NOIR
by Jaded Faye
Paris was ugly to him. So was the rest of the pathetic world. There had been a time when things had been right. When the strong had seized power while the rest watched on, mouths hanging like the prisoners in the gallows; the ones who had dared to resist. Eyes widening to see, to take in that glorious display of power. And they would know who their new leader was. They would know, or they would die for the crimes of their ignorance. Then things had been right.
Now the world's leaders crawled on their hands and knees - insects! - afraid to be seen, as if ashamed of their power. But they were not ashamed.
They were afraid.
They attacked one another. Then they denied it before the accusations were even made.
Why!
Because those who were so much less than them, peasents, might be displeased. Suddenly a King was bound by the will of those who had been born to serve him. At once ruling over them and cowering at their feet. The people had power now. Rulers could be replaced. They grew weak as they grew older, and those that questioned their authority grew louder. They were mortal. They could be killed. They had reason to be afraid. No longer were they God's as the Pharoahs in Egypt had been, they were men. And men were weak.
Men died.
But not all men.
Allan Quartermain had gained great attention after saving the city of Venice from almost certain destruction with the help of a rather... interesting team. But he had been famous before that. He was the Great Hunter, and he had braved countless missions and adventures and yet still had come out alive. How? Could a man really be that lucky?
He had heard rumors about the Brit's immortality...some had suspected it all along...but none had sought to prove it. And then, fate itself had done the job. Allan Quartermain, the Great Hunter, had in fact died of a fatal knife wound. But he was not dead now.
No. Rumors had not been enough to go on, so he had sent someone to locate the Hunter's grave and prove a body remained. Indeed, when his man had arrived, there was a body freshly buried in the earth. And the following day, when this man was to return and report his findings...he had seen that body, fully animated...alive! The grave too was now empty, the likeness was impossible. It was the same man. Of course he had immediatly flown to Africa to see for himself.
Sure enough...Allan Quartermain had been sitting in a chair across the room from him. The building itself was new, apparently rebuilt after some accident or tragedy with which he had not been at all concerned.
How!
That was all that mattered, was all he thought about now. HOW! It plagued him.
He had very nearly walked right up to the immortal and demanded answers. But that would have been unwise. He was clearly the weaker. This man could crush him, but could not himself be killed. He needed to be careful, needed to use whatever he had to win this. The secret to such power would not be given over willingly. Not from a man of legend, not from one so self-righteous as The Great Hunter. And what power it was!
Allan Quartermain could not die!
...But others could...
And that thought had occured to him as blindlingly and brilliantly as a flash in the dark.
Of course!
And the plan was set.The man had isolated himself for years, but surely such straining conditions as the one's he'd face in Venice had forged some meaningful bonds. So it was only reasonable to start with that strange group he'd been working with. Now he just needed to figure out who? Who amoung them was the old man closest to?
Who?