Adaptation: Part 3

Adaptation ~ Part III

By Jeremy Tyrrell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Jeremy Tyrrell

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This work was originally written in English in the Australian dialect but has since been converted to a North American dialect.

Dedication

For my tirelessly inspiring father, role-model and mentor, Christopher.

Chapter 1

"Some drink for pleasure.

Others drink to be social.

When it's no longer social or pleasurable

you're just swilling."

- Alcoholic's Remission Handbook

There are an infinite definitions of a world; at least one for each living creature, perhaps yet another for the dead.

A fetus lives and grows inside his mother from inception. A baby's world extends as far as his parents and no further. There is nothing outside of the loving embrace of his father and mother. Their faces are all that are meaningful. The warmth of his mother's milk is sustenance, and the touch of his father's skin is comfort.

As the child grows the world expands. Other people, other faces, other places come into being. Intertwining events tangle themselves to form a rude kind of history. Gradually the simplicity of existence is stretched and pulled and warped into what becomes life.

The world is turned on its head. What never existed before injects its rich history into being. Each generation pines for the older times, the simpler times, languishing in their lost youth but, in reality, it is still there. It has only been mottled with the brush of experience. The tumultuous world is an unavoidable product of being human.

Ryan's world was, indeed, in turmoil.

He awoke to see white. It was a hazy white, with a few forms discernible, a few shades to provide contrast. He could hear a throbbing. It echoed up and down this thing he called his body, reaching his extremities, bouncing off them, and coming back.

He blinked hard, determined to clear his vision. His eyes promised to work, even if they felt like molten iron, so he stuck with it.

After a few attempts, the white sheet over his face yielded and he began to make out shapes in his room. There was a chair, a dresser, a closet; all the normal things one would expect to find inside a bedroom. It was not terribly bright, but it felt like he was lying under a blanching desert sun.

He put his hand over his eyes and attempted to sit up. The throbbing immediately peaked, his head swam and he fell back down on the bed in agony.

What... what is wrong with me? he croaked, annoyed that his own voice caused him yet more distress.

After a little more effort, he worked up into a sitting position, propping himself between the wall and the edge of the bed.

He panted slowly, begging for the throbbing sensation to leave him. It stubbornly refused.

His throat felt like sandpaper. He swallowed a few times to help it out, but he had no saliva with which to lubricate it, so it only made things worse. Unsteadily, he got to his feet, stumbled over to his basin in the en-suite and sucked water out of the tap like he was drinking life.

Water and humans have a strange relationship. Entire cities are built along the banks of rivers. Trade and exploration were made possible because of it. Irrigation was developed to bring it to plains and farms. It is the stuff of life. A man may survive for weeks without food, but only a few days without water. In this respect, they are friends.

Water has another nature, however, which is sinister.

Floods destroy the towns built upon the rivers. The ocean has claimed innumerable ships in its fury. Too much water, tainted water, water going down the wrong orifice, kills. It can boil and it can freeze. Its presence can ruin entire fields of crops as easily as its absence. From this angle, man and water are enemies. It is the stuff of death.

As Ryan drank he experienced both the good and bad side of water. At first, his throat felt soothed, the throbbing ebbed somewhat and his stomach settled. But his eager drinking caused him to forget breathing; water went down his esophagus and he wound up blustering and coughing on the tiled floor.

He looked up, wet and dazed, to see Marcus staring down at him.

Making a splash? he boomed.

Ryan gripped his head in pain. He moaned.

Oh, I see. You enjoyed yourself a bit too much, eh? Don't worry. A decent feed will fix that right up.

The thought of food sent Ryan's stomach in a churn. He scrambled to the toilet bowl and let the water in his stomach back out again. His throat hurt anew.

Marcus snickered, Hey, hey! Ease up! You'll blow a fuse or something. You're hung-over.

Ryan managed, Huh?

Hung-over. As in, you've got a hangover. Too much alcohol, not enough time. You're effectively poisoned.

I lost control?

Did you ever!

Ryan nodded and threw up again, completely evacuating his stomach contents.

I'll, ah, just leave you to it, then, said Marcus, turning in disgust as the rancid smell of wet vomit reached his nostrils, But when you're ready, you might want to get yourself cleaned up and come on for a bit of breakfast.

Ryan gasped as his stomach prepared for another blow, No.

It's the best cure, really. That and drinking water.

I'll be fine.

Seriously, the sooner you do...

Marcus looked at the wretch on the floor. Ryan's hair was messed up, his eyes were bloodshot and he had a mixture of vomit and urine, fresh and stale, across his top and pants. He shook his head and walked out, leaving Ryan to his misery.

Ryan lay for a while on the floor, letting the cold of the tiles penetrate his skin and cool him down by degrees.

After a while he fell asleep in a twisted mess of arms, legs, juices and clothes.

It was two hours later when Ryan awoke, this time with a slightly clearer head and a much sorer neck. He worked his way off the floor, stripped and washed himself. The hiss of the water from the shower sounded like the roar of a waterfall.

He turned it off as soon as he could, fumbled around for some suitable clothes and did his best to make himself presentable.

He shakily stepped out of his door and made his way slowly to the dining hall. The remnants of the night before were still scattered about. Chicken bones, pork crackling, numerous bottles and glasses, some broken, some not, lay on the ground.

The grand tablecloth was stained red and brown from all the juices that had been spilled in the ruckus.

Seymour, Mohmet's underling, looked up as he approached. He had not been allowed to be part of the frivolities and was scavenging the forgotten remnants out of a dark green bottle.

Hey! he called from the other side of the room.

Oh, please! Can you talk a bit softer, Seymour? pleaded Ryan, clutching the table.

Seymour smiled and came swaggering over. Rather than the suave look he was after, his lanky frame made his gait comical. Ryan, however, was not interested in his posing.

Ha ha! Look at your face! You're all screwed up!

Yes, it is hilarious.

Seymour leaned it, looking at Ryan's bloodshot eyes, It sure is!

Do we have any analgesics? he asked.

Seymour shook his head, Not sure. Why?

Huh? My head. It feels like it is fairly splitting in two!

Oh! What you'll want is a headache tablet, then.

Make it two.

You won't join me in a glass?

Ryan looked at the bottle. The very thought made him ill. He shook his head and swallowed the bile rising in his throat. Seymour shrugged, content that he did not have to share, and sauntered off.

Hey, Seymour?

Yeah?

Those tablets. Do you have any?

What? Ah, yeah, I'll see what I can't find, eh? said Seymour, determined to do no such thing, Just wait here. Ha ha!

Ryan slumped down at the table, cleared a place and rested his head on his hands. He was awake, he was alive, but he felt like death.

After what seemed an eternity, the throbbing in his ears settled down to a manageable volume. His stomach forgot itself and grumbled a little. He fished about for a glass and poured water from a pitcher, drank slowly and felt better as the minutes ticked by.

Marcus sat down next to him.

Have you seen Seymour? Ryan asked.

Why? What has he done?

Nothing. I asked him for a headache tablet...

There's your problem, Marcus quipped, Seymour only works for Mohmet, and Mohmet only works for Mohmet. If you want something from Seymour, you've got to follow it up with a slap across the back of the noggin. You had breakfast?

Marcus looked at his watch.

Let me rephrase. Have you had lunch?

No. No I have not. I suppose this is where the lecture comes, Ryan moaned.

Alright. What do you want me to lecture you about?

I feel like shit.

Marcus clicked his tongue, No. I'm not about to lecture you on how you feel. That's perfectly normal for the amount of alcohol you consumed.

Did I really drink that much?

You were chatting up Rosa! You were waxing lyrical about Romanian politics! Boy, you were dancing on the damn table!

Really?

Marcus shook his head, No. You vomited on Rosa, you babbled incoherently and you slipped under the table and stayed there until I dragged you to your room and threw your sorry ass into your bed.

Ryan buried his head in his hands. This was not how he pictured his life as the savior of humanity. Had he really vomited on Rosa? Shame spread out in a warm gush.

I shall have to apologize. To Rosa, that is.

I wouldn't worry about her. She was three sheets to the wind as it was.

I shall apologize anyway. Ah! Is there no way to stop the pounding?

A solid breakfast. Greasy, fatty and hearty! Come on, I'll get Percy to whip up some bacon and eggs, said Marcus, slapping Ryan on the shoulders, I could go a second helping myself.

In a short while Ryan was poking at his meal. Although his stomach resisted, it turned out that Marcus' advice was spot on. After a decent meal, a slab of bread and some buttered spinach, Ryan was beginning to feel less queasy. His head settled down and his aching joints eased their protests.

Control, said Marcus between mouthfuls, I'll lecture you about control.

I have heard that lecture many times before from Master Theodore.

He is not your master anymore, boy. And if you had bothered to listen to what he was banging on about, you wouldn't be in this pickle. Ha! Pickle.

I did not know the strength of the wine.

Does that excuse what you did? Let me put it his way: you abused a substance, you let it take over your mind and body and then you blame your actions on it. That's pretty pathetic.

"You drink! said Ryan, Who are you to judge? You have wine and gin and beer!"

And I've had more experience, is that it? The principle is still the same. I don't drink to get drunk, boy, I drink to savor the flavor. That's why I stick with quality, not quantity. One glass, maybe two. No slamming shots. No grubby chasers. Just good, old fashioned sampling.

Ryan brooded, poking at a half eaten grilled tomato. It yielded and formed a messy slurry on his plate.

Marcus ventured, Don't you feel better?

I feel ashamed.

Ha! Yeah, that'd be about right. That's old Guilt coming back to haunt you. Pay him no attention.

But I acted slovenly.

You were partying!

I vomited.

You weren't the only one. You should have seen how Richard destroyed the third floor bathroom. I think the cleaners are still in there!

So, if everyone else does it, it makes it acceptable?

Marcus thought for a second, "Um, no. No that wouldn't wash. Wouldn't be much of a lesson to learn. No, but I think you're on the right track. Let's just put it down to appropriateness. To everything there is a season, a time to sough, a time to reap, a time to be born, a time to die, yadda yadda yadda. And, in this case, a time to let loose and a time to recover with some decent grub. Pass the mash, will you? Father Abraham was pretty pleased with you, you know?"

I did not. And I guess that whatever impression I may have made will be quashed by my recent actions.

Nah. Father Abraham doesn't work like that. You see, Frederick did a bit of a head count. They lost at least twenty members in Pima. Including old-bones Jacob. Eh? They nailed a Master!

The mention of Master Jacob's name made Ryan's stomach resume its sickly feeling. He shoved the tomato in his mouth to quash it.

Marcus continued, It's probably the first thing that's gone right in a long time. And the thing with the gila monsters, well, that was just genius.

I only did as I was told. I was not even aware of the beasts.

That's beside the point. You had a role to play, you played it well. Congrats! We all win.

Then why do I feel like shit? Ryan asked.

Marcus looked him in his bloodshot eyes. There was more going on behind there than most other people. He had watched over Ryan since he was very young. He had always thought there was more to him than just being a whelp, and now he was beginning to realize why.

Too much alcohol, boy, he lied.

Chapter 2

"Things are never as they seem.

If they were, magicians would be out of a job."

- Director Shaef Ben-Ismal

The passing of a life can be noted in many ways. It can be a sad occasion, in that a precious life had been taken from the world. It can draw on feelings of guilt and longing. It can remind the mourners of their own mortality, that death can be boiled down to the mere elapse of time.

It can also be a happy event, where the living embrace the history of the life that was, and are inspired to live their lives better as a consequence. Such events can stun onlookers, appearing as a sick parody, but the revelers know better and choose to celebrate a life rather than mourn its passing.

There are other times, too, when death becomes all consuming. It is too overwhelming to think of the loss, of that which will be no longer, and there is no chance to reflect happily on the lives that were. Having been so roughly taken from the world, the injustice is too much. Anger swallows sadness. Hopelessness overshadows any thought of redemption.

Tucked away in a secluded section of the Rocky Mountains a gathering of figures did their best to stave off the bleak negativity that had become them. The party had slowly converged from various points of the compass to meet at this spot, and the ceremony had begun as the last member arrived.

Graves had been dug. Bodies were interred. The Earth had received its gifts and accepted them with open arms. Clods of dirt and grass were shoveled on top and the mass graves sat quietly, ready to be forgotten.

Among the crowd of Vigils were those that had been bruised and bloodied. Some sported slings for broken arms, other had patches to keep their bullet ridden bodies from spilling out more blood.

The figures stood quite still, looking for all the world like broken trunks of old trees.

Master Jacob's body had been returned to the Earth, along with Brother Pike, Brother Isis and twenty three other Vigils.

Each had their notable deeds read out to all who had gathered. It was a long, tiring and cold ceremony.

Master Theodore fought to keep composure as he bid his friends goodbye. He tried to be sad. He tried to mourn. Tears would not come, however.

His sadness had been replaced by an immovable ire.

When the ceremony had finished and the last goodbyes had been said, the crowd dispersed as slowly as it had formed. Master Theodore could contain himself no longer.

This is the price we pay for ignoring the Fundamentals! This is the price we pay for breaking our long standing Laws, he hissed to Master Pietro, next to him.

Master Pietro cleaned his face with a handkerchief, saying, We were blindsided. We could not have known better.

"We did know better!"

Hindsight, good Master...

Is irrelevant in this instance! We have had decades of hindsight. Hindsight is how we first established the Laws! The blood and pain of our forebears, the sacrifices that they had made, has it all been for naught?

You are preaching to the choir, Master Theodore.

I do not think I am. Was I not the only one who resisted at each turn?

I had my reservations, also.

I should have pushed harder. Master Jacob was clearly driven by emotion and not reason. He persuaded me, against my better judgment, against the Laws, and I gave in, Master Theodore lamented, If only I had kept a stronger head!

Master Pietro shook his head, You cannot think like that, Master. Even if Master Jacob had not been there, we would still have suffered this terrible fate. Many good Vigils have lost their lives and none of them deserved it. Each one of those mounds back there houses a body that had the potential to do just as many deeds as Master Jacob. Their potential is lost.

That, I agree, is a travesty. And what of... Ryan? asked Master Theodore, fairly gagging at his name.

What about him?

"Sister Hanifé says she overheard that Father Abraham saying that little... shit is his nephew, that he and Isaac were brothers! Actual brothers! I am not a superstitious man, Master Pietro, but if he truly is the son of Isaac, then he is a greater threat than I ever thought."

Master Pietro shook his head, He is just a naïve, misled boy. He is too immature to lead any band of Directors.

He is his father's son! He is in the sanctuary of his uncle who, I am sure, will be willing and eager to teach him everything that he and his brother knew. We reared him. We raised him and taught him and he rebelled. Why did he rebel? Because someone was poisoning his ears, Master Theodore seethed, Was it Holland? Was it Marcus? Does it matter anymore? I think not. The cuckoo laid its egg and our children have been displaced. We have been played!

Master Pietro looked pensive, "Are we not still being played? Ryan's attack on Rhode Island and his words afterward, they knew, would stir up old feelings. The death of Holland within our walls, the betrayal of Marcus. The slaughter of Brother Petroclus and his men... Good Lord, they have been stirring the pot and they wanted us to react with anger!"

"They wanted us to react without forethought and that is exactly what we did!"

Master Pietro looked at Master Theodore from under his hood. There was a flame in his eyes, furiously burning for justice. He had seen such a burning passion in his own eyes, once, and he had also seen the consequences. History was a brutal schoolmaster.

The pair walked on in silence, slipping among the trees and saplings like vapor. Their companions had reduced in number, wandering off to their own transports, so that it was only the pair of them, Sisters Hanifé, Ellen, Francine and Johanna along with Brothers Janus, Quentin, Pierre and Acolyte Ruben.

They reached a clearing. In the center a transport was waiting for them. Brother Janus hooked himself into the driver's seat while the rest of them took their places. Master Theodore watched the rest of them board, then looked back through the trees.

He watched, hoping with a faint hope to see his old companion and mentor hobbling out from them, complaining about this and that and wiggling his eyebrows. He would be saying something about the weather, perhaps about the quality of the air in the Rockies or how the forest looks better when the sky was not so overcast.

But he did not come. Only the wind rustled the branches here and there and scattered a few leaves about the place.

He sighed, boarded the transport and buckled in. It swooshed silently into the air and sailed quickly back to Pennsylvania.

The trip back was quiet and uneventful. Each member was stewing, unwilling to share their thoughts. Friends and companions had been killed by invisible enemies. Revenge, surely, was at the forefront of their minds, but the Laws disallowed such delightful pleasures.

Back at the Vigils' compound, they filed out, noting that the air was a little colder inside the walls. There was no cheer, no smiles. Master Theodore motioned to Brother Janus as he got off the transport. Master Pietro pulled him aside as the rest went back to their dormitories.

Brother Janus, said Master Pietro, Could you please join myself and Master Theodore for a discussion?

They found a quiet den, ordered some tea and arranged themselves about the room. Master Theodore watched as Brother Janus fidgeted, trying to remain still.

Does it hurt? Master Pietro asked, pointing to Brother Janus' bandage on his side.

Just a flesh wound, he said, shrugging it off, Nothing like a little lead in the diet, eh?

You are angry.

I guess you could say that, old chum. I am not about to deny it.

Do you harbor thoughts of revenge?

Brother Janus' eyes flashed, You bet I do! I know what you are going to say next, but with every ounce of my being I want to be the one to drive a stake through that Father Abraham's bloody heart!

I can understand your feelings.

I do not want empathy, my Master. I want blood!

Master Theodore pointed to his wound, You already have that.

I will gladly put this wretched body on the line and endure whatever pain they may dish out for a chance to stop a few choice hearts!

Master Pietro interrupted, Mind your thoughts. Hatred is untamable.

Right now I am willing to be its slave for but a small taste of revenge.

Let me tell you a story, Brother Janus.

I am all ears.

"Some time back, a Vigil had been posted to Laos. The posting was for observation, fairly routine, straightforward stuff. Tsang-Tao controlled the area administratively, but they only showed a very light presence. People smugglers ran the place. Slavery, Brother Janus, actual slavery had become a booming business and without proper law enforcement it only grew worse. People from all over were kidnapped, butchered into submission and sold off..."

I have heard this story, Brother Janus said, The slavery became so bad that the UN could no longer ignore it, Tsang-Tao could no longer hide its involvement...

That is the story, yes, but a story has many facets and that is not the facet I wish to share.

Sorry, chap, I thought I would save you the trouble. Go on, he apologized.

Like you said, the UN did get involved, for what it was worth, and Tsang-Tao was accused of corruption, at least in the Laos region. In order to cut their losses and save face, Tsang-Tao ordered the public trial of several senior parliamentarians, fabricating all sorts of allegations. They built up straw-men, held public media conferences, posted uncountable shots of shadow figures taking envelopes and shaking hands in dark alleyways, you name it, they did it! It was a farce from the beginning to the end. All the while, the Vigil in question dutifully watched on, recorded and reported back at regular intervals.

Forgive me, Master Pietro, but I do not see how this applies...

You will. Because there are two more important facts to this story. Firstly, Sister Weh had already infiltrated the Laos government. She was one of those who had been put up to be knocked down. Secondly, the Vigil in question had formed a relationship with her over the course of years. So tight was their bond that, given the seriousness of Tsang-Tao's claims and their track record, he decided to take matters into his own hands. A series of unsanctioned raids at night saw top Tsang-Tao officials murdered in their beds, Master Pietro explained, On top of each corpse dossiers, containing details of their own crimes and corruptions, were placed. The media was thrown into a frenzy. Every other night a new Tsang-Tao member had been killed and exposed.

Those are not the acts of a Vigil, Brother Janus said.

There is more to the story, if you will. Tsang-Tao's Laos branch went into meltdown. Rather than expose themselves any more than necessary, they had their own internal investigation where hundreds of officials were weeded out, rightly or wrongly, and publicly shamed. The original parliamentarians were considered the ringleaders for the rot. Tsang-Tao has internal policies, you know. Sister Weh's position had been made worse. She was facing torture and death.

I know precisely what Tsang-Tao is capable of.

The Vigil stepped up his efforts. He interceded. His love for her and his anger for them made him blind to all of his training and teachings. His emotions ran too hot to control, and he ended up launching a suicide mission to bust her out of a Tsang-Tao prison the day before her execution, Master Pietro said, The guards were, of course, on high alert. The security systems did not fail and he was caught in her cell.

What happened?

Master Pietro turned away. His large frame quivered.

Master Theodore looked at his friend and took over, She was shot and killed. He was held in isolation at the bottom of Tsang-Tao's prison for a year and tortured daily until his escape. The parliamentarians were summarily executed and the people smuggling and slavery continued underground.

He looked at Master Pietro and added, No one was saved.

Brother Janus slumped back in a chair and brooded. Master Pietro poured tea. He sat in thought for a while.

Eventually he asked, Are you close to Sister Hanifé?

Brother Janus looked up at him.

In what way?

In any way.

We are not lovers, if that is what you want to know.

It is not. But you do work closely with her.

I do.

You make a good team, you know, said Master Theodore.

What are you driving at, Master Theodore? Are you implying that this disaster was the result of our relation?

No. Not quite. Master Pietro and I have been discussing recent events. This whole business, it has come about from a series of events, and these events have a root. The root is Agent Ottavio's liberation, of which you and Sister Hanifé played a key role.

As I had been ordered! I have done nothing that has not been requested of me. I cannot believe that you would imply...

"We are not implying anything, yet, Brother. We broke the Laws in actively engaging during his mission. We broke them yet again in aiding his escape. Once more when we housed him and gave him protection. Once more when Sister Hanifé, with your aid and knowledge, used him to evacuate Agent Cassandra. Yet again we turned our backs on our tradition by allowing two external agents into a mission. Still again when I let Master Jacob take him along to protect overwatch."

Master Pietro, composed, asked, Do you see the pattern emerging?

Say it, Masters. Say Sister Hanifé and I have intentions contrary to those of the Vigils'.

"It is not about intentions, nor motivations. The outcome is what matters here, and the outcome has been realized directly because of actions. Specific actions. That is undeniable. That is fact."

I have only ever done what has been asked...

I know, I know. But what of Sister Hanifé? Can you speak for her as well?

Brother Janus straightened himself up. He ignored his wound.

"I would trust Sister Hanifé with my life, as would