Preliminary note from the author:
Hey there, guys! Welcome to the arc III finale!
Even if there are a couple more notes at the end of this chapter (alongside my replies to your reviews for chapter 30), for the first time since I started posting this fic I need to ask you guys to do something for me: read the Ernesto Sábato quote at the beginning of the chapter.
I rarely mention the quotes I use, I just use them because like the talented Hell on Training Wheels has pointed out, such passages "help inform your readers of the mood" – she was absolutely right back then but even if that's the main reason behind me using fragments of books or songs to further illustrate the picture for you guys before you dive right through the chapter, I have never really asked for you to actually pay attention to them.
A part of me even suspects that some of my readers might not read them at all – and it's completely understandable. Maybe you don't want to be informed of the mood reigning all over the chapter you're about to read, maybe you want to be surprised, and thus you skip those parts and go straight to the chapter and that's completely fine with me.
But well, this time I ask you – no; I beg you: please read the quote.
Believe me, it's not the same if you skip the introductory fragment this time.
Read it once, read it twice – if you need it, go ahead and read it again. And again. And again. Deconstruct each sentence. Shake each word until all the different meanings contained inside that tiny little piece of another story get out there and start floating right in front of your eyes. Look for the different undertones, investigate the silent subplots, analyze each letter and make it yours.
The reason? It's very simple, really. The fragment I chose for this chapter contains the quintessential meaning behind this entire work of fiction. Get the quote, get Debris; from chapter one to chapter who-knows. And I know some of you might say that you already got this fic and you're probably right, in fact, you're absolutely right – but trust me, this entire tale is crystalized – more than just that; this entire tale is materialized inside those words.
Now, you may ask why I chose to use this quote now when I could have saved it for the last chapter… just know that my election wasn't coincidental; that quote needs to be here, at the beginning of this particular installment. So please, please, please, read it.
See you at the end of the chapter. Please enjoy, and thank you in advance.
Introduction:
The Peace of Wild Things.
He eventually returned to Arroya (now known as Wickett) one last time, back in the seventies. He wanted to just see the place, see what had changed besides the name, what remained the same; learn all about the fate of every single one of those buildings he had once called his own. So he found himself visiting a town that had little to do with that other town; the bittersweet location that completed his most precious memories of a time that, he knew, was never coming back.
It hit him then, as he visualized his own tired bones walking down those hauntingly familiar yet now foreign streets that had constituted the golden days of his distant youth: nothing truly remained there for him to hold on to – not anymore. The Wise Bird was gone; the monument of a lost era had been erased from the face of the Earth – the old establishment that had once swung somewhere in between a saloon and a brothel was now a flourishing bakery.
But that wasn't the worst part.
The Taggarts' house was now a roller disco.
Of all possible things in this world, that world, and any other world… they had turned it into a fucking roller disco. The place where he had made love to Amanda for the first, last and only time; the place where he had said goodbye to the greatest love of his life was now something as puny, something as belligerently innocuous as a goddamned roller disco.
Each peace is different from the previous peace that came before it, and it is bound to be equally different from the next peace to come after that one. Little did the cowboy know about Jean-Paul Sartre's existentialism back then but the notions in his head were not so far from the author's point of view: during wars, people always hope for the peace of their youth to come back after the conflict; people tend to confuse and blend such fundamental concepts – peace and youth, like Romeo and Juliet, always longing for each other only to meet the most tragic of conclusions.
It is always another peace the one that comes after a war, it's a timid type of peace – it's a shy type of peace; almost pleading, always whispering about an imminent danger…
Peace is the overture of war.
He lit up a cigar in silence as he continued to take a walk down Memory Lane: to his own spirit, he had irrevocably become the living embodiment of démodé folklore. The first voices of a heated sense of feminism were already jeopardizing his antique morals. All those elephant pants walking carelessly all around him were just another indication yelling at him that times had positively changed, that his own belle époque of cowboys, saloons and Amandas was, indeed, never coming back.
If anything, time was only going to keep moving forward; even the roller disco was already condemned to disappear once the clocks considered its splendor had reached the end of its tether.
It's always another peace.
Nor replenished neither renewed. Just different - because it's always a different society, a different dynamic, a different political structure the one that welcomes and shapes the terms of that newborn, fragile peace.
The cowboy understood it back then.
Yet he headed for the old cemetery anyways, he wanted to pay his respects to the ones he had loved back in the day. The place seemed torn from the pages of a horror novel with weathered tombs covered in moss and nearly unreadable names still trying to stubbornly cling to the unbreakable yet always flimsy veil of time. Many mausoleums had been bricked up; entire families had been extinguished or so it seemed, erased from everyone's memories.
He kneeled down in front of his mother's grave and closed his eyes minutely – the image of his younger self and Good Old Jacob crossed his mind then, as he recalled her funeral, as he remembered that no-one other than his old man and himself had attended it.
All those saddened faces that had shown their sympathies for the fallen singer hadn't even bothered to show up back then. What was even left of them now, he wondered, as his eyes darted around the tombstones? Were their sad, pathetic little names still there? Were their identities still supplicating the clocks for five more minutes? Five more minutes of recognition, as if bargaining the mere testimony still evidencing that they had, in fact, existed?
It's always another peace the one that comes to enrapture entire societies after a war.
He searched for her grave back then, but he never managed to find it. He found comfort in knowing that, perhaps, she hadn't died in Wickett. Maybe she was buried someplace else; maybe her bones belonged in a different land now. Maybe she wasn't alone. Maybe she had harvested new souls after him, while she was still alive and so she had learned to survive inside the memories of those who had loved her, those ones still walking this Earth that had once been theirs and theirs alone. Maybe they were still surrounding her; perhaps locked inside a bricked up mausoleum like the ones displayed in front of his eyes.
Maybe.
As he stood up and got ready to leave, he understood that it was the last time he would ever visit that place. That new Arroya he had found and the old Arroya from his memories were two completely different towns; the one from his golden years seemed like a pristine, holy virgin while this new, aggiornato version called Wickett looked like a heartless whore eager to desecrate the ashes of everything and everyone that he had once held dear.
He could say the same thing about the war and peace dichotomy; only now he couldn't exactly discern which one was supposed to be the virgin and which one was supposed to be the whore.
The American Civil War had turned him into a mercenary – the First World War had magnified his skills. Yet the Second World War had filled his head with doubt and hatred; little still remained of the old codecs that had imprinted his moral compass back then. Now the world was succumbing to a far more dangerous war: a silent war, wrapping them up in yet another type of peace.
Peace… that slippery notion that fills up the void between war and yet more war was about to salute him once more now. That disturbing grey peace that only Outworlders can endure; that tremulous peace that always finds a way to say way more than what any treaty or agreement could ever manage to say… It's always another peace the one that comes after a war because it's always a different society, a different dynamic, a different political structure the one that welcomes and shapes the terms of that newborn peace.
It's always another peace the one that comes after a war.
The cowboy knew it back then – just like he still knows it now.
Arc III
Chapter XXXI
53M / Ard'ahain
(Six Degrees of Separation – Side A)
"…No, even that wall was not always glass; at times it again became black stone, and then I did not know what was happening on the other side, what had become of her in those unfathomable intervals; what strange events might be taking place. I was even convinced that during those moments her face changed, that her lips curled with scorn and she was perhaps laughing with some other man, and that the whole story of the passageways was my own ridiculous invention, and that after all there was only one tunnel, dark and solitary: mine, the tunnel in which I had spent my childhood, my youth, my entire life. And in one of those transparent sections of the stone wall I had seen this girl and had naively believed that she was moving in a tunnel parallel to mine, when in fact she belonged to the wide world, the unbounded world of those who did not live in tunnels; and perhaps out of curiosity she had approached one of my strange windows, and had glimpsed the spectacle of my unredeemable solitude […]"
Ernesto Sábato – The Tunnel
53M
[Eight years and 363 days later]
He had already lost all track of time. The immaterial substance was becoming thinner and thinner with each passing day; each waking moment leading him straight into the unfathomable arms of oblivion. Had he had a pen, he would have decorated the walls of his cell with all those tally marks that the inmates back in Earthrealm were so fond of, or so it seemed, depending on the colorful voices telling the multiplicity of stories about life behind bars.
Tally marks had never truly been his thing back then, while he was still captive under Carlisle's indefatigable supervision. His cell had remained untouched then; he didn't really see the need to ruin the concrete with the rather rhetorical resemblance of such a sad calendar. Of course, the irony would follow him and even chase after him if he was feeling particularly evasive, in order to imprint and carve, in time, all those previously neglected tally marks across his own forearms nonetheless, as if subtly reproaching him: "I told you so."
Time after Zar had become nothing but the memory of an intransitive agent for him, its unreliable nature could still not really bind him. He, the mythical child of time itself, was finally free of its stifling manners. He simply assumed that a new day would always come after another; there would never be something simpler than that.
He stopped asking what day it was during his training sessions rather quickly – the repetitive action grew so old so easily they could already anticipate the frustration exhibited all over his face the second they answered that question. Reptile was the first to understand the machinations behind Black's sudden reluctance, and the Zaterran enforcer even decided to help him then: "It's the day before tomorrow," he would always reply, joining Black in his brand new crusade against the monopoly of time. His routine had, in time, become his everything. It was the reason why he would wake up in the morning as well as the purpose directing him straight back to bed each night.
By the time he opened his eyes, they were already there.
He should have listened to those footsteps approaching his cell. He should have sensed those shadows as they quickly moved to illustrate the walls of his space.
Yvo, surrounded by five guards, was leading the Committee that would set him free. The barrister turned the key and impregnated the whole room with a renewed sense of liberty yet Black knew better than to trust such a precarious, simple mechanism. Although he knew, after so long, that it was time for his replenished self to walk.
"Erron Black," the barrister addressed him, forcing the mercenary to meet his gaze, "you are free to go."
But Black didn't move.
It wasn't that he didn't want to leave his cell, au contraire, he had actually craved for that moment. He just couldn't believe that after so much pain and torturous sorrow, setting him free could be so easy. They had made him feel as if he was bound to earn that freedom he had been deprived of and he had, in a way, by spending an entire decade behind bars. He knew it, he was no stranger to the system: you do bad, you do time yet the events that had polluted his incarceration were blinding him from such obvious evidence. He had already served his term; and he had, in fact, already earned his freedom by doing so yet now the very notion of justice seemed just so deprived of all factual reasoning for him… It was like criminals could do almost anything; they would spend some time behind bars and they would be released after their designated periods of captivity had positively expired. He concluded that the real punishment for their actions was subtly hidden in the nearly morbid way they would be forced to rot away in prison – none of those criminals had as much time to spare as he had, he knew, but still the whole process of incarcerating a man seemed dubious to him now – fragile, simple.
Easy.
He had lost ten years of his life but what does it mean for a man who is 184 years old? A lost, lackluster dot in a line composed by many brighter, more significant dots? A parenthesis within time? A breather, maybe?
Even if it wasn't the first time he had been forced to witness life from behind bars, it had indeed been the longest period his body had lacked that sense of freedom. For moments it had nearly destroyed his sanity but in the end, it still felt simple.
Zarrabayeusse had been right back then: ten years weren't supposed to mean that much for a man like him. And even if the painfully slow day-by-day had felt like waking up in hell almost every morning, the final outcome of his stay in the Maximum Security Pavilion of the dungeon still felt innocuous for him. The compilation of all those years seemed easy now that the insufferable daily nature of his punishment had finally subsided.
He himself had put many men and women behind bars but he still was a complete stranger when it came to their release. Was it that simple for everyone? What was it that they did then, when those highly anticipated words would come then, to massage their wounded pride?
Was he supposed to feel happy? Or maybe relieved?
Was he supposed to thank them? To cry, even?
He narrowed his eyes, still trying to wrap his head around such flimsy concepts, as he approached Yvo and the guards. Once freed from his cell, the barrister locked the door again; the impervious and now empty space becoming foreign for him almost instantly. Without sharing a single word they all turned their backs to the image of that putrid cell and marched away; the guards quickly abandoned them the second the group had walked through the prison's main gate. Up to the corridors and straight into the agitated life of the early morning Palace, the wind brushing his skin had never felt so inspiring.
The noises, the light, the faces… A common man would have cried at the mere reminiscence of past experiences suddenly invading his dormant mind. But he was no ordinary man, not anymore, and all those iridescent flashes of a sense of mundanity he had lost so long ago were only causing him to realize the hatred he felt towards that place now. The Palace; the idol of his most intimate, personal defeat, had now become the monument for all of his bottled up resentment to finally gain a solidified, substantial shape.
Yvo led him straight to the room that had been his until the final night, back when M'horel decided to attack him. Another key unlocked the door, proving the mercenary that no-one had used his personal chamber during his absence. Black stepped inside the room but when he looked over his shoulder, he noticed the barrister hadn't followed him. Instead, the tiny man was only watching him from afar, with his body leaned against the doorframe.
"I'll come back for you in an hour. The Kahn will meet you then. Dress accordingly." With that, Yvo left.
The sight of his old room was like entering a past he had fought hard to forget. They hadn't moved a single thing; the same chaotic room he had abandoned a decade ago was the exact same one he was receiving now. Absorbed by the images of that night, the gunman considered his imminent meeting with Kotal Kahn: the last time he had seen the emperor, fragility had gotten the best of him. Their encounter had taken place right after Zarrabayeusse's demise and, through the bitter half-smile adorning his naked visage now, the emperor's words still rang inside his ears with the petulance that only a true politician can offer: he had kept his word about his training, his diet and his personal hygiene. But that other part of the emperor's speech, the one regarding Zar's memorial…
"I myself will come back for you tomorrow, to escort you to your wife's funeral."
The Khan had never returned.
Black never really knew whether it was because the emperor had been lying to him from the get-go or if maybe something had made him change his mind. Yet the only thing that mattered, in the end, was that Kotal had never returned. Even if attending Zarrabayeusse's funeral was the last thing his troubled mind was ready to endure back, then the mercenary still felt like he should have been there to say his final goodbye to his wife but they didn't allow it. No one came for him the following day; the little he had heard about Zar's memorial, he had heard it from Ferra.
He searched through his wardrobe for his regular attire but as he slid his fingers through his old garments, he decided that it was time for a change. The whole room was pleading for a change; he considered as he turned around again to take in the view with eager, hungry eyes: Zar's blood was still painting his bedsheets, the hundreds of tiny glass fragments that had pricked his feet were still there as well, as if suspended in time. The jealousies were still half-opened; the scratches all over the still of the frame instantly reminded him of the final assault: half his back in the air, hanging outside the window.
Uneven pieces of M'horel's skull mask were still scattered near the bed and the sand from one of his grenades, the one he had smashed against the floor while trying to create a diversion, had taken residence all over the ruined chamber.
"Bang - Bang…" Ferra's timid voice broke the trance that had trapped him.
She stepped inside the room as his eyes accompanied the tiny warrior then she extended her arms towards him, exposing his precious box of memories. It was a sign of trust and gratitude towards the female enforcer - and now she was completing her part of the deal: Black had kept his box with him down in his cell for a few days only, fearing the questionable conditions of the dungeon could ruin the battered contents resting inside.
All those memories had already survived his own impulses and the menacing flames of his own incandescent bonfire but he wasn't sure they would endure the humidity of that filthy cell. As a token of his silent appreciation for her genuine, altruistic sense of friendship, Black had trusted Ferra with his box and, in return, the petite warrior had agreed to have his box returned to him the minute he was free from his cell.
He got on his knees and retrieved the box from her child-like hands, wishing he could at least vociferate a simple thank you to the only person who cared enough to visit him after Zarrabayeusse's death. Yet he still found it hard to speak, to say those words out loud, as if afraid the sounds of his gratitude could cause his entire self to disappear completely. Unable to find any other way to express what he was feeling, the cowboy mercenary quickly rested the box on the ground and wrapped his heavy arms around Ferra – the enforcer did not even have any time to resist the embrace; she just stood there, petrified, as if the man hugging her now had nothing to do with that other man she had grown accustomed to.
It took her a few moments for the feelings to sink in.
His arms were still enveloping her when she finally decided to incline her head towards his and reciprocate the gesture. Her shorter arms struggled then, but even so, no matter how much she kept trying to stretch her arms and fingers, she still couldn't cover the distance. As she heard him laugh, she settled for his neck; finally understanding that the geography of his broad shoulders was way out of her incipient reach.
They broke the embrace only to grace their faces with awkward smiles; simple and tender gestures that helped them remember their time together as his training progressed – from that undernourished, skeleton-like form of his to this brand new version of him; a version that was even better than the one before that miserable cell: toned walls of muscle were covering the fortress of his ancient bones, it would take somebody really stupid or with a gigantic death wish to fulfill to ever cross that man expecting anything less than a brutal lesson.
Her unorthodox methods had crafted a completely different warrior in him than the one he had been before – not only he would have his weapons and his deadly skills to defend himself now; she - and the other half of her existence - had provided him with unparalleled, nearly Mesozoic moves that could be defining in Kombat, should the need arise. Both Torr and Ferra had taught him everything they knew about the dance of a good battle – should he ever find himself in such a crucial situation exceeding the potential of his weapons and his skills, he would still have plenty of decisive moves in his personal inventory for him to come out of the showdown victorious.
"You hurry," the tiny warrior said before offering him a timid grin and Black nodded silently at her as he watched her leave, still bemused by his unprecedented gesture. He walked towards the door and locked it, then he picked up his box of returned memories and placed it on the chaotic, dusty table still placed in the center of his bedchamber. As the gunman noticed how most of his weapons would need to be cleaned and maybe some of them even polished before he could be able to use them again, he decided to get ready for his meeting with the Kahn – after all, there would always be time for him to run an extensive inventory of his possessions once freed from his civic obligations.
He went back to his wardrobe but couldn't decide what to wear. The simple, dirty tunic that had covered his body during his stay in prison had somewhat become a second-skin for him. Leaving the decisive election of his future outfit for later, the mercenary went to his private bathroom, filled up his copper-colored bathtub and got undressed.
Trying not to pay attention to the multicolored bruises scattered all across his torso, upper arms and legs was not an easy task: each mark was a reminder of his interactions with the dungeon guards and the cold words that would brush his ears after Zarrabayeusse's death. The filthy Earthrealmer still has his benefits they would say, pointlessly trying to embarrass him or make him feel guilty. His new diet, his training sessions – everything was perceived by them as an offense to the common citizen now engulfed in panic and trepidation because of Black's sloppy methods and the constant abuse of his authority.
His lack of response would always be accompanied by a waterfall of cold showers and many, many fists colliding frantically against his ribcage.
As he let his body sink into the warm water, the mercenary threw his head back, allowing the base of his neck to rest against one of the edges of the bathtub – he needed to cleanse his body not only to get rid of all sweat and dirt still polluting the surface of his skin but also, to get rid of the bittersweet events of that infamous decade. Even if he knew it was a mere symbolism, that there was only so much that the water could positively wash away, he still entered the ritual longing to forget the missing doctor, the unfairly murdered wife, the attacks that had shaken the city, each and every single one of the deaths that could have been prevented if only he had been there to face those demons. He still knew it; he was still sure of it: those attacks had been dark messages directed at him - they didn't care about those citizens: they just wanted to get to him.
They had wanted to expose him and they had succeeded, but their strategies had backfired: M'horel had been the only one paying the ultimate price for such despicable actions. Yet Black had been blessed by Kotal's modest, so-called benevolence; and the sole idea of him still breathing, even if behind bars, was enough for the blood in their veins to boil.
The dull knocking on his door compelled him to open his eyes. The water had already grown cold; the first picturesque goosebumps now effectively extended all across his forearms. With rivulets of water still cascading down every corner of his nearly bicentennial complexion, the cowboy mercenary stood up and got out of the bathtub. Exercising his memory with yesteryears' gymnasia, he walked up to the end wall of the bathroom and picked up a towel from the old basket. Brushing the soft material against his impervious skin, he quickly dried his limbs only allowing a few stray droplets to still travel the length of his body rather carelessly.
"The Kahn is waiting," Yvo sentenced, still waiting on the other side of the door.
Black discarded the wet towel on the floor as he left the bathroom and came back to the conundrum still waiting for him inside his wardrobe. The idea had always been present throughout the years spent in prison: changing his style was now mandatory; the man subjugated by those clothes was not the same man emerging from the claws of prolonged captivity now. Frivolous as it was, and besides his taste for weapons, alcohol and cigarettes, over the years he had also developed a taste for clothes: in fact, he had managed to create his very own, private collection of garments; souvenirs from confiscations and hold-ups, mementos from a brighter past. Yet even if he had found all those garments to be appealing enough for him to collect them in the first place, he had never actually seen them all becoming into a whole outfit before his eyes. The individual pieces of that puzzle had seemed alien back then; the combined result of all those garments placed together was far too distant from the image he had crafted for himself.
But now it seemed like a particularly good occasion for that outfit to come out and play and the constant knocking on his door precipitated his decision.
"Comin'," the gunman mumbled as he finished the old task of protecting his eyes behind dense clouds of kohl.
The man that Yvo had been waiting at the other side of the door had little to do with the actual subject he was supposed to escort to the Throne Room now. Combat boots and grey trousers were accompanied by a matching grey, tight jacket. No bandana, no mask; just a burgundy front extended all the way up until its thick edges had positively concealed the lower half of the face staring right back at him. The make-up was familiar, but even if they had already grown accustomed to that infamous new hairstyle thanks to the prison guards' bitter sense of humor, the truth was that little to nothing remained of the Erron Black they all remembered.
They walked in complete silence - not only because stupor was getting the best of Yvo but also because Black was beginning to feel as if his time talking to pawns had surreptitiously met its end. It was time to face the Kahn, to actually talk to the only man still balancing all his possible futures in the pendulum of his hands.
Yet silence stretched itself even farther the moment the duo entered the Throne Room. It had been nearly nine years of absence and oblivion and that man marching towards the emperor now was a living statement: he had made the most out of his training sessions, that much seemed obvious by now. He had focused all of his energy into getting ready to hunt down those bastards and make them pay for taking Zar away from him. He was ready now, as ready as can be, and the emperor quickly got the message: the time for preparations was over - Black was ready: his muscles were ready, his rigid jawline was ready, the impersonality encysted deep inside those cold eyes of his was ready.
The mercenary took a few moments to absorb his surroundings: the Throne Room hadn't changed that much since the so-called trial yet there were some alterations here and there, like subtle decoys screaming quietly about an image that needed to be restored. He chuckled, involuntarily, as he approached the table placed in the center of the room – not only his own personal image had changed: now there were warriors' sculptures displayed upon tall, marble-like pillars. Weapons, encrusted in large shields, were decorating the walls. It seemed this brand-new museum of war was meant to remind everyone about the true power held by the emperor of Outworld but there was more to it – it was almost as if all those symbols had been placed there for another reason: maybe it was to help remind the Emperor that he himself had once been a warrior; that no matter if all those political affairs going on around him had covered his spirit under a thick layer of bureaucracy, the fighter was still in there, thriving to get out.
The emperor signaled Black to take a seat at the opposite end of the table; his calm demeanor quickly dissipating his evident surprise. Yvo followed the mercenary, sitting down right next to him even if the tiny barrister was still having a hard time trying to intercept all those cold glances traveling the length of the table.
"I assume you may think that, during your absence, this office has besmirched your name and reputation," the emperor began.
No hello, no welcome back.
"I guarantee you; This Office did not. Whatever you may find out there in the streets, whatever it is that their voices have to say about you, it is completely volitional."
There it was again, the politician. Not the emperor, not the warrior, not even his former employer. Just a dull, lackluster politician.
Black looked over his shoulder: Yvo was visibly nervous; tension was making the barrister fidget in his chair.
"Let's get this over with, what's it gonna be?" The gunslinger sentenced coldly, his eyes returning to the Kahn. The emperor raised an eyebrow to salute the old Erron Black still existing inside that buffed up vessel staring right back at him – no matter how irritating that man was, it was reassuring for Kotal to address Black's former personality still fighting its way out as a vivid reality.
"Do you still want to work for This Office?" Even if he was Outworld's highest authority, a part of him knew that such a nodal point needed to be sorted out rather quickly but Kotal's many doubts were met with relief the second Black nodded wordlessly to his question. Even if it had been a gesture of pure politeness on his part, the emperor did not want to expose his image to those ineffable rumors that could imply that he had chosen to keep Black against the ex-Earthrealmer's will.
Kotal gathered his hands together on the table, his long fingers intertwining around each other: "Alright. Shall we proceed, then?"
Erron nodded in silence once again but, this time, he couldn't help but notice the gloomy expression contaminating Yvo's visage. He could even swear there were several drops of sweat already running down the barrister's temples.
"You will be designated to the 53M Garrison. We've just been told they have an opening – one of the guards is retiring," the emperor informed Black but if he could have seen behind the burgundy covering up the gunman's lower part of his face, he would have been met with nothing but apathy and discord.
It is always another peace, and it is never that simple.
He could have yelled, showed himself offended by Kotal's strategies and shady schemes, but he chose to remain silent. His wiser side understood, rather quickly, that his silence could be far more unsettling than his outspoken protests.
"Your new group patrols the outskirts of Z'unkahrah," Yvo finally intervened, though still visibly nervous. It didn't escape Black's reasoning, though, that the description used by the barrister was far more embellished than the way most Outworlders would choose to talk about the suburbs: he knew patrolling that part of the city had nothing to do with his previous, more privileged duties. Now he was only going to act as just another bloodhound dog, rummaging his way through Z'unkahrah's most despicable dregs.
The emperor tapped his fingers on the table – it was clear that Black's complete lack of response was making him feel uneasy.
"You'll report every day to your superior and, in time, if his reports are satisfactory enough for This Office, you shall obtain your old job back," Kotal explained. "It is important, son, that you see this decision as a conciliatory measure between This Office and yourself – we're not trying to punish you; we believe those years spent in prison were punishment enough for you. Still, we support the idea that you must earn your way back," the emperor went on, "I gave way too much power to a man corrupted by greed back then but I'm positive you can still be redeemed – and if you can be redeemed, son, then This Office can be redeemed as well."
There it was, Black finally pondered, the Politian taking over.
A reformed Black still ensured a brave, certain emperor – his leadership affirmed; untouched. What the Kahn did not suspect was that a man as old as Black had already heard it all, and all those futile attempts of hiding Kotal's true authority behind the seemingly legitimized empowerment of His Office were nothing but a poorly constructed masquerade that could not prevent those cold eyes from seeing the obvious: Black's release was meant to rise all sorts of rumors and repercussions; some of them could even be powerful enough to threaten the emperor's political judgment. So this was the best chance Kotal was ever going to get to finally balance the scales in his favor: not only he would be seen as a smart leader; capable of providing redemption for a corrupted enforcer, but he would also be perceived as a clever tactician, moving each piece in his intricate chess board with the prestige of a professional.
It was amusing for Black to actually be able to see right through his ex and brand new employer; to smell his fear and his doubts, to be able to capture the very essence of his uneasiness. As stoic as the Osh-Tekk's demeanor seemed to be, the truth was that Black's mere presence was frightening now, forcing the emperor to seek shelter under the comfortable cover of Outworld's political system.
"Do you understand, son?" Kotal asked, as if trying to summon Black inside his own machinations.
Son… it made him sick to the stomach. Even if he understood that Kotal was trying his best to sugar-coat his words, it still made him feel nauseous.
"Rest now, son… I myself will come back for you tomorrow, to escort you to your wife's funeral."
Kotal had never returned.
Complete unaware of Black's inner turmoil the emperor went on, completely unaware of Black's true feelings, completely unaware of the fact that all that bottled-up rancor was finally beginning to take its toll on the mercenary.
"I need an answer, Erron - do you understand? Do you concur that this is what's best for everyone, son?"
Son… the simple elocution brushed against his impervious skin once more but far from being as soothing as a gentle caress, it felt more like an obscure hand grabbing him by his neck and forcing him to subjugate his spirit. Maybe it was because of how reluctant he had always felt towards that word, especially when enunciated by a male voice. Maybe it was because the only man that should have called him his son had been a coffee-eyed demon who had mercilessly raped his mother when she was barely thirteen years old.
The offspring of a whore and a demon… The devil; in the flesh.
He had felt that way many times before but now his every elucubration was finally getting shaped after that malicious word; the very notion that Kotal's throat had just procured. He had walked the worlds and watched them all wither and die. War after war, peace after peace. Generations buried by generations that had gotten subsequently buried by yet another generation. Still, the Kahn's impertinence had crystallized the idea; the potent reclaiming of his nature becoming nearly obvious, as if he had been finally readied to visualize himself as an eternal punisher, as an evergreen seed of evil – as the true Ruler of Limbo.
Black crossed his arms over his chest rather despondently, his body language becoming as readable as an open book: the nerve of those voices calling him their son, how could they? He had already been there, his boots marching on the ground of all of those worlds they were now trying to claim as their own; way before they had even existed, and way before they had even begun floating inside their fathers' testicles. And still, with one last glance over at Yvo and his diminishing figure, the cowboy finally understood that the worst was yet to come. He nodded one more time, still soundlessly but now, more determined than before. He took a moment for his cold, coffee-colored stare to find an anchor in the barrister's taciturn, gloomy expression.
Then he finally spoke up:
"What about my money?"
With a nearly unnoticeable gulp, Yvo suddenly stopped fidgeting and produced an artificial yet rather stoic façade - yet his small hands were still giving him away; his fingers intertwined, his sweaty palms locked but still visibly shaky. Kotal Kahn beckoned the barrister as if urging the small man to speak and Black directed his undivided attention towards Yvo then, finding the tiny barrister's evident uneasiness rather amusing. In a way, it almost seemed as if the interaction between the two had been previously rehearsed.
"Well," Yvo began after clearing his throat, "your salary now is going to be inferior in comparison to your previous earnings."
"I know that. But I asked what about my money?"
"I'm afraid you…" Terror in his voice, the barrister stopped and looked at the Kahn as if expecting Outworld's highest authority to back him up. Yet the emperor remained imperturbable, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Yvo swallowed hard; the sound and the visible motion of his neck and throat adjusting to the incoming fluid becoming clear sings that he was frightened to tell the truth. Finding himself all alone between a potentially enraged Erron Black and a completely uncooperative Kotal Kahn, the barrister finally confessed:
"You don't have any money."
"Come again," Black stood up abruptly and grabbed the barrister by his blue tunic; the ire exhibited inside those eyes screaming silently at him – those pupils, finding their irascible pleasure in the barrister's shivering form, were informing him that they were ready to eat him alive.
"He said you don't have any money," the emperor finally intervened. "Now put him down, Black."
The mercenary let Yvo fall down to the ground yet his curled-up fists collided brutally against the table still standing right in front of him.
"You said my salary was meant to be perceived as a pension for Zar, what happened to my incomes?" He questioned, barely keeping his cool.
The barrister stood up and dragged his fallen chair away from Black. He didn't sit back down, though; he merely reduced himself to be a silent spectator, gluing his back to a distant wall and hoping his insignificant figure could just vanish into thin air.
Kotal Kahn eyed Black with a coldness the barrister had never seen before. Then he opened a broad, blue palm for that particular treasure to be freed from all bindings. The second coin, the one he had confiscated from M'horel during the trial that had taken place in that very same room nearly a decade ago, was still exhibiting a golden luster that simply refused to get extinguished by the inclement passing of the years.
After contemplating the object with peculiar fondness, the emperor finally let it roll across the table; all the way, for that petulant, straight trajectory to finally meet Black's enraged fist. The coin connected with the ex-Earthrealmer's warm skin then began spiraling – the dance, tranquil at first but frantic towards the end of its tether. Shapes growing more and more frenetic in the catastrophic ballet of his own misfortune as the golden coin swirled away in front of his eyes.
Until it finally stopped, landing flat on one side, right in front of Black's mesmerized vision.
That was the fate of the coins, then – they were finally being reunited after their tiresome odyssey. One of them was now charred, with one of its sides nearly melted thanks to the mercenary's convoluted emotions – the other was still stained with blood. Those coins had become more than just money: they were now the engines of this story, the currency of many truths and lies. They had been playing those parts for more than a decade and now, it was finally time for them to rest.
"You should call yourself lucky – that should have been your only payment," the emperor's snarly voice shook the stupefied man out of his reverie. "The money we gave to your wife as a pension to compensate for her losses during your imprisonment has already been expended. After she passed, we found out she hadn't touched that money at all so we decided that, since you couldn't leave your cell to pay your final respects, the least you could do for your fallen wife was to use that money to pay for her funeral."
Black opened his mouth to protest but the all the words invading his throat were just too desultory to be said out loud so he decided not to let his emotions speak out for him. In a way they were right; he had no real objections: at least he had done something for her.
"What about the rest of my money?" he asked after a moment of silent contemplation. "The money I should have received after she died?"
"Well, that pension was only meant to help your wife," the emperor began and the mercenary sat back down as he eyed him suspiciously: his unreadable expression was forcing the Kahn to deepen his explanation: "After she died, we stopped validating your wages because, technically, you were unemployed."
It took him a moment to finally wrap his head around the idea: they had played him. And now he was being forced to make ends meet with nothing but a minimum wage and zero privileges.
"Erron, if you allow me…" Yvo finally managed to say, "since Zar was an employee of the Barristers' Office, and she was in the official payroll, I can try to process a pension for you now that you're her widower."
The mercenary shook his head in silence; his thoughts were now a sticky cobweb of bitter memories and unresolved emotions: how could he ever accept her money now? How could he ever bring himself to experience such a spectacular fall?
"No," he said, fighting the irony embedded inside Yvo's proposal. He had tried to convince her to use his money back then and she had said no – she hadn't touched a single coin. He just couldn't accept that pension now. There was him, finally, earning his freedom. "I accept your terms – but I won't be staying in the Palace," he finally said, his baritone voice lower now, brushing the edges of a whisper.
"Is it because of Zar?" the barrister asked, "we can give you another room."
Black shook his head again, his eyes returning to the monumental figure of the impassive Kahn staring back at him even if his words were aimed for the concerned barrister.
"He said I need to earn my way back here; I assume that includes my stay in your Palace."
"It is Outworld's Palace," Kotal retorted.
"No, sir. I'm afraid it's not."
The cowboy's rather simple answer was far more dangerous than expected: there he was; a man fallen from grace that still didn't hesitate to question Kotal's rule.
"Fine, then," the emperor finally concluded. "Your decision feels only natural to me, you're going to have to make an effort to climb your way back up to the top – everything has always been rather easy for you, Black: way back then, you hadn't done much yet you quickly found yourself sitting right by my side. I just want you to know that you can get back there – you shall see, in time, that hard work and dedication always pays off. Now it is time for you to begin anew, on your own this time. Only your wit and your skills shall assist you this time." The emperor's seemingly paternal speech met his end rather prematurely: "That means no loose ends this time, Black."
The ex-Earthrealmer tilted his head yet it wasn't a sign of confusion: he was finally able to see the whole picture.
"I know the second you walk out that door you're going to start hunting them down: the ones responsible for Zar's death. I know it is absolutely pointless to try to tell you not to do so; you have basically trained your body for this bloodthirsty quest. But before you do anything, I compel you to stop and reconsider the events of your own past: remember what happened last time you decided to act alone - you ended up wounded, nearly bleeding to death, unraveling the very roots of this entire situation. Remember what happened the last time you abused your power… this is the only warning you shall be getting from This Office: no loose ends this time."
Black's mouth produced a scornful grin under the burgundy still secluding his lips from the world outside – his imminent participation in the affairs of the 53M Garrison were a win-win situation for nearly everyone: the emperor had subtly allowed him to unleash his own twisted hell all across the city; he had facilitated his sole mission and he was not going to stop him or intervene. By hunting down those people, he would also be helping the emperor: it didn't take a mastermind to understand that the ones responsible for Zarrabayeusse's demise were intrinsically connected to the group of people that had attacked the city so finding Zar's assassins also implied solving the riddle still engulfing the realm. He still was a pawn trapped inside Kotal's intricate strategies yet now he had been graced with secrecy. Kotal had just turned him into a silent hitman; he would be in the spotlight no more – he would now be moving inside the limits of a greyish, legitimized shadow.
"We still don't know much about the true ramifications of this organization," the Kahn went on, "but we do know how hard it was for us to finally establish these peaceful bridges connecting us with Earthrealm. We do know how hard it was for us to conceal from their prying eyes that an invisible enemy had gotten us on our knees… we do know how hard it was to keep from them the fact that we could have faced the beginning of yet another civil war. Whatever you do, do not burn those bridges down, Black."
The Population Census had indeed helped. Earthrealmers were no longer a problem for Outworld and the Special Forces had been rewarded with a long queue of long-lost criminals that had once escaped their sights and abandoned the realm.
Ferra had told him during one of her visits: there had been one final attack – about a year after Zar's death – but Outworld's defenses had prevailed back then, nullifying the explosives. The Rebel-Seekers had been quiet ever since that night but only a fool could believe they were done. They simply weren't. They had only chosen to shelter their filthy bodies in the shadows of a tenebrous peace.
It is always another peace…
Black nodded, understanding his new role.
"Where do I get my uniform and my skull mask?" he demanded, finally.
"You won't be wearing any of those things," Kotal sentenced.
Of course, Black realized grimly. The Kahn wanted everyone to know he had been demoted to a lower league. There it was, at last - it just couldn't be that simple: he was now finally earning his freedom.
"Any requests?" the emperor asked, the serious tone he was offering now was quickly indicating Black that their meeting was almost over. Black considered his options until he finally decided to speak up, requesting the only thing that was still bittering up his heart.
"I want Aalem's body to be transferred to the family crypt where it belongs."
The Kahn shook his head yet, before he was able to speak, the barrister took the lead: "I'm afraid that's not possible. The crypt has already been sealed," Yvo explained.
Infuriated, Black aimed his anger towards Kotal: "You knew Aalem was dead."
"You never mentioned there was a body," the Kahn retorted effortlessly.
"Dead people don't just evaporate," Black spat through clenched teeth as the image of Henry invaded his thoughts.
"Zarrabayeusse was the last member of the family lineage. That's why the family crypt got sealed – there's no one left," Yvo explained, conciliatorily.
"I am… was… part of the family too."
"So you think you'll die before the whole cemetery disappears? Please, Black… you'll be here long after that happens…" Kotal sentenced coldly, finally using Black's longevity against him.
Being buried in the Land of the Fallen was a privilege reserved solely for only a few. Way back then, when Kotal decided not only to include Dexitis in that special zone of the cemetery but to also open a crypt for his whole family, the idea behind the Kahn's motives had been intriguing for Black, to say the least. Kotal appreciated Dexitis – maybe even more than Black could care to admit. The blacksmith's machinations and plans had helped the Osh-Tekk representative during the conflicted times of his rise to the power, that much was true, yet none of the people resting for all eternity inside that family crypt met the qualifications required to enter the Land of the Fallen: neither they had been warriors nor they had died in Kombat.
Black still remembered the place; it wasn't as intimidatingly magnificent as Shao Kahn's mausoleum or the catacombs surrounding it – it was more like a small town filled with low, lugubrious buildings, morbid and gloomy enough to freeze the blood running through his veins.
A sealed crypt looked exactly like all those bricked up mausoleums he had seen back in Earthrealm, and knowing his own devilish ways had been involved in all of their deaths, the mercenary finally found himself wondering why those crypts, why those mausoleums needed to be sealed at all – were they preventing someone from getting in or were they actually preventing someone – something – from getting out?
"You should have made this request earlier," Kotal reflected, the sordid voice of the emperor brought the cowboy back to reality, "while there still was time."
Time… Black pondered in silence as he stood up and left the Throne Room; the dead have all the time in the world…
He went back to his old bedchamber and used his old Tarkatan Blade to break through a selection of floorboards: his savings were still there, waiting for him – all those years of precaution and speculation had finally paid off. He hid the small brownish bags inside his jacket and sat down on the bed: with his old, damaged box of memories resting on his lap, the man produced the second coin from his pocket and placed it inside the box: finally, both coins had returned to their original owner. Then the realization hit him, as his eyes gradually lost focus: Zar had saved his box from the fire on the same night M'horel decided to attack the couple. That's why she was there that night; she must have realized that his memories were simply too precious to let them be consumed by the vindictive flames of his own convoluted emotions. She must have been waiting for him – waiting to talk some sense into him, to make him realize that no matter the pain, he could never get rid of the true man still resting inside.
The only thing she had found that night had been an undeserved attack – the very beginning of her own end.
Sad and upset, the mercenary swallowed his pride as he remembered why he had accepted the Kahn's offer: she was the reason why; she was now the fuel driving him. He couldn't just leave and start anew someplace else: he needed to find them and make them pay.
He packed his bags and left the Palace as Zar's voice assaulted him with the echoes of a truth that was now too evident to be ignored:
"You may see this place as the epitome of power but all I see is the fake idol that took everything and everyone away from me."
He should have listened.
Ard'ahain
Back into the saddle again, the cowboy was left with no other choice but to accept that those dusty streets, that those ancient-looking neighborhoods he was now forced to patrol every single day looked very much like his beloved Old West. The feeling of belonging again in that no man's land was as ironic as it was unprecedented: like that time, back in the seventies, everything had changed for him and yet, deep down, he still could feel the same old contradiction placing him amongst all anomalies; making a living museum out of him.
It is always another peace…
This peace he had found was silent and weak like a disease slowly spreading its nefarious wings before getting ready to soar. This peace was fragile and obscure, in perfect concordance with the so-called war that still had them all feeling like defeated hostages walking on thin ice.
Away from the comforting luxuries of the Palace by his own volition, Black rented himself a small room within a filthy hovel near the 53 Garrison station – with no windows and only enough space for him to have a cot, a chair, and a small bathroom, this new-found simplicity was somehow soothing for him now that his routine had been reduced to reporting himself each morning to his superior like a regular soldier before walking down those dusty streets for as long as his eyes could see the sun setting on the horizon before him.
Completely immersed in the rent-a-thug system reining all over the lower spheres of Kotal's rule, his new colleagues only seemed interested in making him feel unwelcomed. He was paying the price of being an Earthrealmer but that wasn't all: it was almost as if those simple soldiers were now fully determined to find their joy in his misery – he had been once placed in a better, higher position, both in rank and wage, so now watching him struggle each day with little money and even fewer resources to perform his job was somehow amusing for them, as if addressing the cowboy's impoverished condition could somehow mitigate their own misfortune.
There was mistrust in Black: he knew most of those soldiers that were now walking down those same streets with him could have been easily tempted by Kotal's promised paradise… when the emperor failed to deliver, many of those men could have debated inside their minds whether to turn their backs on Outworld's highest authority or not.
Many of them could be Rebel-Seekers still in disguise.
Yet there was another class; an even lower cast than the simple soldiers marching right next to him: the common citizens of those neighborhoods. Their expressions had changed drastically the minute their eyes had spotted Black out there in the streets again – it was clear they still resented him, yet ironically enough, people seemed to be more afraid of him now than they had been in the past. The thought was unsettling for the troubled marksman but still, it was easy for him to see that, for most of the citizens, there was something disturbing about his presence - even with his authority severed and his power limited.
Something about him still frightened them.
It only took him a couple of days to realize that his superior was an ass: the man hated his guts. He was supposed to review his skills, his performance, his degree of commitment to the cause, his integrity, his loyalty and his manners yet the hatred in those cold, black eyes was subtly letting the cowboy know that no matter how many people he could manage to help, no matter how many criminals he could catch, his reports were never going to be satisfactory.
"You can earn your way back…"
Yeah, good luck with that.
The first week was a never-ending nightmare filled with terrorized visages and scornful comments. The second week quickly turned into the living embodiment of his coldness and his capability to disassociate himself from all their bullshit. The third week had already felt old and weary, until one hot afternoon, right before sunset, he saw a couple of very old Outworlders pleading for help to a bunch of obnoxious soldiers.
He turned his back on them.
Yet their voices, supplicating, were met with nothing but indifference.
As he began to walk down the streets, headed for the station and ready to call it a day, the mercenary felt a soft hand landing on his broad shoulders and weakly tugging on his jacket. He turned around and took a good look at them: a man and a woman, visibly old and worried, had turned to him for help now that the rest of the soldiers had decided not to get involved.
They must have been truly desperate, the cowboy pondered, already acknowledging the fact that no-one in their right minds would ever go to him for help.
"Astegu sea. Ponyat'le kin-le - Ard'ahain," the old woman told him, her hand gradually slipping from his body.
The mercenary furrowed his brow – his rusted Native Outworlder was not enough to understand what she was trying to tell him.
"She's asking for help, can you help us find Ard'ahain?" the old man translated her words for Black to understand.
"I get that she's asking for help," the gunslinger sentenced despondently, yet there was something else inside their eyes; a potent worry – an unparalleled concern. "Who is Ard'ahain?"
"Our granddaughter," the man said.
"Jinta'lonbu, ma, ma seriouni laba," the woman yelled, "turiu me sea la."
The old man sighed as he moved his hands and signaled the woman that from that point on, he would be the one doing all the talking.
"I am Selice, this is my wife Nevena," the concerned grandfather offered an introduction for the puzzled gunslinger. "Our granddaughter is missing, please help us find her. She's nineteen, she was talking to a friend yesterday morning – but she never returned home."
Black cocked his head slightly, secretly engaged yet still trying to show his indifference.
His mouth betrayed him: "Do you have a picture of her?"
The man shook his head causing the gunslinger to roll his eyes in a rather irreverent way.
"Is she hot?"
He hated himself for having the nerve to allow his mouth to say such words out loud but he knew how things were down those dangerous streets. The old man eyed him suspiciously then offered him a dubious look.
"Fine, come with me," Black ordered the man. "Take me to this friend's house."
As both men began to march, the old lady grabbed Black by his forearm and forced him to turn around again: with a muted mouth and a genuine expression of gratitude, she offered him candy. The gesture was both endearing and heart-breaking for the mercenary. Black knew they didn't have any money to offer yet they felt compelled to offer him something in return for his assistance all the same. In a way, those sweets that looked pretty much like small butterscotches were nothing but a silent explanation of how the garrisons were constantly trying to blackmail and corrupt the people they were supposed to protect. It was all too natural now for the citizens to offer whatever little they had in order to receive some sort of protection or help, and that disgusting reality made Black remember those cold-blooded creditors that had once offered their so-called assistance to Good Old Jacob only to hunt him down like a wounded animal the second the money stopped traveling from the saloon to the insides of their pockets.
Black refused to accept the sweets yet the grandmother took one and placed it inside Black's pocket. The mercenary looked down and thanked her, ashamed, as he turned around once more.
The ancient cowboy and the desperate grandfather walked together, then, as they were headed for the friend's house. The teenage Outworlder didn't have the slightest clue about her missing friend's whereabouts, but she mentioned both girls had been talking to a group of boys the day before. She told them where to find them and they left – Black's suspicions already leading him to that dreadful place; especially now that he had seen the friend with his own eyes: according to Outworld's beauty standards, the friend was ugly.
And ugly meant safe.
It wasn't hard for the duo to find the group of boys chatting carelessly in the street – yet none of them had seen the missing girl. Black tried his best to make sure they all understood that partaking in a kidnapping, even if indirectly, was still a punishable crime and suddenly, out of the blue, one of the boys began to remember: he had seen Ard'ahain, but she had been talking to another man – an old neighbor of his.
The neighbor in question wasn't all that cooperative.
A wise, grumpy old man was not as easily intimidated by a single soldier as a bunch of wild teenagers. Helpless, Black already feared they had reached a dead end in the shape of that man standing right in front of them when the worried grandfather stepped up and finally connected with the neighbor – it seemed as if they could understand each other, from grandpa to grandpa: the man had seen Ard'ahain – and more than just once. She was dating the boy next door.
The boy next door, her so-called boyfriend, had given her up for a handful of coins.
All paths were leading him back to that dreadful place: the House of Pleasure, established decades ago in the heart of the neighborhood. In a way, it was pretty much like The Wise Bird – the place was swaying its way somewhere in between a saloon and a brothel where men could have a drink downstairs or pay for another type of services upstairs, inside the many rooms along that dimly lit corridor.
He had never been a habitué, yet he had been there, more than once, trying to find satisfaction in the comfort of strangers. He hated the place – the smell, the sights; it was all too pathetic for him to actually enjoy his brief escapades, yet he had been there nonetheless, he had paid for those services…
Things had changed for him the second Dexitis told him that they were actually planning to give up Zar; that they were ready to turn her into a whore because, otherwise, she was never going to leave the house. Worried about the woman, he had chosen to marry her and save her from such undesirable future. He never returned to the place after getting married to Zar yet the uneasiness remained all the same, in the back of his mind, knowing that all of those women exhibited there as lackluster treasures had probably been delivered to that awful place by the ones they had loved the most.
Black and the old man entered the House of Pleasure only to find Rosario, the manager, sitting behind the bar.
"We are looking for a nineteen-year-old girl, the name is Ard'ahain – we know she's here," Black informed her.
Rosario stood up and allowed her hands to land on the cowboy's broad shoulders: "I wasn't expecting to see you, Black – but as lovely as this visit of yours may be, I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. We haven't had any new initiations in the last couple of months, my dear."
The girl's grandfather was already losing hope, but the mercenary wasn't ready to give up just yet.
"I wasn't expecting to see you either, Rosario – I thought the Census had taken you away," he teased the nearly seventy-year-old woman as she sat back down.
"I thought the same about you, my dear. But… oh, yes, you were in prison," she fought back.
"Don't know what you're talking about, Ros… even if I'm a widower now I'm still a naturalized Outworlder – and not only by marriage; but also by Royal Decree."
"Good for you, boy. I'm an Outworlder, born and bred, so I don't really see the point of this lovely exchange of ours."
"You're an Outworlder…" Black spat disdainfully, "that's why your name is a Spanish word, right? That's why your name encompasses one of the most sacred idols in the entire Catholic credo – so very Outworlder of you, my dear." He outstretched one of his arms and snatched the white hat she was wearing – his look now complete, the souvenir for this little expedition already anticipating his victorious conclusion.
"Cut the crap and give me the girl."
"Find her," she challenged him seductively as she shrugged even if deep down the woman already knew she had lost.
The gunslinger and the grandfather went upstairs and began searching for the girl – it didn't take them long to find her as she was being introduced to some customers who were about to enter one of the many rooms. The girl ran and wrapped her arms around her sobbing grandfather – the man thanked Black and the mercenary watched them in silence as the reunited relatives quickly abandoned the filthy place.
Satisfied with himself, Black began to walk towards the staircase as well, already ready to leave when a distant echo caught his attention.
The voice; he couldn't place it – yet as alien as it sounded, it was intrinsically familiar.
He followed the sounds of that unpleasant kind of pleasure as he ventured his body farther into the corridor; the many closed doors becoming instant riddles for his senses to solve them all.
That foreign yet somehow familiar whimpering was driving him: one door, two doors, three doors, four doors. He let the palm of his hands caress the only barrier separating him from the source of his sudden commotion – the feeling stirring inside of him only intensified as seconds went by; such ecstasy, such an ignited bonfire was already consuming him, scorching his skin and depriving him of all possible reasoning.
One last moan quickly became a quiet sob and suddenly all pleasure was gone and all that was there for him to hear was a voice calling him on with all its strength, even if not addressing him in particular. The vicious screams erupting from another man's throat quickly becoming alarming, agonizingly hurtful. Black pushed the last door open only to find the source of his enchantment and his sorrow scattered all over the bed. The unsatisfied customer was yelling at her.
"Earthrealm scum…"
Unbeknownst to them, the mercenary was watching the scene with eyes full of disbelief. The woman was pleading the customer to stop yet the furious man was nowhere near finished. He grabbed the naked woman by her legs and forced her to sit up straight on the bed, her black hair cascading down her pale shoulders, covering her breasts, landing on her stomach.
"I paid for it, bitch," was the last thing he said before slapping her hard across the face, the inertia driving her neck causing the back of her head to hit the wall behind the bed – the blackout overcame her abruptly; those pristine, rich blue eyes were closed now.
Infuriated, like a blinded bull ready to strike, Black grabbed the man by the shoulders and tossed him out of the room – he punched that filthy being until his deranged eyes were unable to distinguish his own blood from the customer's then he pushed the bastard downstairs for Rosario to take out the trash: one thing was morbidly comforting about the woman: she was very protective of her girls.
After using his trousers to wipe the unwanted blood still contaminating his hands, Black went back to the room and checked on the woman: she wasn't dead; she had just fainted due to the hard impact of having her head colliding against the wall. He rocked her in his arms tenderly, removing those rebel locks of pitch-black hair from her face.
Amanda had been his mystery – the mystery of God for the devil to play human. She had become his own private system of faith, his moral compass; the abyss in which he had lost himself during the majority of his years. Yet the devil knew that solving that mystery was an unholy act; a deviation of his faith. If one has total certainty about faith, then faith simply ceases to exist.
As he continued to rock her in his arms, he understood his mystery of God had gone nowhere. There she was, with her eyes closed and breathing peacefully against his warm chest. The mystery of God for the devil to play human had found its continuation in the shape of that doctor; in her consuming gaze and her still unexplored body.
Allowing her head to rest in the soft hollow between his neck and his shoulder, the mercenary tightened his embrace as his trembling hands began to caress Alexandra's forehead, waiting for the woman to open her eyes.
Author's notes:
Well, that was long, hope you enjoyed it!
Before I forget, and coming back to the opening quote, the italics selection is not mine, it's the author's.
About this arc finale: I would like to explain why the big jump. I thought it was necessary for you to witness his fall (physical, emotional and even psychological) until he hit rock bottom with Zar's unexpected demise. Now the way up, and everything that happened in between regarding his transformation, I just thought narrating it all would be boring, exceedingly boring, so I chose to go this way instead: to let you see the effects of all those years in the man that he is now. Of course this isn't a task for just one chapter; you'll see the effects of that period of time throughout the fourth arc.
ErronFan: As you can see, she is coming back so no need to panic!
PinkRedRose2: Thank you so much! Your review meant the world to me – it's true that a long-lost ex wife is a stereotype calling for trouble every time so I'm glad you liked what I did with her character. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing!
Looksforthelight: You forgot the K, but I knew it was you! Thank you for reading and reviewing, see… the doctor was near!
Hell on Training Wheels: Thanks, Helly, like big, big thanks! All of those questions will be answered in arc 4, you're gonna have to be patient but answers are coming. Thank you so much!
Girl America: Thank you! When I wrote this I had originally planned for him to have a pleasant dream about his past, a chance for redemption, even if only an oneiric one… yet the second part began to feel more and more like a nightmare but I think it also encompasses his greatest mystery: if the line separating Alex from Amanda is blurry, then the doctor means more to him than we can possibly imagine. Thank you so much!