Chapter 3

The cracked brick provided one of the more comfortable sleeps she experienced. Her long body, hidden inside layers of a black cloak, stood against the building in the autumn evening. The sun abandoned their side of the earth hours ago. Eyes that spent every hour of the day being alert and aware took a brief moment to relax. Her only companion, a golden short-haired cat, sat at her feet and kept watch.

The solitaire street warrior could not be trusted, and could trust no one.

The left eye revealed a slit of blue iris. She peered down at her feline partner. A corner of her lip lifted. Argo sensed the brief moment of peace and rubbed herself against her human friend's leg. Judging that the alley was stiller than the stars in the sky, the woman knelt down and stroked the golden fur.

Her hands felt stiff inside the leather gloves. She clenched her hands into fists and stared at the instruments of destruction they had become. Years had passed since she bared her skin to the outside world. She forgot what her face looked like. The rippled reflection of darkness she saw while glancing down to street puddle couldn't be her.

That was not what she had become.

Some citizens admired her. Other citizens worshiped her. Most feared her. They feared her reputation, her past, and her actions. There was a day when she murdered for fun.

Now, she murdered for justice. To the average person, the fact that she killed was all they needed to know. Maybe it doesn't matter to them, one way or the other, until the night a father is murdered because he raped his daughter. Circumstances and prejudices worked against the street warrior, she knew. She also didn't care.

She never expected forgiveness. The innocent people that fell to her hands could never be revived, despite the way they stared back through every rapist and gangster she slayed. This female street warrior didn't fight for forgiveness, hope, or future. She fought because she had to. If she didn't rule the streets, someone like her would.

Arian. A slight growl escaped her lips as she thought of the gang leader. The havoc his henchmen wreaked on the streets. Her pale blue eyes stared up at the moon. Clouds of heavy air left her mouth. The full moon stared back at her with a silent apology. Her leather hand gave the moon a lax wave as it continued its orbit around the earth. Time was running short. The luminous halo encircling the moon said enough.

Xena pulled her hood back over her head. The darkness in the night was absorbing enough to hide her features, but she would take no chances. They would return for the news woman. Tiffany Atazon.

A thin grin crossed her placid features. She liked prophecies.

They were so predictable.

Roger's common sense lacks at times, but his imagination is nonexistent. He scratched the back of his head. Imagining the possibility of a Greek God was making his brow sweat. "Gabey, come on. A God of war?"

Gabrielle was unable to read the page due to the violent shaking of her hands. She set Tiffany's paperwork down on the desk and began pacing. Her fidgety fingers worked against her scalp as she thought of the possibilities this research was opening. From her years of reading up on Greek mythology, the information she knew of these individuals was scarce.

"Look, Roger. Whether you believe in the mythology or not doesn't really matter. These guys do!" she pointed an unstable finger at the pile of papers. Roger picked them up, adjusted his glasses, and began scanning the contents. The rookie reporter was too busy with the jumbled thoughts in her head to scold him. "They'll do whatever they can to ensure his revival."

"Whose revival?"

"Who do you think? Aries, the God of war!" Annoyed at Roger's ignorance, she spun around and caught sight of his snooping. "Hey, get out of those. Tiffany gave me permission to read them, not you."

"I doubt Tiffy minds. If she lets an inexperienced reporter like you look through her evidence, I doubt she cares if a seasoned reporter such as myself reads them."

Gabrielle scoffed. Provoked by the casual way he approached the situation, and more annoyed by the grave insults cast in his nasally voice, she grabbed the folder with both hands and took the papers away from him. When she took the pages a tiny slip fell to the floor . Roger's glasses were crooked on his face. He adjusted the thick brims and looked at the white paper rectangle on the floor. "What's that?"

Gabrielle knelt down and picked up the paper. The side facing up was blank. "I don't know…" she turned it over, exposing a series of letters and numbers in a twenty digit span. Her green eyes bore into the thin slip, wondering what sort of problems it suggested.

"What, Gabey? What's it say?"

Gabrielle turned away from Roger, leaning closer to the lamp on the desk. "Nothing much. Just a bunch of letters and numbers…" She brought her head up, glancing at the laptop sitting patiently on the desk. "Unless…"

"No way Gabey!" Roger shrieked. He looked back to the closed door to make sure no one was approaching. "You can't just go into Tiffy's laptop. That's an invasion of privacy. And if anyone finds out, you're in trouble."

Gabrielle already turned the monitor on. "Tiffany told me to look in the folder. That means she was expecting me to find the passcode to her PC files as well."

"Oh yeah?" Roger's glasses felt more uncomfortable across the bridge of his nose. "Did she give you permission to snoop in her computer?"

"Not exactly." Gabrielle mumbled while starting up the laptop. The computer took its time opening various programs. She tapped her fingernails on the desk and tried ignoring Roger's annoying protests. He was more worrisome than she cared to deal with. "Look Roger. I didn't ask you to stay here. If you think this'll get us in trouble, then get lost. Tiffany asked me to do this. I probably shouldn't be sharing this information with you. So how about you leave?"

Gabrielle insulted Roger every day she saw him. He was pesky, annoying, and clingy. Among their co-workers, he was the punch line of every joke. Slow to anger but quick to drop things, Roger was a clown in a business suit. At most times Gabrielle teased him, trying not to take advantage of the obvious crush he had on her. Today, her strung nerves and worries gave her words extra bite.

Roger began a slow pace to the door. Just as Gabrielle thought she would be rid of his protests, he spun around with renewed vigor. "No way Gabey! I can't let you do this alone. This is too much for a rookie like you to handle."

She clenched a fist. Relaxing her fingers, she reminded herself that he was only trying to help. "It's okay Gabrielle…" she muttered, "he doesn't know what he's saying…"

Roger caught wind of Gabrielle's words but didn't have anything to say.

"Two rookies working together on the biggest story of the year," Gabrielle mused out loud.

"Speak for yourself. I'm a seasoned reporter." Roger said with ironic conviction.

Gabrielle approached him and held out her hand for a shake. "Fine. If we're going to work together you are going to have to do what I say. Tiffany put me in charge, and I don't want to hear your whining and complaining all the time. Got it?"

"Got it," Roger took her hand and shook it.

"And one more thing," Gabrielle began as they clasped hands.

"What's that?"

"Stop calling me Gabey."

The tense skin of Gabrielle's palm against his own made him sigh. "Deal."

He never wore the color white. That's how she knew it was a dream. He sat alone in the dark. White silk illuminating the blackness. Broad shoulders hunched over. His face hidden from her.

She stared ahead at him. As her eyes became accustomed to the starless night she saw swirls in the surrounding space. There were no walls. No trees. No sign of life. Only the two of them inhabiting this lost portion of reality.

Was he aware of her presence? A consuming pain developed where her chest should have been. Her physical body was lost to her, yet she still made her way to him. The dead man's body remained slumped in a simple wooden chair. But he wasn't dead-- he was alive. His chest rose and fell in the same slow, rhythmic way when used to sleep in bed beside her.

The gloom saturating her subconscious made her wary. She hesitated. He didn't move or acknowledge her presence. She wanted to cry out his name. It was foreign to her lips. She wanted to touch him. The lifeless droop of his head frightened her.

Was this how she remembered him?

"It's been too long." Was that him? The soft voice of her lover. Lost to the wind.

"I miss you." Her voice went unheard in the vacuum of space. "Every day."

Besides the breathing in his chest, consuming the vacant air, he was still.

"They will spill your blood on Olympus."

"Come here. I want to hold you."

The brightness of his clothing blinded her. "The time for us to be together has long since passed. You must continue on. For him."

A nest of golden curls sat, unmolested, atop his sagging head. Without touching him she could feel them crinkling, one by one, between her fingers. His soft hair tickled her when he nuzzled her neck. There were nights, now a lifetime ago, when all she wanted was to caress his curly locks while his head rested on her chest.

"He misses his daddy," a lumpy sob caught in her throat. "Won't you come home?"

Her dead husband moved for the first time. He shook his head. The limp arms dangling on his sides went stiff as he raised them in the air. Golden curls transformed into raven's feathers, and the glowing white silk bled into blood red. Tiffany tried to touch him. Turn his head around so she could glimpse into his eyes for the first time since circumstances had taken him away.

He melded into the empty background. It was there, in her dreams, that she wept for her deceased husband.

"Arian is coming."

Tiffany knew she had to get out of the hospital.

The odor of damp mold that hung in the air did nothing to decay her mood. She hiked her skirt higher up and pretended to size her rounded hips and generous breasts in an imaginary mirror. Floor boards creaked beneath her thin heels as she paced the room in a saunter, deciding which moves she would use on him tonight. One light bulb dangled from the ceiling by a thin wire. It busted months ago and she hadn't bothered to get it fixed. Their entire hideout was dim.

The men she lived with were bastards. They expected her to express some feminine interest in interior design. To her, it was nothing more than attempting to clean a pig's sty. Not only did Discord have better things to do, but she was the only woman. They should be catering to her. Those damned drug addicts never got anything accomplished. At least she pulled her own weight once in a while. Strife's pasty face and jittery hands came to mind, turning her mouth sour. What did Arian see in him? Far as Discord was concerned, he was a good-for-nothing cokehead who caused then more trouble than not. She reapplied her mocha lipstick in the dark on her sensuous lips and slipped her tongue across her crammed front teeth.

A knock at the makeshift door interrupted her thoughts. "Discord, are you ready to go?"

She straightened her hair, hissing to herself. Something was going on tonight. Something important. She thought it over. Nothing came to memory. Whatever it was, Discord was certain she could make Arian forget about it.

"Arian? Come in here."

He groaned but abided by her request. The weak door crudely constructed of plywood and attached by rusty nails creaked in his large hands. He entered the dark room, saw her figure outlined by shadows across the room, and shut the door behind himself. Silence filled the murky atmosphere. Discord would have thrown herself on him by now if she was interested in a quick roll in the dark. Maybe she was going for the difficult approach.

"Discord. Not tonight. We have to go get the reporter. Everything is already set up. Let's move it!" His authoritative tone did nothing to sway her from her goal. She walked toward him hips first with her head glancing down to his feet. Arian waited to hear her shrill giggle.

All he received was a gloved hand placed on his chest. The black fingers crept upward to his face. Arian stared at the hand for one brief moment.

Gloves. Discord never wears gloves.

No sooner than he made the connection and reached an arm out to the woman's neck to constrain her, than a fist connected to his face and sent him to the floor.

"Your girlfriend's taking a nap."

Arian swooped one leg around in an attempt to trip her, but the stranger leapt over it and clenched onto the collar of his leather shirt. With one fluid motion she pulled him to his feet, giving her access to his face. In the starless darkness of the moldy warehouse his red eyes blazed with fury. In a fit of sudden rage he released a series of swings and punches that the street warrior blocked with ease. He drove her around the room, pushing her to trip over cardboard boxes and strewn garbage, but she never lost her footing.

Xena was patient. She could wait for an opening.

He grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her body to put her in a lock hold. Xena was no stranger to this cheap method of fighting. She swung her free elbow above her shoulder and thrust it into his eye. Arian's hold faltered, giving her enough leeway to twirl her body around and delivery a powerful kick to his face.

Despite the power of the blow he did not fall to his feet. Arian rotated his right arm and tightened his fists. "Xena. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Xena's black fingers tested the air before her. They stood two yards apart from the other, positioned in ready stances. As they sized each other up, looking like two lions prepared to pounce, she grinned in the dark. "I thought your girlfriend could use some rest."

Arian didn't flinch. "She does work hard."

"Not for long." The warrior's voice rose into a piercing shrill that the gangster had never heard before. Her fists flew towards him in a blinding array of thrusts. "Hate to disappoint, but I have to stop you."

A wide grin spread across his face. "What if you're too late?"

The street warrior shrugged. "Then I need to work on being punctual."

Arian would have been taken aback by her casualty if it weren't for the fist that impacted his forehead and sent him to unconsciousness.

Strife scaled the side of the hospital building with growing anticipation. Days had passed since his last fix. Sweat trickled between his eyes as he ascended to the fourth floor. His thin body fit between the windows of each patient's room. The spokes on the underside of his boots, as well as the climbing claws Arian gave him, were perfect for the mission. If there were any security guards patrolling the perimeters or watching any security cameras, they were taken care of long ago by his comrades. Strife wished he could check the time.

Arian was supposed to meet him in Tiffany Atazon's room. Then they would carry her out the window together. He imagined the reward he would receive for pulling this off. Granted, Arian told him that if he fucked up again he was as good as dead. Boss has a worrisome sense of humor.

Strife reached the designated spot. He double checked his interior pocket to be sure the drops were still there. That bitch of a reporter would be sorry Xena saved her once. She wasn't going to do it again.

He took a peek into her hospital room. The blonde reporter was there, lying on her back, consumed by a deep sleep. Strife recalled the last few nights of dreams. About how they were completely natural figments of his imagination not influenced by any mind altering substances.

He didn't like it.

The clawed gloves held onto the top frame of the window. He let himself dangle for a moment. His ears popped. He giggled with excitement. Who else could say they saw Tiffany Atazon in a hospital robe with her bare ass hanging out?

He crawled his spiked feet up and balanced himself. A deep breath entered his lungs. With every ounce of force in his body, he kept a death grip on the frame and jumped back. Gaining a full swing, his boots crashed into the window and he flew threw the shards of glass. His landing would have been smooth if it wasn't for the sudden weight on top of his head.

Tiffany awoke from her dream with a start. She almost jumped out of her I.V. tube when she saw shards of glass surrounding a man with bleached hair fighting an orange feline clawing at his temples soar into her room from the window. Too shocked to scream, she watched the unbelievable scene unravel before her eyes.

Strife wanted to yell but doing so would reveal him to any wandering hospital staff. He landed on the floor with a thud. Argo dug her sharp claws deeper into his scalp. With dozens of tiny pieces of glass embedded in his skin, he jumped to his feet and hurled the cat toward the window.

Argo would have flown out the window. Xena entered through that very same window, a hooded black figure in a starch white hospital room, and caught her feline companion.

"Good work, Argo. I'll take it from here." The cat landed on the floor with a docile mew and watched as her master ascended above Strife and bound him with filthy rags borrowed from a garbage can.

"Oh my… Oh my God! Xena!" Tiffany found her voice. Her misfortune brought her two opportunities to lay her eyes upon Xena. The urban myth. The street warrior tied the gang member up, hands behind his back with a gag shoved tight into his mouth. Tiffany was unable to see her face. The hood she wore concealed any facial features that might be hiding underneath.

"Tell Arian what happens when he sends a sloppy guy like you to do his dirty work." She hissed to his face. Strife nodded vigorously with wide eyes. The sweat dripping down his face soaked into his filthy gag. He mumbled a reply.

"Good. Now come on," she lifted him to his feet and stood in the window. When she was about to leap out, Tiffany called out to her.

"Xena, please."

Her cape rippled in the wind, yet her face did not turn to look at Arian's latest victim. Not wanting to waste anymore time, for she knew someone would soon respond to the ruckus, the street warrior left with a final warning.

"They won't rest until you are in their possession. I suggest you hide."

"Wait!" Tiffany reached her hand out as if to catch Xena. The warrior was already gone. Tiffany sighed. Bloody handprints decorated the floor of her room. She laid down and waited for the next nurse to appear.

Gabrielle entered the passcode on Tiffany's laptop.

"Here goes nothing."

Roger peered over her shoulder. She took a deep breath and he gulped in her ear as she pressed down on the Enter key.

In a matter of seconds, a list of about a dozen names appeared before their eyes. Gabrielle's hands shook on the mouse.

"Roger…" With that one word, her voice wavered.

"What is it?"

"My name is on this list…"