Interlude 02

The weak perish, and the strong survive.

It was a maxim that he had believed in for most of his life. A simple truth, from which he had learnt all others. To be defeated was to lose everything; of that, he had always been sure. The conclusion that followed was obvious. The only thing that mattered was becoming stronger, and so he had devoted himself to that end with ruthless determination. He had left behind anything that might prove to be a source of weakness, shedding such petty things as conscience or morality. Unfettered he had sought to grow his own power, heedless of the devastation left in his wake. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed. He had abjured anything that might lead to his downfall, and, after many trials, claimed leadership of the most fearsome army the world had ever seen. It had taken more than a decade, but he had achieved his goal, secure in his hard-won strength at last.

Or so he had thought. As it turned out, fickle fate had other ideas.

Returning to Brown Nebula had been a decision born of pragmatism, and nothing more. An insignificant choice compared to those that preceded it. In the weeks after the Second Great War concluded, there had been few available options for refuge, and, as always, he had selected the one that best served his own interests. Brown Nebula had been attractive chiefly in that it promised a relatively safe haven, and an opportunity to resupply his troops. That was all. His primary goal had been to consolidate the forces that remained to him, and perhaps start the process of rebuilding the Black Hole Army. Nothing more.

Instead he had found something he did not expect. He had been travelling through the desert with his fellow commanders when, by a curious twist of fate, their path had led him back to the very place where his journey had begun. At first he had dismissed their proximity to his old home as mere coincidence, as an irrelevant curiosity. But, as the days passed, he had been increasingly troubled by a feeling that he could not explain. It gnawed at him like an itch he could neither satisfy nor ignore. He had resisted. He had banished the thoughts from his mind as he had done for so many years, but in the end, the pull to return home had proven too strong. Against his better judgement, he had left camp to visit the village where he had been born.

The memories he had from that place were nothing, truth be told. Only the faintest echo of another life, of a past self so far removed he had almost become a stranger. Still, they had been enough to carve a crack in his heart of stone, and from there, everything he thought he knew had gradually begun to crumble. Doubt, insidious and unwanted, had crept into his mind and tainted every decision. He had done his best to continue on unchanged, but the damage was done. From that moment onwards, the world almost seemed to conspire against him. Matters had culminated months later, when difficult circumstances left him with no choice but to seek out new allies, and fight alongside the Allied Nations. At the time he had justified it as another pragmatic act, but in the company of others he had only found greater cause to question everything he had become.

He stopped walking and closed his eyes. No, he thought, pushing the memories away. That time too was past, and he had no desire to dwell on what was already done. There were more than enough problems to deal with in the present.

He breathed in and opened his eyes, focusing on his surroundings. The night air was hot and dry, the desert heat yet to dissipate. He refused to let the oppressive warmth slow him down as he kept moving through the dusty town. At this evening hour the streets were not crowded, but neither were they empty, and the tall man made sure to avoid contact with anyone who walked near. He would tolerate neither distraction nor delay.

Not far ahead, a large building two storeys high stood overlooking the cracked asphalt road. A flashing neon sign mounted above its double doors proclaimed it as 'The Temple'. The man felt a flicker of cold amusement at the sight. No doubt someone had thought it clever to give the bar such an impious name. Light and music spilled out into the street from its doors and arched windows, while the red brick walls were covered by peeling posters and crudely painted slogans. Near one corner of the building was a discreet stencil of a black scorpion. The man's eyes narrowed slightly as they locked onto the symbol. His source had been correct about that much, if nothing else.

A small bribe to the bouncer let him bypass the line to enter. As he stepped through the double doors, his senses were overpowered by the raucous sounds of the crowd, and the pungent smell of sweat and alcohol. One side of the interior was dominated by an empty stage, while an old television mounted in the far corner cast an uneven light over the dilapidated walls. The man ignored the crowd as he made his way to the bar. He was not here to interact with others. Nor did he have to. Most other patrons gave him a wide berth simply because of his height, and if they did not, his hard gaze was enough to make them reconsider.

Even in worn old clothing he cut an imposing figure. His desert garb was rugged and practical, but unremarkable. Despite his powerful build, any observers would assume he was just another worker, refugee, or mercenary passing through the region. Here in war-torn Brown Nebula, such travellers were a regular sight. The tall man kept his head covered by a dark wrap, even after coming inside. The colour of his hair would attract unwanted attention, and he was in the habit of moving unseen. For almost a year he had lived as a ghost, unknown to the wider world, and he had no intention of changing his ways now.

"What will you have?" The bartender asked, coming over to serve him.

"Water."

That provoked a snort, but the bartender said nothing as he opened a bottle of water and poured out a glass. The tall man did not comment on the display of contempt. There was nothing to gain by doing so.

He picked up the glass and withdrew to a dark corner. From the periphery of the room, he could observe the bar and its occupants without being disturbed. A cursory examination revealed little of interest. He took a mouthful of water and settled in with his back against the wall, deciding that there was nothing to do but wait.

The tall man's attention soon moved to the television, where an international news channel was giving an update on the war between Orange Star and Blue Moon. A presenter in a sharp suit delivered a report while stock footage of tanks advancing and burning buildings played in the background. The tall man showed no emotion as he watched the segment. In that, he was no different to most of the bar's other patrons. Conflict was a simple fact of life in Brown Nebula, and a distant war was not worth thinking about. If anything, there was a certain spiteful glee at seeing the great powers fall back into their old destructive habits. It was proof that for all their arrogance and pretensions, they were no better than those they decried as lawless.

He sipped at his water as he considered the matter. It did not surprise him that the pact known as the Allied Nations had failed to last. There was a great difference between sharing a common enemy and sharing common ground. That, of course, did not necessarily mean that there were no other forces driving the disintegration of the most powerful military alliance in thirty years. The relationship between Orange Star and Blue Moon had collapsed with unusual speed, even when considering their history. Perhaps it was mere coincidence that this new war had broken out while increasing amounts of Black Hole equipment were being used by the desert warlords. Or perhaps it was by design. If there was one thing he had learnt over the past ten years, it was that things were not always what they seemed. Promises turned to dust and sand, masks could conceal all manner of lies, and sometimes, the people who appeared most foolish were the ones who saw most clearly of all.

A flash of unexpected pain swept over the man's stern features, and he set his empty glass aside. It had not been so long ago that he did not drink alone, but with someone he would not have expected. Someone who had offered his friendship freely, and done so without questioning if it was deserved. It was a gift that the tall man had neither anticipated nor desired, and yet receiving it had shaken him more than he could ever have imagined possible.

Jake… I wish I had met you… before.

In the end it had been nothing more than a dream. A fleeting fantasy of the life he had once known, and of the boy he used to be. That was all. Standing there at the end of everything, he had finally come to understand that it was simply too late. It did not matter whether he fought for them or against them, whether he furthered their ends or sought to pursue his own. He was no different to Sturm or Von Bolt. Just another evil. He knew both what he had become and what it had cost him, and did everything in his power to accept it.

And yet, try as he might, he could not keep the doubts from seeping in, no more than he could entirely dispel the memories. They lingered as they had ever since the night when Jake had first offered his hand in friendship, and as they had ever since he set foot in the ruins of his old home that day in the desert almost two years ago. He could not keep from questioning himself, from wondering if the sacrifices, broken promises, and endless carnage had truly been worth it. The suspicion that perhaps he had lost more than he had gained had only grown stronger as the months slipped past. From the doubt festering in his heart something else had sprouted, and he did not know what to do with it.

A murmur ran through the crowd, and the noise level in the bar dropped sharply. The electronic beat of the music continued to play, but all the drunken shouts and loud conversations turned to hushed whispers. The tall man noted the sudden shift and looked towards the entrance, where a new group had just entered the building. In that moment he felt a glimmer of satisfaction. His source had been correct. Tonight was indeed the night.

There were five of them, all armed with either handguns or assault rifles. Four of the men wore a mix of casual clothes and combat gear, and on their left arm, they each bore a well sewn cloth armband emblazoned with the same scorpion emblem that had been painted on the wall outside. They made no attempt to hide that they were militia fighters or insurgents, and it was plain by the bar's reaction that no one would challenge them. In this part of the country, a weapon was the only authority that mattered.

The four armband clad soldiers stood in a protective circle around the last member of the group. The fifth figure displayed no obvious sigil, and his face was completely obscured by a black gas mask. It was impossible to discern anything about his appearance. A large khaki shawl, olive green head wrap, and heavy gloves kept any identifying features well hidden. It was obvious from the way he stood and acted that he was the group's leader. The dread he instilled in the bar was palpable.

Two of the armed men moved ahead to clear a path through the crowd. With the way open, the group swaggered across the bar and disappeared through a door leading to the building's back rooms. As soon as they were out of sight, a hubbub of hushed whispers and nervous chatter broke out amongst the patrons, and, slowly, the raucous noise began to grow once again. Apparently the bar's customers were eager to forget the intrusion, and pretend that all was normal.

The tall man began to move. He kept to the edges of the bar as he made his way towards the stage, doing his best to avoid attracting attention. It only took him a moment to step up onto the low platform and slip backstage, and from there, gain access to the back rooms through a shabby looking door hidden in the shadows.

He came to a hallway on the other side and paused before proceeding any further. He glanced both ways along the hall, but there was no one else in sight. None of the scorpion soldiers were watching this door. They had grown lax in their security, no doubt lulled into complacency by the terror they instilled. That was to his advantage. It would be much easier to accomplish what he needed to if they were unprepared. He moved quickly down the hallway to the back exit, drawing his gun from its concealed holster. He had been told that one guard always kept watch in the alley, and at this point there was no reason to doubt that information.

It all happened in the space of a few seconds. The tall man threw the door open, adjusted his direction as he rushed outside, and struck the guard on the back of the head with his pistol. The soldier crumpled to the ground, a puppet whose strings had been cut. The blow would not incapacitate him for long, but it did not need to. The tall man kicked the soldier's fallen rifle away, sending a faint clatter echoing down the alley. Then he stepped around and aimed his gun squarely at the slumped man's head.

With the squeak of groaning metal the door swung shut as he assumed his new position. It had all gone according to plan. Swiftly and quietly, unnoticed by anyone inside. There was just one more thing left to do.

The guard began to stir. Dazed and disorientated he came to, his eyes fluttering as he fought off the brief bout of unconsciousness. It was not long before he recovered enough to comprehend what was happening. Panic struck and his hands groped blindly for a weapon, only to find the rifle gone. Then the guard saw the gun pointed directly at his head, and he froze completely.

The tall man watched with seeming disinterest as his target realised the situation he was in. Disarmed and prone, there was nothing the scorpion soldier could do. The tall man knew the guard understood that his life was entirely in the hands of another. The fear in his eyes betrayed it.

"Who…" the soldier squinted at him. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"My name is Hawke," he replied, and pulled the trigger.

A single gunshot reverberated through the alley like thunder. The soldier slumped back against the wall, sprayed with blood from the bullet hole in his brow. He was dead.

"And my purpose," Hawke said, "is no longer your concern."

He returned his gun to its holster and knelt down by the body. The sound of gunfire was frequent enough in these parts that he was in little danger of being discovered immediately, but it was unwise to remain here for long. Hawke's face was impassive as he patted down the corpse, systematically searching the man's pockets. There was not much to find. A wallet containing some petty cash, a phone with a cracked screen, and a keycard of a familiar design. Hawke took them all, making sure that the phone was switched off. He intended to dispose of it at the earliest opportunity. He could not risk being tracked. The phone's absence, however, might serve as a useful misdirection. He hoped the dead man's comrades would assume this was merely a robbery, or perhaps the action of a rival warlord, rather than what it really was. Once he was finished searching the body, Hawke moved to the man's left side and began to untie his cloth armband, carefully unwrapping it and placing it in one of his pockets.

Hawke stood. There was nothing else he needed from the dead man, and no reason to linger. A brief check confirmed that the alley was still empty. He was alone again. He moved quickly as he left the scene, stopping only to retrieve the soldier's rifle. The weapon was too conspicuous to keep, but he needed to remove it in order to complete the picture he left behind. With the rifle in hand, Hawke strode towards the dim glow of the nearby street, and he did not look back. His gaze was fixed forward, and his thoughts were all of what came next.

There was still much work to be done.