monochromegalaxy
Lord of the Fries
A blizzard of rubble and dust stung the Thaumaturgists’ exposed skin. The ground rumbled once more, the skyscrapers shaking and threatening to topple on top of the group of battered and beaten gifted that stood below. Blood and bodies piled up upon each other, a mix of grotesque creatures, innocent bystanders and other Thaumaturgists who were not so lucky.
The dust had finally settled. Lawson shakily pushed himself off the asphalt, craning his head up to see a mass of darkness emanating from the cloaked figure at the edge of the rift. A pair of glowing red eyes glared back, watching as the Thaumaturgists made attempts to stand on their feet. Some unmoving.
“A pity, really,” the cloaked figure sighed sardonically. Its voice was distorted, as if many voices spoke at once. “So skilled. So much potential.” As it finished its sentence, the figure casually walked towards the group, not bothering to step around them and stomping on hands, legs and backs on their way. “But I can’t dwell on the past. This must be done. I promise you, my intentions are just.” It stopped in the middle, raising its arm.
“The world will finally be in balance.”
March 2016, Duskford
It was overcast, a blanket of grey obscuring the early noon sun. Snow wafted down from the sky, leaving a thick layer of snow on Duskford's streets. The Duskford Bureau of Thaumaturgy stood tall and proud in the biting cold, its worn and weathered beige-coloured stone walls resistant to the conditions. The entrance seemed to loom over the visitors; rotating glass doors with golden accents continuously spun from those entering and exiting, their coats and scarves flying behind them as a gust of wind rushes by.
The receptionist sat inside, typing away at her desk, the lights behind her drawing a sharp, white outline around her silhouette; it flickered every second or so. An electric blanket hugged her shoulders, fighting off the waves of cold air that managed to sneak through the doors, the picture frames behind her rattling with each gust of wind. A mug of sweet-smelling tea gave off tendrils of white steam, which curled and danced until vanishing. Two more mugs sat beside it, empty, with little dark speckles of remaining tea leaves.
Despite her calm demeanour, all around her was chaos. Many Thaumaturgists scurried about, getting ready for a rather important event that night.
–––––––
The top floor, in the roof greenhouse, was quiet compared to the loud chatter and phone rings in reception. The greenhouse was full of strange plants; some glowed, growled and writhed about in their clay prisons. Bottles of various shapes and colours (a couple gave off sparks, smoke, and bubbles and a few glowed) were kept behind wooden cabinets under a lock. In the centre of the greenhouse was a cauldron bubbling away, the contents being an ominous green colour. A young man had his chocolate shoulder-length locks tied back, exposing his defined jaw (and sending the female students into a mental frenzy) that was clenched in pent up frustration. He sported goggles and an apron, his students around him (who were older than him) also wearing an apron and goggles. His back was towards the cauldron, tossing ingredients inside as he recited a formula rapidly under his breath.
“Lampyris nottiluca abdomen, dried and crushed, sprinkled over base formula. Madoqua guentheri hairs and raffleshia arnoldii boiled before use. Atropa belladonna, omphalotus nidiformis-"
"How do you even spell that?”
"Read the assigned chapters.”
"Um, Mr. Katsaros, I can't really hear you."
"Drink an age reversal potion."
The game of verbal tennis between the Alchemy apprentices and the man’s brusque answers continued on. His grip on the next ingredient tightened, his knuckles turning white and green goo creeping down his wrist. Sure, being the Resident Alchemist of Duskford and having access to the Athenaeum had its perks, but it required him to train Alchemy apprentices (which he's terrible at but refused to admit it). The mere thought of having to share his knowledge and deal with arrogant brats who think Alchemy is easy ticked the man off.
‘It’s like cooking, but with more finesse and risk of losing eyebrow hair,’ he mentally hummed to himself, remembering the last incident with a smirk. ‘No eyebrows for Beatrice.’
“–uh, Mr. Katsaros?”
“Hm?”
“The ectoplasm…” The apprentice pointed at the goo, by then, had reached his elbow, staining his white shirt green.
“Crap,” he muttered and tossed the goo over to the pile of trimmings, mentally taking note to look for more later. “By the way, you didn’t state the ectoplasm's type. Did you even review last week’s notes?”
–––––––
Downstairs, in a large room containing old furniture and bookshelves, a mop of blond hair navigated the labyrinth of furniture. A string of mutters flew from his mouth as he traced each line of the book he held with his finger.
He stops at a cloth-covered table, placing the book over the stacks of other books scattered across the table. Notebooks and loose papers filled with writing were stacked neatly next to his feet on the floor. The blond man stood back and zoned out, thinking about his next move.
'Hm. Looks like the research papers are missing,' he thought, glancing down at worn journals with blackened edges and missing pages. His pale face scrunched up in annoyance and he slammed a fist onto the table with a bang. 'Dammit.'
A voice then called out his name from the hallway, the blond recognising it to be a fellow Vanguard. Alarmed, he hastily grabbed the corners of the tablecloth and dragged the makeshift sack of books to a dark corner of the room. He ran back, picking up the loose papers and notebooks, placing them into a recyclable bin. As he finished, the Vanguard opened the door to see the blond reading a book at the bare table, looking to be a little out of breath. She brushed the observation off, not thinking much of it.
"There you are. Huntin' your skinny ass down is hard, y'know?" She rolled her eyes and waved a notebook around. "Kenji wanted me to tell you that you left a mess behind in the Athenaeum and that he'll void your membership if you mess up one more time. And you left this on the checkout counter."
"N-no. I'll c-clean-n up-p in a m-moment," the man stuttered, chuckling sheepishly and walking over to the annoyed woman, gingerly taking the notebook. "Th-thanks."
"Whatever. Just remember to get ready for the Summit." The Vanguard walked off, leaving the blond man alone in the Archives. The dark-haired woman walked down the hallway, the golden sign that read 'Understudy' gleaming in the corner of her eye. She paused, hearing more moans and giggles coming from behind the door. She, again, rolled her eyes, scoffed, and sped walked away.
A couple of hours later, the black-clad Understudy emerged from his office, oblivious to the lipstick mark below his ear. He confidently sauntered towards the elevator, the elevator dinging open as a Thaumaturgist walked out and past him.
The GMR Summit will be held that night and the Duskford Bureau, like always, was overseeing security. Lawson stopped at Octavia's desk, an eyebrow raised at the amount of mugs that occupied her desk.
"Mr. Holloway."
"Miss Flowers. Have the security squads been assembled?" Octavia nodded and passed a file to Lawson. He flicked through the file, skimming its contents. "I'll head over there now. If my special guest arrives, offer to escort him to the hall."
–––––––
The GMR Summit building was located in the heart of the city, a coliseum-esque structure surrounded by tall, bare trees and marble fountains. A limousine halts at the entrance and a man steps out, a beige coat hanging off his shoulders. Synod council member Gregory Stein frowned at the building then sighed. He grabbed his staff from the car and trudged up to the large doors. He stopped in front of the doors, up close, seeing intricate carvings of both non-gifted and gifted folk interacting throughout the years.
Shannon Trevor
AI10100
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