The older larger Children took the front ring, their greater strength holding the younger more agile Children at bay. One of the youngest Children; a small boy named Donal, crawled beneath the legs of one the larger meaner boys and broke rank. He moved about in the centre of the group like a grain of sand circling about a sink in the flow of water, moving into the drain. Here, the flow of water was the Children’s curiosity. He, in the middle, was swept up and now conditioned by their conscious desire to fall upon the object and bring it to the surface.

  The bigger Children took to a new state; At Group. Their unconscious states feasted on one primal action; consume. Logic and reason gave out to the madness of a bloodthirsty pack primed to lynch a weakened vulnerable prey. They pulled at his tiny body, thrusting him this way and that; putting out their legs so he tripped and scraped his hands on the gravel as he protected his face from the impact on the ground.

  They taunted and jeered as he lay foetal, being brushed about like a wet cloth by the kicking of their heels. Donal picked himself up, dusted off the dry cement that painted his fine black hair, moved about the inner circle, limping on a twisted ankle and finally stopped an inch from the object, the chanting of The Children deafening now his inner contemplation.

  A cheeky smile became him and then he was gone, through The Children’s legs, out into the open courtyard and off through the complex.

  “Stupid baby” said one of the larger boys as he leaned forward to collect the object in one sweep of his hand. As he leaned forward, the circle of Children held tighter to one another.

  “It’s just a stupid mirror” said the boy as he leaned in for closer inspection.

  As he did, a gasp escaped from his mouth and a fear stifled the circle of Children. The older boy closed his eyes and released his grip of the other Children coming to a ball on the floor, covering the back of his head.

  A large net fell from the centre of the roof and enveloped the whole circle. The Children all came crashing to the floor, kicking and screaming as a grey figure came out of the darkness with a white cord in his hand; pulling tightly so The Children; ensnared in the net, could move neither hand nor foot.

  “Live as you love and love as you live, my child all you need is the love that I give. I am The Collector, the keeper of meaning, your link to the past, I free you from being. I am the Collector, the doubt in your mind, the desire in your heart, the peace you can’t find. I am the Collector, your only true friend; never without me, you´re mine till the end” sang the figure in grey, dancing about the circle of weeping children.

  “Get this stupid thing off me” shouted the older boy.

  The more he struggled, the tighter the net pulled on his body.

  The figure in grey limped over to The Woman and sat down beside her; his tiny size sardonic against the backdrop of chaotic and tumultuous screaming that came from the centre of the courtyard. The tiny figure pulled off the grey sheet and dropped the white cord. He smiled at The Woman and walked off into the distance, past the clump of kicking and screaming children.

  “Donal” said The Woman.

  He looked over his shoulder, his tiny frame trumped by the grandness of his stare; he nodded and waved to The Woman.

  “Yes?” he said wolfishly.

  “Will you not let The Children free?” she asked.

  “It is not I who keeps them in bind my Mother. It is their fear that makes a prisoner of them. And I cannot release them from that” the young boy responded.

  Donal skipped off into the complex and thought nothing of what had been. At One; At Being, he simply was, and moved to prepare for his next lesson of the day, where he would be At War.

  The Woman lifted herself and went to the aid of The Children entangled in the netting. She freed the group and sent them on their way to their next activities. The Children partitioned into groups of three, some moving to the states of At Work, others At War and the smallest children, At Love.

  On her way back to her classroom she tailed a group of three girls, holding hands and skipping along the cobblestone path. Her instinct urged to give caution, warning The Children of their immediate danger playing in such absent mindedness on a slippery oddly shaped path.

  A wave of fear erupted to the sensors in her mind and the urge moved her forward in stance, lifting her arm upwards; her index finger pointed in directive straightness.

  As she was about to utter a reference of caution, vocalising the word ‘girls’, gravity overcame her, her foot slipped into a crevice and she lost all balance, careening forward and landing on her straightened finger, bending it painfully; not breaking it, just bruising and straining enough to leave a lasting impression.

  The girls; having turned upon The Woman’s initial call, went rushing to her aid; in deep concern for their fallen Mother. The Woman cursed wildly, words unbeknownst to The Children, but whose heinous display of emotional dis-governance left them overwhelmed; their senses rattled, their state of being, undone.

  The Woman composed herself, the pain from her twisted finger coursing through every fibre of her being; she was now, At Heal.

  “Be At Caution Mother, the path without focus is unsure and unsound” said The Children helping to lift The Woman to her feet.

  “Thank you Children, Mother is welcome to your love and akin to your reason. She was without focus; neither zero nor one. Mother fell into the trappings of distraction. Always At Focus Children, always At One. Now run along, your classes will be commencing any second” she said pulling focus away from the throbbing pain in her hand.

  The Children made pace and skipped out of distance and out of sight. The Woman’s finger throbbed horribly, the pain bearable though the irony somewhat tiresome on her sanity. She wouldn’t admit it to herself, but he was right; or at least maybe she could accept that he was part right, after-all one must maintain their victim state in every scene. Every pulse from her finger was a siren sounding to the obvious; when one loses focus, they in turn lose command.

  When one starts being in what do has been done then the did one should do is the do left undone.

  The Woman entered the class and made her way to the front, seating on a tiny wooden stool too small for her frame. The stool wobbled under her weight but in fact she enjoyed this absence from complacency.

  Upon Marcos’ teachings was the simple truth that no idea stands without its opposition. That being, when one attains focus in the absence of distraction then how can one know if they have focus, or are; in fact, distracted?

  In the ages of past, Marcos would ask how a man could preach of his loyalty if in fact this trait had not come into question; that a man is not loyal as a state of permanence but is in fact; whilst in a state of being, portraying the act of loyalty in a moment. The man could not define himself as being loyal unless maybe he made his bed in a bordello and upon every moment of his being, temptation beckoned his distraction but he remained hesitant and headstrong with his direction. In this light, he would not be being loyal as much as he would be being At Focus; or At One. All things were zero or one; At Distraction or At Focus.

  The same could be said for all adjectives, all colourful post-event descriptive states of being. One could only be At Bravery when it was in that moment that he divorced from At Cowardice and only in that infinitesimal moment would he be At Bravery for the moment his focus shifted and defined new direction, he would be At War and in the age of conscious splendour where self-introspection was deemed the vice of the intellectually superior, he would no doubt be At Contemplation and from there, either At Expectation or At Disappointment. But whilst attending any or all of these states, one will always be At Focus and to not be such would mean being At Distraction; zero or one.

  For The Woman, being At Focus meant she tested her resolve consistently; the wobbling chair helping her to maintain her stability; for as long as the chair wobbled, it hadn’t fallen, therefore she was still on the chair.

  The Children started their lesson again with the Collective Creed. As they stood with their faces directed in reflection, connecting with the image and their outwardly selves, The Woman; casting upon her own eye in the shard of grimy glass in her hand, vanished into dream, At Distraction.

  When she peeled away the mirror she was greeted by an old friend, several in fact, but one in particular who made her smile. She hugged the other girl, squeezing her senseless and screeching sharply.

  “Whatchya doin’ weirdo, god!!” she exclaimed.

  The Woman let go of her friend and the two ran out of the bathroom and burst into the classroom laughing.

  “You two are late; again. Sit down. I’ll deal with you after the class” shouted the burly bearded man at the front of the room.

  As he turned to face the children, his elephantine stomach swung unattended and knocked over a cup of steaming coffee that sat upon a pile of papers on his desk.

  “Oh, now look what you’ve gone and done. Stop sniggering! These tests are going to have to be taken again now. The two of you, come to the front right now” he said, miserably shaking the soaking papers, coffee spilling onto the desk below and then onto the floor.

  The Woman and her friend slid their chairs in and made their way to the front of the room. The fat teacher held in his hand a long wooden stick.

  “Face the front” he said in rising fashion.

  The girls looked straight ahead, into the sea of children, their eyes unfearful, their hands outstretched. The fat teacher threw his heaving self to the side lifting his right arm high into the air and came down with a thunderous crack onto the girl’s hands.

  The sound of sniggering and contemptuous laughter filled The Woman’s ears as she opened her eyes to see The Children circled about her as she lay on her back, the stool’s legs; broken under her weight, and the stool itself, flung to the other side of the room.

  For the fourth time in one day, she had lost herself, her focus, her state of one. It was the second time she had succumbed to absence in front of her Children.

  She was aware that there was something scratching at her inside, and by all reason, it wanted out. She sat in momentary worry that her mind was slipping to famine.

  00111001

  “Our enemy is in many number, but at heart, our enemy is alone, vulnerable, frightened and very dangerous. His physical suffering takes little course in relation to the infant puppet master pulling at the casualty strings of his meta-physical being” he said, pausing to catch his breath and turning his stare at first to the table, then lifting his head to direct his stare about the room.

  Father and Son were no different in how they looked upon their leader at this moment. Both gazed in apprehensive wonder, fending off their clouded emotion and the weakened vice of pride. They looked on more so, in astute certainty; a state of which their conscious minds had been trained to conform instinctively, like the rattle of a snake’s tail, the burying of an ostrich’s head, the bearing of a dog’s teeth or the suckling of a new born baby. No rationale entered their minds. They listened and accepted truths.

  “You my Sons are different to your brothers and sisters. You are the future will of our family. In time you will be learned. In time you will be strong. In time, you will be a Father. It is with an open hand that we raise a Forever New Dawn and it is with a clenched fist that we radiate the light of our hearts upon this new world” he spoke in great volume to the room.

  His voice carried through the complex and the jeers and chants of The Sons fell upon the ears of those in the neighbouring rooms and in the courtyard just beyond the walls. The Sons; young boys and girls aged from four to seventeen, all stood on their feet with their concrete eyes cutting straight through the stare of their enemy and holding their right fist over their heart. As their fists clenched harder, their veins started to colour and then bulge, their faces turned red, their teeth started to grind and then a hideous snarl begat all of their faces.

  A thunderous deafening roar bludgeoned the silence as The Sons all vented as one, in one state, At War. Marcos’ eyes lit up as he absorbed all of this. The Fathers in the background simply stood with their arms folded over their heaving chests, knowing every word of this honest truth.

  At the half passing of the sun, an army of men stood gathered and respondent, eager for instruction, in the courtyard of The Nest. They stood shoulder to shoulder, chest to back, their hulking masses stealing the light about them.

  From shoulder to toe, they dressed in the shade of night; long black sleeves, black combat pants and black reinforced steel capped boots. On their chests, the great white heart of The Collective.

  Their sheer size was inspiring, their arms; mastodonic, like two great serpent-like freight trains, their heaving chests; planetary, like some volcano splitting from the earth creating a new land, and their faces; glacial, frozen in unflinching stare; showing little of what tremendous chaos most certainly wreaked havoc beneath.

  Their number was terrifying; hundreds of men and women stood in line with directed stares like savage dogs in the moments before a fight. Their fingers curled around their cruel instruments; an extension of the war in their souls. A sheath of metal covered their free arms; their manner of defence and their free fists; studded and barbed, were clenched, ready to fight.

  At Father, Marcos and his captains conspired in the office of strategy. They looked upon a series of blueprints and maps drawn by hand; most of which had been inked by Marcos himself as he sat high above the world overlooking the lines of streets and blocks of towers.

  His men were invisibly shaken, silently taken aback somewhat by the size of the operation and the last minute planning. Something of this scale needed months to prepare, not the light of one day. And where they intended to go, no man should ever need to comprehend. Marcos stared down each one before finally lowering his head to a blueprint that lay on the table before him.

  “This is the only way; let that be patently clear in your minds. Our team will cross the bridge in three. We push west until we find our objective. Gentlemen, today, we walk into zero, as one. Never again shall a foul hand take from our plate. In the day that has been, they came and took one of us. She has a name. Her name is Safrine. And on this day, we take back what is ours. We are the ruling law. We are the only ideal. We are the idol. We are the open heart. We are the clenched fist. We are the chosen ones. We are humanity. This is our home. This is our right. Let us take our message to their black hearts, we are one. We will find Safrine and we will bring her home” he screamed; veins bulging from his neck, his face swelling, his eyes bloodshot and unnerving, his voice visceral carrying like a cannonball through glass, not a tremor in his presence, not a doubt in his words.

  The men all returned their stare to the images spread out on the table before them. There was a large blueprint of an industrial zone to the lower east of The City. The pictures detailed a sprawling desolate suburbia with its weaving maze of avenues and streets, hundreds of rows of stacked buildings, apartments and houses; large industrial warehouses, low hanging bridges and a network of what were thought to be a matrix of underground tunnels; the remains of an abandoned subway system.

  The collection would play to three movements; the looking of children, the finding of a girl and the mapping of extremity.

  One division would split into teams of three and occupy the concrete maze downtown, turning over every broken board, every blade of grass and breaking down every door in the desperate rescue of child; saving these vulnerable and mouldable minds from the derelict tenure of their aged despondent brethren and confiscating for destruction; any items of distraction obtained during their searches and the blackening of all reflective surfaces and materials.

  Their role was one of peace, offering provisions for the saving of the children; always maintaining a venerable firm hand.

  The second division would move in smaller number, consisting only of White Hearts. They would move in teams of two, feeding off of Intel and sweeping through the underbelly of The City; their objective, recover the girl; Safrine, at any cost.

  The third division of only five White Hearts, Marcos and the Behemoth would take the winding cobble road to the bridge at edge of town and they would cross it. Each team would return before the completion of the fall of the sun.

  The generals and colonels took note of their direction studying the maps laid out by Marcos, burning the image deep in their conscious mindsets. One colonel each, stood at the head of a fifty men and women, looking long down the line of grim faces.

  In the distance, around the courtyard other Children of other states too looked on, magnetised by the force of their focus, hypnotised by the sound of clanking metal as the warriors struck their instruments against their metalled arms in a droning rhythm.

  As the Sons prepared to collect, Marcos wandered off through the courtyard, his focus broken by passing thoughts of The Woman. No reason commanded his step but still one foot moved in front of the other; away from where he should have been. He reached to his left pocket, patting as if he had forgotten something. He reached in; the papers were there, folded and pressed against his leg.

  His focus slipped and in his mind The Woman was in another room. She was frightened, he could tell. He had been frightened before and knew all the markings. He walked to the door and turned the handle gently but it wouldn’t open, she had locked it from inside.

  He could hear The Woman vomiting in the other room through the door and something inside willed him to knock it down and hold her, wrap his arms around her and be with her; at her touch, at her sight, at the mercy of her need and at the want of her weakness which compelled the irrationality of his heart. He pressed his ear to the door and caught every sunken breath that fell to the floor from her exhausted body. He breathed deeply, taking with it, the hurt that she exhaled.

  He felt weak, exposed and ineffectual. He turned his back, resting against the door and slid down to the cool tiles throwing his face into his folded arms, the sense of care that warmed his blood now boiling, his uselessness engorging his ferocity and at this fingertips, anger urged to speak.