Old Stuff #2

Episode II: Return of Old Stuff

What follows comes from one of the oldest files on my hard drive. I believe I wrote it when I was thirteen or so, which makes it about five years older than what you read yesterday. This is an opening scene to a story that I never planned out, wrote, or even thought much about. I just had an idea for a scene, so I wrote it.

It takes place from the perspective of the bad guys; more specifically, the perspective of the low man on the Evil Organization totem pole.

    Xerus moved through the midnight-black corridor, ignoring the chill. He felt like he was marching through a small hallway, with a low ceiling and walls that pressed in from every direction. He always felt that way. He reminded himself, as he always did, that there was really nothing there, that the claustrophobic pressure and the feeling of unseen eyes were only products of his imagination. He shuddered in fear, then cringed, ashamed that after all this time he was still afraid. His measured steps did not falter.
    After a few minutes of determined walking, he turned to his left and drew out a key. He inserted it into the door that he felt was there, in the same way that he sensed the ceiling above him and the walls around him, in the same way that he knew exactly when he had reached his destination. He just knew. He wondered, sometimes, what would happen if he stopped in some other place, inserted his key into some other door. He shuddered again, then twisted the key in its invisible lock. From somewhere, there was a soft click. He felt a rush of air on his face, though to his eyes the featureless blackness all around him did not change.
    He stepped through a door that had never opened, into a place that did not exist.
    Instantly the pressure of the dark outside lifted, taking with it the hostile cold of the corridor. Xerus found himself in a small room, furnished entirely in black. Dark walls held up an ebony ceiling, and black carpet cushioned the floor. There was illumination, but Xerus couldn't see where it came from. He hesitated to call it light, not here, but at least he could see. In the dead center of the room was a massive rectangular table of polished obsidian that shone like a mirror. Around the table, seven figures sat cushioned in high-backed chairs. Three sat at each of the long sides of the table and one at the head. The seat at the foot of the table was open.
    All of the figures were cloaked and cowled in black, as was Xerus himself. He recognized the tension in the room and almost cringed again.
    He was the last to arrive.
    Ungracefully he slid into the last remaining chair, awkwardly jerking it up to the table. It was too heavy for him to easily move, so he scooted forward one painful inch at a time, making a loud scraping noise against the carpet. The other cloaked figures stared at him from beneath shadowed hoods, letting the muffled scrapes and thuds of Xerus' battle with his seat echo throughout the room. When the echoes faded away, the figure at the head of the table leaned forward and spread its hands out onto the mirrored surface.
    “So, Xerus,” the figure said. It was the voice of an older man, deep and gravelly. “We're all busy men. Let's cut right to the chase, shall we? What business of yours was so important that we risk exposure to deal with it?”
    The man's voice had risen slightly towards the end, becoming sharp and accusatory. This was how he always dealt with Xerus, because Xerus was a coward. He was manipulated easily by threats, overt or implied, and everyone knew it.
    From somewhere Xerus produced a manila folder containing several printed documents. He spread them out on the table and fiddled with them nervously, though he did not need to refer to them; he had already memorized the information that he meant to share today. He just didn't like thinking about it.
    “It is true that we have thus far proceeded on our present course without incident,” Xerus began. His whisper filled the quiet room, which was a good thing, since his vocal chords were incapable of producing any more volume. Nonetheless, he had no problem being heard. Not here.
    “There have been a few...unforeseen developments, however,” Xerus continued. “While it was undoubtedly to our benefit that we have faced no effective resistance on any world, there was something that I did not understand about our...situation. Why? Surely the fabrics of at least a few worlds would try to reject us. But that did not happen. It still has not happened, in fact. Disturbed, I investigated-”
    “Get to the point, Xerus,” the man and the head of the table said irritably. “I don't have enough free time that you can waste it with-”
    Xerus' whisper cut right through the older man's angry words. “The keystones are missing.”
    There was another moment of silence, and then the six figures that had said nothing tumultuously broke silence, filling the room with chatter. No one really raised his voice, but it was one of the strange effects of this room that every word spoken by every man was clearly audible.
    “That's not possible.”
    “What does this mean?”
    “How will this affect us?”
    “Look at him, he's lying.”
    “This can't be true.”
    “Why-”
    “ENOUGH!” The man at the head of the table roared, pounding his open palms down on the stone table with a loud crack. Instantly, silence reigned again in the black hall.
    “Xerus, slow down a moment. What do you mean all?”
    “Every single one of them,” Xerus whispered. “From every world in our sector. Gone. The power that each world had to maintain its original order has been severed from the fabric.”
    “That sounds like a good thing,” the older man continued, leaning back in his chair. "That's one problem solved."
    “It...is possible,” Xerus conceded quietly, “that some force outside our control has taken up arms on our behalf and removed our only opposition. That is a possibility.”
    Several figures around the table nodded sharply.
    “We will take care of it," the man at the head said, "whether or not that is true. Xerus, you did well to inform us, and-”
    “But,” Xerus added in a voice that was quiet even for him, “I do not believe this to be the case. It is my belief that the fabrics of each world have sacrificed their individual weapons in order to fashion some coordinated defense. One unconditional keystone, around which the fate of each of our target worlds is bound.”
    The black-cloaked figure at the head of the table was silent for such a long time that Xerus was afraid that his own remarks had angered the powerful man. He fidgeted, sweating in his chair, and was about to speak simply to break silence when the leader of the black council spoke again, in tones of contemplation instead of anger.
    “If what you say is true, then we could crush the natural defenses of all seven worlds in one blow. The greatest strength of our enemies is also a weakness. Am I correct?”
    Xerus hesitated a moment. “Yes, sir, you are,” he said.
    “Then, all of you, listen up. I want you to find this point of weakness, this final keystone. I want it crushed into powder, and I want it done now. Do you hear me? Find it.
    “Find it and break it.”

It's a little melodramatic, and if I were to expand it into an actual story I have no doubt that it wouldn't be taken quite so seriously.

For points, a guessing game might be appropriate. Describe to me how you think "Xerus" is pronounced, and the first person to get it right gets +52 points. Fight! Struggle! Earn your points!

Ahem.

That's all for now, and thanks for reading!