15 August 2010

Night Terrors 8 - Mr. Jack

Night Terrors 8 - Mr. Jack

The sky is red with bloody smoke, over the building of the Invinidine Central Headquarters bathed in roaming spotlights, swarmed with humanity’s machines and covered with stone where the invidious stare of a demagogue with neon green eyes watches Necropolis from the top floor. With anger and determination, he quickly walks to his desk, grabs a rifle, and ceaselessly throws the weapon strap over his shoulder as he returns to the balcony. Without a moment's notice, he begins shooting on the city below him, not in precision but with an insipid anarchy interspersed with malaise, spraying projectile into the population coursing the street, below the building, filled with thousands of people in bidirectional walk lanes, with a sharply toothed smile the joy of destruction.

Secretary: “Mr. Jack...Mr. Jack!”

He fires a continuous array across the air as a death artisan hitting a police vehicle flying by the building, spraying with cart blanche a torrent of bullets, anything unfortunate enough to be in proximity.

Mr. Jack: “What!” he screams, “Can’t you see I'm busy?”

A woman in suit, standing in the opening of one of two doors, hair taught glasses, a stern gaze and solemn contrite, holding a clipboard in one arm and a pen in the hand of the other.

Secretary: “You shouldn't fire at security sir.”
Mr. Jack: “I'll pay for it later,” a slight disappointment in his voice, “What is it?”
Secretary: “It's time for your appointment sir.”
Mr. Jack: “Is it time already?”

He stands carefree and letting the steam dispense from him, the smoke still pouring from the gun as he turns and looks out of the balcony doorway. His thoughts led him astray, longing to pass through anew his face turns into the room and with a sigh of reluctance, and he hurries back into the room to his desk. He puts the heavy rifle on his desk with disregard, opens a locked drawer, and pulls out a white silk robe.

Mr. Jack: “Take that off and wear this when they arrive, stand by me and feel free to ask any questions… but not until they sit.”

He taps the light control board panel on his desk and a polished black wall slides open and a polished black table emerges sliding from the wall, in the center of the table is red blood that waves and settles. As she his secretary slows with intrigue, he walks to a part of the shiny wall rescinded and checks himself fastidiously for errors of his hair and clothes.

Mr. Jack: “And if they ask...you're from the agency.”
Secretary: “And why is that?”

She asked from behind him currently, her reflection undressing with little modesty in faded layers of haze.

On the roof a black sedan, smooth and subtle curves stretched and coursing with a polished shine so dark, it has no glare giving no reflection of the lights striking the clouded pollution miles above it. The front window dark and tinted smoky glass, the other windows blue steel not meant to be transparent. A security member of the complex opens the door after someone inside the car unlatches the hinges, a black glove pushes open the door with fingers wrapped around the edge not letting it sway ajar. A boot of fine leather steps out the car fill of trench coat mafia, the elite of the undead, a concise collar and dark hair, very well dressed for any era. As he exits from the other side of the vehicle a second with color of white for hair, eyes and a sharp tooth in a meager smile, his gloved hand on the roof as he waits for a second patron to exit his side of the conveyance. The first had not even exited the car when the white-silver haired one was behind the security guard.

Latham: “Don’t touch the car.”

The guard immediately takes his hand away from the door startled to see Latham as another in tall coat that is white as his hair to match the white eyes and face. Across the roof of the vehicle exits a woman wearing a dark auburn trench coat, hair, and eyes to match. The black man exits from the car staring at the guard waiting for the human’s attention; his skin is gunmetal in appearance as he wipes the slight amount of grease from the guard’s hands from the door with finger in black leather glove.

Oren: “We have another package, at the high security docks; bring it to, outside, of Mr. Jack’s office.”

From the office grows an impatient fear by Mr. Jack, whose eyes are a dull and dark murkiness, no longer the bright neon of oft emotions, waiting with fear and patience the likes of induction malice. The doors swing open with disregard, in walks the red woman followed by her comrades.

Sonja: “You wanted us to visit, so it seems as plenty patience short we are both.”

She passes Mr. Jack without making eye contact walking in somewhat of a hurry as does the black one, the white one slowly walks passed the secretary looking down her front only to pass her as well.

Mr. Jack: “…Yes…I’ve been loyal and aggressively ahead of scheduled tasks, and as you know I’ve asked for your help on a Rogue in my city.”

Mr. Jack, the agent of corruption and president of Invinidine, closes the tall white doors with cold tall golden handles, as they sit in the sleek chairs with tall backs of the secretive room. A sign of relief, he takes a big step walking to them with intrigue and haste. He had come too close to them for their comfort, and could tell immediately as they all look to him as he approaches, causing him to stop where he stands. As they press the touch-pads on the table, spouts rise made of the table itself like rising arms and they one by one, slide the glasses on the table below the spouts as they fill with the red blood from faucets shaped like backslider demons. They drink with great thirst, the one they call Latham the White drinks twice as much, twice as fast. The patience dulls and silence foments while hidden thoughts posses and display.

Oren: “And so we have…”
Sonja: “Call in the pet Latham.”

Mr. Jack hesitates and looks behind him to the door and back to they as they wait with anticipation, the assistant hesitantly walks to Jack obviously petrified by inhibition, timidly so.

Latham: “Destroyer you may enter.”

Latham had barely spoken any louder when the others had, yet there stirs a commotion. A massive step outside the doors and open they swing showing a massive warrior, each step shakes their drinks more and more as he approaches, a massive warrior with piling muscles and features of beast in the face and lupine stance wearing plated armor and thematically scarred.

Latham: “His name is Ares.”
Mr. Jack: “I thank you the only way I can.”

Mr. Jack drifts between words as he talks, as he wagers with fear and fascination in his mind, more speaking than talking, distant from the obvious yet aware of sound. They were already standing on their feet watching him pore over the beast when he notices them preparing to leave. They take another drink as she puts her gloves on her hands.

Sonja: “This should be sufficient.”

She finishes the last of her drink and sets it down to the table abruptly, it falters and lands on its side, she had done so as a misdeed because of a stringent bliss taken from her ingestion of the blood. Latham walks and stops at the woman, but loses interest and faces Jack.

Latham: “We’ll be in contact soon.”

Latham fixes Jack’s coat with both hands, jerking him and the dark one approached the door. Sonja collects herself and her respect, her composure once again calm and her thoughts again impenetrable as she leaves the room with the others. The beast breaths heavy like a dog but slow like a bear, robust breaths that lift the immense chest of the creature, Mr. Jack smiles a plotting and corrupt smile as his eyes begin to return to an acidic green glow.