Wizards’ World War (s.2): Dispatch 11- Act I, Scene IV

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Season 1 – Dispatch (s.2) 1 – Dispatch 10 – Dispatch 12

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Chateau du Rue, Loiret Department, Centre Region, France, 1 April, 09:46 hrs +1 GMT

Simon sat on the balcony. The world before him glowed a bright white, as it always did under the intense light of a clear day. The white gravel of the entrance roadway shined under cloudless day. Drops of condensation slid on the outside of the glass of lemonade, a drink he came to love while on long childhood summers in the Caribbean. There, in his memories, it was the white sand and clear water that amplified the sun’s brilliance. Simon’s life was made up of seventy-seven years of bright sunny days. Their might have been a few gloomy ones, some sad ones, perhaps. But as the bittersweet drink flowed down his throat he could not remember any of them.

Simon thought about his life of all the times between the sunny days. The decisions made, the bargains struck. As an Observer, the European counterpart to the North American Guardians, he protected his community the best way he knew how, by infiltrating the corridors of power. He ensconced himself in the arteries that kept the State alive and flowed through the multitude of agencies, politicians and media that made up the circulatory system of nation. Deep enough to navigate the flow, but fluid enough not to clogged them, less he be considered a threat and be removed.

So it had been since the days of the Latins under Julius Ceasar crossed the Alps in search of riches. They hunted the Druids as did the Church that took their city’s name. And now in his veins mixed the blood of barbarians . Yet the power remained undiluted. His was the ability to speak with spirits. Their knowledge allowed him to acquire wealth and power, not for himself but for the greater good. But he knew that the rotten edifice built upon old lies could not, would not survive forever. That one day the masquerade would end.

And now the curtain closes.

The sound of tires on gravel announced the arrival of the men from the DCRI, France’s internal security service. Two black German sedans stopped underneath the balcony.

Do come in gentlemen, I’ve been expecting you.

He set the glass down on the little table, adjusted his clothes and turned to face the room’s entrance. Footfalls echoed though the empty house. A man, wearing all black tactical gear and blaclava, pointed his service automatic pistol at him. Without a word he fired. The last thing that passed through Simon’s as the bullet pushed it’s way through his flesh was not the memories of sunny days, but a triumphant shout of victory. For he has steered these men on the right course. They sought to remove him before his plans came to fruition. Little they realized that he knew exactly how he was going to die. Knew it the first time he struck a bargain with a spirit. All roads pointed at him and with him gone they would think the threat was over.

Simon’s head slumped back, a thick pool of blood  spilled over the balcony’s edge.

End of Act I.

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