Still contending with the massive purge soon to occur, his isolation from the routine of past life, and the disappearance of his internal display, Roask was in no mood to dine as Tanaka took a sip of wine, his eyes gazing into the dark red sea within his glass as he savoured the taste and aroma of the wine. “An old vin français. Please,” Tanaka gestured toward the array of appetizers and glass in front of Roask, who beheld the feast in front of him, fixing his eyes upon an old piece of china. A heron was painted with short black strokes upon the sky blue porcelain of the bowl, filled to the brim with cubes of cantaloupe, stacked upon one another to form what appeared as a glazed pyramid.

“This bottle was produced with a new rapid aging technology,” Tanaka said, as he swirled the blood like liquid around the glass, which rolled down the translucent edges in wave like patterns. “One month and it replicates ten years in an ancient cellar… Quite interesting technology, it is...” Roask took a sip of the wine. The bitter taste dominated but was tamed by hints of apple and the deep taste of coffee or tobacco, a masterful blend that offered his palette a novel experience he rarely nowadays encountered. “Try the cheese, old boy. You see, I’ve become quite the connoisseur of ancient recipes, it’s become a hobby of mine. The way the average consumer dines these days, is, well… deplorable. The ancients really did know how to savour their meals...” Tanaka slowly shook his head as he took another sip of wine, enjoying the intoxicating juice before biting down on a block of cheese that rested upon a slice of baguette. “Once you meet our kind, you will be happy to know that it is quite uncommon to see anyone gauge themselves and then slurp down digestant… On that topic, I have informed a few important persons about you, and they would like to acquaint themselves…”

“Once you see the life you have been missing, you will kick yourself, I’m sure, but you will certainly be relieved. I have arranged for a shuttle to transport you to Dohaidu, a settlement exclusive to those that I will move on to the new world, those that have been screened as outliers… You will be happy to know that your new abode is already well furnished.” Roask savored a piece of salami as his mind imagined that new land, the new dream of life to come. Dohaidu, a place of genius, a place of consciousness, of harmony among men...” That paradise that never was... Perhaps the price for such a dream is the destruction of what has come before it, the evisceration of all the was backwards. As he fixated on the promise of the future and as the warm caressing bliss of the wine slowly seduced him, his feelings of remorse faded slowly away, giving way to emotions excitement and wonder.

“I hope you’re not thinking too much about your old fellows or your previous network, old boy,” said Tanaka, meeting Roask eyes with a calm, calculating manner. Such events are commonplace in the history of humankind. The rise and fall of nations and peoples, war, the crashing and success of markets, ascensions of families, the destruction of nobility, slaughter of whole civilizations. In the grand scheme of things, this is nothing new. Feel no worry, old boy. You are a small cog in a big machine, there’s nothing you can do to stop the movement of what we call modern civilization. The reasoning power of mere men is no longer significant. We are simply along for the ride, the audience of a galactic play.”

Tanaka took another sip of wine before a servant drone hurried in, its mechanical arm extending meters from what previously appeared as a featureless, floating silver ball. As quiet as a mouse its claw like fingers wrapped around the glass bottle, topping off each glass before darting into the other room and returning with a platter of fish covered in a light red sauce, serving each man in turn, the aroma of fish and spices intoxicating. “Oh you are in for quite the treat old boy. The whole table for you and I… Life is wonderful, a dream, doesn’t it seem?” Tanaka’s offered a wide grin, quite uncharacteristic of the man that was usually pensive and unexpressive, preferring never to demonstrate too much emotion.

“Fresh salmon from a nearby river. Please… don’t be shy.” He again gestured to the dish in front of Roask. The eye of the fish was wide open, its expression one of utter shock, as if it had just witnessed a murder, otherwordly magic, or catastrophe. The black pupil was surrounded by a yellow blue iris, the scales shifting from silver and white to grey and blue as they spread from the head to the back, belly and tail. “The story of this species fascinates me. They begin their lives as alevins in freshwater streams, living inconspicuously around the gravel where they hatch, nourished by protein sacks attached to their bellies. After growing in size and finishing their sacs, they are known as fry, whence they venture to the surface and begin feeding for a number of months in their freshwater environments. Thereafter the fry migrate to the ocean, their scales mature and take on a metallic, silver hue. They then spend the large portion of their lives in the ocean, feeding on other fish.”

“Here is the stage that fascinates me, old boy....” Tanaka began slowly cutting a portion of his fish, the tender meat giving way quickly to his calm, sawing motion. “Near the end of their lives they stop feeding and return to their natal streams, perhaps through chemical cues, scents or the influence of sunlight... In certain cases they traverse hundreds of kilometers, through rapids and against strong currents, avoiding the claws of grizzly bears, the piercing talons of eagles and predatory birds, the strong jaws of otters, and a host of other sorts of hazards on their way. Their bodies, muscles, and reserve of fat quickly diminish under the enormous strain. Finally they reach those same gravel beds where they joined the world and the females make redds, or small nests on the stream floors with their tails, in which they deposit their eggs. Males duel with one another for mating rights to fertilize the eggs with what is called milt. Finally, after such an epic struggle, all of the pain and endurance, championing the most harsh of conditions, like clockwork, they simply die…”

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Abbad woke entirely confused and disoriented, he was shackled from behind in an underground chamber with a group of other similarly bound subterraneans. A pain in his ear throbbed and he felt groggy, as if he had awoken at the crack of dawn after only a few hours of light sleep. As he noticed a Sitmian monitoring him and the rest of the black suited troops, he tried to free himself from a rough rope, which tore into his skin. Abbad grimaced at the Sitmian like a growling wolf as he anticipated the strong audio pangs and internal shocks that an encounter with anything Sitmian elicited. To his surprise, though, no shrill screeching or stinging electricity could be felt. The cowl on his face remained as he met eyes with the peacefully seated Sitmian. Abbad soon noticed that even the display lights and markings usually hovering over his field of view, like floaters in an old man’s eyes, had disappeared.

Slowly, the Sitmian stood up and approached Abbad, who began convulsing violently hoping to lunge or attack the being, again struggling against his shackles and rope which tore even further into his skin, causing a stream of blood to flow from his wrists to his palms and over the back of his hands. The Sitmian slowly approached and gently placed his hand on Abbad’s soldier, trying to calm him with a sort of cooing, shushing noise. Abbad recoiled, and, with no other means of attack, lunged at the Sitmian, digging his teeth into the flesh of his forearm like a rabid mutt, causing the Sitmian to quickly double back and let out a scream of pain before disappearing into another room.

The man returned with a large bag and began to treat his wound, pouring alcohol over the gash before slowly wrapping his arm in a bandage, swinging the thin cloth around before biting and tearing it off from the reel. Abbad noticed a certain humanity within his eyes, an expression of resolve and patience written across his face that for an instant contradicted his programmed perception of the race. The Sitmian, instead of beating Abbad or retaliating in anger, rummaged through his bag, withdrawing a bottle of brown tea, which he began setting before each of the Sitmians. As Abbad cast his eyes upon the liquid, the act of drinking became a fantasy or dream he was unable to ignore or disregard.

Again, the Sitmian returned to Abbad like one would to a wild mustang, reeling and stomping in stubborn defiance, slowly approaching with his arm gesturing in calming motions. He picked up the bottle of tea and opened it in front of Abbad, this time placing his hand on his calf, which he again jolted in defiance. The Sitmian then slowly began untying the rope that bound his hands, raising the bottle to indicate that it was for him. Abbad, with his hand released, at once felt the urge to strike the man, but instead reached for the tea and ravenously began drinking.

Like a famished wolf after capturing and feasting upon its first fawn in the dead of midwinter or a neglected mutt receiving its first meal in days, Abbad grasped the bottle of tea, his instinct for survival superseding any and all other emotions. The liquid felt like heaven as is ran down his dry throat, a thirst he had never experienced before quenched. As the Sitmian undid the ropes that bound the hands of his fellows and returned with blankets and bowls of some substance that he could not recognize, only having eaten nutrient his entire life. The Sitmian then began issuing a tirade of blasphemies from his lips, the words so alien to Abbad and backwards to everything he had ever learned as to be perceived as ludicrous.

“You are here because you are not our enemy, you are our brothers, you see. You will come to see that we will only show you goodwill bestow peace and love on you, unshackling you from the chains that have so longed restricted you, opening the cage that has for so long trapped you. We have taken away all of the machinery within you, we share the same organs, the same heart. The Sitmians have out down our arms. The subterraneans and I share only one enemy, only one threat to peace, the consumer. You will soon come free of their propaganda, of their programming, you will be cleaned by the truth. You will be purified, purified I say, mark my words!” The speech had a striking effect on Abbad, who, along with the other subterraneans, grimaced as the words entered his ears, as if they were solicitations of dark magic or some demonic energy, inviting an ominous fate to rule their lives… Unable to stand up and attack the Sitmian, Abbad began a tirade, cursing him as no better than an animal or a disease, refuting his words and condemning him to damnation.

As the days passed and the love continued to flow from the sitmians like nourishing water from a mountain, feeding crops and animals alike, their dispositions slowly changed, and, indeed, as the first Sitmian had prophesied, they began to see the light. Before long the sitmians and subterraneans were living underground in the bunkers peacefully. Their complexions and bodies became radiant and strong, their spirits became youthful, a curiosity with life budded in each of their minds, and love itself was sufficient enough to change their wills and their hearts. For the first time, they looked at each other in the eyes, communicated their feelings, displayed their humanity and emotion. Across all of Sitma, raids were ongoing and the Sitmian began amassing more and more souls to their side, the subterraneans all succumbing to the truth. Tore away from their father’s, caged like animals in dark cellars, shocked and brainwashed with electrical and auditory cues, the contrast to life with Sitmians spoke for itself.

Their masks disappeared, the sun kissed their skin as they tasted the variety of fruit, vegetables, and meat that composed the Sitmian diet, the image of nutrient and liquid flowing out of the old pipes now just an old nightmare. As more subterraneans defected, the tables began to turn in the war of the two last remaining camps of mankind. The confidence and assuredness of consumer victory was, for the first time since the outbreak of hostility, questioned by the Sitmians. More raids on mines and export sites, disruptions of vital communications networks, looting of technological arms and means increased the momentum of the Sitmian forces. They were no longer like flies or mosquitoes merely pestering, acting as a solely as a nuisance, they were offering a solid resistance, a force to be reckoned with. The bombing raids continued, however, massacres and engineered plague on the consumers continued to spread, killing off thousands. In short, the enemy was not perturbed…

Alistair Jaffari had risen high in the Sitmian ranks, surpassing all of the generals that had previously given him orders. His tactical mindset and military prowess had quickly earned him political power and credibility. His theory to win over the subterraneans had proven the only decision that had provided any tangible results thus far in the conflict, and, as its originator, he was due the respect it conferred. In a clearing atop a mountain, seated cross legged on a blanket with Rama by his side, Allistair Jaffari never for a moment doubted that he would find himself in a position of authority, he felt destined to liberate his brothers and look over them as a keeper. Beholding the jungle below, its canopy dotted with bright shades of green by bright blue patches in the otherwise cloudy sky, Jaffari and Rama’s minds were silently contemplating. Angel rays pierced the sky and far off thick rain dripped from thick grey clouds like a single stroke of watercolor, the color fading as the brush made its course across a white canvas.