2.0

Benjamin Moore sits in the back of a heavily armored vehicle. His hands are bound by overengineered cuffs built from some kind of material he’s sure isn’t available to the public. If it were, he’d have gotten his hands on it by now, surely.

Armed guards sit positioned in the surrounding seats, guns lowered but no less tense for it. They’re anxious, he can feel it even through their bulletproof equipment and faceless black helmets. They expect him to try something.

He doesn’t know where they got that idea, it’s not as if he has access to a lab here. Though, he supposes it’s better to be cautious for no reason than to be ignorant when it counts.

Perhaps, then, he should have better prepared for this eventuality. A breakable capsule embedded in his teeth, or under his nail — even a launching mechanism subtly stored in his sleeve might have given him a chance at escape, back then.

He would have had to have been decisive regardless, since the authorities searched him thoroughly during his stay at the temporary holding facility. In the end, this outcome may be optimal, even if it will likely damage his reputation.

Ah, well. He wasn’t going to stay untouchable forever. He’ll simply have to crack down on his territory when he returns. No one’s going to forget Cook any time soon.

The vehicle rumbles, and if he weren’t strapped in, a sharp lurch might have thrown him out of his seat. One of the guards noticeably turns their head. A built-in communicator?

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Cook wonders if his sitcoms will be on tonight.

The vehicle lurches again, violently, and then the world blurs as the small container Cook and his jailers are thrown against their restraints. The vehicle rolls and hits the ground once, twice, three times. Metal screeches and bangs, even as the vehicle holds its structure before sliding to a stop. Upside down, Cook hangs with the guards as they struggle to undo their belts.

He turns to the guard next to him. “What do you think? The Brash and the Bodacious usually comes on Fridays, but occasionally they’ll have a special.”

The guard whips around to stare at Cook. “Wh —”

The vehicle doors burst open with a bang, and metal spears shoot through, impaling all the guards. Most of them die instantly. Another slides out of his seat and off the spike with a thump, groaning and crawling away from the entrance.

One gathers their wits enough to aim their rifle and blindly fire at the doorway, but he’s quickly silenced by a returning gunshot.

After that, the vehicle is blessedly silent.

“Fuck yeah! We got em’ boss!” Suckup shouts from the entrance. He looks to be standing next to someone as a number of lackeys swarm outside along a number of cars.

Cook clears his throat. “Wonderful. Would one of you be so kind as to let me down, now?”

The other figure waves, and Suckup scrambles to undo the latches and catch Cook on his way down.

Cook notices this… deference. Interesting. As he stumbles to his feet, the first thing to catch his eye about the stranger are his eyes.

They shine with a cruel, golden glow in the harsh midday sun.

“Hello, Benjamin. I believe we have some terms to discuss.”

“Who are you?”

“Mm, I suppose I can tell you. My name is…

“Seneschal.”