They say that being blind is a weakness, they say it is a disability, they say many things about that which they have never experienced and never known. But I cannot blame them for that, for so long I agreed, for years I struggled to cope with the loss and disorientation caused by the lacking sense; Blind and lost in darkness unable to find a way out.
Yet I persevered, I took darkness in my hands and used it, shaped it, ordered it to my will. My weakness became my Strength, my Senseless eyes became redundant to my touch and my aural perception. It had taken many years, but I walked beyond the darkness to a world where nothing escaped my awareness.
But all strengths have a cost, and mine was no exception. Can you imagine what it is like to sense the world around you all at once? An inescapable clamour of voices and motion without form. At first I could not bare the noise of the Matrix, it was too much for me to begin to unravel, it was a wall of noise against the possibilities. Yet my Mentor taught me that the world around was no more than a lie, and lies can so easily go unheard. I trained my senses, as any other would train their muscles, to filter the noise, to lessen the background and focus...focus on that which mattered. I found solace in the rare moments of silence within the city, and peace on the paths that few others trod.
I walked as any man may walk, yet saw as others could never see, and to most my blindness went unnoticed.
My Weakness became my Strength.
But this is not my story.
His ungloved fingers brushed across the glass vials, with a consideration beyond mere curiosity, prompting a delicate frown upon his brow. He could sense little of their contents, finding only an acknowledgment of that which he already knew; the vials were strong codes, similar in their potency to those of the Unlimit, yet with purpose unknown. He hoped that they were the key, the cure, for that which he had sought for so many months, yet his limited knowledge could never confirm, never verify the elaborate code. Despite his reluctance to admit it, he knew he would need anothers help.
A thick odour of decadence hung beneath the ceiling of the opulent restaurant. The luxuries that most could not even dream of, let alone afford, cluttered the tables as though the designer had been given a remit to use anything and everything that he could. It was gaudy, almost classless, yet it retained a chic lavishness that was unmatched in any other venue in the city. But the affluent facade was not designed to be adored or marvelled at, it was to be feared.
He languished in hedonistic recline at the head of the room, his sharp eyes scanning the feared masses before him that supped his wine for the price of their lives. They all served him, they were fickle slaves to his twisted will, yet none questioned the price they had to pay. He was both their saviour, and their slave driver. A saint, and a Sinner. His word was unquestioned, and his questions always answered.
The unlucky messenger could not help but tremor when it was he that was chosen to inform the Merovingian. They had failed through no fault of their own, but each knew that failure, no matter if owned or by proxy, would be met with the harshest punishment of the Frenchman. The messenger walked timidly between the rows of tables, his eyes shifting this way and that, avoiding the stare of the assembly at the top table for fear their looks alone may make him turn and flee. Yet he could not avoid the eyes of the Merovingian, the brilliant gleaming eyes that saw right into the depths of the soul, saw the fear before he even knew it was there, saw the burden of failure in the staggered slow footsteps.
"I..I..H..." The messenger stuttered as he bowed before his sire. A sip of wine wetted the lips of the Merovingian as they curled into an amused smirk. "Incroyable, je ne peux pas même finir mon dîner sans interruption!" He shook his head with with an arrogant charm that betrayed little of his feared reputation. With a regal twirl of his hand he beckoned the messenger to rise "Well. What iz it?"
The shivering exile stood slowly, his eyes still fixed to the ground. "The, The items you gave to Sephr" He muttered "They...they.."
The Merovingian sighed slowly with a delightful air of superiority "But of courze, I already know zis" He smiled as another whisper of wine washed across his palette "Zey are with ze Machinist, non?...Zis..."Zampano"
The Exile nodded slowly, knowing that he was too late, that his fate had been sealed before they had even drawn straws to inform their leader. He already knew, how could he not have known, and now the Messenger's life existed firmly within the Frenchman's grasp. He removed his stare from the elegant marble floor to meet the now cold eyes of his master.
"Then, mon petit messager, here is what you will do" The Frenchman stood, though his demeanour never moved from frivolous calm "Get zem back, and bring me ze heads of ze Homme aveugle and ze traître"
The messenger looked gracious at the apparent mercy of his master, and did not linger for further
