Part Three: And he bore the mark of the beast on his forehead.
This won't take long, I promised my daughter, sitting on her bed. I wrapped my beautiful Miki in her blanket, tried not to cry. This old heart can't take it.
I remember it as clear as your eyes, Miki - the doctor in the hallway of Prontera's medical center, seven and a half years ago, a shadow that came full in the hall's dim candlelight. The doctor telling me your mama was having a hard time, it wasn't routine labor, the baby meant trouble. Telling me to pick, your mama or you. I said both. The doctor said it was impossible, a sacrifice had to be made. I said both. He again said no can do, he knows it's hard, but I had to make a choice. I punched him, sent him flying halfway across the candlelit hall. I said both, dammit.
After the whole staff calmed me down, I told the doctor to ask your mama. He didn't show up, until eight hours later, with a bundle wrapped in white linen around his arms. It was the happiest and saddest memory of my life, holding my wife's heritage, legacy, in my arms, a sweet little thing, the product of our love.
You will be buried like your mama. Forget the scar on your head. I'll put a flower on it, cover that cut. One of the flowers you kept picking from the Town Center fountain. The big white one that smelled like honey. From under the "Don't Pick The Flowers" sign. Only our closest friends will be there, yes, even that neighbor's kid with the snotty nose who told you you had no brains to eat.
I'd better get used to an empty house now, not just an empty bed. Miki, I promise you, if Rubalkubara is really behind this, then his God better save him, because nothing on this plane of existence sure will.
I wrapped Miki in her bedsheet. I carried the assasin's head in a savage-hide bag, tied it around my back. I carried my daughter's cold, still body out the door. Fresh air hit my face. It felt good. People on the streets stared at me, bloodied from the fight, reeking of death, carrying a human-shaped bedspread. I didn't care. Not anymore.
I knocked at Jett's house, a neighbor, old friend from the service. His wife opened the door. "Regan. Good... uhm... morning," she said, her eyes studying Miki's outline evident on the bedsheet. She knew it was a body, either a really short midget, or a kid. She was at a loss for words, especially when the fact that I was covered in blood registered in her head. "Breakfast? We were just going to... uh... I think you're looking for Jett. Jett, honey, it's Regan. Come in, and make yourself..." she said, then swallowed her words. "You can leave your... package... I'll call Jett."
She disappeared into her living room, and I could hear whispers in the dining room. Their house was nice, of course, Jett had more of a pension then I did from his term with the Pronteran Squad, he had two kids, both Miki's playmates, Red and Rina. He also had a wife, Kielle, he had the whole caboose, flowerbeds, a wine collection, and all that shit.
Jett came into the living room, where I stood, awkward, a head in a bag behind my back and a dead girl, wrapped in her sheets, weighing like a lifetime of misery in my arms. The stupidity of how I looked fell on me right there, double the weight of that same lifetime of misery.
"Don't you bring any shit into my house, Regan. Don't you dare, dammit, I don't want.." he came, not stopping in his stride, long, sure steps that covered the whole living room in the span of time it took him to say that sentence.
"Take care of my daughter, Jett," authority clear in my voice, "that's an order."
It's like a light came on in his head, he suddenly understood. His legs, which were a foot apart, slid together, and he stood, erect. A right hand showed me the salute. We weren't knights anymore, but there would always be that respect I demanded from my old squad. I gave him my Miki, the transference became heavy, almost like my heart was the one exchanging hands. The reason I didn't kill myself the last seven years has now found her finality in the solace of a dagger right between her eyes.
"Understood, sir," Jett said. "Do what you have to do."
I will, Jett. I will, Miki.
I turned the street, headed for the Pronteran slums. Commercial district. Half an hour later, the little adobe houses and gravel roads with mastela shrubs turned to gray brick and grass growing out of cement cobblestone. A series of brothels and bars, and I found the place I was looking for. A whorehouse that doubled as a drinking joint, which was a front for bounty hunters and mercenaries to be hired, looking for a little blood money.
The door creaked open. In the right corner, a man had his fingers between a whore's legs, kneading the flesh in between her thighs, moans radiating from her. I stepped in, the sick scent of commercialized, advertised love stung my nose. I walk towards the bar, where a hairy, fat, ape of a bartender attended to me.
"Uh. You don't belong here, knight," the ape told me, "but your zeny is still zeny. Some ale?" he offered, and spat into his hands, rubbing them together.
I looked into his eyes, and told him, "No. Get me Leno."
He smirked at me. Leno has built a reputation of going for the most elusive contracts, the ones that really paid off, and delivering. A rogue who mastered the bow and blade, who crept into houses and silently slipped poisons into the contract's lips. Then he cashed in the next morning, when the news of the death reached his employer. He'd patiently await the next job, another layer on his calloused heart formed.
A voice behind me. "How much, knight?"
I didn't turn to face him. No need. I knew who it was. "Don't you even care who, Leno?"
"They're all the same. Zeny in my pockets. Food for the kids," came the arrogant voice of a worthy owner.
Now I spun the chair around, angled in a way that I can rest my head on my fist, which was on the bar counter. "The High Priest. Rubalkubara. I'm too old to go it alone," I said, trying to sound arrogant myself.
He studied me, blood stains on my fist, shirt, shoes. "I work alone, old man," he said, further solidifying his iron man demeanor.
Not on this one you don't. "This one's as personal as it gets, Leno. And you're not going to have the pleasure all to yourself," I bantered back. I was enjoying the macho man one-upping between us, in this dirty bar, sex in the background.
His eyes focused on me, but not quite. Like he was looking for a crack in my resolve. "It's your suicide, old man. But, fine," he said, in a tone that hinted sarcasm. He blew on his nails, like a woman. "And I get how much?"
I knew he'd ask that.
"All the power in the world," I said, "and the adventure of a goddamn lifetime."
I saw him give a half-smile, and I knew I just bought myself the best hitman in all of Midgard. You've got quality on your side, Miki. Don't worry. Daddy's got you covered.