.hack//SIGN Fan Fiction ❯ .hack//TELEOLOGY ❯ Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Upington/ North Cape/ South Africa
750 Kilometres from C.C. Corp. Afrikaner server.

The small town was many miles from Johannesburg, a plain irrigated with the water from the Orange River lay between Upington and the Augrabies Falls, further upstream lay the Boegoeber Dam. In the other direction from Upington lay arid shrubland, home to many of the most infamous elapids and several colubrids. Upington itself, not truly a very large town, was primarily agricultural, and rather isolated from the outside because the only accessible transit system was the Orange, which had a large series of falls and was too turbulent for practical use as a highway. There were long stretches where the Orange had been used to irrigate the shrubland and bring limited fertility to what otherwise was useless for growing. Many, many miles Northwest was the city Johannesburg, the capital of South Africa.

Several yards from the river was a house, not particularly large, but with four rooms and an expansive garden with imported flowers and vegetables and spices. The carrots grew next to the thyme and two rows behind the basil were wooden stakes and the long, vertical stems of tomato plants tethered to them so that the fruits would not touch the ground. The house was on stilts in the front as the ground on which it stood was not level, stairs and a open porch were made from wood and when the sun rose the shadows cast by the stairs beneath the house created patches of light and dark, leaves were swept under the house though how they got there was unanswerable, leaves often accumulate without explanation under many things. Such is a universal truth, if universal truths do, in fact, exist.

A resident of this house, Karen McLeallan*, saw to its maintenance, not that the adults of the house or the younger siblings did not do their part, but simply that Karen's was a key function and prevented descent into complete disarray. Currently she was in the garden, removing the spouts of invading grass from the mulch bed where the yucca plants grew. Karen grabbed the sprouts at the base and pulled them up, exposing the roots of the assorted mix of undesirable plants one by one. As she retraced her elbows to apply pressure to the weeds and uproot them she grazed her arms against the yucca.

"Shit." She glanced at the small scrape and continued working. Moments passed, minutes, hours, Karen worked her way up from the yucca bed and into the forsythia, though the leaves were parched and brown from the sun and the irrigation fell short several metres from the roots of the plant so it's growth had been stunted, in reality the plant was as pathetic as an elderly person who was being kept alive on a respirator and fed intravenously, skeletal and pale.

A small bird chirped attracting Karen's attention the bird hopped up the branch it stood on and stuck its head into a dome-shaped nest. The bird, probably a cisticola of some kind, chirped again, then let out a ear-splitting screech and flew at top speed towards Karen gray-brown lightning flashed sideways through the sky and the bird fell immobilized midway between the five-some feet that separated Karen and the dying forsythia.

Curious as to what ill fate had struck the bird Karen moved several steps forward before stopping, the answer to her question flashed through her mind as quickly as the lightning that had struck the bird. Karen backed away several feet, the fourteen foot rope in the tree worked it's way down to the base of the forsythia, uncurling from the base stem of the bush drendraspis polylepsis moved towards the bird its jaw unhinged ready to consume the motionless bird. Karen backed further away, the black mamba was mythical in Africa, one of the foremost experts had nicknamed it "Death Incarnate," mambas were notoriously aggressive, notoriously fast and notoriously venomous. Another step back. There were tales of mambas chasing down horses and biting the rider, not likely true but it wasn't a far stretch of the imagination. The mamba had worked the bird into its mouth and swallowed, the broad tail-feathers disappearing behind, the forward positioned fangs, enamel glinting against the setting sun. For reasons inexplicable Karen stopped moving backward and reversed direction, moving forward. The mamba moved back and raised its body, four feet extending off the ground. Karen proceeded to move forward extending one hand towards the snake's front and the other turning towards the back out of the snake's limited eyesight. She kept the front hand moving to keep the snakes attention as the back hand moved to grab just beneath the snake's head. It took several moments but eventually she succeeded and managed to hold the snakes head stationary. The rest of the snake was a blur, lashing back and forth like a living whip hitting Karen's legs and leaving bruise marks, but Karen had the end that bit. With her open hand she grabbed the snake's tail as it came towards her head. Now caught completely the snake stopped moving, conserving its energy. Walking back from the garden and onto the veranda Karen knocked at the house door.
"I need to make a call!" she shouted through the screen window to her elder sister.

Her sister, currently engaged in conversation, blinked, puzzled as to why her sister thought that she could simply insist on the use of the phone regardless of whether others were already talking. Seeing the problem Karen held up the mamba; her sister dropped the phone. Regaining her composure her sister picked up the phone again, muttering to her friend that she would call them back.

Sapporo/ Hokkaido-ken/ Japan
C.C. Corp Japanese Server

From: Sosuke@2Ccorp.pr.biz

To: "All dept"

Subject: marching orders

Hello all,

We've gotten some new orders from our boss. We're to say the memorial in Mac Anu, presumptively dedicated to one "BT" (the name was the only thing engraved on the statue) was made by someone in the administration who broke policy and set up the memorial for the memory of his wife, who had recently died, needless to say whoever they pin the role on will be fired (our sympathies to whoever the sacrificial lamb is) Also, neckties are now mandatory.

Koshaku.

From: Tanimoto@2Ccorp.pr.biz
To: Sosuke@2Ccorp.pr.biz

Subject: Re: marching orders

Damn, I HATE neckties, anyway that's not the issue. I've tried to remove the statue but it's staying there, completely stuck, which makes no sense because there isn't any file for it and we're using an object-oriented program. This is weird as shit.

Yoshiaki

From: Sasaki@2Ccorp.prs.biz
To: Koizumi@2Ccorp.vp.biz,Lios@2Ccorp.adm.biz

Subject: Situation demands monitoring.

Tatsuyo, whoever hacked Mac Anu was, needless to say, very skilled, I think you should monitor players more closely and see if you can find any odd behaviour, if you do cut off their service, if problems persist, see if you can replicate whatever happened ten years back, it's a bit unorthodox to put someone in a coma I know, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Toshiki

Waseda Daigaku*/Tokyo-to/Japan

Mimiru rolled on her pullout sofa bed; she opened he eyes and looked for Tsukasa sitting in the next bed over. He was gone. The room was different as well. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked about. "Oh," She sighed; she was back in her college dorm room. She had driven back from Ibaraki last night. She had parted with a goodbye hug to Bear, Tsukasa and even one for Helba. Then she had gotten into her hybrid (Mimiru was very environmentally conscious*) and driven back to Tokyo. Her brain struggled to think, what was today, did she have class? Yesterday was Sunday so today was Monday, no class, thank God. She rolled over and went back to sleep.

The hours passed and Mimiru still did not awaken, only when the noonday sun shone in through her window and directly onto her eyes did she stir again. She sat up this time and on impulse began to hum an improvised tune. She continued the tune as she walked about her dorm going through regular procedures of getting dressed and prepared for the day. She did not commit the tune to memory, each note passed her lips and dissipated into the air not tethered to anything and drifting away never to be heard again. She stopped and reflected on what she had hummed so far. Mulling over why her B-sharps sounded the same as her A-flats. The realization that A-flats and B-sharps were the same note dawned on her several moments later, the complaints of waking up were still present and Mimiru sat and waited until her head cleared of fog.

Her brain found and inventoried to ensure nothing was missing, Mimiru set about making herself breakfast. She broke the shell of an egg against the frying pan and started to prepare an omelet; while the egg cooked she put two pieces of bread in the toaster oven and searched the closet for a warm cereal, cream-of-wheat or oatmeal. She was out of both. Giving off a discontented "hmm" she took out the traditional Cheerios. Pouring a bowl and adding milk she took her meal to the table and got back up, grabbing a magnetic pen off the refrigerator door and putting "oatmeal" and "cream of wheat" on her grocery list. Looking back at the table she saw the milk carton said it would expire tomorrow; she added "milk" to the list.

It was at this point that the phone rang. Mimiru turned off the stove, her phone was wall mounted and she could not prepare breakfast and talk at the same time. "Hello?" Mimiru managed to keep the irritation from creeping into her voice.

"Hello, it's Subaru."

"What? Why are you calling? How did you get this number?"

"Helba gave it to me."

"Ah, I see."

"Why…why didn't you tell me you three were visiting her grave. I would have come."

"You two never got along, we weren't sure you had even heard anyway."

"I see… "

"The memorial… it's very nice."

"Thankyou, Bear and Tsukasa did the designs, I created the 3-d image and Helba put it in."

"A talented bunch, aren't you?" Subaru Chuckled

"Not really,"

"Then you're a modest and talented bunch."

Mimiru rolled her eyes, though of course that was not transmitted over the phone. "If you say so."

"I do." The two laughed, no real reason, just laughed. A wave of exhaustion swept over Mimiru, not the kind of lethargy that comes from not enough sleep but the kind where you feel like a boot worn thin in the soles, or a rusted pipe or a hollow wind chime that no longer makes music. She had to end the conversation, she was unsure why, but the impulse was strong, and she obeyed.

"I have toast burning, I'll have to call back."

"Okay, some other time then."

"Some other time." Mimiru hung up. The smell of charred bread reached her nose, evidently her toast really was burning. She rolled her eyes, forced the button up on the toaster, saving her dorm from fire. With the botched toast and eggs she walked to the table and sat. She bit into the fried egg, it was awful. Getting up yet again she opened the cupboard behind her head and found salt. She sprinkled a minimal amount over the eggs and bit in again; still awful. Sighing in frustration, Mimiru muttered to herself "it can't be helped" and ate the fare. She finished the substandard meal shortly before the phone rang again.

"Hello?" Mimiru paused waiting for the caller to identify who they were; there was no response. Mimiru greeted the caller again, and again waited. Still nothing. Shrugging, Mimiru hung up. Mimiru sat back in her chair and got up again, she had a term paper to write and there was nothing better to do.

Coventry/ Unitary Authority/ England

Gregory Olson sat at his desk, scribbling words onto paper, frowning and then crumpling the paper and tossing it towards the wastebasket.

"We are faced today with a second industrial revolution…"

Olson bit his lip and discarded the paper.

"The Gilded age that occurred during the late 1800's in our overseas friend, the United States of America, is proof enough that Laissez-Faire* Capitalism does not work; ever."

Olson read what he had just wrote, he wasn't completely satisfied but it made sense to keep it in the event he couldn't think of a better opening sentence. How exactly more famed essayists such as Gore Vidal had managed their success he did not know, but clearly there was a trade secret he was not aware of. Unable to think Olson took out his .mp3 player and listened to music as he tried to find some tangent to go off on from his original topic of laissez-faire, though he had not written on that yet, except for the short capture at the beginning of the essay. Nothing presented itself.

Olson rose and walked to the bookshelf on the opposite side of the room, he chose Jack London's The People of the Abyss, a social commentary on turn-of-the-century England and the poverty it faced. This was around the same time as the famed killings of Jack the Ripper, possibly the first recorded case of a serial killer. He sat back in the chair and began to read, starting at the first page*.

Jack London, a dyed-in-the-wool socialist had reason to criticize, in the early nineteen hundreds the idea of "compassionate conservatism" had yet to be invented, not that a compassionate conservative really was that compassionate. It only took Olson to chapter two before he was reinspired. With a restored determination he approached the desk and took out his pen. Perhaps, he thought, he could remedy the problem of over topics by giving the essay a title first. He considered several moments before putting "On Privitization of Industry" centered on the top of the paper. He pressed his brain more to produce some decent sentences to include in the writing.

"The people of this nation cannot afford, nor would a responsible parliament and prime minister allow the delegation of our government's sacred duties to the people to corporations which it holds little to no sway over. Laissez fair failed because the government stayed out of corporation's bussiness, today the government has started giving corporations a leg up in exchange for disloyal, dishonest and greedy shareholders and CEOs. Together we must deliver a clear and resounding message that we will not tolerate such irresponsible behaviour in an institution designed to serve us, we are, after all, a constitutional monarchy, an oxymoron if I ever heard one. So what are we? Monarchy or Constitutional system. That remains to be seen and had been being decided for nore than three centuries, but despite how this has dragged out we must put our say in over and over again, ekse we lose the chance to do so."

He read it over and decided it passed muster. Rolling up the paper it was on he labeled which essay it was to go with and put it with other short bits of writing he intended to use in the near future. Olson was young, very young and from this he lived in constant fear of the identity behind his pen name being discovered. It was a burden, but one he bore willingly. Olson pitied the Brontë sisters, what hell it must have been to be renowed as Currer Bell, author of Jane Eyre. Or Ellis Bell, the genius behind Wuthering Heights. But in a time as chauvanistic as the early 1800s it could not be helped if you were to hope for any sort of credibillity. Of course going from Currer Bell the noble man who fought for Women's eqaulity to Charolette Brontë the irresponsible, immoral and vain woman(insert gasps of shock here)may well have been even worse.

Olson tired of thinking quickly, though very fast and powerful, his brain did not have stamina, trains of thought ran out of fuel and ground to a halt. This fact cursed his writing, but could not be helped. With not enough energy to continue his written rhetoric he went upstairs to an early bed.

Upington/ North Cape/ South Africa

It was several hours later and the Mamba was still Karen's charge. The nearest university had refused to take it, and the zoo already had several, thankyou. She was on her third phonecall, this time to an obscure medical group with an antivenin* program. It took several moments of negotiation (the group was skeptical that a sixteen year old had actually caught a mamba and were unwilling to go several hundred miles to find they had been a victim of a prank) but in the end they agreed to come under the condition that if there was no mamba they would be reimbursed for their time and the fuel they used on the trip there. She hung up the phone and put it back on the hook, her other hand held shut a pillowcase with the mamba inside. (Getting it in was difficult given the snake was nearly twelve feet.) With her other hand, the one holding the phone, now free she tied the mouth of the pillowcase shut, hoping that there would be enough space in the fabric to allow air to go through the bag.

Karen's sister walked in again, asked if she was done with the phone, and before recieving an answer, took it.

Grand Manan Island/ New Brunswick/ Canada

On the edge of a cliff along a trail leading to the lower part of Flocks of Sheep rock formation lay a small cabin, on the outside was a blue plastic square with the house address painted on it:

2

The Grand Manan Archipelago was a small cluster of islands, three in all, Grand Manan, Whitehead and an assortment of miniscule unpopulated islands such as Wood Island, Machais Seal Island and High and Low Duck Islands. Grand Manan was settled by English Loyalists around the time of the Revolution and for the most part, the descendants of it's founders remained on the island to the present day. An island with the major industires of tourism and fishing

The cabin's resident, Robert K. Wilcox, sifted through the news (mainly articles on the new Prime Minister from the Canadian Liberal Party) he closed the browser and opened up an online journal client, nothing particular had happened to write about, nor was their an issue he was motiviated to write on but he was trying to be regular in his entries. After the journal updating was done he took out an old mp3 player, old meaning dinosaurian (only 10GB) listinging to a mix of Billy Joel and Creedence Clearwater Revival complimented by a bit more recent music. Humming the tune of "Fortunate Son" he walked to the phone.

With one hand he lowered the volume on the mp3 player with the other he dialed his office in the Grand Manan Island Buisiness Centre, he had suceeded his father, Peter, as captain of SeaWatcher whale watching tours and spent time taking people out on tours and ferrying small groups of around fifteen to and from Machais Seal Island*. The phone rang several times before being answered, one of the new employees answered "Hello? SeaWatcher Tours?"

"It's Rob" The other side was quite trying to place the name.

"Oh it's you Mr. Wilcox…"

"I'm just Rob, no formality."

"Alright then, anyway how can I help you out?"

"Just calling to see how many reservations have been booked this week, can you break down what amount of work I have which days?"

"well you're more or less free tommorow, tommorow you've got to two trips and day after that you have a trip to Machais Seal and a whale watch. Rest of the week's pretty much empty."

"Hmm…" Business had been going down, as had anything left pristine on the island, The forests were becoming thinner, and the weirs yielded less and less haddock, pollock and herring. The lobster traps had less and less lobsters in them and you saw Rockweed less in the tide pools and more dried and washed up on the shores. Paradise had to remain a secret, else people would want to go there, and once people go to paradise, it stops being paradise. Paradise is a combination of absence of humans and presence of everythng else, the human mind creates the idea of aesthetic and beauty to give a meaning to what is truly a meaningless procedure, the reality of which we cannnot face. the price paid for intelligence perhaps. But since no human can enjoy paraadise as their presence there disqualifies is from being paradise you must compromise and go for a place that had minimal number of inhabitants, up untill a few short years ago that had been Grand Manan but more and more people were settling and urbanizing the relatively untouched forests. Of course it was all part of nature, a species that goes unchecked grows until it consumes all possible resources at which point the population plummets, often falling to less than half of the prior number, after mother nature put the species in it's place it either resumed growing to its former size or instead went extinct, life going on with a new top-dog in the ecosystem more fit for survival in the new world created by the prior species and its unchecked consumption. There would be pristine woods again, just that there was a fair chance he wouldn't get to see them. Wilcox turned back to the computer and continued in his quest for small amusements. He logged into The World and signed in under the account name SeaWatcher (borrowed from his boat tours), nothing really to do, but neither was there anything to do in reality. He put in some random keywords and decided to see if it would take him anywhere.

Ancient/Wooden/Scripture

The ice was clear as glass and was shaped in polygonal mountains, tetrohedric pieces rose to sky scraper proportions and in these glaciers were skeletons, equally giant in size, human spines and ribs jutted out from one glacier and ran to the snowy ground, winds flew in spastic bursts and screamed through the ice canyons. In the centre of the field was a rounded hill, on it was a pile of rocks placed one next to the other to form a circle making a sort of crown effect. On the hill stood a solitary figure, a blademaster with blue upper body paint, brown hair swept back going down to his neck with matching brown eyes. The blademaster mutted to himself and shifted position every few minutes. SeaWatcher approached the blademaster in an attempt to understand what he was saying.

"…key of the twilight… morganna..Crim.."

SeaWatcher stood there listening to the man mutter gibberish to himself for a while, then decided that it must be an NPC that was having trouble with a glitch of some kind. SeaWatcher shrugged and walked off. Whatever he was saying was interesting, but of no purpose as it could not be made sense of. He would check back later, maybe tommorow or the day after. SeaWatcher turned away and began to hum an improvised tune. A slow tune, growing softer as it progressed, if it were to be put to a string instrument it would provide an excellent backdrop for one of the assorted movie scenes in which some parting words or knowledge is imparted before an old coot dies in bed with an old friend or loved-one standing next to them weeping their eyes out.

· Free box of kudos to anyone who can guess how I came up with the name.

· Waseda University, semi-government funded, specializes in, among other things, political sciences

· I highly encourage the use of hybrid cars, carpooling and using modes of transport that do not burn fuel

· Author's Preface from The People of the Abyss reprinted with permission of… no one, please don't rat me out, I can't afford to be sued.

·You'd think it would be antivenom, but no it is, in fact, antivenin.