Television was always to blame for such things.
Television was the source of violence in the world, encouraging people to do damage and harm to one another. Movies, video games, and popular shows taught people to bear arms, stockpile weapons, and commit a whole slew of other mistakes in the name of brave notions. Massive storehouses were reported to exist of guns, bombs, and knives. It was said that the children who brought guns and other weapons to school had been influenced by the bloodthirsty images portrayed in movies and all around them. It was whispered that who stores of weapons were hidden across America by the same types of insane persons such as those of Waco.
But, then again, these were all rumors.
Robin had often heard arguments proposing such a notion; the girl had thought it to be nothing more than mindless drivel. But, there, in the dark, cramped, stifling cellar of the barn, Robin had to reconsider such thought process.
The barn shouldn't exist by such logic. At least, the cellar shouldn't have. Wall upon wall was lined with locked cabinets, full of neatly polished and racked guns, while boxes upon boxes of ammunition had been placed below in a tidy order. The metal of each of the weapons gleamed as fresh, despite a think layer of dust on everything else. While the barn rotted away above them, the cellar had been kept in excellent shape, obviously dusted and tended to daily. Someone oiled and checked them regularly.
"I told you I'd get everything done," Markus piped up.
Kristo nodded, not really regarding the man. In truth, the swordsman hadn't been eager to leave all those weapons in the hands of Markus. Yet, with such a quick retreat to Japan, there hadn't been any other option. All of Kristo's private collection had to fall to Markus, to be kept in working order and ready at a moment's notice.
So many memories… Kristo had almost forgotten how many.
It had been years since some of these firearms had seen service. Actually, some had seen action just the year or two before, right before they left. Were he any other person, Kristo would have blushed at the thoughts, but the swordsman wasn't one for regret or second guessing any of his decisions. Best to stay alive in the present than to live only in the past, in the memories of those who would have to pick up your sorry carcass.
Markus placed a key in Kristo's hands, the same key that had been left with him. "They've been waiting for you."
Markus always seemed to have the right words… or the most wrong words humanly possible. It seemed like some weird thing about the man. He had such a grace and knowledge of everything. When Markus put his mind to it, the man could find exactly what someone was thinking and know precisely how to respond, how to get what he wanted out of it. Markus was cunning like that.
Kristo made a mental note to be careful around Markus this time around.
"I bet you missed them," Markus sang, leaning more weight on the older nature to Kristo.
The shadow walker didn't waste any time dignifying Markus with any comment in response to that. He knew better than to feed the other man's ego and yearning to see a rise in anyone, from anything. Kristo knew Markus drew energy and pleasure from that.
The male witch glanced about, finding everything he'd requested. Guns. Bombs. Ammunition. Holsters. Swords. Throwing knives. Primer cord, His pistols, chrome and gleaming, engraved with those words in flowing script. Kristo allowed his fingers to trail over the thin curls of etching, seeming to glow with the inner fire of the wielder himself. Kristo smiled absently, checking each of the weapons in turn.
Robin glanced down each barrel, reaching out the quotations. On the left, read "When anger arises, think of the consequences." The girl recognized the words of Confucius. The other gun was actually marked in French. Robin didn't know it.
"What does that one say?" She inquired.
Kristo shrugged. "'Use, do not abuse; neither abstinence nor excess ever renders man happy.' It's Voltaire."
Robin nodded slowly. "What do we do, now?"
"Now?" Kristo raised an eyebrow. "Now, we hire a friend."
xxxx
"You know that was a very foolish thing to do, Kathain?"
She didn't care. In truth, if Kathain had been given the opportunity to make a repeat offense, the girl would have. Instead, this time, the girl would have gone back to her apartment, shattered a glass, and eaten the shards one at a time. The precognitive wondered what broken glass would taste like exactly, mingled with the coppery metallic blood of her mouth, throat, and stomach.
No, this time, they were smart. Zaizen had ordered her taken to a small, padded cell. She had been fitted with a straight jacket over those tightly bandaged wrists of hers. This was most likely simply to keep the girl from reopening the stitches that held together the gashes of her sins against her own body.
"You knew precisely what you were doing…"
Zaizen. He spoke to her with a softly chiding tone, as if scolding his own daughter. And, yet, there seemed to be a darkly menacing nature to his words. Kathain didn't exactly like the way the man spoke to her, but the precognitive spoke not a word against him. In fact, the girl barely flinched, despite how close Zaizen peered into her face.
Kathain felt the heat of his breath on her cheek. "You broke our deal."
"No… I didn't…. I made my own deal with Death," the girl whispered in a ghostly voice; Kathain laughed, a sort of wracked cackle, really. "He made me a better offer."
"That's not funny, and you know it," Zaizen snarled, rather annoyed.
Kathain jerked back, deeper into her corner. The corner was safe. It had to be. Her back was to the wall, so no one could come from behind. Only in front. Corners were safe. They forced the girl to focus only on those who dared come directly before her. It gave the girl the illusion of control. And illusions of reality were always better than the dark truth. In this case, far better than the realization that the precognitive was quite literally trapped, wedged between a rock and a hard place, or, in this case, a wall and Zaizen.
Long ago, Kathain had worked at a pet store. A sad bird came her way while working there. A terrified creature, afraid of all humans. When confronted, the ringneck parakeet would fly into a fit and crouch in the corner, shivering slightly, wavering to and fro. At first. the girl hadn't understood the bird. Now, Kathain WAS that bird, kept as someone's amusing, someone's pet.
"You broke our little contract."
Zaizen cracked out his neck. Kathain fought the urge to giggle slightly at the action, like something from a bad James Bond film. Zaizen seemed to be the epitome of the big, burly bodyguard, trying to threaten his quarry by intimidation alone.
The man smiled devilishly at her. "You know, this gives me every right to go after your little friends, starting with Robin and Amon?" He grinned. "Think of the things we could do to them?"
The mental image of the Thirteen in peril flashed through the girl's mind.
Kathain blinked sadly, letting her gaze drift to the tile floor. "I won't do it again… I promise."
"No, no more promises," Zaizen growled, stepping back and away.
"No!" Kathain cried the word, a shriek of emotional agony, really. She hurtled her body at Zaizen, at his feet. "Please! I give you my word." She sobbed now, feeling the searing heat of her own tears streaking down her cheeks. "Please!" She collapsed down on the floor, a sad, pitiful excuse for an Oracle. "Please… just don't…. don't hurt them." Kathain didn't know what else to say, how else to even attempt to beg Zaizen. "Please… don't hurt my friends."
They were all the girl had in the world, even if Kathain had abandoned them.
"No promises from you." He gave a curt nod.
Kathain whimpered, "Please. I'll never disobey ever again…"
"I have no doubts in my mind of that…."
xxxx
They were driving again, following Kristo this time.
The cars slipped through the light rain, gliding through rush hour traffic and between the buildings. Roswell Road took them down through the artsy district of Buckhead, until the road eventually merged together with Peachtree Street. Down South, the street carried them, guided them towards the city, the sprawling metropolis and towering buildings. Robin gazed up balefully at the Bank of America Tower as it pierced the night.
They followed Brett as he led, riding with Kristo in the white Civic. The two had strayed together as they armed, speaking in hushed whispers and what sounded like ancient tongues. Robin didn't like that; she liked it even less when everyone backed away, allowing the two Warriors plenty of berth.
Instead, Robin rode with Bear and Raven in the Sentra. Kathain's car. Every inch of it felt like the aging car belonged to the precognitive. From the weathered seats to the maroon tassel dangling on the rear view mirror. There were even old magazines and books scattered in the floorboards of the backseat. Most of them were horse and art magazines, but, here and there, buried among the clutter, was a book or two. Robin picked one up, carefully, gently, as if the thing were a venomous snake, snapping and biting at her.
Machiacelli's "The Prince." The Dalai Lama. "The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying."
"Interesting…"
Raven gave a quick glance over his shoulder. "Yeah. Kathain always did have weird taste in books."
"We're here."
Robin dropped the book, catching her breath.
"You have got to be joking."
xxxx
"Zaizen!"
Kathain was scared now, very scared.
He had her, right where he wanted her. Zaizen could have done anything to her. He stalked about the girl, taunting her with his presence, with that macabre smile that said "I could kill you where you stand."
He stroked her hair; if Kathain could have, she would have struck him. "Don't touch me."
"Oh, you're mad now," Zaizen toyed with her. "But, soon, you'll come to see it my way. Soon, you won't fight me anymore."
"You can't do this…" Kathain growled between clenched teeth.
"Oh, but I can."
xxxx
I tired.