Darkfall (closed for ImbibedFantasy1)

[RedTimberWolf]

Late evening, somewhere on the east coast of the United States, a gaunt, middle-aged man scurried through back streets and rain-soaked alleys to meet with his comrades-in-war. Their war was no ordinary matter, though. Indeed, for most the war they fought would seem laughable, entirely worthy of ridicule, or simply an impossibility. The man, however, had seen too much, lost too many friends, to think of himself as anything other than a member of a militia of last resort, fighting against an implacable, near-unstoppable foe intent on one goal: the end of human civilisation.

In the messenger bag clutched in front of him, he carried documents drawn up by a woman he simply called Seer. She saw things that most could not, read signs in the movements of the sky, and between her mad fits and deranged ramblings, she learned fragments of secrets about the enemy's movements. He had sat with her most of the day, scribbling notes in his approximation of short hand to help make sense of the papers she'd scrawled diagrams and maps and names.

Usually, she would ramble for an hour or maybe three, but that day she had kept at it 'til the sun began to set and more lucidly than usual. Her predictions were more specific, her scrawl more readable, and even the man's less than mystical ken could see the portents of humanity's demise. He'd stayed too late and now he travelled through dark places in darkness hoping that the shadows of the buildings were just that, shadows, and fearing they were entirely more sinister than that.

He turned a corner, stepping round a dumpster that smelled of stale Chinese food and vomit, and hurried towards the street. Lights ahead, he picked up his pace. Ahead, three homeless men huddled in a dark doorway. A cold night, the man's breath misted with each sharp exhalation; he'd walked hard to get through the alleys as quickly as possible.

Not far, he thought to himself, just another couple of blocks 'til safety.

Ahead, the street light flickered, dimmed, then went out entirely. Then man felt panic grip his lungs, for he knew what that meant. He broke into a run, but the homeless men surged from the doorway to block his escape. Even in the darkness of the alley, he now knew them, or at least their kind. This was his thing, knowledge of the enemy, but faced with the enemy's agents he could make no use of his learning. The three scrambled towards him. He turned, ran back the way he came blindly.

"Help!" he shouted desperately, but his voice came out strangled, more a wail than a cry for help.

A turn, then another, he stumbled over a pile of refuse he didn't remember passing. And he fell, hard, spraining his left ankle as he went down. He cried out in pain, then in dismay as he realised the three were right behind him. His cries became screams, albeit very briefly, as the three descended on him and tore him apart with claws where there should have been hands. His last sight of faceless figures shrouded in shadows: agents of The Dark.

~

Elsewhere, the sun began to set on a different city. The last rays of late autumn sun did little to take the chill from the evening wind blowing steadily from the north. Oblivious to the oncoming end, people went about their lives much as they always had. The news told stories of the rich getting richer, the poor getting poorer, of economic crisis, of war in far away places about things that seemed to be of little relevance locally. Blinkered, even blind, humanity ambled aimlessly towards the precipice simply because people did not have the wit to see.

Yet not everyone was so blind. A few, most lost and frightened, knew something of what was happening around them. They could see the signs in the obituaries, the coincidental disappearances, in delays and other setbacks. They could sense an unseen hand at work, snuffing out pockets of progress, gatherings of resistance to its plans. Even fewer, lost or otherwise, took it upon themselves to intervene, for the sake of everyone. Some had tried to warn of the impending apocalypse, but all who spoke out publicly had disappeared or died a sudden, often brutal, death. No, intervention was a now a matter for partisans fighting a war below the radar.

So some fought, and some hid, but any who put their head up over the parapet, even for a moment, even by accident, became a target for agents of the enemy, or even the enemy itself.

This evening in particular, one woman had become a target of The Dark itself. Moving from shadow to shadow, a sixteen year old girl, pale as snow, dressed all in black lace stepped silently through the city. She tracked her prey from beneath her wide black parasol. The evening's wind did not catch the material as though the umbrella was somehow entirely insubstantial, but even in the last rays of sun she seemed to be in perpetual shade. Around her, a dozen black cats kept pace, weaving around her legs without interrupting her movement. Some saw her pass but more tried not to see for she disturbed their sense of the world and instilled a primal fear: fear of the dark and all the dangers it might hold.

The girl with the parasol stopped at an intersection, considering where she might find her prey. She clucked, once, almost inaudible, but her cats swept outwards in all directions, becoming more like a black, fanged mist as they left her side. Content to let them hunt, the girl paused to watch the sun disappear over the horizon. As the last light faded, she drew her lips back to reveal a row of razor teeth and hissed at the new night. Each man, woman and child within earshot quivered and gave the girl a wide berth, trying fervently not to see.

 

[ImbibedFantasy1]

The last few rays of sunlight filtered in through a dirty window in a rather rundown apartment complex, the small bit of light casting an amber shade on the interior of Apartment 114B. Several opened, worn moving boxes were pushed against the walls haphazardly, their contents spilling out to reveal books and items of clothing, folders and files on all sort of occult things the owner had tried to study, tried to understand and draw comparisons from.

Of course, all proved off the mark, but in reading she felt a little less alone, a little less...helpless.

A single mattress was in the middle of the room, serving as the one piece of furniture in the small efficiency-fitted with dark purple sheets and currently occupied by an olive, dusky skinned female with dark curly hair. A small, old fashioned bell alarm clock sat on the floor beside her, quietly ticking away the minutes until the sun went down. Until it wasn't safe to be sleeping.

The last few rays of sunlight disappeared, taking the warm glow and illusion of safety with it. The petite woman slept on, lying on her side in a semi curled position, breathing rhythmically, peacefully. She was young. Twenty three or four at the most. Italian descent perhaps.

The alarm went off, the bronze hammer striking at it's bells, vibrating across the floor. Fringed eyelids closed tightly against the intrusion, the woman blindly reaching to quiet the thing-shoving herself up into a sitting position, the sheet falling wayside to reveal a white wife beater and cotton shorts. Dark, almond shaped eyes opened, a frown on her full lips as she blearily surveyed the darkened room.

Delicate hands lift to press against her cheeks, her eyes-trying to smooth the sleep from them. She didn't like the time sleep took from her, but she feared the consequence of fatigue. Rising from the mattress, she went to the kitchen sink stationed against the far wall, the fridge beside it empty, the oven on the other side of that not even hooked up for fear of an explosion.

She didn't know their methods. She didn't want to find out too late they were akin to Soul Survivor. Water was splashed against her face, two advil taken dry as she turned back to the shoddy apartment. She had moved here as a safety precaution, paid the slimy landlord cash for the digs, and far more than it was worth at that.

It might buy her time, but Marie was smart enough to know it would not save her.

Three weeks ago, her brother Danny had disappeared. He had gotten into a bad crowd in high school and never...got out of it, but he hadn't been bad off. Sure, she knew about the drugs, but he had a job in a retail outlet, he worked and kept himself neat. And then he took a turn for the worse-calling her in a panic about "them", monsters killing his dealer. She had thought it was a bad trip, or that the drugs had taken their toll. She regretted, now, not taking him seriously-but who would have? And now he was gone.

She had gone to his house. Saw the propaganda. Danny had always been smart-but a conspiracy theorist? Until she read it over. Until she saw the patterns, the "crackpots" disappearing faster than they could be mocked. She logged into his computer, found the forums he had posted in. Went to the small group of frightened but angry gangers aware something...dark was now operating in their territory.

She started her own research. She joined a more put together group. They had wanted to warn people, but no one would listen. They had wanted to rally them, demand they wake up and defend their freedom, for God's sake-and they got nowhere. Zealots, they were called. Crazy, crackpot zealots. Marie could understand the ignorance. She also understood the anger.

And then people started disappearing. God dammit, she should have -never- gone to check on Chris. An ex-marine, she knew something was wrong when the grizzled old man hadn't shown up to the meeting. She went to his house. She knocked on his door and broke in through the back when she got no answer. And...and she had seen -something-.

She didn't know what. She didn't know what they -were-. Her ignorance infuriated her, her -fear- infuriated her. She had fled. Barely out in time, maybe they hadn't seen, maybe they hadn't heard her slam the car door and speed away.

She had packed. She had moved. She nearly fucked up by going back to the warehouse-but she sensed something was -wrong- on the way, pulled over-tried to call. No one answered. She emailed, got nothing.

And now even the forum was empty.

Marie rifled through a box, taking her shot gun off the wall as she found a pair of jeans with her other hand. She glanced at the bare window before she went into the small bathroom and pulled on the pants, taking the rubberbanded, small wad of bills and shoving them into her back pocket. Four shells were lined up on the edge of the sink. She shoved two in each pocket before exiting. The double barreled shot gun carried two already.

Birdshot. Marie didn't know alot about guns, but she knew enough that birdshot at close range would tear a man to pieces. Better than the bat she had in her car, she supposed.

The gun didn't make her feel very safe. Nothing did, anymore. For the first time in Marie's life, she -wanted-, she -needed- help. But she had no one to go to, no where to turn. Not the police. Not her father, safely tucked away out in the country in Ohio-no one.

She was going to die, and she still didn't know what it was that was out to kill her. The dark. Them.

What did they want? Slow and steady domination? Would they start a war, or continue herding sheep? They had killed any who stood against them-and she knew she was next. She knew it. Marie sat down by the window, pulling her shoes on, tying the laces as she listened to a drunk couple scream at each other next door. She was only twenty four. Hell, she didn't even know anything. But it had gotten the others. It had killed her drug addict brother.

Marie glanced at the pile of books to her left, the closed laptop. She would finish her account of the past two days tonight, and send it to all the papers, all the news stations. The laptop had a cam-maybe she could record her story. Maybe it'd be more compelling, maybe someone would -listen-. A warning.

Please, someone pick up what little I've discovered, please, take what I've seen and arm yourselves! Learn what this is and how to stop them! God help us all, we have to fight!

With a deep breath, Marie tugged the laptop over and pulled it open to start typing.

 

[RedTimberWolf]

Sat at the foot of a most magnificent and luxurious bed, he rubbed the tears from his eyes. Naked, he cradled a sleek, powerful laptop between his knees, careful to keep it clear of anything he'd rather not get scorched. Command prompts blinked in numerous windows, automatic polling mechanisms updated tables of complex information, and behind them all innumerable text files containing logs and data dumps that he'd spent the last few days liberating from their various servers.

He shifted uncomfortably. His master would be downstairs, doing whatever it was that they do. In fonder moments, he liked to think of this time as breakfast but he wasn't sure his master ate, or if he did then he never invited his little bitch. A sigh, he felt tearful again. He knew why he was here and even in this place, with the master, he still shivered in the memory of the terror he felt. Was this really better?

He shook his head vigorously.

No use thinking about that now, he commented to himself in silence. Time to do as instructed. Find the girl, get her here, and quickly.

Night was falling. Time to go to work.

His fingers flew over the keyboard, the laptop an extension of himself. Screens updated, information poured in, and he assimilated it all. This was his real home, the 'Net, and always had been. Prompts for other systems in other places appeared and allowed him access where perhaps they should have turned him away. Security protocols fell at the flick of a finger, an exploit here, a rootkit there. Some of this ground he had walked before, but he returned to reacquire her electronic trail, cover his tracks, and hers as well. At times like that, he thought of himself as the digital equivalent of a guardian angel, cleaning away traces of her passing while keeping the details he needed to do what he must do.

And there she was. Her laptop had been his instrument for nearly a week. He resisted the urge to subvert her webcam, to watch her, if only because he knew that all he would see was her fear and that would only set him off again. His master lacked the compassion, the simple human understanding, that could make that right again. Always about the physical, for him. There were moments when he wondered if he'd made the right choice.

Can't think about that now.

Unbidden, a memory of a film he'd seen mapped itself to his current situation. He was struck, at the time, by how shocking it would be for a computer to start doing something it had never done before. No matter how much he would normally have enjoyed sending some message direct to her screen, he adopted a more tame strategy: email.

To: <recepient withheld>
From: root@discolighthouse.com
Subject: Come to Disco Lighthouse!

Why not brighten up your evening with a visit to Disco Lighthouse! Experience the bright lights, great music and dance the night away. Located behind the mall on 7th and Lincoln, Disco Lighthouse will really make your day. Free entry before 10pm, and first drink is on the house. Come and join us! Today!

He looked over the email twice. He couldn't afford to be more specific. He knew that they couldn't be seen to be intervening. This was not his master's fight. He wanted to write more. He wanted to offer her solace, except he wasn't entirely sure that she would even want what was on offer. Surely it had to be better than the alternative? Surely...

He sent it once. Then twice. Then a third time, just to be sure that it was obvious that the message wasn't a mistake. He knew it'd look like spam, but he made sure it wouldn't end up filtered and unseen. Dammit, what the hell, he sent it a fourth and final time. Better sure than sorry.

And then he waited, uncomfortably, at the foot of his master's bed and watched her electronic presence, willing her to move.

~

It sniffed the warm, stale air vented from a building's air conditioning unit. Insubstantial, just a loose cloud of black, malevolent mist, the girl's cat hunted. One moment, it was tiny, just a kitten creeping through the night. The next, a panther, prowling the alleys for its mistress' prey.

Not here, it decided, and leapt down from the fire escape it had scrambled up earlier. Not here, but not so far away. It slinked silently into the darkness at the back of the alley and discorporated through a dirty steel grate into the storm drain below. Padding just above the detritus filled sewer water, its ears tingled as it padded ever closer. This one would not get away, not from the mistress. Sure, a lesser embodiment might let their target slip away, but the mistress was an avatar, an ageless fragment of the world, and absolutely without pity in their quest to bring an end to the imbalance humans wrought. She would sweep away all resistance, and this cell had been a particularly nasty piece at that. Balance would be restored, at any price.

It's ears pricked. Not just closing, but close, it sprang upwards through the gaps in a manhole cover, reforming more solidly on the surface. More corporeal now, its sense sharpened with its greater connection to the physical world. Somewhere around here, a woman waited to die. It could almost smell her fear. Black lips pulled back to reveal its own razor teeth, fanged death for the resistance. It prowled forward, intent and ready to deal that death.

 

[ImbibedFantasy1]

Ding!

The familiar noise made her heart jump, Marie pausing to click on the email icon. Someone else ali-no. Disappointed by the disco message, Marie deleted it, idly wondering at the carefree nature of unknowing people.

She clicked back over to her word document on Google docs. Ding!

Ignore it Marie. Work to do, and not enough time for spam. Ding! Ding!. She clicked back, frowned to see the email a second, a third and even a fourth time. Disco Lighthouse. What the hell?

She glanced at the return address. Not in her contacts. Should have been spam...unless this was someone trying to get a hold of her? Marie frowned. Someone too frightened to post in the forums? Or someone unsure if she had survived, sending an obscure message in case her messages were being read?

Could they even do that?

The screaming man of the couple slammed a door, stomped down the hall for the stairs. Marie hit reply, asking the simple question:

Who is this?

Simutaneously, she opened a tab and googled the place. Did it exist where the email said it did? Marie marvelled at her own paranoia. If the innocent seeming email was some sort of trap, it didn't look like one. Dancing? In her current state?

Please. But someone trying to get through, someone looking for help or even just a comrade. It was tempting. So very tempting. She could go. If she wasn't alone at any point, if she stuck to the bar and watched for someone looking around...

They couldn't fake being human, she'd know. At least, Marie thought she would know. She sent the email, waiting for a response.

 

[RedTimberWolf]

"Log off," he muttered to her, though there was no possibility that she could hear. "Log off, get on the street, and get here." He willed her as though wishing would make it so. Instead an icon changed from green to red: a mail. Worse, a mail from her. Three words.

"God dammit!"

For a few seconds he raged silently, drumming his fingers on the laptop chassis.

"God damn you, woman. Why do you have to make this so hard?"

The reply button waited for him. Just a flick, a few seconds, and he could send her something clearer. Perhaps he'd tell her to run. Perhaps he could tell her he was a friend, someone who knew her plight, someone who had been in her shoes. But his instructions were clear. No clear intervention. Keep it deniable.

"And god damn you too!" he cursed his master in absentia.

Unfortunately, his master was not so absent after all.

"Not about to do something you'll regret, I hope?" High spoken, a beautiful voice that belonged in the times of those black and white romantic films, his master came and went as he pleased, and always more quietly than Eric would like.

"If you reply, dear Eric, then I'm afraid you will be in my bad books for some time." Eyes, blue as the sky, levelled on the naked man on the floor, steel beneath the silken tones. "She has our invitation. It is up to her to accept, or not, as she wishes."

Eric knew better than to argue with the master, doubly so when he'd made such an error as to curse him in his presence. There'd be some balancing of that transgression later, he didn't doubt. He tried not to think about it.

Instead, he took one last look at her mail. He mouthed a silent apology at his screen, then closed the laptop to leave her to her fate.

~

Her screen showed her images of a packed dance floor, laser lights, dry ice misting the crowd. It looked a riotous good time, if only the time was more suited to the activities on offer. A map confirmed the location and a little application of Street View gave an awkward shot of a drab exterior, much as most clubs had during the day. At night, though, the lights would come on, the music would thump and bleep, and the crowds would gather at this very same spot. All done in those neon tubes, a picture from the web site drew out the lettering Disco Lighthouse, with a crude lighthouse motif in purple and yellow lines. Garish, might have come to mind.

Evidence would seem to suggest that the place existed and offered the services that it advertised in the email. More, however, was not so easily forthcoming. And no reply came.

~

This was the building, it was in little doubt. Entirely corporeal now, it presented as a large black house cat except that it entirely lacked the cutesy appeal of the animal it presented as. Death in feline clothing, it settled across the street to watch an angry human male depart the building in a hurry, almost bowling over an older human woman in his haste. It noted his lack of apology and something in it piqued at the lack of decorum.

No, not in it, but in her, for it was really only an aspect of her presence in the world and she had a sense of the proper order of things. The man was out of balance and this was wrong. But his balance with the world was not what she, or it, were here to resolve. Its hackles lowered and it waited for the ebb of humans to quieten before it made its move.

In the apartment, in the dark, she would be easy prey. Terror always got the better of them; these humans were weak in mind, fragile in body, and so brief in their existence that they could not even begin to understand their inevitable end. It longed to rend her flesh, taste of her fear, and see the spark of another figure of resistance fade away, leaving only darkness in its place.

 

[ImbibedFantasy1]

Who are you?

The disco was real.* A happening place she might've visited a few years ago, gone dancing in.* Marie watched her inbox.* A minute ticked by.* Then two.* Then ten.* She frowned.* How long did it fucking take?* Probably a bot.

She angrily closed the browser, typed angrily at her laptop.* But...what if it wasn't?

Hope, delicate and barely burning, threatened her steely resolve even as she worked out another paragraph, even as she typed out a final warning.* Someone else alive?* Why the hell would they want to meet there, of all places, and at night?

Marie brought up the contact pages for several newspapers and stations.* She carefully copied each one into the "To:" option in her reopened email.* She attached the document, and paused a moment on the send key.* If she sent this, they would know her name for sure.* They would know her name, and no doubt every news station and paper would think her a crackpot moron once she disappeared, would run the story only to give evidence how "disturbed" she had been, how distraught over her brother's disappearance.

If she sent this, it would only make her disappearance or murder easier to accept.* Crack pots got killed all the time, after all.* Or wandered away into homelessness.*

But...maybe, if they ran the story with her disappearance...maybe others would see it, and draw connections to strange happenings of their own.* Maybe someone would be warned, maybe others would form groups and...

Marie hit send before she could stop herself.* There.* Done.* The last story ever written by Marie Binachi, former sportswriter.* She looked at the spammed email again.* Was it so wrong to be tempted?* Even if it was a trap, did she really want to risk missing the chance to help someone in dire need who, like her-couldn't be helped?*

Marie closed the laptop after memorizing the address.* She took a quick shower, dressed quickly.* Dark skirt, simple top, easy to run in flats.* Slipping a headband behind her ears to keep her hair back, she looked pretty, if a little under dressed for clubbing-but she didn't happen to own anything neon and she wasn't going to party anyway.* A small clutch held her switch blade and what little cash she had, her ID and a credit card she wasn't dumb enough to use.*

With a last look around the place, she grabbed her duffel bag(after stashing the shotgun inside) and headed out of the apartment to the side alley where she had illegally parked her car.* She paused a moment at the door, glancing about-and then moved for the car, head up, eyes alert-hand suspiciously in her bag.* If there was no incident, she threw open the door, tossed the bag into the passenger seat-then got in and started her up.* It was a small, sleek vehicle, just a regular red Honda Accord, 1997.* Pulling out of the alley, she'd drive away some five miles over the speed limit, eyes glancing to the rear view mirror-was that a cat?

Marie squinted to try and sharpen her vision, unsettled-and then forced to return her gaze to the road.* She was being jumpy.* Just a fucking cat, she had never been superstitious before, she wasn't about to start now.* Even...seeing what she's seen.

___________

Assuming an uneventful drive, Marie would park as close as she could, debating on bringing her bat-but that'd look odd, wouldn't it?* Reluctantly leaving the bat but taking the pepper spray from her center console, She kept it tucked close to her palm as she made the brisk walk to the place.* She wouldn't feel better until she was around people-but even after showing her ID and going in, she still felt ridiculously unprotected.* Dancing, writhing and sweaty bodies were packed closely together, the petite Marie having to wind her way through, shaking her head at a few cat calls and attempts to dance-before she reached the bar, ordered a bottle of water.* This was stupid.* If it was one of her friends, they would have used the safe word-and the emailer probably didn't know who she was or what she looked like.* Got her off the forum.* Had to be.

So...how would they find her?* Marie tipped the bartender and turned around, watching the dancers-her dark eyes sweeping the edges of the place for likewise solo patrons, possibly ones looking about for -her-.* She wouldn't leave with anyone, she decided.* Not until she was sure.* She'd make them leave ahead of her,* have them meet her elsewhere.* During the -day-.* Marie turned back to the bar, opening the bottle with steady hands.

 

[ImbibedFantasy1]

(Oops. Typed and emailed it to myself and it inserted asterisks everywhere...apologies.)

 

[RedTimberWolf]

Unfortunately for Marie, it was a night full of incident. That first free drink stayed in the bottle. The bouncers did not see her arrive. The uneventful drive did not even begin. Approaching the car was where the evening started to turn, where the end of this life perhaps really began.

A reflection in her windscreen, sharp, bright, even before she turned into the alley. In block white capitals, it read quite clearly "STOP". Wary, she'd had to be to make it this far. Observant too. Good habits, behaviours of a survivor. But would her instincts keep up?

A glance, back, forth, up... there. A poster board, high on a wall opposite reading "STOP SMOKING NOW". It'd had seen better days. The lamps lighting the right hand side of the poster had gone out. Just the first word was highlighted in a soft sodium glow. Perhaps another realisation struck: surely a reflection should be... well should be backwards!

Glance back, the reflection was still there, but backwards just like it should be. Wasn't like that a moment ago... was it?

The cat stretched languidly and jumped down from the exhaust-stained stone balustrade it had haunted. It did not bother to look left or right, just wandered into the road. Sauntered, even, towards her.

The liquor store opposite had a sign in the window done in blue neon tubes. It read, as it had every night, "Navy Rum". It fizzed, popped, and half the sign went dark. Just an "R", the "u" and half of the "m". "Run".

The cat ignored the sound, just as it ignored the car that swept by just inches behind its tail. Eyes fixed on its mistress' prey, it willed her into the alley. Into the dark, little mouse, that I might eat you at leisure. With each padding step, it grew more solid. With each damp paw print, it grew a little larger. To the alley, tasty morsel, I'm ready to feast.

The remaining lights on the liquor store's sign fizzed more brightly, then brighter still, before exploding in a shower of sparks and glass. The hell cat kept approaching.

 

[ImbibedFantasy1]

Marie froze on the back stairs, staring at the word blazoned across her windshield. Stepping down off the steps and into the alley, she took another step towards the car while glancing back over her shoulder to see what was being reflected-catching the half lit poster. Oh.

Way to be jumpy-shouldn't it be backwards?! Dark eyes dart to the windshield again, widened to see it flipped. But...it hadn't been...had it? "I'm cracking up." She mumbled, continuing to walk towards the car, troubled-when a popping noise was heard over the lazy traffic...and a black cat was seen moving towards her.

Marie's eyes focused on the cat, staring at the creature as it came. Dark. Dark and dreadful, comes the cat-the sign spelled out run. What the fuck was this? A trap? Were they toying with her? Marie backed off a step. Then another. Slow, as if fearing sudden movements. The cat's gaze did not waver.

Fuck. Marie turned and ran, back up the steps, key shoved in the lock-turning the knob and flying inside, slamming the door shut behind her, failing to even get her keys back. Fuck, fuck, they had found her! Heart hammering hard in her chest, the petite female booked it down the hall duffel bag slipped to bounce against her back, hands flat at her side.

Move move move! Down the hall, cutting a left and barely missing slamming against the wall, Marie was making a fast track for the front of the building, the main entrance.

 

[RedTimberWolf]

The hell cat watched her freeze, watched her eyes go wide with fear, and it tasted victory. Then that victory started to slip away. She backed up, she turned, and she started to run.

Don't you dare, little mouse, don't you dare run!

It snarled, bearing fangs more fearsome than any cat ever had right to, and started to lope, but she was quick on her feet. A twist, a bound, her hands at the lock, and then a door was between it and its meal. It coiled onto its back haunches, ready to throw its full weight against the obstacle...

... and a group of early evening party-goers rounded into the street not five doors down. Ten or more teenagers with drinks in hand, alcohol in their veins, and a vivacity to them that belied the primal threat in the street in front of them. But there was no threat. Just a cat, sitting pretty.

A yowl, angered, it was not to reveal their presence so obviously. Not yet. Too soon, too dangerous.

Just a cat, here. Nothing to see. Go away, foolish humans. Your time will come.

They took their time passing but when the cat looked back at the door, she was gone. It hissed in rage, then leap at the wall and bounded upwards with improbable speed and grace, half using the wall for purchase, half bounding off thick air as though it were concrete. Up, up, up and over. She could not get away from this hunter.

 

[ImbibedFantasy1]

Was it following her? Like hell that was a cat-Marie hurried down the hallway, ripping open the main door and darting down the steps, on the sidewalk, the populated, thankfully lit sidewalk on the main road.

Forget the car. Leave it. Take a taxi.

If allowed, Marie would flag one down and get in, panting slightly, dark eyes on the suddenly ominous building. She couldn't come back here, either. She gave the driver an address and some cash to hurry-and then sat back, closing her eyes tightly, catching her breath. (Good?)

 

[RedTimberWolf]

More people on the street, lights at regular intervals, but none paid Marie any particular heed. Another distressed girl leaving an apartment block with her bag. Probably a bad breakup. Nothing to see here. Can't get involved. Domestics are always tricky. Might even be her fault, don't you know.

Life passed on by, leaving Marie on the sidewalk as if she was the only one there. Only a passing taxi, paid to care and watch for those who might need its services, took any note. It pulled over, a weasel faced driver with a chin full of stubble and an acrid scent on his breath. But a taxi out of there was a taxi all the same. Escape.

From the rooftop, the hunter yowled again. Those who heard would swear they heard a mountain lion or something of that ilk had somehow made it to the inner city, but no one saw the beast or thought to do anything about it. It could have leapt down to street level, even from the roof, and smashed the car's roof. Perhaps that would have been enough to extinguish her, but there were so many lights, too many people, and its game was already up. It watched her taxi pull away, hissing at her retreat.

If not now then soon, human. Run. Run while you can. My kindred know your scent, and they are coming. You will not survive the night.

The car in motion, the taxi driver addressed her again. His accent thick, probably from Eastern Europe, "Say again where you are wanting to go, lady?" Taxi drivers see many things, know to gauge the difference between a drunk and a vomit risk, and the more intuitive ones know when to talk and when to shut up and drive. This one had some sense. It knew that she was running, though really he didn't care from what or why. Just another fare, but enough reason to keep moving while he figured out where she needed to be going. She'd said, but he hadn't heard, not clearly anyway, and she clearly needed to be out of there. So he turned the radio down, it playing some foreign language talk show, and listened more carefully this time.

 

[ImbibedFantasy1]

"Sorry, Disco Lighthouse. It's near 7th and Lincoln, behind the mall...please." She repeats, dark eyes opening to take the driver in-another glance behind her, duffel bag firmly held on her lap. That was close.

He'd see a flush faced, edgy young woman, maybe twenty three or four. Her curled hair was a little messy, bowed handband slightly askew-things she fixed absently on the way. She was smaller too, no more than five foot three or four. Definitely full grown though.

Too close-and what had been those warnings? Stop...Run. Too structured to be coincidence. Tools of these things? God? Or something else entirely, at work to help humanity? Marie had no idea, and she thought on the email again. Sent four times. No reply-just before she's nearly attacked.

Can't be coincidence. Marie suppressed a shiver, feeling a chill. What more could possibly be out there?

 

[RedTimberWolf]

The driver nodded his understanding. Got it that time. But he couldn't bring the place to mind. He knew the intersection, sure enough, and the mall on the corner. But the place she'd named, not so much. Something new, perhaps? Maybe he'd misheard. Unsure, he drove with one hand and one eye on the road, punching the details into his tiny, basic satnav. That didn't find the place either.

Not to worry, he thought to himself, just need to get closer and I'll spot the place she means. Why embarrass myself in front of the lady, hmm?

He drove, following major streets, avoiding an evening maintenance job that had part of 7th closed, keeping his eyes open for anything named something like "disco". His route had him pass the back of the mall, but he spotted nothing like it. Just light commercial buildings, small industrial units, and a mall that looked like it was starting to close up for the night, patrons of various different shops starting to file out into the street and go their separate ways.

He sucked his teeth, then pulled in outside the mall where the signs explicitly marked for no stopping. His indicator flashing like that made the stop okay, he looked back over his shoulder. "Uh, that'll be twelve, lady."

Sure, he hadn't gotten her to any disco place, but he'd gotten her close. Right?

 

[ImbibedFantasy1]

Marie frowned as he drove, also on the lookout for the neon sign. "Er, you couldn't get closer?" She asks, slightly embarrassed by the nervous note in her voice as she counted out fifteen dollars, held it over the seat for him. "Keep the change."

Fine. She'd walk. That'd...be just fine, she rationalizes, the human tendency to explain away fear. Pushing open the door, she'd pull her duffel bag with her. She was going to look pretty freaking strange with it, but what choice did she have? (Walking over there seems like a really bad idea.) The cool night air swirled against her legs as she stepped out of the cab, watching the patrons exit. Late night movies probably over by now.

 

[RedTimberWolf]

Sirens wailed in the distance, an almost perpetual sound for the late night wanderer. Fire department, from the horns. Always something going wrong.

A security guard looked out at her from the mall doors, herding the last of the customers outwards. Recognising her recent arrival, the taxi departing behind her, he shot her an apologetic look. "Sorry, love, we're closed now. Bus stop's, er, that-a-way." He waved a hand to further down the street after a gaggle of oriental, possibly Japanese, student types. He didn't wait for her reply or acknowledgement, however. He wanted to be home. Stepping back inside, he pulled the heavy glass doors closed and locked them behind him. A few moments later, the steel security shutter began to close in front of them. No way that way, for certain.

Beyond the ubiquitous sounds of the city, and the excited chattering of those students, no sound of music or queues or, indeed, anything to indicate an up and happening club in the area. Nothing at all...

Just a delicate clack, rhythmic, slow, approaching. A girl out for a walk, her umbrella all coiled up and tapping in time to her quiet steps. A girl all dressed in black lace, with skin as white as snow, black tresses falling to her waist from beneath her wide, lace brimmed hat.

And all around her feet? Cats. Black cats. Half a dozen of them, each darker than the night around them.

Clack. Clack. Clack. Louder, approaching, no haste at all. Just a sense of inevitability. And one by one, as she approached them, the street lights went out.

 

[ImbibedFantasy1]

No uncing. No drunken kids or late night movie goers heading off for some dancing.

The taxi pulled away, and suddenly, Marie realized she had done a stupid, stupid thing. Throat dry, she nodded at the security guard. There were a group of students, but Marie didn't want to endanger innocent, ignorant people. She turned away from the bus stop and began to walk along the edge of the mall, thinking to walk around it, thinking to check for this Disco Place herself.

It wouldn't be there, she feels. But someone had wanted her to meet them, and while she had the sinking feeling it was a trap, she didn't know what else to do. She couldn't go back to the house. She couldn't go back to her shitty apartment. There was nowhere to go, nowhere -they couldn't find her-.

The clacking noise made her turn her head, glance back at the girl. Otherworldly, and...the lights. The cats. Marie turned her gaze forward, bag heavy against her back. So this was it. This was how she died. Well. Not without a fight!

With a sudden burst of speed, Marie ran-head down, arms tucked in, pumping hard as her powerful legs propelled her forward. She was a runner. Small and possessing the grace of a sprinter, even in those flat little shoes she was fast. It wouldn't be fast enough, she knew that-she knew it, but all she wanted was a -chance-.

Flying down the walk, she darted around the mall, duffel bag awkwardly yanked in front of her, discarded as her hands found the shotgun. Her speed slowed with the weapon in her hands, a flicker of anger along with the false sense of security. She'd blow a God damned hole in the thing, two of them.

Marie turned, taking aim, feet sliding apart for a proper stance-though she didn't know much about guns. She was perhaps six feet from the corner of the building, ready to fire.

 

[RedTimberWolf]

"That's it, little one."

He smiled to himself. A fighter. She saw her end and kept on trying to survive. She could be used. He could use her. He turned to his bitch, the boy with the computer.

"Bring her home, Eric. As some of you seem wont to quote, 'let there be light'."

~

Round the mall, stood at the entrance to another alley, every city full of such. Just access to the mall rear for maintenance, refuse collection, probably some deliveries. All, of course, done in the day, in the light. But it was night, dark, and unlit. The shells from the twin barrels in front of her would light the alley briefly, once, then twice. Then there would be darkness and that would be the end.

Clack. Clack. The sound closed. A yowling, a low growl, and a hiss, all from different directions. More cats, from left, from ahead, and another just possibly from the direction of the apartment with a more intent stare than the rest. No matter, each began to grow in front of her, prowling forward silently, no longer so interested in appearing to be cats more than apparitions of fanged destruction. Death embodied.

Where to shoot? Surrounded on three sides, a dark alley to her rear, where even to run? The end of the line.

Then the bass began to thump, low hertz waves pulsing down the alley. A driving beat, a fighting beat. Cue lights, buzzing, flicking, then bursting bright to turn the alley into a cavalcade of neon colour. A door swung open and the high notes joined the low, something danceable, perhaps House or Trance, an evening just getting started in a hopping club. From within, lasers pulsed, dry ice drifted, but no queue to hold her back.

The girl rounded the corner, her cats now panthers, terror incarnate with black pits for eyes even darker than their outline. Each bared rows of razor fangs.

She stood on the knife edge, a line of light ending almost exactly at her feet. In front, in the world, darkness closed on her foot by foot, now at speed. Behind, the door waited open, inviting, empty a sign over it in neon pipes. Disco Lighthouse.

 

[ImbibedFantasy1]

Our Father, who art in heaven

The prayer sprung to her mind unbidden, the distant, far and murky memory playing itself out now in her most desperate of moments. The cats. Marie backed off a step. Then another, dark eyes darting from one darker than dark shape to another. "Stay BACK!" She demanded, her voice, a little higher than she would of liked, ringing out in the alleyway, feminine, fiery-scared.

Hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.

Marie fired once, briefly drowning out the imagined voice, aiming for the one directly before her. Birdshot was stopping power, the recoil damn near knocking her on her ass-a panicked scramble to remain on her feet, ears ringing. Shit. Shit. "Damn you-what do you want?! Do you really think you can get us all?!"

Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil- Her mother's voice continued calm and unshakable, the words providing her with steel, with barely remembered comfort-as the bass began to play, impossibly loud. Marie's eyes widened a fraction, daring a half glance over her shoulder. What...how had...?

And then the girl rounded the corner, and Marie found herself facing denizens of some dark, unfathomable hell. She fired once more before throwing the shot gun at the lot of them, turning and running for the door. She didn't ask at the appearance. She didn't care-all she cared about was being away from those God awful teeth and claws, the soulless, unblinking eyes of death.

"Deliver us from evil."

Amen, mom.

Past the door, she skid a few feet in stopping, breathing hard, turning to see if she was followed-and then to survey this strange, previously inexistant place. (That was scary!)

 

[RedTimberWolf]

Even as she turned the door swung closed, shutting out the darkness beyond. Perhaps she expected the cat things to come crashing through? Nothing. Just the music, pounding beats, and tendrils of dry ice drifting lazily around her.

For all the light and noise, her quick survey as she dived through the door told her that the place was deserted. Now with a few more moments to spare, it began to appear that this was not the case.

Drifting gently from seats to bar, bar to balcony, balcony to bathroom, or just congregating around the dance floor were dozens of figures but all of them seemed somehow insubstantial, like ghosts of past patrons. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, with their phantasmal drinks and party airs, but they also all seemed so distant. Just a memory, or an old recording on poor quality film. They all paid her no heed, drifting back and forth on silent footsteps, voices just whispers in the wind, lost in the vibrant bass.

The music changed, mixed to a softer piece, more melodic than danceable, an the weight of the noise lifted considerably. A flare of light, centre dance floor, and then he was there, poised dramatically like some disco diva at the end of a rousing piece. Tall, slender, perfectly toned, his pristine white shirt hung loose and open. White trousers flared elaborately with silver chasing at the seams, and white dancing shoes. His hair shone platinum with streaks of vibrant blue and orange and pink, neon bright. Long features, refined and ageless: late twenties, early thirties, maybe.

He held the pose for a few moments longer, savouring the sensation of being bathed in high wattage spot lights before loosening his shoulders and walking towards Marie, smiling brightly, welcoming.

"Marie, Marie, Marie. Welcome! Please do make yourself at home."

He glided towards the bar, each step perfectly placed, as though that had always been his destination.

"Come, have a drink. You've had quite the night! What'll it be?" Behind the bar now, he sweeps an arm to present the magnificent selection. "A bottle, perhaps? Or something more refined? We do a good cocktail, if that should take your fancy."

The door still closed, no sign of anyone even attempting to enter. The apparitions remain uninterested, focused on their own silently revelry. Just the ageless man in white with coloured streaks in his hair, and the bar between him and her.

He expertly twizzled a long necked vodka bottle in one hand, watching her keenly, perhaps even inspecting her at some greater level than eyes could normally see. His smile sharpened, more a grin. "Name your poison, m'dear. And do take a seat before the adrenaline wears off and you fall down."

 

[ImbibedFantasy1]

The door had slammed shut behind her, Marie half expecting it to blow open, for panthers to somehow seep though the cracks and tear her apart. No pounding came. No beasts.

She looked around the deserted place, confused, still breathing quickly, hands up at her sides, ready to curl into fists, ready to fight. And then the ghosts started appearing. Marie's eyes widened. What...what on earth was going on here?

The stop, the neon lights blowing up-the emails...

Watching the ghosts, side stepping to avoid a dancing couple that didn't seem to realize she was there-Marie blinked, once, twice-rubbed her eyes before looking again. Either she had cracked, or this was a cruel trick.

Was it so hard for the former sports writer to believe something fantastical was happening? Yes. Yes it was. Her hands lowered. She stared at the dancing figures, seeming, for a moment-rather lost. Everything was wrong. More wrong than even she had realized.

There wasn't just the dark preying on humanity, looking to crush them for reasons unknown.

Then...what else was there? How much more was humanity ignorant of?

She looked back into the dance floor she stood upon as the music changed-and there he was. Present rather than...ghostly, an unreasonably beautiful man stood in the center of the dance floor, pristinely dressed, holding a pose-and aware of her. He smiled, and Marie just stared.

How did he know her name? A look of complete and utter confusion entered her dark eyes, watching him walk towards the bar. He moved so...realizing she was staring, Marie looked away, back at the ghostly dancers. In comparison, Marie was not perfect. The bowed head band was again slightly askew in those curls, the blue skirt flaring slightly at the hips, falling to just above her knees-the tank top smelling of gunpowder from firing the shotgun, a strong scent that didn't quite cover up the faint, juniper oil and orchid scent clinging to her skin from her bodywash. Her right shoulder bore an angry red splotch mark that would no doubt form a nasty bruise from where the recoil of the gun had hit her. Her hammering heart slowed, hands now feeling clammy after the narrow escape from death. She heard him ask her what she wanted to drink-and she half felt like she had ALREADY had enough, thanks, being perfectly sober. Besides-while some may have -needed- a drink, Marie preferred to abstain, keep her wits about her-and not drown herself in the drink some desperately desired to forget with.

She looked back to the door. It was still there, still closed. She half wanted to go to it, open it-and see if she had entered some sort of Twilight zone, out in the nothing. Her hands were shaking slightly, she realized-and as he spoke again, Marie looked to him-and then moved to the bar, taking a seat because, well-he was right. Her adrenaline was wearing off, making her aware of the ache in her shoulder she hadn't previously noticed, the tightness in her chest. "I...I don't understand."

She says, feeling a little stupid for saying it-because OF COURSE she didn't understand. She hasn't fully understood anything since her brother had disappeared. Her brow furrows, lips parting to say something, but unsure where, exactly, to start. "You...this place wasn't here, earlier." She states, again-feeling stupid. Her face flushes slightly, a light blush across her cheeks against that olive skintone.

"I mean-what is going on, what is this? And who are you?"

Hands gripped the counter, Marie watching him carefully. Yes. Who was he?

How did he know her name?

 

[RedTimberWolf]

The music mixed to something down tempo, melodic, a single male voice singing loose rhymes themed on love and loss but somehow never quite making sense. The apparitions continued their slow dances and silent revelry, ignoring the olive skinned woman at the bar entirely. They seemed somehow more substantial, though, up close, or at least as they approach the bar and its impromptu white clad bartender and his pair of vodka filled shot glasses.

He pushed a glass over to Marie, taking up his own. He grinned, "In case you change your mind." Then he downed the shot in one, gasping pleasurably as the alcohol caught the back of his throat. "Mmm mmm," he intoned musically, slapping the glass back on the bar, "Excellent stuff." To all intents and purposes, it seemed that he was ignoring her questions entirely, but then he leaned forward, attention fully on Marie, and smiled radiantly.

"Your questions are no surprise, Marie. I guess the four double-yous are always appropriate in circumstances so confusing." He settled his chin on his upturned palm, elbow on the bar. Long limbed, even in this reclined posed he still stood taller than Marie.

"It interests me that you chose to start with where. A very tactical question. The sort of thing a survivor needs if they're going to escape whatever trouble they've found themselves in. And you're a survivor, aren't you Marie." That last was not a question. All said with certainty, describing the world as it was.

"So, let's answer your crucial first question." He straightened and gestured expansively, encompassing the entire establishment in a wave of his arms. "This is the Disco Lighthouse. It is my refuge, my bastion, and my home. It is a place of safety for those who find it, learning for those who want it, and solace for those who need it. And yes, it was right here all along, just where you expected it, but technically speaking it's not open to, well, just anyone." He levelled a finger at her, "You found this place because you were invited, and because I let you in. Others, not so much."

He stroked at his immaculately clean shaven chin, "But that all said, it hasn't really answered your question, has it. You find yourself adrift in a world that has stopped making sense. Hence your other questions, hot on your survival instinct's heels." He pours himself another vodka, downs it in one, and again slaps the glass down on the bar. "Let me ask you this, then. What do you think is going on, hmm? Not in this place, I mean. Clearly you're not answering that just yet as you've only just arrived. But, overall, out there, what is going on that has you running for a refuge you might not have needed in a different life?"

 

[ImbibedFantasy1]

He was an extraordinary beautiful man, and somehow that unnerved her. Sitting here at the bar, watching him drink, she half wondered if she was really being torn apart by beasts, and this was the dream she had slipped into, somehow.

Marie's fingers slipped off the edge of the bar, grasping tightly at her knees. She could feel that. She was awake. This was real. And this man not only knew her name-he apparently knew -her-. A survivor.

She had always been a survivor, and this dark threat had only sharpened that aspect of herself. The email. He had sent her the email to invite her to this place. But why? To help? Doubtful. Marie was wary of supposed knights in shining armor. No one did anything for free. There was always an angle, always something to be gained, some profit to be made.

Right?

"...I don't know." Marie answered, and her ignorance infuriated her-a flash of fire in those dark, confused eyes, a flash of that steel and resolve. "But it isn't for lack of trying. I've read into religion, I've read into the occult, I've tried to learn as much as I could about the things that killed my brother. I know next to nothing." She picked up the glass, turned it in both her hands, staring at the liquid.

"And I've been targeted anyway. What I know, what I -feel- is this: A dark and oppressive enemy works at the edges of things. They are not human, they are not understood or processed as anything but superstitious nonsense. There's something terrible at work here, genocide or some other atrocity no doubt in the works, being planned. With each group they stamp out, each person they've silenced, they've only grown bolder. Walking among those that prefer their ignorance." Marie downed half the drink, lowering the glass to cough into her other hand at the bitter taste, the burning in her throat.

"There's strength in numbers..." Marie murmured, her eyes closing, fringed lashes pressed against olive skin. "If enough people just worked together, if enough people -saw- what was going on right outside their windows-" Her eyes snapped open, drinking the rest of the foul tasting Vodka, partly just to show she could.

"But they haven't yet, and if a small, secret group like mine was compromised, how much hope can there possibly be? But we can't just lie down and be controlled, herded." She hissed, the vodka beginning to take the edge off, making the ebb of pain in her shoulder lessen somewhat.

"You sent the email." She states on the heels of the word "herded". "Why?"

 

[RedTimberWolf]

He refilled her glass, then his own, then skirted her question a while.

"So, you accept you know next to nothing about that which followed you here tonight. I think that's for the best, all things considered." A grave pronouncement delivered with odd levity, as though he felt the matters so recently left outside to be of little overall concern. Yet his tone became thoughtful, even understanding, as he continued, "You've lost people, even family, to an adversary that relentlessly hunts you even for acknowledging its existence. Yet not knowing would not have saved you. This conflict exists whether you look or not, and might find you whether you want part of it, or not."

He fixed her with a piercing look, vibrant blue eyes almost seeming aglow with an inner radiance. "You looked, though, and you tried to prepare yourself for this fight. Brave. And desperate, of course. But first and foremost brave."

Two, three, even four seconds, he just fixed her with his fullest attention. Then he straightened, raised his glass, and downed yet another shot. Despite the rapid drinking, he seemed none the worse for wear. "Vodka always makes me hungry," he declared absently, focused on some middle distance image of something delicious. He drummed the fingers of one hand on the bar top, considering, then turned back to her. "We can get to that in a minute, though. You asked why I invited you here. Quite simply, because you're brave, because you want to live, want to fight, but have absolutely no hope without a little help."

He beamed brightly, "My help."

Never one for a linear or direct approach to things, he looped back to an earlier topic. "And you also asked who I am. I guess if you were ever likely to accept my help, you'd need to know the answer to that, at least."

He drew himself up, straightened the wide collar to his opened shirt, then flicked his white and coloured hair back over both shoulders. "You may call me Neon. Yes, like the lights." Wryly, "I guess that would be quite appropriate, when you come to think of it." He smiled, including her in his self-referential patter even if she lacked the context to really follow.

"Still, we're talking, we're drinking, and I'm really quite famished. I'll order us some finger food to tide us over." He tapped on a touch screen behind the bar, selecting a variety of items, and then yet more, almost as though he'd just ordered for a party of twelve. Which, in fact, he had.

"You'll doubtless have more questions, but answer me this before we continue." That look again, absolute focus, almost like being caught in the beam of a spotlight. "Would you like my help, Marie? And don't answer quickly or thoughtlessly. Take a minute, or two, to consider where you'd be if the door hadn't opened, if perhaps you were still on the street right now, facing the dark."

 

[ImbibedFantasy1]

Marie watched him talk, trying not to think about Derek's death, how she hadn't believed him. Her poor brother. Her poor, poor brother. She took a long drink from the repoured glass, the alcohol burning in her empty stomach, a sort of dizzy buzz in her head.

She set the glass down, resolved not to pick it up again-color coming to her cheeks as he called her brave. One second. Two. Marie looked away casually, down the bar at the more corperal dancers.

When he turned away to tap at that touch screen, she looked back at him curiously-and with mild wariness. What stake did Neon have in this, exactly?

And then, weaving his words artfully, Marie found herself thinking about the panthers, the dark, cold alley. Did he mean for her to feel grateful? Marie felt briefly ashamed, that color to her cheeks deepening. "I meant to thank you-" She blurts out, eyes widened just a fraction, a breath taken to slow herself down.

"I mean-for that." He tapped out more selections, and Marie wondered if he meant to feed the ghosts, some way, some how. As for his help...

"Er, Mr Neon-" she began, hands on the edge of the bar again, a hesitation to her tone. He was on about being hungry and other things she couldn't quite catch, seemingly without a care in the world. Was he immune to the shadows somehow? What would his "help" entail, exactly?

Clearly he was more than a man, though what or how, Marie didn't know. There were no knights. Always an angle. "...at what cost would I be receiving your "help"?" She asked politely enough, but there was a slight wariness to the question that might draw pause.

Marie was thinking, and thinking hard. Did the price really matter? Yes, she supposed it did, even with her back against the wall as it was, she didn't want to get into worse trouble. Then again-what was worse than being torn apart?