Even the light had left this all too familiar space, no matter, my flask knew the counter as my hand knew the shelf where the Cutty Sark listened to tired tales from the famous Grouse. A refill of Cutty Sark of course, eyes shifting in the darkness, the premises was vacated but I was not the only one there, other shades shared the ground, equally kept and unkempt. I pulled a cigarette from my silver cigarette case, drew a light, saw the shadows scatter from the spark as I took a drag.
"So this is what has become of Club Hel."
I only see the snake tail of my cigarette smoke and it's slight reflection twin against my flask as I press it to my lips for a sip.
The Truce is broken, in a terribly gaudy ring are two clearly set sides complete with their missions, objectives, and relative figureheads. When you stand for an idea and that idea is crossed, a line is drawn; the firmer you stand, the deeper the line that separates creating polarity similar the part of my cigarette that burns brilliant with each draw versus the filter that presses against my moist lips, darker lipstick.
You can see who the generals are: some come with vibrant plumage, some caw with such conviction-a war cry that demands equal conviction or logical submission, some possess a quiet magnetism draws you in like Peter Piper, Houdini, some are, some were, some lost, some in rising.
There is Zion, there is Machine, there is hope through action - following the Kid, there is vision in dreams - unlocking boxes, in a box, on a box. Naturally the generals of these generally two-fold group must set their strategies in time of rising war, consider all possible resources, profile all possible hindrances. Convictions heighten like a ping pong ball gaining velocity as each opponent strikes the ball harder with each turn. They're training their troops, inevitability is matter of pride and here it's spilling in droves.
They can't help but look at a shadow and wonder.. is it just a shadow or are there still those loyal to the Merovingian. Stare at an unmoving shadow long enough it either seems to be more like just a shadow or a lazy shadow because the sense of worth is severely judged by action, by effect. Pow pow, who is alive to blow the smoke from their guns. One could almost be tempted to try to kick the shadow..
"SPEAK YE SHADOW, WHERE DOST THOU STAND? BE YOU FRIEND OR FOE? SPEAK NOW OR KNOW ME AS THINE ENEMY."
Taking another sip from my flask it appeared to me how simple it would be to degrade a sentient being into a physically movable object, then it would all be a chess game no? Knocking a piece over is a matter of gravity, not a matter of murder, or the gravity of severing another's life. Easier still, it's a might easier to manipulate a little chess piece than the shadow by it.
Is that all the Merovingian himself ever was? A shadow, an imperfect program not bound to a particular object or law of simulated light. What then of his operatives? Conventionally it is cowardice not to take a stand, but mayhaps one must consider that all that is conventionally taboo, sinful is only as consequential as the limitations set upon your own mind, are these things truly consequential? Is pride truly consequential?
Each organization has their manner of operating.. faith, logic, honor, continuity.. was it ever in our nature disclose or explain.. anything on the way we operate?
Cigarettes aren't nearly long enough, it grows truly dark once more. Staring into a dark that stares right back.
Am I still a Merovingian? But of course. Yet business draws me elsewhere and I can only be a spectator in this coded realm.
And what I see is the Merovingian organization's greater strengths playing as its greater weakness. When you do not serve an idea greater than yourself, then you only serve yourself, and only you have the potential to be your greatest arch nemesis. True operatives knew better than to trust but to realize everything with no regards to living or dead, sentient or inert, that everything is a resource for survival. It is perhaps what turned the regal information connoisseurs into savage beasts, hungry for the fight, for the win, purposeless hellions. The desire towards progression and perfection got lost as the operatives became tired of the seeming dearth of information to gather, the remaining consumed in their own pools of self indulgence, seeing the shifts occur around them yet failing to see how any of it was consequential.
There are other worlds than this. The vector of a sliding function, syntax shifted, another dimension where the outcome was different. Where the artful passion of Merovingian bailiwick is not lost.
A shame I had only the time to finish my flask.
"When shall you dance again m'dears," I inquired to the darkness.
And silence answered.
For reasons all my own I grinned as I let my own code dissipate from a world that seemed more real in that parting moment than any dream of a true sun that could not be seen.
~*
"So this is what has become of Club Hel."
I only see the snake tail of my cigarette smoke and it's slight reflection twin against my flask as I press it to my lips for a sip.
The Truce is broken, in a terribly gaudy ring are two clearly set sides complete with their missions, objectives, and relative figureheads. When you stand for an idea and that idea is crossed, a line is drawn; the firmer you stand, the deeper the line that separates creating polarity similar the part of my cigarette that burns brilliant with each draw versus the filter that presses against my moist lips, darker lipstick.
You can see who the generals are: some come with vibrant plumage, some caw with such conviction-a war cry that demands equal conviction or logical submission, some possess a quiet magnetism draws you in like Peter Piper, Houdini, some are, some were, some lost, some in rising.
There is Zion, there is Machine, there is hope through action - following the Kid, there is vision in dreams - unlocking boxes, in a box, on a box. Naturally the generals of these generally two-fold group must set their strategies in time of rising war, consider all possible resources, profile all possible hindrances. Convictions heighten like a ping pong ball gaining velocity as each opponent strikes the ball harder with each turn. They're training their troops, inevitability is matter of pride and here it's spilling in droves.
They can't help but look at a shadow and wonder.. is it just a shadow or are there still those loyal to the Merovingian. Stare at an unmoving shadow long enough it either seems to be more like just a shadow or a lazy shadow because the sense of worth is severely judged by action, by effect. Pow pow, who is alive to blow the smoke from their guns. One could almost be tempted to try to kick the shadow..
"SPEAK YE SHADOW, WHERE DOST THOU STAND? BE YOU FRIEND OR FOE? SPEAK NOW OR KNOW ME AS THINE ENEMY."
Taking another sip from my flask it appeared to me how simple it would be to degrade a sentient being into a physically movable object, then it would all be a chess game no? Knocking a piece over is a matter of gravity, not a matter of murder, or the gravity of severing another's life. Easier still, it's a might easier to manipulate a little chess piece than the shadow by it.
Is that all the Merovingian himself ever was? A shadow, an imperfect program not bound to a particular object or law of simulated light. What then of his operatives? Conventionally it is cowardice not to take a stand, but mayhaps one must consider that all that is conventionally taboo, sinful is only as consequential as the limitations set upon your own mind, are these things truly consequential? Is pride truly consequential?
Each organization has their manner of operating.. faith, logic, honor, continuity.. was it ever in our nature disclose or explain.. anything on the way we operate?
Cigarettes aren't nearly long enough, it grows truly dark once more. Staring into a dark that stares right back.
Am I still a Merovingian? But of course. Yet business draws me elsewhere and I can only be a spectator in this coded realm.
And what I see is the Merovingian organization's greater strengths playing as its greater weakness. When you do not serve an idea greater than yourself, then you only serve yourself, and only you have the potential to be your greatest arch nemesis. True operatives knew better than to trust but to realize everything with no regards to living or dead, sentient or inert, that everything is a resource for survival. It is perhaps what turned the regal information connoisseurs into savage beasts, hungry for the fight, for the win, purposeless hellions. The desire towards progression and perfection got lost as the operatives became tired of the seeming dearth of information to gather, the remaining consumed in their own pools of self indulgence, seeing the shifts occur around them yet failing to see how any of it was consequential.
There are other worlds than this. The vector of a sliding function, syntax shifted, another dimension where the outcome was different. Where the artful passion of Merovingian bailiwick is not lost.
A shame I had only the time to finish my flask.
"When shall you dance again m'dears," I inquired to the darkness.
And silence answered.
For reasons all my own I grinned as I let my own code dissipate from a world that seemed more real in that parting moment than any dream of a true sun that could not be seen.
~*
