11-16-2015, 05:08 PM
Armande walked out of the cold, his black wool coat swirling about his feet as he stepped through the door. The room exuded warmth and a security, an island on which to find peace.
That was not his goal, of course. A war raged beneath the surface, a war hot and terrible, for the very soul of humanity. He looked about, taking in the patrons seated at their tables, the barristas and servers busy working or simply standing about.
These people, it was for them he fought. For all them would nothing but baubles and cannon fodder if Apollyon and his dark angels were allowed to continue.
The young girl behind the counter was far too pretty. If Zeus walked the earth she would soon find herself the impotent victim of his advances. And there, the lithe young man clearing dishes from a table might find himself pressed into service in the halls of Odin. The young child seated innocently in his stroller, bundled up in coat and scarf, peacefully sleeping, his cheeks flushed red, he would grow up on the streets, an urchin, hiding among garbage cans and alley-ways, an orphan, parents simply collateral damage in the petty fights between Horus and Set.
No. This world, these people, he would protect them. Mankind would not be enslaved again.
But...they could assist. They could play a role. They could support the Atharim. Despite their antiquity and great power, their name was appropriate. They were indeed a "Remnant", in comparison to the rest of mankind. But with the Atharii at the head, humanity could win.
It would be delicate, of course. Apollyon had an entire Consul filled with those crafting his image and that of his empire. He had master propagandists working for him, shaping and gauging public sentiment. Andlain provided an opportunity, though. A way for him to begin shifting things in their favor.
Armande went to the counter and ordered, a simple hot coffee and half cream and a scone with preserves. It was, perhaps, one of his few indulgences in a life filled with self-denial. He watched the girl get his order together. Those at war did not have the luxury to pamper their flesh.
Order completed he went to a table near a small grouping of people. Surreptitiously he stuck the tiny device in his ear, a directional microphone. It would allow him to hone in on the conversation it was pointed to, though it was smart enough to filter out background noise.
It would be here, as well as college commons, restaurants, and others, that he took the pulse for his next step. It was as he expected. Despite the warmth and homey atmosphere, the tension in the air was clear from the whispered conversations. Andlain's attack was that of a terrorist. And a terrorist above all lives to create terror, to strike uncertainty and fear into people.
These people had braved the cold and their own uncertainty to go about their day, but the underlying fear was there, the confusion about what to believe, about their future. That potential could be stoked, gently fanned. It would not take much, really. There were already rumors and connections being made. About Jeddah and Sierra Leone. Even video of Vellas and Volodin. Not to mention the explicit demonstration and accusations made by the American demagogue, Nick Trano.
And in the face of all that, the CCD's propaganda arm had responded with obfuscation and outright denial. It was perhaps the one advantage Armande could see about the selfish nature of the gods. They would not work together. They would fight each other. Those denials would soon become impossible. With some small effort, some nudging, Apollyon could find himself dealing with trouble in the heart of his empire.
Table to table he focused and listened and learned, as one group left and another arrived. And then, Armande saw him in the corner, seated with a woman whose back was to him, mass of fire red hair the only thing he could make out. Curious. The man had smelled of lies and deception, seeming to dance neatly from one verbal trap to another as they spoke in the bookstore months ago. But he had not been fooled. His instincts said there was much more to this man.
At the time, he had taken a picture and submitted it for identification through various agencies and channels. Idly, Armande pulled out his wallet and thumbed through it until he found the request along with the follow up. It had been passed on to another hunter, though it had been set as low priority. Connor Kent. American, obviously, if not through his accent, definitely in his manner and decorum. Divorced. Father to a son who was now dead from a hiking accident. Working in IT for a security firm. None of that was strange. And yet he couldn't help that feeling of suspicion.
Armande focused his microphone on the couple at the corner table and listened.
That was not his goal, of course. A war raged beneath the surface, a war hot and terrible, for the very soul of humanity. He looked about, taking in the patrons seated at their tables, the barristas and servers busy working or simply standing about.
These people, it was for them he fought. For all them would nothing but baubles and cannon fodder if Apollyon and his dark angels were allowed to continue.
The young girl behind the counter was far too pretty. If Zeus walked the earth she would soon find herself the impotent victim of his advances. And there, the lithe young man clearing dishes from a table might find himself pressed into service in the halls of Odin. The young child seated innocently in his stroller, bundled up in coat and scarf, peacefully sleeping, his cheeks flushed red, he would grow up on the streets, an urchin, hiding among garbage cans and alley-ways, an orphan, parents simply collateral damage in the petty fights between Horus and Set.
No. This world, these people, he would protect them. Mankind would not be enslaved again.
But...they could assist. They could play a role. They could support the Atharim. Despite their antiquity and great power, their name was appropriate. They were indeed a "Remnant", in comparison to the rest of mankind. But with the Atharii at the head, humanity could win.
It would be delicate, of course. Apollyon had an entire Consul filled with those crafting his image and that of his empire. He had master propagandists working for him, shaping and gauging public sentiment. Andlain provided an opportunity, though. A way for him to begin shifting things in their favor.
Armande went to the counter and ordered, a simple hot coffee and half cream and a scone with preserves. It was, perhaps, one of his few indulgences in a life filled with self-denial. He watched the girl get his order together. Those at war did not have the luxury to pamper their flesh.
Order completed he went to a table near a small grouping of people. Surreptitiously he stuck the tiny device in his ear, a directional microphone. It would allow him to hone in on the conversation it was pointed to, though it was smart enough to filter out background noise.
It would be here, as well as college commons, restaurants, and others, that he took the pulse for his next step. It was as he expected. Despite the warmth and homey atmosphere, the tension in the air was clear from the whispered conversations. Andlain's attack was that of a terrorist. And a terrorist above all lives to create terror, to strike uncertainty and fear into people.
These people had braved the cold and their own uncertainty to go about their day, but the underlying fear was there, the confusion about what to believe, about their future. That potential could be stoked, gently fanned. It would not take much, really. There were already rumors and connections being made. About Jeddah and Sierra Leone. Even video of Vellas and Volodin. Not to mention the explicit demonstration and accusations made by the American demagogue, Nick Trano.
And in the face of all that, the CCD's propaganda arm had responded with obfuscation and outright denial. It was perhaps the one advantage Armande could see about the selfish nature of the gods. They would not work together. They would fight each other. Those denials would soon become impossible. With some small effort, some nudging, Apollyon could find himself dealing with trouble in the heart of his empire.
Table to table he focused and listened and learned, as one group left and another arrived. And then, Armande saw him in the corner, seated with a woman whose back was to him, mass of fire red hair the only thing he could make out. Curious. The man had smelled of lies and deception, seeming to dance neatly from one verbal trap to another as they spoke in the bookstore months ago. But he had not been fooled. His instincts said there was much more to this man.
At the time, he had taken a picture and submitted it for identification through various agencies and channels. Idly, Armande pulled out his wallet and thumbed through it until he found the request along with the follow up. It had been passed on to another hunter, though it had been set as low priority. Connor Kent. American, obviously, if not through his accent, definitely in his manner and decorum. Divorced. Father to a son who was now dead from a hiking accident. Working in IT for a security firm. None of that was strange. And yet he couldn't help that feeling of suspicion.
Armande focused his microphone on the couple at the corner table and listened.