Bryson (working title)

The silence was only interupted by the crack of Mr Bryson’s footsteps. The waves of people parted as he walked, none really noticing the strange man in the dark overlord costume. None but the Cretshure, who sat in her bubble at the end of the room, snickering.
Around Mr Bryson’s bubble of silence, the party continued. They moved in slow motion to his unhuman eyes, and to them he was nothing but a hazy blur, a trick of the strobe lighting. The only one who noticed the personification of doom who occupied the room was the Cretshure, but she was utterly insane and no one really trusted her.
She was rolling in her laughter when Mr Bryson reached her. He stood over her, waiting for her to greet him. When she did nothing but laugh, he prodded the creature with the very edge of his pointed, black boot. Still laughing, the Cretshure looked up, then giggled to a stop, falling quiet.
“Good morning, Mr Bryson.” She said, still rocking back and forth.
“Morning?” Mr Bryson asked, “It’s eleven at night.”
“Still morning, sir,” the Cretshure giggled, “Always morning, sir.”
Mr Bryson chose to ignore the girl’s nonsense talk. It wasn’t supposed to make any sense. He grabbed her arm and pulled her up from the floor, but her legs couldn’t hold her and the Cretshure fell back to the floor, shaking with laughter.
“Stop this.” Mr Bryson ordered, angrily, “Do you not know who I am?”
“Yessir, I know whose you are,” the Cretshure asked, “But my legs are funny. They don’t want to work.” She started laughing again.
Mr Bryson frowned, looking at the Cretshur’s legs. She wore a short, black dress and tights that were ripped to pieces. The bare, grey skin that was showing was bruised and cut. The legs bent in the wrong places.
“Who did this?” he asked, emotionless.
He did,” the Cretshure sang, pointing over to a balcony, where the DJ bounced over his sound system.
Mr Bryson frowned. The DJ looked human. Not only human. Dopey, infact. There was no way this human could even see the Cretshure, let alone do this kind of damage. Not unless she let him.
“Who is he?” Mr Bryson asked.
“I don’t know,” the Cretshure said, slipping into an unusual state of thoughtfulness, “Maybe you should ask him, sir.”
Mr Bryson didn’t even acknowledge the fact the Cretshure had spoken. He was watching the DJ. The way he bounced was odd, but Mr Bryson couldn’t quite point out what it was. He grinned, completly involved with his work, until a young, thin, human woman slid up behind him. He slowed down suddenly to kiss the girl, then sped back up to normal speed as soon as he let her go. Mr Bryson smiled, that was it.
“He’s in a bubble,” he said, quietly, “Cretshure, who is he.”
“I don’t know, Mr Bryson, sir,” the Cretshure laughed, “But I know who he isn’t. He isn’t who he thinks he is.”
Mr Bryson nodded. He knew that would be the most sense he got out of the Cretshure.
Without saying another word, Mr Bryson left the Cretshure. He crossed the room, glaring at the people who could not see him. He found a door marked ‘Staff only’ and entered.
The room was painted a deep, sickly purple and opened onto the stairs up to the balcony. It was completly empty, so Mr Bryson took a long, claw like finger nail and popped his bubble.
Immediatly, the ‘music’ flooded around him, bashing his eardrums an making his entire head bang. Mr Bryson stopped in his tracks, outstanded by the alarming noise that crashed through his brain.
With a small adjustment to his robes, Mr Bryson marched up the stairs. Two human women passed him, but niether of them seemed to notice him. He watched them stumble down the stairs, intoxicate out of their brains. Satisfied that he would not be disturbed, he continued to the end of the stairs and burst through the door at the end.
It was louder here than anywhere else, the music. It practically exploded his head. The DJ had his back to Mr Bryson. He bounced quickly, a belt of keyrings clashing together. It wasn’t a normal bubble.
Mr Bryson leaned forward, close to the DJ so he was invading the bubble.
“I know you can hear me,” he whispered, “Would you like to tell me what’s going on here or would you like me to work it out for myself?”
The DJ stopped bouncing. Slowly, he stepped away from the desk.
“Stop time?” he asked, “Please? I have a reputation to protect.”
With a click from Mr Bryson’s fingers , everything stopped. The music crashed into silence. The dancers froze in awkward positions. The whole world stood still.
The DJ turned to face Mr Bryson, but immediatly turned away again. No human could willingly look at an underlord’s face. Mr Bryson smiled.
“Look at me.” he instructed.
Slowly, the DJ forced himself to look at him. He winced and almost turned away, but didn’t. Mr Bryson’s smile grew wider.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The DJ backed into his equiptment again.
“My name’s Stouffer.” he stuttered, “You must have, must have heard of me. I’m kind of… Kind of world famous.”
“I asked you who you are,” Mr Bryson said, “Answer me properly.”
“I don’t know,” Stouffer said, “All I know is that I can do weird things, and not just wih music. And I know that witch wants me dead.”
Mr Bryson loomed past Stouffer to where the Cretshure sat, cackling.
“She’s not a witch,” Mr Bryson said, “What weird things?”


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