Arc I

Chapter II

The Dissection of a Moment (An Allegory of Time)

""For a while" is a phrase whose length can't be measured. At least by the person who's waiting."

Haruki Murakami — South of the Border, West of the Sun

The time for tribulation was still far from over yet she knew there was no point in getting caught up in the haze of a sadness so dense it would only paralyze her. The woman stood up slowly and walked among the four corpses resting on the ground, her feet moving cautiously as if trying to avoid stepping on the crimson pools of blood taking over the floor. There was a tacit yet quite palpable frontier between the woman and Black, an invisible wall dividing them – her side full of things unsaid and his side, full of questions that still needed all sorts of answers.

"How long have you been here?" The mercenary asked as he turned around slowly to face her.

For a moment, it even seemed natural for him to try and break the ice with a simple interrogation that would also take some things for granted. A lot had been taken for granted, he acknowledged - the fact that she knew he had Shang Tsung's magic running wildly through his system, the fact that they had once belonged in Earthrealm – Black sat down in one of the chairs placed around the large table in the center of the room and inspected the woman in silent contemplation: now that he was taking his time to take a good look at her and that he wasn't about to blackout because of some insufferable pain he could finally see that she looked even younger than what he had thought, maybe she wasn't even in her thirties yet, maybe she was just a twenty-something after all.

Her skin was extremely pale and she had big, blue eyes that provided quite the beautiful vanishing point for a visage framed by long, auburn, almost orange hair. Of Irish descent, he thought instantly as all those lovely details about her quickly found their counterparts: her skin was pale indeed, but it was also covered by a variety of bruises that exposed all sorts of colors in contrast with the once-immaculate white that provided the background tone. Her eyes were the most incredible shade of blue indeed, but they also had major dark circles around them, suggesting exhaustion and possibly even sleep deprivation. Finally, the hair that should have looked like a bonfire was her prerogative – that was the hair of a woman that hadn't had time for herself in ages.

"For a while…" she whispered as she let her body fall down against the wall, her legs stretching delicately as if trying to let go of all the tension in the room. Silence embraced her for a moment, unsure if she should go on or not. She knew though, the situation she was in wasn't exactly a dilemma: she had to keep talking; she had no choice. Perhaps the only way for her to see the light of a new day was to go clean and hope he wouldn't kill her in return. He was a cold-blooded man, of that she had no doubt, but even that simple question he had asked her only seconds ago had been palpably stained with the unbearable weight of demanding something more from her.

"How is it that you know who I am?" Erron inquired straightforwardly, his hands resting on the table.

"Everyone knows who you are," she said, as a soft but involuntary chuckle escaped her mouth.

Black nodded in silence and scratched his forehead. Raising an eyebrow, he tried and reformulated his previous question – "How is it that you know about me?" Even though he hadn't said it out loud, it was pretty clear that he was referring to his deal with Shang Tsung.

She didn't answer right away; the woman shrugged her shoulders slightly as if trying to find a different answer from the one she had already given him. She looked down and up again, rather helpless, her mind struggling to choose her words carefully, still frightened by his mere presence.

"It is a known fact…" She began but as soon as those words were freed from her lips she couldn't find a way to go on. Black was fidgeting in the chair, disappointed and impatiently waiting for answers.

"What is?" He demanded, trying to dig deeper, annoyance was starting to get the best of him.

The woman shook her head as she ran one of her hands through her face and started to look around: the sight was not making it any easier for her to open up to him. As soon as he noticed her eyes were drifting absently from one dead body to another, Black realized his interrogation wasn't going to produce any good results until the shock of all the violence and death she had been put through just moments ago was finally behind her.

"You take a moment," he suggested with a sudden kindness that seemed foreign, "you do what you gotta do; take a bath, maybe sleep a while. I'll wait here." He said; the different color in his voice making it clear that it wasn't precisely sympathy what he was offering her, it was more the intricate craft of a professional who knew his game like the back of his hand: she needed time to come back down and talk; he would give it to her. After all, time had never been an issue for him.

"Thought you were about to leave." The woman reflected absentmindedly.

"I'll stay for a while," Black replied, sharply and adamant, his simple words were making it crystal clear that there was a poorly concealed undertone behind that casual sentence. His wasn't a social visit and, in time, he would prove it to her.

The woman stood up and walked towards the hallway: "You know you talk in your sleep, right?" she said almost carelessly, as her silhouette vanished in the darkness of the corridor.

She wasn't entirely sure why she had revealed such a pointless detail to him. Perhaps she was trying to make him feel uncomfortable around her; perhaps she was seeking an innocent shadow of a sense of intimacy she knew they didn't share to see if that new-found closeness would be enough to spare her life. The only thing she was positive of was that those words had propelled from her mouth and now they were hovering, lingering in the air - trying to somehow, get to him.

As her inadvertent skin started to feel the soft caress of tepid water washing away the turmoil in her system, she placed both her hands against the washroom wall and pressed her chest against her flexed arms: now it wasn't time to think about such cruelty and violence, there was something far more urgent that she needed to consider: her own situation. Surely she would have appreciated some time to properly mourn Harry and to take a hold of everything that she had been through but deep down she knew that, with Black still revolving around her, that was not going to be the case.

She looked down and saw her own naked body covered by a colorful collection of bruises and slashes; they somehow looked like landmarks corrupting what could have been a beautiful landscape. Suddenly the thought of her skin as a white canvas set on her mind like a pulsating metaphor talking about the uncertain path she was about to travel – of course, there were parts of that canvas that she would expose, but there were some other parts that needed to remain hidden; the ultimate question being which parts was she longing to reveal and which parts were she longing to conceal.

There is a thin, barely perceptible line between a lie and a half-truth; she knew this for a fact and embraced the concept nonetheless. All things considered, things hadn't gone so well last time a lie had escaped her lips plus the mercenary still waiting for her in the dining room had lived so many years that she was positive he was one of those individuals that could see right through people - yet she knew there were some things, some particular details about her, that she wasn't going to let him know – she needed him for the one true purpose she had had ever since setting foot in Outworld: going back home. She was certain: the minute the odds turned in his favor she would be irredeemably doomed; best case scenario she would have to stay in Outworld - worst case scenario, Black would end her.

She would only have one chance to make it right, she just needed to play her cards well and hope for the best. Going back to her life in Earthrealm seemed like a distant, bright light she was willing to follow - no matter what.

In an ideal situation, she thought, he would see that she had saved his life and would agree to help her get back home. Only the situation she was in was far from being ideal and the man in front of her was Erron Black

When she returned to the dining hall the scene had completely changed: the place wasn't precisely "barely" lit anymore, there were several candlesticks illuminating the table and a larger torch had been placed a few meters away from the door. The four corpses that just a few moments ago had been ironically populating the floor weren't there anymore, and neither was Black.

The pools of blood were gone as well, not mopped but visibly taken care of, only a few rebel crimson drops were still showing like a seamless pattern left there, before her eyes, for her to remember not to forget -

about Harry

about the rebel-seekers

about Black

about her own situation.

Finding herself all alone in the house for the very first time was a stinging sensation she wasn't prepared for. She was having a hard time trying to stay focused on what she had planned just a few seconds ago, the minute she had felt finally able to make up her mind – but now the unwelcomed sight of loneliness was harder to take in than the sight of death itself; now it was completely up to her to find her way back home and the constant danger she was immersed in was an invariable remainder of everything that had gone wrong for her ever since crossing the portal.

She thought about her family, her friends and her co-workers back in Earthrealm – were they still searching for her? Was she missed? What was it like for them not having her around? Melancholy was bringing her down and now the house seemed huge, even the thought of Harry invaded her for a moment: sure, he was just a crazy old man but he was the closest thing to a family she had now. He had always taken care of her, in his own way, and she had always helped him the best she could in return. Now he wasn't there anymore – now he had become just another face in the ladder of fallen dear ones.

For a minute she wished Black was still there with her to ask him what was the secret, what was that specific thing she was supposed to do not to forget the loved ones that get trapped in the veil of time. Their voices, their faces – what is one supposed to do to keep them all locked up in memories, even if it's just a panacea, a last resort to get a hold of them?

She poured herself a cup of a light-yellow beverage. She seemed more at ease now; the unsettling look that had earlier set on her face was gradually leaving her. The fact that Erron Black was nowhere to be found was also quite surprising for her and it allowed her mind to speculate: no matter how desperately she needed him to go back home, she had the feeling that perhaps she would be better off without him. True: she had tried many times to get back home and all her efforts had been stained with either disappointment or frustration. True: Black was a resourceful man, close to the emperor, Earthrealmer born and raised whether he liked it or not and those qualifications alone were good enough to make him her most viable option. But there were also some other truths that she needed to consider. True, she was getting tired of living the life of a fugitive, never getting the upper hand. True, he was a mercenary; a man who only cared about himself and the pursuit of his very own personal gain was the only thing that seemed to matter to him but that was something she had known from the get-go – so perhaps counting on him was naïve of her, maybe counting on him was just a foolish idea that would never work out well for her.

"Better now?" The deep, baritone voice startled the woman. Black walked back into the dining hall; shovel in hand, his forearms covered by dust and blood. Just the sight of him towering over her was enough to make her shiver but she tried her best to remain calm. "Took a bath, I see," the infamous cowboy went on as he approached her, carelessly discarding the shovel on the floor. The look on his face had hardened somehow, making his gaze darker, more menacing and intimidating. She handed him the towel that she was still carrying almost mechanically, partially horrified by him but also quite mesmerized by how powerful can one person's mere presence be. He took the towel and rubbed his arms and forearms with it trying to get rid of all the dirt then placed it on the table and took the cup she was holding with her other hand, drinking its contents with just one sip. No thank you for her - just a deadpan expression letting her know that her time was up.

"Sit down," he commanded, raising his chin slightly to signal her which specific chair he wanted her to use. "I'd rather hear you talk while you're wide awake." The cruelty encysted in his words was slowly crawling its way back to her and to all her stupid naïveté.

She obeyed rather quickly, not willing to waste another minute. Now that she was seated, and with droplets of water still traveling from her hair to her skirt, the woman tucked some restless auburn locks behind her ear as she observed Black take off his face mask. With one swift movement of his right leg, he sent her chair against the wall, the table now far from her grip. He grabbed another chair for himself and dragged it close to hers until they were sitting face to face, a distance of just a few inches separating them. She felt her body shrinking at this sudden proximity she hadn't been expecting – his demanding eyes showed no signs of understanding. She lowered her eyes and hoped for the best although she knew it would take all of her strength not to fail. The image of Black producing his pistol and reloading it with the ability of a cold-blooded killer was enough for her eyes to stop fooling around: he wasn't toying with her; there wouldn't be any time for hesitation or doubt.

Sitting right in front of him, with her back trapped against the wall and his pistol pointed despotically at her chest, Black had successfully restricted her every move. A juxtaposition of beloved images clouded her senses – but only briefly. She knew she had to be strong. After all, all those beloved images of places and faces had been the fuel that had kept her going for so long – now it was not the time to succumb to sadness.

One of her most recent memories crossed her mind:

Never mind about Harry, the poor man went nuts a few years back. Now fifty percent of what he says is true and the other fifty percent is an illusion but the good news is, you get to choose the fifty percent part you want to believe in.

She had said those very same words to Black himself just three days ago and, back then, those capricious words had been nothing but a cheap trick trying to play with the mercenary's old and tired mind – but now those words, the ones that should have remained as an innocent line, were now taking another shape, were being seen under a new light.

Noticing the woman's eyes drifting away once again, the mercenary narrowed his eyes and clicked his tongue.

"The rebel-seekers." Black began, impatiently. "Talk."