The loading area may be less used, but it is not entirely empty of activity. The vigilante watches from a distance as the delivery truck is vacated of its contents. This is a smaller vehicle, though still decently enough sized, but no tractor-trailer. The boxes being unloaded are not very large, manually carried by the workers under the somewhat watchful protection of two armed guards. It is soon apparent the cargo is being moved off toward the left, further in. This may well prove a better way inside than using a locked door that could possess an alarm or other sort of sensor.
A slow, careful approach is made, continuing to make use of the shadows and darkness out here, coming in from a wide angle so as to avoid the broad scope of the truck’s headlights. There is a wood railing going along the edge of the raised area, and as men are occupied with moving more of the boxes and crates out of the deeper recesses of the truck’s compartment, the figure slowly ascends, moving over and dropping near soundlessly on the inside, creeping back and away into further darkness, which conveniently happens to be heading closer to the door.
A crouching position is gained, hands holding the strapped and suppressed G36C, one about the fore grip, the other near the trigger, eyes watching closely. It does not appear that these guards are wearing armor, and the workers are dressed in coveralls. Still, no confrontation at all is the desired outcome.
The men pass close to the shrouded person, completely unaware of the presence, their focus on completing their labor. Noises are heard from inside, eyes of the infiltrator on the two guards who exchange quiet words, hardly taking note of their surroundings. One flares up a cigarette just as the workers return. It seems the unloading is done, as more talk is traded, these louder, mentions of inventory, checks, and then two of the workers get into the cab of the truck, starting it up and driving it off. The others pull out cigarettes of their own or grab bottles of water; time for a break, and in the noise and distraction, the vigilante slips inside through the door.
This room is much better lit, but a quick scan reveals it to be a staging area. There is noise, though, of approaching footsteps from further within. The intruder scans about quickly, noting another door, but even if it is unlocked, it would be foolish to rush through it, so instead, a hiding place is found.
Three more people enter, none of them armed. One is a woman, and she is smartly dressed, and she looks around, eyes gliding over the stacked boxes in search of something else. She walks quickly, and opens the door leading outside, apparently wanting the other workers in here as she quite demandingly summons them. Once they are inside, she gives out quick, terse orders to the quartet, as it appears the recently unloaded goods are needed for the ensuing party.
The intruder watches as the workers are corralled to their duty by the insistent woman, her hands dancing through the air as though carrying an invisible whip to aid her. Movement is not resumed until the sounds of their feet have retreated to silence, and then slow, quiet steps are taken to the other door, the fiberscope used to check the opposing side, which turns out to be a somewhat lit hallway with several doors, the passageway leading off into various other directions. The tube is retrieved, the door checked, unlocked, and the figure presses in further.
Meanwhile, the soiree continues to slowly grow in numbers. Even if everyone on the guest list shows, it will not be that large a party, such is its exclusive nature, but the turnout will still be greater than the usual types of entertainments hosted here.
“What brings a Professor of Anthropology to something like this?” the woman asks, bringing up her martini glass after using her other hand to subtly indicate the area.
Her eyes stay on him as she drinks, her companion of the evening off talking within a small group of other men.
“Why, I am here to observe,” the so-named Professor Webb replies, smiling quite charmingly at the attractive woman, a gesture she proves inclined to return.
“Really now?” she almost purrs, dark red lips pressing together. “Are you trying to tell me you are here in a ‘professional’ capacity?”
“Ah, well, ‘academic’ might be a better way to put it,” he fine-tunes, “An event such as this affords some very interesting opportunities for observation and study.”
She somewhat smirks at him, though the distance between them is only lessened by a slight movement on her part, “If you publish a paper about this evening, then I suspect you’d be making many powerful enemies.”
“Oh, I am not a journalist,” he retorts, “Merely a humble scholar, very interested in humanity and its culture and behavior.”
“Humble …,” she continues that eloquent smirk.
“Do permit me some theatrics, hmm?” He perks up his eyebrows, and she grins, then he carries on, his own held glass ignored, “I am not here to judge or expose. I am a student of morality and ethics, and I find this sort of thing quite fascinating.”
“This sort of thing?” she pushes.
“Why, yes,” he turns back to her from having been looking out over the gathering and its people, “Societies make rules in order to function as a society, but really, those laws are more meant for the masses. Those possessed of a certain Will, especially the ability to turn that to proper action, well, laws may not apply as much to them.”
She presses those lovely lips of hers together into another smirk, and it slowly grows until she lets a short, low chuckle emerge.
“I hardly think the authorities would agree.”
“Of course they would not. They are an institution put in place to protect those who cannot protect themselves. As human society has aged, fear, necessity, even pragmatism has somewhat given way to self-righteousness. Eventually, as maturation continues, such shackles shall be discarded.”
“Hmmm,” she muses, quite non-committal, but still, not ending the conversation or moving away; instead, she has another lingering sip of her cocktail.
He finally decides to have a taste of his own, sipping of the rich, amber liquid, eyes staying on hers throughout. He swallows, giving a very light lick of his lips.
“Something on this scale does not happen without some knowledge on the part of said authorities,” he continues, “If the rules of society are not enforced, and that society does not breakdown, then there is no issue.”
“So, we’re above the law?”
“Outside it,” he amends, giving a tiny smirk of his own, “Until we are not.”
“Ahhh, well, that seems to make your position rather convenient,” she gives a playful jibe.
“Not at all,” he responds, “Societies are somewhat self-regulating, seeking a balance from their own motive force to counter entropy. Once you do enough potential damage, you will be discovered, stopped, and punished. It’s all an elaborate game, really.”
“Well, I will agree with you on that,” she says, watching him closely as he takes another drink. “Those are lovely cufflinks,” she says, noting the jewelry, “What stone is that?”
“Ah,” he smiles, turning his hand to give better access, “It is merely lapis.”
“Is it?” She takes hold of his cuff, “It doesn’t seem like any I have ever seen.”
“Well, even as I say ‘merely’, I suppose that is again my being theatrical. This is actually a very rare form, quite dark in coloration, polished and treated in a special way.”
“It’s beautiful,” she comments, slowly moving his wrist as well as her own angle of observation, “It almost looks like it’s glowing.”
“Yes, well,” he says, gently pulling his arm in, so he may look at the stone, ”That is all part of the process.”
“Oh, I must know it,” she says.
“I am sorry, my dear, but … family secret,” he says, gaining a very subtle pout from her in response, and even as inviting as it is. “I have enjoyed this conversation, but I am afraid I am here with some duties, and I must tend to those now.”
As the handsome professor heeds to this call, the vigilante continues to explore other areas of the expansive building. It i
s large, the hallways complicated, leading off hither and thither. A passing moment is spared in contemplation as to who might know all the avenues, or if they are perhaps made convoluted on purpose. What matters, though, will be finding the way out, and exits may be created. It doesn’t take too long, though, to find someone who is not a guard, and the half-naked girl in this room stands with a look of utter despair on her heavily made-up features. Beneath the cosmetics and negligée, she cannot be more than fifteen years old.
The obvious natural beauty she holds shows through even beneath the dress and depression. She does not even look over as the person moves closer to her. The intruder walks in slowly, moving to in front of the girl, and those eyes finally focus, looking over the other, noting the weapons, the clothing. She does not respond in any other way except to move her eyes up to those of the masked figure. Those orbs are glassy, and fresh tears dribble out. Upon this closer examination, fifteen may even be too old an assumption.
“It’s going to be alright,” comes a whisper, making some meager attempt at comfort, for the young girl shows nothing but a disturbing despair in her appearance.
Indecision attacks. The intent tonight is to deliver a hopefully crippling blow to the crime ring, not to escape with one unfortunate young lady. The plan is suddenly brought into question, suffering doubt beneath the wave of negativity felt emanating from the poor girl. A forced blink and shake of the head breaks this spell, and a hand is dared to be set on the doll-like youth’s shoulder. A moment passes, determined, sympathetic eyes looking into those that seem little more than glass, and the vigilante heads out to scout more of the immediate vicinity.
Other, small rooms dotted throughout here prove to be of similar purpose, each holding a single, made-up person, not all even female, making them ready to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. It is time.
A button is pressed, the trigger activated, and a distant sound is heard. Chaos does not ensue, of course, and it is quite probable that few, if any, at the soiree have awareness of the explosion. The compound’s security, though, will be buzzing into action, convening on that breach in the rear boundary. A few short moments later, and the second charge goes off, this one causing a much louder report, which is not long followed by others. This has been the vehicle pool, and the initial detonation resulted in more, no doubt as the fire has spread beyond the first truck. This one must have caused some interruption to the gathering, and if not, the third device then exploding much closer, taking out a portion of the main building’s wall, definitely garners more immediate reaction.
Doors open, voices raised in alarm, demanding questions, people told to stay where it is safe, armed guards rushing about. The figure remains in the shadows, watching, waiting, until the hallways are again clear, the chaotic-sounding cacophony rising in the distance. None of the people that have appeared in the wide passageway are those who were lately planned to be sold, thus belying the fear and conditioning on those very persons. The intruder has counted on this, and now rushes through the avenue, opening doors, calling out in that loud, forceful voice.
“Get out! Into the hallway! Everyone! Fire! We have a fire!”
It takes longer than one might expect from a general crowd, but eventually the would-be slaves emerge, some rushing with evidence of fright, other peeking out, afraid to break the rules even under these obviously alarming circumstances. Eventually, though, all but one make it.
“Get out! Get to the exits!” the voice commands, trying to keep them moving and not focusing on who is issuing the orders, hoping they even know where the exit is. “Down the hall! Go!”
And once the direction is issued, the vigilante runs to that one room, seeing that the young girl has not budged an inch from where she stands. Her body trembles, wracked with a greater outflow of tears. She must be crippled with fright, confusion. The figure moves in, extending a helping hand to the left shoulder.
Once the physical contact is made, the girl turns sharply, and she now shows an aspect of rage, her eyes seeming to glow red, teeth bared, arms brought up, fingers curled and tensed into dangerous claws. She lunges at her rescuer, those hands pressing in, doing no damage to the intended, but causing deep rips and bloody tears to the girl’s own fingertips. Thus gripped, she brings her face quickly to the neck, trying to use her teeth to rip out the figure’s throat.
A quick bringing in and out-thrust of arms shoves the small girl away. She stumbles back but does not fall, regaining her balance, and then emitting a startling snarl which turns into an all-out scream, the girl rushes back in with another wild attack.
The vigilante holds up both arms, hands shown, palms outward, “Calm do-,” is tried, but before the statement may be completed, the enraged girl is on the figure.
The girl’s arms are grabbed, held, her head moving about, beast-like, teeth pushed out in promise to use her mouth.
“Calm down,” the vigilante tries again, though it is evident the girl has no intention of doing so, seeming beyond reason or hearing, so the other moves about, putting her in an armlock, again speaking in a soothing, though insistent tone, “Calm down.”
The girl continues to froth and writhe, uncaring of causing her own joints to dislocate, so the figure slackens the hold. The vigilante then carefully and firmly presses her to the ground, struggling to maintain control without harming the girl, then reaches for a zip-tie.
“What’s going on?”
Looking up, another woman has entered the room, another obviously who was meant to be sold, though she is older, probably eighteen or nineteen. She sees the black-suited figure atop the rage-filled, struggling young girl.
“What are you doing to Darla?”
“She attacked me,” the masked person grunts out, still holding Darla, and though the bind is now applied, the girl continues to snarl and try to bite like a rabid animal.
“What’s wrong with her?” the other asks, stepping cautiously into the room.
The vigilante continues pressing enough weight onto the girl to keep her somewhat under control, just looking at the other as though it is evident enough that an answer is not forthcoming.
“She’s not …,” the other begins, kneeling down, holding out a hand.
“Careful,” comes the barely voiced caution.
The other’s eyes go to the masked figure then back down, and she rests on her knees, laying a gentle hand on the girl’s head. Darla snaps at her, teeth clacking together audibly, and the other jerks her hand back, then resumes the petting at the girl’s shoulder.
“She’s not like this,” she says, trying to soothe with her touch, “She’s usually so quiet, withdrawn. Some of us worried that she’d kill herself if given the chance,” she explains, then coos, “Shhhh, Darla, shhhh. It’s Monique. Shhhhh.”
And it appears to work as the young girl calms, the struggles ceasing to such an eerie extent as if they never happened in the first place. Instead, her body becomes wracked with sobs, and the vigilante gets off her.
“Darla, honey, what happened?” Monique asks, trying to embrace the girl as best she can under the awkward circumstances.
The darkly-suited figure looks about, listening, noting now that there are greater and more obvious sounds of alarm, chaos. They need to get out of here. The knife is slipped quickly out of its sheath, and though Monique gives a worried glance, the blade is used to cut through the zip-tie. Darla seems unaffected, bringing her arms around, using her hands to get up, though she stays mostly seated on the floor.
“You have to get out of here,” emits the voice from behind the balaklava.
“We-,” Darla begins, but her stress stops her, her breath heaving, sobs still emerging, her make-up all but ruined now, giving her face a creepy aspect, “We can’t leave them down there. You have to save them.”
The figure looks from Darla to Monique, obviously curious, and she sees a comprehension spread over the older girl along with growing fright.
“What?” grates out the vigilante.
&
nbsp; “She means the basement. The underground level.”
Tense, narrowed eyes piercing out from within the dark face-paint make an obvious bid for more information.
“I don’t want to go down there,” Monique says, her fright evident, and the two girls clutch each other, Darla still crying.
“You two get out.”
Monique nods, “Come on, baby,” she says to Darla, and they help the young girl to her feet.
The vigilante heads over first, checking the hallway. It is empty, but those sounds of fear, chaos, emergency still emerge quite noticeably from nearby parts of the compound. A hand is waved at them, a finger pointed in the direction of an exit, an obvious command. They move past, Monique still holding onto the younger girl, leading her, but she pauses, glancing at their liberator.
“You have to go down there and save them,” she pleads, “No one deserves to be left in that terrible place.”
*****
The compound is being evacuated, though it will take some time. Security is also trying to keep apprised of who all is leaving, especially that there are many in here being held against their will. They also know they are under attack. They have not confirmed it is the “pest”, but most everyone assumes it is.
The opening at the back barrier has been contained, but the fire that has spread from the vehicle shed is proving more an issue. The fire department will arrive soon, and the situation must be sufficiently contained before they and other public servants show up on the scene.
Guests are pouring out of the front, some finding their own cars, not wanting to wait for the interrupted valet service, and getting away from there as quickly as they are able. A call goes over the security channel to lock the gates. A retort is given, asking won’t this cause more trouble, and after a pause, the order is given again, more emphatically.
The closure comes much too late to have impeded the meandering entrance of someone who is decidedly not on the guest list, someone who looks to have little concern for the fire and explosions and chaos. Those are just noise and lights to add to other noise and lights, all of it somewhat blurring together into the bright, undeniable compulsion that has drawn him here.
Dance of the Butterfly Page 32