NOVEMBER 19TH

Gabriel stood before the club, staring into space while the bouncer looked over his ID. The neon lights above him flickered and flashed in such a way that was meant to pull the attention of any passerby like people just go to clubs by themselves. “The Clover,” it read. Time kept passing, and Gabriel tapped his foot to the bass pulsing inside the club. Eventually, the bouncer extended the ID back to Gabriel.

“You branded?” He inquired.

Gabriel rolled up his sleeves and rotated his arms while the bouncer watched very closely, then he reached up towards his collar and pulled it aside on both sides of his neck. After a moment’s pondering, the bouncer unlatched the gate and let him in.

“Thanks,” Gabriel muttered as he walked past.

The bouncer patted him on the shoulder, “You should get that dry skin checked out,” he said with a chuckle.

Whenever he came to this club, they’d always do that brand check, and only to him. It was natural, Gabriel thought, of course they’d check me. When he walked, he dragged his left leg behind him, it always got looks but Gabriel didn’t care. He limped through the main area where music was blasting and lights were erratically flashing. He wandered around for a bit, and a bit longer, searching the booths.

“Gabe! Long time no see!” A distinct French accent cajoled from behind him, “Looks like you’ve only got worse!” He felt a hand grip his shoulder and pull him around.

Gabriel was pulled around and he was met with a distinct plump face spattered with clumps of hair in all the places it shouldn’t be and tons of bright red pimples.

“You’re one to be talking, my friend,” Gabriel chuckled. The large man pulled in Mikhail with a chortle, his greasy hand patting him on the back. He pulled Gabriel over to a booth near the corner of the club where a few assorted women sat around chatting with one another about something Gabriel didn’t bother listening to.

“Ladies! C’est mon ami, Gabriel!” He belted out while herding Gabriel into a seat that put him between two women he assumed worked at the club. The large man sat across from Gabriel and relaxed into his side of the booth.

“Were the theatrics necessary, Clement?” Gabriel asked.

Clement took a sip of some gin, “Of course! It is a celebration, is it not?” Clement responded, “For your promotion! And for another month you go unbranded!”

“Christ,” Gabriel settled into his seat while placing a palm to his face.

Clement raised an eyebrow. “Fine then. Gabe, how much are you making now?” Clement pestered.

“Enough,” Gabriel laughed.

“Oh come on! C'est beaucoup, n'est-ce pas?” Clement continued, “Finally in the five figures?”

Before Gabriel could respond, a beam of light shot from the dance floor, piercing through one of the girl’s torso into Gabriel’s head. The world had frozen, Clement stuck with a shit-eating grin on his face, about to take another sip of gin. The beam had burned a large hole straight through both of them and the wall directly beside them.

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It all happened in an instant, the woman to his left lived for a few seconds after being shot, but Gabriel had instantly slumped over onto the other woman; dead.

Clement blasted upwards from his seat, the entire booth was pushed into a panic, they were all trying to crawl their way out. More shots of the beam found their target, and the air which was permeated by techno music, quickly shifted to one full of shouting and screaming. Clement watched on in horror as that beam of light was shot a few more times into the giant crowd that was running towards any exit they could find. He had to play dead.

...

It was quiet.

...

Aside from the solemn footsteps coming from the dance floor accompanied by the distinct sound of spurs. They wandered about the club for quite a while, crunching glass, food, and what Clement could only assume to be people. They drew closer to Clement until they stopped right beside him.

Clement's breathing was noticeable, sharp, and fast. His heart could be heard by someone if they were a bit closer than the man standing above him.

"Fat man," a disembodied southern drawl spoke to Clement.

Clement remained face down.

"I'm talkin' t' you," a boot struck Clement's side and pried him from the floor to flip him belly-up.

Clement's eyes widened as he stared at the man standing over him, dressed in full cowboy attire with two revolvers around his waist. The man crouched down to get closer to Clement. The lights from the dance floor kept pulsing but the music had been absent for a while. As the man stared silently at Clement, a light passed over the two of them, illuminating the man's neck. Clement stared like he'd seen a ghost.

"... a brand," escaped from Clement's lips.

"How very vigilant," he spat, "now what was y'doin' playin' dead?"

Clement's lips were sealed, much like his eyelids, and fists.

"Alright. I get it," the man spoke after many long seconds of silence passed.

Clement heard the man stand up and pat himself down before those same spur-accompanied footsteps trudged away. His eyes shot open and he released the breath he'd been holding. However, almost instantaneously, a beam of light bounced off of the cheap disco ball and went through his chest at such an angle that it went straight to his tailbone. Clement looked at himself in horror, but no screams would come, he looked over at the branded man who stood across the room, reholstering his revolver. He froze like this, dead.

"Sorry, partner."

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Charles paced in front of a desk, shooting glances at Jim sitting at it every once in a while. It was clear he was deep in thought. Finally, Jim had enough.

"God dammit, Charles! Stop pacing!" He snapped.

Charles halted and hesitated for a moment, "What do we do?" He began, "About the brands?"

"Nothing," Jim replied.

Charles stared at Jim for a moment, waiting for elaboration.

"That is unless we get branded someho-"

Charles cut him off, "No!"

"Then nothing, we can do nothing. Any counter out there is reserved for the people that already have a brand."

Charles held his fist to his chin and finally sat down, "Do you know how many people have died in brand-related incidents?"

Jim leaned back in his chair and sighed, "No. No, I have not."

"Twelve thousand six hundred and twenty-seven, worldwide." Charles revealed, "They only started appearing a few months ago!"

Jim reached and grabbed his coffee, taking a few sips from it nonchalantly as he stared at Charles intently. Once he finished the coffee, he leaned forward and opened a drawer from which he retrieved a paper. He slapped it down on the desk in front of Charles, "Read this," he said.

Charles grabbed the paper swiftly and Jim watched as his eyes went across the headline.

"Branded man saves homeless man from burning tent"

"I've seen this already," Charles muttered, "This guy ended up getting shot in that club last night, by another Branded. Think his name was Gabriel, or Abel, something biblical."

Charles stood up and tossed the newspaper back onto Jim's desk, "Did you see the bodies? Just a few weeks ago, the strongest power some kid was branded with was 'Ooooh I can reheat food better!' Now we have to deal with... fuckin' lasers!" He ranted.

Jim sat at his desk with a placid expression, before kicking his feet up on his desk.

"It's not our problem, every government has been in a frenzy trying to keep this all under wraps. It'll probably be solved by the end of the year."

"You better hope it is, or we're out of a job," Charles said before promptly leaving.

Jim stared off into space.