Interlude

Chapter XLI

Scenes of Broken Love

"People are always shouting they want to create a better future. It's not true. The future is an apathetic void of no interest to anyone. The past is full of life, eager to irritate us, provoke and insult us, tempt us to destroy or repaint it. The only reason people want to be masters of the future is to change the past."

Milan Kundera

I

Wickett. Texas.

March 15th, 1859.

"What would ya like to drink?" The boy asked absentmindedly as his fingers held on tight to the washcloth resting on the bar. It was early, that much was true, but it wasn't the first time an early bird was asking for a drink.

"A glass of wine," the voice suggested, mildly an anchor for the boy to go back to the real world, "and a moment with you."

Chin up, eyes wide, hands frozen.

She would only drink alcohol from time to time, only when stressed or worn out. Yet the tone of her voice had breathed a lifeless kind of life into the still deserted saloon, so the boy acquiesced; their eyes coalescing in a single spark of light after quite some time.

Amanda had that effect on him.

"Hey, freeloader," he tried sympathy for a change, eager to break the ice. He would never charge her for food or drinks; according to Good Ol' Jacob, that's what a real gentleman was supposed to do for his lady. But something had changed between them during the last couple of weeks and whilst he still wasn't ready to reckon the fact that they were having trouble in paradise, he knew the motion of change had already been set.

"It's been a while; been busy?" he asked, and the girl nodded. The boy let the glass slid on the bar for her hand to catch it. "Hi, freckles," he said, a lop-sided grin taking over his enamored face. Amanda smiled back at him, yet the gesture felt incomplete. Almost dishonest.

"Thanks for the wine," the girl whispered. Unfeeling.

"Anytime," Erron reached out for her, his hands caressing her cheeks with renewed affection. "Now what about that moment?"

She tensed under his touch, even when her eyes were subtly telling him that she had, indeed, missed his tender ministrations.

"There's something I need to tell you," she began, but even when her hands were cupping his with unprecedented devotion, the gesture only contributed to the demolition of his hopes as his deepest fears intensified the dark, convoluted theories inside his mind.

Her distance had become palpable after that day. February 25th, 1859, the day he had crossed all lines; the day he had taken a life. His first act as a killer. The final emancipation of his diminished innocence. His very first river of blood, streaming down the edges of his dormant consciousness – the initialization of the brutal life that was soon going to catch up to him, dressing him up in the crimson shadows of death, gore, and violence. He was only trying to protect his so-called family, yet he had erased a life from the surface of this world and the sin of what he had done should have felt like a dagger piercing through his innocence, corrupting his essence and engulfing him in the darkest of nights – but it didn't. The bodies were buried, the floor was moped, and pacts were made that day, then the saloon opened its doors that night as if nothing had happened and deep down, it had actually felt as if nothing had happened.

The kid was now a cold-blooded executioner, but he showed no signs of remorse or guilt. The night that followed such fundamental day had been filled with the perfume of romance in the air; with music and gossip, just like every other night. Only it wasn't like any other night. It shouldn't have felt like it was any other night.

Maybe she could sense it, dwelling deep inside of him: the latent stampede of his transgression, molding his adolescence in shapes and colors that should not belong to him.

The thought itself became horrifying for the young boy.

He had taken a life, but he was unable to feel any regrets. He had suppressed his own remorse only to boast in the honeyed accuracy of his skills. Death could not reach him; justice could not touch him, and guilt was a word that had yet to be found in his precarious, personal dictionary. But those blue eyes of hers, about to rain in front of him, were like violent hammers trying to demolish his imperturbable self. That was the only guilt he knew; that was his only fear: to become a murderer in her eyes. To be pitied by her, to be rejected by the one he truly loved.

He braced himself and hoped for the best as images of those lifeless bodies flashed before his eyes, summoning a hurricane of unwanted memories. Still, the blow was harder than expected.

"My father wants me to marry the barber," Amanda let out, her voice unable to contain the anguish asphyxiating her.

The boy's expression changed abruptly: he was off the hook, yet he was about to lose her all the same.

She showed him the ring: it was simple, really, nothing fancy. Nothing to brag about. The honest symbol of a man looking for a serious commitment. Nothing more, nothing less.

She was safe from his sins, but fate was a whimsical bitch, slapping him hard on his face: little did he know, back then, that he was bound to lose her every single time.

He grabbed her by her forearm and dragged her out of the saloon. It was hard for the girl to tell what was going through his mind – his chest heaved in desperation, his tense jawline showed no emotion other than sheer fury. He let go from her the second they reached the Taggart house. With both fists, Erron knocked on the door; his unleashed impetus could not be contained inside her tears.

Nathaniel grinned the second he saw the young bartender. Those coffee-colored eyes were on fire.

He didn't wait for the older man to ask him what he wanted. Didn't even wait for Nathaniel to say he was welcome to come inside his house. He got on one knee, that's what a real gentleman was supposed to do for his lady after all. Each one of the tears cascading down Amanda's cheeks was being mirrored by the distinctive, tactless waves of laughter emanating from her father's mouth. Erron's proposal ventured the room, only to be silenced by yet more laughter.

"You got nothing to offer, boy."

Only then, Black stood up; his eyes fixed on the broken blue of her eyes.

"But she doesn't want to marry Mr. Farindon," the boy begged, "I'm the one she loves; how much more are you willing to hurt your own daughter?"

He felt his hands itch. It could be so simple.

He could end him – actually end him. No more empty threats, no more childish outbursts. He could end him. But ending Nathaniel would only undress his true form: the form of a ruthless killer. He could even end the barber; he could get rid of his competitor to ensure no-one would ever try to steal her from his shaky hands.

Yet deep down he knew: her eyes would stop him every time.

His own twisted reflection, forever alive inside her irises, had been damned by her pristine type of love. She would never love a killer, even if a killer was all that he really was.

He left her house disheartened, broken and shattered into a million pieces. The greatest love of his life was slipping through his fingers and he was unable to stop her. He walked back to the saloon; the faint sounds of her quick steps echoed behind him. Nathaniel was screaming her name, yet she was determined. Amanda grabbed him by the shoulder and forced the boy to turn around. She gave him no time to think; her hands were wrapped around his neck and her lips were on his lips. His mouth was numb, the taste of her kiss was just too sour to be properly enjoyed.

"Guess we won't get to see the world after all," Erron whispered, his upper lip was merely brushing her forehead. "Whatever that means."

Amanda laced her arms around him but those arms of hers were now haunted crossroads, chaining him to a perpetual déjà vu that would never set him free: he would end Nathaniel, but he would never be a murderer in her eyes.

But still, he would lose her every time. Every single time.

II

Modesto. California.

Twelve years ago.

The Australian man tilted his head back as his eyes traveled from the photograph in his hand to the actual human being sitting in front of him: there was little left of the jovial boy in the picture that could be recognized in the businessman who had hired him but anyways, who was he to judge…

"That's… that's the woman I'm looking for," Nathan stuttered. He didn't want to seem weak in the eyes of a stranger; let alone in the eyes of a man that looked as frightening as this man clearly did, but he was way beyond the limits of hiding his own states. If anything, he was more than ready to listen to the infamous line that would usually follow: "Do you understand that she might have left with another man?"

No matter the circumstances, no matter what could have happened to her, what could have caused her to leave, Nathan was certain she hadn't left him for another man. He knew her like the back of his hand; he knew she wasn't that sort of woman yet every single one of the interviewers and investigators he had seen during those difficult months had shown no signs of sharing his beliefs about Alexandra's loyalty towards him. The story was too strange, too complicated. Even for Nathan.

Alexandra had been hired as part of a scientific group that was supposed to spend two weeks in the Amazon Jungle, researching the zone. But when those two weeks became history and she never returned home; a worried Nathan was left with no other choice but to inform the authorities. The police report was conclusive: the group had never even reached their destination because they had never left the country.

In fact, there seemed to be no group at all. The company that had hired this collective of real ghosts did not exist. So, the words, bitter and merciless, would brush his ears time and time again: "Do you understand that she might have left with another man?"

He had heard that line a thousand times already but still, the sting of its supposed implications would hurt him every single time with renewed atrocity.

Nathan was tired of searching and not finding; he was tired of seeking answers and only finding yet more questions to add to the maze of multiple enigmas already weighing heavily on his head. Where was she? How was she? Was she being kept against her will or was she there – wherever that might be – of her own accord? Was she still alive? Were they right; was she with another man now? Could that be true, could that sweet girl in the picture, smiling fondly at him and wrapped up in light blue scrubs be cruel enough to do such a thing? Why her? Why was this happening to him?

Kano kept his eyes busy on the troubled man sitting right in front of him: the expensive suit Nathan was wearing had little to do with the baggy t-shirt from the picture. The mess of spiky hair from his youth, chocolate-like and barely brushing the young man's shoulders was now slicked back and tight.

"Money is not a problem. You just… think of a price and I'll deliver." Try as he might, he still couldn't hide the spoilt, daddy's-little-boy attitude that had ruled his entire life. Private investigators had achieved nothing. The police had been completely helpless: his girlfriend had seemingly disappeared from the face of the earth and no-one was able to do anything to find her.

Just one little girl; a twenty-something. Gone. Just like that.

The Australian mercenary put the photograph back on the table then folded his arms over his chest and shook his head mockingly, "I don't do this kinda jobs, kid." He stood up, exhibiting a sense of despondency that would surely help his message through. "Na I don't know how you got my number, but you better delete it." His red eye beamed surreptitiously, freezing the blood running through Nathan's veins.

That man was more than just simply intimidating, he was a menace; a true threat all by himself.

"Please, just… just call me, in case you change your mind," Nathan managed to say, his throat constricted. "As I told you, money's not a problem."

It only took a second for Kano to realize who he was talking to. As soon as he flipped the business card he had just been handed, his face was ablaze with renewed, uncontrollable anticipation: that nobody, trembling like a leaf before him, was not just anybody.

Nathan Davies, brand new CEO of Bhertineslitsz Pharmaceuticals was asking for his help.

The mercenary looked around then back at the trembling man still waiting for an answer. Albeit young and imprudent, that boy surely wanted his woman back. Kano tilted his head, anticipating the fortune he had just found by chance, admiring the luring songs of an early, easy victory. As he savored the taste of a deal that he had yet to close, he leaned in, a broad smile exhibiting his teeth.

"But what if I told ya I'm not after money?" He smirked, raising an eyebrow. "Would ya still hire me?"

Nathan felt the doubt set in the middle of his chest and travel all the way up to his brain – a sudden tremor washed over his body, trepidation quickly gushing in the pit of his stomach. His contact had tried his best to persuade him but only now he was actually beginning to regret his decision: he should have listened. He had been told to only call that man if the situation was absolutely, strictly dire. Albeit all warnings, he had called him all the same. Now, far from home and deep into the darkness of a neighborhood, a bar, an atmosphere that felt completely alien to him, Davies was feeling completely helpless in front of that menace of a man.

Desperation had brought him. And desperation was still driving him insane.

"What do you want, then?" Nathan dared to ask, hiding his anxiety behind a colorless tone in his voice. He had tried almost anything to find his missing girlfriend; in his insufferable quest, he had crossed paths with the vilest, most disgusting thugs he had ever seen. Yet this man sitting right in front of him, smiling despicably at his most profound sorrow, was the epitome of darkness.

Kano chuckled poisonously, flipping the card with his fingers as if it was a worthless coin.

"CEO of Bhertineslitsz Pharmaceuticals… I can surely think of a thing or two."

How far was he willing to go to find Alexandra? Alone, in the lowest part of the city, risking his job and possibly his life, he was actually considering the chance of surrendering his integrity. Nathan fidgeted in his chair; mustering the courage he lacked to shake that man's hand.

"Do we have a deal or not?" Kano insisted, his patience running thin even though he was smart enough as to not let it show. The prey in front of him was way too valuable to let it go to waste.

"You still haven't told me what you want."

The Australian mercenary crossed his arms over his chest once more; the metallic parts of his body shinning in the night of terror. "I'll see what I can do for ya and your little wench… I'll find her if you provide," he leaned in closer, and lowered his voice: "I want what you sell, kid. And I want it for free."

Petrified yet helpless, Nathan didn't need to know why Kano was asking for drugs and medicine instead of money. Contrabandists and traffickers had always been just right around the corner for the pharmaceutical industry after all. The young CEO took a deep breath: could that man find her? Wouldn't the price be too high – selling his integrity and entering the black market? Was he really ready to undermine his father's firm and give up on his future if that could lead him straight back to her?

"Can ya really put a price on love, mate?" The man was obnoxious. He was the father of all nightmares, yet those words were enough to seal the pact between the two men: Nathan shook Kano's hand and lowered his head immediately; unbeknownst to him, he had just sold his soul to the devil. A devil that was never going to reunite him with his missing girlfriend. A devil that, from that night on, was going to ravish his morals and his integrity, trapping him inside the blurry limits of a pact that was only going to lead him further into the darkness.

III

The House of Pleasure. Outworld.

Ten years ago.

Even if she still was a newcomer, it was easy for the doctor to understand something was going on. The brothel was crowded, and it was just past midday. The usual patrons that would come each night looking for release and pleasure were all there, gathered around the tables, gossiping about the importance of the announcement that was about to be made in the Palace. But the congregation exceeded the limited space that was The House of Pleasure as waves and waves of citizens were marching down the streets, headed for the Royal Residence. Their pace was frantic, their faces aglow with anticipation.

She moved around the tables trying to find a familiar face, but it was pointless: every single one of the girls was either outside or engaged in conversation. Rosario was still standing behind the bar, pouring drinks and listening to stories and tales about a man she knew too well to ignore.

Erron Black.

Rumors were capricious and substantially contradictory.

Some patrons were talking about a trial, while others were stating that whatever had happened between Black and the Kahn, it hadn't been a trial. There were others, however, that were more inclined to believe that there had been a third man involved in the showdown; one of their own – a Rebel-Seeker.

The unfamiliar voice coming from the Palace, echoed by the hundreds of citizens repeating the words like some sort of public radio, quieted all versions:

"The first individual, publicly known as M'horel Ssui-'Pcha, is found guilty of the following crimes:

Attempted murder against the official enforcer known as Erron Black, twice. Attempted murder against the official enforcer known as Erron Black's wife, lady Zarrabayeusse Zmbrá Black. Criminal mastermind behind the fire that destroyed Mr. Black's personal property and led to the assassination of an unknown woman who was present in the scene. This crime, in particular, places Mr. Ssui-'Pchá as necessary perpetrator and thus responsible for the physical disappearance of the victim.

Mitigating circumstances: none.

Aggravating factors: Considering the fact that Mr. M'horel Ssui-'Pchá currently serves as an Official Palace Guard, the figure of Abuse of Authority applies to this case. The crime committed by the individual was especially heinous, atrocious and/or cruel. The capital felony was a homicide and was committed in a cold, calculated and premeditated manner without any pretense of moral or legal justification.

It is the judgment of this Royal Office:

For the murder of an unidentified woman, the individual is sentenced to be put to death in the manner prescribed by law. For the attempted murder of Erron Black and Zarrabayeusse Zmbrá Black the individual is sentenced to be put to death in the manner prescribed by law."

As the voices outside and inside the brothel roared in furious discontent, the doctor froze in place. The glass of water she had been holding in her hand was now a collection of broken pieces of glass, scattered all over the floor. The news, cruel and vicious, were the ultimate declaration of war from the Kahn to the citizens he himself had gathered together. Most of the patrons stood up abruptly and left the House of Pleasure. Their destination was clear: the Palace would have a taste of their despondency. The woman braced herself and paced around the now deserted room, numb and overwhelmed: could she be the unknown woman from the verdict? Had Black spared her life once again, excluding her from the official version of the story?

The peculiar name she had heard was fundamental yet the voice still coming from the Palace did not give her any time to think about its true meaning. The message was alive and raw once more, ricocheting through the walls.

"The second individual, publicly known as Erron Black, is found guilty of the following crimes,"

Panic engulfed her then and led her straight into a dark void that consumed her like never before. It was Black's turn now to face the merciless verdict and little was there to quiet the voices inside her head.

"The murder of the individual publicly known as Pareedis Ssui-P'chá, younger brother of the first individual, M'horel Ssui-P'chá, who was responsible for the destruction of Mr. Black's property and the death of the aforementioned unknown woman.

Mitigating circumstances: The crime for which the individual is to be sentenced was committed while he was under the influence of a mental or emotional disturbance. The crime for which the individual is to be sentenced was committed as an act of self-defense.

Aggravating factors: Considering the fact that Mr. Erron Black currently serves as an Official Enforcer of the Emperor's office, the figure of Abuse of Authority applies to this case.

It is the judgment of this Royal Office:

For the murder of Pareedis Ssui-P'chá, the individual is sentenced to serve a term of imprisonment in the Z'unkahrah Royal Palace Maximum Security Dungeon for ten years. No parole will be allowed or offered during the first half of the specified term.

During his imprisonment, the individual shall be removed from his duties and lose his status as an Official Enforcer of the Emperor's Office. During his imprisonment, the individual's wife will receive a pension derived from the individual's incomes and official salaries as if he was still working as an Official Enforcer of the Emperor's Office."

She breathed, finally, as warm tears began to cascade down her cheeks. For whatever reason, the emperor had decided to keep him alive and even when the price he was about to pay was way too high, at least he was not yet to face the gallows. The doctor anchored her trembling hands on a chair and took a seat. The thunder of voices, blowing like a hurricane outside the brothel was about to roar louder than before: one of their own kind was about to die but Erron Black, the foreign cowboy, blessed and cursed by Shang Tsung's magic, had been spared.

As she cupped the sides of her face with her hands, the name set on her mind: Erron Black's wife, lady Zarrabayeusse Zmbrá Black. Could that be possible? Black certainly didn't strike her as a man devoted to marital commitment yet she had taken a look inside his private box of memories and she had seen shades and colors that were far richer than the ones most people could see. She cursed under her breath as each insult exited her mouth through clenched teeth. He was capable of love; he was capable of devoting himself to the feeling. It was possible. But it was also plausible.

She was almost certain that she herself was the unknown woman from the verdict. Aalem's name had not been pronounced during the reading so perhaps Black had swapped characters in his version of the story, trying to find a way to protect her.

Perhaps lady Zarrabayeusse Zmbrá Black was nothing but a charade built by Black and bought by the hundreds of enraged citizens now headed for the Palace. It had to be. That woman could not be his wife; he didn't have a wife, the woman pondered as she retreated further and further into a state of denial. Her own sanity was on the line; the only man she had desired after losing Nathan could not be a married man – their bond was convoluted, unnatural, uneven, but not unfaithful. The storm of tears clouded her vision. Ten years in prison; ten years… At least he was alive.

But what about her?

Would they ever see each other again after ten years? An entire decade… she had barely survived her first two years in Outworld, little was left for the woman to believe she could actually survive ten more years on her own. Ten years of waiting, and hiding and building up her expectations, aiming for a reunion that was as reliable as a message written on the sand, waiting for the ocean to wash it away.

Her own future seemed now written in the same fashion – mere letters, scattered on the shore, waiting for the rain, the waves, and the wind.

And what was she going to do if she ever saw that man again? Demand explanations? Bathe him in reproach? Wrap her arms around him?

As she summoned the strength to get up and move again, an unfamiliar hand caressed her shoulders slightly. She turned around and found those eyes staring right back at her – they belonged in a face she hadn't seen before. His hair was short and his eyes looked like dark chocolate. The man smirked bitterly; he seemed genuinely upset by the final verdicts.

"Well then, yours is a face I certainly haven't seen before," he whispered in her ear. "We could go upstairs and forget this awful decision. How much…"

She brushed his hand off her shoulder, her eyes were cold. Uninviting.

"I'm a doctor. I don't do that sort of thing," she clarified.

The man nodded and slid his left hand across her rigid jawline. She could have sworn that even for the most insignificant fraction of time, one of his eyes beamed red. The man smiled and mumbled an apology on his way out. The sound of his laughter gave her goosebumps across her arms yet Rosario's hands, landing on her shoulders, brought her back to reality.

"What did he want?" The old, Peruvian woman asked, worried.

"He asked how much. He wanted to sleep with me," Alexandra answered. "I haven't seen him before, is he one of your regular customers?"

"No, I've never seen that man before, but he was talking to the members of El Club. He might be one of them, I'm not entirely sure. We better be careful," she added after a moment. "You told him you were a doctor?"

Alexandra nodded in silence.

"You should have told him you were a healer."

Outside the brothel, Kano's figure walked through the crowd like a ghost that couldn't be reached. Taking advantage of the riots going on all around him, the Australian mercenary made his way back to the portal that was going to take him back home. Erron Black was still alive, and even if the unexpected turn of events was truly aggravating for their cause, he couldn't repress the smile suddenly taking over his face. Maybe the Kahn had saved that bastard for a reason; maybe life could finally show him a brighter side. He would have to wait an entire decade, but maybe Black's life had been spared so that he himself could be the one putting an end to it in the future.

Plus, he had already forgotten about the missing woman but that was her; there was not a single doubt in his mind. The auburn hair, the tranquil blue of her eyes…

He considered the chance of actually calling Nathan and let him know that he had found her – two years had gone by and the man was still chained to her memory. But why should he show any signs of humanity now? He had gotten exactly what he wanted from that man: he had forced him into a deal that had ultimately demolished his spirit and his integrity. If anything, reuniting Nathan with the missing doctor could become a liability, an undesired distraction.

Nathan was in too deep now. The doctor could shine a light on him, she could give him hope.

So why should he show any signs of humanity now?

After all, it had never been his style.

Author's notes: Three stories, three characters – Black, Nathan and Alex. And it's no coincidence that I've chosen the members of this love triangle to foreshadow the events of the upcoming arc. Black, Nathan and Alex will become fundamental characters during arc 5 so before we move forward, I thought a little fill-in-the-gaps would be nice.

For those in need of a little more background regarding the first story, I recommend going back to chapter 13, Elegy, and rereading story number 5, A Butterfield Revolver. We've come a long way since chapter 13 but I wanted to keep a similar tone for all three stories included in this interlude, that's why I chose to paint a more general picture, and not a very detailed one. I don't think you guys are going to need this extra background, but just in case, there you go.

As usual, these interludes merely connect the arcs, but this time I decided to write separate stories for each individual character instead of just one merging them all. And Kano finally made his appearance! I gotta admit writing him was fun, and even when I don't have any plans to include this despicable man in arc 5, this certainly won't be his last time nosing around.

Hope you enjoyed!