08-01-2014, 09:02 AM
Part One: "Fetch"
Whispers shared in the backseat of a limo –
“I’m sorry, but you’re seriously going to proceed with what you yourself described as “an alpha protocol mission” while this remains as an unknown variable?”
“Afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The obvious.”
“Don’t get wise with me.”
“Oh, I gotcha on this one.”
“What, now?”
“I figured it out before you did.”
“Figured bloody what out?!”
Eyes from several directions, all pointed at them.
“Shush. You wouldn’t wanna worry your pretty little guest, would’ja?”
The eyes move away.
“Look, I swear, if this is about some petty jealousy again, I—“
“No, fool. Have you been paying any attention to yourself?”
“First of all, where do you get off, calling me a fool? Secondly, of course I do. I know my every atom.”
“Sure you do, but you’ve ignored the internal, immaterial parts of you.”
“Elaborate.”
“Listen to yourself.”
“…what?”
“Your accent. It’s been changing.”
“My voice jumps around all the time. I can speak nearly any verbal human language and regional dialect in all this world’s history; I’m bound to slip between them all at some point.”
“Alright, fine. But what about your recent diet?”
“What of it?”
“All you seem to drink nowadays is shitty box wine.”
“It’s the only kind Miles ever buys.”
Conceited chuckling. A roll of the eyes.
“And the other night…”
“Which one? Shite boxed wine makes everything kinda fuzzy.”
“When you made us watch that WWI movie…”
“Mhm; that was for training…against gas attacks. So?”
“So, you sympathized with the French.”
“…oh, dear.”
Eyes agape in sudden realization. The horror rolls across his face. She smirks.
She was right.
South Watershed Regional Banquet Hall
South Watershed, Louisiana
8:07 P.M.
Less than an hour later, Annie watched from out of the corner of her eye as her master leaned over the dinner table upon one elbow. But she knew better than to think this was a simple sign of his boredom; he was certainly waiting for the right moment to strike. The banquet hall was all atwitter with the sounds of friendly chatter and occasional feigned laughter. Just as Mystica had expected, their own table had been fairly unoccupied by their targets. As of this moment, it was just the two of them seated there.
Under the guise of reading the room, she stole glances back at him as he appeared to fall deeper and deeper into the process they both dreaded most. He was losing control. Though she took some pride in knowing she had come to understand what was about to occur before he himself took grasp, she could not hold onto it. This process had come at a most inopportune time. Finally looking away from her lord’s uneasy posture, she rolled back the pressed white cuff of her shirt to stare down at the plain watch she had lifted from a market stand back in Savannah. Eight minutes to showtime.
Annie glanced back at Mystica. He now sat bent over the table, head cradled in both hands. Leaning to one side, Annie managed to catch a glimpse of his face, which had apparently contorted in pain. He began massaging his temples, as though trying to force a sickness past himself.
“How long do you have?” she asked in a whisper, leaning over toward him. Not even bothering to look up at her, he blindly shooed her away.
“Pay me no mind,” he replied sternly. “Do not draw attention.”
She leaned back into her neutral pose, hands upon her lap, eyes straight ahead, staring at the empty stage. The plan was melting beside her. A helplessness was beginning to seep through the room -- a scent emanating from her which she could not mask. Mere feet from her, Mystica suddenly erupted in a fit of muffled coughing.
“What is it?” she asked, not daring to break her façade to look at him.
“The lobster tank,” came his curt response.
Annie’s cold eyes moved to the lobster tank across the room. Yet nothing seemed amiss with the crustaceans or their improvised aquatic environment.
“What of it?”
“Fetch the one with the blue claw,” Mystica ordered, suddenly making direct, locked eye contact with his wayward apprentice.
She froze in place, rather confused by this sudden command. One thin eyebrow rose in question.
“I’m…sorry?”
“Fetch. The one. With the blue. Claw.”
Hands now trembling, Annie stared back across the room at the lobster tank. From this angle, she couldn’t quite make out any distinguishing colours inside the tank, aside from the usual rush of reds and blacks. Typical lobsters, she figured, he’s gone completely mad. Or, rather…
“Is this because of Marc—“
“Shut up and fetch the damn bottom feeder!”
That was the end of it, then. No other options here. He was utterly and completely serious, it seemed, and Annie dared not question the matter. She had to retrieve a particular lobster from a conspicuous tank in the midst of a crowded banquet hall without attracting attention. Quickly snatching her clutch purse from the tabletop, she stood. But before taking off across the room, she stole one last questioning glance at her leader, but he was far too busy trying to control his left hand, which had begun a series of wild spasms.
“Go,” he barked at her in a hoarse whisper.
And go she did, at a rather quick pace. Striding across the hall, she bumped a waiter, and nearly lost her footing. Rather than berate the poor service worker, she tossed a quick apology over her shoulder. It was only then that she noticed the wage slave she had rustled was actually another of the Sleeping God’s numerous associates, Miles Baldwin. He shot her a quick smirk – that brilliantly white smile of his that contrasted with his darker skin tone – and went back to his duties. Annie was left with that same helpless feeling, knowing that Mystica had placed several agents in the room.
What was this? He had multiple ground forces working the floor, and she was fetching a fucking lobster. Did he think she was stupid? Was this just some wild goose chase meant to distract her while he took care of the real business? Her lips stiffened as she both metaphorically and literally bit her tongue. Very well, then, she figured, if he wants me to accomplish some random errand, I’ll do it with the utmost style and efficiency.
Approaching the tank, Annie began to scan the bottom for any flashes of blue. But before her eyes could truly make out any fine detail, the mystery was broken for her by an unlikely source.
“In the corner,” a voice said, coming from what sounded like everywhere and nowhere at once.
“Really?,” Annie questioned the air, not daring to believe something so utterly moronic.
“Down here,” the voice continued. “In the tank.”
“Oh, fuck this."
“I’m sorry, but you’re seriously going to proceed with what you yourself described as “an alpha protocol mission” while this remains as an unknown variable?”
“Afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The obvious.”
“Don’t get wise with me.”
“Oh, I gotcha on this one.”
“What, now?”
“I figured it out before you did.”
“Figured bloody what out?!”
Eyes from several directions, all pointed at them.
“Shush. You wouldn’t wanna worry your pretty little guest, would’ja?”
The eyes move away.
“Look, I swear, if this is about some petty jealousy again, I—“
“No, fool. Have you been paying any attention to yourself?”
“First of all, where do you get off, calling me a fool? Secondly, of course I do. I know my every atom.”
“Sure you do, but you’ve ignored the internal, immaterial parts of you.”
“Elaborate.”
“Listen to yourself.”
“…what?”
“Your accent. It’s been changing.”
“My voice jumps around all the time. I can speak nearly any verbal human language and regional dialect in all this world’s history; I’m bound to slip between them all at some point.”
“Alright, fine. But what about your recent diet?”
“What of it?”
“All you seem to drink nowadays is shitty box wine.”
“It’s the only kind Miles ever buys.”
Conceited chuckling. A roll of the eyes.
“And the other night…”
“Which one? Shite boxed wine makes everything kinda fuzzy.”
“When you made us watch that WWI movie…”
“Mhm; that was for training…against gas attacks. So?”
“So, you sympathized with the French.”
“…oh, dear.”
Eyes agape in sudden realization. The horror rolls across his face. She smirks.
She was right.
South Watershed Regional Banquet Hall
South Watershed, Louisiana
8:07 P.M.
Less than an hour later, Annie watched from out of the corner of her eye as her master leaned over the dinner table upon one elbow. But she knew better than to think this was a simple sign of his boredom; he was certainly waiting for the right moment to strike. The banquet hall was all atwitter with the sounds of friendly chatter and occasional feigned laughter. Just as Mystica had expected, their own table had been fairly unoccupied by their targets. As of this moment, it was just the two of them seated there.
Under the guise of reading the room, she stole glances back at him as he appeared to fall deeper and deeper into the process they both dreaded most. He was losing control. Though she took some pride in knowing she had come to understand what was about to occur before he himself took grasp, she could not hold onto it. This process had come at a most inopportune time. Finally looking away from her lord’s uneasy posture, she rolled back the pressed white cuff of her shirt to stare down at the plain watch she had lifted from a market stand back in Savannah. Eight minutes to showtime.
Annie glanced back at Mystica. He now sat bent over the table, head cradled in both hands. Leaning to one side, Annie managed to catch a glimpse of his face, which had apparently contorted in pain. He began massaging his temples, as though trying to force a sickness past himself.
“How long do you have?” she asked in a whisper, leaning over toward him. Not even bothering to look up at her, he blindly shooed her away.
“Pay me no mind,” he replied sternly. “Do not draw attention.”
She leaned back into her neutral pose, hands upon her lap, eyes straight ahead, staring at the empty stage. The plan was melting beside her. A helplessness was beginning to seep through the room -- a scent emanating from her which she could not mask. Mere feet from her, Mystica suddenly erupted in a fit of muffled coughing.
“What is it?” she asked, not daring to break her façade to look at him.
“The lobster tank,” came his curt response.
Annie’s cold eyes moved to the lobster tank across the room. Yet nothing seemed amiss with the crustaceans or their improvised aquatic environment.
“What of it?”
“Fetch the one with the blue claw,” Mystica ordered, suddenly making direct, locked eye contact with his wayward apprentice.
She froze in place, rather confused by this sudden command. One thin eyebrow rose in question.
“I’m…sorry?”
“Fetch. The one. With the blue. Claw.”
Hands now trembling, Annie stared back across the room at the lobster tank. From this angle, she couldn’t quite make out any distinguishing colours inside the tank, aside from the usual rush of reds and blacks. Typical lobsters, she figured, he’s gone completely mad. Or, rather…
“Is this because of Marc—“
“Shut up and fetch the damn bottom feeder!”
That was the end of it, then. No other options here. He was utterly and completely serious, it seemed, and Annie dared not question the matter. She had to retrieve a particular lobster from a conspicuous tank in the midst of a crowded banquet hall without attracting attention. Quickly snatching her clutch purse from the tabletop, she stood. But before taking off across the room, she stole one last questioning glance at her leader, but he was far too busy trying to control his left hand, which had begun a series of wild spasms.
“Go,” he barked at her in a hoarse whisper.
And go she did, at a rather quick pace. Striding across the hall, she bumped a waiter, and nearly lost her footing. Rather than berate the poor service worker, she tossed a quick apology over her shoulder. It was only then that she noticed the wage slave she had rustled was actually another of the Sleeping God’s numerous associates, Miles Baldwin. He shot her a quick smirk – that brilliantly white smile of his that contrasted with his darker skin tone – and went back to his duties. Annie was left with that same helpless feeling, knowing that Mystica had placed several agents in the room.
What was this? He had multiple ground forces working the floor, and she was fetching a fucking lobster. Did he think she was stupid? Was this just some wild goose chase meant to distract her while he took care of the real business? Her lips stiffened as she both metaphorically and literally bit her tongue. Very well, then, she figured, if he wants me to accomplish some random errand, I’ll do it with the utmost style and efficiency.
Approaching the tank, Annie began to scan the bottom for any flashes of blue. But before her eyes could truly make out any fine detail, the mystery was broken for her by an unlikely source.
“In the corner,” a voice said, coming from what sounded like everywhere and nowhere at once.
“Really?,” Annie questioned the air, not daring to believe something so utterly moronic.
“Down here,” the voice continued. “In the tank.”
“Oh, fuck this."