Los Angeles y Demonios

[Hurucan]

Hurucan felt the aircraft rumbling over him more than he heard it. He percieved the normally unseen electricity that coursed across the plane's surface; the current throbbing through the internal circuitry as computers, communications, cabin lights, and everything else that held the contraption in the air blinked away; the film of static ions clustering at the edges of the aerofoil surfaces as the air smashed against them and shed their surplus electrons. Hurucan drew in a breath, and felt his own electrical field ripple in anticipation, but he held his hunger at bay: he'd already consumed his full, as the crackling arcs of blue lightning that danced between his fingertips indicated. Slipping a hand into his pocket, he withdrew a pair of black, fitted leather gloves and tugged them onto his hands; it wouldn't do to electricute the first person he shook hands with.

A slight smile quirked at the side of his mouth. No: no the first.

Turning on the spot, Hurucan set his attention on the airport itself, and the swathes of people wandering to and fro, going about their busy little lives with no perception of the greater story unfolding around them. It was strange at times: over the course of his lifetime, things had changed so much. Back then, he had been able to feel the very impulses coursing along the nerves of those he observed; now those sensations were disturbed by the cell phones, pagers, laptops, palm pilots, bluetooth and other electrical contraptions that seemed to be essential to their very survival. Bluetooth, he mused, wondering how many of the current generation realised the history and nomenclature of that particular name; no doubt some of the younger ones would find it 'cool' or 'groovy' to be wearing a Scandanavian warlord on their heads.

He scanned the crowd, hoping to pick out the man he was here to meet. It seemed foolish, particularly if Alec had taken his advice and done away with his ratty hair and ragged clothes; aside from the odd photograph that he'd seen months previously, he had no idea what his son looked like while he was presentable.

Still, there were other ways to find a needle in a haystack, and while a magnet wouldn't necessarily help him here, there were other advantages on which he could rely. Delving into his pocket, he carefully unwrapped the insulated package that contained the cell phone he'd purchased, and clicked the device on. It wouldn't take long before his latent electromagnetism rendered the contraption inoperative, but it would serve its purpose before it failed. Pressing the speed dial, he closed his eyes and reached out with his other senses. There; to the left; the pulse of a similar device coming to life.

With a smile, Hurucan turned in that direction, and tossed his phone aside; hiding the evidence. Clasping his now-empty hands behind his back, he fixed his son with his usual, unflinching gaze. "Hello, Alec," he called, as the Englishman emerged from the crowd.

[Alec Goreman]

It is strange, mused Alec Goreman, how something simple can make me happy. But then, a sidewards glance at the man eager to push his way into the airport before any other passenger, a glance that hinted at disdain, but was quickly pacified by Alec's own thoughts: but then, perhaps everybody has their own simplicities. The ones that make them feel good.

As his luggage - a small, plain black suitcase - was handed to him, Alec offered a grateful smile and turned to find himself immediately absorbed in the near-suffocating throng of travellers. He was alone and surrounded by interaction - air staff attendants directing passengers, conversations between friends as they disembarked, heading for refreshments, the police with their amusing accents telling the gentleman they had discovered smuggling a suspicious white powder that he was 'goin' down'.

And the greetings. He has to stop for a moment to witness them in their vast varieties, guessing if the two men embracing are old friends, brothers or lovers, studying the plain characteristic of the American handshake, watching with a tiny smile as the woman who only minutes before had been seated two rows in front of him now sweeps her tiny child into the tightest of hugs. Airport greetings are much about love, Alec thinks whimsically, and perhaps that is the simplicity for some people.

Making a move, he judged the continuing waves of people before stepping out with a confident stride, pulling from his inside jacket pocket his own simplicity and popping another sugar-laced delight between his lips.

And all I need are Fruit Pastilles.

His senses were alive, and not just because of the sugar. For all the metaphors being made of the crowd sweeping people in like the ocean, nothing could be more literal for Alec Goreman. Every body that came near alerted his senses, their almost-liquid state fascinating to him, causing him to wonder what might happen if he stretched out with his talents and made them do ...what? What could he do? Human bodies aside, the amount of refreshments each carried upon their person was astounding. From these alone he could easily realise the weapon he had travelled so far to become.

Water, water everywhere.

But now, to narrow his mind to focus on more important things: father. Hurucan had requested he fly far from his native England, across the 'Great Pond' and land in America. Somewhere entirely foreign. Where people spoke the same language, but didn't. His distant cousins whom he found he could not relate to. People whose cultures had differed and yet now were seeping back into one another, to become a partnership once again. As if, for the first time in many years, realising they were of the same kin.

As were Alec and his father. And like the English and Americans, they were still wildly different. However, now seemed an excellent time to celebrate their differences --

Alec near-flinched as his mobile telephone began its song, crying for attention as an incoming call demanded answering. Delving into his pocket, he drew it out, only to have the incoming call abruptly end as his pale eyes settled on the display. The number had no name attached, and it was one he did not recognise ...

"Hello, Alec." The voice was a low, smooth rumble which captured his attention. Extracting himself from the crowd, Alec's mouth formed a somewhat pleased smile, as if he himself were one of those children about to be seized into the arms of their parents. Of course, he was too old, and too distant from the man who was his father. The man's presence was a powerful one; Alec could detect more than water when his senses reached Hurucan. He searched the impassive face for any recognition, any approval. For in the passing weeks, Alec Goreman had changed.

His chin-length tangle of hair had been cut away, leaving it short and feather-like to touch. Washing it had brought back its true light blond, and with the help of a comb he had flattened it into something quite neat. Shaving away the weeks of stubble had been refreshing, too, and currently his face was smooth and free from any shadows that hinted more hairs emerging. And the clothes; he had purchased them only days ago - a grey, pinstriped suit under which he wore a pale blue shirt, tieless and open at the collar. Reminded of his confidence, Alec's smile remained, "Hello ..."

What do I call this man? Hurucan had only been prominent in his life for a short while, not time anywhere near long enough for Alec to be comfortable to name him in the role that he truly was ...and yet, the man had a name conspcious perhaps to any eavesdroppers. Reaching into his jacket, Alec liberated another sweet from the cylindrical wrapper, pushing it into his mouth and chewing with some enthusiasm. Swallowing, he gestured towards the nearest exit, "Onwards and outwards? Oh, and --" he had been halfway to replacing the sweets inside his jacket when all manner of politeness suddenly returned to him, and he turned to Hurucan, proffering it to him, "would you like one?"

[Hurucan]

Hurucan regarded the presented packet of confectionary with mild distrust and confusion. With an effort, he battled the expression from his face. "No, thank you."

Alec's arm rescinded the offer, tucking the packet out of sight within his clothing; for a moment, the son stood there expectantly, until the father replayed the words of their conversation in his mind and stumbled across the overlooked question. Hurucan flashed a smile; as reassuring as he could muster. "Onwards, yes."

He gestured towards the exit, indicating that Alec should go first, and wondered if perhaps he should offer to assist with his son's luggage. Was that the sort of thing that fathers did? Was Alec to old for that? Did it make a difference that he was a son and not a daughter? For all his confidence, and his pride in his own intellect, Hurucan had found that even his advance efforts had left him completely unprepared for the magnitude of the undertaking he had adopted. It was one thing to use his elloquence and charisma to turn fellow brothers into deciples to his cause; another entirely when blind obedience to his ideals was not the only thing he wanted to achieve.

He fumbled through his mental lexicon, searching for something that might pass for an acceptable opening volley in the verbal rally of small-talk and chit-chat. He extended his senses, snatching a fraction of a conversation that one of the other reunited families - admittedly a slightly less disfunctional one than his, but still - were engaged in. He mustered a smile. "How was your flight?"

[Alec Goreman]

"...Amiable, I suppose." Since the little travel in his University days with his course - teaching English to French students, and the like - Alec had flown little, and despite not having visited the United States previously, the flight had been like any other - merely longer. He offered a rueful half-smile, "The food was ...interesting, although not enough to convince me to finish it."

With both men being tall, their strides easily covered the distance to the exit in a short time; upon stepping into the pollutant-ridden air outside, Alec hailed a taxi - or cab, as the Americanism dictated - and one performed something of a rudimentary handbrake turn in order to serve them. His nerves only slightly unsettled, Alec climbed inside, Hurucan following. At being given his instructions, the taxi driver pulled away, his vehicle speeding at a ridiculous place towards their destination: The City of Lost Angels.

The man's presence - sat so straight with his gloved hands clasped neatly in his lap - continued to be a puzzle to Alec. Just who was this man? Of course, father, of course, but who? Why had all other names lacked the attributes to make them worthy of this man? Had he come from a humble background - something Alec was proud of and would certainly give them some common ground to discuss - or was he associated with a more affluent family? Perhaps the latter; the man seemed to be able to travel with remarkable ease - contacts and money provided such smooth transition between countries.

I do not know how to call him my father ...when I still know so little.

The conversation between them had died, yet Alec did not attempt to continue it; even fake words between them were something he would not prefer to share with the American stranger driving them into the city. He settled to sit, to contemplate, his suitcase pressed between his ankles. Here, in Los Angeles, they would truly begin a noble conquest. Or, at least, that was how his father had named it.

Father. It could not sit comfortably in his mind no matter how he tried to silently intone it. Father was Stephen Hart. He had always been named so to Alec - he remembered little of the man from his early childhood - just 'father', 'dad' once Stephen and Elizabeth had been married. They were still gone from this world, and to what? What lay beyond death? Perhaps another life, better or worse than this, or nothing but soil and darkness and eternal unconsciousness. They had not appeared to him in dreams recently.

Several minutes of quiet, disturbed by the hollering of angry horns from far more furious drivers, filled the rest of their journey with the same heaviness of too many cooking apples in a crumble. When the driver performed a further heart-leaping manoeveur into a parking space on the side of the street and named his price, one pale eyebrow on Alec's face quirked upwards.

"I beg your pardon?" His accent was clearly alien in this place, as the driver gave a grin that seemed to relate to his amusement of the Englishman, and repeated the fee. Alec's tongue crossed his lips, each fingertip quivering as his senses detected water. Water within the human body ...was it 65%? Perhaps even as high as 80% - it was enough. More than enough to grasp and curl his control around. He could smell it, taste it, feel the vapours ...

The driver's head connected with the steering wheel with a sharp thud, and as unconsciousness gripped the American, Alec released his influence, the briefest of smirks crossing his face. "No thank you, sir."

A swift exit from the cab by both father and son - Alec in wonderment at Hurucan's lack of empathy or surprise as to what the blonde had just done - and the two men were out on the street. Alec turned, suitcase in hand, and gestured around at the human-packed area. Every part of his body tingled. Delicious.

"Where is our next destination?"