commanderproton
Senior Member
A large hand reached out and slapped the button on top of the radio, silencing it. It was the sort with a CD player, which currently held a classical music disk. Humbert Fenric had gotten fed up with the local radio stations. Almost invariably, they chose to play "Hungry Like The Wolf", "Werewolves of London", or "Little Red Riding Hood" whenever he set his alarm, and that was *not* how he wanted to start the day. But, then, neither would you, if you were a recovering Big Bad Wolf.
His Role in the Narrative had made sure he was big and bad, but he still went through a morning workout routine. It kept him sharp and the discipline kept the Wolf at bay. Then came breakfast, and Humbert allowed the Wolf a little leeway, piling a plate full of eggs, hamsteak, potatoes and fruit.
After breakfast, Humbert went through his morning ablutions with a sense of resigned determination. He shaved, even though he could watch his scruffy beard regrow within minutes. He neatly combed his hair, even though he could feel it writhe on his scalp, mussing itself. He filed down the points his nails had grown into overnight.
But then, trying was the point, wasn't it?
Then, he got dressed. Much of his wardrobe were simple black suits, crisp white shirts, black ties, and shiny black shoes. Humbert would have preferred a softer, more casual look, but the black-suited agent of a mysterious government bureau was a story of its own, and a layer of insulation between Humbert and the Narrative.
The Narrative.
The Narrative started all of this, turned him from a slightly built youth with dreams of stardom into an embodiment of primordial fear. Then, he'd been basically drafted to fight the Narrative. And when the Narrative couldn't be stopped, LIBRIS tried to safely deliver a Happy Ending.
Neatly dressed, yet looking like a Mafia hitter, rather than a Fed, Humbert put on the last piece of his uniform, a pair of glasses with colored lenses to help disguise the bright gold of his eyes.
It reinforced the hitman look.
With a sigh, he locked up and got into his car, with its bulletproof and charmproof glass and mirrors, and headed to work, bracing himself for what was waiting.
His Role in the Narrative had made sure he was big and bad, but he still went through a morning workout routine. It kept him sharp and the discipline kept the Wolf at bay. Then came breakfast, and Humbert allowed the Wolf a little leeway, piling a plate full of eggs, hamsteak, potatoes and fruit.
After breakfast, Humbert went through his morning ablutions with a sense of resigned determination. He shaved, even though he could watch his scruffy beard regrow within minutes. He neatly combed his hair, even though he could feel it writhe on his scalp, mussing itself. He filed down the points his nails had grown into overnight.
But then, trying was the point, wasn't it?
Then, he got dressed. Much of his wardrobe were simple black suits, crisp white shirts, black ties, and shiny black shoes. Humbert would have preferred a softer, more casual look, but the black-suited agent of a mysterious government bureau was a story of its own, and a layer of insulation between Humbert and the Narrative.
The Narrative.
The Narrative started all of this, turned him from a slightly built youth with dreams of stardom into an embodiment of primordial fear. Then, he'd been basically drafted to fight the Narrative. And when the Narrative couldn't be stopped, LIBRIS tried to safely deliver a Happy Ending.
Neatly dressed, yet looking like a Mafia hitter, rather than a Fed, Humbert put on the last piece of his uniform, a pair of glasses with colored lenses to help disguise the bright gold of his eyes.
It reinforced the hitman look.
With a sigh, he locked up and got into his car, with its bulletproof and charmproof glass and mirrors, and headed to work, bracing himself for what was waiting.