WPCA - Bronstein

In England it was just another day above the Heathrow International Airport. A half dozen aircraft lingered in the air waiting for permission to land while on the ground more than a dozen other jets waited to taxi out onto the appropriate runway to take off. The air was filled with the distinct whine of jet engines, screaming in and around the airport and heard for miles by anyone who hadn't already blocked out the noise. There was one jet, though, a black jet--the subject of many a conspiracy theorists speculation--making its final approach, landing gear extended as it slowly descended toward that tarmac. And with the usual wailing screech, the tires touched and the black jet of the name Kristallmesser began to slow before turning off its particular runway to taxi out toward a set of hangers. The Kristallmesser taxied along until it reached the hangar of large enough capacity reserved in advance and put aside specifically for the sleek, hundred and twenty foot long aircraft. Once inside the hangar, the hanger doors closed and the jet is blocked from world view.

No crews were inside the hangar, and once inside it, the jet came to a complete stop and moments later a hatch at the bottom of the craft (situated just aft of the cockpit) swung open allowing one Cristoph Sergei Bronstein to step down the small ladder that had extended when the hatch opened. The Kristallmesser is C.S. Bronstein's personal aircraft, and while the jet is called Kristallmesser on all records--a German name meaning Crystal Knife--the owner calls if the Krymackt. Also, the name on the records, while odd, is appropriate given the aircrafts' design--something conspiracy theorists agree upon (although they still speculate at the purpose of the jet).

Clad in black business suit resplendent with red necktie and dark sunglasses despite an overcast sky outside, C.S. Bronstein stepped down from his private jet and walked over to the side of the hanger to retrieve some blocks to stop up the wheels of the Kristallmesser. He was followed by his associate, a Mr. Deliverance, who only stood and waited for C.S. Bronstein to finish the task he had started. If you looked at the pair it would be easy to spot that it was Mr. Deliverance who was the leader, but C.S. Bronstein still had an air of importance about him.

Mr. Deliverance, unlike C.S. Bronstein, wore a gray business suit with white dress shirt seen through the unbuttoned jacket. Mr. Deliverance also wore a hat overtop his largely light brown in color, although streaked with blonde, hair, and to finish off the look wore a set of thin, metal framed glasses to cover his gold colored eyes. Both men are tall, standing a little over six feet each, and each has a medium build (although C.S. Bronstein appears the more athletic of the two, but it wouldn't be disputed who could move faster than who). And while Mr. Deliverance restricts his hair by way of hat, C.S. Bronstein allows his to wave about his head in crows nest fashion; he also has a pair of ice-blue orbs for eyes, if you could look past those dark shades.

The Kristallmesser, the craft the two men have just exited is a strange vehicle, not built in the usual cylinder-like fashion of other jets. In fact, it almost appeared to look like an SR-71 for the most part up until you reached its mid-section where the jet widened out with the air intakes. In the back quarter of the craft is a pair of forward swept wings. Mid-way between the mid-section and the cockpit are a pair of upward slanted canards. The jet has two large engines with stabilizer fins facing in outward slants at forty-five degrees. There is also a pair of smaller stabilizer fins on the bottom of the craft facing out at the same degree of inclination. These stabilizer fins are just a meter fore of the engine nacelles. In total, the aircraft is a hundred and twenty feet in length with a wingspan of a hundred feet.

Its primary color was black, a deep charcoal that soaked in all light, yet isn't a reflective black sheen as one would expect of a high quality craft. Navy colors accentuated specific points such as the wings where one might think hardpoints for weapons might be placed. Its description being as unique as it was it was easy to assume that no other jet like it existed on Earth, and this was indeed truth. Conspiracy theorists who had seen the craft on previous occasions--which are rare, indeed--speculate as to where the craft had been built and who had been contracted to build it. The jet appears to incorporate stealth technology into its construction, and considering that the US is the foremost authority with that kind of advanced technology, it is then thought that the craft was built at Area 51, and that the design is just a throw-back to the days of the SR-71.

However, all the speculation on the part of the conspiracy theorists couldn't be farther from the truth. The jet in question didn't have its origins based in the US, nor in any country on Earth. It was a joint effort by two companies outside any jurisdiction of the governments of Earth--but with leanings more inclined to extra-terrestrial assistance. But even had the conspiracy theorists known this, the vehicles' military overtones could not be overlooked in the slightest. Just so, with all the hubbub that concerned the creation of the vehicle, many more theorized as to how the craft had come into the hands of one C.S. Bronstein. The reality was that C.S. Bronstein was in on the project and had actually overseen a large portion of it, and had picked it up as a gift from a higher-up superior. Of course all these particulars weren't known to anyone but C.S. Bronstein, who now exited the hanger with associate in tow headed towards the latest iteration of the BMW 3-series sedan--a 330i to be exact.

The sedan was a blithe gray in tone, and sported modifications under the hood that increased its power output. Plus the paneling on the car was significantly upgraded to make the vehicle bulletproof to a large extent. Taking a set of keys from his right pocket, C.S. Bronstein unlocked the vehicle long before he got to it, opened the door and slipped in. The center console was dominated by a navigation screen, and when C.S. Bronstein sat down, he spoke only three words: "Shangri La Headquarters." Those words brought up the navigation system and outlined the fastest route from the airport to Shangri La HQ. Two doors slammed as both C.S. Bronstein and Mr. Deliverance closed them in sync.

The engine started up with a deep thrum followed by a continuous rumble. C.S. Bronstein, hitherto called Bronstein, threw the car into 'D' by way of 'R' then 'N' and began the arduous drive through London rush-hour traffic. He navigated his way through the airport terminal lots before managing to come out onto M4 thoroughfare, which he followed east toward the London core. The drive was quiet, and Bronstein didn't bother to push the vehicle. He didn't want to draw any more attention than what the Arbiter's were already turning in his and Mr. Deliverance for their grand entrance into England by way of the Kristallmesser. At the end of the M4, they turned North up the 406, then East again once they had reached the M40. From there it was only a hop-skip-and-a-jump until the Shangri La HQ.

The drive was done in silence; not an edgy silence, but a comfortable silence. The kind of silence shared by two associates who had been in the same business with one-another that they could almost read the others' thoughts and that there was no need for words between them. The BMW drove through the narrow and winding streets, a complicated mess that planners had never thought ahead to deal with. London was a sprawl; an urban virus that just expanded outwards. In some cases, as with the more modern buildings, it spanned upward via skyscrapers, like a New York skyline. When no more than forty-five minutes had passed, the BMW came to a halt in a small parking garage. Both men got out, the rear and fore lights of the car flashed, doors were slammed and the two men made their way down the street in the greater business district of London for the Shangri La HQ.

They moved through the slow churning masses of people that walked the streets window shopping. And when they reached the glistening tower, they walked in through the revolving glass door and approached the single desk set in the middle of the spacious lobby. A perky woman with a bun sat there, a smile transfixed on her face as if plastered there by hooks.

"Hello," the perky woman began, "how may I help you?"

Bronstein and Deliverance exchanged a quick look at one another. The look implied that the woman was too robotic to be human. That kind of perkiness just didn't seem natural. After a moment, Bronstein cleared his throat. "I am Cristoph S. Bronstein. This is my associate, Mr. Deliverance. We are here to see a Mr. Sokolov. It is urgent. Would you please put a call through to him now?"

The woman, at no loss for her perkiness despite Bronstein's rudeness, said only this: "Mr. Sokolov is currently busy. May I take a message?"

Bronstein blinked once, trying to hold back his own rage. The woman was denser than he thought. It took every iota of his willpower not to reach into his jacket, pull his gun and discharge a shot into the receptionist's skull. He was certain that'd probably be an improvement.

Mr. Deliverance, not at all perturbed by the reply said, "Please inform Mr. Sokolov that my associate and I are here to see him at his earliest convenience. Would you do that much for us?"

The perky receptionist seemed to like that idea, uttering an "Mm-hmm!" in a very giddy manner before saying, "Please, wait over there." She directed Bronstein and Mr. Deliverance toward a set of chairs lining a far wall (a sitting area of sorts). Bronstein and Mr. Deliverance obliged, not wanting to cause a scene. There were worse things than perky receptionists, after all.