Stars over the Asphalt
@BCTheEntity@deadpixel101@GummyCat@ravenDivinity@Shadowpenguin07@Tancuras@yeti100
Besides the growling thunder and the howling wind, Jefferson Park was still. Summer had ended only eight days ago and was beginning to surrender the life, which it gave annually to the flora and fauna of the Puget Sound, to its natural death in Autumn, breaking the season out with the steady fall and toss of leaves in the wind. There was but one thing amiss on Beacon Hill in the witching hour.
A lone figure approached a mass of people, clad in similarly dark attire and masked by the cover of night. The only light from his silhouette in the darkness was that of his watch. "01:41 AM."
"You're late," an authoritative voice chided from amongst the crowd that separated into two throngs at the sound of his reprimanding.
The accused stood trial and trembled, stumbled over his mistake. "Sorry, sir, I—"
"It doesn't matter," interrupted the leader. A ring on his finger glinted in the shadows. "Are you ready?"
The underling cleared his throat and, subserviently bowing his head, said, "Yes."
"Let us begin." By the leader's command, the group formed a circle of roughly twenty-five people in number, and the late man joined their ranks. They waited under the clouds for the signal, and the leader took his position on the outside of the circle, facing north at the center of it. He held his hands in the air as a priest before his sheep would, only the mood was more sinister, more ominous.
At his signal, the group began a chant comparable to the hymns of the old churches. An ancient language created a polyphony of sounds that blended into a mighty, direful song of summoning. To their calls a small light formed at the center of the circle and cast its beam into the night sky.
Lightning crackled like a whip across the clouds, and everything faded into black.
The long hand was just barely on the 2, and the short hand laid its mark just past the long hand's. Albrecht counted the hours as they ticked by. It's... about... 2:10, he calculated, giving the clock a sideways glance. The lecture about federalism was for the most part complete, and his AP Government teacher filled the extra time by making small talk with students about politics and weather. Albrecht's eyes on the other hand traced the patterns in the carpet and the seam at which it had torn apart while his mind traced whatever stray thought had filled it in the moment.
Albrecht Hart felt empty. Although he couldn't be more satisfied with his life and the direction in which it was going, something was missing, begging to be found again, just so that he could move on with his life and get over it. But that was the problem. He didn't know precisely what. He absently stared at the screen of his phone. It too told the time, albeit with more accuracy: "14:10. September 29, 2015." Sighing, the 17-year-old gazed out the window at the world outside the school, just waiting there for the bell to ring, for class to be dismissed.
Minutes passed, and the bell tolled its beeping to the flood of high schoolers rushing through the doors. Probably the most relieving part of the day was when the day was over. Passing the Episcopalian church to the southwest, Albrecht traveled down California Ave's shady, paved sidewalks to the normal place, a little butcher that made pretty decent pork sandwiches, nestled between a law firm and a small apartment building. He'd already ordered two of the usual, two drinks to go with, and sat by the window in the front of the restaurant facing the street. He watched, and he waited as the school zone traffic flowed slowly by. She's late, again. And she's the one telling me to show up on time.
