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Themes Edit

Chesed (Hebrew: חסד "love") is given the association of kindness and love, and is the first of the emotive attributes of the sephirot.

In greater detail here, familial connections arisen in earlier chapters will be fleshed in Chapter 5. Of note, Dr. Brian's work with the Akashic Super computer, JUPITER BLACK's relationship with his father, and Maria Salazar seducing, and poisoning, a possible socialist revolutionary who may or may not be Hugo Chavez.

Featured Characters Edit

Synopsis Edit

Dirac approaches Dr. Bryan, and initially appears to be solely intent on earning her friendship. It soon blossoms into what seems to be actual romance. Dr. Bryan is swept up in this relationship for a time, before it becomes apparent that Dirac's real intention is to have her build the AKASHIC super computer.

Dr. Bryan is working at her computer terminal in a rather sterile looking laboratory. She is focused on whatever work is at hand. She is interrupted by two men who bring her a stack of ancient looking, and water damaged note books.

We see Dr. Bryan and Dirac standing at the foot of the precipice before AKASHIC. The glow emanating from the pit washes upon them, giving them stark, and sunken features. There is caution tape set up around the terminals, and the site as a whole looks abandoned. Tangles of wires spread wildly across the floor. A mop bucket is left unattended, and dirty.

You came to me with a pile of dusty notebooks, and expected so much from me. And I delivered.


Five years later, Peter, I believe I deserve an answer. What the hell did we build here?

Script Edit

Open on a desert commune at night: lean-tos and tents can be seen arranged in a circle around a central bonfire, which is currently raging. Pillars, flags and other semi-religious accouterments abound. In the distance, we see a starry sky, and stark, iron-red mesas which punctuate the otherwise flat landscape.

As we approach the bonfire, we see the group which is dancing about it is in varying states of undress and varying states of cleanliness.

Once, when I was very young, perhaps 8 or so, I fancied myself a crack shot. I was so eager to prove this, not just to everyone I met, but to myself as well. The opportunity presented itself in the form of what I later learned to be a beautiful red cardinal. I struck the creature from the sky, I took from him the gift of flight, and made him wallow in the mud like the rest of us.

Before the bullet had even left the rifle, perhaps somewhere between the release of tension and the movement of the firing pin, I felt an immense pang of guilt. My friends were impressed, but I was wracked with grief. I had killed, and I had killed senselessly. No prize was earned from his, no hunger sated.

I ran as fast and as far as my legs would take me, and before I knew it, I was upon the edge of a black, silty swamp. Here, the soil was malleable; when I excavated a bit, the sides would cave in. It was impossible to escape. I dug quickly, before the fetid water could rush in and erase my work. I dug deep enough for my rifle, and let the silt and sand and soil take the weapon from me.

My shame was buried there, in that hole. I told my father; he laughed. No one could possibly understand my motivation, and in a way I don't think I did either. The guilt would find its way to the surface, eventually, just like one day the weather may wear upon that swamp and so too will the weapon reemerge.

This is PANTHEON to me, Samuel. It cannot be buried. There's no hole big enough, not enough mud to swallow it. It will surface time, and time again, and I will never rest easy for the rest of my days.

A thin, tired man sits alone in a decaying apartment. The walls are bare, and the wooden planks which constitute the floor are rotting. Blinding light pours in from a window which has been boarded up. Gaps in the boards allow for illumination. It is likely midday. In the center of the crumbling dormitory, there is a an older model television set. The man sits before this. The man sits in a contemplative pose for awhile, we zoom in on this, before he detects a presence nearby. He turns to face this presence, and speaks.

MAN: I have waited so long for you, sir. How long has it been? At least 10 years since they put you under. But I stayed behind. I believed. I have transcribed everything, just like you asked. I knew you were right. She is still speaking to us. But I haven't heard anything from her in over a year. She has spoken of such horrors, sir...

JUPITER BLACK: I know. But you have endured.

MAN: This is the end for us, isn't it? Please... spare us all from this.

Splash page. We focus on the television set in the center of the room. It has suddenly turned on, and a grainy image of the sephirothic tree has emerged. In the faint shine of the television, we barely discern Jupiter Black lay his hands upon the man, and render him into luminous dust.


MARIA: (Narrating) Buscame, Buscame mi cariño.

Open on a group of ragged Guerrillas making their way down a muddy embankment. There is three of them in their midst, one of whom is injured and barely conscious. His two comrades on either side of him aid in his movement.

MARIA: (Narrating) Look for me amongst the trees, mi cariño.

Above them is a nearly impenetrable canopy of trees-- palms and ferns and all assortment of equatorial plant life. Skulls, bones, and feathers are bound to the trees around them; a witch lives nearby. We can see the desperation and exhaustion in these men's faces, and the heat and humidity do nothing to alleviate their struggle. Their destination is just ahead, however: numerous large sheets of cloth, strung up, and drawn taught amongst the trees. A light flickers within this makeshift shelter, and illuminates it as if it were a paper lantern.

MARIA: (Narrating) Look for me, and you will find me, mi cariño.


The Guerrillas are entering the tent now. It is less a shelter and more an altar: there are candles here, their wax spilling over and cementing them into place. Ornamentations of bone and wood litter the scene, interspersed will colorful pillows and bedding. The Guerrillas are lowering the wounded man, blood soaking through his uniform. He is pale now, weak, his legs crumble as he hits the ground. Those still standing look up in awe to witness the matron of this sacred space.


Maria sits before them on an altar made of smelted rifles. She is dressed in ratty fatigues and a wife beater. Her combat boots are dirty and unpolished, and her dark black hair goes untamed as it pours out from under her red Guerrilla beret. A belt of 7.62 ammo crosses across her chest. A long tobacco pipe rests in her hand, fumes wafting through the tent, perhaps channeling a likeness to El Sub.