08-06-2013, 04:13 AM
Jon lay down on the stiff, olive-drab Army issue folding cot that had been provided him in this small tent. What was he doing out of the courtroom and in the middle of a rolling field blanketed with hundreds upon hundreds of tents, with the drone of old Diesel generators permeating the silence and drowning out the crickets, providing barely enough power to keep a solitary bulb flickering dimly above him?
No, he knew what he was doing. He was keeping his cause alive merely by being present.
The ink had scarcely been dry upon the Supreme Court decision Jon had won declaring the removal of the Seminoles from their lands in Florida unconstitutional when the meltdown in Dayton had happened. Such a horrible thing; the very land having become poisoned by radiation to where it would kill those who sought to live there. Something must be done. Native Americans still had the ability to offer aid and comfort in some places. Additionally the pragmatic side of Jon reasoned it would be good PR for the Council of Native Americans to be seen rushing to help the Americans.
It had taken some convincing to do, but soon Jon had the CNA approaching tribes with lands bordering Ohio with appeals to aid the stricken in the disaster. The Potowatomi in particular had two reservations a scant two hours' drive from Dayton, and even in recent years had still managed to hold onto thousands of acres of virgin meadows and rolling pasture land.
The refugees hadn't taken much convincing to come. The Red Cross and National Guard had also been eager to accept the use of land strategically significant to helping those in the disaster area. With the influx of so many strangers, though, and many tribal members already wary of thieves and interlopers...well, tempers were bound to flare and altercations were sure to happen. Jon had decided that he was needed to be present in order to keep the peace.
That wasn't what kept Jon up at this hour, though. He had medicine for that, if it came to it. It was such an easy thing, to...nudge...a person's inclinations to become more agreeable with him. It seemed to be most effective when he could find a reason that person would naturally want to go along with him. No, what bothered him was the twin messages he continued to stare at on his Wallet. This particular model was top of the line, and needed for him to get reception in such a remote location.
One message was from the Minutemen, of all groups. Apparently Jon had gained some reputation of sticking up for the “little guy” after his victory in the Supreme Court. They claimed they were seeking his representation in order to free certain bank assets frozen since the CCD had declared the organization a terrorist group. Jon wasn't sure what to make of that. He could, in a way, sympathize with the organization. Many of the native tribes had resisted coming under the custody of the United States government, and perhaps for good reason: though the resistance in face of a greater power was ultimately futile, the spirit of the Indian was tramped down as his people had become essentially wards of the State. It had scattered his people, and put them in the position they now were, defenseless against interlopers and dependent upon another sovereign who might ignore the promises it made on a whim.
If Jon were to offer his services to the Minutemen, he would essentially have to get the CCD to reverse its declaration. Difficult, but there were ways. He would have to study CCD law further, and of course become recognized as a legal practitioner of their law to do so.
Which led to his second message: an invitation from the University at Moscow, the heart at the CCD, to participate in a debate on sovereignty and international treaty law in today's world. According to the invitation Jon was seen as having a unique perspective in this matter, having come from a people already under the custody of another sovereign state yet also being a people whose own sovereignty was – in letter – established as inviolate. Should he travel to Moscow to participate in this?
Perhaps he could work both angles.
Jon had to learn more before committing to any course of action. Careful as always, he needed more information. So he put his Wallet aside and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. The flickering of the Great Spirit manifested itself, singing to him, as it often did these days, but he ignored it for the time being and opened the other pathway with his third eye.
Jon stepped out of his body and into the Spirit World.
This place had almost become familiar to him, now. He strode from his tent, knowing to be wary, now. There were dangers here. Bruises and scrapes earned in previous visits had manifested themselves upon awakening before. It had not been difficult to reach the conclusion that he might as well really be in this reflection of the waking world. He had to be careful.
Jon's clothes shifted in this place, sometimes changing or disappearing altogether. It took concentration to maintain any particular look he was going for, but less so for one that suited his current mood. Oddly enough he found himself appearing this time as a traditional Apache scout, clothed in darken boots and breeches with an equally drab beige loincloth and shirt, his mouth and nose hidden by a cloth wrapped loosely from ear to ear. Odd, but he let it stay.
Jon ducked out of his tent into the open air. Here there was no moonlight but instead a soft glow that gently illuminated his surroundings. This must be because the moon itself was a transient object but its light was often present at night and thus must be more easily reflected in the Spirit World.
Jon turned away from the sky, and – he still wasn't sure how he did it – sought his destination, and shifted.
He found himself before a gray and alabaster behemoth of a structure. Testament to the old Soviet days, Jon supposed. Were those eyes watching him from the ever present darkness? He shrugged it off and walked inside.
He found himself among halls that flickered and changed in an eyeblink. Messages on bulletin boards came and went, and it was no use trying to read the video displays. Surely this was a busy place in the waking world.
Jon found himself inside a professor's study and idly rifled through papers on the desk. These also tended to disappear, and sometimes the wording changed. Still, he was able to glimpse enough to gain a semblance of the picture. Legal essays, mostly, at this desk. Students arguing the right of the CCD to bring other nations under the umbrella of security. Little dissenting arguments to be seen.
Jon breathed – although he wasn't certain he had taken a single other breath in this place, or needed to – and shifted himself upward, finding himself in a grand library. Books, thousands of books, lining walls so high ladders were needed to reach them all. He looked to a table and noticed it contained several manuscripts upon it. They made as if to move – and Jon somehow willed one to come to him. A recently used artifact, he supposed, to shift about as he walked here.
Jon leafed through the manuscript, and through several others he'd found. Uneasiness returned to him, an itching behind his shoulder blades. There were eyes watching him from somewhere. But that was not all that unsettled him. He'd read enough. Clearly from the essays he'd read the majority opinion of the law here was that which was of the whim of the Ascendancy and his confidants was good as law. Security triumphed sovereignty here.
And the CNA was thinking of reaching out to the CCD? For what? To trade one warden for another? One overlord for another? Who could say the CCD would have any better influence to protect native American interests than the increasingly impotent United States did? And what if, as often spoken of in certain circles, the United States ceded to them first? Would the native Americans become powerless wards of a puppet warden then, having been stripped of even the decision over whether they should maintain sovereignty or surrender themselves?
Those eyes Jon couldn't see were still watching him. He knew it. It was almost enough for him to seek out the flickering flame that was the Great Spirit and send fires to all corners of the room. Instead he just shook his head. The questions he'd had upon walking the Spirit World had been mostly answered, at least for tonight. No use sticking around. He turned, and imagined himself back in his sleeping body, and drifted off.
First, real sleep. He would act when he woke.
Edited by Jon Little Bird, Aug 6 2013, 04:21 AM.
No, he knew what he was doing. He was keeping his cause alive merely by being present.
The ink had scarcely been dry upon the Supreme Court decision Jon had won declaring the removal of the Seminoles from their lands in Florida unconstitutional when the meltdown in Dayton had happened. Such a horrible thing; the very land having become poisoned by radiation to where it would kill those who sought to live there. Something must be done. Native Americans still had the ability to offer aid and comfort in some places. Additionally the pragmatic side of Jon reasoned it would be good PR for the Council of Native Americans to be seen rushing to help the Americans.
It had taken some convincing to do, but soon Jon had the CNA approaching tribes with lands bordering Ohio with appeals to aid the stricken in the disaster. The Potowatomi in particular had two reservations a scant two hours' drive from Dayton, and even in recent years had still managed to hold onto thousands of acres of virgin meadows and rolling pasture land.
The refugees hadn't taken much convincing to come. The Red Cross and National Guard had also been eager to accept the use of land strategically significant to helping those in the disaster area. With the influx of so many strangers, though, and many tribal members already wary of thieves and interlopers...well, tempers were bound to flare and altercations were sure to happen. Jon had decided that he was needed to be present in order to keep the peace.
That wasn't what kept Jon up at this hour, though. He had medicine for that, if it came to it. It was such an easy thing, to...nudge...a person's inclinations to become more agreeable with him. It seemed to be most effective when he could find a reason that person would naturally want to go along with him. No, what bothered him was the twin messages he continued to stare at on his Wallet. This particular model was top of the line, and needed for him to get reception in such a remote location.
One message was from the Minutemen, of all groups. Apparently Jon had gained some reputation of sticking up for the “little guy” after his victory in the Supreme Court. They claimed they were seeking his representation in order to free certain bank assets frozen since the CCD had declared the organization a terrorist group. Jon wasn't sure what to make of that. He could, in a way, sympathize with the organization. Many of the native tribes had resisted coming under the custody of the United States government, and perhaps for good reason: though the resistance in face of a greater power was ultimately futile, the spirit of the Indian was tramped down as his people had become essentially wards of the State. It had scattered his people, and put them in the position they now were, defenseless against interlopers and dependent upon another sovereign who might ignore the promises it made on a whim.
If Jon were to offer his services to the Minutemen, he would essentially have to get the CCD to reverse its declaration. Difficult, but there were ways. He would have to study CCD law further, and of course become recognized as a legal practitioner of their law to do so.
Which led to his second message: an invitation from the University at Moscow, the heart at the CCD, to participate in a debate on sovereignty and international treaty law in today's world. According to the invitation Jon was seen as having a unique perspective in this matter, having come from a people already under the custody of another sovereign state yet also being a people whose own sovereignty was – in letter – established as inviolate. Should he travel to Moscow to participate in this?
Perhaps he could work both angles.
Jon had to learn more before committing to any course of action. Careful as always, he needed more information. So he put his Wallet aside and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. The flickering of the Great Spirit manifested itself, singing to him, as it often did these days, but he ignored it for the time being and opened the other pathway with his third eye.
Jon stepped out of his body and into the Spirit World.
This place had almost become familiar to him, now. He strode from his tent, knowing to be wary, now. There were dangers here. Bruises and scrapes earned in previous visits had manifested themselves upon awakening before. It had not been difficult to reach the conclusion that he might as well really be in this reflection of the waking world. He had to be careful.
Jon's clothes shifted in this place, sometimes changing or disappearing altogether. It took concentration to maintain any particular look he was going for, but less so for one that suited his current mood. Oddly enough he found himself appearing this time as a traditional Apache scout, clothed in darken boots and breeches with an equally drab beige loincloth and shirt, his mouth and nose hidden by a cloth wrapped loosely from ear to ear. Odd, but he let it stay.
Jon ducked out of his tent into the open air. Here there was no moonlight but instead a soft glow that gently illuminated his surroundings. This must be because the moon itself was a transient object but its light was often present at night and thus must be more easily reflected in the Spirit World.
Jon turned away from the sky, and – he still wasn't sure how he did it – sought his destination, and shifted.
He found himself before a gray and alabaster behemoth of a structure. Testament to the old Soviet days, Jon supposed. Were those eyes watching him from the ever present darkness? He shrugged it off and walked inside.
He found himself among halls that flickered and changed in an eyeblink. Messages on bulletin boards came and went, and it was no use trying to read the video displays. Surely this was a busy place in the waking world.
Jon found himself inside a professor's study and idly rifled through papers on the desk. These also tended to disappear, and sometimes the wording changed. Still, he was able to glimpse enough to gain a semblance of the picture. Legal essays, mostly, at this desk. Students arguing the right of the CCD to bring other nations under the umbrella of security. Little dissenting arguments to be seen.
Jon breathed – although he wasn't certain he had taken a single other breath in this place, or needed to – and shifted himself upward, finding himself in a grand library. Books, thousands of books, lining walls so high ladders were needed to reach them all. He looked to a table and noticed it contained several manuscripts upon it. They made as if to move – and Jon somehow willed one to come to him. A recently used artifact, he supposed, to shift about as he walked here.
Jon leafed through the manuscript, and through several others he'd found. Uneasiness returned to him, an itching behind his shoulder blades. There were eyes watching him from somewhere. But that was not all that unsettled him. He'd read enough. Clearly from the essays he'd read the majority opinion of the law here was that which was of the whim of the Ascendancy and his confidants was good as law. Security triumphed sovereignty here.
And the CNA was thinking of reaching out to the CCD? For what? To trade one warden for another? One overlord for another? Who could say the CCD would have any better influence to protect native American interests than the increasingly impotent United States did? And what if, as often spoken of in certain circles, the United States ceded to them first? Would the native Americans become powerless wards of a puppet warden then, having been stripped of even the decision over whether they should maintain sovereignty or surrender themselves?
Those eyes Jon couldn't see were still watching him. He knew it. It was almost enough for him to seek out the flickering flame that was the Great Spirit and send fires to all corners of the room. Instead he just shook his head. The questions he'd had upon walking the Spirit World had been mostly answered, at least for tonight. No use sticking around. He turned, and imagined himself back in his sleeping body, and drifted off.
First, real sleep. He would act when he woke.
Edited by Jon Little Bird, Aug 6 2013, 04:21 AM.