The wheels of time had kicked the earth in the darkness of midnight. Forty-two was still in a physical trance, revelling in his subtle body, in that subtler realm.
That subtler realm was a realm juxtaposed with the physical, apparently. Yet, even after forming four threads, he hadn’t been able to move much along the realm.
A vast expanse of land, covered by silvery mist below, and a beautiful scenery, of rivers, trees, and divine life above it. This was his realm of existence in the subtle body. The realm of forty-two, a mark bearer, brandishing his beautiful silvery mark without fear. As his beautiful form shone in brilliance.
He had been salient all the time, meditating to recuperate faster, as he couldn’t handle long separation from the physical world.
He hankered to discover these lands, yet he knew how much every minute here could cost him.
Abruptly, his eyelid forced open, sensing a danger.
I have been tracked?
He couldn’t believe that the Mystical organisation tracked him within just a week.
My body is in danger. I need to move somewhere else immediately.
He couldn’t take any more risks. Now that he was tracked, he needed to deal with this efficiently.
He shouldn’t have childishly provoked the organisation, and he thoroughly regretted it. He could really be just a vulnerable young man, at times.
Several miles apart, in a building, Divina had just tracked this mist-man.
Armel exclaimed in excitement, punching the air, “Yes!”
Midnight had hit everyone hard. The members from the technical team, tracking team, developmental team, attacking team, were all either sleeping, or dazed, not hearing or seeing anything outside.
Armel clapped loudly in excitement, waking everybody up, “Get up boys and girls! Get up!”
His loud voice shook everyone, some resurging from their daze, and some waking up, rubbing their eyes in surprise.
“What has happened?” They wondered.
“The target is tracked.” Armel continued, grinning ear to ear.
“Let’s get to work. Technical team, pinpoint the location and coordinates.” He continued speaking, pointing to different people, ordering them with enthusiasm.
His hyperactivity was conducive, and rubbed everyone out of their drowsiness.
“Attack team, quick, put on the battle suits. Quick, quick. And the development team I want you on the panels ready to launch the mini-ships.”
“Yes, sir!” They all responded, mirroring his enthusiasm.
The sheets were shoved off, cans thrown in the dustbin, cups sided from the desk, making it clearer to work. Members of the technical team, polished their spectacles — the source of their eyesight.
Under a span of fifteen minutes or so, the attack team readied themselves, donning night-vision helmets, and suits that could nullify attacks from anything below 3-1.
Though, against terrifying targets like the mist-man, these things were far from the perfect equipment. Yet, something is always better than nothing.
The developmental team had readied the mini-ships for their launch. Technical team had perfected the tracking coordinates to a diameter of a quarter of a mile.
Armel addressed the heavily guarded attack team, now sober, unlike before, yet passionate.
“Carles, you will lead the team, as discussed.” Armel faced towards a tall, bulky man towering well above two metres. The helmet covered the face, yet his black beard dangled from under it, curving in eccentric fashion.
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“He is at least a 3-3 threat. Though, I would presume more. Five years ago, he was a 3-2 threat and he single-handedly wiped out the National attack force of Chaim, where I used to work.”
Arlem continued in a sober tone, his narrative and husky voice, intensified the terror for this mist-man, “He was somewhere around 17 or 18 at that time. So logically, he should be the same level of threat. But I would appreciate thinking of him, having reached at least a 3-3 threat. Do you guys understand?”
“Sir!” Aliza inquired.
“Yes.”
“Why are we assuming his threat has increased? It would hamper our progress.”
“Fair. But if it can help you keep your lives. I think you should rather do it. Okay?”
“Yes sir.”
Aliza replied, wondering about just how powerful this mist-man was. She had captured threats of 2-3, single-handedly. Could she really not capture a 3-3 with a team? Was there such a huge disparity? Even after having reached the power level of 3-1?
Carles, the leader of the team, as if continuing the inquiry for Aliza inquired.
Unlike Carles’ heavy beard, his voice was generic, and pretty soft compared to Arlen. Though, nothing off the rails, it always caught people off-guard,
“Sir, Are you suspecting he is a mark-bearer?” Carles voiced his opinion, as a surge of exclamations ran across the room.
The attack team’s eyes darted from Carles to Armel, and back, and forth. If he were a mark bearer, they weren’t enough to deal with him.
Fleeting his eyes sideways, striving to hide his reaction, Armel heaved a sigh, readying himself to confront them, and replied, “I don’t want the answer to be revealed anywhere. This is just my speculation. But I would say yes.”
Heavy gasps filled the room, and a palpable sense of horror permeated it.
“Then how are we supposed to deal with him, Sir?”
Another member of the attack team asked, carrying vivid fear in his voice.
“Yes, sir, isn’t it all in vain?”
A member of the technical team voiced her thoughts.
“Are we supposed to die uselessly on the mission?”
A novel member of the attack force spoke up.
“Silence!”
Armel shouted, immediately bringing down all the voices.
“First of all, it’s just a speculation. Second, even if he is a mark bearer he hasn’t mastered his powers yet, and third you guys will capture him before he opens his mark, Okay?”
"If he reveals his mark, those higher ups will never sit quiet. And even in his previous fights, he evidently, never revealed his mark."
In the dead silence, his voice roared across the room, as the members of the attack force breathed out the fear, brittled their hearts, and let out a cry, “Yes sir!”
“Good, now get ready. Check your equipments once more, and leave for the runway. I’ll be guiding you throughout. My wishes are with you, Good luck.”
“Yes, sir.”
Following the command, the attack force left for the runway, and Armel joined the computers with the technical team, communicating with all forces and supervising them.
In the motel, under the dim light of the small bulb in the corner of the room, Forty-two flashed his eyes open.
I am sure they are coming.
He abruptly got up from his bed, thoughtful, and in his head, yet his body instinctively prepared for the upcoming fight.
These so-called knights of justice will attack me in sleep, when all people are asleep too. I am pretty sure they will blame it all on me.
He unzipped his backpack, and retrieved a pair of slick casual wear. It wasn’t a suit, nor a protective armour in any sense, yet he had always fought with it. So he always put it on before a fight.
After the clothes, he retrieved his cold mask. While it restricted his powers heavily, he hoped to escape without revealing his face and identity.
In Chaim, he was able to deal with the attack force without removing this mask. Though, there was a stark contrast between the two cities.
The information on the attack force was classified, and reporters being the general source of information for him, he wasn’t sure. Yet, he had seen the influence of Mysticals, even among the powerful, rogue Mysticals, who had crossed the threshold of level two.
Judging they at least have two to three level 3s. It would be quite tough dealing with them without the mask.
Shit! I have my graduation ceremony tomorrow, just why is it happening tonight? One day later, I could have tried to flee, but I need to attend the ceremony.
Thoughts continued to race in his mind.
If my identity is revealed what would I do? I would have already wiped out two attack forces by then, and I might very well be declared as an international threat.
This is troublesome. But I guess there is one method. Yes, there is only one method.
Forty-two’s face darkened, eyes fixated on the white coloured wall, carrying shades of brown and yellow, because of dust, as he contemplated, and contemplated.
Dire situations demand confident actions. So, he decided to follow this plan through.
Would living really matter if he just had to live like this? He might as well die in a fight, then keep on living with the stink of poverty, stupidity, and burden of strangers with him.
No sense of identity, no sense of self, no dignity, no life, no influence. Being a mark bearer, what had he achieved?
He doesn’t know about his mother, nor father. He doesn’t know about his powers, and just scourges through life, living nothing.
I’ll do it. He determined his conviction.
The mask on his hand, slithered into threads of smoke and dissipated into him, resting in his subtle body. As a loud voice echoed outside.
A voice not heavy, nor soft, just a generic voice, amplified through a megaphone. It shook the hearts of all the peacefully sleeping residents. Especially, because no one there was the “good-average guy”, and such a thing was their hellish nightmare.
“We know you are there, mist-man or whatever.” Carles spoke.
“Surrender to us and do not cause trouble in the Adair City. I repeat, Surrender to us and do not cause trouble in the Adair City.”
An evident, and vivid flair of hatred blazed in Forty-two's eyes.
You want to fight, forty-two. Then I'll let you see the real one.