2. Matters of Power

Obrázek uživatele Blanca
Kapitola: 

As far as assuming new identities went, he supposed he could do much worse. Assuming a new body to go with that identity was always a plus against detection and/or recognition. Besides, it usually gave you something to start with – a place to stay, money, access to people. But as he surveyed the cubicle of a room – barely better than one of the cells – of his new host, it was obvious, this time he will truly be starting from scratch. He sat down on the cot and contemplated his next steps. He will need a new base of operations and warm bodies to run it. But first he needed to make sure he had something to offer. And since his “friend” didn't seem to have much in the way of money, what was left was… he flexed his new fingers and looked around the room. There was a jug and a bowl on a small shelf on the opposite wall. His right arm shot up pointing towards them. Nothing happened.
He frowned, pulled the arm back and scrutinized the palm and fingers of it, as if he was trying to decide what was wrong. Then he stood up and stretched it out again, slower, more deliberately, his eyes pinned to the bowl and his forehead creasing as he focused. Still nothing. He let the arm fall equally slowly to his side, his eyes darting once again back and forth around the room. This time they stopped at the torch, casting a sputtering light over the small space. He stared at the dancing flame for a few seconds, then whispered a word. The flame suddenly flashed higher. His lips moved once again and a tongue of fire crept out from the rest of the flame, stretching languidly towards him. One more word and it split apart from the torch, hanging in mid-air for a moment, then curled up in a circle. A corner of his new mouth quirked up in satisfaction as he spoke one last word and both the circle and the torch went out, letting the room fall into darkness.
The prison was so quiet he could hear the noises of the desert night filtering in through a half-opened window. Stars twinkled high in the midnight black of the sky. He opened the window the rest of the way to look at them. Purely for the purposes of determining where he might be. Satisfied, he closed first the shutter and then the window, crossed to the cot and lied down. As he closed his eyes to rest, the other consciousness piped up. It – he, Koba, the former owner of this body – started asking questions. It took a while to make him stop – another evidence, that his power was not where it should have been. But that will get better. He wrapped his mind securely and protectively around his new brain and let his subconsciousness take over.
He was aware of other minds in the building. Most of them seemed dim, barely aware of themselves.
That will do, his last conscious thought told him. That will do nicely, for a start.

He woke up with the crooning of a rooster. His friend in his mind told him he should get about his morning duties. Which meant getting food. He stomped the nagging voice into silence once again, and was pleased to discover it went quicker this time. But he took Koba's advice and headed to the kitchen. Food for the guard was somewhat better than what they gave him for the prisoners. Still not fit for a pig, in his considered opinion… which he expressed to the sour-faced cook.
The cook, who was used to Koba's griping looked nonplussed at first. He changed his mind about that when the “old, useless keeper” caught him by the front of his tunic and would have lifted him up, if the tattered cloth didn't give way. Wide-eyed with sudden fear he stammered an apology and retreated to the fireplace, muttering something about Koba finally loosing his marbles.
“Koba” grabbed the prisoner rations and went to hand them out.
The cells had small latches at the bottom, allowing the bowls of food to be slid through without opening. But he ignored that, opting instead to open every door and hand the bowl to its inhabitant, or at least put it as close to him (or her, in a few cases) as possible. He also spoke a few quiet words to each of the prisoners. Some snapped up at that, meeting his eyes, surprise mixed with awe written on their faces. Others reacted with fear, recoiling even further away. And a few didn't visibly react at all.
He finished the round by sliding the bowl through the latch in the last cell. As he passed back through the corridor, he could feel tendrils of thoughts reaching out to him. He couldn't fully make them out – yet – but just the fact that they were there proved that however diminished his power, it was probably sufficient to at least start setting his plan in motion.
He just hoped he had at least a few days before his captors came to check on their prize...

Závěrečná poznámka: 

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Komentáře

Obrázek uživatele Tess

Já se ho bojím!

...že se bojíš :)))

Přijde mi pěkně zajímavej ten proces, když někoho posedneš, tak ale jeho vědomí nemůžeš smazat - jen potlačit. Protože pak můžeš číst jeho znalosti. Cool, bro.
A vypadá, že to nedělá poprvý a má to pěkně rozmyšlený. Uf.

K angličtině nemůžu být konstruktvní, ale od tebe se mi čte pěkně. Šlape to a pro člověka s mým levelem angličtiny je to tak akorát srozumitelné a tak akorát challenging :)

-A A +A