You lie in bed, unable to sleep. You don't bother checking the time; the darkness outside says everything. A feeling gnaws at your soul, a feeling you can't quite parse. It was a complicated feeling, or a mix of complicated feelings. Nevertheless, you can't get it out of your head. You don't know the last time you've had this much time to think.
Ever since the prison, you had felt that life was simple at its core. Life was pain, there was nothing to think about but the pain back there. No masturbatory hope to cry yourself to sleep over, no feelings of detachment or understanding. It was pure helplessness. The screaming, the crying, the begging, the vomiting. There was nothing like this back then, and at some level, you missed that life. Your brain was ground to a fine dust, and any semblance of a personality was cleaved off your skin. A jumble of misinformed ideas & non-existent memories was the only rope your consciousness hanged on.
You reach under you're bed, feeling your way through the dust as you triumphantly grab onto a plastic cylinder and bring it next to you.
Although you didn't understand what was written on it, you knew it all too well. A cheap, cold syringe with transparent liquid sloshing around inside. That Carson guy told you it was made to wipe memories. You'd think they would've kept it more secure. Not like you minded, it seemed like nobody else in this building minded either, as you weren't exactly sneaky while getting your hands on it.
You took a deep breath, stretched your right arm, and jabbed inside, with practiced precision.
And nothing happened.
You don't know what you expected, you knew of your curse blessing, knew it would protect the gallows on your mind, regardless of what you wanted.
In you're heart of hearts, you hoped that you could forget. Hoped that this fluid was "non-anomalous", that you would be finally free.
But you were wrong, and that angered you; irrational though it was, you continued to plunge the syringe deep into your bloodstream. You dug and dug into your skin until plastic hit metal. Tearing at the small wires & circuits, stabbing through you're muscles & bones, stopping only after you are liberated from the cold machinery forced upon you. Because that's what they always do, they take, take, take, and only give back something you never wanted.
You continue to twist and turn the needle, sticking it under your eyes, breaking it to drink the remaining liquid inside, desperately getting more and more rough and careless with the injections until, for a second, you even forgot that your sheets weren't supposed to be red.
You hoped that would be the sign you were waiting for as the world went black.
You woke up on an unfamiliar hard bed, bandages covering you're body. You get up to scan your surroundings and catch a glimpse of a bowl of soup next to a cabinet near the bed. You find a paper note next to the soup, forcing your weary eyes open to read it.
Perplexed but out of options, you take the note with you and leave the room. A smell of oil & grease attacks your nostrils the second you open the door. You check the note every thirty seconds or so, the scenery of the "restaurant" seeming to be getting more and more absurd as you move through. In what seemed to be a giant repurposed cargo warehouse, people from all corners of both the unveiled world were present.
A weary man with colorful clothing observes you from a distance as you go downstairs, holding a book backed with various equations.
A group of three men smoke cigars and talk about something in a language you don't know.
A triangular specimen appears to be debating with a black orb in the bar.
A woman in a top hat and trench coat blares noise from a trumpet titled SYNCOPE. A small band of seven oversized sea stars blowing flutes around her.
You finally reach the final turn, checking the note for the last time as you enter what appears to be the kitchen of the establishment.
You walk through the very active kitchen as if you were a lost puppy, stumbling around confused until a man who was particularly focused on a half-peeled potato calls out.
"Finally woke up, eh?!" The man comes up to you, motioning for you to follow as he rushes to an extravagant door near the counter he worked at. Following inside to see a very boring room, comparatively, in which the man sits you on a folding chair near a table.
"Oh, right." The man gets up and scrambles around a shelf, pulling out a pen and paper.
"Here ya go."
You stare at the man, confused.
"Well, ya got anythin' to say?"
You scribble down on the paper. "What is this?"
"A place of comfort, I'll tell ya. Some friends from the Initiative wanted you to stay here for a short while to…get yourself sorted out."
The events of last night suddenly settle in.
"Where is this?"
"Nowhere really. We've had to start getting more secretive with our locations over the past years. Foundation started crackin' down on these hub spots globally, makes sense. You get your hands on a bunch of your enemies in one place? It's only natural. You don't need to worry bout anything for now, just make yourself at home."
"What about the transfer?"
The man jumped up.
"Oh yeah, Danny said something about that! But you being here is a tribunal order, so clearly you weren't needed that urgently."
"I don't want this."
The man stares blankly at the paper.
"Don't want what? I can getcha another room if the beds aren't comfy."
You grip the paper tightly as you write.
"I don't want any sainthood."
"I see. Well… that's not your choice to make now, is it? You've gotta job to do."
"Why not?"
"Because this is bigger than you or me. Savin' the world ain't somethin' you opt out of, eh?"
"Why not?"
"I don't know what to tell ya, man. God gave you this chance, so take it."
"It doesn't feel like a chance."
"From looking at your background? This is the best chance you're gonna get. Or do you wanna go back to the Insurgency concentration camp?"
You stay silent.
"You seem tired. Why don't I getcha something to eat? The name Albin, by the way. It's best if we get to know each other right away."
You looked right at the man, then the room around you, getting up from your seat to look at the door behind you.
"You alright, man?"
You started running.
Bolting out into the kitchen, you check your surroundings for a moment before rushing back the way you came, the chefs around you giving confused looks as they look up from their meals.
Albin screams out from behind, beginning to give chase as he alerts the other chefs. It's futile, as you've already managed to get to the dining quarters, earning weary glances from the guests as you frantically search for an exit. Spotting what looks to be a door covered by tape and various scribbles, you run towards it, a few chefs running towards you, warning you to stay back as people begin to look up from their meals. You ignore them as you go up to rip the tape from the door, the scribbles fading away, and the door itself contorting as you walk up to it.
You rip the handle right off as the door itself opens to a black void. The chefs are barely managing to wrestle you away from the door while it contorts further.
Taking a fork from the nearby table you were just slammed on, you begin stabbing the chefs until you break free, practically jumping into the void as fast as you can. You give the distressed chefs one last glance before the door leaves your vision.
You're face hits the ground as your eyes open to see a concrete road beneath you, a few passersby giving you weird looks as you get up from the floor. You look around the city street and begin to walk wherever you want with a gleeful smile.
You're finally free after all.
Conrad Jackman sits annoyed in a rather empty Denny's, impatiently glancing at the windows and checking his phone. He begins to look somberly down at his meal of two stacks of 10 pancakes. Just when he's about to call out for the only waiter left, the door opens and a man hastily walks towards him.
"A goddamn Denny's!? Are you fucking kidding me?" A man yells, approaching Conrad.
"Sit your ass down already, I was just about to leave too, you dickhead!" Conrad lowers his arm and puts a bag under the table, giving a quick nod to the waiter.
"It's not my fault the terrorist can't give directions!" The man takes out a small map from a wolf brooch with weird text on its forehead.
Conrad sighs.
"Not so loud, Jesus…. I hoped your divine grace would help with that."
"Do not utter the Lord's name in vain, you cretin!" The general screamed.
"We gonna talk, or what, scribeman?"
"What?" The man stares confusedly at Conrad.
"What what?" Conrad cocks his head.
"I'm not a scribe? You're the Insurgency 'negotiator,' right?"
"Well…Kinda? First guy called in sick, so I took his place yada yada. I asked for your external relations guy, where is he?"
"Guess that makes two of us unfit for our positions. General Raymond Baskerville, head of Project Malleus." The man reaches out his hand, Conrad shaking it cautiously.
"Jackman."
"Just Jackman?"
"For now."
"Very well. Let's talk work first." Raymond snaps, and the sound of a church bell resounds across the restaurant.
"What was that?" Conrad questions.
"A geass. You didn't think I would just give out my real name like that, did you?"
"How sly of a man of god. What's the deal?"
"That no physical conflict takes place between anyone we consider allies or enemies for 24 hours, with the conditions explained, the geass has henceforth taken effect. Anyways speaking of sly, I'd like to know why a terrorist group wants our support exactly?"
"I never agreed to any geass," Conrad says, grinding his teeth.
"You read my brooch, didn't you?" Raymond points to the wolf brooch, the text on its forehead shining slightly.
"It seems you misunderstand why this meeting is being held, General."
"Enlighten me."
"First, have a bite, sugar's good for the brain." Conrad pushes one of the stacks of pancakes towards Raymond.
"No thanks, I'm the only one pulling tricks today, Insurgent."
Conrad scoffs.
"Look, I'll get to the point. I'm sure you're aware that the Insurgency isn't a stranger to collaboration. Take old Bowe, for example; he was a Foundation dog through and through. So were a lot of us for a while, but that changed when the Foundation did."
"So what?"
"I'm saying our goals align, general. And joining our forces is a great way for our mutual benefit. Plus, considering where the Initiative is now, I thought you would be jumping at the bit for new allies, so…"
"We would rather have open enemies rather than ones that pretend to be allies."
"That's exactly what the Foundation is, no? All those broken promises, dissolved truces, I can go on."
"There's no reason to go after the Foundation at this time. They have been rather charitable with us regarding France, and haven't done much for us to assume otherwise. They are not a concern."
"Oh, really? Then why don't I show you exactly what you're missing?" Conrad takes a paper document from his bag on the floor and slams it on the table.
"What is this?" Raymond begins frantically reading the document, his expression progressively getting angrier.
"I'll admit you guys gave that thing one hell of a beating, the problem still stands though."
"This is…They would-"
"They wouldn't do something like this? There's no point in self-deception, you know."
Raymond stays silent.
"You have to admit, general, getting fucked over by the Foundation is a thing we have in common, like a lot of other things."
"Bullshit. The Initiative exists to conserve, the Insurgency serves nothing but the devil, only acting for destruction's sake."
"Conserve, huh? Where was all that conversation during the honey crisis? During the red death outbreak of 32? Hell, the mechanist revolt of 22? What about all the times SAPPHIRE attacked a faith that wasn't yours?! All the forgotten people dead in a forgotten country? Were they conserved?"
"The Initiative isn't some humanitarian peacekeeping force. We tried to stop SAPPHIRE beforehand, but the tribunal never agreed on a full frontal assault before France. We exist to protect the divine ideals give-
SNAP
"THERE IT IS! Ideals! That's what this is really about. We are both groups built upon the conservation of ideals, not people, because at the end of the day, humans are disposable; they come and go. But ideas? Those are harder to kill, and it just so happens that there's no one better at killing ideas like the Foundation. The ideals of resistance and revolution that all of our efforts are built on, as well as your divine decree. If you don't act, they'll come for you, too. So how long do you intend to play the gardener, snipping at the roots of oppression while its boot slams down on you're brothers and sisters?"
"You don't get to talk about oppression, especially not after what we found in Baghdad. The saints are just as, if not more, important than our ideals, and you didn't hesitate to torture the saviors of this world for a one-up on the Foundation."
"I wasn't a part of that, and if I found out who was, I would've killed them. While united by ideals and the orders of the engine, the Insurgency isn't a single collective, much like the serpent's hand in a way. I'm not asking for us to go sing and dance among the flowers, but I am suggesting that we use each other for collective benefit. Because the truth is that the lone wolves don't survive, the ones that find order in chaos & the fresh red in the cold whit-
"Spare me the purple prose, insurgent."
Raymond sighs, looking down at a stack of pancakes before getting up from his seat.
"You can keep the Foundation in check, right?"
"Like no other."
Raymond reaches his hand out.
"Then I'll hold you to that."
The deal is struck.
