So here we are, my fifth and final (for
now) short story set in the fictional world of the Modern Realms.
We're back to a more noir feel again this time round. I hope you've
enjoyed my efforts and if these stories generate further interest,
I'm sure we'll be seeing more from these characters and this world
very soon.
I feel the artwork is a little ropey on
this one due to switching computers and the newer version of my
software being laggy since the switch. Tried my best to keep it
consistent.
As always, feedback and questions can
be directed in the comment's below, or my tumblr or deviantart. All
characters and world concepts are copyright Jack Harvey (I.E me).
Most of all I hope you continue to enjoyed it all.
Modern Realms
Hope Never Sleeps
A Quentin Wilde Story
By Jack Harvey
Dawn had broken over Gulf
City. Such was it's beauty that this very country had been christened
after it, New Dawn. Quentin fastened his shirt and was beginning to
wax his magnificent handlebar moustache.
“Why so early?” the
young man in his bed had asked.
“Why not?” Quentin
had responded cheerfully. “The day is so full of potential. Why
waste it by lying around in bed?”
“Well, it's not wasted
if your lying around in bed with someone.”
Quentin gave a brief
laugh. Most of the men he'd known were only in it for the money. An
opportunity for some 'old queer, show biz has been to pay for their
food and drinks for the night, and all they had to do in return was
make the old man feel like he was twenty-two again. Quentin had seen
it so many times he had developed a sixth sense for them. He avoided
it like the plague.
Not like this young man
though, this Dean Hanson. He was genuinely star struck when his eyes
first fell upon the Avalonian singer. The two had hit it off from the
get go, Dean's intense knowledge of the music industry made for
fascinating conversation, and he didn't bore Quentin with the usual
questions fans had asked one million times before.
“Get up,” Quentin
slapped Deans shoulder playfully. “Life isn't a fairy tale.”
“Awww.” Dean
groaned. “Fine. I can use your shower right?”
“Well I'm hardly going
to say no am I?” Quentin responded, picking up the newspaper that
had been slipped under the door.
***
Room service had brought
up breakfast. Quentin slipped the server a wad of notes as a 'tip'.
He was a large Orc by the name of Grobnar, whom many would presume
would be too dumb to conclude why Dean was even there, but Quentin
had learned long ago never to underestimate Orcs, and if you showed
them loyalty then they would reciprocate in kind.
It was over scrambled
eggs that Dean surprised Quenin with a question.
“You ever been in love
Quentin?
He paused for a moment.
Cleared his throat.
“What makes you ask?”
“Just curious. It's
hard finding someone when it comes to... people of our persuasion.”
“Once,” Quentin
nodded. “A long time ago.”
“That was back in
Avalon right? During your time in the national service?”
Quentin smiled
evasively. “Close enough. What about you?”
“A guy back home in
Mithrilham. We were at school together.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Then where is he
now?”
Dean laughed. “What
was I supposed to do? Shack up with him? He was dependant on taking
over his dads repair shop, if he had found out... and me, I flunked
every class in school, what was I supposed to offer him.”
“And so you came to
Gulf City. To make your fortune I imagine. I've heard that before.”
“That wasn't it. I
just... I knew Gulf City was somewhere where someone like me could
just bleed into the background. There's a lot of big faces, someone
like me won't draw attention to themselves.”
Quentin took a sip of
tea. He nodded again. “I understand.”
They finished breakfast
in silence and the two parted. Quentin knew better than to offer Dean
money. It would dirty their relationship, make it feel wrong. Dean
probably would have refused anyway. Quentin said he would call him
and to leave any messages with Carol the hotel receptionist if he had
to contact him urgently.
Alone now, Quentin went
to his clothes drawer to pick out his tie for today. Maybe the red
silk? No, the navy blue would be better, he was meeting the legendary
Thomas Bygraves later, and Thomas always complained when Quentin
dressed too colourful. Then again, he was in the mood for winding
Thomas up.
Quenin heard something
slip under his door. Strange, he thought, the papers had already been
delivered. He walked over and noticed it was a large brown envelope.
Quenin opened it. When
he saw what it contained he seethed with rage. He wanted to tear it
up, to burn it all, but knew that wouldn't solve anything. The
envelope contained a note, a time, a place of meeting. Thomas
Bygraves would have to wait.
***
The diner was a scruffy
little place on the outskirts of the city. It wasn't bad by any means
but there was a reason Quentin never set foot in a place like this.
He dressed down in a boring brown coat. His mysterious adversary had
wanted to keep things low key, so the last thing he wanted was people
hassling him for autographs.
Gaudy pop music played
on the jukebox. Some bubblegum sweet nonsense by a singer barely old
enough to string together a tune. That being said, Quentin knew that
artists like he and Thomas' days were numbered. One could only be in
the limelight for so long.
The young man was
sitting in the booth at the end of the room. He dressed smart, but
was an ill fit for his suit and tie. He had sickly yellowing skin,
possibly earth born, or maybe he just had a bad complexion.
Quentin sat. He slapped
down the heavy envelope.
“You found the place
alright then? Don't expect a big shot like you would frequent a place
like this.” He said with faux concern.
Quentin was about to get
down to business, but they were suddenly interrupted by a hostess.
“Can I get you guys
anything?”
“Coffee, black.” The
man said.
“Tea please. Hot if
you would.” Responded Quentin without looking at her. “Milk. One
sugar.”
“Can I get you
anything to eat? Pie maybe?”
“No thank you.” The
two men said in unison.
“Oh-kay” Said the
server, a little weirded out. “I'll be right back.”
There was silence for a
moment. The man had a subtle but clearly vindictive grin on his face.
Quentin didn't wait for
introductions. “Look, let's not beat around the bush here. You have
pictures of me in a compromising position with a young man. To be
frank I honestly don't care if you plaster my naked body all over the
city, but this young man doesn't deserve to be dragged into it. For
his sake, and his alone is my only reason to be here.”
“What makes you think
he wasn't in on it?” The man asked. “What makes you think we
hadn't set this whole thing up together?”
Quentin retrieved a
cigarette and it's holder. He lit it, and balanced it between his
lips casually. “I had considered that, but no. I've had enough men
pretend in an attempt to get something out of me. I'd have seen it a
mile away. Besides, if he was, you would have either told me, or not
brought it up. Instead you posited that ridiculous question, which
only goes to prove that he's not part of the equation.”
The man was clearly
discomforted by Quentin's confidence. He had probably hoped that
Quentin would come grovelling. A shamed beast. Instead he could tell
he was just a beat away from losing his chance.
“Listen old man, you
can pretend you don't care, but if this gets to the press then your
career is over. You think your audience of screaming girls is gonna'
stick around when they find out you're a fag?”
Quentin didn't say
anything at first, instead breathing out a steady stream of smoke.
“They call cigarettes fags back home you know?”
The man shook his head
in confusion, failing to understand what Quentin was getting at.
The hostess brought over
their drinks. Only Quentin gave her a thank you. He could tell she
knew who he was, but she didn't say anything, likely in fear of the
intense frustration that was radiating from the other man now.
“What is it you want?”
Quentin simply asked.
“Five million.”
“I don't have five
million.”
“Then find it.”
Quentin laughed. “What
am I supposed to do? Rob a bank?”
“I don't know. Ask
some of your showbiz friends, they can front it for you. I know
you're pally with that Thomas Bygraves.”
Quentin laughed again.
“He's practically bankrupt. I think you've chosen the wrong mark
here my dear chap.”
“Look, I don't care
what you do, or how you get it. You don't want these pictures leaked,
you wouldn't have come here if you did. Maybe it doesn't matter to
you if your fans find out what you really are but It'll be
embarrassing all the same.”
“What I really am?”
Quentin mirrored, his smile leaving his face “You have no idea what
I am.”
“Just get the money,”
the man stood. “Be here tomorrow, with at least half, preferably
all.” He began to walk away, then paused saying “You can pick up
the tab,” as if it was the cleverest thing in the world.
Quentin took out his
wallet and dropped a few notes on the table as payment. He waited
patiently for the man to disappear out of sight.
When he was sure the man
had gone he stood and gazed out the window. An inconspicuous black
car pulled into view, and the driver side window wound down. A
sinister looking blue skinned lizard man in a fedora looked over at
Quentin. He nodded, then wound up the window and drove off.
Quentin walked over to a
payphone that was near the table and pushed in a few coins. He
dialled the number of the hotel he was resident at.
“Carol. It's me. Just
letting you know that Sidnar's going to be dropping by with some
information for me. Have it ready when I get back from a few drinks
with Thomas.”
“Sure thing Mr Wilde,”
She said pleasantly. “Is it blackmail again?”
“It is. I don't know
what it is about this time of year. Maybe they're all getting their
tax returns in and finding out they had a bigger bill than usual.”
He sighed.
“I'll have it all
ready for you when you get here. Anything else?”
“Make sure my laundry
is picked up from the dry cleaners.”
“I'll let Grobnar
know. It'll be folded and in your room when you get back.”
“Thanks Carol. See you
in a bit.”
“See you later Mr
Wilde.”
Quentin put the phone
down and made to leave. On his way out, the hostess that had been
serving them smiled. He smiled back.
“You're him aren’t
you?”
“I am,” he said.
“Autograph?”
***
Quentin had returned to
the hotel by late afternoon. He was a little light headed due to one
too many cocktails with his old friend. In an optimistic mood, he
approached Carol at reception. Good, he thought, her colleagues had
all clocked off. They could speak in privacy.
“Afternoon Mr Wilde,”
she said cordially.
“Carol,” Quentin
nodded, “You have something for me?”
She ducked under the
oversized desk. Half way down, Quentin stopped her.
“It's alright Carol,
you might as well just tell me. I know you read through all of my
messages.”
“Oh, Mr Wilde,” she
said, panicked. “It's not like that I just...”
“It's alright,” he
repeated and leaned forward to slip some notes into her blazer
pocket. “I trust you. What is it that Sidnar found out?”
Carol looked around to
make sure there were no eavesdroppers. She then leaned forward and
lowered her voice. “His name is Michael Herbert. Lives out on the
east side. Apparently he's no stranger to schemes like this. He
regularly hits the strip to try and catch big names in compromising
positions. He's made a little money off of it but never really had a
big payday. Don't know what drew him to you Mr Wilde.”
“Could have just been
instinct or luck I suppose. You have an address?”
She handed the message
from Sidnar over. “Mr Tlaloc will be picking you up at Eleven Mr
Wilde. Will that be sufficient?”
“Perfectly. I take it
Sidnar is confident Mr Herbert will be home at the time?”
“That seems likely.”
“Good. My laundry is
ready?”
“Waiting for you in
your room.”
“Good,” Quentin
leaned forwards and put a friendly hand on her shoulder. “Thanks
Carol, I don't know what I'd do without you.”
“Thank you Mr Wilde.”
Quentin smiled and
proceeded to walk to the elevators.
***
The robe waited for him
in his room. It was folded amongst shirts and jumpers, and other
formal wear. Inconspicuous. Nobody at the laundrette would give it a
second thought. That was intentional. It was not in the robe's nature
to draw attention to itself if it's owner didn't want it to.
Calmly, Quentin loosened
his tie. Undone his shirt and dropped his trousers. He switched his
underwear for a pair of longjohns. The robes were loose, could get
doughty, and Gulf City was hardly warm this time of year.
There was magic in the
fabric, that was the robe's secret. Once, long ago, the realms had
wondered why Quentin's people were as powerful as they were. The
secret was that a person could only hold so much sway over magic. The
brain and the heart could only handle so much power. Fabric, however,
could be weaved with power ten times that a man could handle. It was
like a battery, in a way, charging up the user with the power of
three thousand suns.
He slipped the robes on
and felt that power. It was subtle, but noticeable. It was as if you
had just been hit with ten espressos, or jumped into a pool of ice
cold water. It was a wake up call.
Quentin looked at
himself in the mirror, reminding himself that there was a reason he
couldn't wear the robes in public any more. It was a shame.
Quietly, he chanted.
“Invisibilium.”
He slipped out of the
door, nary casting a shadow. Sidnar would know where to find him.
***
Sidnar's eyes lingered
on Quentin a little while. He looked different when he wore the
robes. There was a wrongness about him, but also a clarity. It was as
if he had been painted by oils when all the realm was watercolour.
“Is he in?” Quentin
asked from the passenger seat.
“He is,” the
lizardman said in a gravelly voice, opening the car door and
returning to the driver's seat. “Apartment 104.”
“Well then. I suppose
I'd better get this over with.”
“Are you sure you
don't want me to be there?” Sidnar asked, pulling out a snub-nosed
revolver. “For backup.”
“Not necessary, as you
well know.” Quentin opened the car door and made to exit. “I
appreciate the sentiment, but the less you know, the less you have to
worry about old friend.”
“As you wish.”
“I'm sure you need no
reminding,” Quentin said, handing over a wad of notes wrapped in a
brown paper bag. “This did not happen. I was not here.”
Sidnar nodded without
comment and pocketed the payment.
Quentin turned towards
the run down apartment block. It's faded lights glowed a bilious
orange through it's dirty curtains. Apparently Michael Herbert had
accrued numerous gambling debts and was looking for an easy way for
some fast cash. He got greedy.
Quentin played back the
day's events in his mind. He wondered, in actual fact, if it wasn't
just pride that prevented him from paying up. After all, money had
already changed hands between Grobnar, Carol and Sidnar. Was paying
for their own silence really that much different? Would they show the
same loyalty if he didn't have a penny to his name?
These were questions for
another time, Quentin concluded. It wasn't just his own good name
that was at stake here. In the cool twilight hours he glided across
the street, his long robe dragging itself through cigarette butts and
oil stains.
***
He slid through the
door, ascended the stairs without making a sound, and quickly located
Herbert's room. The door had dog claw scratches on it, and one of the
numbers was snapped in half.
He was still tough for a
man of his age. Quentin could have kicked down the door if he had
wanted to, but he preferred the subtle approach. His hand hovered
over the door handle and he whispered.
“Aperio.”
The lock clicked and he
slid it open silently.
The room was still dimly
illuminated. Old film posters peeled off the walls and a layer of
dust gave the whole place the feeling of a crypt. The furniture was
brown and stained with nicotine. Empty bottles of beer mingled with
showbiz gossip magazines. Herbert liked to do his research in his off
hours it would appear.
Herbert himself was
passed out on a recliner. It was the cleanest piece of furniture in
the room. Quentin had an unfortunate view of Herbert's yellowing
teeth.
Time to end this.
Quentin grabbed Herbert by the collar, shacking him awake. The young
man was confused at first, but then his eyes widened when he
recognised Quentin.
“Hello Michael,”
Quentin smiled in mock sincerity.
Herbert wasn't given
time to formulate a response. With superhuman strength Quentin picked
him up and threw him across the room.
Herbert crashed face
first into a mostly empty bookcase. His nose broke and his skin
split. Blood gushed out of his battered face. That wasn't yet enough
for Quenin though. He grabbed Herbert again and began punching him,
using good old fashioned brawn this time.
Herbert pushed him away
with surprising strength, and made to run across the room. Quentin
threw forward an outstretched hand and three blades materialised and
pinned Herbert to the wall. The young man was quick, and didn't
panic. He ripped his shirt and trousers to free himself and ran for a
nearby desk.
Quentin was readying
another torrent of torments when he noticed Herbert pull out a gun.
To his relief, the man didn't fire.
“Yeah,” the bloody
Michael Herbert said, rising to his feet. “You don't like fucking
guns do you? Fucking spell casters. Think you can beat the truth out
of me? I ain't telling you where those pictures are. They're fucking
going to the press after this bullshit.”
“My dear boy, I'm not
worried about the pictures,” Quentin raised his hand defensively in
an effort to placate Herbert's trigger finger. “This isn't an
interrogation.”
He thrust one of his
hands forwards and pain shot though Herbert's body. The man winced in
agony. Quenin thrust his second hand forwards and Herbert's gun
rusted and dissolved into dust.
He lunged at Herbert,
punched him twice and then threw him into the nearby bathroom.
Herbert fell to his feet, and Quenin grabbed the man's head and
smacked it against the toilet. To add insult to injury, he shoved
Herbert's head into the toilet bowl and flushed.
When Herbert had stopped
struggling he let the man go. Calmly, Quentin rose to his feet and
took out his cigarette holder, lighting a fresh one up. He took
smooth slow breaths of it as Herbert gasped desperately for air.
“If you kill me you'll
never find those pictures!” He shot, still full of rage and haterd.
Quentin smirked. “I
don't need to find the pictures. Like I said, this wasn't an
interrogation. It's not a silencing either. Giving you a good hiding
was just for my own personal satisfaction.”
“Turn you on does it
faggot?”
Quentin shook his head.
As if everything he did somehow had to come back to sex. “My dear
boy, what I get up to in the privacy of my own home is far from the
greatest secret I hide. Funny that you should get so close to it and
be denied so.” He contemplated giving Herbert another beating for
his troubles, but that would have been a little excessive. Quentin
pulled his now used cigarette out of it's holder and stubbed it out
in the bathroom's sink. “Like I said. I don't need to find those
pictures. I just need to make sure that everyone forgets they ever
existed.”
“What the fuck does
that mean?”
Quentin put his palm
over the man's eyes, and chanted softly.“Oblivisci.”
Herbert was quiet for a
while.
When he opened his eyes
again he looked around at the chaos in the room. Confused, he looked
up at Quentin. He didn't recognise the man.
“Hello my dear chap.
Are you alight?”
Herbert still didn't say
anything at first. He looked around again. “Where am I? Who are
you?”
“You're home.”
Quentin said in a comforting tone. He put a friendly hand on
Herbert's arm “I'm just a concerned citizen who found you a little
worse for wear after one too many drinks.”
“Fuck I feel terrible.
Is this blood?”
“You got into a fight
with a few vagrants. That's when I found you. I managed to warn them
off and helped you get home. You made a bit of a mess as you can
see.” Quentin waved an arm at the main room. “Brought you in
here to clean yourself up and you passed out on the floor.”
“Fuck that must have
been one hell of a night. Could you believe I can't remember a
thing?”
“Believe me,”
Quentin said, “from what I saw, you wouldn't want to remember it.”
***
Quentin had called for
Dean two days later. It was the earliest he could permit a meeting as
he and Thomas Bygraves had had business out of town to attend to. He
asked that they meet in the hotel car park instead of the usual
place. Dean sounded worried, but Quentin assured him it was nothing
to be concerned about. Quentin waited for about half an hour for him
to show.
“Dean,” Quentin
nodded, forgoing the usual formalities. “I take it you have an
inkling as to what this is about?”
“I do,” he said, a
little upset. “This is is isn't it? The goodbye.”
“Dean,” He put his
hand on the young man's shoulder as he had done to so many over the
last few days. “I will always value the time we spent together,
truly, but things like this were never meant to last forever. You
told me you were in love once. I can't get in the way of that.”
“I told you that was
never going to happen.”
“Maybe not but...”
Quentin pulled out a brown paper bag, it was obvious what it
contained.
“Oh no,” Dean shook
his head sharply, offended. “You're not going to buy me off. No
way.” He pushed away Quentin's arm.
“I'm not buying you
off Dean. Call it a parting gift. Events in this world are moving
faster than I anticipated. I'll be leaving Gulf City soon. You should
too.”
“What am I supposed to
do?”
“I don't know. Buy
your friend's father’s garage. Be a silent partner. There's enough
in here that you'd never have to worry about supporting yourselves.”
“People would figure
something was up.”
“Maybe. But you won't
have to hide forever Dean. The realms are changing, and they're
changing quicker than some people realize. Soon a day will come where
people like us won't have to hide at all.”
“How can you think
that?” Dean asked, sceptical at Quentin's optimism.
“Because I'm old Dean.
I've seen history unfold, and the one thing I’ve learned from
watching is that hate is a finite resource. It can only burn for so
long until it runs out of fuel, but more often than not the rain will
just wash it all away.”
Dean couldn't quite
understand the intricacies of what Quentin was getting at, but he
could understand the importance of what he was saying. Dean
begrudgingly accepted the money.
The hugged
affectionately for the final time and didn't say a further word. As
he left, Dean looked over his shoulder a few times, perhaps wondering
if Quentin would change his mind.
Quentin didn't. Instead
he unlocked the door to his roadster, and put the keys in the
ignition, ready to drive off into what he hoped was the beginning of
a new world.
Copyright Jack Harvey 2014
