Prologue: Man of "Valor"
An old, stout man, dressed in a foppish manor with a fancy tuxedo and nice, polished shoes, sits on a white, silky chair. His right hand grasps the arm of the chair tightly, his silver eyes, watery from drunkenness, glistening with quiet worry and anxiety, which is well-hidden beneath his gaze upon the man in front of him. The other, left hand strokes his white beard, smoothing it gently. The shaking of his right leg exposes his conern about something that has clearly been bothering him.
The scenary around him is very dark and pitch black; however, the only light that happens to be within this room is a bright spotlight that hangs high over his head. The chairs are identical to the one he sits on; yet, they do not have an occupant. In the middle of these chairs, which happen to be circled, is a large, glass table that is cleaner than clean. On the table, a few papers are scattered around, along with a few glasses that are empty, but have tiny droplets of alcohol in them. One glass, closest to this man, is half-empty, sitting still and begging for someone to drink it.
The man leans over and stares at the glass, grunting slightly as he moves. He crosses his fingers together and dips his head, sighing. He then takes the glass between his fingers and drinks it. Once he's finished it, he tosses it into the darkness and a large crash of the glass follows his throw. He doesn't bother to fix it; instead, he stays still and stares into the pitch black shadows around him.
After a few moments of silence passes on, a knock comes from the side of the darkness. The man sighs and stands up, grunting as he moves. Slowly, he begins to walk towards the shadows; once he is in it, lights turn on above him, allowing him to pass through without running into anything.
A tall, metal door awaits him, where the knock must have come from. He wipes some beads of sweat from his forehead and lets out an exhausted groan. His expression almost changes immediately when he grabs the knob of the door and opens it, exposing himself to three persons, two dress in black jumpsuits and the other on the floor, clearly bloody and beaten.
One of the guards is a woman, while the other is a man. The female wears a tight, black jumpsuit, the zipper nearly exposing her bosom. One of her hands is over her utility belt, which sheaths a small, but deadly, pistol. The man, who stands on the other side of her, wears thicker, black armor that shields him better. In his hands, he has an assault rifle close to his body, tightly gripped in his hands. Each of them wear a highly tinted mask, which provides oxygen in case it was needed and also protection for their facial features.
On the floor, inbetween the two guards, there is a fallen man. He is a dark-skinned man; however, because of former events, his skin is pale and almost gray. His eyes are bloodshot and extremely watery, either because of his major lack of sleep or the beatings that constantly happen day-by-day. He wears a white, button-down shirt that is stained in both dirt, sweat, and blood. He has ripped gray hair and khaki, tattered pants. He wears no shoes, which expose his rough, crusty feet that are cut in almost every crevice and corner. The pain in his eyes is almost unbearable; however, somehow, the man with the beard is able to concentrate on them, without trouble.
"We have him, sir," says the woman guard. She steps forward and salutes the old man in front of her, who doesn't even pay attention to her, since his main focus is on the afflicted man before him.
"Thank you, Lieutenant Toph," the man says. "I'll take care of him from here."
"Are you sure you don't need us in there to make sure he does nothing?"
"I am sure," he gestures her to move and allow him to do his work. She obeys, but still gives him a questioning look. "He does not seem like he can do much harm."
"He surely can't, President Caffey," the woman fidgets slightly. "But it is a precaution--"
"I will be fine, Lieutenant," Caffey snorts. "Please, leave me to my business. Sir, bring him inside and then leave me alone with him." He is addressing the man, who nods and picks up the beaten man, skids him inside the room, then immediately exits. Both guards stand at the door and wait for their direct orders.
Caffey sighs and glances at the man below him briefly. He turns his head back to the guards and says calmly, "Stay at the door, but seal this door. I need to speak to this man. Alone."
"Yes sir," both guards nod and shut the door, the woman hesitant at first.
Finally, Caffey is alone with this man, who can do nothing but gaze back at him. Each of them exchange deadly, cold glances. After this defening silence, Caffey kneels close to the man and whispers in his ear, "You thought you could hide them from me, Duron."
At the word "them", Duron immediately responds and lifts his head in protest to this statement. He spits, clenching his teeth in anger and hate, eyes full of loathing for the man he is below, "First of all, these people are not meant to be hidden or captivated. They need to be just as free as any other human being in this world; they need the same equality. Yes, they are different. However, that difference is a gift.
"Second, I was never hiding them from you; you just couldn't find them," Duron's lips curl into a confident smile. He is not afraid of the more powerful, much stronger man; nor will he give up his cause or argument for the survival of these "gifted" beings. He goes on, "I was simply caring for them, training them in basic exercises to keep your world of humans from destroying it; clearly, they were sent here to keep the Earth alive. Also, they were here to keep you from being foolish; obviously, that's a hard one to contain, isn't it?"
At this, Caffey clicks his tongue and lowers his head, shaking his head in disapproval. "Duron, you need to learn that these--whatever they are--will not likely be helpful in any way. With the power, they may be dangerous and destroy our world even further; they could end the human race or take over our world, just like that."
"With the proper trianing and discipline, we could prevent that. Locking them up in some underground cavern will surely not fix this; it'll only make them stronger and more ambitious to destroy you. However, if we take care of them and show them the proper way, we could maybe--"
"Duron, stop dreaming! Ever since you were little, you were always such an inconoclast! You believe in the impossible and trust in those that are dangerous."
"They aren't dangerous unless you make them," Duron narrows his eyes and shakes his head. "You must understand that they are humans; they are just like mentally or physically handicapped; yet, they are given strength instead of weakness. They are gifted and should be treated like any other. I don't ask for them to be glorified; I ask for them to be protected."
Caffey stares down at Duron with shame and almost some pity. "I am the judge of this call and my choice is final: I want all the gifted to be hunted and immediately killed once found. Whoever protects them shall join them. Now, guards!" he calls loudly.
At the call, the guards rush in. Both say, "Yes sir!"
"Take him away from me. Make sure he is far in the caverns of the prison and avoid giving him any contact with any other person or gifted one that may be in there as well."
"Yes sir," the woman says as the man takes Duron and drags him away.
"They will get their revenge!" Duron screeches as he is tugged away. "I don't want this to happen, but they will find you and will kill you and the rest of the world! If you do this--" The door interrupts his calls and shuts him out. Caffey watches, unaware of his future or what really is going to happen. Instead, he fills up a glass with more alcohol and drinks it easily, sighing in pleasure at the echoes of the screams that came from Duron as he left.
YOU ARE READING
Beyond
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