Having seen little movement forward in his case in the courtroom on his first day in Moscow, Jon took his place in the lecture hall.

"So Mr. Little Bird. You argue that progress of legal Prudence cannot happen in the circumstances currently having arisen in the CCD?" The moderator spoke.

"That is the case," Jon replied. "Here-as my current legal suit has made certain - there exists a relationship between The Executive power and the judiciary that is inherently imbalanced. The court clearly has no power to compel the Ascendancy, and this can mean only that a de facto dictatorship Relationship exists here."

"The Ascendancy was elected democratically" shouted his opponent.
"But it is not the means but the result," Jon replied. "If one man is not held to the rule of law, the rule breaks down and is no longer of any significance. And it becomes a pathway to tournament in which he can sent the rights of others by being beyond reproach."

"But the peace and prosperity brought by him!"

Jon cut his opponent off. "These things are worthless when bought by a dictator. They are gifts, not rights, that can be withdrawn at whom. A benevolent monarchy might be ideal for a time. Who would not want a single individual to rule for the interests of all? But when that the wise monarch passes the kingdom is in peril as the heirs try to grasp into power.

"This sort of representation is doomed from the start. I don't claim the Minutemen aren't a bit nuts in their belief they need to prepare for invasion and vocally oppose any threat. But if they can be made a target by the actions of one person and that person is above reproach from law, then you have no law. Only the inclinations of it's single individual. That is not freedom but oppression.

"Under such a system, every benefit you have you have not earned nor are entitled to. They are merely given and can be taken away at a whim. That is not rule of law."

The Academics clapped. Well, they were no matter. The Camera Filming this Mattered.

Tomorrow it was back to the Kremlin. A response would come. If it didn't, he would just keeping flogging the Horse of public opinion.

(edited 8-12 for formatting purposes, removing typos, miscapitalizations etc. resulting from posting via mobile phone)
Edited by Jon Little Bird, Aug 13 2013, 01:52 AM.

Finally, Nadia had a day to herself. She was off of work for the day while her office was being sprayed for pests, Zoe was off to school, and the little apartment in Bazhenov Square was all hers. She stood at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, peaking out the 4th story window to see the young children, too young for school, playing in the park. Filevskiy, she had been told it was called. She wondered if her parents had taken her to the park before they moved off... maybe even the same one.

An errant thought, and one not worth troubling herself over. Dishes now complete, she set about the work of trying to make their little house a home. Curtains were raised over the window behind the couch, a painting hung near the TV. Boxes containing books were broken down and discarded as their contents were loaded onto a shelf. The desk, Nadia's tablet laying across it as it charged, received a gift of a small plant in a decorative pot.

In the bedroom she shared with Zoe, a painting someone had done of the two of them hung. It was interpretive and didn't resemble them perfectly, but the way in which the artist had captured the love between mother and daughter had always stood out to them both.

Soon, though, she found that 500 sq feet of space didn't require much decorating and, finished, she dropped onto the couch to contemplate her afternoon. She thought maybe she would go down to the park and watch the children play while catching up on the news on her tablet. That led her to thoughts of how Zoe's day was going...

Her conscious mind drifted away, following the thoughts of the dark headed girl now cloistered safely in a class room. Again, she felt as if the world around her grew a little more clear, a little sharper, and she let herself be led as she reached for something... almost a light, but not quite. What was this? Suddenly, she felt like the strength of a mighty river was flowing through her veins. She gasped, but held onto this feeling of new power, not trying to subdue it, just trying to ride on the current...

She remembered feeling this a time or two before. She had heard whispers, read conspiracy theorist reports, even one that suggested that the Ascendancy himself had some special power, but she had always brushed it off as falsehoods. Power was what power was, whether political or electrical, and it wasn't something that came from within, like this seemed to be.

Hesitantly, she fumbled around with thoughts. What could she do with this? Well, some tea would be nice. Without knowing how she did it, she directed a cup to visit the faucet and water poured down into it. She pushed down her fear and confusion, allowing a tea bag to join the saucer and slowly, wobblingly, the whole contraption moved towards her before dropping indelicately upon the coffee table before her. She could almost feel tendrils or something reaching out around her, manipulating the cup, the spoon, the tea bag. The tendrils felt like the wind, gentle enough to guide something delicately, but strong enough to blow down the apartment complex were she to let it loose.

The water, she felt like she could almost command herself. It was its own mighty force, sitting delicately in the cup now, but she could sense the potential energy within it, enough to drive currents thousands of miles over the ocean's surface or sweep over continents in a tsunami, all contained within her tea cup.

It's cold. How do you fix cold? Moving the water fast enough may do it on its own, but she would have needed a bigger container. Perhaps... she stopped thinking about it so much and just let her mind go, and suddenly as though the power burned, a new feeling erupted from her, a tendril more lively even than the wind, and coming with a sense of destruction she hardly sensed before. In moments, the water was boiling in the tiny cup and she quickly worked to quell that before she accidentally set the building alight. Why am I so calm about all of this?

She shook her head violently and the world returned to normal. She sat on her sofa, dipped the tea bag into her cup, and contemplated the reality of a world she had denied for too long... and wondered what other things she had denied that might be true.

Michael had not expected that he would be made to return to the Undercity quite so soon.

The dank claustrophobic tunnels rubbed his nerves raw and the smell made his nose itch. He would have done without the heightened senses that holding the power brought, but his memories of this forsaken place were not exactly pleasant.

He had already fended off two prostitutes who had offered their services for his indigo coat. Even if it wasn't freezing and the coat meant nothing to him he still wouldn't have taken them up on their offer. Like as not he would catch something deadly, and he already had enough people trying to kill him without adding whores to the list.

He had been offered the usual range of drugs as well. He had never been interested in them - he barely drank as it was - but with the power he held the prospect seemed laughable.

What could be more potent, more addicting than the rush of the power singing through his veins? It was so very dangerous, but he was learning - like the young learning how much alcohol they could take without falling over. Except, it would be death if he stumbled with this drug, and he had no intention of falling.

He arrived at his destination, a rusted door with one of those knobs he used to see in the movies. The ones that you had to spin like a wheel to open.

He approached and gave the door a soft knock, which reverberated around the damn tunnel like he had kicked the door in. After much mumbling and cursing, the door squealed and opened, revealing a young woman in a mini-skirt and bra. She looked him up and down with a deliberately seductive gaze.

"I'm afraid I'm not working at the moment. Come back tonight, though, and I'll give you a discount."

She made to shut the door but Michael stopped it in a vice-grip, his rage cold and controlled.

"I am not here for business. I am here to talk,"
he said in a cold voice. "About Katalina Soloyov."


The woman's face drained of colour and she backed herself into the far wall. It was a small room, perhaps as big as two prison cells. She had little more than a bed and a collection of trinkets which had no value aside from the sentimental.

"K-Kat? I don't know anything about that! She just disappeared, I swear." It seemed that murdering one's neighbours was a common accusation around these parts. Michael could not remember much beyond his training in the Undercity. It was all cared about at the time.

"Tell me what you know,"
he said, not taking his eyes from hers.

"Like I said... I don't know much. She just disappeared."

"And you heard nothing? You saw nothing?"


"I was working..." she took a breath, wringing her hands.

"Do not lie to me,"
he said, regretting how it made her wince even as it happened. "Katalina may still be alive. If you hide anything from me, I will kill you."


Simple words, so simple, yet they tore at his heart. He would not relent though. He would not see an innocent woman dead because some whore was afraid he would call the Custody of Defence.

The woman sat down on the bed with an audible sigh. "I...I only saw shadows... I heard something like screaming... I'm not sure. I was high...It could have been a bad trip."

"What did you see in the shadows? Did you hear anything said?"
he pressed.

"Shapes...people. You know, the usual. I don't remember words. Just screaming. Terrible screaming." The woman shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Is there anyone who would want to attack Katalina?"


The woman laughed although she looked like she was about to cry. "This is the Undercity. Half of the place would jump at the chance to get a hold of a pretty girl like her, but nobody had tried for a long time. The last idiot who did got his cock cut in half."

"So she was not defenceless?"


"Are you an idiot? Any young girl around here needs to learn to defend herself or she ends up in a whorehouse worked like a slave."

Michael mused on what Tony had said. "What about strange tales? Unusual occurrences - even for the Undercity
," he scanned her face for any reaction as he spoke. "Ghosts, demons, monsters, cannibals."


There. He saw the hint of fear in her eye at the last one. "Cannibals, then. Tell me, what do they say about people eating human flesh?"


She was reluctant, but he held her gaze until she answered. "Stories... Rumours. Rapes, disappearances. They say that one woman had a chunk of her arm eaten while she was raped. All kinds of tales, none of them are ever true though." She didn't seem convinced.

"Where do these things happen, anywhere specific?"


She shook her head. "Happens all over the Undercity, it doesn't matter where you go, you will hear strange tales. People vanish in the middle of the night without a trace, that kind of shit."

Taken in the night. Alone.

Michael walked out of the room, and turned before he closed the door. "Thank you for your help, I shall remember it."


He didn't wait for a reply. He strode down the tunnel, the power raging through him. Tonight, he would be taking stroll, it seemed.

Jon stode the steps to the Kremlin. In the back of his mind he felt his knees tremble as he ascended the marble steps, almost an urging for him to back away. What was he doing, entering such a seat of power to challenge their rule with no real plan to speak of? Something emboldened him. Perhaps it was the brazen face he'd shown to Nolan Trace during their interview. Or perhaps it was the spirit walk he'd taken the night before, while his plane was still coasting toward its destination, and the...things...that had happened there. No matter.

He still wasn't sure what had struck a chord with him that had pushed him to represent the Minutemen. Perhaps it was just the challenge of seeing if he could do it. On the other hand, it rubbed him the wrong way for anyone to be pushed around by a greater power. People should be dealt with on equal terms. If all were not equal under the law, then what good was the law?

He walked into the central rotunda and after a few questions was quickly directed to the clerk of the Supreme Court of the CCD. It still retained the same chambers of the old court of Russia many  years ago, and like then, the chambers were improminent, as if court was an afterthought. Courts should never be an afterthought, Jon said to himself. The law should apply to everyone.

Jon found the clerk and smiled to her. “May I help you?” she asked with a thick accent that spoke of northern regions, possibly Siberia. It was interesting she'd addressed Jon in English, though, it was certainly making an effort on her part.

Jon didn't let his appreciation show. He dropped a stack of paper on her desk. “I have heard the Supreme Court is in session,” he said. The woman nodded, gathering the papers he'd unceremoniously dumped upon her. “I am filing an injunction against the CCD on behalf of the Minutemen for the actions taken to limit transfers of funds due to their designation as a terrorist organization. The Supreme Court is in session, you've said?” The woman nodded again, clearly confused and perhaps a bit intimidated. Jon noticed this and used it to his benefit: “Please file those. I will present my case before them in five minutes. Please notify them.”

No kidding, five minutes later Jon was facing three Justices of the Supreme Court of the CCD. He could tell they weren't amused.

The one on the right spoke, a gray-headed man with very white teeth: “You think you can just barge in here and get a hearing granted?” he asked. “Who do you think you are?”

Of course, Jon had just done that exact same thing. “The Supreme Court is the primary court in matters of national security and international relations,” he responded. “Both of these criteria are met by the actions taken by the CCD against my client. This establishes this court's jurisdiction. As to my abrupt demand for a hearing, quod est necessarium est licitum. That which is necessary is legal. Time is running out for my client, and it is upon the shoulders of the court to hear me out and rule accordingly.”

“Very well...um, who are you?”

Jon smiled. “I am the plantiff ad litem for the Minutemen organization seeking an injunction against the designation of the use of “terrorist group” as a means to classify the organization, its members, in all avenues of daily life under domain controlled by the CCD, including but not exclusive to travel, surveillance and financial transactions.”

The woman sitting in the center cocked an eyebrow. “ Are you even recognized to practice law here ? Plantiff ad litem? What court appointed you representative of the organization?”

Jon smiled. “Why, you did. Or will, right now. It is not lawful or right to take actions against any person or group without affording or allowing that person or group an opportunity to contest the status, excluding wartime relations, of course – of which these do not apply here. Therefore the court cannot infer a legal status such as terrorist group upon any individual or group unless that individual or group has been afforded appropriate legal representation.  I am the person chosen for said legal representation.”

He felt so smug. While careful not to get to heady of the feeling, he still relished it : “Ergo, the court is in a position where it may either appoint me as plaintiff ad litem to the party and recognize my right to bring this suit against the  CCD or it can deny representation and thus legally negate the CCD's declaration of my client's status.” not that it would mean anything other than really, really bad PR if they would choose to do so.

The female judge in the center sighed. “Very well. The Court recognizes you as plaintiff ad litem in the matter of...Minutemen v. Dominion...” It was clear she was not used to listing the CCD as a defendant. “It would please the Court for the Plaintiff to state its argument.”

This had gone better than Jon had planned. He had hoped to at least create an attraction, but at the moment he was dealing serious blows. Court reporters were taking notice.

Interview with Little Bird
Vulpesnet/Nolan Trace

The interview with Little Bird went very well. He's every bit as intelligent as you'd expect from someone who got a law degree from Yale in a year. We'll definitely be following up with him over the next couple weeks to see how his efforts are panning out in Moscow.

Interview with Little Bird Coming Up
Vulpesnet/Nolan Trace

It's been a hectic week. Dayton's gone up in flames and the President's just got caught up in a nasty scandal--see this nation burn in hell before letting it join the CCD? Hey, I like the dedication but he could have phrased it a lot better. Not looking good for re-election. Anyways, I've gotten a request from Jon Little Bird for an online interview while he's in Moscow representing the Minutemen in a debate on CCD law.

Most of you are probably scratching your heads right now and wanting to ask me, "Mr. Trace, who in God's name is Jon Little Bird?" Those of you living within a hundred miles of an Indian reservation probably already know him well--love him or hate him. The fact is, he's famous for standing up for the little guy. And you can't get much littler than the Native American minority in this country.

Jon Little Bird graduated Yale law in a year, with the highest honor they've ever bestowed. He's been the Council for Native Americans' number one legal attack dog whenever their treaties with the U.S. are breached, and from what I can see he has won almost every case he's taken on. Even ignoring his performance at Yale, when you consider how often the concerns of Amerindians get sidelined in this country that's a very impressive record. And he's going to the heart of the CCD to debate the Minutemen's status as a terrorist group.

Of course, the opinion of the judiciary system in the CCD matters about as much to their executive branch as the opinion of Piers Morgan--when is he going to retire?--does to ours here. But according to Little Bird, if you convince enough of the people that Ascendancy's acting out of line, he'll have to revoke the status in order to save face. 

I've made my opinion on the matter of the Minutemen being considered a terrorist group known in the past. It's ridiculous that what is essentially a cluster of activists has been labelled terrorists. It's a clear ploy by the CCD to crush dissenting opinions. Little Bird asked me to interview him in order to give the plight of the Minutemen greater exposure on the world stage. How could I refuse?

<small>Editor's note: The interview is scheduled for tomorrow at 12 PM EST</small>

<em>Published by Vulpesnet, 2045. U.S.A</em>

Comments are: <strong>OPEN</strong>

<small>((Comments are anonymous unless you state your character's name in the time tag:

Comment: "NAME" (TIME TIMEZONE) ))</small>

Nikolai sat at a spacious, historical desk.  It was a relic of the Russian regime, one of many pieces the Ascendancy chose to preserve during the capital’s evolution over the last twenty-five years.  Centered in the heart of his government, and positioned in the center of this very room, it, along with every inch of the space around him, was designed to dwarf and belittle those who dared approach. 

It was from this room he held conferences with equivalent offices around the world; equivalent in name-only.  From this exact vantage, heads of state met the eyes of the man who forged the greatest empire in history.  And shuddered. 

As soon as his current call ended, he leaned back thoughtfully.  His posture had been tall and militant before.  Now, his state relaxed since he was no longer being broadcast to Washington DC.  Theirs was meant to be a private conversation: a secure, live call between himself and the President of the United States. 

However, Nikolai immediately flicked his thoughtful gaze to one of the men standing opposite.  To one of several who had been off-camera, he signaled with a firm nod.  The young man was suited, the Ascendancy maintained a mandatory dress-code for those in his perimeter, but he was clearly uncomfortable in the high-profile company.  But as this engineer was one of the best, which was why he was recruited to the greatest office in the world to begin with, the Ascendancy could forgive the idiosyncrasies of a scientist. 

The man nodded, scratched at his hair nervously then turned to begin directing line after line of code into a glass projected panel on the wall.  At his direction, the security connection in their broadcast system momentarily weakened.  Then he confirmed the presence of no less than a dozen hackers within a few seconds.  Just long enough for any one of them to download and rebroadcast what should have been a secure video transmission between himself and President Dawson.  Another signal, and moments later, the appropriate firewalls were reinstated. 

“Done sir.” 

The video was leaked.

”Thank you.  That will be all, Carl.”  Nikolai waved his Press Attendant and Media Privilege to the desk.  Carl gathered his things and left. 

***


"Mister President, our intelligence sources the Minutemen as the terrorists responsible for this accident as seeking to blight my arrival to Dayton--undermining the entire Summit." Nikolai had claimed, sitting straight and true, hands folded against the edge of his desk, only a few minutes ago. 

"Of course you would say that, Brandon," the President spit, foregoing the honorific use the Ascendancy’s title.  By now, both powers were aware the Dayton Disaster was no mere accident.  The party responsible was still a matter of debate.

Nikolai opened his palms briefly and in doing so demonstrated his desire to maintain their dialogue, "How many more of these reactors, these untested technologies will you inflict upon your own people before you see reason, Frederick?"

The President narrowed his gaze, offended and disgusted by the logic any common man could abide. 

Nikolai continued calmly, "I am submitting my proposal for USA-to-Custody annexation to your House of Representatives once more.  The American people deserve the chance to think for themselves, rather than you holding them hostage.  As it once was, in the time of the Founding Fathers, New York City will a capital again.  This time of the newly established Dominance VIII.  To maintain democratic culture, the DVIII Patron will be nominated by popular vote.  And--"

The President could take no more of this.  He slammed his palms upon his own desk in the Oval Office and stood, leaning into the camera, voice thin and cold.  "How dare you speak of our Founding Fathers.  I would let the entire nation burn in hell, every child ripped from their mother's arms, and every carcass left to rot in the fields before betraying the noble sacrifice of their great Revolution.  This conversation is over."  The screen went black.  Nikolai remained calm while facing the temper of his greatest enemy.

Then he signaled the uncomfortable engineer...


***

It was a political move of course.  Back and forth on a dangerous chess board they played. 

Nikolai anticipated President Dawsons reaction to their conversation, and he anticipated the media’s reaction to the video as soon as hackers generated a sell to the highest bidder.  It would soon spread worldwide, if it hadn’t already.  That video, of the President of the United States behaving as a schoolboy outraged at the patience of his taskmaster, would undermine the rest of the man’s questionable authority, but it was the cold-blooded admission which would execute his Administration: he would rather see the flesh of his country rot from its bones than give up his power. 

Congressional members of the same party up for reelection would distance themselves, financial backers would go dark, and dissent would mildew the White House walls.  As an incumbent going into election season, Dawson likely hammered himself into his own coffin behaving as he had.  Using the choice words he had; and the media only cared about headlines, not context...  You reap what you sow, Nikolai recalled his father’s dying schema with a faint smile.

Which meant it was now time to collect the President’s future competition.

Nikolai turned to his Press Attendant, ”Now. Get Nolan Trace here.” 

“Yes, Ascendancy.”

As the two men departed, Nikolai reluctantly released the fury of life he’d wielded during the taping.  He often reached for it when dealing with the public.  His senses were sharpest, his mind quickest when centered so.  It cast his expression with the edge of an unseen aura and many a man avoided meeting his gaze when he was so clad with power: Mister Trace included -- who turned aside and rubbed his temple.  Weak and predictable.

Yet ever since that ill-fated interview, a shard of doubt worked at the edge of Nikolai’s impenetrable consciousness.  A splinter which dug in a little more deeply every time he heard his own title.  He was an ascendant man; he was the god of prophecy; he was doing what was right.  The world needed him.

He rose, buttoning his suit coat.  ”Inform the State Office, he announced.  I’m going to the Facility.”  He left and a team of security agents fell in step alongside him. 

He must have been mistaken about Trace; about what he felt. 

Soon the man would be in Moscow.  Soon he would find out.

Continued from: Browsing

The camera that should have overlooked the service tunnel entrance near the Guardian hospital was broken. And had been for months, from what Chief Inspector Drayson could determine. It took the better part of his morning interviewing a selection of nearly two dozen department managers, shift supervisors, and work crew chiefs regarding the half dozen worker reports about the broken camera, and a dozen more made by one particularly astute security guard whose job it was to stare at the video feeds all day. But not a single work order had ever been signed off on.

By the end of the interviews, he had narrowed it down to gross incompetence, and one department manager was sure to loose his job. Those cameras were installed both for security and for people's safety. And of course, a critical piece of information was missing from the puzzle he was piecing together because of it. He could now only guess the missing heart-surgery patient and his friend had come through there.

Luckily, in his investigation, one of the crew chiefs had proven himself an intelligent and all together likeable fellow. Apparently also well liked by some of the squatter communities that lived in a region that was deservingly coined the 'undercity.' The camera might have been broken, and no city crews had reported anything out of the ordinary, but the folks that lived in the tunnels and forgotten places under the city might have seen something. For a price, likely.

He doubted they would even be willing to speak to him, but with the crew chief along, a familiar and friendly face, it would hopefully open a few doors to him. In the early afternoon, Drayson met the crew chief and two of his underlings at the tunnel, arriving in time to watch them finish the repairs on the camera. Pleasantries were shared, and then they loaded into the specially designed service truck, more of a larger then normal buggy, and they started down the tunnel. There were bars and a gate, but it hadn't been properly locked in all the time the camera had been broken. And would remain unlocked for another week or two, with a newly mounted signing proclaiming as much, to allow those who had been frequenting this place at night a chance to adjust. No point trapping anyone down there.

Academically, Drayson was aware of just how sprawling Moscow's undercity was. He would occasionally read reports from other departments of the more interesting discovires; old and empty armouries, facilities, bunkers, and metro lines repurposed to meth labs, opium dens, illegal immigrant camps and the like. The costs of the clean up was astronomical, he was sure.

His first day was spent on a tour, with little time given over to trying to find any leads. The crew chief familiarized Drayson a bit with life underground, comparing their location with above ground landmarks, and he was suitably impressed with just how huge the place really was. The utility maps were a pain to try and understand at first, but the more they travelled the more he began to recognize how it all worked.

It was on his second day beneath Moscow's streets that the real work began. Again paired with the crew chief and some of the men in his department, they began to visit some of the more regularly inhabited regions; old metro stations or bomb shelters seemed the most favoured. The locals were hard pressed to warm up to Drayson's presence, and eventually he decided to just give the crew chief the sorts of questions he had, and let the man work his reputation to Drayson's aid.

Leads were few and far between. The people who lived down there were understandably upset; the city improvements were forcing them farther from the city center or further underground. Both made it harder for them to earn money from panhandling, forced them farther from known and trusted soup kitchens and shelters. But that was the price of improvement; the work created more jobs, which should have meant fewer people living in the underground city. But it never seemed to work that way.

Rather then full on leads, they began to piece together a rather unpleasant picture; people would go missing in the tunnels. Mostly if alone, or in pairs. Not terribly surprising; such things were expected to happen and was likely the work of gangs, but Drayson didn't dismiss it off hand. The stories were varied of course; metro dogs eating people, ghosts in the walls, giant rats, alligators, Jack the Ripper-esque murderers. Everyone had their own excuse, and by the end of that second day Drayson just had a notepad full of urban legends.


Edited by Drayson, Aug 11 2013, 07:03 PM.

Home. After a long day. Between Rune’s new commission and Thalia’s outstanding work and projects, the time had inexplicably gushed through her fingers like sand, and there was still so much to do; she’d had to prise herself away from her studio when the shadows had finally deepened enough for her to take heed. After catching herself squinting between blue and turquoise, it’d occurred to her to check her Wallet for the time. Then double check in disbelief. Thal generally didn’t like taking the metro late at night, though sometimes it couldn’t be helped. There were only a few stops between Arbatskaya and Filevsky Park anyway. Tonight the carriage had almost been empty.

Her apartment was all grey shadows within. Trinkets and books lined shelves on most of the free walls, hugging the darkness to their cores, and a bit of light from the window caressed the edges of furniture. Thalia dumped her keys in a bowl on a sideboard, yanked the satchel over her head and let that fall too, then pulled off her boots one at a time on her way to the sofa. Where she crashed, unceremoniously. Paint still flecked her fingernails - she could feel it - and probably curled in the ends of her hair too. I’ll shower tomorrow. A yawn cracked her jaw. Though I should probably call Aylin. Which she had absolutely every intention of doing, the moment she could regroup the energy to decipher which shadow hid the bag that contained her Wallet. And the further bit of effort it would take to get up and actually retrieve it.

She blinked for a long time at the offending shadow, until the blinks became slower and the darkness lulled her. She fell asleep.

[Continued at "Glimmers of a Dream"]

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.