He gasped on his first breath as if it were his last and the suddenness had awoken him from a deep and long night's sleep. The taste of a heavy due had moistened his lips which only accentuates the coolness in the air rushing through his open mouth. His lungs filled with a harsh frost and had a real bite to it but did not prevent his first rising thought, "wow, that was a good sleep." Before his brain properly clears he thought to savor the moment as these days it was rare he got to wake feeling as it is. Sooner or later the headaches and pain will start and he knew all too well it was only impossible to feel like this but for the briefest of moments.

He notices his feet restlessly shuffling up and down between the bags. They were cold and as if running on autopilot just trying to keep themselves warm. He made a mental note to throw another layer, maybe his old jacket, over his feet.. He asks himself, "how many more of these frosts until I finally meet the one in waiting; taking my legs, arms and finally my heart?"

It's still dark and he reaches over tapping his phone screen. It says exactly 6:00 am and collapsing back over, he again feels the wow one feels after a good sleep. He savours the stretching of his arms while sliding them back down into the sleeping bag. The sleep had been completely undisturbed with not a dream to remember. Lately he'd had some pretty weird dreams and each dream's weirdness was simply defined by the people in them with no axe murderers to be found. Suddenly people from the past, people he had not even thought of had somehow found their way into his dreams.

He’d asked each of them, “What do you want, have you come to gloat or are you here in my dreams to intimidate,” and with no questions answered, “whatever” he’d every time replied.”

All of them suddenly in his dreams was a notion that only pissed him off, so much he’d preferred his dream of the scariest of dark aliens standing over his body in paralysis. His thoughts and notions on dreams most would never understand so it was a real relief to not remember any dreaming.

He'd recently read only the title to an article which said, Scientist-Enabled Brain Syncing which only added to his frustrations and drove him deeper into a place that just did not want to know. He summarized while flicking straight past its content, "my cerebral cortex is my biological property and permissions are not granted, anything else is inhumane, immoral and darn right wrong, so fuck off.."

He swings out of his two sleeping bags and places his feet on the floor. Almost stepping into the base layer waiting at his feet. He pulls up the thin but warm underwear made from merino wool, both feet and legs at once. Reaches over to the chair for his warm hoody and slides one arm after the other, zipping up to the neck and pulling the hood over his head which already has the beany he'd slept in covering. The extra layer around the head had become like a living standard and way to be. A comfort and protection layer that seemed to dually help with screening out the madness of the world and keeping his ears warm.

Standing up he kicks his feet into the shoes waiting and heads straight to the bathroom to take a piss. Starts brushing his teeth in the bathroom and heads to the kitchen and continuing his teeth cleaning sequences. He doesn't turn a light on as he always savoured the beauty and peacefulness of the dark and mornings. He grabs the kettle and fills it with enough water for exactly two cups and after placing it back on its power source he hits the knob to illuminate the blue l e d on the switch. While it is heating he sits for a while continuing his aggressive scrubbing of teeth before heading back to the bathroom to finish off.

Silently he gazed through the window and the faintest of light was just starting to illuminate the sky long before sunrise and high above the eastern seas horizon. After half a cup with his first morning rollie he stood up and flicked the switch again, for his second. To tip out the second half was like a ritual to him now, always preferring his coffee hot early in the morning. Rinses the cup a little and dries off his tea spoon before making another. Looking out the window he notices some workers already out on the street.

He sat and rolled another smoke while thinking about the workers and how early they were preparing to start. After his morning rituals it was now 6:30 am and lately the landlord had some extensive work carried out on the front section. With a driveway added had required lots of heavy excavation vehicles; diggers and trucks etc and of course people. Late last night there were two young carpenters/shuttering chippies working late to get the roadside gutter all prepared in time for the concrete truck this morning.

He sits back down with his second and rolls another smoke. He thinks about the workers and how early at 6:30 am they are preparing to start. Lately the landlord was having extensive work carried out with a driveway doug out of the front lawn area which had meant lots of heavy excavation vehicles. Late last night there were two young shuttering chippies/carpenters working late to get the shuttering for the roadside gutter finished and before the concrete truck this morning.

Without any true curiosity or intent he observed them for a little and thought about the lives they were living and the probability they both had girl friends or wives and maybe children. He thought about some of life's traps and about some of the sad facts of life that all too often happen to many.

One day after years of working late and early rises and enduring the inherent wearing out of their bodies, suddenly the wife wants another life leaving them to think what it all was really for. How much time did I get to really spend with the kids and now, just how much of them will I really know? These were questions he'd sadly thought they had a high probability to later in life have to deal with.

This was not why in his own life he ended up having to consider the possibilities of the next frost. Regularly wondering if gangrene would set in to feet and hands before the heart finally stops. He thought it would be the devils intervention to have you found suffering with gangrene in arms and legs and still to have a beating heart. Vulnerable and defensive they would rush you to hospital where they suddenly act out a self righteous act and on your behalf. Removing all limbs to keep you alive because after all you are homeless and not allowed to speak for yourself.

“Fuck off with your two faced self righteous crap and leave me be.” Pointing to the fact, “it was youse that did this to me. All of you played your part so just leave me be and to die in peace”, were lines he’d stored in his memory for just such eventuality. He seemed to know about the thousand ways the devil in man just like the devil in a god can have you die or spiral your life out of control in a designated split second of time. He was emphatic for others and maybe a little too understanding for his own good, with the world or universe being as cruel as it was. To him now, it all seemed nothing but a burden to know.

Back in his bedroom he sits down to his computer and starts working on an app he'd spent the most part of 2 years on. It's 7 am and a worker knocked on the front door. Opening the door he notices the concrete truck was already there and waiting. The worker dressed in his high vis asked if he could move the car. His half brother that he was staying with had parked his car halfway over the entry and the work area they were working on. He said; "One moment I'll just tell him as it is not my car."

Leaving the front door open he returns down the hallway while again noticing the real bite of the frost. He knocks and yells his brother's name, there is no answer so he knocks again, opens the door and tells him they need him to move his car. He says, "what at this time?" “Yeap”, he says, deciding no sense will be found if any common sense was spoken’, and immediatley leaves by entering his own bedroom door and swinging it hard to.

Moments later he hears his half brother foot steeps eco at the front porch as he’d stopped to yell back to the workers back on the street; "I saw you last night, you could have told me then, you fucking wankers." "What, the stupid arrogant wanker is calling the kettle black, the psycho wanker takes stupidity to its lowest possible level again, he'd thought.

This exact and all too often occurrence was usually directed at him and was exactly why he’d chosen for now to keep quite. It was always safer to say nothing and if anything his tactics was to prolonged the day he is to be kicked out, again, but this time was sure to be into the frost. This encapsulated his entrapped life and was now the un-normal norm which always left him thinking how does it all come to this. How is it possible for people to end up like this?"

There had always been many excuses for his brother's behaviour he'd thought. He could easily blame his Dad but that did not seem enough. After all they shared the same Dad and he couldn't imagine himself calling out what a wanker for these same reasons. Just sing out if you want the kettle on, somehow sounded better.

His thoughts made him feel a little hypocritical as he knew he no longer was so generous or enviting to strangers.

"He'd wondered if the sandbox experiments they currently are advertising as negotiations between government and large tech companies had in fact already happened. Was my half brother a consequence of this." Naa he thought, "just because technology has mind altering effects on the human brain is just another excuse. This simply was not enough and to think it as the sole reason would degrade it down to an excuse. There was more to it than this."

Chapter 2 - Riding in despair

Riding his bike at least twice a week wasn’t just a hobby to him—it was to prove to be something much more. At times it was simply a pastime for discovering the outside world. With new phases to life came new plains to discover, new rolling hills and of course his favourite of all were to be the mountains. With his greatest of challenges stretching out across an horizon would fill his heart in an adrenalized joy.

With sun flowers that stretched from horizon to horizon he rolled down the parting roads sweating and soaking in the landscapes beauty. As if for the first time he discovered the constants of change and renewal; the forever changing cyclical life on the banks of great rivers. But in stark contrast, there had always been the paradox of pain with the scenery being the payoff as always worth it. When one escapes the world through the cycling ritual, there is always something to be found: a place of solitude and peace. Over the years, this proved to be the greatest of gift from the Romans and had become a necessity for his existence.

A life crazed by the cruelness of the world, bad and good experiences, was always somehow brought back to a balance on two wheels. To think of nothing but the tarmac passing underneath the steadied rhythm of spinning pedals had provided a meditation he always returned to as his refuge.

Sometimes it was the flow with the passing wind, working together to release clouded memories and making way for clearer thought. Other times the bike had become the simplest remedy for tragedies in life. A return to oneself that never let him down when searching for his next move on and allowing his mind to wander with the slow releasing all powerful endorphins easing any physical or mental pain.

No matter the memory, deepness and despair found at the base of the valleys, standing somewhere on the horizon was another great mountain to climb. No matter how dark the past or present, there had always been something positive to hold onto. But in today's world all of that had changed.

Today he rode for something beyond enjoyment, and the most concerning was something that really should have plagued his mind; that this ride could so easily be his last. The pretend gods had betrayed him leaving only a knowing of hopelessness, and only ensured on each ride he would challenge the gods to end this madness. The power of a skynets matrix enforced severe head and heart pains and riding had now become a standing ground, the only thing they had not taken from him, a place of defiance and resistance to its pain.

"My refusal to bend the knee or play the game is supposed to give me your brain tumors, hurry up and bring it on". While the heart gulped and ached he would sometimes shout to the gods, "go on just do it." To push through the head pain almost every time at twice a week took more than he had. And afterwards, the price was for the migraines becoming more severe and always exhausting him to the point of sleep. On today's rides he was further searching the past for something to answer the simple why.

Why was he alive, why had an evil power - manipulative and deceiving had so much control over his paths. Hoping to only reach the outer universes creators and to impossibly bypass the evil's ears he asked questions through a compromised type of chatter. "Yes, at first it was fantastical but now I know it is so impossibly unfair, undeservedly crushing in physical pain. Why had the creator allowed man the power to create such oppressive cruelty and what does this mean for other targeted individuals and so many children of the future", he would ask over and over. "Answer me now", he would yell.

Spiritualities had released all their secrets, he now saw them as the perfect place to hide, like the punchline in any good joke. Religions, meanwhile, never offered any real answers. They came loaded instead with the obvious weight of control and oppression.

Faith hung on the cross, waiting centuries for a messiah who never came. Meanwhile, torture, theft, oppression, and rape marched on—unchallenged and often sanctified by the faith itself. To him, placing hope in that kind of faith only made sleep harder. It seemed cunningly designed not to save the innocent, but to serve those who might look the other way—or did evil’s work themselves.

The obedient seem to have been chosen to begin anew—exempt from responsibility, waiting only for their version of God to return. They will not speak out, nor question the rewriting of the past. In these strangest of times, the convenience of ancient stories—found beneath stones or deep within burial caves—arouses no suspicion. Few seem to notice how easily religion and spirituality walk hand in hand with occult power.

“For there to be an us, there has to be a them,” he shook his head. Not out of confusion — but because the logic was too clear.

Standing on his pedals, the bike rocked side to side as the quarry stones set into the tarmac gripped the rubber tyres. Cresting the small hill, he saw the leather chair—standing upright at the side of the road. It had been there for weeks, country-tipped by someone probably unable to afford the tip fees. The chair was usually half-buried in the roadside grass, lying beside a lone wooden bookcase. But today, it stood, as if waiting.

Twice a week, every time he rode past, the same thought returned: how comfortable the chair might have been on his lower back. At home, he’d grown used to the hard-bottomed computer chair—a constant reminder of how uncomfortable life had become. Each time he sat in it, it echoed a quiet unease, as if it existed solely to remind him of something deeply unsettling.

But today it was upright, and the smallest change in the environment stirred a flicker of curiosity. In this new world of Skynet, he’d grown used to being suspicious of his own curiosity. But for some reason he couldn’t explain, the wonder sparked by the chair felt safe—something he welcomed without fear. “After all, what harm could it do?” he muttered, gently squeezing the brakes. He veered left, into the roadside gravel, and skidded to a stop—finally allowing himself a moment to muse over the chair.

The chrome swivel base was flecked with rust, and small tears marked the artificial leather. Despite the signs of wear, he lingered in imaginative thought. Those firm, thickly padded sides would curve into my my lower back and only at the perfect height: enforcing a straight posture. Probably just what I need. And the seat... padded just like the sides. So much better than that planked base I sit on at home. Shame about the fake leather, though. Just another insidious sign of the hidden emperor’s rule. He could almost hear the voice of some roundtable of planners and coming from the end a loud voice of command booms with a pompous tone, “Flood them all with simulacra things—this will keep them distracted forever. They’ll never know the difference. And it won’t matter.”

In the quietness of the countryside day he breaks the silence and asks, "How can I take this home, it's too heavy to strap to me or my bike". The inherit skynet gaslighting had ensured life as an outcast, gaslite by society and humanity he had nobody to turn to for a favor or help so he quietly laughed towards the chair.

"Oh the audacity of a chair I cannot even have, did you chair stand yourself up to tease me, or just as a reminding fact, I am to have nothing I ever want or are you somebody's seconds, also in despair." He Laughs again: the fact he was speaking to a chair was a cause for the laugh to get louder when suddenly the urge to cry about the sadness of it all took over. To overcome his waning emotions he decided on a few words of conviction.

"Oh bugger you chair I shall seek you out in the next life or other dimension. And when I do I will seek you out a brand new, if needed changing you to leather and I shall ensure your steel is properly primed to never let you rust as you are now", he says to the chair while also sliding his rear back onto his bike seat.

Chapter 3 - The Bean

Balancing on one tiptoe he prepares to snap his feet back into the cycle clip pedals. It was an uneven gravel and launching as the tip of one shoe slips off an unstable larger stone sending him sideways over into the grass and down beside the chair. The grass between the road and paddock is at least two foot high and on his back he felt as if hidden from the world. "Darn it I've no more words for you now", he says to the chair and looking straight to the underside he bangs his hand down to attempt his sit up. Catching his eye was a small glinting of something that had shone through the smallest of tear in the underneath upholstery.

"What's this that catches my eye, do you have a secret hiding underneath", he asked the chair. Deciding his inquisition needed an answer he reached up and squeezed two fingers between the fabric material. The tip of his fingers feel a void so he pushes harder, ripping the fabric a little more. He fumbles straight into a smooth lumped kidney shaped object. Probing the lumps sides he could feel the edge of a residue tape holding it in place. He quickly reached up with his remaining hand to assist the other in ripping the tear clean across the base of the chair. In full view the large broad bean seed was instantly haunting for many reasons.

Uh, how did you glow and how did you manage to catch my eye swirled in his mind amongst a growing anxiety. The largest of seeds and its significance only he was to know because of a very old memory. For years and as a young boy the memories were unusually vivid. They had repeatedly drifted through his conscious waking or while daydreaming. Broad beans had been a gift from his dying grandfather and second of all time memory from the age of just two. He'd kept the gift in a cardboard box under his bed, regularly pulling them out just to feel them until one day when he was eight they simply vanished.

The disappointment aroused suspicion upon his family, who took them only one or some of them knew and never was to tell. His mind suddenly swamped in questions before an intuition slows everything down. The world paused as he reluctantly forced himself to face the reality of what seemed only certain. The size of the original tear had required for the bean to be placed before the cloth underside was stapled to the bottom. Panic crept in; this was no mistake - this has been planted.

In a past period to life, he was enlightened to all his coincidences, the sudden knowledge on how free will can be manipulated and even stolen was a knowledge in the worst of times is simply best not known. From that moment on life was like riding up the Col Du Tourmalet while forever stuck in the hardest gear. It never gets any easier and there appears no top to rise to when - as if simply arriving by email the new understanding of who and what is pulling strings from behind the veiled curtain.

The most painful revelation came in the form of shame, so surreal and as if delivered from beyond this world. A cruelty forged in steel and branded straight into the undeserved heart had left him with no hope or even for what under the darkest of shame clouds would only feel a blessing, and that was for his memeories to be simply wiped. He had hoped patterns would remain hidden and to never again pick up on signs or clues. Especially those he knew to be planted by the most treacherous kind of human beings, pure evil.

Of the ones that play the game by choice, asked or forced, he thought of all often and from all angles he could imagine. Who choose compliance, even profit, over conscience. Were they scared, happy, or just fundamentally different from him. This understanding he had hoped came before his curtain death.

Some days he believed it was jealousy — the twisted kind that curdles into hatred. Hatred with a smile. And always, his thoughts returned to their mothers.

Maybe they never knew them as friends. Maybe their mothers were cold, witchy, sharp-tongued. Either way, he couldn’t shake the image — their warped loyalty possibly rooted in: a mother who never looked at them with warmth, or the other simple thing and probably the most obvious: was that their mothers did not cook liver and bacon casserole like his. How could they have when it was the world's best.

While a child the once a week meal would always bring him to the point of vomit but when he'd grown older something remarkable happened. It was a reversal so profound and would go on to be the more unimaginable. From a Mother who so hated to cook - sisters tried, others mothers tried, the cafe's of England tried, restaurants of Paris and around the world all tried and none even come close to comparing to his Mothers worlds best liver and bacon casserole. And with that came a glorious and wonderfulest of discoveries, that his mothers cooking was actually better than she could possibly have imagined. This discovery is what they had also stolen from him with her premature end to life.

An uneasiness of tension fired through his heart with an irregular beat and goose bumps chilled the side of his head and face in response to a sweat trickle. "No way", he muttered before shouting, "No fucking way assholes, I am not playing your games."

As if he'd just finished his first Pyrenees climb an exhaustion filled his body spreading to every limb. The forward arch of his upper back strains before a total collapse. He lay there and just stared while he further sank into a comatose distant state. There were clouds in the sky drifting but he slowly saw nothing. The world dissolved in silence. It was as if time had sped up and stopped all at once, until everything vanished.

Somewhere deep in his consciousness a small bluish dot suddenly appeared. He concentrated on the dot without too much thought until it grew. Slowly at first and like waking from a dream, the growing transparent bubble was now the size of a low flying air balloon but immediately above in the sky. The large bubble increased quickly before bursting under a pressure and sending out a pulse of electromagnetic charged energy. The pulse in an instance had momentarily flattened the all surrounding reeds. He felt the weight of gravity to the point of being unable to move or breathe. He fought back against the force concentrating on simply moving a finger and there was absolutely no movement enabled before release and just as quickly the force was gone.

This was not the first time gravity had flattened him and the most unusual of anomalies had erased all disappointment in finding the bean. The bean together with a paralysing gravity changed everything for reasons he did not in the moment fully understand. He had spent so much time digging in the dirt, yelling at them with insults and assumptions all looking for a reaction of some kind. Always with the intention to get them to show themself. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to call youse….", he reactively yells straight back up into the air before his voice quietly mumbles, "psychopath assholes".

First looking one way he scopes the full side of view. From his back he springs to lie on his belly and quickly scopes the full surroundings. The reeds slower to recover are back up standing tall again but not before he'd caught another glimpse of something.

That something had been a little murky through the tops of grass and the dark blur was set not far back behind the reeds. Instantly sending a spasm of nerves up his spine as he contemplates the blurs possibilities to now provide him with some much needed answers and hopes at last something or someone is finally going to show themselves.

The rolling hills of farmlands were all but barron with some green grass and empty seasoned grain fields, some small gatherings of pine trees dotted on fence lines and this a dissecting road.

He buried his face in the reeds with a mind racing in anticipation. "Maybe it was a curiosity of a cow. That's it, a simple curious cow had quietly wandered over to take a look", his thoughts prepared for any coming disappointment. "But this bean, this explosion in the sky and the powerful gravity, are all very unlikely just more coincidences." With the growing anticipation he nervously decides to take a look first pushing with his hands and slowly lifting his head.

Chapter four - Memories

Back home again he contemplates everything they had told while steering down on the bean. Peering into the bean the very old memory again drifts through his mind.

Theres a head of a doorway and its old flaky paint hung from it as it drifts over head into a darkness. A narrow dusty white beam of light cuts through the dark, pouring in from a tall, slender window high above. The light lands almost straight down onto a large cardboard box that lay center room. Then his tiny hands glow in the stream of light as he reaches into the box. He lifts a handful of broad beans into the light and watches, mesmerized, as they spill through his fingers—tumbling like falling water. Their surfaces flash with patterns: swirls of purple and black, like polished camouflage. They fall, soft and quiet, back into the box.

He knew the memory had never been planted and if it had it would only mean his entire existence of childhood was planted. This was not possible and he wisely assumes it's because this was his own memory which made it all the more visionary and important. Was it the passing on of a secret message from a dying grandfather to his baby grandson. A connection to his grandfather he only wished was a coincidence but something else told him otherwise.

His Grandfather had spent four years in Colditz prisoner of war camp and was it now true that like him he had experienced a world totally different to what the public had been led to believe. And had his grandfather been met with the gaslighting that they do to all who simply knew too much. Because his Grandfather was half native Moari he had a darker skin colour and it never made sense just how he could have survived under the most historically racist known reigns. Did he know of the truth hidden under the skin, did he know the relevance of all seeds in the mind were questions he'd held onto for some time. Now they had been answered if he is to believe them from beyond the reeds.

Chapter three - Returning to and alternate path, The Key

Balancing on one tiptoe he prepares to snap his feet back into the cycle clip pedals. It was an uneven gravel and launching as the tip of one shoe slips off an unstable larger stone sending him sideways over into the grass and down beside the chair. The grass between the road and paddock is at least two foot high and on his back he felt as if hidden from the world. "Darn it I've no more words for you now", he says to the chair and looking straight to the underside he bangs his hand down to attempt his sit up. Catching his eye was a small glinting of something that had shone through the smallest of tear in the underneath upholstery.

"What's that chair, are you hiding secrets", he jokingly says and reaching up underneath he squeezes a finger between the fabric material. The tip of his fingers are in a void so he pushes harder, ripping the fabric a little more. He fumbles straight into the object that did not take him too long to recognise as the shape of a large skeleton door key. In his past life as a carpenter he had fitted many types of locks to doors, leaving him with a knowledge and the size of the key only adds to all intrigue, noting instantly it must be very old and no ordinary key. He's quick to reach up with his remaining hand assisting the other to rip the tear larger and exposing into full view the key that had been mask taped to the underside

The large, well honed metallic bow handle gleamed and there was a double digit code lll lll moulded centre. An array of questions speed threw his mind before instinctively concentrating on what seemed only curtain. The sizing of the original tear had required for the key to be taped in position before the upholstery covering, meaning this was intentionally placed there. Panic crept in; this was no finding or mistake.

In a past period to life, he was enlightened to all coincidences, killing all sovereignty over his soul and leaving him with a knowledge of string pullers behind the curtains. To follow was an out of this world type shaming he felt never deserved and was never able to forget. Because of this he'd hoped patterns would forever remain hidden and to never again pick up on signs or clues. A sudden uneasiness of tension grabbed at his heart and mind. He feels a bead of sweat trickle down the side of his face. "No way", he murmurs before shouting, "Fuck off assholes, no way, I am not playing your games."

Suddenly an enormous gust of wind punches down from the heavens, flattening the reeds in an instant. He's startled into a heightened state of alertness. First looking one way while flipping to his stomach, he coast the grounds making sure he’d covered all directions. The blast had been quick and powerful and was gone just as quickly, allowing the reeds to bounce back stiff and upright but not before he again had glimpsed something. Instantly sending a spasm of chills crawling up his spine the dark blur was set not far back from the reeds. He knew the object had just now arrived as he also knew the rolling hills of farmlands and fences were all but barron with empty seasoned grain fields. There were dotted throughout some small gatherings of pine trees and this a dissecting road but an object just beyond the reeds there definitely had not been.

His face buried in the reeds with a mind racing to find another reality. "Maybe it was a curiosity of a cow. That's it, a simple curious cow has just wandered over to take a look". "But this key, this sudden wind, all more coincidences." Nervously he decides to take a look first pushing with his hands and slowly lifting his head.

Chapter four - Memories

Back home again he contemplates everything they had told and looks down upon the key in his hand. The memories of moving imagery played again through his mind.

A mirage heat rises from the quiet deserted roads under the midday Portugal sun. The sky is cloudless and royal blue as he traversed the roads of the hilly range. He comes across a small bridge at the depths of the valley with freshly painted bright yellow sides that in contrast to the day had a cooling effect in his eye.

While crossing the bridge he looked out upon the driest of river beds. There was the sporadic tree and bush stripped of leaves; more reminiscent of a nasty winter and the whole base of the valley rose back up into the hills and appeared as if completely lifeless in the heat. He’d wondered how many snakes came out of the hills in search of a trickle of water.

Soon after he traversed the last hill to the range remembering its shape was reminant of a guiding arrow. It stretched out beyond the range forming the arrow to the south. At the hill’s end, the land broke and dipped before rising again into a long and narrow ridge that sat high above the surrounding plains.

At the arrows end the moment felt like stumbling upon a secret and its mystery revealed all at once. It was like a memory surfacing suddenly in a dream—the kind that arrives from nowhere and for a defining reason. One moment you're blindfolded, and the next, your eyes are filled with the sight of an acient castle. There had been many surprises while riding across vast lands, but the way the castle remained hidden until he was right at its base—that was one of the great discoveries of his time.

Its high masonry walls stretched out either side of the narrow 100 metre wide hill and were at the least 1.5 km long - amazed he'd felt he'd never witnessed such a long historic defence wall. The empty plains covered a considerable distance to the front and although he'd felt the urgency and the need to carry on he could not help himself but to ride into its tourist attraction of courtyards. Upkeep was obviously always kept to the highest masonry standards and as if owned by a royalty. But as suspected after his coincidences revealed it wasn't royalty or another aristocratic family that owned this castle and now this key confirmed it.

That castle for them was a new beginning. A hide out from Catholicism and King Louis II and where those who escaped too, avoiding the trials of heresy. Most had been burned at the stake and formerly known as the Knights Templars. The few who survived formed new alliances under the secret society known as the Rosicrucians. Bound by an ancient connection to the Illuminati, they forged their strongest pact yet: anonymity. Recent betrayals—by both a King and a Pope—had taught them a final lesson: to remain hidden, forever beyond the sight of their enemies. They reestablished themselves not as an institution, but as a rumor. And among the higher circles, if one were ever accused of being a Rosicrucian, the common reply was: "How could I be, if you know my name?" That single phrase sealed the bond—crafted to outmaneuver any king or pope that might follow.

Combining their resources—architects, lawyers, artists, writers, alchemists, mystics, swordsmen, hedgemen, and intelligence operatives—they devised methods and began laying the foundation for a new world order. Their first move: the infiltration of the already established nation-builders, the Freemasons—securing influence over every newly forming country and region. In the early 14th century, the world was still up for grabs, and secrecy was their long-term assurance of success. From this very castle, they set their sights on the infiltration of royal families, governments, churches, banks, and all major institutions—intent on eventual total control.

But what remains unknown—even now—are their core beliefs. How much of the Nazi collaboration and demonic rumor is true. Who, and what, are they really?

Chapter three - Returning to the alternate path, Entering a Gods Time Machine

Balancing on one tiptoe, he prepares to snap his feet back into the cycle clip pedals. The tip of his shoe slips off an unstable larger stone sending him sideways towards the chair. Reaching out with his left hand he tries to rescue his fall but the chair on unstable ground flings away as his other arm desperately grasps back into the thin air. Backwards and down his fall was fast.

The back of helmet missed everything, while the base of his skull smashed cleanly against the edge of the wood bookcase. Like a heavy wooden malet to the back of the head, the blow sent a violent shutter inwards, then everything was black. Out cold, instantly he was amazed by his presence and ability to think while in all directions he looked into the pitch black of darkness. Fully conscious of what had just happened, he could feel an indentation from the one inch of solid wood that had struck with force just above the neck. Suddenly appearing in the distance was a singular speck of light, like a lonesome star in the void of night.

Almost immediately, it began to grow and appeared as if moving towards him, accelerating, expanding. Faster and faster, the blinding darkness gave way to a blinding light. Just before the light engulfed him completely, he clenched his eyelids shut and muttered to himself: “Oh fuck.”

Opening his eyes his smaller hands are clenched to the side base railing of an old railway bridge. He could feel the roughness of old paint and well weathered timber. The roughness supported his grip which also was saving for this moment any unintentional fall.

He looks down to see his feet dangling in the air and far below is the small water hole that needed hit clean center. To the immediate sides of the water hole the rocky riverbed boulders are only magnified by the shallow six inch flow and remnants of its seasonal drought.

If the fall was to have any chance of not breaking his legs, a bullseye center is all that would do. He was hesitant with fear because unknown was not just if the hole was deep enough to prevent injuries but the correct swing to release or even if he should swing at all. From this height - was he slightly to the left or right, he simply could not tell.

He looks skywards back up to the safety of the top and the large bullies face stretches out from a torso that was on hands and knees. His energized head made the veins pop either side of his temples and neck and he shouted over and over, "do it, do it, do it."

On that day, he had hung for so long it seemed almost impossible. There was a kind of supernatural comfort in both his hands and arm, as if, to everyone’s disbelief, they had settled into a tireless grip. The bully, worn down by his own impatience, stepped back across the railway tracks and muttered to his friend, "Nah, he's not going to do it" waving his hands dismissively back at him.

While hanging he remembered the day he was alone fishing on the deserted beach, when this same bully had once thrown a very large stone from great distance and only to hit him in the back of the head. The shock and horror of such a blow still resonated in his mind as if yesterday. After the confusion cleared he’d looked back at him expecting to see someone full of remorse but was to see only an opposite reaction. There 50 metres away was a large person filled with hatred. Looking back at him was to provide no answer to the why, then or now and there was a hatred he could not understand. And was up there with the most hurtful memories a child can have.

Again he gets down on his knees as if only desperation was taking over his spirit, "do it, do it, do it", repeats again and again, but this time with less conviction as the previous two times, and this time it sounded as if he was giving up. He stands again, disgruntled and lowering his tone so those below the bridge cannot hear him, he murmurs, "he will never do it, I was so looking forward to him breaking his own legs".

The boy looks down again to see his own friends who paced over the dry rocks of the river's bed floor, as if any excitement of the day had left their spirits leaving each only bored. Breaking a silence R, one of the boys pointed at the small hole and said, “if he lands right there I am sure he will be ok.” W, another picks up a stone and tosses it to center while saying, "no he needs to land right there or his legs are snapped. The remaining of the three J, decides the boy just needed reminding, "come on V, you said you were going to do it."

Dangling meters above he sarcastically whispers downwards, "As if now I have any choice", while nodding his head back to the top.

Chapter four - Loop begins

The light had suddenly withdrawn from his head and back into the distance of the all surrounding darkness. It hovered as if giving him time to just think. His mind begins to race and stacking up one on top of another was a multiplying of questions before taking a deep breath. The pause and deepness felt in his lungs helped him identify the madness of the moment, the unexplained, a territory he was familiar with, so he tactically decided to talk to himself.

"Uhm... I've just knocked myself out and there is something weird, something I do not understand happening inside my head", "Ok, I've knocked myself out before, twice now", neither of those times did I have this kind of experience. It all feels so real, here in the dark and it feels as if the timber is still in my hands". Deciding he now needed some answers, "Who and what are you?", he asked.

Expecting the light to answer his simple demand or respond with a signal, a voice and speech was only met with disappointment. A disappointment he was very familiar with. From the first day enlightened to the source of skynet all his outbursts and questions went by either unanswered or in the early days answered by a god's power with multiple reasons that he himself did not want to believe. Each response would bring the same level of confusion and be met with an existential disappointment.

He thought of them as childish, cowardly, and bullying with the things they choose to do to other human beings. He also knew that they might be now in control of this now darkened state and with that the most horrifying thought he decided to pursue his own quest of thought.

"Perhaps this is the end and this is all there is. Ok lets only hope it's not for eternity because man this might get really boring," and a thought arrived and aimed at those who might be listening, " boring has been your specialty has it not". Horrified, rushed back in when he acknowledges his own thoughts returning to them of betrayal. He hated the reality of those not far from his every thought always re-entering his mind. Even in this place of darkness, here they are again occupying my time and mind.

He sits while unable to see his body or the comfortable seat just sat in. "This is so weird, it's if I have a body and this is a chair but I cannot see either", he says while his mind wanders back into that little boy of 7. "Why the bridge, Why where he only took a chance to be the known first to leap or drop off the bridge, risking so much as my legs." Squinting with searching eye’s he looks back to the unresponsive light.

There's a long silence and the light about the size of a star again did nothing. Breaking the silence he says; "So what is it you want, or what is this place, something, something you must have something. Perhaps it is now you are to give me some answers about my life, you know the life that to me now is as if stolen." Still there was nothing from the light. "What is it I did, why must i endure so much...", he pauses and considers what he is about to say before an outburst quickly rose with an inferno’s force exploding through to his mouth.,"you know what Im going to say, you know, fucking pain".

As if the word initiated what the light was only waiting for. The light to V this time was so fast and was more reminiscent of a flash but still leaving just enough time to reactively clench down on his eyelids.

Chapter five - Entering the time machine