I shot away from Macs safe house like a bullet from a gun making a beeline for Queen Mabs hidden home. I drove at full speed passed frightened security men who went absolute bonkers until they realised who i was. I ran up the stairs to Mabs throne room two at a time.
"My Queen i have returned." I knelt before the throne bowing my head in respect.
"I have just been informed of Agreasta's untimely demise. Did you have anything to do with this?"
"No my Queen i was settling Mac into his new acommodation. He will be a most valuable asset."
"Do you have any idea what will happen now she is dead?"
"A new leuitenant will have to be elected."
"And?" Asked Mab angrily.
"The other leuitenants will strike back with deep vehemance. I will gather as many men as i can and take the fight to the Colours. Her death cannot go unpunished."
"Oh be gone! You grow tiresome."
"Yes my Queen." I turned and strode out of the room. I would have to gather the others and dig out my infamous hooded coat and skeletal mask. It was time for the four horsemen to ride again. I wandered back to my room and opened my box. There lay my skeletal mask, various peices of black equipment and a coat as black as night.
Death has returned. I thought as i pulled on my skeletal mask once again. Time to gather the others. The MiBC would ride again, and they would chow no mercy.
I have looked into the eye of the storm and stared it down. I am an adrenaline junky and i know no fear.
Maria's small frame could be be seen as jaywalking but to her running wasn't considered a jaywalk. Car horns blared as she expertly jumped onto the opposite pavement.
"Sorry!" She waved at the cars.
She had gotten lost going to the place of meeting, turning left instead of going straight and going back when she could have just gone down the creepy looking ally but Maria couldn't take chances. Someone had him, Tanner, her ex-comrade, her original partner. But he was dead, Sam saw him die, his skin go cold and his breath not return to his chest again and even them putting the coffin in the winter sickened ground. Either the System was screwing with her or it was true they had found Tanner very much alive.
Los Families, where was that again? The sun was already set and the hints of winter were there, where was that scalding weather they had earlier?! The cold bit her skin and she buttoned her peacoat as she walked. Her legs shivered in the thin material of her tights, why did she where a dress again? She was stupid that's why. she cantered down the sidewalk, expertly side stepping fellow pedestrians.
Oh Tanner, what was she going to do? Maria sliced into the warm restaurant's doorway and cut to waitress's stand.
"Oh it's you," she said drowsely.
"me?" maria asked.
"Yes some guy in the far back table is waiting for you," She pointed.
"Thanks," Maria nodded and walked towards the worried looking Shaun.
The one who smiles the most has something to hide.
..i'm lonely...message me..some how add me on your social networking site (unless you are some creepy weirdo who stalks girls for their organ harvesting company..i personally like them inside of me thankyou )
**Holy crap, this is long. Let me know if it sucks.**
Styler filled his lungs with fresh air as he stood dwarfed by the shadow of Treyton High School. The words, all in black with orange lining, burned into his vision and the whole building loomed over him like a scolding, angry parent. It knew as well as he what he was about to do, and that there was no possible chance of stopping him. He walked through steel gate entrance, through the enclosed courtyard, and made a left down a sidewalk path, leading to the old Treyton Theatre with poison pumping through his veins.
The theatre was tall, large and round, like the Global Theater they say Shakespeare used to conduct his plays in, and very much resembled the way Styler would have pictured it. The wall was the same dull gray color of the adjacent school building, and was decorated without any windows, only a few weather worn tapestries that the theatre department had made themselves for a show they did a few years ago. However, the doors were the most alluring part; they were large enough to fit a person twice the size of Styler, and instead of the uniform plain black matte the school had, these ones were the wooden oak color of an old Spanish galleons bow. Fitted dramatically once across and all the way around were large, black bolts, as if to add some sense of security to the buildings entrance but Styler knew there was no safe guard on the perimeter save a small camera fitted in the top corner of the doorway. He maneuvered himself from its digital eye and made his way around the building, just outside the gravel that surrounded it like a moat. This was on purpose, of course. Underneath the gravel were a series of pressurized plates to alert anyone inside of unexpected prowlers. This safeguard was easily avoided, all he had to do was maintain a proper distance, but effective to someone who didn't know they were there. On the opposite side of the building, Styler came to the back door, which was not as intimidating as the front and instead followed the uniform door scheme the school had, and took note of the two spot lights on either side pointed skyward. Initially, the spotlights were in place all around the perimeter to blanket the theatre in bright, flashing lights to attract attention. Now, they could also be controlled via remote to spin down and light up all directions at once. Efficient for foot pursuits. These were also easy to disarm. Styler simply walked up and plucked them both from the ground, snapping the wiring in two with a pop. This would serve as his entrance, as well as his exit.
He took one more moment to collect himself with a inward breath, but that was all he would allow himself. Without another thought in his head, he produced from his back pocket a square, leather kit all rolled up like a coiled snake. He set it carefully on the floor, and slowly turned it over and over until it was as half as long as his forearm. One flap served as a pouch for all of the various tools, wires, tape and miscellaneous things within it, and Styler slid a screwdriver, and a long, and somewhat jagged needle-like object with a hooked end from it. After placing the thin needle into the keyhole of the locked double doors, he felt for the metal pins inside its inner workings to click them into place. He worked quickly and quietly, any noise he may have made was masked by the yelling boys in the courtyard, though he would have preferred absolute silence. A moment later and he had the pins set in place; with his other hand he took the screwdriver and gave the lock a twist. Success felt like a pat on the back and Styler replaced his tools to his pocket, and rose with a satisfied smile.
Slowly he pushed the door open to reveal the dark theatre. The beam of light from the outside world split its darkness like a hammer to stone but to much relief, no one was there to notice. Four long, black curtains draped from the rafters to form a makeshift room, in case the exit was ever used in this way during a production.
“THE FOUR HORSEMENT HAVE ARRIVED! And now will come a glorious new era for the Thespian department! Marsha Agresta held the throne for a long while, but it is time, now, that we influence the war in ways they never foresaw. I ask you this: What is the difference between the Colors or the Goths asking us to do something, and doing it ourselves? I'll tell you...” Styler never saw the speakers sinister grin, but it made his blood boil just the same, ”Not a thing. Except that the war will grow thicker, and so will our wallets. My friends, so will our wallets. Now, Marsha Agresta did first introduce this idea with Scarlet Kennings death, but it was pointless! Scarlet held no ties, she had no loyalties to anyone but us. I'm talking of murdering key figures here, something to...” he thought carefully of the correct words, “over boil the water, so to speak, to flood us with jobs.”
Styler crept closer to draw the curtain back and have a peek at the faces he would go against in addition to the MiBC. He assumed they'd all still be about their business, the woman was killed only an hour ago, after all. So, he hadn't expected many but when he pushed the curtain aside he found himself at the back of the stage looking into an audience full of ghosts and he, Styler, was their amusement. No lights, no further sound, just a empty stage and empty seats so he made his way to the center. The eerie feeling caused the hair on his arms, and neck to jerked away from him like a frightened dog on a leash, only to be stopped by the anchor of his skin. A clattering noise echoed somewhere behind the rows of seats as if something heavy had been dropped but when he was hit with a brilliant yellow light from the above head electrical booth he realized the noise was from the sudden powering of the spot light.
“STYLER WAYNE!” the voice was so deep it nearly shattered the walls.
Styler held out a hand to shield himself from the light, and he peered underneath it in an attempt to spot the man behind the voice. It was to no avail, and he was almost positive that the voice was run through the theatres' speaker system; he could be anywhere in the theatre now.
“YOU WERE NOT SUMMONED. WHY IS IT THAT YOU ARE HERE?”
“I'm here for you.”
The light flipped to a deep red filter and the voice interrogated further, “HERE FOR ME?”
A smile twisted on Stylers mouth and he dropped his hand to allow the light to blind him. There was no way to switch the light filter except to personally be in the little, above head room, at the console. Though he could not see the voice, he knew exactly where he was. All he had to do was place a very careful shot...
He swung his pistol around from behind his back, and squeezed the trigger. The howl amplified to a deafening roar due to the improved acoustics of the round theatre; he simultaneously threw himself off to the side of the stage, and slid across its smooth surface behind the brick wall that served as the stages right wing. The lights went off with the same loud ka-thunk, which initially made him think that the shot missed, but the gurgling noises that filled the room through the speaker system shortly after notified him that he hadn't.
The next instant was frantic; as he could hear the pattering of feet heading his way his gray eyes desperately searched for a better place to hide. Styler leaned from his cover to fire two more shots into the audience for cover fire, then quickly raised to his feet with the wall as support because he knew his time here was running out. The red drapes were the only thing he could hide behind but it wouldn't be enough to stop a round, let alone the thousand they'd put into his corpse. Instead of hiding, he had to do the next best thing. Once again, he whirled around the edge of the brick wall, bullets spitting from his gun like an angered street preacher, and dived forward, off the stage, and rolled with his landing, shoulder first into the beginning row of chairs.
Return fire clattered all around him, and through the slits between the chairs he could make out images of two masked men in heavy, black coats broken by the exploding light of their automatics in a strobe like fashion. One was the wavy face of a banshee, screaming for an eternity, while the other bore the face of a rotting corpse, and was the sole contributor of the bullets flying Stylers way, his hands locked on a AK-47. He hadn't long to look over them because he had to lay flat on the ground, hot lead punched through the plastic seats in star shaped holes and whizzed over his body, one stinging especially as it bounced off his back. He grunted painfully, arching his spine in the same direction of the wound, and for a second the fire stopped.
“You ssstiill allivvee, you traitorousss ssccumm?” the banshee mask hissed, he knew this one as War.
Wasting no time, he crawled across the floor while bringing himself to his feet, and charged for the side door leading to the electric booth, sending each attacker a bullet that caused them to duck long enough for him to swing the door open and escape through. He didn't stop running, instead taking the spiraling stairs upwards two, sometimes three at a time in long half jumps, and glanced over his shoulder as more automatic fire turned the door into litter. The attacker were eating his dust faster than he could make it, and he knew that he'd have to come up with another plan or die. He approached the top of the stairs, a calamity of hasty feet seconds behind him, and groped the darkness for the largest and heaviest object he could find, the tower of the stereo system, and rolled it out to the lip of the stairway then waited. He couldn't see anything, but as the sounds drew close enough to feel against his skin, he kicked the tower down and it crashed with a resounding thunk down each stair. Another casual smile turned the corners of his lips upward as the shouts cried out desperately in the pitch black, and he waited patiently until it stopped.
Minutes passed without a sound but he was too nervous to travel down and investigate. With his fingers, he searched the various equipment for the lighting board, and he flipped a few in a futile attempt to get some visual. A second spotlight flipped on as he triggered a switch, and once again bathed the stage in blood red. He peered out into the audience for the two but there was no sign of them, he assumed they were planning an ambush.
Laying on the floor next to him was the corpse of one of the MiBC laying in a pool of its own blood. He nudged the body over with the tip of his foot to get a look at it. The insectival face of a weathered old man stared back up, caught in the throat by one damn lucky shot. He let out a slow breath and knelled down in search of its weapon, which was a long chain with a single weighing scale at each end, both with a heavy weighted ball inside. They called it the weapon bola, and the custom scales represented the traditional affectation of Famine, the black horsemen. He picked it up and tucked it into the back of his jeans for future use. All the while a question could not be erased from his mind. Who was Famine? But he didn't have the time to figure it out, somewhere behind him he heard a sound like a pin dropping. Styler knew it was one of the horsemen, and the attacker must have noticed his own mistake because it instantly turned into an expeditious stampede, hurdling up the steps toward him like a raging bull. Styler almost panicked, but abruptly calmed himself, and turned to face the doorway. He dare not look behind him, he couldn't afford to miss a split second of the coming battle, and he knew what was there anyway. He'd backed himself into a corner from which there was only one escape: the doorway in front of him, or the window out into the crowd. Neither of which were safe to go through. For a moment he caught a flash of the face, illuminated by a single red beam from the spotlight, of the wailing banshee as it pursued him. There wasn't enough space to throw the bola here, so he lifted the barrel of his pistol high to blow the attackers face clean off, but War was quick. With a fluid swing of its fist, the gun leaped from Stylers hand and flue out the window. He could hear it clatter to the ground below. Defeated temporarily, he slowly lifted himself to his feet. All that was left was he and War, standing face to face.
“Whyyy are you doinggg thissss?” It questioned with a seething tone.
Styler stared into the hollowed eyes with the contempt of a prisoner just before his execution. The black figure pressed its long, thin katana against Stylers neck. The blades steel was cold against his skin, a surprisingly relaxing sensation due to the heat radiating off his body at the moment. He breathed in again and shut his eyes.
“Well!? Anythinggg to ssssay for yoursssself?” it was growing impatient with him.
“Yeah.”
Styler quickly snapped his knee upwards, into the groin of the figure while placing his hand on the its, and distancing himself as far as he could from the sword. The MiBC responded with a furious cry and landed on the floor with a thud. Styler leaped over his body in a single bound and tromped down the stairs, hand lingering over the guard rail for balance. Behind him, he could hear War slowly picking itself up, and his heart raced as fast as his feet. Approaching the bottom, he could see the shattered remains of the stereo and it made his body feel like it was on ice. Where was the other MiBC? It quickly occurred to him and he instantly dropped to his knees, sliding across the floor and out into the main room of the theatre as a high kick crossed over his head, whipping strands of his black hair backwards with the sudden breeze.
He hopped up and spun to face his attacker, readied for battle with the front foot perpendicular and the other slightly back horizontally. The second horseman, Pestilence, growled at him through the cover of his zombie mask. It was revolting, and looked too real not to be, with patches of raw flesh peeled back and dangling from its face and wiggling freely like gelatin, and he was ready to send it back to the hell it came from. His back foot whirled around and planted itself on Pestilences bottom jaw, caught off guard by the attack he spun like a top and sprawled out on the floor a small distance away. As Styler advanced on the prone horseman, it threw all of its body weight back onto its hands and kipped up to stand again. He send a quick, deliberate punch at his face, which the defender was ready for this time, and the blow was deflected with a wave of its arm. Pestilence made a few quick steps backward like a retreating ballet dancer, and waited, watching his movements. Styler cocked his head to the side as if to search for its angle, what was it trying to do. Then realization hit him like the winning punch in a boxing match, and he checked his flank. There was Wars screaming face, boring holes through him with those black empty eyes. His gaze shifted between attackers and he knew he could not take them both, not while one had a sword anyway. With a giant leap, he sprang atop the seats and ran across them toward the front entrance row by row. War followed suit, its thick black coat trailing behind it like a flowing gown, jumping rows at a time and catching up, sword sticking up behind its back, while Pestilence ran around the seats to bar his exit. Styler stopped abruptly as War licked at his heels, and jerked his body around into a vicious roundhouse kick into War's chest. The man toppled backward, clipping one of the backs of the seats with the side of its face, and wasn't seen again. The connection of the attack knocked Styler off balance and he too collapsed to the floor, his elbow felt like it cracked on the concrete floor. He crawled through the seats to the empty walkway, staying low in hopes to evade Pestilences eye. The darkness still shrouded most things but from underneath the seats he could see his feet tread softly and carefully examine each isle; there was no sign of War. Three more isles to go, and Styler shot himself from his cover and stood ready once more to face his opponent. Like the poltergeist it was, War drifted in behind Styler. And this was it. This is where Styler would die. Pinned between two master martial artists, one with a sword, the other with nothing but a dumb expression. He'd kill that one first.
He brought the bola from his trousers and heaved it in one lasso like toss at Pestilence, the center of the chain caught him in the throat. The heavy balls wrapped the chain like a boa around his neck, and he dropped to his knees, clutching the weapon in a desperate attempt to remove it. He whirled around, once again locked eyes with War. His mortal enemy. He was at war with War and was winning. Or maybe he was losing? He wasn't sure. Still, War would never make it out of this alive. Running forward at the banshee, he caught a glimpse in the field of his vision of the .45 gleaming like an angel of death in the red glow from the spot light. Quickly, he altered his course, but War pursued him vehemently. Slash after slash Styler dodged each with the guile of an Aikido master, each step took him further away from his weapon, but he knew that if he didn't the sword would slice him in two. He could feel its blade hunger for his flesh with each swipe that missed, snorting like a maddened dog in the air. He swallowed the gathering saliva in his mouth, every ounce of muscle and attention focused on the assailant. War thrust at his stomach, and Styler spun backward, it stepped closer with an angled slash downward, and Styler bent over a seat. A mistake he noted almost a second too late and the sword was brought down again at him. He twirled to the ground as the katana clanged against the seat, the metal to metal sound ringing in his ears, and didn't miss the opportunity. From the ground, he turned on his back and sent one heel into Wars stomach, between his rib cage. The figured released its sword and staggered backwards, gapping for breath that it couldn't gather. Styler kipped up to his feet once more, for the last time, wrenched the sword free from the theatre seat, and jabbed it straight through Wars heart. The body fell to the ground without even a sound of his death but the pool of blood told no lies. War was dead.
Styler wasted no time, and went to retrieve his pistol, then returned to the choking figure on its knees. Without a seconds hesitation he placed a bullet into the struggling figures brain, and let him slump to the floor.
Then, a silence slowly set in like the cool spring breeze. He had done it. He had won. The four horsemen lay defeated around him... but wait. He counted again. Three. There were only three. A tingle ran down his spine turning his body to ice, and he made a measured turn of his head.
On the stage, basking in the glory of the unholy red light, was Death, the final horseman, in a skeletal mask, waiting with malice intent, but still patient, for its turn to confront Styler alone. Styler leveled the .45 to greet him with a smile.
“It doesn't have to be like this,” Death warned.
“It does. Its the only way.”
He let his gun do the talking. It replied with a click that made Styler go numb. Now, he knew for absolute sure, was the moment he would die.
I watched Stylers delicious dance of death as he killed the other horsemen. I didn't know their names but i still felt a certain attatchment to the whom with me controlled the fear of a generation. I stood upon the stage facing down the barrel of Stylers beloved gun before smirking at the quiet click.
"Styler, what have you done? These men did nothing to you. Our little group have no qualm with you. But you had to make it personnal. I hereby charge you with the death of War, Famine and Pestilence. The sentence is death."
I cast aside my blach cloak and drew my sythe from behind me. I stepped from the stage and couldn't help but laugh at his look of fear.
"You brought this on yourself Styler and now you will pay the price." I charged down the aisle spinning the sythe in a vicious and unfathomably quick arc slicing everything in its path to peices with its glinting razor sharp steel edge. Styler backed away anxiously, still griping his precious .45.
"I will give you a choice you did not give my associates. Join me and become a horseman or face certain death." Styler didn't even react to my words and i continued my charge, each pace bringing the flashing steel closer. Suddenly the blade met resistance and i looked down to see the blade had sheared into his outstretched left hand, cleanly severing his little finger.
"Death comes for all things" i said simply before bringing the blade down in a crescent and opening his chest.
"Try and survive that Mr.Wayne." I turned away and left him to his fate, be it survival or death.
I have looked into the eye of the storm and stared it down. I am an adrenaline junky and i know no fear.
Styler lay on the floor as the cold kiss of death tickled his ears. His vision was shifting in and out like a bad dream; he didn't have much time left and he knew it. The cold black figure turned his back on him, and Styler just grinned menacingly. It was a mistake that it would not make again.
“You don't even realize how pretentious you sound, do you? Don't pretend that you haven't committed crimes more heinous than I ever did, Death. This is my repentance. I understand that. And you will pay yours in full.”
He ejected the clip from his .45 and punched a fresh new one in that he'd fished out of his pocket. Death made a half spin and Styler caught a glimpse of its mask, it seemed saturated with vengeance and hate in those empty skeleton eyes. But before the MiBC could complete his turn, Styler squeezed as fast as he could, five shots that rang out from the barrel of his gun. The first two blew through the figures lungs, the third punctured his liver, the next his heart, and for the final bullet Styler made his last point. It blew through the figures ear, coming clean out the other side. The whole body erupted in a mess of blood, brains, and body organs, and its lips utter its last blood curdling scream as it crumpled to the floor as a lifeless rag doll. Death does come for all things, even the men who pose as him.
As the life drained from his body onto the floor around him, his final thoughts slowly mulled through his head. Styler had brought the Apocalypse to the Four Horsemen and nothing he had ever felt was as good as it did now.
*Wait if you guys died, then what are you going to do now?*
Carlie
She turned to Alex as soon as he sat down. "Why do I seem to attract bad luck?"
"What? You don't attract bad luck," Alex put his hand on Carlie's back hoping to comfort.
"Yes, I do. This happens everywhere I go. My friends end up getting hurt, and I come out without a scratch."
"What are you talking about?"
"I wanted to leave the goths for awhile. I had a best friend die in my arms about two years ago from one huge battle. I had been trying to find a way out from the war ever since. But when I found Andy, Emily, and you I thought that I had finally left the war behind me. None of my friends would be hurt, but you see how wrong I was," She buried her head in her hands. More tears running down her face.
"I'm a disease to whoever comes near me," She couldn't stop the tears, tears that had been building up for two years had finally come to the surface.
"Carlie, look at me," Alex put a hand underneath her chin to tilt it up to his face. He wiped away her tears with his thumbs. "Okay, now listen. You are not the reasin for any of this. You're not a disease, and you don't kill anyone. The colors are messed up and deserve whatever is coming to them. But you're not the reason they attacked."
"I don't think I can do this anymore," Carlie closed her eyes and turned into Alex's waiting arms. What am I going to do?
Alex turned his head and looked out the huge window. "Okay, well while you think about that why don't we go back to the hopistal and see if Emily is any better. And we can check up on Andy."
He started to get up and when both he and Cralie were standing, he placed his arm around her shoulders and started walking toward the door. Carlie's head resting against his shoulder.
Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cake hole. -Dean, Supernatural
As she sat down across the table from Shaun, she noticed the aura of his. It seemed well in thought and he barely noticed her sit down at the table.
"What's the matter?" She asked as his face shot up in surprise at her presence.
"Thinking," He motioned to the waitress with a sigh and she bounced over.
"Black coffee for me and a-" HE pointed at maria to finish his sentance.
"Passion tea for me," Sam smiled at the girl.
"Anything else?"
"We will think about it," Maria said in place of the silent one. Shaun's eyes were glazey and his mouth seemed to barely move.
"So what's in your pants?" Maria put her elbows on the table, resting her chin on them.
"That friend of yours," HE stopped.
"What?"
"I thought he was a friend of yours," He whispered, "You haven't heard?"
"What?" THe waitress came and placed the tea cups in front of them both. This couldn't be about, about Styler.
"I wasn't supposed to tell you yet but Lombardi made me in charge of t so-"
"TEll me what friggen happened to him!" Maria's eyes were wide and Sam attempted to stop tears, she was successful.
"He-," Shaun looked down, "He was killed in battle, I'm so sorry."
Sam choked on her passion tea noticing how it always took the taste of what mood you were in, now it was bitter and had no exact flavor.
"I have to go," SAm got up wiping her mouth with the napkin. Her eyes flahing different shades of thier original color.
"DO not go to the boss on this," Shaun caught MAria's arm.
"Well then, tell him that I quit," Her air was bitten and she walked out on the stunned Shaun.
The one who smiles the most has something to hide.
..i'm lonely...message me..some how add me on your social networking site (unless you are some creepy weirdo who stalks girls for their organ harvesting company..i personally like them inside of me thankyou )
)
