Snippet #2248162

He saw a rage in Tekil that he had never seen before, a rage that was even absent that time Quest got too drunk and tried to fight him. Now that was a fun night. But this wasn't fun at all. It was exhausting, and made that one part of his heart feel all sinky and heavy. What was the name of that feeling? Oh yeah--guilt. Part of him felt bad for turning his friend down like this, but a life of servitude just wasn't in the cards for the young Maori. Not now, not ever. Tekil said that Hassan wasn't ready to join their order--well then why the hell was he ready? Hassan was a man fit to be the exemplar of any group or organization he became a part of. Strong, honest, dedicated....

"Please, Quest, I urge you to reconsider. We could show you how to use your abilities to the good of this world, and not for your own benefit. Your father would have wanted that…"

Tekil shifted from scolding Quest, to pleading with him. Quest reached for his glass of rum, but alas, it was empty. There was no deflecting this.

"Your father is another reason why I’m insisting on this. I have a deep respect for him, and owe him my life. However, he cannot remember any of these things, as his memory of his time among the Reapers is lost. Please, do not bother to ask me for details, as I can’t give any to you. No one knows just what happened, but your father doesn’t recall a thing about Reapers, Lost or Psyches. That is why Hakeem himself is not having this conversation with you right now, and I wonder if he did, you would feel more inclined to accept," Tekil sighed, melancholic, "No matter. Just think about it. I cannot force you to do anything you don’t want to, therefore I hope you understand the legacy your father left behind, a legacy only you can honor." He touched the hilt of his massive blade one final time.

"I'll think about it. Alright?" He ran his fingers through his massive hair with a deep, exhausted sigh. "I can't promise you anything, but I'll think about it--for you. Not for my dad," He reached for the bottle of rum, which was nearing the last drops. Quest poured himself one last glass. The ice within had long since melted into little flecks at the bottom rim. "It sounds like too much bullshit for me to believe that he just forgot about a whole other life. One like what you say he led." In his mind, Quest laughed at himself. Calling bullshit in a world where he just defeated a giant ghost spider. He motioned for Tekil to follow him, he was walking towards the door.

"I've got to get ready for work, we're shooting the first episode of the new season today. I'll just talk to you later."


- - -

Sometime later that day - Under Babylon, The Den



Far below the city of Babylon was a network of catacombs. Here, below the hustle and bustle of the city above, lied a city of its own. The massive stone structure is said to stretch as far as the city itself. There are denizens here that have taken refuge in the underground for sometime, but even they haven't mapped the entirety of the world below. For to even the mighty scope of The Reapers, Under Babylon's true face still remains a mystery.

Men in women, all dressed in varying black outfits stomped across the cobblestone walkways. Lanters hung from the top of the paths, illuminating visitors ways as they go. There were training rooms, archives, and rooms where the more tech savvy of the bunch studied their craft. This was The Den. And in the furthest, most shady reaches of this place lied the hall of the man himself. Who other but The Grim Reaper. It was about as lavish as you could get in a hall of stone. Violet carpets with gold trimmings, televisions, and a system that patched him in to any Reaper in the city. It was a room passed down from Grim Reaper, to Reaper.

Here was where Alan Darkmare had been spending his last days. He was once a handsome fox, white of hair [not from age, but from birth], with a chiseled face, and cool blue eyes. Now he was weak. Covered in veins, clinging to the bed like it represented his life force itself. Nobody knows what brought about Darkmare's sudden illness. Until a few months ago in August, he was perfectly fine. Some suspect foul play, others think it was just his time.

Nobody can quite say why someone's bell toles when it does. It just...happens.

There on his massive bed, shrouded in a white veil, and guarded by the violet canopy that wrapped around it he pressed a button on his bed stand. The button was red, situated on the face of some complicated looking contraption. His bony, pale finger retracted as the device buzzed to life.

"Yes Father?" All Reapers addressed The Grim Reaper as Father. This woman was no different. Her name was Mya Deng, the coordinator of communications and the overseer of Mission Control.

"Mya...." His voice was hoarse, and full of gravel, "Call the following Reapers in for me...." Alan Darkmare spoke slow and careful, each movement of his lips brought pain to his frame, "Something is going to happen tonight."