Greed. Lust. Insatiable thirst. It was somewhat immature, in a way; like a young child begging a parent for the latest toy, throwing a tantrum and stomping his feet over something he could not have. Except, replace a plastic plaything with an ancient evil God of mass destruction and the child with an eccentric megalomaniac millionaire hellbent on ruling mankind. Argost was anything par infantile. He lacked a child's fear, threateningly raking his claws over the desk in frustration and massaging his palms into his ghostly like hair like he had an awful migraine. The fear in the room radiated not from Argost, but from the young man who was crouched at the foot of the few stairs onto the stage, which wasn't set up for the latest episode of weird world, but the makings of an intense expedition instead. Argost raised his head from the sea of maps, compasses, relics and books that were covering the entire surface of the desk in a similar manner to which the stress was obviously blanketing Argost's mind. He stared intently at the young man, who flinched slightly at the eye contact, averting himself from Argost's gaze.
To an outsider, this relationship of servitude would have seemed strange. A man that was no longer scraping adulthood respectfully kneeling before an older, frail gentleman who seemed weakened and hunched with stress. It was more difficult to see the sheen of fearful loyalty in the younger's eyes - his outside appearance suggested the attitude of a brute with his compact, muscular stature and partially shaven head of auburn red hair. For an individual that had been small and meek as a child, the training had developed the young man into the poster child of a punk thug, or a crooked mercenary like his mentor. If he was stood, he could surpass Argost in stature, just. Though, Argost admired the fact that the younger man wasn't a stone copy of his mercenary teacher. He was more sophisticated and elegant, like himself. His arms were clad in ballistics and rounds of ammunition, but body armour was replaced by a sleek, black uniform. Professional and giving little away, like its owner. Attached to the utilities of the uniform was a black, steel mask, emblazoned by a sneer of apathy and two white visors, narrowed in malice. Argost knew that there wasn't much malice in the man, he was a sheep in wolf's clothing. However, Argost knew his little pawn was wiser than his years. Argost wanted a new toy to drive as much fear into the Saturdays as possible.
However, it seemed that chasing the fantasy of world domination and Kur had taken a great toll on Argost's health. So much so that he had taken weeks to recover from the wounds inflicted upon him from the venture to Antarctica. It perplexed the young man beyond frustration. The great and almighty Kur, destroyer of the human race, had turned out to be embodied by an immature, prepubescent eleven-year-old. Not a monster. Not even a cryptid. A child. He had been a child once. A scrawny, clingy, little nose-wiping pest. If this child was anything like he had been, then how could he have been such a threat to Argost? Then again, his mentors hated children with a passion, so he had never seen anyone young enough to be a child face to face for himself.
He occasionally saw children on his few ventures into the outside world with Van Rook. Laughing, rosy-cheeked little children that skipped along merrily, holding the hand of a smiling parent. The lucky ones, he supposed. That made him envy the Kur-boy a little. That child was one of the lucky ones. He himself, as a child, was never in the position to defend himself against mutants and mercenaries singlehandedly. He had been too weak to even lift a finger against Argost and now, somehow, this Kur-child had reduced Argost to a trembling shell of a man that walked with a limp in his gait. His hair seemed whiter than bone and the curl in his back grew greater by every day that passed. Despite Argost's weakened state, his attentive apprentice knew that Argost was desperate and yearning for the blood of his competitors. There was something of the sort within him too, not strong enough to be pure bloodlust. Just frustration, frustration for how long this new, supposedly golden era was supposed to start. He felt more pressured than ever, because he would likely be on the frontline against the Saturdays soon and if they were as ruthless and aggressive as Argost preached, he feared what might happen to him. They chased and dominated his master's every single move and as Argost's inferior, he felt like easy prey to the terrorists to Argost's regime.
It made the young man's mind wander as to how inferior he must have been. Something he had never asked for, but nonetheless, something he had received. He had been skin and bones. He had been forsaken from birth, he had no birth parents. He had no notion of family dynamic. He used to be a weakling, a scrawny little runt. Nothing to him, not even a name. From what he knew from Argost, the Saturdays were a wealthy, prosperous clan – they did the same thing as Argost. They studied cryptids. They too wanted to find Kur, for what purpose the young man didn't know, but they had always been present in Argost's quests from the beginning, blocking and thwarting his plans to the point where even he had to admit, he was frustrated. He was frustrated at these people, this child, for making things worse for him. The more unsatisfied Argost was, the worse the knock-on effect was for him. He had endured hours of berating and mindless raving about the Saturdays as Argost grew more desperate and aggressive by the day and all he could do was sit and listen as he was spoon-fed this hatred, less he expect backlash.
It frightened him that the Saturdays could initiate this out of character volcanic rage deep within Argost. He knew Argost wasn't above violence, or being manipulative, but it was very rare for him to fly into such an animalistic fit of fury. He was a man of order and finesse, that very rarely lost his pompous, critical façade, even in the event of conflict. Argost was growing more desperate to avoid the Saturdays discovering his loose ends and had been picking off his past investors and quarrels one by one in the past months, to ensure that anything and everything about his history could be snuffed out. Although the young man knew little to nothing about Argost's past and though the Saturdays would be able to coax little out of him, he still had apprehensive suspicions that he was disposable if it meant that Argost could conquer Kur. Argost was willing to kill to gain the keys to the earth.
Then again, The Saturdays were not to be taken lightly. They seemed ruthless. They had infiltrated weird world just months before and he had listened in fear as one man, presumably the Kur-boy's father, had thrown Munya, unconscious, through several walls in screaming hysteria. These people were extremely intent on keeping their son out of Argost's hands. He was partially glad - the boy would need all the protection he could get. Argost wouldn't spare him because he was a child. However, the prospect made him a little envious. He may have been loyal to Argost's cause and would do anything asked of him, but he didn't doubt that if he was on his deathbed, Argost would leave him there. He could try and entertain the notion that his real parents had perhaps died to protect him, but given he was remembering less and less of them, that chance seemed slim. As it was, Argost was what he had, and these Saturdays, they were threatening to rip that apart.
Those interlopers seemed to have their minds schooled on only one opinion on Argost. Argost had always been secretive with his projects with the outside world, in his opinion. He was an actor. A popular actor. He had most of the human race wrapped around his finger – they were captivated by the oddity of the seemingly pleasant and polite man. Man or Creature. Creatures, animals, unusual or imaginary. Distinct from humankind. If that was the definition of being an animal, a creature, he could apply that logic to every individual he knew. Everyone who ever ended up in this mad house were human defects. They didn't belong with the rest of mankind, in their throwaway society. Fugitives, like his mentor and outcasts, like himself. Others, like Argost and Munya, they were freaks to normal human perception. As educated as Argost was with human culture and as well as he could conceal himself, Argost was a recluse and a misanthropist. This only seemed to make the public more prying.
Humans were greedy by nature, set on growth and satisfaction – likely why they had conquered most of the earth. They had a taste for delving into the unknown and this was likely why weird world was so popular and made Argost millions in profits around the globe. He was playing them like puppets on a string, because Argost's merchandise was everywhere. The few times he had gone into a city with Van Rook, whether it be on illegal cryptid business or mercenary training, Argost's influence was everywhere. He had to admit, his master's plan was cunning - the entirety of the planet believed he was purely just a wealthy celebrity with a taste for the exotic. How wrong they were. Nobody knew more than him that he was much more potent than that.
The young man cringed as Argost cleared his throat, forcing him to snap his head up and look at his superior. Argost was stood up from the chair and leaning heavily on the desk. Argost gave him a crooked smile. Although it didn't make him curl up with fear like it did when he was younger, the man still found it hard to face it for more than a few seconds, less his stomach start to churn with disgust. The tension in the atmosphere was still very compacted and thick, like a dense fog of rage. As distant and shallow as the younger appeared to be, he could scrape every last detail off of Argost, just from memory. As such, when it came to anger and rage, he could feel Argost's every movement resonate within him like a sixth sense. He could smell the pungent scent of Argost's desperation and he could taste his insatiable lust for power, even on his own tongue. Now, Argost had just lost again and he had the sneaking suspicion that the man was about to release an even more outrageous scheme. After all, Kur had become everything that Argost ever wanted.
Argost's greed wasn't terrified anymore, but that didn't mean the younger wasn't nervous. As desperate and insignificant as his life already was, he didn't want to die. He was still clinging to life. That was something that Argost had taken pride in before - he, the apprentice, had an insatiable thirst for life. Ever since he had first tasted freedom, it had taken effect like an addictive drug. He furtively yearned for more, gulping for fresh, rich air like a fish flapping helplessly on land. He wanted to drink up the beauty and grace of each drop until it washed over his discomfort like a tide, swallowing it and effectively erasing it in a surf of wonder. Each soft droplet on his tongue was a spectrum of colour and Argost could dangle that in front of his eyes time and time again, and he would always fall in line obediently to his every command, like a starving dog to a bone. As the boy turned man looked at Argost, he saw the same sinking, dangerous thirst in his pale-yellow eyes.
However, it was apparent that it wasn't life that quenched Argost's similarly voracious appetite. Argost was symbolic of the arrogance that he carried, a growing artillery of power that gave him the confidence to believe that he was God's gift. With that, he believed that he had the right to tromp every other being he shared this rapidly developing world with. The solitary man already lived a life in the lap of luxury, with the world's finest cuisine and millions to pay out at his liking. He had attention, an audience that eagerly awaited his expansive, peculiar knowledge. Of all of the luxuries, money and exotic cryptids – it was never enough. He wanted Kur so that he could rule the earth, and every man and beast in it. He wanted to crush resistance with an iron fist. He wanted the whole world to remember his name, to cement the existence of the great V.V. Argost into human history and make them cower with fear. He wanted ancestors to pass his name from generation to generation with dread on their lips. Argost wanted to inspire terror into every man, woman and child and indoctrinate society into believing that they must kneel at his feet, just as the apprentice was doing right now to survive. He wanted the stone loyalty of not just one man, but them all, before they dare to need for anything else. Argost craved it and it was now apparent that Argost couldn't stop wanting power. His want drove him to steal it at every possible chance.
"Stand, my boy. We have plans to fulfil." The redhead felt a shiver nip at his skin as Argost moved closer as he pushed himself off of his knees. "Now," Argost clasped his hands together, rubbing them greedily, "we have some important, new guests to wait for."
The statement sparked the boy's curiosity. 'New' was still something that he wasn't entirely accustomed to. Though the unknown didn't frighten him like it did as a child, it still surprised him from time to time and he couldn't help but stare inquisitively at whatever sparked his interest. This would likely be one of those times of which he dreaded – his awestruck reactions always seemed to involuntarily make Argost frustrated. Argost wanted subtle, he wanted to see apathy.
"Prepared for another master plan to crash and burn, Argost?" The familiar, muffled, gravelly voice of Van Rook became apparent in the room as one of the heavy chamber doors screamed as it crawled open on its hinges, accompanied by the jingling of keys on a ring. Leonidas made his way to the centre of the room, close to his apprentice, moving without much of a sense of urgency. He leant up against one of the carmine red walls and folded his thick arms across his chest. Heavy, laboured footsteps continued as Munya followed behind him, moving to stand next to Argost, elegantly tucking in the armchair where Argost had been sitting.
A deep sigh rattled Argost's composure as he addressed Leonidas. "I had hoped in the past that we would easily be able to obtain Kur without having to utilise brunt efforts. I had envisioned that I could negotiate myself into that power. However, it appears it that our approach was fruitless, and we should use a…different approach."
"The boy's family protects him fiercely. The parents and their little pets won't just surrender him," Leonidas spat, his voice agitated even behind the mask.
"That, Mr Van Rook, is why our next objective is to be a tad more…contentious. It appears that Munya and myself are no longer enough of a tantalising challenge for the boy's family to combat. That is why my intention for this approach is to give them something that they won't expect. And I have hired some new faces to help do just that."
The apprentice subtly raised his brow at Van Rook curiously, who scoffed at Argost. "As if that would deter the Saturday boy."
"Perhaps," Argost drummed his fingers on the desk pensively, "though I will not be present in assisting you all in this mission, our force will act on opposite sides of the same coin. It may take brutish force to distract the parents, but it will take stealth and finesse to extract the Kurling without alerting their suspicions-."
The apprentice listened with keen intent to Argost's words. His words alluded to the fact that they would all be doing this. Not just Argost. Not just himself. The latch on the door clicked once more as a large shadow drifted across the frame. The apprentice stiffened a little, wide-eyed as a huge, brutish man slammed the door aside. At least - he thought it was a man. It towered over him, with a hunched body and enormous fists that greatly outsized its head. Though, it wore 'respectable' clothing; white shirt, black tie, red suit. What doubted categorising him as a human, like himself, was the creature's maw. A metal plate was attached to his face, like armour, obstructing his mouth. However, when it opened its mouth, to the apprentice's surprise, his whole jaw seemed to be altered and mechanised. The jagged steel maw was sutured onto his face like a shield and his few, widespread teeth were jagged and fully saturated in drool as what remained of his lower face was just a void towards the back of his jaws. The strange creature paced towards him, eyes schooled into a hungry glare. The young man knew that look well. The glimmer trembling in those eyes was insanity. He looked up at the lumbering giant without fear but bearing a degree of weariness. The giant was a full foot taller than him, and his icy eyes could just meet those hungry ones without showing any sign of fear. He had become desensitised to the weird and supernatural a long time ago. He had sparred with similar monsters for training. He barely even flinched as the altered man growled and a decently sized chunk of saliva pooled down onto his boot. Just – this creature was a stranger. Argost didn't trust strangers. Therefore, neither did he. His hand just barely hovered above his belt, where he could easily unholster a weapon to defend himself with.
Argost made a distracting noise, "This is Mr Pietro Maltese or 'Piecemeal' as he prefers. He has unfinished business with our Kurling's little Lemurian."
At this point Pietro slurped hungrily and more drool dripped from his mouth like a precarious stream. Van Rook made a disgusted gagging noise. Piecemeal growled and narrowed his eyes.
"If I remember correctly, paying your employees in meat was an unfortunate setback last time, Argost."
"Indeed Leonidas. However, we no longer have use for that Fiskerton phantom. As long as I have Kur you may have whatever pay you desire." Argost was obviously ready to play some wild cards here.
"I only work with competent individuals."
"I'm sure that doesn't apply to the majority of you here."
The apprentice startled softly. That voice wasn't Argost. In fact, that wasn't anyone or anything familiar. He felt something flutter in his chest. There was no growl. No malice. No hate. No distaste. The soft sounds fed into his ears and he supressed the sudden strange soothing in his head. The voice was sophisticated and elegant, but it was cotton soft. It was sweet, like honey, almost to the point of being sickly. Drizzled with confidence and pseudo sincerity. Like a glowing flame. Beautiful, yet fatal if you got too close. Besides, he was cold. Cold and hard like ice and that unbreakable ice in his eyes thawed a little as he caught sight of the woman standing in the doorway.
"You're late, apprentice," Van rook growled. The young man blinked. He knew Van Rook had gotten a second apprentice. He knew that they had betrayed the Saturdays to earn his mentor's respect. However, he didn't know that she was going to be here.
"You're welcome," She fired back without hesitation. His eyes roamed over her as she strode into the room, her heels clacked on the floor as she paced towards Argost with confidence that almost made him jealous.
"Good evening, Madame Grey. I'm glad you could join us," Argost greeted politely.
"My pleasure, Argost."
She was a young woman, younger than her teacher and although she was rather small and thin in stature, she gave off an aura of boldness and deviance that surpassed anything he had seen before. She wore a soft blue jumpsuit, framed by wrists and a waist supporting an array of mercenary firearms. Grenades, wrist blasters, several rounds of ammunition, a pistol mounted to her belt and a few partially concealed knifes that he could spot tucked neatly into the suit. He couldn't read anything more than her behaviour, as her entire face was concealed by a plain, steel, mask like the one he bore on his belt. The smooth, chrome surface of the mask was sleek, and the visors that allowed her to see were narrow and tinted red. Thick locks of curly black hair flowed down her back in waves-.
It was then in his observations that he realised she was looking directly at him. Or, at least her head was turned to face him.
"Who's this?" She asked curiously. She was looking at him. Behind that cold mask she was looking at someone equally as bitter as her. She took a couple of steps closer to him and he froze. Argost followed closely behind.
"Miss Grey, this is my apprentice. I do believe that the two of you have never met prior to this occasion and I suggest that you both make an effort to become acquainted with one another. You will be working very closely together on this job."
"Abbey Grey. Pleased to meet you."
The female mercenary slowly tilted the mask back from her face and then outstretched her hand for him to shake. She was somewhat intrigued when he looked at her hand and then stood staring softly at her face with an emotionless composure without uttering a word, like a child would. Her appearance certainly seemed very appeasing behind that mask - her smooth, pale skin, her angular face framed by her curly black hair. As enticing as she seemed, he could see sparks of roguery in her sharp olive-green eyes. Almost as though that was her goal in this – the thrill. The chance to cause mischief. Before he could continue soaking up her intentions, she broke from her stance and snapped her fingers in front of his face. He startled slightly.
"Do you always stare at women like this, babyface?"
The male apprentice of the two averted his eyes suddenly, feeling a tint of heat rush to his cheeks.
"Splendid," Argost commented. He turned to address them all now.
"As you are all now probably aware, my last attempt at harnessing the abilities of Kur were unsuccessful. It was a…minor setback in a much larger operation, the Saturdays are much more volatile with negotiation than I had expected. It leaves us with no other alternative than to dash in some brute force. I currently have means to track the Saturday airship across the globe and they have no possible way of stopping me."
"There is no way that aerial surveillance wouldn't raise the suspicions of the parents," Van Rook sighed.
"A dogfight, dear Leonidas, will be used to draw their attention, exhaust their resources and fury. Yourself, Munya and dear Piecemeal will be tasked with diverting the attention of the parents in the ship whilst anyone else remaining shall capture my prize and return it to my rightful grasp." The eldest looked closely at the two younger mercenaries.
"To prepare for the coming of what I don't doubt will be a challenge, I warmly invite you to converse with your accomplices, as planning for the operation."
As different parties broke off, he suddenly became aware of how solitary he was here. His eyes quickly flashed over to Van Rook, who was busy in his own debate – he had just barely started to argue with Piecemeal. The other apprentice, Abbey, was no longer breathing down his neck, but he could see her across the room and she was beckoning him over, towards her. He glanced at Argost, who was observing him carefully. He looked at Abbey once more and then back at Argost and with the discomfort gnawing at his mind, he inched his way towards her slowly. He refused to get too close to her, edging from foot to foot like an insecure infant, without the warmth of a parent's side to latch onto. Therefore, it was the woman who closed the space between them, bringing herself closer and sitting down on a chaise lounge almost right next to him. She patted the spot next to him, indicating that she wanted him to sit down. He glanced again at Argost and then continued standing, ignorant of her request. She scoffed and moved closer.
"So," she said, a little breathless, still carrying that sugary voice," Argost's apprentice huh? What's that like?"
He swallowed the lump forming in his throat. He was trained to withstand an interrogation, but this sudden prying was eating at him. Almost like she was playing with him, toying with him to unlock those secrets he had buried deep. So deep, that he would have to muster incredible strength just to scratch at the surface of the hole he had thrown his fears and worries down into. Even if he could drag them up, it would take more than just the brief summary of stringed together words he was usually capable of to convey any sort of coherent explanation. He found himself just shrugging his shoulders, hoping that she would just lose interest and leave him alone.
"Ah, the silent type," She said softly. Her face was covered by that mask again. He could hear her, but he couldn't watch her reaction. She glanced up at him and he just barely made it noticeable that he was watching her.
She laughed a little. A musical laugh, like chimes in the wind. "It's okay sweetheart, I'm not going to hurt you. You can trust me." He didn't like the syrupy tone to her voice. It was a new experience, this strange, soft coaxing she was doing. He wanted to respond, but he was confused. The words pouring from her mouth were almost a foreign dialect. He didn't understand her intentions, and that was making him paranoid.
Abbey was equally confused. She had never seen anyone respond to her like this. A person, let alone a grown man; trying their best to reject her advances. She had wanted to just familiarise herself with her colleague, but now she was just curious. This man was more like a little boy, an ill-socialised child that shied away from any encouragement. A good mercenary wouldn't let emotions get in the way of the job – perhaps that was his objective? However, a good mercenary wouldn't show that paranoia that she was seeing in his eyes. On entry, he had seemed bold, staring down Piecemeal without backing down in his stance, hands hovering to pull a trigger, or a grenade, if he had needed to. Yet, he felt threatened by a seemingly frailer person? She tugged at her collar a little, this conversation (if she could even call it that) was getting increasingly awkward.
"You're not a mute, are you?" The words settled on his chest. If she made some sort of explanation for his black-sheep behaviour it normalised the situation, but it made him feel guilty. He was creating the wrong impressions, he was all wrong. He was taught to inspire fear, to insinuate terror as emotionlessly as possible. Why was he failing now, after so long? In his spell of anxiety, he looked back at the stage, only to find that Argost was missing. His eyes darted around the room trying to find him, but he soon realised that Argost had left the room.
"Well?"
"No," he blurted suddenly. Abbey was surprised for a second. His voice was deep and harsh, not like the timid child his attitude depicted. Additionally, unlike a child, he didn't sound imbecilic. His tone was clear and refined, sophisticated, even. However, there was still a slight squeak to his voice.
"I didn't think so," Abbey tilted her head. She watched his expression change from nervous to stone cold. She scoffed. "Don't take it personally, babyface. It's not personal. Just money."
So, she wasn't in this for power, like Argost. She was in it for money, like Van Rook. Argost had a bountiful supply of money to give her, there was no reason why she wouldn't take this job – she was a mercenary. Not that he expected her to be here voluntarily. Everyone who ever came here, it was never voluntarily. They wanted something. Or they didn't have a choice.
She shifted her position and looked at him again. "Ever crossed paths with the Saturdays before?" she offered.
He shook his head and gained the confidence to look her in the eye. "You have. You are the one that confounded them."
She paused "I did." His sudden confidence and choice of language left her feeling taken aback on her previous assumptions. She was managing to get this strange man out of his shell.
"Why?"
"Money, darling, that's why."
"Why?"
"What is this, one hundred and one questions?" That coldness had turned to awe and curiosity now, almost as though the two had swapped positions in the encounter. The man was back to acting like a child again, asking her endless questions in an awestruck manner where ever response was returned with 'why?'
She sighed in irritation and then recomposed herself. "I was bored with the life I had sweetie. I wanted money, I wanted thrill. It's as simple as that."
Were the Saturdays really that bad? They had made one of their allies strike out against them, simply because she had no intentions to live their lavish lifestyle?
"What about Kur?" He wondered if the child was everything Argost had made him out to be.
"You mean Zak? He's an average little twerp with parents that believe he is a child prodigy. If Argost wants him, let him have him. It means nothing to me, as long as I get paid."
He had heard some of that. Zak; so that was the boy's name. It made him feel a little more secure, knowing that this was a child with a family, rather than just some conduit for destructive, Godly power.
"Why are you in this?" She asked him.
He paused for a while and Abbey thought he wasn't going to answer, "its classified."
She sighed. She put a firm hand on his shoulder. "Pft, c'mon luv, people in this business only work for two things. Money or vengeance."
Neither of those applied to him. "Not always," he let those words slip through the net catching the hurt.
She looked at him. "Well…whatever reason it is honey, we all work for gain. That's what mercenaries do."
He swallowed nervously. He still didn't know what he would gain from this. However, Abbey seemed to be shedding light on a new attitude, different to that of their teachers. She seemed carefree and rebellious, which lead him to ask, in this day and age of prey and predators, was it beneficial to rebel? Could he survive if he did that? He longed for that attitude, that real, true confidence. Abbey had survived breaking ties from the supposedly brutal Saturdays. He could maybe survive, but after seeing how clueless she had left him, could he really come to sever those lifelong chains?
I apologise for how long it took me to update this. There was a lot of foreboding and deep character thoughts and interactions in this chapter that I really wanted to get right and create some interesting development and character parallels, which I would have found hard to do without Ashblackrabbit's so thanks Ashlyn for helping me get through this chapter! As of now we have gotten rid of the italics as we are in present tense and the story will start to get more fast paced asap.
