Prologue: Shadow Man
It was an unseasonably cold night on a certain cold grey city by a cold grey lake, the eleventh hour being nothing more than a distant memory as violent thunderheads forced their way across the looming shadow above the skyscrapers. Deep in the festering sore of vice and violence that was Chicago in the early 21st century, a lone dark figure stood, back to the mouth of an alley, talking to no one in particular.
This particular no one, or at least his or her channel for receiving the conversation, was embedded in the figure's ear, a microscopic piece of machinery, enigmatically called a Codec. The voice was extremely faint, audible only to the intended recipient. "I thought I told you that it was imprudent to call me here," said the distinctly male voice, a deep baritone filled with command. "How did you get this frequency?"
If no one in particular's authority registered to the figure, it didn't show it. "Magic. And there is nothing wrong with your memory, or mine for that matter." The figure's voice was male also, but different; slightly deeper, and ragged, spoken as from a pair of lungs whose alveoli were composed of jagged granite. "I have reasons for everything I do, which, I would think, might have been made clear to you by now. He's on to you, and quite frankly, unless you take care of your end, he could cause a significant amount of trouble."
"Regardless of past accomplishments, he is only one man. My people can deal with him."
"My good man," said the gravelly stranger, "the greatest soldiers and mercenaries in the world have not been able to deal with him." His face was impossible to see in the dim light, but the voice gave away more than enough about his mood. "Now, may I suggest that you vacate your premises. If nothing else than to humor my whimsical mood, lest it change into something less pleasant."
The voice on the other end of the Codec grew as cold as the most frosty of winter winds. "Is that a threat? I must inform you, I do not take kindly to anyone, no matter how valuable, who threatens me."
The face was still shadowed, but one could get the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that the figure was smiling. "Calm yourself, my comrade in arms," the shadowed one said with a small laugh at some private joke. "And remember who made this mutual gain possible. He may be only one man, but he has proven harder to kill than the nastiest cockroaches on the lower east side, and I want nothing loose that can jeopardize the arrangement. Deal with him however you like, but make sure there is nothing there to find. He is intolerably good at poking his nose into other peoples' business."
There was a slight snort from the other end. "Very well, if it will make you feel better. But I will deal with him. Will the transfer occur at the regular place?"
"No. I'll get you the address later."
"Before you go," no one in particular said as the figure's finger neared a small switch near his temple, "do I get to find out your name? Voice recognition is all well and good, but I like a better definition of to whom I am speaking."
"My name is of no concern. However, as I am in a mood to humor your whimsical mood, you may call me Black Knight. And by the by, I would expect him in a matter of hours, so I suggest you move quickly." The finger moved before the voice on the other end could respond, and the connection was severed.
A nearby streetlight sparked in a failed attempt to light itself, briefly reflecting off a small rectangular object covering Knight's left eye, then sputtered out, returning his world to shadows. A single black shape among many, he moved with a warrior's grace as he turned and strode down the alley, his trench coat flaring out behind him and he dug in his pockets and pulled out a rectangular box. From it he extracted a small, long cylinder, and with a flick of two fingers, a light flared from a match, casting a bright orange glow onto his face.
Knight looked sharp, literally, with angular cheekbones, straight nose, and thin, curving lips. Two jagged scars formed a grisly cross over the left eye, the cross piece barely a centimeter below the lid. A strand or two of silver hair strayed from the slicked back do behind his ears to fall into his face, but despite the color, he couldn't have even been close to forty yet. Flicking the match into a nearby dumpster, he took a long, deep drag from the Cig, the glow from its end dancing over the metallic wraparound from his temple to his eye. As he moved deeper into the alley, the pupil under the wraparound widened, drinking in the almost non-existent light as he strode toward his destination.
A breath of wind stirred the old papers and waste of humans and animals on the alley floor, curling and separating the smoke that issued from Knight's lips. It was a frigid wind, a reminder of late November's callous attitude toward Chicago. Knight didn't even notice the cold air that tugged at his shoulder-length hair, drinking in the warm tobacco and nicotine from the cancer stick. Blowing the last of the smoke into a wispy ring, he flicked the butt of the Cig through it, not even slowing as he walked.
Knight stepped out of the alley, into the contrasting brilliance of a working streetlight, illuminating his lean, feral form. Lighting up another Cig, he gazed out into the smog that blanketed the night sky. "Well Snake," he said to himself, letting the tobacco roll over his tongue, "you may have lived to find out about Project Babel, but I know your mind. And if they're not ready for you, then I can promise that I will be."
It was an unseasonably cold night on a certain cold grey city by a cold grey lake, the eleventh hour being nothing more than a distant memory as violent thunderheads forced their way across the looming shadow above the skyscrapers. Deep in the festering sore of vice and violence that was Chicago in the early 21st century, a lone dark figure stood, back to the mouth of an alley, talking to no one in particular.
This particular no one, or at least his or her channel for receiving the conversation, was embedded in the figure's ear, a microscopic piece of machinery, enigmatically called a Codec. The voice was extremely faint, audible only to the intended recipient. "I thought I told you that it was imprudent to call me here," said the distinctly male voice, a deep baritone filled with command. "How did you get this frequency?"
If no one in particular's authority registered to the figure, it didn't show it. "Magic. And there is nothing wrong with your memory, or mine for that matter." The figure's voice was male also, but different; slightly deeper, and ragged, spoken as from a pair of lungs whose alveoli were composed of jagged granite. "I have reasons for everything I do, which, I would think, might have been made clear to you by now. He's on to you, and quite frankly, unless you take care of your end, he could cause a significant amount of trouble."
"Regardless of past accomplishments, he is only one man. My people can deal with him."
"My good man," said the gravelly stranger, "the greatest soldiers and mercenaries in the world have not been able to deal with him." His face was impossible to see in the dim light, but the voice gave away more than enough about his mood. "Now, may I suggest that you vacate your premises. If nothing else than to humor my whimsical mood, lest it change into something less pleasant."
The voice on the other end of the Codec grew as cold as the most frosty of winter winds. "Is that a threat? I must inform you, I do not take kindly to anyone, no matter how valuable, who threatens me."
The face was still shadowed, but one could get the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that the figure was smiling. "Calm yourself, my comrade in arms," the shadowed one said with a small laugh at some private joke. "And remember who made this mutual gain possible. He may be only one man, but he has proven harder to kill than the nastiest cockroaches on the lower east side, and I want nothing loose that can jeopardize the arrangement. Deal with him however you like, but make sure there is nothing there to find. He is intolerably good at poking his nose into other peoples' business."
There was a slight snort from the other end. "Very well, if it will make you feel better. But I will deal with him. Will the transfer occur at the regular place?"
"No. I'll get you the address later."
"Before you go," no one in particular said as the figure's finger neared a small switch near his temple, "do I get to find out your name? Voice recognition is all well and good, but I like a better definition of to whom I am speaking."
"My name is of no concern. However, as I am in a mood to humor your whimsical mood, you may call me Black Knight. And by the by, I would expect him in a matter of hours, so I suggest you move quickly." The finger moved before the voice on the other end could respond, and the connection was severed.
A nearby streetlight sparked in a failed attempt to light itself, briefly reflecting off a small rectangular object covering Knight's left eye, then sputtered out, returning his world to shadows. A single black shape among many, he moved with a warrior's grace as he turned and strode down the alley, his trench coat flaring out behind him and he dug in his pockets and pulled out a rectangular box. From it he extracted a small, long cylinder, and with a flick of two fingers, a light flared from a match, casting a bright orange glow onto his face.
Knight looked sharp, literally, with angular cheekbones, straight nose, and thin, curving lips. Two jagged scars formed a grisly cross over the left eye, the cross piece barely a centimeter below the lid. A strand or two of silver hair strayed from the slicked back do behind his ears to fall into his face, but despite the color, he couldn't have even been close to forty yet. Flicking the match into a nearby dumpster, he took a long, deep drag from the Cig, the glow from its end dancing over the metallic wraparound from his temple to his eye. As he moved deeper into the alley, the pupil under the wraparound widened, drinking in the almost non-existent light as he strode toward his destination.
A breath of wind stirred the old papers and waste of humans and animals on the alley floor, curling and separating the smoke that issued from Knight's lips. It was a frigid wind, a reminder of late November's callous attitude toward Chicago. Knight didn't even notice the cold air that tugged at his shoulder-length hair, drinking in the warm tobacco and nicotine from the cancer stick. Blowing the last of the smoke into a wispy ring, he flicked the butt of the Cig through it, not even slowing as he walked.
Knight stepped out of the alley, into the contrasting brilliance of a working streetlight, illuminating his lean, feral form. Lighting up another Cig, he gazed out into the smog that blanketed the night sky. "Well Snake," he said to himself, letting the tobacco roll over his tongue, "you may have lived to find out about Project Babel, but I know your mind. And if they're not ready for you, then I can promise that I will be."
