THE SYNDICATE

 

THE SYNDICATE

VIII

Undisclosed Location

Beneath the city’s forgotten arteries, beyond sealed tunnels and humming generators, the conclave stirred to life after midnight. The black and white checkered floor looked like a chess board designed for one purpose to maintain an antonym for secrecy. Tall pillars ringed the space, etched with symbols whose meanings were known to only those sworn into the order. The ceiling was tall and intimidating, lanterns hovered the checkered floor illuminating the room dully with a soft amber glow. The slightest noise echoed through the chambers like a faint siren.

Mysterious cloaked figures emerged from separate entrances, their footsteps echoing through the walls announcing their arrival. As they entered the passage ways were sealed shut behind them with a low final groan. At the chamber’s heart stood a long obsidian table, cold and flawless, reflecting distorted silhouettes rather than faces.

They took to their seats according to rank, not age or power, following laws older than the city above them. A single hourglass rested at the table’s center, its black grains being siphoned swiftly by the upper compartment, it made no noise, just a slight trickle. Above the ceiling was the same checkered pattern that matched the floor. The tall ceiling decorated with ancient sigils that bring forth supernatural power and authority.

From the ceiling, a circular aperture opened, releasing a slow descent of cold air that carried the scent of iron and rain from the surface world. Its slight breeze sending a chill onto the conclave. Moving the members’ robes in a swift motion. An acolyte almost dropping a jagged golden spear meant to signify strength and resilience.

The members stood over the chairs looming over them silently awaiting instructions from their grand master. They all wore black robes with each a golden chain that signified a certain dominion or power over an entity. Some carried candles that lit the darkened room. Under the robes they all wore a plain white shirt. They all seemed to be tall in the dimly lit room and their hoods covering their faces making them look all the more sinister.

The grandmaster entered the conclave from a back door of which no one was aloud to enter. He came into the room while holding an ancient giant book. He also had a pair of a golden compass: these were the trades of the Elite, priceless mementos and ancient texts. The air was chill and a gust of wind blew past them again, blowing some candles. The grandmaster wore a black robe, adorned with precious metals on his chest.

As he sat on his huge black chair the others followed suit.

A low hum came from behind, like an ancient worship song. Above the ceiling doors were trophies of game: a deer, a goat, a lion. Their heads popping out at the front of the entrances, looking grim and dead. Their eyeballs glistening from the amber light from above. They were immobile but if you stared at their gazing eyes, they would come alive as if resurrected.

“We shall begin” said the grandmaster in a brutal bass-like voice.

Their eyes met in synchrony, sharing the unspoken understanding, each deciphering the meetings topics. Their voices were in low murmurs, discussing various topics: insurgency, classified information and new prospects. There in the middle of the table the hour glass’ grains dripped down from its top chamber like a slight drizzle, quietly presiding over the syndicate’s processions.

“There has been a development grandmaster” said a voice, echoing over the chamber.

“There has been a breach in the flow of information” added the subordinate.

“I have heard of this in my secret consultations” the grandmaster agreed.

“All in favor of terminating this threat,” said the grandmaster.              

“Aye!” the others said in synchrony as they raised their hands.

“Acolyte number five, permission is granted. Use extreme force, if need be,” said the grandmaster.

When the meeting was adjourned the members stood, pushed back their chairs and made a single file out of the darkened room. The grandmaster leaving the huge black ancient book on the table. Their drapes flapping elegantly like some infamous flag, their strides strong and magnificent like a pride of lions, they huddled towards the main door and into the deeper chambers of the secret cult like membership.

When the final door closed, the conclave returned to stillness, like a silent river cascading through the amazon. The thud of the clanking of the metal doors sent huge shocks of vibrations through the hall, startling some of the acolytes frantically. As they departed the chamber began to cleanse itself: lanterns extinguished, symbols erased, echoes swallowed by stone.

Above them, the streets were buzzing in activity. Not knowing that every decision was made, predestined, to go in the conclaves’ favor. Everything was calculated according to their favor: fueling the economic markets, pandemics and stock exchange. They were a brutal force working in secrecy to shape the world’s fate. They had politicians, drug barons and the most famous people in their pockets.

They ruled in the shadows, silently like a guardian angel. But there was nothing holy about the syndicate it was pure evil. They have plagued the human race with atrocities for centuries and yet they go unpunished no governing body would sue them or put them in trial for they were a myth in itself. Only rumors fed the news agencies and court rooms: there is a group of powerful people treating the mundane like puppets but no one ever got close to the evil syndicate.

But not anymore Carl and the infamous Watchdogs were on their tail. Uncovering one mystery secret after another. Little did they know they were being watched under surveillance. They would not engage unless pushed to the brim. They were steadfast in their mission to uncover the syndicate and lay to waste their secret organization…