Untitled: Prologue.

(Yeah, I know, it’s already posted, whatever)

The president stood up and stretched his wings.

It was January. The cold of winter was complete. His office was cold, colder than his wife on a bad day, which today happened to be. The president had not shaved in a week, he looked ragged, his usual charisma faded from his gaunt face.

It was Monday. Not the best day to start a week on. Not a good day at all, the president thought. Riots, gang violence, and suspicious rumors were his alarm clock. Not a cheery beep. Not even a jostle from his wife. Not a poke, not a prod. No, today, today was a day to get up early. There was work to be done.

The president sat down.

A report came through the intercom. Shirley, the desk girl. Shirley with the blonde hair like Mildred's back when he married her. The call was not unexpected, he was always expecting someone. Always.

Like always, he sent them in. And like always, they didn't knock.

They walk in, their badges glinting in the morning light. Federal Bureau of Control and Investigation. FBCI, the highest badge an officer of the law could wear. The three men walk with a brisk gait, and dark glasses obscure their eyes, but they were not for protection from the sun.

“Mr. President, we have received reports that a Taker has surfaced.”

A Taker, then. That was what all the fuss was about. Typical FBCI, always jumping the gun on rumors. But then again, these men are where rumors begin.

A portfolio flies from the foremost man's hand, landing on the desk in front of the president. Mathers was always a showoff, and this was center stage. The portfolio opened. Lines of text like a teeming jungle, each leaf another fact, another idea, another life spent in law enforcement. This codex was important.

“Why, Mathers, why? We have enough on our plate already. The Church is on my ass about the new Virtucision bill, the riots in the South are reaching breaking point, and you come to me with some report of some Taker kid? I don't have time for this.” The president ruffled his feathers in annoyance. Don't these men have better things to do?

“Sir, we would like you to grant us permission to track the Taker.” Mathers spoke with precision, with poise learned after years in FBCI social norms classes. His tempered demeanor now fit his tempered hairstyle.

“Very well, send some guys on the job. I couldn't care less. Now leave me alone, I have work to do.”

The three men looked at each other and the president in acknowledgment, and turned to leave. The door shut behind them.

The president swiveled his chair to look over the Capitol. It was not a perfect city, the smoke of factories could be seen in the distance, the Air Force troops still circled the sky, but it was his imperfect city, and that made all the difference.

The president rose, and stretched his wings.

Maybe today won't be so bad.

(Licensed under GNU GPL3.0, Dante Douglas 2010)