The man behind the shades.

by

This following story is dedicated to the girl with yellow eyes, and all the other children who live without hope.

The man stepped out of the dingy pub, drunk from downing one too many tequilas. He was 6′ tall, with a lean stature, and clothed in complete blackness. His eyes, blocked from the public’s view by sunglasses, were a kaleidoscope of different colors.

The pub was located in Dubois, a small town in rural Montana. In the dark backdrop behind the town’s limits, mountains stood in sharp contrast to the moonlit night sky.

The man, Jalat, was not human; he belonged to a slightly different species than humans–the Mercenaries. For centuries, a splinter group of humans carefully bred a select amount of people to create an species dedicated to ridding the Earth of the bad, evil, and ugly. They also worked in less destructive areas, such as contributing surplus money in their budget to various charities. Jalat was the last of his kind; the others had either been killed or thrown into maximum security prisons scattered throughout the world. According to the U.N., the EU, and the U.S., the Merceneries were a terrorist group. Needless to say, Jalat was a wanted man.

Jalat’s physical abilties were above-average when compared with a human. He could run fast, up to 40 MPH. He had the strength of a grizzly bear, and was trained in advanced modern warfare techniques. Where he really excelled, however, was in the mind. He could easily be described as a genius.

Jalat walked down the desolate main street, breathing in the crisp, cold Montana night air. After five minutes of this pleasant stroll, Jalat arrived at his rented house on the town’s outskirts. He opened up the garage, flicked on the light, and sat down on his BMW motorcycle cruiser. Turning the keys in the ignition, the cruiser’s engine sprung to life. Jalat revved the engine, catapulting into the night.

The wind violently whipped against Jalat’s face as he flew down the highway at a modest speed of 90 m.p.h. He was heading south, away from the efficient law enforcement of the United States. He had been on the run for a long time and was only in Montana as a temporary respite from the dogged pursuit of the Law. It was time to get out.

The bright green road sign illuminated by the motorcycle’s headlight read El Paso, 700 miles left. Jalat was hungry, so he stopped at a roadside diner advertising the best cheeseburgers around. His boots made a crunching noise as he walked across the gravel parking lot to the diner’s entrance. Jalat got a seat at the bar. A young, beautiful girl walked up to him. “What can I get for you?” she asked with a sweet, seductive twang. “I’ll have a coffee and a cheeseburger, cooked medium well. I’ll have fries with that, too”.

While waiting for the food, Jalat struck up a conversation with the pretty girl. “what’s your name, beautiful?” “Darla, and yours?” “George”. He couldn’t use his real name, obviously. “What’s with the shades? It is nighttime, if you haven’t noticed.”, Darla inquired. Now, if there was one weakness that Jalat possessed, it was for strikingly beautiful girls. Against all better judgment, Jalat, in an attempt to impress Darla, flicked down his sunglasses and allowed her to glimpse the startling colors shifting and swerving within his eyes. She gasped sharply, and everyone in the diner quickly jerked their necks to see the source of the sudden sound. Jalat knew he had screwed up. Darla screamed, “he’s a freak! get him away from me!” Naturally, Jalat stood up and walked towards the exit. Just as he was about to open the door, a large, muscular man with a crewcut and handlebar mustache blocked Jalat’s way. “Who the fuck do you think you are coming in here and messing with Darla?” said the big man. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to. Please get out of my way” said Jalat in a polite, calm voice. Instead of responding, the big man slapped Jalat’s shades off his face, exposing the latter’s eyes. Everyone let out a collective gasp of surpise, and then a man in one of the booths declared “That’s Jalat!”He’s a dirty arab terrorist, call the cops!”

Unbenownst to Jalat and everyone else, another patron, an off-duty cop, had called the police the second Jalat entered the Diner. He had recognized Jalat because almost every cop in all of the States was shown Jalat’s picture and directed to report anything that could lead to his capture.

Jalat knew he had to act quickly, but he also didn’t want to hurt the civilians in the Diner. All the men in the Diner surrounded Jalat. Jalat looked past the men, evaluating the best manner of escaping when someone else made the decision for him. Through the window in the dimly lit parking lot, Jalat, with his enhanced vision, saw a man, in a black non-descript Jeep Cherokee. looking down the scope of what appeared to be a some sort of sniper rifle. A loud report echoed throughout the night. Jalat ducked at the perfect moment; just late enough to give the sniper the illusion that he could hit him but still in time to avoid the bullet, which had lodged itself in the head of the pretty waiter, spilling blood and spreading the patrons of diners in frantic directions to escape the confines of the building. Jalat grimaced that he indirectly caused the death of an innocent, then took full advantage of the chaos to get to his bike. As he ran to the Beamer, bullets were flung in his general direction, but due to Jalat’s speed, all missed their mark.

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