Chapter 2: Man in the Black Suit
The sounds of a hollow banging perform a multitude of serenaded tunes; each one echoing in a familiarity of tempo. Dim lights flickered on and off amongst the dampened surroundings, quelling what darkness they could with the broken bulbs. Dangling wires sparked in essence, providing more coverage for the shine itself.
It wouldn't be long before a visible substance of human life came into view. A booted foot pressed forward, its heel crunching dust and debris which perpetuated its appearance underfoot. Vivid sable pants of a natural nature hung over the rim of the blackened subjects. Pressing amidst the foreground sat the clinging intimacy of a coat; its trim a layered plaster of white.
A silent atmosphere danced with the melancholic sounds of a dripping tab, its coercing activities acting in a painful familiarity of tempo. Striking zephyrs caressed the open symphony; haunting cries of a other-worldly nature emitting a cold shiver through the skin of the male.
Leon couldn't help but shut close his nose with his thumb and index finger, a foul stench protruding between the musky hallways. "Tres, why the hell are we here?!" his question barked forth towards his mechanical companion; feet refusing to take another step until he received an answer.
The countless squeaking and scurrying of rodents make this dull scene a romanticisation of disease. And yet, Leon couldn't understand what would bring them to this place. But the peculiar premise for their investigation began its unholy debacle the moment they reached a chamber labelled 'Augury Spine.'
"So this is it, eh?" Leon exclaimed in his casual tone, right knuckles bending as they compressed against his hip bone. Left leg holding his body-weight as the right became marginally slump to the point of what-the-fuck is going on.
Gunslinger allowed artificial skin to conceal brown hues, the perpetual emotionless expression giving way for but one word to make itself apparent, "Affirmative." But that wouldn't be all. As if watching a glass window shatter into a million shards, hailing bullets performed a leviathan of motions into the steel door located to the right. Whether or not anything was in there would soon become known.
Through the carrying squalls hanging overhead, they gave allowance for small breezes to slip between the cracks of the faulty construction. That very same wash of wind passed through long, blonde strands of a third AX member. Father Hugue had, as ordered, come as a companion to his fellow comrades. Yet, when the rain of bullets upon the harmless door eviscerated the item, not once did he budge. In contrast to Leon's actions of leaping backwards into a wall, Sword-Dancer was a content, quiet individual.
The quiet resound of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata played through the broken bombardment, its tune emitting from a docile phonograph playing on a small table in the centre of an empty room. Cautiously did the trio enter, approaching the music machine slowly. Hugue's hands sat to the lower body of his weapon; Leon allowed a ring to spin consecutively around his index finger, whilst Gunslinger's palms remained occupied with a pair of firearms.
For a moment, everything seemed to be clear; unerringly strange, but clear nonetheless. But as for all things, moments pass far too early before their due date. The approach upon the phonograph was halted by something unusual, a transcendental entity perhaps. Leon and Hugue looked somewhat puzzled at one another, Tres simply rose both weapons towards the phonogram.
"I can't move…" Hugue exclaimed in a harried tone of voice. Muscles constricted, the blood flow within his veins slowly in a manner which would severely weaken him, but not put him to death. Soon to follow up, the very same effect took place upon the biological structure of Leon. "What's going on here?"
Due to him being a mechanical creation, Gunslinger suffered from something vastly different to that of the others. Effects which would short circuit his motion system, deeming him incapable of processing movement patterns. But instead of shutting him down completely, Tres still retained the ability for natural thought and speaking terms. But he did neither.
Unnerving would describe the unfolding scene before their eyes; a deathly meticulous laughter echoing in coordination with fizzling burns. The phonograph in the centre of the room began to phase in and out of the material plain; the table which housed the musical device seemingly shifting to the proper proportions of a intricately-crafted chair.
"Rosen Kreuz?!" the volume of Leon's voice took a drastic turn, breaking through the quiet terrain. Echoing, bouncing from wall to wall, his duo of words spoken crackled against his ears. Stinging his eardrums.
An Albion accent drew from everywhere; all sides, up, down, left, right, diagonal…words spoken were of noble kindness, "Fools of a mixed creation? Rosen Kreuz are nothing more than puppets who require a puppeteer." In the present scenario, the phonograph and wooden table blinked from existence. In a replacement, there sat a chair. The very same chair carved with the insignia of the Empire, Rome, Rosen Kreuz, Fleur du Mal and Albion. A plush, crimson cushion was appropriate by an enigma. A shade, a silhouette. Creeping darkness which would fade upon revelation.
Raven black designed the pinstripe suit, a seemingly slender male occupying the contents of the chair. The right leg had been lifted to comfortingly hug the left, arms tucked upon the opposing sides as they lay folded across his chest. "Welcome to my humble abode. I find the dampness a soothing requiem for the events which shall soon take place."
Hugue de Watteau forever struggled to free himself from the deathly grasped ordained to him by this individual. Legs and arms jiggling in place. But an odd attachment would stop the entirety of his form from moving at all. As if locked within a prison cell, Hugue's arms suddenly lifted diagonally facing skyward. The legs mimicking the same motions on an opposing side. An acquired ethereal rope latched itself to the thickness of his neck and inturn, this new male spoke, "Come now, Father Hugue, we cannot have you escaping. To keep you content, the more you move…the more you die."
The trio remained there, stationed silent…helpless in the face of this seemingly unknown threat. Was he an enemy? Given Neutrality? Or perhaps a future ally? Leon pondered slightly on the situation, attempting to think of several different means of escape.
Struggle as he did, Dandelion lacked both the strength and intelligence to overcome the transcendental force claiming their movement. All that could be heard was the consecutive mockery of the enigma's laughter. Between supple fingers sat a cigarette, its burning embers relinquished by a stamping of his foot immediately after it touched upon the ground.
"Smoking is such a filthy habit, how absolutely vulgar," the devoid male cough lightly into his gloved fist, brushing dried ash from the sleeve before hastily returning to their slouched position to his chest. "Now that I have your attention, allow me to explain the circumstances in which you're deemed utterly useless." Clearing his throat now, the male fixed another cigarette to the corner of his mouth. Cupping the flaming tip of the match as if it were the fires of Heaven.
Flicking the extinguished stick upon the bristle clods of dirt, porcelain lips parted; allowing for a swift gust of air to drag the second-hand smoke from his mouth. Brushing it into the wind streams circulating throughout the fabrics of the room. "Your interference in the grand scheme cannot be allowed. Already the pawns are in motion, the knights have moved into position. Cardinal Francesco is the bishop which shall lead this chess game to its final closing."
Gritting milk teeth, Leon stared furiously as the mysterious male exclaimed his plans and reasons. Had he not been trapped at this time, he would've surely killed him by now. Father Hugue remained still, silent; heeding the enigma's warning. Gunslinger just stood as he were, wanting to process movement, wanting to life the firearms and rain holy hell into the body of the sitting male.
"And what part do you play in this grand design?" Leon protested loudly, palms falling into fists as he was slowly, but surely, regaining the ability to move.
"I AM the design, priest," malicious intent flooded into the room like bats out of hell, a violently vicious voice rising within the hollow compound. "I am your conscious guilt; the Anti-God; the creator of all things grim in this world. I shall dictate the last remarks of this planet and plunge your pathetic races into the abyss. Both humans and Methuselah alike, you're all an infestation which needs to be removed."
Soft, calm and collected; yet mildly aggravated. These words would inturn describe the nature of Sword-Dancer's tone, "And what, exactly, are you?"
Shining ebony flooded torrentially against the onslaught of alabaster eyes, their gleaming disdain moving in posture to fix on the blonde priest. Fishing through the optic cortex, a simple analysis would define the question and the priest in question. "Me? I am but a humble player stretching my grasp across the face of the world."
"Your reach does not extend to the shadows," articulation whistled through the fragments of the dread scene. It carried through the oxygen lines; sifted through the dancing streams of wind. The exact location indecisive due to these factors coming into play.
One more it resounded, loud, calm and intentionally focused, "Arrow of Belial!" from the open door, an insurmountable narrowing of arrows screamed through the open entrance. Aimed directly for the unfamiliar person sitting in a chair, their collision would take place with nothing more than the metal fibres of the ground.
The once entrapped trio would fall to their hands and knees, all gasping for breath save for the mechanical priest. A one-eye open Leon would stare ominously at the 'saviour' with a scent of both shock and disbelief. "Why, Isaak?"
Through the doorless archway stepped the founding member of the Rosen Kreuz orden, "It seems that I require your assistance, fathers."
