Haven

1: Glitz and Glam

A city of starlight and desecrated dreams dashed outside of the car window, blurring like meteorites and vanishing into the horizon. Bright neon images lit up the sides of buildings with advertisements and news segments detailing the cost of the newest SanguineXR50 convertible and reports on the recent vigilantism. Edmund caught the date, a somber 03/14/2096 etched next to a headline of "Is Duskrim City Safe Under Brigadia's Watch?" At the bottom, he caught the words BUT IS BRIGADIA AN ABERRANT? boldened in subtitles.

These events are poison, he thought, checking the time in the snakeskin band around his wrist to see a hazing blue 9:07pm flickering on the glass CorvoWatch screen. He was late, but that was fine—they'd all be too absorbed in their fancies and whims to notice one missing head. It had been like that his whole life: a sea of bodies wriggling for the top too much to notice the sixth in line for his father's legacy.

When the car rolled to a smooth halt, Edmund's body lurched forward slightly then slackened. A cacophony of voices melted through the glass into the sanctuary of the quiet car. The driver announced their destination, and a breath escaped Edmund's lungs, a heavy sigh to signify the exhaustion to come. The backdoor opened from the grip of a burly, suited man slightly brushed open jacket revealed a glittering piece of murderous steel: a Sinai Tommy, mark 2094 submachine gun. Despite their society, despite the Aberrant powers people have been handed, nothing could stop a human bullet quite like an actual one.

One hundred years ago, the first of them appeared: Aberrants with abilities the likes of which the world had never known. Governments screamed for order, for control, and wars burst from every orifice of creation until the world was burned. Even minimal rebuilding had taken decades—it wouldn't be complete for many decades to come.

As he stepped from the van, Edmund felt the cool breeze of the beginning of September on his face, and the immediate need to run pressed on his skin. The Glitz, an upscale club in the north end of Upper City, sparkled with life in front of him, and guests from every breadth of richness flocked inside.

"Capo Noveskya," someone said behind him, and Edmund finished fastening the button of his three-piece suit as he turned, his eyes fixating on a towering burly form. Vincenzo Buscatti, Consigliere of the Italian Mafia, approached him, and Edmund scowled, not expecting an approach so early into the evening—especially one from the likes of a Buscatti.

"My friend, you know that's not my title," Edmund said, not bothering to plaster on the smiles that Vincenzo's people always did for their deepest enemies. The two of them embraced awkwardly, and a wet, disgusting kiss came to his cheek from Vincenzo. Edmund wondered if it showed in his eyes how truly thrown he was from the nastiness. Italians.

Vincenzo spread out his arms as he drew back, a warm smile on his face. "Ah, yes, of course, Brigadier. Congratulations on your newest title, Edmund." Vincenzo's arms fell to his sides and his peppered hair fell across his forehead as he looked past Edmund, shit-brown eyes taking in the view. "Now, how is the son of the famous Don Noveskya? You look the same as you did as a boy, that same cold-hearted nothingness on your face."

"Is that a compliment, Vincenzo? I couldn't tell," Edmund said, and a silence passed before Vincenzo burst out with laughter. "Of course, of course, Edmund. I wouldn't dare to suggest otherwise. Now," He slung an arm around Edmund's shoulder, pulling him in. "Tell me, what is the biggest buzzkill in Duskrim City doing here?"

Edmund hunched over just to adjust to the grip on his neck, scowling deeper. "My father requested my presence. That's all."

"You're no fun, kid," Vincenzo mused, letting him go. Edmund sucked in a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, straightened his suit jacket, and smoothed back his hair. Consiglieres and dons and capos, all Italian terms and all insults to the Russian organization. He was a brigadier, the third-highest rank in the Bratva. He hadn't spent twenty-five years of life anguishing to be the best to be insulted by the likes of Vincenzo, a drunkard and a whore. He winced a bit but gritted his teeth through the feelings.