In the basement of a building on an industrial estate, amber liquid spiralled around the inner tubes of a condenser. It dripped out slowly, each drop of viscous liquid slowly filling the flask. It had a flat wide base, that tapered in after a few inches with a long neck. George Holloway adjusted the temperature on the burner, increasing the pressure in the distillation flask and increasing the flow through the system.
It had taken a few years to get the process down, a lot of trial and error. The initial cross breeding of the coca plant, sassafras and a few other selected species had proved to have none of the desirable compounds, or some of them but several unintended side effects too. However, eventually, the elements were successfully integrated with one another, producing a compound superior to any of the basic pharmaceuticals which had been so prevalent for years.
George had thought it was strange for someone with his ability to apply it in this way, but the power to manipulate plants was far more valuable than any of his family had realised. After all, Mother Nature was the world's most successful pharmacist. George just had the confidence to know that someone could do better, aim higher. Nature was not infallible.
He took a bite of his apple. It was perfect: dark red skin, almost white flesh, crisp with just enough sweetness. He savoured the subtle sweet notes and satisfying crunch. His clients had their vices, and George had his.
*
Captain Pyre was atop the building, looking through a sheet of clear organiplastic into the room below. The sheet was dirty, covered in a translucent green slime, but George could see the general layout. Rich men—and there was no doubt there was a gendered aspect to the set-up—were dressed in fancy clothes, laying on velvet sofas, while scantily clad women walked around with pipettes placing single drops of amber nectar in their mouths.
The decor was elegant, a full-size grand piano and several hides of spirit beasts adorning the walls. There was a canopy of foods at a large centre table that sat untouched: black-pepper salmon, buttered crayfish, lemon and parsley sole. This Bacchanalian affair was unlike anything he'd seen before. These people had money to burn. And yet, they laid there, under the influence of some unknown drug with pupils wide as pennies, dilated to the point their eyeballs appeared to transition directly from black to white.
It was then that George spotted her. Sadie was wearing a dress which looked to be made of hundreds of pearlescent shells stitched together with silk, each shell refracting light at a different angle. George had only seen her a handful of times in fifteen years, but in that moment, a wave of emotions came back to him, reminding him of his first true love. He almost broke down in tears, just for a moment, till those tears turned hot and evaporated on his skin. Filled with anger, George could feel the essence burning deep inside of him, bubbling to the surface, filling him with the desire to burn the place to the ground, till all was fire and ashes and burnt corpses.
He took a few deep breaths, counting back from ten. He knew that was not the right path. If possible, he needed to try and keep his faction out of it, maintaining a low profile, but at the end of the day, if the choice was between Sadie's life or his position within the faction, then the faction could go straight to hell.
George pulled a balaclava out from the pocket of his coat, placed it over his head and took a deep breath. He placed his fingers around the edge of the organiplastic sheet and ripped it from the roof. A few pairs of wide eyes turned to look in his direction, as he dropped down into the elegant room below.
*
A dozen streets away, the Madonnas were waiting inside the church for applicants. The decision had been made that, if they wanted to become a true faction, they could do with some offensive abilities too. Their current set up was a bit like sending a team of doctors to war. Sure, they could help each other if they got hurt, but it wasn't exactly the most efficient way to fight. Besides, their skills with the quarterstaff were okay, but with the exception of Mother Mercy, none of them could guarantee a positive outcome if facing a prey beast alone.
After several hours, no one had turned up. Mother Charity was conspicuously absent. They had advertised well, handed out flyers and put up posters in the local area, but when the House of Cards had caught wind, a warning had been distributed through the ranks. No one was to join the Holy Order, as they were calling their newly established faction.
However, as the day had gone on, a few people had turned up. Some were not within the grasp of the House of Cards, or felt like they owed the Madonnas, while one man was an old sparring partner of Mother Mercy, who agreed on the condition she would train them. Five additional ability users was not something to be scoffed at. Their abilities had been noted down and they began to strategise about potential battle formations. They would still be a small faction. One of the smallest in the area. But now, if they were careful, they could take on both level 1 and level 2 gates, significantly increasing their income.
There was just one small problem running through Mother Mercy's mind: how would they respond to the portals in time?
*
As George landed, a large crashing sound could be heard. Although the clientele didn't seem to respond, a couple of the women looked scared and the few guards dotted around the room went to engage him.
"Sadie?!" he said, staring straight at her. "Come on, I'll get you out of here."
"Who are you?" she asked, just as surprised as everyone else.
"Don't you know my voice?"
"George…?" she asked.
At that point, he blocked a spirit enhanced strike to the face, breaking the arm that had just attacked him.
"We need to move," he said, defending a kick, then dodging the swing of a sword. He pulled his own dagger out, quickly stabbing it into the neck of an assailant, then elbowed another in the face.
Three of the four had been dealt with. None of them had been powerful spirited, certainly not shadow users. Perhaps they were considered strong versus the typical clientele, but none of them could have soloed a predator rank, something George had done many times. Sure, he would normally use his spirit essence to do so, but George could wipe out prey for sport.
The final guard was larger than the others and had held back to allow the others to deal with the developing situation. He'd been a little surprised to see someone take out three prey-rank hunters, someone that strong would be known, but it was clear that he was a level above his companions. The guard smiled, reaching his hands inside of his pockets, pulling out a knuckle duster in each. Each one had blue sparks of electricity flowing through it.