Ultimately, the explanations for what the Negaverse did made little difference in the reality of the situation: tonight, Cryptomelane found himself out and about Hempstead Park in a northeastern neighborhood of town that he didn’t visit very often, whether as Preston or as Cryptomelane. The rows of townhouses that surrounded the park cut a figure that wanted very badly to seem intimidating, to cow and awe any onlookers with the ostentatious displays of wealth spilled out in the stylish banisters, the obsessively meticulous brick façades, the various stone statues that guarded each stoop. None of the playground equipment that littered so many of the other parks in town cluttered up this place, as if some almighty homeowners’ association had forbidden it for fear that children playing would decrease the property values.
Cryptomelane spotted his target as he passed by some unnecessarily complicated looking arrangement of shrubbery. The old man had high cheeks and a pointed chin, just like Brother Horace. Although his hair wasn’t long enough, it shone with a similar silvery color. The clothes diverged the most, but it didn’t matter; he was distracted by the topiary, which made it almost insultingly easy for Cryptomelane to drain his energy. As he looked down at the glowing orb of energy in his hand—as he heard the dull thud of the old man’s body hitting the ground—Cryptomelane allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile.
xdeathxbyxlovex
