By The Gods
Ross parted the curtain with one hand and surveyed the small ghost town with eyes that could see a looming battlefield. His mouth hardened when he took in the foggy, cobble lock streets and white-bulbed lights that glowed faint balls of ghastly light all down the main street. England was a place of haunted memories, and something about this particular town set his skin on edge and told him the rumours were true.
He found his way downstairs and walked out into the cold, hard-edged streets of the nameless town. The place was mainly deserted after the first few children and teenagers went missing, and had since been nicknamed 'Silent Hill'. His breath caught and captured the ice-cold air. December settled in with a vengeance, clinging slippery fingers to the frostbitten trees and breathing soft tendrils of snow upon the red-brick stone of the houses that he passed by. Something followed him in the darkness, something ominous and dangerous, and he knew that even if he wasn't told, this was the place where ringleaders sold souls and lives for personal profit.
He stopped walking when the silence thickened. It felt like the world was waiting on baited breath for the sickening slice of gunshot or the howling murder of a soul that didn't belong in this moment, in the here and now. The windows on the streets were pitted black. The buildings were cold and lost. Barney Ross knew he was here to crack down on the trafficking ring, but there was something otherworldly about the town.
Something fabricated from evil magic.
This place was haunted by its recent past.
He started walking again, kept going while the minutes ticked by, hour after hour. The only way to find the leader was to pretend he was a lost, restless tourist walking the streets at a time when all the predators were out.
Sure enough, it didn't take long.
He found a pair of them in the middle of a back-alley, smuggling a small body into a body bag. Ross felt his stomach lurch when he saw the body wasn't actually moving, and that the two pale-white hands that lay against the wet cement ground were bitten with cuts and bruises. The two sons of bitches decided to make a go for him and instantly regretted it when five bullets tore through each of their distinctly pale bodies.
He ran to the bag and pried the cloth away from the boy whose face was matted with bruises and bleeding cuts. Quickly, he ran his eyes down to the boy's neck and saw more cuts, more bruises and a heck of a lot more blood- the kid put up one hell of a fight before giving in. Eyes were closed, but, to his relief, a ghost of breath inched out between parted, shivery lips that told him there was a broken rib somewhere underneath the dark, matted clothing he wore. Ross pressed his fingers to the boy's neck and found a weak pulse.
He breathed a slight sigh of relief that broke when he felt a pair of eyes on him from behind. The cocking of a gun had him tearing his eyes away from the small body below him to the barrel of the gun between his eyes.
"You sure look like you'd sell for a couple hundred," a sleazy voice sneered. Ross couldn't see the motherfucker's face, but he sure could sense the unsteady, drug-riddled grin as the bastard suddenly said, "Although I'd say your skin might sell for more."
Ross could feel the sweat trickling down his back. If there was one with the balls to stand up to him like this, then he was sure there were others, all with guns trained on him, all with blood on their mind and each vying for their next payroll. He breathed deep, careful not to make any sudden moves; his blood pounded just under his skin. He carefully curled a hand around his handgun, knowing the next moment could've been a get-shot or get-lucky move, when the slick slice of a knife cutting through the air broke his thoughts. His eyes widened just in time to see a spray of something red dash the air above him before all hell broke loose and he jolted into action.
He swerved his handgun up into the air and shot at anything that tried to shoot at him. The full moon high above cleared the fog from his mind and forced him to focus on the crisp sounds of death and screams around him. Dimly, he was aware of the boy he thought almost-dead grasping at knives that materialised from out of nowhere and was shooting at anything that even so much as moved.
When the bloodbath surrounded the both of them, Ross snapped to attention and trained the gun on his supposed-brother-in-arms. The boy already had a knife within arm's reach of his throat. Ross cocked an eyebrow; he could still hear the rattling, wheezing breaths the boy took. Definitely a broken rib- maybe two.
"Who are you?" he said.
The boy didn't speak a word. Ross lowered his gun and didn't bother to put it back up. If the gun-shots were anything to go by, back-up would be prowling the streets at any minute, and then they'd both be stuck in the middle of the battlefield he predicted a mere few hours before.
"I'm Barney. Barney Ross."
The boy still didn't answer. The knife was still trained on him, but he knew he wouldn't use it. There was something almost… baffling, in the way he held the knife. Ross squinted, and under the glow of the moon, he saw a hand shaking, not in fear, but in pain.
Something sliced inside of him, twisted in the place where he knew his heart would be. This was a teenager, barely old enough to be out of school; he should not have been here.
"Come on," he said, motioning to where he'd come from. The hotel was probably a few streets away; they needed cover. "I don't know if the hotel's been ransacked since I left it, but it's a safe house for now. You don't need to tell me anything, but if you want, we can help each other out. They'll be down on us in a couple minutes if we stay here."
Another wheezy breath. Silence ensued.
"Okay. I'm going on ahead. Follow me if you want."
When Ross turned the corner, he could hear unsure, unsteady footsteps.
The streets were quiet, and for a moment it felt like they were the only two left walking toward the edge of total oblivion. Ross didn't turn to look behind him, knowing the kid would put up his guard again, and possibly get them both in trouble. It was only once he turned onto a more familiar street that his eyes found the hotel. He pointed to it.
"That's me," he said.
The kid followed him through the front door. Here, Ross fell into a routine he couldn't shake, checking corridors and darkened stairways and listening out for the softest footfall that kissed the dirty carpet floor. The hotel hadn't been used in a few weeks, and all the doors were left wide open, save for his, which had a key that had been given to him.
"Here," he murmured, once all the hallways had been cleared. The once-soft wheezing of the kid had turned into a labored breathing that threatened to keel him over if he kept walking; Ross had to admire his sheer strength and stubborn will - he certainly wasn't one to give in. It did cross his mind the kid may have been a ploy, but Ross knew the second his eyes lit on that bruised, battered face that something rebellious lit the undercurrents of the kid's skin like sunbeams on knives.
This kid was good; he could rely on him, even if the kid didn't trust him.
Ross pushed the key into the lock and turned it, listening for the click before swinging the door open. The room, much like the rest of the hotel, was shrouded in darkness. "Come on in."
He had good eyesight, and knew by touch where everything was. A small sliver of moonlight clouded over the still-made bed and lit up whatever colour stained the musty walls. He stepped in, felt for the light in the bathroom, and closed the door until a small shard of yellow allowed him just enough light to see by.
"Come on in," he whispered as he passed the bed. The kid didn't need to be told twice, and as soon as the door was shut on them both, the sharp glint of a blade shivered and tipped against the back of Ross's neck.
"Who are you really?" a deep, wheezy British accent murmured. Ross shuddered. That voice was young, inexperienced. Scared. He gripped his fists. A tremor of something rushed under his system; anger, and he wondered dazedly whether the kid entered the town of his own accord, or if some unknown group had sent him in knowing exactly what he was getting himself into.
"I already told you," he turned, unafraid, to face the kid, whose eyes gleamed in the darkness. "My name is Ross. Barney Ross. Now, who are you, and is there anyone else with you?" He didn't bother raising his voice; the kid would eventually tell him everything.
"I'm alone."
"You didn't answer my first question."
"You already said I didn't need to tell you anything."
"So your name means nothing?"
Silence. Those eyes hardened. Ross knew he hit something painfully raw.
"My name doesn't matter to people like you."
"Really? We could've both been called in by the same informant."
"I highly doubt that." A soft swipe and the knife was hidden away under the folds of black clothing. A flash of pain lit the kid's features as he settled onto the bed, and Ross knew that somehow the kid had registered they weren't enemies, that somehow they'd find a way to get out of this together. "You're here for the leader, am I right?"
"Yep. I'm guessing you are too. We can help each other out, you know."
"And you rake in on the jack-pot? Hell no."
Ross didn't say a word. He watched the kid a little longer, noticed how his form slumped slightly when he took another shuddering breath. His mouth set in a very-grim line. "C'mere. Let's see what we've got."
"M'fine."
"No. You really aren't. Lookit here," Ross stepped forward, coming to crouch in front of the kid. In the darkness, all he could sense was the warm breath of air as it left the kid's mouth and the almost-shudder of shock that shook the kid's senses. Ross placed both calm, gentle hands on the kid's knees, and the kid remained as still as he could. His heart snagged on something sharp when he felt the fear under his touch; the kid was literally shaking under his grasp, as if the cold had found its way into his system and refused to let go. "I'm gonna call you Christmas, 'kay? 'Cause you don't want me calling you anything else. Now, I can take care of those cuts and bandage that broken rib, and we'll track down the leader. Together. I'll keep my word; you can take the cash if you need it."
Christmas's breath caught.
"I need you to work with me, not against me. I'm not here to cause trouble," Ross reiterated. Another breath, and Ross could tell the kid was measuring him up, reading his movements under his touch. The kid was trained in recon, or something like it, because all of a sudden, he confessed-
"I know who you are. I've heard of you down through the vine- people said you were good, someone they wouldn't mess with."
Ross wasn't expecting it, and he snorted. "What's that got to do with it-"
"I trust you," the British accent murmured. Ross stilled at the graveness of his voice. "I trust you."
It didn't take too long after that to track down the leader; in fact, the leader was the one who tracked them down. He came barging in on their hotel room an hour or two after, which was something Ross expected after bringing Christmas back. Course, the leader and his fucking army had no clue what to expect when they opened the door and met a hail of bullets and the sliver glint of flying knives.
Ross knew he wasn't going to die that night; he had a sharp, intelligent kid at his back who wasn't afraid to beat the living shit out of anything that ran toward either of them. Together, they took down their enemies without much of a sweat- so much so Ross had to stop when all was said and done and marvel at how Special Forces couldn't do anything about this in the first place.
Of course, when he went to talk to Christmas about it afterward, he noticed the kid was gone, and the window to the hotel was left swinging open for the chilly, December breeze to blow through.
The next day he found the kid had already collected the money- and he'd been right; they both had the same client. He remembered smiling when Bonaparte told him there was nothing there for him to collect, and tough luck on not being faster.
Years had passed, and he never forgot the glint of fear, and courage, in the kid's eyes.
"I just thought you might want the job. Have you spoke to Stonebanks yet?"
Ross shook his head. "I'm gonna wait 'til I see him again. What do you think of it, though? Does it sounds like a good idea to you?"
Bonaparte nodded, chuckling under his breath. "I'd nearly say I'd be able to help find you a team." Ross grinned. "Speaking of which, I think I need to introduce you to someone."
They were standing on a fancy, white ship taking them out across the wide ocean to sunny, hot Spain. Christmas had come early this year; December rolled in with quickened haste, curling the trees in chill and frost and causing snow to fall like feathers from the charcoal-grey skies. Bonaparte held open a door to his posh cabin, and Ross had passed through it just in time to catch a glimpse of those same glinting, courageous, yet fearful eyes.
He stopped.
Over the years, the kid had filled out, crossed arms bulging with muscle and body poised to strike. Ross could tell by the way he stood that he had knives hidden under both black, long-sleeved arms, and a pair of them stashed away under army boots. Like him, though, the gun was hidden close to his heart.
Ross grinned. He may not have recognised the kid by his face, but those eyes… he definitely would have remembered him anywhere.
"Hey there, Christmas," he said. "Been a while."
It took a moment. Then two. Christmas's eyes seemed to light with a fire it could barely contain. Bonaparte looked between them.
"You two know each other?"
Ross kept grinning, and after another minute, Christmas grinned too, eyes crinkling and white teeth gleaming. "Yeah," he said. "We do."
Ross stepped closer. "Barney," he said, and Christmas shook his head.
"I remember. Won't ever forget the name of the man who saved my life," the British accent rolled off his tongue in neat, baritone syllables. "Sorry, that I never told you, but…" he stopped there, eyes softening slightly. Bonaparte wouldn't have seen it, Ross knew. "I don't exactly know mine."
"Know what?" Bonaparte said.
Ross held out a hand, wordless. He knew. They both knew.
"That's fine. So," he said. "Are we both working together?"
Christmas laughed. "I certainly hope not. Your lousy aim almost got me killed."
"Bullets are faster than blades."
"Is that a challenge?"
"No. It's a fucking statement."
In the heat of another battlefield somewhere off the sandy coast of Spain, Ross found he was wrong. About the blades, of course.
He didn't see Christmas until a few years after that, when they were both locked in the middle of a fight somewhere in the middle of one of the biggest heat-waves in the Sahara desert.
It was the first time Christmas called him by his first name. He'd never forget it.
Neither would he forget the story of the small and helpless orphan found on the steps of some Orphanage in the deep, November chill. He told him the orphan had a name, once, but he lost it when the Orphanage was attacked and each of the nuns brutally murdered.
He told him he'd search the world for the name of that one little boy.
It had been fifteen years.
Ross didn't know Christmas was bleeding until they were walking back to the safe house. The desert stretched on forever, the stars were endless, and the heat was dying to a cool breeze.
It was deep, the wound. It would've killed him if Ross didn't act fast.
Afterwards, Ross told him about the group, about the Expendables.
"Sign me up," Christmas mumbled in a sleep-induced haze. Ross wasn't sure whether it was the drugs or the mounting fever talking.
He never heard anything from the younger man after he was taken into hospital the next day. Bonaparte was the one who tracked them down, Trench flew them back. Christmas disappeared under a haze of white tubs and IV drips and the murmur of "See you soon."
"I don't like the look of this," Gunner mumbled.
The twenty or so blocks built like Gibraltar stood like rocks dead ahead. The darkness cloyed in between the bodies, and Ross was having a hard time trying to make out human for shadow. The fact they were standing on open ground certainly didn't make for good fighting, and the son of a bitch pirate they'd been hunting down was already long-gone.
"Go for the balls, Jensen," Yang scoffed. "You always say that."
Caesar laughed.
"No, go for the heads, and don't stop beating the absolute shit out of them," Ross said. The odds were grim, but they were stubborn-ass son of bitches, and even if they didn't know each other long, they certainly weren't able to back down. They'd win. No matter what.
Something shifted, rippled from behind him. The group moved as one. Ross felt his skin prickle, and he glanced behind him to see a hooded figure make his way through their group.
The words 'Not an enemy' flashed through his mind, and when he heard the glinting of knives, he almost smiled.
The hooded figure said nothing, but passed him, and walked out into the middle of no-man's-land.
Ross stared at him. A knife slipped out from underneath a sleeve and glittered like diamonds off the full moon from high above.
"Who the hell is that guy?" Gunner said.
Ross watched the nameless stranger as he swayed slightly. He was about to dance, Ross imagined. Dance with Death. The men in front of them took his presence as invitation, and without warning, all of them suddenly came charging toward them.
Twenty feet…
"Shit," Yang swore.
Fifteen…
The world turned on slow motion. Jensen pulled up his revolver. Gunner swerved to miss a stray bullet and Ross stood dead centre, watching as the hooded man flexed his fingers, revealing eight very-sharp knives about the length of his hand from the crook of each finger. A small smile lit his features at the same time he glimpsed pearl-white teeth.
Eight….
Five-
As easy as breathing, Christmas raised both his arms and swung all eight knives. Blood danced through the air under his measured swing, and as soon as he let rip a second helping of sharp, flattering steel, another round materialized and was already dancing through air.
It was at that precise moment that Ross raised his trusted handgun and followed Christmas into the heat of a battle that seemed so familiar and yet so foreign.
"You never came back," Christmas said afterward, when he pulled his hood back and revealed a grinning, British face, unmarked by fever or scarred with bruises.
Ross laughed. "You were expecting me to call?" He dived down when he felt the glancing speed of another bullet.
They shook hands once they were sure their enemies were dead and gone.
"Welcome to the team, Christmas," Ross said.
"It's Lee," Christmas replied with a smile that would've killed all the lights in any room. "Lee Christmas."
Ross stilled, finding he was drowning in the name of a man who'd searched for one for nearly half his life.
"I never found the rest of it," Christmas shrugged, "But half is more than good enough for me."
"Are you sure?" Ross found himself saying. "May have taken a while, but you've got half. Who knows what you'll find if you keep looking."
Christmas nodded, one swift movement that was as fluid as breathing. He'd filled out even more since Ross saw him last, experience and strength and something hardened from within now completely filling the body of a mercenary that was once a member of special-forces and trained to kill on sight. Ross didn't notice the fact their hands were still joined, not until he felt the calluses on Christmas's palms, felt the weight, the memories made between skin and sharp blade.
"I'm more than sure. 'Sides, I kinda like the name Christmas. Makes me feel all tingly inside." The British man grinned wickedly, and Ross snorted with the laughter. His grip tightened on the younger man's hand, before he let go completely.
"Guys," he said, voice a little louder than usual. "I'd like you all to meet a dear, dear friend of mine."