-3-
The journey from Hala to the prison planet had taken six days by starship. Those who had been chosen from the jail on the Kree homeworld were carried in the hold of the ship, shackled to one another like livestock, and hassled incessantly by the reptilian Badoon guards that accompanied them. To be 'chosen' by the Badoon scouts was to be damned, or so the legends had told-it was to be taken from one prison facility to another, but the destination was beyond the horrors known to any civilization. The scouts were agents of Thanos who dredged the galaxy for the irretrievably lost and broken, those who had lost all will to exist in the cultures which had bore them and might be made to fight in the hordes of the Mad Titan. It was the ultimate honor and the most exquisite torment twisted into one horrifying adulation. It had been within the confines of Hala that he had been 'blessed' by the strange outriders from among all the piteous ranks with which he was imprisoned.
When he had departed Hala, his fellow inmates had bade him a tearful farewell, and the mere presence of such emotion had sobered him. These hardened felons were not the kind to shed tears with abandon. "Forget your name," they had counseled. "Do not speak of your past or your origins. All knowledge will be used to your detriment." Then they had each embraced him in turn, as if they believed that this was the last warmth, the last sentiment he was likely to ever receive. "Pray for the end," he had been told by several of his compatriots. "Your end is the only mercy." It would have been easy to lose control from the fear while he was being ferried to the place which was certainly the terminus of his existence. Still, there were none among their numbers who wept or cried out, either in terror or in sorrow. The horrible burden of the dread was too exhausting, and it left strength for nothing else.
Upon arrival, they had been shepherded through the Last Gates: an imposing entrance whose height was three times his own, its spiked cornices gaping like the maw of some hideous, looming beast over their shuffling forms as they crossed the threshold. The line of the newly-condemned moved as one indolent mass which had been weighed down by its tragic circumstance, the sound of chain against chain accompanying their leaden approach like the bells of a fiendish lullaby. The 'chink, chink, chink,' of the dragging metal was the serenade to their final approach. Once you enter the gates, he had been told, your fate was sealed eternally. No light. No escape.
No hope.
This was the prison planet of Algorant, its entire surface barren save for the prison yards cut deep within the face of the rock. The tilt of its axis left this face of the world in utter darkness for most of its revolution. Not that it mattered, it seemed-few of the souls who were sentenced to serve in the Pit survived longer than an Earth year, and those who did were doomed to a brutal and decidedly brief life in the Master's army of the fearless and insane. It was a contingent of ill-fated combatants with a single, dual-edged purpose: to serve and to die.
Despite the peril of his predicament, he had managed to be quite stoic. The intake process at this notorious institution mirrored nearly all of the others he had known, and he suffered the familiar indignities with quiet acceptance. First, he was stripped of the garments he wore, searched and cleaned before being clothed in new garb which labeled him as one of the Nameless. It was not unlike the uniforms of other prisons throughout the galaxies, which were also shapeless and neutral in shade. The new arrivals were then herded to chambers filled with those who would shear them to baldness to prevent the spread of parasites and powder them with chemicals which would hamper disease. All of this was ludicrous ritual, of course, since within the walls of Hell there were no rules to protect them. Pestilence was the mildest of hardships to be faced here.
After they had been shaved and clothed, the new arrivals were divided into smaller groups and escorted to the wards to which they had been assigned. During this period of its orbit the planet was in a state of eternal dusk, with just enough phosphorescence to discern the details of most objects and persons within one's immediate vicinity, and this left the surroundings bathed in a predominantly gray temper. The landscape was devoid of almost all vegetation save a sparse bit of harsh scrub, and the wind was incessant and foul. Thus far, it had lived up to his expectations quite readily, the Lilin supposed. The prison yard itself was not spacious enough to allow for the presence of many inmates so it was presumably not there for their recreation; perhaps it merely served as a buffer area for the guards to move in and out of the main holding room.
As he and a handful of others approached the fence outside of what was to be their designated quarters, the demon squinted feverishly to make out the forms of his new neighbors, but the smoky half-light betrayed almost no one out on the grounds. When they came within a dozen meters of the perimeter, however, he could determine one shadow which moved with some purpose. Its steps seemed to mirror theirs languidly as they neared the gate, and they came closer to the entrance in equal measure until the dim outline stood directly opposite the guard, the fencing separating them by a thin distance. It possessed a wasted form, the bones jutting desperately through what he recognized as the ragged and filthied remnants of the uniform he now wore himself. Its head was downcast and haloed by a tangled mop of hair so dark it looked black even in this place of darkness. So the head-shaving was more for humiliation than sanitation, he realized. This is what I will become, he acknowledged with a shudder. He half-expected the face which slowly raised to greet them to bear his features.
The gesture was drawn out painfully, a leisurely rolling of the muscles until the pale, gaunt visage was finally visible; in spite of his starved appearance, the movement was nearly graceful in its control. The Lilin could not stifle a gasp. None of the others who stood with him seem to have noticed for they were also presumably transfixed by this creature who prophesied their fates: he was humanoid in form, with sinews of taut muscle stretched tightly over long bones. His eyes were sunken back into prominent hollows in his flesh, like savage thumbprints pressed into clay, and his countenance was all angles, the cheekbones fine and prominent but dusted in sickly shadows that spoke of bruises not yet fully healed. The skin itself was surprising in its unblemished pallor-it bore no visible scars or wounds, and the complexion was white as polished bone.
The prisoner's eyes rolled upwards with the same lingering monotony. "Good evening, Thirty-Seven." The words flowed out like liquid, and the voice was so unlike the decimated thing before him, that for a moment it seemed that it must have been the guard who had spoken rather than the inmate. The voice was like warm honey, its character soothing and yet fatally seductive.
The sentry, a hulking beast of a creature who was taller by a head, ceased fumbling with his many keys to meet his gaze. "Back off, Kaal," he warned aggressively. The Badoon stiffened his posture and twisted his lips into a sneer, but his hands became even less steady while he searched for the proper key.
"My, my . . . you seem distracted, Thirty-Seven," came the silken voice once more, the tone sweetly taunting. "May I help you with that?" Kaal finished with the flash of a rakish grin. The delicate ashen fingers of the prisoner began to snake between the bars of the gate, and the Badoon tore his hands away from their reach as if they bore the promise of immediate death. The creature then tried to recover by quickly raising a fist to the inmate. He let it hover in the air with fiendish intent for several moments before he brought it down heavily on the metal bars, the barrier shuddering with the heft of the blow. Kaal, however, had not flinched, and, in fact, still wore a mocking leer. "I said back off, Kaal," the guard howled as he pressed his nose to the bars, looking down on the disheveled figure with palpable ire.
The prisoner bowed low in a gesture which was lithe but blatantly sardonic, then took several steps back and allowed the guard to finish his business with the entrance gate. The Lilin was again struck by how he was able to maintain such poise with so little meat on his frame, though what little bulk he still possessed was obviously muscular in origin. He was considering the unkempt man more carefully than he realized, but when his look fell upon the gaze of the other, he stopped short.
The man was considering him back.
Their eyes met for the briefest of instances, until the moan of the heavy door opening shifted their attentions. As the line of inductees dragged into the yard, the demon found himself passing within two hands' breadth of the gaunt figure. He was not aware that he had ceased to breathe until he was nearly a step beyond him; however, his drawn breath came out in a sudden, violent huff when he felt the hand that firmly grasped his elbow, the clutch as strong as iron . . . and possibly as cold.
The Badoon escort turned back when he sensed that the line had stopped. "Is there a problem?" he demanded of Kaal, who was gripping the Lilin's arm and studying him curiously. The eyes of the prisoner were uncomfortably near to his face, and he could finally see their color-an icy blue-green. Their focus seemed to cut a swath straight through his skull to expose his every thought, like greedy fingers seeking to palpate his consciousness.
Kaal released his hold and faced the guard. "This one does not belong here," he hissed accusingly at the guard.
The reptilian guard sneered in satisfaction. "That's what we said about you not so long ago," he snorted. "And now the place practically reeks of you." He threw an arm into Kaal's chest, causing him to stagger back just a few steps. Then the guard gave the chain which held the demon's fetters a brutal tug, urging him to continue into the interior.
As he retreated, the Lilin was certain that the bony prisoner's eyes were still following him intently.
Even the Nameless have names, it seems. Since none among the incarcerated on Algorant were called by their given monikers, it was customary for them to be given one of their fellow prisoners' choosing. His name had been obvious, given his unique ability to reduce the halls to darkness with just a whisper of his will. His sentries quickly grew weary of this little ruse and would have him punished mercilessly . . . well, more mercilessly than the torments that he would typically be forced to endure, which were grisly in their own right.
When he had asked about the inspiration for Kaal's pseudonym, the others had chuckled conspiratorially. A Baluurian captive had explained its meaning to him: "My people have a term used to describe a season on our ancient homeworld: in the darkest, most frigid days of the year, the 'Kaal' would blanket the planet. It was a deathly cold, consuming all save those who would retreat deep beneath the surface." The Baluurians had seventeen different words for cold, it seemed; this particular one was associated with mortality-the "creeping death." How the tall, gaunt prisoner had earned this name, however, was still a tempting mystery.
The newly christened 'Blackout' found his ability to be of immediate use when the Master had requested his assistance with a mission for which he was uniquely suited. He had helped an entire squadron of the Titan's soldiers to escape the Shi'ar patrols by shielding them in impenetrable shadow, and it earned him special favors among those in his cell block. The guards often asked him to accompany them on short sojourns outside his assigned ward, and he was able to observe the daily operations in the facility from an outside perspective. He took these opportunities to inquire about his fellow detainees in order to gain an advantage within the enclosure. Perhaps he did ask about Kaal more often than the others, but then he was the most infamous resident in his wing-it was only natural that he would seek to determine his weaknesses. This line of questioning had led him to the realization that even the guards in this section were heedful of Kaal, although they were not so forthcoming when it came to the extent of their mistrust. They did reveal that cellmates tended to turn up dead around the dark-haired convict, and the method of their demise (along with the exact perpetrator) remained well-hidden.
Thirty-Seven was a relatively young guard, but Nineteen . . . well, he had seen so much more. He was also a Badoon, as nearly all the wardens were, but he was more grizzled than most. He had a shorter, broader build, and his hide was more textured. He also had more scars-deep, fissures which criss-crossed his back and chest, and a particularly broad one which encircled the left side of his face from the jawline to the center of his skull. This wound had cost him the respective eye, as well, judging from the gaping concavity which remained in its stead. Perhaps his experience led to a lack of fear, as his tongue was far more loose than the others, and the demon had used this knowledge to his favor. If not for Nineteen, he would have known far less about his cellmates and how they came to be among the ranks of the Nameless. Naturally, he had asked about Kaal-Nineteen just happened to have been on duty when he was brought in and was able to recount the tale rather ordinarily.
The scouting party had just returned from the planet of Sakaar, a tumultuous world with various races in an otherwise uninhabited system. The new 'recruits' included some of the most hulking and barbaric which had ever been brought into the facility, or so Nineteen remembered it. Among them, however, was one who was not so burly or intimidating-a wan, almost delicate man with dead eyes. He was not hard or cruel enough to be here, the guards had wagered. He would be killed within a matter of days, and all the better for it. The reasons for why he had been culled were not readily apparent, and the scouts who had enlisted him were tormented for their lack of selectivity. The jailers on Sakaar had pleaded with them to take him, the outriders had explained. He had been in their cells for months, and no matter how hard they had tried to starve and persecute him, he somehow never seemed to wither. They didn't trust him. In fact, they said they feared him.
The Badoons scoffed at the tale. What power could such a pitiful creature wield that he should be feared here, in this place of ultimate cruelty? 'What crime had he committed to be imprisoned to begin with?' one of them had asked mockingly.
'Murder,' the scout had retorted.
Of course-all of the inmates were killers. But what made this feeble being qualified to end his days in bondage with the most depraved in all the universe? He had killed only one man, they revealed, and over a loaf of bread. He had killed for hunger, and was that crime was enough to condemn him to the most unenviable of all fates?
'Perhaps,' one of the scouts had stated, defensively, 'but he had stabbed the man repeatedly in the throat until there was no blood left to flow from him. They found him laughing in a crazed rage, the rain beating down on him full force. By the time the authorities arrived to collect him, the bread was dirty and soaked beyond use. He continued to laugh as they pried it from his hands, and he didn't stop for hours after they had captured him.'
It was a mildly disturbing anecdote, but nothing compared to the indiscretions of the others sentenced to the Pit. He was essentially here, it was decided, because he had done too well in his former imprisonment, and his captors had been cowed by it. The absurd nature of the circumstances was almost amusing.
Until the enigmatic deaths began.
Random casualties were certainly not uncommon among the Nameless, or even among the guards, for that matter. However, the pattern of killings surrounding this particular prisoner were decidedly not random, the victims belonging to two distinct categories-those who had threatened or mistreated Kaal, and those who had tried to take certain 'liberties' with him, as it were. The Lilin was no stranger to the perils of prison life, and he knew there were always those creatures willing to force others to serve their baser needs; a weaker, more appealing being (far more pleasing when he had first arrived, Nineteen assured him) would be particularly vulnerable to undesired attention. However, he had not been violated since he had been here, although his cellmates did speak of times when others had tried-physically imposing beasts, with no traces of sympathy or mercy. He had been able to deflect them at the time, through tricks or cunning, and then they would meet grisly ends when they were unobserved.
At first, the Badoons thought that one of the other prisoners must have been protecting him, for none could believe that he was capable of taking down such enormous, vicious adversaries on his own. However, as time passed, the attempts to defile him became more brazen, and so the retaliation became more readily observable. There were inmates who claimed to have seen Kaal wound and slay much larger beings than himself, seemingly with the aid of no weapons, and the witnesses gave the assassin a wide berth from then on. When asked why they feared him among all the other murderers with which they were housed, they spoke of the fire of madness in his gaze which had horrified them. The only time his eyes did not seem empty, the observers had stated, was when he killed.
Kaal's notoriety did work to his benefit in one respect, however, because it had kept him out of the fighting arena. The Eye was so named because it was orbital in shape, and when the contests ended, the surface bore a smear of centrally spattered blood which gave the illusion of a ghastly, red iris from the elevated viewing platforms. A group of six to ten of the most promising fighters were chosen from among the captives, and the doors were locked behind them until only one remained. It was a gory ritual with a nefarious purpose: to determine who was ready to join the ranks of the Titan's armies. There was only harrowing death or brutal servitude to be gained from a journey to the Eye, and the prison guards used it as an avenue for their own amusement in addition to the existing menace that it bore.
Wagering on outcomes was more than routine, and the workers took great pride in selecting and placing various weapons throughout the interior for combatants to use to take one another (often quite literally) apart. Sometimes, a few more vulnerable prisoners were sprinkled in just to be used as living inducements for the warriors to show their skills without the loss of potentially valuable soldiers. By rights, Kaal should have been one of these at one time or another. It was his abstruse nature that made him a source of diversion for his listless wardens, and they selfishly kept him away from the feuds in the dim hope that they might eventually be able to tease out his secrets.
In Blackout's seventh week among the Nameless, Kaal's fortune finally soured. There had been an influx of newly trained guards, and, on one afternoon, their cell block had a shift laden with rookies who had to select a sampling of warriors destined for the Eye. Kaal was intended to be a martyr among worthy fighters. The demon had been out on patrol with Twenty-six, who was gruff and not compelling company, when they had received the word that the famed prisoner was being taken to the arena, and the pair wasted no time making their way back to witness the results. The combatants had not yet taken the field when they arrived, and the air was thick with heady expectation. As the opponents entered, an eager gasp rippled through the observers, hands tightening on the railings of the viewing areas located above the sparring grounds. There were four to five obvious favorites, massive creatures with arms which rivaled the widths of the trees on most inhabited worlds. Kaal was the final entrant, and he had to be both led and positioned by a disinterested Badoon.
"This won't take long," this guard was heard to remark to a fellow watchman. "That one is already dead," he derided indifferently.
Indeed, the shriveled figure bore no realization of where he was, his stare as hollow as it would have been if he were alone in his cell. He remained dormant among the others as the bloodshed commenced, watching one after another of his brethren fall to the slaughter. When there were only three survivors other than himself, he finally appeared to have some recognition of what was transpiring around him, his eyes raising dully to the remaining fighters. He stepped casually over to his nearest fallen comrade-who had suffered a dagger to the throat-and nimbly slid the offending weapon from the surrounding flesh. He considered the blade sterilely as the largest of his opponents began to approach. It was clear that the lumbering fiend was intent on making a demonstration of Kaal's death for he strode toward him with a threatening grin on his lips, the anticipation of the kill causing copious spittle to ooze from the corners of his clenched jaw. He raised up the blunt but massive sword that he bore menacingly above his head and paused several meters from his target in order to let out a thunderous roar. The crowd of onlookers erupted into a corresponding howl of delight.
Kaal took two or three fluid steps towards his opponent, his black, bedraggled locks shielding the majority of his features due to the downward tilt of his head. He paused in front of an abandoned blade about one and a half times the length of his hand. He worked the tip of his filthy boot underneath the edge of the knife lazily, and the beast's shoulders shook with unheard laughter- it was going to be too effortless to do away with this piteous, mad specter, his demeanor conveyed. The larger figure loosened and tightened his grip on his weapon with delicious impatience, the pleased expression still playing upon his countenance. Meanwhile, the remaining three fighters had increased their radius and waited patiently, giving the two who now faced one another ample room for the expected massacre.
It was in this moment of hushed anticipation that Kaal flicked the toe of his boot nimbly, the blade landing deftly in his empty left hand. At the same time, his head rolled upwards in that familiar, sleepy gesture to expose the details of his face. A throb of murmurs ran through the spectators as they considered his changed visage: his lips wore a wicked smile which barely exposed his foremost teeth, and his eyes were anything but dead-in fact, they were permeated by razor-sharp focus with deadly intent. Then he began to come forward, and he seemed to gain speed and determination with each lithe footfall, a dagger balanced threateningly in each hand. His adversary looked even more gratified by this change of circumstances; if he fights, all the better for the show. Those gathered above leaned in eagerly to savor the unfolding events, and the tension rippled through them like a painful wound.
The smaller male halted just steps from his opponent. He was immediately met with a second boisterous roar which was directed into his very face, a move intended to intimidate him and draw his fear to the surface. Instead, Kaal matched him with a yell of his own, and although the volume did not nearly rival that of the enormous figure which loomed over him, it still left his enemy slack with astonishment. The slim man's eyes crackled with a delirious fire as he spun agilely, his limbs a pale blur in the half-light. The barbarian fell in a limp heap before him, his throat bearing a gaping incision. He immediately threw the two blades in his hands outwards, catching the two more of his adversaries in the throat so hastily that it was nearly imperceptible. He then stepped quickly to the final warrior-picking up a pair of shortswords en route-and they began to spar vigorously, Kaal nimbly dodging blows with hisses of pleasure. With a final dizzying whirl, the slighter man buried both blades deep into his adversary's midsection. With a crisp movement, Kaal pulled the force of this arms in opposite directions, splitting the being in half and covering himself from head-to-toe in a spray of blood. As the cleaved flesh landed at his feet, the butcher stood motionless, his chest evening and a wicked smile still gracing his mouth. He then turned tortuously toward the Badoon who had led him into the arena, his lip cocked in a derisive sneer. He raised the weapons above his head and then allowed them to fall to the ground without ceremony, the points sticking purposefully into the soft ground, and then strode sanguinely over to the sentry who was guarding the entrance to the grounds.
"I wish to return to my cell," he stated coldly.
The guard pivoted to open the door leading back to the prison wings, deliberately not turning his back on the blood-drenched prisoner. He placed him in manacles and escorted him back into the halls of the institution, a hand gripped loosely on his upper arm, his gait noticeably a step or two behind the victor as if in deference. When the inmates caught sight of Kaal-the lone survivor, painted in the blood of his opponents-there was at first a bewildered hush, followed by a raucous celebration. Out of the mingled cries of the incarcerated, the thrum of a chant began to emerge. After several minutes, it was loud enough to be heard by those still present in the arena.
They were chanting Kaal's name.