Disasterstrike (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} nanodisaster) wrote,@ 2007-11-03 02:49:00 |
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| Entry tags: | story |
11/03/07 - Blue Suit, Brown Teeth, Black Soul
“When people are speaking of the Disasterstrike killings, they are largely referring to those murders that are caused by the Yorrenites. Sometimes a murder by more 'conventional means' is attributed as a Disasterstrike killing, but for the most part, they are one and the same.
“It is a bit difficult to describe a Yorrenite. Though our organization is formed and based around defeating them, we don't really know anything about their origins or motives.
“Here's what it comes down to: a Yorrenite is a normal human male, like yourself, who is somehow attributed extra strength, speed, and becomes nearly impervious to pain. Those things in and of themselves mean nothing, until you consider that, upon obtaining these attributes, the person in question goes on nothing short of a rampage.”
“But we encountered at least twelve of these Yorrenite guys. Susan and Walter shot them all down.”
Dr. Helena looked up from her notes to face Kit. They were in a room identical to the bland office from before, the key difference being that they each had a desk with notepaper and pens before them.
“Yorrenites are formidable killers, Kit, but their main strength is also their weakness. They have a single-minded motivation to kill. As a result, they will focus primarily on their target, putting their lives, if you can call them lives, at total risk. And they are not invincible.”
“So, why do you call them 'Yorrenites,' anyway?”
“Named after the first recorded Disasterstrike murderer, Alan Yorren. He's notable for several other reasons. The first is that no Yorrenite has been quite as difficult to stop. The second is this: after we did kill him, we kept his body in storage to study. But the next day when we went to retrieve the body... Poof!” Helena threw her hands up in the air. “His body wasn't there! Gone without a trace!
“We don't know what happened. There have been no sightings of Yorren, but shortly after his dissapearance, reports of Disasterstrike murders have shot up. For these reasons he is known as 'The Father of Disasterstrike.' And therefore, we have Yorrenites.” Helena waited a moment for Kit to finish scrawling notes before continuing. “As you can see, we're working with very little solid information. We don't know where they come from, why they kill, anything except what we have observed in their actions, which leaves me with the final point of this introduction. Yorrenites sing.”
Kit's head snapped to attention, abandoning all pretenses of taking notes.
“Oh, yes, Kit, almost as beautifully as you. Perhaps you'd like to hear a small example?” Receiving no answer, Helena took the liberty of retrieving a boom box from beneath her desk and pressing a single button on the top of it. A second passed before Kit found himself coverings his ears desperately. Calmly, Helena stopped the recording. “What's wrong, Kit?”
“What do you mean 'what's wrong?' That was horrible! Beyond terrible!”
“Interesting. What did you hear, Kit?”
“Hear? I hea... heard. I don't know. I just felt like a bunch of bombs in my head were all exploding at once. I thought I was going to die.” Kit paused for a moment. “I would have done anything to get rid of that feeling.”
“Anything?”
“Absolutely anything.”
Given his introduction, Kit was made to take a variety of “alternative” training courses. Instead of weapons training, he was granted a singing course. He was also made to take meditation and yoga classes.
“I don't get it,” he confided to Helena once. “I know that somehow my singing is supposed to be of some benefit, but I never get that feeling during these classes.”
“It's not a class in deity symphonics, Kit. Just enjoy it for what it is.”
“But why?”
“Why not? Your singing is so moving. You should be grateful for this chance. You're getting paid to learn to sing! And who knows? It may prove useful in the future.”
“Do you know how to use this thing?” Walter held a pistol towards Kit.
Kit's face soured as he reached for the weapon. “Not really. I've been taking singing classes.”
Walter placed the gun in his own holster. “Tough cookies, kiddo. Hope you can sing really loud.”
“There's no need for concern, Mr. Xxxx. This is merely a patrol run. There are certain locations that many Yorrenite sightings seem to stem from.”
“Which locations?”
“Graveyards, Mr. Xxxx. But don't worry. We hardly ever encounter any Yorrenites on these runs.”
“How often?”
“Not very often...”
“How often?”
Susan looked genuinely upset for the first time since Kit had met her. “About half the time... if you round down.”
Kit found himself in the backseat of a blue Ford Taurus for the purpose of this trip.
“This thing turns like shit,” Walter complained. “I really prefer that limo.”
“You go to war with the family car you have, Mr. Indigo, not the symbol of wealth and status you might want.”
Kit interjected. “Wouldn't it make more sense to be riding in some all-black, fancy, government vehicle?”
“How naïve. Mr. Indigo, please take a note down so that I may remember to arrange for Mr. Xxxx to take some critical thinking training.”
“Driving...”
“I'm surrounded by incompetence. To answer your query, Mr. Xxxx, while DED is not strictly a secret organization, we find it's better to not draw too much attention to ourselves. The Disasterstrike Murders are very high profile in the media and we'd rather not be hampered by unwanted fame. Therefore, this vehicle. We blend in perfectly.”
“I look like I'm kidnapping some children to take to my den of very bad things.”
“I assure you, Mr. Indigo, that both Mr. Xxxx and I are adults.”
“Barely.”
Kit found it in himself to interrupt once again. “What about the limo? That was hardly an attempt at blending in.”
“More-so than you might think, Mr. Xxxx. Anyone paying any amount of attention, and people do pay attention, will notice that we came in as a party of one, and left as a party of three. In this case, we wanted to create the illusion that perhaps you were a high profile inmate, as opposed to a government recruit.”
“I don't really see how that's much better.”
“Well, you're only a child. It's to be expected that you can't understand these things, Mr. Xxxx.”
“I'm an adult!”
“Barely.”
What followed was a tour of the city's graveyards. The three agents would park, enter a graveyard, and cover every square inch. Walter seemed to do the most investigating, painstakingly reviewing details about each gravestone and tree that Kit would only ever glance over. Susan's contribution must have been notable as well. She did not inspect as closely as Walter, but her gaze portrayed an intensity and focus unmatched by the most dedicated cram school student.
Kit's effort involved resisting the temptation to yawn. Unsuccesfully, each gasp and sigh punctuated by a dissaproving glare from Susan, whose stare never lost its intensity. Kit could swear he felt his heart stop once or twice.
As before, boredom gave way to humming. Aware of his companions, Kit let little more than a rumble emerge from his throat. No complaints were offered, so he continued as they searched each graveyard.
Though truly he was humming quietly, the graveyard soon filled with a melancholic elegy, a tribute to the dead of the past and those that would die in the future. As the music flowed from Kit, the dimensions of the graveyard seemed to shift. At first he thought he was imagining it, but the way Walter's search slowed and Susan's gaze turned to that of mute concern confirmed it. Their surroundings were moving about that Individual gravestones would grow smaller and larger. The air in front of them would shimmer and shake as if it were a piece of fabric blowing in the wind.
It was then that Kit realized his voice was not the only one lending itself to the music. Beside him Susan was singing. Her voice was light and mournful, filled with sorrow and emotion. The shifting objects slowed, as if settling into their new shapes.
With their voices combined, the air filled with loss, then regret, then finally joyous release. The grass greened and grew around them. The trees blew as farewells in the wind.
Then the song died, joining the residents of the cemetery in memory.
“Get ready,” Susan's voice wavered.
“What's going on?”
Walter gave a Kit a sideways glance. “Susan is an Auger. If she says 'get ready' then we--”
“Get ready, Walter!”
In a flash, Susan and Walter each had their weapons unholstered and ready. “He'll be here any minute n--”
Then Kit started screaming.
His world was filled with pain and fear. He clawed at his ears, his hair, his eyes. Desperation filled his sight and his lungs. “Make it go away! That sound! Anything but this!”
And in the midst of it all, Walter's voice boomed. “You want to make it go away?” He pushed Kit forward. “Then sing!”
Song like purifying fire sprang unbidden from Kit's mouth. The graveyard once again filled with music. Euphonious melody clashed with lecherous clicks and bangs. Soulful piano notes sprung across the sky in defiance of audial scratches and grotesque gurgles.
The music was from Kit, but the noises were beyond those of natural human design. He was not singing a song. He was summoning music before him.
The world became him and his enemy. Before him stood a man in a blue office suit stained with blood. His hands were crimson where they once tore at flesh and muscle. And his lips. His lips were stained deeper than the darkest clown's lipstick. A grin spread across his face, betraying deep brown teeth. As he laughed, the opposing noise grew. Then the words came.
No'duk esper tangineterstaf
Orasd fluad'd nievler
At the edge of reality, Kit could hear voices, muted against his perception.
“He can't do this much already, Susan. It's too soon. Shoot the Yorrenite.”
“We must observe longer. Remain calm. Mr. Indigo.”
No'duk esper tangineterstaf
Orasd fluad'd nievler
“If this keeps up he'll die.”
“We will wait.”
No'duk esper tangineterstaf
Orasd flua
The world exploded. A crack broke through all senses, causing a ripple in noise as well as sight. Blackness filled Kit's eyes, leaving only his enemy in space. Then the enemy had no head and Kit was sitting in a cemetary. Susan and Walter were standing over him and a man in a blue, blood-stained office suit lie dead a few feet away from them.
“He could have made it. He could have learned so much.”
“By the looks of things he may yet still die, Susan. This wasn't right.”
“Are you so sure of that, Walter? Would it be that great of a lo--”
“I must s kt you ertan ayv it y ull.”
Kit's vision granted him blurry light. Impossible patterns filled his eyes. “What?” he croaked.
“I said you certainly gave it your all. Not that Walter and Susan couldn't have hadn't handled it on their own, but it's a lot quicker waiting for you to wake up than it is waiting for Walter's bones to knit.” Helena's voice.
“I'm grateful for that myself,” Walter noted.
“We did not expect an enemy of that strength.” Susan added.
“Ah, but it must have been so glorious!” Helena exclaimed. “The forces of good and evil, imposing their wills through music! An orchestra of justice versus despair! If only I were there.”
“You should have heard the bang that brought the bastard down.” Walter blew imaginary smoke from his fingertips.
“Indeed.” Helena pursed her lips. “I'd like to know where you managed to acquire explosive rounds and a weapon to fire them.”
“I bet you would.”
“I can't hide your dirty work forever, Walter. One of these days one of the higher ups are going to notice that these Yorrenites were not killed via approved methods.”
“That will be an interesting day,” Walter mused.
“Hmph... How are you feeling, Kit?”
Kit sat up and looked around. “Pretty okay, actually. I feel like I could go another round.”
Helena laughed and patted Kit on the back. “No need for that, but I'm glad you're doing well. Why don't you head back to apartments. If I recall correctly, you do have training tomorrow.”
“Ooh,” Kit moaned, “Then again maybe I'm not feeling so well.”
Helena playfully shoved at Kit. “Just go. I have reports to write and you're all distracting me. One must be miserable to write reports, after all, so leave, the lot of you.”
“I just don't get the point,” Kit confided. Walter had broken away from the group at the first sign of a liquor store (“Sucks to be you kids.”), leaving Kit and Susan to return to their designated housing alone. Each agent had previously been granted their own studio apartment in the same building.
“The point is to rid mankind of the threat of the Yorrenites. Really, Mr. Xxxx, your naivety never ceases to astound.”
“Yeah, whatever, but what's with all the singing? Can you even call it singing?”
“Call it what you wish.”
“Why do you always have to be so cold?”
“I am not cold. You are merely... needy.”
Kit barked a laugh. “Needy? That'll be the day. Why don't you just admit your more rigid than a pinecone with a stick up its ass?”
The clicking of shoes against floor tiles as they ascended the apartment building stairwell served as sharp disapproval to Kit's statement. Soon they had reached Susan's doorway, a few apartments away from Kit's own.
“You know, Kit,” she hissed, her back to his, “We don't need you. You aren't the only singer and you certainly are not the best, not matter what Helena may say to you.”
“You say that, but you guys were pretty eager to have me on the team.”
“Well, we have to keep an eye on you, after all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Who knows when you'll crack. Walter and I must be ready to kill you when that happens.”
“Wha...”
“After all, you are the son of Alan Yorren.”
A moments silence seemed to fill an eternity.
“Goodnight, Mr. Xxxx.” Susan's door clicked shut.
Dr. Helena looked up from her notes to face Kit. They were in a room identical to the bland office from before, the key difference being that they each had a desk with notepaper and pens before them.
“Yorrenites are formidable killers, Kit, but their main strength is also their weakness. They have a single-minded motivation to kill. As a result, they will focus primarily on their target, putting their lives, if you can call them lives, at total risk. And they are not invincible.”
“So, why do you call them 'Yorrenites,' anyway?”
“Named after the first recorded Disasterstrike murderer, Alan Yorren. He's notable for several other reasons. The first is that no Yorrenite has been quite as difficult to stop. The second is this: after we did kill him, we kept his body in storage to study. But the next day when we went to retrieve the body... Poof!” Helena threw her hands up in the air. “His body wasn't there! Gone without a trace!
“We don't know what happened. There have been no sightings of Yorren, but shortly after his dissapearance, reports of Disasterstrike murders have shot up. For these reasons he is known as 'The Father of Disasterstrike.' And therefore, we have Yorrenites.” Helena waited a moment for Kit to finish scrawling notes before continuing. “As you can see, we're working with very little solid information. We don't know where they come from, why they kill, anything except what we have observed in their actions, which leaves me with the final point of this introduction. Yorrenites sing.”
Kit's head snapped to attention, abandoning all pretenses of taking notes.
“Oh, yes, Kit, almost as beautifully as you. Perhaps you'd like to hear a small example?” Receiving no answer, Helena took the liberty of retrieving a boom box from beneath her desk and pressing a single button on the top of it. A second passed before Kit found himself coverings his ears desperately. Calmly, Helena stopped the recording. “What's wrong, Kit?”
“What do you mean 'what's wrong?' That was horrible! Beyond terrible!”
“Interesting. What did you hear, Kit?”
“Hear? I hea... heard. I don't know. I just felt like a bunch of bombs in my head were all exploding at once. I thought I was going to die.” Kit paused for a moment. “I would have done anything to get rid of that feeling.”
“Anything?”
“Absolutely anything.”
Given his introduction, Kit was made to take a variety of “alternative” training courses. Instead of weapons training, he was granted a singing course. He was also made to take meditation and yoga classes.
“I don't get it,” he confided to Helena once. “I know that somehow my singing is supposed to be of some benefit, but I never get that feeling during these classes.”
“It's not a class in deity symphonics, Kit. Just enjoy it for what it is.”
“But why?”
“Why not? Your singing is so moving. You should be grateful for this chance. You're getting paid to learn to sing! And who knows? It may prove useful in the future.”
“Do you know how to use this thing?” Walter held a pistol towards Kit.
Kit's face soured as he reached for the weapon. “Not really. I've been taking singing classes.”
Walter placed the gun in his own holster. “Tough cookies, kiddo. Hope you can sing really loud.”
“There's no need for concern, Mr. Xxxx. This is merely a patrol run. There are certain locations that many Yorrenite sightings seem to stem from.”
“Which locations?”
“Graveyards, Mr. Xxxx. But don't worry. We hardly ever encounter any Yorrenites on these runs.”
“How often?”
“Not very often...”
“How often?”
Susan looked genuinely upset for the first time since Kit had met her. “About half the time... if you round down.”
Kit found himself in the backseat of a blue Ford Taurus for the purpose of this trip.
“This thing turns like shit,” Walter complained. “I really prefer that limo.”
“You go to war with the family car you have, Mr. Indigo, not the symbol of wealth and status you might want.”
Kit interjected. “Wouldn't it make more sense to be riding in some all-black, fancy, government vehicle?”
“How naïve. Mr. Indigo, please take a note down so that I may remember to arrange for Mr. Xxxx to take some critical thinking training.”
“Driving...”
“I'm surrounded by incompetence. To answer your query, Mr. Xxxx, while DED is not strictly a secret organization, we find it's better to not draw too much attention to ourselves. The Disasterstrike Murders are very high profile in the media and we'd rather not be hampered by unwanted fame. Therefore, this vehicle. We blend in perfectly.”
“I look like I'm kidnapping some children to take to my den of very bad things.”
“I assure you, Mr. Indigo, that both Mr. Xxxx and I are adults.”
“Barely.”
Kit found it in himself to interrupt once again. “What about the limo? That was hardly an attempt at blending in.”
“More-so than you might think, Mr. Xxxx. Anyone paying any amount of attention, and people do pay attention, will notice that we came in as a party of one, and left as a party of three. In this case, we wanted to create the illusion that perhaps you were a high profile inmate, as opposed to a government recruit.”
“I don't really see how that's much better.”
“Well, you're only a child. It's to be expected that you can't understand these things, Mr. Xxxx.”
“I'm an adult!”
“Barely.”
What followed was a tour of the city's graveyards. The three agents would park, enter a graveyard, and cover every square inch. Walter seemed to do the most investigating, painstakingly reviewing details about each gravestone and tree that Kit would only ever glance over. Susan's contribution must have been notable as well. She did not inspect as closely as Walter, but her gaze portrayed an intensity and focus unmatched by the most dedicated cram school student.
Kit's effort involved resisting the temptation to yawn. Unsuccesfully, each gasp and sigh punctuated by a dissaproving glare from Susan, whose stare never lost its intensity. Kit could swear he felt his heart stop once or twice.
As before, boredom gave way to humming. Aware of his companions, Kit let little more than a rumble emerge from his throat. No complaints were offered, so he continued as they searched each graveyard.
Though truly he was humming quietly, the graveyard soon filled with a melancholic elegy, a tribute to the dead of the past and those that would die in the future. As the music flowed from Kit, the dimensions of the graveyard seemed to shift. At first he thought he was imagining it, but the way Walter's search slowed and Susan's gaze turned to that of mute concern confirmed it. Their surroundings were moving about that Individual gravestones would grow smaller and larger. The air in front of them would shimmer and shake as if it were a piece of fabric blowing in the wind.
It was then that Kit realized his voice was not the only one lending itself to the music. Beside him Susan was singing. Her voice was light and mournful, filled with sorrow and emotion. The shifting objects slowed, as if settling into their new shapes.
With their voices combined, the air filled with loss, then regret, then finally joyous release. The grass greened and grew around them. The trees blew as farewells in the wind.
Then the song died, joining the residents of the cemetery in memory.
“Get ready,” Susan's voice wavered.
“What's going on?”
Walter gave a Kit a sideways glance. “Susan is an Auger. If she says 'get ready' then we--”
“Get ready, Walter!”
In a flash, Susan and Walter each had their weapons unholstered and ready. “He'll be here any minute n--”
Then Kit started screaming.
His world was filled with pain and fear. He clawed at his ears, his hair, his eyes. Desperation filled his sight and his lungs. “Make it go away! That sound! Anything but this!”
And in the midst of it all, Walter's voice boomed. “You want to make it go away?” He pushed Kit forward. “Then sing!”
Song like purifying fire sprang unbidden from Kit's mouth. The graveyard once again filled with music. Euphonious melody clashed with lecherous clicks and bangs. Soulful piano notes sprung across the sky in defiance of audial scratches and grotesque gurgles.
The music was from Kit, but the noises were beyond those of natural human design. He was not singing a song. He was summoning music before him.
The world became him and his enemy. Before him stood a man in a blue office suit stained with blood. His hands were crimson where they once tore at flesh and muscle. And his lips. His lips were stained deeper than the darkest clown's lipstick. A grin spread across his face, betraying deep brown teeth. As he laughed, the opposing noise grew. Then the words came.
No'duk esper tangineterstaf
Orasd fluad'd nievler
At the edge of reality, Kit could hear voices, muted against his perception.
“He can't do this much already, Susan. It's too soon. Shoot the Yorrenite.”
“We must observe longer. Remain calm. Mr. Indigo.”
No'duk esper tangineterstaf
Orasd fluad'd nievler
“If this keeps up he'll die.”
“We will wait.”
No'duk esper tangineterstaf
Orasd flua
The world exploded. A crack broke through all senses, causing a ripple in noise as well as sight. Blackness filled Kit's eyes, leaving only his enemy in space. Then the enemy had no head and Kit was sitting in a cemetary. Susan and Walter were standing over him and a man in a blue, blood-stained office suit lie dead a few feet away from them.
“He could have made it. He could have learned so much.”
“By the looks of things he may yet still die, Susan. This wasn't right.”
“Are you so sure of that, Walter? Would it be that great of a lo--”
“I must s kt you ertan ayv it y ull.”
Kit's vision granted him blurry light. Impossible patterns filled his eyes. “What?” he croaked.
“I said you certainly gave it your all. Not that Walter and Susan couldn't have hadn't handled it on their own, but it's a lot quicker waiting for you to wake up than it is waiting for Walter's bones to knit.” Helena's voice.
“I'm grateful for that myself,” Walter noted.
“We did not expect an enemy of that strength.” Susan added.
“Ah, but it must have been so glorious!” Helena exclaimed. “The forces of good and evil, imposing their wills through music! An orchestra of justice versus despair! If only I were there.”
“You should have heard the bang that brought the bastard down.” Walter blew imaginary smoke from his fingertips.
“Indeed.” Helena pursed her lips. “I'd like to know where you managed to acquire explosive rounds and a weapon to fire them.”
“I bet you would.”
“I can't hide your dirty work forever, Walter. One of these days one of the higher ups are going to notice that these Yorrenites were not killed via approved methods.”
“That will be an interesting day,” Walter mused.
“Hmph... How are you feeling, Kit?”
Kit sat up and looked around. “Pretty okay, actually. I feel like I could go another round.”
Helena laughed and patted Kit on the back. “No need for that, but I'm glad you're doing well. Why don't you head back to apartments. If I recall correctly, you do have training tomorrow.”
“Ooh,” Kit moaned, “Then again maybe I'm not feeling so well.”
Helena playfully shoved at Kit. “Just go. I have reports to write and you're all distracting me. One must be miserable to write reports, after all, so leave, the lot of you.”
“I just don't get the point,” Kit confided. Walter had broken away from the group at the first sign of a liquor store (“Sucks to be you kids.”), leaving Kit and Susan to return to their designated housing alone. Each agent had previously been granted their own studio apartment in the same building.
“The point is to rid mankind of the threat of the Yorrenites. Really, Mr. Xxxx, your naivety never ceases to astound.”
“Yeah, whatever, but what's with all the singing? Can you even call it singing?”
“Call it what you wish.”
“Why do you always have to be so cold?”
“I am not cold. You are merely... needy.”
Kit barked a laugh. “Needy? That'll be the day. Why don't you just admit your more rigid than a pinecone with a stick up its ass?”
The clicking of shoes against floor tiles as they ascended the apartment building stairwell served as sharp disapproval to Kit's statement. Soon they had reached Susan's doorway, a few apartments away from Kit's own.
“You know, Kit,” she hissed, her back to his, “We don't need you. You aren't the only singer and you certainly are not the best, not matter what Helena may say to you.”
“You say that, but you guys were pretty eager to have me on the team.”
“Well, we have to keep an eye on you, after all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Who knows when you'll crack. Walter and I must be ready to kill you when that happens.”
“Wha...”
“After all, you are the son of Alan Yorren.”
A moments silence seemed to fill an eternity.
“Goodnight, Mr. Xxxx.” Susan's door clicked shut.
