How About Seven?

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It's an oft-quoted quote, and I'm sure you guys have heard of it. Two's company and three's a crowd. But I just can't help thinking . . . How about seven then? Every family has their own drama. Fights, quarrels, teenage flings, utter betrayal, visceral torture, stolen inheritances and bloody feuds. You know, the usual. Given my background, I've never been much of a believer in men. But here we are, and now I have to face a bad boy, a manipulative fiance, the ghost of my ex, the conning twin brother of said ex, a genius nerd, a rich-ass playboy and a mysterious online presence. Let's get started, shall we? -- [ started June 1st 2020 ] [ updates every Saturday ]

Action / Humor
Lost Syntax
Age Rating:

Power of Darkness

The shadow slipped from roof to roof, a fleeting glimpse at the edge of one's vision. He had stealth and he had speed, and though his heart was hammering wildly in his chest he had a feeling that he was going to make it.

He reached the end of the row of shops and jumped down, landing on the balls of his feet, near a lit streetlamp.

Running along the rooftops, he had been like darkness in the night. Unseen and unheard.

Well, almost.

A gloved hand came out of nowhere and clocked him hard, right in the temple. He fell, losing consciousness before he hit the ground. Light from the streetlamp spilled over his fallen body and showed the wound that was already bleeding at his head.

"The thing about flying so high up is that you will have to come down eventually," a voice murmured.

Two figures stepped out from the shadows in the alley. One man and one woman, though the woman was better off described as a young lady, since she was at least a good twenty years younger. Both of them were dressed in black, blending seamlessly into the night.

The man had on a simple black shirt and long fitted pants. He looked middle-aged, but he was one that had aged gracefully. The lady wore a hoodie, and kept both hands tucked in her pockets.

The man with the gloves leaned down and gingerly rolled the unconscious figure over with his fingers.

"Young. Can't be more than eighteen. I'd say sixteen. What about you?"

The lady leaned over just a little bit, enough for the lights of the lamp to catch her highlighted hair. She gave a delicate sniff.

"Cute. But not hot."

The man chuckled. With speedy dexterity he searched the boy, over and under his shirt, patting the pockets of his trousers.

"Hmm," he said as he pulled out a semi-automatic from the boy's belt. "A Glock 42, small caliber, six rounds. Thoughts?"

The lady shrugged. "Cute gun. But a boy's toy, not a man's weapon."

"Exactly. So they didn't send their best." He searched some more and finally found it, an ebony black cylinder case that fitted easily in his palm. On both ends of it an insignia had been stamped, all sharp angular lines and black ink, giving it a Gothic feel.

The insignia was a little bit more than one and a half inches long and showed a cube, with a Z-shaped spring coming out of it. At the tip of the spring sat the letter "B", that managed to look both regal and intimidating at the same time.

In all, it looked like a simplified version of the Jack-in-a-box toy, only the Jack had been replaced by a "B".

The man's lips curled back as if in disgust.

"Blackcroft," he spat.

He stood up, tilting the ebony case in the light, as the lady joined him to get a closer look at it.

"We stole it and they tried to steal it back," he mused. "But they didn't send their best. So what does it mean?"

The lady shrugged. "They have no best. They suck."

The man smiled at that. "That could be true."

He tucked the ebony case in his pocket and began to walk away.

"What about him?" she asked.

He spoke without looking back. "Take him. He might be of use."

The lady slipped the dagger back where it came from. She approached the boy, and with a slight grunt managed to lift him up and tossed him over her shoulder like he was but a sack of potatoes.

The trio disappeared into the night.

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