Prehistory - On the streets of Miami
The assassination attempt
In the land where shadows dance and secrets whisper, a sinister plan unfolded. The sultry evening air was almost unbearable, especially for those unaccustomed to it. The thrill hung bitingly in the atmosphere.
A criminal lurked in the inscrutable corners of the beach, waiting for his prey. He sought not wealth, but rather, what drove him was madness and obsession. The excitement of proclaiming a message to society... or at least, what a diseased mind perceived as one.
The air hummed with merriment, enticing everyone to dance. Partygoers roamed the softly lit night in search of Lollapalooza. They would undoubtedly find it.
Laughter and music blended with the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore, carving their path. A breeze wafted over from the sea, carrying the scent of salt and seaweed in the spray. Aromas of unfamiliar flowers followed.
The sun sank, painting the sky in hues of red and gold. Neon lights illuminated the streets of Miami Beach.
Popstar Colin Lord emerges like a siren. Steps out of the limousine. Gets celebrated and parties along.
The bluish, drumming ocean waves whisper secrets to the Caribbean sky in the darkness.
It smells like a party and senseless intoxication. Mysteriously, it remains unknown where the speakers blare from, announcing him to the crowd in hysteria. The masses await the star. No doubt, his arrival was no secret.
Colin's presence echoes over the beach like a guitar solo of fame. Amidst the delight, a shadow lurks.
Laughter of seagulls cuts through the salt-laden air in the distance. As the songstar wades through the crowd, the sea of people parts. Space forms for a modern cult object. Invisible eyes follow Colin's approach.
Enthusiastic fans stretch their hands like voyeuristic starfish, their eyes reflecting the glimmer of fame. Prelude to chaos, as sinister gasps mix with the saline breeze.
Beachgoers move like a tide. They flow back and forth, carried by the rhythm of the sea. Here and there, someone holds out a pen and paper. They seek the autograph, like worshipers asking for blessings from a god.
Amidst the festivities, students dance and laugh, their relaxed demeanor rising. The gently woven night air filled with booming bass of the music. Intoxicating scent of street vendors confuses passersby.
A faint breeze carries the smell of a nearby restaurant serving Mexican food. Fried tacos and enchiladas. Identifiable to those in the know. And those who don't? Still, a fragrant poem that speaks of the magic of the moment.
A Dissonant Note in the Melody of Pop Art Prestige: "A Weapon!" The crazed shout startles the crowd, once a sea of respect, now transformed into an unstable flock of startled seagulls.
Like an unforeseen storm, the stranger strikes. Seconds feel like hours. The assailant lunges forward with the intent to carry out the darkest motives.
Colin's eyes widen with fear as he realizes he's trapped in a deadly game. Bystanders gasp in horror, their voices drowned in the chaos of the street. Here and there, they search for their phones, eager to capture the piercing turn of events. The criminal's grip on his revolver is unwavering, his intentions as cold and deadly as a blade.
Amidst the pulsating chaos of Miami's nightlife, where neon lights collide with the shadows of palm trees...
The contrasting bang of the gun rocked the atmosphere, its sound echoing as a rumble over the beach. Three thunderous shots. Two from the same weapon, one from another. The cries of seagulls mingled with the fading echoes of the shots, swift and close, barely distinguishable.
Colin, moments ago the majestic merman of the beach, was now pinned down by his bodyguard. The pop star attempted to rise, but found himself on the ground. Was he injured? He felt the weight pressing down on him.
"Stay down!" commanded the bodyguard.
Colin gasped for air, uncontrollable fear gripping him. He watched as a man fell to his knees just in front of him, freezing like a statue for moments. A noise! Metal and glass. The weapon slipped from the attacker's grip, hitting a beer bottle carelessly tossed in the sand, not far from Colin.
A fallen star amidst the grains of sand, near his sleek black limousine. The bodyguard shielded the star's body with his own. The assailant breathed his last and collapsed entirely. Colin's savior aimed the gun, scanning the surroundings, a corpse before him. Not worth mentioning, few footsteps distant. Blood seeped into the sand.
"Stay down!" the bodyguard repeated.
Miami Beach, seconds ago an oasis of joy, was now a witness to a tragedy in the making. The air smelled of blood and damp sand.
A woman in her thirties, her aura permeated with determination and courage, proudly wears a grass-colored T-shirt like a banner. In the midst of the terrifying moment, nobody notices the slogan on it: 'Greta's Army'. An ode to a fighting soul, the logo, a sunflower, sways beneath a rainbow.
She strides through the chaos of crime, confronting the perpetrator's weapon, undeterred, unprotected except for her vegie sandals. Colin Lord's life hung in the balance like a fragile glass ornament delicately crafted. A scene of pandemonium. He gasps in horror, his eyes widening. His bodyguard swiftly swings his gun around, aiming it at the stranger with ebony skin tone.
A firm push. The revolver moves away from the corpse and the woman, as if pushing back the darkness and making room for light. In the nick of time, the bodyguard raises his gun, which he was just about to fire. On the other side, the woman picks up a beer bottle. In a soothing scream of his horror, Colin hears her words, "This is a crime scene!"
The woman turns to the fallen star, "I agree, Colin! That's why I'm taking action. Thank me when you're done here." With a steady grip, she carries the corpus delicti to the trash bin. Not just to remove the environmental toxin, but to perform an act on society. A reconstruction of respect for the world that surrounds her.
The police apprehend her before she moves on.
Breathe a sigh of relief as beachgoers unite in a choir; witnesses to a drama of life and death.
In the end, Miami's vibrant nightlife carried on as usual. The memories of that fateful night linger in the minds of the partying students.
Paths diverge, others are open
With a sharp and knowing gaze, Colin now observes Frank, a man overshadowed by life's trials and tribulations. They stand in a room adorned with the opulence of wealth and success, where the essence of achievement seeps through polished wooden tables, mingling with the air.
A casually posed question hangs in the air like the echo of distant thunder, drifting through the room. "Did your hands tremble from time to time, Frank?" he inquires. His voice rumbles softly, akin to the prelude to a storm. The scent of noble leather furniture accompanies his words, blending with the aroma of wood.
Colin Lord pours amber fluid into glasses, his hands trembling, threatening to spill the golden liquid.
Frank, a man accustomed to adrenaline rushes that life brings in moments, meets Colin's gaze without hesitation. "Occasionally, it's adrenaline," he replies. His words carry the weight of experience, as if he has weathered countless storms and emerged unscathed.
Colin nods knowingly; an unspoken agreement passes between them like a secret circulating in the air. "How did you know?" he asks. His tone, a mixture of curiosity and lingering fear, resembles a detective unraveling the threads of a case shrouded in mystery.
"I saw him," Frank begins. His voice fades into the eerie silence of painful flashbacks, too agonizing to express fully.
"I saw him just like you did," Colin interjects. His words resonate with a melancholic, orchestrated melody, like notes from a ballad of sorrow.
Frank explained with a smirk, "He and I were the only ones not excited to see a pop star." Colin's grin transformed into a hesitant chuckle.
In the moment when the past and the present blend like overlapping shadows, Colin makes a gesture of camaraderie. He hands Frank a sealed envelope. The envelope, a promising messenger, containing secrets of a monetarily imbued nature.
Frank's gaze falls upon the envelope, contemplating the decisions he holds within flexible boundaries. "You know, I prefer you stay," Colin remarks. His words carrying a message to continue the journey they both embarked on.
In the midst of change and the allure of uncharted horizons, Frank gently shakes his head. "It's time to explore different paths, to some extent. I told you about my buddy's beach bar. I'm looking into investment options," he confesses without conviction, instead, it's a manifestation of his desire to tread unseen shores.
A smile passes between the two men, a moment of respect and understanding. They raise their glasses, and the crystal captures the sparkle of their final words in their eyes. Colin brings the glass to his lips, savoring the complex notes of the brandy. Simultaneously, Frank raises his glass high, the amber-hued liquid mimicking amber, untouched.
Where echoes of the dialogue linger like fading chords of a bittersweet melody promising sweetness, two men stand at a crossroads. Their determination is reflected in the language of clinking glasses, devoid of words.