AN: Nix, Red thinks you are also exaggerating with the rating issues you brought to our attention. I tend to agree with him, especially because there aren't a lot of people reading my fic. And 'cause nothing seen here is worst than what you can see on the evening news or in the source material –btw, DN has an OT rating so I find it incredibly amusing to see DN fanfics rated K. It's a bit like the 10 page versions of the Ramayana and Don Quixote my mom use to buy for me when I was little. But, since I do want to keep posting my stuff here, let me address those issues. First of all, there's nothing more subjective than ratings, I've seen movies rated R in the US which are rated 16 plus in Canada, -12 in France and B (13 plus) in my country. This is an international site and I can't be expected to accommodate everyone's sensibilities. I can only go by what I know. Second, as if the inherent subjectivity of ratings wasn't enough to confuse anyone, I was raised within the walls of a very liberal household in a very conservative town. So I'm not fine-tuned to the nuances of what is socially acceptable. My first instinct was to go safe and rate MA. I reread the guidelines and, once more, found them incredibly unhelpful. I've got a lot of questions about them, but the one which comes highest on the list is: Leaving out what is generally understood as graphic sex and violence, what the hell does adult theme mean? To be more specific, which those guidelines sure aren't, I can't come up with a single example of a situation that can be handled by an 18 year old and that simultaneously can't be handled by someone who's over 16. Does your outlook of life change so radically in a couple of years? Do you suddenly sprout a different consciousness as soon as you cross some imaginary age threshold? Or is "adult theme" a euphemism for pornography? I think that is the case because the site doesn't allow an MA rating. In my fics I address what I feel are adult themes from politics to religion, including relationships and my pov on the pitfalls and highlights of human nature. Still, when sex appears it is because I'm aiming for realism (yeah even in a supernatural story) and sex is a part of life, but graphic sex scenes are well out of my scope. Further more, all the aggression depicted in my fics is heavily contextualized, so I don't do violence either. I guess that means I'm sticking to the M rating and I'll keep posting here. Oh, and with the "apple of the people's eyes" I'm paraphrasing what Necmettin Erbakan, Turkey's Prime Minister in 1997, said about the Turkish army, which is the second largest of NATO.
Kira's Kingdom
Scroll 11: By Any Other Name
11.1: The Decision
"Life is the decision, death is decided"
From E nomine's song 'Die Entscheidung'
Czech Republic, April 19th 2019; a rogue hangar near Kutná Hora:
Ryuk had seen it all. He had seen Light's girl fight. He had seen her captors' faces, and, even more importantly, their names. He had watched it all with his eyes blazing, first blue and then red as carbuncles.
He had seen the man the others called boss and he'd seen the shadow that hovered besides him. A shadow that could only belong to a Shinigami who was inside a shield of darkness like the one the King of Death had. And so, Ryuk's initial reaction was to be consumed by anger, an anger that devoured his insides and shone bright through his eyes.
Whoever had come to snatch the girl-Death Note hadn't even bother looking at him. He could not see through the shield unless the other wanted to reveal himself. And so he had been left behind, locked in his cage to slowly rot away, burning in anger like he'd never known before.
Since he'd been captured he'd been twisting and aching for what appeared to be an eternity. And for the first time in his long existence he had come to understand why some mortals regard death as a blessing. Sometimes in the past weeks, when the pain got unbearable, he had wished for an end. He was willing to accept the end of him if it meant the pain would go away too.
And now, one of his kin had come and gone without trying to rescue him. He pondered all sorts of hypothesis. Perhaps the spell the little witch had cast on him prevented him from being seen. Perhaps the other couldn't acknowledge Ryuk's presence in front of the man called boss. Perhaps it was just that the Shinigami didn't know Ryuk was working for the Synod or that he was being held against his will. He had no way to prove any of them but after a while he discarded them all. Why would a Shinigami come shielded into the mortal realm if it weren't for the fact that he knew he could be trapped otherwise? And who could provide him with protection but the Synod?
He thought he knew the truth: this was punishment for having failed. But why? He had done what he'd been ordered and there was no way he could've done anything different. Of course he had failed to report to Nu, but he had hoped that when that happened the Synod would realize he was in trouble and would come to rescue him. Or at least they would come to take him to be judged in the Shinigami Realm. Then another, more frightening thought came to his mind, perhaps the Synod had left him where he was because they couldn't get him out.
Until then he'd been able to hold on to hope but he had to face the truth, no help was coming. If he wanted to live he had to make a decision. Aiding Light was his only chance to get out of the cage. But then he would have to face the Synod's wrath or become a fugitive in exile. He could never go back home. That is if Kira's plans didn't leave him without a home to return to. If someone had told him he was going to miss that wasteland he would've laughed.
Giving up to Kira's demands would be treason. But what else could he do? Then he realized that things weren't so bad. Thanks to the Shinigami in the shield of darkness he had something to negotiate with. And maybe, if he was careful and clever, he could worm his way through it all and still manage to come clean. Shinigami and People talk a lot about intentions but in the end what they value are results. If he managed to aid the Synod save the Shinigamis' sorry ass, he might get out of it with nothing more than a reprimand. It was a dangerous game. But he just wasn't ready for the curtain fall.
He knew Light would come eventually following the trail of his girl-Death Note. In the meantime he had to think how to better take advantage of what he had seen. First, he had to decide which part he could tell and which he should better forget.
11.2: Memento Mori
"Memento mori is a Latin phrase that may be freely translated as: remember that you're mortal. It names a genre of artistic creations that vary widely from one another, but which all share the same purpose, which is to remind people of their own mortality."
From the Wikipedia
Czech Republic, Prague's-Staré Mesto (old town) April 20th 2019, an antiques shop in Karlova Street:
Back in Kira's headquarters they wouldn't have noticed Black's absence until Monday. Red had been munching barbecue flavored potato chips while idly browsing through a computer magazine. Mac was banging his head to the loud screams coming from his earphones. And Kira had been going though his plan to face the upcoming crisis in the safe house. So the unknown snatchers could've had some time to get away. That was obviously not their plan because as soon as the sun set a package arrived at Karlova Street.
It contained a book and a note. The book was a leather-bound volume called the "Dance of Death" and its pages were blank. The note was concise: 'Have you lost something, Kira?' It had no signature but it had sent them all into a frantic activity.
Red went down to the lab looking for clues while Light and Mac contacted all their operatives. After hours of tracking people they were interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream coming from the downstairs lab.
They found Red scrubbing her hands with a nail brush under a jet of steaming hot water. Her knuckles were bleeding and a pair of discarded gloves was lying carelessly over the sink.
Mac held her hands in his firmly and told her: "Luv, stop, you're hurting yourself."
Then he made her sit on a high stool. Red followed him meekly and breathed trying not to hyperventilate. Mac sat Indian style in the floor in front of her and asked: "What's the matter?"
She just shook her head from side to side, tried to talk and failed.
Light ordered curtly: "Speak!"
Mac threw him a sideways glance but Red lifted her hand to stop them from arguing. After a few ragged inhalations she tried again: "Urban legends," she croaked.
Light barked: "What?"
That had sent Red into ranting: "You'd think they would be just urban legends. I mean, you read about them and supposedly they weren't that uncommon during the 19th century. Even some respectable libraries claim to have them, especially old anatomy volumes; a bit of doctor's humor taken to the extreme, so to speak. But you never quite believe it. For someone to actually go and do it, it's mad, it's sick." She pointed towards the book shaking with disgust.
Light huffed: "What on earth are you talking about?"
"Anthropodermic bibliopegy," she scratched her arms maniacally.
Light narrowed his eyes and asked: "Is it…?"
Red didn't seem to understand at first so she looked at him inquiringly.
"We'd been able to contact everyone except for the people in the safe house and Black."
Then understanding dawned on her: "Oh God, no! No, this is older. Plus they haven't had the time. Do you think they would do it?"
Light raised an eyebrow: "I don't know. In any case, this is a menace we can't ignore. And the relevant question is not if they'd dare, but if it'd work. Turn on the TV. Hand me the remote and a pen." He said. Red shuddered and obeyed.
Mac looked from one to the other: "What are you talking about?" he picked it up: "I see nuthin' especial about this book. It doesn't feel like the Death Note at all," he shrugged and examined it more carefully while Light channel surfed 'til he found a tennis match.
Kira took the book and wrote the name and the instructions.
Mac and Red watched intently the players running on the tennis court. The guys yelled as if they were practicing karate. In between cries, the hollow ball bouncing off the rackets onto the clay court broke the silence with the finality of nails in a coffin. Six minutes and forty seconds elapsed and nothing happened.
Light sighed: "This proves nothing, though. You are right. They haven't had the time to do it. And there's no way of knowing if it would work if they tried."
Mac picked the book once more and said: "I still say this doesn't look like more than paper and some animal's hide."
Red breathed out slowly: "Not one but several. And I dunno if you should call them that. It seems disrespectful, though strictly speaking we are all animals. And you really can't tell who they were. The tanning deteriorates the DNA."
Mac finally got what they were talking about. He dropped the book as if it burned. Being his father's son he had seen and done things most people couldn't stomach. But the thought of what he'd held in his hands was too much. He muttered: "You're not seriously saying that this is…"
"Yup, it is," Red nodded emphatically as she began downloading notes in her smartphone: "Believe it or not some of the most notable examples of anthropodermic bindings were done with samples obtained from voluntary donors. Those crazy bastards were probably trying to immortalize themselves. Otherwise it would be taken from the poor or criminals whom no one would claim. This one I date around the 16th century. I mean the binding, the sheets are more recent, they are paper and the original were probably cloth. The handwriting in the note is the same as the one in the poem Black's guy sent her."
Mac snorted: "Fuck! Nuthin' says I love u like a Nazi lampshade."
"I'm not sure about that. Cases of people who were actually killed to harvest skin are rare outside of fiction. And even the most famous are hard to authenticate. I'm not saying Ilse Koch was a saint but those lampshades seem to have been hearsay evidence. Symbols of Nazi brutality more than anything else, though I can't understand why anyone would need to embellish the story to make their point. Genocide seems brutal 'nough for me."
Light interrupted: "The material it's made of is irrelevant. What can you tell me about the book?"
"The "Dance of Death" was a collection of copperplates on paintings by Hans Holbein. That guy redefined the genre. Before him they usually had a moral, after him they were just a series of independent scenes with Death overcoming humans while they reached the peak of their lives pursues. So in a very deranged way, it's fitting that the memento mori is bounded in well, you know; the pelt of the prey... All the pages appeared to be blank at plain sight, and all are save for one," she picked the book with tweezers and opened it under an UV lamp: "It's a copy of Holbein's original, but was done with fluorescent ink which shows under blacklight. As you can see, in the painting the emperor is about to pass sentence on the kneeling peasant. Death has put down his hourglass beside the emperor's orb and scepter, has broken the point of the emperor's sword and is now pulling off his crown."
Light laughed angrily: "It doesn't take a genius to figure out who is behind this," he pointed at the Grim Reaper: "And the hidden message they are sending us is clear. They know who I am, they think they can stop me, as first measure they've captured Black and the book is their way of warning us that killing her might leave us with a bigger problem. The fact that the ringleader lets us know he is a Shinigami but that he has made no demands to free his comrades, tells us just what sort of enemy we're facing. He isn't in a hurry and he has help, human help. You," he looked at Red: "Tell me all you can about the book and the note anything that will help us track them down," then he looked at Mac: "You'll go after the boyfriend. And I'll go to interrogate the two Death Gods we have trapped. We need to find her, quickly."
The others nodded and went out. Light looked at the book, pondering who might have sent it. Then he denied, what he was thinking was impossible. Whoever had sent the 'gift' was smart but he'd made the fatal mistake of underestimating Kira, that Shinigami was about to meet his match.
11.3: The Angel of the Odd
-"Who are you, pray? How did you get here? And what is it you are talking about?"
-"Az vor ow I com'd ere," replied the figure, "dat iz none of your pizzness; and as vor vat I be talking apout, I be talk apout vot I tink proper; and as vor who I be, vy dat is de very ting I com'd here for to let you zee for yourzelf."
From 'The Angel of the Odd' a short story by Edgar Allan Poe
Unknown location, April 19th 2019:
Black woke up and found she was lying on her left side on an operation table. Her right knee was slightly raised and her arms were set as if in prayer. She was blindfolded so when she opened her eyes all she could see was a red blur. Someone had undressed her and all she had on was what felt like a hospital robe. For a few panic-stricken seconds she didn't know where she was. Then it all came back. Anger flushed down her body, from the top of her head to the tip of her bare feet. That bastard Turk had played her. He had played her good. Not for a minute had she doubted all the crap he had fed her.
'Stupid, stupid, stupid girl,' she reproached herself: 'What are the odds? What are the odds of him having a life story that was tailor-made to make you feel an immediate closeness to him? What are the odds of him being the concretion of every foolish little fantasy you had of a Prince Charming? Reason should have told you they must be zero.'
But she hadn't been working on reason. No. She had let her crotch call the shots and now look where that had taken her. They might as well kill her because the Ghost wasn't going to let her live through it. Just thinking about his I-told-you face made her feel lightheaded. She thought sourly that feeling might be due to the chloroform.
She took in a deep breath and ordered herself to stop whining. She needed to keep focused if she wanted to have any chance of escaping. At first she was puzzled by the fact they hadn't bound her but then she'd tried to move and couldn't. Her arms and left leg were paralyzed. She couldn't feel them. She drew another deep breath to try to keep panic at bay.
"She's awake" pointed out Czech brute.
"Good," growled Bulgarian brute.
Black remained silent as she heard the two brutes moving around her. After getting a grip on her fear, all that was left of the initial adrenaline rush were the heightened senses. She was acutely aware of every sound and every little movement the men made around her. And she was able of getting a mental picture of what they were doing. Ready to profit from any chance she got of getting the hell out of that place, wherever it was that those creeps had taken her to. But at the same time she felt oddly detached, as if it all was happening to someone else.
She new the sharp slap she heard came from the Bulgarian brute putting on latex gloves. She new the one that was untying the knots of her hospital robe was the Czech brute. He was also the one who had pulled a metallic cart right next to her. She knew she had electrodes on her chest and she could hear the regular beep of a cardiac monitor. And then the Bulgarian brute began fingering her waist. When he talked his voice was muffled so he was wearing something over his mouth, probably a surgical mask.
"This we're doing here, Miss, it be a nerve blockade; the lumbar plexus first and then the sciatic nerve so your leg muscles won't work. We've already done the brachial plexus blockade to your arms; also we've done your left leg. Now we do the right," informed the Bulgarian brute in a hideous mishmash of broken English and medical mumbo-jumbo: "We locate the iliac crest then the spinous processes' midline. And 'bout 4 cm in between the two is good." He kept palpating her while he talked. He kneaded her waist and back with his gloved hands until he seemed to find what he was looking for and marked the spot.
"Get off me!" she cried out.
The Bulgarian brute ignored her angry protest and continued reciting from the mad anesthesiologist manual: "We clean," he said rubbing a wet cotton swab over Black's back: "Then we numb the skin with local anesthetic in the needle insertion site. Or we don't. The bad girl that kick us in the groin deserves to feel pain," he said brushing the syringe over her skin.
She could hear Marek clearing his throat. Her heart ached at the sound of his voice. She swallowed and let the moment pass. The hurt became nothing more than a wave crashing on a distant shore before going back to the sea.
"But the boss is the boss. So we numb the skin. Then we insert the needle and turn on the nerve stimulator…"
"How much?" asked Czech brute.
"A 1.5 mA current until the thigh twitches then down to 0.5 mA or 1.0 mA," answered Bulgarian brute, then he carried on with his creepy show and tell: "and the quadriceps muscle twitches. That good. We found the right place."
Black could feel her thigh flapping about. She remembered a practice she'd done in biology lab with a dead frog. They had made the poor animal's legs dance with a small electric prod. She got an image of herself sprawled over a dissecting tray and she missed a heartbeat: "What do you think you're doing? Let go of me!"
"Someone wants to be gagged," admonished the Bulgarian brute in a playful tone.
She bit her lips, for the moment there was nothing she could do. She closed her eyes underneath the blindfold and retreated deep within herself, only half listening to what the Bulgarian brute was saying. He was ranting about the benefits of using Lidocaine. He went on and on about how she wasn't going to be able to move or feel her limbs for the next 3 or 4 hours. She ignored him, thinking about how the sea and the wind sounded when she was sitting on her favorite spot at the beach back home. She was sharply brought back to reality when she heard two words. The anesthesia had only been the preliminaries, they weren't done with her.
"Botulinum toxin? That causes paralysis, doesn't it? God!" Her voice broke.
Marek came quickly to her side. He took off the blindfold and held her face in his hands, making her look at him. He caressed her cheek with his forefinger and said: "Calm down."
"Don't touch me!" She yelled.
He laid her head back down on the bed but continued talking to her in his soothing velvety voice: "Believe me. This is all for the best. We thought this out through. Trying to keep you immobilized for the next couple of months was going to be torture. Bondages would leave sores and moving around an uncooperative subject in a stretcher can be hard. With your…family, trailing behind us we can't afford to remain too long in the same place. A gurney is not a good choice either. If your feet can't make contact with the floor and your weight is not properly supported then you'll be virtually crucified. A couple of days of that and your lungs will collapse. If we use a straightjacket and ligatures, then you'd be in excruciating pain after a day or so of remaining strapped in the same position. Plus there's always the risk of thrombosis from poor blood circulation. Feeding you and cleaning you would be a nightmare. At some point we would have to untie you and, knowing you, you'd try to escape every single time," He kneeled besides her and lowered his voice, speaking so only she could hear: "We would require a whole crew watching over you. You'd have to be blindfolded permanently or they would have to wear masks, perhaps both. And even that wouldn't warranty their safety. I know you, you'd be listening. You'd take advantage of every glimpse you got, profit from every mistake and then you'd take revenge as soon as you managed to get free. We wouldn't be able to let you go afterwards."
After realizing they were planning to cripple her so they could hold her for months, Black stared at the wall in horror. Death didn't sound so bad in comparison. Marek got up and tried to touch her once more but she turned away from his hand, stretching her neck as much as she could. He kept moving his hand towards her and Black tried to bite him. She missed his fingers by millimeters.
The Bulgarian brute said they could also anesthetize her so she wouldn't be able to move her neck. Maybe they should even do her jaw, though the drooling might become a problem. She couldn't be sure, for he was wearing a surgical mask, but she could bet that the brute was smiling and salivating from the prospect of rendering her still more defenseless.
Marek looked disapprovingly at the Bulgarian and then continued talking: "We need you to be able to listen and respond, so sedating you is not an option. Botulinum toxin is highly toxic but with carefully applied small doses we'll block the neurotransmitter known as acetylcholine in the striate muscles of your limbs. This is better than an anesthetic because this will only affect the motor nerves. You'll be able to breathe on your own. You'll feel your arms and legs even if you aren't able to move then and if you are hurting from an inadequate position you'll be able to tell me. And it only requires one application. We are going to use the anesthesia only so you won't feel pain from the multiple injections required for immobilizing large muscular groups. And its effects will pass in a couple of hours. We are not trying to hurt you. The toxin's effects are also temporary, in 3 months or so neuronal activity will begin to return to your limbs, and in 6 months it will be fully restored. You can stay most of the time in the bed where I can move you so you don't get sores. When we need to travel I'll strap you to a wheelchair. I know you like sporty rides so I got you a treat, a dark red Power Electric 3G Ranger X Rwd."
She kept her eyes fixed on the wall, ignoring him.
He pursed his lips and then decided to let it pass: "With correct physiotherapy you won't lose too much muscular mass and blood circulation in your limbs won't be affected. The chances of permanent damage are minimal. Though you may find it hard to believe, these two here are a qualified surgeon and an electromyography tech. I have some medical training too. I repeat, we don't want to harm you. This is the only way I can take care of you by myself. Are you listening to me?"
Marek sounded genuinely concerned for her. Especially that last part, as if her lack of response really anguished him. That infuriated Black: "By all means, Dr. Mengele. Please do carry on. It's all so fascinating."
He sighed: "Don't make this harder than it has to be."
"But of course, how inconsiderate of me. I should be thankful that you just didn't burst my kneecaps. Rendering me chemically disabled is so much more civilized."
"I've told you we had no choice and this is only a temporary arrangement."
Black huffed: "How temporary?"
"That's entirely up to you, my dear."
"What the fuck are you talking about? I'm not here voluntarily. You kidnapped me! You're the one who's procured the services of bloody Doctor Frankenstein and Nurse Igor here. So don't talk to me as if I were a guest in your madhouse. And don't you dare call me your dear. I wish I'd never met you!" Swallowing down her anger she looked him in the eye and stated: "That wasn't a coincidence, was it?"
"You deserve an explanation. And I'll give you one, just not now. As soon as you're done here and you've gotten some rest I'll come to wash you for dinner. Then I'll get you ready. I want to leave here as soon as possible but I don't think we'll be able to do so before midnight. There's a lot left to do before we can go. I should get with it." He put the blindfold back on.
"Hah! Now I've seen it all: a squeamish psycho. The least you owe me is to stay and watch how your goons torture me. Have some guts, bastard!"
Marek grunted exasperated and seemed about to protest. Then he lightly squeezed her shoulder and said: "I'm here."
Black didn't answer but silently insulted herself for being stupid enough to draw comfort from the fact that he had stayed. 'I must be mental', she thought. For some crazy reason she felt safer if he was there.
When all was over they took her to some sort of recovery room and left her alone. Black couldn't sleep. She was exhausted but she was very much aware of the absence of feeling in her arms and legs. She just couldn't close her eyes and let go. She couldn't even concentrate in planning a way to escape or at least trying to leave a trail the Ghost could follow. All she could do was to stare at the ceiling's cracked paint. Even though the bright light hurt her eyes she was thankful they hadn't left the blindfold on or turned the lights off, she wasn't ready to face darkness.
Marek came back. He washed her, dressed her and fed her with a calculated efficiency that made her want to cry. He only spoke to her to ask if she preferred to be in a semi-fowler or full fowler position while eating. She said she didn't know what the fuck that was and he had explained as he reclined the clinical bed. When he finished giving her spoonfuls of a weak chicken noodle soup she'd been barely able to hold down, he'd asked her if she wanted him to put her back down. She said she didn't give a damn and while he manipulated the bed she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She shrieked, turned her head away and bit her trembling lips 'til they bled.
"What's the matter? Are you ok?"
"No, of course I'm not. A madman kidnapped me. I've been crippled so you can carry me around like one of those ridiculous purse-pooches. Plus all this is for nothing, because the minute my boss figures out I'm been held by his enemies, the wheels in his head will start turning and he's going to kill me before I become a bigger problem. And, to make it all worst: My hair is a mess!" She ended with a sob.
She'd thought she was going on a very important date and she'd gone to a hairdresser so her usually lifeless straight mane could be coerced into a bun. Her hair had been pulled back into a large chignon that covered the crown and back of her head. The hair at the nape had been arranged in short ringlets. And the bangs in her forehead were set so they demurely framed her face. She looked just like a Regency Era lady and she'd loved the hairdo so much that she'd performed a contortionism act so she wouldn't get it wet while taking a shower. Her image with what had been the most sophisticated updo she'd ever worn transformed into a rat's nest was a reminder of how different her weekend was turning out to be from what she'd imagined. It had been the final drop.
"Vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas," Marek let out a disgruntled laugh: "Woman, you sure are a piece of work. You go through hell with an ironic smirk. But what does it take to make you snap? Messing up your hairdo," he sighed: "If it upsets you that much, then we'll brush it."
He got up and came back with the bags she'd packed. He'd fumbled in them 'til he found her hairbrush. Then he removed the hair pins with exquisite care, picked up a long strand and began passing the brush over it. When he was done he took another handful and did the same. After a while he stopped. Black held her breath, she could've sworn he was holding a lock of her hair to his nose and she wasn't sure how to feel about it.
Before she could think of a hurtful remark, Czech brute came in saying they had finished loading up the truck and they were leaving. Black thought: 'Good riddance. But don't get too comfy, arseholes. Ever since you crossed my path, you've been dead men walking.'
Just before they had brought her down she'd caught sight of their features, and there was no chance in hell she could forget them. While she was kissing the grass her mind had been processing information about them. Finding their true identities wouldn't be hard, even for a less determined foe.
She began wondering if the Turk was a mind reader because he'd said: "You shouldn't, those two are just hired guns."
"Hard to find good help nowadays, right, Mr. Černý-Vlcek?"
"No if you know where to look for."
"There are lots of rats hiding in this town that one can entice if one has enough cheese."
"If I thought it would stop you I wouldn't tell you. But I'm sure that sooner or later you're going to find out. I'm hoping you have enough sense left in you so you can see these two are nothing but petty criminals. Punishment should befit the crime and, disgusting as they are, they hardly deserve a death penalty. I've only just met the electromyography tech, but the Bulgarian, which I'm sure you can tell by his accent, is an old acquaintance. He used to work for the CSS."
"So that torturer pervert was a spy for the infamous Bulgarian Secret Service? My, oh my, I'm truly impressed. Those guys don't charge beans for their dirty deeds. Exactly how much is my market value, if you don't mind my asking. Let's call it professional curiosity. Though, I'll bet neither of them was aware that they were trafficking with something priceless, or they might have upgraded from small time criminals into big time murderers, and you might have ended your days bleeding in a gutter. Not that it would change a thing. You and your little friends have already signed up for a slow painful death."
"It doesn't surprise me you are one to hold a grudge. For your information, I'm not stupid enough to spill the beans or to pretend not to know what you're talking about. In short, dear, they don't have a clue, but I do," He leaned down and murmured in her ear: "Your secret is safe with me," Then he got up and started repacking her bags: "As far as they are concerned, I'm a rich guy who can't take no for an answer. And you are an unreceptive sweetheart who has dared refuse me. In their defense, let me tell you that after they found out what I was planning to do with you they accused me of having necrophiliac tendencies. They sounded truly shocked. At least until they found out how much I was willing to pay for my fancy. Being criticized by the likes of them is somehow disturbing, though I don't really care for their opinion. And even if we've known each other for some time, that Bulgarian hustler is no friend of mine. He never was much of a spy either. He worked briefly with the 6th Direction's 2nd department when he was a young man in med school. His patriotic endeavors involved ratting out fellow students who exhibited capitalistic ideas and smuggling bootlegged music. As you can see these bastard's worst sin is being ideologically promiscuous. Plus they've had a hard time; when the Communist regime fell they found themselves with no prospects of a decent job and a life style that was hard support. In their countries a lot of qualified professionals have been forced to emigrate. Guess the Bulgarian does have some patriotic feelings because he stayed, even though he became the sort of doctor who asks no questions after working a guy's face so no even his mother can recognize it. He's been trying to save enough money so he and Nurse Igor can fulfill their dream of establishing a clinic near his hometown in the Carpathian Mountains. That's where I found them. And I paid them your price in poison."
"What?"
"One vial of 100 U of type A toxin, known as Botox, sells for more than 500 dollars; 1 U is equivalent to 0.05 nanogram. And that price is what's charged in the legal market. Type B, which is the brand that's used for muscular dystonia, sells cheaper, a 5000 U vial costs approximately 460 dollars. Several governmental organisms, including the FDA, have allegedly tried to discourage its use for fading wrinkles since the early 2000's, but they haven't actually forbid it. And so, that has turned out to be a thriving business. So much so that some of the oldest users, no pun intended, have developed immunity to the type A and type B serotypes. In English, the old birds have lost the key to the fountain of youth. But what we used in you is type F toxin, one which is usually reserved for the medical treatment in hospitalized patients with severe muscular disorders for whom the usual serotypes no longer work. For obvious reasons, that one is not legally available for cosmetic uses and that's why in the black market this is worth more than gold."
"Blimey!"
"I promised them several vials plus a premium in cash if we got you. And Doctor Frankenstein, as you call him, is an entrepreneur and plans to use it to outfit an old cold war biological weapons research facility so he can start processing his own toxin. My bet is that his dream of a clinic is going to come true and that tourism to the Carpathian Mountains is going to experience a curios increase. I like to think I'm actually helping an economy that hasn't been in top shape since the iron curtain fell."
"I was going to kill you lot anyway, but now I'm going to enjoy it. You are all criminals!"
"I resent that comment. I may be in their company but I'm not one of them. And I've done nothing illegal. Given what we both know you are, I don't consider this kidnapping. This is a citizen arrest."
"Birds of a feather flock together. I have taken you with these robbers, and you must die in their company, said the farmer to the stork as he snapped its neck."
"Funny, you didn't strike me as the type who reads Aesop's fables."
"Funny, you didn't strike me as a bootlegger of toxic bacteria who hires muscle for snatching innocent girls."
"I've told you they are specialists and innocent is not an adjective I'd use to describe you, my beautiful murderess," He traced with his thumb over her calf the letters that spelled the names of dead children. Feeling was starting to return to her limbs but Black couldn't pull away so she just gritted her teeth. Marek continued unfazed: "And, I don't usually go around snatching girls, innocent or otherwise, but you are…special. I'm sure you're aware of it."
"I thought you were interested in me, that you really cared. But you've turned out to be just like the rest," she was thankful she had her back turned to him. She didn't want him to see the pain reflected in her face.
He fought his first instinct, which was embracing her and trying to comfort her. Instead he kept his distance and said in a cold voice: "You know what they say, men can only think of one thing."
She breathed in, lifted her chin and stated: "Of course, you're just another power hungry jerk. But you're wrong if you think you can coerce it out of me, Black Wolf. I'll kill myself first." She got ready to bite off her own tongue.
He turned her around and forced her mouth open: "There's not need for dramatics, my dear. We both know your brother didn't raise a quitter and this game is far from over."
He was an arsehole but he knew her alright. She stopped struggling.
Marek looked at her eyes with curiosity: "You know; it really offends me that you think I would want the sort of power you have to offer. I'm not an idiot. Or that you'd think we'd come up with such a simpleminded plan. We've never intended to coerce anything out of you. That's why we needed some time for you to cool off and be willing to listen to what we have to say. We were hoping that after you realized no escape is possible you would see the light and decided to cooperate with us."
She tried to get his fingers again and he kept just out of reach with a smug smile. She spat on his face: "In your dreams! Fuck you!
"I think we've already established that isn't going to happen in the near future, my dear."
He left the room as Black started an alphabetic list of all the curse words she knew. Leaning on the closed door Marek rolled his eyes and turned to face the Man in Shadows: "This isn't going to work. She's never going to cooperate with us."
"The chances of her working for us willingly were less than 1 percent," the Man in Shadows stated matter-of-factly.
Marek pinched the space between his eyebrows with his thumb and index finger and tried to control himself. This guy's coolness got on his nerves. "Then why are we doing this? She has suffered enough."
"Because she might change her mind and because even if she doesn't she is going to realize her only chance of getting alive out of this is to cooperate with us, or at least to pretend she does. In the end, regardless of the reasons she has to do so, she'll work for us. That's all we need. And I didn't choose her, her destiny was set when she became what she is. But, if I had to choose someone, I would have picked someone like her. She's smart, idiots are unpredictable and that's annoying. She already knows Kira is going to kill her if he sees her as a liability. It's only a matter of time until she starts wondering why he hasn't killed her yet. And that's when we'll tell her about the gift we left to her boss as a token of our goodwill."
"That's another thing; his boss is not going to take her back. He'll never be able to trust her."
"Oh, I'm counting on that. Have you brought them?"
He was about to ask what he was talking about when he remembered the Man in Shadows had made a request before Marek had gone out girl snatching. He threw a pack of wafer cookies with lemon filling to the air and saw them being swallowed by the darkness with small crunching sounds. He waited until the package came back out empty and asked: "What do you mean you're counting on it?"
"He is going to take her back and keep her close to him precisely because he won't trust her. He is going to know from the start she's gone double agent. If she's as smart as I think she is, she is going to be the one who tells him."
"Why? Then he'll have no choice but killing her, regardless of the gift," at the mention of the package he'd had to sent Marek stifled a shiver.
The Man in Shadows explained it. He spoke slowly in his little boy voice as if he were baffled by the world's general cluelessness: "He won't, her value as a source of information of his enemies is going to outweigh her potential as a threat. And he won't trust her or what she tells him, but he won't be able to get rid of her. No as long as she is his only link to us, and we manage to remain out of his reach. That is going to drive him mad."
"If you say so…"
"I just did," the Man in Shadows pointed out.
This guy was too literal to be true. Yet he was able to make amazing deductions with next to none information and he was usually right. Marek shrugged and said: "Yes, of course."
As usual the irony in his voice was lost on the Man in Shadows. "Next time, bring snickerdoodles," then he paused for a full minute before adding: "and bring some vanilla ice-cream to go with them," then he vanished to whatever hellhole he retired to plot his schemes.
Marek stretched, cracking his shoulders to try to get rid of some of the tension that had been building up during a very long day. He grunted: "Great, I've sold my soul to the cookie monster."
11.4: The Lesser Evil
"As soon as you're born they make you feel small,
Till the pain is so big you feel nothing at all.
They hate you if you're clever and they despise a fool,
Till you're so fucking crazy you can't follow their rules.
When they've tortured and scared you for twenty odd years
Then they expect you to pick a career,
When you can't really function, you're so full of fear.
There's room at the top they are telling you still,
But first you must learn how to smile as you kill,
If you want to be like the folks on the hill.
A working class hero is something to be
If you want to be a hero, well just follow me"
From the song 'Working Class Hero' by John Lennon.
Unknown location, April 20th 2019:
The man known as Marc Black Wolf continued with his preparations. He dyed his hair a dirty blond, put on light brown contact lenses and applied collagen injections in his lips, nose and chin. He completed his disguise with a skillfully applied coat of make-up to lighten his complexion. And then he took out from a white metallic locker an expensive looking casual outfit. It made him look slimmer and taller. He was satisfied by the yuppie-on-vacation look he'd achieved.
He stared at the stranger in the mirror and thought that it had been a while since he'd looked up and not seen his own face looking back. When he'd retired he'd sworn he will never do it again, and then the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come had come recruiting.
He felt totally dissociated with the healthy man in the reflection. He was having a flashback of the time when he'd woken up in a motel in the Balkans with a bullet wound in his shoulder and no idea of who he was or what he was doing there. It had taken him five minutes to piece it up together. Looking in the mirror hadn't helped, even though he hadn't been wearing a disguise. Back then he'd realized with terror that was exactly the problem, he had gotten so used to walking in other men's shoes that he had problems returning to himself. Finally, he was able to get a grip and outrun those who were trying to hunt him down, but that hadn't stopped him from wondering where his life was going to if he could not longer feel comfortable in his own skin.
That had been the beginning of the end; self-doubt is an agent's downfall. Some life and death games require the sort of lighting bolt decision making that depends on an unbreakable confidence in what you're doing. He had learnt that one the hard way. His palms started to sweat. As had often been the case ever since he first realized he was rapidly approaching the dreaded fourth decade, he felt old and tired, not at all prepared to face what was coming.
"What am I doing here?" he asked the terrified man in the mirror.
Marek inhaled and exhaled slowly until he managed to control his racing pulse. Stress is a killer, especially in his line of work. His little anxiety problem was the reason why the Millî İstihbarat Teşkilâtı (National Intelligence Organization) had let him go.
Then the yuppie in the mirror frowned. Once more he found himself in the middle of a chess game with no clue of who were the ones moving the pieces. Once more he was a pawn unable to see pass his square. All he could do was pray he was playing with the whites. And, if he didn't manage to leave the world a better place when he finally got knocked out of the checkered board, he could at least hope he wasn't leaving it worst. That made him remember the only good advice his father had given him. The memory of his words was tied up to the first time Marek had struck a deal with the devil.
For a man that had made deception a way of life, he had been surprisingly honest with Black. What he had told her was basically the truth. The only thing he had downright lied about was being an art historian, though he had spent enough time pretending to be one that he might as well be. His formal training was in psychology. He had left college at age 20 to join the army. But he was an overachiever and had managed to finish his career while attending the officer's training program.
After a bright, if brief, academic career, he had joined the Maroon Berets. Even though there hadn't been born a man less fitted for the military, through sheer stubbornness he'd started climbing ranks. But he never felt truly satisfied. His decision of joining the army can only be understood if one knows that in Turkey a praetorian military elite acts as an arbitrator of many aspects of the country's life. The army is famous for its professionalism and widely regarded as the guardian of the national values every youth should aspire to uphold. Even civilian see them as "the apple of the Turkish people's collective eye." His father was a national hero and had gone from corporal to brigadier general in a few years. That's a tough act to follow.
For years he tried to sell himself the idea that he had no interest in following in the man's footsteps. Whenever someone started to mention anything related to the need every son has of metaphorically vanquishing his father and becoming the alpha male, he laughed. He never admitted that was exactly what he'd wanted until he'd thought he'd made the kill. Surprisingly his chance had come at a time when he was beginning to wonder if he had reached his incompetence level when they'd made him sergeant major. The MİT had approached him with an offer he couldn't refuse.
The man leading the Ministry at the time had been trying to get a firmer grip in the national security issues to diminish the de facto power of the Chief of the General Staff, a position held by the military. Right from the 60's Turkey had been caught up in a struggle between a chain of weak civilian governments and a strong military establishment who felt continuously obliged to intervene in the country's politics. Whenever the generals had felt the civilians were failing, they'd staged a coup; even though outwardly their only desire was achieving a democratic government. Traditionally the National Intelligence Organization had been a civilian organism dependant on the Prime Minister, designed as a counterbalance, though it drew most of its ranks from the army.
Among other innovations, the Prime Minister had decided to create a Directorate of Psychological Intelligence and Marek seemed a perfect candidate to join in. The profound mistrust he had in the good intentions of his superiors, which had made him unfit for further advancement in the army, was the quality that would secure him a position in the Directorate. Paranoia was a creed among the agents dedicated to psychological warfare. Plus, producing dissension by instilling doubt, fear and hopelessness in the minds of the enemy is far easier when you've experienced them first hand. Having a solid background in history and psychology also helped. There's nothing new under the sun, black and grey propaganda has been used before. Take for example what they did with the Order of the Temple. Just see how well that one had worked. A couple of well placed rumors had turned a monastic order of bankers into a bunch of heretic baby killers. And that's how you can justify any action taken against those subhuman bastards. After all, they deserve it. Surprisingly that trick still works time after time. Our collective unconscious just loves a clear-cut villain.
He had finally found something he was really good at and that his father could never even dream of doing. His dad, a straightforward fanatic, lacked the imagination. But Marek had the gift, he was a chameleon. He could look at the person in front of him and turn the exact color the other wanted to see. People are desperate for a kindred spirit and they will clutch at straws to get the approval and sympathy they think they deserve. And when he had reeled them in, he could play them like a harp. Soon enough he found himself working directly under the orders of the Deputy Undersecretary of Intelligence. His codename was beginning to buzz in the grapevine and his only regret was that he couldn't inform his father of just how successful he had become.
He was sent on a mission to Paris and there he'd met Zelenka, the Czech girl he was going to marry. He was walking on sunshine and he felt invincible. He'd been an ass and had gone back home to parade his triumph in front of his father. As was to be expected, the man hadn't been impressed. He wasn't rude enough to downright insult Zelenka, but he left it clear he would've preferred that his son had married a good Turkish girl. His father had found yet another cause for disapproving him aside from his desertion of the army.
After an incredibly awkward meal during which Marek had drank too much, he felt ready to tell his father he could go to hell. He had thought scornfully that he'd been an idiot for ever wanting that bigot's approval. He was finally ready to walk away and let the old man rot in his own bile. He could've left making a scene, but his wife and his mom deserved better. So he'd stayed.
His dad was a traditional man and insisted men and women took their tea separately. They were alone, taking their refreshment in his studio when Marek had told him what he thought to be the truth, loudly. When he'd been on the verge of telling the old fool just how much farther he had gone than him in serving his country, his dad had brought him to his knees, literally, with a couple of swift blows of his cane. Marek rose ready to disarm the old man and was hit by another two blows in his arms. The old man had hit the nerves leaving him temporarily defenseless. Then he was brought down again, this time by a sweeping kick. He rose once more, this time angered, but his dad blocked his swing and received him with a knee to his stomach that knocked the air out of him. Without a pause the old man had let go of his walking stick and thrown him a right hook that sent him to the floor with a broken nose.
He was bleeding on his father's price carpet, a kilim which had been supposedly used in a dinner to homage Kemal Atatürk himself. As he was trying to get his bearings and get pass the restrains that prevented him from repaying the old geezer in kind for the beating, his dad had whispered in his ear: "You little motherfucker, I already knew. And I'd thought that I'd raised you smarter."
What had paralyzed Marek weren't his harsh words but the shine of pride in his eyes as he'd said them. That had been more shocking than getting his ass kicked by an old guy with a cane. But that was going to be the least of the surprises that day held in reserve for him. For the first time in his life his father had told him the truth. Marek had found out that his father's lies piled up higher and higher. Apart from a skirmish or two his father had never been in the frontlines. All his military grades, medals and his zealot speeches were bull, nothing more than a cover. Marek heard him spun his tale on all-fours, trying hard not to puke in front of the man who was the MİT's Undersecretary.
He'd been thunderstruck. All he could do was blabber: "How? When? Does Faruk know? Does mom know?
"Do you make it a habit to go around telling people what you do for a living?"
"Of course not!" he protested offended.
"Neither do I," he laughed. That was rarer than a blue moon. Marek could count with the fingers of one hand the times he had seen his father laugh.
"But you've been married to mom for over forty years …"
"Does your Czech darling know?"
"God, no," the thought of telling Zelenka had never even crossed his mind.
"Good, keep it that way and we won't give your mother the pain of seeing one of us kill the other."
The menace contained in his words didn't go unnoticed. And with what he knew of the Undersecretary's reputation, he doubted his father was joking. Then the old man had helped him stand up. He said they were never to discuss this again, in public or in private. Then he'd handed him a piece of paper. He said it was a letter he always gave to his field agents when he welcomed them into the service. Rumor had it he handpicked and recruited them himself. He said with laugher in his voice that it was rice paper and squid's ink, a little concession to all the fantasies his boys and girls had after watching all those spy movies before they had to face the real deal.
As soon as they had crossed the threshold of his studio, the man who had beaten the crap out of him transformed into a frail grumpy old relic. He kept it up even while they were staging the fall from the stairs that they used to explain his mom and his wife why Marek was wounded. His father kept the deceit up all his life, if it weren't for the note he'd given him, Marek might have thought he'd dreamed the whole incident. It was hard to believe the zealot who had raised him had the subtlety to write such note in that beautiful ottoman calligraphy. But he held onto his father's words and onto the look of pride he had seen in his eyes for a few seconds. And he understood why every single field agent was willing to lay his life for the man they called The Chief.
He knew he was supposed to dispose of the paper once he'd read it, but before he did, he memorized it. Whenever he felt he couldn't possible go on, he recited the words that his father, the paradigm of the perfect agent, had never dared to speak directly to him. And now, once more, he needed the comfort they could afford him. For here he was, making his way in a darkened highway towards the hiding place his unnatural boss had instructed him to find. Driving a discreet dark van, with an unconscious girl he'd crippled so she wouldn't escape strapped to a wheelchair in the back. A girl who was supposed to be one of the most dangerous weapons the world had ever known. A girl he had fallen in love with. The worst part was that, as crazy as that sounded, it wasn't the craziest thing he'd done in his life.
So he pulled to the curb, killed the engine and with the rising sun as his only witness he spoke out-loud the words that had become a prayer and were the closest thing he had to a legacy. His father's letter had started with a quote of Dante's Divine Comedy:
"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. I know this isn't what you want to hear. No when you've just made it to the ranks of the best and the proud. No when you've sworn your oaths to the flag and your heart is filled with patriotic joy. But you should abandon all hope, for you've taken the first step down the slope to hell. If you didn't know it, now it's too late to turn back. In this wretched trip I'll be your Virgil, I'll hold your hand like a father holds his son, and I'll walk you through each circle and keep you walking 'til the very end.
I could give you pretty speeches, but those won't get you through the sleepless nights when you will wonder what you've become and how can you carry on living after what you've done. Believe me; you'll get plenty of those after a few months in the service. All I could tell you about the greater good, the bigger picture, the reasons of state, won't help you get through those nights. We'll leave those empty words for the politicians.
This is the first and only advice I'll give you: Forget what you've learnt on your mother's lap. Forget all you know about good and evil; except this: faced with true evil, good is powerless. How else can it be? Good can't get its hands dirty and remain good. I promise you, you'll get your hands dirty and, if I do my job right, you won't be powerless.
Have you ever seen the sheepdogs watching over the flock? From afar they are not that different from the wolves. The flock fears them but tolerates them because, faced with the threat of the wolves, they are the lesser evil. I'm not here to turn you into a hero and you weren't meant to be one of the lambs.
I won't ask you to be ethical. I'll ask you to be efficient. You'll remain unseen. You'll bring the wolves down. You won't get thanked or praised. If the flock were to see you, they would run from you, for you're about to become a thing to be feared. That is the only way to fight the enemy you'll have to face. And there will come a time when you are unable to meet your own eyes in the mirror. That's when I want you to remember these words: Son, what I ask of you is the greatest of sacrifices, for the sake of the flock, I ask you to become the lesser evil."
Next on Kira's Kingdom: Scroll 12: Without Breaking Some Eggs, Kira decides to send Mac and Red to carry out his plans while he follows Black's trail. Near's safe house is once more under attack. Will the Shinigami's champion do something about it?