"The Bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born must first destroy a world. The Bird flies to God."
- Hermann Hesse
It was a damp, claustrophobic, industrial underground bunker; leaky pipes, the slow drip of water and the buzzing of ancient lights along a cluttered hallway with peeling paint and jutting, rusted pipes.
"Think we can find some of their stowed cash if we look hard enough? They left in a hurry. There might be some left." Said a man in his late 20s with black-greyish hair, wearing an open grey blazer, a pin on its chest with a strange logo over a shirt and tie, the Greek word "logos" with a caduceus under it.
"We're here to just scout return information, no touching evidence." Said another man, slightly older with blonde hair tied into a ponytail, at his side wearing the same uniform, with an exception of having his blazer buttoned up.
"Aw, and I thought I wouldn't have to include on my report how the stick up your ass has gotten even bigger!" Said the younger man, in his late 20s grinning ear to ear.
The slightly older man,in his early 30s sighed, adjusting his glasses. "Drinks after the mission on me if you keep your idiot hole shut."
The younger man did a zipping motion on his mouth.
The older man sighed more comfortably this time, his eyes drinking in the room they entered as they went through the hallway.
It was filled with empty pods, as if to hold something. The pods were attached to the reddish rusted metal of the walls, almost as if they were fusing. There was a table with knocked over papers in the middle of the room.
He approached the torn and scattered papers, picking them up and studying them. A jumble of words hit him, some known and some unknown, as he tried to correlate their contents, although a phrase sticks out due to its repetition and prominence; 'Projekt Tabula Rasa'
"Dreg from the gift of freedom, light of the solar dawn.." He muttered, reading out a piece of the text.
"Heyyyy... So about me shutting up..." He heard from behind him.
Annoyed, he turned. "What is-"
He was stunned.
"Yeah, might wanna look at this." Said the younger man with a much more serious tone.
"We need backup, report back to the mission commander, I'll gather the evidence."
"Roger that"
"Yeah we need backup to carry out some of the evidence." The younger man said into a modified walky talky. "No, no signs of The New Iteration, only a few Taskforce Q goons... Looks like their bosses licked a lot of boots to get this information... They're tied up and unarmed, we can take them along with the evidence."
The older man turned to face the papers again. "Projekt Tabula Rasa..."
Later back at Headquarters, they gather together in a manager's room, sitting across the desk from their superior, a woman in her mid 20s wearing a brown jacket with the same pin over a white shirt. Her hands fidgeted with her short black hair as she read the recovered documents on her desk, her dark eyes scanning the papers with hawk-like precision.
Suddenly her eyes shot up at the two men on the other side of the desk "They know about the prophecy, But... They had relevant data on the Chosen Ones, and now, we can confirm their locations."
She stood up, pacing around the room with her fingers curled around her chin. "Jack, you're up. Mike, you'll stay to finalise the report. The current Chosen One is in NYC, the specific features will be highlighted in the dossier, and... Whatever happens..."
She looked at the Younger man.
"Do not let Those Elite fuckers get a hold of em. Can ya do that, Jack?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Very well, you'll receive all the relevant papers on your way out. I still have to finish translating the Liber Chnoubis."
"Another Chosen One... They must be someone skilled if they have that much potential..." She said, mostly to herself.
…
In the streets of New York a boy in his early twenties walks through a crowd, hunched, wearing a cheap hoodie and knock off pants.
You can do this... You can do this... You live in New York! The city with the most opportunities...!
For crime!
Ah this alleyway should be good enough to mug someone! I hope I don't have to fight off too many rats…
He says entering a dirty alleyway. He leaned against the wall, waiting for an unwitting victim.
Would Dad have wanted this...?
...
Eh, who cares
The Dumbass killed himself
Motherfucker didn't even wanna live, probably don't want anything else neither...
Motherfucker huh... That insult works quite well here, should I go for a comedy open mic...?
No! Focus!
He spots an old woman passing.
Yes! There's an old woman, I can rob her blind!
He opens his palm, his other hand entering his pocket in a threatening manner. "Hey ya old windbag ya better-"
"Oh dearie a homeless person, here. The Lord's abundance is for all." She hands some money in his open palm.
Uh...
...
Should I ask for some more?
"Hey dearie"
His stupor broke
"Yeah?"
"Do you know where Wilford's bakery is?"
"Down the street, turn left at the traffic signal."
"Oh thank you." She says before leaving.
"..."
"Maybe I judged people too harshly, I shouldn't be horrible to people who are so kind, maybe I just had too much of a negative outlook towards huma-"
"Hey boy that's a lot of money in your hands, mind me borrowing some." Said an approaching homeless crack addict with a switchblade.
"..."
Later in the night his 'business' hadn't been exactly booming and he stood around, tired more than anything, both mentally and physically. Just then he saw multiple figures approaching him out of the shadows.
"Hey man... I don't got nothing, the rats got more than me-" He turned to see that they were armed with bats, pipes and shivs, gang members.
"H-hey man, I don't want trouble is this you guy's turf? I'll leave-"
"You ain't leaving boy, we're told to bring you in." Said one of the punks with a broken tooth, holding up a pipe threateningly.
Bring him in!? Who...!?
Then he noticed, at the back, someone who stood out. A man with slick styled brown hair in a spotless black suit and tie, his formal dressing juxtaposed to the punks more ragtag look.
"Alright, Alright I'll go..." Not that I have a choice... Who are these guys?
He approached the punks, his hands in a surrendering position.
"Hey, didn't your mom teach you to think for yourself?" A voice rang out from behind him.
He turned, along with the punks to see it's source. It was a man in his late 20s with black-greyish hair in a grey blazer along with a few more people with similar blazers.
"The Name's Jackson, You're Andrew Baxley I presume?" Said the Man, smirking.
"Yeah, that's me... Are you guys the cops?"
"Eh close enough, we need you more than those guys so can you come with us instead?"
"Hey!" Barked out the man in the suit, "He's coming with us, get em" he signalled at the punks who descended on the other group.
Jackson sighed before signalling a woman next to him, who pointed her hands at the descending punks before closing her eyes.
In a second the punks who were inches away from them began to levitate, their legs instinctively shooting out wildly as they lost footing.
"What the hell!?" One of them yelled out.
Just then all their weapons were forced out of their hands and thrown to the end of the alley in a pile before they were dropped to the floor from mid air.
The woman only then opened her eyes, sweat beading her face from the effort.
The man in the suit's expression turned sour as he dug into his pocket and pulled out a handgun.
Andrew, who had been distracted until now from the spectacle, reacted immediately.
"H-hey put the gun down!! I'm not resisting-"
Just then he heard a strange sound, the loosening of metal. In a second the man's gun fell apart, section by section from muzzle to trigger, like a puzzle.
He looked at Jackson who had casually extended his hand, not having the evidence of effort he saw on the other woman.
"Woah..." Andrew said, surprised, his hands flying into his hoodie's pockets defensively.
Jackson spoke up again "Now if you'd be so kind as to-"
Immediately Andrew felt the man in the suit dash behind him, holding him in a neck lock. In a split second he saw Jackson lift his arm up before he felt something icy prickling at his throat, his eyes darted to his neck.
The man in the suit was pointing his fingers at his neck with spiked ice jutting out of his finger tips, aimed directly at his jugular.
"What...?" This was all so confusing, everything he considered real broken down in a few minutes.
"You move, he dies."
"You'll kill a chosen one? No shot. Your elite daddies won't bring you any toys if you do!"
"Try me."
"What are ya? An Adeptus Minor? They don't exactly think too highly of you, ya know!"
This was tiring, at this point death would be better.
In the blink of an eye, he pulled out a knife from his pocket, an oversized kitchen knife not suitable for mugging, but handy against magical psychopaths.
He stabbed it in the man's thigh, causing him to loosen his neck lock and concentration, the ice dissipating from his fingertips as he clutched at Andrew.
Andrew however, used the support of his clutch to headbutt him, causing him to fall back as he ran to the other group.
"You're quite something." Said Jackson to the panting Andrew.
The man got up, bleeding from his thigh as he pulled out the kitchen knife. "Who the hell mugs with a kitchen knife!?" He looked seething as he prepared to attack, out of rage not rationale this time.
"Hoh boy, might wanna step back kid. I gotta handle this." Jackson stepped forward, something nearly invisible extending from between his fingers reflecting light from the moon.
The Man in the suit created multiple icicles, one extending from his palm ready to fire. Andrew braced himself, going behind Jackson.
However
Just then everything seemed to stop. An invisible strangeness filled the air, visible only in the expressions of all those present, the people in the blazers, the punks, the man in the suit, all surprised and scared at the same time, even Jackson was caught off guard.
There was something, it was terrifying yet strangely glorious in a contradictory manner. Like the awe and terror of the leap of a lion, inches away from a deer, the strange beauty in the crocodile about to pounce on a drinking bird.
From the end of the alleyway a tall figure emerged. Clad in worn gray robes that covered his whole body, a sheath at his side, an equally antique scarf around his neck and a metal mask with a single left eye hiding his face.
The man in the suit seemed most terrified and reverent at the sight, the icicles immediately dissipating away and he quickly stood up and bowed.
Even the people on his side seemed paralyzed, with Jackson contemplating what to do in a mix of nervousness and strange curiosity.
Then the man in the suit managed to stammer out. "M-Mister Tubalcain...! You didn't need to come out, I was just about getting this job done...!"
"It is quite alright William, I had my own reasons to come here." He said in a strangely kind voice that belied the air around him, before turning and walking towards the group.
Everyone was too stunned to fire at him as he approached. One man however managed to break the stupor and pulled out his handgun to fire at the approaching figure, the moment Jackson saw it, he hesitated for a second to stop it.
The bullets however vanished mid air as Tubalcain reached the group, his tall figure imposing over all of them.
He opened his palm revealing the bullets, before gently placing them on the ground.
"Such fine craftsmanship... Even if it was made in a factory, it is not right to waste on me. I apologise, I came here to observe The Chosen Ones myself." He said before looking down at Andrew.
"I hope this is the right path... You have my best regards for your journey, fire of life." He says before turning to leave, leaving everyone baffled.
When he approached William he spoke again. "William, pay to enter the people you hired in a nearby hospital, alright? I'll pay for it directly; it won't come out of your pocket or mission budget."
"Of course Mr. Tubalcain sir!" He said following Tubalcain out, who gave one last look, his expression unreadable behind his mask before leaving.
"..." Andrew was rather stunned at the events that occurred that night for obvious reasons.
Jackson coughed to break the silence "So... Gonna work for us? We're gonna give you housing and-"
"Sold."
"When do I get the housing, I mean when do I start?"
"Huh, help him in the car. This mission is a success!" Jackson exclaimed.
…
In an unknown island off the grid, a man with a thick wild, black hair and beard in oversized robes approached a chair of a round table with nine other chairs surrounding it, each occupied.
He spoke out in a light Russian accent "The New Iteration's Council of Zoah is to are to all be present in meetings."
He gave a sharp gaze to one of the members in a red suit, with a tired look and bags under his eyes before continuing.
"'I'll now conduct a roll call." He coughed before speaking again.
"Crowley. Magus. Faust. Henry. Lam, Draelma. Shax. Iao. And Tubalcain."
"Very well, all members seem to be present now. We have important matters to discuss… The Hermetic Order have confirmed the locations of The Chosen Ones stated in the prophecy and have secured two of them. However… They do not have any information on Projekt Tabula Rasa…"
The Man beckons a woman dressed in formals, standing nearby who approaches him in a professional demeanor.
"Yes Mr. Rasputin?" She says in a neutral tone.
"Do we have any update on Projekt Tabula Rasa?"
"None I'm afraid sir, we're still conducting searches in Antarctica."
"Very well." Says Rasputin "You may leave the room now, we have important matters to discuss."
"Of course sir" She states before cordially walking out of the room and closing the heavy doors, leaving only the Council.