Young Writers Society

Hackney
: The Boy Who couldn't Fly
July, 1718 – Off the western shore of Florida
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Hackney stood there dumfounded, staring deeply into the eyes of the boy. He had not expected the lad to be in his cabin at this hour and assumed that the lad had thought the same thing. Although in a state of both shock and frustration, he retained his cool composure.
“What’s your real name, Lad?” The boy shook, but Hackney smiled, taking it as a compliment. Hackney wasn’t known for his intimidating appearance, that being attributed to Thatch. Ever since the Jolly Roger had broken from Blackbeard’s fleet, Hackney heard a rumour that the madman blockaded Charles Towne. Hackney wanted no part in that, which is why he decided to sail west towards the Gulf.
For a time, he considered taking Old Flint up on his offer to sail to Madagascar, but he decided to strike out on his own.
“I’ve already told you, Captain,” the boy said, “It’s Pan.”
“Liar!” yelled the captain, throwing a knife into his desk before briskly approaching the lad. Hackney towered over him, his furnished red coat resembling dark blood. He did not wear his hat, with its conspicuous ostrich-feathered plume and pompous nature.
He collected himself, kneeling on one leg putting a hand the boy’s shoulder. “I ask you again,” he whispered, “what is your name, Boy?”
“I don’t got one,” he replied, “It’s just ‘Pan’.”
Hackney backhanded the lad, blood spilling down his cheek. As soon as this happened, the shutters flew open, causing Pan to shiver, his tattered, green outfit not able to keep him warm.
The boy placed his own hand over his check, trying to hold back the pain. He reached for the goblet of water on Hackney’s desk and splashed it on his face. James didn’t bother to intervene. He didn’t face the boy, instead looking out the window, gazing over the sea, hands clenched arrogantly behind his back. “Who sent you?”
“I was sent by nobody. I just joined up!“
Hackney turned his head. “Save it!” he brusquely said, raising a hand and walking towards the boy again. “If you were a simply cabin boy, as you claim to be, there’d be no reason to enter my chambers and look through my letters.”
“What if I was just curious?”
The two of them just stared at each other for a good minute. There was extreme tension; it seemed as if, in the bitter stare, that the minds of both Pan and Hackney were at war. “I ask you once again, Boy, what is your real name?” There was no answer. He wrapped his hands around Pan’s neck, constricting ever so subtly. “You do realize that I could kill you with ease, right here and right now?” he threatened bitterly. “All it will take is one little snap…nothing more than a slight pop.” He could sense the fear in the boy’s eyes, letting go once it reached its pinnacle. “But I am not unkind.”
The boy gasped for breath as he dropped to his knees. “Peter, Sir...Peter Barrie.”
Hackney smiled. “ That is all I wanted to hear. It wasn’t too hard?” There was no response. “The question now is, why are you here?”
Peter remained silent, but Hackney, being an impatient man, cocked his flintlock, pointing it at Peter, who clenched the gold locket that he wore around his neck in his hands. For a moment, Hackney stopped before walking over, raising the boy’s chin, and yanking it out of his hands. When he opened it, he saw a beautiful young girl of fifteen or so, initials reading W.D. “You’re from Jamaica, aren’t you, Boy?”
Peter sighed and calmly asked, “How did you know.”
Hackney grinned, licking his cracked lips as he did so. “This is a portrait of Wendy Darling…the Colonel’s daughter.”
“I-“
Hackney put up his hand as to cut the boy off. “You care for her?” Pan nodded. “It seems that there is more to you than meets the eye.
“You might as well tell me what you were doing in my room, Master Barrie,” Hackney said with a sigh of boredom. “Or, I could shoot you.”
“I’m in service of the governor. I won’t go into detail, but I will say that I ran into trouble with the guards after I was caught stealing bread to feed my little sister, Belle.” Hackney listened, sensing that the boy was telling the truth. “After being thrown into a cell, I was approached by a representative of the governor. I went before him and he promised me my freedom if I…” He stopped.
“If you what?”
Peter sighed. “The governor believes that you’re in correspondence with Blackbeard.” Hackney knew just what the boy was talking about. Ever since his departure from the fleet, Hackney had been exchanging letters, mostly regarding Blackbeard’s moving up the coast. “I was to pose as a member of your crew and retrieve the letters.”
“And to think, I trusted you.” Hackney felt betrayed. He had taken a liking to the boy and thought him trustworthy. Clearly he had been wrong. “Tis’ truly a shame that I have to kill you.” The boy froze before Hackney yelled, “Smee!” Within seconds, the portly boatswain arrived.
“At your service, Captain.” The Irishman said earnestly.
“Prepare a longboat. We’re going ashore.”
“Ashore, Sir? But the crocodiles!”
“You’ll go topside, prepare a longboat, and return when you’re finished. UNDERSTAND?!”
“Aye, aye, Sir.” He left the room.
Hackney turned back to Peter and giving a wicked smile. “Crocodiles are known for…chewing their prey slowly. I myself, have never much cared for them, but I see that you’ll be thoroughly introduced to one in due time.” He looked at his clocklike stopwatch; the one given to him by his father. “Tis’ nearly five AM. We best get going. Try and fly out of this one, Pan.”

Tangling his fingers in her hair, he dipped her low before leaning in to kiss her on the lips. He pulled back after a moment. She stared at him with question in her eyes as he released her and put a feet distance between them.
‘You don’t excite me,’ he said. When he moved to walk away from her stunned face, he caught a blonde staring at him from a corner. He smirked in her direction. You don’t excite me either. In fact, this bar doesn’t excite me. No tips for anyone here, today.

Walking toward his car, he could see the scrawny outline of the kid inside the vehicle. The boy was leaning against the window, the face turned away. On the click of the car door being opened the boy woke up from his nap, blinking at him as he got into the driver’s seat.

‘Are we going home now?’ the boy asked.

‘Shut up,’ he said curtly. The boy pulled his legs closer to his chin curling up in his seat.

The car speed down the road, the driver honking unnecessarily at the vehicles before him. He was disappointed for he would be taking no woman home tonight. Disappointment brought on anger and anger made him want to hit somebody. He could hit the boy but that would leave marks. The vermin of his teacher would discover the bruise on him and go right away to the authorities. He couldn’t have that. He needed the money the court was giving him to take care of the boy. Maybe he could beat up the teacher. She deserved it.

‘Can I have ice cream, daddy?’ the boy asked timidly. He laughed at the fear he could hear in his request.

‘Go f*** yourself,’ he told the kid.

When they reached home the boy hurried inside the door followed by his dad.
‘Go get your sister and tell her to put out dinner,’ he ordered. The boy ran out of the hall.
At the dinner table, looking at the plate in front of him he squeezed his eyes shut.
‘I. Warned. You. The. Next. Time. You. Charred. The. Meat -,’ he stopped, looking across the table at the ten year old in a dirty frock. She paled and stammered, ‘I..I’m sorry.’
‘OUT!’ he yelled, ‘both of you to bed. No food for you tonight.’ The children scurried out as he flung the plate across the room. Swearing under his breath, he filled himself a glass of whiskey and made his way to his bedroom. He popped his usual sleeping pill and flung himself on the bed. The mattress immediately took his form.

What was different this night from the other nights was that a ten year old crept into his room after he had fallen asleep and pulled the trigger- just like how she had seen her father threatening to do- of the revolver she had found in his room.
Maybe this isn’t the story of the dead man but the start or end of the story of the ten year old.

Most people hate me. I can tell from the way pedestrians look at me when I walk down the street. Disdain is a hard look to mistake. I don’t know whether it’s because of my long, long fangs that drag to the bottom of my chin or the fact that they tend to be stained with human blood.
I tried to fit in once. I retracted my fangs, drank animal blood, and acted the way fictional vampires behave. I even went as far to glue glitter on my skin. Apparently, that’s still not enough, because she stabbed me with a steak knife when I told her I was an actual vampire, and my appearance wasn’t a year-round Halloween costume. The most hurtful part though was that she called me a monster after she stabbed me.
Today is Mother ’s Day. I arrive at 631 Cherry Lane in front of her yellow house with the stupid red tiles on top of them. Her cat is outside with her little boy. I retract my teeth as I step out of my car. It's payback day.
“Come here, little boy,” I say, “I’ve got candy in my car. Don’t you want some nice, sweet candy?”
“Momma says I shouldn’t talk to strangers,” the brat says.
“Even if they happen to be… your father?” I ask.
His eyes light up at the word “father.” Yes, I smile. Humans are so gullible.
The twerp surprises me though. “My father’s dead,” he says.
Phase 1 of my plan was taking longer than anticipated. I walk up to the boy, kneel down and say, “I am dead,” before extending my teeth. He lets out a high-pitched shrill upon realization of what I am. I grab his squirming body and sink my fangs into his scrawny little neck. I can hear the sound of feet pounding against the wooden floor inside the house. “Tommy?” she calls.
“Tommy, this better not be another joke. Remember what I said about the boy who called wolf?” Shoes hit the floor.
I pull my fangs out, blood trickling from the two puncture wounds on his neck. I take these ten seconds before she opens the door to retrieve the coffin from the back of my truck, throw the stupid little boy in it and move the wooden thing in front of her door.
Her pupils shrink at the sight of me. “You,” she says.
“Yeah, I’m the guy who you stabbed with a steak knife.”
“You killed animals!”
“Oh, honey, that was years ago. I’m above animals now, plus you humans do the same thing. Your little stabbing made me remember what we’re really supposed to eat. Cruel creatures like this little boy.” I open the coffin box.
She brings her hands to her face, muffling her gasps. “That’s… my son. How could you?” Tears gather in her eyes, and I almost feel bad. Instead, I feel a bit mad because her reaction was making me feel a bit monstrous and it was ruining my vengeance.
“Don’t worry. He’s not dead,” I say, “He just might wake up with a sudden urge to bite. Happy Mother’s Day. And, here’s your steak knife, in case you feel the urge to stab him also.”
I watch her, hands gripped around the knife. Her body stiffens and the tears stop. For a second, I think she’s about to stab me again with the steak knife, but she stares at her mutating son and thrusts the steak knife into his throat.
The smile on my face vanishes. Anger lines my face seeing a mother murder her own son. “You know, I was going to let you live, but I think you might be the real monster.” My fangs plunge into her neck, and I suck every bit of her cold blood dry.

Friday,
13/07/1805

Oh, Diary! It feels like I have no one but you to call a friend. Mirror has told me what I've awaited and feared most all these years. That Snow, in all her pride and vanity, has succeeded me in what my ancestors have been known for. My forefathers would have been proud, and so am I. However, the girl hasn't learnt what true beauty is defined to be. I feel quite upset that she's attained her grown feminine beauty before she learnt of the jewels beneath the coal. Oh, what good I would have done to the child if I were her own mother!

Oh, Richard, if only he were here to see her state now! Did he have to leave our side so suddenly? And in the shock and horror of it all, I'm afraid I've contributed quite a lot to Snow's self-obsession, for I'd locked her up in a tower, where she'd meet and converse with no one but herself.

After I'd received this upsetting yet delightful news, I'd sent my guards to immediately check on the dame, not a girl any more. Why, amongst all this chaos, the girl had escaped! The disgrace and horror of such consecutive events has contributed much to my severe medical conditions. The doctor has advised me not to take stress, but in such circumstances, what must the responsible do?

The latest news confirms of Snow's safety, but I'm afraid I won't be satisfied enough if I don't check on her myself. What was intended to be a moment of happiness and excitement, has turned out to be a hurricane of worry. I'm absolutely positive that I will be writing more often than usual.

By The Queen Herself,
Queen Grimhilde.


Monday,
16/07/1805

One of my guards has received truly saddening information. Oh heavens! No expression or emotion can convey my plight enough for you to fathom. The depression is truly endless. I've spent hours crying in this confined chamber of mine. The doctor says my health is getting worse, but it doesn't matter! Snow is dead! Oh, and too soon to ever be called mine.

Now I will never have the honor of crowning a daughter, giving her the joy and cheer I experienced when I inherited my mother's throne. I will never be given the congratulations and well-wishes of my relatives for the success of raising a queen. She might have been selfish and proud, she might have been stubborn and spoilt, but she was my responsibility.

Richard had left her with me, me with her. And I am a hundred percent positive of the fact that, when Snow meets her father, he will not be proud of me. He will not be happy. I will have disappointed him. I will have completely embarrassed him by showing him how ignorant a mother I've been.

All I have remaining of Snow are her organs that the guards have found, as proof of her death. I am organizing a mourning ceremony for Snow, for that is the pomp and show she would have preferred, especially after dying such a painful death. Her organs shall be buried in clean soil, and there is complete riddance of any earthworms or pests that would disturb her sleep, for that is the sanitation and purity she would have preferred, especially after dying such a painful death. There will be speeches, not too long, for that is the length she would have preferred, especially after dying such a long, helpless death.

I'm afraid I must leave diary, for the guards have another piece of news for me. Oh pray it shan't be as gory as this, for I can't imagine such a situation.

By The Queen Herself,
Queen Grimhilde.

( Historians were only able to retrieve the previously featured pieces of information.With extensive study and the expertise of experienced officials, re-examined data and previously unexplainable theories are now pointing fingers at Snow White, the long imagined 'perfect' princess. It so happens that her life wasn't just melodious songs and tweeting birds. The details mentioned seem quite realistic, and therefore, turns out the loved fable of all time has more of a story behind it. We've tried contacting the Head Manager of Historic Texts, but he wasn't available for comment. All progress shall be informed of. )

"Oh for hell's sake!" I scream in frustration, choking on my breakfast. “Why must every morning meal be ruined by that loathsome girl’s face on the front page?

Day after day, headline after headline, I have to read her sickening, heroic achievements such as;



“Gah! She makes Spiderman look like a deflated jellyfish!”

That second one really did hurt, though. It took me three years of burnt fingers and singed hair to build that laser. Interfering bat!

I shove my Scorpion Flakes away from me and storm to my room to get dressed.

“Why can’t my face be plastered all over the daily news for once?” I say looking into the mirror. I immediately see someone who resembles the love child of Ursula the sea witch and some otherworldly creature she must have lured in a seedy bar one night. Great.

I sigh, place a clawed finger on my scaled face and inspect my blood red, forked tongue. “No one said it was glamorous being a super villain.”

I had invented some of the most complicated, awe inspiring machines in the world! I had come up with some of the most intricate, double crossing plans ever created! Yet, I don’t see anyone waiting outside my front door to take my picture and hang on to my every word. No headline reading;



“All Silverblade does is poke her nose in my business! I made her what she is!”

Ping! A malicious plan immediately comes to mind. What if SilverBlade really didn’t have me anymore?

“Mwahahah-” I attempt my best evil laugh but I only cough up the previously lodged Scorpion Flake. Brushing that failure aside, I leap to action!

I jump into my favourite purple leotard, even though the material snaps smartly at my skin as I heave it on. Pulling on my trusty spurred boots, I head out the front door.

“I will scupper her plans, if it’s the last thing I do!” I wince at my own cliche.



“Oh do stop whining,” I roll my eyes at the elderly man I’ve kidnapped in a bid to hurry along my plans. I’ve tied him up, gagged him and drawn over his lenses with black marker pen. “Think of it as a day out!”

I tap my spurred boots on the leafy undergrowth, waiting as patiently as I can for SilverBlade to come to the rescue.

“ViperFlash,” a voice like stupid, liquid gold says from behind me. “What do you think you’re doing?”

I whip round and see Silverblade zooming through the dense tree line, her silver cape whipping magnificently in the wind. She’s wearing her trademark black, skin tight jumpsuit with a white, dagger motif on her chest. Showing off all of her perfect, womanly curves. Her silver wavy hair, bounces down her back, shining in the sunlight.

Her effortless beauty makes me want to heave.

“SilverBlade,” I nod my head at her and paste the most convincing smile I can muster. I’m sure it looks like I have terrible toothache, but you can’t have it all!

I almost falter when I see that bumbling sidekick of hers appear at her side, RedBeak. He’s wearing the most ridiculous tights ensemble anyone is ever likely to witness.

I mean, what is he even doing here? What use has a sidekick been to anyone, like ever? They just get in the way and become another person for the superhero to rescue.

“Release that man, at once!” SilverBlade booms, crouching down, readying herself to strike. I widen my eyes in innocence and then do a double take on the elderly victim at my feet.

“Oh! You mean this man? Of course! I got him for you, as a parting gift. Look,” I say, spinning the man around to reveal a large, red bow stuck to his back. “All for you.”

Silverblade frowns.

“Don’t listen to her, SilverBlade! She’s tricking you!” pipes up RedBeak. Has he nothing interesting to say?

“No, no,” I assure. “You have me mistaken. This is my way of saying goodbye, SilverBlade. I’m leaving, never to return.”

“What do you mean?” she says, panic already creeping into her eyes. Oh, yes. I have her exactly where I want her, and I haven’t even had to use my electrocution pincers yet.

“I’m moving! Inter galactic, actually! May spend a few years on Saturn. Who knows? It’s time for me to find some other species to destroy. You’ve become far to talented at thwarting my villainous plans. Farewell!”

I turn to disappear into the emerald maze.

“Wait!” SilverBlade calls. “Surely we could come to some kind of agreement here?” I rub my hands together in glee!

“SilverBlade! What are you doing? You can’t seriously be thinking about working with that?” RedBeak gabbles in the background.

‘That’? How rude. I’ll show him.

“Go home, RedBeak. This has nothing to do with you,” says SilverBlade. He scowls and I wave cheerfully as he walks away.

“Isn’t there someway I could do to get you to stay, ViperFlash?” SilverBlade pleads. I can almost see her watching her lifesaving career fly out of the window.

“Well,” I say, nonchalantly. “It would have to be a written agreement, which I happen to have right here.”

“And your terms are?” She asks.

“Number one; You will let me win a fight at least once a season. Preferably ones at sea as I feel they have the most visual impact for my machines.

“Number two; You will mention me in all press interviews and occasionally pose for photos with me.

“Number three; You will give me the name of your costume designer.


 “Finally, number four; You get rid of the sidekick. Non-negotiable.”

“Whatever. I’ll sign.” She says hurriedly.

We had both quite forgotten about the elderly man who had now toppled over, face first into the mud.

They had taken my victory from me. They made me live I wanted to be dead, I wanted to hold this victory over him. This hero - the Oncoming Storm - was broken, certain now that he was the very last of our kind. Because I refused his demand. I didn't regenerate. I had died. He was guilty. I knew it. If I were to stay alive, then he would've believed the blood of Gallifrey was slightly less, that his mass genocide was not as bad as it first seemed. Fool. We were friends once, but the Untempered Schism ruined it. The drumming, the endless drumming. Why, why won't it stop? He chose the name, "Doctor", and I chose the name "Master". Whatever I did, he'd stop me, believing he was better - a hero. He's no hero. He's a murderer! Why does he think he has the right to stop my plans, when there was no-one to stop him on that day, that fateful day? But finally I had won. I remember him begging, as I died in his arms from a bullet:
"But you've got to! Come on. It can't end like this. You and me, all the things we've done? Axons! Remember the Axons? And the Daleks? We're the only two left. There's no one else.... REGENERATE!"
And I had denied him. I had let myself die. I had won. Then they brought me back. A monster with no true physical form. And Gallifrey had returned. The Doctor - trying to be a hero, trying to finish them before his incarnation died - was about to shoot me. He shot the machine instead. He was about to send them back. Back to the Time War. Back to Hell. They made my life unbearable. They caused the drumming, that endless drumming. So, I'll join them. I'll go with them. I shoot my bolts of agonising energy as I join them. As I join them in Hell.

The culmination of years of surgeries had resulted in revenge.

Sam raised her transparent bionic arms above her head, clenching fists together to deliver a blow to Conrad's stomach that would knock the life out of him. Her legs, created from the same blue material, stood firm, waiting... for the young man to– Her hesitation surprised her.

Conrad whimpered and looked up at her. His face was a swollen mess. His mother wouldn't recognize him if she saw him. A ginger mohawk, once standing proudly atop his head, was matted to his head with blood; Sam had held nothing back from her assault.

“Sam,” he whispered, flecks of blood spraying from his mouth, “I'm sorry– Please don't–“

The girl reached down and grabbed his swollen ear, pulling him into a sitting position. “Fuck you,” she said calmly. “You destroyed my life.” She let go of his ear, and he fell to the ground, too tired to stop his head from cracking down on the parking lot. His eyes rolled back in his head for a moment. Sam's breath caught in her lungs, but a moment later, he came to, and spoke.

“Sam, I did the right thing. I– I know how powerful the scientists made you when they gave you those arms and legs. You can't just kill everyone that you wa–“

His speech was interrupted by a sharp pain in his jaw– Conrad hadn't seen it, but he knew Sam had hit him again.

“You haven't been through what I have, you dick,” Sam hissed. “Were you tortured as a child? The correct answer is NO, YOU FUCKING WEREN'T. My parents died for this country, and I lost my limbs. So fucking what if those people were acting on orders? So fucking what. They weren't even getting the death penalty for what they did. THEY JUST APOLOGIZED and got to LIVE. You can't take away something like that and just apologize. So I sent them to hell. But eternal damnation isn't enough for what they gave my family and I.

“And you know what? Fuck you, too. Turn me in? They had me in solitary confinement for weeks. I had to figure out how to make these stronger to get out. They called me the Hulk. Fucking douchebags.” Sam clenched an artificial fist. “Damn you.”

Conrad tried to shift, but his body would not cooperate. “Sam, you had to be stopped,” he said as tears carved tracks through the mud and blood caked onto his face.

“I thought you were my friend.”

“Friends do what is best for each other. I am your friend. Please, Sam.”

“What are you saying please for?”

“I– please understand, Sam. I love you.”

“That's a load of bullshit.” Conrad barely felt his ankle break as Sam stomped on it.
“Sam! What the fuck?”

“If you're not going to– no. You know too much. You know everything about me. Where I came from, where I like to sit. I shouldn't have let you tag along all the time. I knew it would backfire. Well, at least I'm not the one getting the short end of the stick for once.”

“I'm sorry, Sam.”

“No, Conrad. Sorry won't get you anywhere.”

The crack of bone echoed off the back of the liquor store, bounced off the parking lot, and was lost in the night.

Only silence remained.

A lone man leaned against the cold stone wall. He looked like a normal guy, dressed casually, as if he was out taking a walk. The gloomy atmosphere of the alley concealed many things in its dark corners. It concealed more than just his face, though. It concealed who he really was…

Most people would have called Erok a villain, save for possible his mother and she just refused to see it. After a lifetime of evil deeds and befriending all the wrong people, he could safely say he didn’t have many friend either. He liked to blame it on his cologne, but the truth was that he was just not an amiable fellow. In fact, he was decidedly opposite.

He bore a title that some criminals were envious of, and others perhaps ashamed. He was called a career criminal, which meant he did everything. And yes, everything meant murder as well.

Young kids asked him a common question. Those criminals who hadn’t been weathered by time or hardship. Everything was a game to them. It was the thrill of adventure. Nothing more. So naturally, they would want to know what it was like to rob someone of life. Erok’s answer was the same to each of them.

Go find out yourself! Only you can know what it feels like to pull the trigger on someone. Everyone’s reaction is different. Each one of us feels something different in that short period before we commit the crime. That short thrill and the twinge of guilt afterwards. Only you can find out what it feels like.

Erok knew that most of them would cower back to their homes, afraid of committing the ultimate crime. That feeling was for the young and unseasoned criminals. There was no place for fear inside his heart. It was clouded over by other emotions. Hate and envy were only two of them.


The two emotions went together quite well. He envied their happiness and their ease of life. They got that life, while he had to live down in the muck, sneered at by all respectable.

And so he hated them. Erok hated to be looked down at like something that had been left in the ditch. He was a stray, looking for a home. A nobody, left to rot on the streets. That feeling drove him to hate all those who lived better than he did. He deserved more than what he had!

So when he pulled the trigger on one of them, he didn’t feel regret. Instead, he felt pity. Because for once in their snobbish life, he was above them. He held their fate in the palm in his hand. He decided what happened. It was his decision if they lived or died.

Most of the time, they died.

And why shouldn’t they? Why shouldn’t he end their miserably stuck-up lives? Then they wouldn’t be able to wave him off as a nobody. For once, he was a key factor in their life.

He sighed and walked down the dark alley, hiding behind the darkness and the shelter of his sweater. The only downside of being someone like himself was that he was always alone. Always.

Of course, there were the times that he had brief contact with people, but only in passing. The only ones he had real conversations with were his victims. And those were brief and very one-sided, with the victim doing most of the taking, or rather pleading. He hated whiners almost as much as he hated the stuck-up people. Very rarely did he get a fighter.

The alley ended abruptly, butting into a through street, bearing people from all walks of life. Young children scampered past, playing hide and seek and tag. Men and women walked briskly past, with serious eyes and expressions. Each one of them carrying something, whether it be a briefcase or a loaf of bread. They were on business.

He walked confidently out into the street, paying no mind to anyone. No one recognized him or became alarmed. Why should they? To them, he was just a man in jeans and hoodie. None of them noticed the shoulder holster concealed behind the sweater or the pistol in his belt. The scars covering his arms and shoulders from his many fights were also concealed. Only the deep scars on his hands were visible, and he held them close to keep them from the public gaze.

He walked over to a booth on the side of the street where a woman was selling fresh pastries. No one noticed him slip a mask over his face and pull a gun, gesturing at her money box while he did so. The only one who heard his whisper of warning was the woman it was directed to.

“You move a muscle or scream a warning of any kind, I will shoot you.” He whispered grimly, his eyes showing the same hardness his mouth voiced. “Don’t tempt me.”

She handed him the wad of cash without question and he continued down the street. He glanced back at the woman once or twice to remind her that he was still there, and that he still remembered his threat. He was one hundred feet from her, and there were throngs of people in-between them. Many people would have started raising a cry, but she knew better.

Maybe it was the coldness in his eyes she had seen. The lack of warmth. The lack of love. Whatever it was, she was smart enough to keep quiet. Good thing for her, too.
Because he hated to keep strings untied, and loud victims were always annoying to have around. It was just one more kill, anyway. If she shouted out, or if she went to the cops afterward, he would know where to go.

His words were not something to double cross. If he said he would kill her if she squealed on him, he was going to follow through. Part of him itched towards the pistol, eager for another victim. But another part held back, one that he didn’t see as often,. It told him to give her a chance. That he didn’t have to kill everyone he met.

A battle went on in his head ever more difficult than a physical battle involving one of his victims. The life or death of someone counted on its outcome.

“Why?” She asked, blood was dripping from her button of a nose.

I grinned and leaned into the cold cement wall. Why? I hadn't thought why, just how. But no matter, I'd have time for that, now that I had her. Now that she was mine. Heddy is mine.

She was still staring at me, waiting.

“Why?” I repeated, running my fingers along the crack in the cement.

“Is it because I have bigger boobs?!” She asked sarcastically, I really dislike sarcasm. But that was a thought. I stopped playing with the wall, and looked at her. They weren't that big. Hers were definitely not bigger than mine.

I glared at her, “Your boobs are definitely not bigger than mine.”

Her goldy – brown eyes got wide in frustration, “That's not my point!”

“Well, what ever your point is... It's not too clear.” I began to slowly walk towards her. She didn't look down, or to the side, but kept her eyes locked on mine.

“My point is, Cade,” she began, “you've no reason to kidnap me – or what ever you're doing – and I'm pretty sure you don't even know why you brought me here!”

“No.” I shook my head and sat on the table (yes, that's right, there's a table... it's comfy too) just in front of her, “Why wouldn't I take you here?!” I gestured to the room around us, “It's beautiful!”

And it really was– minus the cement walls. The carpet was a gorgeous sea – blue with a twirly, gold design running throughout. It felt good on the toes, kind of like a massage when you walked on it. There were dimmed lights that looked like golden tulips, on every wall. A breezy, pink, set of drapes covered the window. And of course there was the cream coloured sofa, dragon – footed coffee table, the chairs and this rather Out – of – place dinning room table, which I was currently sitting on. I'm just not sure I remember the purpose of it, though it's pretty enough, carved and all that jazz.

“What are you going to do with me?” Heddy asked.

I nodded vigorously and cleared my throat, “I was going to have you play table tennis with me... and Clue– I love Clue, truly.”

She blinked.

“Couldn't you have said please?! Or simply asked in the first place?!!”

What was this? More sarcasm? I shook my head. “I'm trying to lose the 'lovely English girl' stereotype... this time.”

Heddy groaned, “So, what? Being the bad guy gets lonely?”

Maybe, probably. Yes...

“I think so.”

She smiled weakly, there were bags under her eyes and her pale complexion seemed to melt off her face... I think it was sweat... The blood from her nose was now running over her lips, too. She used a sleeved arm to wipe her mouth, but it mostly smeared it. She frowned at the blood on her sweater.

“Cade...” She began, “you know I can't stay here, you know he'll come... and it will be embarrassing for the both of us.”

I smiled, “You really think he'll come?”

Heddy raised an eyebrow, “Most likely.”

I felt a flutter in my chest and suppressed the urge to jump up and down. It would have been awkward anyway, trying to hop whilst sitting on a table.

Now, just how long was he going to take? An hour? A day? Surely he wouldn't keep us waiting that long. He wouldn't let Heddy slowly bleed to death from her nose?! Surely he wouldn't, no, he couldn't. He wouldn't let me die of boredom... After all, it's his job to save people.

Just then, there was a WHOOSH! I spun around to see him, sitting in the fireplace covered in soot. He coughed and rubbed his eyes.

“Oh man, I got the right house– Finally!!!” He pulled himself out of the fireplace, and brushed himself off. He surveyed the room, and then marched over to the table, his navy – blue cape following at his heels. “Well ladies... Where's the kidnapper?” He asked, glancing around. He never remembers me, why doesn't he ever remember me?

Heddy just stared at him, and gave a hopeless smile. Not hopeless like she was in love with him, just like she had doubts she'd make it out of there alive.

I cleared my throat, “Um, that's me.”

“Hmm?” He turned to me.

“I'm the kidnapper.” I said feeling my cheeks go beet red.

His eyes got wide, and he slowly inched towards Heddy, “I don't think this is going to work.” He half whispered half mumbled to her.

“Why?!” She asked, annoyed.

“She's a lady, I can't hit ladies.”

“Yeah, but she's trying to hold me hostage– and look what she's done to my face!”
Personally, I thought that that was an improvement.

“Can't, sorry.” He said.

“Jordan,” Said Heddy, “You know you can still physically hit a girl... it's just frowned upon.”

Jordan shook his head, “Not in my case.”

Heddy looked at him, concerned, “You literally can not hit a girl? What, is that like... your weakness?!”

Jordan nodded, “Yup.”

...Needless to say, I was never lonely again.

Yavhan leaned over the balony, survaying the training grounds spread out before him. A sneer grew on his face. How he detested these Montralian humans. Each clan was so wrapped up in their own pride and arrogence, so struck with their own superiourity, they were blinded to the stupidity of their own squabbling. Yhavhan tired of the daily effort to keep them working together and not killing each other. It was no easy task; each clan had to be brought into and kept under his leadership through no small amount of bribery, promises of riches and glory, threats, and violence. But they would serve their purpose. Soon he would take his hodge-podge, disgruntled, restless army of warlike humans and use their wasteful energies to accomplish a real purpose.
"Time to cajole the masses again?" a dry voice asked behind him. Yavhan didn't turn. He knew who it was. Only one human spoke in such a tone of familiarity to him, and if Yavhan turned, he would have to mask the deepening sneer. There was another source of annoyance he had to put up with. How long had he worked under this 'Regent' Claybort? Playing the part of a helpful elvin ally? How long had he ever-so-carefully manipulated the events of Claybort's rise to power, encouraging him to build up 'his' army, molding the quiet kingdom of Kalamand to become his war machine? At least fifteen years. Fifteen years of hard, careful work, only for it to come crashing down at the appearance of some insignificant boy. It was Claybort's fault that the boy had unwittingly destroyed Claybort's reign and Yavhan's plans, for if Claybort hadn't hunted the boy like a single-minded hound dog, the boy would never have amounted to anything.
By choice, Yavhan would have left Claybort to die when the man came crawling to him, gravely injured. Served him right for being such an idiot. Fifteen years was insignificant to an elf, but it had been so mind-numblingly tedious, only to be sabatoged by a blundering blockhead. But Claybort had his uses, especially when it came to creating fear and indecision, and disposing of difficult beings quietly and mysteriously. A skill Yavhan needed for his new, heavier-handed army-raising tactic.
"Yes," he answered finally. "Time to stroke their insufferably over-bloated egos once again." Pitching his voice to carry over the training grounds below, he called, "You work and train like children walking in their sleep. Need I remind you of what prize lies before us?" A few individual voices yelled out unintelligibly as the men stopped their work and training to listen. "Need I remind you of the elvin lands once more? Remind you of the glory that shall be yours to claim as the first human race to take the elvin lands? How the known world will resound with the sound of your name once you become the first to defeat the elves in their own homeland? Can you imagine how your neighbors will tremble in fear of your great feats?" This earned him an excited cheer. "Need I remind you of what awaits you once the elves are defeated? Of the riches of silver and jewels? Of the mountains running with streams of gold? Of the fine handwork of the elvin, possessed no where else in the known world?" Now the roar was deafening. Yavhan had spent many hours pumping their imaginations and feeding their desires with the visage of the things they lusted for that it took only a few reminders to excite their blood once more. "But do you think the elves will surrender their beloved homelands and wealth so easily? Do you think they'll just walk away?" He had them now; he could feel it. The men roared their disagreements, brandising weapons at invisible enemies. "Do you think they will not fight to the last elf, to the last arrow and the last sword, for every square inch of elvin territory? You prepare like you don't believe this. Perhaps the elves will be too much for you after all. Perhaps I should find myself a new army." In response the men shouted their abuse in a solid plane of roiling sound. Yavhan let them yell themselves hoarse for a few minutes before raising a hand for quiet and finishing, "Then prove to me your worthiness to take the elvin lands!" He turned his back on the masses, knowing they would return to their work and their practice with renewed fervor. They were so predictable.
"You took notice of the leaders who showed less than enthusiasim?" Yavhan asked Claybort quietly.
The former knight raised an eyebrow at him and snorted derisively. "Of course. This isn't my first circus."
"Your first successful one, I'd say," Yavhan replied cooly. "Take care of them tonight. We wouldn't want any cold feet."
"Of course. Though with this gold fever I doubt we'll have need for many more 'disappearances' until we march for the elvin lands." With a nod of his head, he left to go about his work. Yavhan smiled, though it would not be a pleasant smile to anyone else. Soon, they would march on his homeland.
How foolish of these humans to think he would let them pillage the elvin lands. How incredibly thick-skulled were they, to think that a bunch of divisive, clannish humans could possibly triumph over the unified might of the elvin. But they would serve their purpose. With his help, they would penetrate deeper into the elvin lands than any previous force. They would put the elves to desperate defense. Then, once his kinsmen were grief-striken and lost after the death of their comrades and their 'wise' old leader, he would rally his people, forge their grief into indignation to wrest them from their peaceful, secluded lives. He would teach these self-righteous humans to bow before the might and superiority of the elves.

Excuse me for being a bit of a self promoter, but I feel that I fit this term in more than one way, the most obvious being; literally. I mean, come on, anytime you’re wearing black and red spandex, you’re bound to turn a few heads. Unfortunately, my toned butt was the only thing my Mr. J. ever looked at. Something that had taken me a long time to realize.

Actually, it was ‘Red’ who finally explained it to me, friend to friend, and she’s the best one I have.

To be honest, though, I was a little more than surprised when she didn’t just slap me in the face and walk away after I had gone crawling back to ‘Puddin.’ I smile. He always hated that name.

She’s a better person than I ever was. I would have just left her out on the streets if she had done the same to me.

But, in any case, I know she is going to be proud of me when I tell her what I was up to tonight.

‘You should have loved me more, Mistah Jay.’

He smiles. Ahh, but I make to many jokes. He’s always smiling.

My middle finger tickles the trigger. Usually I don’t use it, but under the circumstances, I felt it was appropriate. The handgun leaps to live and his body jerks as the blood spurts on the table and the papers, and runs down his arm.

Once, I had wished for their embrace. I would go as far as saying I coveted it, in fact.

Now, I’m glad that I finally was able to repay him some of the ‘kindness’ that he’s shown me. And boy am I happy it’s over.

And now that it is over, perhaps it’s time I got a different outfit. Actually, I’m starting to rethink my whole life. Maybe that Bat guy isn’t so bad?