The Thirteenth Step

“Escapee from Werrabee High Security Prison, Ashyver Solomon, was sighted three hours ago in Scarthiak, capital of Verex, the drier regions of Saturn. Ashyver Solomon, aged nineteen, was sentenced for life after committing unlawful acts concerning the abuse of his Sephorian Phyre (a rare talent with fire), which resulted in murder on twenty-seven occasions.

According to the records of Werrabee Prison, this has been the second break out over seventy five years, the last occurring in the year 3650. The prisoner, Cieren Murphy (another possessor of Sephorian Phyre), was caught thirty-two hours later and faced instant death. Werrabee Police Sergeant, Brian Thinner, has assured us that Solomon will also face the same fate. Police troops are now scanning Verex’s cities for any other sightings that might lead to the capture of this man.

Residents of Scarthiak and surrounding towns have been briefed on cautions that should be taken during this time. Experts advise that people should stay indoors and be wary of any unusual signs of heated temperature. Ashyver Solomon is considered a dangerous, and potentially murderous, prisoner who should be avoided at all costs imaginable.

Any persons, who may have information regarding this alarming escape, should be urged to call the number at the bottom of the screen. Your help may be the difference of a safer society.

The Head of the High Security Prison, Mr Quinton Jane, now joins us in the studio. Good evening, Mr Jane, do you think that these two prisoners - the only ones that have ever escaped Werrabee, are some how connected—”

The television cut transmission, sending the picture of the beautiful Lauren Gardenér into oblivion.

Short laughter echoed in the dark hotel room; the curtains drawn tightly together, covering the cool glass windows. The hidden figure stood from the round arm chair perched directly in front of the plasma television. A slim remote was thrown carelessly onto the double bed and the dull thud of footsteps trailed around the room.

“I remember Ashyver Solomon,” the man whispered to himself, his voice low and husky, “brilliant boy—he was going places.” He bent down over the small chest of drawers positioned next to the bed, picking out the few items scattered inside: a key card for the room, a sharp knife, a metallic wrist guard and a black, leather wallet.

Each object disappeared into the deep pockets of his pants, save the wallet and the wrist guard. He clipped the metal cuff around his left wrist, allowing it to click softly in place. A cool shiver ran through his blood and he hissed at the feel. I’ll never get used to wearing this…he thought glumly, now looking at the wallet still resting in his right hand.

Flipping it open he frowned. An ID card was displayed in a clear, plastic pocket, presenting the personal information for a certain escaped prisoner.

He’d never really liked that picture. It was almost distorted; the man’s features were set in a grim smile, his green eyes absently staring at the lens, his dark, dishevelled hair sweeping his brow and his head was tilted too far to the side.

Fingers extracted the unwanted card, propping it up on the large palm of his hand. Slowly the card began to smoke, giving off the distasteful smell of burning plastic. But rather than melting into a toxic acid, the surface began to glow a deep red.

The letters, Ashyver Reamiel Solomon, shuddered violently and an almost silent sizzle ensured the removal of them. The name trickled down the surface of the card, wiping everything in its path before falling feather-light onto the ugly carpet below. Replacing the missing information a brand new identity emerged.

Aran Olivier Ithian now stained the open space where the previous name had been forged. Scrutinizing the rest of the information the man nodded in satisfaction. However, the picture needed to go.

A blinding flash emitted from the small barcode carved at the bottom of the card and the unfortunate picture ceased to exist as a new face was burnt into the small rectangular box. Amber eyes, blonde hair, a strong chin…definitely more acceptable. This one was much more good looking than before.

The man straightened, replacing the ID card in the wallet, which in turn also disappeared into the back pocket of his pants.

“It’s a shame he no longer exists,” he murmured out loud, his voice laced with an emotionless tone. “I expect he’ll end up in the same situation as Cieren Murphy, poor bastards.”

Without any more delay, he snatched his long trench coat from the brass hooks embedded in the plaster walls. A slight wind shuffled away the shadows as he swept it around his shoulders, the collar hooked beneath his chin.

Aran Ithian stalked out the wooden door, a handsome smirk playing on his features.

A/N: Wow, totally different kind of story for me. D’ya like it? Hate it? Abhor it? Loathe it? Despise it? I’m working on my thesaurus skills. Detest it? Want me to stop this rant? Review now, before you are sucked into another story, which is probably a lot better than mine. Oh wow, that’s depressing…