|
|
Stephanie adjusts the mirror in her right palm and cranes her neck in order to get a full view of her applied make-up. It was necessary after the seven-plus hour flight she took from Paris to get here.
"Where the hell is my father?" Stephanie grumbles, staring out at the curb. "Or the damn limo."
She shoves her mirror into her Versace purse and fishes around for her pack of cigarettes. Stephanie whispers a silent prayer when she finds a pack of Camels with one cigarette left.
Stephanie purses her lips and places the cigarette between them. She searches for her book of matches next, but when she slips it out, the book tumbles from her fingers and rolls into sewer grater she's standing on.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
Stephanie drops her purse and slides down to her knees. There's no way she's getting that lighter. Fuck.
Middle of the night. No lighter. Alone outside an airport.
"I have going to kill the great Dr. Collins once this is all over."
"Need a light?"
Stephanie looks up and sees the man of her dreams. Figuratively speaking. He's incredibly hot.
"Yeah I do," Stephanie says.
She stands and leans forward, cigarette still in her lips. The man, dirty blonde hair and piercing eyes, smiles and flickers a lighter to take care of her cigarette.
"Thanks."
She blows a cloud of smoke into the air and extends her hand. "I'm Stephanie. You live here?"
"Yeah," he responds. "Been gone for a long while, though."
"What brings you home?"
"Grandfather passed."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
He grins. "Don't be. He's a bastard."
Stephanie furrows her brow. "I never got your name."
"Eric Hanley."
"Oh...you're one of them. Trust fund kids."
Eric laughs. "Sorry..."
Before Stephanie is able to respond, she collapses. She falls to the ground in a heap.
"...so very sorry."
THE SUITE
ONE YEAR LATER
"He's dead."
Doctor Collins taps his pencil on the desk and nervously stares at the photograph of his daughter on his desk. Another one. Lost.
"What do you want from me?"
"Nothing," Monsieur answers, with a shrug of his shoulders. "I'm merely informing you that your skills will not be needed."
"Thanks."
Monsieur stares at Collins with a pitying gaze. "Perhaps you should look into an attitude readjustment."
"My attitude is fine."
"I don't think it —"
"My attitude is just fine for a man whose daughter is being held hostage by the company that employs him to wipe the minds of its operatives," Collins snaps.
There's a fire in his eyes that Monsieur has never seen. It doesn't comfort him in the least.
"Your work here is almost done."
"These people...perhaps they've deserved what happens to them," Collins says. "Perhaps they deserve the fake memories. The false lives. So they can't remember the lives they lead before the Suite...chose them. Like you chose me. But my daughter is innocent."
"No one is innocent," Monsieur says. "And it's of no matter whether or not these people deserve this. Their names? Their pasts? Nothing more than letters on sheets of paper. And paper is torn easily, Collins."
"With Miller dead, then that means the prophecy can't be fulfilled."
Monsieur laughs. "I don't buy into that bullshit."
"But you realized there's something special about Miller."
"Didn't you hear me? He's dead. There's nothing special about a corpse."
THE COLISEUM
Miller Falls' eyes fly open for what seems like the hundredth false start. He keeps awaking, hoping he'll be able to climb to his feet, but he still can't move. The excruciating pain he's in, it seems to grow with each waking moment.
He's not dead.
But he wishes he were.
As he lies bleeding, on the verge of death, he tries remembering pieces of his past. Comforting memories.
He has none.
Granted, there are a few...of Marie. Of his parents. But all of those memories, they seem fragmented. As if there's something wrong there.
And he senses something wrong here.
For all of the blood that covers his body, none of it feels like it's his own. He can't feel any tears. No cuts. None to produce such mass quantities of blood, at any rate.
There's something horribly wrong.
I have to get out of here...
Miller tries moving again.
The pain is unbearable.
Gladiator...he's going to be back...he's going to kill me.
He has to escape.
Unless...
...the blood.
It's not Miller's. It can't be. It has to belong to Gladiator.
Did I kill him?
But how could I have possibly done that?
It's impossible.
THE SUITE
Collins is a horrible man. He's not a saint, at least.
The Suite got a bead that he had already perfected his mind wiping routine. He practiced it with his former employer back when he lived in a town by the name of Marquette Cove.
But then his daughter was kidnapped.
He was soon contacted by the Suite, who told him that his services were required.
And so it began.
He wiped the memories of people the Suite brought in.
Made them think they were different people. Names made up with scrawls on sheets of paper.
And they became Operatives for the Suite.
Collins isn't a saint, he knows that. And what has happened to Miller...it's not entirely his fault. But somehow, thinking about his daughter, thinking about everything he's done to compromise his morals over the past ten years...it makes him sick.
He isn't normally a man that believes in fate, and yet...there seems to be forces working here that are beyond his control.
Perhaps those lunatics are right. Maybe there is something important about Miller. And for some reason, he was put in Colllins' path.
And if that's so...then Collins has some type of responsibility to help him.
He pulls open a drawer at his desk and removes a small black medical bag. He grips the bag's handles and goes to the door.
Once he's sure the coast is clear, he blows out of his office.
*****
Monsieur often lies. But more importantly, he's completely full of himself. If he hired someone to kill Miller, then chances are, he didn't think of the remote possibility that Miller may have survived.
Though, judging from how the damage outside the Coliseum, one would imagine Monsieur is correct. Miller could quite possibly be dead.
But Monsieur has this feeling. This incredibly strong feeling that's telling him...to stop.
He looks down at the rock and gravel below his feet and sees blood. Miller's? Perhaps.
He could be somewhere close by.
But after following the blood trail for what seems like miles, Collins is ready to give up.
Miller is probably dead.
Monsieur was —
"Help..."
Collins hears a faint cry in the distance. He hurries toward it, finding larger quantities of blood. At first, he is led to a large carcass...one that's barely a carcass. Mostly, there's just bone.
But what remains of the flesh...it's not rotting. It seems freshly torn. Freshly massacred.
And only a few feet from the scene lies a breathing, barely living Miller.
"Miller!" Collins cries.
He rushes to Miller's side and drops to his knees. Miller is covered in blood, seemingly unable to move.
"Collins?" Miller chokes out weakly.
"It's me," Collins answers. "I'm here to help you."
"Help me what?"
Collins opens his black back and pulls out a syringe. He jams the syringe, full of adrenaline, into Miller's heart. Miller's eyes fly open for a final time and he shoots up to a sitting position.
"Oh God!" Miller gasps. "Oh...oh God...what did you just..."
"We don't have a lot of time," Collins interrupts.
"A lot of time for what?" Miller demands, clawing at Collins' arm to maintain his balance.
"For me to tell you everything there is to know about the Suite. And who you really are."
STORY BY
IRA MADISON
NEXT ISSUE:
Who was Miller before he joined the Suite?
Will Collins' past come back to haunt him?
And what exactly has happened to the Gladiator?
Find out this and more in ... Paper #6: "Black Is the New Bitch"
