A/N: So, this chapter is quite special to me because my ancient beta reader (my dear Rae C) is working with me again after nearly nine years. She will be editing chapters 15 and 16 as well, the final chapters for this second arc. It's gonna get intense and rather obscure down this road but it'll be worth it, you'll see.

Also, thank you so much to all those who reviewed, PMed me over here and/or Tumblr about chapter 13, I'm glad you enjoyed it! I had my doubts about posting such a long chapter; my mind was debating whether to split it or not and the feedback and the discussions we had about that chapter were amazing!

I know I don't write as many author's notes as I should (guilty) but anyway, I want to take a minute to thank everyone who's been reading this fic – all those of you who are following this fic, adding Debris to your favorite stories, reviewing it publicly, PMing me privately to chat about both plot and characters or simply reading in silence – writing this story has been quite the ride for me so far, it has been fun as well as rather torturous for me sometimes and it has even been therapeutic for me every now and then, so thank you all so much for your kind words and support. Please know that you can always leave a review or contact me.

For all those of you who are constantly asking me about future chapters, here's some info for you: chapters 14 (On the Mend), 15 (Medusa) and 16 (La Indómita Luz) are being worked on simultaneously as a whole narrative structure even though said chapters will be released separately and thus will constitute the final installments for arc II – after that we'll have an interlude, and then arc III will begin somewhere around chapter 18 or 19. And that's aaaaalllll the info and planning I'll be revealing!

Enjoy the beginning of the end!

Love,

Elle.

Arc II

Chapter XIV

On the Mend

(Of Past Regret and Future Fear)

"Was our life nothing more than a sequence of anonymous screams in a desert of indifferent stars?"

Ernesto Sábato – The Tunnel

Imperative became then, the ulterior need for the man to get up and put everything back in its rightful place. He was Erron Black after all, and while he could understand her sadness and frustration, he was still a Kahn's employee – his position was more than just a mere figure stuck in a system of balanced legislation and politics; he deserved respect. He was the sole peacemaker trying to get his job done in the most hostile of environments; an enforcer of Outworld's law and justice, imparting such inalterable terror and distance with his presence alone. He was the embodiment of the private siege that his prolific longevity had provided him with; it was true that he had been through both mire and confusion but he was still there, alive and kicking, and all those mouths calling him names that were supposed to hurt his pride, all the colors behind the assumption in those voices still calling him a heartless mercenary were not enough to reach him.

Yet those iridescent, ignited blue eyes of hers were audaciously daring him to get up and do something more than just stating the obvious; to embrace both his guilt and his remorse, to finally give in to the menacing darkness about to devour his whole existence. Her oceanic gaze, towering over him from such unreachable heights and covering him with its maternal blanket made of precious rivulets fragmenting the richest of azures, aquamarines and indigos he had ever seen was tormenting enough for the sage, older than time cowboy to stay right where he was - with his butt on the ground and his battered yet always confrontational spirit gravitating helplessly towards the same dark hurricane of aching memories that she herself had summoned without much effort.

The seemingly fearless fierce that had guided her arms when she had successfully tried to push him away at any cost, followed almost immediately by those words, had been too much for his battered senses to handle. Suddenly all those beloved, antique faces from a reality so old it almost felt alien for him now seemed clear enough for the mercenary to finally remember everything: their facial features, each and every one of their names – places he hadn't visited in over a century; every scenario and every actor was now a vivid ghost coming back to haunt him with unprecedented precision.

Yet one thing remained unaltered, its heretic clairvoyance imprisoned and buried under a sea of beloved fossils and mummified feelings: Josephine's voice, forever secluded in the confines of his guilt, was still the only elusive pearl in a necklace of yesteryears and bygones that had finally regained its original shape. Each and every one of the beads, now weighing heavily around his neck, was forcing the old man to remember that he was, indeed, all alone in the universe.

It had been his own choice; the solid foundation for the house of cards he had been building ever since leaving Arroya. He had become the architect of his own free will, and now he had hell to pay.

All alone – in any possible universes.

Aalem's body, still resting motionless on the ground, was confirming that undeniable truth he had tried to face on countless occasions while attempting to fool his own mind into thinking that the hazardous path of solitude he had been exploring for so long was his own scroll to unroll: he was alone; more than alone – he only had himself; a man who had chosen to leave and to forget. A mercenary who had turned his back on everyone he had ever loved. Now he could finally see it shinning clearly beyond the velvety haze of doubts and foolish hopes: he was, indeed, the offspring of a whore and a coffee-eyed demon.

The flesh of their flesh and the sin of their sins.

Black flexed his knees until the joints were almost touching his chest; his tired sight wandered about the chaotic surroundings: the cabin seemed so big now.

Company had never been a necessity for the lonesome cowboy – God, he had proven time and again that he was better off alone, that no companion was good enough to travel that deserted road beside him. Solitude was a choice, his choice. But now, that cabin he had built so long ago seemed unbearably bigger – the Edenian kid's lifeless body, echoing the furtive sounds of his own guilt and regret through the most exasperating of silences, had finally turned into yet another intangible anima for him to talk to.

His body at night, stuck in the low light, would reach for those long gone souls that had once been his.

Only now, no one would answer his questions.

The monologues of his mind would always vociferate the same old stories – his very own spirit, already too tired of being the sole companion for his nearly bicentennial body, had become unable to change or even alter the sickening tales he would repeat, night after night, during those mad rounds of conversations picturing him as a man who was himself no more, yet, still forced to taste his own erratic essence, seemed to be eternally condemned to witness the struggle between his past and his uncertain future.

There was a time when he could bring himself to imagine a different ending for his own stories; a happier version, perhaps. But now all those illusionary fantasies seemed forever lost in a sea of contrived impulses and irrefutable truths. No more happy endings. No more relieving versions of his own private tragedies.

Even though her arms had pushed him away only minutes ago, Alex was still there, as lost in the time-space continuum of that godforsaken cabin as he was. There she stood, immaculate in the aura of despair and insurrection, still in front of him, still within his reach. The woman had covered her face with her hands trying to hide the tears that were streaming down her swollen, reddened cheeks. That trembling body of hers, fumbling towards the darkest of sorrows, still needed to be sheltered.

Black stood up slowly and grabbed the woman by her shoulders. She leaned in instinctively and rested her head on his chest.

Black ran his fingers through her messy hair, "you should get some rest," he whispered, "I'll take care of them." His gloomy eyes glanced over the chaotic room: it was the second time since meeting the Earthrealm doctor that the woman was forced to coexist with corpses scattered all around her. Back then it had been Harry the one on the floor; now it was Aalem's turn, and the sight was heartbreaking for both of them only the mercenary knew that he had to find the strength to go on: clean the place, bury the kid, send his message and get back to the palace. The little grasp of sanity guiding him through that dark hour was enough for him to realize that there was no time to waste.

The irony was, once again, agonizingly tormenting for the 173-year-old cowboy: even though he couldn't age and patience had become one of his greatest virtues now that time was being conceived inside a perpetual hourglass for him, he had never allowed himself the time to actually mourn someone. His own life choices had never provided him with that option and deep down, the ex-Earthrealmer was grateful for that: an eternity of sadness and sorrow was simply not worth living – not even for a cold-hearted scumbag like the one he had become.

Alex sighed as she let go from the protective stronghold of Black's body – the woman nodded in silence as she took a step backward and rubbed her reddened eyes with her fingertips: the sight of a concerned Black startled her for a moment, as her blurred vision fought against the incoming waves of tiredness threatening her whole, shaken system. As the woman retreated to the mercenary's bedchamber, the eerie shadows calling her on from the small corridor enveloped her almost gravitating body in a blanket of untouchable grey – the lightness of such a downbeat existence was almost making her hover in space; keeping her tormenting spirit from actually touching the floor beneath her feet. The ghostly sight was both immensely endearing and devastatingly cruel for the mesmerized gunman; enraptured by her figure being summoned by the light once again: that special spectacle of secrets and revelations was still enticing for the rather simple man witnessing her oneiric journey.

As soon as she disappeared behind the door Black made his way to the backyard and began digging – even though he knew he couldn't stay long, deep down the mercenary was certain that Dexitis' son deserved a proper funeral. With the sight of his own crimson blood still streaming down his wounded hand, Black understood that the tragic predicament of having to dig Aalem's grave was entirely his fault; the kid had died because of his own indolence and unskillfulness: he could have killed that menacing man by the mountainside the minute he first saw him yet he waited, he had put both Alex and Aalem in danger just to prove a point - that he was better, that he was deadlier than the rebel-seeker. But the outcome of his inept interaction was simply unacceptable.

Aalem should have lived, he was certain of that, and so the kid's death would weight upon him, impending like an inescapable doom waiting to corrupt the remains of his already troubled soul. By the time he had finished digging, the earth itself felt as if it had cracked open below his tired feet - Black fell helpless on his knees, exhausted and heartbroken. He covered his face with his muddy fingers and cried: the hurricane of memories that Alex had triggered was nothing in comparison to the cold, unsettling present he was supposed to face. He went back inside and wrapped Aalem up with an unused white sheet; he carried the boy outside and laid him on his grave – that was it, he thought, the final destination for a young, innocent life that should have seen the light of countless iridescent dawns.

Before covering up his fallen ally with the dirt and the dust that were about to shelter that tender body from the dangers of a world that could harm him no more, Black kneeled down before Aalem's grave and took a deep breath, his lips were already betraying him.

"I want you to tell your father that I did my best;" the saddened mercenary whispered, "and that I miss him, greatly. And in case my mother is there, please tell her I miss her too."

Alex embraced him from behind, putting her arms around Black's tired shoulders.

"I thought you would want to be with him," Black began, with his eyes still fixed on the wrapped up boy in the grave. "He would have wanted you to be with him, I know," a bittersweet half smile was timidly curling up his lips, "I was about to call you, in case you wanted to say goodbye to him," he said as he covered her cold hands with his own.

"Black, your hand," Alex noticed, "it's covered in dirt. It's gonna get infected."

"It's alright," Black replied softly as he stood up again, causing the woman to stand up as well.

As the dirt began to cover the boy slowly, transgressing the figurative form of a loved one that had been irrevocably left behind, Black's heavy shoulders started to feel the real burden brought up by Aalem's unexpected loss – the mercenary wiped his sweaty forehead with his one good hand: traces of blood, sweat and dirt combined to create a mud so contaminating Black felt his own skin gradually turning to stone. The first drops of rain were the silent witnesses of his sudden transformation; as the water descended from the sky, cascading all over him in a contained rush streaming down the incipient furrows of his face, Black took a good look at his own arms and hands: the only thing he could see was a body covered in scars and cuts, his skin was impregnated by the marks left by the unfair machinery of violence; he had transformed himself into the image of war itself.

The soldier, the gun for hire, the outlaw, the mercenary – he had become the reflection in a mirror he couldn't look at no more. Suddenly time had vanished in the hourglass of his very own ironic existence – he had been alive for so long yet the beginning and the end seemed blurred synonyms for his devastated senses.

He should have never existed but he was real, real as the sin that had corrupted his then-innocent mother with such unrelenting violence and outrage. He should have been a son, but he had been abandoned. His mother rejected him for considering the devil's offspring and his father, that coffee-eyed demon; had tattooed all his sins all over him. He should have been a boyfriend, a fiancé, a husband, yet his love had been ripped off from the hungry desires of his tender arms. He should have been a father- yet the seed he had provided the world with had been killed prematurely, never allowing his most sacred, paternal instincts to harvest the fruit of his true legacy – that unborn child, perhaps his most intrinsic and sincere act of altruistic love, was the final sin that had corrupted the already damaged fragments of his soul. He should have been so many things - yet the vacuum inside his chest was making him cruise towards a whole new nothingness: a brand new hollowness he couldn't outrun.

Like a shot in the dark, Alex's eyes glancing over his deadpan expression were once more the anchors trying to bring him back to reality. The woman, noticing the dangerous detachment in his gaze, grabbed him by the arm and led him deeper into the darkness of the backyard, to the canopy made by branches and little twigs intertwined like a natural fabric providing shelter from the storm about to rage on them. They sat on a log in silence as the woman began to run her fingers through the scars of his arms. Such tenderness, he knew, wasn't meant for a man like him.

"No man should die a virgin," Black let out softly after a while, trying to find some ease in the helping warm sensation of genuine human contact. Her balsamic touch and such candor in her eyes were helping him through his dark moment of inner contemplation.

The woman smiled, frankly, as she tugged her auburn hair behind her ears. Her intrepid gaze was still traveling the length of his skin: the scorched metal that had once branded his shoulder with the unmistakable stigmata of outlawry and captivity; his innuendo of personal convictions and ideals subjugated by the dominance of an alien idiosyncrasy. The cuts scattered on his arms and forearms, seen like the improvised calendar that recluses carve into prison walls while they wait for a treacherous sense of liberty that remains elusive, were the impervious marks of time slipping through his fingers.

"Do we still have any Wildrose left?" She asked, her voice weak, absorbed in his untold stories.

"I could use a drink right now," the mercenary confessed as he extended his numb legs.

"That's not what I meant," she explained as she cupped Black's damaged hand with her own pale digits. "It has alcohol, doesn't it?"

"Enough to dope a rhino," the cowboy chuckled helplessly.

"Be right back, then," Said Alex immediately, and she stood up and retreated to the inside of the cabin. After a while she was outside again, carrying the bottle of Wildrose and a clean towel. She sat back down right next to the mercenary and grabbed his hand: "This might hurt."

"Don't," Black commanded bluntly, "that's the last bottle. I don't have the recipe, it was Dexitis' secret, he passed it onto his son, if you waste that bottle on me, their legacy is over."

Alex shook her head in silence as she contemplated his unprecedented fragility, "their legacy cannot be contained inside a bottle, Black - and you know it." she said with a timid grin full of understanding. He was a man of melancholy, she was well aware of that fact by now, yet his hand needed the astringent properties of alcohol: the laceration was bad enough to damage his nerves; the amount of blood he had lost, combined with the dirt and the mud that was contaminating the wound was menacing enough for the doctor to worry about that affected man sitting right next to her.

"Nate, my boyfriend," Alex began as she grabbed his hand once again and poured some of the liquid on the wound, the mere sound of that name emerging from her lips was enough for his face to contort in disgust: Nate, Nathan, Nathaniel, once again that name was lingering there, floating uninvited among his eternal demons and his conflicting ghosts, "he used to tell me that it was better not to get too attached to my mundane possessions; material things, you know?" The stinging sensation and the ardor he was feeling was making him curse under his breath. "He was always the one to tell me to let go from all materialism, he didn't want me to be a material person," her soothing voice was slowly distracting him from the pain she was making him endure. "I had a box of memories from our relationship: movie tickets, restaurant napkins, love letters… but when I left my parents' home and moved to my own apartment, the box got lost. I was devastated; it felt as if I was losing an actual part of our love. He calmed me down then, I still remember: he made me see that what we had could not be contained inside a box; that there wasn't a big enough box to keep our love imprisoned." Alex confessed as she began to rub his skin with the towel.

"He was so Zen," she reflected tenderly.

"Was?" The bounty hunter asked instinctively, as his eyes found hers.

The sole notion of finding out that the desired woman had a husband, a fiancé, a suitor, a boyfriend or even a lover was enough to drive him crazy. The primal roar of the alpha male willingly entering the most instinctive of competitions would be livid inside his hungry eyes. Perhaps Amanda became his infatuation because her own father and even Jessica were actively willing to see him fail. Perhaps that's why he could never bring himself to sincerely love Annie – that love of hers implied no effort on his part, there was no fight, no struggle – no victory over someone else. Alex's case was profusely different – there was a boyfriend, indeed, but there wouldn't be any showdown between the contestants: the man wasn't there, Alex herself wasn't even sure if she still had a boyfriend or not. He couldn't fight a ghost - God, he knew he couldn't fight a ghost. Even though it would be seen as an easy win for his tempested senses and that he was indeed an unscrupulous opportunist, that uncomfortable dichotomy of hers was just another example of the woman's chiaroscuros, bringing the light into his shadows and his shadows into the light.

"You've changed," Erron stated after a while. The time he had taken to contemplate that woman's softened yet saddened expression had indeed paid off: "Did he show you the letter?"

Alex nodded silently; betraying the fallen Edenian with her simple assertion. Even though she had promised the kid she wouldn't tell Black, staying true to such blinding loyalty seemed utterly pointless now.

"I'm not looking for sympathy," the lonesome cowboy said bitterly as he noticed her eyes trying to create a bridge between them.

"I get it; you had no one: no friends, no family - that's why you came here." Alex retorted as she noticed Black's visage suddenly darkening again.

"I never really had a family; I grew up inside a dystopian assemble of people I held very close to my heart. But they were more of a symbolic family to me than an actual one; my mother was my only real relative. My family never existed. I should have had one, but I bet you already know that story by now," he spat bitterly, "if you read Annie's letter, that is."

The nurse in the photograph was the embodiment of love. Those burning eyes of hers, expressing such devotion, such proximity – Alex's inquisitive gaze found Black's while the question, still lingering before her eyes, was fighting for an imminent release.

"Why do you have that letter?" She asked. "I mean, did she ever get to send it or did you find out after she was gone?" The nightmare of such a cruel scenario was enough to make her shiver.

The mercenary shook his head as an unbearable silence engulfed him.

"Did you know she was pregnant with your child?" Alex went on, stepping on the very edge of his sorrow.

"Had no clue," Black confessed as his curled fist trapped the towel still drenched in alcohol, "should have known, I guess. I found out about the child when I recovered the letter from the fire."

Then she understood: they had burnt the place with the nurse inside. Her charred body was more than just another loss for him: they had scorched his entire future.

"Don't give me that look –" he begged, "I'm not a broken toy."

"But when you did find out," Alex began, unsure where her curiosity was leading her.

"I never wanted to be a father, never even crossed my mind. God knows I didn't want a child back then. I was 22 when that happened; you know the only thing that was on my mind? By the time my mom died, I was 16. I was already older than she was when she had me. And still, I had no intentions of becoming a father," he confessed with reddened eyes – the kohl that had concealed his emotions on countless occasions before was simply not enough now to successfully barricade the cascading feelings aroused by his corrosive, unburied past. "Guess I wasn't a good son. Maybe that's why I could never envision myself as a father." Black said as he stood up and marched again, his skin welcoming the unceasing rain once more. He produced an improvised cross made by two branches and placed it on top of Aalem's grave with one smooth kick.

"That's why I chose Edenians," Black told Alex raising his voice since the woman was still under the protective canopy a few feet away from where he was now. "I was tired of watching people wither and die all around me. Now Edenians, I know only a handful of them can be trusted, but at least, they last longer."

"Love is a many splendored thing," Alex reflected as she got up and abandoned the sheltering canopy – she stood right next to him and said: "the nurse; I saw the picture in your box - that woman truly loved you."

She placed her hands on his tired shoulders and they sat down on the ground in front of Aalem's grave. Neither Black nor the woman could have been affected by the raining sky above them - they didn't mind the rain anymore; that treasured moment of mutual trust and much-needed understanding was more important now than the sudden inclemency of the weather. "The way she looked at you, the words she used in that letter to talk about you… I almost felt as if she was talking about an entirely different person; someone who was a million years away from this man I've come to know but, in hindsight, I'm glad I found this testimony of her love for you; you were loved once, you were once fully capable of awakening those feelings inside someone else so don't be that hard on yourself now." Alex went on as she crossed her legs.

"I didn't love her back," Black confessed rather coldly, almost ashamed by his own untamable feelings, "it's a complete mystery to me how the heart can sometimes fall for the wrong person, even when the right person is standing there, right in front of you, pregnant with your child, worshiping every single thing you do or say - but you don't even notice them. Amanda wasn't the one for me; Annie was. Yet I couldn't love her; I was very fond of her but that wasn't love. I still can't love her - today; it's a fight between the feeling and the reasoning that I cannot control." He looked inside Alex's eyes trying to find shelter from his own inner storm gathering inside.

"Amanda… was she your wife?" Alex asked.

"She should have been."

The words Aalem had told her resounded inside her head as a sagely reference for her to hold on to the helpless mercenary: he is what he is; nothing more, nothing less. The woman ran her wet fingers through his messy hair; she had never seen him so vulnerable before; not even that night. Black reciprocated the comfortable proximity she was offering by putting his strong arms around her shoulders, then he looked at Aalem's grave and said:

"The night I caught him going through my stuff I beat him up so hard I ended up with two broken fingers myself," a warm smile started to finally curl up his upper lip, "it wasn't yours for the takin' I told him; if only your father was here he would beat the shit out of you. But he's not, and I am the closest thing you have to a father now – I guess teaching you some manners is up to me now," the mercenary remembered.

"He wanted me to stop but he was proud and damn stubborn. So he kept his mouth shut. I wasn't upset because he had uncovered my secrets - that's not what makes me see red all around. It's the face that comes right after that, the poor thing face. I can't take it," Black continued, looking right into her eyes. "In the end, I was the only one in true pain. The physical pain that the brat was enduring was nothing in comparison to the pain I felt while beating him – I cared about that boy, I never understood why but I did. Perhaps he was my one true chance for experiencing something close to fatherhood, perhaps I felt like I owed it to his father. I really don't know," Black concluded bitterly as his sight got lost in an imaginary horizon.

"A truly caring father doesn't abandon his child in the middle of nowhere, at the mercy of nature and deadly creatures like the one he was monitoring out there, all alone by the mountainside. Let alone the fact that you knew someone was out there, lurking in the dark, waiting for the right moment to attack us - and you did nothing about it," she didn't want to sound harsh but deep down she knew she was right. Aalem should have lived and Black should have been Black – only he had been too late.

The battered cowboy said nothing in return – he was impervious to her words because her accusations and his accusations were the same thing now, her voice and his voice were telling the same story: it was indeed his fault, and the young Edenian's death was the cross he would have to bear for all eternity.

"I didn't mean to…" Alex began, noticing his saddened expression.

"I know." The mercenary answered simply, offering her a hand for the woman to stand up.

They stood up in silence and went back inside the cabin – Alex took a blanket and covered Pareedis' body with it then turned around and looked at Black, the question in her eyes was quietly interrogating the cowboy about the uncertain destiny of the attacker's dead body. Finding no response from Black, the woman kneeled down in front of Pareedis and uncovered the Outworlder's head – she ran her fingers through the cavity caused by Black's bullet when the mercenary's hand surprised her: Black surrounded her from behind, causing the puzzled woman to stand up again, instinctively. He sat her down on the table and started to clean up her skin with a clean cloth soaked in water,

"You have Aalem's blood all over you," he said as he carefully cleaned up her face, arms, and hands. "Annie herself got also covered in kid Rolland's blood, I had to clean her up as well that day," he remembered, the incipient love in his eyes was nearly paternal. "If you saw the picture of my group you must have seen him, then."

"The names were blurred," Alex said.

"I know. He was barely fourteen; maybe fifteen. He had lied in his application form; he wanted to be a soldier," he told her proudly, raising a stoic eyebrow to further illustrate his honorable tale. "One day we were ambushed by the enemy. We had to run; it may have seemed coward, but running our asses off was the only chance we had. We were bathing near a river, we were completely unarmed. But a piece of shrapnel caught Rolland and it entered his neck, opening up his jugular vein. We carried him for as long as we could and called the nurses… Annie was the only one of them who actually tried to help the kid. She was pale and about to faint but while the others screamed horrified in the back of that room, Annie stuck two fingers into that boy's neck to try to stop the bleeding. She tried hard not to look at the boy; her stomach must have turned inside out…" he remembered.

"But he had lost so much blood… I knew he wasn't gonna make it. So I looked at Annie; I asked her for forgiveness, and I ended the kid myself."

Silence encompassed them once more, as the mercenary's hands kept on trying to clean the doctor's gruesomely stained skin.

"They'll know it was you," Alex expressed her concern in a low tone, looking straight into his eyes.

"The rebel seekers will know it was me. That's precisely the point," Black answered as he rubbed the piece of cloth against her temples.

"Not the rebel seekers - the Kahn." She explained, worried about him. "There are things you can't explain. Are you ready to explain everything that has happened since the day we met? I'm a fugitive now, Black," she placed her hand upon his, instantly stopping those fingers taking such good care of her for the very first time. The woman stood up, resolute, and explained:

"The fatal wound is in the boy's head," she began "are you the only one with guns, at least, this type of weapons?"

"Remember those men back in your house? They had guns," he pointed out as he crossed his arms over his chest, visibly absorbed by her clinical demonstration but altogether ready to refute.

"Alright, maybe the weapon itself is not necessarily going to lead them back to you. But your hand is injured as well, perhaps they´ll find that suspicious."

"What are you, the Outworld police?" Black taunted her darkly. "I hurt myself while hunting. The Kahn knows I like a good hunt in my free time. But since you're so worried about my luck, or the possible lack of it…" Black went back outside and came back in a matter of seconds carrying the shovel he had used to dig Aalem's grave.

"Making it look like a traumatic brain injury or a cranial fracture with compression or maybe even an intracranial injury won't disguise the actual wound,"she pointed out but Black moved nearer and inspected the corpse: he cocked his head quite pensively, then used his index finger to create invisible circles hovering mid-air, signaling the Outworlder's head:

"So, this is the problem," the cowboy said.

"Yes," the woman retorted as her fingers ventured to trace invisible lines and diagrams all over the dead man's head: "you see, I assume the bullet entered his mouth, and the exit wound shows,"

"Fine, then." Black interrupted her. "Move, please," he said as he outstretched his right arm, signaling the woman to make room for him to maneuver. The mercenary held the shovel above Pareedis' neck and with one brutal thrust, he decapitated the lifeless body using the sharp edge of the shovel. "Better now?" He asked, satisfied by his own practicality and effectiveness. "Wrap 'em up separately - the head and the rest of the body." He commanded as he retreated to his room. He emerged from the obscure corridor a few moments later; he had changed his clothes and had geared up for the long journey ahead of him.

Alex handed him the two sinister packages she had prepared for him.

"You've changed," Black discovered for the second time that night. "When did you start thinking like a criminal?" he asked, mildly amused.

"I don't think you'll like the answer," Alex answered simply.

"On the contrary, I actually think it'll be rather flattering for me," He had corrupted that woman; had shaken her very core yet even though his expression was seemingly proud of his actions, deep down he couldn't help but wonder if his mere presence was enough to devour the light inside any noble spirit. Even though he didn't know anything about her and that he still suspected that the woman was hiding something from him, he had no choice but to accept that Alex was a good person – but with him around… he had already seen her taking a life and now she was helping him conduct the risky business of cleaning up his own mess. She was a doctor, after all, she was supposed to help people, not cover up their murders. Was he such a terrible influence on others? The only answer to that question was terrifying.

"When will you be back?" Alex asked him.

"Don't know. You know I got to go," Black said with fake disinterest.

"Yes but, things have changed," the woman added.

"Have they now?" the mercenary reflected, "seems to me we're right back where we started: just the two of us against those filthy rebel-seekers."

"People have died," Alex said rather nostalgically – the implications carried deep within the simplicity of the word people were certain and merciless for the mercenary. The woman moved closer and stood between Black and the door.

"Are you gonna tell me now what the hell is it that we're supposed to be doing in here? Or should I just wait for you to come knocking, bleeding to death, for me to patch you up again?"

The mercenary took a step forward and kissed her forehead tenderly, the thin fabric of his bandana was simply not enough to lessen the warm feeling of his lips trying to reach for her skin.

"I guess I better find every item on your list, then," he concluded humbly, as an inconspicuous half smile, safely concealed behind his purple bandana started to bright up his face. As the roaring thunder kept echoing through the cabin's old walls and shelves, the mercenary grabbed his deadly bounty and stepped into the nocturnal landscape of the mountains.