The Crimson King
Return to the Earth.
“Good morning, Kaien City!“
The reporter’s familiar face flashes a gorgeous smile, the backdrop a towering cityscape that glows with life,
“I’m Karen Macnamara and this is Channel 757 News! It’s a beautiful morning here in Kaien, no doubt a sign of good fortune! We have some pretty intriguing top stories to hear about today, so stay tuned! But, first, the weather, and some quick announcements.”
She tilts her head to one side and gives another winning smile. The screen changes, a comparatively lifeless digital transition to an on-screen message, the technicolor whirs alight, an synthesized voice reading the words aloud.
...
“It is currently 0930, Saturday, the 28th, November. It will be partly cloudy with scattered showers with a low of 24 and a high of 29. Bring an umbrella.”
......
“Today is the 157th Anniversary of Acting Head Researcher Septimus Harrow’s promotion to office. Congratulations, professor.”
.........
“There have been sightings of strange men in black robes. The curfew is now 2030. Beware.”
——————
The rays of the morning sun cut through the blinds of the office window, barely revealing the silhouette of a man sitting upon an computer chair, his legs propped upon his desk, a lit cigarette in his mouth and his arms across his chest; one lukewarm acrylic, the other cold skin. A television set is propped upon the corner of the room, it’s colored yet bland features his fixation. His expression turns sour at the hearing of the Men in Black Robes. His dark jacket hangs loosely off the back of the seat, but is quickly donned as he rises from his place. His sunglasses sit on the table by the landline, the low light making them twinkle mysteriously. He dials with one digit of his false appendage, the ashtray close by now aglow with the embers of his discarded smoke, and raises the receiver to his mouth. It rings only once. He speaks into it, his voice smooth and warm, but monotonous,
“Miss Lena, close my 7:50, I’ll be away.”
“Of course, sir.”
He drops the receiver on it’s base and turns to the window, his deadpan expression livened only by the sun’s mellow glow upon his face, his eyes a paler shade, but shine the same dull color. He reaches to his shades and places them slowly upon his face, turning to the far side of his rectangular workspace, a long, leather briefcase meeting his gaze. He grips it as he walks past it and towards the door, it swinging to meet his side, blinking once at the mellow place behind him before leaving the room and locking the door behind him.
The Fumikage Family office isn’t the largest place, it’s space containing mostly it’s reception and meeting rooms. It’s colorings are not vibrant, a cold place. It’s shelves decorated with antiques and heirlooms of those that came before, encased in warded glass. His footsteps reverberate against the walls of the empty meeting room, adjacent to his office, the many chairs at the long table empty, his place at it’s head accented by the family crest upon the wall behind. He passes into the entranceway, the reception area, his secretary, Lena Godfrey, behind her half-circle desk, busy typing away at her terminal, but she glances at him as he passes by, her gaze ever focused. “Hanji,” she barks, stopping him in his advance towards the door, turning on his heel, “1230.” Ah, his meeting with Matriarch Onda, “I’ll remember. Of course.” He hums, absentmindedly, pushing open the glass door and moving through, the alleyway outside now clearly visible, waving quickly as he goes, shaking her head and returning to her work, she sneers,
“You better.”
The weather is nicer in person, he thinks, a light breeze setting his coat to flutter softly behind as he walks, glancing about the streets of the Business District, a place he’d come to call home. Many pedestrians glance and maybe wave, but always smile when they see him. He was headed to the Residential District, or rather, the Snowsant’s Heart. He had questions for Rhódon. His gait never faltered, gliding across the concrete paths and rusting, steel walkways as if he had a thousand times before. With luck, he’d arrive with time for breakfast.
The reporter’s familiar face flashes a gorgeous smile, the backdrop a towering cityscape that glows with life,
“I’m Karen Macnamara and this is Channel 757 News! It’s a beautiful morning here in Kaien, no doubt a sign of good fortune! We have some pretty intriguing top stories to hear about today, so stay tuned! But, first, the weather, and some quick announcements.”
She tilts her head to one side and gives another winning smile. The screen changes, a comparatively lifeless digital transition to an on-screen message, the technicolor whirs alight, an synthesized voice reading the words aloud.
...
“It is currently 0930, Saturday, the 28th, November. It will be partly cloudy with scattered showers with a low of 24 and a high of 29. Bring an umbrella.”
......
“Today is the 157th Anniversary of Acting Head Researcher Septimus Harrow’s promotion to office. Congratulations, professor.”
.........
“There have been sightings of strange men in black robes. The curfew is now 2030. Beware.”
——————
The rays of the morning sun cut through the blinds of the office window, barely revealing the silhouette of a man sitting upon an computer chair, his legs propped upon his desk, a lit cigarette in his mouth and his arms across his chest; one lukewarm acrylic, the other cold skin. A television set is propped upon the corner of the room, it’s colored yet bland features his fixation. His expression turns sour at the hearing of the Men in Black Robes. His dark jacket hangs loosely off the back of the seat, but is quickly donned as he rises from his place. His sunglasses sit on the table by the landline, the low light making them twinkle mysteriously. He dials with one digit of his false appendage, the ashtray close by now aglow with the embers of his discarded smoke, and raises the receiver to his mouth. It rings only once. He speaks into it, his voice smooth and warm, but monotonous,
“Miss Lena, close my 7:50, I’ll be away.”
“Of course, sir.”
He drops the receiver on it’s base and turns to the window, his deadpan expression livened only by the sun’s mellow glow upon his face, his eyes a paler shade, but shine the same dull color. He reaches to his shades and places them slowly upon his face, turning to the far side of his rectangular workspace, a long, leather briefcase meeting his gaze. He grips it as he walks past it and towards the door, it swinging to meet his side, blinking once at the mellow place behind him before leaving the room and locking the door behind him.
The Fumikage Family office isn’t the largest place, it’s space containing mostly it’s reception and meeting rooms. It’s colorings are not vibrant, a cold place. It’s shelves decorated with antiques and heirlooms of those that came before, encased in warded glass. His footsteps reverberate against the walls of the empty meeting room, adjacent to his office, the many chairs at the long table empty, his place at it’s head accented by the family crest upon the wall behind. He passes into the entranceway, the reception area, his secretary, Lena Godfrey, behind her half-circle desk, busy typing away at her terminal, but she glances at him as he passes by, her gaze ever focused. “Hanji,” she barks, stopping him in his advance towards the door, turning on his heel, “1230.” Ah, his meeting with Matriarch Onda, “I’ll remember. Of course.” He hums, absentmindedly, pushing open the glass door and moving through, the alleyway outside now clearly visible, waving quickly as he goes, shaking her head and returning to her work, she sneers,
“You better.”
The weather is nicer in person, he thinks, a light breeze setting his coat to flutter softly behind as he walks, glancing about the streets of the Business District, a place he’d come to call home. Many pedestrians glance and maybe wave, but always smile when they see him. He was headed to the Residential District, or rather, the Snowsant’s Heart. He had questions for Rhódon. His gait never faltered, gliding across the concrete paths and rusting, steel walkways as if he had a thousand times before. With luck, he’d arrive with time for breakfast.
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