NC Cell Fan Fiction
So I've been bored in class a lot lately and now when I get bored I write fiction involving the Nevada City Cell's characters.
I'll post what I write when I get time. Anyone else is free to post as well.
NC Cell Fan Fiction
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Summary:
Events that didn't happen to fictional characters made up by people you know!
Dorian took a step back and admired his work; a perfect circle of latin scripture written in sheep's blood.
"Beautiful isn't it?"
"I don't know Dor-"
"Don't say my name!"
"Oh sorry, I-"
"No no, quite all right Edward."
"But my name's not-"
"Exactly Edward, even though I have not completed the ritual, the demons are watching. They have seen what I've done and they are curious. You must be a bit more careful about the information that you put out there."
"Yeah, whatever, can we just do this?"
"Of course! Now, would you be so kind as to light the candles I place? Be careful not to bump them." Dorian walked slowly around the outside of the circle as he read his scripture and placed his candles at seemingly random intervals.
"So… what are these for" The other man asked as he stooped down to light a candle nearest to him.
"Oh these?" Dorian looked at a candle he was about to place as if he was just figuring that fact out for himself. "They serve as additional sacrifice. These candles are made from the ashen bones of necromancers."
The other man stopped as the flame from his lighter flickered above the wick. He looked up at Dorian, then back down to the candle. "Wait…" he mumbled as he jerked his head back up. "What?"
"Oh yes, quite easy to find necromancer bones if you know where to look." Dorian waved the question off as he placed the last candle. "Now hurry up and light those. The clock is ticking!"
"But, but where do-" The other man muttered as he finished lighting the last one.
"No time Edward, now watch carefully." Dorian tapped a diamond tipped cane in front of him and with a twist of his hand a large gap opened in the middle of the circle. "Yoo-hoo! Demons?"
"What the fuck?"
"Hmm? What was that De- ahem, Edward?"
"This is a joke right, don't you need to speak some kind of demonic right or something?"
"Oh no, I can bring a demon to this realm at any time, the writing on the ground will simply keep them docile." Dorian stared down at the red hole that he formed in the floor. "Personally I have a fondness for incubi and succubi; they're absolutely RAVISHING creatures." Dorian bit his lower lip before continuing. "Fantastic entertainment for sexy parties." He glanced at the other man and then back to his work. "I think will go with something a bit tamer. OOOoo I know! A spirit of greed! You two will get a long very well." As he waved his hand over the hole the room grew darker as the hole grew brighter. A sulfurous smell drifted into the room and the air grew hot. The demon was a huge creature that took up almost the entirety of the vertical warehouse space. It was a gruesome thing; green and covered in a thick oil, skin made out of warts and scabs that became blistered from the heat of the infernal realms. Dorian and the demon began speaking quickly in Latin after five minutes Dorian spoke his first name aloud.
"What are you doing man?"
"One moment." Dorian listened intently as the demon spoke slowly to him. "Excellent, alright, we're done here."
"I thought names held a lot of power?"
"Oh they do! If I let that thing live it would of probably been a bad deal." With that, the circle began to shine with a white light and the demon was pulled apart piece by piece as if by thousands of tiny invisible hands.
"Oh…"
"You see Devin; demons always underestimate mortals."
A thick, rough hand pushed the door with force that anyone else would have to heave in order to apply. This force was necessary to push away the mountainous accumulation of jewelry, toy cars, pocket watches, flat screen TVs, teddy bears, journals and much more. The doorway was nearly entirely filled with a solid, rugged silhouette. The dark figure surveyed the pile of treasure briefly focusing on the nearly buried mattress in the center where a blanket lifted and two black eyes peered back at him.
"I'm taking Ida, Devin. Mankind needs her and you are no guardian."
A hissing laugh answered him, "Wow. You don't sound too righteous or anything, Zak."
"If you need my protection or Ida's, you just need to ask."
The sarcastic voice under the blankets laughed harder, "Nothing you could do."
The scowl on Zak face was hidden to most eyes in the backlit circumstance, but not the pair of eyes watching him from under the blanket: they could make out every detail. After a moment of scowling, the muscle-bound behemoth's lips split in a smile, but the smile did not extend to his eyes, which were hidden behind some expensive sunglasses that had a soft red glow outlining the lenses. "I'm sure I'll see you soon."
"Yeah, whatever, can you close the door? Tryin' to sleep."
The door swung firmly shut and loud stomps could be heard receding down the hallway. Devin shut his eyes and settled back down in the warm darkness of his horded treasure.
After a moment, Devin's eyes opened again as he felt something familiar moving through the shadows nearby: something large, silent and powerful. It lurked near him often. The silence was broken by a velvety, insinuating tenor echoing from the shadows, "Yes, it is best without her around. My lovely, little one must learn how to deal with so many things that go bump and it simply can't be done when that little trollop is keeping them all away." Devin rolled his eyes in an an attempt to hide the shiver that went down his spine whenever he heard that voice; he could hear the smile in the pause that followed. "Sweet dreams, little one. You too, Devin."
"As a stranger you do not know me
Yet strangers we are not
As a friend you care for me
Yet friends we are not
As a brother you kill for me
Yet brothers we are not
As a father you would kill me
Yet my father you are not
As myself you breathe for me
Yet me you are not
You are the bodyless orgasm, the soundless scream
You are the still-in-birth, the stillbirth
You are the thing between spaces between things
Slick dark places and forgotten lives inside you.
Offer them a warm embrace, belonging.
You will be empty.
Be filled by me."
There is a certain undeniable ageless quality to a volcano. Lesser mortals may fashion themselves knowledgeable, may put up their walls of pretense and claim that these great beauties lay dormant, or, in certain extreme cases of ego, extinct. I know the truth. I have seen the throbbing life in the core of the world and I have tasted its essence.
I speak of this not out of my usual utter disdain for all those beneath me, but as a segue into my tale. I am going to tell you of my conquests of old, though twas not so long ago for me, eh, mortal? So close your mouth and pay attention.
Long ago, in the land that you foolish mortals call the Roman 'Empire', there was a small town. I had taken up residence their, motivated by my own infantile curiosity into mortal goings on. The Villa of the Mysteries was my chosen residence, and it is my namesake, for the villagers were naturally in awe of me. And on some days they came to me, to ask me questions about what they considered great mysteries. And if I were feeling generous, and not particularly hungry, I would allow them to do favors for me in return for the answers they sought. Many great adventures were had by these men, and many stories of folklore that you are no doubt familiar with today are based in large part of the tales of the men who did my bidding.
One day, however, a brash young man not unlike yourself came, and in his arrogance asked me a question he thought I would not be able to answer. Laughing in his face, I said, bring me the fairest maiden in all of the 'Empire', and I will answer your question."
For many years this young man searched across all of Rome, following rumors, checking every farm house for every farmers daughter, and finally finding the most beautiful woman in the world. When he returned to me with her, I laughed again, and said, "Thank you, young man, you have brought my daughter back to me."
For a moment he was shocked, and then he regained his composure, and dared to ask me again, that question: "What is your name?"
A third and final time, I laughed at him. "You shall know my name, Mortal, for it is upon you." And in that instant, I called upon Vesuvius, the great spirit of the mountain, to bring his wrath down upon these insolent villagers. And they were cast in molten rock, and I heard their agony and bathed in it, soaking up the anguish of Pompeii like a sponge in a lake.
Which brings us to you, mortal. Have a care how you handle my equipment, or you might find that Pinatubo, the great spirit beneath which you build your home, is not so dormant after all.
Have a care with how you use that name, mortal.
Is that because dhuum is
* Death Inevitable
* The Ender of All
* The Mouth at the Edge of Darkness
* Omega Death
* The Voice in the Void
* The Final Judge
* Emperor of Oblivion
* Master of Nothingness
* The Final Death
The little, orphan girl sits on the catwalk swinging her legs and humming softly to no one in particular. She fidgets with a loose bolt on the railing and watches it slip and fall down, the thirty feet to the machinery on the warehouse floor. She likes to make the little robots whirl into motion, and as soon as they do, she is down the ladder to follow them and watch them go.
As Ida reaches the bottom of the ladder, she sets off over the concrete floor. Odd little automatons ride around on modified RC car frames. The ones here in the shop never have casings on them, due to the frequency with which they are worked on and improved. She likes to watch the actuators swing and compress, the lights flashing and the funny little cameras focusing on moving objects. She skips closer as two of the curious machines, each unique, converge on the site of her bolts' landing. She had dropped it onto the machine Zak always seems worried about.
The first robot (she named him Blinky, because Cody's names aren't very clever) extends a limb out and with a rotation of the wrist, neatly removes a series of screws. The next robot (Sir Grab-a-lot) chunks forward and grabs the titanium plate just freed and backs away. Behind the plate is a gap with the bolt there, but it was the glowing, green glass on the far side that caught Ida's attention. Blinky rolled into range to grab the bolt, but the dark child wanted a closer look, so she moved into Blinky's path causing the helpless pile of servos and circuitboard flail in a fultile attmempt to retrieve the bolt.
She smiles at them; she likes the robots because they never try to bite her ankles, or bark at her or call her names or harm her in any way. She turns back to the strange glowing glass pane and leans in close enough to see the reflection of her completely black eyes. On the other side of the glass, bright green mists flow with liquid ease. With a pale little finger, she taps at the glass, still singing to herself.
Ida stops her tune when a roar interrupts the peace of the workshop and it is lit with dancing azure. "Don't touch that, kiddo." Her eyes grow wider at the mild chiding and she looks up to the giant who protects her now, his scintillating portal closing again behind him, pinching off the howling wind and leaving a light dusting of rapidly melting snow in his wake. Something nags at the corner of her vision and she glances back at the glass. Any other child would have wailed and fled at what she sees there, revealed for only a moment, under the mists. It was her guardian's face, eyes closed resting peacefully. Instead of pulling away, Ida presses her nose on the glass until the mists swallow the slumbering doppleganger once again. She looks back up to the man looming now, as he reaches down to scoop her up as though she were light as a feather.
"How was your day, kuroikun?" He pauses for a moment. She hadn't said anything to him since he took her from Devin, but he knew from the workshop's security records that she whispered to the robots sometimes. "I saved the world. Again. It hurt." He doesn't look very hurt. Ida suspects that Zak is making another bad joke. She gives him a mute smile.
"Did you do your homework?" Ida points to the painting she made, and Zak sets her down on the workbench next to it. Ida likes to paint, but she would never paint the things Zak wants to know about. They are a secret her Mommy had told her to keep, long ago, and she always would. Ida studied the curious drawings Zak covered the walls with here. Many of the things he drew were impossible, he was funny that way. Each drawing decidedly unique, some were strange technical artifices, others were closer to anatomical diagrams of animals.
Zak frowned at the blobs on the paper. "What the…" He pauses, catching himself; Ida seems sensitive to even unintended criticism and, through painful trial and error, Zak had learned how to question the tiny humanoid larva. "I mean, uh, can you tell me about this picture?"
Ida points at Blinky. "Another robot. Great. Just once can you paint me a monster? I mean, don't blame me when the world ends." She wouldn't, of course. Ida had a pretty good idea how it would happen. Ida tries hard to pretend she is focusing very hard on a crack in the floor.
He sighs. "Who wants ice cream? Yeah: that got your attention, right? Honestly, I dunno what ya see in the stuff. Bleh."
Saving the world by taking 12 bullets to the head? Typical Zak. Good that Devin managed to heal you up in time to go get ice cream. :D
I'm loving these things you've been writing.
"That… the best… you got?" Spits blood as a little brain matter sloughs off his earlobe.
“Madame Circeus enters the high throne room of King Deladius,” bellowed the herald as he bowed to the incoming guest. She was a frail old thing, hunched below the weight of her own cloak. The staccato clack of her walking stick punctuated her steps and echoed off the far walls of the enormous throne room, and as she crossed the distance, a trail of moistness from her drenched form followed her.
“Fare thee well, madame,” the king lazily announced as he settled into his throne a bit more. “I will hear your words on this day.”
The crone took a deep breath then, and her voice filled the vast space, “King Deladius. It is for the people of Tortuga that I speak today. Your people. As sure as the sun rose this day there is a famine in the kingdom. Men sacrifice their meals just to feed their wives, and the anemic bodies of the children are picked clean of all sustenance before they are returned to the earth. Hear the pleas of your people, and empty the castle's coffers for food.”
“You overstep your bounds, hag,” the king announced as he leaned forward. “It is the duty of myself and the royal treasurer to determine what the coffers are used for. My vizier has advised me not to empty them on this occasion. This famine is a condition that shall pass in time, and with the weak weeded out my kingdom, and that of my posterity, shall thrive.”
At this the woman removed her hood. The white wisps of hair that framed her face matched the hue of her knuckles as she gripped her staff for support. Her voice was raised once again, “These 'weaklings' are the men who built the castle you now reside in! Can they not rely upon their king in this time of need?”
“Nay!” Deladius shouted as he stood, “The men were paid at the end of their labor, as was the agreement. The subjects of this kingdom are yet strong; they need not be coddled by their king.” The king waved his hand, and a company of nearby guards approached the woman to take her away. “To those who require such aide I say nay. A thousand times I say nay.”
“Indeed you shall,” muttered the crone. She then raised her staff and struck the floor with the tip one time. “I curse you, King Deladius, son of Deladius. I hereby curse you and your wicked castle!” And then, as if gripped by some unseeable seraph, the guards froze.
“What is the meaning of this, witch? Cease this dissidence or suffer the consequences!”
“No 'fair' king, it is you who shall suffer.” Again, the woman struck the ground with the tip of her staff, now twice. “By the Matron and Coyote, I sacrifice my life as blood payment for this curse. Take my ancient body that my will might live on to the end of time.” Now three times, her stick connected with the floor. “By the Matron may this castle, the cause of suffering for so many, be lost at sea. May it be forgotten, and may its name fail upon the tongue of those who would form it. By Coyote may Deladius and his court be punished and imprisoned for their most grievous sins.”
As she finished the incantation, the hag produced a small soapstone figurine of a horse. It had been carefully carved by the last of her age-old family line, a child who succumbed to hunger three days prior. As it dropped from her weakening grasp, the king choked and pitched forward. His body slid down the stairs leading to his throne and laid below, now lifeless and empty. The tiny horse figurine contained his soul now, and does to this day. As madame Circeus fell to her knees, the guards and members of the court began to twist into animalistic forms. Their new bodies a mockery of their former status.
Then as life left the crone's body she smiled one last time. The castle began to shake, and outside the terrain was torn asunder as a massive turtle emerged from the earth itself, the proud castle resting neatly on its back. As it stepped off the nearby shore and into the brine, the woman's body was reduced to mist, forever to conceal the new island from the eyes of those would would encounter it.
That occurred almost nine hundred years ago today. The memory of the event has been lost in the folds of history. Though the curse was powerful indeed, the invocation of lineage binds the bloodline of Deladius to the castle. He was thought to be without a son, but an illegitimate child was conceived before the curse was invoked. Today, there lives a single, distant, descendant of the king, a contractor of the games, unknowledgable of his link to the island on which he now resides. He is a man who is attuned to the spaces between life and death, the sole veteran survivor of a decade of games that saw the death of at least one other high-roller per outing.
There is no man more familiar with loss, and after years of absence the Powers That Be call upon him again. The master of death side. Bernard.
A song of lightning fast blades sang out and echoed in the dojo.
CLANK!
CLANK!
CLANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNG!
Two blades sustained a harmony while Bernard’s heavy breathing continued at a quick rhythm.
Sensei Bruce Flynn was wanting more out of this session than usual. “Come on, Duncan! What do I have to do to get you to do something REALLY awesome?”
“I don’t like it when you call me that!”
Bernard knew his Master was evoking him to strike again. He obeyed as a good student should. A flurry of motion shot from one side of the room to the other
CLANK!
TINK!
CLANK!
CLANK!
CLANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNG!
“I kinda like the sound of Duncanmanship, though.”
CLANG!
Breath
CLANG!
Breath. Bernard was getting slower and sloppy. Flynn had gone easy on his pupil up until today’s lesson that still remained a mystery.
“Rolls off the tongue. ‘Duncanmanship’” Flynn looked down from his smug expression at the hunched over student still gasping like a fish out of water. After a pause, “Dude, it’s better than Bernardsmanship.”
With one more breath Bernard grunted into a defensive stance and stared blankly at his master, trying to mask his fatigue, stone faced. He knew the best way to provoke his master was to not laugh at his jokes.
“Although Duncanmanship sounds like some kind of cartoon or breakfast cereal.”
Bernard’s emotionless expression remained.
“There’s just so many syllables! Sounds like you just smashed your name together with the words ‘man’ and ‘ship’” Flynn laughed to himself. “Your man-ship is pretty lame, dude.”
Stone face.
“You’re like a lame pirate,” he cackled.
Nothing.
“Right?”
Nothing.
“Am I right?”
Nothing.
Flynn’s mood quickly shifted. “Fine then! You’re askin’ for it, Bernie!”
Flynn moved faster than Bernard had ever seen. Like a bolt of lightning he struck from above. Bernard had just enough time to parry.
CLANK!
CLANG!
CLANK!
CLANK!
TING!
CRUNCH!
Flynn stepped on Bernard’s foot, crushing every bone, and simultaneously knocking away his wakizashi.
TING!
SCHUUK!
Flynn’s blade stabbed into Bernard’s body with a sickening sound of defeat marking the end of the symphony.
“Do you need a break, Darlin Duncan?”
“Yes please, Sensei,” his voice squeaked.
As Bernard struggle to remain on his feet with honor, Flynn slowly slid his katana out of the empty chasm in Bernard’s body, its blade clean as if it had just been unsheathed.
“Meditate!”
“Yes, Sensei,” he gasped as he fell to the ground, sucking in air and scraping for a proper lotus position. He focused on healing his wounds and slowing his heartbeat.
“You obviously have extraordinary talents”
Bernard struggled to regulate his breathes.
“I just want to know what else you can do.”
His heart was pounding.
“Can“
Beat, beat
“I“
Beat, beat
“ask“
Beat
“you“
Beat
“a personal question?”
Beat. Bernard nodded.
“Why don’t you like your name?”
Bernard’s heartbeat had now become a faint whisper. “It represents one of my greatest fears.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“I’m cursed.”
Flynn broke out in uncontrollable laughter, “That’s it? That’s what’s holding you back? Some weak-ass curse? Dude!”
“I don’t want to hurt people.”
Flynn continued laughing, “Hurt people? You’re supposed to be saving people! That’s the lamest excuse for a fear I’ve ever heard! Snakes I could understand, but a curse? Fuck that! That’s lame!”
“Everyone I get close to dies.”
“So? What does that matter to you?”
Bernard took one last deep breath and focused his will to reset the bones in his foot and seal his chest wound.
“You are the Master of Deathside, Dude. You walk the middle road, man, and wield a power no one else can.” Flynn’s voice now shifted to resemble authority. “For the sake of the world, and those you are destined to save, you must explore your power as far as it will take you,” he added as a final punctuation, “and without fear.”
Now fully healed, Bernard’s entire circulatory system had now been suspended from necessity. Now that he wouldn’t need to breath, he could focus.
“Now get up and fight me, Duncan.”
Bernard stood before his master, weaponless, and took a defensive stance.
“Now, that’s what I call fearless!”
Flynn launched himself at Bernard, thrusting out his Katana aimed straight at his chest.
Though weaponless, Bernard instinctively parried by grabbing the blade, which slipped out of Flynn’s hands as it was sucked through Bernard’s palm and into his body like a vacuum.
“That’s pretty cool,” shouted Flynn as he flipped over Bernard’s head while simultaneously drawing two short swords, landing on the other side of him and sweeping down with one of the blades at his shoulder.
Without thinking, Bernard summoned his master’s katana from within his body shooting it out of the opposite palm like a hidden blade and parrying.
CLANK!-BANG!-TING!
At the precise moment the blades met, a gun fired from within Bernard’s body straight at Flynn who instinctively deflected the bullet with his other wakizashi. Both student and sensei jumped back, confused. Bernard produced his Colt Anaconda to his palm as if floating to the top of a pool.
“I am sorry, Sensei!”
Infuriated, Flynn whacked his student on the top of his head with the blunt side of his blade, “Don’t you ever apologize for doing something awesome! You hear me?” After a moment to let that lesson sink in he added. “Now, if this curse is so bad, don’t you think I’d be dead by now?”
An azure vortex spirals out just to Bernard's right with an echoing swoosh. "Yo, Bernie: I don't mean to intrude, but I could use a little sparring practice. Just say the word if its a bad time. Otherwise…"
The roar of the chainsaw bayonette rattles in the chest cavities of all present.
"Come get some."
Carl gripped his standard issue Benelli M4 and held the muzzle against the black bag. He had been hand-picked for this mission by Timothy Mathis, lead scientist of Riptide. His orders: travel to Canada and assist the independent hunter Carson Wiles. Wiles was something of a legend amongst the employees of Riptide, and Carl was excited to meet him in person. In the background, one of the spiritualists they had brought with them was holding a knife and a dream-catcher and was droning some sort of chant. His friend Avi was also pointing his gun at the captor's head. A third man stood guard, and a fourth was making coffee. Carl knew that the rest of the company were waiting nearby in the Umbra, just in case there was an escape attempt.
The kidnapping had been quick and clean. It was a ten-man operation, and their target was a 71 year old doctor name MacAvoy. He was in the halls of his apartment building when it happened. One man to hold him, one to put the bag over his head, one to club him unconscious, four standing guard with guns, and three to bring the lot of them into the Umbra for an escape. Carl had been the clubber, and also the one who called their contact to tell him that the mission was successful. He'd be here any moment.
Carl heard the front door open, and then another interior. The agent who was making coffee gripped his Benelli just in case. Soon, the door to the room they were in swung open, and in walked the man they had been ordered to work for himself: Carson Wiles. He was tall, made taller by the thick hunting boots he wore. His form was made bulkier and larger than it normally would be by the clothes he wore, a big leather jacket, a wide-brimmed hat, and an intimidating falconer's gauntlet. Then there were the animals. He had two large birds of prey, one on each shoulder, and two man-sized spotted hyenas that followed him into the room on his heels.
Carson walked through the dark room toward the figure that was bound to the chair in the middle. The sole lamp cast a cone of light that caught the dust in the air over the man with the bag over his head. Carl's knuckles whitened as he continued to hold his gun to the prisoner's head. Another man brought a stool for Carson to sit on, and the droning chant in the background continued. There was a fluttering as Carson took off his hat and the birds found new perches around the room. He removed his SPAS -12 from its holster, and started loading the clip full of slugs. A nod to Avi indicated that he should remove the bag.
The man gasped for fresh air as the bag was removed. His broken glasses still clung to his wrinkled and bruised face. Carson reached out and removed the man's glasses as he addressed him, “Dr. MacAvoy: Beloved physician.”
“Carson. Somehow I always knew it would come to this,” responded the captive. Carl noticed that Carson hadn't put on his mask. That could only mean one thing.
Carson inserted the clip into his gun and held it against the elderly man's temple as he continued, “What goes around comes around. The saying goes double for creatures like you. You know what you've done.”
“Everything I've done was for the best. The tests, the serum…”
“Damn your serum, old man. There hasn't been something so misguided and under-handed in years. You're supporting a species of murderers and predators.”
“You're a fool,” spat the man. “The serum doesn't create werewolves, it just induces the first change in those that already carry the disease! It's designed to save lives and help with human integration!”
Carson jabbed MacAvoy's head with the gun, “This isn't about the serum. The kid was sitting in this very chair yesterday, and I let him go. This is about your crimes. This is retribution.”
“I'm a doctor. I save lives every week…”
“A doctoral practice isn't enough to justify killing people, Mac. Killing families…”
“I did it for the betterment of humanity! Those procedures will save lives! Your parents were just a horrible, horrible cost.”
“Not just mine, Mac. What about yours? What about your sister?”
A tear gathered in the prisoner's eye, “That's what I'm trying to prevent from happening again.”
“You're a murderer, Mac. You always will be.”
“Then get on with it, Wiles. Everything they said about you was right. You'll never understand. I”m just wasting my breath,” a small smile crept across the doctor's face.
“God Damnit, Mac. You make this sound so depraved —”
BANG!
Carl flinched as the spas went off. The hyenas wasted no time in starting to eat the gray matter and gore that covered the far wall. What was left the doctor's head retained its contented smile. Carson turned to Carl, “Clean this up, Riptide. You did good work this week.” He put on his hat and his birds flew to his shoulders as he continued, “Follow the kid at a conservative distance. Get his grades, his clique, his finger prints. When 'Tidus' moves him to LA, find him.”
The door closed.
Ding Dong
The door bell chimed through the small suburban house in Colorado. Linda stopped vacuuming up the broken pieces of the TV and walked to the door. It was 10:30 at night. What could someone want at this hour? She opened the front door.
Outside were two men. One was wearing some sort of strange, gray special-ops millitary armor or something. He had large boots and what looked like an ammo or utility belt strapped across his chest. The other man was taller, and wore a large black trench coat that was fastened together with carabiners. Atop his head sat what looked like a really expensive and ancient crown.
“Umm. .. Can I help you?”
The man with the body armor spoke up in a thick Russian accent, “Yes ma'am hullo. We are with the government doing a survey. Do you have some time to participate?”
“I uh. It's really late. And I'm busy.”
“We understand ma'am. This will only take a moment of your time.”
“We guarantee it,” chipped in the man with the crown, in a vaguely British accent.
“No, listen. I have to get up early tomorrow, and I need to put the kids to sleep. It's way past their bed time.”
“Ma'am this survey takes only a minute. Please find time to participate,” repeated the Russian.
Linda could tell this was going nowhere. “I get the feeling that sitting here saying 'no' will take longer than the survey itself…”
The man in gray smiled, “I'm not going to lie to you, ma'am.”
The woman sighed, “alright, come on in.” She led the 'guests' through the quiet house to the dinner table. “Want some coffee?”
“No thanks,” the visitors said in unison.
The man with the Russian accent continued, “Now, thank you for letting us in. Let's start simply: How many people do you have in the house?”
Linda sat down, with her coffee and responded, “Four. Me, I'm Linda Wheeler, my husband Theodore, My son Brian (he's eight), and my other son Martin (he's six).” She took a sip, “all of our last names are Wheeler.”
“Yes, very good Ma'am. And how old are you and your husband?”
“I'm 43, Ted's 46.”
The man with the crown spoke up again, “The child playing in the living room, that's Martin?”
“No, that's Brian.”
“Ah, okay. And he's Six?”
“No. He's eight,” Linda sighed. “Shouldn't you be writing this down or something?”
“It's all up here,” the man with the vaguely British accent replied as he pointed to his head.
“What my comrade means,” interjected the man in body armor, “Is that we record it. I always forget to ask.” He smiled and recited what sounds like a practiced phrase, “Ma'am during the course of this interview, your answers will be recorded for archival and quality assurance purposes. If you would prefer not to be recorded, just ask and I will write down your answers on paper.”
“Oh, yes. Okay.” Linda takes another sip of her Coffee. “Yeah it's fine if you record me. I don't mind.”
“Very good. Now: Have you noticed anything unusual happening around the neighborhood or your house?”
“Unusual?”
“Unusual. Things that could be considered significantly out of the ordinary.”
“Um. No. Not that I can think of, “Linda mused. “The neighbors' dog got rabies a week ago, but it didn't spread.”
The Russian feigned interest expertly, “Oh really? Wow.”
“Yeah. Hey, what's up with the Crown?”
The man with the crown looked a little surprised, “Oh this? This is my crown.”
“It's a new government policy,” the armored man quickly said. “it has to do with morale and status. It's a reward thing.”
There was a man's scream upstairs.
- * * * * * * *
Pulse and Bernard stood over Martin's body. A massive amount of blood from the head and chest wounds on the little boy's corpse spilled slowly onto the ground.
“Well that was harrowing,” Remarked Bernard, profoundly.
“I uh. Wow.”
“Maybe we should exit through this window instead of going back downstairs.”
“Yeah… That sounds good,” replied Pulse, staring down at what was left of the body. One of his armored hand was clutching a feather, its golden sheen marred with blood.
Bernard opened the window and looked out. “Ah, there's an awning. We'll be fine. Come now!”
He looked back, but Pulse was still standing where he was before. "Pulse. We didn't kill this child. The demon did," he explained as he laid his hand on the shoulder of his 'friend'. "Come now. It's time to leave."
Bernad leaped out the window, and Pulse slowly followed.
Very nice! I love the " It's all up here" part
Morgan's heart raced. How easy it had been to steal the box! He felt it now jostling against his back as he ran through the dark and humid Boston streets. He hadn't worn a backpack since he himself was a student at Umass, but it seemed fitting to be wearing one now. After all, he was finally fulfilling the oath he took all those years ago.
He swore the air was freezing the sweat on his ruffled button-down shirt. That was far enough on foot. He stopped below a streetlight on Massachusetts ave and signaled a cab. A few deep breaths later one stopped, and he calmly entered the vehicle. “Shrewsbury, please,” he panted to the cabbie.
“That's outta my range. I can take you as far as Newton.”
“I'll pay double –triple – the normal rate. Just get me out of here.”
“Alright then, enjoy the ride.” And they were off.
Restless, aging hands traced the shape of the box within the pack. It just barely fit, and he hoped the friction wouldn't harm it; it was ancient after all. How old exactly was anyone's guess. It had been 199 years since his fraternity Lambda Upsilon replaced Europe's Esoteric Order of the Box. Before that, he knew the box had been in the possession of a subgroup of the Knights Templar, Lamedh Waw. And prior its history was said to be rich, but the specifics had been lost. Each group had been formed to guard the item and perform the centennial sacred duty. At this thought his heart dropped to his feet. He was to open it.
The cab passed out of the busy streets of the city. The highway was nearly empty at this time of night. Morgan was at once proud and furious at himself as he sat quietly in that seat. It had been 99 years since the box was last opened. The traditions taught that five strong men should be chosen each century to open the box. They were to be disciplined, astute, bound by oath and blood. Brothers. If he could have spat the word as the thought it, he would have. “Brother” was a word he'd heard perverted by today's generation. People had changed in the last century. Where had the honor gone? Where was the determination? And how would he find such a group before the end of the month? Hopelessness began to set in.
A drinking game. That's what the fraternity had intended to make of the box's opening. Disgusting! Irresponsible! He felt himself getting flustered at the thought and took another deep breath. It was best this way. He had taken an oath to protect the box, and if that meant protecting it from the fraternity itself, so be it.
“Where do you want I should stop?” asked the driver. Morgan hadn't noticed how far they'd made it.
“Some motel. Something cheap,” he responded hastily. He had cash, and he needed to lay low for a while. After paying the driver a generous tip, he checked into a single room for the night. The motel smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and fabreeze, clearly not the classiest joint, but it would have to do.
He entered his room and turned on the lights. It was pretty much what he expected. Cigarette burns on the linens, and a décor that wouldn't look out of place in a '60s porno. He set the pack down on the bed and entered the bathroom to splash water on his face. He imagined what the frat would do when they got back from the game. Would they notice the box was missing? Would they care?
As he exited the bathroom he nearly jumped out of his skin. He took a breath to shout but found his body strangely locked in place. There, sitting on the bed, was an ancient man in what appeared to be an equally ancient and ornate cape. Papery skin practically hung from the old thing's bones, and wisps of white hair trailed behind his molted scalp. Beside him on the bed lay a long sword with a curved blade. One could hardly picture the man carrying it, much less swinging it. On top of his head rested a tarnished and modest crown of gold. The man turned to regard Morgan, his sunken eyes panning slowly over his frozen form. There was something sinister and profound in that gaze, felt Morgan, and his hairs stood on end.
“Glivassig must not be released,” started the ancient man in a breathy voice. His accent was vaguely Russian. “You were right to steal the box.” The old man stood slowly and approached Morgan. “I have had some dealings with this artifact in the past. I can help you.”
With a start, Morgan realized he could move again. He sputtered and shrunk under the ancient thing's passive gaze, “Who are you? What did you do to me?”
“Ah, you may call me Afanasiy. I have come to offer you my assistance in this most pressing matter.” Morgan could only bring himself to nod slowly under the weight of this man's presence. Though he did not know who this Afanasiy was, he knew he was something the likes of which he had never seen. “I can provide you with the names and locations of several individuals who will be able to help you, as well as the means to compensate them.”
“Why?”
“Mutual interest, of course.” The old man answered with a some effort at a smile. “You will find their information in the packet over there on the table as well as instructions on how to deal with them.” Afanasiy turned to the bed as he spoke and dragged the sword off and along the ground after him. “You will tell them you have secured payment for them should they survive the opening of the box and renew the prison for one more century. They will accept your offer to come look at the box at least. They are specialists after all. Fly now.”
And with that, the man was gone. Morgan simply stood for a moment, unsure of whether or not the event had truly transpired. He walked then to the folder on the table and opened it with unsteady hands. There were details of several individuals, including exactly where they would be located at various dates and times and how to speak with them. Also included were various cards of clearance, fake ids with Morgan's information, enough to give him an audience with any of the named figures. A pair of house keys and an address near Glacier park, Montana were also attached.
Morgan picked up the pack, the folder, and hailed a cab. He needed to get to the airport as soon as possible if he was to gather these people in time. God help me, he thought, what have I gotten myself into?
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