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spectrumed · 3 years

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5. sleep

It hardly gets dark in the Swedish summers. Between dusk to dawn, you’ve got about an hour to fall asleep before the sun rises again. If you struggle to fall asleep that fast, you can invest in some good window blinds. Or you can do as I do and place one big pillow over your face. Then the birds start singing around three o’clock in the morning. You can practically hear the sounds of Edvard Grieg’s Morning Mood playing at around four o’clock in the morning. Around five o’clock in the morning, it is as bright as midday. Did you have a good time sleeping? Or did you pace around in a circle having one hell of a panic attack? I thought you took some of those sleeping pills you got prescribed, they should have helped you fall asleep… wait, you did take them? They didn’t work? Oh, they did work, you just felt your body falling asleep while your mind stayed awake? That sounds terrible, real terrible. Very well. It’s morning now. Want some coffee?

You could form a religion out of sleeping. Let’s have sermons where we fill a whole auditorium full of beds and have our congregates take a big collective nap. Sleep for the sleep god! Pillows for the pillow throne! Sleep is a billion-dollar industry, there’s a plethora of handy products you can buy that promise to send you on a luxury liner to dreamland. Pills, mattresses, dreamcatchers, whatever your snoozy heart desires. You can go to a proper doctor and they might help you, or you can settle for the placebo effect and go to some fraudulent quack, instead. He might make you swallow some pills that contain arsenic, but hey, arsenic is a naturally occurring element. It can’t be all that bad for you if it is natural. And you do want to sleep, don’t you? If you take this pill in your mouth and swallow it with a glass of water, I promise you, you will sleep for a very long time.

The esteemed former president of the United States of America, Donald Trump, claims that he only needs four to five hours of sleep every night. While Mr. Trump is well-known to be a paragon of honesty, I do doubt he’s telling the truth. No, I actually do believe him when says that he only gets about four or five hours of sleep each night, I just don’t believe him when he says that is all he needs. He doesn’t look very well-rested, does he? And Margaret Thatcher, the similarly adored former prime minister of the United Kingdom, claimed that she also only needed about four hours of sleep every night. Yes, while researching the sleeping habits of famous monsters, I’ve come to the conclusion that amongst powerful individuals, not getting enough sleep has become a proper badge of honour. The belief is that if you don’t get enough sleep, that must be because you are living such a vibrantly successful life, and are so career-driven, that you simply haven’t got enough time to sleep for the full eight hours. People who sleep for more than four hours are lazy liberals. Go-getters like Trump has got to be out there, working, making decisions, raping women, and showing daddy what a good boy he is. Sleep is for the weak. But maybe I am weak. I sure like sleeping.

It’s the cultural hangover our society has had since the 80’s. Back when the yuppies wearing jackets with obscenely padded shoulders would happily chuck down eight to ten espressos in one go while A Flock of Seagulls was playing on the radio encouraging everyone to go running. And to be fair to them, with the constant fear of the doomsday clock hitting midnight, they really had no reason to think that they’d survive the decade. The new millennia, it seemed, would have no cities, no nature, no humans, only radiated mutants scouring the rubble that remains of civilization for cans of preserved something edible. Self-destructive behaviour was in. It was fashionable. Doubt people got enough sleep back then, between snorting coke and wondering if the next pandemic that hits the night clubs would start killing as many straight folks as gay folks. Well, here we are in the new 20’s, and we’ve got a pandemic that does appear to kill people regardless of sexual orientation. Sure, the looming threat of nuclear obliteration has been lessened dramatically, but we’ve largely come to exchange that anxiety for the fear of total environmental collapse, instead. No wonder 80’s nostalgia is a big thing right now. History doesn't repeat itself, but It often rhymes, said Mark Twain (supposedly.) I wonder how much coke Mark Twain would snort if he lived in the 80’s.

I notice a palpable difference in my mood and mental state when I’ve been getting good amounts of sleep. Lack of sleep results in lack of clear thinking. Caffeine, though it is something I am chronically addicted to, does not help fix a sleep-deprived mind. There are no tricks of revolutionary “life hacks” one can employ to get out of sleeping. To recover from depression, one has to sleep. Sleep often and sleep well. I cannot understate the importance of being well-rested. You cannot process information if you are tired. I am reminded of my teenage years seeing friends of mine who’d stay up all night, then come into school shuffling like agonised zombies. They got so frustrated when the teachers reprimanded them for snoozing in class. Well, dummies, it is your fault for drinking several dozen cans of Red Bull every day! I know that sleep does not always come easy. I know the terror of insomnia. But, c’mon! At some point, you’ve got to realise that sleep is essential. Maybe most of your problems stem from the fact that you refuse to get enough of it? Here’s where the tough love comes in. If you wanna get better, kiddo, then listen to me. It’s bedtime. Yes, I know you’d rather stay up late playing monopoly with your friends, but I’m confiscating your dice and I’ll only give it back to you when you’ve gotten some good sleep. Okay? You hear me, missy? You listen to your daddy now, and go to bed. No ifs or buts about it, princess, I’ve made myself clear. I know what is best for you, and you know that I am right. I’m your daddy.

But what if I can’t seem to fall asleep? Normally, it takes a long time for me to fall asleep. It is not uncommon for me to stay awake for two hours, maybe more, before I finally begin to sleep. Fearing that I won’t fall asleep gives me anxiety. That anxiety keeps me awake. I turn my body. I try lying on my side. First my left side, then my right side. I then try to lie on my back. I’ve got a song stuck playing in my head. Not even the whole song, just a ten-second segment of it. It’s playing over and over. I’m worried about the future, will I ever find security, will I ever find a wife, will I get to grow old? I worry about death. I keep hearing the music playing, it’s grating. I rearrange the pillows, in hopes that will make me feel more comfortable. But no, I keep tossing and turning like a fish caught on land. I’m getting frustrated. If only I could shut off my brain. I’m constantly thinking. I turn to my side again, but now I notice I’ve moved arounds so much that now the bed has shifted away from its position next to the wall. There’s now a gap between the bed and the wall. I almost fall down that gap. I get up and I push the bed back against the wall. I lay down in bed. The song is still playing.

How am I ever going to become a successful businessman if I am wasting so many hours just trying to get to sleep? This is the time I should be spending on the phone, yelling at people and making inappropriate sexual comments to my female employees. That is what good executives do. I need to get my life in order. I need to exercise more. I should practice mindfulness. I should get a life coach, a personal trainer, a stylist, an accountant, an assistant, a trophy wife, and a mistress. I need people in my life to take care of me. It’s funny how rich people create the sort of environment around them where people will take care of all their needs, effectively infantilising them. These people don’t even get to decide how to dress themselves. They’ve got fancy apartments, but they don’t choose any of the furniture. They’ve got art on the walls that they don’t like, but the art looks expensive, and that is all that matters. They’ve got kids, but they don’t raise them. Their spouses are cheating on them, but in fairness, they are cheating on their spouses. They don’t really even know what their jobs entails, as they’ve gotten promoted so many times that they’ve ended up in a position that is totally outside their realm of expertise. But they’re so powerful that no-one is able to fire them over their pretty blatant incompetence. They’re successful. They’ve made it. But they still can’t sleep at night. They only manage to successfully fall asleep at night after swallowing a fistful of pills along with a swig of vodka.

It must be easy being a self-help guru. Well, what I mean to say is that all you really need is charisma, which is something you need to be born with. But you don’t need to do any actual studying, any real research, or any kind of soul-searching or deliberation. All you need is to state what is obvious. You go on stage in front of an anxious audience, mostly composed of middle-class salesmen and miscellaneous white collar ghosts. You smile, show off your eerily bright teeth, and they clap. You tell them to go take care of themselves, to eat more healthily, to take walks, or go swimming, and love their partners. You tell them to drink less, or maybe, if they feel like it, they could drink more. I am sure you could spin alcohol as a positive or a negative, depending on what crowd you’re talking to. Tell them to appreciate family. Tell them to appreciate others. Live, laugh, but most of all, love. Tell them to go clean their rooms. Tell them to remember that if they’re on an airplane that is about to crash land, they need to put their own oxygen mask on before they can help others put theirs on. If you don’t love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else? Now, go to bed!

You know all this stuff. Me telling you that you should sleep more doesn’t really help you. You know that you should sleep more. It’s not like as if you’re too dumb to realise that. And it’s not like as if you’re too dumb to realise that it is better to drink in moderation, and that you should smoke less weed. There are many small little things you can do to improve your life, to stop being a terminally unemployed slacker. It’s like your grandpa who tells you stories about life after the war when you could walk into the biggest building in town, slam your fist against the table and demand to be given a job and a house and a wife and a couple of kids, and that was all you needed to do. He can’t comprehend the fact that society doesn’t work like that, any more. Most people my generation have given up hope of ever owning a home, at least if they happen to live in the vicinity of a larger city. It seems that, no matter where you live, the cost of homes has risen to an impenetrable degree. It seems just as likely that you will be able to afford your very own genetically-engineered pet dragon before you will get to be a house-owner. It’s the fault of those damn boomers, why bother changing your ways, when the boomers are still in charge? Others may accuse you of wallowing in your own depression, but you are perfectly aware that this is exactly what you are doing. You are self-aware. But self-awareness on its own is not enough to motivate anyone. You still can’t see the point in doing anything constructive with your life. Life just feels so aimless. It’s easier to sit, smoke weed, and watch cartoons.

Pop psychology is problematic. To say the least. Take all those self-help gurus suffering from their messiah complexes and put them through the shredder. Don’t buy books thinking that they’ll offer you the kind of treatment you would get from an actual psychiatrist. I know that, depending on where you are in the world, treatment can get very expensive, but you’re not going to get better reading the book of some self-aggrandising narcissist’s collection of wishy-washy platitudes. Dr. Phil has done great evil pretending to be a therapist on the TV, and Jordan Peterson (despite having once been an esteemed scholar) has turned a generation of young internet-savvy zoomers into proto-fascists obsessed with the monogamy of lobsters. Pop psychology has become a guise for cult leaders to reap new followers. Getting treatment should not feel like joining a new religious movement. Maybe I’m just one of those annoying atheists, but I dare say, psychiatry works at its best when it's secular. You should not look at your psychiatrist as a prophet speaking to God. They’re just a doctor, and you need treatment.

I do not aspire to create a self-help blog. I do not promise that reading this blog will help you in any way. I would be overjoyed if someone came up to me and told me that I had inspired them to seek help. You may tell me that reading my words have made you feel less alone, knowing that others have gone through all these things that you are going through. When I felt at my worst, I remember reading the memoirs of people I admired who had similarly struggled in their lives, and I felt less alone. But none of those books pretended to exist principally to help others. Those books did help me, through the candid descriptions of struggles that I thought I was alone in experiencing. Knowing that some people had pulled through, managed to find a light at the end of the tunnel, it made me think I could one day be like them. The books didn’t seek to fix me, but they offered me a perspective that came to be very valuable later on, when I started going to therapy, and when I later started taking medication. Sometimes that is all you need. Not someone standing over you and telling you to go to bed, or to clean your room, or to stop drinking. You know all that, already. What you really need is the reassurance that things can indeed get better. Sleep will come.

#neurodiversity #neurodivergent #autism spectrum disorder #autism #aspergers #mental health

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chickensarentcheap · 4 years

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Sanctuary - Chapter 21

Warnings: profanity but that’s about it

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @valkyrie-of-the-light

They meet in a coffee house two clocks from their hotel; arriving separately, hoping not to draw attention to themselves. There was no way of telling of how far word had spread. If the news that a solider for hire had travelled out into the general community or if the people responsible very keeping it on the downlow in fear of escalating tension. There was already longstanding angst between the IRA and everyday folk; their acts of brutality and domestic terrorism were decades old and while silent, still had the propensity to flair up at a moments notice.

Tyler is already on his second extra large black coffee when Yaz arrives; the younger man casually slipping into the bench across from him, iPad in one hand, his own SAT in the other.

“That shit will kill you,” Yaz remarks, wrinkling his nose at how incredibly strong the brew smells; the colour as dark as fresh black ink.

“Too late. I’m already dead inside.” Tyler retorts, and removes his sunglasses and places them on the tabletop, followed by his personal cellphone.

Esme had sent him videos that the kids had made for him: Tanner bragging about how many popsicles he ate in one sitting, TJ showing off his black eye and swollen nose, and Mille proud as shit that she’d been the one who had inflicted the damage. She had no shame; she wasn’t sorry and refused to apologize and declared she would do it again in a heartbeat if he so as much breathed on her the wrong way. And then the baby; with his very first haircut, freshly erupted teeth, and a handful of words that seemingly cropped up over night.

The loneliness is intense. Those beautiful little faces and those cute, soft voices telling him how much they missed him. How much they loved him and couldn’t wait for him to come home.

He rubs his hands over his face. He’d managed to trim the beard. Had taken the clippers to his hair. Followed by a long, cold shower that did little to calm his nerves and worry but had successfully managed to aggravate every bit of arthritis that existed in his body.

“You look like shit,” Yaz comments, and then peers into his mug. “Black, huh?”

“Yeah. Like my soul.”

Yaz smirks, then orders a caramel latte from the waitress that drops two menus onto the tabletop. His eyes following her as she walks away; eyebrows arched as he admires the way her hips sway from side to side and the way her skirt just seems to hug each and every curve. “You look like shit,” he says, as he turns back to Tyler. “Get any sleep?”

“Not really. You?”

He shakes his head, and pushes one of the vinyl bound menus across the table. “Eat something for fuck sakes, can’t have you wasting away on and perishing from starvation in the middle of a job. Nik would beat my ass. And your wife would kill me.”

“You realize I could break you in half with my bare hands, yeah?” Tyler smirks, as he flips open his menu.

“I do. And do you realize I’ve actually had nightmares where that’s happened? Where I’ve pissed you off and you’ve just gone medieval on my ass? I’m not ashamed to admit that you scare the ever loving shit out of me. I’m glad we’re friends, man. I’m just saying. Because I really do not want you to kill me with a garden rake.”

“That’s played out. I’d use something more creative. Like a tire iron. Or a pitchfork.”

“Nothing surprises me about you anymore. So after we talked, I couldn’t turn my brain off. It was like it was in overdrive. Firing on all cylinders. I can’t wrap my head around this. I can’t figure out how they made us that quick. We didn’t go through any airports, we didn’t have to check through customs, there was no flight manifesto. At least not one with our real names. How?”

“They had us made before we even got off the plane. Probably before we even left Colorado. There’s someone inside. A mole. There has to be. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Maybe McCann? Maybe he is in on this. Maybe this is some big game.”

“I think it’s someone on the team. He even told me when we first met that he’d paid to get my information from someone and that’s how he tracked me down all the way in Guatemala.”

“How fucked up is that? That he actually showed up there and followed you? Like a goddamn stalker.”

“How fucked up is it that that’s not even the most messed up thing in all of this?” Tyler counters, and casts a glance towards his cell phone as it vibrates against the table. Taking the opportunity to check on the notification as the waitress returns with Yaz’ drink, and her phone number. The latter she boldly tucks into the breast pocket of his shirt before flashing a dazzling smile before taking their orders as if nothing even happened.

“Well shit…” Yaz’s eyes once more follow her backside as she heads to the kitchen with their requests. “…and she’s’ cute too!”

“And legal,” Tyler smirks, as he types out a quick reply to his wife’s text message.

“Fuck you,” Yaz mutters. “That was a complete mistake. I didn’t realize she was that young. You could have been my wingman. Had you not gone into the bathroom to get laid. And thanks for that, by the way. I had to piss in an alley out behind that bar.”

“Take it as a badge of honour to know your godson was conceived while you were taking a leak outside and taking one for the team.”

“You two conceive your kids in the most fucked up places, I swear. Is anything normal with you guys? Or did you just figure, ‘hey, we started this shit out during some craziness, let’s keep the trend going’?”

“Excuse me for not being vanilla like you. Which is why I have a very satisfied wife at home and why you have callouses on your palms and carpal tunnel.”

“Sometimes I really hate you, you know that? Think I should call her?”

“Why wouldn’t you? She’s cute. She’s obviously into you. She was brave enough to give you her number. Maybe she’s brave at other things.”

Yaz smirks. “I like the way you think. Maybe I don’t hate you after all. This never happens, you know. When we go somewhere together. You’re the one that is usually getting all the phone numbers. Which you don’t even use, by the way.”

“Why would I? I’m married. Happily.”

“At least pass them on to your boy. What is wrong with me? How long have I had to struggle as your sidekick? How long have I had to witness women tripping over themselves to get your attention? You and the blue eyes and all the muscles.”

Tyler grins. “I’m flattered, Yaz. I never knew you had a crush on me. If I swung that way, I’d probably give you a chance. I’d probably split you in half though. I don’t think you could handle all this.”

“You’re a very disturbed individual, did you know that? There’s something seriously wrong with you. You’re not my type anyway You’re too...pretty.”

Tyler snorts. “I’m pretty? You have some pretty messed up definition of pretty, then. The tattoos, the scars. How’s that pretty?”

“The eyes. The hair. The smile. The big arms.”

“Alright, alright. I’m getting a complex here. Quit flirting with me and let’s get down to business. What did you find out?”

“Quite a bit actually,” he powers up the iPad and leans it against the napkin holder and condiment dispenser at the edge of the table, so they can both see it. “It wasn’t that hard to find. And I’m honestly surprised none of us thought of doing it before. Looking into the wife. There’s some good stuff. First…” he taps on the screen and brings up a side by side picture of Heather McCann; one from her earlier years (either high school or college, Tyler can’t say for sure) and a current photo, before she’d been taken.

“She’s from New Zealand. Which we already knew. Born in Christchurch. May 29th, 1979. Her mother was heavy into the activism scene; protesting shit like pollution in the oceans, nuclear arms, animal cruelty, women’s rights. So on and so forth. A couple arrests under her belt. Nothing serious. Creating a public nuisance, assault on a police officer, vandalism. Nothing too scandalous. The father however, had quite the extensive criminal record.”

“He’s dead?”

“Killed. Ten years ago. While on vacation on the Bahamas. It was a hit. No doubt about. One to the back of his head.”

Tyler sips his coffee. “Execution style.”

“Exactly. Now, I couldn’t figure out what the hell he could have been involved in that led to that. So I did some more digging. His name was Alphonse Buckman, and this criminal record of his, there is some pretty serious shit. Racketeering, four counts of assault with a deadly weapon, money laundry, trafficking…”

“Another Amir Asif.”

“New Zealand’s own. And there’s more. Much more. We’re talking uttering death threats, threatening a public official, conspiracy to commit murder, accessory to murder. It just goes on and fucking on.”

“How was he even out on the street? With a list like that? He should have been doing at least fifty years if you add all of that up.”

“Money, Tyler. Money. This isn’t just some normal guy. He was the head of very prominent crime family in New Zealand.”

He frowns. “Didn’t McCann say that he met his wife while trying to extract someone from a crime family down there?”

“He wasn’t just extracting someone from any crime family. He was extracting them from this crime family.”

“Jesus fuck,” Tyler runs his hands over his face, rakes a hand through his hair, holding it away from his forehead.

“It gets better. So much better. Or worse. I’m not sure which. Remember what McCann told you? About his wife being a shop keeper?”

Tyler nods.

“That’s bullshit. Her grandmother was the shop keeper. Grandmother on the mother’s side. Remember that part, okay? Heather wasn’t just some innocent caught up in all of this. Just some random off the street. She’s the daughter of an international criminal mastermind. We’re talking a guy that was even wanted by Interpol and still managed to get off. Heather was the extract.”

“Wait…wait…you lost me. What?”

“Heather was who McCann was hired to extract. He was hired by the father. Because the mother had taken off with Heather to get her away from him. He wasn’t there to get someone away from a bad guy. He was working for the bad guy. A bad guy with extensive ties, to, you guessed it, the IRA.”

“This is fucked,” Tyler concludes. “This is quite possibly the most fucked up thing I’ve heard in a long time. That I’ve been mixed up in.”

“It was his very first job. As a mercenary. He left the IRA to become a soldier of fortune. And they took that as a huge slight. Because of all that he knows about them. And because he’s no doubt had to go after some of their members. He’s a traitor to them. But…”

‘Nothing good every comes after ‘but’, Yaz. Nothing.”

“He hasn’t just pissed off the IRA. He’s pissed off everyone associated with the ex father in law. Because he took money from them to do jobs that he never followed through with. We’re talking big money, Tyler. Like millions of dollars. Huge cash. So he’s got the IRA after him and everyone that still has ties and loyalty to his father in law. They both want him.”

“So there’s a huge pissing content going on between the IRA and these other guys.”

“Exactly. This is messed up. And I have seen some messed up shit. One word. Dhaka.”

“Still doesn’t explain the weird feeling I get from the wife,” he gives the waitress a polite smile as she returns with their food and cutlery.

“This is where it gets really interesting,” Yaz says, as he digs into his food, then shoots the waitress a thumbs up from across the coffee house. He swipes left on the tablet, bringing up school pictures of the McMann children. “This is Emma and Nicholas McMann. Michael and Heather McMann’s two children. Born here in Belfast. Not that that means anything, really, but just bare with me here. So McMann came home on the twelveth and found his place tossed. Completely trashed. And his wife and the kids missing and a letter, claiming to be from the IRA, saying they were responsible and that they’d be in touch. But he never called the police. He never once reported that his kids or his wife, had been taken.”

“Because he knew that the cops would find out about his own illegal shit.”

“Precisely. He spends a few days trying to take them down. Stirring up some real shit here in Belfast with the IRA, who in turn, turns around and says they have no idea what he’s even talking about. They say it wasn’t them. That they had nothing to do with it and if they wanted him dead that badly, they would just do it. They wouldn’t do that to kids.”

“So they say. We’ve seen a lot of screwed up shit involving kids, Yaz.”

“I agree. Or normally I would. But I’m starting to think it isn’t the IRA. They’re a proud bunch. When they’re involved in something, they admit it. They adamantly refuse to take any responsibility for this. Which leads us back…”

“To the father in law,” Tyler concludes.

“Which in turn, leads us back to her,” he brings another picture of Heather McCann on the screen. “Guess who runs the books for dear old dead daddy’s people back home. Guess who is the only child of said dead mobster and the executor of his estate and his power of attorney.”

Tyler sighs. “I need something stronger than coffee for this.”

“She’s the ring leader. Supposedly. I can’t really prove that. Not yet. You know, some of this shit would be a lot easier to dig up it we had an actual experienced intel person. Someone with real hands on experience. That has done all of this before. And really awesomely, I might add.”

“Forget it, Yaz. Don’t even say it. There’s no way I’m agreeing to that and you know it.”

“Esme has tons of contacts,” he reasons. “All over the world. She’s dealt with this kind of thing. Organized crime. In New York City and Philadelphia. I’ve seen her file, Tyler. From the people in North America.”

“You ran a background check on my wife? Just now or…”

“Back when Nik was going to hire her. We had to check things out. Check references. Things like that. You haven’t seen her file but I have. And it’s not just impressive. It is super fucking impressive. The circles that she’s infiltrated, the people she’s got to trust her, the mercenaries that she’s helped get people out of some horrible shit. She doesn’t just know things that regular people know. She knows things that could get a lot of people killed. And if we had her here…”

“Yaz, I said forget it. I am not getting her involved. We have four kids at home. That need their mother.”

“They need their father too. But here you are.”

“I’m not taking their mother away from them. I’m not doing it. So drop it.”

“Tyler, both the IRA and this family know we’re here. They know our names. Our faces. They know we came here and they are pissed. I am not going to be able to get all the information out of them that we need. Esme could come in here and get everything we need and then leave just as fast as she got here. Look what she was able to do in Dhaka. How successful that part of it was. Now tell me why this is a bad idea.”

“Because she isn’t just some random intel person, Yaz. She’s my wife. The mother of my kids. That’s why. This is insane. Even thinking about dragging her into this. Wasn’t Dhaka enough? Wasn’t that enough bullshit for her to go through? You want me to just bring her into this?”

“It would work. You know it would. You’re just too scared to admit it. Bringing Esme in would save us a whole lot of time.”

“And possibly get her killed.”

“She could have been killed in Dhaka. But she wasn’t. Because you were there to protect her. Just like you would be here.”

“Jesus…” Tyler drags his hand down his face. “…I can’t believe I am listening to this.”

“But you’re considering it. Aren’t you.”

He reluctantly nods.

“It’s the best idea I have. And it’s the only one that will work. And you know that. That’s why you don’t want to admit it. Look, I know it probably scares the shit out of you. Her getting back into this, but we need her Tyler. I know it. You know it.”

“This is insane,” he drops his fork on his now empty plate with a clatter and leans back in booth, hands clasped behind his head.

“What’s the worst she can say? No?”

“How about ‘you’re fucking insane and I want a divorce’.”

“That won’t happen and you know it. Give it some thought. We don’t have a lot of time to play with here. McCann is going to start to wonder why we’re stalling, He’s already getting impatient. Give it a couple hours. Think it over.”

Tyler nods in agreement. “Back to the wife. Explain to me how she’s involved.”

“Like I said, I think she’s the one running the show for dear old dead dad. All signs point to her. I can’t prove it. At least not yet. I think she’s exacting revenge on her husband.”

“For what?”

“Apparently he’s got quite the wandering eye. And a wandering dick.”

“So set all this up…use her children as bait…because her husband can’t keep it in his pants? Seems a little extreme, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think it’s just that. I think she knows he had something to do with her father’s death. And she’s pissed because he’s screwed over all kinds of other people by not doing the jobs he was hired to do. Just pocketing the money. Which in turn, puts targets on her and her kids’ back.”

“So she stages all of this to make it look like she’s not involved but uses her kids for leverage?”

“Like you said, we’ve seen screwed up things involving kids. And this wouldn’t be the worst. Unfortunately.”

“This changes everything. You know that, yeah?”

“You need to be the one to get the kids out, Tyler. They have to be your priority. You’re responsibility. They’re the only innocent ones in all of this. It has to be you.”

“And if I can only get one?”

“One is better than none.”

He gives a derisive snort, then waves the waitress over and orders another coffee.

“Let McCann go for the wife. Let them kill each other. Who gives a shit at this point. The bad wiping out the bad. But you have to get those kids. They have to be your extracts.”

He sighs heavily, then nods.

“Now call your wife,” Yaz slides Tyler’s cell phone towards him. “Tell her we need her help. Tell her what’s going on. Let her be the one to decide if she wants to get involved or not.”

“If she asks me for a divorce and I get kicked out of my house, I’m coming to sleep on your couch, mate,” he’s only half joking, then palms his cell phone and slips out of the booth.

“Good luck,” Yaz calls after him as he heads for the exit.

****

She answers on the third ring; sounding exhausted, yet still excited to hear from him.

“I thought you wouldn’t call until much later your time,” she says. “It’s only eight am there. It thought for sure you’d be busy. Tracking people down, kicking some ass. All that kind of stuff.”

“We’ve hit a bit of a roadblock,” Tyler admits, as he slips his sunglasses on and leans against the red brick of the coffee house. Seeking peace and quiet from the hustle and bustle of the main street by tucking into the neighbouring alley. From here he can keep an eye on the road; observe those coming down the sidewalk from each direction, leaving different store fronts. The alley leads to a dead end, nothing but dumpsters and back exits. “And maybe I just wanted to call because I wanted to hear your voice. Maybe I miss you.”

“Maybe?” she challenges, and he grins.

“I miss you,” he admits. “A lot. A hell of a lot.”

“I miss you too. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he assures her. “Did I wake you up? What is it? Like eleven there?”

“I’m sitting outside. On the swing. It rained for the better part of the afternoon and it so beautiful out now. There’s a really nice breeze coming in off the mountains. I wish you were here. I miss this part of our night. Sitting out here together. How many times have we actually fallen asleep on this swing?”

“Too many to count,” he says, a smile of reminiscence curving his lips. “The kids were good?”

“Mille finally chilled out. She was much better after I told her to record that video for you. It calmed her right down. She cried a little. At bedtime. Because you weren’t there to tuck her in and read her stories. Maybe you can record yourself reading her one and send it to her. She’d love that. If you find time.”

“I’ll find all the time in the world for her, you know that. How’s the boys?”

“Hanging in there. TJ has his ups and down. Tanner is still being the calm and consoling one. And Declan is Declan. He’s such a little ham. He’s so funny. He’s quite the character already. But what a temper! I’ve never seen anyone pitch a fit like he can! And so strong! I wonder where he gets that from.”

“The being strong or the having a bad temper?”

“Both,” she laughs. “I’m glad you liked the videos. We had so much fun making them. And can you believe the baby has four words now? He’s so smart Tyler. Crazy smart.”

“Like his mom.”

“And he is so close to walking already. You said he would be the one that would walk the earliest. Because of his insanely strong legs. I hope you don’t miss it. I’d really want you to be here when it happens. You missed it with both Millie and the twins. I’d like you to get the chance to see it this time.”

He swallows down the lump of emotion that’s wedged in his throat. “I’d like to see it too. I hope I’m back in time.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks. “You don’t sound like yourself. There’s something in your voice. I don’t know what it is. But it’s something.”

“I need your help,” he just spits it out. No chill whatsoever. Just straight to the point. “Actually, we need your help. Yaz and I.”

“Okay…” he can hear the squeak of the swing as she stands up. “…with?”

“We’ve been made. Both of us. We were made before we even got off the plane.”

“Shit,” she mutters. “Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent. I got a visitor in the middle of the night. From whoever is behind all of this. Telling me that I stuck my nose in business I don’t belong in and that I needed to watch my back. They know my name. Where I live. They have pictures. Of all of us.”

“Which is why Nik decided out of nowhere to stay here along with two of her guys. Tyler…”

“I asked her not to tell you. I didn’t want to get you all worked up if it just turned out to be idle threats. They’re just trying to scare me. So I’ll abandon things here.”

“But you’re not. Abandoning things.”

“I’ve got a job to do.”

“The job is obviously fucked. Tyler, you need to come home. Right now. Get on the next plane and get home. Please.”

“I can’t. I need to get those kids. I don’t give a shit about the wife. But I can’t leave those kids. And I know you understand that. Would you want someone leaving our kids?”

“Of course not.. But…”

“Esme, we need your help. I need your help. I can’t get them without you.”

“Tyler, I’m not a mercenary. I wouldn’t know the first thing about extracting someone. And that’s not something I can just learn on the fly.”

“I don’t need help with that. I can do all that stuff. I need your help with intel.”

“You have Yaz there,” she points out.

“Yaz doesn’t know the things you do. He hasn’t done the things you have. I know you’ve been in this before. I know about New York. And Philly.”

She sighs. “How?”

“Yaz told me. He saw it in your file. When Nik did background on you before she gave you the job. I don’t care that you kept that from me. There’s things I’ve done on the job that you don’t know about either. This isn’t about keeping secrets or protecting each other and keeping info away from one another. This is about me needing your help to rescue those kids.”

“I have to admit, there is a perverse satisfaction in hearing you admit you actually need my help something,” she chides, and he can’t help but grin.

“Babe, I wouldn’t call you about this if I had anyone else,” he continues. “You’re the best at this. I know it. You know it. You’ve helped bring down better and bigger. I won’t go too much into it right now. It’s better if I tell you everything in person.”

“Whoa…whoa…in person? Tyler, I have four kids here. They’re already without their father. Now you want me to leave them without their mother too?”

“Look, it’s not what I want. I know it’s not what you want. And the thought of taking you away from them kills me as much as it kills you. But I need you. McCann’s kids need you.”

“Tyler…” another heavy sigh.

“Esme…please…I really need you to do this.”

“Who do I get to watch the kids? I can’t just pull a babysitter out of my ass.”

“Ask Ovi if Chloe would do it.”

“She works.”

“She owns her own business and has her own employees. I’m sure she can trust them to run shit while she takes time off. Or call your mom.”

“Oh right,” she laughs. “That will go over well.”

“I’ll call her then.”

“That would just be even worse! What would you say? ‘I need you to watch your grandkids so your daughter can come to Ireland and help me kick some ass’?”

“Something like that. Babe, this is serious. These people know who we are. We aren’t going to get anything out of them.”

“And you think I’ll be able to?” she inquires.

“I know you’ll be able to,” Tyler confidently replies.

“You are something else,” she mumbles, and then falls into a long, almost painful silence.

“Esme?”

“I’m here. I’m cursing you out, but I’m here. Are your ears ringing? Because they should be. Jesus, Tyler. You honestly can not be serious about this.”

“I am. Dead serious. You’re the best at this type of thing. And we need the best. Especially with the kind of people we’re going against.”

“Which you’ll tell me all about when I get there,” she concludes. “I need a few hours. At least. I would need to call my mom and have Ovi get a hold of Chloe. This isn’t going to be an instant thing. I have to book a flight and…”

“Ask Nik. She’ll arrange one for you. She’s got great connections.”

“Fine,” she huffs. “I’ve got to and get shit together. I’ll call you. As soon as everything is ironed out and I know when I’ll be there. This is insane, Tyler. You’re insane.”

“Maybe. But you love me.”

“Only one days that end in Y. I’ll call you. Soon.”

“I love you,” he tells her. “And thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And I love you too. I’ll see you in a little while.”

“I’ll see you when I see you,” he says.

“Yes,” he can hear the smile in her voice. “You will.”

#tyler rake #extraction #sanctuary #chris hemsworth character #tyler rake fan fiction #tyler rake fan fic #extraction fan fiction #extraction fan fic

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chainofbeing · 4 years

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Adam Escapes the clutches of the Anthronesians and finds himself in the company of something far greater

Rhostiran Guard: Adal Rifai

Craiova Iwa: Bettrys Jones

Anthronesian 1: David M. Sledge

Anthronesian 2: Tomix

Sword of Nemesis: Lucy Campbell

Epicurosa: Laura Rogers

Alexander Ashton: Jonathan Aroloye

Sound design, Writing, and Adam Delta 5: Cai Gwilym Pritchard

An Extra Special thanks to our patrons

Theresa Shiban

Anthony Hyde

email us at [email protected]

follow the podcast on twitter @chainofbeing

Subscribe to the patreon for exclusive content and rewards!

The music used in this episode was:

A fucking tribute to the mysticism of your fuckin sound - alpha hydrae

Poisson Grêlon - Cuicuitte

violin concerto in g minor rv 315 'l'estate' ( summer )

[a light hum and some music playing over a radio in adams cell]

I can’t stop thinking about the solar system, about earth. It was never my home, that honour belonged to Eden (wherever that may be). It’s such a complicated topic, you think human, you think earth, that’s just how it’s ingrained into the collective unconscious. But there is no earth, not anymore, beacons surround the planet broadcasting warnings to all those who approach, it’s a wasteland filled with concrete thorns bursting from the ground, mazes of black concrete monoliths spread across the landscape, no patch of land left untainted by radioactive waste and toxic pollutants, no ocean not made poison by the calloused hand of corporate greed. No amount of terraforming can heal a planet that broken. The death of earth was not one of glorious nuclear fire, but was instead a pathetic and gradual death rattle caused by willful ignorance ignorance and avarice. No one in living memory is from earth, but there’s still this misguided association with it. I’m sure, over time through a multigenerational game of telephone, all the bad about earth can be forgotten and people would begin to idolize something that never was. That's what I think birthed the Anthronesians, a desire to return to an idealized version of the past because you don’t like the state of the present. There’s a guard outside my cell, he doesn't seem like the rest of the Anthronesians to me, he shies away from those more committed when they pass and does not hold himself with the same menacing demeanor. The door is made of an opaque glass that lets me see their side profile, my cell is filled with propaganda books, nothing I want to waste my time reading, and a short metal desk.

I knock on the door, my back against the wall which bows outward slightly, to get the best view of my captor “Hey,” I say, they ignore me “what’s your deal then, you from the solar system like the rest of them?” they continue to ignore me “come on man I just wanna get to know you,” they move ever so slightly “seems like we’re gonna be spending a lot of time together right?”

“Rhostir Arnofi,” he says finally, seemingly reluctant to offer the information

“That's a hydroponics station right? What’s it like?”

“I don’t remember really, I was born there but… when the Council started relocating because of the overpopulation crisis we got taken to a Veatorian farming colony: Stymphalia,”

“That must have been hard,”

“It was!” they say, a little too enthusiastically “ahem, it was. They do things so differently and we didn’t speak the language and-”

“So how’d you end up with them?” I say cutting him off before he goes on a rant. I gesture to the group of far more menacing looking Anthronesians

“Well I was on a corsair vessel, we crashed on this planet and so we took up in a small village. We had loads of weapons and stuff so when the Anthronesians came and offered refuge for any humans, I thought ‘it's gotta be better than this’ and it was. I always hated the council, I mean why do I have to share with Veatorians?”

“What about the rest of your crew?”

“Well, none of them were humans and they fought back so… yeah”

“I’m sorry, you must miss your friends”

“Oh I wasn’t friends with them I just worked in the kitchen,”

“Do you think you could do me a favour?”

“I don’t think-” he says reluctantly “Just hear me out, ok?”

“Alright,” he says cautiously

“Can you bring my bandolier? It’s got some medication that I need to take”

“What kind?”

“It’s, uh- immortal stuff, I need it or my bones melt, now go get my bandolier I- I can feel it coming on, quick!”

The initiate runs off in a panic and I pause for a moment, unsure if I actually managed to get away with that before I get to my preparations, each of the heartbeats will be monitored by the ships ai, so using one of the more lethal artefacts is out of the question, plus, I don’t want anymore blood on my hands. Something comes to mind and I wait, the group of Anthronesians leave and the guard returns with my bandolier. He opens the bowed glass door and hands it to me, I take out a white stone icon of a beetle and hold it up, it begins to rattle and emanate a strange smoke like chalk dust thrown up in a breeze, a look of dismay covers his face “you were tricking me weren't you?”

“Yep,” I say

“You fucking-” I cut him off before he can finish his insult, a line of white stone extends from the icon, strikes the guard and he is instantly calcified, his face frozen in an expression of betrayal and meathead anger. The icon of Saint Tarates is an unpleasant one, under the calcified exterior the guards heart still beats at a regular rate, aside from the lack of movement everything would seem normal to an observing AI. Anyone looking at him would of course see the calcified skin and muscle but hopefully by the time that happens I’ll have done- something, my path is still annoyingly unclear, destroy the dissimulation field, a mantra I’ve been repeating to myself for the past few days in captivity on this vessel, the ASC Barachiel. I don’t know what has happened while I’ve been on this planet, if Dhāra jamīna is still even around, what havoc Ovig Nadal might have caused, It may already be too late, but judging by the fact that concepts aren’t just floating around with no relation to each other, that the laws of cause and effect are still in tact, and that I still recognise the universe around me, that is not the case. I leave the brig and find myself in a corridor. There’s an electronic sign displaying directions to various rooms and systems. The sign cycles through several archaic languages, I see what I’m looking for “armoury”. I head in the direction keeping highly aware of the sounds of approaching footsteps. I don't know what time it is on this cruiser, they certainly won't be using the council regulated settime due to the Anthronesian hatred of everything Nimonean. The reason that I’m so eager to know, as I slink around the long oddly shaped hallways of the super cruiser, is that I don’t want to be caught during a changeover. On a ship this size it makes no sense to have everyone share the same time table, so (depending on its population) a military vessel will have up to 5 different day cycles at once, meaning that all the systems that are physically manned are done so consistently. If I get caught during one of the changeovers, it’s back to square one.

I enter the armoury, one of many I’m sure and find it, surprisingly, empty. It feels almost as if the supercruiser is drastically understaffed, the main runway and essential facilities are well maintained but there are great stretches of empty corridor and seemingly important rooms left unattended, perhaps that explains their keenness to recruit new forces from the surrounding area. I approach the terminal, at least I think it’s a terminal, the screen sits in a thick cylindrical tube with a second metal tube set beneath it acting as a way to navigate the system. In order to work it you must place your hands on the sides and twist, a design so antithetical to how a human expects a computer to work, there are indents for fingers where you would expect but the layout over all is so… strange. I place my hands on the side of the cylinder and navigate through the inventory system. “Sword or gun, sword or gun, sword or gun. Why not both?” I mumble to myself as I select a nice looking sword and a submachine gun from the listing. The printers at the side of the room activate and by the time I go over they’ve printed, I grab the sword, smg and ammunition and go to leave. I exit the room and turn to continue down the hall when I run into two Anthronesians, who have yet to spot me, engrossed in their conversation.

“There’s this new recruit, she seems promising,”

“Which one?”

“Uh, Shiban, Theresa Shiban,”

“Oh yeah she’s great,”

They stop in their tracks as I draw my sword. For a moment we stop and just stare at each other

“If you just turn and walk away-” I begin, but the first Anthronesian draws her sidearm and so I swing at her with my sword. He takes a step back and the second one tries to restrain me, I draw the smg and open fire before he can grab me. The sound reverberates down the hall. My cover now being blown, I turn to the first soldier and swing my sword at the sidearm in her hand, knocking it away. I point my firearm at him and she holds up her hands.

“Aren’t you gonna shoot me?”

“depends,” the soldier glances down at her fallen comrade

“On?”

“How high of a security clearance you have,” Her eyes focus on the gun and I gesture with it, “Well?”

“I was up to become the next dagger of nemesis,”

“What’s your name?”

“Craiova Iwa,”

“Well, Craiova, do you think you’d be able to get me into the chamber at the center of this ship?”

“You mean the Ctenizid?”

“Yeah sure,”

“I’m assuming you’ll shoot me otherwise?

“Yeah,” I say, grateful for the suggestion

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I say with more confidence

She turns and we begin to march down the hall, a group of Anthronesians rush down the hall and take stock of the situation. They lower their weapons and let us pass.

“Just shoot him in the back,” I hear one whisper to the other

“I’m immortal dipshit!” I shout behind me, bluffing, if they did fire on me I’d probably collapse from the pain. But they take me at my word and we move out into the large cavernous space. The space is dead silent. Instead everyone in the space stands and watches us pass, the balconies that line the sides of the space holding even more forces pointing rifles at me. Even the scientists hold some kind of weapon. We reach the huge doorway and I nudge Craiova

“Well? Open the door,”

“Oh I can’t open the door, only the sword can do that,”

“So what was your plan?”

“Bring you out here, let you get shot to shit, presumably die in the crossfire,”

“But I won’t die,”

“Yeah but it’ll stop whatever you were going to do and, well, you were gonna shoot me anyway right?” I tighten the grip on my weapon and go to pull the trigger, at least taking a fascist with me before my escape attempt fails, but the door clicks and opens slowly onto an empty lift. I take a step back onto the platform, not looking the proverbial gift horse in the mouth. I keep my weapon trained on Craiova as the door starts to shut. She turns and meets my eyes. “Good luck,”

The lift starts to rise, moving forward and up, and I ready myself. Sword in one hand, submachine gun in the other. I fear just destroying the dissimulation field will not be enough. So I intend to begin a manifestation and then destroy it, that pillar is what’s creating it. I’m sure.

The lift jolts and the doors open. I tense up and swing my sword down and onto the blade of a halberd wielded by the Sword of Nemesis. She pushes toward me and I step back and fire, her armour absorbs the shock and pauses, I take the moment to bring my sword down at her neck but she recovers in time and jabs her weapon at me. The room is empty as we fight.

[the sounds of grunting, metal hitting metal, scrapes and gunshots]

The lab in the corner of the room is scattered with equipment and a half constructed angel core rifle sat on the altar. The Sword hits my side with the end of her polearm and I hunch down in reaction to the pain. She lifts the strange looking halberd above her head and swings it down. I meet the blade with mine, parry it toward the ground and swing the submachine gun so it points directly at The Sword. Through the mask I meet her gaze and pull the trigger. Blood pours outward from a large bullet hole in her mask. She slumps over. I stand and return my sword to it’s sheath. The console in front of me hums into life after I flick a few switches, remembering what the scientists did to begin the manifestation. I stare down at the golden pillar, an artefact of some unknown origin that generates the dissimulation field. I take a deep breath, open the airlock and, make my way down the metal walkway, the atmosphere around me filled with Noble gasses. I wade through the water. The pillar thrums with a divine energy, I cannot imagine how a bunch of human supremacists that worship earth got a hold of it. I raise my gun and hear a shattering above me. I look up to see the form of the Sword of Nemesis diving toward me. I step away and she lands where I stood. With a ferocity to her actions that I had not seen before, she swings at me, I just barely manage to block and parry. She stops, her breathing laboured “You do not know what you toy with here,” her voice takes on a strange quality “We are blessed, you may slay me here, but I answer to something greater,”

“I’m going to put a stop to this little project of yours, the Anthronesians will die here,”

She begins to laugh

“You think this is it? Our armies are vast, I stand among a faction of untold numbers, we are everywhere. The fact that you think that this small act will impede the inevitable progress of the Anthronesians shows just how unprepared your kind are,”

I pull the trigger and the room fills with a white light.

[a hypnotic tone emanates from the surroundings like an inorganic humming that approaches and retreats just as quickly]

What takes place seems to do so in a vast white space, entirely separate from the world around us. Seemingly in slow motion I watch everything around me disassemble, the walls delaminate, to reveal the rest of the ship in a slow state of disassembly, machines and weapons break apart into their composite parts, wires separate from their casings, railings unweld, the metal frame of the ship shatters. I see people in a similar frozen state unwrap, clothes unstitch and unravel skin separates from flesh, flesh unwinds from bone, bones unjoin and separate. Their internal organs float up into the air like kite strings. In front of me a shape, hazy and unfocused, becomes apparent, it fills me with awe and calms my heart, the complete ruin of everything does not faze me as I stare at this form. The shape solidifies, a tall and slender figure, dressed in grey robes of an unidentifiable material, in each of their eight arms they hold the ornate skull of a different creature, each hollow and wearable as a mask. They place the black skull of a wolf like creature to their face and with their free hand grab the sword of nemesis, who’s flesh has not begun to unwrap, they lift her up and meet her gaze, the ornate bronze mask shatters, the shards slowly floating away, her is face young but rotting, her eyes glow blue, totally and entirely.

“You’ve sworn fealty to something,” the shape says, and I fall to my knees, an inexplicable longing and devotion in my very soul, “To be investigated later,” they say, lifting the Sword of Nemesis, who is pulled through a black hole that forms above her head.

[the sounds of a wet squelch and gravitational forces pulling her through]

The shape removes the wolf skull and replaces it with the skull of a large rodent, they turn to me

[with each new mask the quality of Epicurosas voice changes, each different and strange, while still maintaining the same voice]

“Meet the gaze of your creator Adam,” I lift my head and meet the gaze of Epicurosa in their common form, the only form I had ever known. I feel as if I am staring into a bright light, my eyes sting but I cannot look away. “It’s not often I pry away from my celestial form, you’ve done well here, but your work is not done, as I’m sure you’re aware, it really is a pleasant surprise to find you, it works out quite nicely actually. Come,” Compelled by some internal force I stand and follow Epicurosa

“Might-Upon-Serenity-” I begin

“She is Holden-Hearts problem, she means nothing to me”

As she opens a second, larger black hole for us to step through the white light that fills the world disappears, and the floating components of the ship begin to fall, the unravelled corpses collapse to the ground, alongside weapon parts and scraps of cloth. A strange scene for the scavengers to pick apart.

We are pulled through the black hole and into an office in a whirlwind of corporate toys pens and papers.

[the sound of an office, some banjo music plays in the background, mufflled slightly]

A human receptionist looks up at Epicurosa who swaps their rodent skull mask for a decorated black goat skull, missing a horn. They bend down to the receptionists level. “I believe I made an appointment,” the receptionist nods, The God gestures to the doorway, “may I?”, the receptionist nods again “Thank you,”. We enter the office, the high floor to ceiling window presents a view of Azyl, the artificial stellar system humans call home, the walls of the office are lined with paintings and artefacts, the oldest and most expensive being remnants of earth and the newer pieces being from the various Human colonies. Sat at a desk is the human representative, Alexander Ashton.

“Ah, Epicurosa, how wonderful it is to see you-”

[he switches off the music]

he begins before his eyes dart to me “Adam!? Where the hell have you been? We searched everywhere on Dhāra jamīna and found no trace of you!” I go to speak but Epicurosa holds up her free hand to me and I say nothing. The adoration and enthrallment I felt when looking at them has begun to die down the longer they hold their common form but I still do not dare to interrupt or ignore them. The god says to the senator,

“I have come to relieve you of Adam Delta 5, he has important work to attend to with me”

The senator leans forward,

“His time under the council is not up, he still belongs to us, it was not you who indentured him to us, you have no right to take him”, Ignoring the senators extremely daring move. I look up at Epicurosa who looks down at me through the eye sockets of the goat skull

“What do you need from me that you cannot do on your own?”

Epicurosa looks out the window, seeing more than all mortals have and ever will see, understanding more than all the great scholars and scryers ever have and ever will.

“To me the realms are equal, the physical materials that make you up hold no bearing over the intellectual and moral ones. And so the death of the non-divine such as yourself often holds as much significance to me as forgetting an idea, it is a shame, but another will take its place. But not you, adam delta 5, something has turned its benevolent gaze upon you. Something greater than me, and so I enact it’s will.”

they pause for but a moment, for reasons so beyond my realm of comprehension it wastes time even thinking about thinking about it.

“Our universe exists on a set path, ultimately, one atom bounces off of another at a predictable angle, cause and effect etc. We are all the man locked in the bedroom, we think we want to stay but in the end we have no choice in the matter. One thing causes another with no unpredictable insertions into this sequence. However that is only applicable within the way our universe is constructed. For something that has come from outside of this, the laws are not so binding. By entering our universe, ovig Nadal has provided an unpredictable insertion, he has disrupted the chain of being, the predetermined order of events and entities in the universe. The complex order of orders. For a mortal, chaos is something that can be half imagined and dismissed. But true and utter unpredictability is horrifying to a god. And it would seem you are important to ceasing this edgeless horror.”

“My goddess, I ask that you understand, the council is not in the good graces of the galactic population, our… mishandling of the population crises means we need a win,”

“It’s far more than just that fiasco,” I say, the senator shoots me a look and continues

“To have it be us that solved this universe threatening problem would be… a great triumph to us,”

“No,” The god says tersley and begins to usher me out of the room

The senator, now flustered, bangs his fist on the table

[it slightly rattles the desk]

“Epicurosa, my progenitor, on behalf of the rhetores and the council of nimonea I pray to you and request that adam stays with us!” A dark anger covers their form, they exchange the goat skull for that of a large cat, spins and slams four of their fists, skulls still in hand, onto the white metal desk, denting it in two places.

[the sound of metal creaking and a large crash, shaking the desk massivley]

“You ‘pray to me’? You wish to control me through worship? As you did the forces of nature you worshipped in your early history. You feel that you can sway and change my actions through sheer force of will don't you? I am just as indifferent if not more so than hurricanes and earthquakes and typhoons, for they simply exist, I make the active choice to ignore you,”

“I-”

“If you speak once more, you insolent mortal, I will eviscerate you, you shall be annulled, your destruction shall be so righteous and glorious that evermore the name,” they lean forward, stooping down to read the nameplate on his desk “Alecksander Ashton, will only ever be associated with complete and total annihilation and whatever administrative loopholes you closed and lives you think you have changed by shifting currency to and fro will forever be overshadowed by your wondrous undoing, do you doubt my power to do such a thing?”

The senator shakes his head. Somehow, by some miracle, maintaining his composure. In this moment I feel a newfound respect for Alecksander, even in the face of his very creator he sticks to his principles and tries to serve the council. Epicurosa opens up another portal, before we step through I look up at them “Where are we going?” I ask

“Somewhere I will be able to understand some things about you, a great many forces have coalesced to support you Adam. More than just the Rhetores and their attempted deification. But the true divine, before all that I must see if you are ready,” she opens a portal and steps through, I turn to look at Alexander Ashton one last time, he stands and stares out of his window, watching those he was charged with protecting, they are there in front of him, he is simply unable to perceive it all. In that respect I feel we are alike. I turn back and follow Epicurosa through the portal.

#podcast #podcast transcript #transcript #sci-fi #scifi #audio drama #audiodrama

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