Shattered Memories: Chronos (NaNoWriMo)

My rival's is up, so it's my turn now! This has been in my head for a year now, so get ready for pwnsomeness!

Shattered Memories: Chronos

Memory 00: Endings

In the silence of the streets, the man walked alone.

The road he traveled upon was dark, shrouded in deepened shadows, each turn and every alley a walk into the unknown. No one walked with him, or even in the same road as he, for the man was alone, and from the motion of his body, which was purposeful and menacing, all understood he was to remain that way. The sky above him was gray, the clouds blotting out the sun, which was only seen as an indistinguishable blob in the horizon. The heavens were the color of dulled steel, a lifeless hue that seethed the depression of the city, the sky a parallel of the man’s own dark thoughts, his inner consciousness; a clouded sky and a darkened city. Nothing stirred in the shadows of the buildings around him, everywhere he walked dead and vacant of existence. It was as if the place the man had come to was without a soul, devoid of feeling. Not one eye watched the stranger as he walked through the holy city, taking in the sights as he passed.

He was in Rome, the holy city. He didn’t mind the distance he had gone, having traveled a long distance to the Mecca that was the Vatican. The man wasn’t sure why he was there; what he was doing in a city that had nothing to do with him, but somehow was closer to him than anything he had ever known. It was what the others would want, though he knew in himself that that was not true. The holy city was the only place he had truly felt like stopping in, for he had traveled so far. He just wanted to stop.

He walked through the city silently, listening to the bells as they echoed around him, vibrating and coursing in symphony. The man knew nothing of music, however, and could not tell exactly what was being played. Probably the ending mass, he decided, or something like that. He tilted his head left and right, spotting the many churches and cathedrals that surrounded him, of all shapes and sizes. Arches, domes, any form that could be imagined was around him, begging the question as to why a city so holy as Rome needed so many churches for its population. He walked a path that was impossible to determine from an outsider’s point of view, for he backtracked and sidetracked for many, many hours, following directions that he himself did not know, searching for something he did not know existed. A place he could find peace, something he could not do in the fancy churches, where everyone went. He sought a place as empty as he was, as shabby and hardened as himself.

Eventually, he stopped in the center of the streets, standing completely motionless in the road. Cars that passed through honked and beeped at him, but the stranger did not budge, his face looking straight forward, inclined upwards as if to stare at the dull sky above. He only stayed that way for a minute, though, before he was on the move again, his pace quickened by some rush inside himself. He turned a corner into a blackened alley, now sure of his quarry, and made directly for his target, a run-down cathedral in the lower side of the city.

He stopped a second time in front of a small building on the cobblestone road, double checking to make sure he was in the correct place. The building in front of him was two stories high, constructed of aged brick, and square in design. It looked more like a prison than a church, perhaps the shabbiest cathedral in all of Vatican City. He saw grubby stains rather than stained-glass in the windows, one of which had been knocked out completely. Above two iron-wrought doors that led the way in, both of which looked as though they weighed five hundred pounds each, was a sign in dulled black paint, which read in bold, hand-painted letters St. Margaret’s Cathedral. Or, at least it was supposed to say that. Age and weathering had reduced the sign to S . Mar ret s Cat al. He didn’t seem to notice, or even care, about the condition of the building, however, because he raised his right hand, which held a long, steel staff, grabbed the rusted handles of the doors, and wrenched them open, creating a giant screech that echoed through the darkened street around him. Keeping his left arm inside his coat, cloaking it against the world, the man proceeded into the crumbling church.

Even though the church was faulty, and probably not within normal building codes, the man himself was even shabbier than the cathedral he had just entered, his staff clunking against stone floors beneath his dark boots. He was tall, very tall, and hulking in appearance, muscles ripping through his poor clothing. His garb was of a medieval traveling dreg, lost in the new millennium. The cloth was dark, though dull, fabric, and looked like he had not changed them in a while, a profound smell issuing from his unkempt form. A ragged tunic that was in tune with the spring of Italy, if it were not so ruined and soiled. His pants were of the same color, tied around his waist by a cord of rope, and did not even cover his ankles, ending just below the dark army boots he wore. His body was shrouded in a tattered trench coat, coal-black, and a glove was worn on the visible right hand, though several fingers were exposed. The coat was hung over his body rather than worn, the sleeves dangling empty as it was shrugged over the shoulders. He leaned against the staff carried in his exposed hand, his head turning from left to right to take in his surroundings.

The two others that were in the cathedral were horrified. Not because of his appearance, or his dress, or how his body seemed to radiate with a power inhuman. It was because of his face, which would have been handsome except for its deformation. The jaw was set into a thin line, almost mechanic in nature, clenched in some unknown torment that could not be told from a simple glance. A small, but long nose, and medium sized ears were the lesser features. It was the scarf that the man wore, which was pure black, over the part of his face where the eyes should have been. The scarf was tied hard against his face, with no creases. Only the eye, the emerald metal item that was attached to the man’s face, was what brought the stares to him. The image carved in iron stared at them, its perpetual gaze causing the other two inside to flinch. Long dark red hair fell on the man’s face, more auburn than pure red, standing unkempt and everywhere, like the man was used to it being much shorter, and had long since stopped caring about its length. The man looked at everyone in the church with the green eye on his face, before disregarding them.

The space inside the church wasn’t much better than the outside either. There were three rows of simple wooden pews, leading up to a bronze altar. There was nothing much else, other than a golden cross about a foot in height, the only object of apparent worth, except what the man was looking for, a confession booth on the other side of the church. The booth would be cramped for someone of his height, but he didn’t mind. He instead headed towards the booth, shutting the entrance doors behind him, jarring an echo that vibrated through the small room. The man took no notice, and his footsteps echoed in the tiny chamber until he reached the narrow door leading inside the booth, clinking against the floor as if his boots were filled with metal. He opened it gently, not wanting to break the booth, and entered the cramped space. There was nothing but a brick wall and a small bench, along with the veiled window that connected to the priest’s side of the booth. He could hear the priest breathing in the other side, which showed he was not alone. He set himself down on the bench, making the most of the small amount of space. The priest in the other room sat up as the man sat down.

“Sorry for the loud noise, Father,” the stranger muttered, bending his head to rest it against his staff. “I do not sometimes know my own strength.” When he spoke, his voice echoed in the priest’s mind, a powerful monotone completely different from anything the preacher had heard before. The priest gasped lightly at its resonance behind the veiled window.

When he was settled once more, the priest nodded. He was a frail old man, with a shiny bald head. He wore traditional Catholic robes, though they were of a dark brown color. Though he was an old man, his eyes sparkled with an azure twinkle that seemed to defy his years. “It is all right, my son,” he whispered soothingly, leaning against the veiled window. “You have done nothing wrong.” The priest cleared his throat. “I am Father Maxwell. What sins have you come to confess?”

The man in the booth issued a grunt to Father Maxwell, shaking his head. “Forgive me then, Father Maxwell, for I have sinned in coming to your church. I am not Catholic, not even someone of the Christian faith. I am an…outsider. But I wished to confess to someone, and I decided I would do so here.” He tilted his head to the veiled window, his emerald eye staring through the window to look at the priest. “Is that a sin, Father?”

The priest chuckled lightly. “No, my son, it is not a sin. All our welcome in the house of God, for we are all children of one God.”

The stranger bent his head, whispering lightly to himself. He then raised himself once more. “Even those that are not made by God, Father Maxwell?” he asked suddenly. His voice was a short breath, nothing more than a whisper, as he spoke to the priest. “Even those made by the hands of evil, and darkness?”

The priest raised his brow. “Why, my son? Do you think yourself to be made by such things?”

The man slowly nodded. “I believe that I must ask permission to be in a house of God, for I am not one of His creations.” He laughed, though Father Maxwell could see his lips quivering at his feigned jest. The priest noticed then that, in everything the man had said so far, there was not a single drop of emotion in the man’s voice. It was completely blank, devoid of feeling or emotion. “I’ve heard stories about Him, about God. He would not create something like me.”

The priest was slightly taken back by this statement. “God created all, my child,” he asserted, leaning closer to the screened window. “You are welcome to confess your sins here.”

The man in the confessional sat quietly for a moment, pondering the priest’s words, before nodding. “All right, Father Maxwell, I shall. Thank you for your kindness.”

The priest waved away the thanks with his feeble arm. “It is only my duty as a priest, my son,” he answered happily. “I have been doing it for many years.”

“Then…” The man paused, lowering his voice once more, “can you tell me the sins, Father? Tell me some, for I could never remember them.”

Father Maxwell could tell from the man’s voice that he was begging for answers he did not know, or did not understand. “You have come to confess sins you know not of?” he asked, a slight air of confusion in his tone. “What is the point of that?”

The man shook his head from side to side. “No, Father Maxwell. I have come to confess sins I remember, and ones I forgot. I ask you to please name the sins the church deems most evil, so I may show you the dark, pitiful creature I am.”

Father Maxwell was slightly confused, but nodded his head. “Very well, my son,” he answered, sinking deep into his own memory of cardinal law. “Have you indulged in sinful pleasures?”

The man shook his head. “Never, Father. My entire life, for several years, has been lived in service to those without champions. I have never done anything for myself.”

“Well…have you ever stolen, my son?” the priest asked, turning the conversation to another sin.

The man shook his head once more. “Never, Father Maxwell. I have always given to others so they should not steal, and punish those that do take from the poor.”

What has this man done to feel himself unworthy? Father Maxwell asked himself, staring through the veiled window to the giant man. His whole life seems pure and honorable, a hero’s life. “Have you dishonored your parents?” he asked, thinking of the only thing he could.

At this, the man looked up, his whole body convulsing in trembling shivers, though it was hard to tell, as the space where his eyes were had been covered by the scarf and emerald eye. “Y-yes, Father Maxwell,” he murmured, touching the side of his head with his right palm. “Though I knew not what I did.”

The priest’s eyes widened at this announcement, but nonetheless continued. “Have you ever killed, my son?” he asked calmly, feeling himself drawn into the world of this strange man.

The man was motionless for several moments, causing the priest to wonder if he had even heard him. But finally, the man answered, “Yes Father, though I knew not when I did.” He repeated the statement he had just given, his voice still emotionless. He nodded slowly, resting his body against the wall behind the bench.

“H-have you ever committed adultery, my son?” Father Maxwell asked, his voice rising in fear at the man.

At this, the man vigorously shook his head. “Never, Father Maxwell. I could never do anything like that to her…”

The priest was baffled. “Then how is it you were able to kill, and dishonor your family, my son?” he asked. “If you have the honor to be faithful to the one you love, why have you committed such sins?”

“Do you have time to spare, Father Maxwell?” the stranger asked, loosening his grip on his iron staff. “If you do, perhaps you should hear a story, the path of my life. A story that can tell you, prove to you, that I am condemned, and not a child of your flock, not a creation of God.” He paused, taking a slight breath. “Would you listen to a story like that?” he asked, turning his head to face the door in front of him.

The priest nodded, setting himself into his seat. “I have time for all, my son, for that is not only part of the vow I took, it is the way I live my life.” The priest offered a reassuring smile, which was not noticed by the stranger. “Please, tell me your story, if it will help ease the pain you so clearly suffer.”

The man sighed, before nodding once more. “I am thankful, Father, even if I cannot express it as well as others might. I shall tell you, in confidence, everything about me. Who I truly am, where I come from, and who it was that created me: a creature also outside the realm of normal humanity and outside the flock of God.” He took one final deep breath, steadying himself.

“My name is Tobias Green. I was the warrior known as Chronos.”

And with that, the man once known as Chronos began the story of his life, leaving out no detail, nothing at all. The priest sat silently, listening to the whispered confession, his mind never wandering from the amazing story.

And so it began.

Word Count- 2,679

Memory 01: Zepther

“Have you heard the rumors about him…?”

“I’ve heard of him…”

Zepther stood before the man, lying in wait like a behemoth of shadows and darkness. Its tall skyscrapers shot up, some roofs even halting just below the clouds, though in contrast some slums barely rose off the two story limit. The streets were masked in shadows, like the man, the people of the city hurrying through the streets like mice in a maze, just looking for the exit. The dark man watched the people come and go below him, even from the high ground he stood on, at least a thousand feet in the air. He watched them, seeing them in a detail impossible without outside aid normally for other people. He, however, was not like normal people, able to see them perfectly from the distance, observing them through the Christmas-card atmosphere, the snow that feel from the sky casting the darkness in a fragile ivory that the man knew was false.

“They say he always has his eye on…”

“…you, so watch out tonight…”

The city, even from the far-away view of the man, was cold and unkempt, trash littering the city‘s corners at every turn. The man knew he had not come to a nice city when he first arrived, but had made the best of it, knowing that it was more worthwhile to assist healing a city than simply parking himself in one that needed no champion. The buildings all looked like they were crumbling from his point of view, windows smashed and walls cracked. Even the tower he stood on was falling apart, the faulty wiring of the facility a hazard to normal people who stood outside in the cold. He was not near the tower’s height, but he was on a ledge that he found convenient for his own, personal use. The tower was connected to the most listened-to radio station in Zepther, 102.1, the ECHO. The logo, a simple green design embossed in black, was located about a hundred feet below where the man stood, casting a glow around itself. The music played on the station was all kinds of different things, the man could never give it just one name, though most of it was of the rock variety that he heard most often. Not because he liked the music, but because it was the one he most listened to. But then again, he didn’t really hate the music either. He was neutral on the subject; it didn’t bother him that he could hear it blaring from inside the station itself.

“Who is he…?”

“I want to know what he is…”

“Time to hunt.”

He stood perched like a gargoyle on top of the station perch, his massive trench coat blowing in the accelerated winds around him. He himself took no notice of the cold around him, bent at the knee as he observed his hunting ground below. In the night’s sky, with no moon in sight, he was invisible, unseen by the naked eye in the darkness. His whole body was cloaked in black, his true form an enigma, all save for the green on his belt, a strange symbol that seemed to convey the man’s mission. When he spoke the three words, it was in a deep growl, several octets below a normal human’s voice, but with a dull lack of feeling that would have chilled the man to the bone, if he even got cold. The weather outside was many degrees below freezing, but he seemed unfazed by it.

“…Metalhead is coming…”

A spark shot out of the faulty cables right next to where the giant was perched, attracting his attention. With superhuman reflexes, the figure stiffened, jumping from the ledge of the tower. Spreading his powerful arms, the man free-fell towards the streets below him, at an ever-increasing speed. He blasted through the wind head first, the cowl that concealed his face pointing directly forwards, towards his destination due north. In the darkness of the night, he melted into the city’s surroundings, and seemed to glide his way to the source of his urgency, his body seeming to float in the ebon night around him.

It wasn’t hard, he thought, as he passed over the streets of the city, drawing a few cries of the lucky that saw him pass. It wasn’t hard guarding a city from the everyday crimes that overtook it. It was just…different, every single time he started work. Zepther was a dark city, the gothic architecture of the city prevalent in all aspects. The Starbolts, he knew, did not have to deal with things so petty as stopping a robber, or halting a pickpocket. The Starbolts managed the whole world, never in just one city at a time, and even a few parts beyond the reach of Earth. They had no idea of the simple hassle of protecting just one city with only ten million people or so in it. In many ways, it was much harder than defending the whole of Earth.

“What is he?”

“Is he even human?”

He heard the conversations, albeit most of them fleeting, as he moved quickly from rooftop to rooftop, eager to get to his destination. He knew they were talking about him, never, or rarely, using his chosen designation. They always talked about him when they thought he wasn’t there, which the criminals could never be sure of. The man came and went in the shadows, the darkness and cold of his powers as profound as the winter nights of Zepther. If the man had had his way, all of them would be locked away, forgotten inside the justice system, sharing cells in prison with some guy named Molly. But he knew that wasn’t how the real world worked. Some people who committed the most heinous crimes roamed free, while the most honest people were in jail. He required proof to do what he did, to put someone in jail for committing a crime, so he only went after those that were unfortunate enough to get on his radar.

Tonight was not Oliver Bread’s night.
***
Oliver Bread was not a happy man.

Having recently been kicked out of a project he was working on, one of national importance, the short, slightly plump man was given over to the belief that he had nothing to live for anymore. His face was very sweaty as he worked, wiring the charges into the computer he had placed on top of the low building. On the streets below, he could see innocents walking up and down the road, some carrying gifts home for next week’s celebration of Valentine’s Day. He rubbed away the sweat from his brow, and finished programming his computer to detonate the bombs with a few simple computer strokes. Thousands would die, he knew that, because the street he was planning to explode would form a chain reaction that would take down several more blocks in addition to this one. Adding in the number of people waiting in traffic, the number would be massive. He didn’t care, but few criminals cared about those they harmed, especially if they weren’t planning on living through their work.

“Almost…there…” The man giggled quietly, his blue eyes staring wildly at the screen’s glare in front of him. He felt the sweat coming down his face again from the grease of his dark hair, and threw in the final key strokes needed to complete the explosion program. All that would be needed was the final hit of the space bar to send all the people to the underworld, bringing a hellish sight to the Earth in a final, beautiful, blast. “Just one more…

A sharp noise, like the sound of metal falling onto the ground, prompted his attention away from the monitor of the computer. He stiffened at the sound, sensing an intruder upon his work, and stuck his hand in his pocket, his fingers closing over his revolver. He had bought it as a precaution, and was glad he had done so. The small gun was withdrawn from his lab coat, loading with bullets, and preparing to silence whoever it was who had dared interrupted him. “Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice heightened with excitement. “Step into the light.”

A voice in the shadows hissed. “What do you think you are doing?” it answered, a deep, menacing growl that chilled the man to the very soul. “Step away from the computer now.” The scientist looked round suddenly for the origin of the voice, unable to locate it in the darkness around him. The sound seemed to come from everywhere. “I am not going to warn you once more,” it said, as Bread had not moved, frozen to the spot.

The voice terrified the doctor, giving him shivers that had nothing to do with the weather around him. The command the voice’s owner had given him, the tone in which the stranger spoke, was so heartless, so utterly devoid of emotion, that Bread could tell the dark figure did not care how the encounter ended, as long as it ended. The owner did not care what happened to Bread, other than whether or not he was going to move away from the terminal.

Bread’s finger hovered over the keyboard, flinching as he heard a strange noise from the shadows nearby. A sharp sound issued, echoing through the darkened rooftop, like something being unsheathed in the night, something metal emerging suddenly. Bread could feel the sweat pouring down off his face, but his resolve was still strong, though his quivering hand indicated otherwise.

“Don’t come any closer,” the scientist whispered. “I’m not afraid to do it.”

Something fell near the scientist, and Bread swerved his head to see that a potted plant had been dropped from the sill to the ground near his feet. “And I’m not afraid to do what I have to do,” the stranger answered, his voice raising an octave, turning to a dark threatening tone. “I will not allow you to do what you want. You cannot bomb anything here.”

If Bread had known who he was messing with, the scientist would not have smiled as he did at that moment, grinning triumphantly at the would-be vigilante that had found him. “Watch me,” he retorted. “I’m just too sick to care anymore.”

And his finger pushed down on the trigger.

The shadows started to growl, a deep menacing noise that was almost, but not quite, a chuckle, as the scientist to his horror, discovered that the button, the space bar, was failing to properly push down. His eyes swerved to the keyboard, watching in terror as it was slowly covered in metal, the keys slowly turning from a darkish-gray color to a coated steel gray. The metal expanded, as if it had a mind of its own, to cover the whole computer before he could do anything more. Frantic, his wild eyes darted to the shadows, raising the revolver against the shadows.

Then the man began to emerge from the darkened shroud that surrounded him.

Bread panicked, cowering in fear as the ebon knight took shape in the darkness surrounding him, a shapeless form that seemed to be made of darkness. Bread saw in horror as a metal emblem began to show itself, an eye carved in solid steel, colored emerald, on the belt of the man’s uniform. He felt himself shrinking as the giant approached from the shadows, cloaked in a darkness even worse than any sort of night imaginable.

He was massive, huge. And, to Bread, he was getting bigger, the imagination of the good doctor starting to work on overdrive. Instead of the black clothing that the stranger was wearing, the scientist saw the darkness of evil. Instead of the dark trench coat, Bread saw the wings of the devil cascading down to the ground. The piercing shadows of the night seemed drawn over his whole body, an armor-like cloth upon which was draped the greatcoat. Everything was black, save for the darkish red hair that grew on his head, the only part of the giant that gave indication that he was anything remotely related to humanity. The hair grew in jagged spikes and, with every motion of the man’s head, transformed from dark red to dull gray, changing with ever step.

Bread’s eyes wandered from the man’s head to his left hand, where a thin silver trail clashed against the darkness of the glove he wore, dripping off at the index finger, and extended from inside the man’s trench coat. Bread watched as the line of metal led from the finger towards the computer terminal. The metal was already wound round the computer. “You will not hurt anyone,” the monster whispered, reasserting what he had stated earlier. Bread watched as the computer was picked up by the metal strand, and lifted in the air towards the demonic figure. Bread could barely turn away from his emerald eye. “Stand down.”

Bread did not get the message, because he was still pointing the gun towards the vigilante’s dark chest. “Well, eat lead, freak!” the scientist roared, pressing down hard on the trigger. There was a delayed second, when time stopped for the scientist, when the bullet came roaring out of the gun, whizzing towards the dark creature that was ruining his plans. He heard a sharp ping, exactly one moment after the bullet was released, that rang out with even more volume than the bullet’s release, before something blasted past his left ear, imbedding itself in the wall behind the doctor.

Bread turned in terror to see that the something was the bullet he had just shot at the beast.

The monster did not move staring down the doctor with his faceless glare. The scientist heard more unsheathing occurring inside the man’s coat. “I said stand down,” he repeated, taking a sudden step forward directly towards the scientist, completely unafraid of the consequences. “It isn’t like you are going to hurt me.” One second later, Bread felt something tight winding around his body like a snake. He stared down his body, seeing silver lines tracing themselves around his person. They constricted, squeezing Bread in a non-lethal fashion, but enough to give the good doctor the information he needed: that the demonic fighter was the one in charge. Bread started to kick and scream, as he was levitated, just like his computer, by the metal generated around his plump body, and he was lifted into the air like a weakling, to eye level with the warrior.

Bread hissed, baring his teeth. “What are you?” he demanded, eyes frantically glaring up at the dark warrior, sapphire color aflame with hate. “A freak!” He spit at the dark costume that the demon wore in disgust, his wet projectile hitting hard against the rough shirt the knight wore beneath his open coat. The saliva dripped, making its way down the uniform. “Freak!”

The giant was unmoved by the unprofessional act, answering, “You are being hypocritical, fool.” With a casual gesture of his free arm, metal trickled from the main stream towards the computer upwards to the offending liquid, and wiped the uniform clean with one small sweep. “You are also ignorant, for you pick a fight with me.” The scientist fell silent after that, and the demon looked Bread over, as if unsure what to do with the mad doctor. “I am going to question you. Understand?”

For a second, it seemed as though Dr. Bread might refuse the dark man, for he began to shake his head no. Bread, however, took another look at the blank cowl the man wore, and decided against this plan. Regardless of what the man was going to do, Bread was certain he would not be able to enact his plan. He nodded reluctantly, resigned to his fate. “What do you want, then?” the doctor retorted stubbornly, a slight twinge of a sneer in his voice.

The demon paused for a moment, considering his options carefully. Then, he raised the doctor a slight bit higher in the air, so that they now stood face to faceless cowl. “I want to know why you wanted to blow up this street, and yourself,” he stated, the calmness of his voice reverting from the dark, demonic growl to a brute-like grunt, telling the doctor that he was safe, and would not be harmed, if he cooperated. “Answer me.”

The doctor grimaced, as though conflicted with some internal struggle. “Why should I answer a devil something like that? Even though you speak calmly, aren’t you just as insane as me? What rational being dresses like you?” He grinned, tilting his head back to expose his throat. “Kill me.”

The giant did not visibly seem affected by the insult. “You are wrong,” the man muttered. With a simple gesture, the bonds tightened around the doctor, making him wince in pain, before they were retracted to a normal tightness. “Answer now.”

Bread swallowed, feeling the beads of sweat from his brow drip to the ground several inches below himself. “I’m just like any nut, okay? I want to die, so I figured, ‘Why not go off with a bang, huh?’” Bread glared at the cowl once more. “Is that so wrong?” he demanded, his voice rising in volume.

If the dark warrior cared, or even understood, about the emotions that were raging inside Bread’s head, he did not show it, instead choosing to decrease the distance between Dr. Bread and himself. “Yes,” he hissed underneath his mask. “Innocents do not deserve to die with you, drama queen. Why do you want to kill yourself?”

The scientist noticeably flinched. “Because of my work.” Bread took on a different appearance, his face stricken with abject terror. He started to shiver again, something he had stopped since being picked up in metal. “We did things we shouldn’t have done…”

The dark warrior pressed the subject, as the doctor began to drift off. “Did what, fool?” he demanded, his voice turning harsh.

“…I backed out…couldn’t live with it anymore…

The demon shortened the distance between himself and Bread, so that they were separated only by an inch of air. “What did you do?” he asked, with finality in his tone. “What was done that was so terrible you couldn’t live with it, and decided this street wouldn’t either?”

“Couldn’t take it…” The man’s eyes began to roll into the back of his head. “Came here…where it started…”

“What did you do?”

The scientist raised a brow, a twisted smile upon his face. “What do you care, devil? Who are you to demand of me, when you are not even one of our kind?” He started to laugh, and simply refused to stop, though his last declarations were clearer than anything the man had said prior.

The dark metal-user thought about the statement, allowing a moment to come up with an answer that would be suitable. This person must have been new in town, to not know who he was. “I am the watcher of Zepther,” the man answered. “I am the Dark Eye. I am Chronos.”

The scientist did not seem to notice the revelation, until he lowered his face back to where he stared into the blank cowl, like he could see the face hidden behind the mask. “I don’t care what you call yourself,” he giggled, closing his eyes. “We…I…did it. We did something that should never be done…”

His mouth twitched. “We played God…”

The next instant, the dark warrior heard another bullet come blasting into the air, shattering the silence of the night for the second time. The warrior literally saw as the bullet shot through the doctor, Bread’s head turning into putty, like melted jelly. The brain fell to the ground, splattering the concrete building below in blood and gore. The ebon knight did not see this, however, because the bullet did not stop simply because Bread’s head was no longer standing in the way. The dark figure’s face was impaled in the center of his cowl, accompanied by a sharp ping as metal generated in the demon‘s face to protect him.

The man was clutching a corpse, he knew that, as he removed the projectile from his mask, discarding it like a loose piece of lint to the ground. He looked his suit over, noticing and smelling the blood all over himself. A wash would be in order later. The man gave one, final look at the corpse that had been the unknown scientist Oliver Bread, before the metal retracted, slinking into his coat where it had come from.

The corpse slumped to the floor, with nothing left to keep it supported. The warrior looked at it, bending his head downwards, and tried to imagine that a few moments before, there was a living person in the body. Now, there was nothing, its insides and cold and empty as the winter’s night.

“You know the difference between us?” the Dark Eye asked the dead man, walking towards the sill where the terminal was located, now free of the metal he had generated. “I’m the one making sure us ‘crazies’ aren’t out making the world into Hell.”

With that, the warrior known as Chronos destroyed the terminal, severing all the connections to the detonators laying around the street. The metal knight sighed emotionlessly, looking over the still-busy street.

He had a long night ahead.
***
“…In other news, the legendary hero Apollo is happily settling into his new life with his family, his daughter Sara is expecting to join the superhero team known as the Starbolts…In other Aquarius news, the princess Aquita and Starbolt member Saturn are expected to be married in a royal ceremony on the alien planet…

…Delegations from the United Nations and other representative bodies, mainly backed by the United States, are currently searching for any members of the terrorist group Terra Nova who remain at large. Terra Nova, if you remember, was responsible for the acts of violence against meta-humans and aliens, most recently with robot attacks on prominent cities with hero protectors, such as our beloved Zepther…More updates are coming in all day, so stay tuned…”

Chronos only half-listened to the events on the news station, mostly because he was uninterested in things that did not affect his hunting ground, more commonly referred to as Zepther. To be completely honest, he didn’t entirely like the whole “Superhero” community that mostly spanned the States, though the Starbolts were more of an international organization, considering as they worked with S.T.A.R.S. He didn’t entirely hate them either, but he relied on himself too much to be part of a squad or a team. He knew for a fact he was better off alone.

Which was why he was at, oh, a hundred feet above the city, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, searching for criminals, like he did most nights. He didn’t exactly have much of a social life, after all. Being a protector did not give one much time for a social life. Too busy saving people. With a giant leap, aided by the metal he generated in his boots, Chronos leapt over a giant skyscraper that was some sort of office complex, from what he could see in the windows.

As he descended from above the massive scraper, he took a look at the city below him. He was aimed in between two massive buildings, setting himself up for his next big leap. He could also see traffic below him, the shoppers and business owners of the city eager to get home to their families. Chronos spread his arms like a hawk, calling forth the dark metal that was his to command. The living alloy responded, slinking down his arms to the palms of his hands, just like before. Only this time, they generated into two spheres inside his hand. Chronos waited, until he amassed enough metal into his hands.

When he had enough, he shot both into the walls of the two buildings as he passed, the metal binding hard to the surfaces. Chronos saw the metal as it began to stretch, just as he had planned, and continued to expand. A third coil was shot out of the back of his head, pulling Chronos back the way he came, and forming a giant slingshot. At the last possible moment, when he was ten feet above the ground, his metal stopped stretching, and began to tug him forward. With increasing momentum, Chronos was shot out of the slingshot just like an arrow out of a bow, blasting himself into the air at high speed.

Chronos soared into the sky, with perfectly controlled height and speed. He saw the city below him shrink rapidly as he was carried into the clouds, as he had often done before. In fact, this slingshot mode of transportation had given many people the belief that he could naturally fly. Which was true, but only under certain circumstances. But as Chronos did not feel like growing wings that night, he reached the top of his ascension, and began to slope downwards to the city below him. In particular, the downtown section of Zepther, the slums where Chronos spent the bulk of his nights. He made a silent note to return uptown to remove all of the broken bombs at two o‘clock, when the people would have deserted the street to him.

He slowed his decent as he had the time before at the radio station, by sending out coils of metal which impaled themselves into the sides of the buildings around his area of landing, spreading across the surface of the walls as fluid as water, stopping Chronos as he headed back towards Earth. He continued this way until his two feet touched the ground, and he retracted the metal into himself, shrouding himself once more with darkness.

He wandered into the shadows, concealing himself as he often did. That was how he tended to do business, not as the comics portrayed him. Those foolish comics that the publishing companies sold simply because he was a hot item. They never even portrayed him correctly, thinking of him as a brightly-colored hero with a cheerful and entertaining attitude, like Spider-Man. The reality of who he was, and what he did, was much darker than anything the public would ever know.

His cowl looked round the dregs of civilization, taking in the sights of downtown through the darkness he cloaked himself in. He thought it interesting that the United States did so much for the world, but this small, insignificant part of its own people was overlooked in its haste to be involved in the whole planet.

He watched as an innocent huddled against a flaming trash can, desperate for warmth that could not be found. An illegal activity in the city, but not one that the Dark Eye was interested in stopping. He looked over the person, a dead-eyed woman, as he passed, noticing a bottle of liquor in her gloved hands. The woman was staring into the flare, standing over it, as if it was all she possessed. Which, he reminded himself, was probably an accurate guess.

“It’s a cold night,” he whispered. The woman snapped up, caught by surprise that the darkness would speak to her. “Are you comfortable?”

The woman’s eyes relaxed, knowing who was talking to her. “Hey, Metalhead,” she murmured, shutting them as she leaned against the wall by her can. Her clothes were ruined and soiled due to her state of living, her tattered crimson hair was rank and unkempt. “What brings you to this part of town?”

Chronos did not move from his place in the shadows. “It’s what I do, Carla.” The Dark Eye looked the woman over again, finding it slightly difficult to believe she was only seventeen. She was just Carla, Chronos did not need her surname or anything other than her loyalty, which he knew he had. Carla was self-reliant, and able to go places police could not, places Chronos needed to go to serve Zepther. In many aspects, Carla reminded him a lot of himself. “To overlook one part of the city means to overlook them all. There can be no exceptions.”

The girl laughed. “You’re so serious, Metalhead.” She lifted her head, and sniffed in the direction she knew Chronos was standing. “You smell of death. Something happen?”

“No.” He said it with a planned unconvincing tone, so that Carla would understand that he did not want to talk about the death of the scientist, or the scientist’s plan to blow up the street, but so she knew something had happened. “I came for information, like I always do.”

She nodded. “Go ahead.” She rummaged through her baggy jacket, locating a cigarette from one of its many dusty pockets. With a simple motion, she set the bottle of drink on the pavement near her, and set the self-rolled cigarette over the flames in the barrel, igniting it. She raised it to her lips, taking a deep drag, and exhaled a cloud of air that had nothing to do with the freezing temperatures around her.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” Chronos muttered, which was his standard greeting to her. It was how almost all of the debriefings began, save for the ones where Carla could not afford the smokes. “It’s bad for you.”

“You shouldn’t be getting into fights across the city, but that’s something you have to do,” she countered. Carla giggled, pointing the lit stub at the area of darkness Chronos was concealed in. “You know you can’t lecture me about health, Metalhead. You’re the one with lungs of steel.” She laughed at her own small joke, and continued to smoke on the cigarette. “So, what do you want from me? Not planning on getting me to join AA again, right?”

Chronos stared at the green eyes beneath her bangs. “I came for information about the drug ring down here, the one backed by Fedora. What do you know about it?”

The woman shrugged. “Nothing, just what I find in discarded papers,” she answered. She exhaled, noticing that the overbearing presence in the shadows wanted more details. “They’re at the main harbor, the shipments come in illegally from Canada.”

There was a pause. “Canada.” It was spoken as a statement, but Carla knew that Chronos just wanted confirmation of what she had just said.

“Yep.” Carla noticed in amazement that she had had her cigarette in her mouth for about a minute, but hadn’t taken a drag after her first one. She inhaled, taking in the rich, burning taste of the tobacco. “Canada. Who would have thought it?”

“Which dock are they at?” Chronos asked, diverting now that he had his confirmation. “And how do I get to them?”

Carla thought for a moment, remembering exactly how she had gotten to the drug ring. “Number 42,” she answered, coughing slightly as the nicotine backed up in her system. “As for getting in, how’s about you try knocking politely for once, and don’t Rambo it?”

A dry laugh issued from the Dark Eye, a polite gesture and nothing more. Carla understood that Chronos was an unfeeling man, but also one of courtesy to those he held company with. “I’ll try that, then,” he muttered. “Thanks.”

Carla waved her smoking arm, the right one, in front of her. “No prob, Metalhead. Just remember your payment next week. I expect chocolate, by the way. The gourmet kind, not the junky garbage most people give.” She looked through the shadows, and was able to find a slight bit of his outline. “Gotta get back to that death, huh?” She could still smell it on him, the stench of blood she knew too well.

The shadows were silent for a moment, before a package was thrown to the floor of the ground, a white envelope perfectly sealed and not creased. Carla looked at it for a moment, before a grunt came from the darkness. “Something like that,” she heard the Dark Eye reply, before there was a silence, signaling to the woman that Zepther’s defender was gone, already off on another, unknown errand.

Carla picked up the envelope with her gloved fingers, sticking the butt of her smoke into her mouth so as not to singe the paper. She opened it, and found several bills inside, all in the double digits. She chuckled, Chronos really was a generous man towards her, and she kept every dollar he paid her, so that one day soon, she could escape the world she had been raised in.

“God speed, Metalhead,” she sighed, looking up into the sky, watching the snow fall onto the dark city. Then, she picked up her bottle, and wandered down the alleyway, seeking refuge for the long night ahead. It was too cold to sleep on the streets tonight.

In the silence of the night above her, Chronos continued his never-ending hunt.

Word Count- 5501

This is a prime bit of work, PS, and only just begun; I’ve obtained a great deal of delight in reading it. The atmosphere of ‘Memory 00’ is excellent; mild and fitting all preconceived notion, its mellow flavour suits the anticipation of Chronos’s narrative; the church scene, in general, is sparingly and carefully detailed, which moreover enhances the power and expectation of the scene. The characterization of Chronos is also quite fine—it too unlocks anticipation, and is beautifully contrived—one adores Chronos already. =P (Though this one may be in fact my own partiality; that aside, the portrayal is excellent.) Chronos’s depiction is sturdy throughout the second installment, and the would-be bomber scene is striking. I did feel that some points of the “good doctor’s” dialogue were inconsistent with the character, as he is initially portrayed: portions of his discourse read formally, when the manner of the doctor seemed most informal, and there was a case of author’s insertion, from the opinion expressed through the choice of words (“I’m just too sick to care anymore.”) While the declaration of negligence upon the part of those innocents the doctor was about to destroy seemed natural enough, the wording, being “too sick” didn’t strike me as something he would say—he might indeed feel sick, but might also not be fully cognizant of it, and so might not utter his condition so plainly. That aside, impressive work. I look forward to an update.

- Selah

Memory 02: Contact

On the east side of Zepther, as the sun began to climb up, Tobias Green flicked out a pair of keys from his coat pocket, whistling as he walked through the newly-fallen snow on the sidewalk. He turned a corner, making his way towards the other side of the building he lived in, towards 322 High Street. With the air of a man without a care in the world, Tobias nodded hello to a passerby, and smiled as he unlocked and opened the door to the establishment known as Comic Central, the place of his employment. Smiling lightly, Tobias flipped the Sorry, We’re Closed sign located on the door to the Yes, We’re Open one on the other side of the sign, and hung it on the door. Walking into the medium-sized shop, Tobias remembered to flip on the lights as he headed for the back room, getting ready to restock the comic shelves.

Comic Central was not a big store by any means, just a one story gig with a decently sized space for the comics, manga, and a small sitting space, complete with a few tables and chairs for tournaments and things the nerds that Tobias normally catered to. Sometimes they would play games, which they would plug into the wide-screen TV mounted on the wall. The store was not on par in size with Barnes and Nobles, but it was a cozy place. It made plenty of money, though Tobias did not care much about money. It’s claim to fame was the fact that it exclusively published and distributed the comic book adaptation called Chronos, a series of stories about the acclaimed superhero, though thankfully he had no secret identity. Because of this, the store’s doors were always open. Though it wasn’t just because of the comic. It was also because of the few that ran the store.

Comic Central was managed by exactly two people, both of whom were all the store really needed to function, because the store wasn’t all that big. One of the staff was able to think and calculate with the best, and the other was built like a tank, and able to do the work of at least twenty men on a bad day. The brains of Comics Central, Raziya Urashima, who was the best mathematician and technician ever to manage a comics store, and the brawn, Tobias Green, who was making his way to the giant crate with the day’s new issues, getting the store ready for when Raz would come down to the shop from her bedroom, in about two hours. He had plenty of time, so he started to hum as he lifted a box about the size of half a fridge, and twice as heavy. He positioned himself around the box, wrapping his powerful arms around it, and hefted it into his grasp, like it was nothing. Making sure he had a tight grip on the crate, Tobias exited the back room, with all it’s massive boxes and stocks, and headed towards the sitting area.

Raz did not like waking up early in the morning, or going to bed early at night, so Tobias pretty much had the store to himself until she could drag herself down to work. She was always going off to clubs late at night. Tobias shrugged off the thoughts of his employer for now, focusing on the simple pleasure of stocking the manga. Moving up to the counter, where he spent the majority of his working days, he passed it as he headed to the sitting area, setting the box down on one of the folding tables. The table gave a small groan in protest, but took the girth of the heavy box. He wasn’t exactly fond of the sitting area, mainly because of the fact that its primary function was to generate teenage boys to annoy Tobias, along with the few tournaments and conventions that Raz sponsored, which also doubled as a reading area for those that did not buy the books.

The tall man took a second glance at the crate, making sure there weren’t any holes or anything wrong with the crate from the outside. It was the same kind of crate as the rest of the ones were in the warehouse, but this one was special. Inside the box contained a new comic for the hoards of fan boys and girls that would be released today. The newest edition of Chronos, which was climbing towards its one-year anniversary, was inside the crate.

Feeling his glasses slipping from his face, Tobias stopped unloading the crate, pausing to readjust them in front of his eyes. The dark specs had a habit of drooping off his nose when he wasn’t paying attention to them. He paused from his work, and securely fastened them to his face with his gloved right hand. He wore the gloves due to the searing cold outside, which was starting to creep into the store, even though the radiator was turned to full blast, as per Raz’s instructions.

Tobias was a big man, standing at a strapping six foot six, and well endowed in terms of muscle mass and strength. His biceps had biceps, and his body was as strong as solid steel, which had made him a perfect candidate for work at Comic Central, with all the heavy lifting that occurred on a daily basis. This was the primary reason he was employed under Raz, who hated heavy work of every kind, and was only too willing to get an average Joe who happened to be built like a tank. He could even double as a bouncer. Tobias lived upstairs with Raz, having taken the spare room she had offered him, though he only kept his meager possessions at him room, spending little time there, except to sleep.

Tobias adjusted his sunglasses, which he wore at all times, without exception. They were needed, the big man had explained, to shield his eyes from any kind of light. His eyes were particularly weak, and thus required protection, lest he go blind from UV rays, for they could not tolerate sunlight, sensitive to bright things. A few scars, which came down from his eyes, suggested an accident, though Tobias never really talked about himself. They were custom made by him, and designed to completely hide his eyes. In normal glasses, you could see at least parts of a person’s eyes. Tobias’ obscured his so well, the glass looked like ebon darkness. At least Raz had stopped trying to pry them off, which had been one of her favorite activities until recently, when she had decided to give up, after finally realizing the health risks to her workhorse.

Tobias almost always wore the same outfit, which he had several pairs of inside his room in Raz’s apartment. It wasn’t very noticeable, which was probably what Tobias liked most about it. He wore a forest-green shirt, which was stretched tight over his broad shoulders and bulging pectorals and abdomen, and a pair of black jeans, which seemed to be of the cargo pants variety. The pants ended inside of his combat boots, which were highly polished and halfway up to his knees; they had the look of dark ebony, and had a glare that could blind a man from twenty feet if he aimed it properly. They were old, but clearly not as old as his jacket, a rugged crimson coat which extended to slightly below the waist. Over his hands were black, leather gloves. His entire look didn’t appear to stop the cold, but he didn’t mind it at all.

Tobias’ face was regular, the glasses aside, and a little handsome if you were into giants. His hair was a short crop of dark red hair, which stuck up continuously at odd ends upon his scalp, giving him the look of someone who did not take a large amount of effort into his appearance everyday, but one who didn’t need to as well. His nose was small, but a little long as well, his mouth a thin line even as he smiled, and his ears were a little big for him.

With his glasses firmly in place once more, Tobias placed both of his massive hands onto the top of the box, and ripped off the top with little effort, the tape and cardboard shredding immediately under the strength of his fingers, creating a noise that Raz deeply hated. Discarding the piece of board to the portion of the table next to where he had set the box, he peered inside to see the new edition of Zepther’s favorite superhero book. This week’s edition of Chronos had a picture of the famous hero on the cover, standing in a hunched position, with his trademark scimitar blades emerging in battle stance from the backs of his hands. Behind the hero, an image of the giant spider-robot was displayed, slowly falling to pieces. The creators of the comic must have been covering the Starbolts/Apollo incident very well.

Humming to himself, Tobias busied himself by taking out several dozen copies of the comic, and walked over to the empty racks and isle that Raz and he had prepared for today’s big release. He distributed them wherever he could find space, considering they were going to sell out the first day, and would require more space than the other products. Zepther loved its superhero, and everyone who was everyone owned the complete Chronos series, starting with the heroic rescue of the mayor of Zepther with well known Starbolts Bluestreak, Titanus, and Gabriele from Bullwhip, and continuing on as Chronos became a popular icon. There were talks about somehow persuading him to star in a movie about himself, though such a thing would probably never happen. The Dark Eye did not enjoy his publicity.

Tobias set the comics onto the shelves without much problem, going through the routine that he had adjusted himself to. When his hands were empty, Tobias walked back to the crate, and obtained the rest of the comics. There was another crate in the back room with even more of the comics, but those would be taken out later, probably midday or so, when more would be needed. When he was finished, Tobias moved himself into the back room to get the giant stand up figure of Chronos, which had been modeled after the giant man who had to move it. Raz had taken it upon herself to make the suit, which was actually a very good intimidation. The statue was made of plastic, with cloth uniform, and was not heavy, save for the metal wings that sprang from the back of the coat. Grunting lightly, he picked it up, and carried it over towards the door, where it would be greeted by nerds and all as they bolted into the store to obtain the comics. Tobias thought a silent thanks for the fact that there were no special edition comics like there were in others.
***
Tobias had just let the first stream of comic book geeks into the store when Raziya Urashima entered the shop, dusting out spare snowflakes that trailed in her hair. The big man looked up from behind the counter, shouting a greeting towards her as he struggled with the outdated cash register, an oldie model that ran on number crunching alone, without any electrical assistance whatsoever. She suppressed the laugh that she normally reserved for seeing him struggle with the machine, and headed towards her private office to set down her stuff, and help out Tobias with the customers.

Tobias watched her head for the private office she had, which was located to the left of the storeroom, and was basically a large broom closet stuffed with computers and files that Raz used for the shop’s upkeep. Tobias did not go near there, as his post was at the register. He heard a giant sneeze issue from the office, and a second later, Tobias reached over to the thermostat and cracking it up another few degrees, putting it to a nice seventy-five degrees, the temperature that Raz most preferred. As he dealt with an order from a rather beefy thirty-year-old, his employer emerged from her hideaway to assist him.

Raz looked up towards him, her petite body looking like a toothpick next to the muscle mass that was Tobias. She normally wore a red sweat shirt over herself, due to the fact that she got cold easily, with a pair of blue jeans and sneakers. She dressed rather plainly, like Tobias, and wore small spectacles in order to read the small print of the computer screen she had. Tobias had narrowed her ethnicity down to distinct Japanese ancestry, with long, flowing ebony hair and expressive dark pools for eyes.

“How are we doing?” she asked, jumping up onto the counter. For effect, Tobias asked the next customer to wait a moment, and hit the “No Sale,” button. The teller sprang open, jammed with money after only thirty minutes of taking money. The store was packed, and was full of loud, shouting people. Raz’s eyes bulged, and she laughed. “Nice work, Toby.” She patted him on his back, and let him get back to work. “Let me know when you need to restock, okay handsome?” Tobias nodded, returning to his work.

This continued for several hours; Tobias in his folding chair, dealing with the various peoples that came in for the new book, letting them pay then get out; Raz in her office, spying in the security cameras lest anyone attempt to steal a copy without paying. It only happened twice that day, mainly because Raz would bolt after the person if they did try to steal a book, and forcibly remove the book from their person, then make them sit in the sitting area for the police to pick up.

Slim Mullen arrived in the early afternoon, shortly after the second attempt, as he normally dealt with the low threats in the district. He was the rookie of the force, so he got stuck with most of the grunt work that the older, more experienced cops didn’t want to do. Still, Tobias had yet to hear him once complain about it.

When Tobias heard the chime that signaled that Mullen had indeed arrived, he offered a smile, as the store’s activity had died down a little since the opening a few hours before, and waved to the police grunt. Mullen waved back, and walked up to the counter, pulling off the heavy duty gloves he wore as he did so.

“How’s things, Green?” he asked, chuckling at the amount of work Tobias must have had to do all day. “Keeping the horde happy?”

The other offered a chuckle. “Trying to, anyway.”

Mullen stroked his hair, a neat crop of blond, which never once had had a misplaced hair, and looked towards the two shoplifter-wannabes. “Those the guys?” he asked, lifting the brows above his steel-gray eyes. “Think Razzberry will go easy with them?”

Tobias shook his head. “You know how much she hates thieves. Even more than that lame pet name you have for her.” Mullen laughed, dusting off the pieces of his uniform. He was only twenty-one, and a newbie on the force, having only joined about a year before, but he had caught the attention of the captain, earned a few medals, done some good things. At least he was in plainclothes, with a brown coat, white shirt, and dark jeans, with running shoes. Tobias noted the gun he was concealing in his waistband, and the badge hanging under his shirt on a chain.

“I’ll take them down to the station then.” But Mullen didn’t move, rubbing his palms together. Tobias sighed, and removed a reserved copy of Chronos from behind the counter, one that Mullen always had reserved. “How much is it again?”

Tobias grunted, as Mullen handed him a twenty. “It’s ten bucks, just like it is every week Mullen,” he replied, giving the cop back his change. He looked up at the clock, seeing that he had about five hours left before the store closed. “How about you meet me and Raz for drinks after work? Say ten?”

Mullen considered, then nodded. “I should have punched my card by then. Not a problem, Green. See ya there.” With that, he proceeded directly to the offending kids, chiding them for their actions, and took them from the store to give them their tickets and penalties. He waved to Tobias as he went, and then was gone into the winter’s day.

Raz entered immediately after Mullen left, simply because she wanted to check the stocks on the new comic. “Mullen’s been here,” she observed, noticing that the shoplifters were gone. “We going out with him after work?”

“Yeah.” Tobias looked up from the register, having transferred a large portion of the bills he had taken up from the customers into the money box below the counter. “Regular place, then?”

Raz nodded. “Docks Bar.”
***
Docks Bar was located in the most obvious place in Zepther, the docks. Or, more specifically, the space between Docks 12 and 13. The air was crisp, and cold, around Tobias Green and Raziya Urashima as they walked by the waterfront, headed straight for the establishment. The woman was firmly latched to the giant that stood beside her, serving two purposes with this simple action: trying to absorb some of the giant’s body heat, and making sure that he did not lose his way in the darkness. She wasn’t too sure of the specifics on his glasses, but knew it was a bad idea to wear them when it got too dark. Still, Tobias never took them off. Below them, the rippling waters of Lake Michigan’s clear liquid ran beneath the docks and the boats that were securely fastened to the waterfront, the lake, of course, on their right, with the land to the left.

Docks Bar was a small, but enjoyable, place of business right on the water’s edge, where Tobias, Mullen, and Raz normally spent their nights, when they wished to blow off steam. Or, rather, Raz and Mullen spent night that they needed to blow off steam there, for Tobias hated staying out late, and normally left several hours before either of the two even thought about him. Sniffing the chilling air around him, Tobias could even pick up the delicate scent of the bar, a particular order that Docks Bar was well known for, the smell of fish and booze, a salty, beery smell that made him perk up his ears. He turned to Raz, who nodded eagerly for the warmth of the bar, even though she was bundled up in so many layers that she looked like a snowwoman, all of her overcoats were white. She also wore a snowcap over her ears and hair, with giant mittens over her hands. Tobias had not changed his clothing in the slightest, and was barely noticing the weather.

It hadn’t been easy to close Comic Central on time, considering the fact that so many people wanted a copy of the Chronos comic, there wasn’t enough time to cater to all of them. But they had somehow done it, due to the giant’s assistance in terms of persuasion. No one disobeyed Tobias when he really wanted something done, so the shop emptied pretty fast, after he had promised that more copies were coming in the next week. Thankfully, the horde had gotten out, and Tobias and Raz had managed to close on time, even had some time to spare, before they had begun walking down to the waterfront, for neither of them actually owned a car. With all the traffic in Zepther, it was a bad idea to own a car anyway. Tomorrow would be Sunday, the only day that Comic Central was closed, so neither were worried about work the next day. Raz wanted to relax, which she normally did through messing around with Mullen. Tobias was beginning to think something might be going on with them, though Mullen was a little young for Raz. Brushing the thought from his mind, Tobias continued with Raz by his side. At least it wasn’t snowing, the night’s dark sky clear and aglow with the light of the thousands of stars and the almost-full moon that glowed in the distance.

They arrived quickly at the establishment, mostly because of the double-time walk that Raz adopted as they neared it, eager for warmth. It was a rectangular building, modeled after a Roaring Twenties speakeasy. Its construction was of stout wood, with a massive iron door in the center of the wooden wall. Tobias briskly walked towards the metal door, and with a deep breath, rapped hard thrice on the door, creating a small echo of pings that traveled across the docks. There was a rough cough behind the door, before a small slide in the door opened at Tobias’ eye level, and a giant eyebrow was looking out into the chilling cold, taking in the giant face of Tobias and, to a lesser extent, Raz. The bouncer, Bob, furrowed his eyebrow, as he always did, for no one who went to the speakeasy had ever seen his eyes below the brown brow. “Password?” he whispered, in a dry, salty accent that showed he had spent a good amount of time at sea.

“Metalhead,” Tobias responded, giving the password, the street name for the city’s protector, Chronos, and also the name criminals referred to him as. Bob coughed, accepting the password, nodding his brow. From behind the door, Tobias and Raz heard a wrenching noise, and the door opened in front of them to admit the two into the speakeasy. Raz bolted in first, while Tobias shook hands with Bob, helping the bouncer shut the cold air out that seemed to blast into the speakeasy the moment the door opened. “How’s it hanging, Bob?” he asked, tipping his head to the other man in greeting, who nodded a second time, a smile on his face.

Bob touched his scalp, which was perfectly shaven and waxed, giving off a bright shine whenever he moved his head in any way that reflected light. “Not so bad,” he grunted, his massive mouth turning up into a goofy grin. “Have a date next week for Valentine’s Day.”

Raz smiled, patting him on his giant back. “Good for you, Bob!” In congratulation, she also lightly punched him on the shoulder, to which Bob laughed happily. It was rare for him to be in such a good mood, though the bouncer was always polite. “Hey, is Mullen here?” she asked, scanning the crowd of people for the policeman.

Bob grunted. “I think he’s hiding somewhere near the bar, by your regular places,” he replied in acknowledgment, pointing a finger the size of a sausage in the direction of the barstools, gesturing. “Came in about ten minutes ago.” Tobias thanked the bouncer, who returned the thanks, and made his way with Raz through the crowd of people towards where they normally sat where, sure enough, Mullen was sitting, in his favorite barstool, in the direct center in front of the barkeep. He waved them over with one hand, the other holding a pint of mead in a large glass. Raz waved back and, together with Tobias, navigated the tables and booths needed to get to where he was sitting. ZZ, the barkeep, nodded his head in welcome, while Raz tackled-hugged Mullen in something called a “glomp,” whatever that was.

As he sat down next to Raz, who was sitting in the middle, between both men, Tobias motioned to ZZ, to order. ZZ was a surly man, with very little manners. Tobias ordered a Dr. Pepper for himself, as he did not drink alcohol. Raz ordered a Mai Tai, her drink of choice. ZZ looked out from under his mane of white hair, and his fake eye patch, as he took the order, and scurried over to the fountains without a word to comply with their requests, pouring dark amber liquid into a glass for Tobias, and bright pink into a smaller glass for Raz from a frosted jug.

“Mullen, how are things?” Raz asked, as she had not seen him when the cop had come to fetch the shoplifters. “Did those thieves get some hang time in the jails?” Mullen shook his head, chuckling.

“We just fine people for shoplifting, if it’s a first offense,” he replied, smiling.

Raz crossed her arms. “Phooey,” she murmured. “So, how are things?” She grabbed him by his shoulders, and gave him another glomp, causing the cop to blush lightly. Tobias arched his brown brows, giving him an approaching look. Mullen pulled away from her. “How are things with you?”

The cop shrugged, taking another sip from the mead. “Not too bad. I couldn’t really complain.” The three looked up as ZZ came back towards them, now with the drinks. Tobias and Raz thanked him, but he scurried back before they could get an answer from him. Tobias tipped the top of his drink, slurping deeply from the tankard of soda, the dark amber liquid trickling down his throat. “But I can’t stay long tonight…I’ve got some work to do in about an hour or so.” He looked over to Tobias, and winked. “Think you can take fair lady Razzberry home for me tonight?”

If Tobias made an expression with his eyes under his dark glasses, he didn’t show it, the impenetrable poker face firmly in place. “Gee…I feel so appreciated…” he muttered, setting his drink on the counter before him. “What are you doing that so important you are going to deprive Raz of your company?” In response, Mullen widened his eyes and fake terror, glancing around their section of the counter with a feigned belief of being discovered. The cop leaned in, lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper.

“If I told you,” he answered sweetly, bending his head close to theirs, “I might have to kill you…”

Tobias was unmoved. “I’d like to see you try.”

Raz laughed, and downed her Mai Tai in response. Around them, the haze of smoke and drink gave off a misty feel to the speakeasy. It was packed, at least a hundred other people there, drinking, laughing, telling jokes. Even Bob was in a good mood, and that spread through the whole bar. Everyone was desperately searching for a date for Valentine’s Day the next week, not wanting to be alone on that, the most romantic of holidays. Tobias looked around, his dark glasses surveying the crowd around himself. Time seemed to pass rapidly, and before he knew it, it was almost eleven. At that point, Mullen set down his drink, and demanded the check from ZZ. The barkeep grunted illegitimately, and produced a grubby piece of paper, on which was the price of their three drinks, a combined total of twenty dollars. Both Tobias and Mullen fished out a ten each, and handed them to ZZ, who simply looked them over suspiciously and then motioned for them to get out.

“Good night, Bob!” Raz shouted to the bouncer on the way out, as the three waved their goodbyes to the big man. The bouncer waved back, the big goofy grin firmly fixed onto his face, before he wrenched the door shut behind them, the iron creaking into place once more. Eager to get home and out of the searing cold, Raz latched herself once more to Tobias’ arm, before grabbing Mullen as well for the extra body heat, as Tobias himself seemed to generate too little for her tastes, wedging herself between the two. Mullen looked up at Tobias, who simply shrugged, knowing that Raz was not going to let go, and silently advised Mullen to cooperate. The started to head east, in the direction of Comic Central, and the apartment that Raz and Tobias shared. They continued, right up until Mullen forcibly detached Raz from his person.

“I’ll see you guys later, okay?” Mullen explained, smiling. “Green, keep her out of trouble for me.”

Tobias nodded. “Come back safely. If you get killed, we might get a loser to cover our thieves.” Mullen laughed, and started to jog away, keeping a brisk pace. Raz drew herself closer to Tobias, and the two resumed their walk home. Tobias looked back in the direction that Mullen had jogged off, and saw the forties numbers on the docks.

They kept walking, trying not to think of the fact that Mullen was probably getting into something really dangerous, because he did so often, and it didn’t make any sense to always worrying about him. Raz was chilled to the bone, grabbing harshly against him. “G-gosh, T-Toby…” she chattered, her teeth clenched together. “Y-you’re so c-cold…” This lack of body heat on Tobias’ part in no way impeded her ability to grab him roughly for said lack of body heat. Tobias tried to ignore it, but it was hard getting home with half your body was being latched onto by a frozen woman.

He smiled unconvincingly, trying to put a good spin on the weather. “Sorry, Ms. Urashima,” he answered. “I don’t have much body heat anyway…at least it isn’t snowing, right?” She nodded in agreement at the last part of the sentence.

“Y-yeah, Toby,” she answered, shivering, “b-but you’re a-arm is l-like ice…”

She stopped speaking after that, trying to conserve her warmth. Eventually, the two managed to find their way back to High Street without too much difficulty, avoiding traffic was the biggest problem. Raz was sniffling all the way there, so Tobias tried to quicken their pace so she could get into the warmth of their home faster. Tobias almost chuckled, looking down at her. She looked kind of like a cold mouse, her face buried in his arms. After a while, he slowed to a stop in the snow-covered streets, saying, “We’re home,” pointing up towards the apartment they shared. “Why don’t you go on up, Ms. Urashima? I’ll go check on the store one last time.”

She nodded, her face shivering. “O-okay, Toby,” she answered, before she began to move at a speed that Tobias had never seen her move before. In a flash, she bolted towards the warmth of the apartment complex, flipping out her keys and opening the door in a second. She disappeared just as fast, running up the stairs. Tobias remained outside, arms in his pockets, in the street.

Tobias Green looked up, tilting his face to see the light turn on in their little apartment, and his smile turned into a thin line. He raised his hand to his glasses, readjusting the cold lenses on his face, before he turned towards the shadows of the nearby alley. Placing his hands in his pockets once more, the tall man began to sink into the shadows of the night, leaving behind no trace of himself.

Word Count- 5,172

Memory 03: Howls

The ebon knight fell to the ground, his dark boots crushing the fragile snow beneath him. Above him, the dark night glowed with stars, and the almost-full moon, but the giant ignored those beautiful things, focusing his mind on his purpose there, bending his will towards accomplishing the task. Briskly, but with no hurry, Chronos began to walk forward, keeping himself shrouded in the shadows around himself, his footsteps as light as a cat’s, taking care not to let the metal clunk onto the pavement below the cover of the snow below. The warrior looked round with his cowl, taking in the look of the docks. He had been on this road before, but never for something as important as the drug bust. He reminded himself to buy Carla an extra box of chocolate for the information.

The police were here, he knew that. They were setting up some sort of blockade on the south side, perhaps to stop the criminals inside from fleeing when they came in, SWAT-style. The warrior did not care, and busied himself with casing the dock, making sure he knew exactly what he was dealing with.

With the swiftness of a panther, the Dark Eye moved forward, breaking into a quick run along the shadows. As he did, metal began to generate from the soles of his boots, sinking into the white powder on the ground. Chronos moved to the left, as the metal began to spread, climbing up the wall nearest to him and, when it had reached the top of the building, covering its bricks with a coat of silver, Chronos jumped, altering his terrain from horizontal to vertical, and continued to run on the wall, heading to the very top. Metal began to grow along his body, within the folds of his uniform, so as he keep him centered, and unaffected by gravity, which would have pulled him down to the ground. The Dark Eye ran up the wall at a slant, and catapulted himself off the wall after reaching the top, the metal he had created following him across the gap between buildings, slinking into his clothes once more, and vanishing without a trace.

Chronos turned, and started to head for Dock 42 which was, he noticed as he drew near, nothing more than what appeared to be a massive warehouse situated on the pier. Its building was rather dark, and Chronos could see no lights coming from its insides. As he passed over the docks, the ebon knight noticed the police, setting up their blockade, which meant he was closer than he thought. He saw some of the police wearing armor, others with riot gear, but a large amount were plainclothes rookies, just waiting in front for the attack to begin. The dark warrior doubled his pace, running rapidly and leaping between the buildings, increasing his momentum. He aimed himself, generating the metal in his feet once more, increasing his speed to an even higher degree, building the momentum. At last, when the warehouse was the next building, Chronos released the kept metal in his legs, unleashing it as cushions for his legs as he launched himself, sending him flying into Dock 42. Chronos spread his arms, making himself appear bigger than he actually was, a fear tactic he had developed, and which worked with high success on criminals. Chronos did not break through a window as he landed, nor did he bust down a door in the effort. He didn’t even try to land on the roof, then fight his way down.

Chronos made a window, bracing his fist behind himself, and punching hard the moment he touched the building’s wall, and tore through it like a hot knife against butter, falling through with ease. Chronos’ vision instantly adjusted to the blinding darkness around him, as the ebon knight rolled onto the dark floor, amid a haze of bullets that instantly rained down on him. Silencers, Chronos thought, running to a corner, generating metal into his fingertip from his arm. The hail of bullets, all of which missed him, continued for about a minute, until a loud voice stopped it, ceasing the volley.

“What…do…you…think…you….are…doing?” it hissed, making the guns stop. Chronos took the opportunity to use his ability, and sent the metal coil flying, embedding itself into the wall. When he was satisfied, Chronos retracted the coil back into himself, and started to climb the wall, generating extra metal from within himself to allow this possibility, growing claws on his fingertips, and sinking the hardened metal into the steel of the walls around him. Chronos started to climb, listening to the conversation around him.

“S-sorry, boss,” one of the underlings, probably the one who had started the gun shooting, replied. Chronos did not alter the position of his head, but could see that all of the underlings were wearing green masks over their heads, probably night vision goggles. He made a mental note of it, as the hissing voice, presuming Fedora’s, the mastermind behind this particular drug ring, began to explain ad verbatim the Rules, some sort of code that Chronos knew most of the lawbreakers abided by in the city. This code included special clauses for the police and, more importantly, Chronos. “We saw him …Metalhead.”

“I don’t care,” Fedora whispered, his high voice trailing over the darkened atmosphere. “Don’t alert the cops to our business! Don’t you know they’re outside! Why do you think the superhero is here?” Chronos, as he reached the ceiling, heard distinctly as a gun fired, and a body fell to the ground, its choking gasp a screech of terror. The hero ignored it, and climbed out of the building the same way he came in, having gotten the information he wanted.

Chronos exited the building as he had entered it, through the hole in the wall. He created metal which poured from the bottom of his boots, through special holes in soles of his heels and toes, forming into talons that sliced through the solid steel of the warehouse walls, failing against the superior power of Chronos’ own metallic abilities. He continued, until about twenty feet to the ground, where he stopped his lizard crawl. He released the talons in his feet, and kicked hard against the wall, spinning in the air, and performing a powerful flip as he landed hard on the ground, kneeling on one knee in a crouching position. He remained there for a single moment, as the metal he had generated returned to wherever it had come from, before he was up again. Chronos bolted from the snowy streets into the darkness of the alleyway nearby, his preferred choice of residence. He could hide in the darkness, but he stood out in the streets.

Chronos continued in the darkness, completely undisturbed, until he located the person he was looking