Chimes. Chimes could be heard wafting through the ceilings of Kloven's industrial park once again. The sounds would always come on slow at first, as though waking you from a dream you were unaware of. Then all at once, the clear bells sang, echoing sounds in every corner of the complex.
Though the area was always alive with life, most of Kloven's followers lived in the city. Not only because they could live for inexpensively, but because many were every day people. Businessmen, construction workers, shop attendants--anyone you could see. They remained hidden among the crowds of random faces during the day, with their heads down like the rest. But at night the vampires come.
And then there were the select few; Kloven's diehard followers who lived within his ghost town. Free speech and living was a justified and accepted way of life on this planet, so an action such as creating a commune was entirely legal. In fact, Kloven was far from the first to begin such a place. Several older generations spent a long time building free communities on the outskirts of the mesa jungle. After combining a decade ago, they are now the largest commune on the planet, with over half a million people existing essentially as a separate country.
For members of the Power Chord, becoming two people at once was often a hard life. Many in the business district had countless stories to tell about their misadventures in public, or accidental revealing, which always led to a swift capture for intense questioning. But for the rest of the street rats, they remained happy and protected by the city government, who provided them support in a number of ways, including financially. Kloven had brilliantly acquired all the assets he needed for his group through his vast knowledge of the Capitol system, creating a government sanctioned living space that was not only private, but funded and free for his people. All the while, sucking blood from the hand that fed them.
This was a place for the outcast, the forgotten, the weird, the violent. But most importantly to Kloven, they were malleable minds ready to be instructed on how to live their lives. Ready to be shown the path. Ready to walk into hell.
A few of his followers, still dressed in their flamboyant colors and threads, wandered away from their camp fires and hideouts inside the dark, dank buildings. Some crawled out from underneath narrow openings in the walls like spiders, or jumped down to the iron surface from unseen webs high above, joining groups of colorful youths on their way to the open area outside.
As they came in front of the stage, they could now see the source of the sound. This time, the chimes were coming from an old grandfather clock that had been left in the middle of Kloven's circular platform. Many unsober members of the group thought it was him at first glance, frozen in one of his odd positions. When the ragged crew finally made their way up the steps and in front of the clock, more followers came into sight. Encircling the stage grounds, men and women alike performed artistic stunts, acting as constant displays of human expression. Some hung by chains and ribbons in strange contortions. Others were trapped in clear boxes, starving themselves for days. A few stood high up on a rusted wall, creating blood paintings from open wounds. They strung themselves across the yard like ornaments, performing outrageous acts as dedications for their self proclaimed master.
Before long, many on the stage noticed a small doll hanging inside the inner gears of the grandfather clock. It was in the shape of a man that resembled Kloven, dangling by his feet. A decorative card lay over the doll, bordered with gold lace which sparkled in the dying sunlight. It featured an image of a figure in the same position as the doll, and was titled 'The Hanging Man.' As their eyes examined the clock thoroughly, desperately searching for more clues, they could see an etching in the face just above the numbers. It read: "Time is Construct."
One of the men grabbed the card and looked it over. There on the back, were directions to his next public speech. As the card was presented to all, smiles and stray cheers of excitement snaked through the crowd. Even in his absence, Kloven put on a good show. Within moments, every single soul at the commune rushed to an exit, fearing they were already late. They gathered small bags, books and belongings. Grabbed scarves, flags, spray paint and vibrant jackets. Without thought and driven by passion, they swiftly paraded away from the complex and into the outskirts of the city. Many of their friends were forgotten and left behind, still screaming from boxes hanging in the air.
Their outlines shifted into shapes, and soon just simple colors floating in the distance. Splitting apart and coming together again in evil harmony, as if a fire were slowly overtaking the world beyond.
Kloven rarely gave public speeches, but when he did, it stopped the world. Tonight he had chosen a popular spot in one of the local parks, on ground level, inside the depths of the city. A majority of the public spent their time attracted to the world high above, a bustling inner network of floating buildings and bridges, all connecting commerce and endless entertainments. But on ground level, the world became organic again. The ocean was close, parks had native residents and ancient trees, animals and insects buzzed. It was alive with natural energy. This was also where most local businesses were founded and continued, as the older generations had no desire to move to the upper city. Pure history was in the streets.
Even so, ground level cities still attracted many youths, as they came to appreciate it as a place for relaxing, extended vacations. Unfortunately, many stay too long and end up becoming lost in the culture, or eventually homeless. As a result, there were several small communes and low cost living areas across certain sections of the seaside villages. This was where Kloven planned his attacks.
Tonight, the sky was clear and the stars were out. Not even the city glow from above could dull them. Crowds of local people were all around, eating at food carts, watching humble street performances, or buying small gifts for their families. It was a surprisingly bustling atmosphere, filled with all kinds of smells, sounds and distractions. But tonight, something else was in the air.
In a passing moment, Kloven suddenly appeared atop a small boulder centered in the middle of the largest grass park. He was clad in a blood red cloak, whirling around in the layers as if a bird settling into a tree, which drew a considerable amount of attention. Then he froze. As the people gathered around, they stared in wonder at the hooded figure in the middle of the rock, arms stretched to the sky. "I am the dead!" he abruptly screamed. The crowd flinched collectively. "Who are you?!" He sprang to life and circled the stone surface, his eyes falling on every face. "The undead, the darkness, the hole in the center of the universe from which all creation steams. I am the blood and stone of the earth!"
"Blood and stone!" A few of Kloven's party had arrived. They exclaimed from the shadows near the back of the crowd. Wassador's huge bear face loomed behind them, keeping an ever watchful eye.
Kloven smiled. "Fire and ash is not the end," he continued, his hands and arms dancing. "They are a cycle, a rebirth, a destiny and a mythology. You are the construct of everything you see and believe in this world. But know this. Know what I say. Know that there is only one truth. To give eyes light, to see the true world beyond the fabric of society. A system to sear and blacken your heart, melt your dreams, to suck your soul from your flesh. Your blood--yours!" He pointed angrily at random people. "Your red dust will be sifted into the sands of time. Your oil will feed the gears of corruption and evil."
A sizable crowd was now gathered before him, all equally intrigued and fascinated. The more vibrant colors of the Power Chord slowly crept into the audience, painting the shadows. "You lack kings!" Kloven declared, his arms reaching out to the people as if in pain. "You lack heart and soul. Leadership. You lack the sun. You bury the sun." His eyes grew colder with every word, piercing the hearts of the stunned faces around him.
As his words drifted into the diamond stars overhead, another hooded figure made his way around the back of the crowd. He moved like a predator, stalking every person who had their back turned. When a safe position was determined, he stopped and pulled his hood back. A familiar face came into the soft glow of the streets lights. It was Charles, covered in an oversized dark grey cloak to hide himself in this foreign land.
Charles usually only ventured to two separate locations in Ogunquit: The Forest Mesa and this park where Kloven was performing in tonight. The park was often a dark place, filled with mystery, but never cold. The people who spent time here were all happy, friendly and willing to please or perform. Random plant life overgrew everything, community gardens were at the end of all corners, and quaint farmer's markets lined the beach walk. At night, the old, slanted street lights blazed with orange and yellow. Moths dashed through the illuminations. Vivid adolescents used drugs in hidden spaces which knew no light, or listened to music in small circles. The cracked brick walls were decorated with graffiti from top to bottom, marking statements of power, protection, equal rights, human rights, and violent gang tags and territory markers. It was exactly what Charles loved so much about this place. He absorbed the culture. Yet tonight, he had come here for another reason.
Charles knew Kloven was due to perform tonight. For years, he had secretly been watching the uprising of this very unique idol. At first it began as an assignment, a duty to watch over him for security reasons. But over time, he eventually made acquaintances with some of Kloven's followers, acquiring information from them any way he could. Wassador for instance, was once in an infantry division who worked directly for the Capitol. He was a promising solider who grew fast through the ranks, eventually attaining secret military knowledge and information. However, after many years of service he went missing, never to be seen again, until finally reappearing two years ago at Kloven's side as a supplier and warlord.
This was how Kloven ran his secret operations so precisely. If it were not for Wassador's valuable information and experience, the Power Chord would not have been possible. Kloven was the ring leader, Wassador the organizer.
On some nights, Wassador would recognize Charles, who had attended more then one performance. His keen eyes could immediately pin the sullen stature of a military man. Charles was hidden from all, except for him. But Charles knew this, for he too was always very aware of his surroundings. Wassador studied Charles while he listened to the rest of Kloven's speech.
"Unchain yourself from the reality!" Kloven continued, his voice now horse from screaming. "Unchain your mind from this construct. I tell you this only once! It is up to you to choose. Know me well on this night, my friends, for it will be the last time you see me." With that, his body slouched again as if succumbing to sleep. All grew still and silent. But not for long.
His compelling ending and brave, shocking message had resonated with the audience tonight. They erupted with noise and praise. There were always a few who remained unimpressed and wandered off, but most stayed and cheered wildly. Whether the feelings were true, or some drug induced coma, Kloven cared not. As long as they gained wisdom and became interested in his cause, he had won the day.
Charles stood still in the shadows for a while longer, allowing the people to move around him as he leaned himself against a brick wall. He watched Kloven's followers surround the big boulder, chanting words of encouragement, or reaching out to grab him. Some passed out flyers with flowers, or patches with their insignia, encouraging others to join the fight. As Charles was turning to leave, a strong voice stopped him. "Charles?" Wassador bellowed. Charles turned slowly and shared an affirmative nod, careful not become overly friendly. "You come again?" Wassador asked. "It is not often we have repeat visitors from the Capitol. That is rare sight." He let a smile slip through his prickly snout.
"I am a rare person," Charles replied thoughtfully. "It's no surprise to me."
"This I believe to be true." Wassador's broad body lumbered forward. Charles could smell his burnt clothing; the grey cargo suit ridden with laser marks and dried blood. One could only imagine where he had come from. "I also believe this particular visit may be more important."
"What do you mean?" Charles inquired.
Wassador's gaze became thin and piercing. "I am no spiritual being, but I know destiny in the eyes."
Although Wassador may have resembled a simple giant, Charles could recognize the sharpness and maturity of his mind clearly. "I would hardly call watching a performance destiny," he replied. "My appearance serves no purpose."
Wassador crossed his muscular arms and studied Charles' face. "I think you know what I mean."
"I can only imagine," Charles sighed.
At that moment, a few older homeless men wandered in front of them. They were covered with worn rags and asking any who passed by to spare them some extra money. "Anything, sir? Anything?" They muttered as they passed by.
Wassador remained silent and still, only meeting their eyes to offer a cold, unsympathetic stare. Seeing no solace, they quickly shuffled away in fear.
"Why do you not respond to them?" Charles questioned.
"Trash does not make a noise," Wassador declared sternly. He looked to Charles. "It blows down the street." Charles decided to reserve his response. "You have lost your hard edge," he added. "You forget, we were once part of the same force of rule and order."
Charles could sense Wassador's lust to control conversation. He shifted his stance to a more assertive position. "As I recall," he began, "you were not able to make it to Solar Warden." Wassador's expression grew pensive. "I remember a tale of escape and betrayal. A tale of underground markets, illegal arms deals and innocent death. Destruction for the cause of rebellion," Charles stared into his eyes. "And now of hope, apparently. But who is it for?"
Wassador allowed himself to absorb the words; to consider them. Yet he knew his path was true. He knew he was right. He was justified. "My soul is prepared and pure," he finally replied. "My cause is just. I know who I serve. Do you?"
"I used to." Charles responded quickly.
"Have you lost your faith?"
"Not I," Charles corrected. "They have lost vision."
"No, Charles," Wassador placed a fury, weathered paw on his chest. "You follow the wrong leader."
"I do not believe in leaders," Charles stated proudly, raising his chin. "I believe in only myself."
Just then, another voice cut into the conversation. "Beautiful words, friend." Kloven said as he approached Charles from behind Wassador. He was surrounded by a small group of lively people, constantly encircling him as he strolled through the park. Sweat drenched hair clung to his forehead, a glass of ice in one hand, his hooded cloak cast over his shoulders. He was a celebrity. "Who are you?" Kloven asked, coming beside Wassador.
"Just another soul." Charles answered quietly. Wassador stepped aside to let Kloven speak directly, but Charles was already turning around to leave.
"You seem like a poet to me." Kloven called out. Charles halted himself and leaned his body toward them again. "Perhaps it is you who should be captivating my audience tonight."
"I mean no disrespect to your arts..."
"Disrespect? No, not at all," Kloven raised his arms into the air. "I welcome all souls to the fire, my friend. We are all one." Charles listened intently. "My poetry was not inspired by libraries. It was inspired by you." He pointed at Charles.
Charles nodded graciously. "That's very admirable. I respect that. However, this is not my place."
Kloven smiled and drew closer to him. "Even more interesting, one who knows his place. For I know not what mine may be."
"I only mean that I live how I am intended to," Charles remarked stoically.
"Indeed, that is the only way a candle can burn." Kloven froze for a moment, as if attempting to recall a fleeting memory. "I know your face." He proclaimed.
Charles was almost frightened by this revelation. It was an odd response which unsettled him. He certainly had no desire to be known by this faction. "I really must be leaving now, I'm sorry." He turned to leave once more.
"The face of a visionary! But you do not realize it!" Kloven briskly skipped forward, shaking his arm at Charles as he made his way outside of the park gates. When Charles had faded out of sight, Kloven wandered back to Wassador, a bewildered expression contorting his face. "...You know this man?" He asked.
Wassador hesitated for a moment. "I do." He admitted.
Kloven peered at his powerful counterpart, clasping his hands behind him. "A man that has tortured the mighty Wassador into thought. Fascinating. Truly. My feelings do not betray me."
"A man of artificial faith." Wassador grumbled, dismissing the idea.
Kloven's mind raced with fresh contemplations. "The Capitol?" Wassador nodded once. "A friend?" He wondered.
"He is something else."
Kloven pondered this notion for a long moment, then moved himself in front of Wassador's face. "Tell me more of this."
The next day, overcast skies had enveloped the city of Ogunquit once again. In the grey weather, the hovering buildings lay quiet and peaceful, mirroring only the frigid ocean. In the highest of the tall structures, atop their apartment complex, Raymond was overlooking the steel sky. He closed his eyes from periodically as the breeze blew, finding moments of calm to think. As the sun shimmered behind clouds in patches of light, the city below him was animated with the usual, lively activity. Freight ships and personal transports lumbered past him and into the sky. The people in the streets below moved about in rhythmic patterns, lead in every direction by the sights and sounds of the metropolis.
When he became tired of his observations, he climbed down the side of the building, onto a thin catwalk, then hopped onto the patio by the front door. As always, he remained clothed in his traditional uniforms, even when not on duty. He knew little else but dark cargo pants and sleeveless, silk shirts with shoulder garments. On this day he wore a dull red top, notched at the neck with a thin V running down his chest. It matched a battle worn maroon shoulder cape, with attached silver chains draped over his heart.
As he walked into the living room, it seemed more quiet then ever before. The air was still, as if all energy in the house had vanished. For some time now, Victorian had not left this place, still in shock from her near death experience. Most of the time she spent with Dove, keeping him from many naps, enveloped in her arms in the living room chair. When Dove was asleep, she talked constantly to her daughter Emillie who was still off planet in school. She had changed.
Raymond knew to keep his distance, but he was also aware that this ordeal must end at some point. He had been an excellent teacher all her life, instructing his beloved daughter to be strong, learn from failure, and become brave. Naturally, to see her in this vulnerable, weakened state was unnerving for him.
Making his way toward the seating area, he suddenly noticed Victorian laying down on the sofa. She was awake, wearing a light rose body suit and a flowing yellow poncho which exposed one shoulder. She looked deep in thought.
"Vic?" Raymond said quietly.
"Father?" She perked up.
"Father?" he repeated. "Its been quiet some time since you've said that." He eased a smile, she did the same. "How are you feeling today?"
"Not sure--I'm never sure."
Raymond ambled over to the sofa and sat beside her. He lifted her legs and placed her feet on his thighs, patting them once gently. "Ready to talk?"
"I've always been ready," she replied. "I...I just haven't found the words."
"Patience is a virtue." He assured.
"A lesson?" She protested, then sat up to face her father directly.
"I'm sorry..."
Victorian signed and grabbed his hand. "Listen...I don't think you are wrong. I still feel something." She said cautiously.
This grabbed his attention. "Like what?"
"I'm unsure," she shook her head wistfully. "That's what worries me."
"You will never know everything," he replied, attempting to comfort her smoldering pain. "Even about yourself."
"I know everything about me," she countered with slight frustration. "This is something I can't place. A change I have never felt."
Raymond chose his next words very carefully. "Have you given any thought to what I had said?" He struggled to make direct eye contact with her.
Initially she looked away, seeming to reject the notion again. Raymond feared he had spoken too soon. Then, surprisingly, she nodded to him. "I have." She met her father's gaze again.
He smiled and placed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "That is enough for me."
She could not help letting her emotions paint a smile, yet she quickly allowed it fade. "I..." she stuttered.
Raymond stopped her. "You are still young. I trust with all my heart you will discover this on your own, as you always have." He promised. Her father's words empowered her. This was something she had longed to hear. "But know this," Raymond continued, "I will always be here with you. Both Charles and I. What little family we have must remain strong now." Raymond stretched his weathered arm around her neck.
She leaned into him. "You're right. And we will." She looked to her father again, attempting to convey hope, but he could see the tears welling in her eyes. She held on to him firmly, a sensation she not had experienced since she was a small child. She squeezed him tighter until all of his inner fury withered. Victorian knew well that in these moments Raymond felt so helpless as a father. As a warrior. As a hero to his family.
"I'm sorry, my heart." He whispered with a trembling voice.
Victorian pulled away and held his cheeks, running her palms across his thick beard. "I know you will always fight for us." She spoke softly with a bright smile, yet her energy was severe and laced with expectation.
At that moment, Raymond's communicator buzzed on is belt. He removed it and raised it to his eyes, checking the name on the digital display. An old friend had returned.