The Legion

Palermo, Italy; 1946
"Brandon Vitalli."
"Age?"
"Fifteen."
"Date of birth?"
"August nineteenth, 1931."
"What's your reason for going to America?"
"Vacation."
Swish. Stamp, stamp.

Moscow, Russia; 1946
"Kostas Castill."
"Age?"
"Eighteen."
"Date of birth?"
"May twenty-third, 1928."
"Why are you going to America?"
"Vacation."
Swish. Stamp, stamp.

Athens, Greece; 1946
"Shasta St. James."
"Age?"
"Eighteen years old."
"Date of birth?"
"January first, 1928."
"And you're going to America because...?"
"Vacation."
Swish. Stamp, stamp.

London, England; 1946
"Hunter Lancaster."
"Age?"
"Seventeen."
"Date of birth?"
"November thirteenth, 1928."
"What's your reason for going to America?"
"Vacation."
Swish. Stamp, stamp.

Brussels, Belgium; 1946
"Caradoc Haagenberg."
"Age?"
"Twenty-three."
"Date of birth?"
"June second, 1923."
"Why America?"
"Vacation."
Swish. Stamp, stamp.

"Have a nice day, Mr. Vitalli."

"Have a good one, Mr. Castill."

"Have a nice trip, Ms. St. James."

"Hope you have a safe flight, Mr. Lancaster."

"Have a nice vacation, Mr. Haagenberg."

---
JFK Airport, New York City; September 1946

Brandon got off the plane, his first time in one. The messenger said to wait for a man dressed in black near gate A4, where he was currently standing. His sensitive ears, something he got from the Satherin side of him, weren't used to all the noise of a bumbling airport. There were kids everywhere, running about, their mothers yelling at them to stop running, and loud fathers on shouting into their phones. Shaking his head a bit, Brandon Vitalli impatiently tapped his foot, something he did when he was deep in thought. Why was he here, anyway? The messenger said it was from another one of his kind, but a full Satherin, whose name Brandon did not know. He was perfectly fine in Italy with his parents and sister, Ariana, until Brandon found out about other Satherins hiding in his high school as students. From there, everything went downhill. His parents missing, Ariana being sent to some place in the world Brandon didn't know, and him being sent to America. He didn't imagine his first time being sent to "the land of dreams" like this; rushed, millions of questions, absolutely no answers, and certainly not a vacation like he was told to say. His heart ached for his family, the one thing he knew he could always count on, and now they're were split apart, which made Brandon uneasy. Who cares if he knew about the Satherins in Italy? It wasn't like he wasn't going to tell anybody, if he did that, then he'd most likely be exposed as well. Brandon hated being the center of attention, and if he were to be exposed, he'd be the star everyone was raving to see- but also want to kill.
A man cleared his throat next to Brandon, making him jump, interrupting his thoughts. Brandon looked at his clothes. All black.
"Are you the messenger guy?" Brandon asked in Italian. The man nodded, then responded in English, "I'd appreciate it if you could speak English, though."
"Sure thing," Brandon replied, this time in English, his first language. "Who are you?"
"The messenger, I'm here to take you to your destination," he said, then took off his black tinted sunglasses, revealing two equally colored eyes. "Hand me your bag."
"What?" Brandon asked. "No way!" he gripped his year-old duffel bag tighter and hid it behind his left leg, so that the man in black to his right wouldn't take it. The contents of his bag not only had traveling essentials, but also some things to belonged to his parents and Ariana, just in case.
"I need to check it for weapons," the man said calmly, his voice as deep as the ocean.
"Well there are no weapons," Brandon said. "All I have are clothes, some pictures, and hygienic stuff."
"I'll believe you as soon as you let me check the bag," the man said a bit more harshly. He stared at Brandon, his black eyes boring into Brandon's blue orbs, as the fifteen-year old stood his ground.
"Are you one of them- well, us?" Brandon asked hesitantly. The man had flawless skin, not a scratch, pimple, blemish, nothing, a plus for being a Satherin, but that was the only evidence of being a Satherin that Brandon could find.
"A what?" the man asked, eyeing Brandon's bag. He hid it further behind his leg.
"You know what," Brandon said. The man stared, not blinking. The two males looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Brandon's ears started twitching, the noise was getting to him again, which also caused a flicker of interest in the man.
"Your ears," he said. "Why are they moving? Are you sending some kind of signal?"
"What? No," Brandon said. "They twitch when it's too loud, they're sensitive."
"You're lying," the man said, moving a step closer, making Brandon take a step back.
"No I'm not," Brandon said. The man started talking to his watch in an unknown language. Once he was done, he spoke to Brandon. "Come with me."
"No," Brandon said. "Just take me where I need to go."
"Give me the bag."
"No,"
"I said give it,"
"And I said no, you freak." Brandon turned around and started walking the other way, when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He winced at the increasing pain and the man's grip tightened.
"Give me the bag, and I don't kill you." his voice dropped even more, if that was possible, and Brandon got scared. A kid bumped into his leg.
"Sorry!" the boy said in a British accent, looking at the man. "Wow, you're tall! How tall are you? And why do you only have black clothing?"
"Jonathan!" some woman, most likely the mother, pulled the boy's arm. "No talking to strangers, I told you that!"
"But he's soooooooo tall!" the little boy exclaimed. As his mother pulled him away, "Jonathan" bumped into a guy, sending his bags flying. Jonathan ran away, his mother chasing after him, and the guy looked at Brandon.
"Did you just bump into me?" he asked, sounding Southern.
"What? No," Brandon said. Did the guy not see Brandon's "messenger" still had a death grip on his shoulder? If Brandon tried to move he'd probably be decapitated.
"Yes you did, I saw you!" the guy shouted, receiving looks from other fliers.
"Dude, no I didn't!" Brandon said, his temper getting to him. The messenger released his grip and walked up to the Southern.
"Who the hell are you?" the guy asked.
"This young man did not bump into you," the messenger said. He stared intently into the Southern's eyes, which widened. After a second, his pupils shrank and the Southern shook his head.
"Sorry. Must've been some other guy," he said, getting his bad from the floor and walking away.
"Whoa, how'd you do that?" Brandon asked.
"Let's get going," the messenger said, walking towards the doors that led you to the taxis and limos. Brandon quickly followed, weaving his way in between people until he got outside. The messenger led him into a dark alleyway, where a sleek, black limo with tinted windows sat.
"Ah, cool!" Brandon exclaimed, throwing his bag in the front seat.
"Nuh uh," the messenger's low voice boomed from wall to wall. "Back seat, pal."
"Why?" Brandon asked, extending the word in a whining tone.
"Back. Seat." the messenger said, getting in the driver's seat. Brandon sighed, took his bag back, and got in the back seat.
"This is so cool!" he exclaimed. The inside was dark, with black leather seating and small lights on the top of the car. Brandon had never seen a car like this before, it looked so futuristic. There was alcohol glass case in the corner, and cupholders in each seat. The seats were also unusually warm, as was the car, which beat the chilly September weather outside. The floor was carpeted black, very soft, and the small circular lights in the ceiling changed color every minute. Brandon has never been in a car like this before. "Hey, what's your name?"
"Davide," the messenger said, before taking out something from his pocket. It was miniature, could fit in your hand, and had a black screen. Davide pressed a tiny button on top, and the screen was no longer black, but had a tiny silver apple in the center of the screen.
"What is that?" Brandon asked, scooting closer to the window that separated the front seats from the back.
"A phone," Davide replied.
"That looks nothing like a phone," Brandon said.
"Well it is one," Davide replied, pulling out of the alleyway. "Move back." Brandon did as he was told, but was still immensely curious about Davide's "phone." Everything just looked so... Futuristic. As if Davide were from...
Brandon gasped.
"Are you from the future?" he asked in disbelief as Davide turned a corner.
"Why yes, I am," he replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to say. "I'm here to train you."
"Train me? For what? And you're from the future?" Brandon asked, the questions spilling out of mouth, not allowing Davide to even answer. "What year? Or are you lying? And is that really a phone? Why does it have only one button? And why is it so small?" Brandon started slipping into Italian, something he did when he got riled up, whether he was upset, furious, or just had a million questions to ask, despite English being his native tongue. "Where are we going, anyways? Some guy separates my family, and I demand to know answers!"
"I said English!" Davide slammed his fist on the steering wheel, swerving the car momentarily before it was on track again. He sped onto a highway. "And shut up with all the questions!"
"But I want to know answers!" Brandon argued, slumping in the back seat, starting to think if this was all a dream.
"You're a Satherin. Correct?" Davide asked. Brandon hesitated for a moment.
"Yes," he replied after some time.
"It's recommended that all Satherins gets training, and you're about fifteen years behind yours," Davide said more calmly, putting some white wires into his ears.
"What's that?" Brandon asked. "What do they do, are they from the future too?"
"Shut up, I have an important phone call to make," Davide snapped as he multitasked between driving and finding the contact.
"I'm pretty sure you're supposed to be paying attention to the road, not driving and using your 'phone'" Brandon said, seeing he was clearly fuming Davide. After some deep breaths to relax himself, Davide started talking in a language unknown to Brandon. French? No way. German, perhaps? Dutch? What Davide was speaking was nothing Brandon had ever heard.
"Hey Davide?" Brandon asked while his driver was still talking. "Davide, hello?"
"I'm speaking on the phone!" Davide snapped in English, then continued talking in the foreign language as he spoke, the white wires still in his ears.
"Someone took a sip of Hatorade this morning," Brandon mumbled, leaning back in his seat. Although the windows were darkened on the outside of the limo, inside, you could see the outside world perfectly. Brandon wondered what other people were thinking of, seeing such an expensive car on the highway, one that Brandon (and most likely the entire planet) had never seen before.
"We're invisible to the humans," Davide suddenly spoke, making Brandon jump, not noticing he had finished his phone call. The white wires were out of his ears and he could no longer see the "phone" Davide was holding just a few minutes ago. And how did Davide know what Brandon was thinking? Telepathy, maybe? No way, telepathy wasn't real, it was only from myths from vampires and werewolves and such. But then again, here Brandon was, in a futuristic car with a stranger who was also a monster driving, who also happened to have a handheld phone and white wires that did whatever they did.
Maybe telepathy could be a thing.
"Did you read my mind?" Brandon asked.
"Yep," Davide replied, changing lanes. Brandon blinked.
"Ever heard of privacy?" Brandon asked, suddenly mad at Davide for entering his thoughts without permission.
"You'll get your privacy soon enough, once you begin your training, where is where we're going," Davide replied, answering the next question that Brandon had in his mind.
"Stop doing that!" Brandon pouted like a little boy, looking at the lights in the ceiling. If only his sister was here, Ariana loved bright and colorful things. She'd be so immensely impressed at this car.
A sudden wave of depression passed by Brandon. He missed his family, missed their little house in Italy, missed his friends at school, missed everything that he had just a week ago. Ariana's smile, the way her blue eyes lit up whenever she spotted Brandon, the way his father always made corny jokes whenever situations got bad, the way his mom would sacrifice literally everything she had for her only son and daughter (not to mention her stellar cooking). A tear rolled down the adolescent's face, and he quickly wiped it away, making his mind go blank before Davide decided to poke around again.
Brandon took out his wallet, taking out a small family photo his mother had them take a few months ago. Ariana's black hair was in a braid that day, and her smile was big, as she was just granted a scholarship for some essay she had written. His father, who, at the time, had a big belly, was in a blue plaid shirt, holding Brandon's mother hand, who was also smiling, her black hair swept up in a messy bun. And there was Brandon himself, next to Ariana and under his mother, in his favorite shirt (a gift from his mother), with the biggest smile on his face. Determined to not let Davide see him cry, he quickly yet carefully put the photo away and thought about other things.
"Are you kidding me?" he heard Davide yell, honking. Brandon looked out the front window and saw an eighteen-wheeler blocking the roadway to where he and Davide needed to go. Davide honked again, receiving the finger from an equally upset man next to the truck. "Oh for the love of God..." Davide stepped out the car, mumbling obscenities and slamming the door behind him. Brandon watched as he and what seemed to be the truck driver argued, then watched as Davide, who practically had fume coming out of his ears, walked back to the limo and shut the door.
"I thought we were invisible," Brandon told his driver.
"I turned the invisibility off a while ago, made it look like we're in a run down car," Davide snapped, backing up.
"Wait, Davide," Brandon said, about to point out the truck that was coming from behind them. "There's a truck behind us."
"What? No there's not," Davide said, continuing to back up.
"Yes there is!" Brandon said as the truck sped up, coming closer to their car. "Davide, move!"
"He'll pass us," Davide replied, finally seeing the truck.
"I don't think he's gonna-" Brandon was cut off by the hard sound of metal on metal, glass shattering and flying everywhere. He flew to the forward of the car, crashing through the front window, the effect of getting hit from a truck from behind. His eyes widened as the hard concrete came closer to his face, slamming into it, and feeling himself start to go numb, the world blacking bit by bit. He saw Davide also fly out of the car, soaring into the sky, momentarily blocking the sunlight before crashing down on the road, his suit a bit red. From blood, maybe? Brandon turned his head back to the car, his neck hurting like hell, feeling like it was splintered everywhere. Just before he blacked out, he saw the driver of the truck get out, almost floating in the sky. All black, with two small grey circles as eyes, coming closer to Brandon.
A demon.