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theatrical_muse] 267 - In medias res
Jan. 28th, 2009 11:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
prodigalwatcher267 - In medias res
The shop is in Koreatown, which under other circumstances is a place I quite enjoy visiting. Although I've never quite grown to have the kind of tolerance for culinary spice heat that Gunn or Angel do, I find that even in as cosmopolitan a city as Los Angeles, a good Korean Barbecue restaurant is a joy to find. Of course, I'm not here to sate my hunger or indulge my tastes. I'm here to do my job.
My job. In this moment, the thought gives me no comfort, fills me with no sense of righteousness to bring even the least bit of brightness to the un-ending night that has become our world here in L.A. And no, that's not poetic license or purple prose, this city is quite literally under permanent nightfall, thanks to the machinations of the powerful demonic presence we know only as the Beast.
What the thought of 'my job' does give me, though, is the determination to see this through to the end. Even though that end is almost unbearably difficult.
I have to kill my friend.
Al right, that is a bit of a colorful overstatement.
As the door opens, I have no more time left to indulge thoughts of right and wrong and motivation. There are two old women and a middle-aged man, huddled in different parts of the front room. One is tending to the cash register, another to dusting the shelves of random objects meant to evoke the fictional 'mystical Far East' and the third is watching me enter, rheumy eyes following my steps unerringly.
Something prickles across the skin of my hands, and I know that the first of the spells I have prepared for the evening is taking effect. There is at least one strong glamour spell here in this space, obfuscating my goal. No doubt each of the would-be innocuous staff are also similarly masked.
I am not disappointed. The first one leaps over the counter, screaming at a pitch that shakes my skull. She lashes out with one foot, traveling far too fast for an eighty year-old woman, and I know that if that kick connected, it would likely break my neck. Just quickly enough, I make sure it doesn't do either. I whisper under my breath, seeking to activate the second spell.
I feel the energy suffuse through my body, like a tonic. Suddenly, I am ten feet tall and invincible, at least in my mind. In reality, I am still my own height and I can most definitely be harmed, but when my fist strikes the warrior masquerading as the octogenarian, it slams into her with the force of a thirty-pound sledgehammer. She, in turn, flies into the glass display counter, shattering it and the made-in-Taiwan trinkets underneath.
The other old woman jumps at me from behind, while the man charges me from in front. My research on the Kun-Sun-Dai shamanic order continues to prove true-- they prize power and self-preservation over honour, and are more than happy to overwhelm a lesser opponent. What these disguised sentinels are not skilled at, though, is proper coordination of attack.
I collapse my legs rather than fighting the one with her arms about my shoulders. This pulls her off balance, and I wrench my upper body, sending her flying over one shoulder. The male guardian, already committed to attacking me, tramples her in his haste.
He meets my energised fist with his face, and is soon sailing backwards through a beaded curtain.
I follow him, noting the blood he's left on my hand. Drawing out my handkerchief, I wipe at it and regard the purple-robed figure sitting on the floor. Wo-Pang.
"Rumour has it you possess certain skills I require. I need a soul extracted."
(613, not counting direct quote)
The shop is in Koreatown, which under other circumstances is a place I quite enjoy visiting. Although I've never quite grown to have the kind of tolerance for culinary spice heat that Gunn or Angel do, I find that even in as cosmopolitan a city as Los Angeles, a good Korean Barbecue restaurant is a joy to find. Of course, I'm not here to sate my hunger or indulge my tastes. I'm here to do my job.
My job. In this moment, the thought gives me no comfort, fills me with no sense of righteousness to bring even the least bit of brightness to the un-ending night that has become our world here in L.A. And no, that's not poetic license or purple prose, this city is quite literally under permanent nightfall, thanks to the machinations of the powerful demonic presence we know only as the Beast.
What the thought of 'my job' does give me, though, is the determination to see this through to the end. Even though that end is almost unbearably difficult.
I have to kill my friend.
Al right, that is a bit of a colorful overstatement.
As the door opens, I have no more time left to indulge thoughts of right and wrong and motivation. There are two old women and a middle-aged man, huddled in different parts of the front room. One is tending to the cash register, another to dusting the shelves of random objects meant to evoke the fictional 'mystical Far East' and the third is watching me enter, rheumy eyes following my steps unerringly.
Something prickles across the skin of my hands, and I know that the first of the spells I have prepared for the evening is taking effect. There is at least one strong glamour spell here in this space, obfuscating my goal. No doubt each of the would-be innocuous staff are also similarly masked.
I am not disappointed. The first one leaps over the counter, screaming at a pitch that shakes my skull. She lashes out with one foot, traveling far too fast for an eighty year-old woman, and I know that if that kick connected, it would likely break my neck. Just quickly enough, I make sure it doesn't do either. I whisper under my breath, seeking to activate the second spell.
I feel the energy suffuse through my body, like a tonic. Suddenly, I am ten feet tall and invincible, at least in my mind. In reality, I am still my own height and I can most definitely be harmed, but when my fist strikes the warrior masquerading as the octogenarian, it slams into her with the force of a thirty-pound sledgehammer. She, in turn, flies into the glass display counter, shattering it and the made-in-Taiwan trinkets underneath.
The other old woman jumps at me from behind, while the man charges me from in front. My research on the Kun-Sun-Dai shamanic order continues to prove true-- they prize power and self-preservation over honour, and are more than happy to overwhelm a lesser opponent. What these disguised sentinels are not skilled at, though, is proper coordination of attack.
I collapse my legs rather than fighting the one with her arms about my shoulders. This pulls her off balance, and I wrench my upper body, sending her flying over one shoulder. The male guardian, already committed to attacking me, tramples her in his haste.
He meets my energised fist with his face, and is soon sailing backwards through a beaded curtain.
I follow him, noting the blood he's left on my hand. Drawing out my handkerchief, I wipe at it and regard the purple-robed figure sitting on the floor. Wo-Pang.
"Rumour has it you possess certain skills I require. I need a soul extracted."
(613, not counting direct quote)
