Chapter One…Stalker "I prefer to describe my profession as that of a
'Contemporary Anthropological Interactive Observer'
Because it has the right amount of flair. Besides
'Stalker' is such an ugly word."
The evening patrol had been uneventful. Sara had a late evening at the precinct and now was safely ensconced in her apartment for the night. Ian had waited outside the precinct and had followed her home. The weather was unseasonably warm, yet he wore his black coat and wool cap. He flexed his leather-gloved hands and tilted his head from side to side stretching his neck. He stationed himself on the building across the street, overlooking her apartment and remained two hours after she'd turned off the light. Using the fire escape, he peered into her chambers and verified she was indeed asleep. As he gazed into her window, he studied her sleeping form, wondering what dreams besieged her privacy. Sighing, he wished he could protect her from the nightmares that surely invaded her solitude. He had been raised to be her protector, yet she insisted she had no need of him. Ian knew there would be a time when his skills and training would be necessary, and he would be there for her. Realizing this satisfied his desire to be wanted and needed. A pleased look flashed across his normally neutral face and took one more look into Sara's loft. She had turned away from him, taking her movement as a cue to leave; he soundlessly slipped down the fire escape.
He took his time returning to Irons' residence, meandering past bars and coffeehouses. The small black sports car was hidden in one of Irons' many warehouses. The estate was forty-five minutes from the city, if he did the speed limit. He slid into the car as if it were a second skin. The car was in itself a silent shadow; entering the upscale neighborhood, he kept to the darker shadows. They matched his black mood. He was still honor-bound to Irons, even in his present condition. The psychological training had ingrained an allegiance that he had yet to find a way to break. He wanted to be his own man and make his own decisions regarding who was worthy of his trust and loyalty. Immo had put Irons in a deeper coma in an attempt to bring him out of the shock-induced unconsciousness. The chance of success was in Irons' favor, though once he awoke, his recuperation would be lengthy. Ian was relishing his independence, and did not look forward to resuming his place as Irons' instrument. He knew his first order would be to retrieve the Witchblade at the cost of Sara's life. A chill settled into his bones at the thought. He looked up at the complex looming before him. To him it was a monument of evil that Irons perpetuated and Ian was only a small brick in the monument. He forced himself to enter the code that would allow him access.
A slight hiss and small pop and the door snapped ajar. He tugged the door open and slipped inside; making sure the door was securely closed before heading upstairs. He passed antiques and priceless paintings that littered the halls, not noticing the beauty or the statement of wealth. Ian knew that Irons was fond of the trappings of grandeur, and indulged himself like a child in a toy store. No price was too great for Irons to pay. As Ian approached what appeared to be a steel wall, he stopped and flipped up a latched painting and put his eye to the micro-scanner. The scanner verified his retina with the one on file and the steel wall slowly retracted. Ian entered the private area, once he passed through the wall; it slid back into its original position. Soundlessly he padded to the chamber where Irons lay unconscious, punched a code into the keypad and glided inside to Irons.
The room was antiseptically white, from the walls to the high-tech equipment. Small regular beeps emanated from the mechanisms surrounding Irons' bed. The lights had been set to a diffused setting, relieving how stark and cold the room truly was. Irons' bed was centered in the room, as befitting a monarch. His breathing was deep and regular; his pallor matched his white hair, while even unconscious, and had been meticulously groomed.
Ian gazed at the man who had created him, schooled him. Flashes of beatings intermingled with respectable interactions with Irons. Master and father lay before him, helpless. He did not have to bring Irons to Immo, leaving Sara to believe she murdered his father. It was said that 'still waters run deep', the undercurrents in this stream were of loyalty and duty. Even as he watched Irons' even breathing, he could feel the bonds loosening. With luck and time, he might be his own man. Or so he hoped.
"His vitals are all stable," stated Dr. Immo as he rose from a console and met Ian halfway to Irons' bed. He had been observing the young man's emotionless face, curious if Ian had any feeling towards Irons.
"There has been no change?" asked Ian while his eyes studied the various monitors.
"No, nothing of significance, which is good. I think we should try and revive him in two days time." Immo said with satisfaction, crossing his arms and settling into a confident stance. He watched Ian, he'd seen Ian drift into a mild independent state, but the programming seemed to be holding. It would take very little to return him to the submissive state that Irons preferred.
Ian glanced at Immo and moved past him to be at Irons' side. Ian's impression was that Immo was first loyal to Irons, then to self-preservation. Ironically, there was really no difference. Ian did not trust the doctor, but that was his own self-preservation issue. He studied Irons pale appearance. The strength and tenacity that Ian expected to see was but a memory. He was torn, to keep Irons in limbo or have him recover and reestablish his control. Perhaps, Ian thought, things would not be the same. Maybe Irons' obsession would wane or he could come to accept Sara as the True wielder of the Blade. His expression never changed as these thoughts tumbled through his head. Ian looked up and met Immo's gaze.
"If his condition doesn't change, then we will try and revive him in two days time," affirmed Ian. He nodded at Dr. Immo; "I will leave him in your care. Good night doctor." Ian turned and left as quietly as he'd entered.
Once into the hallway, Ian let out the breath he'd been holding. He decided against going into the kitchen and made his way to his room. The hall had portraits of women who had worn the Blade. Ian took no notice of them; his thoughts were on Sara's fluctuating attitudes and Irons condition. He unlocked and entered his room then relocked the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the camera, over the door, was mounted and working. One of his most memorable beatings involved the camera network. As an adolescent he rebelled by short-circuiting and painting over the lenses. He had grudgingly accepted the cameras presence knowing it recorded, even in the dark. He'd discovered the data was beamed via satellite to a security bunker, only Irons could call up and play back the tapes; he was very astute to the running of his estate and could determine if something was amiss. The only peace Ian seemed to attain was when he was "stalking" Sara. His room was Spartan compared to the rest of the residence. No pictures were on the walls. An office chair and small desk with a laptop was in the corner. His twin-sized bed complete with military corners was opposite a door leading into his bathroom. A bookcase with a myriad of volumes also served as a nightstand, on which an old clock ticked off the minutes of his life. Standard white towels hung in the bathroom; unscented soap was at the sink and in the shower with his unscented shampoo. Next to the bathroom door was his chest of drawers and closet. His sanctuary was the antithesis of Irons' splendor.
Ian pulled off his gloves, taking care to remove the heavy metallic ring. It was not truly silver; it had been cast from the metal of the Witchblade. He stared at the ring, knowing that it was linked to the Witchblade, and Sara. Carefully, he secured it in a small compartment in his top drawer. He tugged his watch cap off and set it and the gloves on the top of the dresser. Slowly, his coat slid from his shoulders, he turned grabbing it before it hit the floor, opened his closet and removed the empty hanger from it's' hook on the door. Ian draped the coat on the hanger, making sure it was straight, and buttoned the top button before replacing the hanger and coat on the hook. As he untucked his shirt, he made his way to the bed to unlace his boots. He sat down heavily, the past weeks events were amounting to an overwhelming burden. He unlaced and removed his shoes and socks, then pulled his black tee shirt and sweater over his head. Picking up the boots in one hand and his dirty clothes with the other, he stood and went to the closet. He set the boots inside, opened a built-in cabinet and placed his worn clothes down the laundry-shute. Next he removed his belt and set that on top of his gloves, emptied the contents of his pants pockets on the dresser and sent the pants to the laundry. He pulled out his second drawer and withdrew a fresh pair of black briefs and black tee shirt. Walking into the bathroom, he closed and locked the door, set his clothes on an empty shelf with a hook below. Ian bent into the shower stall and started the hot water, while the room started to get steamy; he brushed and rinsed his teeth. He tossed a towel over the bar before undoing his hair, stripping off his briefs and stepping into the hot shower.
`The hot water pulsed on his back; he tilted his head back and let the hot water course through his hair. This was his time; he left the world outside the bathroom door, or so he convinced himself. He reached for the soap, faced the water and worked the soap into a slippery familiar lather. Working the soapy suds over his entire body was relaxing, turning, he washed as best he could his back and legs. Then he rotated slowly enjoying the hot water, the privacy as he rinsed off all the soap. He debated about washing his hair and decided it would be easier to comb out if he washed it now, rather than in the morning. Grasping the shampoo bottle, he squeezed a minute amount and worked it into his hair. Running his fingers through his hair confirmed that it was time to rinse. He rinsed his hair several times, making sure to get out all the shampoo. Reluctantly, he turned off the water and pulled the towel off the rod and dried himself, saving his hair for last. He would comb it out before going to bed. He dried himself while in the shower stall, wrapped the towel around his hair and stepped onto the bathmat. Once out of the shower stall, he vigorously dried his hair, and then set to combing it. The towel, he tossed over the rod to dry. He had his hair somewhat tamed before pulling on his briefs and tee shirt. Unlocking the bathroom door, he flicked off the bathroom light, stopped by the closet to drop the briefs into the laundry-chute and made his way to bed. He drew back the sheets and gratefully lowered himself into bed. A small switch on the headboard, which he installed, allowed him to turn off the lights while in bed. It was one of the few luxuries he afforded himself. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.