Standing outside of the godfather’s office, stood Vincent and Larry. Rather than knocking like every member of Libra had done, Larry simply opened the door and welcomed himself inside. As they both entered, Archard could be seen with a finger on his temple, fixated on the giant map that was sprawled across his desk. The moment that the sounds of shoes against wood echoes throughout the room, Archard’s eyes snapped up.

“What are you—” he started to yell, “—Larry? What are you doing back, uh, so soon?”

“Soon?” Larry reiterated. “I feel like I’m a bit late, if anything.”

“Yes, yes, that’s true,” Archard stammered. “I must have lost track of the time.”

As he said that, his eyes were locked onto Larry. There was an obvious tension behind them, and that tension was focused, surprised, and slightly confused. It was the look of someone who had seen a ghost, but it wasn’t the first time they had seen one, either. In addition, without even looking down, he slowly started to roll up the map.

“Well you better pay attention to things more carefully, Arch,” Larry said, strolling up towards the desk, “because if you don’t, you might not see a betrayal coming.”

Archard lowered his gaze—not physically, but emotionally. There was a dark seriousness that now filled his eyes as he looked at the slender, careful man. There was an ideological clash of auras that was taking place between those two, just beyond what was visible. It was a battle of wits, implication, and will. However, it seemed like it wasn’t the first nor the last time it would take place.

“Betrayal, you say?” Archard slowly asked.

“Yeah!” Vincent interjected, loudly. “We were betrayed and ambushed.”

Instantly, Archard’s demeanor changed when his head turned towards Vincent. Gone was the veneer of threat plastered across his face, and instead, it was replaced with concern and shock.

“You…” Archard said, looking directly and only at Vincent. He then split his attention between Larry and Vincent. “You both were ambushed? And you made it out, alive?”

“For once,” Larry answered, “I’m just as surprised as you.”

Archard’s back straightened as he stroked his goatee. “How did you manage to escape?’”

Larry looked directly at Vincent. “Honestly,” he said, “it was all thanks to this guy.”

Archard cocked his head and asked, “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is that he saved us,” Larry responded, taking a hand out of his pocket and placing it on Vincent's shoulder. “He wasn’t lying when he said he was a Resonator.” He then looked back up at Archard. “And he especially wasn’t lying when he said that he was strong.”

“Is that so?” Archard said, leaning in a bit. “So, Vincent, what are your abilities?”

Vincent looked at Larry and then back towards the godfather. “Well, I can control voids. I can create an area where nothing can exist. I can use that to bend metal, knock people out, and even fling objects through the air really fast.”

Archard leaned back in his chair with a slight grin. “That certainly does sound strong,” he said. He then looked up at Larry. “I haven’t heard of a power that strong since…” As the words started to leave his mouth, he just let them linger. He then looked back down at Vincent with a smile. “Well, I haven’t heard of a power like that in a long time.”

Vincent smiled and said, “And you won’t see anything like it again. After all, I’m the Chosen.”

“I guess you are,” Archard said, returning the smile. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you stay here from now on? That way you don’t have to make the trek here every day, seeing as I’m going to start giving you some bigger missions.”

“Really?” Vincent asked with some enthusiasm. “What about Eliot and Fang?”

“Of course they can stay, too. I’ll let them know when they return.. Now, I go get your stuff from Black Magic and come back.”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Will do!”

***

Just as Vincent walked towards the doors of the Black Magic cafe, he felt something tickle the back of his head. He felt a slight, pinning headache form at the back of his head. Just as he noticed it, he heard what he could only describe as a voice inside of his head, and it said, “Come here, Vince.”

He immediately turned around and faced the direction of the headache. On the other side of the street, directly across from him, was a man sitting outside of a restaurant, writing in what seemed to be a notebook or sorts. As soon as Vincent laid eyes on the man, the man looked up and met his gaze.

“I just want to talk,” Vincent heard inside of his head again.

After looking around for a moment, Vincent thought to himself, I don’t know about this.

Just as he started to turn around, he felt the pressure inside of his skull slightly worsen. In addition, he heard something that made him stop dead in his tracks.

“I just want to talk,” he heard the voice say again. “Come here, my blackbird.”

The breath escaped him as scenes of an old dream started to play about in his head. He saw black. He saw nothing. He saw himself. He saw white. All while those images flashed, he heard three words play and repeat, like a haunted, looped video. Nothing, empty, void—those were the familiar words that resurfaced.

As he snapped back to reality, he had already wandered across the street. In front of him was the man, and he saw him in closer detail. The man was sitting at an iron-laced table. He was Japanese and was wearing a white suit. His hair was pitch black and slicked back. The man looked up at Vincent, closed his notebook, and gestured for Vincent to take a seat next to him. Vincent obliged.

“Hello,” the man said with a neutral smile, although he was looking away from Vincent. His voice was soft but sharp. There was a lot of air to it, but there was a preciseness too. It was like he only said what he needed to, with the amount of voice that he needed to, because he knew that what was being said was going to be heard. There was an air of importance to his words, and they were mesmerizing.

“What the hell do you want?” Vincent replied. “I don’t even know you.”

“That’s true,” the man said, “but I know you.”

“Who even are you,” Vincent somewhat forcefully asked. “At least tell me that, snowflake.”

The man then shifted their gaze directly at Vincent. His eyes were deeply brown, borderline black. It was like staring into the abyss, itself. “Riki,” the man finally answered.

“Riki…” Vincent quietly said. For some reason, he lingered on those words. He wasn’t sure why, but something about that name reverberated throughout the entirety of his being. The more the name played in his head, the colder he felt himself become. It was such a foriegn name to him, but one that rang so many familiar bells. These incongruent feelings continued to clash inside him as long as they continued to converse.

“What do you think of these people?” Riki asked.

“What do you mean?” Vincent asked, his voice quieting down, although slightly.

“The people of this city, this country, what do you think of them?” Riki repeated.

“I…” Vincent started to think, “...I think they’re trapped here. It feels like somewhere I’ve been before. It seems like these people lost their freedom.”

“And why do you think that is?”

Vincent thought for a moment and took a deep breath. “It sounds like it’s because they don’t have the power to defend themselves.”

Riki shifted his posture ever so slightly, leaning in a bit closer to Vincent. “So you think freedom comes from power?” he proposed.

“No…” Vincent then squinted his eyes a bit. “No, I think freedom comes from choice.”

A smile started to crawl across the man’s face. “Interesting. I, too, think that choice is the root of it all. But how can it be freedom if some people have certain choices?” He then cracked one of his fingers. “Like the people here—they have no choice but to be oppressed by those with power. Other people took away their choices. Other people took away their freedom.”

“That’s true…” Vincent said.

“So how can choice be considered freedom? It’s not fair that the freedom of someone should be affected by the choices of others. If everyone is given a choice, then someone will choose wrong.”

Vincent hesitated for a moment. He started to find himself agreeing with what Riki was saying, but something deep inside of him stopped him from going any further. The warm, semi-hypnotic state that he found himself in was frozen by his own mind. All images of the Japanese man were shunted from his thoughts, and he was left with his own words.

“That’s true,” Vincent finally stated, “but I think it’s more important to have that choice, even when people ‘choose wrong’ like ya said. Freedom is choosing, not being right.”

The expression on Riki's face dropped a bit. With a disappointed tone, he said, “I see. Even now, that hasn’t changed.” He then looked at his watch. “Well, my time here is up. I must be going. I have another meeting to attend.”

Riki then stood up and began to walk away. Just as he made his way out of immediate earshot, Vincent spoke up, not looking at him, and said, “Have we met before? I recognize something about you.”

Riki stopped, and without turning around, he answered, saying, “Of course.”

The white-dressed man then disappeared from sight, and Vincent just stood there, pondering the nature of what just happened.