First Contract

The First Contract: Dean Samuels
I'm to meet my employer in the basement of an abandoned record store for the little pow-wow we agreed to over the phone. The time is 10:00 pm, I'm an hour early, but I couldn't sit around my house any longer. Plus I have a stage to set; it may be John's CD rack today, but Hollywood I'ma comin'. Raising my hand to my mouth, I watch as a lone cigarette extends from between my outstretched middle and forefinger. Learning that particular trick had been a real pain in my armored ass, countless cigarettes crushed somewhere in the process of adjusting their position inside the mutable form of my dark metal suit. Placing it between my lips, I move the tip of my forefinger in front of the cylindrical cancer stick and almost reflexively lit a lighter sized flame. Inhale. Exhale. Smell-o-vision is so underrated.
The room is already veiled in the dust I'd shaken up in my brief time exploring it, but my smoking turns the light mist into full blown clouds. Looking through the opaque lens of smoke and dust, I take stock of my props for my evening in the company of mister tall, dark, and murderous. A single table, a bland construction of my black metal, with exactly two chairs made of the same material seated before it, facing each other. I prefer to look people in the eyes when I talk to them, I don't do phone conversations. Wait what was I doing... Oh Guy Pearce, you were so dreamy in Memento, can you blame me for wanting to be just like you? A single light hangs over the table, due to my previous work of breaking all the others and pulling it out of the socket. The things I do for theater. Speaking of, in the right corner atop one of the numerous shelves that line the walls, sits the record player that had been previously caked in dust. Now it shines, catching the dim light on its glassy frame. It had been difficult to choose a specific record for this meeting-- there were so many possible moods to set, impressions to give picking one had been an agonizing two minutes of indecision. Of course, masked by the many CD cases on the wall-shelves of the basement behind the chair that sat facing the door was the trusty 'ABBRL:OCEU,' abbreviated for your convenience.
Taking my seat, I push my chair backwards and rest my armored feet on top of the table. My cigarette still releasing streams of smoke, I bring it to mouth and take a long drag. Now we play the waiting game. At least I can wait in style. Turning towards the record player, I tap into the place where the magic happens. Well, most of the magic, the other place is a little further south. Controlling my magic without incantations is a tricky business that usually requires a lot of concentration and funny facial contortions. However, I can do a few things with practiced ease, such as using telekinesis to press the play button a vinyl player in the corner, (and lighting cigarettes.)
Is there anything more soothing the dulcet tones of the douche-bag singer of Mindless Self Indulgence? I seriously doubt it.
     I estimate I've been sitting leaned back, smoking, listening to why bitches love this asshole for about twenty minutes when I hear the first step on the floor above me. Show time. My body is tense and my heart is pounding just like- 
     You're standing over a crawling mess of a man. He's moving, but just barely, dragging himself like an inch worm across the ground, leaving trails of blood that run black in the unlit room. You can hear his ragged breathing, hitching with sobs and choked gasps. You've never felt more alive.
     I blink. The image fades, and the smoke filled room returns into focus. My eyes are wide open before the smoke hits them once again and they close in discomfort. I wasn't tense before, not like this. My shoulders are squared, and my usual hunched posture is frozen ramrod straight. My gauntlet covered fists scream as my fingers dig into palms, and my muscles are taut cords of potential energy. When I open my eyes, they scan the room, tracking wisps of smoke as they undulate in and out of form. His steps are cacophonous, echoing in my ears as I wait for him to descend.
     My semi-strategic view of the stairs affords me the slow reveal I'd been hoping for. Dark brown leather shoes, a brief view of dark navy blue socks before they're eclipsed by an unsurprising leg of a lighter navy blue suit pants. They fit perfectly, obviously tailored work, though where he found a fucking tailor in these times I will never know. Maybe it's an old suit? Seems like he's always been a real posh motherfucker. Or he knows how to pretend to be one. A belted midriff appears as he nears the middle of the stair case, time seeming to move ten times slower than it did twenty minutes ago. A dark brown leather belt constricts a minor gut, and the white button up is tucked in without any fabric to spare. It's no shock that he's wearing a well fitting blazer the same color as his pants. A red, textureless tie is the last article to greet me before I catch the first glimpses of my first fucking employer.
His weak chin and hard-lined mouth make for an ugly picture of a man, and his bulbous nose doesn't do him any favors. As soon as his eyes cross the ceiling threshold, they meet my own. His eyes are oddly unmoving, staring straight into my own with a singularity of purpose my eyes cannot hope to match as they dart across his otherwise unremarkable face.
     I watch him drag those dead eyes up and down my frame, pausing at my cigarette and my feet for the briefest moment. He may be a dead fish, but I can still see the minute wrinkling of his nose, and the barely upturned lip. “Another upstart kid with no respect, how could my taxes have paid for his schooling? I blame Obama.” Prick. When his eyes catch mine once more as he takes the the last step off the staircase, I whisper, “Dive.”
     If I could equate the sensation of diving into another persons psyche for the briefest of moments, it would be like receiving a complete sensory snapshot. Touch, taste, etc, along with surface thoughts and emotions. Whatever goes on in their head, I replicate in my own. The connection shatters in seconds. As I once again reign in my breathing, I try to make sense of the smorgasbord of stimuli I'd just experienced. First off, his body was made of fucking wax. Fucking creepy, no wonder he looks so dead. Secondly, he was not happy. Not in the fucking least. If the brief image of Eddy sucking up to this guy to sell me was any indication, then I'd say he was way more pissed at the fatty than me. Perfect. For us, you fat fuck? We'll see.
     “Arcturus Black, at your service,” I say, opting to break the staring contest. That, and hopefully derail whatever pieces he'd started putting together about my doubtlessly odd expression as I dived into his mind. Plus, by saying my name first I can assure that he won't fucking butcher it. “Please, sit down, make yourself at home. I understand we have quite a bit to discuss.” His eyes sweep the room once, passing the spot on the shelf behind me where I knew my camera stood recording his dour face without missing a beat, only to stop on the still playing record player before turning back to me. Guess the old distraction ruse still works.
     “Would you please turn that off?” he says, and I must say for a gross wax construct he sounds like a pretty normal, if a bit nasally, guy. I oblige, and do my damnedest to keep the strain off my face. Step one, demonstrate value. He nods in thanks, and I respond with a sweep of my right hand, once again extending my invitation for him to sit down. Throughout the entire exchange in this smog filled basement, his eyes have not once watered nor shifted. This guy belongs in a fucking museum. It seems that he's postured long enough, as he takes his seat with mechanical efficiency. In the dim light of the murky room, the tables and chairs sit as shadows raised from the floor, and my darkened form blends and shifts into the shadows on the walls. If he's intimidated, he doesn't show it. A swing and a miss. Oh well, how was I supposed to know I was meeting a walking sideshow?
     “You're early,” I say casually, like we were meeting for coffee. Like I'd done this before, really. Pulled the same trick when I lost my virginity, works like a charm. Since he's sat down, he hasn't once looked away from my eyes. If he's trying to intimidate me, it isn't working. I flash him a small smile, showing the barest hit of teeth in a display of ease at his staring. How was he supposed to know he was meeting 'me.
     “Yes, well, the sooner we're done here, the better.” He says stiffly, and I'm forced to swallow what little pride I have as he continues on like I'm just another collared pencil pusher at the office. “The recommendation I received from your partner doesn't quite do you justice, Mr. Black. Were it not for the fact that I am, most unfortunately, already here, I doubt I would ever be inclined to employ you.
     “Be that as it may, I am here and I am willing to at least discuss the possibility. So, Mr. Black, convince me,” he says, with an air of such pompous finality that my jaw clenches. He's baiting me, he's fucking baiting me. I won't fucking forget this anytime soon you plastic piece of shit, I fucking promise.
     “Give me a situation, any possible hit you could think of, and I'll tell exactly how I'd do it. Hell, you give me the details on Dean Samuels and I can tell you exactly how I'll do that,” I say, pretending that I don't want to melt his wax ass down and use the remains to seal his funeral invitations. I take my feet off the table and with a slight swing I end up leaning towards him, my arms making a triangle on the table below my body. Raising one arm, another cigarette extends out of my wrist into my waiting finger. Lighting it with another fingernail-sized flame, I inhale while looking straight into his eyes, noting their glossed over look for the first time. Leaning back to exhale away from my prospective employer, my mouth leaking a steady stream of gray smoke, I say, “Anything that can die, I can kill. Anything that can't die, I can get rid of, one way or another.”
     “Dean Samuels; age 38, he can morph into a flame retardant glob of liquid resistant to both electricity and pressure. He can also stop time for up to five seconds during which the body's autonomic processes cease to perform. He's never seen outside without the company of his two bodyguards. The first of these is a woman who goes by the alias Exocet and has the capacity for extended flight, limited only by pressure as she flies higher, as well as oxygen deprivation. In addition, she has the ability to generate an exoskeleton the size of a two story building constructed out of pure energy. His second bodyguard goes by the name Goliath; as his name suggests he is a veritable monster, with a wingspan of 32 feet and flesh carved in what may as well be stone. There have been attempts on Mr. Samuels' life before, but obviously none of them have succeeded,” he says, all business. He wasn't posturing, he was actually trying to level with me. Most likely whoever he works for is responsible for hiring most, if not all, of those failed attempts. I smile; whoever is calling the shots must be pretty desperate to get this douche-bag if he's dragging up the dredges.
     “Yet, none of them have succeeded yet,” I say, taking another drag of my cigarette after I'd finished edifying the wax-man. So, a man-bat, a flying disaster, and the target that can render himself more or less invulnerable. I've seen worse. Hell, I've dealt with worse, maybe not in this kinda setting, but I have killed someone whose powers put that elitist douche in a fucking fanny pack.
     “You have no idea how many times I've heard those same words, Mr. Black,” he says, his sneer etched into his unmoving face.
     “How unsurprising,” I reply without batting an eye. “But you know what the difference is between me and the rest of the assholes your boss hired on account of their stellar rep and professional demeanor?” I let it hang for a bit as I take another drag of my cigarette. Oh, I pretend to do this for show, but really it is so much fucking fun. Exhaling, and this is real performance, I wave my hand below the smoke and concentrate on the shapeless gray matter before me. Manipulating smoke had been the first majorly finesse-dependent act of magic I'd learned, but after cigarette after cigarette of practice, I could shape it into whatever I wanted at the drop of a hat. Hell, it was pretty much how I learned fine control over this mystic shit. Today, I chose to get fancy. With a few mental gymnastics and a heartfelt thanks to the picture Eddy had given me, I shaped the clouds of smoke and dust surrounding the table into a picturesque bust of Dean Samuels. Then I blew it straight towards the suited asshole's face and watched as it dissipated around his unmoved expression and said-
     “I'm a fucking wizard.”
     I end up walking out of that record store, camera in hand. It's 2 in the morning but I'm giddier than a schoolgirl on her sweet sixteen who's just invited star quarter-back Dick Rampage over 'to talk.' Three fucking hours, it had taken the whole night, but I'd convinced the bastard that I was more than capable. Of course, none of the situations I'd outlined in that dingy stint of a basement were going to be the real plan, but they worked well enough. Well enough, at least, to convince him that I was creative enough to adapt when he would pull those shit stipulations out of the blue, usually interrupting me mid-sentence, and expect me to come up with solutions on the fly. Which he would then counter with more shit, which I would have to counter and over and over again until he was satisfied with the total scenario. It's the closest thing to a job interview I've ever experienced, that's for fucking sure.
     Stepping onto the street, I gathered my focus. Time to fly. It's a hard thing to do for someone like me, but I can manage as long as I can continuously envision the act of moving. Which is a fuckton harder than it sounds, so excuse me if I can't do it justice with a few words. I can't because the idea is beyond words, beyond images - magic, as I've learned, is about feeling. The complete package of the five senses and then some, all blended together seamlessly. At least, if I want it to work. Fortunately, I have a fuckload more control over my metal, or I'd have died practicing this shit.
     I close my eyes, and feel (yeah laugh it up). I fill my head with the feel of the wind against my skin, the sight of the star-covered sky, the whisper of the wind in my hair, and the cold autumn night's taste, and breathe.
“Rise.”