Mercenaries

>tell him "I was just trying to survive."

tahuu9 wrote:

>tell him "I was just trying to survive."

"I was just trying to survive."

The man scoffs. "Weren't we all. Difference bein', we actually did something about the blokes shootin' at us. Don't know what the big guy sees in ya, mate, but we could'a used ya; they took the briefcase."

He seems to soften at this, and his eyes take on a distant look. "Don't know how they managed it. Found a bleedin' rose in its place." Your thoughts turn to the letter, and its talk of familiar rivals.

The man turns to the guards and orders them to bury the rest of the dead. The white-handed woman gives you a sympathetic glance before moving to assist them.

~~~

An ancient-looking helicopter arrives to airlift the survivors back to base; clearly, the 'big guy" cannot be asked to spend a great amount on failed missions. Once back at the complex, you eat dinner in silence and take the first opportunity to sink into your bed, exhausted.

>Sleep until fully rested

tahuu9 wrote:

>Sleep until fully rested

You do so gladly.

Or, rather, you would have, had you not been roused from your slumber at 7:15. A tall man with eerily pink eyes stands over your bed, clothed in black and leaning on a cane.

"You have been summoned," you later could swear to have hearing him say.

The next thing you remember is eating breakfast in silence. It's cold porridge, and you stare deep into its brown, unattractive guts so as to avoid the gazes of the others in the cafeteria.

>Eat disgusting, cold, slimy porridge, while making a face, showing how utterly disgusting the blob of disgustingness is.

tahuu9 wrote:

>Eat disgusting, cold, slimy porridge, while making a face, showing how utterly disgusting the blob of disgustingness is.

You would comply wholeheartedly had you not already been so unfortunate as to have been eating the stuff already. Oh gawd you think it wriggled in your throat. Uuuurp.

You can practically feel the stares of the others as you remove yourself from the cafeteria, but are halted by two very large and bearded men before you can make it to your room.

>Ask the two identical men what they need, because you are personally feeling totally disgusted by the slop they called porridge. (But don't include anything about the food.)

tahuu9 wrote:

>Ask the two identical men what they need, because you are personally feeling totally disgusted by the slop they called porridge. (But don't include anything about the food.)

You do so, and darn if they don't say the same thing the man you can't seem to recall did earlier.

"You have been summoned," the men say in perfect sync, before each placing a hand on one of your shoulders and marching you off down the corridors.

You hope they're not going to kill you; that was a pretty sucky last meal.

>Silently wonder what is happening and what is going to happen.

tahuu9 wrote:

>Silently wonder what is happening and what is going to happen.

In a short time, you need not wonder further, for the men have taken you to a very ornate pair of oaken doors.

You are escorted through and lain, quite comfortably, into a leather armchair. As the men leave, you take a few seconds to examine the room.

Windowless, every wall of the large office appears to be covered in bookshelves which house a variety of tomes - from the esteemed Encyclopediae Horridi to a copy of the Paraphernaliomicon. The floor is covered by a bright red rug, and the only other notable pieces of furniture in the room are a mahogany desk and the chair behind it, in which a bespectacled, portly figure sits and stares at you with intensity, but not unkindness.

>Greet the man with the misfortune of needing spectacles.

tahuu9 wrote:

>Greet the man with the misfortune of needing spectacles.

You manage a brief "...Oh, hello." The man, having appeared fairly eager up to this point, seems to die a little bit inside at the fact that you can speak. He sighs and re-adjusts his glasses.

"Know you why you're here, comrade?" he says in a gruff but not unkind voice. Not waiting for a response, he continues, swiveling entire circles in his chair as he speaks.

"Here you are on account of your potential, your delicious potential. Potential which remains as untapped as it is... potential." At this point he has turned one-hundred and eighty degrees to face away from you. You stifle what could have either been a yawn or a bemused laugh.

He continues his circular oration. "And this quality of un-tappedness is something that I wish to alter. Alter drastically. Understand you, comrade?" He is facing you again, and reaches forward surprisingly quickly to poke a fat finger into your chest. "Drastically." You feel his breath in your face, and once more stifle an involuntary bodily response.

>Nod.

tahuu9 wrote:

>Nod.

You nod.

He is glad that you understand. "I am glad that you understand," he says.

You nod again, determined to humor this ridiculous creature.

He nods back. After a moment, you nod once more, and at this the man frowns.

He continues his chair-rotation. "So when one such as yourself does return from a mission in utter failure, with such a horrible report bestowed upon yourself by those your teammates who did report you for your utter failure in such a mission..."

The man breaks into a coughing fit that lasts for several minutes.

"Then... Then clearly, something is must to be done. Agree you, comrade?" He faces away from you as you say this, and seems to have assumed that you nodded. "Then tell to me, comrade, tell to me what you wish to know, all the questions that are things that you wish to ask and to be answered, and other things that must be... spoken..." he pauses in thought.

"...To me," the man finishes with a flourish of his wrist.

>"Why?"

tahuu9 wrote:

>"Why?"

He seems quite bewildered. "Why? Why?"

The man's face grows impossibly red in a mere instant. "I'll tell to you the WHYS, comrade, and the WHYS are..."

He gasps for breath like a fish.

"...As follows. The whys are following."

With that, the man regains his composure utterly, leaning forward with his hands crossed under his nose and speaking in a calm and dignified manner. "Out there is the cruel world, comrade, and those that aren't fighting with us do fight against us. Do you remember the rose that was been replaced for the suitcase on the mission of yours?"

You nod, recalling that the bald-headed man did indeed mention the flower.

He nods in return before continuing. "Intelligence of ours on the placer of this rose gathers together an individual of high lethality, such so that she may evade the gaze of ten out of eleven men that stared right at her, and five of those men were found to have been dead after the test was been conducted. How she did it, one knows not, and such the Rose has been nicknamed the Houdini of death and destruction and mayhem and VARIOUS OTHER BAD THINGS." With this last sentence, the man swiftly arises to his feet and upturns the desk, toppling it and various papers to the ground.

He retakes his seat and crosses his legs, swiveling calmly to and fro. "She could be in this very room and neither of us would know it, comrade, and this is but one of the foul creatures our forces do and fight against with. Now, comrade, do you see?"

>"Yes, I do see. But... Tell me more about her, does she have any weaknesses?"

Heontris wrote:

>"Yes, I do see. But... Tell me more about her, does she have any weaknesses?"

"If the Rose does, she has hidden them with great wellness, comrade. Indeedily, the only weaknesses we are aware of are those originating from our side of the playing field."

He swivels 180-degrees again. "Weaknesses such as those of yours, one of which is not knowing your teammates well enough to lead them. For it is this that is your purpose, comrade, and it is this that is the reason of why you have been chosen."

The man faces you once more. "To lead them. Any questions that you may question?"

>"So, how will I be able to know them if you keep dragging me here to talk to you or on near-suicidal missions?"

Heontris wrote:

>"So, how will I be able to know them if you keep dragging me here to talk to you or on near-suicidal missions?"

"How will you..." The man gasps loudly, staring at the ceiling. He swivels a full 360-degrees before responding again.

"Let me tell unto yourself exactly just how you will be able," he coughs, "to know your teammates better."

He stands suddenly and begins pacing the room. "I," the man shouts incredibly loud, "shall TELL you." He sits back down after completing a full circuit, continuing after you uncover your ears.

"Now let us begin with the Tale of the Healer. Any questions?"

>"No questions."

Heontris wrote:

>"No questions."

"Splendid!" The man promptly cleans up his immediate area before sitting back down in the chair, shoving the tidied desk to one side, and crossing his legs. He clears his throat quite loudly, taking a sip from an opaque glass. You feel the slight urge to inquire as to what he is drinking, but decide against it.

He leans forward slightly. "You already know why you're here, do you not? You got my letter on the first night?"

You nod. "The meteorite. The Scientist. Your… Rival."

He draws his attention to an object on the ceiling. A few minutes pass before he speaks.

"The others were chosen for the same reasons as you. Partially out of mercy, partly as an act of prevention, mostly out of pure necessity."

Your stern glance speaks louder than words ever could.

The man sighs again. "Ah, this thing of the human race and its perpetual curiosity. Come. Let me begin to you this, a little bedtime story."

He hands you a second glass, which you take a drink from and place on the table beside you. You don't know what you just drank but you're too busy listening to care. He clears his throat.

"Once upon a time, there grew a little flower that was not like the other flowers. She came into existence because of an action (that she had no say in, mind you) that some might label as... controversial. Thus, from the beginning of this flower's life, she was looked down upon and ridiculed, and when she was not, she was pitied and made a symbol of sadness and human suffering.

"But this flower quickly realized that she was unique. At first, all she knew was that she was stronger, faster, smarter than anyone her age. These were the best days of her life. Her superiority gained her many friends, and for an abysmally short time, this flower was happy.

"However, times such as these have a habit of ending. The extent of this flower's 'gifts' began to make themselves known. She would not get sick. When she hurt herself in play, she would awake the next morning to find nary a scratch to fuss over. She was fluent in four languages by the age of nine. Once, she was the leader, the one everyone looked up to, now she was the outcast. In a short time, this flower was alone.

"Her parents tried to help. They took her to the doctor; that doctor took her to another doctor; that doctor took her to more doctors; and suddenly, the flower found that her life was now beyond her control. She grew up in a building that she could not leave, and people that she did not know were pretending to be nice to her.

"And she was sick of it. She was sick to death of it.

"She wanted freedom. She wanted people to listen to what she told them. She decided that she wanted to be feared.

"So one morning, when the nice man delivered her breakfast of oh-so-tasty eggs and carefully buttered toast, she told him that today she wanted to eat without being watched. He smiled his charming smile and told her that maybe tomorrow if she was good and to eat her eggs before they got cold. So she spread her fingers as faaaaaaaaaaaaaaar as she could, and thrust them right through his smiling head."

He pauses to take a drink, grinning eerily.

"And then the lights flashed and the sirens roared and the voices shouted and the poor little flower just didn't know what to do. So she tried to undo the blood and the screaming by touching the man's face and maybe, just maybe, he would smile again and she could say she was sorry and eat her eggs before they got cold.

"And just like that, the man got up and looked at her. But he wasn't smiling.

"She would have apologized if he had been smiling, you must understand.

"Things only got worse from then on. People came and went but she rarely saw any of them and could only ever leave her room on Sundays. Her parents had long since disappeared, and the flower missed them bitterly.

"But that wasn't the worst part. Ever since the incident, her fingers just never stopped spreading. She tried to stop them, but every time she looked at them she thought about the smiling man and how good it had felt to see him fall. And she decided that nothing that felt that right could ever be wrong.

"So on the few occasions that she DID see people, she simply waved at them and smiled innocently and they went away as fast as they could. And the flower would think of this oftentimes and decide that this too, seeing the terror in their eyes and the whiteness of their face, was good. And her fingers, no longer instruments of writing and eating and playing with friends but instead representative of hurting and terror, grew to mimic the whiteness of those faces."

He pauses to take another drink. Feeling uneasy, you do so as well.

"Then one day a man arrived who was not like the others. When the flower waved, he did not run away. He simply watched her and waited and she did not sleep for three days because she was afraid to let this man from her sight. However, during breakfast one morning, a glass of orange juice made her particularly sleepy. She fought the void of slumber but could not resist, and when she woke up her arm was bandaged and stung rather badly.

"It was shortly discovered by this man exactly why she was so different. He subjected her blood to a variety of tests, finding that it fought off crippling diseases with unprecedented ease. Several weeks of testing later, and he had come to the conclusion that every cell in this girl's body was superintelligent, and that she even had limited control over their actions.

"This blood was a potential cure-all for every health condition on the planet; he needed more of it. Much more. So he did what any reasonable man would do; he ordered that the flower be sapped dry of its magical nectar.

"And with that began the worse time of our little flower's life. She began to dread Sundays, when she would be strapped to the bed and the needle machine would be wheeled in through the door, sitting on its cart like a fat sow.

"After a month, or perhaps it was several, she came to the simple and obvious conclusion; escape was the only answer.

"On her fourteenth birthday, a Sunday morning, she let them wheel in the dreaded machine. But instead of calmly submitting, today she stood up, looked the man in the eyes, smiled, and spread her fingers.

"A minute later found her running through hallways, weak from the past month's blood loss but still strong enough to outrun the men in blue uniforms. She quickly reached the front doors, but to her frustration they were guarded by more of the blue men. She stepped forward and, in her sweetest and most innocent voice, politely asked the men to move aside. In response, they raised pieces of metal and told her to stop right there, drop your weapon, put your hands behind your back.

"She, of course, would not do this. She spread her fingers and advanced upon them, smiling, anticipating this situation to be as easy and thrilling as the last two had been. But something went wrong this time. With a bang, pain shot up her leg and she dropped to the ground. Crying, writhing, suffering, she begged it to stop.

"After a short time, the pain did stop, evaporating into the air. She rose, twin rivers of rage streaming down her face, and screamed at the men with her fingers spread wide.

"Another bang. More pain.

"She got up again. Bang."

He taps the arm of the chair for emphasis.

"Again. Bang."

Tap.

"Agai-"

"Stop," you explain.

He smiles and takes another drink before continuing.

"This poor little flower simply could not die. She kept getting up, and with each jolt of pain, her fury grew.

Minute after minute after minute.

When the shots paused, she flung herself at the men, who bled fountains of red at her fingertips. From a hook on the wall she took a green jacket, much too large for her, and ran outside.

"It felt good to feel sunlight after all of those years inside, but she was in no mood for frolicking. She looked back upon the time when she first came here, the long car ride. Her mind retraced the scenery, and after a day of walking, of quiet roads and busy streets, she found herself in front of her parents' house. She rung the bell and they answered.

"She smiled and said that she was back.

"But they weren't happy to see her, no… they said she had to go back to the clinic.

"She spread her fingers for them, too."

He stops, eyes distantly scanning the room. After a few minutes, you ask him what happened next.

"Oh? Ah.... yes.... yes, next. She simply wondered about until we caught wind of her and tracked her down."

He gets up. "I think that's enough stories for tonight. Come back tomorrow, comrade, if you wish to know more."

You nod quietly. He limps to the door, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

>Think about the cruelty of the people who imprisoned her.

Heontris wrote:

>Think about the cruelty of the people who imprisoned her.

You adopt a thoughtful pose and put some thoughtful thoughts onto the subject of who might possibly be that cruel to the poor flow- err, girl.

You suppose she's in better hands now, though, and this thoughtful thought comforts you to the point where you fall asleep in the chair, having been sitting there for who knows how long.

Of course it's also possible that the man with the eyes had played a hand in the spontaneous slumber, as you awaken in total darkness with the peculiar sensation of having had your brain freezer-burned.

>Hold head in hands.