Chapter 6:
The deal

Graham had taken shelter in a small basement below a deserted tenement building. It offered some respite from the heat, and promised him safety and concealment. He was seperated from his throng, and could not even feel their Azoth reaching out towards him.

He was, for the first time, utterly alone.

Loneliness is part of the promethean existance, undoubtably, but Graham had been traveling with these created for almost half a decade. now he had forgotten what it was like to be truly isolated. He sat down at the janitors dusty, unattended desk, and attempted to sleep in the large, leather chair.

He was jolted awake when a chill ran through his body, making him shiver involountarily. He opened his eyes and they darted around the room. He heard footsteps, and saw a figure with a black ebony cane enter the room-but he could not actually look at the man. He could see him out of the corner of his eye, but anytime he tried to focus on him, he couldn't bring himself too, as though his eyes were loath to view the shadowy figure. Graham could smell the very distinct odor of battery acid, and noticed that the stranger made a slight click sound when he moved.

"I mean you no harm."

He said, in a voice that sounded like it was synthetically disguised-deeper than any human baritone.

"What do you want? Who are you?"

Graham inquired, unholstering his pistol and pointing it as best he could towards the mysterious interloper. Distance seemed to warp around them, because the stranger was on the other side of the room, still standing at the door, but he used his cane-which couldn't of been more than 3 and a half feet long-to push aside the barrel of his gun.

"I have a proposition. A contract, if you will. I can only offer information, but I'm sure you'll find your reward…adequate. You may call me Bertrand."

Bertrand said, and space snapped back into its normal proportions as he stepped closer towards the table, clacking his cane to the same rhythm of the mechanic click as he moved.

"Look, I don't know you, and I probably can't help you…"

Graham argued, getting up from the chair and stepping back from Bertrand, gun still raised, even if he couldn't point it at his target.

"Oh, but you can! Normally, I would take care of this myself, but they are well prepared for the likes of me, and I need to…lay low for a while."

Bertrand reached into his long coat-Graham was now able to make out certain details on him, but still couldn't aim at him or see his face clearly. He produced a thick manilla folder.

"See, you can kill to birds with one stone, if you accept my offer."

He set the folder on the table and pushed it towards graham with a gloved index finger.

"You're friends-and the young promethean-have been kidnapped. Stolen away by a hunter faction known as utopia now which, as it happens, has been damaging some of my property as of late. This contains all that you need to know to break them out."

Graham was suspicous.

"What do you want in return?"

"after you rescue your fellows, I want you to get these Utopia freaks out of Sacremento. Slaughter the whole lot of them if you have to."

"Whats to stop me from just ditching town once I break out my friends?"

"I thought you'd ask that. That's where your real reward comes in. How long have you been chasing this nuclear promethean, Graham?"

Graham lowered the gun.

"Long time. 4 years, maybe. Ever since I first heard about him."

"I can provide you with information on him. Traits. Habits. Lore. Powers. Anything you'd need to know to find and kill him. That is what your pilgremage requires, is it?"

Graham didn't know how he knew about the pilgremage, or the nuclear promethan, or even his fucking name. but he nailed all of them. Graham knew, in the back of his mind, that he could not rest while the nuclear promethean still lived. He could not explain, or even rationalize it. He simply knew it, as though his elpis was urging him to the act. It took him no time at all to make his decision.

"You've got yourself a deal."

They took them into the city. Natasha didn't know how far, but she'd woken up before they had reached their destination, and was able to determine they were in some kind of low-income imitation suburb once used to house overflowing minorities. Not that she could look around, or do much of anything. She simply lolled about limply on the back of a motorcycle. Occasionaly, she would catch glimpses in her point of view of the others doing the same. She couldn't speak. Could hardly think without giving herself a migrain headache. Same for the others, who were towed limply by their captors. They remained in this state well after they stopped, and were carried into a supermarket that had a Spanish name. all the shelves had been moved and burned, or used to erect makeshift rooms and hallways. All the way in the back, however, were a few sturdily built fences with strange metal boxes at the top of each post that they were uncerimoniously dumped into together. There were banners hanging all over the place bearing the utopia now symbol: a tower flanked on each side by odd geometric shapes. Below it was invariably written their motto:

We're building a better tomorrow.

From where she lay on the floor, Natasha could see into the adjacent cage-which held what she identified as two ashwood abby members. A big burly man was slumped against the far corner, staring limply up at the ceiling, but another, a bald, nasty-looking motherfucker with a scar all the way around his neck, banged and rattled against the fencing, screaming words Natasha could not understand at his captors. His captors responded by opening the gate and beating him down with nightsticks. The other prisoner did nothing as they dragged the bald ones body away. Natasha couldn't see what happened next, but heard a gunshot-which sounded oddly distant, even though she knew it was fired only 15 feet away from her-and the dull sound of the mans screams stopped instantly. The man who had apparently shot him was also bald, but this one had an eyepatch covering his left eye. He gestured to one of his lackeys, who ran over to an odd-looking assortment of levers and terminals and eased 3 of the levers down.

"Welcome to the fort, freaks. I've turned down the juice just enough so you could hear me and respond to my questions, but don't expect to be going anywhere."

The man said, pacing in front of their cage, refusing to make eye-contact.

"Why the hell should we?"

John asked. The man stopped, turned, and looked him in the eyes.

"Becuase I…can do this."

He gave another gesture, and suddenly Natasha couldn't hear anything, but she certainly felt something-like she was being crushed on all sides by cinderblocks, being squeezed in such a terrible manner that she would've convulsed in pain if she could move. She guessed the others underwent a similar experience. After several agonizing minutes, it stopped.

"Now do you feel more cooperative?"

Midgara spat at him.

"Fuck you up the ass with a…"

The interogattor nodded to the lackey at the controls, and the pain started up again, worse than before.

"We might not have the equipment to break them here. Take them to the main outpost.

877 Cayman street. Jasmines boutique.

A dusty, pitiful little storefront, with a large picture window that had been busted in, the displays all knocked over and scattered by the wind. As Graham strode through, he noticed that someone lived here at one point-there was a tin barrel in the corner of the room, which held the burnt remains of the stores wares. Whoever had been here left a long time ago, though. Graham dutifuly took the stairs up to the second-story appartment. According to the file Bertrand had given him, he was to go here and look in under the bed. He tried to look through the plans further, but everything beyond the first page had the same thing written on it:

He works in mysterious ways.

Graham thought at first he had been fleeced, but then realized that Bertrand had no reason to attempt such subterfuege, and decided to see how everything played out. Under the bed-whose matress was long gone, somehow-he did indeed find something-a large foot locker. He pulled it out and locked inside. Inside were strange clothes. A pair of pants, under shirt and hoodie, all the color of burlap. The back of the jacket had been imprinted with the symbol of utopia now, and Graham then realized it was a disguise. After a more thorough search, he found that it came complete with a matching ID (Which actually had his photograph) and a the factions standard issue fire arm-a colt light rifle. He put on the clothing and slung the rifle over his shoulder. He looked inside the folder, and the previously cryptic pages now held information. Where his friends were being held. What to expect. What to say to the gaurds, complete with pictures of the compound and those staying there. Whoever this Bertrand was, he had certainly done his legwork.

Outside, Graham heard footsteps. He fell into a crouch and peeked out the window. He had been noticed-and his finder was a big mother fucker indeed. It was one of the real old infected, bloaters, he had heard Doc call them once, the poor souls who survived long enough to have their entire bodies be subsumed by the wretched fungi. It was a disgusting, shambling thing, indeed. It lumbered towards the boutique, its infected brain too decayed to formulate a plan beyond simply smashing the hell out of whatever was making noise.

With a mighty swing of its left arm, it took out most of the wall between the front door and the picture window. The whole building sagged and crumbled, the floor starting to buckle under his feet as the structure leaned towards the ground. He fought for balance, but eventually slipped, as the floor was know easily at a 60 degree angle. He managed to catch himself in a door way, and stood precariously suspended 10 feet above asphalt and very hungry zombie. As a matter of fact, the bloater was lurching up at him, reaching into the windows with massive, deformed hands, nearly grabbing him. He fired at the thing a few times with his rifle, but it was undettered. It grabbed him by the ankle, pulled him out, and forced its other hand into his mouth, beginning the gut-wrenching process of breaking his neck.

Exccept Grahams neck did not break. He mustered his brutal inner strength, the boon of the wretched, and brought his foot up and back against the creatures knee, nearly snapping the limb in two. The bloater reeled, sent of balance by the new infirmity of its legs, and Graham broke its hold. He dashed away from the monster, turned when he had gotten a good 10 yards of distance between them, and emptied a clip full of .45 ACP into the beast as it chased him. It ground to a halt barely 6 inches from him. Satisfied that he had won, Graham turned to walk away. As he did, the boutique toppled over, coming to a rest atop the bloaters corpse.

For the record, that would be the second time today Graham has demolished a building in pitched combat-well below his qouta.

"Of all the places…"

Graham muttered to himself, gazing at the location the files directed him too. Apparently, these kooks had set up shop in an old Wal-Mart. It sort of made sense to Graham, though-One really big, obvious entrance that was easily-defend, plus a bunch of smaller, more secure exits towards the back. no windows-just solid brick and plaster-and plenty of room to for diabolical hunter things, like storing imprisoned prometheans.

The documents had rather strange, vauge instructions as to how he would get in. It simply said to approach, introduce himself as his false identity, and let his "Nature" take car of the rest. What the hell did that mean? He asked himself, as he approached the barricade they had constructed at the front of the department store. This sign was missing both its L and its T. The M had been shattered, so it looked like some one mispelled war. Graham thought it was kinda funny for some reason.

"Halt-identify yourself, comrade."

A woman carrying an assault rifle, standing behind a waist high pile of thick truck tires accosted him, holding out her palm and gesturing for Graham to stop. She-and all the other people stationed to guard the entrace-were dressed in the same "Uniform" that Graham wore.

"Ryder Wesson. Horn sent me here to pick up the prometheans."

Graham spoke smoothly and casually, as though he was really just going about his duties. He had, after all, rehearsed his lines all the way here. Some of the gaurds murmered among themselves. The woman looked deeply at Graham, scrutinizing him for any tells.

"I've never heard of any Ryder Wesson working for us. I'd expect Horn to send someone a little more experienced to pick up his precious prometheans."

Graham shrugged dismissvly.

"A lot of people don't know me. I was a new hire Horn took a shine to, and he took me on as his personal protégé. You could say this is his testing me with real responsibility."

The lie flowed like honey. Graham didn't have the foggiest idea who Horn was, but the lie was backed up by the fact that taking on a secret apprentice was a very horn-ly thing to do.

"Alright, I'll…"

"Wait!"

The woman was inturrupted. One of the other guards, a tall man with curly red hair and freckles who stood on a perch formed from wrecked cars, waved an odd device that looked like a geiger counter towards him, and yelled.

"This man is a promethean! My Alchemical detector is going crazy…"

Graham thought he had been discovered, and he threw his shoulders back into a little stretch, readying himself to destroy yet another building. Instead of readying their weapons, however, all the other gaurds just laughed.

"Yeah, I fuckin' doubt it. That things about as reliable as FEMA broadcasts! Remember when it told you Greg was a promethean?"

One of the gaurds taunted. The gadget man was thoroughly emberrased. It then dawned on Graham what the document had meant-His wasteland had saw him through. He'd been in the city a few days now, and no doubt nearby electronical devices have started going on the fritz-including this so called Alchemical detector. Graham thanked god for mixed blessing as he was led inside by the woman, who introduced herself as Dennise and expressed how lucky she was to get to meet a direct assosciate of Horns-a very, very rare occurrence for someone in such low station, she assured Graham. The inside was lit brightly, and Graham picked out the distinctive chortle of at least a bakers dozen of portable generators chugging along in good faith. Many of the signs that once labeled aisles by what particular specimen of plastic crap they contained were replaced by less pedestrian declarations like "Armory", "Employees quarters" and "Holding", the last of which Dennise thougthfully lead Graham to. They passed many other Utopia Now members, most walking dutifully somewhere their expertise was required but quite a few just putting their feet up for a second in lawn chairs, nose deep in either a good book or a TV dinner.

All of them cast suspicous glances at Graham. They were no doubt feeling the disquite his companions radiated, and subconciously, they could recognize another source. The holding cells, ironicly, used to be the pets section.

"Tell Horn I can't let you have the new acqusitions just yet. The Technology we have devolped is exponentially effective on them, and I believe myself to be close to cracking them. Tell him he'll have all the information he'll need soon enough."

The man with the eyepatch said, as he blocked Graham. Graham pushed him aside authoritively.

"Horn wants the prometheans now, buddy. I didn't ask questions, and neither should you. Now unless you want to piss off the boss, I suggest you stand aside."

Cowed and angered, the hunter stepped aside, and approached the cells. He saw his friends, and felt the conforting presence of their energy, even Natasha's own weak, malnourished Azoth-which, he noticed, was getting stronger. They were all crouched on the floor, immobile. Graham was getting a headache from here from the little black boxes, but thankfully, the cronie at the controls had been told he was coming, and disengaged the security as he entered. He pulled the metal wristbands he had been provided with from his bag and began slapping them on his companions wrists-while useless and inoperative, they certainly looked like a device to keep prometheans subdued, which was exactly the point. Doc was the first one to come around as he bound her.

"Huh…what're you…"

Before she could finish, she recognized Graham, who mouthed the word quiet to her. She nodded and complied. As the others regained concoiussness, Graham silently instructed them to follow him single file. With their phony shackles, they walked out completely unmolested, save for eyepatches baleful glare as Graham swung by the armory to pick up their possessions "For further research"

As they slogged off towards the capitol district, Graham turned to see Dennise wave.

He couldn't bring himself to wave back.

Later, after they had gotten far, far away from the hunters, Graham took off their phony collars and they hunkered down to rest and plan their next move. They had decided hide under a crumbling over pass, sitting next to the concrete stream that ran under it. Graham, Midgara, and John were locked in heated debate about what to do-Natasha noticed that Graham, for whatever reason, was adamant about taking the fight to Utopia Now, Which she found bizzare, but she was only half-listening to them as she read through the recovered book. Over the last few days, she'd settle down and flip through it a little to pass the time, and she was becoming quite familiar with the basics of mercurial philosophy. Refining her pyros intruiged her, and from what she heard, the sooner she started practicing a refinement, the better. Her previous experiences had opened her eyes to why becoming human was so important-she would never have a place in the world otherwise. She turned page after page, hungrily devouring all the mysteries and secrets the book held. Sometimes, she would attempt the alchemical magic detailed within the book, but to no avail-not yet. But she could feel herself getting closer. However, mere power was not all she wanted from this mysterious tome-she needed to find the man that created her. It was hard to explain, but every bone in her body ached with the need to find the strange-eyed man and…

…And then what?

Natasha didn't know. Kill him, maybe. Or perhapse enlist his help in her pilgrimage. Ask him why, certainly.

She'd burn that bridge when she got there.

She closed the book, and set it down. Doc was sitting nearby, scribbling notes in her journal of her own. Not the talkative one in the group, clearly. Natasha decided to try to get her to open up to her.

"So…what are you writing about?"

She asked. Doc continued her diligent work.

"You don't speak much do you?"

Doc's only response was the scratchy sound of worn pencil on paper. Natasha noticed the implement was severly chewed.

"Knock knock? Anyone home?"

She remained silent.

"Um…Fuck you? I love you? Holy shit, the nuclear promethean is right behind you?"

Nothing Natasha said got a response from Doc. Graham looked up when he heard that last one, though. He turned back to his argument, but John turned both him and Midgara away, claiming he'd think over their course of action tonight, and suggested they get moving to find a more defensible place. Natasha picked up her things, and with a sideways glance at the unperturbed Doc, started to follow the others.

6/16/2034

Quite the odd day today. Got captured by a bunch of goddamn hunters. Whatever they shot us with incapitated us for quite a while. Of more intrest, however, are their torture devices. They had these small black boxes put on the corner posts of our cells. Innocous little things, solid black an not more than a foot long by any stretch. It appears that these devices could disrupt our pyros, leeching it from us. The benefits of such a device to the hunters is manifold; it not only drains of our power, but causes intense, acute pain. As for the hunters themselves, I haven't encountered them before, which leads me to conclude we are dealing with an isolated compact.. other than a loose yet highly effective method, almost similar to a small business, I could not learn much about our attackers. According to Graham, they certainly talked in very commercial terms, reffering to themselves as employees, us as acquisitions, etc…Maybe a splinter group made up of surviving members TCG? Unlikely. But possible. Graham managed to rescue us, somehow impostering one of the more important members of the heriarchy and getting us out with no bloodshed whatsoever. Very unlike him-and combined with his vigorous opinion that we should attack the hunters, I suspect something more is going on here. I may confront him tonight.

As a side note, that Ulgan girl tried to get my attention today, with no success (Of course) It did make me think, however-I seem to be withdrawing into myself again. I haven't been speaking a lot lately, except for the things I write down here and my occasional role as a voice of reason to John. I fear I may relapse into depression.

And maybe I shouldn't be so hard on Natasha.

-Entry from Docs Journal