Socrates the Madman - Chapter Three

Socrates sat quietly as the Devil's Express clattered down the track. Placing his ankle on his thigh, he leaned back in his seat, hands clasped behind his head. Not too far until Vegas now.

He sighed, reaching in his pocket for a cigarette. No matter how many he smoked, his voice remained largely unaffected. Technology truly had advanced.

Cracking open the suitcase on the floor beside him, he reached in and withdrew a small file, as well as a metal lighter. Lighting the cigarette, he lackadaisically pried the file open, examining a sheet of paper. 

Socrates smiled. It had become his habit to relearn the details of each subject as he tracked them down. His eyes flicked over the life story of Silverdeath. 

He read quietly to himself over the clattering din of the train. "Victor Hernandez, born April 24, 1950. Born the youngest child in a family of migrant workers. Ran away from home so as not to burden his already poverty-stricken family. Lived as a vagrant until hitchhiking his way into the outskirts of New York City." 

He faltered as he read the paragraph after that, picking up again after a moment's silence. "After the bombs dropped, received third-degree burns and radiation sickness from fallout. Selected as Mercury Model of Project Alchemy. Status: unstable. Currently an alcoholic." Socrates solemnly read the bottom of the page. "Will likely react with violence."

Stowing the file back in his suitcase, he puffed twice on his tobacco. A movement at the back of the carriage failed to startle him. "I'm quite aware of your presence at this point," he stated blankly. "So if you have come to kill me, I'm afraid that I will have to decline."

Turning his head, he gave a sidelong glance to the boy who had clambered stealthily into the carriage. "They really are desperate, aren't they? Enlisting a child. I can't wait to see their next idea."

The boy's hand rested patiently on the sword at his side. Other than that, he looked like a typical vagrant. A scowl marred his face, joined by a clean scar across his nose. He couldn't have been more than fourteen years old.

Socrates turned back and waved his hand dismissively. "So, am I to assume that the government sent you?" he said without looking back.

"Yes." The word was the boy's sole answer.

"And you're here to apprehend me."

"With as little trouble as possible, yes." A metal shing signaled the unsheathing of the boy's blade.

Socrates sighed, standing up. "I see. Tell me, boy, what is your name?"

"I am Vellon von Catorce, Knight of Rebirth."

"Hm. I'll commend you for that introduction. But I wonder," Socrates said, eyes widening as he grinned. "Did you really think that you could defeat me?"

The boy did not move. "My orders are to convince you to return to your post in the-"

"Government. The American government. Just return to my old post and work for Luke again. Dammit kid, I'm retired!" He yelled this last sentence, feeling something move in his soul, writhing and churning.

Socrates hunched over, the cigarette dropping from his open mouth. His breathing turned heavy and bestial, his fingers groped over his golden hair. "Hah...you people never change...you never, never change..."

Vellon tightened his grip on his sword, speaking raptly in an imperious tone. "Professor Quinton Socrates, I command you to return and serve-"

"Never, never, NEVER CHANGE!" Socrates screamed, his voice ringing through the train car. His face contorted with pure wrath, he lunged forward, a hidden sword springing from his sleeve. Vellon barely had time to react before he was pinned against the wall, raised half a foot off of the ground by his impaled shirt collar.

Socrates leaned in close to his defeated foe, snarling through his clenched teeth. "Understand this, you fool. No being can claim authority over me. You are beneath me," he growled, "and you, a mere human, have no power over me." 

Reaching for the sword, Socrates sliced the back of his left hand along the blade, wincing as he did so. "Witness, fool," he growled as a trickle of golden liquid ran from the wound, "The blood of a god."

Vellon opened his mouth, but no sound escaped his throat. His eyes were terrified, transfixed on the stream of ichor leaking from Socrates' hand, painting the edge of his blade golden with its terrifying alchemy.

Pleasure flashed in Socrates' eyes. "You know nothing," he taunted. "I am the herald of the next generation. A generation that shall succeed the old, that shall tear it to pieces and make it anew!"

Vellon grunted. "Sounds like my generation."

"That may be...more accurate than we'd like to admit," Socrates allowed, "But my vision is much more than petty children defying their parents. This," he pointed to the golden blood trickling down his sleeve, "is Project Alchemy. The new, golden age has arrived!" He grinned, his eyes going wide. "And it all begins with me." He rammed his head against Vellon's, knocking the would-be-capturer unconscious. The boy went limp, his jaw falling open.

Gradually, Socrates' eyes grew colder, and his rigid jaw relaxed, the rage subsiding like a low tide, rolling back out to sea, bit by bit. He looked the senseless boy over once, regret slowly pouring in. "Sorry," he lamented bluntly.

Frisking the boy's pockets on a whim, he found seventeen dollars, an ID card, and a length of rope, presumably for his own restraint. He weighed the rope in his hands, and a cruel idea sunk into the mire of his mind.

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About ten minutes later, Socrates was back inside the train car, and the Devil's Express had a new figurehead. The brilliant professor had insisted on installing Vellon to the front of the engine himself. The boy was now lashed to the devilish head of the express, his senseless form tortured by the rushing wind. But by now, he was surely wide awake. And screaming.

Socrates sighed, rubbing his eyelids wearily. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," he chided himself in disappointment. He'd lost his temper at a human, a child no less. 

It irritated him, but there was still a long way to go until perfection. Socrates looked at the cut on his hand, which was already hardening, sealed over as the gold hardened, leaving behind a simple yellow mark as proof of its existence.

Socrates gazed out the window, letting the worries of the past and future slip gently from his grasp, to be whisked away by the wind and never heard from again. Right now, all he needed to do was get to Vegas, and complete his study. That was all. He would have no part in the foolishness of mankind.

The train suddenly blew steam from its engine, slowing to a halt. The driver poked his head back into the carriage. "This's as far as I'll take you. Too much radiation close to Vegas. Sure you'll be alright, sir?"

Socrates remained nonchalant, picking up his suitcase, and walking out of the train car. "With all due respect, my good man," he said, "That's none of your concern."

Stepping down off of the hideous train, he took one last look at the Devil's Express' new mascot, who was glaring murderously down at him.

Vellon thrashed in his bindings. "You've really done it now, old man!" he roared. "When I get out of here, I swear that I'll-"

"Relax, kid," Socrates said. "You're only a child. I figure you could use some more train-ing."

The swordsman's eyes narrowed. "What-"

"But now I'd say you're back on track."

Vellon snarled. "One more."

"No need to act on such loco motives, amigo."

Vellon von Catorce, Knight of Rebirth, roared in agony as the Devil's Express pulled away, clattering off into the cold night on rickety wings of steel. 

Socrates waved, watching him go, before turning away. "And that," he said finally, "is your eternal pun-ishment."

Looking forlornly up into the night sky, he consulted the stars, sighing. "I miss Wendy. Nobody appreciates my humor anymore." Chuckling to himself, he ambled off merrily towards the city outline in the distance. "He was learning the ropes. But then he got all tied up. And he when he was met with a devilish fate, he expressed great anger." The laughter spiraled into the night sky, rippling among the stars.