By Uncommon 10 Comments
I've been told I can be a bit of a bastard
Typical for the non-working night, August Hudson was soundly in the middle of meditation. Located in a state of existence between physical science and mental projections, this was his trophy room. The scene of his mental playground was an abstract collage mixing pieces of Tibet with fractions of the ruins he came from. The bloodshot skies that loomed over his solitude provided just enough light for the bodies that decorated the walls to shine gloriously. Bodies captured like marble statues in the moment of which August claimed their lives. Sons, daughters, fathers, and mothers all the same, displayed alongside personal victims once considered his own family, lovers, and child.
Perhaps my greatest skill is my posturing, my ego
In this place, surrounded in the sums of what he held most invaluable, the soundless haven was utilized to refine his skills. Through fluid and graceful motions, he would shift fields of energy to shatter plates of the ground and pitch them through the air like floating embers. The display became stunning in the most exotic way, as the immortal audience watched in awe of the flawless assassin's tango being performed by the decider of their fates, staring on the stage of his own creations.
I will find vindication though, as my audience grows
The show goes on for what could be hours, until August is rejuvenated in both mind and body. The crowd of victims are all motivated to an applause in their stone existence, and await the closing act. A new inductee. Cold, pale, and headless at August's feet, the disgrace of a mercenary Hudson assassinated at The Menagerie was the night's finale. As accustomed, the debonair assassin uses a sharpened rock to slash the palm of his right hand, offering blood that bellowed like crimson smoke, and securing immortality amongst the dead. In a blind and painful crawl up the shaolin's leg, Hudson's victim was ready to accept his gift. In that timeless moment as the blood fume fell within centimeters from the corpse's flesh--
"Excuse me, Mr. Hudson! You-", reality abruptly floods the meditation when his P.R. manager, Celia, needs the boss back on earth, " -You look like you were in the middle of a good sleep Mr. Hudson, and I'm sorry, but you have a plane to board for Gothic City in less than 3 hours". Almost jokingly Hudson replies, " I don't sleep dear, I dream." No natural comatose nor sleeping pills were enough for Hudson these days, so he hardly entertained the practice. While fixing himself up for the day, Hudson adds casually, "And Mr. Hudson's my father's name, call me August if you don't mind. I'll meet you at the lift in 10 minutes dear. Thank you".
As Celia leaves Hudson's loft she adds, "Oh, and there is this huge duffel bag behind your door, would you like someone to-", the assassin's response was at the ready, "No! That's just a souvenir from California, where I visited The Menagerie and all. I can handle it myself".