Genesis

Day 27

Henry Wallington used to be one of the most important men on Earth. He wasn't anything anymore. Such a fact was hard for his brain to compute at first, but he got over it. He moved on from his old lifestyle of lavish, luxurious things and into a new one.

Royalty.

Sure, he had owned a large chain of companies, including the large move production company OneChance, which produced big-name movies such as The Spell and Love Hurts . He'd been like royalty then; always followed by a posse of people, trailed after by adoring fans who'd fallen in love with him when he'd played "Toby Peterson" in the Nightshot trilogy. He'd lived in a mansion worthy of the title of "castle" and had danced at balls that the Queen of England attended herself. He'd gone through three wives, all who had still begged for him to take them back. He didn't bother with things he didn't like.

But now? Now was a little different. Every individual listened to his every word. The word of "King". That's what he'd come to calling himself, just simply "King". And the people he'd taken in to his mansion and the three guest houses in the back - at the end of the first week it was 12; at the end of yesterday it was 56 - listened to every command he gave. No one ever questioned his authority, and Henry was finding that he liked this much better than that movie-star/actor/producer/company-owner title from before. This one was much more....gratifying. Special. Powerful.

Yes. Powerful. That was the word he was searching for. He so enjoyed the time he spent relaxing on the throne that had been built for him; sprawled across the large seat and the armrests, watching his subjects below him. His throne had been placed on the highest balcony; beneath him the fields and homes where the lowest of the subjects (33 of them) worked; behind him a wall of glass with a single door that, if he looked through it and down, revealed the state of the middle class workers (21 of them) as they moved about the mansion; above him an awning, built to shield him from the sun and any other Georgian weather; next to him his faithful companions, Moxxie and Stroud.

"King," Moxxie announced. Henry never bothered to look at his subjects. They looked at him. They listened to his every word. They loved him. Not he. He did not do those things in return. He was the king. "King," Moxxie repeated. Henry kept his gaze trained on the subjects beneath him, his expression hardening into a nasty scowl, his lip curling and his eyebrows furling. He didn't like Moxxie much. She was there for him, listened to every command no matter how obscene. He'd saved her, taking her in from the road where she'd laid, nursing her back to help with Stroud's help. So now, she had a debt to pay to him, and he let her pay it, no matter how annoyed he got with her. "King," Moxxie said for a third time. Henry heard Stroud mutter something to her, and Henry finally raised his head, turning and looking in Moxxie's direction. She held a dangerous looking hammer; the edges sharpened into blades. She was smiling at him, her dirty blonde hair straight and framing her face; her black, backless corset and grey skirt clashing with the paleness of her skin and eyes. Henry had gotten her that outfit, he recalled, had found it in an old warehouse and "gifted" her the skimpy outfit. She'd worn it, of course. He didn't think she'd liked it, so why was she wearing it now, without the command to?

"King, you should listen to dear Moxxie," Stroud said, drawing out the girl's name slowly, annunciating carefully. "It's important." Henry rolled his eyes and sat up, resting his chin on his shoulder and watching her. She tossed the hammer in wide tosses back and forth between her hands.

"King," Moxxie said for a fourth time, "I apologize for my following actions. I wish of you to reflect on my actions from previous days, and grant me what I am about to do." Henry rolled his eyes and shrugged.

"What is it?" he snapped, becoming more and more annoyed. He didn't have time for Moxxie to just mess around. He wasn't worthy of such a thing. Everything was to be done with purpose.