Per 
THE 75TH OVERSEER COUNCIL MEETING
DATE: 2010, OCTOBER 14TH
Credentials Authorized
Transcript Downloading…
Three Hours. It took three hours for O5-2 and 8 to stop arguing for thirty seconds before 4 decided he needed to give his two cents. On every other occasion, the rest of the council would have stepped in and stopped them, it was just this time it would have made no difference. The yelling and screaming were all fake, just for show. What were they even arguing about? Should we drop bombs on the continental USA to kingdom come or leave the situation alone so it can kill God knows how many people?
In less than a day, a mass of Sarkic cultists in the hundreds congregated in Tampa, Florida, and somehow rented a building to fit them all without the Foundation batting an eye. But alas, they were Sarkics. No big deal, they couldn't even keep up with their own continuity let alone do anything that can harm the Veil. The standard protocols were followed: agents fitted with flame throwers were deployed, an amnestic team equipped and ready to go, and a party set up a mile away in a local burger shop to celebrate another Sarkic ritual attempt foiled. Instead, agents were killed, the amnestic team was missing, and burgers went cold. Of all manners to be defeated by, how was that Sarkics was one of them? One of the most weirdest, convoluted, and disgusting groups of people to ever walk the earth, were the ones to outplay the Foundation. This was equivalent to a seasoned swordsman being bested by an eight-year-old with a butter knife. For the first time in their existence, the Sarkic cults were organized and they meant business.
If that wasn't bad enough, a massive amount of EVE— no, magic was found emitting from their base of doom. It was unlike anything they have ever seen, the only thing that came close to it was the one incident in Antarctica involving a flying reindeer.
"Can you guys shut the hell up for one minute?" 3 said, tired from the bickering from her peers and wallowing in her own misery. The room was now quiet, once arguing, all three members sat back down in their chairs. With their anger finally expelled from their being, only fear remained. What would they do now?
"Thank you… 3," 6 looked at his colleagues, all bearing the same gloomy faces. "With that now finish. Do we have any word back from Alpha One?"
"You know damn well we haven't 6," 2, the meekest member of the council, usually resign to fidgeting his fingers, had now formed his hand into a fist clenched with anger. "Or should we replay their screams so you get a reminder?"
"Do we even have any idea of what they are even doing? All we know is that an enormous amount of EVE is there. Is there any more information we have?" The room again went silent by 9's question. Of course, they had no official confirmation on what they were doing, but there was no doubt in their minds of what was going on. The Sarkic's, simple and determine, only had one goal.
"The only thing we have is a picture of red lighting converging around a frame of a skeleton in the middle of their base. Does anyone have any idea as to what this is?" 3 scoffed at 10's question. It was obvious what that was, they just didn't want to admit it. Enough is enough. It was time, she thought, to face the truth.
"We all know what is, so let's just stop with the games all right. There's only one thing it could be that they're summoning. Their progenitor, The Grand Karcist, Ion!"
"Come on now. We can't be jumping to conclusions like that, 3."
"Nine is right, it would irresponsible for us to do something so juvenile. And besides, let's just try to think positive, okay? Maybe it's just another blob of flesh?"
3's hands were beginning to go limp. She was beyond tired. There was no hope in convincing them to acknowledge the truth, or even trying to control the situation. They'll just be arguing all day then, whatever, her shift ends end sin one hour. Crestfallen, she fell back into her chair, contempt to get as much rest she could get.
However, as if with malicious intent, red lights jumped to life and trumpeted their horrid sirens across the room. Blue, luminescent screens jumped down from their post on the ceiling, and with a blink of static, turned on. The image, now in high-def, 4k quality, plastered all the screens would have been called spectacular, and even beautiful if all context was removed. But the Overseer Council was cursed with knowledge, filled with the horrible things that they have witnessed and committed. But even if all those feelings that resign in those aching heads were combined, it wouldn't have equal half the despair they felt after looking at that screen.
It was the end, and everyone knew it.
To sponsors like Marshall, Carter, and Dark, The Children of the Night, and to listeners like you, thank you.
DJ Kolock: All righty folks, we are back in the air ready to give you the latest news in the Nälkä community. And for the 5th time in a row, our special and most esteemed guest, The Ozirmok himself is here. Let's give it up for Ion!
Pre-recorded claps.
Ion: Greetings, again, it is an honor to speak to you all, my faithful followers. It is truly amazing to see so many continue the fight against the old Gods. Though this language is very hard for me fully process and this te-no-lu-gy to understand, I will try to do my best. Like the ones who—
DJ Kolock: Aint that peachy! It's not like you said that every other time! Ha-ha.
Ion: Ha-ha…My apologies.
DJ Kolock: But anyways, I know you all have heard about the incident in New York—about the man selling his intestines as hot dogs from las week. I tell ya, it was crazy. The faces and bodies of those who ruptured from inside it out were surreal. It was art I tell you. It was beautiful.
But sadly, the Men Of Bitches, A.K.A the Foundation, got him. Lets his legacy be remembered for generations. My Karicst, Ion, what do you think of this?
Ion: Um… I am very confused about this whole situation. I know of this Foundation, those who are against us, yes. But why would the man purposely give nourishment to those in need only to curse them with death? How does that spread our teachings, our wisdom, and integrity as not just an individual but a—
DJ Kolock: Thank you, Ion, for your inspiring and wise words. It is always honored to hear them. Now we got some callers on the line for just for, my Karcist. Ready?
All right, Timothy Dickson, you are live my brother.
Dickson: Thank you Kolock for letting me in today because there's something I've been wanting to give off my chest. Grand Karicst, I have some beef with you.
Ion: Beef?
Dickson: Yep! You see, for the past 25 years, I have had twelve wives and 60 children. Half of those wives and children, I disemboweled and then fed to myself and the remaining family in your name. So when I heard that you were resurrected, I thought, shit, my day of ascension is here. But no, nothing has happened except me getting tired of your bullshit!
Ion: Chuckles. Can you please repeat that, I didn't think I heard you correctly.
Dickson: Sure thing. I sacrifice six of my wives and 30 of my children to your dumbass in exchange for power! Where is my power! Where are my tentacles, where is my rapid regeneration? Shit! At least give me some abs and biceps, damn.
Ion: Mister Kolock, I think I need this translated, in Latin if you could. Thank you.
Vidi. Bene. Certus. …?
So, if I am correct, you said that you killed half of your family in my name. If that is the case, then… What in the hell is wrong with you!? Why would you do that?
Dickson: Huh? What you mean, it says in your text—your text— that 'Those who shall kill in my name will reap thy rewards from the Grand Karcist himself, Ion.
Ion: I never said that! I would never say that. I taught specifically not to do that. Those are false texts. False!
Dickson: False? I knew it! You're just a fraud. You ain't no real Ion. Your just a con artist.
Ion: What?
Dickson: You cow-shit! If I ever see you, I'm—
DJ Kolock: All right, Mr. Dickson, you have run out of time. But before we go to our next caller, we're going to take a little break. While that happens, listen to the new hit song by the Nobodies.
Hurry it up!
Oh no. Oh no, Ion thought, oh no. He did not know what exactly he did was wrong just that the mood around him had just dropped tremendously. He tried to be honest and polite. Not trying to, what do they call it, ah, yes, beat around the bush. Strange phrase; strange place; strange time. After he awoke from a long slumber after, well, something, and saw a bunch of hooded individuals with smiles splattered across their faces, while naked, he assumed the worst and ran, just to be confronted by Florida's skyscrapers and multicolored lights. Frozen, he awed at the display, and wonder how can something so big and colorful could exist. In his time, finding a field of flowers would be enough to make a person day.
After that, he spent days trying to understand this foreign language and get used to this te-no-lu-gy. Once he accomplished that, Ion believed he knew it all. One moment he was in his capital, the next he was here. He's heard and witnessed worst events happening to others, so he wasn't that distraught over it. But what he could not prepare for was his descendants. The modern followers of Nälkä, if you could call them that, bear no resemblance to the original ideals he once taught. Their appearance and ways were weird and borderline disgusting with the self-cannibalization and robes made of skin, but that was tolerable. It was the rhetoric they spewed. At first, he believed that it was the language barrier that prevented his full understanding, but he mistook nothing. To have his teachings, which he fought for with every drop of sweat and blood, bastardize and turned into some superficial flesh cult was a fate worse than death. Ion swore that he could hear the Daevites' final laugh in their deep, pitiable graves.
The caller did nothing to help his mental situation as well, nor did his employer Kolock. He was one of the first to personally seek him out and confessed their devotion, and said it was such conviction and vigor it convinced Ion to work for his show. With a contract and firm handshake, seven dollars an hour and an apartment room was his deal. It sounded good in the beginning, and the payment for work concept was something he understood, though using paper as currency was off-putting at first, the chance to lead his followers back in the right direction made everything else seem easy. Even the bugs who bit on him as he slept in his chambers were nothing but trivialities compared to his mission.
But that hope soon changed into despair. It slowly dawned on Ion that his people did not want a true understanding of Nalka, only a surface level of it so they continue own in their blissful ways. But still, even if that was the case, there must be some, if only a few, who yearn for knowledge, and with that small possibility he would not abandon them.
"Kolock, I don't understand what that was. Why are getting these type of…people?"
"Ah, Ion," Kolock said, now smoking a cigar from his pockets as he lay back in his chair. "You're going to have to relax a bit. You're too tense, too firm. With that attitude, no one is going to listen to you."
Ion stood from his chair and began to walk around the room with his red rags, the first pair of clothes he was given since coming to this world, dragging behind him. "So what am I supposed to do? Lie? Forsake my own truth for, um, what do you call it when someone who watches you?"
"Views?"
"Yes, views! I'll be a… I'll be a sellout in your tongue. How can I do that to them in their self-segregation and ignorance?
Kolock placed his cigar between two fingers and let out a cloud of smoke trailed by a deep sighed. "Ion, how can I say this. I'll just shoot you straight. You are going to have to be more mainstream."
"More what?" The question twisted Ion's face into a composition of confusion and anger. He was beginning to get tired of it all. Guilt had already filled him after seeing the state of his people, and he would not waste any more time understanding more weird banalities from this land.
"Listen, people want to see their Ion."
"Yes, and I am here."
"Right, but, they want to see their Ion. Their version of who you are. They're truth, not yours. These are people that have grown into thinking their holy text and rites were the one true and only way that they could do things. And now, when Ion himself appears and tells them what they are doing is not just wrong, but immoral, do you really think they are going to accept it?"
"Well…"
"Right, they ain't going to have none of it. They'll rather cast you out and keep their own version of the truth than learn the hypothetical truth. So, all you have to do is nod your head when someone says something and when they ask you a question just go on a rant about something else entirely. Trust me, people will eat that shit up."
"So what your asking me to do is to is do nothing?"
Kolock formed his hands into two pistols and gestured at Ion. "Bingo! That's my Grand Karcist I tell you."
Ridiculous, Ion thought, ridiculous. He went towards Kolock slammed his hand on the table, snapping it in two. "How do expect me to something so disgusting. To bastardize my teachings for something so trivial." Turning his gaze away from Kolock, Ion looked at the splintered table and scattered microphones and recorders. Calming himself, he backed away. "My apologies."
"Forget it about. I understand, I really do, but I have other things to consider."
Ion nodded. "Of course, you have your sand…land?"
With a deep breath and sigh, Kolock answered. "Brand?"
"Yes, brand to consider, but would you put that on the line to do something about this. I cannot continue in this way any longer. Even if it cost us greatly, which it will, will you join me and help spread the truth?"
Kolock was silent once the mighty question was asked. What would he do? Join the progenitor of Nälkä, a living legend, the Soceroor King himself, and his path of glory and certain hardships that will one day shake this world in its very foundation? Where in the future he will be named a Klavigar who helped Ion formed the reborn Adytum Empire and whose name will be written in the conquered halls of where their enemies once walked as his descendants walked the earth, proud and fit, with his mighty blood coursing through their veins! Or continue making bank?
"Ion, the Nälkä community needs a figurehead, one that would agree and tell them what they want. I know you been out of the game for two-thousand years, but you said it yourself, we are lost. We need a foundation— a familiar and noncombative one that will maintain the status quo. Without that, we'll become more fractured than we already are."
Walking towards Ion, he placed his hand on his shoulder. " I respect you and all. I mean you are the OG, but I think this where we go our separate ways."
"What?" Ion couldn't believe the words that were coming out of Kolock's mouth. "You're betraying me?"
"See, that's the type of language I just can't get used to. It's too extreme. No, I am not betraying you, I am firing you, Ion. Oh, come on, don't look at me like that now. That's unbecoming of you. I deposited your last check in your bank account yesterday, so you should be good to go. But you are going to have moved out of that apartment by next week, though. Surprised you even stay there that long, really. That place hasn't been clean for months."
Ion sulked on the sidewalk of the road. With less than 300 dollars in his pocket, pair of ragged clothes, and a lack of social connections, there was nothing he could do. Once his people got him here they showered him with praise with such ferocity and speed it was terrifying, now, with the same quickness, they abandoned him like some worn-out pup. Was this really how the world works now? Was Kolock right that people don't want to know the truth or even care, and that he was simply an outdated fool who can't come to terms with that simple fact? Maybe he was the one in denial, clinging on to some old ideology that has long lost its kick with the younger crowd.
Ion pondered why he was even brought here. Things back home were all-right. It wasn't perfect, they were uprising in the far reaches of his territory, but what expanding empire doesn't have those? But still, he had his allies, his friends, and hopes for a better future. But now he sees what all his efforts had come too. This world, this alien place that resembled nothing of his own, was what he fought for. The fruits of his labor bear nothing. If only he knew the power that brought him here, he could find a way back and fix all of this. There was no way these modern followers had the power to do it on their own or the capabilities of knowing who helped them. The more he looked at this, the more it sounded like a conspiracy. A plot to change time itself to remove Nälkä supremacy.
Of course, it was so clear. It made no sense otherwise. Why would anyone who wanted him dead, bring him to the future, unless it was meant to weaken the past and destroy him in the future where they were strongest. It was a diabolical plan that would require a great amount of power and skill. Indeed, there was only one group he could think of that can do something low; in fact, he knew exactly who to visit first to gain some answers.
Ion stood as fresh energy grew within him and gave him vigor. He walked into the busy streets of this false world and as he blended in the wave of people. Passing the towering buildings, the fast machines, and artificial lights, he was surprised he hadn't thought of him earlier; to think somehow he was still alive after all this time, that his energy was still strong enough for him to feel. But he soon corrected himself of that folly thought. Of course, he was, this world forged in fire and made of metal, wires, and pu-a-stic was perfect for people like him.
Ever since coming here all he felt was anger, frustration, and guilt, but now he had something to unleash it on. To vent, as they call it. Ion marched towards his destiny, only stopping to chase after the twenty-dollar bill that flew out of his pocket.
Robert Bumaro, the last true Mekhanite and current figurehead of the Church of the Broken God, drunk beer from a glass bottle that bore his face on both sides. Sixty years ago he was just some weirdo that accidentally released a mechanical abomination that destroyed a piece of Baja California. Before that he was wondering prophet said to be the son of Mekhane himself or reincarnation; it really depended on who you asked at the time. The fact is that Robert Buramo would be anyone as long as they were in the spotlight. Whether that be a villain or a hero. Whatever the people say he was, he was. Where the glory goes, he goes. He was as fickle as he was rich.
Robert stood up from his chair on the patio and entered his home. The floors were marble, the walls were made of glass and were fitted with electronic lights, and the living room was the size of those crummy houses of people who once called him a sell-out. He always laughed when he heard someone insults him with that word. No restrictions. No books to follow or people to preach to. He simply goes where the money is and does what he wants. And if that was a sellout, Robert thought, then he was going to be the richest one.
As he flopped and bounced on his couch, he reached for the remote to turn on his seventy-inch tv. He flipped aimlessly through the channels, wondering which show to watch first. He heard great things about Looper, so he clicked its tab on the screen, kicked his legs, grabbed his bottle, and relaxed for another good night. The air was specifically chilly at that moment, caressing the exposed artificial skin of his body. The bathrobe he wore offered little defense against it, as the little silicon hairs of his body straighten and stood. Feeling all this was so strange to him, not because he lacked feeling his body, but the fact that he remembered closing his windows in the house.
Only then did he realize that the left side of his house was missing. The concrete was torn and pummeled into fine dust and its steel skeleton was twisted as if it was licorice. The remaining tiles from the roof were either on the ground and shattered into dozens of pieces or dangling in the air from their last strips of glue for dear life. In this field of smoke and destruction stood a man dressed in dirty rags. He glared at Robert with eyes of hatred that penetrated deep into his soul. Robert instantly felt a barrage of emotions, which mostly consisted of mild annoyance and nostalgia. His eyes widened. Only one being in this world could make him feel like this with just a stare.
"Ion?"
"Robert!" It was him, no doubt about it. That annoying, insufferable tone that he could only make. "I know you did it! Just admit it."
"Really, after all this time, that's the first thing you say to me?"
And with that said, Ion lunged towards him. He pierced his own stomach with his hand in midair and pulled out a piece of rib-bone. Covered in blood and flesh, it elongated and straighten, its sides developing a row of bone-formed razors. He swung and stabbed at Robert with superhuman speed, creating fissures in the floor and furniture beside them.
Dodging elegantly from Ion's attacks, Robert talked between the strikes. "I don't know where you been or how you got here Ion, but I hope you have been making some money because your paying for everything that you broke. You son of a bitch!" Robert pulled his hand back and released a right hook that landed atop of Ion's jaw. As Ion flew in the air from the punch reinforce of centuries of self-augmentation, he landed in a pile of concrete and dust.
"You fucking runt! I kicked your ass so many times in the past they wrote my name in your own halls. If you think you can punk me in my own house, you have another thing coming, buddy."
"I'm not your buddy, you Mekhanite." Ion spat blood, that punched felt a lot heavier than he remembered. "Just tell me how to get back."
Robert chuckled and gave his worst smile. "What in the world are you talking about? Bring you back? Like I'll ever resurrect you from the dead."
Dead? Ion pushed those thoughts away. He had no memory of dying, it was just more lies from the followers of the forever Broken God. "Shutup! I'm not here to play games with you. Just tell me what I want to know and we don't have to fight."
"The only person who should be scared of fighting is you. Don't want to get beat for the, what number was it again, sixteenth time, again now do we?"
Blood vessels popped up on Ion's forehead. The ridicule never ends.. "You only beat me three times!"
"Right. Whatever you say…buddy."
As if his rage had manifested into the physical plane, Ion's body began to glow a deep red. Yellow lighting crackled around it and dance in the air. This attack would be for the kill, damn the questioning.
As a response, Robert's body was engulfed in a blue aura, it moved and coiled as flames born from Greek fire. His fist, embedded with blue energy that surrounded him, were extended towards his foe.
"Come on and get it, you fleshy abomination."
The ground splintered with each step under Ion's feet as he rushed towards Robert. When he got in striking range, Robert simply stood still, with his calm and infuriating smile ever-present on his face. Within a second, Ion pulled back his sword and swung with full momentum of his body.
Sadly, the strike never reached Robert's body, in fact, the only thing it touched was the ruined marble floor as it was released from its master's hand. Robert's fist, however, moved with such speed and ferocity, Ion didn't even get a chance to blink before his head was already ripped from its place and turned into a bloody pulp.
The area, now quiet, reeked of blood. Robert looked upon the headless and limp body of Ion in front of him with a face of disgust. His house and clothes were ruined beyond repair and his body was covered in blood and other fluids he did not what to know about. With a sigh, Robert glanced at the bloody pulp on the ground that was once known as Ion's head and whistled as he looked for a shower.
