had always been minimizing casualties, mental and otherwise. The agents had no problem killing families, burning schools -- it simply did not matter -- they would find a way to cover up or distort any message or appearance. He may have refused to cooperate with his parents wishes, but the powers at be have certainly not forgotten about him, or his talents.
Fortunately for himself, and others, Lynus had a decent enough repertoire with the agents, and of course always enough leverage to accomplish small things like not having his psych sessions bugged -- an exercise in futility of course, as he could easily find and remove anyways -- it was just faster to coerce them with arcane knowledge and imposing stares. It was an odd relationship, theirs, but like all things it was nearing the time for some fundamental change.
Hopefully Jocelyn would talk to the agent about her drug problem. He needed to meet this man.
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-Palos Verdez, California, USA.
Kyllael leaned against a large oak tree, a small grin on his face. The smirk was present yet held firmly in check -- a test, to see that anger was willing and able. Kyllael channeled the energy, rather than letting the energy --the anger-- channel him. This was business and he was a machine with a full fuel tank.
Yatachze Crezin lay on the glistening night lawn of the Steinchilds Estate in the fetal position. The target, a small appendage of evil itself wore six thousand dollar suit -- grass stained and wrinkled. He was in the back right hand corner of the massive backyard; slightly secluded it consisted of a small pond with a rather elaborately carved wooden bench. Surrounding the stagnant water was a semi circle of some sort of foreign shrub with large white flowers. The pedals were large and there was a hint of red near the centre of the blooming protrusion of color. .
The US pawn mumbled something, writhing around on the ground. The entity as a whole was a pulsating ball of bliss, too hot to get near -- yet not nearly hot enough for him to live on alone. A reject of his own making; this man was poison of the most dangerous kind: Genius.
A shame really.
Pure ecstasy mercilessly intruded on nearly all of the man’s thought’s processes -- he would soon ‘overdose’, as the humans called it. There was something odd about the whole situation, especially with the meeting starting so soon. The aging puppet master was in a state beyond questions because all the answers led to the same pinnacle of feeling. What it was exactly he was hopped up on was hard to sense for Kyllael because of the number of different combinations he seemed to have used, and or had been forced into using. This was a shell of a man with more global influence than almost the entire world put together.
Infested.
Kyllael took a few more deep breaths to subside the anger back into their proper internal molds. Change is coming, he reassured himself.
The fat, once to be attendee to the Steinchilds’ little ‘party’, reached down to grasp the cool damp grass beneath him in a confused agony. His disposition was nothing more than surface level, bulbous, dreary eyes, staring at some self imposed labyrinth of dismay. Above the trainwreck sprawled out near the entrance to the pond, the large white leaves of a small shrub danced to some sort of cosmic melody on either side of the opiate fiend.
A lament perhaps?
Kyllael could sense the benign, judgmental energy radiating from the large white flowers as he pushed off the tree silently, dancing through his tensed muscles as he made his way towards the mental vacancy.
Yatchze was smart to have come here -- the flowers were quiet soothing if met with the right energies. Unfortunately for Yatzche, that would not help him today.
Kyllael locked his perspective as best he could on the raging maelstrom of energies flying around the old man on the grass. Inhaling deeply he let down his mental gates and allowed the oak tree’s energy to fill him -- a process of such simple joy, born out of years of seemingly complex agony. The invisible potential raced down his arms as Kyllael’s lithe frame neared the pitiful old man. With a quick turn, his right hand came down towards Yatzche’s head -- the energy solidifying into a fist sized blade of invisible force. Kyllael’s psionic blade sliced through the wrinkly tube of neck flesh just below the head easily, leaving the sound of squirting of major arteries hitting damp grass, and a slight energy echo within the backyard walls of the Steinchild’s Estate.
Within seconds he could feel the energies in his immediate surroundings becoming more balanced and harmonious, -- the fickle ball of cold self-sacrificed orgasmic explosions no longer consuming all attention.
One less infested human shell.
“I shed some luck for you, Yatzche. May the eternities help you to find your soul once again…” Kyllael breathed to himself, adjusting the simple black robe he preferred to wear as he started away from the corpse. That’s when he saw something completely new.
Effortlessly a young human male hopped over the high estate walls to land a few feet from Kyllael, though fortunately facing away. He wore a black suit -- black tie. Effortlessly. What was this now? A boost of intuition told Kyllael this kid wasn’t invited.
Finally some action.
Kyllael cloaked his energy signatures and slid into a rigid paralysis. The dark male spotted the decapitated suit almost immediately and started to make his way towards the crime scene.
Kyllael backed up to hide behind the oak tree, nestled comfortably again in the embrace of the shadows. Who was this kid? How had some American managed to pull something like that off? The mind can allow for many things, most of which Kyllael knew about. Many of those things, however, require meditation longer than this kid has likely to have been alive.
After a couple of deep breaths he started to scan the young man.
The black kid reached into Yatzche’s suit pocket to fish out his wallet. Opening it up and looking through it a bit he shrugged off the decapitated body and started to make his way towards the house rather quickly. He decided to keep the wallet. Kyllael tried his best to scan while trailing the trespasser, who was now moving on from the murder scene. Does he know what’s going on here? Whose house this is? More questions nagged at the pursuer as he tried his best to retain a pristine lucidity.
As the duo neared the house Kyllael finally seemed to get enough of a grasp on the kid’s consciousness. It was unlike anything he had seen before and that was a problem for the ancient observer. It was almost as if his energy signatures --his fundamental thoughts-- were in some sort of meld. He wasn’t drawing from a tree, or the sun -- he seemed to be accessing erratic foreign energy signatures from within his body. There were many questions surrounding this newfound anomaly, in fact the only thing Kyllael seemed to know for sure was that he recognized the vibrations of the Wyz Mushroom. Ancient and …wise, Kyllael could feel their presence with certainty.
“A Caexor…”
The anomaly dodged through the different luxury cars parked in the large rear driveway -- fast. Despite the seemingly restrictive black suit the young man moved with a certain grace that reminded Kyllael of an animal in certain instances -- confident and dangerously free of analytical binds. He made sure to stay quite low to the ground but it didn’t seem to matter as his invisibility --however it worked-- was operating better than Kyllael’s was.
What is this technique?
The question once again demanded answers in Kyllael’s mind as he noticed the anomaly make a slight turn. He seemed to be headed for the main back entrance -- not a good idea for someone who can jump like he could. Why not the roof? It was still unclear to the ancient observer as to whether or not this kid knew what was going on in this particular house.
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--Fort Kent. Nova Scotia, Canada.
Humphries sat twirling a pencil around on his desk, listening to his breaths goes in and out. In another room Eva’s breaths slowly did the same, but without the gift of waking thought. The Hump felt bad for that, though admittedly re-assured. He did not know what to think at this point.
At around the age of 12 Humphries was ‘selected’ and more or less forcibly retrieved from the public school he attended, to receive training at an alternative school which had been set up by a group who referred to themselves as ‘ACNG’. It was a subsidiary group formed by some of the members of the Council for Global Trusts alongside certain governmental military personal, as well as ex-intelligence officers from around the globe. Small enough to be nomadic and covert, but big enough and with the right personnel to do nearly anything required by what seemed like a truly confused chain of command which orientated itself mostly within the CGT.
Worthless old men, all of them; though those in power always tended to be. Those who would be fit to rule are the one smart enough to distance themselves from ruling, as Plato had once said.
Under that ideal, however, comes the chaos of the other – the world – the emotional orchestra.
The Hump put his internal grumbling on hold as he felt the vibrations of his ‘normal’ cell phone ringing. He had gone through quite rigorous steps to ensure its privacy.
“Hello?” he responded, seeing Jocelyn’s name on his call display. Throughout all of the Eva stuff he had sort of forgotten about her, and was glad to hear her voice again.
“Hi, Tully, it’s me Jocelyn…”
“Hey Jos, what’s up? Are you alright? You sound… sort of down.”
“Truthfully… ...I am. I need your help Tully…”
Humphries sat up straight in his chair now, fully alert. “With what? Just say it and I’ll get right on it…”
“Well…. I don’t know how to say this, but I think --- no… I am addicted to these anti-depressants, Tully, and I have to get off of them. It’s been going on for a while, and its gotten bad.”
“Anti-depressants? Shit... that’s dangerous stuff Jos. But I know of just the thing I think. I will meet you as soon as I’m back in the city, I promise.”
“Ok... thanks Tully...”
“No problem, is there anything else?”
“Tully… you’re going to want to meet this kid.”
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-Palos Verdez, California, USA.
Seeing a decapitated old man on a heavy shroom trip can really get your mind thinking.
Marcello didn’t really plan on getting into the robbery business. In fact, despite the fact that many of his friends ran around [where he’s from] stealing cars, selling dope, or performing different cons, Marcello was somewhat focused on getting money the good old fashioned way. However, after the business his father worked for went under as the result of a corporate scandal, and the resulting divorce which followed a lengthy period of unemployment, Marcello received only the written advice of his father for his 17th birthday: “Go to the library and learn”. At the time he did not appreciate the lack of substance in his gift, but from deep within the current shroom trip, Marcello saw the enormity of the substance contained within that thin sheet of paper.
The birthday boy actually did go to the library the next day, and what he found there was the illumination of concepts -- color and vibrance of the relevant sort. “Someone like you may find Machiavelli interesting…” a rather old and pretentious looking librarian had remarked to him as he wandered around in his starched jeans and long T. While looking at The Prince, Marcello also spotted an anthology of works by Schopenhauer. Flipping through it one particular quote caught his eye, which forced him to keep reading, and eventually take out the book: “In their search, the Alchemists discovered something greater than gold.”
Now, Marcello is a panther and the world was a jungle of color. It was a world he knew well; a world where time and thought collapse into the objective. Reality flowed around him, loose and longing for definition of meaning. He simply thought himself unseen and it was so. In (t)his perspective there was no second-guessing; everything was real because every thought was intense enough to materialize -- there was room for nothing else. It had taken him a little while to achieve this level of precision, and relevant optimism, but how he had gone about doing that was a complete mystery to the young man.
From somewhere deep within the drug trip he realized he led a somewhat different life than most, but was frightened back into it by the realization that he really wasn’t much different from everyone else.
The sleek black animal darted towards the back door of the house at incredible speed. He had never moved this fast before. The objective world was there, he could still make it out -- but he had gone deep into himself this time. So deep, it seemed that once again he was back out the other side watching his body, his thoughts, searching for his feet.
He would find something most valuable tonight, he could feel it.
Almost as if on cue he spotted a security guard positioned at the back door, and there was something odd about him.
There was something odd about all of this.
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-Tsarion Complex A, Colorado, USA.
Max sat in his trailer, on the media grounds for the Tsarion Event anniversary, putting back some shots of Thunder Toffee Vodka. Pretty tasty stuff and he was going to need it to endure this ridiculous event. To his astonishment he had to partially pay just to get his own trailer. These parasites knew who he was and were taking advantage of it. Or at least that seemed to be the case. He was not as hasty to pass judgments like these as the Americans. Fucking Americans, they can’t help but make you laugh.
A knock on the trailer door preceded its opening before Max really had time to respond or say anything. Brilliant, he thought; he could have been masturbating or something -- how can they just walk in like that? Or perhaps she wanted to catch him in some tabloid exploitable ‘unholy’ act. Americans, he laughed.
What he assumed to be someone’s very attractive assistant took a quick look around to find him seated at the small table at the end of the trailer, accompanied by a few different types of exotic, unopened liquor, as well as the Thunder Vodka in his hands.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Dombrawn, but I have what appears to be an urgent message from your agent” she explained in a rather seductive voice. The blonde assistant’s accentuated body torched through the slight daze of Max’s drunk, burning into his vision like a pornographic contact lens.
It seemed to Max that these days in Hollywood it wasn’t just a prerequisite for stars to be breathtaking, but for anyone working in the industry at all -- or at least those seen by the public. Luckily for Max he was the debonair European dream his parents had envisioned.
“No problems at all, love.” The words flew out without thought, circling the assistant looking for an opening. “Care for a drink?”
“Um… no, thanks” The voice oozed out like estrogen velvet as she brushed a strand of blonde hair from her left eye, as the angelic pupils both glistened in the direction of the booze … I should probably get back. You know?” she flashed him a quick smile as if to signal the end of her explanation”
“So what’s your name, love?”
“Isabella.”
“What’s the message then?”
“[Agent’s name] says that you need to get in touch with your father.”
Max uttered the word “fuck”, and ironically all thoughts of sleeping with Isabella were flushed from his mind. “Alright, thanks” he declared un-amused as he started to top off his drink, forgetting about the girl.
Having been literally dumped out of his presence, the blonde exited the trailer as gracefully as possible.
Max downed another glass of the vodka before standing to open the small closet where he had placed one of his leather traveling bags. Rummaging through the different life articles he soon produced a nifty piece of technology which enabled him to bypass the US Homeland Security’s monitoring. A small black cube with a cord which plugged into the earpiece outlet -- the ‘tele-cloak’ as he called it was a pretty straight forward item given to him by his parent’s minions for their remote conversations. He plugged in the device and made the call.
“Yes?”
“Hello, Dad it’s me”
“I take it this line is clear?”
“Yes, Dad. I am using the latest device which was given to me by…someone. I can’t quite recall who…Humphries perhaps?”
“Are you drunk?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Where are you now?”
“Working, like I told you. I’m about to do a couple sets in about a half hour.”
“Alright. Once you are done shooting there, I would like you to meet up with Diandre.”
“Bloody hell… what the ‘ell for? Let me guess you ne--”
“I need you to do something.”
Max sighs. “Dad, working in Hollywood is bad enough.”
“The American hip hop artist ‘Lil Parsons’ was scheduled to do a performance for the Tsarion Event anniversary but he has backed out recently, apparently he’s been saying he never wanted to do it, and blah blah -- he doesn’t buy it. Well… in this, he is being subversive to our plans, obviously.”
“So? Why would you need me to talk to him, then? Some flogging gansta rappa?”
“The Black North Americans of today are sort of a wild card. Initiatives taken in regards to that populace garnished control, we also took the social reigns from public, legislative, ‘legally’ orientated figures like Martin Luther King Jr, and then took them off! Ever since Reagan it’s been Scarface on re-run. We give them nothing, and yet occasionally one of them will rise up and take it all for themselves -- and this is who the others listen to. These social heads in the states are not receptive to true institutional power like ours. They are admittedly a wildcard of sorts.”
“So you’re saying they don’t listen to you?” Max laughed outloud at this into the phone. “Well that’s embarrassing now ain’t it?”
“You’re drunk.”
“So you think we can persuade Lil Parsons then? Somehow get into his mind early to have some loyalty?”
“Exactly. He is young, we can break him. ”
“How are you going to do that then?”
“Just like always: Offer him something beyond money -- show him we make the money. Bring him into the group, perhaps.”
“…Seriously?”
‘Yes, most likely -- unless Diandre can perhaps come up with another way. Remember it is important we get this boy to become ‘Patriotic’ as it will hopefully inspire a sense of the same into others. Any little hint of subservience to our ends can be worked on, and further molded into something more significant. In fact, this is crucial for the next stage of the plan.”
“I will do what I can, when I can Dad. I’ll be in Colorado for at least another couple days though, and as you know that negro is not here. . ”
“I’ll be watching. Make it your priority after that ridiculous ceremony is over.”
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-- Fort Kent, Nova Scotia, Canada.
“So what happens now?”
The question was as genuine as they come. Tully and Donaldson had a past of quiet resentment towards each other, but it was hard to separate knowledge from emotion. Donaldson was simply higher in the hierarchy, if you could call it that anymore. That’s all it took, as it always is, to inspire hate – a lack of knowledge. There were probably reasons as to why Donaldson acted the way he did that Tully would never become aware of, but in this instance they were both acutely aware of what needed to happen.
“We continue to do our jobs.”
The words didn’t matter; Tully knew exactly what that fat fuck meant. The Hump even knew Donaldson didn’t think the Cless were human -- that thought seemed to come through involuntarily on his part. Of course that meant they knew as well, which was a mind-bend to say the least.
“Very well.” He hung up the phone with a small grin.
One of the core teachings by his esoteric handlers was that of ‘sync’ – to consciously co-create solutions to problems. It was this slight esoteric touch endorsed by many levels of the higher intelligence communities, which enabled them to stay ahead of the populace. The same unfortunate souls the media intentionally molded to be individualistic and disconnected from any notion of the collective. With this foundation, manufacturing the required wars was not so hard.
The cozy little abode which Donaldson had sequestered from the Canadian military was exactly 13 sub-levels below the ‘official’ bottom basement of Fort Kent. Not the greatest view, but privacy certainly has its uses now and then. The Cless had dismissed him from his transportation duties and taken over with their own security – but how could he simply walk away from something like this? It seemed like everyone was coming out of the woodworks – his fractured understanding of the etheric was actually starting to make sense at least.
He sat at a generic desk – he had been sitting there for quite some time, paralyzed. There had been no real debriefing to speak of, ‘Blue’ simply told him he was no longer needed.
Perhaps it did not matter what he did at this point? It was an interesting though, but ultimately a cop-out.
The entire worldwide intelligence community had grown awfully quiet. Were the Cless in charge of it all? How could that possibly be?
The infant sat in what would appear to be an empty room, save for a bed and some medical equipment – at least to the soldiers and nurses. Tully knew otherwise, as he saw two astral toads pacing about the room attentively. A creature he had encountered a few times throughout his lifetime, but now he understood where they came from exactly, or at least from whose orders. The creatures were about the size of a small bear, and their bulbous eyes appeared visually as liquid mirrors to those who could see. If that tongue latched on you would not like what you’d see reflected in them.
Humphries studied the corner of his computer screen where a live feed to the sedated Eva showed her laying there in the same unconscious state she had been for the past few days. She had been sedated to ‘just above death’ as per the Cless’s orders. “As little thought potential within her brain as possible” were the exact words -- sort of chilling to the Hump, considering the situation, and he had seen some truly messed up shit. “Blue” truly scared him.
On the main portion of the computer screen it showed Eva’s birth report, and another report on what the agency had only been able to describe as ‘Anomalous Event Alpha 2’. In fact the only real data within the Anomalous Event Alpha 2 report was that human subjects of all sorts began to feel it at the exact time Eva was born. The whole mystery seemed to start and end with the girl -- why not merge the two files?
So many questions, and by the looks of things, with telekinetic infants and strange white-haired natives running around, clearly not enough answers. What would befall this precious child in the future? What is in Nova Scotia? What the fuck is the Incognito Cless?
The Agent hoped tomorrow he would obtain the infectious serenity of some sort of awareness into this whole ordeal. Humphries was not a man who got a lot of sleep, and ‘Eva’ was certainly not helping.
It was time to get some answers.
Somewhere deep inside he felt that perhaps this fear was his true character exerting itself; after all, in a world of lies and merciless clandestiny what else can one be but some aspiration towards some truth? How else can one feel alive but through that emotional push? Wherever the push may be...
He had learned to hone his intuition as part of his training, and he listened quietly to his soul’s whispers from within the cracks of the great void.
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-- Lil’ Parson’s Crib, Los Angeles, USA.
Little Parson’s house loomed an expansive ridge of the Hollywood Hills. A tight crib he had managed to convince some white ‘sta to put up for sale. With his status he wasn’t stupid enough to actually make threats, but with his reputation and resources he had managed to convince Alan Stevenson at the Grammies with a stern look and a few choice words. He got an offer the next day for the beautiful home.
Fred sat inside with his crew; some of them lazily watched the TV, their eyes nearly shut from one of the young rapper’s premium strains. Some of them were gambling on X-Box games on the second of the five TV’s - the rest of them were not on at that moment.
“… and in other news, Yatachze Crezin reportedly passed away last night due to a sudden heart attack. With no known prior heart problems, the political and economic author of several books and GCT member leaves behind a legacy of helping to directly shape he modern world as we see it now. He will be missed. Coming up after the break we will be taking another live look-in on the Tsarion Event ceremonies as they continue throughout today and tomorrow. Also, in a related story, it seems a group of protestors actually have something against the Tsarion Event ceremonies, calling the proceedings ‘an over glorification of an inconclusive disaster, which cost many lives’. We will see both these stories, and more. You are watching FNC, and I’m Sergio Sampson.”
The television recited its usual corporate machinations before Lil’ Parson’s contempt eyes. He was tempted to blast a couple holes into that crackerjack fuck Sampson with his chrome plated ‘The Glizza’-inscribed glockpiece, but he didn’t want to ruin the new flat screen just yet. He fucking hated that dude -- that liar.
He was probably just like Alan Stevenson.
Parsons didn’t even know anything about the story and he knew it was nothing but crack-jive. Motherfucker prolly OD’d or some shit. Fucking liars, all dis shit -- just leaches and fuck-sluts. Things ain’t what P thought they’d be like. None of dis shit.
“Yo niggs fuck this Tsarion shit -- fuckin bullshit man” Parsons remarked to his entourage with a snide twitch of his face. “That shit don’t make sense I don’t care what my agent says, this whole system herr ain’t gave us nothing, shove all the shit in our direction, so why I’a gon help dem?.”
The entourage nodded immediately.
“Seriously, you ever think about that shit? I mean… I dunno mang. A bunch of dynamite sounds like we’re getting played yo. ”
The entourage nodded carefully.
Lil’ Parson’s cellphone started to ring, allowing the rapper’s friends to continue with their cards and paused X-Box 360 games. “Whaddup, what it is?”
“…..yea…. -wait, what, Tampa Bay?” Parsons answered; his attention fixated on the phone as he let out a small laugh. “Yo, mang… what the fuck you doin in Tampa Bay? I don’t think I even heard about Tampa Bay in a good eight years now…”
A few looks were exchanged throughout the large mansion family room.
“… wh-… aight.” The young rapper finally spoke into the phone before hanging it up. His friends hung on the edge of their seats for the conclusion of the suspenseful call to their money maestro.
“Aight niggs we’s goin to the airport to pick up my nigga Marcello. He got that treasure for me to look at yedigg?”
The eleven occupants of the room nodded and began to assemble to their feet. Marcello glanced around at the small army of black puffy coats and started to trip. “Aight, I mean I is goin to the airport alone, so y’all niggas scatter on ye-heard? I don’t need you crampin-ass motherfuckers crowdin’ me all the time.”
“Yo, what’s goin on P?” Calvin Solomon inquired.
Parson’s raised a couple eyebrows, “That Marcello nigg, he said he said he woke up in Tampa Bay this morning, and this nigga creepin in this house in P. Verdizzy last night.”
“What?” Calvin Solomon responded, confused.
“I dunno mang, this nigga be strange and shit, eatin shrooms and doin acid all the time. Some sort of astronaught or something. Either way it’s all gravy, cause my boy said he got a crazy story this time -- old white man treasure, burrh!”
“Perhaps I should go with you and take a look at the new find?” Calvin Solomon asked, although somewhat more from an assertive perspective. “The Liberty Statue was quite interesting, when you consider the backstory behind that Statue audacity. This kid sure knows how to pick the stuff I like.
“Yeah yeah yeah, com’n let’s roll, C -- just stop talking.”
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- 16,000 ft from the ground, about 450 miles from LAX, CA
The delicate aluminum of the passenger plane clammored through the cool night sky much like a train would on the ground --- noisily. Up that far all is silent, but every now and then that silence is interrupted. The foul vibrations of man-made turbines, crudely taped to a tin can filled with cramped, unruly humans, was something Sylph often thought about.
These machines were quite active in this timeline.
Sylph watched the pulsating tube of energy pass by as it studied the collection of timelines held within. One in particular caught its attention, as the energy field was nowhere near the rest. This precious creature was evolved -- he might even be able to see Sylph -- and the only thing he seemed to be thinking was set onto repeat:
“What have I done?”
“Indeed” Sylph thought, taking a peak into the child’s matrix to examine the deed in question.
Sylph exhaled sweet moisture; smiling, it drew on the love radiating between Gaia and the bright moon above to continue on its slow parade amongst the others in the armada. It now spotted another plane, though this one held no passengers at all, and spewed mercilessly the object of Sylph’s mission into this timeline.
--- -- -
The plane was quiet and unabashed for the most part, as the first class section held only a handful of passengers. Marcello had paid for the flight in cash, as derived from the ‘second’ wallet he had woken up with this morning.
Marcello held the results of his latest mission in his trembling hands carefully. It was quite an old book by the look of it, but seemingly well preserved and almost energetic. It was oh so precious, despite the meaning of the words within -- as it was his only link to that night.
There was a title on the front of his leather bound literary liaison, but like the rest of the book it was inscribed in some sort of odd collection of symbols he didn’t understand, and small pictures, some of which he concluded may in fact be combined patterns of some of the very symbols themselves.
He exhaled, a hand to his head as he gazed out the window again. Yatzche Crezin was a man whose title he was unfamiliar with, but the fact that he was a namable international figure who the young thief had seen decapitated in some backyard was a surprisingly large load to carry despite the weight of his small wallet. Hmm. Perhaps Marcello should ditch the wallet.
What the fuck! How did he get to Tampa Bay and what the hell happened?
He could not remember for the life of him.
The shrooms had worn off, and for the most part they leave no physical aftermath; so with no hangover to distract him, and a boring ass plane with a retarded movie, he had nothing to do but try and piece together his fragmented recollection of Palos Verdes
What the fuck…
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- 13th Sub-basement of the Xel Lungold facility. Antarctica
There were ordinary, scheduled meetings of the Cless’ top advisors -- their only advisors, really -- or at least from what the chiseled Russian could tell. Radir Dorvski, like all men of his age who still served one boss or another, was a patient and calculating man. He saw the beauty in things, but unfortunately for some, that meant cold and merciless decisions, some of which rendered lives as void. To steer an entire species who would have otherwise surely perished is the job fit for an Maestro with the orchestra of Gaia itself at within their concerto -- and so they had at that point.
They had relieved the old hen of many of her duties long ago, including the weather.
But the dance goes on, progressively getting more complex -- and so the meeting was another phantom beat, somewhere near the end of the first movement. The Cless were seemingly all-powerful, and the ordinary meetings were usually a celebration of that, albeit in strange sexual ceremonies Doryski did not understand, and hated even more because of that.
But then… there were unscheduled meetings of the Cless’ top advisors. These meetings were almost without exception negative in nature, as they were almost always the result of some sort of error by one of the advisors. He had been in slight error before, and the punishments endured were what had him thinking about what had been wrong, and who had done it. Major mistakes not only resulted in death, but also things much worse.
The only entrance to or from the 13th Sub-basement was through the elevator, and as it’s doors started to open all eyes were fixed on the contents of the horizontal metal mouth. The last of the advisors, Mr. Keft Brulac, strolled into the brightly lit white room. He was a cool and calculating European of unknown origin – seemingly one of those men who had been playing this game from quite an early age. He gave a look around and nodded slightly to the other sixteen men present in a small semi-circle of fixated chairs. Brulac took a seat in the remaining chair –his designated chair-- greeting one of his closer friends within the group who sat beside him, Mr. Hyum Nagi with a curt salutation and a whisper of something Japanese.
The room fell silent again. They had learned not to talk too much as the Cless were usually already there, or watching with one of their astral dogs.
They waited in silence for a about ten minutes or so before hearing the familiar voice of the Cless echoing throughout the room with a supernatural luster. “We shall act now, slaves.”
The simple phrase sent shivers down Doryski’s aging spine and he could not help but think of the little bit of family he had left. Had he forgotten something? Had the younger advisors remained silent in an attempt to get him replaced? Was he to be safe right now?
As per usual, with the unscheduled meetings, the only Cless which appeared before the group of wise, and wonderfully trained men, was the white Cless. Unlike her lucid counterparts with their white hair, the white was Cless bald, and the seductive nymph’s pale contours lavished her slender frame with the precision of all of Gaia’s artists – their sacred muse.
She wore the most simple of dresses, whiter than the Russian snow.
“Do –not- even think about interrupting my procession, one more time than you already have, Nathan Steinchild” She suddenly barked in what appeared to be Red’s voice. “What’s been done has been done, your words are void” was followed by Green.
Radir did not understand why the female was never lucid – was she trapped somehow? Many times the Cless preferred this method of exchange, wherein White is used as a medium. The old Russian felt sorry for her. No color in her eyes – no life -- just blank white screens. Still, he was relieved it was not his mistake. Quite relieved.
Steinchild looked about ready to say something, as he was halfway to standing before he was slammed back into his seat.
“Not one more time, or you will not even hear the procession!” Red’s voice yelled, the unusual pitch reverberating through their very emotional cores.
With this Steinchild calmed himself, his eyes searching frantically for something – anything which would help him. He closed his eyes, from what Doryski could tell, resigned to his fate.
The rest of the men watched the scene reluctantly, though attentively of course.
“What we have on our hands here, slaves, is a theft.” Green was heard again from the slender goddess. “
The Book of Equinox has been stolen from Steinchild’s ‘safe’. The sad thing about this, slaves...” The White Cless paused, shaking her head unemotionally. “We cannot track the book of Equinox.” Green stated flatly. “It houses the Universe’s secrets, and so the Universe protects them—
“Protects them by sending a god damn anomaly that effortlessly evades all of your toys, and slips through matter into my safe and back out again!” Steinchild erupted, apparently unable to take it anymore. He knew was he going to die, but he wanted to get the last word in. In his power he sometimes eyed taking down the Cless – Doryski knew it, and so the Cless obviously must have. Still, the man was a legend born of a Dynasty family and he would not go quietly. “This wasn’t my fault, you’re supposed to take care of the etheric, you fucking pukes. You know it, you’ve seen the tapes… you don’t know what happened.”
Much to Dorski’s surprise, Steinchild starting laughing at his own conclusion, “You really don’t, do you?” he continued laughing while the White Cless made a motion with her right hand, opening a rift in existence from which a small pale looking man emerged from, on all fours.
Upright the Mexican-looking fellow would have been about 3’5 but Dorski knew this was no Mexican, as this was no man. It did not have exactly the same features as an otherwise short man would -- the limbs were almost insect-like. He had seen the creature before, and they called it ‘S’aath’. The creature’s smooth tanned face was adorned with two near black eyes with the slightest hint of green. He had encountered the creature before young Steinchild’s rise to the ranks of the Cless advisors; he did not know what was coming, which was probably a good thing.
Seeing the pools of death viciously devouring light from within the nightmare’s eye sockets made Radir want to shut his own eyes; but the chiseled old man was not one to easily shy away from life’s extremes. Not here at least.
Steinchild looked about to say something but the S’aath held up a hand which suddenly produced a halt to his speech. A second or so later Dorski realized it was because of the thick tar like substance which started to drip out of his mouth slowly. It was truly awful looking, imminent death or not.
Several of the advisors now started to look uneasy.
The White Cless turned away from the scene, walking into one of her milky rifts in space-time. “Someone had better find that book or all you slaves will die, again and again.” The words ended the meeting as they pretty much said it all.
The small Mexican looking man walked slowly towards Nathan Steinchild; who was helplessly pinned to his simple leather advisor’s char. The others looked on – some in horror – some in confusion.
The S’aath slowly climbed up onto the lap of it’s victim, who was just now beginning to clear the tar substance from his throat. “Oh God…” he managed to get out in between coughs. The small man took both hands and clasped the sides of Steinchild’s head with them, drawing it’s own head closer, bringing the murky midnight ovals closer to the young elite’s eyes, which were clenched shut. The S’aath’s eyes begin to ripple with texture. The twin blackness began to materialize into a pair of black hands which reached forth from the creature’s eye sockets, reaching over to pry open Henry’s.
“Please... oh God, NO….PLEASE SOMEBODY… OH GOD…” Nathan’s mouth screamed at the top of his lungs as a blackness began to spread through his face, and seemingly his very being itself. “HELP ME!! MOTHER!! OH GOD PLEASE HELP ME!!…” he sobbed.
The screams drove the very rulers of the world to crowd around each other desperately, trying to open the elevator somehow – anything to escape the sorrow which flooded the room.
The elevator would not return to operation until the S’aath’s eyes had pried open it’s victim’s face to gaze into the blackness of the pried open hole.
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--Raymond Residence, Los Angeles, USA.
Violet knew she was starting to lose control of things, but she simply did not care. ‘Truth’ was all that mattered now, and while she went through the motions at work her soul was no somewhere else. It was readily apparent – Darryl and her both knew – but in the end she simply did not care. Just like she could not force Darryl to care about reality, she could not force herself to care much about that reality. What she once thought was the real, normal world, was anything but, even though it continued on like nothing had happened.
Something had happened and if no one else could see that then they were clouded, mentally or something. The documentation on what was being referred to as ‘subtle revelation’ among other things on the net, was staggering – mountainous – how could they not see or care to look?
Violet would sit in the darkness of her apartment once again, the cozy shadows blanketing herself from the angst. Deep in the night a world of meaning whispered to her fantasies of the objective world she knew must exist.
In her isolation she felt more herself than she had ever felt. It truly was ironic this pushed people away. It was when she signed into her email account she remembered that it had also drawn people near. People she would have previously pushed away.
And so she danced.
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