Anarchist

Prologue

Red beams of light cut across the dark room, each strobe cold enough to freeze one's blood in its stream yet hot enough to burn through steel.

Sharp enough to tear its way through one's flesh.

It guarded something, something that people would die for. Some had slaughtered its human guardians in attempt to claim it for themselves, though that some had died for the same cause, for its protectors were fierce.

For this was not something that could simply slip into the hands of a simple thief. It was too delicate, too fragile, yet far too powerful.

Sitting in the very middle of the dark room was the most powerful force known to all of Earth and all life on her surface.

The End Of The World.

He seemed incredibly out of place. Coleman's shirt was white and fresh, cool against his skin, and his suit jet black and immaculate, with not a single speck of dust clinging onto it. Yet he was hidden in the corner of an alleyway lined with piles of garbage. A good few who slept under rags with only so much as a dog for company, others with none at all, were sitting slouched against the wall, setting the rather depressing mood to the scene. Some had attempted to reach out and tug on his sleeve, perhaps, to grasp attention before pleading for a small amount of change. Coleman refused to accept his part in such a donation, knowing he'd receive nothing in return. He was not a charity worker, and so it was a waste of time.

He nervously flicked his thumb across the lighter until the bright orange, flame sparked from it. He lifted it up to the stick placed between his lips, and the flame sparked lilac, giving off purple smoke that glowed in the night, and lighting up the alleyway. The bittersweet taste of the gas he inhaled stained his tongue, and he closed his eyes as he took another long drag. Coleman's mind clouded over like the smoke in the air around him, but in a way that made his mind sharper; more awake, more alert. This worked to his advantage, he had business to deal with. There was a woman whom he was awaiting the arrival of, and he was not particularly patient. He had burdens to dispose of, threats to overcome and hands to get dirty. Despite the gas that poured inside him, the atmosphere was not a comforting one, and the drugs were not helping to relieve him. Coleman pressed his back against the brick wall, his muscles clenched, and he took another long drag to try and relieve his tense body as he closed his eyes.

"You do know it's illegal to smoke, right?"

Coleman snapped to attention and whipped around at the sound of the voice as his breathing hitched, his hand immediately slipping into his jacket to reach for the gun as if on reflex. He immediately let go of his gun, a sensation of relief washing through his body once he recognised the figure in the dim purple light; particularly from the tattoo on the side of her head, which was clearly visible on the scalp which was bald apart from a bunch of dreadlocks tied up into a ponytail.

The Messenger.

A heavy sigh escaped Coleman's lips, white smoke spilling from them. "It's just a Dove," he grumbled, his voice bitter.

"Still illegal," a grin spread across The Messenger's lips. "Not working too well, is it? Doves are meant to help you calm your ass. You're still paranoid as ever."

"I'd rather not make myself known throughout this God damned city and have the police on my ass. Not before the dirty work starts," Coleman shook his head before taking another drag. "You can never be too careful."

"Yes, mum," The Messenger rolled her eyes. "You're not doing a very good job of being careful if your reaction to a noise is reaching for a gun. People will either get suspicious or drag you into a mental asylum for cases of extreme paranoia."