An Immortals Tale: Part 9

An Immortals Tale
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 9
"Technically"


Crunch. Jon's head was killing him, even with his eyes closed. Crunch. That sound was determined. Crunch. The solid wood chair under him cradled his body with ease, the smell of the world outside of his closed eyes was waiting to be discovered. Crunch. With a groan and a lot of effort Jon brought his head up, forcing his winced eyes open. The world first seeped in, then poured in, then flooded into finality.

Jon was in his old chair, in his old monastery, sitting at his old wooden round table, with his old friend sitting across from him, a wide, goofy smile on his face and an apple in his hand. Jon's friend was thin, very thin, but handsome. All the girls around the village would nearly faint with his easy smile. Wide eyes, a broad, warm smile, and brown hair that stuck up made up his clean-shaven features. The smile never left his face as his jaw worked the apple and with a thick British accent drawled, "Good morning, sunshine!" Jon's face must have been twisted with displeasure because he went on, "Oh come on, now! Is that any way to greet an old friend?" The immortal's head swiveled around, taking in his old place.

Brown clay walls accented with wood surrounded him, torches hung in iron brackets, a fire crackled and danced in the fireplace, the smell of burning pitch was heavy, black, greasy stains ran up the walls above the many torches. Iron accents and a heavy oak door made up the rest of the decor, along with crosses and a single picture of the Last Supper. Finally Jon's tired eyes came back to rest on his friend. "What am I doing here?" he croaked out in an accent he'd worked to get rid of many years ago. His friend waved the apple around and scrunched up his face as he began his explanation, the first word drawn out, "Well. Technically you're not here. Technically, you're still in the bar where you were knocked unconscious. Technically, I am a manifestation of your newly formed powers trying to find a better way to explain themselves and their uses to you. Technically." With a satisfied nod, he crunched the apple again, looking at Jon for his response. "I'm...dreaming?" The hand without the apple came up and gave him the 'so-so' gesture, "You're not really dreaming. I'm just a conduit that your mind is using to give you the easiest path to understanding." Jon was having a hard time understanding, "So you're just a figment of my imagination? This place isn't real and I'm still on the floor with people standing over me, attempting to steal my soul away?" With wide, brown eyes, his friend nodded confirmation.

Jon sat up, pulling straight his old robes, adjusting himself for the drawn-out explanation. Just as the first words began to form in his mouth, the room started to suddenly darken. The torches and fire in the hearth still burned their amber color, but the light seemed to be dying down. His friend sighed and tossed the apple over his shoulder, "Well. Looks like we're out of time, Jon. But before you go remember this: Words are very, very powerful. The reason your powers chose me is because you remembered I was a Wordsmith." Jon suddenly began to feel very panicked, cold started to creep into his body, "Yeah, you were a Wordsmith, so what?" Darkness crept on, strangling the light. "I gave normal words power, not magic - Power. With your new abilities you got certain perks. Remind me. What's the Latin translation of 'The Voice of God'?" That big, toothy grin was the last thing that Jon saw before the darkness took him.

He was back in the bar now, not twelfth century London. All the old smells came back: wine, cigarettes, whiskey, the still smoldering ashes of his friend Ricky. Jon could barely perceive the hands above him, glowing orange, the bones black in contrast. His lips struggled with the words, the final clue that his old friend had given him. "V..ox....d..." soft syllables were strained past near-paralyzed lips. Murmurs above him tried to figure out what he was trying to say. Jon tried with all his might, this time, "Vox....Dios....."

Jon's eyes were suddenly wide open, his mind no longer in a fog, but racing. Power suddenly flowed through him like water sluicing off a person lying in a river. The words made sense. He said them again, his voice driven with fury and intensity, "VOX DIOS!" A bomb of orange light went off, a ring of it pushing outward, the cloaked bodies standing over the immortal on the floor sent flying. Some crashed into tables and chairs, others smashed the mirrors on the walls. All of the energy that had been stolen away slammed back into Jon, and once more he was a raging inferno of justice, on his feet again.

A cloaked figure stood and threw its hands out, sending gouts of flame at Jon. He didn't need the words, anymore, the power had been awakened. Jon could see the glow behind his eyes as he gathered the power in his throat and released it in an instant. The fire was extinguished, the clear, but visible geyser of energy kept going, taking with it the right arm of the caster and a chunk of the concrete pillar behind them. With a shrill scream and a spray of blood, the hooded one crashed to the floor, clutching the stump where their limb once was. A call for retreat sounded behind him and the other figures all dashed for the door, bypassing Jon. The Immortal could only glare at them as they moved faster than he could track, even with his newfound powers.

The last one up and to retreat was the one missing their arm. It limped as it went, but before reaching the door turned back, "We are not done with you, Paladin! You may think yourself righteous! But you've been named before! Judas Iscariot!" The hood fell back and revealed a face that only a nightmare could describe: green reptilian skin, pulled tight over a deformed skull, no lips, sharp rows of teeth lining a mouth filled with black saliva, yellow eyes. All the features, though alien, conveyed femininity.

Jon was already gathering another bolt of energy when her words struck him. With a hiss, the creature disappeared out the door. Jon was more than perplexed; his muscles and bones still ached from the wallops of air that had struck him earlier. Without another sound or thought, Jon righted a toppled chair and sat down, grieving for his vampire friend, letting his mind dance over the creature's final statement. As his thoughts went to sorrowful and dark places, the cell phone, that had miraculously survived the entire endeavor, went off. With hot tears stinging his eyes and a long sigh, Jon retrieved the vibrating thing in his pocket and opened the message. It was an anonymous sender, but the message was not encrypted. It said one thing: "The Circle of Altu'Rang."

An Immortals Tale: Part 8

An Immortals Tale
The Man in the Black Suit
Part 8
"The Day The Sun Died"

The change started in the cab home. Jons body became hot and bursting with energy that was slowly building to something he was dreading: Rebirth. The driver didn't bother asking questions and Jon liked it that way. The night was cold, vapors of heat rose from his overheating body in the backseat. It would take another few hours for the transformation to be complete, but before that he had to deal with the pain of it. Like a mother giving birth he had to take it all. The cab pulled up to his apartment and Jon threw a wad of cash at the man behind the wheel before fetching his impossibly heavy bag from the trunk, lugging it up the stairs while waves of pain crashed into him with no mercy or sign of relenting. His fingers fumbled with keys and after an immeasurable amount of time found the right combination. Inside the bag was tossed aside, thunking like a thousands pounds of metal against the hardwood floor, but he didn't care. Midnight was upon him and the worst of this pain was yet to come. In the middle of the room, near his comfortable chair he began to strip, losing his clothing with gusto, as if it were the fabric, itself, that was on fire and not his own skin. Soon he was naked upon the floor, panting heavily and trying to deal with the oncoming agony that seemed endless.

Invoking the powers of a Paladin for a holy man as he meant that new things would come to light, new powers, new abilities, new sight, new strength, but there was a price to be paid. Paladins were the purest of the holy hierarchy of the order, bringing judgement to humans, demons, and angels, alike. Jons perfect teeth gritted against the new wave, his eyes shut tight, every fiber of muscle like stone, as more of the pain come forth. Screams tried to escape him, only to be choked off by the rigidity of his own body. His mind was being torn apart as his body was rebuilding itself into something different: A Soldier. He clutched at the wooden floor beneath him, his knees on ground with his clenched hands. Hands so tight he was sure he was cutting into his own skin. Knowledge that had been tucked away come screaming forward, incantations, weaknesses, spells, and all the things that he never needed before, once so trivial, now impossibly important. The world drowned itself out in his suffering, the night outside the windows of his small residence reflecting a world that right now didn't matter. Then a break came. Just long enough for him to draw cold air into his lungs, right before the newest assault on his senses came, the first wave of the change complete. He screamed as he arched his back, so hard he was afraid, somewhere in the back of his tormented mind, that he had broken it. Legs stiff with pain could not support him and he fell back, his head meeting the floor along with his shoulders. And that's where he stayed, for hours, until the change was done with him. 

Midmorning was already singing its song by the time Jon came around. He was where he was before: On the floor, naked, twisted in an uncomfortable position. New energy flowed through him, new knowledge screamed in his mind. He stood up, slowly. Muscles had ripped apart, only to be rebuilt anew, adding and subtracting to perfect his new soldier body. Legs, though sore, carried his half limp body to the bathroom where he saw himself for the first time. His bland physique was gone, replaced with tone and bulk, his soft jawline now hard with muscles. But it was his eyes that frightened him the most: Still grey, for the most part, but now with a ring of red along the outside. Jon stood, mesmerized by his new body, as he quieted the new things in his head screaming for attention. He needed a drink. A shower later the immortal stood before his wardrobe and hoped upon hope that they still fit. With a giant sigh of relief he donned a black suit that hung perfectly off his rebuilt frame perfectly. In fact, it looked a little better, now. With little regard he lifted the now, almost lightweight, bag carrying all sorts of arms, into the closet to get acquainted with his wardrobe. But before he stepped outside he surveyed the world with his Paladin eyes. All of it, every single thing, seemed different. The buildings, the sun hidden behind the clouds, the people, all resonated something different. His reborn sight now was able to pick up the things that were lost behind a cloud of comfort.

Legs, that seemed to carry him with a lot less effort, made the walk to his favorite pub shorter. Along the way he had stopped and eaten three times, intake to fuel and maintain the power within himself that demanded more than what he was used to eating. Thoughts and deeds poured off the people he walked by, audible to him, now, like heat waves radiating off a hot coal. Some disgusted him, calling forth the fury waiting beneath the surface, others almost screaming for him to judge them. But he fought the instinct. He didn't want to pass judgement on them unless he had to. As he walked, though, he found he felt his usual smiling demeanor replaced with a frown, almost scowling at the things he now heard. At the things his new paladin powers allowed him to hear. He decided, then and there, at the thoughts of a man who wanted to murder his wife, that this new frown would be the face he would wear on this new body. Blocks passed, people passed, all the more disturbing to him. Sometimes his hands would clench so tight, trying to control the fury inside him, that they shook. He wanted a little peace. A bit of his old life back. And before he could lose control the door of his pub stood before him, welcoming, promising. He pushed it open. Inside sat the same old bouncer, with the same old look, but his reaction was different. Upon locking eyes with the incoming immortal he blanched pale and almost white, pushing the door open while he looked away from the judging gaze.

Ricky, the vampiric bartender, was at his usual station, staring at his phone and clicking away. The bar smelled the same, but now it was laden with something that had never been there before, and was as palpable to Jon as the brews being served to the patrons: Sin. Jons mood was too foul to play a prank on his favorite bartender and he made a beeline to the heavy wood counter. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted new patrons, all heavily robed and all drinking sacramental wine out of crystal goblets. He decided to ignore it as he took a chair and waited for Ricky to notice him. After a few moments the vampire looked up and saw the immortal patron and smiled, happy to see an old friend. Ricky made his way quickly, and fluidly, like he was floating on air to Jon. Jon had never paid attention to the way his bartender moved, but now it seemed almost alien, too fluid for a human, but ignored it, as well. "Jon! My favorite......" Rickys eyes met Jons. The already pale face of the undead bartender lost even more color, "What....did you do...Jon?" Rickys eyes were locked on his patrons, studying, and in pain. It gave the immortal pause to see such emotions flowing through his old friend, but he finally answered, "I'm a Paladin, now, Ricky." The vampire held his gaze, but 'No' kept tumbling off his trembling lips as he reached out a thin hand to touch a face he thought he knew. An audible hiss and a stream of smoke emitted from the outstretched fingers as they made contact with the new skin Jon wore. Slowly and trembling Ricky withdrew his hand, shaking with the pain of touching his friend.

"Oh dear God, Jon, no. A Paladin?" Jon could only nod as Ricky went on, "No, Jon, no! God have mercy. For the rest of my undead life I will remember this as the day the sun died and the world became a darker place." Watery eyes begged for an explanation. Jon began forming the words when the first blow came from behind, knocking his head into the heavy wooden counter and turning the world into a blur. Ricky gasped and suddenly ignited, like he'd been set on fire from the inside, flames seeping through cracks on his now burning and blackened skin, before he collapsed into a pile of smoldering ash behind the counter. Jons head came back up, but so did his anger, awakened and at the ready. The immortals hand shot behind him and grabbed thick robes, pulling the weight into the bar as he stood, knocking the wearer out. With unearthly speed Jon turned to face his assaulter. Before him stood six hooded figures, all near the same height as him, their faces hidden in shadow, their bodies hidden beneath thick fabric. Jon let his new power flare and flow to his fists that glowed orange, showcasing his bones through the illuminated skin. His voice was low, a growl, a hatred he'd never heard come from himself, "Your lives are now mine. FORFEITED IN THE NAME OF GOD!"

His left hand, burning with burning hot power, moved on its own, slamming down upon the figure on the floor, releasing the captive energy into the receiving body, reducing it to a flash of golden flame then ash. Powerful legs launched him from his half-crouched position towards the rest of the figures, a primal, guttural scream erupting from Jon the newly born Paladin. His movement was so fast that it slowed the world down to a crawl and for the first time since entering Jon saw the usually busy bar was empty save for the now seven occupants. Glowing fingers raked through the air, seeking a target in the hooded figures before him, begging to be released. He caught only fabric, that burned away into cinders, as the figures dodged his strikes. Jon wasn't connecting. He knew why: He wasn't utilizing his new knowledge. So he brought it forth. All the new methods of using his now muscular body joined him and now it became as easy as breathing. Thick fabric ripped and Jons extended limbs now connected. Although they tried to avoid him he was ripping into them. Every time one of the figures would try to mount an offensive against the immortal it was met with swift and aggressive action, interrupting the motion before it could be completed. Soon he had them on the ropes, his punches and kicks colliding with solid bodies. It only served to fuel his want to reduce them to nothing even more. 

The sound of splintered chairs and tables as Jon chased his aggressors around the bar joined the grunts and yelps of pain he elicited with his attacks. Finally he'd chased them into the back corner, six figures trembling and looking to one another from behind hooded cloaks. "ENOUGH! YOU DIE NOW!" Jon's throat burned with the scream as he launched himself again at them. Then his body came alive with pain. The robed figures threw out their hands, aimed at Jon, each sending an unseen knot of air at him. He was too committed to his own attack to dodge them. It felt like he was being shot with a machine gun, each knot smashing into him with unforgiving force, driving the air out of him, one or two cracking his ribs, and the last of them catching his extended limbs and rendering them useless. He fell, in a heap, to the floor before the six figures, his consciousness threatening to succumb into passing out. He realized, as he lay on the sticky bar floor, the hands that had reached out of the robes were something he had not expected: Human. Above him a voice spoke, gentle and wise, "You've come to the fold, Paladin Jon. You've proven yourself to us. And we are thankful. But now. Your power is ours. As is your life. Go with God, Paladin Jon."

The world around him was beginning to fade to black as he looked up and saw six pairs of hands stretch out of those heavy, brown robes above him, and begin to glow the same color as his own. His vision continued to fade, tunneling into a long, dark spiral. The hands glowed brighter and some ancient language he thought he recognized began to drone. Jon fought to stay awake, seeking that last glimmer of light at the end of the black corridor that had become his vision. The last thing he saw was those hands above him, performing a ritual he was unfamiliar with, but he felt the effect: His lifeforce, itself, was beginning to drain away. Blackness took over and the newly born Paladin fell unconscious.

Made It Home (Original Short)

I'm exhausted. My arms are dead weight, lead bars dangling from my shoulder sockets. The fire axe at the end of them is quickly losing it's edge, but it still makes a head a canoe in one swing. Even if I could form a real sentence my throat feels like I drank battery acid from all the screaming, but I can't stop. Because they won't stop.

We got trapped in this warehouse and they found us with ease, I want to lie down, let the dark come and take me, but I keep pushing. Even with the bullet wound that Tommy's dumb ass gave me in the side. I hope he didn't hit anything vital. My legs can barely move, but I keep walking, backwards, towards what we hope is an exit. Something soft beneath my feet threatens to make me slip, but I catch myself and swing again, painting whatever is near it with brains and blood. What an idiot I am. I can't help myself and I look down. Geoff was barely seventeen, already under mountains of stress after watching his kid sister and parents go the way they did, but he decided to check himself out of all of this. His baby blue eyes were still open and staring at nothing despite the top of his skull being thoroughly turned into mush by the last shell in his shotgun.

I had to remind myself to move. Another hard and ragged scrape down my forearm was a nice attention grabber. I swung again, knocking the one with the wandering hand into several others behind him. I should be dead. I should just let go. But I can't. Every time I see one of them a rage that I ain't never felt before bursts out of me like a bomb of energy, pushing me to the depths I didn't think I could reach. I hear chain-link fence behind me, a lock and such rattle. They'd found the exit. Then I heard curse words, arguing. The exit was locked. I had the heaviest tool out of all of us so I gave up my little stand off and turned and ran to the others. I ain't never ran from a fight in my life, but I ain't never had to fight like this, neither. I screamed for them to move out the way as I swung, broke the lock and the damn security chain in one swing.

Only had enough time to push open the two bars to let one of us squeeze through at a time. First Denna, then Mickey, I followed, and Suzanne brought up the rear. Chaffed me up good through the shirt I had on, but I made it. I turned back to pull Suzanne through and she screamed. Dozens of rotten hands had her, already ripping into her pretty face, tearing at her thin body, pulling out chunks of her blonde hair. She was gone. I tried not to think as I looked away and ran, even with as many of those things as there were, she screamed for quite a while. Wish I could've helped her. I joined the other two left, those things, the walking dead, hot on our trail. I said a small prayer for the couple we lost, but we had to keep moving.

It's a strange sensation feeling your own blood run out of you like the way it's running out of me. You get cold, like the kind of cold that they ain't invented a jacket for, yet. Then you get tired. Like I am now. My eyes are barely staying open, but they're open. Then your breathing gets hard. Like you've been running all day. But to be fair to the lost blood: I HAVE been running all day. But we were close to our little place and I'd be able to rest. Doc Sully'd be able to fix me up. He calls me "Jersey Shore Boy" cause of where I'm from, but I ain't no model. And I ain't no TV star. Thinking helps keep the tired away, for now, but the thing that's keeping up is anger. We'd failed to get the supplies we'd needed.

Our door swings open and we make it in. I hit the ground, trying to catch my breath, trying to make the world stop spinning, then I hear all the questions. I don't care right now. I just want Doc to tell me it's okay to sleep for a week. I hope the guy and the gal we'd sent to the other hospital made it okay.

This Isn't The End (Original Short)

He didn't remember the shell exploding. Didn't feel the explosion take his arm and legs below the knee. He didn't remember the trip to the hospital. He did remember the ride, the cold beach, the sounds of the machine guns like drums in the air.

He remembered his rifle kicking in his hands, the clip's 'Ping' as it flew out before his eyes, telling him he'd spent that one dry. He didn't know if he'd hit anything or anyone, but he was trying. The training they gave him only took him so far and the fear was heavy in his veins, fueling him to run through the foamy surf turning more and more red with each passing moment. The giant steel crosses on the beach meant to overturn tanks provided him with minimal cover from the enemies heavy fire blanketing the beach. He adjusted his helmet to take a look at how far he was from the bunkers that had been created from the shells falling periodically on the black sand. He was far and his uniform was heavy from the water he had to wade through. Although he was grateful for the opportunity, most of his squad had been hit heavy and the back of the transport was red with their remains.

With the decision fresh and pulsing in his mind he ignored the steel behind him's constant ringing from rounds and ran, towards his captain and the remainder of his squad. The leather strap under his chin bit and chaffed his skin, but he ignored it. Bullets flew through the air and at him, some bright orange, like lethal fireflies screaming at speeds too fast for him to comprehend. His boot caught something and he fell face first, tasting the black sand mixed with blood and salt water. He looked down at what could've tripped him up. What he saw would forever change him: Another soldier, ripped open, his entrails spilled. Thick, red blood ran down the beach towards the ocean. The man was no older than 18, the age of his brother, but where life should have been in those baby blue was nothing but pale death. The boy's skin was now pale and lacked pigment, his eyes were sunken and mouth hung open. Eyes stared at nothing, through the man that had tripped on his body, and into the sky and beyond.

Still shaking from the shock he stood up and ran again, trying to make it to the rest of his squad. That's when the shell hit. Percussive and heavy, right next to him. There was a moment of silence and clarity as he waited for what he knew was the next thing to come. Then it did. He was blinded and deafened. He knew pain should have ran through his body and driven insane by the intensity of it. But it never came. Nothing came. Nothing at all. Blackness and silence. Then his eyes opened. And hovering before his face was a blonde beauty with a big smile and gorgeous blue eyes. He could barely feel the gauze that was keeping him together. Then she noticed his eyes had opened and gave him a beaming smile, "Hi, there, my name is Nurse Nightingale. Don't worry, I'll take good care of you."

A Friend To The End (Short Original)

He sat on the rooftop, staring over the edge of the stones before him. The sun was making its final descent towards the sea and its bed, the moon moving slow to take its place. Clouds lazily passed over the purple and pinks in the sky.

He'd tried so hard to make it work in his mind. Tried to rationalize. Tried to explain. Tried to see the world through the tears in his eyes, making the world dance like a water color sprung to life.
She said she loved him. Said they'd be together forever. And she lied. Her eyes were cold as ice as she turned away from him and walked out the door for the last time. Her words had cut deeper than anything he'd ever experienced.

Another wave of sadness washed over him. His muscles ached from the crying. Hot tears ran down his chilled cheeks. Even breathing was starting to hurt. Even as the city seventy stories below him sang its never ending song he barely heard it. His ears flooded with her voice.
He barely felt the dawn come, the night passing without incident. He hadnt moved. Hadn't tried.

Soon his muscles drove him. Aches and soreness ran through him as his legs lifted his weight onto the edge of the building, the street below beckoning.
The wind seemed to push at him, wanting him to jump. Then. He heard it. A voice as clear as the dawn rising before him. "What the hell are you doing?" He didn't answer. It was obvious. "Gonna jump? Over her, huh?" The smell of cigarette danced with the bittersweet wind that glided past him.
He drew a deep breath.

"Now that will not be an open casket." The voice continued, "The fall will just make you mush. They'll put your remains in a mashed potato bucket." He tried not to smile at the image. "Hey. Maybe we can get KFC to sponsor the whole thing. Your epitaph will be 'Loved food so much he became it.'" The smile finally cracked and more tears came. "Shut up, man. You don't understand." He tried to argue. "Don't understand? Pfft. There's a million girls just like her. Waiting to tap dance on your heart."

He spread his arms, trying to steel himself for the fall. "I give it four days and a bottle of schnapps. You'll be right as rain." Another waft of cigarette smoke ran up his nose. "I don't drink schnapps." It was useless to argue but he tried. "Well you never drank like a man. Always buying those fruity drinks." Both he and the voice chuckled. "One time." "A man can build a million bridges and suck one cock. He will not be known as a bridge builder. He'll be known as a cocksucker." The laughter made him drop his arms.

He wiped the tears from his eyes. His face hurt from the smile. Suddenly memories flooded him, bars and noisy parties. "Besides. You can't kill yourself." The smile faded away. "Why is that?" Another plume of smoke wafted by. "Oh I'm not doubting your ability to simply take a step forward. You've been walking since you were eight." Again the two chuckled together. "Then what?"

The voice laughed. It was a voice he'd known for almost all his life. It's the voice of his best friend. The two of them cavorted and drank and genuinely made each others lives miserable and impossible to live without the other. "Then what? Did you forget? You made me a promise." He took a deep breath, reeling back the tears that tried to start anew. "Yeah. Yeah I did." The words ran through his mind at a pace. Like they had since the day he'd said them.
"You can't break that promise. You said so yourself. Remind me. What did you promise me?"

It was a sad smile as the words came forth. Both he and the voice of his best friend spoke them together. "If you can't walk, brother, You crawl. If you can't crawl, man, you find someone to carry you. And if you can't do that them you get someone to carry your memory. I'll never let you die, man. Never." He nodded, remembering those words. Remembering what they meant.
He stepped off the ledge, knowing his best friend was right.

"I can't honor that if I die." "No. You can't." He wiped the new tears away, smiling the best he could. "You've always known what to say. Always, man." He turned, expecting that big bright smile, pale hands holding a cigarette. But he wasn't there. Then the last memory he wanted came back. His best friend died two years ago. An accidental shooting in a bar he was in. He had gotten there just in time to promise his best friend that and hold him as he breathed his last breath through a smile.

The day was new and bright. And he decided: "I'll carry on. Until the end, I'll carry on. Thanks, brother."