Just A Conversation

Posted: November 30, 2007 in Brawl, Dark, Fiction, Sci-Fi

Brawl is finally back after a few months, and I’m glad to have the project reignited. Hopefully updates to the story will be regular.

Chapter 18

The voice issuing from the man’s lips is steady and cold, an unstoppable flow of malice past cracked, evil lips.

“Hello, Lucas.”

The fact that he knows my name causes me to break out in a cold sweat. I don’t know who he is and I don’t know why he’s here, but I do know this: he was major. This wasn’t some fucking lieutenant sent out to kill some Saints.
No, this was the man calling the shots for everything, not just this assault against Da Vinci.

He takes a step forward and I take a step back, not quite paralyzed with fear but getting close.

He smiles, his dead lips cracking even more and trickling blood down to his chin.

“Come now, Lucas, this is just a conversation. Can’t you give me the satisfaction of an intellectual dialogue with one so esteemed as yourself?”

What the fuck? Who was this asshole? I stay silent.

His smile slips for a fraction of an instant, then falls altogether. His whole body tenses visibly and I cringe to myself. For all I knew he was some kind of fucking wizard that would be able to fry my brains and cook them over an open fire in an instant if he wished.

“Fair enough, Lucas. Let’s find a way to make you a little bit more…polite.”

Flash.

A tea table. A facsimile of the Mad Hatter’s table coupled with the austerity of a convent is spread out before me and I feel my throat being crushed.

I stare down at the incredibly tight velvet suit that now encompasses my body. It shrinks slowly, constricting my body.

I can’t breathe.

In a feverish gasp that barely gets past my compressed windpipe, I squeak out a cry for help and whirl my bulging eyes to the far end of the table. The man sits there, sipping from a cup of tea, feet on the table in a casual manner. He wears a Napoleonic costume, an Admiral’s uniform complete with a tri-corner hat. He nods at me, smiling pleasantly.

“Please, good sir, sit.”

Unwilling, the suit forces me into the nearest chair and manipulates my hand into grasping a teacup filled with hot tea. My hand is too tight on the handle of the cup and it breaks off. Scalding tea burns into my lap and my scream of pain is merely a hiss filtered through my tight throat.

“Now, Lucas, how are you? Comfy?”

I’m still hissing thinly from the agony of the tea.

“Where are my manners? I’m so sorry, Lucas. I’ve been a tad preoccupied lately, planning a war and all, but that’s no excuse.”

He takes another leisurely sip of tea and sets his cup on the table.

“My name, dear Lucas, is Miur.”

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Comments
  1. larkie says:

    I like this. miur is cool [in a hideous sinister way, you know] though I could have sworn it’s spelled ‘muir’, but yeah I guess it goes either way and I’m not going to be a dick and go ‘YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG’ so yeah

    this is really pretty creepy and awesome. :]
    if I started a WordPress thingie would you read it?

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