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Er...

Simply put, I'm writing a book, but don't know whether I like it or not... I want to continue it, because I've been working on the story and characters for a long time, but I don't know...


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John Clayton entered the perfectly clean room, his normally grinning face darkly calm and serious. He chose to sit in his given seat rather than his traditional seat, sitting at the head of this table. For this meeting there needed to be a clear leader. He adjusted his suit as he sat, his fedora remaining perfect above his medium-length, well-trimmed black hair.

He leaned inward, looking at those around him. The six people, counting him, that would stop humanity or end it. This was the moment of truth. But one was missing, doing something that had to be done. Not all could be present. He could not let all be seen. Let one remain in the shadows.

He looked at the colossal television at the other end of the table, then at each of the others at the table.

The first one to his right was the closest thing he had known to a son. Samuel – no last name. Sixteen years of age.

Samuel had been 'saved' at nine by Clayton... he had been controlled by others and his own image, his emotions. Clayton had lifted him from that and stopped those that abused him, forced him to wear a plain white porcelain mask with no features because they said that Samuel had none, was worth none. Samuel chose to continue to wear that mask, but there was a long crack that ran over his right eye. To remind him of what he had risen from.

To Clayton's left was an empty seat. Nikolai Kendovsk should have sat there. But he was missing, and not for Clayton's reasons.

To the left of Kendovsk's seat was a Norwegian man with high cheekbones and spiky blond hair. He had a thin scar over the bridge of his nose and another one over his right eye, but those did not detract from his appearance; rather, they seemed to make him seem more... distinguished. This was the man simply known as Luke.

On the right side of the table after Samuel sat a massive, possibly seven-foot-tall man in a black sleeveless T-shirt and pants. His shaved head did not reflect any of the light; rather, it seemed to absorb it. His handlebar mustache caused him to look even more menacing than he already did, a prodigious feat given the size of his muscles. Ephraim Crowe. Far more intelligent than he looked.

Immediately following Ephraim Crowe was a pale, thin nineteen-year-old genius. His head held a mane of black unkempt hair, reminiscent of Sirius Black. He stared at the table, his eyes half-closed. No one would guess he was Ephraim's son, Dorian.

Clayton looked up from his “inner circle,” as he liked to call it, and to the television then back to his people.

He began to speak. He had a charismatic, flowing voice, one that made you feel warm, one that made you feel like you could do what you wanted and to hell with the consequences. Charles Manson's voice.

“You all know why we are here. Tonight is the night that we see what the results of a plan, put in motion nine years ago, will result in. We cannot back out now. We made our choices nine years ago. Let us hope it was the right one.”


He turned on the colossal TV. It was a satellite image. It showed the Earth in all its splendor and squalor. A live image.

He watched his watch as it counted down.

Four.
Three.
Two.
One.

He looked up as the second hand hit the twelve on midnight of December 21, 2012. His personal touch, a darkly ironic one.

Fire dotted the globe. Nuclear fire. Everything was going wrong.

Its good you should continue writing i hope i can find it if it gets published.

For you, I have naught but praise. This is highly imaginitive, descriptive, and overall intriguing. I fully encourage your continuation of this piece.

Thanks.

I will.

Here's Part Two, Chapter One. (That was the prologue)

CHAPTER I – December 30, 2002.

Henry Reed sat awake in bed as he always did. A lifetime insomniac, Henry needed less than two hours of sleep a night. However he stopped being able to focus around 11:00 PM. So he sat awake in bed doing nothing until around four in the morning, then fell asleep for two hours and then awakened, just to do it all over again.

Henry Reed was an accountant. But not an ordinary accountant.

During his days off, and during the weekend he would meet with a man he knew as John Riley. Most likely a pseudonym; he didn't care. What he did care about was the extra $250,000 in his account after each meeting. And because they played various forms of poker while there no one got suspicious. John Riley, a kid John called Dorian (who he was certain cheated; no one was that good at reading people), and a man of Northern European descent who never introduced himself, but was simply called L, and then Henry himself. Each one of them was decent, but L and Dorian were the best. Dorian cheated though. So L was the best player there. It felt sometimes like John threw his hand, but he won enough to prove that he really wasn't that good at the games. And Henry fell somewhere in the middle.

But the games were a front; what really happened was John paid Henry for “certain services” which had been delivered every time. In short John was paying him to change certain numbers. Henry didn't look closely at what the numbers made up; he just did what he was asked and got an additional 250 grand. Change 17 to 33, 21 to 14, 32 to 2. He didn't see a pattern and didn't look for one.

But tonight was different. He had a meeting with John Riley tomorrow, but wasn't looking forward to it. He'd already made over three million off the man – he was set for life. He didn't need to meet with him. But he couldn't risk not. That man L looked like a psychopath, and John Riley made a habit of sending letters to Henry, and as such knew exactly where he lived. He knew that Dorian was a hacker of some sort, so running would be difficult if not impossible. And he knew that they were expecting him to run, so there might be people watching him right now. So he would have to meet with Riley tomorrow.

His mind made up, though nowhere near at ease, Henry Clay rolled over and fell asleep. 2:13 AM. Early for him.

I require feedback... paranoia and all. If I don't get it I'm not going to continue.... heh.

^^ It is fine.

Thanks for posting; it makes it worth it.


And I understand how real life can interfere with Gaia... it takes priority. ALWAYS.

Thanks for that.

Here's the next chapter.

Chapter IV – December 30, 6:47 AM.

Henry Clay rolled over. He was awake. He had gotten four hours of sleep – two more than he usually did. He was exhausted.

He sat up and looked at the clock beside his bed. The alarm had either not been set or had been turned off. He wasn't sure which and he didn't really care. He had a splitting headache.

He sat up wearily and walked over to his dresser across the room, tripping over his clothes that he had left on the floor and falling, slamming his head into the dresser. Dammit...

He stood up again, feeling the welt on his forehead. Then felt the stickiness of blood. Goddammit... it WOULD happen on today, wouldn't it?

He kicked the clothes with fury, then walked to his bathroom to clean himself off and get ready for today. He bandaged and cleaned the large cut on his forehead and did other various things associated with the morning and the bathroom.

He emerged a relieved and fresher man, though just as irritated, then returned to his bedroom to get dressed.

He chose a formal black suit, without tie. John Riley hated ties; best not to aggravate him. He put on a pair of matching socks and penny loafers. He then proceeded back into the bathroom, as he had forgotten to comb his hair. He attempted to tame his unruly grey-black hair into something that approached suitability, and when he could not he chose to wet it and try again. He put a black bowler hat on to cover this.

He walked to the staircase leading down, then glanced at the clock in his room. 6:52. He heard a knock on his door.

He suddenly felt fear. Deep, freezing fear. He knew that it was probably something innocent... delivery man or something... but knew in his heart it wasn't. But he had to open the door.

He made it down the stairs, conscious of his lack of exercise. He hadn't been in a fight since ninth grade and hadn't worked out in fifteen years. This weighed on him more and more till he got to the door.

He slowly moved his hand to the lock, trying to stop its shaking and failing. He turned the lock slowly.

He pulled the door open. Just what he feared was standing there.

The Scandinavian man he knew as L was waiting there on the doorstep. There was a feral look in his eye and a grin on his face. There was his distinctive white trenchcoat over a suit on him, a rather expensive one.

“Good. You're awake. Come.”


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Henry walked down the street with the man he knew as L walking in front of him, fear building in him, contained only with sheer force of will. He would break down, he knew. This man was capable and willing to commit murder. He could feel it. The money had blinded him before. Oh, why had he agreed? They didn't need him anymore, so they were going to kill him.

As they passed a shop Henry attempted to break off and walk into it. Without turning around, L simply called back cheerily,
“I don't think you want to do that.”
Nothing more. Simply that statement. Then L shifted and Henry could see the bulge of what could only be a gun beneath the coat. Henry walked back over behind him, helplessly.

“There, that's better, isn't it? Now, we need to go meet Mr. Riley.” L's eyes were cold, emotionless. “As you know, he doesn't like to be kept waiting.” With that L turned back around and continued walking. With nothing else to do Henry studied his features, hoping he would get a chance to identify him later.

Short blond hair... cold blue eyes... Scandinavian features... the trenchcoat... god, this man's really distinct and I can't describe him! He could be anyone based on what I can note! All I can tell is his clothes, and he can take that coat off as easily as... as easily as he could kill me...

L had continued walking, then stopped. He turned around to Henry, then gestured. Henry was to lead.

Henry swallowed, then nodded. What choice did he have? He removed his hat and dropped it; he was far too sweaty for it to have any benefit now. He didn't care about his appearance. It wasn't that important right now. He had to stay alive.

L walked behind him, Henry presumed; for some reason L's shoes were silent.

“Turn here.” the whispered voice came from behind.

Henry turned and went down the side street.