03-26-2024, 01:12 AM
Mat passed the time idly scrolling wallet feeds. He checked in with friends back home, informing them that he was waiting to meet with an elusive someone. His messages to Damien, however, took on a more formal tone. Curious about the uncertainty of his location, he scrutinized maps to try and decipher his location, only to find satellite imagery oddly misrepresenting the area as undeveloped. Perhaps the map was out of date or perhaps the satellites conveniently swung wide of their location. It was a discrepancy eerily reminiscent of the oddities around his father’s factories. This sense of déjà vu deepened when a uniformed, armed man strode in, and Matías murmured to himself, “at least one thing is familiar.”
Rising, Mat consciously moderated his stance to appear non-threatening, mindful of the armed presence.
The guard, of medium stature with a buzzed cut typical of the military, addressed him, “Mr. Amengual. Thank you for your patience. Please follow me.”
Navigating through the building's stark, functional corridors, Mat was oddly fixated on the guard’s attire, unmistakably Custodian in design. It felt surreal, being ensconced in the heart of such a vast empire. It was as if the guard sensed his scrutiny, turning abruptly to give Mat a piercing look.
Emerging into the chill, Mat regretted not owning a coat, having planned to purchase one upon reaching Moscow. Instead, he found himself whisked off to this secluded military site.
He slowed considerably when he realized the group that had gathered to greet him, advancing cautiously afterward.
Approaching the assembled group, Mat’s pace slowed, his approach wary. The armed, vigilant guards mirrored the security of his childhood, yet it was the line of imposing men that captured his full attention.
Suddenly, Matías stiffened, staring into the distance for about twenty seconds, eyes unblinking and posture tense. It ceased as abruptly as it commenced, leaving Mat to regain his poise.
The visions that passed him in that moment featured almost every single person in view, spreading across hundreds of different possible futures that stretched for long lengths of time. Meeting Damien in person was the only comparable experience, but he was only one man, and here were seven.
A brisk wind whipped through, ruffling his hair and flapping the open collar of his inadequate white shirt. Dressed without a uniform or any emblematic attire to denote his role within the CCD, he stood in his most composed attire, hands buried in his trouser pockets.
About to speak, Mat’s attention was hijacked by an unexpected figure among the Rods of Dominion.
"Jay Carpenter?"
Rising, Mat consciously moderated his stance to appear non-threatening, mindful of the armed presence.
The guard, of medium stature with a buzzed cut typical of the military, addressed him, “Mr. Amengual. Thank you for your patience. Please follow me.”
Navigating through the building's stark, functional corridors, Mat was oddly fixated on the guard’s attire, unmistakably Custodian in design. It felt surreal, being ensconced in the heart of such a vast empire. It was as if the guard sensed his scrutiny, turning abruptly to give Mat a piercing look.
Emerging into the chill, Mat regretted not owning a coat, having planned to purchase one upon reaching Moscow. Instead, he found himself whisked off to this secluded military site.
He slowed considerably when he realized the group that had gathered to greet him, advancing cautiously afterward.
Approaching the assembled group, Mat’s pace slowed, his approach wary. The armed, vigilant guards mirrored the security of his childhood, yet it was the line of imposing men that captured his full attention.
Suddenly, Matías stiffened, staring into the distance for about twenty seconds, eyes unblinking and posture tense. It ceased as abruptly as it commenced, leaving Mat to regain his poise.
The visions that passed him in that moment featured almost every single person in view, spreading across hundreds of different possible futures that stretched for long lengths of time. Meeting Damien in person was the only comparable experience, but he was only one man, and here were seven.
A brisk wind whipped through, ruffling his hair and flapping the open collar of his inadequate white shirt. Dressed without a uniform or any emblematic attire to denote his role within the CCD, he stood in his most composed attire, hands buried in his trouser pockets.
About to speak, Mat’s attention was hijacked by an unexpected figure among the Rods of Dominion.
"Jay Carpenter?"
![[Image: Matias-signature.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Matias-signature.jpg)
![[Image: aztec-quetzalcoatl-ouroboros-nikolay-todorov.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/03/aztec-quetzalcoatl-ouroboros-nikolay-todorov.png)