Arc II

Chapter XV

Medusa

"Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you.

This storm is you.

Something inside of you."

Haruki Murakami — Kafka on the Shore

Getting rid of the attacker's mutilated head had been an easy task for the tired cowboy. He had simply thrown away the smaller package as soon as he had started to walk down the slope, before getting near the lower hillside: the rounded, smaller bounty was now eternally resting in the bottom of a pitch-dark, steep, godforsaken ravine where no one would ever find it. But now, sleep deprivation was slowly starting to take its toll on the traveling mercenary; his nomadic bones kept on marching as his jaded neurons were trying to push those darker thoughts aside.

Unable to sleep, the fragile state of mind he had to endure was ultimately obliging him to keep up a forced state of constant wakefulness. The monotonous inertia driving his body in a relentless march had become the only company for the tired cowboy still trying to elucidate the true intentions behind Alex's sudden concern – perhaps the woman was genuinely worried about him, he thought, especially now that Aalem was gone.

There were other things weighing heavily on his head; rather important things he knew he should be taking into consideration as well yet he was too tired to force his mind into a pointless debate to find out whether the doctor had been right or not – he couldn't afford to risk his alibi, he couldn't let that head become yet another inconvenience threatening to lead the Outworld authorities back to him. Even though he was positive he wasn't the only one in position to possess and fire such peculiar weapons, he knew a man like him would be considered a suspect in case a nosy official decided to dig deeper into the murder that the Outworld society was about to discover.

He was one of Outworld highest authorities after all – that much was true. Yet deep down the mercenary was certain that his bad reputation had always preceded him and so his infamously corrosive fame and the constant rounds of gossip going on about his mysterious past and his violent tendencies would certainly jeopardize his impunity. Besides his outspoken loyalty and the binding contract recruiting an improvised Outworlder in him; in their eyes, he was always going to be a filthy Earthrealmer.

Even though there would be no physical evidence leading back to him, the doubt persisted in the back of his twisted, tired mind. No crime goes unpunished, he knew, or at least that's what everybody seemed to think. He had proven otherwise though, time and time again – he knew that having the right contacts and bribing the right pockets were always viable options in case the whole thing would end up blowing up in his face. Yet the sole idea of having his name linked to that man's murder was enough to make him shiver.

Alexandra had been painfully accurate back then:

"There are things you can't explain. Are you ready to explain everything that has happened since the day we met?"

He wasn't.

He couldn't.

Her sudden and rather mystifying worry about his wellbeing was as unsettling as the dampen atmosphere carried by the humid winds of the incipient dawn, slowly impregnating his damaged skin with a warmth that felt too alien to actually make him feel anything at all. That thick layer of mist punctiliously made of unwelcomed dewdrops and his own dried sweat felt like an invisible trap cultivating the remaining parts of his weary senses and preventing his pores from breathing. Alexandra's motherly concern felt the exact same way for the lonesome mercenary: it was like having a heavy blanket over his neck to try and warm up his mistreated shoulders yet it was an undesired, foreign feeling for him. The heartwarming sensation of having someone actually taking care of him and worrying about his future was a forbidden luxury for the untamable cowboy.

Still, she had worried. She had tried to protect him, to understand him, to accompany him through such an obscure moment of grief even when he had tried to kill her. He had doubted himself that night, and now the shadows of that weathered doubt were slowly beginning to cover the visible part of his face again: beyond all possible hesitation or falter, he was a marksman after all. No one in their right minds would ever doubt his skills, not even himself, but the obnoxious doubt existed nonetheless; its persistent nature was indeed suffocating for the bounty hunter. Just as a mythical chimera, its contaminating shadow would caress the depths of his turbulent mind like a whimsical fixation, eyeing him speculatively from a distant pedestal he wasn't meant to reach.

He had had his doubts about that night, ever since pulling the trigger.

She was asleep, after all, it seemed unlikely of him to miss a dormant target even though the woman had been turning and tossing in her sleep.

Were you having a bad dream?

Erron Black crossed his arms over his chest as he tried to shake himself out of that awkward feeling of not being completely familiarized with his own ungoverned thoughts. With the larger package resting patiently on the ground before his feet now, the mercenary leaned his back against one of the most isolated stalls of the Outworld Marketplace; allowing the dense shadows of the night to engage in a perpetual, intimate dance with the obscure shades projected by the blue awning above his head, secluding his nearly bicentennial face from the weak light coming from the streets.

Being back in Z'unkahrah had always been reassuring for the mercenary only this time the feeling was altogether different for him: that deserted space, the Marketplace, was about to become ground zero in a tacit war between the Kahn's enforcer and the drastic rebel-seekers. Irony was, once again, capriciously delimitating a dangerous terrain for all actors to play their roles – the simplistic geography of the matter was stating that even though both sides involved in the silent war were actually chasing after the same goal, that very goal had positively corrupted both sides – to simply hunt down the remaining Tarkatans in order to bring them to the Kahn seemed naïve now, to say the least. Black scratched his forehead as he contemplated the paradox in that forced situation: the civilians had crossed an unforgivable line, they had tried to add his name to the long list of recovered bounties that would pay for their dinners, they had tried to turn him into an objective prize; they had threatened Alex, they had murdered both Harry and Aalem – and for what? For money? Black shook his head in disbelief even though he knew the feeling all too well yet there were lines that were not meant to be crossed, he was certain of it. The darknet they had knitted all around him with vacuous intrigues and dirty tricks was just too dangerous for the mercenary to pretend that nothing was going on.

I told you, they are everywhere.

As the obsidian night wrapped him up completely, Black allowed his tired mind to consider, even if only for a moment, the chance of letting the Kahn know about everything he had gone through ever since waking up in Alex's bed. But informing Kotal Kahn about their unexpected odyssey felt like giving in to an unethical, bittersweet betrayal and the mere thought of it suddenly seemed inconceivable, even for a corrupted man like him. What could happen to the doctor if he came clean to the emperor now? She had been unfairly accused of stealing food, a crime punishable by death in Outworld, yet the misleading man who had accused her was dead now and no one other than Black himself could testify in her favor. The woman had tended to his wounds, after all. She had cared about him, and she had tried her best to save Aalem.

Pitch black as the night itself, his sinister plan finally began to form into a fully constructed shape as a beggar made his way through the deserted marketplace. Black inspected the man from afar as the old Outworlder started to rummage through the leftovers discarded by the shop owners; his wrinkled fingers already swimming through the garbage while searching for some food. The sad image of that neglected indigent, with his long, loose sleeves already soaked in the liquid transpiration of meals that no one had wanted back then and no one should be eating by now, was enough for the pensive mercenary to realize that even though the dark reign of terror caused by Mileena's erratic rule was over, there was still a large portion of the Outworld population living in despair and struggling to survive and overcome their own poverty and squalor on a daily basis. Perhaps those very same concepts had been the ones motivating the rebel seekers, he thought. Yet, with his legs already marching once again, he smoothly evaded the sinister package resting on the ground by the deserted, remote stall and walked up to the beggar.

"Care for a few coins?" The cowboy asked with his baritone voice seemingly touching the limits of his own frivolity, and ultimately startling the old man in ragged clothes.

The beggar nodded almost mechanically as he offered Black a wide-eyed gaze: the Outworlder knew who he was dealing with, the fright in his eyes was revealing. The old man stood up and wiped his hungry mouth with the back of a hand partially hidden by his filthy sleeve – the rancid odor of garbage and dirt was enough for Black's face to contort in disgust. The leery Outworlder extended both his hands this time, forming a metaphorical vault with his fingers intertwined as if expecting Black to just give him money, perhaps even in an altruistic fashion, to help him mitigate the nature of his social predicament. Yet the mercenary shook his head darkly as he finally began to explain himself:

"I don't do charity," he informed the old man rather sarcastically, "you'll have to do something for me in return."

"What… what would you like me to do?" The beggar asked suspiciously as he lowered his helpless hands.

"See that package over there?" Black indicated as he signaled the poor man to direct his sight to the obscure object resting by the shadows engulfing the periphery of the outdoor venue where they both were standing. "I need you to take it to the center of the Marketplace, and leave it there."

The beggar smiled. A contagious, exultant grin suddenly started to infectiously contort every single muscle in his weather-beaten face. A simple task was about to buy him a proper dinner. He turned around and took a long step forward when Black, already anticipating the Outworlder's unmasked anxiety, outstretched his arm and grabbed him by the shoulder. The man turned around once more, still held prisoner by the mercenary's arm hovering mid-air and creating a tacit barrier between the two of them. The beggar gave him a puzzled look but Black didn't care in the slightest, he buried his fingers in the beggar's forearm and stopped the man before he could get any further.

"Once you get there, open the package – leave the contents there but bring me back the sheet that's covering them. I'll be waiting over here," he indicated as he finally let go of the man and, still sheltered by the shadowy night, leaned his back against the nearest wall.

The beggar made his way to the stall where Black had been hiding and took the gruesome package with careful hands. It was clearly heavier than he had expected so the old, battered Outworlder ended up dragging the dreadful bounty across the place until he reached the center spot. He looked over his shoulder and searched for Black's approval and the mercenary nodded in silence as he watched the beggar's every move. The miserable man untied the knot that had created a package out of the large piece of cloth and finally pulled the sheet – a decapitated body, already swollen and rather greenish, began to slip through his exalted fingers. The greasiness of that already rotting skin, combined with the blood and the dirt contaminating that abominable cadaver were creating an odor far worse than the one he had smelled while rummaging through the garbage.

The horrified beggar took a step backward almost instinctively and covered his mouth with his hands, completely shaken by the image he had been forced to witness. He took the sheet from under the mutilated body as quickly as possible and ran towards Black.

"You never mentioned I would be carrying a dead body!" the affected beggar yelled at him, his hands were shaking nervously as if finally realizing that every single thing he had heard about the man now standing patiently in front of him was true.

Black placed his hands on his hips and took a good look at the macabre scene that was about to surely cause a fuss among the shoppers and countless civilians in just a few hours. He nodded, satisfied: Pareedis' decapitated body was now leaning against one of the most popular stalls. Those swollen, greenish hands were carelessly resting at the sides of the attacker's torso, the little curvature of each lifeless muscle caused by the man's irrevocable inanimate nature was forcing the neck and the collarbones to hang like a black sail tempering the oceans, about to cruise its sinister way through the last hours of darkness. Black smiled helplessly, although the gesture was safely concealed behind his bandana – those rebel seekers and their infamous cause… they were surely about to get his message this time.

The indigent stretched one of his hands again - this time, to demand what was now rightfully his. Those coins that the Earthrealmer mercenary had promised. The old Outworlder had delivered, now it was time for Black to honor his own, belligerent word.

"Where are my manners?" Black said darkly as he approached the beggar, his menacing shadow towering over the old man. He searched his pockets for a handful of coins and showed them to the poor man, the imminent treasure exhibited before those hungry eyes was the epitome of temptation for the Outworlder in need – the filthy beggar's eyes popped open all of a sudden; the ambitious gaze of precious silver and nearly lustful copper shinning astonishingly in front of him was enough to make the man forget all about morality.

"The sheet," Black commanded suddenly, causing the beggar to hand the dirty piece of cloth almost immediately. The Outworlder outstretched his hand yet it stayed there, hovering in front of the cowboy. The beggar's dirty fingers had trapped the cloth inside their grip, his foul digits were holding on the sheet as if the fabric had become some rhetorical leverage for the beggar to wager. Static and absorbed, the Outworlder exhibited the sheet before Black's demanding eyes, still unable to let go.

"The coins," the beggar claimed, rather insulted by Black's tricks and games.

"You do know who I am, right?" Black questioned as he put the desired coins, the object of the beggar's attraction, back inside his pocket.

"Give me my money, you revolting Earthrealmer," the disgust in that man's voice was unfathomable now yet it only caused the Kahn's enforcer to cock his head despondently and raise an eyebrow.

Without much effort, Black killed the short distance separating him from the Outworlder and snatched the sheet from the beggar's hands. With one smooth push from his left forearm, the mercenary turned the man around and placed the dirty cloth around the old beggar's neck to fully immobilize the filthy vagrant now contorting his limbs in complete and utter desperation, and shaking helplessly against the stronghold of Black's body. The beggar tried to free himself from the strangling bond that Black had wrapped around his slender neck but the cowboy's strong hands, pulling mercilessly at the other end of the sheet, were certainly threatening to end the poor man's life.

As the Outworlder shook violently under Black's grasp, the mercenary pressed the sheet harder around his neck, asphyxiating the victim – rather sooner than later, the improvised trap that Black had manufactured by using the deadly envelope that had covered Pareedis' mutilated body, had become overbearing for the helpless old man already tasting the true nature of his own ungoverned greed.

In a matter of seconds, the struggle was over and the spasmodic, futile attempts of the man that had been subjugated by the cowboy's unrestrained violence finally gave in and met their end as the last receding seizures that still waved all across that dominated body began to disappear as well. Noticing the sudden stillness that was gradually taking over a body that was no longer fighting, Black finally let go from the beggar's neck and kneeled down: like a frightening boogeyman, the dark and troubled mercenary put the unconscious Outworlder's body inside the improvised bag he had made with the very same sheet he had used to suffocate the beggar and slowly made his way to the Kove, his marching feet preceded the gruesome package he was carrying as his one good hand kept dragging the man inside the sheet all the way to the gloomy harbor. The odor coming from the bay was nauseating, and the restless waves crashing all around him were slowly impregnating the pestilence in his clothes. The mercenary exhaled, his task almost completed, as the obsidian night accompanied his every move.

A tired yet satisfied Black stood on the edge of the crunching wooden boards. He cocked his head in disbelief as his eyes began to witness some minuscule, almost imperceptible movements coming from inside the sheet. Not exactly fond of surprises, the mercenary reached his back holders and grabbed one of his pistols.

He fired at the package with indifferent precision until the gruesome stains of blood he was expecting to see slowly started to contaminate the already filthy sheet containing the involuntary victim. Now that every possible reaction had been extinguished, Black kneeled down and held the package, tight hands wrapped around one end of the cloth. When he stood up again, he threw the bag into the tempested waters and left that dreadful place. The morning lights of the incandescent dawn about to bathe the city in bright yellow and intense orange were also about to become the mercenary's sullen scriveners; sending his message of retribution and fear throughout Z'unkahrah.

He had tried to murder her.

But he wouldn't betray her.

Yet, with his actions, he had made her now part of a dangerous battle that could potentially escalate and overcome the limits of his own imagination, only to reach the frightening gates of a menacing civil war.

By the time he finally got to the palace, the initial rituals of dawn had already begun to shine its light above the Z'unkahrah rooftops, bathing the sleepy citadel in an amber aura or golden and auburn. The whitened smoke, already coming out of the many chimneys of the palace and carelessly circling around the clouds above his head were carrying the first waves of a familiar smell: with breakfast already being baked, it wouldn't be long until every soul in the palace would begin marching up and down each corridor. As Black approached the guards standing solemnly at the sides of the first gate, he raised his tired eyes to find Torr standing alone by the staircase, quietly contemplating the unfamiliar tranquility taking place all around him. As he made his way upstairs, the mercenary nodded lightly, acknowledging Torr's presence. The cowboy even allowed himself a brief moment of genuine interaction as he patted the beast's shoulder gently before walking past him.

He was so tired he wasn't even able to walk anymore yet being so close to home was the final incentive he had been searching for – each stiff muscle in his legs was helping the man complete the laborious mechanism required to keep marching forwards no matter what, even though his numb legs were barely dragging his feet along each deserted corridor: by the time he found himself right in front of his bedchamber door the exhausted cowboy exhaled, finally at ease, and closed his eyes in delightful anticipation. His body needed to rest just like his lungs needed oxygen in order to function; the elusive slumber he had been seeking was finally about to envelop his troubled, damage body and it was surely about to wrap him up completely in the peaceful blanket of nearly unconscious dreams.

He finally stepped inside his own room only to find a messy bed being used by someone else. A small body; comfortably rolled up between the sheets and the deliciously soft cover was producing the infectious snoring he had been hearing ever since approaching his own bedchamber – raising one of his eyebrows in disbelief, the mercenary walked up to his bed and shook the trespasser's tiny body not really caring about fostering a peaceful awakening for the unwelcomed, invasive guest:

"Come on now, we talked about this," he managed to say as his persuasive hands insisted on shaking the sleepy warrior holding on to the sheets now as if holding on for dear life.

Ferra yawned naively, still wrapped up in Black's sheets, until her eyes swam into focus – she cursed something inaudible under her breath and spat some venomous remarks that fell beyond the mercenary's rather simplistic sense of mundane comprehension as she got up, finally, and started to walk towards the door.

The mercenary gazed upon her with patronizing eyes:

"You can't use my bed every time I don't sleep in my room," he preached with both of his hands at the sides of his waist. No matter how upset he was, the tiny warrior clearly seemed to pay no mind. "Ferra…" Black demanded quite paternally, causing her to stop on her tracks only to get closer to the wooden table in the center of the room. The child-like warrior searched through her clothes until she finally found the souvenir she was trying to sneak out of his bedroom.

"Leave it on the table," Black commanded patiently, already too familiarized with her poorly disguised intentions.

Groaning, and still cursing the mercenary for his unexpected intromission, her little hand finally let go of the sand grenade she had tried to conceal among her clothes, placing it upon the table among Black's deadliest treasures. She stared at the cowboy rather defiantly then walked towards the door again.

"Ferra," Black called out her name once more, nearly helpless, knowing his fellow enforcer a little too well by now to pretend she wasn't trying to steal anything else from his armory, "the caltrops too, Ferra,"

Seething and rolling her eyes, Ferra reached inside her pocket for a small leather package: a handful of caltrops fell on the table almost immediately as the small warrior untied the little piece of rope secluding the items inside the brown envelope for her own safety. The clicking sound of metal against metal barely caressed his tired ears.

Ferra bowed sheepishly, even if only to acknowledge that her plans had been ruined by his apparition, then walked towards the door.

"Ferra," Black called out her name one last time while carelessly throwing his cowboy hat on the bed, "the gun,"

"Bang-bang no fun, motherfucker," Ferra let out, visibly annoyed, as she finally placed one of Black's revolvers on the table. Now that her desired bounty had been completely dismantled by its righteous owner, the petite warrior was finally channeling her bottled-up ire, visibly aiming for the proper target.

"Where did you learn that word?" Black questioned her as he observed the tiny enforcer getting lost behind his bedroom's room. He shook his head rather pensively – of all the people surrounding the symbiotic pairing, he knew he was the only one fully capable of professing such language for Ferra to imitate it.

"Oh, so mature… midget," the jaded cowboy spat under his breath as he took off his dirty bandana. He moved nearer the bed and closed the blinds, finally ready to embrace slumber, even if only briefly now that the city was about to panic and succumb to chaos - the mutilated body he had left at the Marketplace for the citizens to find was surely waiting for everyone interested in such a morbid sighting. Its unmistakable message of revenge and retribution was about to be heard like a roaring thunder transversally cruising its way throughout the city, implicating anyone and everyone in its delirious way.

He was sitting on the bed, his hands already about to take off his boots, when the insistent knocking on his bedchamber door startled him.

What now?

He walked up to the door creating a tight fist, testing the damaged muscles and tendons in his wounded hand – his palm curled up in excruciating pain only to be flexed again, allowing the first drops of blood to stain the white cloth dressing the laceration. He opened the door and leaned his tired body against the doorframe.

"Good morning, Mr. Black," an officer greeted him from behind the classic skull mask covering the man's face, "the Kahn is waiting for you, allow me to escort you to the Throne Room,"

The mercenary rolled his eyes and breathed out rather loudly, "no rest for the wicked..." Black's helpless statement was perpetrating the uncomfortable innuendo taking place inside his head. Discouraged, as he understood there wouldn't be any sleep for his tired system to regain its drained energy, the cowboy nodded and closed the door of his bedchamber as he went out.

Both Black and the Osh-Tekk guard walked in silence through the many corridors and stairs of the still-sleepy palace. Only a small amount of servants and maids were the only ones marching down the countless passageways in the intricate maze that was the inside of the palace – their legs kept moving relentlessly, all of them were headed in different directions, all carrying pillows and basins filled with water. The delicious smell coming from the kitchen was slowly taking over the mercenary's nostrils: bread and pastries for the early birds were no longer in the making, breakfast was an imminent reality now: the new day was already pushing its way towards him and towards everyone in Z'unkahrah; there wouldn't be any time for him to sleep – the maelstrom of duty that all enforcers had to endure each day would wait for no one.

The Osh-Tekk guard signaled Black to step inside the Throne Room with a polite vow. There he was, already grinning in his direction, the Kahn himself.

"Erron," the emperor began, "are you just getting in?"

Black nodded quietly, rather ashamed of his own assertion - he knew the Kahn wouldn't be particularly thrilled to find out that he had been traveling the whole night instead of sleeping in his bed, like he should have, resting his body to bravely face a brand new day.

Ever since mastering the despotic charade he had played on nearly everyone around him, making them believe that he had miraculously escaped and recovered from the attack of a bunch of wild Tarkatans, the Kahn had been quite permissive towards his mysterious demands and rather capricious requests: he needed some time alone; he had adduced. Some quality time for him to rediscover the true warrior still dwelling within him – some quality time for Black to bring that warrior out of the turbulent shadows enveloping him and back into the glorious, diaphanous light.

Worried about the mercenary's wounded pride and body, the legendary Osh-Tekk had benevolently agreed upon letting him go every now and then. He had allowed Black to get a few days off for the Earthrealm cowboy to recover his strength, to envision and embrace again that path of loyal service as well as master his own tarnished capabilities. He had been there for Kotal ever since the beginning – the Kahn could see he was slowly but surely regaining that trademark poise that had caught his eye back then. Now, Black's fellow enforcers were judging the emperor, thinking that Kotal had become too soft towards the infamous Earthrealmer. Perhaps it was time for everyone and everything to go back to normal, Kotal considered once again as he crossed his arms over his chest yet besides understanding Black's emotional and physical turmoil after his miraculous return, it was true that the emperor was known for his severe opinion regarding the responsibilities of his personal enforcers. He had indeed empowered them all yet there were responsibilities and obligations for the selected group of warriors he had chosen to protect the Outworld throne. They were supposed to eat as healthily as possible and sleep an acceptable amount of hours – these basic demands were pillars of their mutual trust and allowed their solid commitment to flow smoothly from the emperor to his enforcers and vice versa – no consideration, no negotiation was justified then when it came to such basic demands.

The Khan shook his head pensively as he beckoned the tall woman standing by the window, "Erron," Kotal Kahn said once the woman had joined them, "meet Zarrabayeusse, your new lackey."

The look on the mercenary's face was giving him away: he hadn't expected Kotal to hire a new lackey for him and he certainly hadn't expected to see Zarrabayeusse ever again. Visibly overwhelmed, Black opened his mouth to protest but the emperor lifted his right hand, demanding silence from the cowboy.

"I know it might seem weird of me to hire a female lackey for one of my closest enforcers but the woman seems appropriate enough for the job," Kotal began, quite solemnly. "On the other hand, she's part of Dexitis' family so I have reason to believe you two are already acquainted. I am almost certain there won't be any problems between the two of you," the emperor said with a sarcastic smile curling up his lips. "Your familiarity shall make things easier for you, I am sure - Dexitis was a marvelous employee; he served you well for many years, Erron. When he died, you suggested his son Aalem was the right one for the job – I had my doubts back then, given the boy's young age, but you insisted on giving him the opportunity and despite my early predictions about his performance, the infant proved himself worthy," the emperor placed one of his hands on the mercenary's shoulder, "but when you told me you were afraid that growing up inside the secluding walls of this palace wasn't going to be good for him, I accepted your fears and I embraced them as my own. You've been on your own ever since, and that's something I've been meaning to correct for a long time now," Kotal concluded, clapping his hands twice to indicate the woman that she was no longer needed.

As soon as the woman had left the room, leaving the two men alone again, Kotal Kahn crossed his arms over his chest and the timid grin that had been curling up his lips only moments ago turned into a definitive, straight line. Finding nothing but silence in Black, the Kahn rolled his eyes and breathed out finally realizing that talking some sense into the troubled Earthrealmer standing motionless in front of him was completely up to him.

The emperor patted the cowboy's shoulder gently as if looking for some tacit comradeship to help him mitigate the sourness encysted in the harsh words he was about to pronounce:

"I know it may be easy for you to think that, as the emperor of Outworld, I'm way too absorbed in my own priorities – there're always some impendent, pressing matters and complicated politics I need to pay attention to, I know," the Kahn said, "these things tend to detach us from the simplest of things, they seem to divert us from the little things around us and, perhaps, all that pretentious bureaucracy is what clouds your judgment and fools your mind into thinking that the most mundane of frivolities and daily trifles cannot reach my ears," Kotal explained in a low tone, leaning in closer even though they were the only ones left in the enormous, intimidating Throne Room.

Black nodded quietly, not really sure if his voice would be welcomed.

"But I'll have you know: some things do reach my ears every now and then, Erron. I know you have a certain… reputation. I shall not hide it behind poetic euphemisms: the word 'misogynous' has been heard a lot around this place – most of the times, it was you the one they were talking about. I'm also rather familiarized with your… personal records, should we name it like that," the emperor continued as he sat back down on the throne, "countless maids have already complained about you and your… peculiar ways and… your rather conservative sayings towards women," the Kahn took a deep breath, relaxing the muscles of his suddenly aggravated expression, "I know losing Dexitis was a big shock for you. And I know that when we let Aalem go you said you didn't want another lackey – but you need one, just like the rest of my enforcers. This woman I just hired for you seems to be the right person for the job: she already knows you, she shares part of your history and I honestly believe she can help you during this difficult time."

This difficult time…

"When you came back home after spending those horrendous weeks in captivity I told you, as your employer, that I understood and I still understand what you're going through and so I shall do everything in my power help you," the Kahn paused, as he looked right into Black's eyes: "this is me; then, helping you."

The Osh-Tekk crossed his arms over his chest as he watched Black already reaching for the door.

"One last thing," the emperor's deep, stern voice was enough to make the mercenary stop right where he was. The cowboy turned around, still enveloped in the most cryptic of silences, and looked at his employer.

"In case you and this woman should ever fight, or have an argument, or if you decide to be you again - I don't want to hear a word about it. I don't want her yelling to reach my ears, Black. So I warn you – should you find yourself fighting against this woman, no matter if physically or merely verbally, keep it behind closed doors." The Kahn added before dismissing the cowboy.

Black's feet had already resumed their hurried march when the Kahn's sarcastic tone caressed the cowboy's troubled ears one more time:

"Your hand, by the way, another hunting accident, I presume? Maybe you should consider the possibility of engaging in a different activity - a safer one, perhaps."

Black nodded in silence with his lips pressed tightly, the dried insides of his mouth were already savoring the bittersweet aftertaste behind the Kahn's words. Just as he was about to finally leave the Throne Room, two Osh-Tekk guards burst into the room, visibly agitated and alarmed.

"Emperor, a decapitated body has been found in the marketplace," one of them informed.

A preoccupied Kotal Kahn stood up almost immediately and walked up to his private balcony: the sight was truly heartbreaking. Hundreds of civilians were covering their mouths in complete horror; women, men, and children were desperately trying to catch a glimpse of the morbid scene.

"Retrieve the body," the emperor ordered as the rest of his enforcers made their way to the Kahn's balcony: Reptile, Ermac and the symbiotic pairing surrounded Kotal Kahn in a semi-circle completed by Black himself. "Guess you'll be patrolling the Marketplace for the rest of the day. Prepare yourselves." The Osh-Tekk demanded.

As the enforcers left the Throne Room, a straggler Black heard the last interaction between the emperor and the two guards that had previously interrupted their nearly-extinguished conversation.

"Any leads on any possible suspects?" The Kahn asked.

"No."

When he opened the door of his bedchamber the only thing on his mind was to pour himself a good glass of liquor to help him through the day. There wouldn't be enough time for bathing or even changing his clothes but the alcohol seemed now completely necessary for the exhausted cowboy in order to keep his fatigued system as attentive and alert as possible throughout the complicated hours of confusion and chaos about to dominate the workday waiting ahead of him.

Black walked up to the wooden table in the center of his room and picked up a solitary glass resting among multiple boxes of ammunition. The treasures that Ferra had tried to steal from him only moments ago were still there, scattered among his belongings.

"How long has it been, Erron?"

The unexpected female voice startled him – Zarrabayeusse was sitting on his bed, her legs crossed in sheer despondency. The light coming from the shutters was creating delicate clouds of auburn luminescence all around the maroon pashmina wrapped around her head. Jet black was floating carelessly around her olive-skinned visage in the seemingly ethereal form of a few loose hairs that had escaped from their imprisonment.

"Since what exactly? Since we met or since we last saw each other?" the mercenary asked patiently as he turned to his side to look her in the eye. Those emerald eyes of hers were powerful magnets, forcing him to stare indefinitely into their quiet depths.

"Since you ruined my sister's life by killing her husband," Zarrabayeusse stated with remarkable simplicity and indifference. The woman stood up, causing the cascading, silky maroon dress that she was wearing to kiss the ground. The sleeveless, long dress was concealing a body he knew like the back of his wounded hand.

"Your sister was already dead," the cowboy challenged her.

"Was she now?" the woman said as she slowly surrounded the Earthrealmer with an enticing cadence.

"Thirty-five years, Zar. It's been thirty-five years," Black confessed, finally looking away but only momentarily.

"You're supposed to sleep at night, Earthrealmer," Zarrabayeusse teased him as soon as she noticed the tired gaze reaching for her once again. She took a small chamber pot and filled it with water - then, using a handkerchief, she embedded the tip of the cloth in the crystal clear liquid and carefully began to remove the dry kohl around Black's eyes. With gentle strokes coming from her experienced fingertips, the woman massaged the dark orbs circling the tired man's eyes. "What's going on?" she asked, "another deal went wrong? Another worthless bounty? Or was it another assignment in the jungle? You hate that jungle, or better saying, like you yourself would say it: you fucking hate that damned, green jungle. What's wrong, man of the desert? Is your boss troubling you? Or is it more personal?" Zarrabayeusse went on, finally leaving the dirty handkerchief on the table.

"Quit it," Black warned her.

"Another infuriated, angry husband maybe?" she moved closer to the cowboy again, this time, to re-apply the kohl that would hide his lack of slumber. No matter how soothing those fingers were, they still felt like sharp blades cutting through his skin. The mercenary fidgeted impatiently, trying to get away from her touch, but his useless attempts only made her grip tighter as she buried her fingers around his cheeks.

"But you've come a long way now, haven't you cowboy? You've changed, you're one of the Kahn's favorite enforcers," Zarrabayeusse's sarcastic remarks seemed endless for his tired ears. "Do they actually get mad at you now – the husbands, that is? You could literally walk inside any house and bang any woman and what could the husband do about it?" the irony encysted in her tone was a headache in itself. "You're empowered now; aren't you? You're untouchable." Rancor was just another participant in the festival of mixed feelings that the woman was projecting through her words.

"What do you want, Zar?" he cupped her hand with his - this time, he was the one restricting her moves.

"For a long time, I woke up every morning saying the same thing over and over until the very statement lost all meaning to me: I want to put his filthy head on a spike and watch as the crows feast on his eyes. I warned them: he's a bird of prey," Zarrabayeusse remembered as the shadows of an ancient sadness set on her face, "but they never listened."

The loud noises coming from the outside startled them both and they rushed their way to Black's balcony to see what was going on: the uproar in the Marketplace was getting out of hand.

Leaving the dazed woman behind, the mercenary went back inside his bedchamber and grabbed a brown, leather face mask from one of his drawers. He slammed the door on his way out and ran to meet the rest of the enforcers that were already trying to dominate the rather commotional crowd attempting to invade the Marketplace.

"Tell me, Ferra, have you ever been to the zoo?" Black asked the tiny warrior about to climb all the way up to her companion's shoulder – Ferra shook her head, helpless: "Well this is your lucky day, then."

All of them, like species of a same, revolted breed, had gathered before his eyes: the curious, anonymous bystanders, trying to catch a glimpse of the morbid scene. The petulant shop owners, complaining about not being able to sell their goods for the day. The whining shoppers, waiting for the Marketplace to let them in in order to buy the day's lunch and dinner and completely oblivious to the fact that the place had now turned into a crime scene, their selfish minds only paying attention to their own pressing matters. The usual unruly ones, trying to cause chaos in an already chaotic environment. The usual ones in desperate need of attention, already making ridiculous claims such as being close friends with the victim even when no-one had identified the decapitated body yet.

The enforcers stayed in their surveillance spots all across the perimeter, trying to cover more ground and forming a barricade alongside the Osh-Tekk guards that Kotal Kahn had assigned for the unexpected task. Only after the mutilated body had been recovered from the now-confiscated stall, Reptile took a step forward and talked to the crowd:

"The place needs to be cleaned now, you must head home. There's nothing to be seen in here," the Zaterran ordered.

While the voices of hundreds of plebeians protested in unison, every enforcer and guard took several steps forward trying to intimidate the crowd. As the day progressed and the hours piled up heavily on their tired shoulders, the mass finally receded. Black stayed in the center of the Marketplace, though, with the rest of the enforcers. Even though the place had been closed down for the day, they still remained there, patrolling the area.

When the first auburn lights of the sunset were bathing the rooftops in orange and amber, the mercenary felt a pinch trying to wake up his numb leg: a small infant, less than five years old, was staring right into his eyes.

"Get movin', kid," Black ordered, rather unfriendly.

The small boy smiled in return and handed him a piece of paper before running away.

It was a drawing - a small child's drawing.

The mercenary's coffee-colored eyes got clouded by an unfathomable sense of terror and his breath stopped dead in his mouth - the little boy's doodles were revealing more than he could handle: under a black sky, filled with irregular, uneven stars and two big moons, a little house in the mountains was engulfed in flames.