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X-treme Wrestling Federation » Warfare Boards » Warfare RP Board
To Sever - Part Six: The New Face of Fear
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Mystica Offline
Monsters Are Real


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(the villain you love to hate; has cult following)


#1
12-27-2013, 07:26 PM





Part Six: The New Face of Fear



Within a half-hour, LeCourt was four drinks deep. Meanwhile, Mystica had barely touched his first. But that’s the thing with alcoholics – once they have that first one, they lose all track of how many disappear down their throats. They become different people. Little did he know.

“Might want to go easy on the vodka, sir,” Mystica implored with false care, knowing LeCourt was too far gone to even realize how drunk he was becoming. Rather than respond, LeCourt grunted and took a deeper sip from his mug of vodka. Of course, Mystica meant no actual worry by his comment. It was more that he was following the rules of deception; he couldn’t have LeCourt doubting his status as David Martin. Then again, he doubted LeCourt could ever understand the true horror shooting him intrigued glances across the ugly tartan cover from the opposite side of his kitchen table. No man could ever truly fathom the bleak reality of the situation: mankind was not alone in the universe, and in fact, was quite insignificant.

“Another drink?” LeCourt asked, his words only now beginning to slur together. He could certainly hold his liquor.

Mystica glanced down at his glass. LeCourt had been so kind as to offer him a real glass in lieu of the admittedly pathetic graduation-themed mug LeCourt had been drinking out of. However, Mystica found himself quite surprised to find that he had even completed one glass of the mysterious mixed beverage LeCourt had offered him. It was foolish in hindsight, as he couldn’t have anything, let alone the minor effects of one glass of vodka mixed with 7-Up, distracting him from the goal in mind. He would not be leaving this house without his prize. But that had been guaranteed the moment LeCourt sipped from the mug of vodka. It had all been set in motion. Chronology would cooperate with the Old One tonight.

“I’ll pass for now,” Mystica answered, looking LeCourt in the eyes. They were such a dull gray colour, like a wad of chewed bubble gum that had been placed under the seat of a lonely Seattle park bench, soaking up rainwater for months on end. There, in those empty iris pools slept a profound sorrow the likes of which Mystica had not yet found in a human being. This man was so far beyond help, the Old One began to second-guess himself. But this is very much how it had to be. He would not stoop to desperation merely to be rid of David Martin’s intrusive, overly “human” thoughts. Not just any old body would do as a replacement. LeCourt had everything Mystica could ever want in a host: a sordid, merable history; scars, which were essentially physical stories, to tell; and a mind like a sharpened sword. LeCourt was bright, but incredibly vulnerable. Perfect.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re leaving so soon?” LeCourt whimpered pathetically, eyes filled with that same gray sorrow Mystica had seen seconds earlier. But the black pools of his pupils were now filling with something else: loneliness. Despite his unorthodox entry, Mystica’s sudden presence in LeCourt’s life had filled the man’s soul with a warmth that the vodka never seemed to bring to a boil. Inside, Mystica began to chuckle in pity of LeCourt. To him, Mystica’s appearance had been a blessing. A friend.

“Afraid I might have to,” Mystica replied, relishing the look of unadulterated hurt that swept across LeCourt’s stubbled face. “I had meant to stop by to say hello and whatnot, but…I’m on assignment, you see?”

“Really?” LeCourt pondered, leaning toward his former student in interest. “What kind of assignment?”

Bollocks. He had bought the lie, and had dug deeper. Now came the real exercise – lying about a lie, and delving deeper into the rabbit hole. Mystica took in a deep breath, pushed his hairline back, and let the lies flow forth from his lips like the River Styx. Charon be damned.

“Just a little expose piece on local government. These small towns with universities and whatnot.”

“Well…” LeCourt began, his head fluttering back and forth from the alcohol burning through his veins like liquid lightning, “should you ever require a word from someone who works at such universities, give me a call.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Mystica replied curtly. Then came the moment of truth. This was all it took now – this one, single moment of physical contact with LeCourt’s weakened psyche. Mystica slowly, ever-so-carefully, extended his hand. For a moment, there was silence as LeCourt observed Mystica’s outstretched hand. The wrinkles just didn’t look the same as he remembered. The little lines running along David Martin’s hand, the love-line most prominent, were out of line with what Marcel could recall. But everything was fogged; the vodka had taken its toll, and certainly done its job.

LeCourt grinned, pushed himself away from the table, and stood before finally taking one last glance at David’s outstretched hand. With a drunken prowess, LeCourt smiled and grabbed Mystica’s hand. It was the worst mistake he could have ever made.

Pain like lightning shot across their connected flesh, like a billion blades slicing him from head to toe, carving away at everything that made him mortal. He was no longer a conscious thing, but a battery, connected to a car’s engine, all set on overdrive as the fires inside burned and then chilled, like ice upon ice – a blizzard carving into the side of an iceberg mountain, freezing up the bones and catching the joints with a light blue smoke.

Freezing…

Freezing…

Deep beneath the ice.

It was only a second in time, but the transition felt like an eternity. Marcel LeCourt’s dull gray eyes shut. And Mystica opened his icy blue ones.




[Image: hughlaurie04.gif]




From across the table, David Martin opened his eyes, as well. Then, it all flooded into him, and it was as if David had been struck in the chest with a baseball bat. Suddenly drained of all breath, he crumpled, hands falling onto the table for guidance, and to prevent himself from falling face-first onto it in shock. Slowly, his eyes raised in their sockets, until he was eye-to-eye with Mystica, now embodying Professor Marcel LeCourt. As though rising to face an opponent in the gladiatorial arena, David pushed himself back onto his feet, still reeling from the shock of being truly free from the Sleeping God. But as he reached the apex of his climb back to dignity, he was suddenly struck by the pain of it all. And the horror. Mystica was no longer limited by David’s humanity. The oxygen fled from David’s lungs, and the blood froze in his veins as he stood, chilled by Mystica’s new form.

With all the grace of a prolific artist, Mystica lifted his new hand, moved it forward, and placed his palm over David’s face.

“Goodnight, David.”

And he pushed backwards, knowing what was bound to happen.

David Martin fainted, and fell backwards onto the tile floor of Marcel LeCourt’s kitchen.





Once outside, Mystica could feel the weight of LeCourt’s personal documents weighing down his pockets. It was awkward, maneuvering in this new body. He was slightly shorter than David had been, and accordingly, the Sleeping God was having some minute trouble working the shorter length legs as he stepped with attempted precision amongst the plants of LeCourt’s flower bed. Ahead, up on the road in front of LeCourt’s house, Zahra slowly pulled up in the beaten-down pickup truck, her dark eyes scanning the black of night for any sign of either LeCourt or David. With a smirk, Mystica began his slow approach of the vehicle, when his head was suddenly assailed by the presence of a powerful, yet oddly feminine voice.

“Master…”

Mystica paused and shook his head. No, that was impossible. Telepathy was a one-way street; only he could enter others’ minds and speak his share. Never before had conversation without words been initiated by someone other than himself. This queer beckoning was followed by a second eruption in his head from the voice, which he determined to belong to a young woman, probably no older than 18 or 19 years old.

“White Gulch…find me…”

“Damnation,” Mystica muttered, having tripped over a row of chrysanthemums, dying from the chill of the December night, having been distracted by the voice in his head. He wracked his brain momentarily for some semblance of information regarding the words that had been spoken by this queer voice in his head. White Gulch? Ah, yes. That made sense. White Gulch. He had his new goal.

With Marcel LeCourt’s body safely acquired, Mystica hobbled over to the pickup and took his place in the passenger’s seat of the pickup. Zahra, ever the inquisitive one, gave him a once-over with her dark, nutty eyes.

“LeCourt?” she asked with genuine curiosity and amusement. Mystica waved her question away with an open palm.

“One, you’re violating the rules I presented earlier. Two, drive. You have places to be.”

Zahra did as he ordered, but nevertheless remained defiant as she tossed the truck into drive and sped off down the road, leaving the house, and David Martin’s unconscious form, still lying on LeCourt’s kitchen floor, behind.

I have places to be? What the hell does that mean?”

“London. I’ll book the flight tickets when we arrive at the airport. There’s something I need you to fetch. And someone you need to assist.”

“Right,” Zahra replied vaguely, rolling her eyes. “And what will you be doing? Jerking off the whole time?”

“I’ll be off to White Gulch, Utah,” Mystica replied, his eyes now glancing out the window, lost in a deep plot of his own imagination. “I’ve been summoned.”





End of "To Sever"

Next: "Devotion"

[Image: b7zaJm8.jpg]

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