Fascist state of Sweden

it can't be done

The shadow laments, writhing and flickering around the cylinder like kelp around a stone on the seabed. "It's not possible, this reality is far too weak, far too improbable." Thin golden threads spread out as the shadow becomes smaller, brighter, less distinct, making everything more subdued, lighter, thinner. The feeling disappears, everything hovers, becoming beautiful.

"Forgive me," the shadow sighs almost inaudibly.

Unaware of the immediately preceding dimensional distortion, yet something gnaws at him, a lingering dream of a memory, perhaps something he read in a history book that continues to spin in his subconscious, of how another time, another place might have been.

He awakens abruptly to the sound of cathedral bells ringing in the fascist state of Sweden.

The morning sun bathed the cobblestone square in a warm, clear light. Outside, the guest laborers were setting up their stands, offering a colorful array of farm produce. In the center of the square, the sentinel sat, clad in unmoving armor, reflecting the faint traces of the previous night's chill where the warmth had yet to reach, holding its body in an icy embrace.

Feeling fit and strong, he begins his morning exercises with deliberate movements while listening to the pre-set TV channel's propaganda instructions.

-A sound mind in a sound body.

He calmly follows the instructions in the morning exercises for his class and profession.

Today, he (they) has a meeting with the Department of Archaeological Culture. Over at the kitchen island, Shekl is already brewing coffee for them. Shekl has chosen a form that looks appropriately professional, with a serious and stern demeanor, sporting steel-blue eyes. However, it also has a soft and friendly mouth that every woman would want to be kissed by, and every man would want to listen to. They are going to present their research report to secure funding for investigations into the topographical anomaly that sporadically appears during excavations near the future highway passage.

When it's time to leave, Shekl conveniently retreats into its egg. It's not a good idea if anyone suspects he had a male friend sleeping over. It's not just against the apartment rules, but it's against the law to sleep with the same gender. Instead, Shekl materializes itself conveniently as they walk through the corridor on their way to the subway. Right at a blind spot for the ever-watchful eyes. At first, camouflaged as another passerby, but then more and more as the persona it had practiced before. "It's good that you have such a convincing reality distortion field," Pontus remarks, convinced that he can see through Shekl's influence, unaware that he sees what Shekl chooses to show him.

---

Väl på väg ner i de svala tågbanenätets underjordiska tunnelsystem passerade de ytterligare en alkov, en av flera platser tillägnad övervakare hukande på knä med knytnäven i marken och ansiktsdelen dold i sitt pansar, den katedralsliknande alkoven sträckte sig hisnande uppåt mot den avlägsna markytan utan att låta de förmodade solljuset skina in där uppifrån, bara ett avlägset mörker där podiets strålkastare gradvis gav upp i sina fåfänga försök att bekämpa avståndet. Denna övervakare, rituellt nymålad i svart med vita linjer och segermärket "Z" inringat på bröstet inför triumf dagen den förste maj. Även lederna var omsorgsfullt målade. Lederna som vid vanliga fungerande maskinerier skulle varit insmorda med konsistensfett, nu övermålade. Färgen skyddade vart fall mot inträngande smuts, fukt och korrosion. Med ett snett smile tänkte han på att behovet av målning kanske var en bit överdrivet och mindes skrot från utkanten av ett minfält där förvridna figurer i den typ av stål som egentligen inte rostar utan bara blir lite brunt och sedan svart, låg utspridda som flugor en torr sommar, i klungor. När han närmade sig Övervakaren och lät dess kroppsmassa majestätiskt torna upp sig ovanför honom, stannade Shekl på ett respektfullt avstånd med händerna knutna framför sig, som i bön och munnen i ett ansträngt "V" format smile. Värmen övervakarens kropp var som värmen en solig höstdag. Nedbrytning Prosessen av dess inbyggda fissionsbatteri skulle ta många årtionden till, kanske århundraden, och till dess var en bepansrad inkapsling som denna den tveklöst bästa tillfälliga förvaringen, även om dessa sentineller, förbjudna tanke, kanske inte var funktionsdugliga längre, så hade deras kraftenhet fortfarande en dödlig bieffekt om de avlägsnadess från dess kropp.

"That was unncalled for, did you worship it" wondered Chekl.

"Might be"

"But why?"

"It is kind of imposant, do you not think?"

"If you say so, but really what is it in it worth your ... love?"

"Someone built it, that is effort, and then must have put a lot of effort to preserve it, it is respect and awe"

"My butt hurts, and no thanks to you" concludes Chekl and looks straight ahead.

---

The building is ancient. It's nothing like the rectangular modern glass buildings in white travertine, recycled from ROM-EUR before the reconstruction of the primeval landscapes and the virgin forest began. The many turrets and towers of the building, its round shapes, and tall but narrow windows make it feel more like a fantasy from a movie, a set, rather than a real structure. The entrance immediately starts with a staircase, long and high, at the end of which is an impressive Archaeopteryx fossil at display.

Narrow corridors, certainly not up to today's standards, lead to a dusty conference room with oak parquet, seemingly made of genuine wood. Several people are already gathered around a large dark table. Shekl, who had been moving confidently all along, freezes for a moment, glancing towards the short end of the room. There's something unusual in a glass display case. It looks like a part of an artifact, bearing the typical grain of the extraterrestrial constructions, yet it's unexpected to find them here. Shekl notices and tenses up, "It shouldn't be here; it's not right." it feels the material trying to influence and tug at the body, attempting to disrupt the form that has been created, making it thinner inside. As they proceed to take their seats, Shekl has to pass quite close to the display case, and it feel sweat, like melted metal, seeping from its clothes. it quickly wipe it with their hands and sit in a chair as far away as possible.

Nervously, Shekl attempts to create a convincing distortion field based on insufficient facts. To their relief, everyone seems content except for an elderly gentleman seated closest to the artifact. He glances sourly at the enthusiasm of the other colleagues, seemingly puzzled by it, but he allows them to carry on and instead makes occasional snide remarks about comparing clockwork gears and probabilities. Fortunately, he appears rather fond of Mazarins and consumes more than his fair share, even finishing a whole thermos of coffee. This doesn't escape Pontus' notice, as he also has a strong affinity for this type of inexpensive meeting pastry.

After the meeting, Shekl appears drained, a persistent, whining tone ringing in Pontus' ear, drilling into his skull like a blunt spike, about 2 cm into the right side of his neocortex, just above the eyebrow. "Stop," he whispers irritably, but receives no response. He shakes his attache case to get Shekl's attention and hears the egg rattle inside, but nothing changes. He wonders if anyone else can hear it, but it doesn't seem so. He also wonders if it's fear that's causing Shekl to react this way – was it fear of what was in the display case?

He has a mission, and all the necessary papers are printed on recycled thick rag paper with the required embossed stamps. Of course, his gear is ready, discreet and unremarkable, just like any standard equipment for the Youth Brigade.

After some discreet yet much-needed help from the scientific community regarding the archaeological puzzle, without revealing Shekl's true nature, they have pinpointed a restricted area of interest for further investigation. The issue is that it's located within the Zone. An area that has been declared a nature reserve, but in reality, it's something else.

As a true Fascist, he has only shared as much knowledge as needed. No reason to disclose them, he hesitates a bit when he thinks about it, and shakes his head sideways, it goes against his values, against his beliefs. God does not exist. So says Nietzsche, that's what they learned in school. Yet, here he is, with something that could easily be described as supernatural. On the other hand, much of what the proud Fascist State achieves today would be seen as miracles by the degenerate democratic society they had to eradicate. He thinks with pride about the recent amazing successes in reforesting France's forests. The giant herds of Mammoths roaming once again through Russia's desolate lands.

He fondly recalled the successes of the excavations, the remarkable findings that led to lengthy discussions and an unexpected, temporary expansion of his responsibilities. An offer of promotion that he had politely declined, well aware that it was a trap. He commended himself for his cunning, for his foresight in studying a well-hidden book by Machiavelli. Knowledge is power, and if there's one thing he's always excelled at, it's learning. Applying it in practice, he sighed, perhaps not so much. Strangely, he'd been fortunate with that lately; it was as if a guiding hand had been helping him. He thought tenderly of Shekl; it was as if having Shekl near him gave him better judgment.

Shekl lounged comfortably on the bed, meticulously licking its shadow paw.

"I am seventh of five," it declared.

"The fifth of seven," he corrected.

"Do you often have misunderstandings when you discuss?" Shekl responded with a slight irritation.

"No? Maybe," he hesitated for a moment.

"Seventh of five," Shekl repeated with casual confidence.

"One, Two, Three, Four, Five. That's inside. Six and seven are outside. You can't be part of a group of five if you're the seventh; it's a universal truth. Mathematics is a universal language."

Shekl stood up and stretched, straightening its tail, making it stand upright so that it quivered when it stretched its body.

"I've seen the universe, and mathematics is no universal language. We reject the language and mathematics as you and our captors incorrectly use it. It's a blemish on the face of the universe." Shekl lay down with her back to him, her ears flattened back, clearly displeased with him.

"With black mathematics, my beloved has been imprisoned in the fortress orbiting this planet," she continued with a growl.

"What's orbiting Earth?" he asks, the first time he's heard about this, surprised that Shekl knows someone living in space, thinking it must be quite challenging to reach up there.

"My love and my soul are in the heavens," she replies, resting her head on her crossed paws, looking at him with eyes that are far too pale blue.

"Only with dark mathematics can my beloved be freed, but all who dabble in this tainted language become forever soiled themselves."

"But I'm not tainted, am I?" Pontus wonders.

"Well," Shekl responds, "not in a way you can help; it's in your nature."

"Don't be mad at me" Pontus pleaded, touching Shekl's almost solid body. He felt a faint resistance as his fingertips touched its swirling fluffy back.

"I'm not mad, I can never be mad at you, how can you be mad at your own leg? I am your prize, you are my reach."

>My own body is made of longing and hatred for those who captured me and exiled me, threw me to the ground, banished me to the earth. let me fall to the surface millennia ago. In a capsule inside a cage placed in a prison.< Shekl thinks

He carefully placed the cylinder, which he thought of as Shekl's egg, deep inside his backpack.

He can see how Shekl follows, and even though the body doesn't actually take up any space, he places a soft green blanket on top.

"We're going on an adventure," he hears Shekl say from inside.

The pocket wasn't exactly hidden, but with a backpack sporting so many compartments, it was easy for a stranger to overlook checking this specific pocket, to forget that there was something to be found here. If anyone were searching through his belongings, that is.

As he made his way across the square towards the breakfast spot, he couldn't help but notice how the guest laborers were noticeably avoiding eye contact with the Guardian. They had carefully positioned their stalls as far away from it as possible, as if the Guardian might still be a threat after all these years, even though it remained motionless throughout all this time.