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“The first rule of Fight Club is, you do not talk
about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is, YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT
FIGHT CLUB.”
Tyler Durden, Fight Club
“You guys knew?” Everett shouted, as he paced in front of
the bar separating the kitchen from the living room, glaring in turn from
Ledger in the chair and Roland on the couch. “You guys knew about this and
you didn’t tell anyone? This is one of those things that you talk about.
This is one of those things that you don’t keep secret.”
“Honestly, Ev,” Roland said, as the knight’s anger
seemed momentarily to forget where it was directed. “How were we to know
that you WEREN’T on it?”
“Because I never talked about it,” Everett yelled back.
“And we don’t either,” Ledger said calmly, finally
looking up from the random point that he always chose to stare at. His cold
voice stalled Everett’s
rantings. “That’s how it’s so protected. You don’t talk about it, you don’t
discuss it; you just respond and leave it there. What you read, you take
with you. What you learn, you put up there for others.”
“We even recognize that non-knights might get on,”
Roland added quickly, nodding as he spoke. “There’s a big warning when you
first sign in. Non-knights can, and probably have, infiltrated the net by
now. Take nothing as law.”
“And yet, you guys were making this big ordeal about
the Brotherhood,” Everett
exclaimed. He turned around and jammed his hands at the computer on the far
side of the room. “You guys knew about these gatherings and you didn’t say
anything?”
“And now we’re back to square one,” Roland sighed,
sliding back on the couch.
“Hey, Ev,” Armand called from the computer. Before
the leader of the knights could yell at him for interrupting, he turned
around to the trio and kept talking. “You know that KKK rally that Marilyn
mentioned?”
“Yeah,” Ledger answered in Everett’s place.
“Well, that looks like this is going to be the same
rally that the knights are gathering at.”
Phillip ran.
Through the
klaxons and warning sirens, the Clan leader ran. In the underground tunnels
of the Solaritec building, he rushed over the marble floors and onto the
plain concrete floors of the lowest levels, pushing past dozens of
fast-closing doors. He raced past guards as they ran in the opposite
direction, heading towards his escape.
Around him, Hand agents rushed by. They carried guns.
They carried swords. They carried whatever weapons they could. As Phillip
rushed through the halls, doors were barricaded, secured, even welded in
place. Lights were turned out and windows were blocked up. Entire offices
were turned into staging grounds and whole laboratories were turned into
traps-in-wait for the few Hand agents that remained loyal to their new
leader.
Phillip crested around the edge of the building, the sound
of running and work, orders and weapons, slowly fading in his ears. The
doors filled the left side of his run as the rooms faced into the building,
away from the external wall that he ran along.
All too quickly, the Leader of the Miracle Worker
Clan stopped at a pair of thick, metal vault doors on his right. He turned
around as the last sights and sounds of Hand agents rushed around him. In
the circular hallway of silence, he could see the curve of the building,
giving him a strange, fish-eyed feeling to his perception. He turned back
to the door, feeling the quiet that surrounded him. He stared at the door,
swallowing with trouble.
“Phillip,” he squeaked to the door, staring at it
defeatedly. “Security Access Code: Delta Charlie Tango Seven Zulu.”
The door began to open outwards, as if deathly arms
reaching to embrace him.
“You know Marilyn’s been trying to get a hold of you,”
Edgar said, as he sat down across from Everett in his usual chair facing out the
window. “Lord knows what she wants to talk about this time, though.”
“That’s for sure,” Everett grumbled.
“Speaking of Marilyn,” Edgar asked, looking
demonstratively around the empty apartment, “where’d you send the three
stooges off to?”
“Armand took Ledger and Roland out to get us some
dinner,” Everett
groaned. “I just bought groceries. My productivity is done for today. And I
really don’t want to see either of those two yahoos right now. This whole
thing has got me…I don’t know.”
“Let’s see. You’ve got Armand who doesn’t like to eat
beef,” Edgar said with an amused smile as he stared up at the ceiling, a
glass of water keeping his hand company as he tried to lighten the mood. “You’ve
got Roland who has to make sure his food has at least a five-percent grease
content in it. And then you’ve got a ‘I only eat pure, wholesome foods’
type of guy like Ledger.” Edgar smirked, then chuckled. “You realize that
we’ll never see them again.”
“We’ll see one of them,” Everett said, smiling weakly. “Either
Roland will dice up Ledger or Ledger will feed that fool a twelve-gauge
solid slug.”
“Roland’s tough, but I’ll always put my money on
Ledger,” Edgar toasted. “Sydney’s
on her way, by the way. I asked her to not stop off and get Morgan. He’d
have a field day with this.” Both of the knights nodded in equal agreement.
“Of course, we are going to have to tell him someday. And that day will
probably be…”
“Why are the knights mobilizing?” Everett interrupted him, looking slowly
up at the graying knight. The look in Everett’s
eyes froze Edgar and the knight stared back down at him, a thoughtful and
reserved expression on his face. “Why would they?” he continued, a
remorseful echo in his voice. “Now, after so long? Why now?”
“Well, Ev,” the older man said with some thought. “Not
everyone believes that the laws of the land should be so strongly adhered
to. And not everyone is as due process-orientated as others are. And, well,
frankly, you can’t honestly think that our small group of knights, here in
this city, has been the only enemy of the Brotherhood of the Sun.” He
looked solemnly at Everett,
a serious look glowing in his eyes. “Or that we were their only target.”
In the darkness of the room, Phillip waited. He sat
on the chair of the computer desk, sitting beside the silent computer. In
the tiny room, the shelves were lined with containers of liquids and food.
In the tiny room, the leader of the Miracle Worker’s Clan, and the former
leader of the Hand of the Brotherhood of the Sun, waited in fear.
Phillip pushed himself out of his chair with a
forceful breath, sending the wheeled chair skittering back across the
floor. He looked around in the darkness of the room, at the shadows that
the single lamp over him made. He looked at the rows and rows of storage
that could ensure him weeks, if not months, of survival if needs be.
There was a sound.
For a moment, all Phillip was aware of was his cold
sweat. For a moment, all he could do was fight to take a breath. For a
moment, Phillip’s terrified mind went rampant with uncontrolled fear.
The Clan
leader whirled around, splattering sweat onto the ground and onto the
shelves. He stared into the shallow darkness of the room, his eyes
frantically searching the shadows. “A rat?” he asked himself, his voice
little more than a breath.
There was a
sound.
Phillip turned
back to the door. The giant blast doors were still closed. They stayed
unmoving, like an audience that knew the plot shift that was coming.
“All the guards.”
Phillip’s entire body went rigid. His breath ceased
as his eyes shot open wide.
“All the
guards,” repeated Jericho’s
voice from the darkness. “All the security. All the soldiers. All the
protection.” The blonde man laughed as he stepped out of the shadows from
the far rear of the room. “Did you really think you could make yourself
safe from me? Did you really think that you could protect yourself from me?”
The Miracle
Worker Clan leader turned slowly around, the sweat pouring off his face,
his eyes still wide with fear as his face drained of color. “You know, that
sweating’s a sign of you not knowing how to use the steroids,” Jericho said, a smile
on his whispering mouth. “You’ve probably also been spitting up blood,
going to the bathroom every hour or so, and you probably can’t get it up.”
“How…” Phillip stumbled out with a dry voice.
“Phillip, I have broken into places stronger than any
Brotherhood installation could ever dream of,” Jericho said with little modesty as he
slowly walked across the light towards his quarry. “I have fought the
strongest warriors this world has to offer. And I have stormed fortresses
guarded by more-qualified men than you will ever know.”
The red of Jericho’s shirt
loomed Phillip’s eyes as the taller man came towards him. “I led the Hand
through example. I didn’t make my men strong; I showed them strength and
helped them to follow me. You can’t force strength onto someone.” He was
now within just a few feet of Phillip. “And apparently, you can’t force
intelligence either. Because with all the security, all the guards, all the
soldiers, and you thought you could protect yourself from me?” Jericho chuckled. “Phillip,
all you’ve done, all you’ve truly accomplished, is piss me off.”
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