Five Years Later

Cash gasped for breath, sweat beading on his skin as he fell to his knees in the dark, overflowing alley. As his heartbeat escalated, he ground his teeth together and powerful fingers curled into a fist that slammed into the pavement, breaking skin. Blood mingled with sweat on his busted knuckles but the pain was negligible to the wild firing of the rest of his neurons. Three years ago, he had escaped the electric chair by accepting a shadowy man's offer to undergo even more questionable experimentation. For over two years, he lived in a world that made prison look comfortable where he was dragged from his cell each day to be poked, prodded, and subjected to everything from electrical shocks to near drowning without any notable results. And then, with no explanation, they had thrown him into the ominously named 'Recycling Pens.' Lacking any desire to witness exactly what transpired in this 'recycling,' he had managed to escape with the assistance of another subject who he'd since lost. Now pain worse than anything they had ever done to him sought to claim him in some dark alley where his corpse would be likely found by some bum who would take what he had fought to collect since his freedom.

Growling through clenched teeth, he struggled to his feet and staggered towards the street, each step sending more pain arcing through the system. His body was failing him. It was starting to shut down, piece by piece. The last doctor, before he'd put the terrified man's face through his x-ray screen, had told him that he had about a week before vital organs began to shut down. He had two days left and there was no way he was getting on any national waiting list. Trawling his old contacts, those who hadn't testified against him or weren't in prison themselves had led him to Detroit. A new player had come to the carcass of the dying city, one who ran a certain 'health care' system for those who weren't used to playing by the rules.

He made it to the street where he paused, leaning against a light post. The light above him intensified, a sharp whine emitting from the bulb before it burst, sprinkling him with a tiny shower of glass and drawing the darkness about him. Fighting to stand straight again, he proceeded down the street, pondering his quandary. None of his old business contacts had a clear idea on how to contact the grisly doctor nor could they offer him a name. What they could tell him was that the services weren't cheap and the money he had garnered with his old school smash and grab tactics, he was still too weak to get back into the hitman business, wouldn't cover a kidney. It was at times like these he regretted not getting into a higher return line of work, such as credit card scams and fraud or even cons.

The glaring high beams of a car caught his own eye and he winced, but before he could even bring a hand up to ward off the too-bright lances of light, they were abruptly blackened. Tires screeched as the driver threw on the breaks, and Cash gave a slight chuckle, one that he was punished for by another searing bolt of pain. Up ahead, an ATM glowed stalwartly into the night and as he neared it, he drove shaking fingers into his jacket's pocket for the wallet he had picked up. Flicking it open and ignoring the ID of the thin-nosed business man still in it, he selected one of the credit cards and tried to steady his hand enough to insert the card into the slot.

However, as his hand drew near, the screen went berserk, flashing and then going black before meaningless pieces of letters flashed across it then went solid green. It whirred and then vomited money at his feet, delivering a small fortune in twenty dollar bills that he quickly collected, stuffing them into his pockets before vacating the area. Some of the crumpled greens toppled from his pocket but he shouldered on, in too much pain to stop and gather them again. Cerulean eyes surveyed the buildings to either side, searching for the next waystation on his journey. Spying a rather seedy looking bar that lingered on, he stumbled across the street and pushed through the door. A few of the patrons bothered giving him a look, most of them too far gone to see anything beyond that glass or bottle in front of them.

Taking a moment to collect himself and consider his options, he hobbled to the counter, towards a stony-faced man who still retained most of his faculties, only slowly downing a dark bottle. Collapsing into the stool, Cash took an instant to relax, letting one arm dangle as the other rested on the counter and he curled forward. Finally his eyes flickered towards the man next to him and Cash rasped, "Salutations."

The stranger blinked, "What's that?"

"Salutation. Noun. An expression of greeting, goodwill, or courtesy by word, gesture, or ceremony."

Storm grey eyes grew even more unfriendly and the lonely drinker snapped, "Look, pal, whatever you're selling, I'm not buying. Go dupe the drunkies."

"I require the services of a doctor."

"Hospital's further down the road. Now, if you're gonna bother me any further, it's not a doc you're gonna need. It's an undertaker."

The threat left Cash silent, his eyes lowering from the man's face who returned to his drinking. When the intruder on his solitude did not vanish, the man gave a belabored sigh and set the bottle down, dropping his hand from it. There was a sudden blur of motion and the man had an instant to stare at the wicked knife that stabbed through his hand and into the counter of the bar before the pain reached his brain. As he opened his mouth to scream, a large hand seized the back of his head and pushed forward, ramming his brow against the counter. Dazed, he could only fall as his stool was kicked out from underneath him, and he gave a yelp when the knife didn't release his hand, keeping it pinned there as he dangled from it. His left hand fumbled for the pistol on his chest holster, but the blunt fingers beat him to it, plucking the heavy firearm from its cradle, encouraging the other patrons and few employees not to intercede.

He whined as he stared past the dark barrel to icy cerulean eyes as Cash mimed concern, "Gracious, friend. It would appear that you are in dire need of a chirurgeon yourself. Now, where might we avail ourselves to one's services? . . . Or do you still favor the mortician?"

"I-I-I-I kn-know . . . I know w-where we c-c-can go," the man blubbered.

Cash grinned viciously through the pain.

"I figured as much. Still, time is of the essence. So how about a little incentive?"

There was the thundering roar as the gun spat out a round followed by a brief serenity.

Then came the howl of pain.

Alondra hummed a tune that her mother had used to sing to her, in the earliest days of her childhood, as she watched the crimson fluid flow from the expensive bottle to the squat, ornate glass. Centimeters from the brim, she righted the bottle, catching a drop that ran along its neck. She suckled the red stain from her finger as she secured the cork and then placed the bottle amongst its brethren on the extensive wine rack. Finely built and stocked with bottles whose worth would make most blanch, it was out of place in the derelict building she had decided to set up shop. Her exclusive glasses that accompanied them were likewise curiously out of place in the trash-strewn foyer of the once grand hotel. However, the room it provided her with, particularly after she had cleared out the squatters with extreme prejudice, more than made up for its lack of cleanliness.

Taking a deep swig of the thick, scarlet draught, she sighed contentedly as she heard steady footfalls on the stairs and glanced up to see a handsome, dark-skinned man attired in doctor's scrubs. She raised her glass in greeting to the bald man and gave a smile.

"Anything interesting tonight, Dr. Sanders?"

"You could say that, Miss Arnetti," he returned, his voice deep and silken. "We've got a subject that you might want to take a look at."

"Oh? Anybody I know?"

"Doubt it. He's new to town. I'm fairly certain he capped a guy in the stomach so that the sap would lead him to us."

"Oooh," she purred. "Muy interesante, de hecho."

He smirked, "Wait till you get a look at this guy."

"Por favor," she held out her glass, gesturing towards the stairs, "Lead on."

Minutes later, Alondra stood in one of the many suite-turned-operating-room, glass in hand as the doctor prepped himself. They stood behind a sectioned off part of the room, what had once been the bathroom, and the mob princess stared through the window that had replaced a large portion of the wall at the thickly built man who filled the operating table. One arm was crossed below her breasts; hand tucked beneath her other arm, a slender finger stroking the side of her cup as she considered the panting man who still mustered glares potent enough to encourage the attendants, none unfamiliar with society's seedy underbelly, to give him a wide berth. Behind her, Sanders washed his hands in the sink as he fed her details.

"It's a fascinating case. For yet unknown reasons, the vast majority of his organs seem to be shutting down – almost everything with the exception of his brain. He's B+, and we managed to scrounge a few organs that'll work, but I even with all my skill, it'll be a miracle if he pulls through."

"Does teppista have a name?"

"Mumbled 'Cash' or some other silly street name. Though he might've been talking about his payment method."

She glanced at the messy bills that littered the table in front of her, extending her arm to pick through them before frowning, "You said most of his organs are failing?"

"Yes, I-"

"He's short. This will cover a liver. At best."

Alondra's eyes flashed dangerously as she rounded upon her cohort who held his hands aloft as they dried. He winced at her anger and pleaded, "Yeah, but see, I was thinking that if I pull this off, it'll prove what I'd been telling those old fossils for years. I-"

"What the fuck is taking you retards so goddamned long!"

The roar from the operating room was punctuated by a shriek of metal and the buzz of electricity and the pair whirled to see one of the devices their patient was hooked up to transform into some sort of claw that ripped the throat out of an unfortunate assistant who had dredged up enough bravery to step next to the bed. Eyes wide in terror, she clutched at the mess of rapidly emptying veins and arteries that used to run along her esophagus as she crumpled to the floor. Restrained on the table, the massive man arched as pain seized him once again. His mouth opened and he unleashed another roar, one that he was accompanied by the growing whine of the machines around him and the intensifying of the lights overhead. Sanders stared, mouth agape behind his surgical mask.

"My God . . ."

"I suggest you sedate that patient of yours, medico," advised his employer, a new gleam growing in her eyes as she gave a hungry smile. "Oh, and try not to slip on the mess. I don't think he's going to give us enough time to clean it."

He woke slowly, feeling far better rested then he had for months, and appreciatively. Both for the lack of pain possessing him, and the view of the tight rear coated in a slim dark dress that swept to the floor. Curling his fingers as his senses continued to filter in, he closed his eyes for a moment and sighed, "Callipygian exquisiteness."

"Calli-what?"

He peered up at the pale woman with arched cheekbones, dark hair, and haughty beauty who stared down at him and he defined, "Callipygian. Adjective. Having shapely buttocks."

She scoffed, "You're a curiosa, signore. You look like a teppista but talk like a dictionary."

"An integral part of my charm," he murmured.

"Si? Well, Signore . . . Cash, is it? We regret to inform you that you were corto. Short."

"What?" His brow furrowed. For a second, he thought he saw a small pink tongue lick across the ruby colored lips as her hazel eyes met his still blurred gaze, but he passed it off as aftereffects of whatever they had put him on.

"Your funds were insufficient. Sin embargo, I have come up with a solution to this . . . pequeno problema."

"You know, people might not be able to comprehend about half of the shit a say, but at least I speak English," he grumbled, his mood quickly souring.

"Si. But then again, you're the one with the failing organs and short on your own namesake. So, Signore Cash . . . how would you like a job?"

And now things start to pick up. We hope my scant few readers enjoyed this. There's probably going to be about two more chapters of The Vulture and Cash, and then we start a new Origins story.

As we keep saying, these are our characters. Please do not use them without permission.

Also, please review!