Light on the Horizon

Michael Rook never played well with others. Growing up, every adult he had the misfortune of crossing uttered the same words to his parents. The same disparaging gossip which would act as a self-fulfilling prophet well into his adulthood. Truthfully, they were not incorrect. He did not work well with others, he only worked well with his own kind. Kindred spirits who hoped his hopes and dreamt his dreams, those who society wrote off or worse. Imprisoned, medicated, forgotten or destroyed. Either way, he and his close group of friends did not play well with others, much to the benefit of the rest of spoiled humanity.

“How much longer must we wait for him?” Lillian Reynolds asked, withholding the whine from her tone but not the irritation from her emerald stare. Michael knew better than to look in her direction, her eyes having lured plenty of unsuspecting fools into her unbreakable clutches.

The Flamme Fatale. A murderess who donned the mantle from her Mother before her. Her ability to hypnotize and control bordered on the superhuman, her propensity for violence and cruelty bordered on the divine. If he weren't terrified of her, he would be smitten. As for her skills, they were essential for their shared work, the work of heroes. More of a lone wolf, it took years of borderline begging for Michael to recruit the haughty Miss Reynolds, and at no shortage of personal cost. Though he would never admit it to the group, he had allowed her to put him into her thrall on one occasion, plating some false thought somewhere within his mind to be called upon at her leisure. He brought them all together, but the Flame Fatale ruled the roost.

“Patience, Lillian,” he responded, tapping his fingers on the massive oak table between them. He sat at the midnight position, with her glaring from the second hour spot. “He has never, and you know this, been on time. It's part of his charm.”

“Harold wouldn't know charm if it walked up to him and recited its definition and provided contextual sentences, Rook.” The massive man seated at the fifth hour seat, feet kicked up and wearing into his previously established blemishes in the wood, threw a wink across the table to Lillian. “If’n you ask me, and I can't help but notice nobody has so much as asked for my opinion on nothing, Harold is probably freakin’ out over that lil job you gave ‘im.” Grinning ear to ear with blackened teeth on full display, Johnny Tuber pulled his boots off the round table and slammed them to the ground with the amount of force one would expect from a man his size and bearing his temperament.

Sasquatch. The darker truth to the gentle folktale of Bigfoot, Johnny Tuber earned his name from appearance rather than his nature. Born in the depths of Appalachia, his identity remained off any public record, a ghost in the modern world. Living off the land his whole life, hunting came as second nature, and his bloodlust came from defects caused by indeterminate generations of inbreeding. For years, his family believed the end of their line would soon come, the physical and mental anomalies proving too detrimental to the survival of their hidden clan. Johnny defied the odds, born beyond perfect, superior even. Mentally quick, physically imposing, and oddly charismatic. If not for his propensity for hunting human beings in the mountains he called home, and occasionally the streets of major cities, he would almost pass for civilized.

“Thank you for your input, John. Anything to add, Eve?” Casting his attention away from the whistling wild-man and to the final member of their cadre in attendance.

Knees tucked to their chest, eyes shut and mumbling, Eve peeked through her right eye to Michael from her seat at the seventh hour position. “We have nothing to add, Archangel,” they replied, returning to their muttered mantra.

The Saint. Hairless from head to toe and androgynous to the point of mystery, Eve embodied the sort of proactive murder Michael desired amongst his select group of killers. He discovered them at a church, praying not to God, but to the angel of death, Azrael. Surrounded by over a dozen bodies, all culled by the hidden blades stowed within the many folds of their obtusely baggy clothes, Eve had judged the wicked in their immediate area, and doled out punishment as the angel who spoke directly to them demanded. Mass murderers were not typically Michael’s field of interest, preferring those with more subtle techniques with potential for longevity, but Eve had managed to skirt under the radar for longer than their porcelain features would suggest, and even Michael had to believe the hand of divinity played a role in their repeated miraculous escapes. 

The only doors in the darkened chamber burst open, Howard Gray spilling out through wheezes as he ran along the table to take his seat at the tenth position. “Sorry, I’m late. Work was crazy.” Still dressed in his business regular, which included his blood-stained lab coat, he plopped down in a sweaty pile, swiping the blonde hair off his fogged glasses. “It's done. The ambassador is no longer an issue. Oh, hey Johnny.”

Doctor Death, as those who speak about Howard Gray in hushed whispers referred to him, discovered from a young age that the law often stood in the way of medical and scientific progress. Lacking whatever impediment prevented what he considered lesser doctors and scientists from pursuing the truth at all costs, he created his own space where he could discover the intricacies of humanity. Whether studying the lengths a person could be stretched before breaking, or the effects of different chemicals on the skin while also tinkering with the folds of the brain, everyday provided a new adventure in science for the budding psychopath. Often paired with his physical antithesis, Johnny Tuber, the two made for an unusual, if not perfectly complementary, team of killers.

“Wonderful. Now that we are all in attendance, it's time we discussed the culmination of our separate projects. Time to step out into the light, and bring salvation to the world and its people.” 

Michael smiled wide, holding his hands aloft as all of his cohorts reacted as expected. Lillian rolled her eyes, never so much as blinking, Eve continued to mutter, though more fervently, Johnny made a sarcastic cooing noise, slow clapping all the while, and Howard continued to make himself presentable while noticing new bodily fluids with every scan of his tainted attire.

“Michael,” Lillian said, waving off another crusty wink from Johnny. “I think you're great, but what on Earth are you talking about?”

The Archangel. Michael Rook had the best of life handed to him from before his parents finished building him in a lab. The product of the most advanced fertility science at the time, he was developed to embody every aspect his parents deemed perfect. His psychological inconsistencies were not expected, because the mishmash of genes they threw together were not understood at the time to harbor the possibility to create a psychopath under the perfect laboratory conditions. His first kills, of those he counted, came in the form of those who paid for him to be born. A tale as old as time, he brought an end to his parents when they outlived their usefulness. Never caring to birth or feed him in infancy, his Mother met her end early in his childhood, an unexpected drop from the top of their spiral staircase. His Father lasted longer, all the way until Michael’s eighteenth birthday. Any longer and even Michael’s legendary patience would have been tested.

Years of mediocrity, a life where he checked all the blocks society expected of a young millionaire with a trust fund and no restrictions, led to an even more pronounced bitterness. Luckily, he discovered his passion was shared by others, and got to work bankrolling them, providing them a means they could ever acquire otherwise. Most of his kind were born to poverty, or lacked the social skills to excel. They were needy, attention-starved, and grandiose. Bringing them together solved most of the issues life presented them with, narrowing their focus on completing the good work, and bringing a deeper understanding of the nature of the world to the troubled Michael. 

“For years, I have funded your exploits.” Michael stood, walking counterclockwise around the table, placing his hand on the shoulder of his counterparts as he passed them. “Occasionally, I provided you with particular persons of interest, those I would have rather removed from the board. Never have any of you failed me, and so the day I have waited for is finally here. On screen.”

At his command, the lights dimmed, and a projector screen rolled down from the ceiling, an image flashing across the white surface. All eyes turned to the scenes of panic and mania, the sound muted so only the headlines could provide context.

U.S. PRESIDENT AND BRITISH PRIME MINISTER ASSASSINATED BY AMBASSADOR GERALD GREEN

Michael smiled triumphantly, returning to his char and leaning on the tall back. Lillian’s eyes went wide at the realization of the assassin’s identity, the pieces of a long patchwork puzzle coming together.

“You had me hypnotize him years ago, didn't you?” she asked, her thoughts racing as she tried to remember the context of the job. “He had a trigger word implanted, a trigger to set him on a killing spree. He was nobody back then, just some low level bureaucrat at the State Department.”

Eve’s hand shot up, their eyes locked on the screen. “The place of the assassination. A church. The church I was tasked with cleansing last year, correct? This is the anniversary?”

“Correct, on both counts,” Michael replied, unable to hide his building glee. “And Harold just got back from ending his week long experiments on the predecessor to the good Ambassador, leading up to Mister Green’s need to be in attendance today. You see, for those of you who do not watch the news, Eve cut short the lives of a few dignitaries during their cleanse last year, people of great import to both countries. With security being so tight at the anniversary, no one ever thought to expect those to their left and right. Oh, and Johnny has been the busiest, isn't that right?”

“Been stuck here for the last year, sendin’ a message to the cops by breakin’ a few skulls around town. Got them searchin’ so hard for me, they ain't got the time to be lookin’ for the rest of you. You're welcome.”

Lilian’s jaw dropped, her face no longer able to hide her shock. “Why? All this time, all the manipulation. For what?”

“For the world, Lillian. People like us are always cast away in some form or another, told we were the problem with the perfect society of our supposed betters. But one need only look at the world they created to know it won't last much longer. They need to change, they need to be pulled up by the roots and new seeds planted in their place. This is only the beginning, from here on, we will sculpt the world into one reflecting the new values of society. Our values. Do I have your continued support?”

All around the room, the reactions differed, but the end remained fixed. Howard shakily stood, raising his hand in affirmation while his mind raced to calculate the extended effects of their actions and those to come. Eve rose, no longer mumbling, their attention locked onto Michael with a zealous gleam in their eyes. Johnny jumped up, slamming his hands on the table with a blackened smile cutting across his face, nodding all the while.

 Lilian glared at Michael, more upset by being played than the nature of the game. “No more secrets, Michael. We are in this together now.

“Absolutely,” he replied, holding his hand out to her. Taking it, he lifted her to her feet.  “Together, we have no chance of defeat. Together, we will save this rotten world from itself, or destroy it in the process.”

All eyes turned to the silent projection, to the riots breaking out across not only the affected countries, but the world, as aloof humanity fell to the predictable grasp of chaos and cruelty. As the world burned, Michael smiled, his plan well under way.

And it had only just begun.