A Few Rich People
25-09-2004, 23:58
Mikial Zakrufs sat in his Spartan office, deep in the “Bastion”. He sat behind the cold steel desk, staring at the two fist-sized orbs he held in his hands, one purple one yellow. The orbs flickered and danced in his hand, as if lit from within.
“No, I can’t do that,” he whispered out to no one, “I’ve been loyal for so long.”
They continued their eerie dance of light, streaking across his face.
“I see what you mean, but still,” he spoke slowly, as with a speech impediment.
Faster now, they flashed, blinking on and off, his eyes contracted as they assaulted his eyes till finally, FLASH
He was still seated in his office, but something was wrong, the pure steel desk shimmered with orange and his hands were empty. The normally humming electronics around him were silent and dead. Slowly he stood up, pushing the black iron chair behind him. Walking towards the door, stepping in it rotates till he finds himself facing the control center, empty; no one filled its many seats watching the world.
Swzoon, he turned his head, the blast door at the front of the chamber-slid open. Cautiously he left, leaving the control room behind. Stepping out into the corridor he stopped, the ground stopped, the ceiling stopped, and the walls stopped, he was standing at the edge of an abyss. Its milky gray smoke fluttered like restless ghosts, obscuring his vision of any end that it may contain.
“Mikial…”
“Whose there?” he cries, voice quavering.
Slowly from the distance, two lights appeared through the gray fog, one yellow one purple. “Mikial, we have waited for you,” the lights spoke as one.
“Why?”
“We have needed you Mikial, just as the others need you, you are the Worra Came”
“What is that?” Mikial asks.
“It is what you are Mikial,” the leisurely spoke, softly drifting closer.
“Others?”
“You know them, our brethren, they call to you just as we did. We need you in your world, you are as of us, and we shall guide you.”
“Guide me…”
“As you wish…”
“But I…” he was cut off. The lights flashed forward, impaling themselves in his chest. Their light, their searing light, tore at his flesh, at his mind, he was not Mikial anymore, he was as they were, the Worra Came.
“I see,” he said in a voice that was not his own, “I am of you,” suddenly he understood, he was not Worra Came, for that was their tongue, he was the World Ravager.
FLASH
He was back in his office, no longer standing over the abyss. He knew what he was, he knew his task, pressing down upon the intercom he barked, “Call a Board meeting.”
***
The Board murmured, what could Mikial want with them? The Chairman, Ms. Eunice Elysian, wondered too, Mikial rarely did thing without consulting her first.
But they did not muse long; the familiar pounding click of Mikial’s boots upon marble halls deadened the din. All eyes faced the massive fifteen-foot oaken doors. With a thunderous crack they flew open, slamming unto the tiled walls aside them, shattering their gleaming white surface.
In the settling dust stood Mikial, tall and proud in full ceremonial robes. Flanking him, two soldiers, standing at attention, assault rifles in hand, their blackened gleam dulled by the settling dust.
“What is this meeting about Mikial?” Inquires a Board member.
Slowly striding in Mikial turns, looking at each and every man and woman on the Board directly before speaking, “Why my friends, this is about my succession.”
A pistol, its surfaced leafed with gold flashed out from beneath his robes, the symbol of his office, pointed at the Chairman, Mikial fired.
Her face twisted in surprise, frozen like a marble statue, still staring at Mikial, she slumped down her chair, leaving a river of crimson blood upon the white backing of the chair.
A communal gasp resounded in the chamber. But a sharp nod from Mikial, ended that, the soldiers leveled their rifles. The Board members faces turned from shock to horror, for that brief moment after the leveling of a gun. Shots rang out, sweeping back and forth, thumping against the bulletproof windows at the back, shattering wood, bone, flesh, and paint.
The guns fell silent, it was done. Striding with pride, Mikial walks around the table, looking at the once breathing board; bodies slumped and contorted across the mahogany table. Reaching the former Chairman a brief flash of pity crossed his face, “If only it did not have to be like this,” he mused to the corpse.
Smiling now, he shoves the still cooling body aside, off and over the chair. Pulling it out for himself he sits. The blood, trickling down his back, warming him, reaching father within he robes he pulls out the orbs. Their glows became almost as if satisfied. Setting them upon the table, sitting there like two crystal monoliths, watching, laughing.
“No, I can’t do that,” he whispered out to no one, “I’ve been loyal for so long.”
They continued their eerie dance of light, streaking across his face.
“I see what you mean, but still,” he spoke slowly, as with a speech impediment.
Faster now, they flashed, blinking on and off, his eyes contracted as they assaulted his eyes till finally, FLASH
He was still seated in his office, but something was wrong, the pure steel desk shimmered with orange and his hands were empty. The normally humming electronics around him were silent and dead. Slowly he stood up, pushing the black iron chair behind him. Walking towards the door, stepping in it rotates till he finds himself facing the control center, empty; no one filled its many seats watching the world.
Swzoon, he turned his head, the blast door at the front of the chamber-slid open. Cautiously he left, leaving the control room behind. Stepping out into the corridor he stopped, the ground stopped, the ceiling stopped, and the walls stopped, he was standing at the edge of an abyss. Its milky gray smoke fluttered like restless ghosts, obscuring his vision of any end that it may contain.
“Mikial…”
“Whose there?” he cries, voice quavering.
Slowly from the distance, two lights appeared through the gray fog, one yellow one purple. “Mikial, we have waited for you,” the lights spoke as one.
“Why?”
“We have needed you Mikial, just as the others need you, you are the Worra Came”
“What is that?” Mikial asks.
“It is what you are Mikial,” the leisurely spoke, softly drifting closer.
“Others?”
“You know them, our brethren, they call to you just as we did. We need you in your world, you are as of us, and we shall guide you.”
“Guide me…”
“As you wish…”
“But I…” he was cut off. The lights flashed forward, impaling themselves in his chest. Their light, their searing light, tore at his flesh, at his mind, he was not Mikial anymore, he was as they were, the Worra Came.
“I see,” he said in a voice that was not his own, “I am of you,” suddenly he understood, he was not Worra Came, for that was their tongue, he was the World Ravager.
FLASH
He was back in his office, no longer standing over the abyss. He knew what he was, he knew his task, pressing down upon the intercom he barked, “Call a Board meeting.”
***
The Board murmured, what could Mikial want with them? The Chairman, Ms. Eunice Elysian, wondered too, Mikial rarely did thing without consulting her first.
But they did not muse long; the familiar pounding click of Mikial’s boots upon marble halls deadened the din. All eyes faced the massive fifteen-foot oaken doors. With a thunderous crack they flew open, slamming unto the tiled walls aside them, shattering their gleaming white surface.
In the settling dust stood Mikial, tall and proud in full ceremonial robes. Flanking him, two soldiers, standing at attention, assault rifles in hand, their blackened gleam dulled by the settling dust.
“What is this meeting about Mikial?” Inquires a Board member.
Slowly striding in Mikial turns, looking at each and every man and woman on the Board directly before speaking, “Why my friends, this is about my succession.”
A pistol, its surfaced leafed with gold flashed out from beneath his robes, the symbol of his office, pointed at the Chairman, Mikial fired.
Her face twisted in surprise, frozen like a marble statue, still staring at Mikial, she slumped down her chair, leaving a river of crimson blood upon the white backing of the chair.
A communal gasp resounded in the chamber. But a sharp nod from Mikial, ended that, the soldiers leveled their rifles. The Board members faces turned from shock to horror, for that brief moment after the leveling of a gun. Shots rang out, sweeping back and forth, thumping against the bulletproof windows at the back, shattering wood, bone, flesh, and paint.
The guns fell silent, it was done. Striding with pride, Mikial walks around the table, looking at the once breathing board; bodies slumped and contorted across the mahogany table. Reaching the former Chairman a brief flash of pity crossed his face, “If only it did not have to be like this,” he mused to the corpse.
Smiling now, he shoves the still cooling body aside, off and over the chair. Pulling it out for himself he sits. The blood, trickling down his back, warming him, reaching father within he robes he pulls out the orbs. Their glows became almost as if satisfied. Setting them upon the table, sitting there like two crystal monoliths, watching, laughing.