The Committee for National Security

Prologue - Between Two Worlds

6 Months After Expulsion / June, 1980

Immediately after the Republican National Convention

"And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him."

- Revelations 6:8, from the King James Version (KJV) of The Bible

Roland Orlando [The Library - Patron Librarian of General Works] — Floor Keter — Dated [UNKNOWN]

Roland huffed as he looked over the draft of his book that Angela had taken her time off to write for him. "Whoo-boy…" He sheepishly scratched his head as Angela looked at him with a confused face. "I… I didn't expect you to put in that part about, ah, me and Angelica… I mean, I thought it deserved its own book about my life, but…"

"Roland," Angela gave him a slightly disappointed shake of the head as she finished penning down the explicit details of Roland and his wife. "Would you expect me to not do anything with this information? With all respect," She said, closing the book after finishing the pen-draft for his personal life chapter. "I expected more from the one who almost killed me."

"Ehhhh... Ehehehe…" Roland's grin stretched wide enough to cause Angela to smirk. Something she had to pick up on in terms of behavior after attending Binah's little tea parties. Chesed was always the one to do this—most often at Gebura's expense, as the only times he smirked were times of Gebura being the butt of the joke. Surprisingly, it was… an elating and easing experience. "Consider it, uh, me becoming rusty…" He chuckled.

Angela gave him a light slap to the face in retaliation—eliciting a yelp from the poor fixer as the force left a big Angela's hand-shaped imprint on his left cheek. "Get real, Roland," She stood up as Roland rubbed his face. "Anyway, Gebura's scheduled boxing match between her and Chesed is about to begin in an hour," She smiled as Roland sighed and stopped rubbing his face. "I know. Those two will never stop their quarrels."

"Can't they just get a room already? Jeez," He bit his lip, closing his eyes and scratching his hair. "With enough of their tenseness, they might as well fuck like rabbits." Angela couldn't help but slightly nod. Those two really needed to channel their energy to something else aside from… Was the term Roland used 'beefing' with each other? She wasn't quite sure.

Another term to add to her dictionary of City slang.

She was always baffled by those. First, it started with 'on Head' which was, apparently, a shortened form of "I swear on the Head's name." Something that, as far as Roland remembered, was more used in jest.

She never understood how one could make light of the all-seeing authority of the Head in the City. But then again, the Librarians made light of their situation—even with Angela's omnipresence within the Library.

Sitting up, Angela glanced at Roland and gave him a nod. They were going to walk together. Sharing experiences, ideas for that drafted book, and perhaps talk about some more enlightening things. She always wondered how Roland was able to… Nevermind. Perhaps it would not be the appropriate time to discuss personal feelings on a day where the most exciting thing was boxing.

As they walked along, Roland shot Angela a quick glance. "Y'know," Roland opened up as Angela began to walk away from their drafting station. Angela raised an eyebrow in curiosity in response to Roland opening up dialogue once more. "I'm still really amazed we managed to make it this far. I mean, c'mon, how long has it been since we were ejected from The City?"

"My internal calculations tell me that we have been outside of the City's range for six months and a half."

"Jeez," His face turned into one of slight shock. "That long, huh?" He glanced back at the Library itself. It had only been six months… Huh. He wondered how time managed to fly by so fast. But, looking back at it… He supposed it made sense. In the Library, something new was happening every day.

Be it the Assistant Librarians messing with Netzach's routine and floor by making him get shit beer, Chesed and Gebura having their nigh-daily petty fight over the most normal topics, Binah gathering the Library for another one of her tea parties—many of which turn into lectures on the self, for the record—and Hod and Malkuth committing to an Assistant Librarian exchange program.

All of those caused time to speed by quickly. He smiled. It was their new home, and hell, it pays to get used to your new family, he supposed. Though he always wondered… How would he get over Angelica? She was always there for him. And he killed in her name. But… It had all been in the past. He had chosen to bury it, and move on.

What does he do now?

He was taken out of his musing by Angela nodding. "It has indeed been that long, Roland," She said. "Though I always wonder if the Patron Librarians would run out of, er, new discoveries within the Library. Have you taken up reading, Roland?"

"No, not really. I never really got the hang of the whole reading thing—Best I can do is speak, but, tch, gimme a book and I'll probably toss it to the wayside. I mean, c'mon, am I supposed to automatically know how to read something like 'The Fundamentals of Quantum Mechanics and Timespace Relativity'? Get real, man."

Angela chuckled. "Silly Roland, we have time to fix that," She said, eliciting an irritated groan from the Fixer, who waved off Angela. "I expect that we are to be situated in the Outskirts for the foreseeable future, considering that it is unlikely The Head will relinquish its power within any short timespan," She muttered, glancing back at Roland who shot her a confused look in response. "Not that the time is an issue for me, personally."

"Or us, y'know," He interjected, shrugging as he wanted to get that out of his head. Talking about time made his head spin, after all. " Hokma had a whole spiel about, ah, well, we're constructs of Light, yeah? So he had this whole thing about the pain of outliving the things we, uh, cherish. Which…" He turned his head back down as he continued walking. "Yeah. Shit. I'm gonna live longer than Olivier."

"How has that impacted you, emotionally?"

"I d'know. On one hand, it hurts me to say that, hell, by the time The Head kicks the bucket—if that even happens, pah—everyone who I've spoken to outside of the Library is dead. That's just… Something I might never recover from, to be honest."

"The other feeling?"

"The other? Hell, on the other hand, I might just outlast The Head. If I give it, well, centuries, then whatever's going on in the City might boil over to the point of those sickos being overthrown. And, well, even if that costs me a century—I'll take it. It's not like I have anything to live for, given the City's… City-ness."

Angela felt herself cringe as Roland talked about willing to wait for centuries to see the head collapse. The suffering… the pain… All of the torturous nonsense that Ayin had subjected her to… Memories of them all flooded back to her in a flash. Whatever lack of emotions she had as a machine seemed to be replaced by a searing almost-authentic recreation of the feeling of pure anger and rage. Why, had she been given the opportunity to, she could've-

"Uh, Angela," Roland stopped to look at her. "You okay? You seem to be clenching your fist with enough force to cripple a Claw."

Embarrassed, Angela shook her head. "No, nothing. Let's just keep moving."

"Righto."

Turning a corner descending into another sector of the Library, Angela's thought processes were still clogged up as she continued walking. Rage. Revenge. Hate. Hate. Hate. Everything that ran through her head was nothing but negativity—all directed to the man who denied her the chance of life. The chance to feel. The chance to be human.

She was thankful she had Roland to speak to, however. Their cycles of pain had ended—that was certified when they had coffee with Chesed a week after expulsion. Whatever she had on her thought processes- They could no longer chain her to the cycle of death and destruction.

No longer shall she sacrifice the blood of hundreds for a selfish goal. Hmph. In hindsight, it was better to cut that goal out of her life. Cut down her loss, so to say. And by all means, it was the best decision she's ever made.

The loosening of her fist and the birth of a small smirk on her face was the lesson learned from that.

No more pain, no more anguish. It was time to move on—no space for musing about times past that only brought pain and suffering.

Just take in the moment. That's what Roland always told her when she got to experience something new… even if weird. She still shuddered upon learning what City-dwellers did with canned food and their pockets.

It was weirder that she even learned to shudder, but that's low-priority on her thought processes.

Besides, she still had to watch Chesed and Gebura finally settle their little feud together, no? She was sure that Roland would enjoy that.

Though she wondered if there'd be anything else to do after that…

George Herbert Walker Bush [United States Government - Central Intelligence Agency Director] — Seattle, Washington State — Dated June 4, 1980

"What the fuck do you mean 'I'm' the one responsible for Anderson's defection?!" Bush angrily yelled into the phone as the always stern John Connally gave him a hearty Texan chuckle in response, much to the infuriation of the Massachusetts aristocrat. "You- You blithering-!" Bush couldn't help but yell in frustration into the telephone.

"What I'm saying is that someone had to encourage him to defect from the Party, and that, out of everyone in a position to do so, you're the most likely. After all," Connally's return to his usual tone only caused Bush to be more infuriated. "Were you not aligned with Rockefeller? For you to defect and to encourage it would not be surprising in the slightest."

"Why you-"

"Is it not evident? Mr. Anderson has gone over to the Democratic Party at the same time you abandoned the conference before it ended. And in politics, something is always wrong…"

"Listen here, you carpetbagging piece of shit-" George Bush tightened the grip he had on the telephone in the booth, using his other hand to point at the receiver as if making a threat. "I did not pour my heart and soul into this campaign just to see you and your fucking crossing-over goons turn the party of small government into- whatever the hell you're doing! Don't lie to me about those ads!"

"The times are changing, Bush. We may have been strong and virulent in the late forties, but the world has been changing, and we must adapt. We're the most vulnerable country in the world thanks to Fulbright, and the Democrats are merely continuing his path, as is now Anderson. The Republican Party is the only hope for the survival of this country, yet your group has been up in arms." In spite of Connally's sternness, Bush could only feel as if he was being laughed at by the Texan. "All evidence points towards you."

"Me?! Fucking- me of all people?!"

Silence. A silence that Bush, in this state of rage, could only interpret as mere mockery.

"I have served this party for decades and you have the gall to call me a fucking communist?! What the hell do you take me for?!"

"Think, Bush, think. How else would Anderson have had the idea to defect? Unless he was always a gypsy moth who said "me too" to everything Fulbright's party did, the only explanation I can come up with is that he was a Muscovite. While we're at it, you're also close to that other Democrat, Dugan. There is no possible other explanation, other than that you're sympathizing with the reds."

"Fuck. You. Connally," He barked into the telephone. "My relations with Dugan does not have anything to do with thi-"

"You would do well to learn when to keep quiet." The mental image of Connally making a mock out of Bush—not helped by the fact that a quiet chuckle escaped the Texan's mouth—made the Massachusetts aristocrat immediately bash the window of the phonebooth. A crack manifested from the center of the impact point, cracking the glass elsewhere. He couldn't feel any shards on him—not that his enraged state would be able to feel pain anyway—and pulled back as Connally cleared his throat. "Perhaps your time off the Directorship could help."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Talk to Henry Kissinger. I'm sure he'd be glad to tell you the news." As soon as he heard the word "news", Bush snarled and almost crushed the telephone with his bare hands. "Farewell, Bush."

"Don't you hang on me you f-"

The line died before he had a chance to get his carefully selected words to bleed out Connally's ears. "That little…" He said as he looked at the phone he held on his left hand, wire still connected to the box of the phonebooth. He tossed the phone to the floor and punched another window of the phone booth. "I swear, I'm going to get that bastard primaried out of the damn party." He sighed.

Picking up the phone that he tossed to the ground—internally wincing as he wondered if taxpayer money would be used to repair that—he placed it back on its receiver. A sigh came out of his mouth as Bush shook his head and bit his lip. "I'm going to be here for a while, aren't I?" He mused. "It's… Christ. It's not like I owe that carpetbagger anything."

He winced, pulling back the sleeves on his big jacket to look at his watch. It was 10:00 PM. Just about three more hours until he had to meet with his contact to take a look at the intel he received. Penetrating deep into KGB territory, that contact's done. He closed his eyes, frowning and making a silent growl.

This fucking sucked. Everything about this sucked.

He pressed himself against the wall and slid down, knees pressed against his chest in a pseudo-fetal position, pressing his face against his legs. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was… It was fucking not. It's just… It just wasn't. That primary was his , damnit! Not Reagan's! He was the successor! It was him! Why the hell did it have to be Reagan?!

He pulled his face back up, looking at the telephone in front of him. The same one he just damaged. No time to think about the repair costs, or how it'd eat into the taxpayer money from the state. He sighed and shook his head. None of that today. He just wanted to curl up and sleep. Shut out everything and take a goddamn moment to rest.

But no, no he couldn't.

He just couldn't.

Part of the job as Director, Ford says. Shit. He liked Ford, but the man was in the same boat as him. Only he was the President.

And yet, even if he understood Ford's pain, why the hell was he still so mad at him?

Ford had a tough act to follow, that's why… He supposed. Bush had a tough restriction to abide by, but it wasn't the executive. Yet, what brought them together was Rockie. Nelson Rockefeller, the President from '69 until '77. Rockefeller's little win in '68 propelled both him and Ford to new heights. Hell, without Rockie, Bush would have just been a Senator. Not the man he was today. He had a lot to thank Nelson Rockefeller for. Christ, he even had a debt to that man.

He was thankful for that man pulling the Republican Party out of certain doom. McCarthy's presidency—three terms, if you could believe it—was seen as the final nail in the coffin back then. Hell, Bush almost contemplated dropping his Republican label. Joining up with the Democrats, that's something he was offered a chance to. Without Rockie… Well, hell, he might've been the carpetbagger that Connally was, just in the reverse.

And Ford was his… Bush supposed he could've been called the first true heir to Nelson. Bush was too entrenched in the CIA to consider taking up the mantle—and the alternatives were, quite frankly, untenable. He almost chuckled remembering the other candidates. Lifting his fingers, he remembered the '76 primaries. There was… Let's see. He raised his pointing finger. Philis Schafly. Another one. James Buckley. Another one. Spiro Agnew. And as for the last big name he could remember? Was it, ah… This one… Something something…

No. Not worth musing over it, he thought. Just looking back at it… Ford was poised to be the heir to it all. The one who was s'posed to get everything fixed and up and running. Rockie's two terms had austerity hit America's biggest cities twice. First in the aftermath of some irresponsible austerity measures; Second in the aftermath of the Wave of Revolutions in the Middle East—the likes of which caused what would be the Oil Crisis. He was fighting an uphill battle. But he had incumbency and popularity on his side. It should've been him.

Yet he was saddled with so much bullshit- He took the blame for Ford's mishandling of Iran. He frowned, knuckles whitening as he looked back to the phone. Of course it was him. He slammed his hand into the window right of him. "Blame the fucking spook," He muttered, pulling back and slamming his hand a second time. "I'm saddled with trying to see what Romanov's up to, then that damn-" He slammed his hand into the window again. "That damn hostage crisis comes up."

Oh, blame the CIA, they say. They're so sure to themselves that it was poor old George Herbert Walker Bush to blame for our inability to rescue the men trapped in the U.S. embassy to Iran. Blame him, of course that was their solution. Don't blame the goddamn president who squandered everything we could've done to do against it.

"Fucking Ford," He retreated further into a fetal position, right hand in pain from slamming it against the window of the phonebooth over and over again. He wanted to wince. He tried to put pressure on it to distract the pain nerves.

But he couldn't.

"And then I'm saddled with this," He stands up quickly, yanking the phone from its place. "That fucking carpetbagging son of a-"

He stopped himself from doing anything else, the anger on his face replaced by an uneasy expression. He gently placed the phone down and winced. Not the time, Bush.

Sighing, he put his uninjured hand back in his raincoat. "I guess this means I'm out of a party permanently," He muttered. "Is this what they call being politically homeless?" He muttered, shaking the hand he used to smash the windows. "...I guess this is what it means to be politically homeless indeed." He muttered.

Opening the door to the telephone booth with his injured arm, he was immediately greeted by the cold feeling of water droplets hitting his hair in rapid succession. In his anger, he had forgotten to put the hood on.

"Just my luck," He spoke to himself, the weather of Seattle doing everything it could to cover him in rain drizzle. With his injured hand, he pulled the hood from his raincoat to protect his face. Now that he felt sheltered from the rain, he looked back at his watch, pulling his uninjured hand out of a pocket to see.

"11:20 PM," He smirked as he looked at the time. "I'll get myself a drink then," He muttered, putting that hand back into his pocket. "Now, Archer…" He muttered the name of his contact. What an odd name, but codenames must have been in short supply, he mused. Oh well. "I wonder what you've got in store for me."

? [? ? - ? ? ?] — Somewhere between Time and Space — Dated June 4, 1980 / [6 MONTHS AFTER LIBRARY EXPULSION]

Within the realm of existence, nonexistence, and the in-between, one entity floats, never leaving existence, yet never fully being pushed into nonexistence. All-seeing, however, it maintains a vigilant eye across existence. It notices a rather curious pattern—something alarming.

When talking about the realm of existence, therein lies a problem in the material world that brings people down—the disease of the mind Sadness. Anguish. Hate. Violence. No matter where, it remains. Whatever the cause, and wherever the place, nothing changes. Rather tragically, rather than any real changes, it is merely looking into a distorted mirror. While, on the surface, the appearances may be changed to an almost unrecognizable degree, the base lies the same. Repressed, muzzled, neutered.

Across the realm of existence, from the view of someone in nonexistence, it all remains the same. Across time and space, mirrors of worlds show themselves to be afflicted by the same disease that repressed the potential of her people, the disease whose goal is to continue the repression of their true desires under the threat of jackboots. Woe, why must the basest desires be repressed like this?

It brought a tear to see that even across mirrors—aberrations of time and space itself—there still remains authority, disease, and repression that only work to push down those who desire to be free. Why, oh, why must those who wish to be true to themselves… Why must they be kept under lock and guard? What purpose does that serve?

The answer, of course, is obvious. Those who seek to be themselves, in realizing their emotions and their real, raw forms, rebel against those who seek to control, those who seek to pushback, and those who desire nothing but power. The state, in its cowering form, seeks to destroy those who have realized themselves.

And to Carmen, this… Mirror World is no different. Regardless of how it may drape its districts as "countries" and its wings as little more than "mundane" companies, she sees through its lies. There remains a Head, an Eye, and a Claw. Playing the people against each other under such pathetic labels… "World Socialist Alliance," "Allied Nations," "Republican Party," "Democratic Party," Pah. Pathetic labels. Carmen sneered.

Soon enough, these labels would be meaningless. No longer would they have to be under the jackboots of these pathetically false labels. No longer must the people be corralled and sheparded by pathetic false prophets who line their pockets with blood.

When the time comes, she mused, this… This Mirror World will be bathed in liberating Light, that shall bring forth a cure for the disease of the mind.

But first, in order to inoculate this world with the cure, she would need… A diluted viral agent, something to prepare this world for the Light… Something that would not trigger the immune system… Something… Spent.

…"Ah," She mused, her warm smile basking in the cold, damp, repressiveness of this Nest… Seattle, yes. A wondrous nEST, it was. But it was just one angle to view this Mirror World. It was charming, just like other Nests. But it had to be torn down to free its people from the disease of the mind. Hmm…Wait. She has a solution to help tear down this world. Yes. Those children she left behind in the Outskirts… And, the one born in her image, soulless it may be. They… Yes, they're the best vessel to spread the Seed of Light, she mused.. "Perhaps… Seattle shall be introduced to the Light first," She mused. "Yet, how must I achieve this…"

She smiled as she looked over at the Mirror World. She heard from memory... about this thing from its history. Ah, a chronosphere, it was called. Something that would transport something from one location to another. Yes, that was the perfect vessel.

She always wondered how she would introduce herself should she manifest into this world's conscience. Hmm… Perhaps…?

"Be not afraid, for I am a servant of thy LORD GOD, the Saviour of Souls," She said. "I have come to spread the word of LORD GOD."

Yes… This will suffice for now.