Sly Key: Part II

Malcolm Morgan
By Jem Morgenstern

Malcolm Morgan was impressive, although less than he himself thought. He willed himself to power with his words and built his fortune on a vague promise. Even in the lives in which he was loved, Malcolm was somehow insignificant. By his standards, he was unimportant. By any other person’s standards, he was unimportant. In the most dangerous way, this allowed him to become whatever he could imagine, unseen and unbothered by anyone standing beside him. Malcolm Morgan gently brushed through his obstacles. Now, he stands with an empire behind him: forever loyal, powerful, and willing. With all that he would want available at his demand, there wasn’t much left to be desired, which turned his sights towards time and its finite availability. Although he didn’t fear death or mind the inevitability, Malcolm was struck with a desire for immortality. With this desire, his crusades began.

They began with simple teams excavating, exploring, and investigating, but they were never meant to stay that way. From the beginning, Malcolm intended for them to become an aggressive invading force, which they now are. Before this, his followers had been ordinary people: average skills, average strength, average minds. As his crusades evolved, those followers vanished and were slowly replaced with brutes, unethical archaeologists, and thieves.

Despite being the leader of an evil empire, Malcolm was still an average person with an average mind. He was surrounded by mindless drones and found himself to be very lonely. Out of desperation for connection and companionship, he adopted a white persian longhair, which had yet to be named and never would be. During particularly difficult meetings with his pawns that might involve detailing punishment or the relaying of bad news, Malcolm would have his cat sitting on his lap because this would relieve him of at least some of the stress that came from these meetings. No matter how many years Malcolm spent leading, he never became comfortable confronting people. He rarely met with any of his underlings, which did good for his image in some ways. It created a cloud of mystery. Besides the few slightly more intelligent brutes who Malcolm shoved his leadership responsibilities onto, none of his followers were quite sure who he was or what he was like. This allowed any image of him bred in the minds of his followers to become his true image.

He sat comfortably on his throne-like chair, behind his desk at the end of the long, concrete room. He faced the window, eyeing the expanse of nothing, as if it were everything. The cat sat with him and relished the gentle petting and stroking of its fur. The door on the other end of the room opened. Four men stood at the entrance; two standing behind two others, who were being forcibly guided towards Malcolm’s desk. They were all dressed the same: heavy boots, sturdy coats, black. The arms of the two men in front were restrained by the two standing behind them and their faces were bruised and bleeding. Malcolm turned his chair to face the visitors, slowly. He wasn’t in the mood to handle any external issues and was hoping that the slow turn of his chair would come off as passive-aggressive, but it didn’t. The slow turning of the chair and the displeased expression on his face came off as intimidating and powerful. All four of the men were afraid of what might happen. A few feet in front of his desk, the men behind pushed the bruised ones down to their knees and held their heads in place by the roots of their hair, so that they were forced to look directly at Malcolm.

Malcolm looked at them with a forced expression of discontent, holding back the worry and guilt he felt inside. He wasn’t sure what the two had done, but he knew that he would have to order their execution. As the men with the accusations explained what the other two had done, Malcolm began building up the courage he needed to order the deaths of two men he truly felt shouldn’t need to die. He constantly regrets choosing to lead by fear, because of the terrible things he’s forced to do in order to maintain his merciless reputation. The accusing men finished their story and asked their great leader what to do with the two who had now been labeled traitors. Before Malcolm could answer, he had to turn himself back towards the window, so none of them could pick up on the miniscule expressions of discomfort that would surely appear. He took a brief pause to find his voice, unintentionally building tension. This time with a slight unease in their voice, the men repeated their question. Malcolm took a deep breath, and answered them with the most displeased and monotonous voice he could, ordering them to leave the traitors far out in the wilderness without so much as a thong to keep them warm. He knew their chances of survival would still be slim, but this was the closest he could get to letting them live without damaging his reputation.

Unexpectedly, the traitors were stripped immediately. The traitors were entirely cooperative, allowing the men whose accusations brought them to their banishment to undress them gently. The boots came off first, then their jackets and shirts. As they came to the belts, there was a brief pause, but the undressing resumed within seconds. With this happening so often, Malcolm could now expertly hide his curious interest. At first, many of his underlings were put off by the abundance of nude punishments ordered, but it has since become a part of their mundane routine and prisoners escorted around the fortress in their bare, raw masculinity aren’t given a second glance (with the exception of ones who are particularly eye-catching). As soon as the traitors were completely disrobed, they were escorted out of Malcolm’s concrete lair and he sat alone once again.

An hour passed. His door opened again. Two new guards escorted a singular prisoner towards his desk. The guard to prisoner ratio was unusual. It was almost always one guard for one prisoner. The fact that this one prisoner required two guards for its escort excited Malcolm to a small extent. Malcolm turned his chair again, to face them and listen to their accusations. The lifted the prisoner’s head by its hair to face Malcolm, as is the customary procedure. Malcolm recognized this face and his initial realization of the familiarity nearly threw a surprised gasp from beneath his cold facade.

Sly Key: Part I

Beau Train

By Jem Morgenstern

Beau Train was unquestionably the most pathetic character in xer own life, but only by xer own standards. By another person’s standards, xe might have been the second most pathetic character, only nearly pathetic, or not pathetic at all. Xer drab sense of reality was likely a result of xer heightened expectations of life that came with a childhood filled with exploration and adventure. Beau’s parents were international explorative pirates who crossed lands and oceans without a crew’s assistance. They were beyond measurable credibility. Beau’s life after childhood had been nothing but credible. It was depressing.

By the time xe learned to walk, Beau had discovered four lost lands: Paititi, Ys, Shangri-La, and Mu. Of course, xe wasn’t aware of why these places mattered and only has brief memories of these places from xer parent’s final world tour in which they visited each of their favorite places one more time before retiring from piracy. However, this tour only inspired them to leave Beau with xer grandmother as they continued their career without the pressure of keeping a child safe.

Beau Train has since thirsted for the return to a life of exploration and constant danger. This is why xe now stood on top of a speeding armored train going across the Trans-Siberian Railway with misaimed bullets threatening xer life as xe shot some back in their direction. The wind was blinding, deafening, cold. The next railcar had a rooftop hatch. Inching closer, watching xer steps as closely as xe watched the ill-trained pawns of corporate villainy inch their way closer, too. Exciting, dangerous, heart pounding, childhood renewed: this is what Beau had wanted. Xe went three steps closer to the hatch and opened it with a relieving but disappointing ease. Beau was in.

The interior was elegant and perfectly crafted, aching with the essence of wealth. Spotless tables and chairs crafted from zitan wood, garnet red curtains, pearl white rug flowing down the aisle with no marks or stains. This sort of brilliance was only ever found in the lost worlds and the property of evil. Beau questioned their need for luxury, often. The grace and delicacy served no purpose and was a needless expense. Every notable villain xe had met and heard of in xer parents’ stories were keen on grandeur and presenting themselves as nobility, however, it would be more opportunistic for them to spend more on protecting their investment in capital greed - as xe had always thought they should do.

The train shook and a man fell from the top of the train. His cry for help sounded like the countless others Beau had heard in xer life. Work as a pawn in the scheme of evil corporations seemed to attract a specific kind of person. A very specific kind of person: same build, same height, same vocals, same disrespect for the historical and architectural significance of ancient cities. These people are found nowhere else. They don’t exist beyond the villainy. This made it somewhat easier for Beau to live with the fact that xe is responsible for the deaths of possibly hundreds of these people. Even with it right in front of xer eyes, this life still felt like a dream. Reality waited in the past.

Heavy soles pounded the car roof as the militarized pawns rushed towards the hatch. Beau passed the wasted elegance, towards the door to the next car. The train shook again; another man fell with a near identical cry for help. Xe opened the door and looked down at the tracks: rocks and dirt, metal and wood, speed and danger. Xe hopped to the next car, but its door was locked. Weaponized heavy-clad men now stood in the magnificence of the previous car, staining the white rug with their unwashed boots. Beau was at a dead end. The men took aim and stood in that idle formation for what seemed to be a few seconds. Just before they had the chance to tear through xer with their copper and lead, xe swung onto the side of the speeding train.

These last-minute escapes litter the trails to lost worlds and bountiful treasures. Without them, a true explorer would know they are going the wrong way. The struggles, complications, and obstacles mark the path.

Only seconds ahead, a tunnel waited for the train, with Beau still hanging on its side. Hand by hand and foot by foot, xe made xer way towards the lonely window at the center of the car. When at the window, xe bashed against its glass with the hilt of xer gun. It began to crack, but wouldn’t break. The train still sped quickly towards the tunnel ahead; Beau took a glance. Xe hit the window glass harder, until it began to shatter. Piece by piece, the window broke apart. With the window gone, Beau could climb inside.

The interior of this car was much different, compared to the last: less windows, no needless elegance, no pack of weaponized mercenaries. Besides a few wooden shipping crates, it was empty. Beau broke them open with a sturdy kick from the heel of xer boot. The crates were hardly at capacity, each had either one item or less. In all, xe found only two cases of bullets and a simple medical kit.

The mercenaries were now trying to get in. The small platform outside the door allowed for only one of them to slam his shoulder against the door’s solid wood. Beau made xer way to the door at the other end of the car, somewhat expecting it to open without challenge. It wouldn’t budge. Anger and frustration washed over xer, then worry. Xe knew escaping through the window again wasn’t an option; the tunnel passage was uncomfortably narrow. This door was the only exit. Xe tried breaking it open with the force of xer entire body, shot at the door’s handles and hinges, pushed and pulled. Nothing helped. The door wouldn’t move. Xe stopped the strenuous effort to open the door and took deep breaths, thinking. The meager calmness was interrupted by a loud crack at the other door. The mercenaries were getting in. Xe tried ramming into xer own door with xer body again, again, and again. Four times more until the  door at the other end tore open.

Beau looked back, knowing but not wanting to believe that xe had less than seconds to escape. Xer mind went blank and xer body stiffened. The mercenaries walked towards xer. Every sound they made was amplified by fear: their heavy footsteps, ruffling of their clothes, clacking of their guns. By the time xe regained xer sense to survive, it felt as if minutes had passed. Xe glanced over every foot of the car for way to escape. Feeling the thuds of the footsteps as they pressed closer. Xe could feel the energy build inside, as xer body readied itself to flee. It was too late for that. The mercenaries were within an arm’s distance. Beau focused xer attention on one of the menacing figures and felt the vivid memory form in xer mind. A terrible pain shook the side of xer head and xe felt ximself fall to the floor.

An ocean of green water meets the edge of a white-sanded beach. The sounds of the rolling waves stir with the rustles of wind through the trees. The sky is covered by greying clouds, with a bright blue seeping through the cracks. Rain begins to fall, slowly and gently. A strong gust of wind drags fallen leaves and loose twigs across the ground. Scents of heavy wood and iodine coalesce, inducing the air with the smell of salty oak. The clouds darken and the blue becomes less apparent with each second. Thunder intermittently drowns the sounds of waves and wind, despite the both of them increasing greatly in power as the storm twists the tranquility of the beach. Gusts of wind bend the trees and tear leaves from their limbs.  Waves crash, instead of gently flowing up and down the slope of sand. The ocean darkens with the sky.