Teh Kail

Mystic Fatale: Café de l’Enfer comic script

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 01:05:00 -0400

Page 1

First image is in a large, bordered panel, and then the continued three under it are in a row. The fifth is a borderless splash page that takes up the entire space of the page creating a background behind the bordered panels.

Panel 1

This is an exact copy of the Photograph by H. C. Ellis in National Geographic Magazine article called ‘Hell’s Swell’.

A creased photograph faded by time depicts a long, cave like hall with gathered guests seated around square café tables. Plaster lost souls writhing on its walls like something out of a biblical reference of hell and its damned, setting a sinister mood despite the enjoyable smiles on the faces in the picture. The men and woman are all in 19th century petty coats and hats have paused in their drinking by the request of the picture taker, which is evident in how some have turned around in their seats so their backs are not to the camera. In the lower corner there is a date and a name written on the picture, 1899 le Café de l’Enfer.

Panel 2

Pull back from previous image to show the border around

Panel 3

The wall the picture is hanged on becomes more visible, as do some unsettling details of what appear to be limbs or fingers, and a portion of a wailing face. Sound is noticed now.

Panel 4

Pulling further back the photo is completely illegible and the wall is more visible including what is clearly bodies trapped against it, much like was originally in the first photo. More sounds are used now, like in a busy room.

Panel 5

The photo is just a small part of a much larger scene that holds a similar design to the photo hanging on the wall, but the room is far larger allowing for dining tables and more guests. These guests are unlike those seen in the photo, as most if not all are not human in appearance. Demons with black wings sit with devils with horns and tails. There are members of the seelie fear court; elf looking creatures with long features and nails and a malicious look to them swatting away pixies buzzing around them. A wolfish looking man tears into raw meat as his female acquaintance with black hair and white skin drinks from a thick, scarlet drink. They are sitting with a two headed man and serpent woman. Succubus’s and incubuses tend to tables as tux or skirt wearing waiters and waitresses. It has transformed into a literal scene from hell.

Page 2+3

Two connecting splash pages that immerses you among the patrons of the restaurant with the focus on MISS COOK and LINCOLN WAKE who are the only fully visible people seen, having a conversation over their finished meals of Puffer Fish at a small square table. Everyone else either cut off by the border from being too close in perspective (Artist note: lets make her a naga, or something equally inhuman from the waist down) or overlapped by other guests and passing waiters (Artist note: devils, demons and other malicious sorts of monsters. Remember this isn’t somewhere you’d go to find people). MISS COOK is in a floor length gown emphasizing every curve of her generously endowed figure, it falls open around one of her fishnet legs like a big stage curtain, and her feet dipped in onyx black heels. She’s dripping in diamonds at her neckline, wrist, fingers and some in her down up, silk gold hair. She has a ‘James Bond girl’ sort of class with a ‘Femme Fatale’ danger appeal in her red lips and smoky eyes. LINCOLN WAKE sits across from her at the square table, and has made sure to not disappoint or outshine his companion; his tie and blouse compliments the colour of her dress and looks as expensive as the jewellery she’s wearing. Though his hair seems a bit dishevelled in a natural ‘just out of bed’ way, his features are that of a clearly attractive man—if only he’d get a cigarette out of his face long enough for that to be noticed.

Page 3 dialog

MISS COOK: Excellent choice on the Puffer Fish, I can’t imagine anything else on the menu is bloody edible.

LINCOLN WAKE: Years of being up to my eyeballs in demonology teaches you a thing or two about a demon’s sense of humour.

MISS COOK: And when you refused the seating in Limbo, I thought that devil was going to go mad.

LINCOLN WAKE: The service would be just awful. We’d be waiting for eternity.

(Off panel)DEVIL WAITER: Monsieur and madam, you have enjoyed your dining experience in Lust this evening, no?

Page 4

The page is divided into five panels, the first three along the top row making up a quarter of the page height wise, and the final two below that row taking up the rest of the space. They will be bordered in a thick black outline silhouetting the same limb writhing details of the walls of the restaurant with white outlines of flying demons tending to the souls.

Panel 1

The waiter is a devil with a tux on; short curved horns on his bald red head and forked tail raised behind him like a cat’s. There’s even a black mustache on his top lip, a very french one for his stuck up expression. There may just be the impression the waiter is trying to be offensively stereotypical. MISS COOK and LINCOLN WAKE are sitting at their table on the right side of the small panel at the top left, paying attention to the approached waiter.

Page 4 panel 1 dialog

LINCOLN WAKE: I suppose it was alright, but you can tell the chef I know he didn’t really put his back into it.

MISS COOK: Ignore him. Just the check, please.

DEVIL WAITER: I shall return this message, Monsieur Wake, at the soonest possible. As for your bill madam…

Panel 2

A borderless panel of the waiter and his arm extended that leaks into the next bordered panel but whatever is in his hand isn’t shown until the third (next) panel.

Page 4 panel 2 dialog

DEVIL WAITER: I just you will find everything to be of order, so when you are ready simply prick your finger with the tip of the quill and sign on the dotted line.

Panel 3

A bordered panel of the check on the table reading their orders of Puffer Fish, blood wine (three glasses), and the added outrageous tip of 500 dollars to the 1300 making up 1800. Attached to this panel is a circular panel that’s a close up on the check, showing the total doesn’t read in dollar currency, but that of ‘Year of Damnation’.

Panel 4

The DEVIL WAITER is showing his back, having turned to walk away, but LINCOLN WAKE is turning around in his chair with the view at an angle to show his face and hide MISS COOK off panel, trying to get the waiter’s attention back. The DEVIL WAITER has frozen with his shoulders high up like a startled, prickling cat. He didn’t want to be called on again.

Page 4 panel 4 dialog

LINCOLN WAKE: Actually, if we could see the dessert menu, that’d be great. Thanks.

Panel 5

The DEVIL WAITER returns, pulling a menu from thin air to leave it in front of Lincoln Wake, straining to remain pleasant in front of him and MISS COOK who doesn’t look so sure of LINCOLN WAKE’s sudden sugar tooth.

Page 4 panel 5 dialog

DEVIL WAITER: My sincerest apologies, monsieur, I will remove the bill until you have had a moment to look over this menu, no?

LINCOLN WAKE: No harm, no foul, just do us all a favour and drop the phony French accent.

Page 5

Two panels row at the top of the page with dialog followed by a six boarded panel strip with no dialog.

Panel 1

LINCOLN WAKE is reading the menu with his chin propped up by the backs of his folded hands, the camera showing him at an angle so we see MISS COOK and her unamused expression clearly.

Page 5 panel 1 dialog

MISS COOK: Are you absolutely mental getting more to top onto our bill? I thought you said you need a way around signing our souls away to demons. I can’t be associated with this sort of thing, if the Elder Council found out about this I could be sacked and stripped of my rank as Head Ritualist.

Panel 2

Mirroring the previous panel (panel 1) of LINCOLN WAKE completely unmoving and still reading the menu, but now Cook’s attention has been distracted from her dialog at someone speaking to her off page.

Page 5 panel 2 dialog

MISS COOK: Wake? Wake are you even bloody listening to—

(Off page) LINCOLN WAKE: In your own time, Cookie.

Panel 3

LINCOLN WAKE and MISS COOK appear to be reading the dessert menu still. It’s unsure of how long they have been, but you can see a table behind them paying for their own bill with their waiter.

Panel 4

LINCOLN WAKE and MISS COOK appear unmoving still reading their dessert menus, by now the DEVIL WAITER has arrived and seems to be waiting on them. The occupants of the table behind them are leaving.

Panel 5

LINCOLN WAKE and MISS COOK are still unmoving, though the DEVIL WAITER seems to be trying to speak to them to get their attention. The occupants of the table behind them have left.

Panel 6

LINCOLN WAKE and MISS COOK are continuing to be unmoving and the DEVIL waiter seems very confused. The table is still empty to illustrate the length of time they’ve all been standing there.

Panel 7

Finally the DEVIL WAITER reaches out to touch MISS COOK’s shoulder, her whole body shimmering and moving as if he’d disrupted a hologram or illusion. The table behind them is being bussed.

Panel 8

The DEVIL WAITER bursts into a rage, fire literally around him burning away the tux as his horns have grown and tail is thicker. He’s a menacing sight, and it’s startled the bussing devil at the table behind him. LINCOLN WAKE and MISS COOK’s illusions are completely gone now, leaving simply a shimmering, glitter of smoke.

Page 6

A single splash page of a new location with LINCOLN WAKE and MISS COOK. They are on snowy streets looking joyful and sharing a laugh as LINCOLN WAKE slides MISS COOK’s full fur coat back onto her shoulders. The signs of the shops, long since closed due to the late hour as we see by the moon above up between street buildings and illuminated laps, are all in French giving a good idea of where they are. Behind them, the location that they were coming from as can be seen in their footprints in the snow, is an old run down shop with a homeless man sitting slumped against a large door that looks unused and spray painted. If you peer closer, you can see that under his tilted down ruined winter hat that he has large tusks under his bottom lip, and his devil like tail is curled around him. A sight probably not very obvious to those that do not try to see it— the homeless are often passed by with little eye contact. There is a startling contrast between the crisp, pure white snow sprinkled in the street to le Café de l’Enfer they had previously been in.

Page 6 dialog

MISS COOK: Your plan was an illusion spell all along? That’s so simple, yet so brilliant. He must be having a right fit.

LINCOLN WAKE: I don’t think he looked at me once the entire night with you sitting there. So I figured I’d give him another chance.

MISS COOK: Jealous twit.

Tracing I did today. I can’t find the originals now—...

Sat, 27 Apr 2013 20:10:00 -0400

Tracing I did today. I can’t find the originals now— but they’re recognizable when you see them.

Edit: Here’s one

http://samanthahighfill.files.wordpress.com/2011/06/sookie-and-eric.jpg

The other is a magazine cover.

Love Note

Sun, 14 Apr 2013 19:26:00 -0400

The weight of my name from your mouth feels good in my ears,

Like the weight of your hand in mine,

Or your head in my lap,

Or your tongue.

Love Notes

Sun, 14 Apr 2013 19:25:37 -0400

I want to run the pads of my fingertips over the valleys in your spine

While watching your chest expand with my scent as you breathe against my skin

Leaving warm patches like the surface of porcelain tea cups.

Your feet rolled up with mine

With our iceberg toes seeking warmth against the soft skin of our ankles

The nub of bone scratched pleasantly by our nails.

He stepped over the velvet rope a predator, a tiger on approach with fangs barred to tear the...

Wed, 20 Mar 2013 23:02:24 -0400

He stepped over the velvet rope a predator, a tiger on approach with fangs barred to tear the throat out of its unsuspecting prey. He circled; steely eyes fixated upon hers, thinned lips and narrowed eyes. His fingertip traced back over her shoulder as he passed, stopping to tap at her neckline. “UNOSS agents are trained to fall governments. Cripple armies. Be masters of any weapon and operate independently of all assistance. Just something to digest.”

He had succeeded in awakening something in Cook she didn’t recognize the sensations of. Her skin coated in goose bumps as the cold fingertip of a shudder dragged down her spin—like the cool leather skin of his gloves. Before she could even speak, a sudden, shaky, exhale had to be made to make room for words. If this was a mask, it was her best one yet. Not wanting to move, as if afraid to stir herself awake from a fragile dream, Cook takes pains in seeing him only from the corners of her eyes. “Is that supposed to scare me?” She whispers over her shoulder, quiet, as if it had. “Because you said it yourself, what I am. And it doesn’t let me –be- scared.”

“So then what are you feeling?” He was just a voice and the hot breath of a looming tiger, as her eyes had returned forward.

“… Wanting.” It was cold. Cook broke from the spell and turned as if the lights came on and she realized there weren’t any ghost in her room. All she managed to catch was the flicker of a coat tail before the double doors closed, leaving her alone in the hall.

Original Apperance

Sat, 23 Feb 2013 18:12:00 -0500

For a time there was only unbearable grief and it consumed her bodiless existence entirely, trapping her in a limbo void of logic or thought beyond the pang gripping pain of utter loss.
Gone was purpose. Place. There was nothing left after the collapse of the reality that was—
But how was she still here? Where was ‘here’? How did she even get to this point?
How much time had passed until she developed a concept of identity she did not know, but the spark of questions enlightened her mind to a sense of self and curiosity.
In a question of why she was in pain came the question of how she was in pain. If there was nothing, nothing at all, how was there herself? What saved her from an empty abyss of being trapped in the collapse she didn’t have an answer for, but she pushed the boundaries of her mind until a sense of breaking her sanity.
Sanity. She had a concept of sane and insane— logical and unreasonable. Slowly did her conscious build itself around these concepts of questions and answers. She had survived. And there was no way for that to be possible unless her existence dwelled in a reality beyond the collapse.
Cook opened her eyes to mind splitting brightness and thought deafening electronic blinking. It was a heart monitor, her mind wasted no time in recognizing and assessing it.
That meant she was in medical condition. Hospital. Clicking several feet away— twelve feet away. Casual heels. Approximately sixty degrees to her left. Probably a woman just under hundred and thirty. A nurse? Arriving in her room… Now.
“—You’re awake.”
“Whhrr…” The tube down her throat hadn’t been realized or taken into account, and Cook choked on it’s invading sensation.
“It’s alright, Miss. You’re in a hospital. If you can understand me, wink once.”
Cook winked slowly.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
Cook starred.
“You were brought it last year and have been in a coma. Do you know who you are?”
Cook winked— then decided against it and covered it up with rapid blinking as if to panic. If they had to ask, and hadn’t used her name yet, it meant she was a Jane Doe. Meaning her blood sample and fingerprints had no match on their systems, making her practically inexistent.
“It’s okay miss, don’t panic, you’re safe and in good hands.”
A doctor came in seven minutes later and took Cook’s feeding tube out. But her throat was too dry and sore for her to talk yet, and her muscles so weak she couldn’t even handle a pencil. She’d gone from a bodiless limbo to being trapped in the hell of her own useless body. All she had was her mind, and she kept it sane with mental exercise and of recalling everything she could before the collapse and her apparent coma; refiling all the knowledge she’d obtained in her studies, recalling experiences among her work and remembering significant names. As well as meditation to hone her abilities and magic, like charging an ever running generator to full every day.
Months passed before she could even walk or write and Cook never spoke to anyone, leaving them with the impression she was mentally handicapped or emotionally traumatized. Regardless of this, and though the rest had given up, there was one staff member that insisted on communication and often spent much time alone with Cook; her doctor. There were days after he’d asked the basic questions that he’d sit in the room with her and simply watch her gaze out the window. Cook recognized the lust in his obsessive staring, and let him continue to simply enjoy her presence— it was probably the only thing keeping her in the hospital and not kicked out onto the streets.
At nights when the amount of staff on duty was thin, she would sneak into the recreation room and use the computer to search online for names from her past. It wasn’t for a few weeks before she thought to look up herself and found the articles on the arrest of a Jane Doe with striking resemblance to herself. It was easy enough to hack her double’s own email, the other woman of this reality using password recovering questions that were far too easy to an experienced occultist. It wasn’t until she found this other her that Cook began to dedicate her hours of deep thought and mental exercise to planning and plotting on how to fix herself into this world. One night while reading back and forth encrypted emails she saw the name of the receiver: Fairfield.
“Michael…” Her heart was pulled by a pang of pain that came from rage and jealousy— this other her had taken her place among the people she’d come to recognize as companions and even friends. Further digging gave her the contact information that could of put her in touch with the man whose name shared that with someone in her past— and that’s when the panic hit her. Cook went through files and encrypted documents for hours with the key words: Bill, William, Wright and Amendment. Nothing came up, and the hope she’d mistaken for panic became depression.
The one name she’d avoided looking up finally nagged her into submission, and she slowly typed in the phrase ‘William O’ Wright, Amendment’ into a search browser and found articles on a American icon put to shame by a woman known to him as Cook forcing him into isolation and retirement. The screen of the computer blinked and blurred, lights flickering over head as her rage bubbled over inside of her. As the light show went through the hall it aroused the attention of the staff, and Cook rushed to clear the history and hobble on her cane out of the recreation room back to her bedroom. She was so blinded with fury she barely noticed the doctor watching her silently from the end of the hall.

* * *

“I saw you out of bed the other night.”
He’d come in without greeting this time, and pulled a chair up between her and the window forcing Cook to look at him in her staring. What had been a silent moment of brainstorming was interrupted by the accusing glare of her young doctor: a fresh out-of-medical-school protege who should be flirting with pretty nurses, but had instead fallen in love with the medical mystery that was Cook. It took the hospital no time in baffling over her anatomy; the flawless body that on contact felt like the skin of a burn victim, with a missing heart replaced by a wad of silver that leaked into her bloodstream, and various bones that x rays proved to be intricately carved into like something from a druid folklore. But since Cook refused to talk, and eventually they were so scornful to her silence they wouldn’t listen anyway, no headway was ever made and staff lost interest.
Cook stared at him in her signature silence, unwilling to acknowledge his words with even a defence or denial. She just went unblinking for a few moments, then turned her head to look back out the window to continue ignoring the doctor and his visibly increasing anger.
Maybe it was just the sort of people she attracted, or maybe there was something about Cook that brought out the worst in others. Her face was forced to turn back to his when he secured a grip around her chin and craned her neck forcefully.
“I know you can fucking understand me you bitch. I won’t be treated like an idiot by some nobody with no one to even come claim her. We own you here. I own you. No one’s coming for you, so you better stop acting like a retard.”
It had to be something about her, as Cook knew better then to find it a coincidence weaker minded men could be so easily overtaken by their darker desires and temptations. In this case, she assumed a desire to be in unquestionable, life and death control. Too bad he went to medical school— he’d of been an excellent sorcerer.
Not quite willing to give up her comfortable and free living arrangements and access to resources, Cook just looked at him in the eyes and nodded the best she could while he had her face hostage in his hand. He told her ‘good’, and let go to catch his quickened breath, surprised by his own excitement. Cook was asked what she was doing at night on the computer, and shook her head at him.
“Well you won’t be using those computers anymore, but I’ll get you a laptop. You can use that for whatever research you’re trying to do.”
Cook knew what he was trying to do; the steps he was making towards gaining her co-dependency. It didn’t matter right now, because she knew how to play it in her favor. So Cook just nodded and stared, and kept staring until he was uncomfortable being so intently in her gaze and left the room. That night someone was stationed outside of her room, and Cook knew he was staying true on his word that she wouldn’t be using the computer anymore, so for once she spent the night waxing in and out of sleep and nightmares until the morning where she awoke to a package in her room. Using her walking cane she went to one of the tables where flowers would’ve been if anyone sent them, and opened it up to a dell laptop. Nothing fancy, just what she needed to get online and start recording her notes. A few hours into it she was back on the web and dedicating hours during her day to uninterrupted research and planning, saving all the information she could on this other ‘Cook’, as well as individual files for people who mimicked those from her past. Through emails she got names and contact information, and kept records of her theories and thoughts on these other clones. But her resources were limited, and Cook realize she was getting closer to the inevitable: having to leave the hospital, and observe or even control these others.
It was turning into a deliberate means of procrastination; her constant checking and rechecking for more information. She knew all she could: this other Cook grew up with a background similar to her own, eventually came to work for a ‘cloak and dagger’ company that had her offing capes until the day she met Amendment, but what was meant to be redemption turned into rejection and this Cook was burned then picked up by Fairfield to work in his occult department under Morgan and Markel— now in her place as director. There were other names she recognized too, such as Ulysses, Anna, Drake and Julia among ones she didn’t know such as Shilan and Weber. They seemed to be working on a project that would put them in the Empty Quarter in search for Irem. Cook didn’t need to look any of that up, she’d come across the story of the City of Pillars, she knew it’s connections to Atlantis among… other places.

“Damn it, what are you trying to do in there?” Cook needed to get out of here. She needed to get her hands on supplies and take her research to a level more in her specialty.
On a night the moon was waxing, close on full, Cook sat on her bed with legs crossed and candles stolen from the supply closet, having taken a handheld mirror out of the bathroom and covered the surface with a thin layer of water. She broke a black pen, and used the ink to make a dark surface. It was all makeshift and created a poor scrying condition, but it was just going to have to be better than nothing. With ritual induced clairvoyance Cook looked into the dark surface with her mind’s eye, watching as the clouds in the flowing ink part to reveal almost cinematic like images of the other her in a large study among a vast collection of manuscripts and relics that made Cook squirm with jealousy. The sloppiness of her spying did not go unnoticed by the other, but that didn’t stop Cook from spending hours at a time simple watching the others, memorizing her routine and interactions with others until the strain of the flawed magic caused her eyes to bloodshot and bleed. Migraines becoming so frequent shortly after, that the doctor prescribed her medications to sooth the pain but also make her increasingly more docile. This put more delay in her progress until she was able to convince him the meds weren’t needed, and she could get back to work.
Procrastination came to a screeching end the night Cook realized there was no safety in her staying at the hospital. The red flags had been there from the beginning as Cook noticing the gradual change in her doctor’s aggression and control, but she’d underestimated her apparent effect on weaker minded men. — Maybe this was why she liked the naive and jaded so much. On a night dedicated to sleep Cook awoke to her body breaking into panic, choking out desperately for air and crawling into something soft but suffocation smothering her face. Even with the lack of oxygen to her brain, there was no denying the feel of a pillow being shoved on her mouth and nose, nor the weight of a body pressing between her legs and against her chest.
Should of seen this coming. Her conscious mind calmed her subconscious response of fight or flight. And I had thought he was above this old clique. There was no way for her to speak or scream for help, let alone vocalize a spell so she instead laid stiff under the pillow over her her face, and weight against her body, like a corpse in the bed. Doctor or not he still had to check her pulse, then tore the pillow away afraid he’d gone too far in his blind assault, but what he found wasn’t anything he had expected. The stone expression that had always accompanied her features was contorted into a sardonic smile, vibrant blue eyes piercing fear into the pit of his stomach but before his chance to pull away she tossed him onto his back as if he were a doll in her hand and mounted his lap.
“You were correct before, dear doctor; I can fucking understand you.” He watched a spiced mix of horror and fascination as her hospital gown wrinkled and folded in her fingers up over her hips. “I can understand a lot of things. Like pleasure and pain. And I can do a lot of things. Like…” Her stomach and breasts were bared before him in the dim room, muscles outline with a slight tone and skin void of any blemish or imperfection. His fingers were too clumsy to finish the job they’d started of removing his belt, but Cook was cool and calm, working in a slow pace that made time drag on but got his pants down and shirt up.
Cook handled the progression and pace, controlling the ultimate outcome of her twenty minutes on top of the doctor before the familiar sight of the fawn-colored sea that was streaked here and there with explosions of deeply coloured orange waves. The building climax finally broken like the glassy surface of the fawn sea; with typhoons and a pulse of pleasurable waves rippling out over the deep orange streaks. And as each wave rose and fell within its short lifespan they brought with them a tumultuous rush of sensations piggyback riding on a stream of rhythmic memories. Their essences unwrapped into pigments of a poet’s ideal; threads coming loose and showing within them how the other’s life would be, could be - had been. And from it, a pattern slowly began to blossom, petals slowly unveiling enlightenment to the very foundation of existence. That which all Gods kept hidden with a bitter sense of pride – for who were we to think we could take from them, the very source of what little power they still had over us. But then, much to the amusement of the same Gods, the sea begins to calm losing its momentum and it’s fury. Waves of pleasure began to settle into a calm ripple, a shadow of the moment. In the wake of the fading bliss and ecstasy of enlightenment Cook could feel the tingling from her root chakra in the base of her spine up through each like an unwinding vine spotted with flowers like colourful beads. As her mind’s eye and crown blossomed her innate abilities and connection with her spirituality returned to full bloom.
Her joints popped and gave throughout her body as she stretched like a large, powerful cat, then looked down at her devoured prey. The Good Doctor’s body was still twitching in the spasm of his own orgasm though any sense of sensation had long since left his comatose mind, eyes glazed over like the milky surface of an opal. Cook made the smallest and most half hearted gesture of apology, flinching at the pitiful sight of a man that’d bitten off more than he could chew. She took his lab coat and wrapped it around herself, wasting no time other than to check his pockets for his wallet and anything else she could use.
She tucked her head low and left the room door closed, locked from the outside, before escaping through the hall into the elevator. From the sliding metal doors it was a home stretch, and Cook found a pair of keys in the lab coat pocket that triggered the lock to a porsche.
Things were looking up.

* * *

From the single bedroom bachelor pad Cook got whatever cash, credit, left-behind girlfriend’s clothes and locked away handgun she could find to flee with, knowing his apartment would be under police investigation in only a few hours. It had been days since Cook’s drive through downtown Rhode Island where she paid someone off to switch her license plates then headed into Boston for a night before she was in New York the next day to recover decent clothes and provisions for a rode trip into Detroit. She had no I.D. or license to get on a plane, so driving was her only option.
Sitting on the hood of the stolen porsche, Cook was alone with the night and stars, bundled in a thick coat and blanket that she used for speed naps in the back seat when the driving was getting to her. Often in the form of crippling headaches. In a few hours she’d be in Detroit, but there was something she needed to know first.
The name of the screen of her simple flip phone was staring at her expectantly. A rock of anxiety had swelled in her stomach that made Cook sick— not because of her nervousness, but because she was even recognizing these emotions. She had thought, she had hoped, that when her heart died so would of the baggage of these other sensations.
Leave it to this damn bastard to be what kept her humanity. The irony was uncanny.
Cook hit the green phone call button, and waited for the ‘calling’ to become a ticking of numbers indicating that it had been answered before she put it to her phone.
Her lips parted— and then she froze, ears filled with a buzzing that made her deaf to anything on the other end of the line. She coiled and the phone slipped out of her hand, body rolling off the hood with a thud in the dirt. When she finally recovered from the episode she realized her nose and mouth were heavily bleeding, and her head growing more and more swimming. By the time she crawled back into the bar Cook was overwhelmed and passed out in the open door. This wasn’t good.

* * *

It didn’t take a genius to remember the simple logic that two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time. Cook was trying to force her way into a preoccupied space, and though she was essentially a duplicate of the already existing object the space itself was not attuned to her existence the way it was for the other, thus the other was being favored.
Well fuck. She was dying.
In the mirror was a stranger; a woman with shallow eyes and pale skin spotted with yellow bruising. Constant blood from her nose and mouth had stained the skin of her face and neck, and she’d already gone through so many shirts it was just not worth changing them anymore. Days were hard on her, the three she’d been spending in Detroit, she spent most of her time sleeping in a single star motel bed quickly running out of cash and resources. At this point, she was entirely out of options, and Cook refused to just roll over and die like this.
Having bummed a cigarette from the woman downstairs (who thought Cook had some awful disease and wouldn’t approach without a napkin over her mouth) Cook filled her bathroom with smoke as she sat in the hot water of the tub, fingering her phone. The name that’d show up before was back up on display again, it’s straight lines in the four letter name looking impatient. Fisk. Cook took a deep breath, and put the dialing phone to her ear.
“Hello, my dear Michael. I’m in trouble. … I need your help.”

* * *

“Hello, Michael.”
“What the fuck do you want? This had better not be some last minute complication about the translation. We are -going- to Irem. I don’t give a fuck what your boytoy says, Cook”
She couldn’t help it— she laughed at the ridiculous of her situation and had to find her voice again. “Wrong one, Michael.”
“No, I’m not hearing this. I have enough ghosts and guilt haunting me. You died. I saw the line break at Peregrine. I saw it. Fuck you. I don’t … . just … no.”
“We were in that small, smoky Preatoria club and you were just about to put a gun to my head because I was going to push the wrong button. I told you I wasn’t like Alice because I wasn’t afraid to die—that I was willing to go to the other side and find out everything I could about that world too then I’d come back and tell you all about it.” A moments pause, then she added. “… I know how this sounds.”
“You’re an awfully detailed hallucination.”
“Look at your phone, my dear Michael. Ask a stranger to if you have to— this call is real. And I—… I need your help.”
“—-Fine. What do you need? And no, I’m not going to fucking Caracosa.”
She laughs. “As we both known, it’s simple logic that two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time. I’m trying to coexist alongside a duplicate in the same space, and apparently that space is favoring the previous occupant. — So I’ll cut to the point: Her or me, Michael? In the end is going to be your call. Because I can’t do this alone.”
“You understand me. Not much of a choice. What do you need?”
She was silent for a moment. He probably caught her off guard. “I— I uh, I need to need a way of getting my hands on very specific items and information. I’m not in a… condition to do it alone. You can’t do it because your face is recognizable. Do you have anyone within Ascension I could use who she doesn’t know? They don’t need to be good at anything, they just need to be competent.”
“You won’t want to use someone inside of Ascension. The politics are different than they used to be and most of them feel, justly, that I’m slipping. But I’ve someone you could call. I’ll send a text with the number momentarily. Just say you’re an associate of mine.”
“Alright. I won’t say much more about it. I—” She was interrupted by a hacking cough like her lungs were trying to make a wet and violent escape. When she calmed down her breathing, Cook was watching blood drip from the corner of her eyes and nose into the bath water. “Sorry, I’ll be going. — And… thank you, Michael. I’m glad I didn’t lose everything with the collapse.” Click.
She spat out what may of been a couple teeth and already knew her hair was thinning tremendously. This associate better be useful, because Cook wouldn’t get another chance.

* * *

Prudence was immediately concerned she’d walked willingly into a trap, having been blinded by the kindness extended to her by Fairfield and her own still living naiviety. Stupid stupid stupid. The woman sitting in the dull lit motel room was pushing forty in an unflattering manner and smelt like cheap nicotine and blood. Prudence’s brawler beaten knuckles went white as she balled her fists, not willing to go down without throwing a few punches in and dealing a bit of damage regardless of what she was put against.
“Oh calm down, girl. I’m not even remotely in the mood to deal with an overaggressive brawler. Michael said I could use you.”
“Who the fokken shet is Michael, lad—”
“You will address me as Ma’am, and I am referring to Adam. Now don’t interrupt.”
The blood boiled in her veins that visibly strained on her temple and neck, Prudence feeling the trembling inside her body that always came with flashes of red like she was stepping into a mist. If it was just hand to hand she could take this dying woman, she knew she could, but Prudence knew Cook’s skill wasn’t in physical conflict. Over their heads where the smoke from Cook’s cigarettes and cigarettes before was building up visible images were carved into the wisp of white that hung to the ceiling and placed out scenes like a clouded movie reel. The living smoke showed images of a better version of Cook among recognized individuals, sometimes in groups and sometimes in more intimate settings that Prudence didn’t want to watch. Then there was what could’ve been memories, because they appeared first person with hands shown in the vision often touching the face of an incredibly handsome man with a boy scout smile and chiseled face— but these images were few and small and buried under more and more clouds that played scenes like surveillance footage.
“Now listen very carefully,” Cook started speaking again, leaning back deeper into shadows, “I am going to ask you to do me several tasks that need the utmost discretion. I will give you the means and create opportunities that will make sure you succeed towards my benefit.”
Then she went on to explain the logic of two things not being able to occupy the same space at the same time, and Prudence felt like she was being lectured in school. Prudence left feeling no more comfortable with the situation then when she first showed up, and left to seek out the only person she could think to give her insight. But he was sending her right back to the source of confusion with a note practical pinned to her shirt.
“Said once ya’ memorize it to burn the fokker.” Prudence produced a set of matches in a box, and slammed it down on the table Cook was sitting at before she recreated distance between the two. Prudence didn’t want to catch whatever it was Cook had kicking her ass.
When Prudence finally left again, expected to come back the following morning, Cook was left alone with the slip of paper she immediately recognized as some form of personal note by the penmanship. The language too she could recognized, though not fully understand, and among the persian dialect Cook further noted how complex the direction was and exotic the apparent components necessary were. It was clearly an advance piece of work that outdated much of what had ever passed through her hands, by someone with resources clearly not human and beyond common comprehension.
It really was the perfect gift.

* * *

A frilly scarf, fitting for the time of year, was wrapped up around her neck, her arms and tattoos covered by long sleeves like the long dark jeans down her legs. The beanie slipped down her forehead and close to her eyes was to hide away the blue, delinquent styled mohawk that she knew would get her attention. Once she took out the piercings, and stood with her hands in her jacket pockets, Prudence was confident she’d be able to easily move through the city without attention. In the slums of detroit no one noticed her enter through the emergency exit of a motel, or cared that she’d be using the service shaft to get to the top floor, and certainly none knew she was hiding against the wall over the buttons waiting for the ding of her arrival. A gun nosed in with it’s barrel then swung right to check the empty corner, but Prudence was fast and lucky, wrapping her arm around her greeter’s neck to pin her back and smother her face with the soaked cloth. After a few seconds of struggle she dropped onto the elevator floor completely out cold. It would make getting her downstairs into the garage and into the car waiting for her that much easier.

* * *

On the floor and walls were painted pentacles arranged so that their aspects conjoin at the center of the room where the bed had been pushed to. Laying out, bound by the ankles and wrists was the woman who’d greeted Prudence with a gun loaded by paranoia. There was one other person in the candlelit room; someone inside a rotting vessel that seeked to take the place of her duplicate, and with the help of a mutual contact she now had the means to do just that. By the end of those few hours the two women were alone there was only be one left, still bound to the bed waiting patiently for when Prudence knew it was safe to come back in and untie her— and avoid stepping in the smear of blood staining the carpet like a murder scene chalk outline.

* * *

Cool, stale wind brushed up along her flawless skin as it glowed like a dull winter star out on the fourth floor balcony. Erect around her were the cities massive shadows spotted with dull, bleeding squares of light and occasional neon veins, greeting her as a faceless audience in silent awe to her rebirth.
Prudence nearly tripped over herself when she caught sight of the naked woman leaning over the railing with an ecstasy shaped smile like she were riding the biggest, longest high. “— Shet, lady, put some fokken clothes on!” She looked past her shoulder onto Prudence and watched her slug off her own coat to drape onto the lithe but womanly pale frame.
“Really now, Prudence, nudity is a perfectly natural thing.”
“Ain’t exactly in a fokken natural place, yea’? — Jesus.” By chance she’d glance into the open door and seen inside the motel room made into a satanic love nest for Crowley. It could’ve been the flickering candles or smell of dirty blood that got her attention to glance through the door’s opening, but it was the tingling hand on her cheek that brought it back onto the other. “— Shet.. you’re… What happened to Tit— Cook?”
“I’m right here, Miss Reel. I’ve been reborn. No missing heart, no severed shoulder, no bones carved with hexes or cobweb scars. Touch me.”
“Uh…”
The tingling was warm, nearly burning in contrast to the cold air on her skin, like sticking toes in warm water. It wrapped around her wrist and forced her wrap knuckle hand to calm Cook’s cheek, leaving Prudence so caught off guard and struggling between punching her in the mouth or fleeing that she froze.
“Ahh… You can’t feel it, can you?” Her eyes lit up, the white expanding as they widened like the gradually showing rows of bleach white teeth in her moving smile. “I used to have a scar down my face after being thrown through a window. Now all that’s left of it…” She lead Prudence around and away by the shoulders, standing her in the doorway of the room that leaked dim yellow candle light onto their faces. Cook squeezed her shoulder enthusiastically and giggled, the body shaped stain in the floor staring right back at Prudence accusingly.
She’d done this. Someone just died because she’d agreed to do this.
And now she was babysitting some crazy bitch bare ass nude and giggling like someone had said penis in a third grade class.
“Come along now, my dear Prudence, and don’t have such a face. It was a matter of survival. She didn’t stand a chance, you know. The odds were stacked against her— as soon as I had opened my eyes those months ago she was on borrowed time. All she was doing was… keeping my seat warm.”

End.

Empathy of a sociopath

Tue, 05 Feb 2013 09:55:40 -0500

“But you can be sympathetic, right Cook?” Kimberly cooed playfully, her fingers brushing on the knuckle of Cooks stationary hand. A moment ofsilence passed as Cook contemplated the idea, her face collected but eyes decietful to her intentions. A well manicured thumb rubbed on the inside pad of kimberlys middle finger, slowly pushing it back over the knuckle and towards the front of the hand. Kimberlys eyes grew before she reacted, yelping and attempting to tug the hand away but it was caught in a firm grip.
“Sympathetic?” Cook repeated the word, feeling it out with her mouth as shefelt the popping of Kimberlys knuckle begin to give away. There was a laugh to comfort her. “No, dear, I don’t think I am.”

“Hello Adam.”She’s using my name, which means either she’s got something to yell at me about or she...

Mon, 04 Feb 2013 21:06:00 -0500

“Hello Adam.”
She’s using my name, which means either she’s got something to yell at me about or she wants to —.
My back meets up with the wall when she pins me there with her body, so every breathe just presses against her breasts. With a silent command in her mocking eyes and bitter crescent smile I go from being predator to prey like a switch. Her mouth holds a fever in it that makes breathing hard when I’m trying to gasp against her lips because her nails are putting red valleys down my sides.
I really don’t need my wife to see those.

Little teeth line the inside of her mouth in rows filed sharp from chewing on bones. I’ve had...

Sat, 02 Feb 2013 19:51:07 -0500

Little teeth line the inside of her mouth in rows filed sharp from chewing on bones. I’ve had plenty of time to study them as she sits perched on the foot of my bed, her feather light body resting on my covered feet.

nature or nurture

Sat, 29 Dec 2012 19:44:32 -0500

Former NYPD officer Geremy Colt was standing in front of a house that reminded him of a civil disturbance he’d been called to once, but this wasn’t the sort of place where families hid their secrets behind their white picket fences and perfect gardens. This was where those secrets were known and used like currency to secure the Reel residence a place among the elite.
Three days prior Colt had been greeted at his own door by a woman in a blue dress suit with pin straight, night black hair. Dangling from her neck were two pendants hanging from a long simple chain; one an eye and the other a pyramid. Colt immediately recognized it as much the same ones as Prudence wore, the erratic twenty-something who’d recently been spending more and more time in Colt’s bed. Colt immediately expected the worst. He casually looked around his apartment like he were checking for any other changes in the spacious high roof studio apartment, in reality he was eyeing where he kept a 9m.
“Please, Geremy, do sit down.” She gave him permission to sit in his own chair, in his own home, with a tone that probably usually let her get away with it.
“Now wait a damn second. Who the hell do you folks think you are just breaking into anyone’s place? It’s against the law, and I’ve every right to call the police.”

“I thought you were the police.” She responded with a cruel smile. Obviously they would have known about his dishonourable discharge. Colt sulked as though in defeat, and rubbed his face.

“At least let me have control of my own home. Hell knows I don’t of my own life.” The woman nodded, gestured to with her hand for him to continue, and Colt walked towards his open kitchen where the gun was tapped under the roof of a drawer. “Should I be expecting this sort of thing often from you guys?”

“No.” She didn’t say anything else and even looked away from him, occupied by her nails. That was when he slipped the 9m into the back of his pants and got two beers from the fridge. She accepted hers politely, though made no gesture to drink it while Colt took a mighty swig and settled into the couch across from the armchair she sat in. “This is a personal matter.” She continued, leaning forward.

“I thought nothing was personal with you guys.”

“Geremy, my name is Lisbeth Reel.” Colt nearly choked on his beer. “I am Prudence’s mother.”

Of course Colt never told Prudence about the visit—and not just because Lisbeth had asked him not to, but because he couldn’t even fathom how the neurotic Prudence would have reacted. Lisbeth had only spoken to Colt briefly on what she knew about him, subtly remarked on how she could further ruin his life, and requested he meet at her estate the next day before abruptly leaving him and the unused gun in the back of his jeans. So here he was, pressing on the doorbell of a semi-mansion who’s door knocker was unmistakably another reference to the Illuminati.
And they say the Templars are loud.
Colt was not met with the same face as in his apartment, this time it was an older man—older than him—who escorted Colt with a ‘right this way’ down the marble hall where two grand staircases curved upwards to the second story. Colt noticed the blue theme and expensive décor, but wouldn’t have recognized all the subtle Illuminati references among the art—he wouldn’t have been surprised if he was told of it, though. He was brought to the sunroom that looked out at the back garden where several men and women worked among the flowers and sculpted bushes behind the large glass window that let the light in.
           “Mister Colt, excellent.” Lisbeth looked less like she was attending business, and more like she was living in her home. But still, she held the ‘powerful woman’ air in her slacks and blue blouse. The pin straight black hair was neatly done in a bun at the side, not a single strand out of place. It was only now that he was getting a chance to study her face and saw the references to Prudence’s own. It also made him realize how very pretty Prudence would have been if she didn’t so desperately try to visually ostracize herself from society. Colt, on the other hand, dressed like he was attending business. He wore a casual suit and nice shoes that’d been collecting dust, even a tie though it was too short, so he hid it under the jacket. Despite his best efforts, he still looked old, tired, and entirely out of place. How could someone like Pruu come from somewhere like this? Colt’s thoughts were prematurely halted by Lisbeth again speaking, beginning with niceties to relax Colt into the conversation before her initial assault.
           “Geremy, you do know how old my daughter is, correct?”
Colt shifted uncomfortable and only managed a yes.
           “And who she—well, we work for?”
Another uncomfortable shift before his yes.
           “Do you understand why my daughter is the way she is?”
Colt almost answered automatically with another yes, but stopped himself to looked Lisbeth in the eyes and properly answer. “Yeah, she brought it up once before. About the teasing in school.”
           “They didn’t tease my daughter, they tortured her.”
Lisbeth took Colt’s starring as a sign that he didn’t know what she meant; didn’t really understand the weight of Prudence’s background.
           “When my daughter was younger we home schooled her. We gave Prudence only the best tutors in math, numerology, art, astrology, science, biology, chemistry, alchemy, literature, history and occultism: all college— if not scholar— level courses that my daughter did less than… excel in.
           “It was decided by her father and myself that perhaps our daughter was much too mundane and would simply do better in the layman’s world. At least there she’d excel at the top, where here she failed at the bottom. We put her into her last year of middle school at the local private school and decided we’d done a fine enough job. Of course we hadn’t thought to …. really think of the fact we weren’t the most popular family on the hill. We didn’t care to socialize with the laymen and knew most of their secrets.
           “At first it was petty differences, and Prudence had a hard time making friends. It wasn’t until later in the year that the word ‘freak’ started to be used. We had underestimated just how much of the tutoring Prudence had taken in and when she began applying it to her studies, well…”
They came to an intermission when coffee was served. Colt watched with an air of affection as he saw that Lisbeth drowned her coffee in cream, just like Prudence.
           “How could you not think she’d of been teased? You guys, you don’t… You don’t live in the same world as us. Pruu didn’t stand a chance.” Colt took a sip of coffee and flinched, almost causing catastrophe for his shirt. It wasn’t burning his tongue that’d startled him; it was Lisbeth’s suddenly hostile look in her dark eyes.
           “Children are unnaturally cruel. My daughter should not have been ostracized for her knowledge and intelligence, but she was. One day several girls shoved Prudence out of the girl’s locker room into the hall, where she was assaulted by several boys who threw urinal cakes at her.”
Colt winced again, unable to look up at the mother of the girl tortured in school.

“I took Prudence home and asked her what she would do about this. At the time she was weak and quiet, and had nothing to offer. So I let her stay home that week and never brought it up again.”

“What, you just… abandoned her? You didn’t seek any repercussion for what those children did? How could you just expect a little girl to handle it on her own? She needed therapy or at least her mother’s affect—-.” His rant was interrupted.

“—Don’t proceed to lecture me on how to raise my child. You admitted we come from separate worlds, and ours does not have room for the incapable. I raised my daughter with methods that would see to it she was not sheltered and weak.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me she’s a stronger woman because of it.”

“My Prudence is a stronger woman because she allowed herself to become such. If I had coddled her, though, she may never have had the chance to grow as she has. Besides… I did not leave those boys unpunished. Through quiet influence and subtle command I saw to it that those boys were not just expelled but blacklisted from all private schools in this and the surrounding states. Their credits were lost, meaning they were unable to proceed to high school, and friends of the parents whispered suggestions of military and correctional schools. I’d made plans that they’d be rejected from any college they applied to, and forced to take low income jobs that I would personally have watched over.”

Colt stared at her with a slack jaw. She’d ruined these boy’s lives.

“But I hadn’t prepared for them to return for any reason, I’d underestimated their desire for revenge. One summer, when Prudence was in her sophomore year of high school, all four boys assaulted her at a party. Many were drinking, even more so doing drugs. Of course I knew about the party and allowed Prudence to sneak out to attend. I thought things were looking up for her.”

“Oh God, did they…” Colt felt sick, thinking about Prudence at the mercy of these boys, but Lisbeth soothed his worst fears by shaking her head.

“No, they did not rape or sexually abuse her. They sought to humiliate her back to the days of name calling and isolation. Those involved in the party were unaware of the assault because of the music and booze. They didn’t know anything had happened until the police showed up, and several students were arrested for underage drinking, narcotics and plenty of other charges. Among the police were those I personally knew and found Prudence huddled behind a car. It was made obvious Prudence had called the police, but the boys who had assaulted her were gone. Prudence was blamed for the arrest of brothers, sisters, boyfriends, girlfriends… The teasing and isolation began once again.

“Once more I asked Prudence ‘What will you do’, and this time she did something. I wasn’t necessarily pleased with her decision but at least to finally acted. After a week of recovery Prudence left the house with her head shaved and in all black leather. I didn’t see her for three days, and later heard the boys had been hospitalized one by one. Prudence came home with bloody knuckles, the word ‘freak’ tattooed across her scalp and an attitude I’d never seen in her before. But one thing was for certain: she was no longer a victim.”

Lisbeth reclined in her seat and let Colt get a better grasp on what she had said and insinuated. Colt swallowed hard, feeling it drop through his throat like a ball into his stomach.

“And, uh… what of them now?”

Lisbeth shrugged nonchalantly and crossed her legs, giving Colt a passive and disinterested look to indicate that the topic was becoming boring now.

“I handed over the information I had on them and their families to Prudence, and allowed her to decide on their fates. Last I understood, Prudence didn’t do much of anything with it. – Anything different, I mean. They all continue to live dead-end lives with jobs they’ll never be truly successful in and the few that have families struggle to keep in middle class, their children not doing much better at school then the average child.”

“Isn’t that an abuse of your influences?”

“Who said this was because of our influence? They set themselves up to believe this was all they could amount to, and it’s followed them throughout their lives. … The fact we perhaps orchestrated that sort of thinking is, well… Mister Colt, I have never claimed to be the best or even a very good mother. But Prudence is, regardless, my daughter. I hold my loyalty first to the Illuminati, then to her.”
There wasn’t anything left to talk about after that. Colt finished his coffee and Lisbeth said she had something to see to, asking for forgiveness to cut the evening short. There was nothing so urgent that she really needed to leave, but Colt was thankful nonetheless for the lie. He left the Reel estate with a heavy stomach and the desire to call Prudence. He knew if he heard her voice right now he wouldn’t be sure what to say, so he just texted her to come over later and bring clothes for the morning.

One-two step

Sat, 29 Dec 2012 19:14:16 -0500

Colt pressed his knuckles into his palms, cracking the joints and staring up at the thick biker that dominated Colt in height and weight class, but he didn’t care. “Pruu, put on your headphones. I don’t want you listening to this.”

“—Oh come on, Colt. I’m not a fokken child!”

“Prudence.” His commanding tone made her flinch, and she grumbled her submission before the oversized headphones where set like earmuffs on the sides of her head. Colt put his hostile glare back on the biker and the two reacquainted themselves with the rising tension.

“Now listen to me you son of a—“

GucciGucci, Louis Louis,FendiFendi, Prada.

Prudence’s head phones blare her music like speakers, and she was obliviously swaying to the obnoxious beat of the pop-rap song. Both Colt and the biker he was attempting to intimidate watched Prudence bob her hips with her back to them, before turning to stare at one another.

“… Anyway, uh. What was I saying? – Right, look mother—“

“Basic bitches buy dat shet so I don’ even botha!” She’d broken out into a one-two step now, crossing her foot behind the other and dancing side to side as she sang along.

Colt covered his face and the biker roared with laughter. Prudence meeped in surprise as she was dragged away by Colt cursing quietly to himself in embarrassment.

a visit

Thu, 27 Dec 2012 20:35:06 -0500

The building was in Brooklen New York, it was old, pre-industrial and inappropriate for a young lady to live in by herself. That was the first thought that came to discharged NYPD officer Geremy Colt is mind, and he kicked himself mentally for being so quickly protective. Prudence Reel was a girl— another kick— a woman who didn’t need protecting. It was probably the other way around; people should be protected from her. With her arrival into someone’s life came a reality check that Colt was still struggling to understand; his world had been turned inside out and her suggested reading of Lovecraft’s From Beyond made him physically sick. Now he stood in front of the building inappropriate for a young lady after a night of haunting nightmares and knowledge that made him question everything he knew, everyone he knew. If he dwelled on it any longer he’d go crazy. Prudence was a welcome distraction, so he snugged the thin book up under his armpit and steeled himself against the cold before he’d find her apartment number.

Prudence was lanky and short, the oversized Innsmouth sweater she wore hiding any evidence of a feminine figure. Wearing just that, a pair of black nickers with the prints of hip and pelvic bones, and bunny slippers she opened the door fully upon seeing that it was Colt there.

“The heck Colt? Could’ah called, yea’?” Prudence shifted uncomfortable, kicking away some socks into the corner so he wouldn’t step on them in entering. Colt looked out of place in Prudence’s home, probably because Prudence looked so out of place in the rest of the world. She was young but boyish in form, her hair shaved except for the thick strip in the middle that was dyed blue and often hung over the side of her scalp. Her scalp was tattooed with a maze like labyrinth of blue ink, the center an unblinking eye set in the center of a pyramid. It reminded him of Eschery’s Relativity at certain angles, and if he’d known the details of her job as security guard in the Illuminati Labyrinth, he’d of understood the tattoo a bit better. The apartment was lit by just the lines of light through the blinds and a lava lamp in the far corner on the floor. Nothing looked to be in its place— there were dishes on the floor and shoes on tables, clothes hanging over doors or chairs and books packed high on the kitchen table he could see through an open doorway. Colt looked at the couch she offered him to sit at, and had to find a place to put himself down without disrupting her collection of magazines and comics. Prudence got him cold coffee and shoved the pile he’d been so careful about on the floor. Then she sat with a leg under herself and handed over the mug, staring at him. He could see the movement of her eyes tracing each wrinkle in his face and the heavy scaring on his left cheek from the time he’d been grazed by a bullet. At forty-something he’d gained a bit of weight around his middle and arthritis in his hands that flared up when he did boxing.

What Prudence had seen in him was unknown to Colt, he assumed it was more complex than just her wanting to pick up some drunk at a bar. His next morning in his bed with her had shocked him, first because of the fact she was nothing of his type, second because he’d actually taken someone home with him. Since then Prudence hadn’t much left his side. She’d show up constantly like the neighbourhood stray, and leave just as suddenly. Sometimes they got coffee together and sometimes he even took her on ‘dates’, usually to places of her choosing like underground shows and places they’d get into fist fights because Prudence had a thing for pushing buttons and Colt had a hard time holding her back. During all this she’d slowly begun to introduce him to a secret world that involved century long conspiracies, demons and monsters in the dark, bees and, of course, the questioning of his reality all these years.

“Oh so read it, yea’?” Colt was snapped out of his daydream by her voice and accent he couldn’t quite place.

“I can see why I never picked up Lovecraft before. His writing is… complicated.” Prudence laughed at him and snatched the book out of his hand, thumbing through it as she scanned the pages.

“Guy waz’a fokken head case. Way too into this shet, you know? So what’d you think? Pretty accurate, yea’?” Her face was creased by a crooked smirk that made dimples around the metal studs in her cheeks. (to be continued)

Hacking him.

Thu, 27 Dec 2012 20:12:00 -0500

Prudence shuddered to the sensation of cold air sneaking under her winter coat collar. It made her cold and caused the stumble of her scalp to feel like it was tightening. She’d gone through a whole cigarette before the heavy back alley apartment door finally opened, metal grinding against the frame that was inches too small.

“Hey Pruu.” Greeted a rough voice from inside the dull lit hallway. Prudence brushed herself inside and past the greeter.

“You lil shet, you had me waitin’ out there for -God- knows how long!” Prudence had thought coming inside would of warmed her up, but the small room filled with flights of metal stairs was equally as cold. “It’s fokken -cold- man.” Her greeter laughed and started climbing the steps in front of her; an unwashed man who was shy of a seven feet so he had a awkward and clumsy nature to himself that Prudence only bothered to know as 69holic. Classy.

They kept going till the seventh floor then entered an unlocked apartment door from the dingy hall. Prudence pushed a tabby cat away from the door as she closed it, then leaned down to scratch under its chin.

“Hey Saber.” The cat purred, meowed then tried to rub against her thick buckle brown boots as Prudence kept walking.

“I got your text,” ‘holic said before sitting himself down in front of several expensive computer monitors, “I saved the number and hot rigged GPS on his phone. I can’t bug it without more time, but all his in going and outgoing text messages will be emailed to you as well as whatever numbers he calls or receives calls from.”

“Thanks man.” Prudence shook his mouse on his desk so the monitor screens would wake up from their idle display: a spinning eye in a pyramid. “I also put Galaxy on Fire 2 on it. Can we make it taser him whenever he gets better scores then me?”

“Do you even -play- that game, Pruu?”

“Oh, yeah. Totally man.”

“Then you know there’s no high score. It’s not Invader.” Prudence brushed him off, moving the curser of a folder she recognized and opening it to drag the contents out into the trash. It was when she was cleaning out the trash that ‘holic protested.

“— What the hell, man?” He’d steal the mouse away and begin to undo his computer’s actions.

“Leave it or I’ll fokken shoot you, yea’?” For a short second when he made eye contact he knew she was serious. There was no flash of metal, no nudge from the dull tip of a glock. An old scar on his shoulder that mirrored to the back began to itch, and he had no intentions of gaining another like it.

“Wasn’t that his file?”

“He’s my case and I don’t want other people interrupting it. So it’s just better you don’t even know he exists.”

via s3.amazonaws.com Taylor waited till Ms. Jessy had turned her...

Tue, 25 Dec 2012 10:33:56 -0500

via s3.amazonaws.com

Taylor waited till Ms. Jessy had turned her back towards the group, giving Taylor an opening to wedge the folded piece of paper under Abigail’s palm. Alarmed, she turned, her thick black locks bounced about her thin wire framed eyes. Nervously, Abigail pulled the two touching sides apart, holding the note down in her lap. Taylor leaned leaned back, allowing her to watch as Abigail began to respond, clicking her pen several times before she began to write faster then her hand could handle.

I finished Twilight, so now you said you’re going to give me that one book?

Hiding her guilt of passing a note, Abigail pressed the paper against Taylor’s side slowly, as though any sound would get them caught. Snatching the note impatiently, Taylor saw her friend mouth out to her; “Don’t get in trouble…” Taylor could almost hear her voice in her head, and the gentle stutter that always accompanied it.

Ya! I’ll try to bring it in tomorrow

Surprisingly enough, Taylor had never bee able to write as fast as Abigail, and her hand writing always seemed a lot calmer. It wasn’t as cluttered and nervous. But Taylor had always been more confident then most girls. She’d cut her hair last month, began carrying her wallet around on a chain, and was always the first to break any broken rules.

If I could I would lol, but whats it called again?

The note actually got a gentle giggle out of Abigail, her shoulders trembling as she attempted to hide her enjoyment. It was such a shame, Taylor thought, Abigail was so cute when she was happy. But no matter how much Abigail tried to hide the fact she was getting comfortable with the idea of being so rebellious as she’d tell herself secretly.

Eragon! And do you like fantasy books because that is what it is.

Taylor had never heard the book before, chewing on the back of her pen. Ms. Jessy made a round, moving about the circle of chairs as people tapped their pencils against their clipboards, or began to fidget uncomfortably in the stiff plastic chairs. They used to have couches in this room, but they had been removed after someone had pulled out one of the springs. Now they had to suffer with the spastic bones that straightened their backs uncomfortably and kept their asses cold even in summer. Abigail faked a cough as she took the note back from Taylor, attempting to cover up the unreal sound she thought would get them caught.

Kid 1: Yes I like those out of any other kind/genra, however you spell that. I mean, I’m not as smart as you. ha.

Under her thin wired frames Abigail blushed, her face leaned forward to hang her hair over her eyes.

Kid 2: Ok then. Well this book is about this kid, Eragon, who is hunting and finds an egg, which turns out to be a Dragon Egg. He has to leave and ya, it is a really good book. Then when you get done with that I will bring in Eldest which is 668 pages long and Eragon is 497 pages long.

Kid 1: Damn, that’s really long, Twilight was around there but still. I never thought you would read outside of school, arnt you too busy?

Kid 2: Ya. But I only read at night. And right now I am reading a book which is only 300 something pages long and then I have two more books to read after that. The first one is about 400 something and the other is about 500 something.

Kid 1: Jeeze you book worm. Yeah, you’re a dork but its ok, I still <3 ya lol. Anything you would like to say “little” one…

Kid 2: Ummm. I….<3….ya….too very little one you wierd person.

Kid 1:You had better luv me too. And yeah. I’ll write more to you in AA

We’re BFFS!!

Meet Agent Prudence

Tue, 25 Dec 2012 10:30:32 -0500

The ash fell into the tray of shallow cigarette graves while a wispy line of smoke, like a ghost, gently dancing away from the embers that chewed through the tobacco and paper. In the smoky back room only the neckline and bosom of a woman in a blue suit was illuminated successfully by the overhead lights, several burnt out bulbs providing her features and the men stationed behind her a veil of shadow. The men’s intimidating postures, with hands clasped behind their backs, would keep their guest in her seat without raising finger or voice, so Miss Reel laced her fingers together and sulked in the stiff metal chair and reminisced in the memory of high school office visits.

“Hello Prudence Reel.” A voice joined the collage of white, blue and shadow as the woman directly across from Prudence shifted and her large triangle and eye pendant necklace glistened like fake jewellery.

“Effective immediately one Michael Anthony Fisk will be your new target. Do you understand, Bee Keeper?”

A thin vanilla envelope was produced by the spider leg fingers of the woman’s hand as it fanned out over the cover and pushed it to the woman across from her on the metal table. Prudence’s face suggested she had been a beautiful child once— while everything else suggested an ugly childhood. Lanky and short, she was androgynous in the way a pretty boy would be with hair as short as a fuse where it grew on the left side from the middle. The other side was shaved close to her scalp so the labyrinth of blue ink weren’t hidden, notably the details of an unblinking, staring eye fixed inside the body of a pyramid. Most responses to her pierced face and obscure fashion were the sort usually associated to stereotypes, yet none in the room flinched when she entered or even acknowledged her showcase of metal studs in her ears, lip and eyebrow.

Inside the folder all Prudence found were the records of a nutcase, paranoid newspaper editor burned for offing his commanding officer and sentenced to a life of hell known as Maine. At least that was the ‘official’, public report. No wonder they were interested, these were common traits of someone that has been shoved through the veil and blinded by enlightenment like the sudden exposure of stage lights through the curtain. Behind the rubbish public reports was the real thick of the packet that dove deeper into his work and about how very close he’d gotten to burning down those stage curtains and revealing the audience in the house to the skeleton of the stage. Or was it the skeleton of the stage to the thousands of ever watching, ever expectant eyes?

This wasn’t the first time Prudence had been in this particular room, with this particular situation presented to her. Originally Prudence was just a drone security guard stationed deep in the underground facility found among the network of New York’s sewer known as The Labyrinth. She never intended to move forward or climb the career pyramid, her loyalty kept her happy where she was. But when a sudden influx of new recruits and magically inclined individuals began to pop up throughout the world, a program was put into place to maintain some sort of control. Select individuals recognized for their loyalty, veterans of the company, were pulled from their ranks and given responsibilities as ‘Bee Keepers’ in the program to monitor and maintain an inside eye on new blood, possible recruits and individuals of interest, who were codenamed ‘Bees’ in the ‘Hive’ program. But Prudence was surprised they were returning her to active duty, granted that the last person she was assigned to had a mental breakdown and found his own way out by the comforts of a noose. Maybe they felt it was sufficient punishment enough that she’d actually liked him and found a friend in that forty-something burned out cop.

The sex was good too.

“Yes, ma’am.” Startling violet eyes traveled from the surveillance photo picture of the twenty-something nerdily attractive male in glasses, to the devil in prada and her all seeing eye necklace. “Michael Anthony Fisk… Fisk.” She liked the weight of his name on her tongue, and soundlessly mimicked the shapes her lips made when she said it. “So where am I finding Agent Mulder?”

The answer was just under his name; a place Prudence knew well— not only through her first few months of field duty babysitting the new gods— but as one of those old wounds you were taught to tread over carefully like coals under her feet.

“Ah hell, you’re sending me to Kingsmouth again? Talk about shitsvill, man.” Prudence sucked her teeth in disappointment, her top lip arching in distaste. “What, is he seriously living in his mum’s basement? Fokken’ lame as shit, yea’?”

No one laughed. Prudence never felt her humour was truly appreciated among her colleagues— unless she was filing away someone’s face with a shotgun blast— they were far more subtle with their satire and sarcasm. They convinced others they were funny, that the joke’s punch line wasn’t just a punch in the face, unlike those ‘blokes in red’ hooting and hollering old battle cries centuries too old under a banner they pulled from the ashes of men burned in shame.

“Watch him. Get close to him. Report on his actions and those involved with them. You have permission to use whatever means you deem fit but understand every action has a consequence. Remember where your loyalties lie, and above all else, don’t drive this one to suicide.”

Not a Bleeding Heart

Tue, 25 Dec 2012 10:29:53 -0500

He was climbing the hills of her petite form with his eyes, outlining the curves of her shallow waist and thin hips then up her shoulder till their gazes met. There was silence where he saw his wrinkled face reflected in her young, violet eyes.

“So then, tell me.” He persisted with their conversation even though she’d closed up.

“It’s not all that interestin’.” She insisted, rolling off her side onto her back, his eyes now climbing up the tiny mounds of her child sized breasts. “‘sides, I ain’t a bleedin’ heart, yea’?”

“Cut the shit, Pruu. I’m not asking because I’m bored. I’m interested in you.” As if the night they’d spent tossing each other around hadn’t been a big enough indicator of that. He still couldn’t understand how he managed to fall into bed with a girl that could have been his daughter in age.

But she wasn’t his daughter, and he wasn’t a good enough guy to care passed that.

“Shet! Fine, you old fokk.” Pruu spit at him, tearing into a pack of smokes. “It as middle school. I was gettin’ bullied but I mean, who wasn’t, yea’? They treated me like a freak, and I guess I sorta snapped. — I didn’t shoot the school up or nothing, though shet, I thought about it. I just decided that, ‘Fuck, you know what? If you motherfuckers are gonna treat me lika’ goddamn freak Imma act like a goddamn freak’.”

Prudence took a breath through her cigarette, filling her lungs and holding it before breathing out of her nose. They hadn’t made eye contact again. Besides, he couldn’t keep his eyes on her face long enough for them to have.

“I tore up my mum’s fishnets, dyed some shit black and threw charcoal on my eyes. I was pretty goth for a bit till I picked up a more punk scene, yea’? But that wasn’t till high school when I actually made friends with a ‘bad crowd’. Just a bunch of shets who skipped class to smoke and bummed around town when they graduated. Then that’s when I got into drugs, yea’?”

Now he looked at her face. Maybe it was the cop in him, or the age making him feel some surrogate father bullshit despite laying naked in bed with a girl who’d just been his lover, but when she brought it up he felt the concern swell in his chest. Of course he’d assumed she’d done it, or even did do it when they met, the stereotyping was hard to resist. But now that he knew her like he did, and wanted her like he did, he hoped she wasn’t killing herself like he’d watched so many do before.
“I’m still thinking it’s ‘cause I had the money for it, and they knew I did, that they got me into it with them. Was in junior year when they were really getting in deep with the heroin, meth and coke. Didn’t take long for them to convince me I wanted to too, and so I tried some shet and dropped outta highschool. Blah blah, approached by men in blue suits and got a second chance.”
He’d opened his mouth to insist she tell him more, now interested since it’d turned onto the Illuminati. But Prudence beat him to it, and crushed her mouth against his to force her ashy tongue between his teeth. The kiss was passionate, but violet and forced, leaving his lips sore after.
So he returned the favor to the rest of her body.

You Inspire Me

Wed, 19 Dec 2012 16:04:39 -0500

My fingers dragged down his face like running tears, pulling lines down his skin and I feeling the filth of the long day on his flesh. He tried to look at me without me seeing too much of him; his eyes a window into the battered, broken soul he wore on his sleeve as a warning. I ignored every red flag, letting them fade away like the rear lights of a car, barreling into him with intentions of losing myself among those rigid jigsaw pieces I’d try to fit with my own.

"She liked the weight of his name on her tongue."

Tue, 18 Dec 2012 13:09:56 -0500

“She liked the weight of his name on her tongue.”

- Me.

It was going to be about sex then I lost steam.

Fri, 30 Nov 2012 20:03:53 -0500

When the elevator door slip opened in front of him he was greeted by Cook with a sceptic expression carved into her porcelain-doll perfect face. He pulled a finger against the knot of his tie, slowly growing more aware of how tight it was— that it was warm in there— the way the fabric of his shirt felt… Nervousness came in an odd form of hyperawareness, though he didn’t need that to notice how she looked. The ivory dress made her emphasized details naked with its Egyptian Queen flair, presenting her flawlessness like the unravelled Cleopatra before she would seduce Caesar.

“I can be reached by phone, sir.”

She wouldn’t hide her dislike of him being there, even if she was dressing like she wanted him here, over there, and anywhere else in the house. He hid his discomfort of the stark white, unfriendly penthouse by strolling passed her into the kitchen with a smug as hell expression on his face. Apparently he needed to see her—then regretted his wording as her eyes bore into him. The smile was painted just as much as her lipstick was.

“Men only see me when it’s about two things… Information and stress.” It was too late to try focus his eyes back on her face where the mocking smile hide, waiting. His eyes were enchanted by the rhythmic swaying of her hips under the long, flowing dress. “So which is it?”

Couldn’t it of been both? What was to stop her from giving him everything he wanted, every vice, every fantasy? If he benefited beyond the physical and mental gain, well that was just a bonus. A man gets tired of doing all the work, having everyone looking up to them for answers and a hand to hold. Sometimes they just want—need to let go. To do something they shouldn’t that they could dwell on the regret of for a while, instead of all those deeper guilt that tear him apart.

Taking his hand in her own, Cook lead him towards the long white sofa barren of pillows or signs of use. Her palm was feverishly warm and the nerves in his skin tingled on contact with hers, like a mint on the tongue. He followed until she shoved him forcefully back, the couch catching him with stiff arms, and slowly lowered her body to straddle his lap. It didn’t matter how the centerless top of the dress had stayed on, because it slipped from her shoulders and down her arms seamlessly, hanging at her hips like the bottom petals of a white rose and revealing her chest in all its nudity for him to behold.

wip. plot w/sheyon(markel) and william(lincoln)

Mon, 26 Nov 2012 00:28:35 -0500

[0600. Detroit.]
The jet parked out in the dark in the back of their building was modelled much like the ‘super jets’ that made cross country travel more convenient. Cook leaned towards the slate of glass to admire the two well-dressed pilots and their stewardesses idling by the stairs. Satisfied, Cook fashioned a smile and presented it to both men standing behind her. “We’re flying under the aliases of a wealthy man with his trophy wife. … And their lawyer. Who wants to be the wife~?” The question was not serious, though the glance she made over her glasses could have had a gullible man think twice. “Really though, Mister Smythe, you’d be the most legible as an older gentleman—but I need you to wear a pair of glasses. Your eyes are much too distinguishable.” Apparently she was prepared for him and herself, pulling out a designer pair of male shades embedded with initials of J.T. “And you’re Jim Thomas now, dear.” Cook got into character by attaching herself to Markel’s arm, and passing Lincoln a dismissive look over her shoulder. “You’re the lawyer, so earn your pay and carry our bags.”
Lavished in carpet, massaging chairs and individual bed nooks curtained off for privacy, it was a shame they would need to stay asleep for most the flight for the sake of keeping their *internal clocks functioning. “Now boys, you mustn’t stay up –too- late~.” She teased in banter, throwing a look over her shoulders at each of them as she slipped the trench coat from herself. There were at least six individual chairs with provided privacy curtains that would fold back into a reclined seat and bed, Cook took her’s at the front corner.
Lincoln found himself at the back of the plane, near the stewardess station, already acquiring himself a drink as he set his bag on the bed nook and took his sunglasses off, slipping them inside his coat.
Markel muttered something unintelligible, and after stowing his stuff, retreated into the bed area reserved for him. He’d stayed up all night, so he figured sleep would be easy. But somehow he doubted that. Pulling the curtain around him, he dug out his datapad and began to read.
The flight itself was at least twelve hours, which was half the time from the usual twenty hours more commonly endured for such a flight. On Cook’s end the flight itself consisted primarily of what must of been sleep, but the way she’d abruptly awaken, scribble into her notes or browse her collection of books, made it a light and restless one. When finally giving up on that, she’d gone out of sight after idling at the captain crew’s cabin door, then again after returning into the bathroom at the loss of one of the stewardesses. A click and the crisp quality of the pilot’s voice, stirring any awake who may not of been, announced their final descent with the time of seven am on a cold morning.
Lincoln immediately got up from his bed and took himself and his bag into the rear bathroom, changing out of his suit into a more climate appropriate attire, a white roll up shirt with leather webbing straps across his chest and back he used for strapping equipment, a white and blue Shemagh around his neck and olive cargo pants over hiking boots. He returned to his seat, pocketing the number of one of the stewardesses, and quietly remained there until they touched down.
As Markel predicted, travel and sleeping never really mixed, so he awoke easily at the pilot’s voice. After he too dressed into something more comfortable, he looked at the pair of sunglasses and sighed, but donned them without complaint. It didn’t take long to regather his things, and soon he met with the others just giving a simple nod in greeting.
Cook sauntered out the bathroom in her desert garb; brown cut off shorts over boots and a cropped jacket with a poorly concealing olive shirt underneath, while strapped up in her supply bag, side-arm and whip hoster— not to mention a quick to reach knife on her arm. Now that the burberry trench coat from before was off, it was clear to see blue ink depicting detained henna protection wards on her skin. She flashed the gentleman looks of approval as she sized them both up shamelessly. Such looks could be counted as sexual assault. As Cook sat down and buckled up, the attendants were preparing the cabin for arrival, one also refitting her skirt properly down her lap as she tucked back loose strands of hair.
[12 hours later. 0700. Yemen.]
It would have been barely more than an hour since they had woken up according to local time, but their bodies craved the night as opposed to the dawn, feeling internally the long hours of a passing day during their flight. The desert’s fingers of cold that gripped the cities with each passing night were beginning to lose its hold as the blazing disc of light licked the very tip of the horizon. Greeted outside once customs and arrival had been cleared, (still under the name of Mister and Misses Thomas with their lawyer “Phil—Or was it Fred. Jeff? Oh /Dear~/, could you remind me of what we call this –dreadful- man?”) they were now being introduced as the Black Water Geological Division team, and in an illegal exchange of American bills and plastic cards, they also had permission past most major boarders.

As Lincoln slung his leather bag around his shoulder, which no longer carried his suit, he turned to the group and looked between the two of them, “Before we go any further, I have to warn you two; Regardless of what you’ve heard, this -literally- is God’s country. From Israel to the Gulf of Aden, this is -His- house. The second you don’t respect that, no amount of protective spell is going to save you..” He waved down a taxi and held the door open for the two of them.
Everything was secured, and Markel played his part with a pleasant but false smile— he was becoming quite good at that nowadays. “Of course,” he said to Wake, not insincere. Even he should’ve known the power that laid under the sands, that drove the region— religious, political, and supernatural. He entered the cab quietly.
“You’re much too dramatic, Wake!” Cook insisted, giving him a loose wrist wave as she took the front seat. Their cabby fit the general ambiance of the culture, and the city that lived within it’s own world and time, including the greedy looks at Cook and the hard stares at Lincoln and Markel through the rearview mirror like they had their dog off its leash in public. Most of the city was just much too skinny with its stone path alleyways and closely nestling tall buildings, having them take a longer root then was needed, but Cook refused to walk. Eventually their cabby got them to the back road of a jeep shop, the sun staining the sky with oranges and fleckles of red to highlight the dune hilled horizon.

A suitable jeep was purchased from the dealer. In cash. He tossed the keys to Cook in hopes that she would keep her hands to her self. He climbed in the back rack, leaving Markel to fend for himself in the front seat. Lincoln pointed out on the map where they needed to go and told Cook to get on with it after a substantial amount of “The roads are too bloody thin, Wake.” After about 25 minutes of driving, Lincoln leaned forward and gripped Cooks shoulder, “Stop! Pull over now!” His eyes were locked on a colorful tent Bazaar and he hopped from the jeep before it even stopped, jogging inside leaving Markel and Cook staring curiously. Some time later he reemerged from the tents with what seemed to be a Saker Falcon in a cage. He walked to the passenger door and stuffed the cage in Markel’s lap. “Hold this for me.”
Markel was generally content to sit in silence in the front seat, that is, until he received the unexpected package. And he regarded the bird—and Wake—with a strange mix of puzzlement, wonder, and, and curiosity. “What is this?” He hoped the other man wouldn’t say, ‘A bird.’
“A falcon. Trained by professionals.” He said, leaning forward, giving Cook the okay to continue driving.
“Was it necessary to stop for a pet, Wake?” Cook grumbles, pulling on the stick shift to pull them into gear so they could continue.
Lincoln raises his eyebrows up over his sunglasses and settles into the open seat, “It’s not for me.”
Sana’a was a city caught in time; the grains of sand that would pass in its hourglass of life had been suspended. Capturing much of the old history and culture between it’s stacked buildings of dark stone and white accents, block streets and alleys smoothed by thousands of traveling feet that had come to the city for beauty, adventure, or something darker. As the heavy, hot heat of the inching sun sat against their bodies they would become increasingly more aware of just how slow Cook was forced to push the jeep along in such crowded roads. Too many people stopped and stared, some at her for reasons they wouldn’t of been able to realize, but most at them as a collective group. “So, here’s the plan. We set up for the day finding what we can on the lead of Irem, depending on how that goes depicts our night. But we need to be out of here by tomorrow.”
Lincoln had already laid back in the back of the jeep, apparently working on his tan, “Just follow the route I told you, Cook. There’s a Bedouin tribe I’m familiar with when I was here last, we can talk to them.”
Markel just sat with the bird. He wouldn’t admit he was a little fascinated by the creature. “I’m for that plan.” He said dryly. No, it probably wouldn’t do to stick his fingers in the cage.
“And your jet lag?” She asked both without looking at them, slouching slightly in her seat at the growing weight of the heat. “Shall we recuperate somewhere so I’m not stuck babysitting either of you.”
“I’m fine. I’d offer to drive, but I don’t know how to drive a stick shift.”
“-I do-.” She smirked to herself, suddenly accelerating at a clearing in the road. Of course, at the sacrifice of several woman having to hobble out of her way.

He scratches at the stubble along his jaw and sits up, “There’s a pretty nice place here in Sana’a, the uh…” He snaps his fingers a couple times. “Movenpick.”
“— Cute, Wake. We’ll stop at the outskirts of the city for supplies at least. —Better yet…” Cook’s head turned over her shoulder to keep sight of something she’d spied, and she swerved from a dark skinned native boy to abruptly back up with a thrust of the stick-shift, and then skid into a parallel spot in the gap of a bike row. Cook dropped the jets in her jacket front pocket, swinging out of her seat without opening her door. “—Belongings in your front pockets, gentleman.” The city that was founded by a son of Noah, where the Arabian Peninsula’s highest mountains emerged from the Flood, towered behind them, parted by thin alleys and roads like a valley between the Dead Sea’s waves. Towering houses of brick and quartz, up to seven stories tall, lorded their pre-industrial height over a labyrinth till they re emerged along the sunken road that girds the historic center. A tea shop selling at 40 cents a mug housed content, big bellied men around umbrella tables, wearing white Arab thobe robes with belts wrapped around their thick stomachs that held curved daggers much too large to conceal. And detailed beautifully to be showed off with pride more than held in moments of fear.

Lincoln lifted himself from the back of the jeep, the aroma of the caramelized sugar set off alarms in his head, “Oh, Cook, you’re a genius.” He hopped out of the jeep and started towards the teashop before spinning around, “Markel, bring the bird!”
Markel’s unasked question was answered and he gently removed himself from the jeep, taking care not to disturb the bird unnecessarily. He sniffed the air, marvelling at his surroundings, but after a moment he walked briskly to catch up. He didn’t seem to be in a speaking mood.
Picking a place among the sleepy, thinned crowd inside, Cook crossed her arms under her chest as she leaned onto the table. “Don’t bring that filthy thing in here, Wake.” Her eyes rolled behind the the thick dark shades. The shop was set up like a bar, or a ramen stall, or a sushi cafe. Behind the counter a man worked diligently with the tea though it were a dying, distinguished art of raising and lowering a tiny spittoon of black tea until it froths just so, dribbling in condensed milk, then adding a heap of Brazilian sugar that caramelizes in the pot. The metal cups would prove hazardous for those not patient enough to let it cool. Though it was a wonder who would subject themselves to such a beverage in such heat.
“That -thing- is the most important piece of equipment we have at the moment.” He says siding up to Cook, watching in admiration as the man performs his art.
Markel simply held the cage with both hands protectively. Still, he was silent and also apparently not in the mood for refreshment. In fact, he seemed ready to move on.
Cook put her backpack in her lap, and took a map out of the side pocket to spread out in front of the three. “We’re about a stones throw away from the Empty Quarter. There’s no way to get through the core of the Sands without the right guide and supplies.. Supplies we can do, guide we’ll have to find. That’s what you’re here for, Wake. You’re going to make sure we take the precautions we need to navigate around the outskirts among the locals so we can get information. Gossip. Folk lore. Myths. Rambles of a crazy man -anything-.”
Lincoln sat with his hands on top of one another, the sweet smell of his tea taunting him as he waited for it to cool. “How much time do we have?”
“And where do you want me?” He asked, not unkind, but he seemed to be in one of his moods. “I haven’t been here before, so I’m following your lead.”
“Right by me, /honey/.” She gently knocked her elbow at Markel’s arm, glancing at him from the corner of her eyes. “Cheer up. You’re in a city of pure mythology that mocks time with its suspended progress in time.” Markel had gotten Cook’s attention first, maybe because she’d noticed his behavior, maybe because he was essentially his boss, maybe she just liked him. -Probably- because Wake was just fun to dismiss. “— Time? I want to be out of here by tomorrow.” She flicked the individual plastic passes to each, that were labeled with well forged validations to let them through most boarders.
“Anything you say, dear,” he said without a hint of humor but also without sarcasm, and for once, he was thankful for the glasses, for his face hid what his eyes did not. A strange mix of apprehension and irrational helplessness. And he didn’t even know why. He shrugged, more to himself than to her. Just your senses being overactive again.

Lincoln sighs and sits up taking a single sip from his tea and his pass, “Then we’re wasting time.” He was already out the door.
“—Hey! Oh for the love of—” She slammed a hand of colourful bills down on the counter, snatching up the map and Markel’s upper arm. “Lets go before he drives off without us.”
Markel wiggled his arm free to more easily carry the falcon’s cage and followed the two out.
He was outside, talking with locals, showing them a picture. When he heard the falcon cage rattling he turned and saw Cook and Markel walking out of the shop, he folded up the picture and climbed back into the jeep.
Cook would spare a glance over her thick shades that crawled with merciless judgment, and a warning that she knew. It was in his best interest not to get distracted with personal baggage. Sliding back into the driver’s seat, putting the throttle in gear, and peeling out of their illegal parking space they were back onto the smooth stone road dodging thongs of robe wrapped natives and red cheeked, sweat glistened tourists. Their road out the city was not worth discussion, and gave them a final chance to enjoy the sites before a long, scèneless strip of tar would plummet them deeper into the unforgiving desert as the sun began to reach it’s peak.
[1400. Yemen border.]
Cook slide the jeep into the checkpoint, as they’re stopped by Yemeni soldiers. They’re chewing huge gobs of khat and are polite granted the stockless AK-47’s on their backs as they hunch in the jeep’s windows like they were striking up idle conversation. In Arabic, they ask for identification then gesture to Cook’s card hanging around her neck. She doesn’t need Lincoln to translate, and holds it out to them. More Arabic, explaining to not smile and looking forward, as they take snapshots of each individual “for their protection” in case they happened to go… missing.
Several hundred dollars were exchanged before the trio could continue on. Another 25 minutes and they arrived at the small grassy village of a local group of al-Matheel Bedouins. Lincoln stepped out from the jeep and leaned back in, “Stay here.” He turned towards the gathering group and put on his best smile, greeting them in Arabic. The group of desert people seemed congenial enough and even smiled a little. There was a low murmur when Lincoln seemed to have mentioned Ubar, but when he pointed back towards the jeep they all threw their heads back with hearty laughter, even Lincoln was laughing with them. The man who seemed to be in charge spoke first after the fit of laughter and Lincoln nodded and headed back to the jeep, still chuckling.
Markel idly fingered the bars of the cage, his expression very passive as he watched Wake’s conversation with the desert people. He didn’t know what they were saying, but he could probably guess: crazy tourists or archaeologists, paid Wake a lot of money, et cetera, et cetera. Of course, he could be completely wrong. He sighed and gazed at the falcon, his face softening a little bit at the bird.
As returned to the jeep, he grabbed the cage and lifted it from Markel’s lap, turning right back around and handing it to the man in charge with a mutual gesture of thanks and respect, the two men laughed again and Lincoln came back to the jeep, reaching in and grabbing his back, slinging it around his shoulder.
“— What was that about?” She asked curious more of their conversation, then the obvious bride exchange. At least the bird came of use. Cook looked at Markel before Lincoln answered, sliding her shades down a bit. “Hope you’ll be fine without your new friend.”
“I offered them you, Cook, but they wanted the Falcon instead.” He chuckled again at the thought, “Something about ‘too much work’, Oh, and we walk from here.”
Markel snorted and smiled a sort of self-deprecating smile, and he disembarked from the jeep, casting one final glance at the Bedouins and their new prize before gazing about his surroundings. “Now what?”
“What did they tell you, Wake?” She asked, holding onto the straps of her pack as she approached to them both. Blistering heat reflected from the spring, the grass around it dry and clinging to life. But it was a paradise in the Sands; the unending ocean of dunes with ripples along the surface of the reddish grains. Behind these rocky walls that shielded them from harsh and skin tearing winds that carried a heavy heat that could suck out your breath right from your thought. “Did you mention the Atlantis of the Desert?”
He adjusts his glasses and makes his bag more comfortable around his shoulder, “I did. They weren’t going to do it at first, hence the falcon. They agreed to give us one guide and three camels, one for the guide of course, ” He grins, claiming one for himself.
“— I guess we’d better give Mister Smythe the other so he doesn’t fall behind.” She quickly interjected cruely.
Markel glanced at her, his sunglasses making his gaze seem passive and stony, but he didn’t say anything. He merely tugged at the canteen in his pack and gave it a small sip, just enough to wet his tongue, and then replaced it. He seemed lost in thought.
Lincoln swung up onto the camel, wrapping his right leg around the horn of the saddle and hooking his ankle under the knee of his left, “You can ride with me, Markel, or Cook can, or you two can ride together.” He would smirk as he adjusted himself on the camel.
Markel shrugged. “Go with him, Cook.” He said before choosing one of the other camels.
Lincoln laughs and leans down a bit, offering his hand to Cook, “The Bedouins don’t want you, Markel doesn’t want you. Poor Cook, come here.” God he was enjoying himself.
“-Fuck you, Lincoln-.” She shot him a two fingered gesture of a V up at him. “-No- appreciation, I -swear-.” Though it was no doubt she was not in her element in a world where women were regarded as relatively powerless in comparison to how she usually operated. At least she still had her occultism… Gripping Wake’s arm she hoisted herself up on the hump of the camel and secured an arm around his core. They met up with a man who’ face bore lines of age and sun abuse, like the ripples along the sand. He would guide them, speaking to Lincoln directly as their translation, often gesturing to Markel politely, and completely ignoring Cook.
The guide took the lead into the vast ever changing wastes of the Rub’ Al-Khali desert. Lincoln took the cane and swatted the camel’s shoulder, giving it a move command, “Hee-yah, C’mon, yip.” And sure enough the camel started a steady pace.
If Markel felt any schadenfreude at Cook’s misfortune, he didn’t indicate it. He imitated Wake’s commands and tried not to look like a total noob. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ridden such an animal. Probably when he was a child. Don’t spook the camel, Markel.
Breathtakingly vast, the ocean of shifting grain seemed to continue beyond the horizon, though there was no other world outside of the desert. They’d come from a world in only its infantry and here they made footprints in the face of some of the oldest piece of earth to exist. Beyond the dawn of man, surpassing the age of ice and frozen tundra, dwarfing the ancient cities of eastern and western lands by thousands of years. Cook gave wordless gasp of awe as they rode to the peak of a dune; their camels swaying side to side in their trot to greater emphasize the ocean likeness of the place, like they were rocking on boats. “Where’s he going to take us, Wake?” She asked, as a rolling wind beat sand against their camels and brushed roughly along their clothes and skin.
Since entering the endless sands, the guide had been speaking non-stop, Lincoln only replying now and then, usually politely telling him to shut up. He leaned back slightly into Cook as she spoke, turning his head to the side, “There’s a well about 3 hours from here, apparently that’s where the desert sings you the way to Iram.”
Markel finally managed to settle into a rhythm with the camel, enough that he could take his eyes off the back of the creature’s head and actually look around. Though like he had been for much of the trip, he seemed to be keeping any emotion he felt off his face. When the two’s voices broke into his silent musings, however, he glanced up, his interest immediately perked.

The patterns of the dancing, swirling storms of sand in the distance changed courses and waltzes, but never did the landscape spreading into the horizon change. There was no distinct here or there in the Empty Quarter, just where you were that moment and where you’d be when your journey ended. Dead or alive. Through a veil of thinning dust and sand a solid shape interrupted the blurred lines of a mirage coming into view. The guide gestured up and down the distance between them and the supposed well, remarking to Lincoln about something that made him point to the twisting dust devils then the sun which was positioned closer to the west horizon. Cook craned her neck to see over Lincoln’s shoulder, grateful to have the sun behind her, “Wake? What’s the significance of this well?”
He turned his head, making sure both Cook and Markel could hear, “He says that this is a good spot to listen to the desert sing. That’s where we’re headed now I guess.”
“And what does this singing -matter-, Wake?”
“According to him, it’s important. But he won’t say much more than we have to listen and that it’s just up here.”
Markel lazily watched the formulating well in the distance. Even with the heat and the dust and the sand, he might’ve felt some semblance of peace. Or boredom. That quickly changed. And he glanced over his shoulder sharply at Cook. “What about my daughter?” Even with the shades covering his eyes, the way his lips parted suggest that whatever he heard was completely out of the blue.
“— What?” Cook slid her glasses down and squinted at him, before quickly returning the dark shades to her eyes. “I didn’t say anything about her, Smythe.” Cook insisted, swaying unexpected as the camel she shared with Lincoln was made to stop. Markel slowly turned away from her to stare at the back of his camel’s head, his lips still parted in puzzlement. He looked to the other side of him as if expecting to see or find something there. —There was only sand. He suppressed a shiver, halting his own camel beside theirs as Lincoln dismounted. “I think we’re being watched.” His voice was low, guttural, and it was probably an unnecessary observation. Lincoln shoots a glance up at Cook as he climbs down from the camel, he was almost disgusted, “Cook, now is -really- not the time fo—” He whipped his head behind him, certain he heard the name Caitlin.
There was none there to of called either name, but them or their guide. Yet a phantom orchestra played a hollow bellowing of a horn that dragged on through the rough, grainy quality of what sounded like a poor recording. A vibrating came out of the mountains of sand around the clearing the well was found and from under their feet as they dismounted, coursing like a pulsing vain through them and out into the endless stretch of desert behind them. With Cook on her feet, she was already adjusting herself after the long ride atop the uncomfortable perch, but Lincoln and Markel were fixating on that sounds of creeping whispers like falling grains… Engulfing their senses, it seemed to melt away even the sounds of their own thoughts, whispering in their ears names their mind wanted to hear. Or didn’t want to hear. The guide had begun to ball up pieces of stripped cloth, fixing them into his ear canals and shouting at Lincoln in his self-produced deafness. It was just the same word over and over, and if he were insisting on something. “Djinn! Djinn!”
Markel pressed his hands hard against his ears, as if he were trying to compress his head. Names conjured faces— faces he never wanted to see again. And he could feel himself slipping. No! No, no there! He backed away from the group; the sound of his own ragged breath drowned out by the commotion around them, under them, inside them. His lips moved, he couldn’t concentrate.
“FOCUS!” The word came out almost inadvertently, as a command and as a spell. His hand held out in front of him, glowing slightly and attempting to ward away the voices boring into them.
Their guide cupped his ear, straining to hear the muted songs, then removed his gotten clogging to realize the music had stopped. In a scream of Arabic he gestured to the camels and began away from the well he’d been harvesting water from in his wait, approaching them, walking along the sand that pulled away from their feet like broken waves on the shore returning into the sea. When the swirling dust devil violently crashed into him he stood no chance, the sands twisting his clothes mummifying him before his body was flicked into the air overhead. The height that he came plummeting from into the sands reduced his corpse to a mangled, mulch mess of flesh, cloth and sand as his body streaked across a dune like a brush of red paint along a canvas.
“— Oh fuck…” Cook announced the thought that had passed both the men’s minds while they’d witnessed the unexpected assault. An amorphous shape, which had so effortlessly disposed of the man, appeared merely as a gathered mass of sand and wind with its form being fed by the slowly rolling gains it sucked from the desert beneath it. Having to severely concentrate to keep from going mad, Lincoln snaps his head towards Markel,
“Do you have something to send this fucker to hell?!” He lifts his hand up, waiting for the go ahead. Markel shook his head, as he regarded the djinn with blank, shaded eyes. “I can protect us. I can’t bind it.” His hand still glowed, now more brightly as he intensified the wards around them.
A slither of a moment after and the djinn, hidden among the storm, threw itself at their group with enough force that they should of gone barrelling into the sky at the same deadly height as its first victim. It parted in a symmetrical bubble around them, Markel’s protective ward redirecting it so it crashed into the ground behind them like a powerful wave, but this had them trapped with all roots of escaped concealed in a thick veil of swirling sand around them….