[Continued from Chayced by Wraiths of the Past]
A silence. Thin, stretched. Fragile. Brittle. Broken by unsteady breathing. A sob. Everything is still darkness, but now there is a presence. It forms and quickly condensces until it becomes the person making the breathing noises. From the presence comes sorrow, pain, fear.
A wail is choked down and a voice whispers with tragic need, "help me, please." The voice begins to cry and any words are muffled into incoherence. But now the presence is eminating a strong call to the one person she thinks could help her. The person, it so happens, who first ruined her life.
Vincent's eyes snap open and his mind comes to full awareness like the turning on of a light: almost instantaneously. It is still nighttime in this prison and for the second time in three days he is about to escape from the clutches of some imbeciles who think they have the right to detain him.
He comes to his feet swiftly and silently and takes the two strides required to reach the tiny window that opens to the outside. It clicks open as he reaches it. He pushes the bars outside then follows headfirst onto the grass of the prisonyard. He replaces the bars to make them look like they've never been moved or broken and gets to his feet.
Vincent does not bother to hide his progress. He passes the police offices on his way to the gate and the way out. Something he sees through the window catches his eyes and makes him stop to reconsider. He can see, inside, a fabulous jewel-encrusted sword, and he can feel its presence. Vincent frowns. The man _had_ tried to help him, after all, even though there was no need. Of course, very few people ever realized that. He could not be blamed at all for getting in the way. And he had gotten some free food and sleep out of it, after all.
Halfway to the gate, a voice shouts out from his left. "Stop!" A policeman materializes out of the darkness not more than ten feet away. His gun is drawn and pointed unwavering at Vincent's face. Vincent ignores him and continues to walk. Other policemen appear, drawing their guns and setting up a circle around Vincent like they did the night before.
Vincent says shortly, "Get out of my way."
The police converge toward him. The first man repeats, "Stop" and steps directly into Vincent's path.
Vincent glares at him, but keeps walking.
The first man swallows, as if gathering courage, then fires.
The world is engulfed in a flash of light. There is a blast of wind, but no sound. The light fades. The bodies of eleven policemen lie on the ground, their features frozen in the shock of sudden death.
Vincent is gone.
*****
When Chayce wakes up he finds his sword at his feet, the window wide open, and no cell mate.
Three days have passed. It is the darkest hour of the night. Vincent places a stone to complete the circle around his small fire so it will not spread. Finished, he sits back and gazes contemplatively into the fire, eyes narrowed.
"She's dead, you know." The voice that speaks is deep and gravelly.
Vincent sighs. "Not you again."
The voice laughs softly. "What's wrong? Are you afraid?" he goads.
"Go away." A threat is evident in Vincent's voice.
"You _are_ afraid!" the voice exclaims with glee.
Vincent grunts and picks up a twig. He starts to turn it in his hand.
The voice stops laughing and repeats, "She's dead. You have no purpose going there."
Vincent ignores him and rubs the twig with his thumb absently.
The voice growls. The flames suddenly puff toward Vincent. Their heat is intense -- far too intense for a fire this size -- and they turn the twig to ashes almost as soon as they touch it. The flames reach for Vincent's clothes and their fingers pry at him, scortching all they can touch.
Then the flames turn blue and disappear into a gentle mist. When the mist fades, Vincent and his clothes appear untouched. But the twig is gone.
"You have no purpose going there."
Vincent returns to staring into the fire. "The Call is still there. I will go."
"She's dead!" The wind howls, but around Vincent there is a resevoir of calm. In frustration, the voice sneers, "Still too noble for your own good, are you? You'll meet your fate. I'll make sure of that." The wind ceases. The air grows cold and the fire goes out.
Vincent slowly stands. He kicks ashes over the dead remains of the fire, picks up his small bag, turns and leaves.
It is cold in the abandoned camp.
It is a small city spanning two square miles and housing two thousand residents. The central palace is a dirty white from all the rain and wind that had beaten it since it was first built. Still, it cuts a magnificent figure against the sky, stretching above the red-trimmed rooftops of the city's humble houses. The roads are straight and wide, designed to allow the as much light as can be into the individual houses and their gardens. There is no trace of lower class, as if it has been washed away in a light, refreshing shower of rain. It seems to be the perfect city, blissfully unaware of its connection to Nexus, keeping the ancient traditions and resting serenely and comfortably in the center of its kingdom.
One of these long traditions was the upkeep of its army. Every male and many females served and trained during their prime years to make the Lukin army the most feared in the "world." Now that Lukin is at peace, however, the army can concentrate on eliminating all traces of imperfection within the capital's walls. Every week, cartloads of the poor are sent off to one of the other cities, freeing the capital from a few more of the unwanted. In nearly every other place in existance, the lower class is vital to the city, necessary, and in many cases, respected. Here, however, looks are everything. So, every week, the carts keep rolling and the city is once again free of the perceived speck on its image.
But despite the weekly cleaning and the magnificent figure cut against the sky for all the kingdom to see, there is a dark spot on this city's past. Something that is only whispered about in dark corners, as if saying it out loud or in the daylight would invite it back into being. Parents told their naughty children that the dark man would get them if they did not obey their elders. But never did anyone speak about who he was, where he came from, or what he did except to say that it was "bad."
But the fear was so thick and everpresent that the staunt guards trembled in their boots when they saw their nightmare appear out of the fog and stride their way without the slightest hesitation. And when this figure approached the gates, the guards plucked up their courage to stop him.
They went down without a single cry of protest or pain.
A child is chasing a ball in the street. His friends are behind him, trying to beat him to the ball. The boy keeps running, but the other children look up and see a man in black. The street seems to turn cold and they have no doubt in their minds that this is the dark man their parents have warned them about. The children run, one crying with shame at having made the dark man come by sneaking out of home last night to get some ice cream at the corner.
But the boy in front does not hear his companions run. He tackles the ball--red and half as big as he is--and picks it up. He balances on his feet and looks up at the stranger coming toward him, only feet away. He freezes and his mouth hangs open. The ball falls from his hand.
His mother comes from around the corner of her house nearby, a watering pail in her hand. She sees her son and the dark man and screams out, "Tommy!" She drops the pail and runs. The boy gives one last open-mouthed look at the man and turns to his mother. She swoops him up and into the house. The door slams shut and the curtain closes. Inside, she holds him close, kisses his forehead and tries to calm her beating heart.
The man does not even pause in his walking. Down the straight wide street he strides. His coming is announced only by the clicking shut of doors and windows and, sometimes, the gasp of a citizen. His path is clear of all obstacles. And still the man moves forward, paying only the slightest of attention to the people running and hiding at his approach. It is the smallest of things to endure in this tortuous answer to the call.
The palace is the next obstacle. Its gates are barred and the guards are more plentiful. They seem to feel confident in their numbers as they approach to challenge this unwelcome visitor. They weild their sabers and primitive pistols, ready to fight this unarmed man for their country.
They go down without a single cry of protest or pain.
There is little other resistance before he reaches the great hall. Anyone who tries to stop him dies and all the gates or doors in his way spring open at his approach. This is no time for modesty or feeling. Everyone turns as the doors burst open. The king's aide rises in protest, the court becomes silent and moves out of his way, and the man approaches the throne.
King Kervent turns to face Vincent, a smile on his face. Vincent stops three meters away. The air around him is cold and threatening, but he makes no move. Kervent breaks the silence, "Now, look who's here? I believe I banished you thirty years ago."
"Where is she?" Vincent's voice, as usual, betrays no sense of emotion.
"Who? Oh, yes, that girl. I'm afraid she departed our company two months ago. Too bad." He casually moves his hand and several people move out from within the crowd to semi-surround Vincent. "But she left someone behind." An old woman, chained, approaches, a bundle in her hands. The bundle moves. "Your son, I believe."
Vincent's face bears no trace of the feelings rocketing through his brain. He quickly regains control of his thoughts with the realization that of course he has no son, it is impossible. There can be no son.
Before he can reply, there is another movement from behind and to the right of the throne. A beautiful young woman, a princess, the daughter of Kervent, Lilianna. "Father." Her voice is stern.
"Go." He stands. Princess Lilianna draws back. The old woman cringes. The several people surrounding Vincent move forward. There is a battle of minds that no one can see but everyone can feel.
They fall without a single cry of protest or pain.
So does the king, the court, and the entire army standing within the city walls.
In one day, the kingdom loses everything but its families. Everything, that is, but their new Queen. And a new prince, sleeping soundly from the inside of his royal crib. The prince will grow up, believing that Queen Lilianna is his mother. He will learn only as an adult about how his adopted grandfather had captured and tortured an innocent woman in order to draw an ancient enemy back again for a final confrontation. He will learn that he and his mother were spared because of a single word she spoke and he will know the power of words. He will become a ruler of peace and his kingdom will prosper until it is overrun by its jealous neighbors. He will die alone and friendless fifty long years after he was allowed to live out of compassion. And he will feel that he had done something worthwhile with the life that had been given to him.
The call is gone. Vincent never returns.
It is a very small and lonely reality. The total residence is three, but only one truly lives there. The place is a tiny, two-room house with a garden and protective trees surrounding it. It seems so simple and innocent that no one happening upon this reality would know of the protective measures its occupants have set up.
Vincent, however, has no trouble passing through the security net. He had created it, after all.
He does not bother to knock, but pushes open the door with an arm. A tall figure clad in light blue robes rises at his entrance and exclaims, "What the hell did you do _this_ time, take out a city?" He supports Vincent just before the man could collapse on the floor and helped him into the next room, the bedroom. "Get down and rest. I'll get you some tea." He exits into the first room.
Vincent says nothing, but relaxes in the feather-mattress bed.
The man soon returns with a smoking-hot cup and saucer with some light biscuits. "Sit up."
Vincent pulls himself up to lean against the wall, accepts the cup and sips at the tea. He can feel it sink through him, warming from the inside out, partly filling that cold gap the exhaustion has left behind. "Thanks Nathan."
"Yeah, sure kid. What'd you do?" Nathan pulls up a chair and sits next to Vincent.
"Like you said. I took out a city." Vincent takes another sip and grimaces at the hot liquid burning past his tongue.
"Damn," Nathan curses softly. "You gotta take it easy on yourself, man. What'm I supposed to do without you coming limping in every few months?" He takes the tea away, tears a biscuit in half and hands a piece to Vincent. "Here."
Vincent accepts it. "Whatever you always do when I'm not limping in here." He takes a bite. "What'd you do?"
"Oh, nothing much. Just slept, weeded, ate, and chased off a couple of annoying guys." He bit into his own piece of biscuit and made a face. "I've really got to get that recipe down. Oh, one of those guys had a job he wants you to do. He keeps coming back. And, of course, there's always that insurance salesman. Maybe you can curse him off when you've recovered enough so he stops bothering me."
Vincent smiles and shakes his head. "Yeah, if he shows up. Try a little more milk next time, I think it's drier than hers."
"No, it's too wet." He brushes the crumbs off his hands and helps Vincent settle back down. "Get some sleep. I'll wake you up ahead of time if that devil guy shows up."
"Thanks." He closes his eyes and soon has fallen asleep.
Nathan watches his younger brother for a long time after, thinking. The two cut a contrasting pair. Both are tall, but the resemblance almost ends there. Nathan has light reddish hair and dresses in light colors. His face is hard, but from the elements, and a feeling of perpetual kindness flutters through the falsely hard image. Vincent, however, always dresses in black. His hair, eyes are dark, his face lined and weary. Nothing gives even a hint of a sparkle of goodness in him. Nathan knows that while Vincent's actions often are for the just, his younger brother got the heavy end of the gene pool. Magical talent has torn him apart and left him with nothing but a shell, always unsure of what he wants or cares about, only answering a call he sometimes hears and often simply acting on impulse without a care for the lives he touches.
Nathan watches until there is no more light to watch with, then watches through the dark. A family? Riiiiiight.
It has been a month. The man (short, stocky, blue suede suit, nervous type) has come back every day since he found out that Vincent had come back. He has the annoying habit of continually checking his watch as one converses with him, and he seems filled with some anxious purpose.
So, after a month, Vincent finally condescends to meet him at the entrance to Nathan's abode: by the single portal to the tiny reality. Vincent, as usual, in black. Nathan, as usual, gardening somewhere on the other side of the wooden house, out of sight. The man, as usual, checking his watch.
When he sees Vincent, he climbs to his feet and extends a hand. Vincent ignores it. "What do you want?"
Slightly perturbed, the man wipes his brow with the hand he'd just extended, glances at his watch, and says, "My name is Mr. Menton. Someone recommended I come talk to you about something strange happening in my hometown." There is a pause, and (after looking at his watch, of course) the man realizes that Vincent is not about to say anything, and continues. "Yeah, so, the Matriarch is acting very strangely. Usually, she is quiet and reserved and hands out good advice to any who ask. She likes to keep peace, if you know what I mean." Another pause. "So, but, she's started snapping at people, keeping to herself--more than usual, I mean, not that she'd ever been outgoing or anything, she's always been quiet, but it's different. Um, keeping to herself, giving strange orders and she's becoming a control freak." Here he stops and waits.
A few minutes of silence ensues before Vincent says, "I am not a psychologist. Find yourself a shrink and leave me alone." He begins to turn away, but the man interrupts him.
"Right, of course, we've already talked with some, but she's perfectly normal. We even got a magic guy, you know, one of those mind reading people, whatever they're called, to check her out and she's fine. According to them. But she's not and she's starting to encourage fighting between the townships. We've always been neutral and she has the power to do it, but with the idea that she won't use it wrong, and she has. I mean, she is. Or at least she was when I was last there last month. And this's been going on for over a year. About."
Vincent simply looks at the man. "What do you want?" he repeats.
The man glances at his watch again in nervousness. "Oh, right, yes, well, we want, I mean I want, I mean Father Kris and I want, he's the head of the church and kind of her counterpart sort of, and we want you to come see if there's something wrong nobody else could see. Because we hear that you have some extra special... um... abilities or senses or whatever you call them that you might be able to see what's wrong, I mean, better than that mind reader person did. And we'll pay you, if you come. Will you?"
Vincent narrows his eyes. // But, with nothing else to do...// "Fine. But I do things my way."
The man nods almost obsessive-compulsively. "Right, yes, of course, you do." He glances at his watch. "When can you come?"
"Now or never. Lead."
The man nods again, then realizes that "now" really means "now" and nods yet again, checks his watch, and steps through the portal. Vincent follows.
*****
It is a peaceful township. The houses are arranged neatly and the town is rather large. The portal leads directly to the main street, and along the street are buildings. Children play tag in the middle of the road. It is noon and warm.
Mr. Menton leads Vincent to the left and into a building. The inside is dim and decorated with crosses. Vincent stops short. "This is a church."
"Hmm? Oh, yes. Father Kris is here." He beckons to his charge, but Vincent does not move.
"Bring him here then. I will go no farther."
"Oh." Mr. Menton looks at his watch. "Right. Okay. Just a minute." He disappears through the main double-doors into the sanctuary.
Vincent only waits a moment before three people come back through the doors. Mr. Menton, a man that is presumably Father Kris, and a woman dressed as a nun. Mr. Menton introduces her as Mother Nena.
Father Kris is warm and extends his hand, but again, Vincent ignores it. He smiles and retracts his hand, slightly bowing his head instead in greeting. "Welcome. Thank you for coming. Mr. Menton tells me that he has explained the situation." His voice is deep and formal. "I am afraid that it has worsened since he was last here. The Matriarch has declared war on two neighboring townships who have done nothing to us. She allows no one to see her and remains in her mansion, which you may have seen at the end of the street outside. It is rumored that she demands what most of us would deem gross items for food, though I can give you no more detail than that. Her voice, once quiet, has become shrill and high and is heard often coming through a window, giving orders. The people are afraid, but most do not understand that something is wrong with her. She has become angry even with me for bringing in doctors and has given orders that I should not stray from the church under any condition. Mother Nena, here, has received orders to disallow her charges from going to families' homes and giving sermons, speeches, and counsel." He spreads out his hands, "We are at a loss. Please, take what time you wish here, but find some way, if possible, of returning her to her former state."
"Show me the mansion and the inn."
*****
Three days pass. Vincent wanders through the town and listens, but does nothing. He passes by the mansion twice, and each time feels something unfamiliar--something he cannot place--within. Each time he continues past and does nothing. He can feel that something will happen soon. Better to let things move on their own. They do.
The people are murmuring their dissent and doubts. The voice from the mansion is shriller and speaks more often. Mr. Menton constantly seeks out Vincent to see what progress he has made.
On the fourth day, the doors open. Vincent feels the change in the air and turns leasurely to watch. Something comes out, but it is not a woman.
It is a Thing.
A mass of tentacles, arms, legs, heads, and torsoes emerges bit by bit. A 6-year-old child in pink screams and a tentacle snakes out to grab her foot as she begins to try to move. One of the heads pokes out farther than the rest and shrills out in a continual babble of meaningless prose.
Vincent sticks his hands in his pockets, leans back against a building wall, and watches in silence.
Another child is caught, and an elderly man. People are screaming, running out of their houses--// Stupid// --in mayhem. Father Kris races out of the church and begins to shout some incantation, probably an exorcism of some sort.
A tentacle grabs him as well and its pointy end slips its way into Father Kris' mouth. It moves further in, growing thicker, pushing his mouth further open until it splits and bleeds and even further until nothing is left but an explosion of flesh, blood and broken exorcism.
Yet Vincent has not moved.
Mr. Menton comes running up from behind, shouting and waving his arms, and attracts the attention of the former Matriarch. He trips and falls and before he can move again, an incredibly long leg has wrapped itself around his neck and squeezed it into two.
The streets are running with proverbial blood. Vincent finally steps forward. He raises a hand. A chaotic mass appears around his fist, glowing and growing. A groan, like a creaking of a door in pain with stress, except more urgent, rises from around the mass.
It shoots from him and hits the monster square in the middle with a scream like a plane flying supersonic.
The monster doubles in size and begins to crawl its way toward Vincent.
He steps back quickly and a look of surprise registers itself for an instant on his until now emotionless face. ! He steps back again, and again. The Thing crawls toward him with increasing speed, dragging its victims with it, picking up new victims along the way. Tentacles sweep their way through houses, picking up what living organisms they can on their way. A dog barks, yelps, howls, and falls silent. Screams are everywhere.
Vincent feels it with his mind, trying again to discover what it is. Confusion. Pain? Sorrow? Fear. But... not Evil...? Not Good. What...?
He stops backing up and sets his feet apart, shoulder length. A tentacle finally reaches him and wraps itself around his arm.
It squeezes, and Vincent feels the (somehow delightful, in a morbid sense) pain.
The arm disappears and the tentacle explodes. There is a cry of outrage from the beast and more limbs reach out toward him. The body crushes a building in its eagerness to rip him to shreds.
The pieces of tentacle that scattered about begin to wiggle and grow. A monster, budding, breeding.
// What the hell?!// He steps back again and brushes the "things" off with his one remaining arm.
The heads all around the Thing begin to cackle shrilly. So does the head of the 6-year-old girl and the heads formerly belonging to the other victims. It is an eerie effect, and the cacophony is maddening.
Vincent groans... and begins to flicker.
Something is there in his place... difficult to see... flickering too quickly... is it another man?
But almost before it had begun, the flickering dies.
As does the Matriarch.
Vincent wipes his brow with one hand and his front with the other. His face is pale, his hair limp and tired, his clothes charred (judging by the holes in the black fabric), and his mind exhausted.
The monster, and all its "offspring," is completely still. It looks more charred than Vincent's clothes, and is smoking. It smells like burnt flesh, as if it has been cooked from the inside. The strange feeling that Vincent's mind had felt from it is gone.
*****
The house is just as he had left it four days ago. The door swings open at his touch and a young man in light blue robes rises at his entrance. "What--" He forgets to continue his sentence as he helps Vincent back into the bedroom. "Not again. Don't tell me it was another kingdom?"
Vincent shakes his head feebly. "No. I don't know what it was."
Nathan shrugs. "Neither do I, but you need some tea." He helps Vincent sit on the edge of the bed, leaves, and returns shortly with a hot mug.
Vincent drinks gratefully, then sleeps, but his dreams do not allow him rest.
[Continued in The Nexus Christmas Special: III!]
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