Author Games: The Absent Empress

Task Four Entries:1-10

King

B-52:

(1 part) Orange Cognac

(1 Part) Irish Cream

(1 part) Coffee Liqueur

Glass shatters in patterns. It's a blooming effect. The spreading of a weakness through the body of a system until the whole thing collapses. King knew how to take things down. He knew how to shatter. He knew how to hold a glass in his hand. To feel all the capability to dissolve it into fragments, but to restrain. Always restrain. Glass breaks beneath his feet as he walks. One step, two, and a third more hesitant than the last. He is alone. His heart beats so calmly he could almost forget it beats at all and he is alone. They were supposed to sweep the buildings. In groups, never separated. Find Horde. Subdue him. Maybe not try to get everyone killed in the process but where was the fun in that?

Sirens in the distance rise and fall like ocean tides. Stuck in that in-between state of annoying and useful. Annoying, because the sound grates his skin into ribbons. Useful, because if it's pissing him off it's probably pissing of Horde too. He needs the anger in the air, the frustration of a villain hiding like a rat in its den. Cornered. Trapped. Ready to slip up. Every step he takes makes the world feel deadened, numb from the vacancy of real life. There are only copies of one life, spread out to do the dirty work. And King. His fingers tap against the leg of his pants but he doesn't count.

Light shines in through broken windows. The power is off but he isn't sure why. Perhaps Horde has a flair for the dramatic. God knows King does. He walks further, searching. Scanning. Waiting for a breath. For something to give away the hidden. The witch's house might be made of sugar but right now, King is looking for blood in the water. For a shark's trail, not a child's scattered breadcrumbs.

The room divides. He can keep walking forward, or take the hallway into a deeper part of the building. He does neither. Patience is key. There is movement. A body clad in clothes he does not recognize. Not a civilian. Too fast. Too quiet. But now he has the scent. A throat cleared, another step forward, and King begins to speak. "Escaped from L'Amant, huh? I think I have a buddy who went there." His silhouette fills the entrance to the hall. Feet turn, body propelled forward, following gut instinct. Even in the dark, he is in control. There's no time for second-guessing. No time for doubts. He walks. He listens. When the air rustles with movement, muscles freeze until he is statuesque. Wait for a breath, another, a third, and then he goes where he feels drawn. The bodies tell him he's close. Other heroes from the team. Two of them to be exact. Both bodies slump against the wall. One has blue hair. The other, a tan hat. Neither serve a purpose now. All other color fades away at the sight of the blood that soaks the floor around them. "I see you're fond of red." No answer. Patience is key.

All it takes is a step over. Their dead eyes watch him but he's immune to the gaze. Corpses are a long familiar sight. It's the living you have to watch for and there's something in the air now. A shiver of frustration, a taste of tension that lingers on his tongue like the remnants of a kiss. Muscles tightening, adrenaline burning in the flesh, aching for movement. King feels it. He feels the thrum of energy in his fingertips. Already, the grey begins to pull. A step through the open doorway, then another. Ears straining, heartbeat skipping over the delicious second throb to move on to the third. Like an odd numbered pattern, faster but uneven. One, three, five, seven, nine—then he feels it.

A rush of air. Potential into kinetic. Cloth moves, bone collides with bone. King is pain. King is numbness. King is the aftermath of a fist slamming into his face. Barely missing the nose and he stumbles. The sting brings the world to an icy clarity. Still, he is blind to the assailant, lost in the dark. But it doesn't matter. King sees. Regains his balance. A hand rises to the pain. A gasping laugh breaks free of his throat. He shakes his head. Shudders a breath, then turns. He can't count how many are in the room. Their eyes are all he sees, gleaming and bright. But the air sings with energy. Not with the deadened silence of copies. One of them is real. Patience is key.