Some loud bangs caught Ruff’s attention and he moved in a direction common to him. In the centre of town mingled a mix of good and bad friends. The good friends would greet Ruff with congenial eyes and pull him closer to their freezing bodies roughly running their hands and long nails through his matted fur scratching his skin and reducing Ruff to an ecstatic whimper where his knee joints would buckle, his bum would hover just above the ground and one of his legs would ride up to and scratch wildly at his neck as then finally, both legs would beat on the ground rampantly like an exalted doggy tap dance extravaganza.

  Then there were the bad friends, those whose adaptation in this new world was one of imitation and intimidation. They learned to be more like a dog to find their way through the waste of a buried society to cling idly to the hope of one more day alive. There was no give in their take.

  The bad friends learned of Ruff’s prowess, they sensed his state of nature and they followed him hungrily. They would wait until the agile animal had found food through the waste of others and would pounce upon him to claim their prize. They were very tricky and could not be trusted, but it was not to say that all were in that vein.

  Ruff’s instincts adapted with the new reason and new ambience to better read the sub-conscious intentions and new instinctual At Being states of these desperate uncivilised friends.

  “Aye Ruff” spoke an old scruffy man sitting at the front of a large concrete structure with its walls all lined with sharp tangled stabbing wires. Ruff pitter patted his worn paws and sat in front of the old man, his tongue panting to the side of his mouth.

  “You been on an venture boy? aye?” The Old Man asked, shaking Ruff’s head roughly from side to side with his two hands then scratching behind his ears.

  Of all the grandness existence had on offer, surely nothing came close to this; to be At Being where one’s ears were being scratched rigorously and one’s back leg was kicking away uncontrollably and at the height of such event, one let out a tremendous howl of appreciate.

  At Love, would have to be the sweetest state of being.

  “You’re a good boy, int ya?” said The Old Man as he pulled Ruff close to his grimy hairy face and kissed his lips.

  Ruff; impartial to a good kiss, gave one right back on The Old Man’s lips then walked off in the other direction. For that moment, the old man forgot his hunger; both physical and metaphysical and Ruff, the ache in the broken skin on his paws.

  Love was grand stuff and like any good drug, the two would be back for more, they could be sure of that. One wouldn’t doubt it and one wouldn’t comprehend it, but their instincts would always cross their paths.

  Ruff casually moved through the legs of a one armed man taking guard of a door but apparently lost At Distraction; his eyes up and to the right, the theatre in his mind, obviously running the good old repeats. He made his way without much trouble through the foyer where the usual armed guard were not present. Instead, they lined the streets outside, their ordered yelling creating waves of panicked cries out in the distance where for Ruff, the sound played like an orchestra by his side, deafening and frightening.

  He walked towards the door at the far end of the foyer where a man and woman were locked in stare reciting to one another. They didn’t notice Ruff as he passed under their table and through their legs, sniffing away for scraps of meat or vegetables that usually piled on the floor by their feet. The door behind the pair opened with a White Heart exiting towards the street and before his feet had even crossed the frame, Ruff was already inside the complex, making light his adventure through the land of Children and delicious orange things.

  He made his way to the far side of the complex where some children were in a group on the floor playing like a big human ball. The adventure in him called him closer. Children were always such great friends and there were so many inside these walls, although more times than he cared to remember, their love could hurt.

  There was a fine line between a choke and a cuddle, and a dog would call a choke a cuddle until he couldn’t bear being choked no more. His instinct though caught sight of a big friend sitting in watch by the children and so he kept in the shadow sneaking past her back quietly, moving to where the food was kept.

  When he arrived, there were only a few workers present. He casually moved through the rows of food and pulled at some green leaves protruding though the soil. The orange ones were his favourite. The taste was delectable and they bunched easily so he could easily take a stock back to his retreat and give one or two to his big friend at the front of the complex.

  One of the workers spotted him pulling at the leaves and ran after him in haste waving a long stick through the air but having no control of its swing. Eventually, the stick caught in the soil and snapped under the pressure sending the small man tumbling over himself. Ruff ran towards the man barking and wagging his tail; prancing about and jumping back and forth, taunting the man into play. The man got up and ran after Ruff, the two darting this way and that, carving circles in the paddock, tearing up what little crop there was in this poisoned soil.

  The more they ran, the angrier the man got. The angrier the man got, the more Ruff thought he wanted to play so round they went; round and round and round and round until the worker tripped in a wet muddy part of the soil and planted his face in the dirt. Ruff ran back to where the orange things were kept, the play making him all the hungrier.

  As he pulled on the green top of the orange food he heard a horrible whining sound that contorted with repugnant detestation; like a broken air raid siren being wound in a slow pained manner.

  Ruff turned his head slowly keeping his paws planted in the soil and his body arched, primed to run or attack.

  0011000100110001

  “There is something wrong about all of this; The Old Drunk Bastard; he said what we’re doing, that it’s not right. It is what it is, but it’s not right. What do you think? Are we doing the right thing, saving these children, laying new stones?” asked Marcos pensively.

  The Behemoth stood like a great monument staring out of the window at the surrounding streets below. He felt no fear and he felt no love. He was a man of pure rationale, antipathetic on all accounts.

  “I think the old man is insane. What you’re doing is brave, it is bold” he said.

  “Are we any different though? To before? They stole children and grew them as their own. What are we doing that’s any different? We pick children like ripe fruit. That’s not right. The old man was right. We’ve lost our way. Tell me, what are we doing that’s any different? What?” yelled Marcos.

  “We are loving them” said The Behemoth vehemently.

  “Love. To speak the word sends not a quiver to my heart, not even a ripple. Love. Outside of a word, are we really capable of giving what we cannot receive? Can we really love? What is it, outside of its definition? What does it feel like? How do we know if we’re doing it right? How do we know if we’re actually doing it at all? What if what we think is love, is something worse? We are loving them? What does that even mean?” said Marcos, his hands gripping the railing in front of his, sweat beading above his brow, his voice trembling and his stomach turning on itself.

  Marcos wanted to tell his old friend about his dreaming, the looseness of his conscious mind and how quickly as of late that he had been slipping in and out of delusion but he knew if he was falling to Famine, his dear friend would kill him in a second. He wanted so much to express his worry but the words wouldn’t form on his tongue, instead he looked still and remained silent staring out over the top of The Nest seeing his Collective in a more troubling light.

  “Everything is one Marcos. All of our problems; they are one. The food, The Famine, the rebellion, the lack of Children, the soil, the freezing weather, the missing girl, the coming storm; they are all one Marcos. Our location; it is the one constant that threatens to divide our family. Until now it has served us, but now it is time to take new direction” said The Behemoth.

  “No, we stay here. We’re not ready to move, not until The Telling is complete. We can’t risk losing everything, all of this work for nothing. You saw that soldier drop. You really think these children will survive passing through the old city? No we have no choice. We need to brace for whatever storm comes our way.”

  “This is stubborn and wrong Marcos. You’re not thinking clearly. No great achievement ever came from waiting. They rebel because they do not respect you. Respect is earned by effort, not age. All things age without effort Marcos. You need to take your people to a new frontier, lead them to their Forever New Dawn, don’t just sing about it. This is cause for war. Nobody will look ill upon you for making this difficult choice. The night has always been catching up with us. There is nothing more that we can do here. We have to move. You heard the old man and you saw for yourself” said The Behemoth speaking to the open skyline.

  Marcos listened but spoke nothing in return. In his mind he imagined himself buckled, on his knees and covered in mud, his hands over his eye weeping hysterically. A great weight of uncertainty settled in his stomach and he started to feel sick.

  “You can be more than a leader Marcos. You can be their god. Only you can bring light to the world. This is your coming. But nothing will come of this as long as we sit here slowly rotting away. The hour to march is nigh. This will be difficult. They’re gonna make it tough, but we fight; we fight for freedom” The Behemoth said.

  Marcos visualised himself stepping out from a choking blackness, bruised, bleeding and sore. He carried with him an infant in his arms. She was weak and frightened, but she was alive. The injuries he carried on his body would have killed any mortal man by now, but he was a man-god and he carried an eternity of suffering in his heart and a lifetime of lashings about his chest.

  As the fog lifted, he fell to the ground on his knees still carrying the injured infant. She was breathing and because of him, she would survive. The greys give way to bright greens as his eyes were cast on a paradise. He laid the infant gently on the ground and fell onto his back.

  He held one arm out to the sun while the other stretched out by his side, his eyes wide and his vision flooding white. Shadows moved about him, some of them crying. One leaned forward and kissed his lips. He was dying, but he had saved his people. He had brought them to the rise of the new dawn.

  His focus returned for but a moment and he saw the infant being taken away to safety, people rejoicing in their liberation and in his near, The Woman, her face in the centre of his vision, a tear running from her cheek onto his chest and about her, in the sky and through the thick of her hair, an orange hue of the Forever New Dawn.

  His heart started to pound and adrenaline rushed through his body once more and again he felt a wave of nausea lash at his conscious shore.

  Looking out the window he could see in the courtyard Children playing a game. In the distance he could see worker Children attending to failing crops; running about in circles in aimless fashion and beyond them a group of Sons sparring with their Fathers under a cold grey August sky.

  His head ached so he squeezed his fingers against his temple to shut out the pain and the grey thoughts. The Behemoth’s eyes seared and his nostrils flared as he clenched his fists swept up by rage. Standing next to Marcos at the window he put a hand on his shoulder in a vice like grip.

  “You see that” he said pointing out to the streets beyond the nest.

  Marcos turned his stare to his direction.

  “More and more are coming every day. Something’s brewing out there my good friend and I think the longer we stay here, the more exposed we leave ourselves. You built a utopian paradise. Free from the disparity of emotion, free of distraction, momentous, progressive, ordered; human. You rebuilt the human race. You saved our species but you knew this day would come old friend, when those diseased vermin; those Famined, would try to make claim on your kingdom, your rule, your Children; to claim your spoil and impregnate it with their ruin” screamed The Behemoth.

  In that distance, Marcos could see hundreds of people drudging along through the dull light of day. The women carried their possessions in arm and the men carried what to the weakened eye looked like crude weaponry, nothing like the cruel trade of the White Heart but still dangerous nonetheless. They were led by a pack of canines whose snouts married the earth and scented their direction.

  “I do think my good friend that war is already upon us” said The Behemoth.

  Marcos gathered his wits and left the room. Something indeed was coming. He left The Behemoth staring out of the window alone and headed down the winding stairs, out into the courtyard and to the North West driven by a desire in his belly.

  He felt of The Woman while he thought of something else; the clandestine machinery, the old man’s riddling, the tide of Famined in the distance sweeping across the grey plane, the missing girl and then the orange hue of the Forever New Dawn.

  He focused hard, breathing long and deep, venting the distraction from his conscious state. There was a growing sense of urgency that he had never felt pulling at his sanity, willing him into unsavoury thought and it was this sense that lured him to The Woman’s door where he stood, drenched in uncertainty.

  0011000100110010

  The Woman sat on the edge of her table with her legs crossed. She wore a resplendent smile and the look in her eyes brought calm to The Children, just as the sun hath once upon a time brought warmth to the day. The room was cleared of all reckoning and the children looked on, looking for love.

  Behind The Woman was an image, identical to that in The Children’s dreams. There was a thin road that weaved through a web of concrete structures. Its path was barely visible but one could just make out the line of brickwork to follow. The path led to the top of the image where an outline of people stood holding hands in a sublime circle. The darkness had retreated into their shadow once more and they stood under an orange hue, as the new sun rose into the sky for the final time; the face of The Collective, the image of one.

  The Woman handed each Child a piece of chalk and charcoal. They were free to be as they pleased about the classroom; sitting, standing, facing a wall, looking out the broken windows or lying on the floor. Each Child had an instrument of design in their hand and The Woman instructed them to lose their conscious focus and attain that of their sub conscious.

  She told The Children that the object in their hands was the voice of their subconscious and that soon they would speak without tongue, they would think without thought. As she would sing to The Children, they would submit to their subconscious selves and sing along through the shades in their hands.

  As The Woman hummed angelically, The Children started to smile, closing their eyes and becoming the tune. Their subconsciousness’ danced and as they did, their tiny hands swayed to and fro, scratching at the floor and walls. The Woman’s humming fell into words as she succumbed to reason. She sang lightly, so much so that the words seemed to lift from her tongue and float about the air.

  Child my dear Child, untamed, lively and wild,

  You make your Mother smile; you too make your Father smile,

  You do; all of the life that shines out from your eyes,

  It brings heavens down to earth is brings days unto the nights,

  And my child my dear Child, untamed, lively and wild,

  You do make your Mother smile; you too make your Father smile.

  Child my dear Child, untamed, lively and wild,

  Cast off your shackles and play for a while.

  The children listened at first, swaying to the rhythm and painting with their hands then they sang in unison, their melody lifting the mood in the air. The children then sang as one;

  I love you my Sister

  I love you my Brother

  I love you my Father

  I love you my Mother

  I love as one as I live as I love

  As the love that I live is the life that I love

  The air in the room was light and breezy. All The Children danced about with smiles on their faces. The Woman sat on the edge of the table, her heart glowing, and her mind transparent. The sound of Children singing made her feel so warm and secure. This was her favourite part of each day; the lessons of love. For now The Children would learn through song, dance and story how love was one and love was all.

  As she sat at her desk admiring The Children prance and play, a familiar shadow came to a stop at the classroom door. The light from beneath was broken.

  The Woman paid no mind. She moved from the table clapping her hands to join the children in the centre of the room. She carried with her; under her arm, a tale of love, the second part of Jonathon and the Collector.

  0011000100110011

  Marcos stood outside The Woman’s classroom unsure of what to do next. He listened as the children sang along and could hear the sound of his partner’s hands clapping to the rhythm. He couldn’t knock on the door. The class had to be liberated of fear and it was with fear that he stood there, frozen.

  He wanted so much to hold The Woman in his arms but he couldn’t bear to touch her. Instead he stood listening to the sound of her voice as she called The Children into a circle. How easy it all sounded to her.

  What a liar!

  Marcos scratched at the door lightly as he pulled his hands down and away from the door taking with it, his drawn head and his primal worry.

  He pulled his hand to his side and parted into the flux of people moving through the corridor. He walked back along the halls, his head feeling light and his stomach still burdened probably by something rotten.

  People passed him in a motion blur as he pulled his hands up to cover his eyes. The sound of their feet shuffling filled his ears like barbed concrete, weighing down his thoughts, cutting into his calm, severing his focus and sending him in back step from whence he came, pushing people aside with his swinging arms as he gravitated towards what his sub conscious would recognise as a safe place to disarm.