In a cluttered building, deep inside the rabbit warren of the city's heart, sheltered from the pressing sky and the eyes of onlookers, stood a table. Constructed of dark wood of uncertain name, in a room as bare of features as it was possible to be, a single door in the south, illuminated only by the suspended torches on the wall and smokey lantern above, it was the focus of a rough crowd of men; The Assembly. Drawn by one need, power, but as different in appearance as they were in motivation, they clustered about that single table, twelve of them, tall, thin, stout, broad, lean, muscular, bespectacled, clean-shaven, austere and unkempt. Before them, on the table, lay the object of all their work, all their effort, and now the validation of their trials, their reward. Flesh that sang in its purity, feathers that glowed with their own internal vitality, blood that pooled, fresh, red and pearlescent, shimmering like the sheen inside a newly opened oyster. Wings!
In their filthy clothes, their pristine white suits, their overly theatrical capes and their Heavy-Metal T-shirts, they clustered like seagulls, squabbling at each other over the rights to their spoils. One alone slouched against the wall, he in his black silk shirt, his black-dyed hair and his pallid white face. An air of royalty surrounded him, and drove his fellows back, he seemed as alien in this alien crowd as they felt in the mundane world outside their walls, a statue of marble and obsidian amongst crude carvings of granite and clay. He spoke, and the Assembly silenced, frozen with apprehension as rabbits beneath a hawks tight shadow, his voice simple and clear, without any hint of discernible accent or lilt, yet somehow chilling in its tone and timbre.
"None of you shall have these for none of you is worthy," he said, "Nor am I," he continued before they could raise their voices in complaint.
"These are the results of our work, and only those who have ... contributed ... will be rewarded."
The atmosphere in the room became, if possible, even more silent and strained. These men, dusty yet tidy, filthy yet spotless, waited to hear what was to be said, already he could see the dissent creeping across his fellows' faces. He unfurled himself from his slouch in a sinuous movement, and moved across the room, patting at imaginary dust on his shoulders as he went. A catlike grace flowed in the rhythm of his overly-confident strut, and every eye followed him as he made his way towards the table.
In the silence his soft-soled shoes made a sound like a faint slithering, and his trouser legs brushed each other to the faint rasp of cotton on cotton. A lock of jet black hair fell forward over his eyes, lending his starkly white face a masked look, although his eyes retained their cold and crystalline glitter that suggested an intelligence in excess of mortal man slept behind that visage. From his left ear dangled a silver artwork, all loops and spirals, strangely suggestive of writing, although in no language of this earth. Those who stood too close to his path felt his heat as he passed and smelled his strange scent, something like cloves and cinnamon, some spice that had possibly passed its use-by date. Reaching the table, he turned and gently lay his right hand on the wings there, absently toying with a single feather as he spoke. With a surprisingly soft movement he casually ripped the feather from the wingtip, expending almost no effort, or so it seemed if you failed to watch his eyes - the concentration require showed its toll there. Twirling the feather deftly between his fingers, long supple fingers with a fluid grace to their casual dance, he continued.
"Phillius, you have contributed towards the work, your linguistic skills indispensable, stand here at my left."
A tall man, neither thin nor broad, stepped forth, and shuffled to stand beside the speaker. His legs seemed to be of dissimilar length, lending him a lurching gait that threatened to land him atop one of his fellows like so much fallen timber. Yet he walked true, and seemed to magically glide through the close-shouldered crowd to his appointed place without coming into contact with any of his so-called fellows. In his passing the faces of The Assembly displayed their displeasure, their loathing, and their jealousy, of him. His clothes rustled about him as he lurched forwards, his overly-heavy coat parting every now and then to display, strangely, what looked like a chain-mail suit underneath.
What none of the men assembled there knew, was that that chain-mail suit served a dual purpose. It not only protected Phillius from physical touch, but linked directly to his brain. Like some kind of amalgam of man and machine, Phillius had access to a collection of small memory modules scattered throughout the structure of his clothing, providing him with an imperfect but nearly encyclopaedic store of knowledge. Imperfect because that knowledge had been gathered by other, imperfect, humans, but also imperfect because the interface between man and machine was not stable, and occasionally Phillius found himself lost in a torrent of trivia, fighting to remain conscious and self-aware. It was this that gave him the lurching gait, his legs were simply held at strange angles as his mind fought to remain aware of his physical surroundings, giving him the odd-legged appearance. Every eye in the room on him, he seemed arrogantly unaware of the feeling he elicited by being the first called. He knew of their loathing of him, their negative judgement of his worthiness, but he cared not, he knew so many things that they didn't, and so many things they themselves thought unknown, various details of their lives, available to him through his "Suit of Knowledge". Phillius arrived at his appointed spot, and turned, visibly straight legged now he was still, and cast his sneering visage back at the crowd before him. Disturbingly pale eyes, of indeterminate color stared vaguely out of his pale and fleshless face, those eyes varyingly intense and distant, as his mind switched between internal and external focus. The speaker continued...
"Malleus, your ... financial ... contributions have awarded you a place of honor. Without your special attentions we would have been thwarted at the first hurdle. Come stand by your fellow."
Thin, painfully thin, he stepped forward from his colleagues, a surprisingly short man in lavish clothing. It seemed to the others that his obvious financial riches, shown in the shape of his immaculately cut suit and the shine of his jewellery, could only have been obtained by denying himself such food that his body was stunted and deformed. Although he walked without any form of hindrance, it took him an age to cross the room and stand by the first-called's side. His face alone betrayed his fever, his passion, this man held nothing dear, but wealth and power. His fellows had no idea of how he had obtained such wealth as he had, and many of them would shy from the methods he had used, had they knowledge of those methods. Malleus had never let anything stand between him and his goal, and the feeble arguments of morals, justice and equality meant nothing to him. It was not a lack of sustenance that stunted his body so, that was merely the result of so many hours hunched over interminable account books, and perhaps something else, some deal he might have made? His fellows would never know, and he took his place in front of The Assembly in complete silence, his mind hungrily anticipating his reward, though he knew not what it might be. Malleus seemed to deflate into a standing slump once his place was reached, and affected such a posture of nervousness that the others felt their eyes averting from his frame, so much so that they didn't see the greedy glitter in his eye and the way his hands grasped at each other like feeding vultures.
"Joseph, simply put, your significant physical presence has eased our operation, come stand by Malleus and receive your share."
A man of substantial brawn strode forth, unceremoniously shouldering aside the others to make his way across the room to the small group called. Smaller men dodged back to allow him through, while those who attempted to impede his progress were unceremoniously thrust aside. If malice and threat took a physical form, this man would be it. His blunt head sat atop a frame that would leave most men awed, his shoulders and arms of such size that it seemed impossible for them to simply hang; they jutted out like wings themselves, supported by the massively flaring chest that strained his lycra shirt to its limit. Beneath that lycra shirt, made out in excruciating detail, his torso left nothing to the imagination, enough strength seemed held there to demolish smaller men in an instant. Tapering to an improbably small waist, and flaring back to insanely thick thighs and calves, barely concealed by tight leather studded shorts, his bare feet slapped the concrete of the floor as he walked. A veritable tree of muscle and veins, Joseph walked with a confident strut, yet still seemed to almost glide. Every step seemed carefully calculated, as if an unwary move might release such strength as to send the man into the air, rupturing the floor as his muscles delivered just that little bit too much energy. Dwarfing Malleus at the assembly, he stared back at the congregation in a manner that communicated his contempt for them, smaller men, in no uncertain terms.
"And finally, myself, " spoke the one the others knew as Simeon, " without whom this ragtag group could never have succeeded at all."
The speaker twirled the feather one last time and tossed it casually up into the air, where it stayed, twisting gently, upright and shining as if illumined by its own internal glow. Simeon lowered his hand, and brought both hands to his side, the feather remained suspended. His eyes slowly closed and his lips twitched as his brow furrowed in brief concentration, as if quickly thinking through a puzzle, and then he opened his eyes and stared at the first-called, Phillius, the second-called, Malleus, and the third-called, Joseph. The feather performed a slow drifting, looping dance above Simeon's head, describing a small figure of eight before coming to rest again, suspended above his intense expressioned face. The three watched it warily, casting swift, slightly worried, glances at Simeon as he stared at them, through them, in his concentration. His face returning to his normal cold expression, Simeon gently dropped his hand to the wings spread on the table against which he slouched, and with a swift movement, brutally ripped three more feathers out. He tossed these three into the air where they drifted upwards until each prescribed a slow circle around each of the called mens' heads, while the first floated above Simeons'. Simeon turned back to the Assembly.
"Does any man here deny me the right to divide this prize," he gestured to the table beside him, "as I see fit, and to reward those I choose?"
His voice and manner made it clear that he expected no argument, but these men had not come here without their own commitment, and none was without his own special skill. A murmur passed through the crowd as the men shuffled back and forth, each thinking of what he could do to challenge the mastery Simeon was claiming.
A small man stepped forward, his clothing hang off his emaciated frame like rags, leaving his arms and legs bare, exposed for the skeletal appendages that can only be the result of extended malnutrition. He hobbled painfully forwards, frail frame supported by a splintered staff, broken and abused, clutched in a spider-like claw with white-tightened knuckles. The scraping of his staff and his soft, almost tentative, footfalls on the cold concrete floor were the only sounds in the room. In what might have been awe if not for the looks of distaste they cast his way, the mob parted to allow him through. With swift, almost fearful, glances at his fellows, he made his way across the floor until he stood before Simeon.
"Father Phobia, how nice to see you on this fine eve", sneered Simeon as he cast his eye casually over the shrunken figure grasping it's stick, "How did I know you, the most obstreperous of our little party, would have a complaint?"
The old man gathered strength with a deeply in-drawn breath and a visible shoring up of his inner confidence. Body held taught with determination; "Simeon," the shrunken man began in his faint, raspy voice.
"It was not through your own efforts alone, nor only those of your companions, that brought this treasure before us tonight. We all have played our part in the journey that has led us here. Each of us has played our part," he gestured with a free hand at the Assembly standing silently behind him, "each of us have contributed a vital step in our long toils. Without the combined efforts of all of use here, you would have nothing. Without US you would still be a second rate cultist in a little-known sect, eeking out an existence in the slums of our city, playing at juvenile pranks while dodging your youth worker!"
Phobia's lip curled in derision as he clearly painted the picture of the Simeon he knew, the Simeon he himself had found avoiding the city's inept police force in a sewer tunnel. A tunnel that just happened to lead to the basement entrance for the room they stood in tonight, a tunnel that was frequented only by the participants in the events that led to tonights victory. The Simeon he spoke of had been only touching the faintest shadow of the confidence and power he now appeared to command, and from the look on Simeon's usually cool face, it was not an image he cared to be reminded of!
"Phobia, you have no capacity to judge me, you who spends his life chasing after that most despicable of pleasures. You have avoided detection and imprisonment only through MY efforts! Without the fortuitous meeting of that first night, you would not stand here before me to challenge me so. Do you contend that I have risen so quickly to Leadership, " at this point Simeon cast a scathing eye about the room, not a single man returned that glance, "of this coven, this flock, by some means other than my own ability? Shall I display to you what you truly challenge?"
Simeon gathered himself, he seemed to grow smaller, and smaller, condensing down onto himself, only to be interrupted by the smart sound of Phobia's staff striking the floorboards.
"Don't annoy me boy, I don't deny your natural ability, and your deviousness at applying it, nor how well you have risen to Leadership of this ragtag gaggle of men", Phobia eyed his fellows, "yet I deny you the right to divide the spoils of our joint efforts. Do not place yourself above your station boy. In truth you hold that Leadership only at the combined permission of your fellows assembled here."
Simeon paused for a moment, and cast a swift eye about the room, seeing the cast of his fellows minds, and their disinclination to challenge him, their tendency to simply await the outcome of this contest being played out before them. A swift expression of pure malice ghosted across his face, and he raised his hand towards Phobia, fingers spread wide. Too slowly Phobia tried to plant his staff on the floor. Writhing and squirming, the old man was lifted from the ground until he floated eye-to-eye with Simeon. Phobia composed himself and tried to hide his obviously shaken demeanour from the young man who stood now with fine beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. Phobia brought his staff to his chest and grasped it with both hands to stop their shaking. Eyes closed he calmed himself, and concentrated.
Fine lines of strain stood out on his face as pushed back at Simeons hold on his body, all in vain, not an inch did he move from his position aloft before his tormentor. Simeon began to slowly close his fingers, as if holding an apple in his hand. Phobia's eyes bulged, his body began to fold up on itself, as if giant fingers gripped him and had begun to squeeze. Gripping his staff with both hands, he began to chant softly under his breath, the seriousness of his situation suddenly smashing through his fear, serving to focus his mind on what he must do.
The room remained silent except for the sound of Simeon's breathing and Phobia's soft muttering as the atmosphere grew more laden with tension. With no discernible effort, Simeon continued to close his fingers, applying more and more pressure to Phobia's scrawny frame. Phobia seemed untouched by this, although his body contorted further and several scraps of his tattered robes fell to the floor, pinched off by the invisible lines of force constricting his chest.
Phobia had no insignificant skill in the physical arts, but his strength came from his manipulation of his victims minds. Fear was his weapon, and he could wield it like a scythe when he chose, cutting down his foes with a thought. Ignoring the screaming of his tortured bones, the cringing of his crushed flesh, Phobia was attempting to dig into Simeon's mind, searching out those fears that would serve to cripple him before his strength faded.
In a strange coincidence of synchronicity, or perhaps not, the two men opened their eyes to lock the other in his gaze, grimaces on their faces as they exerted their will on the other. Simeon broke with a cry, and clasped his hands to his head, fingers covering his eyes as his fears were realised in his mind ...
... A schoolyard; cold, empty, alone; a young boy dressed in an immaculate school uniform, blue and black, all polished buckles and shiny shoes. The faded schoolyard covered in discarded candy wrappers and fallen leaves, blown back and forth, into whirls of detritus by the cold wind, all painted a chilling grey by the overcast sky overhead... The child steps forth, the school to his back, it begins to rain ... Alone, cold, wet, walking from the security of the schoolyard, the boy is surrounded by the slum, the red dilapidated houses crumbling before his eyes as he walks. The inhabitants of those houses wandering like walking dead from their crumbling abodes, eyes empty and mouths agape as they staggered forward. Their skins covered in lesions, the slum changes to a deeper, darker scene. It is night, screams rend the air, both of human origin and not as police cars with blind flashing lights roar past. Gunshots are heard, the boy walks, sheltering in the dubious cover of garbage bins and sidewalk shrubs as he avoids the gaze of the people he ducks past...
A light ahead, a sickly sweet smell, sweet yet corrupt, like the smell of rotting flesh covered by a designer fragrance. A kindly hand appeared, offering support and aid, clean and white, a vast contrast against the filthy hands grasping his ankles as he tries to extricate himself from the suburb behind... He looks up, time slows, the face, that face, smiling yet - more, Phobia looks down at the boy and the boy finds himself mired in the suddenly softening asphalt of the road. The world dims and only Phobia is there, the boy trapped before him, Phobia begins to open his robes...
Phobia remained suspended in the air, and all heads turn to Simeon as he gasps his terror. His eyes snap open again, and a terrified boy stares out from behind his eyes...
... The boy looks up at the man, priestlike, stands before him. The priests wizened hands, no longer clean nor white, all trace of kindness gone, slowly part the man's robes... The boys eyes glaze and his body stiffens, and suddenly a grown man stares out from that youthful visage. The boy buckles and humps up, as he swells to the size of a full-grown man, and then Simeon is there, standing tall with his clothes gripping his meagre frame like flakes of deepest obsidian melted into one liquid whole that followed his every contour... The priest looks up at the boy-grown-man and a spasm of concern passes across his face ...
Simeon straightened up, and with both arms still by his side, grinned maliciously at Phobia, hanging in the air before the assembled men. A flash of light illuminated the room and a sound like cloth tearing cracked through the air. As the eyes of all re-adjust to the gloom and the illumination reduces to mere flickering candles, a new circumstance is uncovered.
Phobia lay in a crumpled heap upon the floor, and Simeon stood like a predatory creature, one arm supporting his weight on the table, where the wings lay pristine. The look of feral anger on Simeon's face swiftly replaced by a cold superiority that completely masked any internal emotion that may have betrayed his internal weakness. A faint smell of ozone permeated the room, and a silvery light leaked gently from between Simeon's sinister and smirking lips. Phobia twitched, his breath rasped quickly inwards as he gasped his way back to consciousness. Stirring groggily, Phobia rolled onto his knees and raised a warding hand in Simeon's direction, claw-like fingers quivering with the after-effects of pain.
"No more, no more young man ... Do what you will," Phobia crawled to his staff, and rested there, on his knees, directly before Simeon.
Smirking and internally elated at his success, Simeon placed his hand atop Phobia's head, running his fingers through the soft, sparse grey hair there.
"Of course I will, Old Man, " Simeon's voice sounded like a purr, "no hard feelings?"
Simeon's hand stroked Phobia's head, and rested gently on his scalp. Phobia jerked, and his eyes were briefly lit by a silvery flame, which flared and died behind his eyes. Phobia's mouth dropped open and argent light flared there, deep within the old man's wretched body. Phobia dropped limply to the floor, his head bounced on the rough wooden floorboards before coming to rest, eyes open, mouth agape and drooling.
"I didn't think so," the words dropped in silk-clad malice from Simeon’s lips, he turned to the Assembly. "Anyone else?" A raised eyebrow, a spark in his eye and the coiled stance of his body broadcast an arrogant threat to any foolish enough to respond.