The Games that Gods Play | By : Ristul Category: DC Verse Comics > Wonder Woman Views: 16896 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1 |
Disclaimer: I do not own Wonder Woman,nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. |
Protect the weak against the evil strong. Never allow thoughts of gain to lead into the service of evil. Do not back away from an enemy, either fight or die trying. It is not enough to say I will not be evil.
Evil must be fought wherever it is found.
-The Code, Book of Paths
9.45 pm
Ramon glanced at his rear view mirror, disbelieving of the sight that greeted him.
There were more vehicles on his tail now, and unlike what Kash did, they were firing at him. With rocket launchers!
He swerved the car desperately to avoid being smeared into bloodstains in the road, the rocket exploding less than five meters to his left, almost blinding him, the shrapnel cracking the side windows of the car. Vanessa sat quietly, her fists white with barely suppressed fear.
He said to her, “I’m sorry.”
“For saving me from rape?” She shook her head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I should be the one apologizing, for making you do all this, for causing the death of your friends.” Her voice broke slightly. “Thank you.”
Ramon nodded. If they had to die now, at least he knew it was worth it. He had made the best decision he could have made under the circumstances.
It didn’t stop him from feeling like shit.
A laser sliced into their rear bumper, cutting it away. Another few bullets slammed into his tires, and Ramon had to grapple with the steering wheel to keep the car moving in the direction he wanted to, though their speed was killed considerably.
The end was near.
Nolan sighted in on the limping Nightblade with his plasma cannon, intent on finishing it with one final blast. He was about to pull the trigger when the jeep suddenly swerved, tossing him from his seat.
The last thing he saw while flying through the air was a black clad man on a bike blazing away with his rifle at his men.
Phillip saw the assassins fire off a rocket that exploded under the Nightblade, flipping the car over onto its back. He resumed firing with his rifle, taking out another jeep’s tires, leaving one left to circle around the impromptu battlefield.
He had finally managed to chase down the Nightblade, almost all the way back to the garage after following its haphazard trail in the city. He had seen the dead gangsters on the ground, the burning garage. He knew the situation.
He also knew he had to give the people in the Nightblade a fighting chance to survive.
The eight motorcyles of Luthor’s hired guns spiraled around him, the pinion riders blazing away.
Phillip rolled off his bike and onto the ground, his own weapons barking back. One motorcycle came near, its pinion rider wielding a club.
Phillip released his right hand gun, and drew his sword from the scabbard on his back in one swift and smooth motion, the keen magical blade slicing through the club and into the rider. He fired into the motorcycle’s fuel tank as it went past him. The tank blew apart, sending its riders sprawling to the asphalt.
Bullets hit the ground in front of him, but Phillip danced around them, his image blurring to his enemies, making them fire at him in confusion. His return fire was far more devastating, cutting down one assassin after another with callous ease.
Then there was more gunfire from the vicinity of the turned over Nightblade. A teenage boy, barely into adulthood, stood bravely and screamed as he fired at the assassins. Beside him was Vanessa Kapatelis, a nullifier collar around her neck.
Phillip smiled at the handy distraction. The boy’s position was a perfect diversion. The uncoordinated thugs turned their fire in the direction of the Nightblade almost simultaneously. A huge mistake for them. Phillip sprinted forward, his blade flashing out in deadly arcs before they knew what was happening.
Ares’ gift proved its worth yet again, cutting past flesh and bone as though they were mere butter. Phillip had wielded many swords before, some of them enchanted as well, but this gift from Ares was surely the finest he had ever held!
In the midst of battle, a name came to him. He could not call it Ares’ gift all the time. Such a weapon deserved a name. Infamy. It shall be called Infamy.
Before he knew it, the last of the assassins were on the ground, all of them unconscious. He had been tempted to kill them, but he withheld the urge to do so. The law could deal with them.
He stared at the teenage boy, who raised his gun towards him in fear. Then a dull roar of another car engine could be heard approaching. The boy shifted his line of sight to over Phillip’ shoulder for just an instant.
That was all Phillip needed to disappear from the sight of the two teenagers.
Ramon breathed hard. Who the hell was that black clad man? Some vigilante? He had torn into the thugs chasing him with frightful ease. “Did you see him?”
Vanessa nodded. “Yes. Where did he go?”
“He can’t have gotten away. This is a wide open road, for god’s sake!” Ramon spread his arms out, indicating the stretch of highway they were on, burning vehicles and bodies scattered all over.
“Oh no! Look out!” Vanessa tugged at him roughly as they saw Kash’s red racer bearing down upon them.
Ramon ignored her tugging, and raised his pistol. He leveled it at Kash’s car, careening towards him. The ultimate game of chicken. This ends here. Now. He shoved Vanessa away. Do not back away from evil. Either fight or die trying.
His hand was trembling, so he held the pistol with both hands to steady it. Fear was making his stomach roll with thousands of butterflies, but he forced himself to stand his ground. There would be no more running away. He would live, or he would join Jase in the afterlife, wherever and whatever it was.
The distance shrank. Four hundred meters. Three hundred.
Ramon blinked away the sweat pouring into his eyes.
Two hundred. One hundred.
Ramon recalled what Jase often said about gunfighting. Don’t shoot until you can see the white of their eyes.
Fifty. Forty.
Vanessa screamed at him to run.
Thirty. Twenty.
His vision suddenly narrowed, until all he could see was Kash’s car.
Ten.
He fired his very last round. The bullet struck one of the Kash’s front tires, causing it to veer away from Ramon and into the side railings of the highway.
Ramon did not even know he had been holding his breath until Vanessa ran up to him and thumped him hard on his back to get his lungs working again. They turned around to see a battered Kash stumble out from his car, blood on one side of his face. He had a gun in his hands.
There was an audible click on Vanessa’s neck, and they both stared in surprise as the collar fell to the ground, open.
Kash yelled, “Damn you brats!” And raised his gun to fire.
Vanessa opened her mouth and shrieked. Pure energy burst from her throat, the power of the Silver Swan. It hit Kash, slamming him against his car. He slumped over, defeated.
Ramon stared at Vanessa in surprise. “What the hell…”
He was interrupted by slow clapping from behind them. They spun around, to see the black clad man. “Bravo, bravo. A truly inspiring show.”
“What do you want?” Ramon asked.
“A test.” The man was suddenly in front of him, his sword held at Ramon’s throat before Ramon could even blink.
Vanessa shrieked again, but the man simply evaded her sonic attack, somehow flowing to one side. Ramon took the opportunity to backtrack rapidly. He was no match for this guy like this, whoever he was.
Vanessa made another piercing cry, and birds suddenly descended from the skies, called by her ability to command avians. They aimed their pointed beaks at the man, until the man said in a firm voice. “Leave.” The birds pulled up from their dive.
Ramon saw sheer shock on Vanessa’s face. Then the man moved up beside her, and slammed his sword hilt into her temple. She collapsed onto the ground.
“You bastard!” Phillip did not even turn to face the boy squarely as he parried the wild punches thrown with just his left hand.
He continued parrying the punches with just one hand, and taunted. “I can keep this up the whole night, kid. Try better.”
“Arrrrggghhh!” The boy stopped throwing punches, and instead lowered his head and charged.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Phillip shook his head in mock disappointment. He slapped the Red Sox cap off the boy’s head and grabbed his hair in one smooth motion, spun round and added to the boy’s momentum contemptuously, making him lose his footing and fall to the ground in a painful slide. Items from his jacket flew out of his pockets from the fall.
One of those items was the Book of Paths.
Phillip pulled out his gun. “So, you want to be a hero?” He walked towards the boy, who was on his hands and knees. “Do you know what happens to heroes? They die, boy.”
“Here’s what, kid.” Phillip drew one of his backup weapons, and pointed it with his other hand at the fallen form of Vanessa. “One of you will die tonight. You or her. Pick one.”
The boy, to his credit, stared forward, determination plain in his eyes. “If you’re gonna shoot, shoot me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m nothing. A nobody.” The boy replied bitterly. “An orphan. A rotten punk off the streets.” He looked towards Vanessa. “She’s different. She’s got education, probably people who care for her. She got powers, she could help the world.”
“Very well then.” Phillip fired, emptying a full magazine of rounds from his Beretta at the boy.
Ramon stared at the man, feeling the heat on the right side of his face, where the bullets had brushed past his cheek, making the faintest of contact with the skin.
He had thought himself a goner. Dead meat.
But he was still alive. None of the bullets were meant to take his life.
The man started to walk away, back to his own bike. The motorcycle growled, then he rode off.
Ramon did not move for long moments, stunned by the shock of being alive. He leaned forward, his hands on the road surface, trying to catch his breath and gather his wits.
He finally managed to get up, and walked over to Vanessa. He lifted a finger to her nose, and sighed with relief when he realized she was still breathing. He slumped down beside her, staring at the stars above.
It had been a long night.
Then he saw a beautiful woman, clad in red, blue and gold, descending from the skies towards him.
The next day
“You’re what?” The detective said in disbelief.
“I said, I’m dropping charges.” Phillip grinned. “The boy probably saved me from being roasted by those assassins. Think of this as just my way of repaying the favor.”
“But… but…”
“Drop the matter.” Phillip said again, this time with an edge to his voice. “Or I’ll drop it for you.”
“Okay.” The policeman replied with resignation plain in his tone. “I’ll get on the paperwork to get him released.”
The events of the previous night had plenty of fallout. Organized crime in Boston was almost destroyed after Wonder Woman’s rampage in search of Vanessa. With Kash and his goons being arrested on charges of kidnapping and blackmail, the police had been optimistic that they might be able to clear the city of crime. Hence the disappointment of the detective at not being able to convict Ramon, a petty car thief, and toss his scrawny butt into a prison for minors.
Not that Phillip would allow them to do that anyway. He had other ideas.
“Oh, and one more thing, detective.”
“Yeah?”
Phillip handed him a card, and a letter with some money. “When he is released, tell him I want to see him.”
Ramon grasped the bars of his cell, staring at his visitors.
Vanessa was there, trying to reassure him with a bright smile. Wonder Woman, Vanessa’s mother, an older looking but distinguished woman, and a red haired woman who looked as though she could chew up a hundred Ramons for breakfast and still have time to work on her manicures before lunch.
Wonder Woman said, “Don’t worry. We’ll try to get any charges against you dropped. You were forced into stealing cars. And you helped Vanessa. That counts for a lot, believe me.”
He replied, “Yeah. Like anybody would care. Why should you?”
The Amazon seemed taken aback by his statement. “Because no matter what, you have shown your nobility of spirit. You could have walked away, but you did not.”
“Maybe I should have.” Ramon laughed sadly, “Then maybe Jase and my friends would have been alive. So what if I did the right thing?”
He had spent the night in the cell. He could not sleep, his mind tormented with nightmares of Jase dying. Of Kash chasing him. The black clad man attacking him. He had cried his heart out, wishing he had done things differently, and running over his choices, and discovering that there was nothing he could have done.
He had also taken out the Book of Paths, which the police had not taken away from him, to read. He had been shocked to realize that he could now read a few more pages of the book. What had been gibberish had become readable words. What had once been blank pages had suddenly formed nonsensical words.
Ramon read through the readable sections again, and this time, he realized he could begin to answer some of those questions. He still didn’t know what it all meant though.
“Your doing the right thing means a great deal.” Diana insisted. “Even if you’re guilty, a plea for leniency will go quite a long way.”
“It won’t be necessary.” A police detective approached them. “Mister Delacroix is dropping all charges against you, and we have nothing else that we can pin on you with any reasonable chance of success.” He opened the cell door. “You’re free to go.”
Ramon stared at the detective, and stood numbly where he was until a delighted Vanessa pulled him out of the cell.
Diana stared at Vanessa. Her young friend sighed as Julia drove back to their home. She could not be sure, but Vanessa seemed to be pining for something. Diana could guess what it, or rather he, was.
“I’m sure Ramon is thinking of you too.” Diana teased.
Vanessa started at her words, “Diana!”
She continued, “I can see why you are attracted to him. He was the knight on the white charger, riding in to save the beautiful damsel in distress.”
Vanessa scoffed, “More like a black charger, stolen from somebody else, and it got thrashed anyway. And I knocked out Kash Galucci, so your comparison isn’t very accurate.”
“Yes, you did, and you were very brave.” Diana patted Vanessa’s hand. “I am sorry for not being there for you when you needed me.”
“Not your fault, Diana!” Vanessa protested. “I have to learn to protect myself better.”
“You and Cassie have been through Amazon training,” Artemis commented, “That should be enough.”
“It wasn’t enough against Galucci, and it sure wasn’t enough against the guy in black.”
Diana nodded. She knew who the man in black was. Vanessa and Ramon’s description of him, his fighting style, and the sword he wielded was all too distinctive.
Which was why she was curious as to why Phillip Delacroix wanted to see Ramon.
“Vanessa, I wish I could say something better, but Ramon is not exactly what most people consider to be normal. He has a shady past, and I hope you’ll keep that in mind.”
The teenage girl nodded, “I will.”
The secretary led Ramon into Delacroix’s office. He tried to push away the sinking sensation in his stomach, unsuccessfully. Everything in the Ares Macrotech building was bright and shiny, smacking of wealth that he found unimaginable, and would be forever out of his reach.
Delacroix’s office was huge, the size of a small gym. The man sat with the back of his seat facing Ramon when he came in, and Ramon had the distinct impression he was being tested again.
“So, how was your night?” The voice froze Ramon, and he was suddenly overcome with fright. Phillip Delacroix was the man in black!
Delacroix swiveled his chair round to face Ramon. “I believe you still have something that belongs to me.” His hands pressed against each other, under his chin, Delacroix regarded Ramon as though he was looking at an insignificant insect.
Ramon took out the Book of Paths, and held it out. “Take it back. I don’t want it. It’s caused me nothing but a whole lotta questions and stuff. All that trouble last night… wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t read this stupid book.”
“Really?” Delacroix gazed at him steadily. “If you had walked away, and Vanessa Kapatelis was indeed abused, would you have forgiven yourself? Could you live with your conscience?” The contemptuous look was gone, replaced by a keen curiosity.
“And what of the deaths of Jase and my friends?” Ramon shot back.
“They died as they would have liked to live, as men,” replied Phillip. “They would have understood what you did, even if they might not have interceded on young Vanessa’s behalf if they had been in your shoes at the warehouse.”
“Are you accusing them of being cowards?”
“Yes.” Phillip smiled. “Do you wish to make me change my mind?” He stood up, and Ramon gulped. There was no way he could outfight Phillip Delacroix.
Phillip shook his head slightly. “Some seek evil out, hunting it down. Some wait for evil to come to them before they take action. Some do not fight it until they have no other choice. Some ignore it, hoping it would just go away.” He strode forward, and stared right into Ramon’s eyes. “Which one are you? Which one do you wish to be?”
“Take the goddamn book back!”
“No, I have another copy. If you knew your friends would die, but that a young girl might be saved, would you still have done what you did?”
Ramon whispered, “Yes.”
Delacroix nodded, then said, “Kneel.”
Ramon blinked at him, then Delacroix thundered, “Kneel!”
He quickly went down to his knees. Delacroix squatted down so that they were still at eye level. “Let me tell you what the Book of Paths is. It is a guide. A guide to train the most dangerous of men, for the most deadly of tasks. If you wish to follow it, you will face great evil, and forced to make choices nobody else ever should. You will find yourself assailed with doubt, fear, suffering, and pain. There is no promise of glory, just the knowledge that few others can do what you will do.” He paused, “Are you willing to take the code?”
Ramon gulped hard, and closed his eyes. All his life, he had been living in emptiness. Jase had done his best, but there was always the sensation that he should be doing something better. But because of his past and his present, Ramon had forced himself to abandon his dreams. And here was somebody offering him a future. A bleak future, but a future nonetheless. And one that he kept thinking he should have walked away from. He could still walk away. And Phillip Delacroix would not stop him this time. But what about the weak, those who could not help themselves? What about monsters like Kash?
He opened his eyes, “I’m ready.”
“Then recite after me.
Protect the weak against the evil strong.
Never allow thoughts of gain to lead into the service of evil.
Do not back away from an enemy, either fight or die trying.
It is not enough to say I will not be evil.
Evil must be fought wherever it is found.”
“The four vows. Each vow is a facet of the code, and carries a test. The vow of light.” Phillip quoted, “Light is the gift of the stars. It is a power that burns away all and leaves behind only truth.”
Then he said, “You must sacrifice something that means a great deal to you. A valued keepsake or memento. This symbolizes your detachment from the pursuit of material wealth. Inner strength is the true measure of your wealth.”
Ramon thought about it, before he removed the Red Sox cap from where it was squeezed in a pocket of his jacket. “I got this cap when Jase brought me to my first baseball game at Fenway Park. I was only eight. The Sox won big.” He smiled at the memory.
Phillip nodded, taking the cap, and then sliced it into pieces with a knife. Ramon forced himself to stay impassive. Compared to the loss of Jase, this was nothing. He would give anything to have his friends back, and if not… Then he would make sure nobody else had to go through the same sort of pain.
“The vow of life. All choices bring a person into conflict with the one enemy he can never hope to defeat – himself. Good choices allow survival. Evil choices ensure a swift death.”
Ramon raised his head. “Ask.”
“There is a child. It is prophesized that he shall grow to be a great and terrible king, a destroyer of worlds. The child is in danger. Do you save it?”
“I will save the child.”
“Why?”
“Nothing is set in stone. What matters is often the now, not the future. I cannot guarantee the child might not become that asshole you described, but I can guarantee he will die if not saved.”
Phillip smiled. “A fine answer. Next, the vow of mind. The mind is the finest instrument a person can possess. To recognize evil and oppose it is the purpose of a clear mind.” Phillip paused. “You have passed this test already.”
“When?”
“Last night, when you saved Vanessa.” Phillip offered Ramon a smile. “And I have to say, well done.”
Ramon looked down at the floor, “Not so well done. Jase got killed. I lost so much in a single night.”
“You did your best, but it is good you recognize that you could be better, which brings us to the fourth vow, that of the soul. The soul is the essence of being. Without it, only the abyss beckons. With it, the secrets of creation are revealed.”
“The test?”
“You just passed it too, when you identified your limitations and lack of knowledge. Before we can improve, we must know what we still lack, just how little we are in the grand scheme of things.” Phillip pulled Ramon to his feet. “I would offer my congratulations, but it’s often more like a condolence for what you are going to face.” Phillip laughed sadly.
Ramon breathed in deeply. He didn’t feel all that different, but Phillip’s explanation had told him a great deal. “Then what are those who follow this path known as?”
Phillip pondered the question. “We have many names. Charlatans. Heretics. Deceivers. Tricksters. Spies. But my personal favorite, the ones the demons use, is Kessanalt.” Somehow, the mention of demons didn’t make Ramon feel any better.
“Here, take this.” Phillip tossed him another letter.
“What for?” Ramon opened it to find a name and some money. Quite a bit of money, more than he had ever seen in his life. Four hundred dollars!
“Look for the name in the letter, Jake Kabrinski. The money is for expenses and the sort. This is your first mission.”
Ramon blinked. “Huh? I thought…”
“You watch too much pulp fiction.” Phillip scowled. “There is no master apprentice blah blah blah for us. The moment you’re a Kessanalt, you’re qualified. Still, Jake will set you straight. He did the same for me years ago. Seek him out.”
Ramon did not move until Phillip sighed and started pushing him to the door. “Wait, but what do I actually do?”
“Read the book. Keep reading it, and think over what you’ve read. And when you get to Jake, tell him I said hi, and mention the words ‘Predlitz’ and ‘Gravesend’.”
“Huh?”
“He’ll understand.”
Two weeks later
It was late at night, and Jake Kabrinski was cleaning the top of the tables in the cafeteria when he heard the door of the café open, the bells chiming as always. “We’re closed for business!” He said to the teenage boy standing uncertainly in the doorway.
“Uh, excuse me, are you Jake Kabrinski?”
“Yeah, what’s it to you?”
The boy seemed relieved. “Mister Kabrinski, I’m Ramon. Phillip Delacroix told me to come here. He also told me to say ‘Predlitz’ and ‘Gravesend’ to you.”
Jake smiled, understanding what Phillip wanted him to do. “So he did. Well, have you eaten?”
Ramon massaged his growling stomach. “It’s been a long day, I am a bit hungry now.”
“There’re leftover sandwiches on the counter, so help yourself to them. Then help me clean these tables!”
“Yessir!”
Ramon’s new life had started.
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Kessanalt have ten areas, or disciplines that they develop. Each discipline has fifteen tiers. Each new tier allows a new ability and enhances already learnt abilities.
Kessanalt abilities shown in previous chapters.
Full Potential(Physical prowess) Tier II: Feral Flight
The Kessanalt gains great speed that borders on the supernatural. Few can keep up with him when he is moving at top speed.
Deliverance(Healing) Tier I: Warmth of the Soul
Through meditation and self-knowledge, the Kessanalt can heal himself of his wounds, no matter how severe they might be.
Unity with Beasts(Nature) Tier II: Voice of the Forest
The Kessanalt can control vertebrate animals with a single simple spoken command, such as ‘Stop’, ‘Follow’, or ‘Run’.
Assimilance(Stealth) Tier IX: Utter Silence
The Kessanalt does not make any sound when he is in motion.
Assimilance Tier XIII: Blur
Kessanalt with this skill are able to cause the outline of their bodies to become blurred and indistinct. By so doing, they can greatly increase their chances of avoiding magical and/or non-magical missiles directed at them.
Foretelling(Sixth Sense) Tier II: Internal Compass
The Kessanalt always knows the direction of north if on a planet, or the direction to the bridge and engines if on a spaceship.
Foretelling Tier V: Knives in the Dark
By studying another person by sight, the Kessanalt can sometimes guess their intentions or tell if they pose an immediate threat. They are able to glean some small flash of information regarding the type of danger the target possesses, like a hidden dagger or an intention to blackmail the Kessanalt. This ability can also ferret out hidden agendas.
Conscious War(Psychic attack) Tier III: Dagger of the Mind
The Kessanalt gains the ability to launch psionic attacks upon an enemy, causing them pain and distress with mere thought. He can also defend himself against psionic attacks. The power of these abilities, as well as the number of enemies the Kessanalt can affect at any one time, depends on the experience and skill of the Kessanalt.
Conscious War Tier IV: Exacerbate/Numb
The Kessanalt is able to manipulate a target’s emotions, intensifying fear to sheer terror or boosting the courage of those subdued by baser emotions. He can also achieve the opposite effect, numbing the emotions of a target.
Nexus(Telekinesis) Tier III: Fine Focus
After being able to move objects weighing a great deal with his mind, the Kessanalt now turns his attention to extremely delicate manipulation. He gains the ability to manipulate any small mechanism, like traps and locks.
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When you look at Tom’s past, it was not a pretty thing. It was very good that Francis Gravesend managed to catch Tom when he did. I doubt anybody knew just how much the world owes Francis Gravesend for showing Tom the first glimmers of hope.
-Jake Kabrinski
He was hanging below a tree. His arms were tied behind his back, with no slack at all for him to loosen them or reach the knot at his back. The rope wound around his body and arms several times, then was finished with a knot at his back that led to the loop around the tree branch from which he hang, about three to four meters above the ground.
The hot searing sun beat down upon his head, and 91 glared with hatred at the small ramshackle church not more than ten meters away. The monk had captured him, but instead of dying, he had been woken up by the crows to find himself in this predicament. The crows circled around the tree, their rude squawks reminding him of his precarious existence.
That morning, a small crowd of villagers had come. He saw their hatred, their fear. At first, he stared balefully at them, daring them to try something, anything, until somebody threw a stone at him. The rest had followed with mud and stones, until the monk had ordered them to stop.
The damage was done. Blood trickled down his head, and caked mud covered his body, which he should be grateful for, since it shielded him somewhat from the hot sun. His wounds from his battles with the local militia had not healed, and every part of his body hurt terribly. Sometimes, he could see blood seeping down from his barely closed wounds, down onto the ground.
He had not had a drink or any food for two days. His throat was parched, and he could not work up any saliva at all.
Why didn’t they kill me? He wondered, a question that had crossed his mind often in the past two days. Wouldn’t it be easier, for him, for them, for everybody?
He was a demon in human guise, a killer of men. If he didn’t kill, he would be killed. That was the story of the world, his world, his futile life so far, the rule by which his existence was governed. The fact that he was still alive bewildered him.
“Still not dead, eh?” Francis Gravesend remarked from his position next to the small church. He stared at 91, and the boy stared back, his eyes hot with rage. Kill me! Kill me and let it be done and over with! Don’t insult me by sparing my life!
The monk shook his head almost imperceptibly, and went back inside the church.
The next day, it rained in the morning. He shivered in the cold, feeling the warmth from his body leech off by the flowing water, draining him of energy. He felt so tried, down to his very bones. The monk did not appear for the entire day. Either that or he did not bother to look at him.
The crows began to gather in larger numbers. They stared at him with their beady eyes, perched on the tree, the church, all around him, patiently waiting.
Night arrived. He began to dream of his past. His terrible childhood, the intensive, merciless training he had undergone. His hands, covered with blood, the blood of his siblings. The pain of never knowing what it was like to be loved…
The instructor stood in front of him at the firing range, while the others looked on. He bowed his head in shame.
“What is this that I find on your table?” The instructor taunted. Then he held up a piece of paper, with a drawing on it. “Tell me the meaning of this!”
He slapped 91 hard on the cheek. 91 fell to the ground, howling in pain. The adult turned to the others, then held up the paper. “Thinking of this is forbidden!”
He glared at 91, while 91 had tears running down his cheeks. The man said, “Stand up, you useless piece of shit!”
Then he pressed a pistol into 91’s hands, while he placed the drawing on the target side of the firing range. Then he placed his own pistol to 91’s head. “Shoot, you worthless little scum! Or I’ll shoot you!”
91 raised his pistol at the drawing, then hesitated.
The man pressed his pistol harder against his head. “Shoot. Now!”
91 squeezed his trigger, his aim blurry due to his tears. Once, twice, his gun roared.
“Good.” The man declared, then holstered his own weapon. “Remember, you have no family. Nobody will love you. The reason for your existence is to serve our master. Dismissed!”
91 did not move, but stared at the drawing, of a man and a woman standing beside a boy.
Their formerly smiling faces had been holed by his unerring aim.
“Arggggghhhhh!” 91 screamed at the memory. From that moment on, because of the pain he had told himself that he did not need to love, or to be loved. He didn’t need parents. He would be strong on his own. He had to be strong. He had no other choice.
And after he had learnt enough, he would visit vengeance upon those who had made his childhood a living hell.
At least, that was the plan.
My vengeance, that was all that I wanted…
With his head hung down, he did not see the monk observing him from one window. Francis Gravesend took another look at him, then continued to work on his sermon for the next mass.
The next night, he had a visitor. 91 was delirious with hunger and thirst by now. A short rain in the afternoon gave him a bit of water, but it wasn’t enough to truly slake his thirst. And he was starving. He had not eaten properly for almost two weeks.
Bit by bit, he was dying.
He saw the young boy he had saved sneak up below him, a piece of bread stuck on one end of a pole held in his hands. The boy lifted a finger to his lips, gesturing for silence. “Shhh…”
Then the boy whispered to him, “Hey, you must be hungry. Have some food.”
He started to use the pole to move the piece of bread up to 91. 91 opened his mouth numbly, trying to bite into that life sustaining bread.
The boy had difficulty with the pole, and he was not strong enough to move it to 91’s mouth. Then just as 91 was almost about to bite into the bread, there was a voice from the church, “Who’s there?”
The boy panicked and ran away, the bread falling to the ground and breaking into small pieces. 91 looked up to see Francis standing below him now. The monk crossed his arms, as though waiting for 91 to do something.
He did do something. He managed to shout,” You… stupid… monk!” He wriggled his body violently, trying to free himself of his restraints. The movement drove the rest of his breath out from his body, so that no sound came from his open mouth as he mouthed, “Kill me now, you stupid monk! Quickly! Just do it!”
Then just as suddenly as he had summoned up the strength to protest, he vomited. The ropes had cut deep into his stomach, and his movement had aggravated the pain in his belly.
“I’m surprised to see you still have this much strength left.” Francis said. “But if you’re not careful, you will die tomorrow.”
91 ignored the words, and glared at Gravesend, panting from his exertions. Kill me now! Why not let me die like a warrior? Please, let me die…
Francis said, “You should be sick and tired of looking at the church by now. It’s time for you to look within your own soul!”
The monk went back into the church. 91 wanted to scream after him. You stupid pretentious turd! I don’t know what you’re talking about!
But as the night proceeded, he did try to look within his own soul.
There was only darkness. Nothing else.
It was midday, and the sun’s merciless rays burned his skin. He was almost unconscious from the lack of water, holding on by sheer willpower. The crows, as always were there, waiting for him. Every so often, one of them would squawk indignantly at him.
Francis Gravesend, for once, stood below him in the day, pruning the plants around the church. “Did you hear the crows? They are all saying, ‘Please die soon!’”
This time, 91 was too weak to reply, or even to lift his head to glare at Francis.
The monk continued, “You wish to die like a warrior? With honor? No way, not with your selfishness.”
At his words, 91 did managed to look up a bit at the monk.
“Did you ever consider that the men you killed had their own lives to live?” Francis straightened up to release some of the strain on his aging back. “Its one thing to be happy, but in the world, some have families, some do not.”
“Some have children. Some have wives, lovers. Some have pets.”
Francis now stood directly below him, so that the two men could look each other in the eyes. “Some have their dreams. Some are just walking zombies, with no dreams for the future.” Francis’s tone grew cold. “And you, you took their lives away!”
The monk said harshly, “Did you think you were the only person with the right to die when and as you like? To die like a warrior?” The words hammered into 91. Delirious and hallucinating, 91 imagined himself falling into a crowd of the men he had killed. They had turned into fanged demons, their claws bloody and thirsting for his death.
Francis tone turned scathing, “Who the fucking hell did you think you are? For the sake of continuing your stupid personal war, you killed like an animal.” As Francis talked, the claws of the demons tore at his flesh, biting into him.
The monk concluded, “And you wish to die with honor? Dream on.”
91 wrenched himself out of the waking nightmare, but he panted heavily. His heart pounded weakly in his chest. Every breath was a struggle. I’m going to die…
Just then, it began to rain.
Francis stared up at the sky. “Hmmm… it’s raining quite frequently nowadays.” He turned back to his church. “Looks like the Heavens won’t allow you to die!”
He barked out a short laugh, “This is also God’s way of telling you that you can’t die yet!”
It was a long downpour. 91 drank the rainwater for all he was worth.
It was night again, and the nightmares came back to haunt him…
The man on the throne held him in the dark tendrils, while every part of his body screamed with agony.
“Taste my power, the same power that burns deep within you.” The man said gleefully. “Taste it, doesn’t it feel good?”
91 stared back at the man, when there was… something he felt inside his body. A surging tide, a rolling wave of destruction.
He roared, and suddenly he was flung onto the ground. His sight was shaded in hues of red and black, and he growled at the man on the throne. He was about to leap again when the man simply waved his hands.
91 found himself in the midst of a city street, bustling with people. There were smiles on their faces. Children skipping along happily.
He screamed in jealousy and frustration. The black wave erupted from his insides, the terrible power of his heritage.
Five minutes later, he knelt on the ground, the ruined city around him. He stared blankly at the destruction he had wrought, at a bloody doll in the hand of a girl.
Her body was torn into half. Her face stared blankly at him, asking, “Why?”
A shadow fell over him, and he looked up to see his master, his father. “I am disappointed. You are not ready.” Then his insides were turned inside out once again, and he screamed, the agony tearing him apart.
Nobody ever knew it was him.
91, for the first time since his youth, since he had broken away from the clutches of his father, wept for his sins.
Then there was a shuffling sound above him. He herd a voice, “Still alive, are you?”
Cassian.
The bounty hunter continued to speak. “Battered by the elements, pissing and shitting yourself like an animal, and you still consider yourself an assassin?”
“I’ll do you a favor, and kill you now!” 91 suddenly felt himself falling to the ground. Cassian cut the rope. That was his last thought before he hit the ground.
Francis Gravesend walked out in time to see a young man standing over the prone form of the wild killer. He narrowed his eyes, and for the first time in a long while, allowed his aggression, what the mystics called qi, to flow forth. It was the aura of his true self, the renowned spy once known throughout the galaxy as the Fang of Loki.
The young man turned back to him, surprise and fear written on his face. He panicked, and sprinted away.
Francis stood over the body of the wild killer for several moments, then lifted him up onto one shoulder.
It was time.
As he carried the killer, Francis said to his burden, “You are sure heavy. Prepare to choose your burial spot, my friend.”
91 awoke to see the monk offering him water from a bottle. He devoured the fluid eagerly. Where is Cassian? He was still tied up, but at least his legs were free.
The monk seemed to read his mind. “Oh, your friend said he had other business to attend to.”
91 stared at him.
“Well, have you chosen a spot for your burial?” asked the monk. “I must say, this spot is pretty nice, overlooking part of the valley.” They were on a small hill, and they could see a village nestled in the valley.
“Kill me.” 91 could speak again.
Francis turned towards him, capping the bottle of water, “What did you say?”
“Kill me, you stupid monk.”
“Is this what you want?”
“What else do I want?” spat 91.
There was a cold silence between the two men for a moment, before Francis said, “You look like hell, boy.”
He continued, ignoring 91’s glare, “Darkness, despair, hopelessness, suffering, pain, loneliness, all written in your eyes. Unending slaughter. Kill, or be killed. Is this the life that you want?”
“Yes!”
“Then isn’t this what you had always wanted? To be killed if you could not kill? So why aren’t you smiling?” The monk grabbed 91’s jaw, and lifted up his chin. “Come on, smile. You’re going to die! You’re going to have your wish fulfilled!”
91 jerked his head free of the monk’s grasp. Then the monk suddenly lashed out, slapping him right across the face. It stung, but the insult hurt more than the physical pain.
“Come on! Smile! Shout out your joy to the entire world!” Another blow, this time a punch to his face. “I never cared for who stood in front of me. I just kill whoever I see! And now I’m going to die at the hands of a crazy old monk!”
Francis raised his hands, the fists thrusting towards the sky. “My wish is fulfilled! Hurrah! This is my life! My dreams have come true! Yay!” Then he leaned down in front of 91, his eyes serious and mocking at the same time, “Come on, say it!”
91 yelled back, “Kill me! Just kill me, dammit!”
Francis punched him again, and 91 fell backwards onto he ground. “Say it! Quickly!”
91 did not reply, panting hard.
“Say it now!” Another series of punches. “Kill them all! Kill them all! Isn’t this what you wanted? If that satisfies you, then say it!”
Francis finally stopped, panting hard. 91 looked up at him, “I thought you were a monk.”
The monk, still panting, replied, “No, I’m just a stupid old monk.”
Francis turned away, groaning over his lacerated knuckles. 91 took the opportunity to stand on his feet.
And promptly headbutted a nearby piece of rock. He had flung himself with his remaining strength at the rock, his forehead screaming in pain. Blood burst from his head. I’m still not dead yet.
He threw himself at the rock a second time. This time, he thought he heard a slight crack. Once more should do it.
Through the pain, his mind filled with images of his past seventeen years of life, or more accurately, death. Why? Why was I born into this world? To be tortured? To be hunted? To be hated, feared? To kill? As the son of a demon, to kill until I was killed?
His final thought was one of sheer anguish and pain. WHY WAS I BORN INTO THIS WORLD?
He charged again, but this time a hand stood in his head’s way. It closed around his forehead, just inches away from the rock.
Francis shook his head. “Do you wish to kill yourself? Take your own life?” He pushed 91, and the two men sat down. Francis kept his hand on 91’s forehead, staunching the bleeding.
Francis said softly, “Whatever you were in the past, abandon it!” Visions flooded 91’s mind, and his eyes filled up with tears.
“A life of killing without end, is no life at all! To kill all the time, that is not right!” Francis sighed, then spoke with conviction. “You will not lead that kind of life.”
Really? 91 thought, as the tears ran down his smudged face. Do I live on? Should I?
Francis cut away his ropes, and 91 stood quietly, thinking on what the old monk had said to him. Gravesend had bandaged up his forehead wound. Strangely enough, he felt… liberated.
The monk quoted, “Those men who do not know darkness, do not know light either.” Then Francis blinked, unsure of his statement. “At least, I think so. Oh well. Anyway, take your burden of darkness with you, boy, and live on.”
91 nodded. “Where do I go next?”
The monk smiled. “I have a friend who has a small cabin near here. You can stay in the cabin until you have recovered.”
“Thank you. Won’t you get into trouble with the authorities?”
The monk laughed, “Don’t worry about that! By the way, I never asked for your name.” The monk looked sheepish.
“I don’t have one. All I have is a number. 91 was my designated code.”
91 saw the monk suddenly clench his fists in anger, before relaxing them. “I see… Well then how about I give you a name?”
“Like?”
The monk tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Thomas... yes, that is a good name. Thomas… Serra! Yes, that’s it! You are now Thomas Serra!”
Somehow, having a name made 91 feel a lot better. Thomas Serra. I am now Tom Serra.
The two men left the hill.
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