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Post by melodierivers on Oct 25, 2021 17:39:45 GMT
Copyright 2012 - ongoing; Melodie Rivers
Dedicated to Franck, my good friend whom encouraged me to pursuit my writing hobby.
A parting poem to introduce the story (translated from its original French version), and as a dedication to how words can affect lives in more ways than one:
Credit: Les Mots, Mylene Farmer & Seal
Firmly, the sky writhes When a mouth begets a death There, I will give my life to hear you To tell you the most tender words
When all becomes all alone I'll break my life for a song And to lives that stoop to notice mine I know I will say goodbye But a fraction of this life I would give anything, anytime
The universe has its mysteries Words are our lives You could kill a life with words Soul, how would it feel? If our lives are so fragile Words are mysteries Words of feelings Words of love, a temple
If one swept the world away One could touch the universe I will tell you how the sun rose high We could with a word become one
And for all those words that hurts us There are those that touches us Which illuminates, touches the infinity Even if nothingness exists For a fraction on this life We will give anything, anytime
The universe has its mysteries Words are our lives We could kill a life with words Soul, how would it feel? If our lives are so fragile Words are mysteries Words of feelings Words of love, a temple
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Post by melodierivers on Oct 25, 2021 17:47:15 GMT
Prologue - Jerusalem - August 7, 1099 A.D. The sun was setting upon the dunes, and the sand was flying in whirlwind as Ysadora Dauun’s tan horse speedily raced ahead three more riders. The sound of hooves carried through the wind, and she shifted on her saddle, preparing herself for the upcoming fight. Despite her attempts to give her followers the slip, and getting rid of the scouting riders, they were relentlessly behind her since she left the main road. However, Jerusalem was closing in; it was now or never. She would not alert the city when she could more than handle them herself. She relaxed her body, giving no care to the scorching heat or the dust, her determined turquoise eyes matching her will as the sound of hooves came within weapon range. Sure enough, she heard the riders unsheath their sabers, orders being yelled, and the horses move in formation. Now!Ysadora slid off her saddle, holding on to it and the reigns with her right hand and feet; the armoured mantle her horse wore shielded them both for the upcoming fight. She unsheathed with her free hand her sword, and smiled gleefully at her closest opponent. With a flick of her wrist, the sword suddenly segmented into a long chain of diamond-shaped blades, and she gave it an expert whip. The bulk of the chain slid across her opponent's horse, while the tip whipped the rider. Both startled and slowed to a stop. Two more to go. Her chain whipped back around her bare arm, and she leapt back on her saddle. Another rider closed in on her left and swung his saber. She ducked and simply snapped her chain out. A yelp and the rider's horse rearing brought her a satisfied smile. She pulled hard her own horse to a stop, and swung her chain in a circular motion, hitting the last rider as he raced past her. He halted as well, and looking back, noticed her coolly staring back as she retracted her chain to a single blade. He nonchalantly gazed at the scratch on his arm, and snorted. He encouraged his horse forward, and called back to his companions as he closed in the gap between him and her. Ysadora smiled coldly and sheathed her sword, which made her opponent halt. That and the fact the other two riders she similarly scratched did not reply to his calls, nor did any sounds come from the remaining horses. He looked at her with fierce hate and resumed his approach as he raised his saber. And fell down from his saddle like a heavy rock, startling his horse who wisely chose to run away from the battle, leaving its master to the sand. Ysadora smirked at the sight, and resumed her race toward the entranceway of Jerusalem, leaving to the sand her three opponents. She looked at the small scratches her weapon made to her left arm during the fight. She knew she was immune to the blade's poison, but one could never be too sure. A scratch the size of a needle tip was all that was needed to guarantee a meeting with the Grim Reaper. As she arrived to Jerusalem's entrance and noticed the military camps, a hornrang the alarm and soldiers sprang from the tents, their swords and crossbows at ready. Ysadora smiled with relief, seeing their Crusader robes, and most of all, the flag of Godefroi de Bouillon upon the officer tent standing in the shadow of the glowing gold Dome of the Rock. She stopped at a good distance, and making sure to make no aggressive movements, she jumped off her horse, landing elegantly on the ground. She smirked in amusement as most of the soldiers gaped at her, while the more rigorous Catholic ones quickly looked away and crossed their hearts, muttering prayers of forgiveness. “Stand down, men, she is one of us,” a male voice rang from behind the ranks. As the soldiers stood aside, a tall and solidly built man walked to greet her, smiling broadly as he sheathed his long sword. “Lady Ysadora Dauun, welcome back to Jerusalem!” “Good evening, Lord de Bouillon” Ysadora said in greetings, her four-inches metal heels digging deep into the sand as she walked toward the Duke. "Glad to be back." “What urgent news takes you away from the battlefield?” Godefroi de Bouillon inquired, leading her to his tent. “Sad news, unfortunately, my lord. His Holiness passed away.” Godefroi blinked in surprise and shock. “Pope Urban? Dead? When?” “Nine days ago, my lord.” She pretended to admire the Dome above them as Godefroi blinked to keep his eyes dry. Though she did not felt his reaction, it was understandable for the leader of the Crusaders. Pope Urban was after all the reason why Jerusalem was back into his and his fellowmen's Christian hands. As they entered the tent, Godefroi walked toward the center table, Ysadora following in a respectful distance behind him. He retrieved a cup and filled it with water from a nearby carafe. “I... I imagine you are rather thirsty after the ride,” he said, offering the cup to her. “Yes, thank you, my lord,” Ysadora said gratefully, taking the cup and drinking it all in one long gulp. She grimaced slightly at the mud-like taste and texture, refraining any further comment. Godefroi sorted through his shock as she finished drinking, then asked: “How could you learn of it? It takes fourteen days to reach Rome, and Rome to reach us.” “The papal messengers are under way, but since there are still many Turks left on the roads, it will take them longer to arrive. I was in Rome when they announced his death, and I left as soon as I could. Using shortcuts, I was able to warn all kingdoms; they are on their way right now.” “Rome? Were you not supposed to be with my brother in Edessa?” Godefroi asked in surprise. “Yes, at first. But I was sent to relay to His Holiness the news of your brother’s crowning as Edessa’s first King,” she explained. Godefroi sat heavily on his bench, and gazed with a gloomy look at his surroundings; Ysadora sat beside him, thinking that he might want a closer company. “He will never learned of the capture of the Holy Land. My messengers will be too late.” “I am sure he knows,” said Ysadora, holding gently his hand in recomfortation. “He can still see what happens.” “I know,” he sighed, although she could see that the idea didn’t brought him much consolation. After a moment, he grumbled: "It was Urban’s most personal mission to see Jerusalem restored into Christian hands. Now, he died before knowing of our victory. And adding to that, far too early; he was only fifty-seven years old." “ ‘To become Pope is the fastest road to Heaven.’ You know this saying, my lord,” Ysadora told him with a slight smile. Godefroi smiled weakly in return. Ysadora looked around and caught the soldiers whispering together, casting nervous glances at her. She innocently smiled back, and they hurried to look away, a reaction she was used to. After all, she was a strange knight in this world. Let alone she was a lady when only men were allowed to fight, but her long platinum blond hair was clearly visible, tightly braided in a bun, revealing her elegantly chiseled face. In stark contrast to the Crusaders' robes, she wore a sleeveless blue marine top, protected by a silver plate that covered all of her neck; her midriff was protected by another silver plate, reaching to her hips, from which hanged her sword. Blue marine tight pants and knee-high silver stilettos with four inches heels completed her radically out of time appearance. What was more, a glimmering shimmer seemed to surround her to those who observed her, as if she was a mirage. None were used to her presence within their army, especially not as unashamedly lightly clothed as her. But she had made her proof while fighting with even more determination and skills than the crusaders. Godefroi had often asked her where she could have possibly learned such great skills; but she would merely smile, her turquoise eyes gleaming with a mysterious fire, and she would answer simply: “Warfare is much more complex in the centuries to come, my lord.”
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Post by melodierivers on Oct 25, 2021 17:54:14 GMT
Chapter 1 - 00 - The Election All across the planet, 1.3 billion TVs, 500 million phones, and 70 million computers were turned on. They all tuned to the 6:00 p.m. news channels, before the world held its breath... The major news channel, from Britannica Channel, to Al-Shizah Reports, to Evropa Union Media, were all fighting for exclusivities, which ultimately was granted at the exact same moment, minus the time difference. The announcement was about to be made, the world was about to change in exactly ten seconds... U-S News appeared on the screen of the White Castle guest waiting room, and the entire crew and assistants present turned to the TV. "Here we go, honey," a dark-skinned woman, with a great majority of silver streaking her dark brown afro, said as she finished tying her husband's tie. "Nervous?" Her husband smiled. "Never have been." He looked fondly at her, caressing every bit of skin that showed from her formal dress. "I keep telling you, Frances, you should be the one stepping in front of the podium. The world needs someone like you, with everything that's happened since the Civil Uprising." Frances scoffed. "And I keep telling you, Robert, that politics scares me more than chasing off a drug lord or a serial stalker." She smiled and gave him a quick peck. "The world doesn't need someone like me, or someone like you. All it needs is honesty and integrity. Offer that, stay true to your ideals, and they will never again look at your skin, race or gender. That's my final counsel to you before this all starts." Robert Bohm smiled proudly and returned the peck. He then looked around. "Speaking of counseling, where's Randall?" "Up cloistered in his office, overlooking the plaza, as he always does," she replied harshly. He laughed. "Come on, Frances, when will you go easy on him? Without him, you and I wouldn't be standing here today." She looked hard at her husband. "I keep telling you, I don't trust one bit your soon-to-be Counsellor." "And I keep telling you, he does his job really well. What don't you like about Randall?" Frances hesitated. "His eyes. You know when you get the shivers looking at a snake's cold, merciless eyes? That's what I get when I look at him. Promise me you'll stay true to your own own instinct and be careful around him, Robert?" Robert laughed softly and hugged his wife. "Are you eyes-discriminating? It's just how he looks, he can't help it." Frances sighed, and let go of the argument for a few seconds, relishing her husband's warm embrace before the weeks to come, when she knew his position would take him away from her. She lingered just a few seconds more before breaking the hug and staring in his sky blue eyes. "Stay true to our ideals, will you?" Robert's gaze turned serious. "I will never forget where I come from, what my family went through, what you helped change. I won't sit on my ass and allow families to go through what mine did. They all deserve the comfort you gave me thirty years ago." Frances smiled softly. "Then go get them." "Get ready, sir," an assistant called out from the small group of people clustered in front of the TV monitor. "It's starting." Robert started out toward the door, when another man stepped in. "Good luck, Mr. Bohm, and don't forget: lean your right shoulder toward the front when you state your changes, and once in a while, refer your hands back to your plexus, that'll show trust and open-heartedness..." Robert raised his hand and abruptly stopped the newcomer on the shoulder. "Thanks, Dave, I know you mean well, but I don't know how many times I have to tell you, I don't need your parlour tricks." The assistant opened his mouth, but Robert interrupted him again with his hand. "I'll let the people decide if they trust me, I won't force them into it by using your body language tricks, which, sorry, but are a waste of college degrees. Why would I pretend to be honest and trustworthy, when my whole goal is to bring back an honest and strong Americae? Only cowards and liars uses your tricks, and old presidents who played a game too complex to remain true to themselves. I'm insulted you believe I need them." "I'm very sorry if I made you feel that way, I only..." Dave stepped back, "Don't sweat about it; Randall hired you, and it's your job. But let me do mine." "Hold on just a second, sir," an assistant held back Robert just before he opened the door. "The press will give the signal." The U-S News newscaster smiled to the viewers. “Welcome to the 6:00 p.m. news broadcast. In headlines, on this 15 July, the results for the 11 June 2037 Americani presidential elections, which we have the privilege to announce live. The Congress finished compiling and verifying the votes, and the new president, chosen by the majority will of the Americani people, is Robert Bohm. The Anti-Authoritarian Party candidate won the elections by seventy-three percent majority over the Democratic, Republic, and Liberation Party...” Alongside the group present in the room, they could hear in the plaza that all of Norr Americae cheered at the sound of this news. “... This truly pave the way for the rest of the world,” continued the newscaster. “Worldwide polls decisively demonstrated how the people are fed up with the governments they’ve been previously led to elect; and this election finally proves it. We will now go live to the White Castle, where President Bohm is about to make his inaugural speech.” The camera faded to show live footage of the White Castle’s frontal view. "Go, sir, now!" the cameraman assistant urged Robert. The plaza outside of the White Castle was surrounded by thousands of citizens, waving and cheering at the sight of the president coming out of the building. Robert Bohm walked to the prepared stage in front of his porch, waved to the population, and finally, cleared his throat. “My fellow compatriots, my friends, my brothers and sisters, I hate formalities, so let’s cut to the chase here. I stand before you not as your leader, nor your president, but your equal. Too long have I, by your side, watched our so-called safe Americani Security break every rights to our privacy, from every step of our lives. Too long has our so-called caring Health Department allowed toxins and poisons into our food and drinks; too long have we watched innocent children being abused and destroyed by so-called virtuous religions and dogmas from every sides; too long have we watched greedy corporations destroy Terra by excavating tons and tons of her soil, draining her water for needless purposes, stealing her vital resources. And finally, too long have I watched our previous government slowly tear apart our Constitution, enslaving our population bits by bits, slowly discarding and banning all of our most sacred rights. To that and with your voice, I say: ‘no more!’. The ones responsible for the sad state of our country need to ready themselves, as they will be found, judged, held responsible and bear the weight of their deceit. » I am NOT our previous governments. My purpose isn’t to take money from you, not to forbid your most essential rights, not to deceive you, not to spy on you, not to destroy Terra, not to enslave or abuse you under so-called higher power authorities. My purpose is simple: I am here to help you get rid of your tormentors. I am but a mere servant of my people. I will help you restore what is ours, our equality, our freedom, our rights and finally our hopes and possibilities for a better tomorrow. Rest assured that under my leadership, no poison will reach your food, no spying will be done under any nebulous excuses, no corporations will demolish our precious planet for personal gain, and finally, no breach of our sacred Amendments will be tolerated. The Uni-states of Americae are as much under your command as they are under mine. A new order is about to rise; one free of unnecessary rules and restrictions, one built from the ashes of this corrupt and inefficient order. » But, in order to bring about this new world, in order to bring the old one down, I must ask your help. Only you can bring that fall; for I am but your representative. I am not your ruler, and I am not allowed to act alone without your approval; only with your consent and on your behalf. It is your country, and you must be allowed to change it as you wish. I wholeheartedly hope that with your support, we will bring back order and make this country great again. This new world will be born not under my rule, but under your reign and by your will. » My compatriots, my friends, my brothers and sisters... thank you. Thank you on behalf of the AAP. Thank you on behalf of Terra, whom we can finally help; and finally, thank you for your help in instituting a new order, one that will guide the rest of the world, and show them the way. Thank you.” Robert Bohm took a step back from the stage and bowed to the cheering population assembled in front of his house. He smiled, humbled by the overwhelming reactions, and bowed again, thanking everyone. He walked back into the room, where Frances and the rest of the group whistled and clapped. On the TV, the camera faded back to the news rooms, where the newscasters were wiping their tears and clearing their throats as well. They all chuckled shyly and smiled to the viewers. “Well, I don’t know about you, but that was a moving speech. Very well done, Americae; I believe that this election will indeed show the way for the world. Speaking of which, worldwide polls indicates that most of the countries are starting to boycott old parties and to support newer ones, such as the Britannica Middle Party, the François People Party, the Cyrillic Peasant Party, and other civilian-oriented parties. Quite good news for the people indeed! Now, let’s move on to the rest of the news…”
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Post by melodierivers on Oct 25, 2021 17:56:08 GMT
Chapter 2 - 00 - Opposites High above the ground, in a White Castle room overlooking the crowd, a tall and slender old man smiled victoriously at the sound of the people cheering, his piercing grey eyes shining like a bright blue flame in the sunlight flooding through the window. Randall Redspear turned away from the window as the door opened and the new President walked in. As he always instinctively did, Randall looked over his companion. Unlike his predecessors, and despite his 6’2 height, Robert Bohm had a stout countenance; his walk was calm and solemn, and his steps were measured. His entire manner naturally inspired respect, but most of all, trust and confidence. Although both he and Randall were well into their late years, they couldn’t be more opposite. In contrast to his ice grey eyes, Robert's sky blue eyes were determined and intense, but thoughtful, even soft in some moments. And albeit both had grey hairs drawn toward the back (Robert's showing remains of dark brown streaks from his youthful years), what further distinguished them was the unusual presence of Robert's bushy and gray sideburns; it gave him a lost yet much needed old-fashioned look, as if more grounded to a simpler past than the overly modern world surrounding him. “Done,” Robert announced, his accent barely registering his regional Suthern upbringing. "It's been some time since I've heard the population cheer that way." "Of course they did, how could they not, with the script we provided you?" Randall retorted. "Now, it would have worked better if you would cooperate with Dave's tips, and wouldn't stray away from the key points in scripts." Anyone but the President would have wondered at the Counsellor speaking, for he had a Britannian accent, not the typical accent expected of Americani leaders, such as Robert’s. Such an oddity was only one amongst the many mysteries surrounding Randall Redspear that the President had long since decided to ignore in favour of his incredible skills in leadership. "I don't like to rely on old psychological tricks. The people out there are not statistics and mental theories," Bohm argued, sighing. Randall's eyes flared. It was him that should have sighed at the argument they too often had. "And I won't count how many times I have to prove to you that people in my position have mastered human psyche long enough to know your argument is still naive." “Then, what’s the next move?” Robert inquired. Randall walked away from the window, and stared at Robert, the President coiling back as the gap closed between them. Despite Robert’s intimidating presence, Randall’s predatorial gaze and countenance managed nonetheless to make the President look like a cub. “You do as you’re told, and you keep your fulfilled dream. You’ve come so far to get this position; you don’t want to jeopardize it in a day, do you?” “Letting you down is far from my desire,” Robert said, stunned at the icy threat. “Beside, you know the strength of my dreams for the people; why would I jeopardize them?” Randall smiled as he took his last look at Robert, and walked out without a word, leaving the President still stunned. Going down the corridor, he barely glanced as the long file waiting for the elevator instinctively moved a bit to let him through first. But he waved them ahead and instead took his preferred path, the long-winding stairs. While halfway down, a distorted voice flooded Randall’s mind: “Sir, we have information that an Americani called George Durell is digging up dirt about your activities.” “Does his activities fall within the allotted limit?” “No, sir. He has reached beyond the allowance.” “Is there a way he can be distracted?” Randall asked worryingly. “We tried, but to no avail. We cannot find any dirt on him and if we try harder, he’ll only be more suspicious and it might push him to act.” “Fine, let me handle it. This Mr. Durell won’t bother me for long,” Randall replied annoyingly. “Very well, sir,” the voice screeched before going away altogether. Randall sighed, and sent a call to his ‘personal business handler’, as he liked to nickname her in such circumstances. **********************
As his Counsellor left the office, Robert Bohm was left wondering what brought about this strange conversation; despite his knowledge and gratitude that his complete success was owned entirely due to Randall’s support, there was something terrifyingly threatening in the way the Counsellor phrased his words. Robert could only wonder why would Randall threaten him after going this far to help him. However, not long after Randall left, these thoughts dissipated and Robert looked around at what was now his Office, letting a smile make its way to his face; and making sure no one could see him, he momentarily made a little dance of victory: he had finally made it to the top. Now, he could help everyone achieve his dream.
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Post by melodierivers on Oct 27, 2021 16:44:20 GMT
Chapter 3 - 00 - The King’s Knight
“So what you’re saying, is that the eigthy-third president, the one before Bohm, was really the last Uni-states president?” “Of course! It all makes sense!” George Durell exclaimed on his cellphone, looking nervously out of the window. “But Bohm just got elected,” his friend said at the other end of the line, still incredulous of George’s theory. “If it would have been the case, Bohm wouldn’t have been president of the Uni-states in the first place. He would have announced something else entirely. Actually, his view of the Uni-states is exactly what it should have been, like it once was.” “No, no! It’s happening, you’ll see. There never was an anti-Authoritarianism party in the U-S. Not officially. It just arrived last year, at the beginning of the campaigns. They’ve covered their tracks pretty well, but I was able to find some proof of their deceit. And now, it’s coinciding with the widespread rumours that the last thirty years of U-S governments were nothing else but authoritarian, even if that too is false. Sure, it wasn't great, but not to the extent broadcasted by this AAP thing; we both know that, we’ve been living these said years. They’re planning to destroy the old government with a new one that is supposed to be ‘installed by the people’. Just like Cyrillia and Zhongguo. They plan on bringing down the Uni-states, and replace it with their own concoction. Listen, I can’t stay on for too long, I don’t have much time left, I have to run away from here; I’m being followed by a desert military-type car, it’s been on my tail three times already, I haven’t got long left!” George looked out of the window for the hundredth time, clearly panicking. “George, there’s no conspiracies, it’s just your paranoia,” his friend sighed. “You’ve drank too much fluoride water, it’s messing with your brain; you’ve read the researches on that. Switch to distilled water, and you’ll see that it was just toxins-related paranoia.” “Really? Then explain why is Bohm’s Counsellor related to the.…” A silence ensued. “George?” his friend called back. “George, are you alright?” George froze as he watched a flying sand-colour sport car hover towards his flat and then stopping right in front of it. A slender figure got out of it, and strolled elegantly to his porch. He began to shiver, and quickly ducked below his window. “It’s them, again!” he whispered frantically. “The same car I keep on seeing! It’s the MIB!!” “George, listen to me, they don’t exist,” his friend sighed with exasperation. “That’s not true,” a woman’s Britannian voice coolly interrupted. George jumped and squealed upon seeing a tall and athletic woman standing in his living room. “They do exist, but I’m not one of them,” the woman continued with a playful smile on her lips. She had long platinum-blond hair tied up in a bun, revealing an elegantly chiseled face and bright turquoise-blue eyes; her sleeveless blue marine top covered completely her chest, joining a silver plate that covered all of her neck; her midriff was protected by another silver plate, reaching to her hips, from which hanged a gun holster on one side, and a sword scabbard on the other side. Blue marine tight pants joined knee-high silver stilettos with four inches heels, adding to her height. She raised her right hand and pointed a heavily modified handgun toward George’s cell phone. With no warning, it became burning hot in George’s hand, pushing him to drop it in surprise. “Electromagnetic frequencies,” the blond woman explained, getting closer to George, like a lioness getting closer to her prey. “Under the right frequency, metal heats up; it also fries up the electronic chip.” George tried to put on his best defiant face, and said with a trembling voice: “Wh-what you’re gonna do, kill me?” “Don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing,” the woman replied in a chilling voice, still playfully smiling. George squealed and ran to hide behind his couch. The woman sighed and set her gun to a specific setting; she pointed it to the squealing couch, and pressed the trigger. Although nothing at first seemed to happen as there were no bullets nor shots fired, a short scream was heard shortly after, followed by choking, breathless noises. The music of death ended brutally at the sound of a heavy thud. “Sorry, lied about feeling no pain,” the woman mischievously whispered as she holstered her gun. She walked to George’s computer while putting on glove. She took out of her pockets a small memory card, inserted it into the computer, and copied its contents. She was thorough as she hacked into his personal files, Interweb history and mailbox. With a little programming, she managed to make the copied files look native to George’s computer before closing down the whole thing. She then sent a thought to her boss. “Yes?” Randall answered. “Target eliminated,” the woman announced. “The coroner will see nothing but a simple heart attack, brought by years of bad diet. Files linking him to an Authoritarian cell were uploaded into his computer, with links to his friend as well. His surviving friend will be taken by the police for complicity in hate propaganda and all incriminating files they had against you have been taken care of. Basically, you won’t be bothered by them anymore.” “Perfect. Keep up the good work, Ysadora.” “Don’t I always?” Ysadora Dawn smiled, leaving her target’s house and entering into her car. “Randall, one more thing, if I may.” “What is it?” “People are starting to be suspicious in ways that we can’t control or eliminate without confirming these suspicions.” “Humans will always be suspicious; it’s in their nature. They must find something to blame for their problems; we give them one. Rather, we give them a dozen for their choosing.” “I know, but one day, they’ll get to us, and after, they’ll get to the big boss. We need a decoy, a living and willing target who’ll take the blame for our activities.” “A scapegoat?” Randall thought, interested. “Exactly. There was a time when one wasn’t needed, but with the plan as advanced as it is now, we can’t take any more chances,” Ysadora reasoned. “A good idea, but who will be willing to play and crazy enough to wear the clothes of the devil, to be responsible for our plans against modern society?” Randall sighed. “Who wouldn’t do anything for money, power, or immortality?” “Even those things won’t stop a traitor from betraying us, especially if the opposing party matches or outbids our offer,” Randall replied, emphasizing bitterly upon saying ‘opposing party’. Ysadora didn’t need to ask who he meant by those words, as they dealt with that annoyance for so long, never able to get rid of it. “Let’s just keep an open eye for such an opportunity,” she instead said. “Indeed. It is a reasonable suggestion; I’ll ask my secretary to search for any psychological profile which will match those of a willing scapegoat.” “Thank you, Randall; now I’ve gotta go. Take care,” Ysadora wished him. “Don’t I always?” Randall replied, mirroring her own words. His voice faded back to null in her mind, as Ysadora started up her car, gaining altitude. Though the cars had about two kilometers of altitude to fly in the cities, there was still an invisible rule which seemed to state that each hundred meters, more or less, there was a specific lane, and no car could fly in-between these vertical lanes. All but Ysadora, who gave no care or thought for human rules. All she was thinking about now was who would be a voluntary scapegoat. Hadn’t she been important to the Society’s mission, she would have volunteered, as she would willingly give her life to protect Randall. She owed him too much; but such was not the circumstances. Randall Redspear was the king, and he trusted only her as his knight and champion; all they needed right now was the bait to take the attention away from their operations.
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Post by melodierivers on Oct 27, 2021 16:45:43 GMT
Chapter 4 - AA - Abraham Solomon
Abraham Solomon was walking with determination towards a tall building in the middle of a luxurious park. Only wealthy personalities could afford more than an acre of forest or garden, and whomever owned the Capitoline were more than just rich; they had to be able to afford a 280-acre park around the building. Which suited just fine Abraham; he would have nothing to do with miserable and struggling citizens, barely able to pay for their rent, yet with no fighting desires to rise above their fates. A Ph.D. in Political Science in his pocket, he was going to put it in use for people who stood a chance at winning goals. People like President Robert Bohm. Abraham smiled under the bright sun as he recalled briefly how two weeks ago, the President’s counsel accepted his request for the post of Chief Advisor of Public Relations. Such a post allowed him constant meetings with one of the most powerful man on Terra, a luxurious suite, as well as a luxurious office in the Capitoline. In short, he would be part of the elite. He thought about high-school, and the brutes who always mocked him, how he would always be a nobody. He thought with joy at how much he would love to see their faces as he was about to sit in the most powerful office of the country while they were wasting their lives and diplomas away with meagre jobs at meagre grocery stores. As he stepped upon the grounds of the Capitoline, the sun began to shine with the light of a thousand fires. Besides some touristic hotspots, the Capitoline and the White Castle were the only buildings and grounds allowed to be standing amidst the park, while the other cityscapes were forbidden to overview. Which meant that no buildings could bring shadows over this sacred ground. When he finally reached the stairs leading to the entrance of the Capitoline, the doors opened, and an old man stepped out, dressed in a distinguished grey-blue suit, walking down the stairs to meet him. “Mr. Solomon?” the old man asked, his heavy Britannian accent setting him apart with the Americani environment. He was rather tall, slim, and though his drawn-back grey hairs and the lines around his eyes described very clearly that he was entering his seventh decade, his grey eyes were sharp, his voice was clear, deep, and free from the burden of age. His movements were so agile and quick that Abraham wondered how old this man truly was. “Yes, it’s me,” Abraham replied. “Ah, welcome to the Capitoline,” said the old man as he extended his hand. “My name is Randall Redspear, the President’s Counsellor. I trust the flight here went well?” “An honour to meet you, Mr. Redspear,” Abraham replied as he shook his hand. “And yes, it was very comfortable, thank you very much.” Randall looked at him in mild surprise. "Forgive me, but you have a firm handshake. Rare have I seen that in a young man such as yourselves. Abraham stifled a laugh. "Thirty-seven years is hardly young, Mr. Redspear." "When you get my age, Mr. Solomon, it is." The old man looked to the sky, and then laid a hand on Abraham’s elbow as he invited him to walk down the stairs with him. “It’s a beautiful day, let us walk outside to discuss business matters,” Randall suggested in a manner that indicated he wouldn’t accept a refusal. “Yes, sir,” Abraham accepted, astonished at the old man’s very firm grip on his elbow. “You’ll forgive me if I cut the formalities short; time is essential. So here’s how it works around here,” Randall explained while they walked in the gardens. “Everyone working at the Capitoline gives their reports on the citizens and the country’s economy to you. Your job is to analyze the data, and devise the best way to shape both worlds according to the orders you will be given by me, and me alone. Is that clear?” “Of course, sir,” Abraham acknowledged. “So basically, when the President is not around, you’re the boss.” “As his Counsellor, that’s exactly what I do. Is that going to be an issue?” Randall asked, scrutinizing Abraham. Abraham looked at the old man, surprised by the direct answer. He smiled, as he could feel the predatorial instinct in the Counsellor’s cold and icy stare; it was the look of someone who never lost, which made him quite enthusiastic. “Not one bit, sir. It makes my job easier.” Randall smiled despite himself. “Then we won’t have any problems; I look forward to working together.” "So do I, but might I inquire about the Vice-President? I was under the impression he was the second boss." "Traditionally, yes, but John Carrie is notoriously detached from domestic duties; he prefers using his powers in foreign policies and diplomatic agreements." "Quite rightfully too; he's quite skilled at it from what I heard." Randall laughed softly. "Yes, but also a pain in the ass when he deigns to point back his nose here." Abraham politely laughed back, although he made sure to keep the information in the back of his mind. As they continued walking, both watched as the world around them kept moving forward. The buzzing noise of the flying cars high up in the skies, angry drivers clamouring their horns in protest of the poor skills of the other drivers. The never-ending going and coming of those mechanical devices were like the mechanism of what should have been a well-oiled clock; only, the clock was far from well-oiled, and many mechanical parts were too defective to be either salvageable or useful: this was how Abraham perceived this world. If his interview went well, he finally stood a chance at executing the long overdue repair of the clock. “I read in your resume that you had the highest grades in Political Science, and even the Pi Gamma Alpha nominated you as honorary President,” Randall said appreciatively. “Yes, sir,” Abraham simply replied. “Why political science?” “Because it’s the core behind society as we know it; what shapes it… and what makes it fall,” Abraham answered. “Indeed. I myself never learned it, but I have heard of its merits. Something intrigues me, though. It is written that you taught, and later advised on, Chaos Theory; how does it relate to political science?” Randall asked. “Simple. Political science deals with the future. But in order to shape the future, one must also know about the past. Chaos theory deals with the variables in a chosen path, and how does it get out of control. By extension, we also learn about all the currents that shaped history as we know it: all the variables in an otherwise solid plan that changed history a thousand times.” Randall looked at Abraham with acute curiosity; he then asked: “One more thing: in one of your essays, you described that politics relied merely on two factors: economy and psychology, and wielding both carefully, one could rule an entire country with nothing else. Why is that?” “Is it a trick question?” Abraham asked, unsure if the old man was joking, as the answer seemed quite obvious to him. “You tell me.” “Very well, the answer is very simple. Both are distinct factors in life, yet they are complementary; they both impact on human lives and society. Change an aspect in either of them, and you’ll get specific reactions accordingly. For example, let’s say that you wish to start a civil war: raise the cost of food and living by fifteen percent each three months, thus inflating by sixty percent the economy at the end of the year. The psychological implications felt by the population every three months will become even more instinctive than the previous semester. Hunger, living cost and economic insecurity will corrupt the instincts of even the most peaceful mind. In order to survive, the population will see no other solution but to end this ever-increasing degradation of their social conditions. Knowing human nature, it lets us predict that what would be considered the best way to go against this economical crisis will be to attack the cause of it all, the government responsible for those raises. By simply raising the cost of life by fifteen percent each three months, you thus enable uprisings and the beginning of civil war in a mentally destabilized people. » Now, if these elements are already present and you want to achieve allegiance of the people to your party, prevent any success of the opposing party, and still make a profit, it is as simple as creating the civil war. While the opposing party upholds the fifteen percent raise, you lower yours by five percent, bringing it back down to ten percent. Basic psychology demonstrates that human’s greed allied to a feeling of being heard and cared for will undoubtedly attract the population to join your side and discard in hate the opposing party. Now, in theory, you will make a lesser profit over the population, but, time will play in your favour. You will start by gaining more members, whom will spread word of the efforts you do for the people. This free publicity will bring in more and more people and in the end, as your party is larger than the opposition, so will the amount of money, or power, collected. By doing so you will have achieved a complete destabilization of the government; achieved a complete ‘image’ change of your party and won over the population, while still making a sizeable profit without them realizing it. From there, possibilities are endless.” “Well said; I’m impressed,” Randall couldn’t help but let showcase a proud smile; Abraham knew he had won him over. “That’s the reason for what I wrote. Psychology and economy are the perfect tools to tame and control the people. My example was a very narrow-minded one, and extremely basic compared to the true possibility of its mechanics. And since humans, well, most of them, have never evolved beyond instincts, the elites in possession of these tools will never lose in their endeavours.” “Then, the members of the council chose you well for the post,” Randall complimented Abraham while taking a hold of his shoulder one more time as he led him back to the Capitoline. “Now that your evaluation is complete, let’s introduce you to the whole presidential council!” Abraham smiled as he thought how the old man was a much better company than all the worthless and poor so-called friends he’s been with. He was truthfully looking forward to working for him.
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Post by melodierivers on Nov 1, 2021 17:38:26 GMT
Chapter 5 - BA - A Slice of Life The cashier scanned the articles, attempting a weak smile as she gazed upon the two clients before her, a woman and a man, both in their late twenties, probably early thirty for him. Not them again. She only knew them by the fact that they were local residents, that the young man was called Tom, and that he himself called the young woman Mad (although she was never able to figure out if it was a personality-related nickname, or whether her parents actually named her that way), and that their weekly grocery list was centered around fish meals. She continued to scan the articles: a dozen lobsters, a bag of mussels, bread, Asian plum sauce, onion rings, an enormous bag of flour, way too much chili powder for their own good... the usual. Once she was done, she raised her head to look at the young woman, and restrained her cringe. The young woman always wore one of those party steampunk dresses, with a Victorian collar that made her neck look way too small for her round chubby face, a tight laced bustier that could not hide or contain the bulging muffin top belly underneath it, and a slitted ruffled skirt coupled underneath with ridiculously loose pants. The only reasonable thing about it was that the emerald green dress with the pure white accents complemented the woman's black eyes and brown hair (which were tied in a weird bun that ended up looking more like a peacock tail on top of a human head). "That will be 231.56 dollars," the cashier finally said. "Credit or debit card?" "Cash, please," the nicknamed Mad said with a bright smile, opening her purse and pulling out a wallet that didn't seemed able to safely contain all the cash within. She eyed the woman's male companion as he packed the groceries in those big reusable bags. He was dressed as any decent person should, in used jeans and simple shirt, his brown hair uncombed but not weirdly hairdressed. In fact, he was above-average good-looking in comparison with the usual male kinds of this particular suburbia of Kansas City's, with his fit looks, his long yet soft-edged face, and his kind brown eyes that always had that humourous gleam. The cashier begrudgingly returned her attention to the young woman as she handed her half of the money in paper, and the other half with an annoyingly large amount of coins and change. "I don't need the receipt," the young woman beamed as she and the young man picked up the bags. "Have a nice day!" "You too, bye," the cashier distractedly replied back. Watching them leave, the cashier shook her head disapprovingly. That couple looked like the woman was a Goth trying to initiate her partner in one of those clubs; and that the only lure she could have for him was a lobster banquet. The cashier shook her head again as a heavy-breating, grumpy-looking couple wordlessly and rudely slammed their groceries upon the rolling mat. Now, this couple was typical of the majority of shoppers, the cashier thought as she attempted a smile, only to be rewarded with a grumpy glare. ********************** Ploup!
"Eww, look at their faces... it's so ugly," Madzistrale squirmed as she resettled for better stability upon the wet quay, her green dress' closures and seams protesting at the sudden tensions. "Yeah, but look at their round eyes," Tom said adoringly, as if talking about a puppy, setting aside two cut rubber bands, and picking up his scissors. "Mouths are not supposed to have tentacles in front! Or claws!" "She didn't mean that, cutie pie, no, she didn't mean that," Tom cooed to the lobster as he carefully poked its tail and encouraged it toward the water. Ploup!
"Only one to go!" Madzistrale carefully took out the last lobster from the bag, and inserted it in a cone-like apparatus that kept it somewhat steady. She then pinned one of its pincer on the floor, and steadied the other, still grimacing all the time for the lobster's mouth claws and tentacles wiggled in protestation. Tom however looked at it with adoring eyes, gently tickling with his index its mouth, before then moving in with his scissors. Not a minute and both pincers of the lobster were free from its rubber band. "There you go, little buddy," Madzistrale proudly said, liberating it from the stabilization apparatus. With a final satisfying ‘ ploup!’, Tom and Madzistrale turned to the last bag. "And now, for the easy part!" she happily said, removing four heavy bags of mussels from their groceries. Holding them in the water, Tom then carefully cut the bags open, and pushed the little molluscs in the water. ******* The receptionist cringed at the young man standing before her; more particularly at his messy black hair where a big patch of white hair streaked it from the left side. "Good day," he said pleasantly. "I'd like to see Bryan, please." She blinked. "You mean Professor Shalom?" "Yes; I need to consult him on something." She looked at her database just to make sure before answering. "Well, you probably did not heard the news, but Professor Shalom is in the hospital since at least nine weeks." The young man's face fell in genuine shock, and she began feeling bad for finding his hair funny. With his soft brown eyes, he looked like an old-fashioned good guy. "What happened?" he asked softly. She looked at the notes: "He suffered a stroke, during a fundraising marathon. The race was finished when the co-runners realised that he was nowhere to be seen..." She looked up and resisted the urge to go hug him, for he was visibly pained, with hints of teary eyes. The professor seemed to mean a lot to him. "I'm sorry for breaking the news to you this way... If you want, you can ask at the St-Sepulchre hospital. They may let you see him. And as for your consultation, maybe I can guide you to another professor?" The young man shook his head. "No, thank you miss. I'm sorry for taking your time, that will be all." "Okay, well, good luck, sir." He smiled weakly and made a semi bow, which surprised her. "Thank you, have a nice day." She glanced down at her computer. She hated bringing bad news to people. ** "So your name is Gab...zry...el Summerfield, correct?" The nurse squinted at the signature on her board. "Correct," Gabzryel confirmed, trying unsuccessfully to comb his messy black and white hair with his hands. They turned a corner and took the elevator as its doors began to close. "You're actually the first person to inquire about him since the university checked up on him." "What? How come?!" The nurse shrugged sadly. "No idea. He seems to have been disconnected from his family. We called his parents, no answers. After some investigation, they're somewhere in the south but still unwilling to answer any of our calls." "Girlfriends, boyfriends, friends? She shook her head. "No luck there either. He's already dead to people, it seems." They walked out of the elevator, and she hushed him, showing the no talking sign. She led him through more corridors, and then stopped before a door, which she opened just enough to let him see inside. A man in his late thirties laid on the bed, various machines plugged to him. Only a rising chest and a steady beeping from the cardiometer let the world know he was not straight-lined. "It's been nine weeks, and no change from him. He's not getting worst, that we're grateful for, but he's not getting any better either. Gabzryel fought the knot in his throat and some tears that threatened to show. That scene was way too familiar. "He's got no one..." the nurse said sadly, "...so, may I ask what's your relationship with him?" "His student from Philosophy class in university." The nurse nodded. "Well, we have a problem because we need the signature of someone close to him, and fees need to be paid for his convalescence. And since we can't reach anyone, we'd have no choice within a few weeks to unplug..." "I'll sign for him," Gabzryel sharply cut. "Well, I don't think you qualify..." "I'm his student, and I consider him a mentor. I sign for him, and I pay six months in advance, and if something goes wrong, the director will answer for that," Gabzryel firmly said. "Okay... Give me some time, I'll go prepare the papers. Do you want a moment with him? If yes, please be careful not to touch anything." "I know how it goes," he said sadly. She nodded, and walked away. Gabzryel approached the man, and on an impulse, stroked the dark hair. The sensation was familiar, although the hairs were shorter and coarser than hers. "We haven't seen each other eye to eye, but I won't let them unplug you. Not again, not like with her. So hang in there, buddy."
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Post by melodierivers on Nov 11, 2021 16:02:10 GMT
Chapter 6 - BB - Two Siblings And A Friend "Guys!" Madzistrale and Tom turned their heads as a female voice interpelled them. A tall and strongly built woman jogged to catch them. "Hey Clara!" the siblings waved. They bear-hugged, and Tom playfully let out a stiffled breath by the force of Clara's hug. "Sorry, baby," she giggled, easing the strength. "I got a favour to ask; I want to cook something for my special gal tonight, she’s back from her trip. Can I indefinitely borrow some of your garden goodies?" Clara asked Madzistrale, stepping in their rhythm. "As always," Madzistrale proudly replied. She then reached at her friend's ebony braid's ornament: "Wow, isn’t that a woodpecker feather?" "Yep, I found it in my backyard. A downy woodpecker." "Isn't it your zodiac sign, if I remember well?" Tom asked. "And a few days before my birthday... Must be a sign," Clara proudly replied. "So how's your mission going?" Madzistrale excitedly inquired. Clara's ebony eyes darkened. "I've only been able to try a few communities, but I've received no replies from their chiefs. One of them even dared telling me I didn't know what I was talking about... For God's sake, I'm as pure of an Algonquian as he was, the little twat...." A sad bleat welcomed the trio, and Clara approached the wooden fence. Three brown, caramel, and chocolate mixed-coloured goats clumsily ran to meet her hand, and she scratched them playfully. "Hey girls, you've been missing me? I know, I know, I've been missing you too." She turned toward the garden laying before her, where Madzistrale and Tom strolled on the stone pathways. "Oh, you've expanded a bit more! And added a little patch of aliens here..." she joked, kneeling to stroke a dozen purple kohlrabi. "Serve yourself, as always," Madzistrale handed her a worn-out weaved basket. "And what about you guys? Do you have enough to begin that little dream market of yours?" Clara asked as she began harvesting around. The siblings scoffed. "Regulations are in our way. One would think with the rise of homesteading and urban garden projects that municipalities would be more flexible by now... Nope. But they'll allow the building of a new Walmart in the leftover space between the bank and the Subway down Station Street." "It's always like that." Clara sighed, as the siblings followed her with their own baskets. "A bit of that… oh, nice, some radishes… Oh, is your honey ready?" "We're leaving it a few more days; the temperatures were rough for the bees, so they need their part for their little babies," Tom explained, pointing at the sunburnt wildflowers spreading past the luscious garden, up to the very far back of their backyard, where three beehives stood. "Ah well, keep me a jar when it'll be ready, will ya?" "Aye, aye." Clara waved them goodbye, gleefully skipping away with her full basket. "Say hi to Gab!" she shouted. "Will do! 'Till next time!" the siblings shouted back. Madzistrale looked at her grocery bag and her basket. "So... the chores are done... and it's only 1 p.m ... Now what?!" Tom's belly rumbled. "Cake?" he implored his sister with his unbeatable pouting expression that he mastered. Madzistrale sighed. "Fine, fine." The siblings entered their house, and yelled their usual: " Tadaima!!!" Silence answered back. "Huh? He's not home?" Madzistrale wondered. Tom listened intently. "I hear some basses; I think he's still in the basement." "What's he doing now?" Madzistrale shook her head while she put on her apron. ********************** Norwegian symphonic metal music was flooding Gabzryel Summerfield’s basement. Gabzryel was nodding to the music, letting it invade his heavy heart as he buried himself in his hobby, soldering a wheel on a complex metallic assembly. His brown eyes were focusing on the task at hand, his short brown hair messy from an obvious lack of combing. The door leading from his basement to the ground floor of his house swung open as Tom and Madzistrale entered, the latter tapping away the last bits of flour from her hands into her apron. “I’m bored. Got anything fascinating to show me?” she asked as she plopped herself on a nearby couch, folding her arms and staring ardently at him. “Come on, give her something,” Tom said as he closed the door behind him, before seating on the couch as well. “ ‘Good afternoon, Gabzryel!’ ‘Good afternoon to you too, Mad and Tom’...”, Gabzryel sarcastically replied. “Beside, since when are you two so keenly interested in my stuff?” “Since little sister is bored,” answered Tom, elbowing Madzistrale. “It’s called video games,” Gabzryel distractedly answered. “Been there, done that. Can’t beat our five minutes record for eight stages...” Madzistrale pouted. “Hey, where has your black hair from yesterday go? I love the white patch in them; don't dye it away, it makes you look like a cute skunk...” she trailed off awkwardly, realizing how it sounded. “Okay! Done!” Gabzryel exclaimed, completely ignoring her last question and proudly dropping down his soldering machine. “ Voilà!” He stepped aside to reveal the device on his table. It was composed of a complex set of machinery, attached to a wheel and had a table lamp plugged to the whole set. “Theoretically,” Gabzryel explained, “this wheel will create a continuous and never ending motion in this complex machine. This should create enough electricity to power up this lamp.” He strongly spun the wheel and looked at the siblings with a proud smile. Unfortunately, it faded after five minutes. The lamp still hadn’t turned on. Gabzryel frowned and was agitated as he looked for external flaws. “What’s wrong with it?” he mumbled, scratching his brown hair, rendering them even messier. Tom and Madzistrale attempted to hide their amusement, with no great avail. Finally, Gabzryel tossed the machine in a drawer, and faced them with a frustrated smile. “It give us great hopes for your other inventions,” Tom commented, smiling. “You try to make a free electricity generator, genius,” Gabzryel replied defensively, loudly fickling with his instruments. "You're okay?" Madzistrale asked worryingly, frowning. Tom looked bemusedly at her sudden comment; then Gabzryel dropped his head and chuckled. "Always astutely right. That's my Mad." "What happened?" Tom echoed his sister's question. Gabzryel sighed and leaned against the table. "Shalom is in a coma since 9 weeks," he revealed. The siblings gasped. "Your old teacher? Why, how?" Gabzryel fought back the knot in his throat. "Same thing than with her. A stroke." Madzistrale rose from the couch and hugged him tightly. "Sad thing... he doesn't have a family to pay for the bills. No one answered to the hospital's calls," Gabzryel mumbled in her neck. "What's gonna happen?" Tom asked, visibly worried. "What do you think?" Gabzryel answered with a small smile. "I signed the papers to be his caretaker. He can remain plugged in as long as he needs to." Tom chuckled. "No wonder people finds us weird. Only you would take care of a teacher you didn't even got along that well with." "You know why I do it," Gabzryel replied sadly. "Sorry," Madzistrale repeated as she separated; her friend returned a small smile. "How did you know?" Tom asked. Gabzryel straightened up and messied his hair even more as he attempted to look cool after that vulnerable display. "I tried to see him at his office, but his secretary told me. I know his penchant for history and its observable patterns. I wanted to ask his opinion on something. We always debated, but he always had views I wouldn't otherwise know of." "Can we help?" "Always. I wanted to share my concerns, but then..." The siblings waited... and waited. "So...?" Madzistrale asked irritatingly. "Oh, sorry. So, I think something is about to happen soon." Madzistrale and Tom raised their eyebrows in mockery. “Really? That explains everything," Madzistrale mocked. “Shush, you have to let me get my stuff first," Gabzryel said, walking to an alcove in the basement. "Stuff or not... nothing’s clearly happening ‘soon’; nothing’s happened for the last seventy years, not since the last major war! Heck, we can't even get anyone to get anything remotely remarkable done soon.” “Exactly! That’s the best time for something to happen!” Gabzryel argued, opening a notebook. “Fine, what’s your worry?” Tom asked, cutting to the point. Gabzryel turned to them, displaying the most serious facial expression the siblings ever saw on him, holding his notebook as he answered very dramatically: “The Apocalypse.” Tom and Madzistrale looked at him blankly for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Hey! It’s not funny!” Gabzryel said, offended. “I thought you were Buddhist since three days?” Madzistrale asked between chuckles. “I am. Believe it or not, we Buddhist believe in a sort of Apocalypse, though it’s much more different and slightly more logical than your Western philosophy. Ever heard of Matreya?” “Did you noticed how he easily went from liking Western philosophies a week ago to now mocking it?” Tom whispered to Madzistrale, barely listening to Gabzryel. “I heard that,” Gabzryel said, interrupting Tom. “For your information, I am not criticizing your beliefs; I am merely stating a fact…” “Okay, so what were you saying about this supposed Apocalypse?” Madzistrale intervened, as she finally regained a somewhat straight face. “It will come soon,” Gabzryel answered, as if it was the most obvious answer. “Yes, you told us that, but what makes you believe so?” Gabzryel opened his notebook, filled with rough sketches and illegible scribbles. “While browsing the military public site…” “Meaning ‘while hacking in their officious files’...” Tom corrected. “... I stumbled upon a very interesting file. Project Cyan Ray. It was discovered by a journalist, who died of a heart attack some years later. It was one of the most publicized official proof of governmental deceit, and heavily spread by conspiracy theorists, so my bet is that Project Cyan Ray is now dismantled.” “So why are you A): bothering with it, and B): basing your Apocalypse thing on that?” Tom sighed. “Because, after a bit of digging, I found out that Project Cyan Ray wasn’t in fact military or governmental in origin. It was privately funded. Yet, somehow, whoever was behind Cyan Ray was able to blame it on the military and the governments... without them noticing. Or, if yes... then with their permission!” “Okay... But what about what you just said? It received too much publicity, so it got dismantled?” Madzistrale reasoned. “Project Cyan Ray received too much publicity. But the private founders were never found nor inculpated. Nothing stops them from doing another version of that project. And now, because the government was ‘involved’ last time, next time, everyone will blame them, and not the real criminals.” “I still don’t get it,” Tom said, sitting down on a couch. “It was an obscure thing, about what, forty to fifty years ago? Nothing came out of it, and it certainly doesn’t bring the Apocalypse.” Gabzryel sighed, and he sat on the table, smoothing his lab coat, and passing his hand through his now extremely messy hair. “Cyan Ray was actually about the Apocalypse. Its entire existence was to bring the Apocalypse.” Seeing the blank and slightly annoyed face of the siblings, Gabzryel endeavoured to position himself better on the table, looking like a cool professor, and explained further: “According to the files I stumbled upon, this shady group wanted to bring the population down. As we are aware, there is a slight problem with the amount of the population on Earth; we both know that it’s just a question of making housing and farming more efficient and less space invading, and to…” “Gab? The point?” the siblings interrupted. “Yes, sorry, so, too much people according to this shady group; now, add to that their personal ambition to bring forth the famous Next Terrian Society, and become single rulers of Earth. So, they created Project Cyan Ray. They were to create a show in the skies. Back then, people believed a lot in alien invasions, and more religious yet open-minded ones believed that Lucifer was a bad alien, and Jesus a good alien. So, this shady group used it to their advantage. They were going to simulate an international alien invasion. Spaceships and lights in the skies, big explosions, stuff like that. During this time, plenty of occasions to kill a good couple of millions people per country. Then, the ‘voice of God’ would speak to all, in all languages, and request their worship to be saved from the aliens. Then, ‘Jesus’, someone from the shady group, would ‘appear’ and ‘save’ humanity from the ‘Devil/aliens’, and ultimately enslave the surviving population.” Madzistrale and Tom looked at Gabzryel with raised eyebrows. “Seriously? Who would be stupid enough to believe that?” Gabzryel snorted in derision. “Quite a few, actually.” After a quick consideration, the siblings ended up nodding derisively as well. “Point taken.” “But, as I’ve said,” Gabzryel continued, “I firmly believe that, back then, Project Cyan Ray was just a big pile of useless paper. Too much publicity, too far-fetched, too costly for such a small group of person. Just seemed to be a big hoax to wrongfully accuse and muddy up the government.” “What makes you think that it is more useful now?” Tom inquired, curious. “No one believes in such things now. Everything that happens is always the fault of someone obvious, like the military or the government, according to the majority of the people. So let’s say that there is actually a shady group. They’ve been around for awhile, in the shadows, always getting by without being noticed. The few mistakes they do gets blamed on the military or the government. And slowly, they grow in strength. People of wealthy business somehow gets mixed up, they get more money, more power. Until, in the near future, they are strong enough to act openly. And the biggest occasion they’ll get to diminish the population, and then rule over the survivors, is by bringing the greatest massacre of history: the Apocalypse. And who’s going to stand up to these people?” The siblings looked at him with blank faces. Gabzryel stared back at them expectantly; they finally understood. “What, us? No way!” “Why not?” Gabzryel replied, confused. “We’re smart, capable, well-equipped… We already know so much through our own projects and experiments… What can go wrong? They’ll never expect us!” Tom and Madzistrale rose in bewilderment, and the latter replied incredulously: “Okay, Gab, usually, you have great ideas, but this one... I think you passed too much time breathing soldering fumes in the last few hours while building your... free-energy thing.” A little beeper beeped on her belt. “My cake!!” she exclaimed before rushing out of the basement. “Look Gab, I just think that logically, no one would bring the Apocalypse; too risky for their own lives. Beside, we’re not that kind of heroes,” Tom replied to Gabzryel, trying to defend his sister’s view. “Tom, what do you think we’ve been trying to become since we all met?” Gabzryel retorted. “We’re here to prepare and to try to make a difference in the world when no one will.” Tom sighed, and followed his sister up to the ground floor. Gabzryel stayed behind in the alcove, gazing down to his notebook. His gaze then turned to his dozing Afghan hound, laid on his belly against the floor in a corner. “They don’t understand how important it is, Loki. We must try.” Loki rose his pointed muzzle at his master, and answered only with a confused and sleepy gaze.
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Post by melodierivers on Nov 23, 2021 15:26:39 GMT
Chapter 7 - BB - Ordinary Heroes
“Do you honestly believe in what he just said?” Madzistrale asked her brother, while applying frosting on her cake, her medium-length curly brown hair now encased in a hair net to prevent a strand from falling into her work. “Why not? He’s had many theories over the years, but never incredulous ones, and always backed up with some proofs.” “But the Apocalypse…” “Mad, he’s a genius; geniuses look at the world differently, and what doesn’t match in it, they see it faster and clearer. Clearly, he saw something that doesn’t match what the world should be.” “I hope you’re right. But I don’t think I’d be ready so soon... will it actually happen in our lifetime? Isn’t it something for the very far future?” Tom shrugged in indifference; clearly, it didn’t bothered him any which way. Madzistrale sighed and finished decorating her cake. Her brother had good instincts, and she could always count on them. When they met Gabzryel, he was the one that quickly understood their friend’s uniqueness; she understood someone’s emotions, but Tom understood the deeper motives and psyche. With both their understanding of a human’s more complex nature than what was commonly accepted, no one was strange for them; and especially not Gabzryel, despite his eccentricities. “Can you believe it’s already been eight years since we left our home to come live here in Kansas?” Madzistrale sighed in reminiscence, looking at her garden through the kitchen’s windows. “Can’t say that I miss our winters, though. Between the snow here or the usual 2 meters high of piles of snow we used to get in Quebec...” “I miss even less the arguments we had with our parents; and how they always belittled you for being different than them and their clients,” Tom scoffed. “Gab was luckily for us the only client idiotic enough to interest himself in something else than the eternal self-lauding guru-ism of our resort. And we were even more lucky to that we understood each other and got away from it all.” Madzistrale sighed again as she wiped her hands. “I just don’t get why he thinks we should be the ones facing off this… Apocalypse thing. I’m already twenty-six, you thirty-one, and we’ve finally begun to live our own life according to our own ways; I just want a simple life for us, helping people out around us...” “That’s why he thinks it can be us. Who else than us in our village do what we do? Heck, we’re out by the docks saving lobsters and oysters, for God’s sake. And I think we singlehandedly managed our homeless gang at us three when our mayor can’t life a finger; you use your plant knowledge so that people don’t drive an hour to an hospital for a simple cut… not to mention our Three Kings of Kansas event at Christmas...” “Don’t forget our little ongoing Project! The very important piece of the puzzle!” Gabzryel’s voice suddenly interpelled. He entered the room with a pack of files under his arm, and sat at the kitchen island. “I smelled your cake from the lab, I hope there’s a slice reserved for me!” “No,” Madzistrale replied sarcastically, already having cut three slices. “ Itadakimasu!” Gabzryel tapped his hands together and thanked her as she set his plate in front of him. “You know, you guys don’t help my diet when you request to eat cakes at two in the afternoon,” Madzistrale reprimanded them while tapping discontentedly her belly. “Then don’t eat the cake,” Tom replied, already digging in his serving. “But it’s delicious...” Madzistrale pouted before taking a bite and sitting down. “Okay, here’s a few things I dug up to inspire you to follow my suggestion,” Gabzryel interrupted, spreading the files across the counter. “First of all, there is this weird monument in Georgia. Ever heard of it?” “Nope,” the siblings simultaneously answered, their mouths full. “Okay... Well, this monument is rather creepy. It has ten guideline engraved in stone, in the eight most common languages, about what the ‘ideal’ society should be. No one knows who build it, the author used a pseudonym, though there are various rumours circulating, inculpating various popular secret societies. Though some of the guidelines are rather innocent, the others are disturbing. Birth control, and more precisely, birth control against ‘unfit’ children; abandon of tradition, faith and ‘petty’ laws; and though innocent in itself, the imposition of one language.” “One language? How is that dangerous? It would help to get everyone along if they all understood each other...” Madzistrale remarked. “In itself, it’s not. But there is a saying: ‘United Language, United Fears’. It is easier to implement and spread orders around when everyone understand them. » But all that is still innocent compared to the first and last command engraved: that humanity is a cancer, and it must be kept permanently under 500 millions individuals.” Gabzryel let silence greet this last sentence. Madzistrale looked at Tom, silently asking if she heard correctly. “This monument is justified by some to be guidelines to guide humanity after an inevitable catastrophe. But what catastrophe could possibly wipe out 92 percent of humanity? How do you think such a ‘catastrophe’ happens? And do any of you honestly believe that such a ‘catastrophe’ will be completely natural?” Tom and Madzistrale looked at one another with concern; both also instinctively pushed back their halfway finished cake. This was no time to eat. “They might have planned for things such as asteroids,” Tom suggested in an attempt to find the logic behind it. “Yes, true. And as we speak, as the world prepares for space colonization, there are talks of bringing asteroids close enough to Earth and the Moon for harvesting their metallurgic resources. At the same time, there is this shadowy group which wants to see 7.5 billions people die to ‘rid’ Earth of a ‘cancer’, while having a getaway plan, as space colonization is no longer science-fiction but reality. I don’t know about you, but I start to doubt any ‘natural’ catastrophes threatening humanity; including asteroids.” Madzistrale and Tom looked uncertainly at the files. Gabzryel smiled kindly. “Look guys, I know I’m usually on the optimist side; we all are. But when it comes to the safety of eight billions people, in a world that would rather exterminate a problem than solve it peacefully... And when I see the government and military constantly accused of all the evils, while someone in the shadows play them like fools, and at the same time, creepy guidelines from that same someone that we know nothing about... I don’t want to take risks. No one will help the world; but we already started to. Let’s take it a step further and prepare for the worst. Nothing is lost by that. If it doesn’t happen in our lifetime, we still did some good in the world; we might even pass it down to the next generation if one of you two have kids…” “Hey!” the siblings looked at him with ardent eyes. “Just saying. Mad seem the likeliest candidate…” Madzistrale stared even harder, but she subtly blushed, as she knew he was right. Tom smiled mischievously, as he wasn’t personally overly fond of the idea of a ‘next’ generation coming from him. “We want to be heroes; that’s what I like about both of you. We don’t care if it’s a silly idea, if it’s old-fashioned, not proper in a ‘modern’ world, or that ‘ordinary’ people can’t possibly be heroes. We might not even succeed at hundred percent, or even need these preparations. But we won’t look back and say that we haven’t done our best. We can be heroes, we have the spine for it, and valuable qualities: I’m the fake mad genius; Tom, you’re the logical and best scenario guy; and Mad, you’re the empathic and what-feels-right girl, not to mention medical knowledge. Let’s be heroes for real. It doesn’t require superpowers or suits. It requires caring about the world when no one will. Didn’t we already start, with the homeless and the animal kingdom?” Madzistrale looked excitedly at her brother, urging for his approval. Tom considered Gabzryel’s finds for awhile, and his instincts told him there was a high likelihood for the world not being quite right and his friend seeing it better than the siblings. “Heck, why not,” he finally accepted, to the joy of his sister. “How are you planning to begin, Gab?” “How? Why, by continuing our Orb Weaver experiments, and do our daily run of help around the city,” Gabzryel enigmatically answered with a corner smile. Madzistrale and Tom sighed and rolled their eyes, before resuming eating their cake; they knew he wouldn’t explain or clarify further. Tom, meanwhile, browsed quickly through Gabzryel’s files while the latter finally began digging in his own untouched cake, and found something. “What is that?” he asked Gabzryel, pointing to the file’s title. Gabzryel shrugged. “Don’t know yet. It’s interesting, but still in the realm of ‘rumour’. It’s basically that an underground movement is trying to wake the ‘Sleeping Mother’.” “Sleeping Beauty?” Madzistrale joked. “Something in that vein. According to this mysterious movement, they come from a highly royal bloodline, whose origin is a powerful woman, nicknamed ‘The Mother’; and they try to find her tomb, to somehow wake her up. Not only can’t you wake up a dead person, where it gets fuzzy and really over-the-top is who that ‘Mother’ is, and what kind of power she had. Most claim she’s Mary Magdalene, and that she was the true influence behind Christianity, and that this group is descendant of her and Jesus, and should thus rule the world. Absolute nonsense.” “So why you’re keeping the files, exactly?” Tom asked amusedly, replacing the file in the pile. “Because some people are idiots and who knows when such a fairytale will surface and be spread as ‘truth’. I’ve got to keep anything remotely society threatening, to fight it. I’ve got tons that are a pile of rubbish,” Gabzryel said in indifference. “I’m seeing that,” Tom replied, even more amused as he cycled through files names such as: ‘ Move To Heaven With Your Third Eye!’; ‘ Aliens Influenced the WWs’; ‘ Colour-Blindness Result From 70s Alien Experiments’; ‘ The Queen Has A Green Patch!’; ‘ 1880’s Mars Invasion Prank Was Created By The Next Terrian Society!’; and more ludicrous titles. “What makes you trust this Cyan Ray Project, then?” “Because I got it from the military’s website, not from blogs. And I told you, I do believe it was an hoax,” Gabzryel replied, as if it explained everything. Tom’s eyebrows rose in annoyance, and he decided to let go of the subject and, instead, finish his cake. Gabzryel suddenly rose with an ecstatic air, and rushed to the basement door. “I think I know what went wrong: the wheel’s wire was grounded!” Tom and Madzistrale realized he was now speaking of his failed free energy experiment that they witnessed beforehand. They waited expectantly for a few minutes, feeling that they knew what would happen. As expected, they heard an angry cry from the basement, and a heavy thud as an object was clearly thrown across the lab. The rest, they didn’t heard as they fell into a fit of laughter over Gabzryel’s eighth failed attempt at a free-energy machine.
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Post by melodierivers on Nov 23, 2021 15:37:56 GMT
Chapter 8 - AC - The Council As Selene, the guardian of the night, moved toward the horizon, its white surface darkened only by a single small spot of dark gray, dawn rose upon Norr Americae. It was a dawn that its citizens believed to finally bring change and hope to their darkened lives, under the new leadership of President Robert Bohm, in office since five weeks. "The cameras are set up," a technician informed the group composed of the President, his chiefs and council members, his Counsellor, and the Chief Advisor of Public Relations. A council member looked nervously around him as the group seated around the vast table, and asked: "May I know the purpose of this?" "You're of Chief Jones, right? It's true that it's your first meeting since your leave of absence," Bohm remarked. "I've decided to film our meetings for public release." Chief Jones' face grew pale, and he looked at Randall Redspear for clarification; the Counsellor was however paying him no attention. "You can't be serious. That's a major breach of security!" "We'll obviously refrain from sensitive subjects; however, past presidents kept their meetings secret, and where did it get the population's trust? The Civil Uprising, that’s what old ways of doing things led to. But what do we have to hide from the public? Nothing. We have however everything to gain by finally providing transparency in the deeper workings of politics. That'll greatly prevent mistrust and conspiracy feelings within the population whom are expecting to trust us." Chief Jones could only stare back in shock. He opened his mouth, but decided against it, and sat down without words. Quickly, the room was filled with chats, reunions talks; after a few minutes, Randall Redspear cleared his throat. “It's a beautiful morning, ladies and gentlemen, let's not waste it,” the Counsellor’s calm but direct voice appeased the chatter in the room. Everyone stopped at once; they knew better than to talk over Bohm’s strange but powerful right-hand man. “We won the election, we must now uphold our promises. First of all, how is the self-defense distribution centres going?” One of the chief spoke with visible uneasiness: “Very well, sir. The number of distribution centres has grown three percent within the last four weeks after your orders, and we’ve already seen a rise of fifteen percent in sales.” “Very good; keep it going. A population that owns its own safety within its own hands is a safe and satisfied one.” “Indeed,” President Bohm chimed. “Now, Mr. Solomon, I gather that you studied the public reports that my council gave you; what do you suggest as the next improvement?” Abraham Solomon met the gaze of Randall, and as the latter gave a discreet nod, he began: “Well, Mr. President, you have several states in recession. It is not only bad economically, but a threat to the popularity of your newly elected party. People voted for you because you promised to understand their struggle; something must then be done about it. There are quite staggering amounts of potential middle-class families, whom are burdened by recession and high cost of living, so we should target them. I suggest that we start slowly to lower the cost of certain necessities, such as food and rent. A simple five percent each trimester would greatly help against the recession. We should also instaure a basic plan for the lower class, say two hundred dollars each week, for starters. Most of these people live in existing shelters, so that additional money will cover their food, and perhaps more. We have to try and get the low class up living and buying.” “Then work on it,” Bohm ordered the council. “Mr. President, this is impossible to implement,” Chief Jones protested. “Lower the income and the food cost, and we have no revenue. Especially something as drastic as five percent each trimester. As for the basic plan, it is downright far-fetched.” “How come?” Randall coldly intervened. “We simply do not have enough money to spare. The present state of the economy cannot allow such drastic changes; we already owe trillions in debt to Evropa and Zhongguo.” “Following my suggestion will require sacrifices, a change in our budget distribution, and borrowing from investors; but it will make the economy climb back up in the long term. We will be able to pay our debts. What the economy needs is Americani buying again; no one buys right now, because no one has any money left,” Abraham replied. “It’s simply impossible; you of all people should know it, you studied Economy,” Jones argued. “Yes; and there is a difference between the numbers written on paper, and actual life. You self-called economists are so mind-set on statistics, you lack the people’s view. Between spending the leftover hundred dollar bill at the end of the week, or accumulating it to pay for the rent when their salary will fail or when they’ll lose their jobs, the people accumulate money, they don’t spend it as the numbers on papers say that they should. Give them more money, especially assured money, and they’ll start to spend again and it will compensate.” “And I tell you it’s a bad strategy!” “Very well; what do you suggest?” Randall challenged the council chief, while Bohm laid back in his chair, fingertips together, overlooking the debate in a detached manner. “We start to build more industries here, in Norr Americae. We create new jobs, and those jobs rebuild economy.” Randall snorted, and he smiled in derision: “And that is why no one voted for your party, Jones. Mr. President, building enough industries here in Norr Americae to accommodate enough jobs will require precious billions of dollars…” “... and not only will you have to fight against our present debt, you will need to repay all those billions that you lost building those industries, including the work force,” Abraham added; Randall’s eyes flushed briefly in anger at such an interruption, before cooling down. “Such a process may take ten years, if not more, before the economy balance out, just balance out, mind you, not even yet climb up. And during these times, the population not only gets poorer, but lose trust in your party, as it does exactly what all other parties did for the last thirty years. Not only that, but Zhongguo has already all the installations required, and it costs them almost nothing. If we sell items built here in Uni-states, the price will have to be high to compensate for the debt it costed; products from Zhongguo cost near to nothing. The purpose here is to get the population buying. When survival is targeted, they don’t care if what they buy is made in the Uni-states or in Zhongguo; as long as they can finally buy food, clothing, and necessities. Take these same billions that you were going to spend in industries, and give it to the population. Industries are already up and running in Zhongguo, they supply us. The money that the population receive finally go at buying. Economy climbs in less than five years. Not by much, but it climbs. And we have a bonus: they trust your party. And they will vote for you or your party again.” “I have plenty of investors ready to lend money, as long as they have proof that they will get the money back one way or another,” Randall continued, interrupting Jones as the latter started to speak. “They do not trust politics, but I convinced them of your vision and your good intentions, Mr. President. Should you give the word, they will help you.” “But it’s impossible!” Jones finally intervened. “Jones, their plan is quite solid,” Bohm replied coldly, sitting back straight in his chair, and leaning against the table edge, staring at the chief. “Unless you come up with an even stronger plan, as quick and efficient, yes, I am leaning toward accepting what I’m hearing from Mr. Solomon and Mr. Redspear.” “And to find money, we mustn’t forget that half of the council here has also exorbitant salaries, Mr. President,” Randall coldly added. To his words, the council members froze. Bohm surveyed them, slightly confused as to where his Counsellor was going with it. “Mr President, when we started this party, it was not to make Americae great and rich, it was to help the abandoned population, abandoned by such a concept. You, myself, and Mr. Solomon here have all created this out of charity. Our past businesses, built and paid by the population, helped us live well; but now, we have everything that these citizens don’t have: a fully paid house, good food, enough money to live for decennium. So do we truly need such continuous high salaries? Isn’t it charitable to give back to the population what it helped us obtain? When we both started, we denied such authoritarian concept that is the elite. We quite literally work here as volunteers, to help the population when no other governments did. Mr. Solomon here, highly qualified, has followed the same path of charity. But here I see the council members, having salaries that are almost five times higher than yours, Mr. President, for a smaller job... I believe it quite unfair, and against our oath to be equal to the citizens. Especially when my own Council has hundreds of highly qualified candidates that would work as efficiently, if not better, for a tenth of what this Council earns.” The faces of the council members were livid white. Randall smiled at them, and Abraham could see the predatorial menace oozing from the old man’s icy eyes. Bohm also smiled, and laid back in his chair, staring at the members. “Quite well said, Mr. Redspear. It is true that such salaries are against our Constitution, against my principles and those of my party. In any case that some of you forgot, I was born and raised in a state afflicted by recession and poverty. I know, and trust me, I know, how life was cruel and hard. I became President to fix the same lives across Uni-states than what was mine, as I wished that a President could have done the same with my family. Redspear and Solomon’s words rings truly deep within my soul. » From this day forth...” and his voice rose higher to be heard by the camera filming the meeting, “... your salary will be cut of sixty percent for the first year. That will give you time to adjust yourselves. Next year, you will earn the same salary, like all of us, we who actually work to serve Americae, not rule it. The money gained from those cuts will join those of Randall’s investors, and we will implement Solomon’s plan of food and rent cuts, as well as the assured money plan for the poor. It will require sacrifice, and trust, and better relations with Zhongguo; but the welfare of the population is worth all of that. » Mr. Redspear, if you may contact your investors, you can convey my personal assurance that their help will be rewarded.” “It will be done, Mr. President,” Randall nodded. Bohm turned to the silent council members, his gaze unforgiving despite his calm demeanour. “All of you are ordered to work with Mr. Solomon to implement his plan. I give him full responsibility of this project, and that means that you follow his every order. Those of you that won’t comply within the first trimester will be fired, and there are plenty of young and highly qualified volunteers that will gladly replace you. This is my first Directive.” A stunned silence greeted the President’s order. Abraham smiled discreetly despite himself; he was now within the highest circle of the elite. “Anything else?” Bohm asked. “Yes, as a matter of fact,” Randall acknowledged. “There are a few corporations tied to the previous governments that we should break relations with. I will give the full list when the reports are entered, but these corporations often influenced past governments, and we can’t allow that in yours. If we are to be a people’s party, we mustn’t allow bribery and greed-oriented influences from shady corporations. The transition will be hard, but my people is working at creating a pure AAP system that will take care of some products or services given by these corporations. I will go into details in another meeting when I will have an absolute answer and solution.” “Perfect; I’ll let you take care of that,” Bohm approved. He surveyed the room, and as no one spoke, he rose. “This meeting is complete. I suggest that for the good of the people, we all start working hard right away, as we have done for the last five weeks. Good day to all.” The rest of the members rose, and all shot furious gazes at Randall and Abraham, but all quickly left the room. Bohm shook the hand of his Counsellor and Chief Advisor and left with them, asking for in-depth details upon his role in the new plan. The camera shut off, and in the operative room, a copy was made to be edited and released for the population, to reveal the new AAP Plan. The news spread like wildfire, exciting the hopeless citizens, who finally saw a light pierce their black lives. The name of AAP or President Robert Bohm was on everyone’s lips, and the few who clung to opposing parties started to be seen as troublemakers. A new era seemed to poke through the mist…
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Post by melodierivers on Jan 26, 2022 15:54:39 GMT
Chapter 9
- AC -
First Gear In Motion Abraham opened the door leading to one of the Capitoline office, now his since two weeks. Closing it behind him by precaution, he then ventured inside the Renaissance-inspired room. The windows flooded the office with sunlight; each day, Abraham felt like he walked into a royal living room. Feeling that the afternoon’s hot rays were already settling in the office, he checked his watch to verify: ‘19:45’.
“That’s not right,” he thought out loud, tapping his watch in a futile attempt to reset the hands to the correct time.
“Don’t ever interrupt me again when I’m talking!”
Abraham jumped in surprise upon hearing Randall’s voice behind him. He was used to bullies sneaking up behind him, but Randall sneaking behind him was a different (and dangerous) feeling. He turned to face Randall, and found him seated in one of the office’s couches. Despite his calm voice, Randall was visibly angry, his icy eyes staring deep into Abraham’s.
“In my world, a man that does this is considered disrespectful and arrogant,” Randall continued.
Despite his age and rank, Abraham felt small beneath the fire behind the old man’s stare. One part of his mind admired such a fire, while the other part urged him to choose his words carefully.
“Forgive me, Mr. Redspear. Jones’ stupidity got to my nerves, and I wasn’t sure that President Bohm fully understood our plan. It is his duty to listen to all sides, but Jones’ lack of ambition was threatening the future of your great endeavour. I’m truly sorry if I appeared disrespectful; I only wanted to show all the benefits of the plan right away, before Jones instilled any fatal doubt within the President.”
Randall’s glare softened, and he continued to overlook Abraham for a few seconds, saying nothing, before rising with a satisfied face. He tapped lightly the shoulder of Abraham.
“I understand. Take care that it doesn’t happen again.”
“I’m a psychologist, sir. I know how to recognize and deal with inadequacy; I’m certainly not about to imitate such behaviours. And when I see doubt in someone’s mind, especially when it comes to a crucial project, it’s my duty to fight the doubt,” Abraham proudly retorted.
He breathed more calmly as Randall smiled.
“You certainly have confidence, I will give you that,” Randall conceded. “Many have abused in the past from such confidence; but in your case, such leadership will be essential.”
The old man crossed his arms and glanced at the reports that Abraham had left laying on his desk.
“What you mentioned, lowering the living cost by five percent each trimester… How does it help our cause?” he asked.
“I told you, sir, when you recruited me. Do a nice gesture for the population, even if it cost you more in the beginning, and you’ll guarantee yourself trust and devotion. And in the long term, control,” Abraham explained.
“Speaking of control, how far can we push your plan?” Randall asked, leaning against the desk’s edge, arms crossed.
Abraham went to sit behind his desk, and thought quickly. “It depends on what you want to achieve, sir.”
Randall gave him a meaningful smile. “What else do you and I wish to accomplish?”
“For that, we needed the help of the corporations you told the council that you’re breaking links with,” Abraham noted.
“Only officially. Some of them have been already exposed for too long, and we need to keep with the old plan. The population have been warned against corporations for ages, direct with our orders. We must follow in that path. The new government must appear to be free from direct links with them if we want the popularity to be with us, and against the old members of the old governments.”
Abraham nodded, and he rose, his mind flying to examine the possibilities.
“Well, we need to keep the dependence factor strong,” he began, pacing the office. “Not just fuel. We need to strike the balance between freedom and dependence. The food and living cost must remain high, and the assured income must remain low. Just enough to give some leeway to the population, but not enough so that they can fully get out of their situation. Such a dependence will keep the population glued to the new government, despite any unhappy thoughts. Without our government, they’ll lose the income, and return to homelessness and starvation; with it, they willingly become your pawns. They don’t get all that they want, but they get enough to hope that it will get better from now on. » Corporations will need to stay, though, although, as you said, under a different name and concept. Dependence is once again essential. We’ll need to basically move every industries to Zhongguo, and make the population understand that such an action will reduce the cost of living, as production over Zhongguo will cost nothing because of their existing labour. Creating home or national businesses will be harder and less profiting to the population, leaving them no choice but to accept oversea products (and thus augmenting once again their dependences). Zhongguo will however become the next and biggest country in the world, economically. That may or may not be a flaw to the plan, but if it is, we can build safeguards.”
“It won’t be a flaw; it will on the contrary serve the plan very well in the future,” Randall assured him.
“Good. Next,” Abraham continued, “competition is the biggest issue. We’ll need to ensure that no other party can compete with us. It’ll be harder to implement, but if previous controversies exist about these parties, it’ll be easy to simply push them to downfall. What it leads to, is that people will trust no one else because of those controversies. If you look at one of the past presidential races, the population voted for someone they would have never voted for, only because the opposing party (armed with a better speech, and better promises) was afflicted with privacy controversies. » So, we need to take any opponents away, but with the population’s consent. They must themselves wish us to take down any old parties. For that, the media will play an essential role. In addition to take down old parties, you could secretly build another one, unlinked officially to you, yet run, behind the curtains, by you. Such an action will make you less suspicious to the population, who will be offered once more different choices of parties, despite all of them being basically the same. To gain more votes, you make sure all the parties are ‘run’ with real ‘people of the people’.”
“Like we started,” Randall acknowledged.
“Exactly. From there, unseen variables will obviously emerge, but the end result will be the same: complete control of the population, and this, brought on by their own free will.”
“Excellent,” Randall beamed. “Now, that is all, of course, hypothetical?”
Abraham smiled meaningfully. “Yes, of course, sir.”
“Good,” Randall replied, amused. “I think it might be time...”
“Time?”
“Third office at the right, fifth flour, come right away,” Randall said out loud, to no one in particular. Abraham looked at him, confused, but he said nothing and didn’t let it show in his face.
“Here is what I need you to do,” Randall resumed to Abraham. “There are a few in the council that smell trouble to our government. We need to take them out right away.”
“Uprooting the weed? About time, if you ask me,” Abraham agreed. “I’ll dig some dirt about them, and leak them through the media.”
“In a few days’ time, we will make another meeting, and expose these controversies publicly, and show that we won’t tolerate old systems,” Randall added.
“Very good, sir,” Abraham smiled. “I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you. They will need to be replaced; I have candidates in my own council. I will let you choose which ones you deem best suited.”
“Don’t you have your own favourites, sir?” Abraham wondered.
“Yes; but let’s just say that this first mission is your test,” Randall enigmatically replied.
Abraham frowned, puzzled, but he didn’t pushed the matter any further. Things would be revealed at their own pace; all he needed to do was to prove he belonged to Randall’s world.
“Very well, sir,” he acknowledged.
A knock was heard at Abraham’s office door, and Randall invited the newcomer to enter. Abraham rose to his feet, unconsciously straightening his shirt and his jacket, and requiring every drop of his self-control to avoid gaping at the newcomer. A tall lean woman in her early thirties walked gracefully into the office despite her four inches high heels, her cream tailored dress showcasing her trained body, her platinum blond hair tied into an elegant bun, exposing her delicate chiseled cheekbones. Her turquoise eyes quickly met Randall’s in a professional manner, but they then stared straight into Abraham’s, and never departed. Abraham, still not taking his eyes off the apparition, as if he didn’t want to lose one glance, went around his desk to meet her. She glanced quickly at his full frame before looking back into his eyes, a small admiring smile making its way to her lips. When they came close enough, they both stopped in a last attempt of self-control.
Randall put his hand lightly upon the woman’s back, and introduced her: “Ysadora, this is Abraham Solomon, the new Public Relation manager I told you about; Abraham, Ysadora Dawn, my bodyguard. In any case people around here don’t like you and you are to find yourself into dangerous waters, call her. She is the best one could wish for.”
Abraham took Ysadora’s extended hand, and gave it a small but delicate kiss, his eyes never leaving hers. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Dawn.”
She blushed, though he could see that she was trying her best to hide it.
“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Solomon. It takes a genius to be praised by Randall,” she replied, smiling broadly.
“I believe the praise should be to you. A woman whom is the best bodyguard one could wish for is no small feat.”
“I trained with the best of the best,” she acknowledged.
Both then kept at looking at one another, neither saying any more words, partly because neither knew what else to say and partly because had they started to say something, it would have gone out inappropriate at such an early stage. Randall, amused, discreetly cleared his throat. Abraham and Ysadora jumped out of their hypnotic stare, and stood nervously, trying to find a way to end the conversation naturally.
“Well, I should get back to... umm... well, make some researches on council members to.. well, umm... you know...” Abraham babbled, part of him surprised at this unusual behaviour from his normally controlled state.
“There are some old council members that are starting to make unwanted noise, so I asked Abraham to find suitable replacements,” Randall explained to Ysadora, finishing Abraham’s sentence.
“Ah, good. It was time to see some changes in the Capitoline,” Ysadora chipped in, smiling brightly.
Abraham bowed slightly at her compliment, and feeling that Randall was uncomfortable by their silent staring, he kissed once more quickly Ysadora’s hand as a goodbye, and retreated back behind his desk.
“Well, it was nice meeting you, Miss Dawn, and I’ll indeed call you if I need your service. Mr. Redspear, you should start to see new recruits very soon.”
“Excellent,” Randall beamed. “We will leave you to it.”
After Ysadora shone one last beaming smile to Abraham, they left the office. Abraham looked back at them, his mind filled with thoughts other than the mission given to him, for the first time since countless years.
**********************
As Randall was speaking to a secretary, Ysadora busied herself to steady her racing heartbeats and her thoughts. Within the typical council members that surrounded her life, she did not expected this Solomon to stand out from the herd. He looked perfectly the thirty-seven years that his resume registered, not too young, not too old, good-looking, the type she often met as the charming heads of distinguished businesses. His dark brown hair were impeccably combed to the sides, showing off his daily discipline, and his blue eyes met others’ in a polite yet firm manner, without diverting, unlike so many others. And the unusually old-fashioned manner that he had welcomed her, straight out of the chivalry codes of conduct of old times...
She was no stranger to attraction, for she often used such a weapon; but the feeling she had now experienced was different, powerful, and new to her.
But she couldn’t let herself be controlled by such emotions, and she certainly could not let Randall see its effects. He needed her usual cool-headedness, especially now more than ever. Her mental training kicked in, and she steadied herself before Randall finished his call. When he turned to her, she was professional as always, and she dutifully waited for him to walk down the stairs.
“So, what do you think of him?” Randall inquired.
“Mr. Solomon?”
“Yes. I know for a fact that he knows what we are up to, yet he still wants to play the game. You were right to say that someone out there would fit our needs.”
Ysadora scoffed. “I can see why your council chose him for the post of Public Relations. He is charming, polite, and confident; perfect attributes to lure people to his plans. But in all honesty, he is reliable for our need? He seems overly confident and ambitious.”
“His ambitions, according to his profile, is to serve a cause that will help shape the world as he wish it to be. I read his profile, and I believe he is on the contrary perfect. And quite frankly, a polite yet confident man is more honourable than a spineless wimp with no individual thoughts. Do you know that just today, he single-handedly won a debate against a dozen council members, and persuaded Bohm to follow his plan?”
Ysadora noted with amusement Randall’s passionate and excited tone as he praised Abraham.
“My thoughts on the matter is limited by my insufficient knowledge of him. Perhaps with more time and more knowledge, I will share your fascination. For the moment, I would suggest that you wait before letting him in into our scheme. He may be a spy,” she prudently advised.
Randall smiled at her precautions. Ysadora looked away from his icy eyes, suddenly hating the way he always seemed to grasp what people tried to keep hidden; she felt that her still shaken heartbeats were misleading him away from her calculative thoughts.
“Of course, I will wait. Time will show his weaknesses, and any hidden agendas,” he reassured her.
Upon that, he left her side to join one of his council member who was waiting for him in the Capitoline’s hall.
Ysadora watched him leave, then she made a call to her assistant. “Bring me the files on Abraham Solomon; I will be in my office.”
Time to know the newcomer, she thought.
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Post by melodierivers on Jan 27, 2022 15:59:02 GMT
Chapter 10 - BD - A Fight of Kindness
“You want what?!” Bruno looked on from sharpening his latest work with amusement as his two unusual friends sat across his workshop table.
“A stick! Well, a pair of sticks,” Madzistrale clarified.
“… Sticks…” Bruno repeated, still grasping the concept as he refrained from reminding them that they were in a blacksmith shop.
“Yeah! But you know… cool ones.”
“Cool sticks… Okay… Anything else you might want to expand upon? Like… a hidden blade, or… you know… something more complex than a… stick?”
“Nope. Make a cool pair of sticks that can make our enemies think twice,” Madzistrale explained with pride.
Bruno laughed as he set down his sharpener.
“Now you lost me; you went from sticks to enemies.”
“Gab’s idea. He wants to prepare for an eventual conflict,” Tom clarified.
“And I don’t want to hurt someone when that’ll happen, just to scare them, that’s all,” Madzistrale added.
“You guys will have to let me in on that whole conflict thing; though I don’t blame Gabi for thinking about something like that, with everything going on...” Bruno sighed. He looked around his shop, thinking, then rose, walked to one of his shelf and gently picked up one of his work. He handed it to the siblings. “But wouldn’t something like that be more suited to what you’re suggesting? I know how fond you are of Japanese culture because of your upbringings, so this might suit you more. It’s an iaito wakizashi, for practice; it was traditionally worn inside homes as a defensive weapon, more mobile and suited to close-quarters than their katanas.”
Madzistrale’s eyes gleamed at the sight of the short ornate curved sword that was handed to them, and she looked excitedly at her brother. Tom nodded his approval, so she rose and gently took it with both hands. Bruno swallowed in doubt, and he bit his lips; he loved his friends, but leaving a clumsy Madzistrale in a steampunk party dress with even a blunt weapon was a recipe for disaster.
To his surprise, however, she masterfully unsheathed it in the traditional way and immediately began some iaido moves with it.
“Wow, you know some moves?!” Bruno looked astoundingly; Madzistrale’s usual clumsiness seemed to have disappeared as she carefully moved around with the wakizashi.
However, Madzistrale blushed, and looking almost ashamed, she sheathed the sword and placed it delicately on the table.
“Not really… just some very basic stuff; I didn’t even really trained at all… I just liked the look and the meaning behind the real deal...”
Tom said nothing, except for a sad smile. Bruno immediately regretted his words. He knew their childhood hadn’t been that cheerful and carefree, and he knew through Tom that they did actually underwent physical training that couldn’t even be counted as a real one. All for putting up a front within their family’s simili-Zen resort back in their Quebecker home.
He sighed just as sadly as Tom’s smile was; it was a shame, because for once, he actually saw Madzistrale being more agile than usual… as if her daily clumsiness was a front she put on to forget and negate people’s expectations about her.
“So one pair, or two?” Bruno finally asked. “I imagine you wanted sticks as well, Tom?”
“Yep.”
“We want to smack some sense into future enemies’ heads; it’s hard to do so with something sharp,” Madzistrale explained, smiling mischievously.
Bruno laughed at the imaginary scene of the two siblings running after some nefarious individuals, waving a stick around, and the individuals having a children’s comics-like bump on the head.
“Allright, give me some time, then. I’ll do my best to make two pairs of cool sticks. Did you guys had anything in mind for the style, colours, type, etc?”
“Nope, surprise us,” Tom said.
“Allright,” Bruno gave up. He then looked at the siblings. “So what exactly is Gabi worried about?”
The siblings shrugged, uneasy.
“That a war is coming; he kinda has a point with all the recent civil unrests and some less-than-ideal breaches of rights. And since we have an insight of what might happen because of our little hobby project, we figured we might as well prepare a little bit in some aspects,” Tom explained.
“But I don’t think we’d need to fight like before,” Madzistrale intervened. “I do think the last century united us more deeply than what people expected, with worldwide communications allowing so many cultures to share together their ideals and their common grounds. That’s also what Gab is doing on his side, exploring being in everyone’ shoes to better understand what to do when the time he foresees will come.”
Madzistrale blushed and instinctively grasped the fabric near her neck; Bruno couldn’t help but see the chain around her neck and the cross shape beneath her top.
“And I know it’s idiotic to think that, but I believe the next war might be kinder than everyone expects. If so, we’ll need kind weapons, kind words. A way to tap someone on the head and tell them ‘wait a sec, we’re on the same side, we’re not what they tell us we are’. You can’t do that with a knife, a gun, hatred, drones, and what not. Well...” she sifted uneasily, “that’s the kind of fight I want to lead. One of kindness begetting kindness. Surely it’s no longer an impossibility, with everyone now finally knowing each other even if they’re miles and poles apart.”
Bruno and Tom smiled.
“You sound just like the heroes in seinen animes,” Bruno teased her.
“Oye!” Madzistrale blushed, her dark eyes flaring.
“I mean that as a compliment; you always ended up making a reality out of the stories we were raised on. No one believed in Santa Claus until some weird friends and siblings, at Christmas, ended up making an entire neighborhood free of worries, for every year since their arrival,” Bruno gave them a wink.
He stretched his hands and smiled, his mind already looking at sources of inspiration around his workshops.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make you guys the coolest pair of sticks you haven’t seen.” He paused, “wait, doesn’t Gabi want one?”
“He can’t, because of his condition. Any excessive exercise might trigger it off, so he has to take it easy,” Tom explained.
“Oh right… I keep forgetting, he always looks so motivated,” Bruno’s eyes’ saddened at the thought.
“To him, every day is precious, so he enjoys them to the fullest,” Madzistrale reassured him, even though she smiled just as sadly.
** As they walked home, Tom looked at his sister, and suddenly grasped her into his side and gave a peck on her cheek.
Madzistrale giggled;
“What was that for?”
“Nothing. I simply love my self-proclaimed idiotic sister; she’s much wiser than I.”
“Stop it,” Madzistrale squirmed. She however smiled gratefully at her brother, and returned the peck. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t ever happen, the time where we would need to fight such a war. I still haven’t met my soulmate and built my family…”
Tom smiled softly and continued to nestle his sister under his arm.
“Don’t worry. Besides, I’ll always protect you. That’s my job.”
“Oye, don’t say that! You have to think about your future wife too!”
Tom scoffed and gestured around.
“There would need to actually exist some decent women without a power-freak attitude and princess lifestyle where the slightest amount of dirt will make them faint...”
Madzistrale blew him a raspberry and hugged him tightly.
“You’ll find her, just as I’ll find mine. Let’s trust in the Big Boss’ ways of doing things,” she firmly stated, grasping once again the cross beneath her fabric.
Tom smiled, and as they continued walking, he made a silent wish that he kept to himself.
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Post by melodierivers on Jan 27, 2022 16:02:24 GMT
Chapter 11 - AD - Project Vymana
A classic Evropan car, shiny black with accents of gold, slowed down upon approaching a heavily guarded barricade. A soldier approached the halted car, his assault rifle at the ready, his black military uniform covering him completely, and motioned the driver to come out.
The door opened, and a slender old man stepped out, his icy eyes reflecting the cold, almost sterile feeling of the snow-covered mountainous area. The guard stepped back in surprise, and letting his gun fall to his side, immediately saluted then bowed.
“Mr. Redspear, please forgive me for this rude welcome. I did not expect your visit.”
“Don’t be silly. Security is of a paramount importance no matter who’s visiting. You may be at ease,” Randall ordered the soldier.
The soldier somewhat relaxed, then looked at Randall, unsure how to proceed.
“Well? Aren’t you going to search the vehicle?” Randall exasperatedly said. “I won’t appreciate you slacking off security procedures.”
“Yes… Yes, sir!”
Randall sighed, and while waiting, looked at the mountain range spreading all around him, shielding whatever laid beyond the barricade from outside curiosity. A road large enough to accommodate the incessant traffic of heavy trucks, their beddings filled with rocks, ran parallel right beside a smaller, sinuous, and at times treacherous, road. That small road was the only way in for non-workers; and only the most courageous ones would dare to even think of driving through.
Here, isolated from the comfort of the outside world, laid the world’s foremost magnetite open-pit mine… or so was the official façade.
“All clear, Mr. Redspear,” the soldier nervously announced, stepping back.
Without a word, Randall entered his car, and the soldier signaled the remaining guards to open the barricade. Randall followed the sinuous road, slowly encompassed on both sides by carved cliffs through one of the mountains. Brighter light ahead announced Randall that he was arriving at his destination, and within a few more hundred meters, the walls of stones stopped abruptly, and before him laid a breathtaking scene. The mine spanned nearly three kilometers wide, and delved six hundred meters below the surface, the monstrous industrial machines working the rocks and soil looking tiny in comparison. Strips of earth were ripped in concentric circles, an eternal fine smog enveloped the scene, the dirt particles kept in stasis by the mountain shields and build-up localized pressure.
Randall stopped at the nearest building, where the road ended at a fence that protected the foolish wanderer from an eight hundreds meters deep cliff. Upon getting out of the car, the cold pierced through his body; but it was nothing compared to the deafening sound of the mine that hit Randall, and he fought the desire to cover his ears. Ysadora had already scolded him many times for coming here without bodyguards in an isolated military-owned facility, that he wished at least to counter her scoldings by being on constant alert.
More guards ran to intercept him, and in the rear, he recognized the man he wanted to see. Nonchalantly raising his hands to show he was unarmed, he was nonetheless relieved to hear a deep grumpy voice rise above the noise.
“At ease, soldiers; let him through.”
The soldiers immediately settled on each side of Randall, forming a line; a tall and heavily built man walked to him, his thick eyebrows, bushy mustache, square features, and deep set brown eyes giving him a distinctive authority figure. He firmly shook Randall’s hands, and his grave voice boomed, his Schwyzryvan accent making his words sounds guttural:
“Mister Randall Redspear. You are a madman to come here dressed as a city boy. I’m tempted to lengthen my welcome to give you a good lesson about respecting your environment.”
“Maybe I was expecting you to cut to the chase, Feldmarschall Johann Teiwas. You know that I don’t like to waste time.”
“I know, I know. Follow me,” Teiwas smirked, leading Randall into the building.
Setting down a steaming cup of coffee in front of Randall, Teiwas sat down across the table, and stared down at the old man.
“So. What does this infamous visit mean, Randall?”
“What do you think?” Randall retorted.
“Well… you’ll be glad to learn that this year, we’ve increased sixfold our magnetite output; our current yield is eleven metric tons...”
“You know very well I’m talking about Project Vymana,” Randall cut sharply.
Teiwas laughed.
“Impatient as ever. I imagine you don’t want to drink my coffee, and would rather like to go down to the hangar?”
“I invested in it, and I pay all of you for that. So yes, I expect to see the result of my investment,” Randall coldly replied.
Teiwas sighed, and rose, Randall following.
“Come with me, then.”
Randall stepped to the back door leading to the mine’s site, but a strong hand held him back. Suddenly, a thick woolen coat was thrown around him, and Teiwas stepped in front to open the door, smiling widely.
“Don’t want my investor to die from bronchitis,” he smirked.
Randall glared at him, and Teiwas laughed, leading him to a white camouflaged Willy.
The vehicle began the descent of the six hundred meters depth of the mine, and Randall looked at the massive operation running all around. There was no question as to why the site was officially off-limits: it was a playing ground for some of the biggest and most monstrous-sized machines ever created. Bucket-wheeled excavators the length of a dozen industry-sized tractors dug into the earth as if it was flour. A machine that Randall recognized as a vibrating hammer would simply lay down its gigantic hammer on top of a boulder, and within seconds of faster-than-the-eye vibrations, the boulder would fall apart. A different kind of excavator, this one like a monstrous drill, flew right into the mountain flank, leaving afterward an unbelievable sight of a hundred meter wide hole into the granite wall. Dust and particles covered the scene with a permanent fog, and the sun barely pierced through it, leaving the mine in a perpetual icy setting.
“Here we are,” Teiwas announced after a few minutes of driving, passing through a fence flanked with danger warning signs.
Driving around a looming bucket-wheel excavator, mercifully shut down, the Willy stopped before a towering granite flank. Teiwas pushed a button on the dashboard, and then swept the radio button, as if looking for a station. But instead, after some time, the granite wall slid inward, a two-hundred meter wide stone door, and Teiwas drove through, the door sliding back to a smooth surface once the vehicle disappeared.
The car stopped, and Randall climbed out, looking around the massive hangar.
“There it is, as per your orders. An unprecedented collaboration between the Twelve Imperial Gnasci: Project Vymana,” Teiwas presented.
Randall looked upon the innumerable rows of military weapons spreading before him into the darkness of the caverns dug deep beneath the mountains. Planes, tanks, ships, submarines, artillery, cannons; even experimental vehicles and weapons that Randall had never bothered to look into, but knew nevertheless of their existence.
“Is it completed?” he asked.
“No. I’d say that this still represent merely sixty percent,” Teiwas calculated.
“I do hope no one knows of it,” Randall mused, looking at the enormity of the project.
“The Gnasci Convention forbade its disclosure, and the whole process has been done in the utmost secrecy. Even if done for a just cause, no government wants to officially announce how or to where it got rid of most of its military.”
“How is the transport executed?”
“At the other end of the mountain range, through White Peak. A similar doorway to the one we’ve just taken has been created there as well, and the tunnel links to here. Along the way, seventeen doors have been prepared, in the event that the main gate is breached and the tunnel discovered,” Teiwas explained, his usually expressive face now showing an enigmatic expression. “The rest of the transport executed by the individual Gnasci are done via their own private tunnels and subways. Sometime, they are forced to stage an accident or a failure, in order to close the roads to the public.”
“Any leaks?” Randall asked.
“None so far. Beside, my ears have reached rumours about leaks being swiftly dealt with by someone other than the military,” Teiwas said, his eyes gleaming mysteriously as he looked at Randall.
Randall merely smirked at the hidden meaning.
“Then I trust the remaining forty percent will be here in a timely delay?”
“Absolutely.”
“That’s all I need to see,” Randall said, walking back to the Willy, Teiwas following.
“It still feels impossible to think that the Twelve Imperial Gnasci have accepted to give up their military powers, and to keep only what they need to protect themselves. What kind of man are you to request from the higher-ups such a titanic prowess?” Teiwas asked as they drove back up the mine.
“I merely pointed out the uselessness of such a power in the future to come,” Randall simply replied.
“Still… It makes me nervous,” Teiwas said, his enigmatic face still contrasting with his earlier cheerfulness.
“You’re an old dog that knows only one trick, Feldmarschall,” Randall retorted. “You lack the finesse to understand the deeper levels of war and control.”
“Maybe,” Teiwas conceded. “And to think you chose Schwyryva’s mountain range to hide all that armada. Don’t you have mountains back at your Uni-states?”
“The citizens have been made aware that such military hideouts existed, as per the purpose of our plans. But no one bothers about Schwyryva, even though the most powerful entities of power are located here.”
Teiwas sighed.
“Your war is too complex, Randall. Me, I prefer the good old-fashioned way. Demonstration of power, and adequate use of it.”
“As I’ve said: an old dog with an old trick,” Randall smirked.
Teiwas smiled in return.
“Sometime, the old trick is the best one. Don’t fix what ain’t broken, as you Americani say.”
Randall merely kept smirking. The Willy returned to the entry building, and the two men got out.
“A cup of coffee to warm you up, Randall?” Teiwas suggested.
“No thank you,” Randall said, sliding off the heavy cloak and handing it back to the Feldmarschall. “Keep up the good work; as I’ve said before, I will make sure to generously repay your loyalty.”
“And always trust in a Feldmarschall’s loyalty, Randall Redspear,” Teiwas answered, heartily shaking Randall’s hand, then saluting.
Randall turned on his heels without any more words, and rejoined his black car. The soldiers saluted as he left, the mine hiding its secrets within the mountains. Randall checked the clock and was pleased to see he was still perfectly within schedule.
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Post by melodierivers on Feb 6, 2022 19:32:03 GMT
Chapter 12 - AD - Close to Heart
Ysadora was sipping her coffee and distractedly eating her pasta salad while looking at the midday news on her computer, when Abraham sat on the chair opposite hers, setting down his plate with an apologetic expression on his face. She looked around at the half-crowded cafeteria, and turned back to Abraham, her eyebrow raised in a silent question.
“Sorry about that; but that brunette woman over there was trying to sit with me ever since I entered the cafeteria,” Abraham explained. “I thought I’ll escape her by sitting with you, and finally enjoy a silent meal.”
Ysadora discreetly looked over Abraham’s shoulders, and saw the woman in question, helplessly looking in his direction but averting Ysadora’s authoritative stare.
“Oh, her. Don’t mind it, she’s harmless. I only know her last name, Williams. She’s the receptionist since about four years; and her attitude has nothing to do with you specifically. She just gape at every man that walks past her.”
Abraham smiled at her disgusted tone.
“Well, whatever she does, she’s terrified of you; so if you don’t mind, I’ll be commandeering this seat with you during our lunch breaks, when I can.”
“… Sure,” Ysadora said, lightly blushing at his frankness.
They resumed eating in silence, both of them casting tentative glances at each other in-between reading and eating. After awhile, Abraham considered her curiously.
“So why are the girls frightened by you? The men are simply intimidated, but the women?”
Ysadora shrugged.
“I don’t get them, and they don’t get me. Simple as that.”
Abraham smirked.
“I guess that explains the lack of Mr. Dawn,” he motioned at an absent ring on her finger.
She threw him a cold stare, and he smiled back, raising his own left hand.
“Don’t worry, it’s the same here. I don’t get them, and they never got me.”
Something in Ysadora’s eyes stirred.
“I’m sorry,” she softly said.
“Why?”
She looked sideways, almost ashamed.
“You look like someone that deserves being understood.”
“So do you,” he simply replied, smiling softly.
They blushed, and returned to their computers, trying to ignore what had just been said.
After a long time of reading, Abraham’s annoyed voice broke the awkward silence.
“Come on, it’s not that hard a decision!”
Ysadora looked up in surprise.
“What?”
Abraham smiled apologetically.
“Oh, nothing. Sorry for disturbing you.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m curious,” Ysadora said, amused.
Abraham lowered a little his computer screen to skeptically seize her; but she was genuinely curious, her body leaning in toward him, one hand gallantly supporting her chin, her turquoise eyes eager. He looked back at his screen, feeling his cheeks reddening under such truthful attention.
“It’s just something related to the science of genome. A technique called ‘Genetic Continuity’.”
“What is it?”
“Something that the ethnozoologism field developed seven years ago. It relates primarily to the survival of endangered species. Basically, in such a program, upon an offspring’s birth, they test its genome. If they find it to contain chances of infertility, or any other genome dysfunction, they remove the offspring. Such an action retriggers the parental instinct of procreation, and the parents immediately create another offspring to replace the missing one.
» I find it ingenious, because we no longer need to wait until the baby grow into sexual maturity before determining if it will be either strong or fertile enough to continue the survival rate of the endangered specie. Before the acceptance of such a technique, waiting for such a long time resulted in a high risk of the previous generation dying off before procreating again. With this technique, one ascertains right away the usefulness of the offspring in the context of the continuity of species, and creates not only healthier offsprings, but offsprings with a stronger gene pool. The success of the pigeon messenger’s rehabilitation from extinction was attributed to the Genetic Continuity technique.”
He paused to finish his last bite, and couldn’t help but smile at Ysadora’s interest, and his own passion. Apparently, teaching was an instinct that he could not shed behind. He looked back at his screen, as if to dig better the information out of the text.
“Although its success has been proven within the realm of endangered species, the Gaea Health Committee is debating whether this same technique should be implemented upon humans, in relation to fight off the genetic transmission of incurable diseases, deficient and/or socially impotent diseases. One half of the Committee argues, as usual, that such actions are morally unethical. But the other half follows my own opinion, upon observation of Nature’s own laws, that if such babies would grow into humans that not only can be of zero service to the whole of humanity, but also become a nuisance and waste of precious resources, why should we allow them to pollute the gene pool? Strength in terms of genetics is what we need to further the species continuity of humanity toward a better balance with Nature; so why are we still arguing about whether or not it is ‘ethical’ to remove a cancerous cell before it grows to contaminate the rest?
» Especially that discussed diseases and imperfections are incurable and impotent to society, such as Down’s syndrome, Progeria, Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease, Fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva, etc... I mean, let’s not pretend that it’s a hard decision to come by.”
“Isn’t this going a bit far?”
Abraham lowered his computer, and looked in surprise as Ysadora glared at him. She calmly put down her coffee cup, her hand shaking lightly. Abraham still looked in surprise.
“How? We’re nearly eleven billions now. Twenty percent of the population are afflicted with diseases that will never allow them a fruitful and meaningful life toward society.”
“What makes you think they can never grow to contribute?” Ysadora hotly countered.
“Miss Dawn, we’re at a threshold in our relation to Gaea. We need to carefully select how our specie will healthily continue itself. Can you honestly say that an adult with Down syndrome will not only contribute in a healthy way to Nature, but contribute in an healthy way to our gene pool? Progeria, hopelessly feeding a being that will ultimately die within twelve to thirteen years. What good comes from people with Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease other than dementia, memory loss, speech impairment, personality changes? Or Fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva, having your body’s muscles and tendons literally turn into bones? Will they ever be useful to society? Or are you all just blinding yourself to the fact that their uselessness wastes precious resources, resources we can no longer afford to waste.
» Anyone who claim differently, who protects such genetic failures, who cling to the fruitless and supposed virtue of caring, loving, accepting, being ethical, is only hiding themselves from the truth: that they are utterly egoist. That their emotions is more important and worthy than the survival of humanity, than the health and conservation of Nature and Gaea before it too becomes extinct by our recklessness.”
Abraham paused to take a breath. Ysadora simply glared at him, then pushing roughly her chair away, she stormed off the cafeteria, her heels clinking violently upon the stone floor. The other clients turned around to look at her, then toward Abraham is an accusatory stare. Abraham simply looked blankly at her empty chair.
After a few moments, he laid back in his chair and passed his hand in his hair. Nothing had beforehand suggested that she would react so badly at his opinion; yet, he realized, he knew nothing about her or her past. How could he have known that such a subject was close to her heart? More puzzlingly, she had never struck him as someone who would react that way in the first place; certainly not with a boss such as Randall Redspear, who just like Abraham, valued the necessity of a human’s existence over its sentimental value.
Abraham sighed as he closed his computer and rose to leave. For someone usually at ease with people, he wondered how he could’ve made such a faux pas with someone like Ysadora, whom he judged as straightforward.
Realizing the situation and the glaring around him, Abraham chuckled upon leaving the cafeteria. He could only too well imagine the workers’ thoughts, as they mirrored his own: what a catastrophic first date it turned out to be.
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Post by melodierivers on Feb 6, 2022 19:37:34 GMT
Chapter 13 - BE - Leitworstil
A vast library stretched in front of Gabzryel’s eyes, the likes of which he had seldom seen. However, he remembered enough about it, since he had often visited it before; so he knew exactly where to find the one book that obsessed him during all these times. Finally reaching it, Gabzryel picked it up, and laid it softly on a nearby table. The book had a fine leather cover, with engraved gold ornaments; the title was in an unknown language, but Gabzryel just felt that the book contained the exact knowledge he was looking for. What stopped him from discovering it, was a strong chain keeping the book locked... but, this time, Gabzryel finally owned the key to open it. Barely able to contain his excitement, he fiddled with the lock, and a satisfying click was heard. Gabzryel held his breath as he flipped open the cover, and gazed for the first time at the fragile old pages…
A single string of seven numbers.
Gabzryel stared in muted shock at the disappointing content of the first page.
“Seriously?!” he finally managed to say; he turned the page, but the second page met him with the same numbers. So did the third page, and the fourth, and the fifth...
Gabzryel swept through the whole book, then threw it far across the library when all the pages revealed themselves to have the same line of numbers.
“Oh come on!!” he yelled in frustration.
Gabzryel snapped open his eyes, staring right at the ceiling of his bedroom.
“Aww, man...” he whispered disappointingly, as he sat in his bed.
He realized that his heart was pounding heavily, so he hurried to breathe slowly to calm it down; reaching to his bed table, he took a pill from a lying bottle, and gulped it down with water. After a few seconds, his pulse returned to normal, and he exhaled in relief.
“Damn heart,” he mumbled, setting aside his covers and resting his feet on the cold floor.
Looking over to his bedside table, his brown eyes rested on the framed picture of a young girl in her mid-teens with long raven black hair, her dark-brown eyes smiling brightly. Beside the picture was a small ornate jewellery box filled with dozens of small pink crystals; only Gabzryel knew that there were exactly twenty-three of them, and were in fact rare pink diamonds.
Sighing at the disappointing result of his dream and the book obsession from several months, he rose out of bed, and walked softly to the living room; he knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep once he woke up. He plopped himself in his favourite sofa in front of the back window, facing Madzistrale’s beautiful backyard garden, the moonlight passing through the window and settling upon him. He reached to the side table to pick up a detective novel he had begun the evening before. As he delved into the story, he heard soft steps crossing from where was the bathroom to the living room.
“Can’t sleep?” Madzistrale said sleepily.
“Nope...” Gabzryel sighed.
“Your sister?...” she asked as softly as she could; it was a subject she did not felt comfortable to tread.
Gabzryel chuckled.
“Far from it; honestly, it wasn’t because of a nightmare. Just woke up, as usual, and can’t go back to sleep.”
“You’ll be alright alone? Want some company?” she kindly offered, but the effect was immediately ruined as she yawned right after.
Gabzryel smiled softly at her offer, but he knew she was mainly just hoping he’d refused so she could go back to sleep. Not that he minded, for he was more than happy to set some alone time aside to reading, an hobby becoming rarer with all the experiments and projects going on.
“Yep, go back to sleep, Mad. I’m afraid I’ll get hooked to the novel, and ignore you anyway,” he reassured her.
“Okay...” Madzistrale yawned again, and left the living room, her sleepy footsteps trying unsuccessfully to walk as elegantly as her flowing nightgown. “Have fun...”
“Nighty night, Mad,” Gabzryel wished her, watching her leave with an amused smile.
As she turned toward the hall of her bedroom, the moonlight hit something sparkling at her neck, and Gabzryel realized it was her silver cross pendant.
He sat back in his sofa, smiling softly at that vision; since she always had covering clothes, he often forgot that she still wore everyday the cross pendant he had brought her in their early days of friendship. Not for aesthetic purpose, but as a religious reminder, a rare thing nowadays in the age of science and of extreme logic.
********************** June 2012
Gabzryel opened his palms, and revealed a delicately ornate silver cross pendant; Madzistrale’s eyes sparkled, and she tentatively stretched her hands.
“Is that for me?” she asked shyly.
“Of course. Who else?” Gabzryel laughed, forcing the pendant into her hands.
“But… I’m not supposed to be...”
“What? You’re not supposed to be a Christian? Mad, no one has the right to tell you what you’re supposed to be!”
Madzistrale looked fearfully at her new friend. Behind them laid a wildflower landscape, soft hills sprinkled of mature trees, a small river running through it. In the far side of the land, buildings shaped after the architecture of Zen and Buddhist temples stretched, pergolas overlooked the river, stone and sand gardens filled the rest of the place. However, all of it had a distinct Western feel, and for good reasons: Madzistrale’s home was a relaxation and personal evolution resort isolated in the Northern region of Québec.
Gabzryel stared back at her in wonder, but could understand why she was confused: here he was, a man resembling like all of her family’s clients, a yoga initiate, offering her to embrace a belief drastically opposed to that of Buddhism.
“My father wouldn’t agree… You know how he is.”
“Well… Technically, you shouldn’t need to hide your personal belief system… However, what harm is there to acknowledge your family’s beliefs while acknowledging that you privately hold different ones?”
“But why do I? I love them, I respect them… but why am I different? Why do I reject that silly religion of yours, of theirs? And why am I myself believing in a silly religion such as Christianity? Why am I disrespecting my family’s beliefs, why am I being unkind, disloyal to their teachings?” Madzistrale asked, agitated.
Gabzryel gazed at her compassionately. Here she was, an eighteen year old girl that never knew the outside world, shielded from it by her over-protective parents, suddenly facing the constant of this world: that each souls were born to be different. How could she ever have learned that being different did not negate being loving, kind, and loyal in any other way.
He stretched his legs, readjusting his robes, and noticed Tom climbing the hill to join them.
“There you are, little sis,” Tom said playfully. “Hiya, Gabzryel!”
“Come and join us,” Gabzryel patted the grass between him and Madzistrale. “Look at Madzistrale’s pendant! I thought she might like it.”
Tom sat down and looked at the cross, his sister looking away in shame.
“T’was about time you had one,” he simply said, surprising her by hanging it around her neck and ignoring her protestations as he closed the clasp.
“What do you mean?!” she asked, surprised and shocked. “I never dared telling you!”
“Our parents might be abnormally blind for supposedly ‘illuminated’ people, but I can see the signs. You forget that I love reading about philosophy, mythology, and religion, sis. I think I can figure out the signs when someone believes in God.”
“Please don’t tell… But more importantly… don’t think any differently of me...”
Gabzryel refrained from making a facepalm at such a reaction, even though he knew that it was a genuine fear for someone like her. The danger of being raised in a dogma was sitting right at his side.
Tom hugged his sister.
“Why would I? I don’t get it why you feel it’s so wrong.”
Madzistrale stared at him in shock.
“You don’t?”
Tom laughed, and motioned the scene around them.
“Look at this. Don’t you think that I feel it too? That something… something incredible lies behind the veils of this world? Just out of reach, yet so near. And where’s the harm in such a belief? You treat nature better than many so-called enlightened people at our resort; you respect others, you try to be selfless. You are flawed, yet never stop to grow and reach for the impossible. It was about time you manifested that belief. Buddhists does; why can’t you, a Christian, do the same?”
Madzistrale blushed. She looked at the pendant, and she faintly smiled; she then slid it under her shirt.
“Your faith is the best thing that can happen to you,” Gabzryel reassured her. “Don’t ever lose it, and don’t ever be afraid to admitting it.”
They remained silent, Tom still holding his sister against him, Gabzryel stretched on the grass.
“What about you?” Gabzryel asked Tom.
Tom thought for some time.
“I’m still not sure what I believe in. I know that for me too, it’s not our family’s beliefs. I don’t exactly believe wholeheartedly in God… but neither can I deny such a possibility.”
Gabzryel looked at him interestingly.
“Have you ever read the works of Immanuel Kant and Henry David Thoreau?”
Tom looked at him with surprise.
“Yes I did! A while ago, mind you, but I did. And… I think that might be it.”
“What do you guys mean?” Madzistrale asked.
Gabzryel squinted, trying to find a memory.
“Let’s see… Ah yes. ‘The empiricists believed that knowledge is acquired through experience alone, but the rationalists maintained that such knowledge is open to Cartesian doubt and that reason alone provides us with knowledge. Kant argues, however, that using reason without applying it to experience will only lead to illusions, while experience will be purely subjective without first being subsumed under pure reason’.”
“Indeed,” Tom said.
“I see. You’re a Transcendental Idealist,” Gabzryel admired.
“Huh?” both siblings asked, puzzled.
“The compromise created between empiricism and rationalism. The belief that experiences alone cannot be accepted as knowledge without being submitted to reason, while extreme reason cannot by itself account for experiences and thus cannot become true knowledge. A Transcendental Idealist will consider both experience, intuition, and reason in his quest for truth.”
“That’s pretty much it,” Tom smiled.
“You’re lucky, Mad,” Gabzryel teased. “It means Tom has no choice but to allow your belief; as it’s one that requires trust in reason, experience, but intuition as well.”
“If only our parents could understand like you do,” Madzistrale replied gloomily.
Gabzryel thought deeply, then sat back up.
“We have so many things in common, so many dreams and wishes of a better world than what is presented… And yet… So I might as well ask: why not come and live with me?”
The siblings looked at him, surprised.
“What?”
“Well… I’m rather famous here… Officially, you’re two curious persons that needs more experience to fully understand the world and the philosophy of Buddhism… In short, like Prince Siddartha, you need to get out of your palace and walk amongst the people if you wish to understand what your belief teaches you. Officiously, I’m just getting you guys out of here so you can be your true selves.”
“The resort can survive without us,” Tom reasoned.
“Are you kidding me? It already does, with all the workers Dad and Mom recruited,” Madzistrale said.
“And I have uses for you,” Gabzryel enigmatically replied, smiling.
“That better-future-world-building dream of yours,” Tom guessed.
“I need volunteers; people who thinks alike about changing the system, who believes there is a way where Earth and humanity can co-exist without conflicts.”
“How will you convince them?” Madzistrale asked, worried.
Gabzryel smiled mischievously.
“I have my ways. But do you guys really want to come? My farm’s after all in Kansas...”
“Of course!” the siblings cried in unison.
“Great! It might take some time, but it’s going to happen,” Gabzryel reassured them.
After some moment of silence where the two siblings and their friend looked out at nature unfolding before them, Madzistrale turned to look longer at Gabzryel. Nothing about him would have made her notice him. Relatively short for a man, a little bit compact, he had a roundish face, and an overall ordinary and unremarkable look and presence. Yet, it seemed only for Madzistrale and Tom, he had captured their attention by an yet unknown force of spirit.
Curious, Madzistrale asked him:
“What about you? You don’t feel like a typical Buddhist.”
“I’m not,” Gabzryel admitted. “And it’s not my purpose. I’m here to understand what could unite humanity. I’m not interested in flaws, in who’s-wrong/who’s-right, in what divides people. I’m interested at finding out the common ground; whatever country, belief or culture that one is from, no one is ever truly apart from everyone else. There’s always ways that we can all comprehend one another, believe together, and unite.
» I thus try to embody that quest of understanding. Although, I have to admit that I have my other reasons. Any which way, I call it ‘Eidomorphism’.”
“What does it mean?” Tom inquired.
Gabzryel smirked.
“That’ll be your first challenge, my dear friends. Once you find out, if you can still acknowledge me as I am, then nothing will stop us from bringing the dreams of us three into reality.”
**********************
The small cry of a nearby fox took Gabzryel away from his slumbered reminiscence, and he smiled even more fondly.
The siblings had indeed discovered his nature. But that discovery only brought them closer, and the trio ended up complementing each other through life. Madzistrale’s faith, the way she was able to look at the world because of it, the way she was able to be hopeful and forgiving despite all the troubles, helped them to see past the cover of the books, so to speak. Tom’s belief in rational thought and in grounded knowledge and reason, without pushing aside or negating the unprovable mysteries of the universe, helped Madzistrale and Gabzryel keep their feet on the ground in times where the head had to rule over the heart. And Gabzryel’s quest to understand all religions and all beliefs, to find the common ground and ease the tensions resulting from misunderstanding, tremendously shaped the whole group’s vision of the world, for at the core of it, there was not a single belief... or rather there was one very important belief: that it was only through uniting and searching together that humanity stood a chance at knowing the truth. And Gabzryel felt that no one had to abandon what made them be good souls, or helped them go through the hardships of life, for the sake of another’s approval. That was why he once gave that pendant to Madzistrale and reassured her that not giving up her faith would be the best thing for all of them, and that she should never be afraid to admit to it.
Heck, who were all of them to judge what belief was wrong or right? Who could judge him for opening himself to all possibilities of the world? Had he not, he would have never seen his sister again.
Gabzryel stroke his dark raven hair, unconsciously rustling his patch of white hair. Because of his Eidomorphism nature, he had long lost his natural brown hair colour, except for the white patch that began when he was as young as seventeen years old; but once in awhile, he’d always revert to his sister’s black hair look. It was the only remaining physical evidence of her life on this Earth, before a brain cancer took her away when she was eleven, and he five. Her death deeply affected him, for he always looked up to his playful and kind sister. When he was thirteen, after researching some obscure legend, he decided to believe in it, and as if by luck, he had been able to meet her again.
To this day, Gabzryel had still not ruled out the exact origin and reason of her appearance, and neither did he wished to. Some would have called his resolve to not know and to believe her existence somewhere else than on Earth, as an unhealthy habit; but he gave no care to it, as it comforted him better than all the logical explanations. That was why he never laughed at Madzistrale’s Christian faith, or at all the faiths he explored during his own life; where was the harm there?
Not to mention that he kept on receiving a very physical pink diamond from her, every year, since the night they reunited twenty-three years ago… Something too he could not explain, but was nonetheless happy to receive.
Opening wide his eyes, and yawning, he shook his head; enough, he thought. He put on his earphones, put up his songs medley playlist, and opened his detective novel. Time to put himself into the shoes of his favourite detective.
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