As the walls teem with the laughter of the bar, the old game of poker is still being played. In the same spirit, shadows dance to the chorus like mice through studies. Fanatical summons of the game kept conversation trivial, as one of them yelled, "Keep it up, you son of a bitch!"
Tarrying through sips of water was a youth whose composition was leanly folded in his booth. He listened from the side his back was facing, therefore marking his full attentiveness to the conversation.
I can only gather this seeming lack of ill competence as one said, "Try as you might, you fuck!"
The other at the table sat and sat, "That play was mine and you know it!"
There were three at the table, so the youth must've carried very little interest for a grand display. I know what that means tonight, seeing how none but him shall leave.
It hardly seemed queer that one of them said, "The horse races on Planet Israel had quite a turnaround; those sand storms are a fucker."
He said in reply, whoever 'he' was, "Not as bad as Damascus, though. I've heard legends of a man who was so in tune with the sandstorms, he learned to thrive in them to the point where he could rip your head off!"
"Ah, that Wolverine bullshit doesn't fit, here."
The young man from behind hardly quivered; he continued to listen as one said, "I heard of this guy, though, who does live on Damascus. He's not your ordinary killer."
"Because, he's rumored to be the son of the Herald!"
"The Rumoured Herald?!", one asks.
"No, his son."
The young man wore his robe and signaled his own right eye closed, successfully pulling an eye patch on and walking from behind his seat. As the discussion assumed a tier of importance in this youth, the man who was talking said, "The man wears an... An eyepatch! And what I heard is that he was once killed alive!"
"That isn't proper English," one added.
"No! I mean 'killed alive', as in brought back from the dead! By his father!"
They stood at attention with such a revelation, when suddenly the youth was nowhere to be found, like an image out of its frame. The conversation continued for a second or more, as the person speaking said, "He's part of some Goddamn experiment to bring people back from the dead, at least I've heard. More like a cloning experiment, that's more logical; people infected back on Earth were pretty fucked, if I remember correctly."
One asked, "Wait! How do they do that?!"
The other stated, "The cloning experiment starts with the use of in vitro experiments on a vagina in labor."
They both seemed to query, 'til the fat of their conversation heralded, "The man is like some Jesus Christ or something, only more... More..."
"... Like me?"
All of a sudden, a shadow moved entirely from sideways and pulled up the hem of his cowl with slight fingers. Churning the men to fear, one yelled, "What?! How did you move so fast?!"
I can provide this. The answer is simply the ability to increase human density through a release of tremors that influence factors such as body temperature, endorphins, and other humors that regulate human beings. The result is accelerated a millionth of a second at a time, creating the possible illusion of an afterimage. The choice he made in this case is more likely speed, as he states, "How do you move..."
The three jarred from the table, the young man saying, "The Younger Herald... His eyepatch is merely a frame to suggest fallow circuits in the eye could be understood in one so powerful. In other words, how is his eye not working..."
While writhing for precious guns, the young man petitioned further, "He has an eye that can't see..."
"... Whereas I have an eye that can see all too well", he says, pulling off the eyepatch to the horror of his targets.