Post by The Guardians on Aug 12, 2016 17:47:41 GMT -6
Hanging by a frayed wire, a single fluorescent bulb casts flickering, strobe-light shadows across the brick walls; the stainless steel drawers, firmly latched; the cement floor pockmarked by drains. On a slab, a figure -- angry red Y-shaped incision standing out against pale white flesh -- strains against the hold of what appears to be a delicate silver chain. Below, another man -- dressed in a dusty-tan trenchcoat -- crouches, spray painting weird, esoteric symbols on the ground. Standing, he wipes his hands on a paper towel and turns to face the struggling creature.
Jack Hampshire (V.O.): Wait, hold on. Take a look at that sexy devil right there. No, no...not him! The subtly dashing one, with the messy hair and the rugged good looks. Yes, that one! That's me: Jack Hampshire, freelance demonologist -- among other things. And this... is my last exorcism before the Wave.
"Tides are rising, Jack!" the creature on the slab growls. "Shit's gonna hit the fan, boyo, and things are gonna be real different around here after that!"
Jack Hampshire: Sometimes, I wish I'd listened. But you know demons; most of 'em are all talk. Say anything to get a second chance. Heh. Live and learn, I guess.
Hampshire ignores the creature and reaches into his coat pocket, from which he withdraws a battered tin case marked with sigils. Opening it, he selects a hand-rolled cigarette, then offers one to the bound demon.
"Hmm? No? Good idea," he says, slipping the case away as he lights up. "Things'll kill ya."
Jack grins shamelessly. The creature gives him a deadpan stare.
Jack Hampshire: Everybody's a critic...
"You can't send me back there again, Hampshire!" it pleads, sounding desperate. "You know what they'll do to me!"
"Sorry, mate. 'Sthe rules," Jack replies mildly.
"They're your rules!"
"That's why I can't break 'em."
Jack Hampshire: Let me clarify that, before you get the wrong impression about me. He's referring to a very particular set of rules that were part of a deal I brokered with a mid-level Hellbeing called -- well, her name's irrelevant, 'cause I can't remember it. That was also part of the deal. Point is, she's supposed to keep her posse out of my turf. They cross the border we agreed on, I send 'em home for a spanking. It never dawned on me that the game was about to change.
The young man takes one more drag off his hand-rolled before setting it aside. He blows the smoke in the creature's face and puts his right hand on its forehead, fingers splayed. Words form on his lips; strange archaic words that begin as a soft murmur, then rise to a thundering crescendo. Simultaneously, the markings on the floor take on an unearthly glow of purplish-white. The light rises from each symbol in a steady stream to form an arc overhead. Without warning, a bolt of silvery lightning stabs downward and strikes the creature in the chest. A cry of anguish echoes through the morgue as something dark and shadowy is forced from the reanimated corpse, to be swallowed up in the maelstrom of eldritch light.
A heartbeat later, the storm has faded away, leaving only vague afterimages as Jack's eyes readjust to the semi-darkness. Casually, he picks up the smoldering remains of his cigarette, sticks it back in his mouth, and walks away.
Jack Hampshire: Was a right badass in those days. Ok, I still am, but the Wave really threw me off for a minute. It was like... like the whole universe just rearranged itself one day. My powers were shite for months. Reduced to parlour tricks. Not long after, the first of the supermen arose. I mean, what else do you call them? The comics industry has pretty much taken all the good names. But these ones didn't wear capes or masks -- at least, not at the start. Only a fraction of the population developed any useful abilities. Of those, most didn't go public. Right now, there's a guy sitting at home, watching telly, who's got the ability to shoot death rays out of his arse. Went through a dozen toilets figuring that one out. Might be the most powerful human being on Earth, and he spends his evenings binge watching reality shows. Then again, if that was my power, I'd keep it in my shorts, too.
Hampshire strolls down a forlorn street, clouds of smoke trailing in his wake. Even before the Wave, it's hard to catch a cab in this part of town after dark. It all fades to black, then opens again on an informal setting: specifically, a primary school gymnasium. Five too-small chairs are arranged in a semi-circle, but nobody's sitting. A stocky Maori, face marked by a traditional muku, stands with his arms crossed, watching in stormy silence as a slender Italian tries his smoothest lines on a woman in a hijab. One eyebrow raises in surprise when the woman puts up a hand to quiet the fast-talking hipster, then glides right through him to perch on one of the child-sized chairs.
Beside the Maori, an older man chuckles in amusement. He has silvery hair and a full beard, with a ready smile but haunted eyes. A Cold War relic who had never been a fan of Soviet life; possessed of either too much honor, or not enough courage, to defect to a democratic nation. Jack paces around the small gathering, his expression troubled.
Jack Hampshire: This was the first-ever meeting of the Renaissance Men. I'd sent a few invites through Facebook, and these were the ones who'd showed up. If I were an honest man -- which I can be, when the occasion calls for it -- I'd say this was a better turnout than I had any reason to expect. Quick roll-call. That bloke with the ink is called Squall. Power -- weather control. Russian grandpa over there is Terranaut. He generates portals to and from specific locations. Our lady friend is Psyche, and she's not really here; not physically. That's her ability -- projection. Last but not least, this Italian stud is our speedster, Veloci.
Jack stops pacing and clears his throat. Nobody seems to pay him any mind, so he does it again, louder.
"You got... toad in throat, buddy?" asks the Russian, sardonically.
With a small shrug, Jack takes off his glasses and uses a cloth to wipe buff out a fingerprint before putting them back on and turning his focus to the group.
"Yes...well...now that I've got your attention...."
Jack Hampshire: And that's basically how it all began. When I regained my powers after the Wave, they were.... different. Stronger, yes, but the magic felt... foreign, too. It left a tangy taste on the back of my tongue that hadn't been there before. I can see things now; things that weren't clear before the Wave. Ripples in the very substance of the Omniverse. Dunno what they mean, but there are patterns to those ripples; and those patterns keep pointing me to America.
Chicago.
The Guardians.
Jack Hampshire (V.O.): Wait, hold on. Take a look at that sexy devil right there. No, no...not him! The subtly dashing one, with the messy hair and the rugged good looks. Yes, that one! That's me: Jack Hampshire, freelance demonologist -- among other things. And this... is my last exorcism before the Wave.
"Tides are rising, Jack!" the creature on the slab growls. "Shit's gonna hit the fan, boyo, and things are gonna be real different around here after that!"
Jack Hampshire: Sometimes, I wish I'd listened. But you know demons; most of 'em are all talk. Say anything to get a second chance. Heh. Live and learn, I guess.
Hampshire ignores the creature and reaches into his coat pocket, from which he withdraws a battered tin case marked with sigils. Opening it, he selects a hand-rolled cigarette, then offers one to the bound demon.
"Hmm? No? Good idea," he says, slipping the case away as he lights up. "Things'll kill ya."
Jack grins shamelessly. The creature gives him a deadpan stare.
Jack Hampshire: Everybody's a critic...
"You can't send me back there again, Hampshire!" it pleads, sounding desperate. "You know what they'll do to me!"
"Sorry, mate. 'Sthe rules," Jack replies mildly.
"They're your rules!"
"That's why I can't break 'em."
Jack Hampshire: Let me clarify that, before you get the wrong impression about me. He's referring to a very particular set of rules that were part of a deal I brokered with a mid-level Hellbeing called -- well, her name's irrelevant, 'cause I can't remember it. That was also part of the deal. Point is, she's supposed to keep her posse out of my turf. They cross the border we agreed on, I send 'em home for a spanking. It never dawned on me that the game was about to change.
The young man takes one more drag off his hand-rolled before setting it aside. He blows the smoke in the creature's face and puts his right hand on its forehead, fingers splayed. Words form on his lips; strange archaic words that begin as a soft murmur, then rise to a thundering crescendo. Simultaneously, the markings on the floor take on an unearthly glow of purplish-white. The light rises from each symbol in a steady stream to form an arc overhead. Without warning, a bolt of silvery lightning stabs downward and strikes the creature in the chest. A cry of anguish echoes through the morgue as something dark and shadowy is forced from the reanimated corpse, to be swallowed up in the maelstrom of eldritch light.
A heartbeat later, the storm has faded away, leaving only vague afterimages as Jack's eyes readjust to the semi-darkness. Casually, he picks up the smoldering remains of his cigarette, sticks it back in his mouth, and walks away.
Jack Hampshire: Was a right badass in those days. Ok, I still am, but the Wave really threw me off for a minute. It was like... like the whole universe just rearranged itself one day. My powers were shite for months. Reduced to parlour tricks. Not long after, the first of the supermen arose. I mean, what else do you call them? The comics industry has pretty much taken all the good names. But these ones didn't wear capes or masks -- at least, not at the start. Only a fraction of the population developed any useful abilities. Of those, most didn't go public. Right now, there's a guy sitting at home, watching telly, who's got the ability to shoot death rays out of his arse. Went through a dozen toilets figuring that one out. Might be the most powerful human being on Earth, and he spends his evenings binge watching reality shows. Then again, if that was my power, I'd keep it in my shorts, too.
Hampshire strolls down a forlorn street, clouds of smoke trailing in his wake. Even before the Wave, it's hard to catch a cab in this part of town after dark. It all fades to black, then opens again on an informal setting: specifically, a primary school gymnasium. Five too-small chairs are arranged in a semi-circle, but nobody's sitting. A stocky Maori, face marked by a traditional muku, stands with his arms crossed, watching in stormy silence as a slender Italian tries his smoothest lines on a woman in a hijab. One eyebrow raises in surprise when the woman puts up a hand to quiet the fast-talking hipster, then glides right through him to perch on one of the child-sized chairs.
Beside the Maori, an older man chuckles in amusement. He has silvery hair and a full beard, with a ready smile but haunted eyes. A Cold War relic who had never been a fan of Soviet life; possessed of either too much honor, or not enough courage, to defect to a democratic nation. Jack paces around the small gathering, his expression troubled.
Jack Hampshire: This was the first-ever meeting of the Renaissance Men. I'd sent a few invites through Facebook, and these were the ones who'd showed up. If I were an honest man -- which I can be, when the occasion calls for it -- I'd say this was a better turnout than I had any reason to expect. Quick roll-call. That bloke with the ink is called Squall. Power -- weather control. Russian grandpa over there is Terranaut. He generates portals to and from specific locations. Our lady friend is Psyche, and she's not really here; not physically. That's her ability -- projection. Last but not least, this Italian stud is our speedster, Veloci.
Jack stops pacing and clears his throat. Nobody seems to pay him any mind, so he does it again, louder.
"You got... toad in throat, buddy?" asks the Russian, sardonically.
With a small shrug, Jack takes off his glasses and uses a cloth to wipe buff out a fingerprint before putting them back on and turning his focus to the group.
"Yes...well...now that I've got your attention...."
Jack Hampshire: And that's basically how it all began. When I regained my powers after the Wave, they were.... different. Stronger, yes, but the magic felt... foreign, too. It left a tangy taste on the back of my tongue that hadn't been there before. I can see things now; things that weren't clear before the Wave. Ripples in the very substance of the Omniverse. Dunno what they mean, but there are patterns to those ripples; and those patterns keep pointing me to America.
Chicago.
The Guardians.
