The Committee for National Security
Chapter 11 – Gladio
6 Months after expulsion / June 7th, 1980
Continental United States, June 7, 1980
"I say that every single patriot that followed from Fulbright were fit into a single, organized matrix… National Front, like Citizen's Patriots, were being mobilized as part of an anti-communist strategy originating not from the state, but by foreign actors—specifically the Western Union."
Unknown National Front Terrorist, Arizona, 1979
Franz K. / "Wespe" [Deutsches Reich -Reichsnachrichtendienst Netzwerkspezialisten] Operation Gladio Headquarters, North Carolina — Dated June 7, 1980
Wespe nodded as he finished presenting his oral after-action report to the appointed commandant, their pin belonging to the Bulgarian Directorate of Observation and Studies gleaming even with the dim lighting of the room. "That's all I have to say, as unfortunate as it is- This small organization of 20-something people was compromised by Asset A."
"Unfortunate, we could have at least used them in protecting against the ARA," Gladio's commandant—a woman in her 50s, adorning a black and orange beret belonging to forces in Operation Gladio—commented, her Bulgarian accent concealing her disappointment. "Though eliminating a Soviet asset is good as well." She said as she put down the report, before looking back up at Wespe. "Oh, and, based on the news following your operation, I take that they were all eliminated?"
"That is correct," Wespe nodded. "Though, as Adler said, I only took out the agents on the ground floor."
"I presume that the casualties caused on the upper floors where not your doing, then," She said. "Tell me, Agent Wespe," At least she never spoke his real name, he thought. To bear this name was a curse and a painful one at that. "Was there anything kafkaesque about the situation?"
"Oh yes, a lot," As much as he wanted to both punch Commandant Nikolai for that stupid joke and laugh, he still felt… shaken by the nightmarishness of that situation. "You have received Adler's report about the ongoings in the building itself, yes?"
Commandant Nikolai nodded. "I have, though I was not sure to believe it until you had presented your report. Was I missing vital information?" She asked earnestly. Wespe closed his eyes, resisting the urge to sigh and let his palm meet his face. He was better than that. Instead, he nodded along, as Nikolai's eyes widened. "So his report of one of the detainees being responsible for the murder of multiple militiamen was real?"
"Very. Adler's observations from the building across reported… What I could best describe as nightmarish scenes that I, unfortunately, had… a close call with," Wespe said. Nikolai then muttered under her breath something about swords made of meat and a black figure, but that was most likely from Adler's very own report. "Specifically, as I descended through stairwells, more often than not as soon as I opened the doors to the stairs I would hear gunfire and screaming… And then silence."
Wespe took a moment to breathe as he looked at Commandant Nikolai again. "As I descended into the first floor from the second, Adler had told me about what he had been seeing from the other side…" He sighed. "He saw, in his own words, 'a murder like no other.' That was what terminated Asset A's compromised militia."
"...Shit. Does Adler have any photographs? Anything we can use to launch an investigation?"
"Mhm. He knows more about it than I do, so yes. After all, I was busy fleeing downstairs," Wespe said as he glanced around. "Commandant. Am I free to go now, or…?" He asked, only for Nikolai to nod at him and wave him off.
"Your report is appreciated." Nikolai stated, basically telling Wespe in silence to leave. Nodding, Wespe made his way back to the door behind him, opening and closing it as he came back face to face with the cramped, white, ceramic hallways of the Gladio HQ. Oh how it was miserable to be here.
The air conditioner may have been nice yes, however, it still could not chill away the sweat that drizzled down Wespe. The cool air simply making his sweat feel like an annoying damp side effect of his current objective. But that wasn't of any matter to him anymore.
The thumping of his boots in the Gladio HQ did little to distract him however from the chatter of the other staff in Gladio's headquarters. Chatter that was drowned by the muffled sound of gunfire from the nearby testing range as Gladio's combat arm had to test their weapons and accuracy. Crackles from assault rifle and battle rifle fire echoed through the building.
A glance to his right directly into the firing range confirmed his suspicions as the glass windows displayed Gladio agents opening fire with their newfound rifles. Wespe never really had a use for assault rifles, if he was being honest. Always stuck with the P1SD more.
So seeing the other Gladio agents use it always baffled him. Because Gladio was supposed to be subtle. Gladio was supposed to be the subtle rearmament of militias to defend the United States from communism.
And yet here they were, training hillbillies how to use an AR-70/90.
He ceased his glances and continued walking forward, hands still in his pockets. The place still felt uncomfortable, but at least it was hidden from the prying eyes of the CIA.
As much as he admired Director George Bush for taking action, he would rather not risk Gladio being found out.
His walking stopped when he found his destination—a small office, quietly tucked away in the farthest part of the hallway's left side. He sighed in relief as he opened the door, the office greeting him feeling nostalgic. The first thing Wespe did was sit down on the recliner in his room, sighing in relief as he sat down.
"Wespe? You there?" Adler's voice came from the door to his right—just to the right of both Wespe's recliner and computer setup desk. It was the room connecting Adler's office to Wespe's. "It's me, Adler. Rest of Gladio's triple-R team's wantin' to see you."
"You can open the door, Adler," Wespe chuckled after responding. "Ain't like I got anything more to discuss with the Commandant, to be honest." Wespe continued reclining as the voices of the rest of triple-R echoed behind the door.
Wespe smiled when the door opened, paving way for triple-R's commanding officers- Oh. It seemed to be only two of them. Rudolf and Maxim. Wespe clicked his tongue in disappointment. "Is Myo on a mission right now?" He asked, getting a sigh and closed eye from Rudolf, and a nod from Maxim.
Captain Rudolf nodded. "Ja." The brunette man sighed in heavy disappointed. "Myo's been recalled to the Philippines for a month," He noted. Yeah, Wespe expected that. "Disappointing."
"At least expect her to bring back gifts from the Philippines," Adler interjected. "Though that's assuming you don't want a human skull, Rudolf." At that, the aforementioned man just sighed in frustration.
"I'm going to be sitting down now." Rudolf said.
The Kommando Spezialkräfte operator grumbled as he sat down on one of the three extra recliners in Wespe's office. Wespe's attention turned to Maxim, the large man, whose Bulgarian DOS badge remained proudly pinned.
"Ha! And to think that we in the Observation Group were called absent by that Jap!" Major Maxim bellowed, his Ukrainian accent, like Commandant Nikolai, barely concealing his contempt for Myo. "And here she was, abandoning us just as Wespe finished his job!"
"Can it," Adler interjected, the exhausted black-haired agent simply choosing to lean onto Wespe's desk. "Myo'll have you gut like a fish, Maxim." At that, Maxim simply laughed in Adler's face.
"Oh, that Jap can try! She'll try!"
"As much as I despise her," Rudolf intervened, cupping his cheek. "I have to agree with Adler here," He lurched forward. "Cut it out, Maxim."
"But-"
"I do not wish to let a target on our back glow brighter than it already was," Adler said. "So unless you want Myo to ensure that you end up a casualty on Gladio's line of fire, don't talk about her behind her back."
"Mmmgrhgh…" Maxim grumbled, a heavy growl escaping his mouth as he forced himself to sit down. "Fine, fine." And Wespe smirked, glancing at Adler, who merely glanced at Rudolf.
This was Gladio's triple-R team. The Rapid Response Riflemen. A militarily innocuous name for the paramilitary arm of Operation Gladio. Compared to the rest of Operation Gladio, which was training and arming paramilitaries in America to stop communist influence and keep the nation safe from Fulbrightian cowards, triple-R was dedicated towards suppression operations and capturing prisoners for interrogation. Often students and union leaders, who often displayed socialist sympathies.
That was not to say that it was particularly coordinated well, however. In fact, it was a hideous attempt at combining three bickering special forces teams. All grouped up into individual teams only beholden to the Commandant, and even then were not leashed well. Wespe knew this would be a bad idea—it just brewed chaos and inter-team rivalry.
And it seemed to be the case with everyone on triple-R. Rudolf, the middle aged brunette man, was a part of Group X of the Reichswehr Special Operations Forces. "Still miffed on it being called Reindeer team?" Wespe inclined.
Despite being nominally the 'scariest' of triple-R—owing to their team primarily being comprised of snipers and prism cannoneers—Rudolf's team still got slapped with the triple-R naming scheme.
That meant that it was called Reindeer.
"Very." He lamented. "Such a name would only belong in the idiotic decision of some dumb schweinhund. Likely a Soviet one," He pouted, fist pressed against his right cheek as he crossed his left leg over his right.
"Hah! And I got the fearsome animal!" Maxim interjected, a haughty and arrogant laugh escaping him as he slapped his knees, almost in childlike joy. Wespe's left hand cupped his forehead, irritated. Slavs will be Slavs. "Eat it, Rudolf! A Rhino does more to instill fear into hearts rather than a reindeer!"
"Such misfortune to be named Rudolf with a team called Reindeer."
"Can it, Maxim," Adler interjected. "Anyway, I wanted to ask—what was Myo's team deployed for this time?"
Ah yes, the IJA 14th Army's Anti-Communist Research and Studies Platoon. At least their brutality would be focused somewhere that isn't America this time. American news was always hot on Myo's trail, wherever she went."Suppression operations. The Northern Philippines is crawling with communists—and Myo's team has been placed in charge of completely flushing them out until July."
"So does that mean Rabbit team's carnage has been relocated to somewhere the government's willing to tolerate it?" Wespe asked. Oh, Rabbit team. How they left bodies everywhere. If Rudolf's Group X was "scary" then Myo's IJA contingent of trigger-happy IJA soldiers was just "psychopathic."
"Yep."
"Glad to see that Myo's at least away from the bickering," This was the consequence of lacking coordination between the teams. They didn't even fully respect the Commandant's words on occasion, causing Wespe to sigh. "Goodness knows what she'd do if she was here."
"Oh, she'd cut my ear." Rudolf half-heartedly chuckled. "Slowly."
"Sounds like Myo," Maxim interjected. "In my case she'd gut me, to quote Adler. Not that she'll succeed, but letting her try is funnier than not." The haughty juggernaut laughed, his large stature backing up his words as Wespe tried to shift his focus away.
Typical Maxim. Sure enough in his abilities to the point of overconfidence. That's the Maxim of Gladio.
And he wasn't alone. As he came with his own squad: Special Operations Group "Dagger". Bulgarian special operations forces. Wespe's eyes moved back and forth between Maxim and Rudolf. If Rudolf's squad served as snipers and Myo's squad served as close quarters special forces, then Maxim's squad was the heavy-duty fire support.
Machine guns and explosives and all. Which is why they're sparingly used. Too much attention drawn if Gladio sends them to wreck things.
Which frustrated Maxim to no end. But did Wespe care? Not really, no. Just focused on getting his job done.
"I take it that you're all still attached to Gladio?" Wespe asked, cursing himself as everyone in the room looked at him like an idiot, causing him to sigh and ensure his palm met his face. "I mean, there's the fairly obvious answer- But what I wanted to say is, uh," Wespe leaned forward, fist on chin as he gathered his words. "Unlike Myo, you guys are still bound to this operation by your governments, yea?"
All of triple-R were reassigned from the special operations forces of their respective armed forces—Germany and Bulgaria—with Myo and her 14th army platoon serving as Japanese volunteers from the Pacific Front.
Unlike Myo who could be recalled for other operations that the IJA 14th Army needed her for, the two idiots of Rudolf and Maxim were almost never recalled by their governments.
"No. But I do know-" Rudolf was interrupted by a beeping from the PA. It was a singular, short beep, causing Rudolf to grumble in frustration. That was Reindeer team's summoning call. "Nevermind. I have to suit up for another operation." Rudolf said, adjusting his plain brown shirt and black pants. "I'll see you guys in a day."
"Try not to-" Maxim said, before a long beep sounded over the PA. That was Rhino team's summoning call. Wespe could only snort as Maxim almost flew into a rage, but instead growled in frustration. "Goddamnit."
"I'll be heading back to my office," Adler said as he got up and walked toward the side door on the right of Wespe's office, connecting the two offices together. "You take care of yourself now, Wespe."
And Wespe didn't even get to tell them the tales of what happened back in Fairfax County. A sigh escaped him. He was going to let them blabber on then interject with his latest operation, but it seemed like that wouldn't happen any time soon.
Perhaps tomorrow.
"Take care, you all," Wespe said as he got up, with Rudolf and Maxim heading out through the front door while Adler went back to his office, silence reigning in the office oncemore as Wespe found himself alone with his thoughts and his computer.
He made his way over to the seat, leaning back as the office computer booted to life, the black and white colors reflecting on his glasses as he pressed the arrow keys, navigating down the menu until he found the program to file a memo. And a request to the Commandant. A request to pursue the mysterious detainees arrested with the Director of Central Intelligence.
Pressing the enter key, Wespe began typing out his memo.
"In regards to operational integrity within the United States of America," He muttered to himself as he began typing out his report. A message to the higher-ups of operation Gladio. A warning.
"It is imperative that we limit the influence of the Central Intelligence Agency's Director, due to the volatility of his presence…"
Hokma Benjamin [United States Government – (Illegally-hired) Central Intelligence Agency Agent] Norfolk Public Library: Little Creek Branch — Dated June 7, 1980
Hokma stared intently at the book in front of him, eyes focused on the knowledge right in front of him as he took in the pages. The subject—this "French Revolution"—had intrigued him. Even moreso as he pieced together the accounts from the historians. What fascinated him the most, however, was the presence of one Maximilien Robespierre. A man who should have, by all accounts, been but a meek lawyer.
Yet, in a cruel twist of fate rivaling the Script, the man who once opposed the death penalty now stood as its symbol, its mouthpiece, and ultimately its sword and shield. He was the face of the terror. Yet, contemporary accounts described him as incorruptible. A man who believed in what he said, even if it meant his death.
Could such a man have existed in The City? One so dedicated unwaveringly to their vision of a better world? Someone who could violate their own identity so flagrantly while simultaneously being described as an incorruptible force of terror?
Hokma stared at the page. He did not know what to do with it. His mind swirled with questions as he kept asking and asking the same thing: Could such a man have existed in The City?
A man who goes beyond and violates their identity, yet is viewed as but a revolutionary force, a herald of change no matter the cost and blood it will take for such a thing? A man who…
He stopped when realized that he had seen this pattern before. He stared back at the page, re-examining the page of Robespierre and re-reading it again. Again.
"Robespierre was by no means the worst character who figured in the Revolution. He was a fanatic, a monster, but he was incorruptible, and incapable of robbing, or causing the deaths of others, either from personal enmity, or a desire of enriching himself. He was an enthusiast; but one who really believed that he was acting right, and died not worth a sou."
Hokma stopped there. The words echoed through his mind as he saw the pattern. The words of Dias echoed through his mind. But that was incorrect—was causing the deaths of others. The words of Roland echoed through his mind. But that was incorrect—he was acting on personal emnity. The words of Carmen and Ayin…
His mind stopped in shock as he realized why he seized up at that description of this… Maximilien Robespierre. The paper almost tearing off due to its fragile structure as he realized what he had missed.
They were who Robespierre reminded Hokma of. The incorruptible, fanatical monsters that he had stayed by and died for. Many, many times. The memories of his death… deaths… They all replayed in his mind.
A turn to the other page before the current one and he realized why. The rivers of blood that flowed from the guillotines utilized by Revolutionary France to achieve their goal of revolution… Though the exact similarities were not to be found, the analogous purpose had, however, stuck out to him.
Images flashed in his head as the rivers of blood that followed revolutionary France blended with the Enkephalin to be secured from Lobotomy Corporation. Terror echoed through his mind as the screams of the employees seemed to merge with the screams of the people of France—at least, to the best he could picture their screams, captured in paintings worth a thousand words. He would never truly understand Earth, nor how it can be a land so deeply attached to meaningless things.
His eyes glanced back to the epigraph at the top of the page, eyes squinting as he examined the man who said it. The name Ignas Šeinius was the answer. But his focus was not to be on the man who said it, no. It was instead to the words he said. A haunting, crushing reminder of what a world he had entered.
"Therefore the red flood arose, and sprang down unto our door; therefore it will rise and spread further and further, drowning everything along the way."
"Such a man has existed in The City…" Hokma muttered as he let go of the book, sighing heavily and clutching his head, irritated and irked. The answer had existed right in front of him. Yet, how could he not have seen it? Hokma closed the book, brows furrowing as he began to contemplate.
Contemplate. Think. Peruse. Muse. Anything to describe the anguish that his mind had been going through, realizing that the methodology and legacy of people such as Maximilien Robespierre had not only existed in The City, but had done so in two forms.
And so like the Reign of Terror had swept through France, the White Nights and Dark Days had swept The City. Yet, as he moved to the left and stared back at the book, he contemplated something even with his tired eyes.
How could such things—the Reign of Terror, the French Revolution, the establishment of the Public Safety Committee—have been committed for such meaningless, empty things? How could such ideas have been done for such a thing so meaningless and intangible that people argue over what it is?
The Seed of Light had a tangible, physical effect and purpose. The Light had brought to the people of The City an emotional uplift. A period of positivity. A period of joy. But concurrently, when it failed, it had brought with it the curse of distortion. A phenomenon with only one, obvious suspect.
Yet, what… Liberalism- yes, that was the book's statement on their ideology. Republicanism… That too. Liberalism and Republicanism were meaningless! That was it! They were utterly meaningless! Malleable words that anybody can lay their claim to! Yet, why, oh why had they driven the Reign of Terror?!
It didn't make any sense to him. He sighed as he stood up, book closed as he pondered what they had fought for. The Smoke War had been for the orders of Ayin, the man who he gave his life and soul to. The Seed of Light had been for Carmen, the woman who drove to improve the City. And the Library's actions had been done for Angela, the bird broken free from her cage.
Yet, as he glanced at the rest of the Librarians reading books about Earth's history, he couldn't help but ask why these people would fight for words so meaningless like a republic? Res publica, a word that just… Hokma could never find it out himself personally.
Yet, humanity here seems to be able to find its own gods—creating them and fighting in their name, shaping the world for a vision higher than themselves. He winced. How, oh, how could they be so eager to create and manufacture a God for themselves to give lives to?
Unless… His eyes widened as he realized that was how she would be able to mobilize. He glanced back to the rest of the Librarians, with many of them immersed in their books. His right hand was on his cheek as he thought about it more.
Those driven to despair and clinging to an ideology they fully give themselves to… Be it the driving forces of the French Revolution, or the pre-existing religions that he read about… Those would be the ideal vessels for Carmen to spread her sickeningly sweet words. He cursed himself.
"To know that she would resort to things like this…" He muttered to himself, grunting and shaking his head. "Oh, Carmen—what happened to the fiery woman I had once seen and worked with?" He asked, idly hoping for an answer.
But he knew he would never get one. Not ever.
"It almost amuses me to read about the branch of humanity that exists in this realm," Binah commented from a nearby table, sitting with Tiphereth and Hod as the three were reading books—ideological. Though Hod's book seemed to be less… Overt ideologically. But given their subjects, it was most definitely ideology. He narrowed his eyes at Binah, watching her read a book. She seemed to chuckle heavily as she continued to read through it. "My my," She interrupted. "This passage continues to amuse me." She said.
"Yeesh, it can't be more mind-numbing than this," Tiphereth stated as she put down her book. The cover stood out to him. 'Populism vs Plutocracy: The Universal Struggle' it read. Emblazoned on the front was one name: Willis A. Carto. Hokma scoffed. The book must have been very disinteresting if Tiphereth would prefer Binah's verbose statements about her book compared to Carto's. "What is it?"
Binah chuckled, then began quoting the book, eternally amused. "To quote the esteemed author, William Francis Buckley; 'The Yale Alumni Magazine, which reaches almost all graduates, is officially described as "the chief connecting link between the alumni and the University." If this is the case, as it seems to be, it is no wonder that Yale alumni are egregiously misinformed. '" She said, chuckling. "There is no book more amusing than what William writes. To think that such a man like him would be allowed to challenge the highest institutions in the United States of America… It brings to mind the irrevocable and irreversible fact that we do not belong in The City anymore, dear Tiphereth."
"That whole passage just sounded like a lot of bullshit," Tiphereth muttered. "Sounds more like an annoying twit's attempts at criticism." Hmph. A smirk came onto Hokma's face as Tiphereth seemed to agree with the consensus nearby. "If I tried criticizing Lobotomy Corporation or the Head like that I'd be dead."
A sigh escaped from Hod, who continued reading her book. This time, titled 'Brave New World' and its cover had blue motifs around it. Waves of blue and black clashed with a planetary shape, earth, while the title and author's name were emblazoned on it. "Though I suppose that is a stronger… Silver lining, I suppose," She said. "To be able to criticize an esteemed institution so publicly and challenge it like that is… A rather relieving divergence from the City, all things considered."
"And yet, this arrogant midwit thinks that he can challenge the doctrines of the most esteemed faculties?" Binah asked, scoffing. "It is, however, admittedly a daring piece of text. To suggest that there lies a disconnection between the educators and their alumni, and write a book criticizing and lambasting it? Why. Daring, but unprecedented."
"Well, it's certainly a more hopeful precedent than this book!" Hod said, as she continued to read Brave New World. The author's name, Aldous Huxley, caught his eye again. An interesting man, if only based on his name. "Though, yours is, well, a real-life book. And I'm reading what could be best described as the inverse of the city."
"What makes it so?" Binah asked, eyes taken off her book. Hod inched closer as Tiphereth also lurched forward to listen to Hod's words about the book. Hokma took this as an opportunity to vacate himself from the premises as he continued his pondering, hand still stuck cupping his chin and head facing down as he continued to let his thoughts wander free.
"Could Humanity construct itself a God to believe in?" Hokma asked idly. The thought had crossed his mind. Could it be possible that, in this branch, humanity had chosen to construct itself metaphorical gods to serve as the backbone for its standards?
In fact, that was what he was thinking. In a vacuum, unsupported, these standards he extrapolated from that book earlier—the revulsion of mob violence in the 'reign of terror' combined with the seemingly contradictory praise of what they stand for, their 'liberal revolution' that set the stage for this planet's modern times—were supposed to be contradictory. Yet, Humanity here had managed to find itself a God to turn to. It... it was terrifying, but strangely infuriating.
A God that enshrines values of revolution, yet reviles the consequences of their stochatic methods to rile support for their reign terror. For what purpose could this branch of Humanity have constructed such a figure?
Bah, Hokma brushed aside. Perhaps that was a matter to discuss with Binah or Angela some other time. For now, what mattered most was his extrapolation.
Humanity was willing to fight, kill, bleed, and die for figures that don't exist or have any form to manifest in. Which, while a little more comforting in that they could fight to secure their happiness even in the face of total devistation from entities such as The Head, the unspoken fact taken from this conclusion also alarmed him.
This was how Carmen could control the masses. By appealing to whatever God they had constructed, and masquerading as them. Preying on their vulnerable, fleeting and desperate minds for a vector of control.
Hokma clenched his hand. And so it shall be. She will be stopped, even if they have to work behind the Director's back.
...Yet, as much as he wanted to, he could never let go of his former life. As Benjamin.
But, he mused, perhaps the disconnect will have been too much. And unfortunately, that is the most likely outcome. Having millions of years pushed onto you does horrendous damage to one, after all.
But nonetheless. Hokma still felt… proud. Proud that their work on the Seed of Light had birthed fruit. Doubly so in a new world.
He shook his head and clicked his tongue. It was just a shame that they find themselves on opposing sides.
But, as Angela had clashed with Carmen, perhaps it was ultimately for the better than he opposed Carmen in this new world.
His thoughts, running wild and unchained as he walked around the library, were suddenly interrupted when he brushed against someone, letting out a surprised grunt in response. Awkwardly, he turned right, trying to offer an apology-
Only to stop as he came face to face with what seemed to be a mirror image of himself. A mirror that had worn a suit, concealing a purple-blue shirt and a black tie with blueish-white four-pointed stars, while also carrying a vastly different hair style and… glasses. But the facial structure was there.
The nasal shape was exactly like his. His expression, surprised yet aged and experienced, mirrored Hokma's own. And even his shape was like him. The only distinguishing features were the different eye color, hair style, and choice of facial accessory. And yet… They were both so similar. Too similar for his own liking.
His blood ran cold as he just realized what Director Bush must have felt when he met Roland. The men stopped in their tracks as they continued observing each other, their eyes narrowing and mouths curling into confusion and bemusement.
"Are…" The man opened up in a hushed tone, blinking with his mouth open in a sort of amazement. "With all due respect," He continued. His accent sounded distinctly… More from the Western districts. Kind of like Director George Bush. But Roland's and Hokma's own accents were from the Northeastern Districts. "Are you…"
"I will begin with introductions, my apologies," Hokma said, lowering his head in a sort of bow to the man. "I am… Hokma Benjamin," Hokma had decided to take up the mantle of the man who he now sees as a different person from who he is currently. It was a partial inheritance, but it was the only solution. "I apologize for disturbing your activities," The man's expression seemed to relax. "And you are…?" He asked, pausing.
The man took a moment to think, a book in his hand as he stood there. It was a short silence before he responded to Hokma's inquiry, the Western accent being more apparent as his tone shifted to one of normality. "I am John Anderson," Ah. Anderson? An interesting name. Hokma's eyes darted over to the book he was holding, surprise rising in his conscience as he saw that it was one of Earth's prized books: a Bible. "Speaker of the House of Representatives, if you wanted to know."
"I see," Hokma nodded, as Anderson extended his hand and offered a handshake to him. Hokma took it, finding a surprisingly firm but friendly, non-intensive shake in him. "In that case, I am just… a Librarian."
"Not of this library, though- I preusme?" Anderson said. Hokma nodded.
"Yes. I work as a Librarian elsewhere," He bit his lower lip, omitting the detail that he worked for the Library. Perhaps it would be privy to Director Bush if he kept it that way. "Nevertheless, I find it interesting to see…" He trailed off as he continued to stare at Anderson. Continued to analyze his features.
The man felt like a version of himself that had never followed the roots to Lobotomy Corporation. Instead, it felt more like… like Director Bush's situation. A version of himself where things had gone very different.
Perhaps an investigation with Yesod and Binah was needed.
"Yes, it's interesting to see yourself in the mirror while walking in the library," Anderson snickered. "You need to work on your hairstyle if you want to be me. But if you don't, then I respect it."
"I find that it is easier to distinguish each other if I were not to change the styling of my hair," Hokma deadpanned. "Nevertheless, it is interesting to see a similarity like that. What brings you to this… public library," He almost drew out the words as he struggled to remember the sign in front when he walked in. "Mister Anderson?"
"Oh, I was here to find a book on someone's behalf," He said, glancing to the section that he had just come from. "Specifically, I was trying to find a Bible, and, well," He looked at his book, with Hokma following suit. "I have found it. Right here and now. Though, uh, what brings you here, Mister Benjamin?"
Hokma sighed, right hand on his hip as he began to speak. "I was here to find books on religion and politics, as those were… On my lists of interest after I arrived here," Anderson raised his eyebrows at that, seemingly unconvinced. But Hokma would continue anyway. "I had just finished up a previous book."
"I see. If you don't mind me asking-"
"Only if you will answer another question of mine after."
"Right," Anderson coughed. "If you don't mind me asking- Do you come from Korea? Your accent's, uh, pretty Korean," Hokma blinked. A… Korea? Was that where this universe's Northeastern accent came from? "If not, I apologize. But if you do, when did you arrive? Just recently, or…?" Anderson asked, crossing his arms.
"Well, it would be best for me to admit it here and now: I am not from Korea." Hokma said, only for Anderson to tilt his head in an almost doglike manner, eyes widened in confusion as he blinked once.
"Wait, you're not from Korea? Then why the accent?"
"...I inherited it from my parents, who were from Korea," He lied. He did not know enough about Korea to say that he himself was from there. So? It was better for him to say that he had parents who were from there. But not him. "But I was never raised very close to Korean culture…"
Not that he knew what Korean culture was. He still had a lot of reading to catch up to in this world, it seemed.
"I… see. That makes sense, I suppose," Anderson crossed his arms, one hand still grasping his Bible. "What was it you wanted to ask me, then?" Hokma looked up, crossing his arms and adjusting his monocle.
In response, Anderson simply tilted his head again, confused with his mouth slightly hanging open as if bemused.
It was now or never, he supposed.
"Mister Anderson, I have but one question: Are you a man who believes in God?" Hokma asked, eyes narrowing and squinting as Anderson seemed surprised by that question, only to blink. In confusion, it seemed.
The man simply glanced at the holy book in his hand, the book that so many have fought and died for: the Bible. And he simply stared at it for minutes on end. Not knowing what to do with it. A sigh escaped his mouth as he seemed to glance back at Hokma.
"I am," Anderson responded affirmatively. "I believe in the Lord Jesus Christ and the word that his believers have spread throughout the world," He said. "I am a man of Godliness, and I fear God. Why do you ask this, specifically?" Anderson seemed almost confused at Hokma's intention.
Perfect. He had obtained a foray into the mind of a man who had their feet on the hallowed ground that was the ideological battlefield of this universe's humanity. A ground rich in so much history yet lacking so much meaning.
"If you mind not me asking," Hokma said. "Why do you believe in God? What drives you to believe in a God? Surely, there must be another reason simply other than blind, unflinching belief in his words?"
This discussion was going to get interesting. However, before Anderson could respond, the two of them watched as some new librarygoers were heading to their shelves. Realizing that they could potentially disturb the others, they both glanced at each other.
"Discuss this while moving?" Anderson asked as he turned to the right.
Hokma nodded. "Let us peruse while on the move. We cannot afford to disturb other attendees."
The two began their walk elsewhere to have this discussion without annoying or disturbing the others in the Library. Yet, even while walking and letting the cool air breeze past him, Hokma could still never erase the doubt in Anderson's belief that lingered in his mind.
"I… I believe in the Lord God because I believe that he is without error, and that the Bible, the word of the Trinity, and the cleansing of original sin through being born again in the name of Jesus Christ."
Original sin? That… Awfully sounded a lot like how Carmen described the 'Disease of the Mind.' The extreme similarity caused him to squint as Anderson continued on. "...And, thus, I firmly believe that there is a chance for man to redeem themselves through faith in Christ."
"What I am interested the most in, Mister Anderson, is the concept of this original sin mentioned-" Hokma said as he looked back at Anderson, who had by now been clutching the Bible very closely to his heart. "It brings me to ask, as someone not too familiar with this… original sin, why does humanity have this original sin?"
He hoped to crack an answer out of the man. At least, to understand something: How could Humanity of here simultaneous beliefs of… 'original sin' yet simultaneously allow itself the right to murder in the name of an intangible and ambiguously existing deity? Or perhaps those reflected different time periods…
It was highly likely that whatever had occurred in revolutionary France has been an artifact of what once was, a breakthrough that soon became nothing more than an extension of the status quo, never a replacement or a total overthrow.
Though it also leads him to a question:
If he believes that this God of his allows people to redeem themselves through faith, why does it allow evil as a concept to exist? Why does this God not perpetuate a system of faith, and instead allow individual choices to dictate a person?
"Oh, the original sin has its roots to the first humans created in the image of God: Adam and Eve," Hokma's ears perked when he heard the name Adam. To think that he'd hear his name again… "When Adam and Eve had committed the very first sin, they had put upon themselves a sin inherited from birthright, as punishment for distorting the image of God."
"An interesting punishment," Hokma interjected. "Yet if God were so concerned with ensuring that none of his followers sin, why does he offer them the choice to sin, knowing that choosing to sin is a great damnation?"
"Well," It sounded more like Carmen punishing those for refusing to be your real self. But, Hokma clenched his fist. Her grip was going to be ironclad and harder to remove than thought. "God wanted to test his creations, after all. He wanted to test if they could fall to the temptations of Satan, the Devil."
"Though this does lead me to ask once again. If this God is a force so concerned with the sin of those who choose to follow it," In The City, there are many who commit sin, knowing it is wrong. But there exists entities such as One Sin and WhiteNight… Tangible beings who offer services against sin… in differing ways. Yet they were not Gods. They merely took the mantle of them. A real God would have been as vindictive as the Head. So why is Anderson's God so lenient? Why do they construct Gods that are lenient? "Then why does God allow the concept of sin at all? Surely, a God sorely concerned would be clamping down… Yet I see not the response."
Had a God sorely concerned about sin existed, then those gunmen at the hotel would have perished days before their birth. Yet why does Anderson's God…
Though, as with his earlier point, perhaps this is something of this Humanity. They do God-building to give themselves something to reinforce their moral standards and failings. No matter how intangible or unperceivable they may be.
They construct Gods of their own to justify their sins, knowing they are wrong, yet seek to justify their own causes. The old Benjamin would have done the same. And yet, all Hokma can do now, having survived the horrors of Lobotomy Corporation and transportation to this...Earth… All he could do was question. Question, question, and question.
"Because God works in mysterious ways, ways we cannot comprehend or understand," Anderson said as the both of them stopped at a table, Anderson setting his Bible down as he looked at Hokma. "The Bible is the truth of God, yet even then, we cannot know the reasons God drives this world."
"So you willingly worship a God that allows those around you to indulge in sin, knowing how wrong it is to their standards?"
"Yes. I trust in God's ruling, Mister Hokma."
"But why so?" Hokma asked. This… Wait. Hokma felt something that he had not felt before. This man… If Carmen was WhiteNight… He almost cursed himself as he realized what she could do.
He had to warn Angela as soon as possible.
"Because I believe that Jesus Christ can save those in sin. But if you were to ask me? To be willing to bear the pain, the sin, is half the atonement," He picked up his Bible, thumping it on his hand as he gave a smile. "Though it may not be tangible, what matters not is the physical benefit. It is the healing to the soul."
"Hmph," Hokma concluded. He had to drop this conversation for now, even if it was… Partially enlightening. Though he could never understand why such a God would allow sin to exist in the first place. But that mattered not. "I suppose you ought to keep faith with unwavering resolve."
As he said that, Gebura had walked from behind a bookshelf, just to the right of Anderson, who didn't notice, smiling and nodding, with the Western-accented duplicate of his face possessing a grin that fit more in the Library rather than a place like this public library.
"That you ought to do," Anderson chuckled as he began to turn around, Hokma's eyes widening as he realized what he was doing. "Anyway, Mister Hokma. I've got to go, you take-"
He was about to walk away from the table when he turned around and came face-to-face with Gebura, who was walking just beside him. Hokma watched as he stopped moving, seemingly blinking twice as he came face-to-face with Gebura.
That was not… Good.
"Wait…" Anderson said as he leaned onto his chair, mouth slightly agape and eyes widened. "Aren't you…?"
"You recognize me from somewhere?" Gebura asked, hands in her pockets as she stared idly at Anderson. She did not have Mimicry on her this time even as she wore her Red Mist page.
But he knew where Anderson may have recognized her from.
To call the timing unfortunate would be an insult to misfortune as a whole. This was more like horrid timing to an almost absurd level. Deeply, deeply unfortunate.
"Gebura," Hokma flatly stated, having given up any attempts at salvaging it since Anderson had accidentally stumbled on Gebura. Not that he knew that this would happen anyway. Unfortunate. "I believe that quite a lot of people have heard of your escapades."
"...I had hoped that they would stop talking about what happened at the Hotel when I went into this library," Gebura deadpanned, irritation crossing her face as she stared down Anderson. "...Hokma. You see what I'm seeing here?"
"Hmm?"
"This guy's face-"
"Just like Roland and Director Bush," Hokma grimaced. "I'm afraid that this may either be unfortunate coincidence or something darkly comedic at play-"
"Woah, woah, hold on- Director Bush?" Anderson turned around to talk to Hokma. "You know CIA Director Bush?"
Hokma sighed, having been interrupted. And he instead gave a nod. Gebura put her hand on his shoulder, shaking her scar-covered head as Anderson flinched from her hand being placed on his shoulders.
"Mister Anderson, I'm afraid that you may be late to your original task…" Hokma said. "Unless that is, you desire to find out something that you don't."
"...What the hell do you mean by that?"
"Tell me, Mister Anderson," Hokma said as he uncrossed his arms, a sigh escaping him as he shook his head. "Will you defend your republic from a spirit hijacking the very message of God you worship?"