The Book of Rai: SoH Ch. 02

(These words are but the vacuous exposition of mind yet untorn. There exists within it neither an intent to remonstrate nor demonstrate any person living or dead. Let these grains of time pass without offense. They would wish it on none. Not a fap on the first page story.)

The Book of Rai: Sons of Heather Pt. 2

*****

"You would bring War to this Village."

"I am the War. The War is brought."

"They will rain death upon us."

"I will reign as death upon them. You object to the cost of War. The cost of defeat. I say to you this: rise now the Village, rise now the Vanguard, and unassailable will be the primacy of our condition."

"And with what collateral would you insure us this?"

"Come now Calamity. You know the score. There is one vouchsafe upon the sanctity of humanity, and we are it. This is my insurance. If we fall, they fall with us."

"You're mad."

"So sayeth the conquered to the conqueror. Let fall the hammer."

-----

He watched. It was not so important as to the fact that he watched, but to who and what he watched, deep within the earth. Sloping sides, endless white floor pooled out and up in every direction, arcing into what passed for walls. Higher still and out of sight, the walls recurved into a concave ceiling, forming a massive dual layer. Like a bowl nesting in a bowl, the room was massive, round and white. The ceiling, as it was, sat hundreds of feet above him. The curve of the lower bowl flattened into a floor, 631 feet in diameter. Halcius performed push-ups at its extremity. He watched those sloping surfaces undulate in the brilliance. A voice boomed in the infinite.

"You need not wait for me. The decision is made."

"Not now, I'm procrastinating."

"...An attempt to out-wait me is futile."

"A man can try." His muscles were tearing as the numbers in his head cycled through 120, he realized the next might be his last. Halcius gave it more, pushing off the ground and into an angle, taking the moment to clap twice before falling back to his hands. They were closer to his frame. He performed the first of the tri-cep push-ups. His breath was not entirely ragged. "Besides, your decision is illogical." The machine could have responded. It chose silence instead, as was its habit. "C'mon," he stuttered, breath catching in his exertion, "are you going to be like this all day?"

"Would you prefer for me another order?"

"Dialogue. Let's start off easy. Good morning Bombastic Enterprise. How do you feel?" If so massive a construct of carbon and electrons could sigh pointedly, the machine would have done just that.

"There is no fraternity here. No Friendship. I am the dome. You are keeper of the dome."

"And I'll keep." Halcius' arms were leaden, his shoulders useless. He considered switching to abs. Infallible Chastity would recommend as much. Bombastic Enterprise would not deign to compute so small a part of his structure. "What am doing here, keeping here-" his breath cut with his ascension, his 75^th repetition was his last. He'd burned out far too quickly. "If not as a check on you?" Halcius rose to his full 6'5" height, sweat seeping through his combat skins.

"My domain is incontrovertible. I am the dome. Inoraiya has betrayed the existence of the Vanguard. For the protection of this Village, he must not be allowed to return."

"Lord Inoraiya. You may remember a time when he was not, but Lord he is. You seek to bar entrance to the Mythic King. Dai Mythique Rai. He who is the answer."

"Ascribe him more glory yet, his request for asylum is impracticable. It cannot be done."

"Do you know what happened the last time he was disallowed return?"

"All know. I was led to believe that he had undergone some change since."

"He lived for 500 years outside our periphery. They had a new name for him, hunted him, caught him, died in waves for the effort. Man went full renegade. Arsinoe... She's the only one who brought him back, fixed him. Homme Vivant took his place, after."

"Do you believe he will break again? Do you believe he is of that creature's caliber yet?"

"Inoraiya? Now that's funny. A serious man, but he's human. Ish. Bombastic Enterprise: What is the last known location of the entity Homme Vivant?"

"Avignon. As reported by Mythic Arsinoe Rai of the House Rai. She conveyed Mythic Warmonger's reported movement to New York shortly thereafter."

"If Homme Vivant goes with him... My God, they'll tear the city apart. Bombastic Enterprise: List of your agents above Blade Captain ascendancy within the New York frame."

"Inoraiya Seminoe. Boshe Hiazashi. Bouzonai Eshanbal. Jioto Mizarat. Archival Support Squadron Gamma. The Aliases Warmonger and Oberon."

"Bombastic Enterprise: Recall and reclaim Gamma. Inform the Archivist, inform the council. Of everything. Flash Ino- Flash Dai Mythique Rai the information. The worst part? I've been waiting to watch this fight for years. Now that it's here, I'm stuck in a basement with you. Didn't even get popcorn."

"You could leave."

"And let you have the run of the place?" Halcius said, "What's the saying? Come now Calamity, you know the score."

-----

The door burst with a shudder, two bodies falling through its frame and through each other. Her arms fluttered from his cheeks to his pecs, his pecs to his hips. Jennifer could feel the throbbing through his jeans, the heat of his breath. The furniture was covered in a frame of mildew. Utilitarian, cheap and often overlooked, it spoke of a woman who did not buy for herself, did not spend time in the place and did not take to cleaning. The man she was with did not care. His arms, cut with veins and pulsing against her, trailed over the vertebrae of her spine, his hands, a network of wriggling movement, massaged into her ass. He had been sweet and careful, magnetic in his way. She wanted him, wanted to feel the hardening in his jeans. He wanted to taste her, the musk he smelled in the closeness of the room. Her apartment was a studio, they found the edge of her bed in a moment. He broke their kiss, and backed a step. She smiled at him.

His fist met her jaw, upper cutting. He felt her teeth shatter on the reverberation. The force had carried her off her feet, landing her hard against the wall. Her head hit with a sickening crack, a spider web line sparking through the drywall. The only sound was her gasping, desperate, pained. There were tears, but she could not cry. She could not breathe to do it. Only a searing shudder passed through her as she tried to recover, tried to scream against the blood streaming into her mouth and the throbbing in her head. She felt the chips of her teeth with her tongue. She heard him unzip his fly. Jennifer Bartmore would be found four days later in her bathtub, dissolved under a plastic tarp in a pool of lye.

The vascular man enjoyed a travel mug of Darjeeling as the elevator descended, admiring the discrimination Jennifer had used in selecting her product. The blend was almost pure, containing subtle hints of a white nilgiri additive. It left the mixture tasting crisp, almost clean. For such an illusion, he could forgive the blend.

The elevator opened on mailboxes built into the walls and a keynote of dust suspended in the ether. He felt it pass into his lungs with a disquiet he did not believe he had felt in a long time. He lifted his cup to his nose, attempting as it were a filter. It served.

His push into the street was greeted with the applause of all those who would give him any, though the rain gave a passing substitute. The timeless clapping of water on stone. Midnight was tight around him. The driver of a cab he flagged wore a Sikh turban, red in coloration. It brought a smile to the corner of his cheeks. They called him Warmonger, and red was his color. His driver asked for the address twice before pulling away from the curb, only half believing on the first circumstance. Tires rolled wet on the asphalt.

The Park Avenue address was opulent, a word of magnificence wrought in marble. Doormen stood sentinel, never-blinking, professionals among their kind. They wore gifted watches and gifted ties, dedicants to benefactors unseen. Warmonger was set to halt. His suit was fine, shoes immaculate, but he was not a tenant. He eyed them each, wondering if he would be putting his fist through their sternums. The doormen were visibly unnerved. The vascularity, veins throbbing up and down his skull. A buzz touched the ear of their manager, who immediately matched him to the description tinkling in his ear.

"Sir, my sincerest apologies for your wait. The elevator is at the end of the hallway. You will need this keycard to access the penthouse." The vascular man nodded his assent and drifted into the lobby. His footwear, Italian, clicked sharp on marble of the same make. Chute after elevator chute, white marble walls with gold accent trim, alabaster infinitum. His lip curled at the sight, an influence he knew well.

The last elevator along the line opened seductively, its interior porcelain clean. It might well have been a white room. He stepped cautiously through, the doors transposing behind him. A slit opened on an obsidian scanner, even so small a detail chased with filigree. The vascular man produced the card given by the manager, a slice of engraved gold. Applying it to the pad, the elevator rose at an alarming rate. A voice accompanied the motion.

"Warmonger! To what do I owe the pleasure?" The voice was sing-song and charismatic, even in so little words.

"He has need of you." There was a hesitance, a pregnant silence followed. The doors opened like satin and lace, smooth and without sound. A raised floor stepped out of the elevator, the divan on which a figure sat was raised another landing above that, modern and white, as all the furniture. Two women lay pooled on the tenant's frame, wreathed corsets cut black against the pale divan, his seat in the middle one of abject focus. He was dressed in an open shirt and comfortable pants of the same material, brilliant white as the surroundings. "Oberon." He sat to attention, manicured toes massaged pressure into the floor. The women drifted to his sides as his frame rose. The Greeks once pictured an ultimate of masculine beauty. Oberon was that species.

"What do I need to know?" Said the figure.

The vascular man glanced to the women. They were high on something or other, extent and happy, feeling the space between spaces. Mindless. The vascular man couldn't remove his eyes. The cruelty to him, the slavery of the free to pleasure. He controlled his grimace. "Stick around sometime. You'd be surprised. Most people don't know how high you can actually get." Oberon chuckled in the tension. "He's near?"

"He's here. And he has need of His hand."

"All five fingers then. Luck if we can get ourselves together." Oberon muttered, breaking the words as he groaned and stretched. "You'd better come in all the way. Would you like a drink? I've that tea you like."

"We're to arrive at Sigma in one hour."

"To go then." Oberon raised a finger, pointed to a wall where a sensor transcribed the motion of his finger. An electric imprint rippled through the wall, showing a list of goods. A swipe and a stab, the intimation of his finger's motion was all it took. The vascular man stepped onto the platform as Oberon the icon flit away. Oberon attended the kitchen, a black travel mug steeped a loose leaf blend. "So, how was the flight over?" The vision crossed his arms and posted against the counter frame. He was joined shortly by a pale hulk.

"Quite good. I connected at Tours."

"Layover?"

"Enough. We'll be seeing activity in the region. Their general agrees with my interpretation of their Constitution." Said Warmonger. His tone suggested humor.

"We'll do what needs to be done. Your tea." The one gave to the other.

"Thank you."

"I've secured the textile and service industries, but their low level structures have proved stable. Couldn't get a man in." Oberon let the words pass his lips, looking across to his companion. The rippling sinew, pulsing blood vessels impossibly close to surface of haunting pale flesh. Disquieting. Like a lab experiment that had escaped. If he hadn't looked like this for a thousand years, Oberon might have reacted. Warmonger. Was it the actual bloodlust that earned him the name? Oberon had quite forgotten how he'd earned his. His guest was looking into the cup.

"So it'll be a top down restructure. International impact is expected to be minimal, projections estimate quality of life to improve significantly for 35% of population." His breath tickled the surface of the liquid.

"It was 43."

"We're trying to account for future corruption." The vascular man could see the wisps of tannic acid curling cold in the depths of the waters.

"Used to be we didn't flinch for a cent less than 50. The wheels are in motion. I'm going to try to rework the service numbers, see if we can't edge it up."

"You have people to do that for you." Said the leech.

"I am Paramour. I am Icon. War, is not my business. Mine is a realm of beauty, of beneficence and generosity. This is my domain." He fanned his arm around the lush apartment, ending with the women on the raised platform.

Ebony met the network of capillaries arcing from the vascular man's lips. The tea tasted of earth and dreams. "Very well. We have 45 minutes."

"Let's go." Oberon moved through the rooms, slid on a pair of white house shoes, cinched a dark pea coat around his frame. His companion fidgeted at the call button. The door opened.

"I'm not holding this thing forever."

"Quit your bitchin'." His feet floated through the ground. It was a statement of his condition that even in the midnight, even through the drugs, his every step reminded one of royalty. The elevator fell the hundred floors in silence. The doors opened. "My driver is en route." Sharp clicks and soft pads echoed behind them in the lobby. They strode together, two halves of a more brutal weapon.

"We're taking a cab. Harder to track."

"If the Vanguard cared, a cab, a plane, a copter wouldn't make a difference. They'd see us at the bottom of the ocean."

"Not who I'm concerned about. Arsinoe made contact with the three from the Peerless Few. It's an information bait and switch as I understand it. We're to keep a low profile." The rain fell mute, even. The street stood empty.

"And he's pulling together the hand? Does he know what low profile means?" His waving arm caught the eye of a checker cab, the car pulled in line with the curb. Its block frame fit the vascular man comfortably and nearly drowned his accomplice. The vascular man gave the driver the address. The tires rolled wet on the asphalt. It would be another 5 blocks before a word was said. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"I was with him in Avignon, two days ago, or thereabouts. Why?"

"30 years."

"You should have requested contact."

"We've had communication, written, verbal. Ties are good. I've seen Sol-Rai in the past few years, just not the man himself. Is he... Is he better?"

"Not particularly. He's been... active."

"Did he get rid of anyone important?" Their eyes flicked to the driver's muted guidance.

"Yes." The slip of rubber on wet asphalt, the beating of the rain, were all they heard. Their cab pulled to a stop. A duplex standard for the Chelsea neighborhood, residential in appearance and squat among its fellows, New York's Sigma house was like that. Peaceable. Unfortunately for the Vanguard, the place had been exposed to media scrutiny for a large number of bodies found in and around the area, some turning up too close for comfort. Bombastic Enterprise had changed its relegation to unfit for reliable covert use, and was quickly abandoned, its materials removed.

The door, as they clicked and padded on those grey stone steps, leaned ajar. The vascular man drew a short blade. Oberon produced a pistol from the pocket of his coat. Placing his shoulder against the door, blade leading into the room, the vascular man rolled through, ducking and blasting the door open. Oberon caught it before it hit the wall. The foyer was empty. Disturbingly so. The rugs, if ever had they been there, were reduced to so much a dust and gravel layer. The normative state of a tomb.

The vascular man sought his companion's focus, eyes acknowledging each other's readiness. They'd known each other too long for words. The dust wrinkled under foot, stuck to the wetness on their shoes despite their best technique. They could hear the shift of each grain, as if a gunshot echoed in the rooms, so many, so many rooms. A light called from what might have once been a kitchen. They dropped pretense, walking towards the light. They knew the shape of the brilliance, the color of what it was. Fire. There was a fire in the kitchen.

Bourn within a bathtub, all that could be found seen, unseen smoldered and caught wild ignition. Sitting cross legged in front of the blaze was a naked man. Shorter than the high eloquence of Oberon, smaller than the hulk. Proportion without excess, brutal in the red light. Possessed of an aura of terror. A word of what horror could be. His eyes were not closed, but through the flames.

The vascular man spoke first. "My lord." There was an inclination, so slight that they had almost missed it. A perception of a sound, outside the depths of the flame. The vascular man could see pieces of furniture, slashes of tire, carpet, oil cans, petrochemical containers. Oberon noticed the bones of small animals, and what was probably a femur. The feet of the naked man moved to spread across the ground, moving to stand, he rose with the cold clench of every muscle discrete. His naked back caught the glisten of the heat, his skin coated by his proximity. His sculpted ass held tight to a frame of musculature, built for function. His gaze was without warmth. The lord spoke, into the room.

"There is to be an event. A rending of ties that bind. Dai Mythique Rai has come for this city." The penetration of the shadow's gaze asked for neither question nor comment. Only the nature of obedience. A can of spray paint detonated in the flames. The dark man did not flinch. The tick of his subordinates was test enough. His hands lay lax at his sides, the arch of his back seemed a bent branch, ready to spring. "The Vanguard understands that the Peerless Few have made progress. That this war will not be so secret, or cannot remain so. Dai Mythique Rai will, himself, will force a legislation."

"My lord, what legislation?" said the Oberon.

The naked man turned, as if noticing the Warmonger's companion for the first time. As the naked man spoke, he scanned Oberon, his charge, his hope. "A firm one. That the civilian populace will not be harmed by any exchange between ourselves and our enemies. The Or-gan-i-za-tion-al ca-pac-ities." Each syllable cracked apart. "That these groups, ourselves, the Vanguard, the Peerless Few, only be made to war with each other, or the governments of state, and not the people. He believes that violence upon them is some form of crime. He seems to think that she can be prevented."

The vascular man sensed intrigue. He asked. "He intends to open us? For what purpose?"

"You have heard her word. You have heard my word. War is upon us. The kingdom, the power, and the glory. They used to call them the domains of God, before this age of Kings and Captains." The naked man paused, eyes very far away. "Inoraiya sees an opportunity to preserve the endeavors of the Vanguard in light of this inevitability. To ensure of the continuity of humanity on this our Earth."

The vascular man stood statue, processing the words. Total War. Utopian War. A whisper was born of its possibility, conceived as an eventuality by Ulraiarch the Strong in the Age of Heroes. And now was come to pass.