The Color of Consciousness

And there was Jerome Dresden...

"What do you see, Jerome?" He studied the mirror carefully now, shifting it around in between his hands to let the light from the back room flood over the whole of the damned thing. It was in an odd, dilapidated shape, but of value in spite. And with the resistance going as it was, and so it was and so on and so on for that is how things were to be, things so antique had taken on whole new sentimental value. Value. Where there once wasn't before.

"...approximately 32 Morlaks" Jerome finally said after assessing the piece. It set the customer's mouth in an expression his dog made every time it puked. Its thin lips would curl back, as if running from the center of the mouth, and the skin would bunch up at the corners. He was certain the man hadn't just thrown up, but also certain that his monetary assessment was lower than he had hoped for. The look on the man's face told him everything he needed to know about what was next to come. They expected sympathy of the world, where sympathy had long since past tanked on the stock market. Broke and going for more. Funny people were, for lack of a better word...well. Funny.

"There isn't any....no way that I could possibly, mayhap, argue that it is worth more around 45 Morlaks, Jerome?" The locals in these parts were speakers of a strange dialect. By all means, it was more appropriate that the customer should refer to him as Mr. Dresden. But the company also had it that he were to represent them as politely and intelligently as possible. Even if it meant he had to slam his head in his car door after every assessment. Jerome suspected he'd have amnesia and more brain damage than a 75 year old recovering crack addict soon enough. Could be fun, he thought. Could be fun.

"While I empathize with your situation, and I do that you should realize fully and truly that (NAME OF COMPANY MR. DRESDEN WORKS FOR), whom I to the fullest absolution capacity therein capable represent, they are, nonetheless, a business and a business found upon tough times. My sincerest apologies, Customer113, that it is all too implausible and improfitable that such a transaction or deal be agreed upon." Customer113 blinked. If ever it were possible to have such a small subconscious action be so unintelligible as to imply one to be intellectually, and morally as the two were certainly members of the same ilk, challenged then it would have been this moment. These people and their selfish desires. They knew nothing of the world and, for it, they were certainly doomed. For now, the company taught, that they should merely be tolerated in the gentlest of lights. Poor creatures, after all, they were. That this was all a necessary transaction, a transition away from the scarred and tyrannical pitfall of emotion to the forward, progressive thinking nature that would soon blanket the world in peace.

The great gods of the seas seemed to be pouring the ocean into Customer113's eyes and he, the poor pitiful sap, had built a dam behind those dark eyes of his. But it was inevitable, as it always was with these types. He held it in and looked again at Jerome, that pitiful disgusting look they always got at times like these. They knew nothing of the world. Nothing. And here he sat, looking for handouts.

"....it's just that" it's ALWAYS just that, Jerome thought "...that this mirror means a great deal to me, sentimentally. Can't you-" Jerome cared nothing for this man's pathetic selfishness. He had articulated his company's best desires and that was all he had been urged to do. After all, a company is a company. A company without money is a charity, and they were certainly not in the business of that nonsense.

"There is no negotiation beyond said 32 Morlaks, Customer113." Customer113 sank back into his seat and combed his wrinkled, decrepit, old man hands through his gritty gray hair. Not only did these kind not understand the situation of the society and what must be done, but they apparently didn't understand anything of hygiene either. Certainly a little personal upkeep couldn't hurt. But, alas, they cared for nothing. And damned they were for it. Damned.

The man receded into his chair. Seemed, in fact, to recede from life itself. He searched Jerome's eyes now. Nothing. He knows nothing of humanity and life. What a cold, heartless bastard, Customer113 thought. The customer plummeted his gaze now to the ground and let out a breathy sigh. Hard times were hard times, he knew. Hard times after all.

"....okay, .......Mr. Dresden" And just like that, the uncaring, selfish little Customer113 shoved his hand towards Jerome. Apparently the blithering buffoon thought Dresden to pay him then and there with physical Morlaks. He gave no response to the hand. The hand and look made Jerome think of the homeless men out on the street with the worn brown clothes (why always brown?) and the always present scarf that may have once been of multiple glorious tasteful colors, but now was a faded brown. All the reds, and greens, and blues, and oranges....all just a faded brown. Customer113 even WORE browns right now. All he was missing was his sign and a tin cup, with which he would shake for coins. Pathetic. Jerome looked at the man again, sure he would see he had in fact finally found the missing sign and tin cup. He had not. And he wouldn't for many more years. But he was to become the finest sign holding, cup rattling man in all of the land! Or so it would be told of him, that was.

“Your account will be credited the consensually agreed upon 32 Morlaks. Have a pleasant day, Customer113.” Mr. Dresden rose now to his feet and slipped his black leather gloves over his pale white hands. He didn't like the weather here in Blackensmer. It gave him an awful arthritic aching throughout his body. Especially his hands. Damned hands. Seemed sometimes to be all that kept poor Dresden from murdering these merciless mammoth morons were his hands. He tucked the jaded, sentimental value having mirror under his right arm and headed for the door. The door opened and 15 soldiers, clad in full battle rattle, and automatic weapons and looking ever so professional and prepared, stood waiting at the outside of the door. He handed the mirror off to the first soldier to approach him, hands out (whom then carried it off like a new born child, precious as it apparently was), and headed down stairs. The soldiers followed in tow, but not to protect him. They were there to assure nobody made off with the possession. Dresden's job was merely to coerce the poor saps into peacefully giving up their valued possessions. He was good at what he did. Always used words clearly above their level of education to impose his intellectual dominance. They were uneducated and not open to the idea of “for the greater good”. It really wasn't their job, though. Their government was there to take care of them, to direct upon them that which is clearly better for them. Whether they knew it or not. They were, in a way, like the kind loving God above so many of them believed in. He was also, in a way, campaigning for these people's hearts. The more of them that WANTED it, the easier this would all go down. No reason for unnecessary bloodshed. None at all. Sure its people were uncertain of what was happening, but they were constantly reassured it was for their best. Nobody really had a choice when it rightly came down to it. They had guns and people willing to do their bidding. There was nothing these pathetic people or “The Resistance” could do. Not a damn thing.

And then there was The Resistance...

They called him leader. He called that “uncomfortable as hell”. His name was Victor Brodmire and he was an awfully odd choice for a leader. He stood a gangly 6'5” and barely weighed a thing, barely a thing a' tall. He wondered still, to this day, what in the hell they had chosen him as their leader for. By no means had he wanted such a title. They were small in numbers and even smaller in experience and Victor knew this. (NAME OF COUNTRY HERE)'s government had tactfully and technically gone about assassinating these people's hopes and dreams one at a time. Nobody had seemed to notice all of it at first, but they noticed it. How could they not? They were smart, smart as a crack'ah whip. They had watched the tell tale signs and come together entirely on accident. If, really, they were even “together” to begin with.