Black Sheep

[Thaumantica]

Agent 9, the Black Sheep
15 December, 2010
Witnica, State of Sarmatia, Miedzymorze Federajca
​

Her hair tossed this way and that with every short gust of wind, sharp and biting like a thousand icy termites. Down to her winterized boots, snow stuck everywhere to her strikingly slim body, until the black coat she had left with dawned a camouflaging salt and pepper pattern. The street around us was alive with the vibrant color of Christmas Lights, and tens of multi-colored mittens and wool hats darted in and out of shops, weaving then between each other in seemingly pre-determined paths.

Perhaps it was fog of my breath that deceived me, as the exquisite figure approached me from East 11th Street, holding a steaming silver thermos of some third-world coffee bean. Something genuine, familiar, warm even emanated soundlessly from her aura. Sanja. I was seeing a ghost. Graceful and ravishing, or nearly so, as she had been all those years ago.

Impossible, I reminded myelf. Sanja was dead, worse, I watched the final breath leave her body, through eyes as wet as they will never be again.

"How's life on the other side?" I asked beneath my breath, so that only the two of us might share this exchange. "Not interested" she dismissed, oblivious to my manifold problems; that against my borderline atheistic views, somehow or someway, the woman I had fallen for as an External Defense Agent was taking an evening stroll in Witnica, Sarmatia.

Now and then I would see her. Sanja. The Ghost. Revealing herself by striking the painful chord of memory. Her favorite color, scarlet red, was on every streetcorner of the Federation - - a sanguine flash, most especially, roused the unpleasant thought of that little circle of scarlet red surrounding her before the end. Her untimely end.

I was there on holiday, or during the holidays at least, not that they ever allowed me to stop working. Witnica had not failed to impress with watertight security, Internal Defense Agents shooting looks to kill, and rotating cameras at every stoplight. A near perfect blanket of security, over a city blanketed with snow already.

Boisterous immigrants came to dominate the hustle and bustle of East 11th Street, their harsh Baroturkler snorts and oinks reminded me of hogs, their children little piglets, and a Internal Defense Agent plainly trailing them like the Big Bad Wolf himself. If these stragglers were dangerous, at least they were hiding in plain sight, standing out in the droves of modestly dressed Sarmatians, their skin gradually turning whiter with every bred generation.

Common immigrants, degenerates, were not the prey of an External Defense Agent. I had only to pay a mere scan of their persons for inconsistencies of their demeanor: an intelligible shift of the eye, clean clothes, a laptop bag, anything that screamed spy.

Work had a knack for coming home with me, brainwashing even. Switching off was no longer possible, and to keep a vacant mind meant throwing back a fifth of Vodka, or plowing through a miserable prostitute in the city of your choosing.

"Evening, evening" the ID-Agent murmured, tipping his cap clumsily, failing the ruse of playing a gentleman. "Thank you for your service!" I exclaimed in a convincing lie, at least enough for him to return his scrutiny of the night walking immigrants.

My contact was late, I thought. Worry spread within me like a virus, the virus of uncertainty. I promptly attempted to occupy my mind by profiling the pedestrians of my peripheral, or otherwise admiring eccentricities within a society gravitating towards uniformity. Coffee or Tea. Something scalding hot drew me back to reality.

Sinking into the skin on my back, the fluid caused me to wince and jump forward like a racehorse. I wanted to swear at the top of my lungs, but a whispery "Fuckin' fuck" sufficed for that moment.

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh no, oh dear" an old ladies voice scurried. She could have been my Grandmother I thought when I turned to view my assailant face to face. Frankly, I was half-surprised to note that snow had not burrowed within the countless defining wrinkles etched in her face. "What am I supposed to do now, Mam, huh?" I began scolding her as apart of the act, "Where am I supposed to go to clean this up?".

While I had never quite had a soft spot for the elderly, the creeping fact that she must be some form of Federal Agent, my distaste for the sleazy sack of bones blossomed, "Come on, tell me!". She then pointed with a courteous smile at the convenience store on the corner of 11th and Trade Street, 'Fuel-Point' it was called, an entirely worker owned chain.

"Ask to use the restroom to dry off, dear" she said sweetly, "My sincerest apologies, again, young man". I scowled at her immediately, "You never apologized before that, woman".

Perhaps yes, I had begun to indulge this social interaction too deeply -- a staged social interaction at that, to add insult to injury. These were the moments I savored for a few precious fleeting moments, before vomiting them back in to the toilet bowl that was my work life, one that imminently came to occupy all semblances of a personal life.

I stepped inside quickly. Stomped the snow off of my poorly made boots carelessly, and came to notice a shoppette that was well lit. Catchy tunes, as I remember, filled the room, it was some sort of modern studio band that gave the place a hip and youthful feel. The employees, visions of youth themselves, wore an attire completely of their choosing, as the company policy permitted them to. Thankfully, in most instances their trendy clothing shown them devoid of red, most relieving was it to be amongst the tender and young again.

My frigid thirty-two year old body was receptive to their innocence like a black hole. One worker stood out amongst the rest, he was my age, and displayed a subtle scar over the right cheek. Unless he was the manager, this one did not quite fit in there.

His red shirt had a cream colored arrow pointing to the text "I am Here - Sort of", the sarcasm was most unwelcome. From there I had'nt the slightest problem finding this fire in a haystack. This was my contact. His eyes ventured to a set of carpet covered stairs leading up, he was a contact of my contact I mused with a taught smile. His leering eyes were enough then of a signal for me to know this is where I was to 'dry off', a step in the right direction, the final planted situation I might have to stumble through before meeting with my long lost Agency Handler.

 

[Thaumantica]

Klem, the White Sheep
18 December, 2010
Stary Hrodino, State of Sarmatia, Miedzymorze Federajca

There I sat. Alone in the house of the Lord. The Book of Fire lay dormant at my side, its words speaking of heroics and hellfire in my crippled mind.
​

It was there in the old wood pews where so many memories of my life in service to Paraclasty were engrained. I fondly recalled how my tender hands could once fit between the carvings of Woz the Conqueror and Andrzej the first Paraclete, their lives extinguished so many centuries ago, yet, their brave legacy would not escape my own.

A truth created by strong men, is a fate made for the weak. I could not possibly be any different then the other patrons of this Church, I thought. Stary Hrodino. A city of such complexity, contradiction, and an undying piousness.

"Remind me of whom I serve" I prayed to the torch of God, "Ignite the fire within me, oh Lord, as I see it before me" I then said unto the flame at the torches head, "Known that whomever wields your torch, oh Lord, cannot extinguish the fire in my heart".

Perhaps it was noon by then. I do recall that distinct rumbling hunger one feels at mid-day. Still, my eyes remained poised on the Paraclastic Torch, its flames divulging in that eternal dance of destruction and renewal. That feeling within me, that passion, it could not stem from any crumb or droplet. Not even the breaking of bread with my fellow man, or a kindly sharing of wines and merriment could fulfill me in the way that faith perpetually would.

Rising to the reverberating bells of an hour passed, as my stomach had predicted, I extended my hand to the flame itself until I could truly feel it. So long as I could still feel pain, I reflected, I would feel the Lord. That was the symbolism behind it all at least, one that any man could feel for himself.

A moments stroll led me to large steel doors, taking most of my strength to open in a timely manner. There was of course the cold air, quite prepared to meet me on the other side. Under dressed with tan slacks and a foliage green fleece, I was quick to tuck my arms in to face the wind head on, eyes squinting to parse its bite.

"Why . . Why Klem" a familiar voice beckoned, that of Zofia, "Are you set on returning to us?" Zofia, my wife, asked with sincere innocence. She was here to confront me in front of Chapel, fearlessly, as I was beginning to comprehend.

"I never left God, Zofia," I replied to her with my confidence and resolve still intact, "his warmth was always with me.". To those who were faithful to the Church, as I was, there could not be no one without the other, the flame of the Lord was always to be kept in a Church. A man may walk his own path amongst mankind, in their dealings of business and politics, but the Church bears the torch for all men.

When my eyes met hers this time, it was her frown that struck me. Tears welled up in her bright green eyes, but they did not appear to me in any way desperate. Ferocity penetrated me like a shotgun blast.

"When will our children feel this warmth, Klem" she barked, "when will their Father bring honor and bounty back to my house?".

"Your house?" I shot back, finally retaining my ailing composure.

She threw her long blonde hair gracefully, probably knowing how I was struggling to refrain from reaching out and embracing her in that terrible winter cold. "When the man abandons his house, it is left to the strong Miedzymorzan Woman to lead!" she spat, "I'm here to find out if you are ready to lead beside me, or serve under me".

The gravity of the situation could not prevent me from smiling at her suggestive statement, until I haplessly broke down into a full fit of laughter. Her grimace faded, as my somberness had, joining me in laughter before long. I could see the blush winning out in her pale white face, and I wasted no time before give up myself. I embraced her like I had promised I never would again.

"Do you feel MY warmth, Klem?" Zofia whispered tenderly in my ear. My throat choked, my tongue was tied, and I could manage only to pull her closer. "Decisive," she chuckled, "a decisive victory for women everywhere, I do believe, Klemmy boy".

We walked together through the streets of Stary Hrodino. She was dressed for the journey home, and I was nowhere near prepared. Every step forward was met with four more jitters and shakes, but my mind was at ease. My wife, the leader in my stead, was there to grip my hand, to warm it like the torch had in the house of my Lord.

 

[Thaumantica]

Fredzik, the Blue Sheep
1 January, 2011
Guzellik, State of Barazi, Miedzymorze Federajca
​

My Grandfather Teodor was an Assertionist. A True Assertionist. His youthful years rattled off defiantly when that word still meant something in Miedzymorze.

Every morning he tied a blue band around his arm, doing this until the day he died. Grandpa Teodor did so to signify that he and his comrades' hot blood and fury still coursed through his veins, that the rebel within him was courageous enough to be worn on the outside. But the mark of an Assertionist was not merely a square blue cloth, no, his protest against Federalism in the fourties earned him a shrapnel wound to the right leg, scars where bullets had grazed his arms and shoulders, and a mental stigma that made sleeping beside the man impossible for three ex-wives.

God may have tested my Grandfather, but it was the Federation that taxed him agregiously, who barred him from the most fundamental citizens rights. Vyhoric men have been ostracized for centuries in the Intermarum, we are born from the mountains that bleed, and our battlecry has arrested Sarmatians in fear for many centruies more.

His son, my father, suffered sorely within his shadow. I dare say that I resented him deep into my young adult life, as my example of masculanity stemmed from pure defiance and mistrust of authority. Miedzymorze, our ever present Federation, transcended family ties, and service in the Federal Army' Air Corps was not such a difficult choice it all.

The repercussions were immense - my grandfather became dreadfully ill, and I could not admit to the authorities that be how I yearned to hear one of his revolutionary rants, how instead of supreme disdain, I felt sadness.

Who were the Baroturks? My Grandfather knew, hell, I thought I knew. But when the orders came down from Sjadnbrdo that flying bullets and a stiff bayonet were meant for them, many of the men and women beside me knew only one thing. Miedzymorze was in the right, Barazi was in the wrong, there could be no room for compromise. Innocent people would find themselves within the cross fire, and God had willed it to be, the Paraclete assured of this.

I am not sure that I ever understood Assertionism until November, 13th 2010. This was a day that history will easily forget, one that I would gladly if I could will myself too. For individual memory greatly survives, even flourishes, without the constraints of revisionist history to corrupt what was pure, what was real.

We would not call it genocide, as many of the papers would rightfully choose to. Justice, we would dare to call the murder of the Nationalist Party in Barazi nothing less then the fury of a lady named liberty. What shocks me, what ripples down in to my bones, is the blatant audacity of my country. How can it claim all victories yet no defeat, and if it were to admit a misstep in this failed mission, it is through the loss of a few scapegoats or patsies.

Dictators are masters in the Art of Assertionism, my father taught me that. Their will exercised at such an efficiency that only a heart of gold might deny such uninhibited exertion of self expression. To be an effective leader at the highest levels, leader of a country or several states, one must truly be selfless. One must acknowledge that he or she serves the people, and not the other way around.

Miedzymorze has failed my family since we began to share a common surname, I have come to realize that fully. This is the sort of society which gobbles you up, and vomits you back out without the moral constitution or human value that you first arrived with.

Zivotinje had sired me with her constant idealism, those lovable loser Zivs. A war against despotism, a glorious crusade for democracy said they, but with the Ziv comes Sarmatians and their demand for wealth and order. No race of men, encouraged by their female counterparts, had ever hoped for so much freedom, yet committed to such a condemning subordination as the Zivs had.

Proud Vyhoric country folk have no place for such misplaced allegiances. We are the people who saw beyond the misguided illusions of Catholicism and Sainthood, it was us who truly conceived of Paraclasty with the help of the holy spirit. I would not rely on my ancestors history any longer, however, not even that of my Grandfather Teodor who had come to be a source of inspiration during my falling out with the Air Corps.

I remained quiet after the incident in Barazi, the city of Guzellik as I remember oh so dreadfully. This silence threatened to haunt me every evening like a ghost of mistakes present, lurking in the present, and frightening my aspirations for the future. God had a plan for Vyhor, for me, but he had not revealed it to us yet, quite not for me yet either. He blesses us through our pains, my father told me, our suffering is his recognition of our humanity as well as our godhood, for god suffers when we deny him at all turns. When I returned to my beloved Vyhor, Sangemuntenia -- the mountains that bleed the passion of blood shed by patriots and saints denied sainthood by the villains of foreign lands. I wish to affirm, to assert myself on behalf of those who have been denied the ability to truly express themselves, to assert their characters freely and without oppression.