Michael listened to Hasan's lecture with growing interest. The more the man spoke, the less mad he seemed. His arguments were certainly all too valid.
Michael subscribed to neither of the two ideals that Hasan described. Both the Custody and the so-called Americanism way was fatally flawed. History had proven that. Alexander's empire shattered and blown away like the Persian sands he conquered. The Republic rotting from the inside, corruption run rampant until society demanded another Alexander.
Such was the fate of humanity, impure as it was. The foolishness often grated him, but unlike Hasan, he would never use his power to rule. Dominate and eliminate those who crossed his path, certainly, but he was not so foolish as to become another Caesar. Any good he would manage to do would crumble to dust, just as it had done for 3000 years.
The rule of God was certainly an interesting concept, and Hasan's words struck a resonate chord in his soul, but reality forced itself upon Michael. It too was flawed. The rule of God depended on man to interpret God's will, and as Hasan himself said, men were imperfect.
He no longer doubted Hasan's intentions were pure, but his conviction was based on a lie - that he alone was chosen - which would lead him astray.
What would a man do when he found his God had deserted him?
It was not a promising thought.
None of this did Michael voice, nor did it show on his face. His interest in Hasan's words were as genuine as his doubts.
He could not avoid answering a direct question, however, even if Hasan had moved on with news of the airport confronting him. The news was troubling to say the least. Had Dr. Weston not informed them of what was to come? Did they disobey or delay?
If so, the captain would reap what he sowed in abundance. It was just unfortunate it would cost the lives of the innocent.
"Perhaps you are correct, a prostitute is not an inaccurate assessment."
The lie came easy. Tony always did say the best lie held a grain of truth. "But I do not have the power to stand against the might of the Custody. So I do what I can to minimize the suffering of its people."
"Forgive me,"
he continued in a cautious vein mingled with respect. "but do you expect to withstand the full force of the Custody with an untrained army, outnumbered 100 to 1? Perhaps there is something I do not understand in this?"
One thing about being kicked in the mouth, it distracts you from the fact that little knives were stabbing their way out of your hands from the inside.
She kept squeezing her fingers in the attempt to work the blood through and provide some relief, but it was a temporary solution. The problem was the restriction of blood flow and pinched nerves under her shoulders. People weren't meant to sit like this for hours on end.
Had it been hours? She had no earthly idea.
At one point she tried to kick something off the opposite shelf, but all she accomplished was knocking over a broom handle. Later she pulled her feet under her and attempted to stand, but the pipe she was cuffed had a cross-bar that bolted it to the wall. Her captors were smart enough to make sure she couldn't slide the cuffs higher than a few inches off the floor.
She was careful to listen whenever the light from under the door changed as someone outside moved or passed by in the hallway. Suddenly, a very specific sound prickled her eardrums, and her fog lifted. Her Arabic wasn't great, but she knew enough to recognize the distinct change that was the muffled sounds of English being spoken out there.
Her heart thudded behind her sternum. She reached as far as she could and kicked at the door with the bottom of her feet. She spat to clear her mouth. "Hey!! In here!"
PPC: Commander Yedona Vilsoyski
Yedona lay prone across the wooden floorboards of the safehouse - if anywhere in Mecca could be called safe for the Custody's elite Vega team.
When news of the attack on al-Hasan reached his silent comm system he had nearly blown she had nearly blown her cover with a string of muffled curses. Only the strict discipline drilled into the Custody's finest had kept her from smashing the comm unit to pieces.
How dare those mother-fuckers use Vega uniforms!
She was not sure what pissed her off more, the fact that someone had the audacity to pull a stupid stunt like that or the fact that they failed fucking miserably.
Any true Vega team would have had al-Hasan's head on a plate to serve to the Ascendancy by now.
Dull blinking interrupted Yedona's dark thoughts and she carefully pulled the comm system up to read the screen.
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Legionnaires landed. Requesting Vega to assist in rescue operation. Targets: King Abdulaziz. Um Salama Hospital.
For the first time in what felt like years a smile split Yedona's face. She carefully gave her orders to the 200 Vegas spread throughout Mecca.
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Rescue operation initiated. Rendezvous with Legion at airfield. Targets acquired. King Abdulaziz. Um Salama. Take positions. Prepare for combat.
Edited by
Michael Vellas, May 12 2014, 02:24 PM.
Hasan pondered the foreigner's reply as they moved through the hallway. A swift motion of the hands got his bodyguard moving. There were a dozen of them just inside the hospital and at least four with eyes on him that he could see. The men in charge of the detail -- the ones now in charge -- had insisted on increasing the number of guards, and layers of protection, after the attack. Hasan had agreed only if they remained as unobtrusive as possible so that he wasn't smothered by a wall of security between himself and the rest of the world. They were marked in a way that Hasan would recognize them, but even Hasan didn't know how deeply protected he was, or how many were involved, and nor did he particularly wish to know. It was unsettling to allow his detail to invest such effort in keeping him protected rather than leave at least some trust in God's mercy. Although perhaps that was the manner of the Almighty's working to keep Hasan safe.
"Questions are a good thing,"
Hasan replied to the stranger. "How else are you to learn the truth of things? For the holy prophet has written, 'Wert thou to follow the common run of those on earth, they will lead thee away from the way of God. They follow nothing but conjecture: they do nothing but lie.'
You must question what you think you know to find the truth."
How much should he tell the man? Aside from the interest he showed in continuing the conversation, the foreigner was like a stone for all he'd reacted to their discussion. Hasan was not foolish enough to discount that the man was potentially spying. There was little he could say that would damage him. What would it matter now that Hasan had spent the better part of the last three years meeting with tribal leaders, organizing, gaining their trust? Or that there would always be more weapons in the Middle East than people to fire them, hidden away in cosmoleyne-soaked crates, buried in this village or the other. No one would ever be able to find them all. Or the fact that the survivors of insurgencies and violent wars of the Arab World up until the time of annexation were now leaders and elders, and made the perfect backbone of a standing army, if an unconventional one that still required further training and fleshing out. The only other people who had more experience in warfare were the Africans, and there were plenty of Muslims among them who were answering the pull to Mecca. These things should be intuitively obvious, so how could it hurt for this man to know these things? Certainly it was no secret that there were cities turning back to the will of God well before Hasan announced the directive to seize the ports of entry.
It was as if the last century of life in the Arab world was directed at preparing the faithful for throwing off the shackles they'd put on themselves. Almighty God had provided so much and would always provide what was needed to see His will done.
They came to a junction in the hallway. A woman covered appropriately in what was once white garb but was now quite bloodstained ran up the side corridor toward them with basins full of bloodstained rags and bandages. One came loose and wrapped itself around her foot, causing her to trip. The bandages went flying and struck the opposing wall just before they passed. She muttered an apology and set to cleaning them up. Hasan stooped and picked one of the errant bandages up for her, placing it in her now-empty basin.
“There are many things you do not understand,”
Hasan finally said to the stranger. “You do not see because you do not yet believe. The Muslim world has never been successfully ruled, except for when we ourselves, out of weakness and lack of faith, gave ourselves up to the Dominance. One out of five people on this planet claim to follow the path of submission to the will of God, the path of truth. God will provide for the faithful, even if we are outnumbered. But if you truly believe the odds are that lopsided, you have been deluded.”
Truthfully there were probably already more conscript-able males who would pledge to Hasan than there were in the CCD.
The woman muttered her thanks and ran off. And then Hasan noticed the wall. A large decorative map of the world had covered a six foot by nine foot section, and it was now covered with a bloody stain – but an interesting pattern emerged, like beams of red. No, it wasn't his imagination. Like the light of a perfectly symmetrical star, the lines radiated away from Mecca.
He turned away from the apparition, such things were not all that difficult to notice in everyday life if one took the care to look. “Perhaps you may come to believe once you see,”
he continued. “Of course you are not strong enough to face the Custody yourself. And you are likely stronger than I am. But I do not need to be strong. What is the strength of the Custody? Are you stronger than Nikolai Brandon? What is his strength? He is nothing more than a man whom others have cast their lot with and are willing to do violence on his behalf. If no one believed in his authority, his system would fall apart.
"Can you see how what you claim to be true does not match with reason? If you do not stand against the Custody, you stand with it. You cannot minimize the suffering of its people and not stand against it. You believe in the strength of the CCD. It is a flimsy belief. You believe the CCD is too strong to resist simply because you and others believe it to be so. If you were to stop believing this, it would no longer be the case. If you cannot conceive a greater power than the CCD, then it is your god. And it will fail you – utterly. Because I am telling you there is in fact a greater power. The power of Almighty God is limitless and enduring, timeless and true. And it is the only thing that will save the people from certain doom and destruction that these behemoths who would be gods will bring.”
They had reached the front doors almost without Hasan noticing. He flicked a few fingers forward to direct his lead bodyguards to go through while he strode just a few steps behind.
Likely Nikolai Brandon was watching updates from the comfort of his high perch, baffled at the notion that his attempt to supplant God didn't work, shocked and angry that the faithful had finally decided to reject his mortal graces. Likely he had failed to see this coming, even though it should have been obvious that such a thing would happen.
But his lack of understanding and absence of foresight was the problem. He simply wasn't the god that he thought he was.
You must question what you think you know to find the truth.
Wiser words than perhaps the man knew. Michael hoped that Hasan would come to question his own truths if he ever met another like him, but for himself, Michael was not eager to shatter any illusions. Time would tell, one way or another.
Michael hung back from the bloodied bandages that spilled onto the floor. There had been a distinct thump and a plea that none could mistake.
Help.
The sound was muffled, but distinctly English and Michael itched to seize the power that brought clarity, but he dare not risk exposure. Not yet.
And so the plea went unanswered and Michael's face grew as cool as his heart boiled, continuing on when Hasan resumed his lecture.
He listened without reaction to the man's assessment of the situation. His face gave no sign of what he thought on the matter. His mind took note, but at this point his interest had been dampened.
This too he kept in a vice-grip as they approached the hospital entrance, the conviction of the man's words evident now as he spoke of the Custody.
Why did he not fight? Was the Custody his God? What strength did the Custody have?
Such questions were fruitless. Empires, nations and Custodies would rise and fall, he knew the fact from the moment he set foot in the Kremlin.
The thought was enough to turn his lips down in a slight grimace. Michael did not pretend to know all in the world, but why did so few understand his position? Tony may have, once, perhaps even Dr. Weston had been given a glimpse.
No matter.
Dark thoughts kindled, Michael addressed something curious in Hasan's word.
"You mentioned those who would be Gods, and the true power of God. Is this the source of your miracles? What of the behemoths? Is there a darker force at work?"
Edited by
Michael Vellas, May 13 2014, 06:52 PM.
The English passed on, and Torri was left to her own company in the aftermath of hope. Soon, disappointment turned to more practical needs.
Torri hated to admit it.
She was bored.
She'd played every scene leading up to her current situation over and over, but for mindless reasons. She knew exactly what led her to being locked in a cleaning closet.
The first time she met Michael, she'd been afraid of him. The intensity of his youth stared straight to her heart, but Torri was world class at hiding fear and shame. All doctors were to some degree, but for army doctors, the skill was mandatory. So she hadn't allowed herself to buckle beneath the depths of his study.
She came to respect him for the commander the CCD seemed to acknowledge in him. Daydreaming about what events led to his defection from Australia filled some intangible number of minutes, but she knew nothing about his story. I should ask him, someday. She sighed. Assuming he was still alive.
She knew what led them to the hospital in the first place. The creature that Michael hunted. It made no sense to her scientific mind, then again, neither did most of the patients in the Facility until her research elucidated genomic patterns common to each one. Yet she wracked the stretches of her mind to explain how an assassin could hide in fog and pass through walls and men alike. She also had no idea what it had actually done to Michael that weakened him so.
So many questions.
At least she knew the answer to one. Why was she here, handcuffed, and shoved in a closet?
She leaned her head against the pipe and blinked at the indistinguishable shapes on the shelves overhead.
"Because they think I'm a spy.
She said to herself.
It made perfect sense, if she were in their shoes. A woman in a man's thawb, one that covered a Custody uniform underarmor. She had a military grade Wallet on her person and a Custody soldier in her arms. She'd nearly disarmed one of the rifle wielding rebels, and she would have riddled them with rounds had she been successful.
The question was, what were they going to do with her? Did Hasan know she was there? Or was an underling with their own intentions secret the news from him? The waiting the worst, though. Alone in darkness, her head and face ached her mood sour.
"And for shit sakes, can we get this over with?"
The bodyguards went through the front door first, but Hasan turned to the stranger and let the doors swing shut. Was God the source of miracles? What kind of question was that? The answer was obvious: a probing one. Or perhaps an entrance to testing Hasan's own conviction. Either way, this stranger stranger wasn't as curious about learning the truth as he made out to be. The man seemed suddenly distracted. Still, it did no harm to properly educate him. In fact it was the right thing to do.
What else did one do when confronted with a demon? The truth could wound a demon no matter how deeply hidden he was in a man's soul.
"Of course miracles come from God. He is limitless, infinite and all powerful, and miracles remind the faithful that if He so chooses He can make it so, for nothing is impossible with him. The work that he chooses to accomplish through me or anyone else is only as limited as He desires it to be, which He limits through the fragility of my mortal, physical body.”
Wherein lay his own conviction, arrived at years and years ago, that this power was not some new trick of the Adversary. It took much discernment and study to determine it in and of itself did not break any precept or word revealed to the prophets. He did, indeed, have to question everything. The nature of allowing the gift of the Keramat to use him as Allah's vessel was a tremendous test of faith, for when it moved through him it was almost like he had to take control and wrestle it to his own will. That did not seem right. It was only when Hasan accepted that he would follow the physical rules that he realized it was him submitting to the way Allah willed things in order for it to work properly, and that Allah likely intended for it to be a supreme test of faith to ensure Hasan would use the gift wisely.
“Seek and you shall find that God has been there all along. It is he who, all knowing and all wise, set the physical and moral laws in place for this temporary world. Suffering happens when a physical or a moral law is violated. The ability to perform miracles is a gift from him, and it is recorded in scripture. Allah for his reasons places limits on how much he allows me to do, and if I try to do too much I will surely be punished, same as if I were to attempt to break the law of gravity.”
While the Keramat did appear to break some of God's physical laws, upon closer examination it did not in fact do so, but existed within the same framework. Or had its own set of physical laws that complemented what science had thus far revealed of the laws of the physical, perceptible world. And there were other laws as well.
“The power to perform these things cannot come from me. God has worked through me to heal the sick and draw water from the sky to make it rain. Lighting and fire to defend the innocent from the wicked. The power does not come from me. All would do well to remember that our own wills are nothing beside God's. I cannot so much as light a pipe by my own will. So it does not come from me.”
He took a breath. This was where language typically failed him. The concepts to follow naturally flowed from Arabic. He would have to do his best. If the adversary was tricking him by trying to get a mysterious and apparently harmless man to sow doubt within him, Shaytan would have to do better than that. And if he was trying to distract him, that would not work either, for nothing was screaming for his attention either. It had been some time since anyone had attempted to engage him in theological debate from the perspective of an unbeliever. If the Mahdi let himself become so undisciplined and soft of mind that he could not reasonably and rationally profess his faith, he'd be a poor Mahdi indeed. So what did one do when confronted by a demon?
“It comes from He Who Has No Greater Power. Allah, he who has created all, who created this temporary world to test us and mold us. He who made the physical and moral laws and revealed these through his prophets. This world is imperfect because of suffering, which is tolerated by Allah for reasons known to Him who is all good and all knowing. Suffering happens when a physical law or a moral law is broken. Those who break either cause suffering in others, and are themselves made to suffer. Where there is the absence of light, there is darkness. Where there is the absence of heat, there is cold. There are, necessarily, two sides to all of God's creation. It is he who created the angels and the jinn.
Whatever game this man was playing was still unclear. Either he would be drawn by the truth and feel new stirrings of God within his soul, or he was ignoring the truth to play his own game. Hasan mulled what he should do about it.
"All things have that power to choose. Iblis the Jinn chose to disobey the will of God, and fell and became Shaytan. He and the other fallen continue to roam the earth seeking to twist men's hearts and ruin their souls with false promises. I could turn away and cause untold suffering for my own selfish desires, but I would no longer be serving God. Instead, I would become like the fallen angels, serving a lie and believing that this power is mine to do with as I wish."
Perhaps that was it – knowledge of a jinn or dark force as he put it. This man might have been known of a jinn like the one that attacked him, or perhaps seen an angel before. Maybe his heart had been twisted and he'd come to doubt. Or he was under the thrall of the deceiver. God would resolve things one way or the other with this man. What does one do when met with a demon?
"Your life is not yours. Your body is not yours. Your brain is not yours because your perception can be fooled. This world is not ours. And it is coming to an end. The only power we have is the power to choose. Where people choose to turn away from God, there is suffering. I choose to not break the moral laws. I choose to help the world come back to God.
"I submit to the will of Allah. I choose Islam."
He leaned in and lowered his voice, fixing his eyes on the stranger. A respectful distance for a personal conversation between new acquaintences in the Arab world was usually about eighteen inches, about half what Westerners were comfortable with; Hasan skirted against his own comfort level. What did one do when face to face with a demon? Why, you called him out, of course.
“I hope you will use your choice wisely....adversary?”
Hasan's conviction was admirable, but far too dangerous. He spoke contradictions in the same breath without a pause for thought. How could he talk of necessity in one breath and condemn physical and moral corrosion in the next? To speak of the frailty and infinite failure of man, yet remain so confident in his own holy power?
As Hasan spoke, Michael began to notice the change in atmosphere. Bodyguards tensed, unnatural silence broken by familiar sounds. He spied one of the Vega safe-houses. Instead of empty, three nondescript figures perched, waiting. It was a surprise, but Michael found he did not care. War was not only inevitable, it had already begun. Perhaps it may be for the best that they struck Hasan hard and fast, although Michael thought it would only make him a martyr and provoke the masses to madness. Yet, that madness could be used...
Without noticing, Hasan had leaned in close with an intense gaze on his face. The sudden shift in mood bespoke leashed violence.
“I hope you will use your choice wisely....adversary?”
The words hit a wall of stone. Hasan thought
he was a servant of this...Shaytan? Perhaps the man thought he was Shaytan himself by the look in his eye!
Michael spent a moment in consideration. He could end such madness here, but that would only spark further flames. No. He would not risk such foolishness.
Instead of an indignant protest of innocence he whispered under his breath so only Hasan could hear.
"Now, the choice is yours. I would suggest you run or hide if you want to live."
Shouts erupted alongside the sound of gunfire as whatever team the Custody had sent to destroy Hasan made their move. Michael used the chaos to retrace his steps through the hospital to the source of the cry for help he had heard earlier.
Panic spread through the hosptial like a plague and soon the halls were covered with a swarm of the disoriented and wounded but he paid them little heed. Arriving at the cleaning cupboard, he carefully opened the door.
"You..."
Michael managed, trailing off. How on earth did she end up here, beaten and bloodied? Had she been captured? What of the soldiers, his orders?
He let the questions fade into the back of his mind as he lifted Dr. Weston to her feet with some effort. He was not sure if she would be able to walk on her own.
The fresh blood that soaked into his already bloody clothing ignited his anger. Heedless of Hasan or his men, he filled himself with the power of life until his skin prickled. The handcuffs that bound Dr. Weston dissolved like ice in boiling water.
If he was a fallen angel, so be it. It made little difference to him. Whether it was the gates of Heaven or Hell, they would shake all the same.
Edited by
Michael Vellas, May 24 2014, 07:15 AM.
Torri yawned, and immediately regretted the reflex. The stretch tugged at the soreness of her face, but then of course the harder she fought it, the worse it was. So she went ahead and let the yawn take her and subsequently wished she could wipe the tears that leaked from the corners of her squished-up eyes.
It felt like hours went by without anything happening. She was almost ready to kick the door again just for the reaction when the knob started to jiggle.
She sat up a little straighter, and cringed at the sudden flood of light. A shape filled the doorway, silent and dark, and through Torri's wince she almost thought it was -
"You..."
Michael managed, trailing off. Shock chilled by a sliver of fury was his greeting, and a chill ran up Torri's spine. Somehow, she didn't recoil despite the instinct to do so.
There wasn't a moment to think about it, as suddenly her arms fell loose at her sides, freed of the cuffs altogether. Another moment later and he picked her up like he were the healthiest he'd ever been in his life.
His arms held her snug against him. His stride was long, and the set to his jaw was much firmer than her own slack-mouthed shock. She lacked the words to ask how he was upright when he was on the verge of death last she saw of him. She was also half-afraid to ask if he was even the same man. There were flickers of potential here and there, since the first day she met him, that made her want to avoid his bad-side despite the gap in rank between them, and now, Michael seemed... unleashed.
In the end, she decided not to speak at all. Not only because she didn't want to jinx the luck of being rescued when images of an had Arabic prison filled the time, but also because, well, she didn't know why. It seemed best not to disturb him.
At first there was little method in the madness that ensued. Both patient and doctor scrambled around him as he made his way through the halls of the hospital. The sounds of battle faded the deeper they went. Michael had briefly thought of assisting the assault but he did not trust himself to confront Hasan, not now.
The power raged through him like it had never done before. It was his breath, life itself. The burden of Dr. Weston seemed nothing compared to the power he drenched himself in.
Cold fury fuelled his dark stride so much so that those who passed by avoided him despite being unarmed. He did not seem to meet any resistance either. For their own sakes, it was better that way. If they were to die, better they die riddled with bullets. A grim thought, but he felt no sympathy nor remorse for those who chose the path of death.
With cool precision, Michael cast aside his emotions for the more immediate concerns. At least, that is what it felt like in the void of clarity, the voice of fear was almost muted.
Encased by a shell of calm, he slowed and entered an abandoned ward. He lifted Dr. Weston onto one of the empty beds and closed the door in silence.
When he turned back, he spoke in an even tone of abstraction, removing himself from the emotions that crashed like waves against his grasp on the power. "Can you assess your condition? I can't heal you."
A curse as bitter as a Funnel-Web's poison. "Do you need immediate treatment?."
His head turned to the door as he heard the distant battle, then back to examine Dr. Weston's bruised face. "You don't need to concern yourself with the enemy."
If he had not held so firm a grasp on himself, he would have shivered at the chill in his own voice.