Well, I decided to play around some more with my Games from Beyond story, which I wrote for the Iron Fic Contest.
This can be seen as a prequel for the IF entry, the background story so to speak to the end witnessed in the IF entry...
Also, this is a roughdraft, there will be typos, there will be grammatical errors and yes I know I mixed tenses a lot in this. Feel free to point them out anyway, I will see about correcting them sooner or later.
Enough talk..here is the beginning of chapter 1
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Disgust. Pity. Anger.
When its all said and done that is all he feels.
He takes off his cape and throws it on the floor before he lets himself fall into the chair behind him. He frowns at his own discomfort and grabs the bottle in front of him. Whiskey, just what he needs now. He pours himself a glass but his hand is shaking and he stops before he spills too much. Angrily he puts the bottle down again, his lips twitching as even that comfort is denied to him.
A harsh knock interrupts his thoughts.
He doesn't say anything but the door opens anyway. The man that enters is...huge. His frame, his limbs, everything about him just screams, big and scary. His eyes however, show a man that is aware of his surroundings, all the time. Strong, smart and vigilant. A dangerous man.
ôHow much?ö His voice does not betray his feelings. He does not show what he truly feels. He learned that early on. His business is not one that rewards honesty.
ôAround 320.000, give or take some 30.000. We expect some more discreet transfers in the next 5 hours with another 100.000, though I doubt those people will want their names on the ô donatedö list.
The huge man laughs, but it is a laugh without any true humor. It is cold and impersonal and it draws its mirth from something more sinister than just a punch-line. Discreet transfers. Certainly, their trade could be called discreet. One does not advertise that they are buying and selling automated rifles numbering into the thousands. Most certainly not while masquerading as a ôchurchö.
He doesn't smirk. Instead he looks the huge man into the eyes, making him twitch. Good. He likes to make people uncomfortable. It makes it easier to deal with them.
ôMake sure the italians keep up their side of the bargain. I want every single one of those things in the quantity and quality they promised, Paul.ö
ôThey will deliver, boss. If they don't.....it will be their last mistake.ö
He nods curtly as if dismissing the other man, but before the huge man, Paul, can retreat from the room he grabs his hand and pulls him closer.
ôWhen everything and everyone is accounted for....go. You know what to do. No one plays me for a fool, no one pulls my strings. After tonight..I don't want a single russian left in this city? Do you understand, Paul? Not a single one. I don't care if its a toddler or an old geezer on his deathbed.ö
Sweat can be seen on Paul brow as he swallows. He can sense Paul's fear, his discomfort. Even his own subordinates fear him. Good. Very good even but he still does not smile.
ôNot a single one sir, I got it.ö
ôGood...oh and send someone to the chinese when you're done. They might be interested in ôTalkö after such a radical power shift in the city.ö
Now he allows himself a smile. It is not a pretty sight. It is too cold, too twisted and too dark to be called a smile. It more of a smirk. It reminds Paul far too much of a predator, ready to enjoy the moment he can rip apart his prey.
ôYes.ö
This time the huge man is allowed to leave and he does so with a speed that makes it appear as if he were running away. He is, in fact. The sooner he can leave the room of this man the better. This man is a monster, nothing else can describe his sheer hunger for revenge, his raw ambition to rule over the entire city and the utter ruthlessness he shows at every corner.
When Paul is gone, he once more takes hold of the whiskey.
The shaking has stopped. He pours himself a glass, slowly, as if enjoying the return of his self-control. His anger has disappeared. What does it matter to him that the sheep outside are so ready to throw their money at him? If all it takes to get their entire fortune is to wear a cape and preach about god and the world, well, he could do that all day.
It is only on some days....when he feels anger at their...stupidity. At their gullibility,how they accept everything he tells them as the one and only truth. Like a goddamn cult, with him as the cult leader.
God is angry at you.
Give me your money.
God is no longer angry at you.
He sips at his glass, carefully. It feels like a cosmic joke. He came to this city with nothing but blood on his hands, thanks to a cult like that. And now he was going to get a lot more blood on his hands thanks to his own cult. On the upside, he was filthy rich. How much was it today? 320.000....he wondered how much had come from single mothers, spending the last of their carefully earned savings on his empty preaching instead of their children.
Another spike of anger. His hand tightens around the whiskey glass.
People are stupid. He preys on that weakness. He revels in it.
But only in his prey. None of his subordinates are allowed stupidity. There was one time..one time alone that he allowed stupidity to run its course. Oh how his mother had preached and prayed. Things would get better. Everything would change. She only needed to donate more and everything would be alright again. She would find a good man, he would be able to go to school again and they would even be a family again.
Nothing had become alright. Only disappointment after disappointment and more empty promises from fake preachers. In the end, she had blamed even him. In the end she had tried to sell the last thing she had. He remembered screaming for help, biting, scratching, kicking at his captors. His new owners had not been pleased. After they had tired themselves showing him their displeasure, he hadn't even been able to feel his own face anymore.
But he had still been able to move. And the fat bastards had been careful, but not careful enough. One gun had been in his range.
When he left the city he heard the news about a mass-murder of several reputable members of the city uptown as well as the murder of a single mother down-town.
He couldn't remember exactly but he was pretty sure that he had smiled back then too.
A knock.
He narrows his eyes at the sudden interruption.
Again he doesn't answer the knock, yet the door opens anyway. He already knows that it can not be Paul. The knock was done unlike anyone else in this organization. A stranger then. He doesn't stand up, but his body is ready to move at any moment. Strangers are not allowed here. Certainly not alone.
A bald head and a face he has never seen before. He shows no outward reaction but it is also a face he could have down without seeing even once. The skin is drawn across the cheekbones, pale and leathered.
Black lipstick, black eyeliner, black contact lenses and black tattoos all over his face.
Some sort of cultist maybe? A satanist? Some other weirdo, that had somehow slipped through security. Had he come here to assault him? Talk to him? Try to convert him? There was no reason yet to pull his gun out. Violence was not yet the answer. For now he needed control.
He takes another sip, coolly gazing at the stranger in his room before he speaks, as if to show that the stranger is not important enough to even interrupt his drinking.
ôThis area is not open for visitors.ö
The black lips are drawn back into a caricature of a smile, revealing black teeth.
ôYes.ö The voice of this stranger is...full. Not the kind of voice he would have expected. It does not fit such a scrawny figure. It could even be called pleasant, if not for the visual discrepancy. Instead, it made it feel like a mockery.
He waits a bit more, but no further answer is forthcoming. A madman? Or someone that thinks he can afford to play games with him. Both possibilities are infuriating. That man is goading him into asking first.
Well he will be damned if he just goes along with that.
Instead he raises his glass to sip again, eyes still on his visitors. His hand stops, the glass is but inches away from his lips.
The stranger smirks.
He puts the glass down. A maggot falls out of the glass, but the rest of them continues to wiggle in the blood red fluid replaced his whiskey. The one that fell touches his hand for an instant. He fights the urge to shudder and slowly moves his hand away. His eyes return to the man in front o fhim.
ôYour doing, I assume?ö
Black teeth are flashed at him again.
ôIf it is so?ö
He narrows his eyes again and throws a quick look at the maggot filled glass again.
ôI do not appreciate having my drink ruined.ö
The strangers smirks and bends down, taking the glass full of maggots and opens his black-lipped mouth.
ôWhatever do you mean?ö
The glass is raised and its contents disappear into the visitors mouth. The only sound that escapes is one of wet bodies bursting open under pressure.
ôWHAT THE HELL ARE YOU?ö
His nerves have been tested enough. He practically jumps up as he shouts. His hand is already reaching for his gun as the door bursts open. Two of his men, both armed, storm in, guns at the ready.
The pale shape of the monster in front of him blurs as he turns around with a speed that should be beyond anything possible for a human.
ôShhhh, don't you see? Your master and I have important arrangements to talk about.ö
It happens so blindingly fast, yet he can see it so clearly. His men stand no chance. Two fingers of each pale hand are extended, more black tattoos arching along them. They pierce through the guards eyes, pierce through their heads up to the knuckles on each hand.
Chuckling, the monster pulls its fingers out.
ôNow...let us continue..our discuss....ö
The moment it turns around, the tip of the gun shatters its the front teeth, a second later, the bullets exits the back side of its bald head.
He shows no emotion on his face, his thoughts are running in circles right now. He needs to calm down, he needs to..
He practically jumps back as maggots pour out of the hole he made in the monsters body. Dozens of them pour out, falling to the floor from the still standing corpse.
He gnashes his teeth and steps on them, feeling them burst open under his shoe as he steps past the bodies and out of the room.
"What the hell is going on here..."
This can be seen as a prequel for the IF entry, the background story so to speak to the end witnessed in the IF entry...
Also, this is a roughdraft, there will be typos, there will be grammatical errors and yes I know I mixed tenses a lot in this. Feel free to point them out anyway, I will see about correcting them sooner or later.
Enough talk..here is the beginning of chapter 1
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Disgust. Pity. Anger.
When its all said and done that is all he feels.
He takes off his cape and throws it on the floor before he lets himself fall into the chair behind him. He frowns at his own discomfort and grabs the bottle in front of him. Whiskey, just what he needs now. He pours himself a glass but his hand is shaking and he stops before he spills too much. Angrily he puts the bottle down again, his lips twitching as even that comfort is denied to him.
A harsh knock interrupts his thoughts.
He doesn't say anything but the door opens anyway. The man that enters is...huge. His frame, his limbs, everything about him just screams, big and scary. His eyes however, show a man that is aware of his surroundings, all the time. Strong, smart and vigilant. A dangerous man.
ôHow much?ö His voice does not betray his feelings. He does not show what he truly feels. He learned that early on. His business is not one that rewards honesty.
ôAround 320.000, give or take some 30.000. We expect some more discreet transfers in the next 5 hours with another 100.000, though I doubt those people will want their names on the ô donatedö list.
The huge man laughs, but it is a laugh without any true humor. It is cold and impersonal and it draws its mirth from something more sinister than just a punch-line. Discreet transfers. Certainly, their trade could be called discreet. One does not advertise that they are buying and selling automated rifles numbering into the thousands. Most certainly not while masquerading as a ôchurchö.
He doesn't smirk. Instead he looks the huge man into the eyes, making him twitch. Good. He likes to make people uncomfortable. It makes it easier to deal with them.
ôMake sure the italians keep up their side of the bargain. I want every single one of those things in the quantity and quality they promised, Paul.ö
ôThey will deliver, boss. If they don't.....it will be their last mistake.ö
He nods curtly as if dismissing the other man, but before the huge man, Paul, can retreat from the room he grabs his hand and pulls him closer.
ôWhen everything and everyone is accounted for....go. You know what to do. No one plays me for a fool, no one pulls my strings. After tonight..I don't want a single russian left in this city? Do you understand, Paul? Not a single one. I don't care if its a toddler or an old geezer on his deathbed.ö
Sweat can be seen on Paul brow as he swallows. He can sense Paul's fear, his discomfort. Even his own subordinates fear him. Good. Very good even but he still does not smile.
ôNot a single one sir, I got it.ö
ôGood...oh and send someone to the chinese when you're done. They might be interested in ôTalkö after such a radical power shift in the city.ö
Now he allows himself a smile. It is not a pretty sight. It is too cold, too twisted and too dark to be called a smile. It more of a smirk. It reminds Paul far too much of a predator, ready to enjoy the moment he can rip apart his prey.
ôYes.ö
This time the huge man is allowed to leave and he does so with a speed that makes it appear as if he were running away. He is, in fact. The sooner he can leave the room of this man the better. This man is a monster, nothing else can describe his sheer hunger for revenge, his raw ambition to rule over the entire city and the utter ruthlessness he shows at every corner.
When Paul is gone, he once more takes hold of the whiskey.
The shaking has stopped. He pours himself a glass, slowly, as if enjoying the return of his self-control. His anger has disappeared. What does it matter to him that the sheep outside are so ready to throw their money at him? If all it takes to get their entire fortune is to wear a cape and preach about god and the world, well, he could do that all day.
It is only on some days....when he feels anger at their...stupidity. At their gullibility,how they accept everything he tells them as the one and only truth. Like a goddamn cult, with him as the cult leader.
God is angry at you.
Give me your money.
God is no longer angry at you.
He sips at his glass, carefully. It feels like a cosmic joke. He came to this city with nothing but blood on his hands, thanks to a cult like that. And now he was going to get a lot more blood on his hands thanks to his own cult. On the upside, he was filthy rich. How much was it today? 320.000....he wondered how much had come from single mothers, spending the last of their carefully earned savings on his empty preaching instead of their children.
Another spike of anger. His hand tightens around the whiskey glass.
People are stupid. He preys on that weakness. He revels in it.
But only in his prey. None of his subordinates are allowed stupidity. There was one time..one time alone that he allowed stupidity to run its course. Oh how his mother had preached and prayed. Things would get better. Everything would change. She only needed to donate more and everything would be alright again. She would find a good man, he would be able to go to school again and they would even be a family again.
Nothing had become alright. Only disappointment after disappointment and more empty promises from fake preachers. In the end, she had blamed even him. In the end she had tried to sell the last thing she had. He remembered screaming for help, biting, scratching, kicking at his captors. His new owners had not been pleased. After they had tired themselves showing him their displeasure, he hadn't even been able to feel his own face anymore.
But he had still been able to move. And the fat bastards had been careful, but not careful enough. One gun had been in his range.
When he left the city he heard the news about a mass-murder of several reputable members of the city uptown as well as the murder of a single mother down-town.
He couldn't remember exactly but he was pretty sure that he had smiled back then too.
A knock.
He narrows his eyes at the sudden interruption.
Again he doesn't answer the knock, yet the door opens anyway. He already knows that it can not be Paul. The knock was done unlike anyone else in this organization. A stranger then. He doesn't stand up, but his body is ready to move at any moment. Strangers are not allowed here. Certainly not alone.
A bald head and a face he has never seen before. He shows no outward reaction but it is also a face he could have down without seeing even once. The skin is drawn across the cheekbones, pale and leathered.
Black lipstick, black eyeliner, black contact lenses and black tattoos all over his face.
Some sort of cultist maybe? A satanist? Some other weirdo, that had somehow slipped through security. Had he come here to assault him? Talk to him? Try to convert him? There was no reason yet to pull his gun out. Violence was not yet the answer. For now he needed control.
He takes another sip, coolly gazing at the stranger in his room before he speaks, as if to show that the stranger is not important enough to even interrupt his drinking.
ôThis area is not open for visitors.ö
The black lips are drawn back into a caricature of a smile, revealing black teeth.
ôYes.ö The voice of this stranger is...full. Not the kind of voice he would have expected. It does not fit such a scrawny figure. It could even be called pleasant, if not for the visual discrepancy. Instead, it made it feel like a mockery.
He waits a bit more, but no further answer is forthcoming. A madman? Or someone that thinks he can afford to play games with him. Both possibilities are infuriating. That man is goading him into asking first.
Well he will be damned if he just goes along with that.
Instead he raises his glass to sip again, eyes still on his visitors. His hand stops, the glass is but inches away from his lips.
The stranger smirks.
He puts the glass down. A maggot falls out of the glass, but the rest of them continues to wiggle in the blood red fluid replaced his whiskey. The one that fell touches his hand for an instant. He fights the urge to shudder and slowly moves his hand away. His eyes return to the man in front o fhim.
ôYour doing, I assume?ö
Black teeth are flashed at him again.
ôIf it is so?ö
He narrows his eyes again and throws a quick look at the maggot filled glass again.
ôI do not appreciate having my drink ruined.ö
The strangers smirks and bends down, taking the glass full of maggots and opens his black-lipped mouth.
ôWhatever do you mean?ö
The glass is raised and its contents disappear into the visitors mouth. The only sound that escapes is one of wet bodies bursting open under pressure.
ôWHAT THE HELL ARE YOU?ö
His nerves have been tested enough. He practically jumps up as he shouts. His hand is already reaching for his gun as the door bursts open. Two of his men, both armed, storm in, guns at the ready.
The pale shape of the monster in front of him blurs as he turns around with a speed that should be beyond anything possible for a human.
ôShhhh, don't you see? Your master and I have important arrangements to talk about.ö
It happens so blindingly fast, yet he can see it so clearly. His men stand no chance. Two fingers of each pale hand are extended, more black tattoos arching along them. They pierce through the guards eyes, pierce through their heads up to the knuckles on each hand.
Chuckling, the monster pulls its fingers out.
ôNow...let us continue..our discuss....ö
The moment it turns around, the tip of the gun shatters its the front teeth, a second later, the bullets exits the back side of its bald head.
He shows no emotion on his face, his thoughts are running in circles right now. He needs to calm down, he needs to..
He practically jumps back as maggots pour out of the hole he made in the monsters body. Dozens of them pour out, falling to the floor from the still standing corpse.
He gnashes his teeth and steps on them, feeling them burst open under his shoe as he steps past the bodies and out of the room.
"What the hell is going on here..."