“The mist had filled the city for the past seven hours, until the appearance of Manager of the Mysticals team. Luckily, we have gotten a chance for an interview. Let’s connect to it right away.”
The TV screen, switched to man, in his late youths. His features were sharp, yet his unkempt stubble and wretched skin, butchered his looks down some points.
“Sir, How do you think the mist was? Has the source been confirmed? What would you say?”
The reporter inquired, in the generic, fast-paced fashion.
“What is this mist, where has it come from, is what I would say you don’t need to care about. I would recommend you leave such workload to us, and take necessary precautions to not let yourself out too much.”
The man’s husky, yet narrative voice, giving the sense of ease and comfort, continued, “We will work out guidelines, tend to the victims and we sympathise with the masses. I would recommend not to let this hold us all back, and face it together. Thank you.”
The man, donning the official attire of loose black pants and suit, followed by a white shirt. Buried his hands in his pockets, and walked over the yellow line, as the reporters were halted by the government faculties, guarding the area.
The old man, donned in a slick wear of an official black suit, black pants, and white shirt, switched the television off. His well-conditioned hair, and smooth look gave him a professional look.
“Sir, may I come in?”
“Come in.” The old man affirmed.
“Sir, these are the official reports prepared from the site.”
The man, donning his set of similar official attire, placed a file containing a couple of pages on the table. His id displayed Manager of Mysticals in a column.
The old man gestured to a chair, and the man seated, opening his overly tightened collar button.
“Is it him again?” The old inquired in his deep voice and professional tone.
The manager’s glance turned grave, as he adjusted his leaning posture, and replied in his husky, narrative voice, “I don’t think I have seen anyone with such mystical potentials other than him. I would very much want to reject, but I know it's him.”
“Do you think...?” The old man leaned forward to his desk, resting his chin on his fingers, folded one over another.
“Yes, sir. He clearly knows we will suspect him. Yet, he dared to actively provoke us. And the worst is that he isn’t the instinctive type who is off in intelligence.”
“So you mean he thinks he can handle the whole organisation?”
The old man’s voice’s professionalism was staggering, carrying tad bits of aggression and surprise.
“I don’t know. The last time I didn’t personally take charge, and he was somewhere in the late of his teen years right then. In five years, he must very well be an adult now.”
“And effectively, we won’t be able to send the whole organisation against him. Of course, he might have very well planned to leave the country too.”
“Hah” The old man sighed. Showing his exasperation, hidden under his professionalism.
“You will handle the case.” He ordered.
“Sir? But I have just cleared the two cases. If I take on another, I’ll be done.”
“Armel, You are competent, and you know him better than anyone here.”
Seeing the exhausted young man, the old man eased his voice a bit, “And I will guarantee you good bonus, recognition, and relaxation. Just handle this case.”
Armel’s tongue slithered to the side, protruding from inside his mouth, as he sat in a futile contemplation to an obvious result. He couldn’t say no under such persuasion.
“Okay, sir. I really hope for a good, long break.”
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
He prompted himself up from the chair, and continued to depart, as the old man asked him about his team.
“May I choose the people I want?”
“Of course, choose the best.”
And the Armel, continued his exit from the well furnished room, avoiding the urge to fall into the fluffy, protruding sofa and exited through the door.
“Let me put the team together, gather the materials, manage the team a bit and then I’ll sleep.” Armel voiced his thoughts.
“I’ll definitely sleep today.” He voiced his thoughts, as he continued walking, moving past the cabins where officials were bustling.
None wondered about the state of the manager talking to himself or found it surprising. They had seen him there working when they left at night, and found his dark-circled eyes, glaring at the screen or the charts, with cups of coffee, when they arrived the next morning.
For the past two months, none had seen him leave the headquarters. The food was ordered, and they’d only see him buying coffee of his favourite “wishy-washy” brand, from the store just in front.
Had they lived such, they might have just quit. So, they all admired Manager Armel from the bottom of their hearts.
Far away from the Headquarters of the Mystical organisation, Forty-two was seated on a chair, with a desk in front of him, scattered with unassembled parts — apparently of a gun.
He industriously focused, and tinkered with the parts. And a laptop nearby displayed some programs, connected to a motherboard.
The small room around him reeked like sewage, from the broken sewage nearby. And a small bed, his study, and a suitcase were clamped down together.
He heaved a sigh, and leaned on the cheap chair. Taking a drink from a bottle on his table.
He was shirtless displaying his chiselled pectus and abdomen, as a locket hung on his neck. He clasped it with his hands, rocking on his wooden chair, which clearly wasn’t made for such. One leg of the chair snipped, as he began to fall.
He immediately disintegrated into mist, and reappeared standing, yet the old chair was broken, lying down on the floor.
Tch. Dammit.
Soon, a couple of loud bangs were heard on his room’s door.
“Remus!” A woman’s voice exclaimed from behind the door.
“Open the door! What the fuck are you doing?”
The banging was continuous, as Forty-two closed his eyes and inhaled, gathering his composure.
He walked towards the banging gate, and opened it.
As the door opened, A plump old woman, somewhere in her fifties wearing a casual t-shirt, and dirty pyjamas rushed in without looking at Forty-two, as if disregarding him.
Her eyes dilated to oblivion, as she looked at the old chair lying on the floor, with its one leg snapped into two.
“Why don’t you just die like your ugly mother?” She exclaimed in horror, as she turned towards Forty-two.
The gun parts were scrambled in with the variegated parts of different machines, making it unrecognisable from a normal perspective.
“Your living will cost me my house!” She continued to shout at Forty-two, whose hands had tightened to such an extent, that the forearms were bulging with muscles.
The woman noticing his aggression moved forward towards him and said, “Yeah, kill me and relieve me of this pain. Just kill me already.”
She stared into Forty-two’s eyes, which sent a chill down her spine. Averting her gaze, she moved away from Forty-two, towards the door.
“Reemus, you will pay for this. Sell that damn laptop or whatnot but buy me a new chair.”
Forty-two sighed, exhaling a plethora of emotions, “Why should I buy a new one? I’ll give you a second hand. Just as ugly as yourself.”
“Hah!” She exclaimed, and gave a look to Forty-two’s revealed figure, and face.
Her face was stiff, yet her eyes carried a sensual expression, which made Forty-two sick from the back of his throat.
Avert your eyes, you!
She noticed his contorted expression.
“Hmph! Why don’t you sell that body to some rich girls and make some money.” She remarked, and sauntered out of the room.
Forty two’s eyes fleeted to the side, exhausted — lifeless, and thoughtless. But he soon gathered himself, and slammed the door shut, locking it again.
He gave the broken chair a grim look, and slid it to a corner, proceeding to put the machine parts he’d worked hard to get in the bed, chunk by chunk, and took his laptop too.
Seated on the small bed, with white sheets, clean yet with a familiar look as the other objects in the houses — old and weary. It creaked with Forty-two’s every movement, as he seated himself, resting his back on the wall. And his feet, touching almost the edge of the bed, which clearly couldn’t contain him well in his full height.
He switched to the news on his laptop, and began to examine and judge the actions the government may take.
Mystical Organisation huh. As expected. But why does this manager feel familiar? Whatever, I can get my degree next week. Then I will look to pursue a phd… No. I’ll first look for an internship, or a Job might keep me more out of suspicion. I’m sure the government officials won’t take a very long time.
Assuming their tracking magic is one of the best, it should take them one month to track me. Worst of the worst, I’ll leave the country. But on average, the way I scattered the tracks, they should give me three months at least. But let’s overestimate them.
Forty-two closed his laptop and put it in a corner of the bed. Then he continued to engage with the parts.
The evening passed quickly, in the pungent room, and Forty-two kept on toiling with the machine.
As the darkness veiled the earth, and grew further and further, Forty-two held a pair of shimmering black gloves, the size of his palm.
They appeared nothing extraordinary, except for their shine which contradicted the dire situations of every other object. Yet, Forty-two gazed at them in satisfaction, and admiration.
These will definitely be helpful.
He remarked internally.
He had used all his connections, authority, power, and time for the past two years, and fabricated these pairs of gloves, made of an alloy, containing the most expensive material on earth — Nadium.
He wanted to make it all of Nadium, yet he couldn’t cover the cost just yet. So he refined, and compromised to fabricate a similarly potent alloy.