He hated airplanes. It was almost an insult to the greater scheme of the universe -- technically his brother from The Bang -- that humanity would seek to become like gods and take to the skies. No, mankind could not leave beauty alone and allow the birds to hold something over them. This was the nature of man -- to never be the lesser; always to be kings and masters, and hold power over not only nature, but one another. Thus, why they all assumed some God or another had built this world for them and them alone. God's chosen animal: man. The idea had sent young men to their caskets and younger men into the skies, to shake their white, clenched fists upward in mockery of the god who had made them's design. This was the most massive insult.

Yet nestled in business class, with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a newspaper (pilfered from the sleeping gent seated directly opposite the airplane restroom's lap) in the other, Mystica felt a slight ease rolling over him. The worst was done now. With LeCourt's body secure and all loose ends tied up, he could find a moment to reflect -- not that he ever really chose to do so, but this was quite the occasion. It was the taste of victory on his lips that he washed down with the amber-coloured whiskey. Sweet, but with that burning aftertaste that told him the passing palate would never last, for there was always the presence, the nearness, of the next goal, ripping away that sweet zing. And how he relished and pined for that final zest: victory -- the world in flames.

As a woman passed his seat to head for the restroom toward the front, Mystica smiled. This contentedness was actually a bit unnerving, thereby defeating the purpose of being content. There. He had made another paradox. Time was a fickle thing, and even he could not fathom the truth behind it. Each man, woman, and child, perceives the passage of time at different rates. It's all relative to the observer. While, for him, this disconcerting content was passing by at an agonizingly slow rate, to the woman passing by to use the restroom, time was moving at lightning pace as she made a rapid dash for the unisex bathroom.

Looking back to his right, Mystica was quite miffed to discover his row-mate had closed the blind on the window in order to nap, thus blocking away the beauty of the world from nearly six miles above the surface. Charlatan. Did he not see something in it all? The beauty?

Wait. No. Not beauty. What...?

"Ah, LeCourt," Mystica whispered in realization, just quiet enough to remain inaudible to anyone else in the cabin, "have you finally woken up?"

Silence. Nothing yet. LeCourt would become conscious inside in due time, but for now, all that was leaking forth was little bits and pieces of his emotions. That poetic soul was clawing its way up the brain stem and vying for some semblance of control. This was the process started anew; he'd have to break LeCourt's spirit and gain ultimate control, just as he had failed to do with David. Poor, poor David.

"Dearest Old One..."

"No, no," Mystica sighed, burying his face in his hands. "Not you again."

"You are coming to me..."

"If only to figure out who you are," Mystica replied, unsure of whether or not the feminine voice echoing in his cranium could even hear his responses. "...or what you are."

"Hurry, my beloved god..."

With another audible sigh, Mystica turned back to the newspaper. Boston-area news articles were always so dull and drab. All they seemed to do was report on healthcare and how the local sports teams had yet again failed the good people of the city. But today, there was something much more interesting.







Mystica could only chuckle to himself. Ah, he had wiped the trail clean, yet he had left the remains of the ambulance for anyone to find. And yet...they hadn't? He began to wrack his brain for logical assumptions as to why, or better yet, how, they had not yet found the fairly obvious remains of the ambulance wreckage that had killed Sebastian Andrews. It seemed so utterly impossible. And yet, there was the hinging thought at the back of his mind.

Awake?

---

"Hush now," she implored to the man on the ground before her, who lay bound, gagged, and utterly beaten to a bloodied pulp. This was an ironic statement, as the fellow had stopped making any semblance of noise at least ninety seconds earlier, when he had finally lost consciousness from the grievous blood loss.

She grumbled mournfully to herself, wondering how in the world she was going to clean bloodstains out of a priceless Persian rug. Oxyclean? No, that'd be much too heavy-duty for a centuries-old bit of fabric, and furthermore, far too obvious an answer. She did not subscribe to Occam's Razor. She had not been raised a fool to believe in magic. Odd, considering...

Turning away from the man as he slowly bled out on the showcase floor of the museum, she locked eyes with a horrid, semi-human figure depicted in one of the paintings adorning the wall. This was White Gulch's only museum, and it contained even the most trite of artistic contributions. It made her gag -- the folly of human endeavor to find something meaningful in the meaningless. Existence, she knew, was simply coincidence.

Much like the coincidence that causes a hapless cat burglar to try to steal from the only museum in White Gulch, Utah.

She turned back to the new corpse upon the Persian rug, exsanguinated all over the patterns. With a small, pleasant smirk, she reached down into her simple leather boot and withdrew the stiletto blade that had been taped to her bird-like ankle.

This was her favourite part.