Pilot, by Doctor James Moriarty

The sharp, cold breeze caught the King’s albino overcoat in the wind, flapping behind him as he walked. The boots he wore protected him barely from the harsh elements of Snowtown, but they’d have to do. No supplies got in, nor out.

The King strutted towards the Forward Operating Base, only to be greeted by two familiar faces standing guard.

“Siro, stand down,” the King commanded, but the young Sergeant refused to move, while his comrade hurried out of the way.

“Desc, what are you doing?” Siro asked. He was definitely young. He must have enlisted as soon as he turned 18, maybe 3 years ago? But with these hard times, no wonder he was already an NCO.

“He’s our King!” Desc replied, his trembling hands caught the attention of the King. He’d have to find some fabric to make some gloves later.

“General Green is inside with someone by the name of Moriarty. A mysterious business partner. 50,000,000 in cash? He told me no one enters.”

“I’m sure my matters are much more important, Siro. Colonel Raine was found murdered.”

The King pushed through the Sergeant and entered the Lodge. The warm waves of the fireplace, and the ever-so-constant sound of Tech “playing” the piano made him comfortable. After all, this has been his home for awhile.

The long table was unoccupied, but behind it the General stood with his back to the King, speaking to a figure in front of him. The figure, or Moriarty, was gesturing a pistol with his hands, until he had glanced over, spotting the King. He stuffed his hands inside the deep pockets of his dark, navy blue suit.

“Your pet is here,” Moriarty whispered. General Green spun around, and connected his eyes with the King.

“King, come here. We got ourselves a sponsor.”

“Sponsor?”

“Millions of dollars in cash. Just gotta hand over someone.”

The King took two steps forward before the sound of gunfire from outside. Swiftly, he slid onto the ground, knocking a round table to provide cover.

“It’s the Commies!” Moriarty smiled.

The General unholstered a pistol, and took aim at the wooden door. Sweat dripped from the King’s brow onto his nose and cheeks. Everything stopped. Time was slowed. It felt like an action movie.

It was extremely silent until Siro came barging in, rifle in hand. Green squeezed the trigger, and Siro fell onto the ground, grasping his chest.

“What the hell?” the King cried, dashing to check the pulse of the young soldier.

“What’s wrong?”

“You just murdered our own!” Tech screamed, running in with a first aid kit.

“He’s not in our recruitment papers, King. I’ve never seen him before.”

The King glanced at the mystery businessman.

“Who let you in, anyways?”

He grinned, and reached down his vest, and revealed a black box, no larger than a phone.

“Siro Magnus let me in, King.”

“Communist!” Tech shouted, diving for the rifle laid on Siro’s chest.

The King put one hand in front of the other. The striking winds bashed down upon him, as he crawled throughout the rubble of the Lodge, engulfed in flames, but not for long.

“Never trust a lookalike, King. You never know if it’s fake. Or it has a Mk. 6 plastic explosive,” someone behind him said.

The hammer of a six shooter clicked behind him.

“I’ll see you in Hell,” he continued. The accent was British. Sounded like something the King had heard before.

“Kill me already, Communist,” the King said.

“Oh, I’m not a Commie. I’m just a passerbyer. I travel. And no, I won’t kill you. That scar on your eye will be a reminder of this day.” The hammer sounded again, a sound of relief.

“You’ll burn in Hell for this.”

“I’m afraid I already have, King A. I already have.”