The Chosen One

A draft scene inverting the trope of the chosen one, in three parts

Part 1

‘It’s him. That one.’

Caolle looked. Looked very hard, trying not to see the person Mark had singled out. His reasons were, he admitted, rather selfish. Caolle didn’t like the look of them. They were the absolute archetype of a middle-aged man going through a midlife crisis. And this particular middleman didn’t even know the ramifications and consequences he was about to be saddled with. If the man had hair the stress would make him tear it out, though there were some wispy tufts hiding around the ears. The news could drive him to stress eating but something had beaten him to it, their target happily jogging along towards obesity, gout and possible heart attacks.

Heart attacks, now there was an idea.

‘He doesn’t look very healthy,’ Caolle pointed out. ‘What if we tell him and he was a stroke?’

‘Then his nearest and dearest inherit,’ Detective Raemond confirmed. ‘Standard transference clause.’

The detective looked just as miserable about the situation as Caolle felt. The detective had to take the man into protective custody, possibly from himself. Caolle had been expecting…more.

Not more of the man, there was enough of himself as things stood; tottering on two ham-like, sweaty hairy legs. At least the man had opted for full length trousers, eschewing the shorts and sandals and brightly coloured shirts some of his generation felt the need to adopt.

‘Aren’t they supposed to be a teenager?’ Caolle objected, unwilling to concede that this was who they were looking for. ‘A young adult, full of spunk and sass and all that attitude. You know, like all of yours.’

‘We have enough of those at home,’ Mark said dryly.

‘So why isn’t it one of them?’

‘Archetypal convergence phenomenon,’ Raemond said.

‘Yes, you said that before. Explain it again. Use smaller words.’

‘Should I break out the crayons?’

‘I would love to see that.’

Raemond groaned. ‘The city runs on belief, Junior. Patterns so deeply entrenched in the psyche of the voting public it becomes self-fulfilling. Death and taxes, it’s all inevitable. The only thing scarier than the reaper is the taxman. So when the world, in this case our fair fucking city, reaches an existential crisis, it embodies and imbues a saviour. Him.’

‘Craig from accounts,’ Mark said. ‘He’s getting away.’

‘He’s waddling,’ Caolle said. ‘We can catch him. Best to give him a head start, if he thinks we’re chasing he might panic. Bad look to have the saviour panicking.’

‘You just don’t want to chase him.’

‘I don’t want him at all and I certainly don’t want to carry his sweaty suburban malfunction when he passes out, is what.’

‘We’re stuck with him,’ Mark said. He didn’t look thrilled about it either.

‘Doors open and monsters hesitate when the saviour arrives,’ Raemond grumbled. ‘And wise mentors arrive to shepherd their destined student.’

‘Mentors?’ Caolle repeated. ‘Are we the mentors in this apocalypse? The wise mentors?’

‘That’s what generations of ennui and media bias get you,’ Raemond said.

‘The city hasn’t even been here for generations. I’ve never been a mentor before.’

‘You’re not,’ Mark told him. ‘You’re the warning.’

‘Since it’s an apocalypse I had my heart set on horseman.’

 Part 2

‘I don’t want any.’

‘We’re not selling anything,’ Mark told him, yet again.

‘Yeah, and I don’t want it. ‘Or your pyramid scheme or mailing letter or whatever Sunday new age cult you’re on about.’

Craig from accounts was getting red in the face. His eyes were bulging in their sockets and angry purple veins threatened to erupt under his skin.

‘And get off my lawn!’ He bellowed.

‘I’m not on your lawn,’ Mark replied calmly.

‘Not you, him!’ Craig pointed at Caolle.

Caolle looked down at his feet, which were admittedly making an impression on the lush green grass. He looked around, choosing to ignore the driveway and granite pavers, settling himself into the stained wood lawn chair instead.

‘Not there!’

‘This is very comfy,’ Caolle said, running his hands up the arms of the chair. ‘Do you just sit here and people watch? Watch the world go by?’

‘Get up!’

‘But what about the grass?’

‘Mr. Foster,’ Mark tried again.

‘Leave off,’ Craig told him. ‘I’m not having any of, not having any, I say. Who are you anyway?’

‘He’s Mark Rember,’ Raemond told him. Not for the first time. This time the words seemed to reach something in Craig Foster’s brain.

He squinted. ‘I’ve heard of you.’

Mark sighed, nodding. ‘Most people have.’

‘I didn’t like what I heard. Who’re you then, skinny man?’

‘Arthur Raemond, San Marseille police.’

Instant suspicion from Craig. ‘You’re a cop?’

‘Special consultant.’

‘What’s that mean? You got a badge?’

Raemond showed him.

‘I don’t have to talk to you,’ Craig insisted. ‘Not without a lawyer.’

‘You’re not in trouble, Mr. Foster,’ Raemond said.

‘That’s not entirely true, Arthur,’ Caolle said, waggling his finger. ‘Let’s not start out by lying to our new friend.’

‘Who’s he?’ Craig demanded. ‘I want him done for trespassing, he’s on my property and I don’t like it.’

‘That’s Caolle Kachura,’ Raemond told him.

Craig visibly flinched. Then squinted at Caolle, unconvinced. ‘Him?’

‘Him,’ Mark confirmed, ruefully.

‘But he’s…’ Craig struggled with the words. ‘One of them,’ he concluded.

‘Yes?’ Caolle grinned. ‘One of what?’

‘Them fairies,’ Craig said.

‘That’s a low hanging fruit.’

‘I don’t wanna join your queer apocalypse cult.’

 Part 3

‘He’s dead.’

‘I can see that!’

‘Why is he dead, Arthur?’

‘Because you fucking killed him, Kachura.’

‘I did no such thing. He was probably already dead before.’

‘He’s dead and you killed him.’

‘That’s unfortunate. Now what happens?’

Raemond hesitated. ‘Transference, he’s the chosen one and you killed him.’

‘Unintentionally.’

‘Still dead, ain’t he? You killed him so now it triggers the next chosen one.’

‘Ah, excellent. So we’re fine. Who is it?’

‘Damned if I know. Lore is it kicks over to the nearest and dearest.’

‘Craig didn’t have nearest and dearest. He was an accountant. He had spreadsheets.’

‘Any of those spreadsheets list a next of kin?’

‘Do I look like a spreadsheets guy, Arthur? I killed him, you figure out the next part.’

‘Thought it was unintentional?’

‘It was. But I’m intentionally not sorry about it. Craig was a bit of a dick.’