NationStates Jolt Archive

The gentle sound of water arcing from hoses concealed in the upturned mouths of marble figures, frozen in time with supple white limbs raised in homage to an unseen deity. The air of the room was warm, moist, and tasted of earth. Sunlight - a rarity through the smog-cloud, save on the vast plateau that homed the rich and wealthy of Praetor - danced rainbows through the vaporous air, shimmering.

The Emperor sat in a white stone chair, hard eyes staring blankly into the distance as he clutched a ring in his hand. A simple golden band, unadorned save for an inscription etched inside that read simply: "Elena", he convulsively folded his fingers around it as if to crush it. Time and again they flexed, but the knuckles never whitened, the grip never tightened.

Around him, throughout the palace, the Praetorian Guard remained silent out in respect for the dead.

Simon whistled softly as he observed the mark's car, black-tinted windows hiding everything within from view. Had the country been colder he could perhaps have looked for heat signatures: as it was, the smog and pollutants of the lower area rendered that impossible. It was a loud country, full of cars: where it wasn't full of military bases, at least. There were rural and agricultural areas but they were on the borders of the nation, well away from the industrial heartland.

The observations had taken place, on and off, for over a month: never two consecutive days, never during the periods of acid rain where people kept off the streets. Elena - the Emperor's mistress, and more crucially confidante - had simple and surprisingly modest pastimes, not given to the extravagance that she could have easily got away with.

Which was lucky, from Simon's point of view. She didn't feel the need to surround herself with bodyguards, not in the centre of Praetor, not here in her lover's seat of power.

A slight mistake.

ooc: tag, what kind of characters are you looking for?

tag

Michael Strong beamed a smile at the class. The attentive children pored intently over their desks, struggling to build bridges from matchsticks, paper, and string. It was never too early to teach the basics of practical subjects like engineering, or mathematics: bridging the gap between two tables so a small, remote control toy car could be driven across. Strong enjoyed his job, seeing the future technicians and engineers of his country learn the very basics of their trade. It fulfilled him, passing on the legacy of his knowledge to the younger generation. He’d done it for six years, ever since retiring from the R&D department of BrightLight Motors – the largest and best – and most efficient - automobile manufacturer in the world. But retirement came early, as BrightLight paid designers over 35 off with vast remuneration packages in order to keep fresh blood coming in. Teaching staved off the boredom, added a structure around which he could live his life. Stability, order, safety. Which was why, when one of the children looked up at him with gleaming red eyes and bubbling, stretching skin, he stepped back in astonishment. White canine teeth and a shining skull, gone as soon as he had seen them. Michael swallowed, and stepped back, staring wide-eyed.

“Sir, can I have more matches?” the little boy asked, innocent oblivious blue eyes meeting his. Mutely, Michael nodded.

The drive home towards the BrightLight retirement village was relaxing. Behind the wheel of his Captain the street lights blurred into streaks. The vast freeway complex, ten different roads linked by tunnels and bridges, allowed him to exit the metropolis within minutes. He worked in a suburban school, and soon the smart detached houses faded into farmland and coppices of trees, as the freeway narrowed down to a mere four lanes, a single road, empty of traffic. Many of the residents of the retirement village were on holiday, avoiding the choking fumes that heralded the coming of summer in Praetor. “Radio”, he said, and frowned briefly as a moment of static hissed and then cleared up, turning into the militaristic beat of the latest dance track (he considered it important to stay vaguely current, when dealing with children).

Stands of beech and yew zoomed past as he drove on, rapping his fingers on the steering wheel. His headlights swept the shadows ahead of them on the bends, limning trees in halos of light that sent silent shadows scurrying into the darkness. The road itself was kept bright, regular and empty. For a while. Until the shadows from of the tree limbs reached out, across the brightly-lit road, clutching at his car. He swerved dangerously to dodge them, right onto the opposite side of the road, the tyres squealing to keep their grip. A buzzing sound filled his ears, almost inaudible, sending the hairs on the back of his neck stiff … and then, it was gone. All clear, a normal road, empty.

Michael drove on home, looking around with frightened eyes, sick with fear. His dreams were restless, nightmares, full of whispered threats and sickening imagery. Rent corpses with tongues for eyes, glistening wet and salivating tears of mucus, bones showing through skin. Membranous hands stroked him and seared acidic trails over his body, bloated flesh erupting in black and rotted teeth that bit into him.


OOC:
Sorry, closed story thing

It took only took three days for the haunted schoolteacher to break, curl up gibbering in his room, ignoring the telephone ringing as his place of work attempted to discover his whereabouts. The retirement village was desolate at this time of year, with no concerned neighbours to note his abandonment of his job, and the roving security guards were well paid not to pry into the business of the residents. Wrapped in blankets, huddling in the stench of his own urine, Michael quivered at the slightest sound. He feared the buzz, the barely audible hum that accompanied the hellish sights that danced macabre in front of his bloodshot eyes. Huge kegs of water stood by the bed so he would not have to venture out of his refuge, a fifth empty one used as a chamberpot. He whimpered, clutching at the sheets with weak fingers, knuckles white.

And in another two days, all he could see were the visions, tasting the blood, smelling the rottenness, the dead that clamoured incoherent around him, the hate that grasped at him.

“Kill her,” they said, becoming more lucid as his sanity fled. “Her life for yours. Kill her.” He saw then, clearly, on the white wall of his room a woman he recognised: the consort of the Emperor. He saw her death, and the sights and voices fled, but not for long. He turned away, and they returned louder, stronger than before. He saw her death on the wall again, and they left him.

“Kill her,” they said after he turned away again. He nodded, sending tears dripping off his chin.

It was an unkempt, stubbly biker that disembarked at the passenger airport in the capital. A scruffy T-shirt with ‘Metallica’, a scuffed and tattered duffel bag that had chains dangling from it that the security guard had trouble feeding through the metal detector. The traveller grinned at the man, showing a pierced tongue, before taking his bag back and heading off into the queues for the Gents.

Once there, he waited for a brief pause during which no-one else occupied the room. Soaking some paper towels with hot water, he shuffled into a cubicle and set up a shaving mirror with the door locked behind him, putting a pair of boots on the floor pointing outwards in the unlikely event anyone should look at the gap between the floor and the door. He shaved quickly, without foam, using an old-fashioned straightrazor. With a wince, Michael took out the piercing in his tongue, dropping it into hygienic solution. A comb turned his spiked hair into neat hair, and his clothes were wrapped in a satchel within the bag. He removed a smart shirt, jacket, trousers, and a pair of soft leather shoes. It was a half-hour after the biker entered the airport that the smart businessman left, renting a ubiquitous car signing under a false name.

Michael spent a week observing the Emperor’s mistress’ habits. Although she travelled with minimal security, he rapidly spotted passers-by that became familiar: Special Branch bodyguards that doubtless even she did not know about. She was far better guarded than she seemed, only out for a few hours each day to shop, or meet friends in the Ristorante Espirite, an exclusive and expensive eatery that boasted a surprising number of staff who moved with an alertness and smoothness that indicated they were more than they appeared. The female toilet attendant carried a single-shooter, a faint outline only visible to prying eyes as Michael observed her in one of the mirrored walls. The way she stood up when someone approached, slightly awkwardly, and the flatness of her chest told him something else: she wore body armour.

There was an opportunity, however. The attendant, too, deserted her post outside the ladies: to use the facilities herself. If he waited, early in the morning she went in for a while. And one bright Tuesday, a week and several days after he had arrived in the capital, he prepared. He had purchased new clothes, smart in plastic packaging, leather gloves, a Fedora hat, clingfilm and a diabetic’s kit. He spread a plastic tablecloth over his bed, and put on the gloves to open up the clothes and clip away the tags and the designer’s label. He stripped, showered briskly in cold water to close his pores, dried himself, and walked across plastic bags to the bed. He cut the clingfilm into strips, and wrapped it around himself meticulously leaving only his face uncovered, wrapping each individual finger and toe. He then dressed himself, awkwardly. The Fedora covered the clingfilm over his scalp. He looked in the mirror and smiled, pleased. The diabetics needle, tag and solution went into his breast pocket. He set out for the restaurant, to watch for the attendant and Elona.

Michael waited for the woman to go in, and followed her a few moments later after listening at the door, concealed from the main restaurant by the privacy wall. He heard the ‘click’ of a lock going shut, and slipped in, his soft leather shoes making no sound as he headed to a booth at the end of the row, bounded by a wall. He went in, and pushed the door to quietly. He then lifted the toilet seat and stepping up to stand on the rim, so he would not be visible in the mirror as the attendant left the cubicle and washed her hands. There was a flush, the sound of taps, the sound of a hand-drying machine, silence.

The schoolteacher locked the cubicle door, and hoisted himself up to sit on the cistern and wait. It took an hour before he heard the ‘clack-clack’ sound of Elona’s high-heeled boots, the laugh he had heard distantly when drinking coffee, watching her. The clingfilm that wrapped his body was slick and wet with sweat, and he mopped his forehead with a scrap of toilet tissue as the sound of the taps coming on tinkled throughout the restroom. Michael made to move, but stopped: she would be staring into the mirror. The blow-drier came on again, and he reached out and unlocked his booth door whilst the sound was obscured. There was the echoing sound of another cubicle door closing. He stood on the rim of the toilet seat, stepped down as the rustle of moving clothing came from the woman’s location, and stood to the left of the door. It was not long before the toilet flushed, and the door opened. Elona walked out. He reached out, put one hand over her mouth, moved swiftly in behind her. She squirmed, her handbag fell from her hand to the ground. She was a slight woman, but it took all of his strength to lift her off the ground, palm over her mouth and the other arm around her stomach, pressing it up into her ribs, forcing her breath out through her nose. Her pleading eyes looked at him in the mirror, her convulsions lessened. She slumped, but he kept his hand over her mouth for another minute putting her down on the toilet floor. He headed back into the cubicle he had occupied, flushed the tissue with his sweat on it. Went over to stand by the door, rapped the gloved knuckles on it smartly, twice, and moved to be in the corner formed when the door was opened.

The interesting thing about stab and bullet proof kevlar, of course, is that a hypodermic needle can slip straight through the weave, into the heart, puncturing arteries, and leaving such a small entry wound that it takes hours for the blood to seep out …

Michael returned home.

Simon paused at the door to the teacher's house. The small packets of barbiturates, methamphetamines, noradrenaline crystals were safe in a pocket in his belt. Tiny sound transmitters, set to 16.7hZ, were stowed in their container, switched off. He reached up, removed a 'fly' from the window - a microphone, used to whisper instructions to the drugged teacher as he was bombarded with soundwaves that induced hallucinations in humans, below the conscious field of hearing.

It had worked well.

Five hours later he met with the distraught Emperor, and outlined his plans. The price was set, and he laughed all the way to the bank.

OOC: Then put in the title it is closed. That would help much.