06-30-2020, 12:41 AM
Marcus found it interesting how smell could convey the feel of a place. In hindsight, it was a rather obvious thing he'd learned growing up and being shuffled from home to home. You'd walk in the door and a barrage of odors would hit you- sometimes must, sometimes cloying perfume; the rancid smell of fried food that somehow always took on the aspect of fish no matter what it was; the stink of bleach and pinesol.
Like a fingerprint, each place was unique. And yet the underlying meaning was the same, in most anyway. The last home had been curiously...unnoticeable. Which also meant something.
The mood of a place, the rules and requirements, the extent of pain and limits of tolerance, all of it would come to him in a moment.
Butryka's stink spoke to him. Ascendancy's Dominion offered freedom in ways unheard of in times past. Aside from a few restrictions regarding what could be said about the man himself-and whether you fomented any sort of rebellion- people in general could pursue their dreams to their hearts content.
Which meant that to run afoul of the secret police, and to, even worse, find yourself behind these walls, meant you truly had fucked up.
Ascendancy knew that an outlet was needed, a bleeder valve that ran along back channels, to allow for those who might not operate strictly within the lines. A blurring of vision.
Tradition and appearance, unspoken and yet as rigid as if inscribed on iron tablets, governed the underworld and the mighty alike. Inside or outside the law proper, there were rules.
And Butryka was for those who did not follow them. At times it was punishment. At other times, it was to set an example. And for still others, it was a lesson.
He knew what Ascendancy wanted. He had been surprised the man had asked him to handle this personally. Not that he minded. No. In fact, he was rather interested to begin, especially now that he felt whole. The Consulate was running smoothly for now. His absence would not cause it to grind to a halt. He'd be a poor administrator if it did.
The question was what Ryker would prove to be. He smiled to himself, a distant memory of the Van Patton's and their never ending church TV. The parable of the sower. The seed lands on the road, where birds pick it up and it never sprouts. It lands among rocks and thorns where it sprouts but doesn't root deep and whithers away. It lands among the good soil and yields fruit. "Who decides what the soil is?" the pastor asked. The crowd murmers various ideas. God. The sower in where he cast. The devil place birds or rocks or thorns. "No. It is the listener, by their lifetime of choices." The people nod. Yes, they can make their hearts hard. They can allow thorns to root. Or they can soften or weed their hearts. They choose.
An easy way to brush off anyone who didn't want to hear, in Marcus' opinion. But not necessarily without some kernel of truth, he supposed.
What would Ryker be when he cast his seed?
Marcus passed through the entrance, scanned for any weapons. He smiled of course. He hadn't brought his lightsaber, of course. Not because he was worried it might be used. Simply because it was unnecessary here. He was the weapon.
He'd read the file. Ryker was sedated from the Force. The video had been enough. They couldn't take any chances. From his sources, he knew there was something more...elegant than drugs that might soon be available. He had his own researchers looking at it as well. At least from a channeling perspective. He knew how to shield. But could it be held indefinitely? Channelers would need to be able to controlled.
He sat in a single small room, metal table bolted to the floor, steel rings welded into its center for cuffs to be linked through. He didn't see a camera but likely it was there. More than one fiberoptic lens peeking through pinholes in the ceiling. The days of a one way mirror had been left to old television shows.
The room smelled of bleach, though he imagined the tang of copper or iron could be tasted. Interrogation rooms were interrogation rooms, after all.
He waited, dark brown wool suit jacket open to reveal a cream shirt and a dark purple tie, the symbol of his Consulate a tie pin. He did not need the Force to hear the movement of chains in the hall.
Like a fingerprint, each place was unique. And yet the underlying meaning was the same, in most anyway. The last home had been curiously...unnoticeable. Which also meant something.
The mood of a place, the rules and requirements, the extent of pain and limits of tolerance, all of it would come to him in a moment.
Butryka's stink spoke to him. Ascendancy's Dominion offered freedom in ways unheard of in times past. Aside from a few restrictions regarding what could be said about the man himself-and whether you fomented any sort of rebellion- people in general could pursue their dreams to their hearts content.
Which meant that to run afoul of the secret police, and to, even worse, find yourself behind these walls, meant you truly had fucked up.
Ascendancy knew that an outlet was needed, a bleeder valve that ran along back channels, to allow for those who might not operate strictly within the lines. A blurring of vision.
Tradition and appearance, unspoken and yet as rigid as if inscribed on iron tablets, governed the underworld and the mighty alike. Inside or outside the law proper, there were rules.
And Butryka was for those who did not follow them. At times it was punishment. At other times, it was to set an example. And for still others, it was a lesson.
He knew what Ascendancy wanted. He had been surprised the man had asked him to handle this personally. Not that he minded. No. In fact, he was rather interested to begin, especially now that he felt whole. The Consulate was running smoothly for now. His absence would not cause it to grind to a halt. He'd be a poor administrator if it did.
The question was what Ryker would prove to be. He smiled to himself, a distant memory of the Van Patton's and their never ending church TV. The parable of the sower. The seed lands on the road, where birds pick it up and it never sprouts. It lands among rocks and thorns where it sprouts but doesn't root deep and whithers away. It lands among the good soil and yields fruit. "Who decides what the soil is?" the pastor asked. The crowd murmers various ideas. God. The sower in where he cast. The devil place birds or rocks or thorns. "No. It is the listener, by their lifetime of choices." The people nod. Yes, they can make their hearts hard. They can allow thorns to root. Or they can soften or weed their hearts. They choose.
An easy way to brush off anyone who didn't want to hear, in Marcus' opinion. But not necessarily without some kernel of truth, he supposed.
What would Ryker be when he cast his seed?
Marcus passed through the entrance, scanned for any weapons. He smiled of course. He hadn't brought his lightsaber, of course. Not because he was worried it might be used. Simply because it was unnecessary here. He was the weapon.
He'd read the file. Ryker was sedated from the Force. The video had been enough. They couldn't take any chances. From his sources, he knew there was something more...elegant than drugs that might soon be available. He had his own researchers looking at it as well. At least from a channeling perspective. He knew how to shield. But could it be held indefinitely? Channelers would need to be able to controlled.
He sat in a single small room, metal table bolted to the floor, steel rings welded into its center for cuffs to be linked through. He didn't see a camera but likely it was there. More than one fiberoptic lens peeking through pinholes in the ceiling. The days of a one way mirror had been left to old television shows.
The room smelled of bleach, though he imagined the tang of copper or iron could be tasted. Interrogation rooms were interrogation rooms, after all.
He waited, dark brown wool suit jacket open to reveal a cream shirt and a dark purple tie, the symbol of his Consulate a tie pin. He did not need the Force to hear the movement of chains in the hall.