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Plot #112

Memento Mori

I’d considered bailing. Was this really something I needed? Outside of protection in the Pen, I wasn’t much of a joiner. That’s pretty much why I bailed on DKS. But this invitation… it didn’t seem like a request. More of a command. Plus, I wascurious. Who wouldn’t be? An invite to the most exclusive frat in Forsyth? The most dangerous?

Hell, I kind of just wanted to see where the bodies were buried.

I’d shown up, one of a couple dozen, including the two with me right now, who seemed just as surprised to find that it was an interview under the guise of being a party. We ate, drank, and bullshitted one another until the sun came up. I’d woken up, face down in the dew-covered grass, lying next to a hundred-year-old gravestone. I was nursing one hell of a hangover and ready to swear off frat life for good. That day another envelope was on my doorstep instructing me to come back again that night. Same for the next day, then the next. It wasn’t just parties, although there was plenty of debauchery in the form of free-flowing booze and sexy crypt chasers dressed in black, all wanting the first crack at the new recruits.

But there was something else just under the surface. Individually, we’d been tested. Academically. Physically. Mentally. We’d been asked to prove our skills, our prowess. To challenge our fears.

After seven days, I received the final envelope.

An official invitation to join BRN.

I went from living alone in my shitty apartment to being surrounded by an entire fraternity of men who are now my brothers. Men who have all taken the same oath, sworn our fealty to the Baron King.

Except, we are not all equal. Three of us have been chosen for attributes that only he understands. To wear the mark. To deliver it.

I’ve wondered about this a million times over the last few weeks. What did he see in me during the recruitment phase that made me different? Some kind of excellence that I don’t see myself?

What is it about this kid, Hunter, that caught the Baron King’s eye? I don’t know much about him, myself. Just that he works the night shift at WXFU and has a stack of engineering books on his desk. There must be something else, right?

And then there’s Armand. By the way, what kind of fucking name is Armand?

A rich kid's name, that’s what. His clothes. His posture. His entitled, snobby attitude. The air of contempt at anyone who crosses his path. Privilege. That’s the word I’d like to tattoo on his forehead. Privileged Fuck Boy. Is that what bought him the golden ticket or is there something else lurking under all that entitlement?

The three of us arrived at the Baron’s house on the same day. Suitcases, backpacks, and in Hunter’s case, a cardboard box, and a dog at his feet. We went to classes during the day, studied our pledge books, and fulfilled our personal obligations. Hunter left several nights a week for the radio station, where his smooth voice carried over the airways. Armand woke up early in the morning to work out with the rowing crew. I continued hustling on the side, taking on piercing clients.

During all of this, we never saw the Baron King. Our pledge period was overseen by the two former Barons.Two,not three, the third’s whereabouts were unmentioned. These men are smart, loyal, trusted to slowly hand over tasks, or really, what I see now they really were–tests.

Tonight we find out if we passed or failed. Will we be given the role of leadership? Be the hands of the King? Or will we be cut loose and banished, a failure to Forsyth?

That is what waits on the other side of the metal bars, and if we succeed, we’ll participate in the Barons’ most coveted event:

The Hunt.

Shadows don’t speak.

“Finally,” Hunter says when the gate finally opens.

I lift my chin, allowing Hunter to go out of the tunnel first. He steps into the night and pauses, taking a long look at the man releasing us. He’s wearing a long black cloak with a hood shadowing his face. Well, not his face, it seems. The mask, black like the rest of his clothes–gloves and boots included. Unfeatured other than slits for the eyes and nose.

Flickering torchlight guides the five of us to a clearing, a circle made of stone. Our brothers stand around the edge, dressed identically to the two that brought us here. Faceless. Nameless. The only color is a bronze circular clasp at the neck, a pentagram holding their cloak in place.

It strikes me how different the Barons are from the other fraternities. The Lords are chosen by points, a game played amongst one another, against everyone. The Dukes take it to the ring, in front of a crowd. To the victor and all that shit. And for fuck’s sake, the Princes. It’s just one giant spectacle for everyone to see and most of all, talk about.

But the Barons? We’re initiated under the cloak of night. In the shadowsbyShadows. It’s isolated, secretive, and now that I’m here, I wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake.

“The King awaits,” a faceless Shadow finally speaks. “You may approach the throne.”

Throne?

Across the circle, the Shadows part, revealing an extension of the circle, and the massive throne on the other side of an obsidian altar. The firelight shifts across the throne and the material it’s made of, welded pieces of jagged iron. I see them forwhat they are: instruments of death, or really, the tools of power. It’s impressive, but all eyes are on the man sitting in the seat.

The Baron King.

Even though we’ve been initiated into BRN, this is the first time we’ve been in his presence. He’s dressed in a thick black cloak with a hood that covers his head. Underneath is a black suit. The firelight shines over the toes of his oil-colored wingtips. His hand rests casually on the arm of the throne, a gold ring glinting on his finger. But it’s his mask that draws every bit of my attention. It bears none of the non-descript markings of the Shadows’ masks. Cast in bronze, the sides mimic sharp cheekbones and the hard line of his jaw. The forehead splits into two pointed horns while the mouth is curved into a permanent line, giving away nothing, yet holding all the cards.