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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.

Chapter List
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One of the greatest advantages our forces have in city combat was information ering. Kessanalt troopers with the ability to communicate with animals would set up ‘Vermin Networks’ to scout on enemy positions and key strong points. ANIMINT became as important a component as ELINT and other traditional intelligence gathering methods. As the old saying goes, information is ammunition.
Of course, Kessanalt were useful in many other roles as well. Sneak attacks, point defense, infiltration, suicide assaults, forlorn hopes. You name it, they do it.
-Urban Jungle Warfare, Major Dennis Bozeman
Lex Luthor roared angrily at his phone. “I don’t care what you think, I want you to kill Delacroix now!”
Shrike answered, “Sorry, Mister Luthor, but the contract specified that we were allowed to pick a time of our own choosing. We’ll kill him, when the time is right.”
He seethed. “Dammit, I want him dead now, not a week later, not tomorrow, not an hour later! NOW!” The last shout was followed by a distinct click of the villains on the other side hanging up. Evidently, they did not want to hear his ire.
Luthor grunted in disgust, then flicked on the screen of his computer. More names from the list popped up. He smiled carefully, then noted another group of assassins he could use. He had held them in reserve, ready to go in. A backup plan, always a good idea when dealing with metahumans.
He flicked on his phone, and made another call.

Wonder Woman rubbed the back of her neck, then stretched herself out tiredly. She had spent the entire night trying to figure out where Phillip Delacroix and Veronica Cale had been taken, with little luck. The villains had already placed an untraceable ransom demand, a letter to the police headquarters containing their money demands and Cale’s driver’s license. 10 billion dollars in cash, to be delivered to a specific location in Cuba, which was off limits to superheroes, even a diplomatic emissary like the Amazon ambassador, in 12 hours.
From what she could find out about Metallo’s abilities, they could be anywhere from New York to the other side of the Atlantic. However, aerial and satellite surveillance, not to mention the ransom note itself, hinted that the villains were still in the US, and more likely than not in the vicinity of New York.
Problem was, where? She had tried her own limited sources, but she had never felt the need to develop informant networks like Batman, and neither did she possess the advanced sensory powers Superman had.
What she did have, was the lasso of truth. But in the present circumstances, she doubted it was of much use. If the villains did not contact the criminals present in the city, then there was no trail that could lead her to them.
The Amazon decided to prowl the streets anyway. It was better than just waiting in the embassy. Besides, she could get lucky. She flew out of the embassy, her keen eyesight roaming the ground below her, trying to find the villains.

Veronica Cale woke to find herself tied up securely by ropes, with her wrists in handcuffs behind her back, and her legs tied together. She laid on the dirty floor, and tried to scream for help. Or at least, tried to, with the ball gag in her mouth.
She recognized her surroundings, some sort of abandoned building. She was in a dingy room, with only a single light bulb providing light in the dark confines of concrete. At least she had not been blindfolded. She could see a bit of light streaming into the room from a door.
Veronica squirmed around, until she faced the door. She had no idea what happened after Cyborgirl had knocked her out, but it was apparent that they were holding her for ransom. And more important, where was Phillip?
Her heart seized with fear for him for a moment, before she recalled that the yellow costumed assassin only knocked him out, and did not kill him, which would have been simple enough with a twist from his daggers, or a blast from Metallo.
Still, she could not help but worry if they had something else in mind other than getting a ransom. I really should start hiring better security. She had dismissed her bodyguard Fallon before the dinner on an errand, and she regretted the decision. On the other hand, she doubted he would have made a difference. Not against the level of supervillains after her and Phillip.
She managed to crawl worm-like along the floor to the door until Shadow Thief suddenly appeared in front of her. “Uh uh, little lady. Stay in there.” He grabbed her by her arms, and flung her back into the room. “Hey, Metallo! Help me move a cupboard over to the door to block her from getting out!” Soon after, even the door was blocked by bulky furniture, leaving her with only the light from the bulb.
Veronica seethed, racking her brain for a way out. Nothing came to her.

Phillip was having a rather easier time. He woke up chained to a chair with Shrike next to him, the assassin staring at him appraisingly. “Awake, huh?”
“Yeah, so?” Phillip did not bother testing his bonds.
“Oh, nothing. Except I’ve found plenty of toys on you.” Shrike gestured held out a small bag, and it was filled with the various weapons and tools Phillip had secreted on himself.
Phillip raised an eyebrow. “You’re welcome to them.”
“Where did you learn to fight?” Shrike asked.
Phillip stayed quiet.
The assassin slapped him across the face. “Where did you learn to fight?”
Phillip only offered him a condescending smile. Shrike slapped him again. “Fine if you don’t want to tell me. You’ll be dead soon enough anyway.” Shrike grinned as he walked out of the room, closing the door and locking it securely.
The Kessanalt looked around at his surroundings. A windowless room, with only one door, and a small light bulb. And a rat nibbling on some wires in a corner.
He closed his eyes, feeling out the lock mechanism on his chains. It only took him ten seconds to unlock it, but he stayed in the chair, instead of pulling himself free. No point showing his captors that he had freed himself. And no point busting out of the door when he knew very well he couldn’t outfight five supervillains, who had kept him alive only because of the ransom money. He had to summon help somehow.
His eyes went to the rat again. He swallowed some saliva, trying to work his vocal cords into the proper configuration. Then he started squeaking. “Hey, you.”
The rat, until now happily nibbling away at the wires, spun to face him, astonishment clear in its beady eyes. It squeaked back, “What? Me?”
“Yeah, you.” Phillip resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “What, never seen a man speak to you?”
The rat looked dubiously at him, “I never knew people could speak to us.”
“First time for everything. What’s your name?”
The rat edged away suspiciously away from him. “Chewer of Wires. What’s it to you?”
“I’m Phillip, and I need help.”
“Go get somebody else to help you, I’m busy.” The rat went back to chewing wires. It may be a rodent, but it certainly wasn’t stupid.
Phillip grunted in annoyance, before continuing. “I’ll make it worth your while. All the wires you can chew, if you would just perform a task for me.”
“I can get enough wires on my own.”
“Well then, how about never having to worry about food for the rest of your life? Everything you ever wanted?”
“Really?”
“Cross my heart.” Phillip answered solemnly.
The rat looked at him with interest. “What do you have in mind?”
The Lion of Ares grinned as he told the rat what he wanted it to do. It was a long shot, but it was also better than nothing.
He had just finished giving his instructions when Cyborgirl slammed open the door, and the rat quickly scurried through a hole. “I thought I heard noises in here.”
Phillip smiled weakly. “Uh, you heard rats, right?”
She frowned at him, “Yeah, that’s what it sounded like.”
He said dryly, “So, I would like to thank you for the educational experience of watching two rats copulate… before you scared them off, that is.”
Cyborgirl shuddered, and quickly left.

Diana was back at the embassy, trying to stop feeling useless without much success. Oracle was checking up on Luthor’s calls from his headquarters in Metropolis, but the heavy encryption took time to crack, and time was something that Diana was quite aware that they did not have.
She ran over the possible motivations for Luthor kidnapping Phillip, and none of it made sense. If Luthor wanted him dead, then why the ransom demand? And was Phillip still alive? If he was, why?
She paused in her thoughts. He was one of Ares’ minions, and arguably the most important. The god of conflict would not allow his most important lackey be killed so easily. She could ask him for help, even though her patron goddesses would be none too pleased. But then again, if that was true, why hadn’t Ares done something about it?
Wonder Woman groaned, holding her hands to the sides of her head, trying to figure out the whole thing.
“Diana, stop thinking so much and have dinner.” Peter Garibaldi said to her, entering the room with a small pile of files, which he placed into a table at a corner. “Ferdinand’s cooked up something special for tonight.”
“I don’t feel like eating.”
“You can’t help anybody if you don’t keep up your strength.” He reminded her. “Besides, nobody has anything yet, and you’ve already gone over what little information the police have, and got nothing. Another hour of staring won’t do anything.”
She sighed, “I suppose you’re right.” She followed him to the kitchen. That was when there was a panicked scream. Diana immediately identified the scream as belonging to Alana Dominguez, one of her staff.
Wonder Woman rushed in, her bracelets held in front of her body and ready for an attack, when she realized Alana was cowering behind a grinning Ferdinand, while a rat, of all things, squeaked rather annoyingly on the table. Alana shouted, “Get that away from me!”
The Amazon tried unsuccessfully to suppress her laughter, which came out as an amused giggle. “Alana, it’s only a rat.”
Alana shut her eyes closed, as though that would remove the rat from her vicinity. “Diana, not every woman is an Amazon!”
Ferdinand held a frying pan in one huge hand, and waved it threateningly at the rat, which seemed nonplussed by all the havoc it was creating. “Little friend, shoo!”
Diana was about to join in chasing away the offending rodent when she realized the rat was trying to speak.
“Hey, stop that!” The rat was squeaking desperately, while keeping away from Ferdinand’s frying pan. “I can’t talk over that lady’s screaming!”
The Amazon Princess had been gifted by the gods with many abilities, but one of the more esoteric and less known abilities was her unity with beasts. But this was the first time she had been approached by a rat.
Diana walked over to the rat, and placed her palm next to it. It quickly scurried onto her hand. She lifted it to her face, facing away from a relieved Alana, and said sternly, “Rodent, I am in no mood to have my friends terrified like that. Why do you wish to speak to me?”
The rat hesitated, then said, “A man named Phillip told me to find you.”
Her eyebrows shot up. Phillip had asked the rat to find her? How? She shoved her questions aside. She had long since learnt that the King of Pain was a man of many hidden talents. “Where is he now?”
The rat nibbled nervously on a tiny claw. “I don’t know the building’s name, but I can guide you there.”
Clasping her hands protectively around the rat, the Amazon quickly took to the skies, while the rat trembled in fear at the height. It did, however, have a good sense of direction, and she was soon hovering over several old and abandoned buildings.
“He’s in there.” The rat told her.
“How many people are in there?”
The rat shook its head. “Don’t know. Now set me down!” It shivered uncontrollably, scared of falling from her firm grasp. Diana landed, and allowed it to scurry away into a corner, while warning it to hide and not stick around in what she suspected would soon be a war zone.
Wonder Woman breathed in deeply, readying herself. She could hear Metallo inside the building, his mechanical parts whirring loudly. For a moment, she considered asking for help, but dismissed the thought. Of the villains in the building, most of them were lightweights. Only Metallo posed any real form of a threat.
She crashed through the side of the building into a large cavernous storage area, her lasso out and binding Shrike, Cyborgirl, and Trickster where they had been talking before they could even bring up their weapons. Metallo stirred from his corner, rising in an impressive bulk of gleaming metal.
Kicking off the ground, Diana smashed both fists into Metallo, and the mechanical monstrosity staggered back before losing his footing to collapse on the ground on his back in a shower of sparks and groaning metal.
The superheroine was unaware of Shadow Thief as he emerged from a shadow to unbind his accomplices. Wonder Woman continued pummeling Metallo, intent on disabling him before he could recover. She threw punch after punch into the supervillain, crushing metal and electronics.
An energy blast right at her back flung her to the ground, and she managed to flip onto her feet in time to deflect several daggers and more energy bolts thrown at her by Shrike and Cyborgirl. Trickster was the only one who did not fire, and he was grabbing something out of his belt and loading it into his rather oversized weapon.
The Amazon Princess quickly deflected another flurry of attacks directed her way by Shrike and Cyborgirl, with only her keen sense of hearing to warn her of Metallo. She was surprised when a metal hand caught her right foot, just as Trickster fired his own gun at her, a blob of… something.
Unable to dodge away, Diana raised her bracelets to deflect Trickster’s projectile, but it inexplicably grew larger as it approached her. When it finally hit her metal bracelets, it was a slimy blob of dark blue, and it engulfed her arms and upper body. She tried to move her arms, but realized that she could barely move them through the sticky slime.
“Something special cooked up for superstrong folks like you!” Trickster guffawed as Metallo grabbed both her legs and lifted the helpless heroine high up into the air before bringing her down onto the ground in a painful slam. Diana almost lost consciousness, but managed to hang on.
“Let me have a shot!” Shrike was about to fling a dagger at her when an arm tapped on his shoulder from behind. The assassin spun around with his dagger in a backhand, only for it to pass over Phillip Delacroix’s head. The Lion of Ares jabbed out with his left hand, almost crushing Shrike’s windpipe. The assassin collapsed to the ground, choking badly.
Phillip was already in motion, right hand coming up with a dagger from Shrike’s arsenal, and tossing it with ruthless accuracy at Trickster. The gaudily clad villain took the dagger in his left chest, which was aimed to incapacitate him, not kill. He screamed in panic and intense pain, chilled by the coldness in the King of Pain’s eyes. Eyes that seemed emotionless. Bored, even. The eyes of a born killer. Trickster crawled on the ground, gasping for help.
“Damn it!” Cyborgirl aimed for Phillip, but he easily dodged her shot. Meanwhile, Diana had managed to squirm out of Metallo’s grasp, and used her legs to pound him into the ground, earning herself a quick respite, which she used to crape the slime off her arms by dragging it across the ground. It was tough, but the slime came off just as Metallo managed to dig himself out of the rubble she had kicked him into.
He roared at her, “You’re going to pay for that, bitch!”
Cyborgirl was trying to kill Phillip, shooting blast after blast at him as he ran around her. He paused before a particular spot, enabling her to draw a bead. But when she fired, he dodged again, allowing the energy ball to destroy the cupboard that had been blocking the door to Veronica Cale’s makeshift prison. He did not speak to taunt her, but he did stick his tongue out, while his eyes remained cool. The incongruity of the mixed expressions terrified Cyborgirl.
Diana smashed into Metallo again, her fists and legs in a blur, trying to put the mechanical monster down for good. What sounded like whimpers were beginning to issue from what passed for his mouth. The Amazon did not stop; somebody capable of taking down Superman was not to be underestimated. Metallo was beginning to look like several car wrecks squashed together by a compacter.
Sensing something wrong behind her, she took a moment to look back. Cyborgirl had given up trying to hit Phillip, and was aiming for her. The Amazon whipped her tiara out at the girl in a smooth motion, the spinning weapon knocking the surprised Cyborgirl to the ground before she could fire. She did not get up again.
That got Metallo the barest moments of respite, but he had only time to throw a wild punch with a metal appendage which Diana avoided easily. She pounded on him again, but this time used her hands to tear out circuitry and wires. The glow in his robotic eyes started to fade as he went into shutdown mode.
“Everybody stop!” A voice made her look up. Shadow Thief held a bound Veronica Cale in his grasp, along with a wicked looking dagger leveled at her stomach. “Nobody kove, or she gets it!” Then he shrugged. “But then again, why should I care?” He snarled, stabbed the dagger into Cale, dragging it across her stomach. Cale shrieked in agony past the gag in her mouth, before she fainted.
“You monster!” Diana flew at Shadow Thief, but the villain simply took a step away from Cale, back into a shadow, and disappeared into the blackness.
Diana caught Cale before the businesswoman hit the ground, and Phillip scrambled up almost immediately. “We have to get her to a hospital!” Diana held her hands over the gaping hole in Cale’s stomach to staunch the bleeding, frustrated and furious at Shadow Thief’s lack of respect for life.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” The unexpected voice made the two look up, to see another group of gaudily clad people standing at one end of the building. Diana gasped in recognition at the assembled villains. There was Devastation, Pistolera, Doctor Poison, Deathstroke, and Lady Shiva. Wonder Woman pressed the JLA emergency signal on her beeper, but there was no affirming reply beep.
Deathstroke held up his right hand. “Signal scrambler. No calling for help, Wonder Woman.” He gestured to Phillip, “You can leave with Veronica Cale, Princess. Take her to the hospital. We just want Phillip Delacroix.”
“Do as he says,” said Phillip quietly. “Leave me. Take Ronnie to the hospital.”
Diana steeled herself. “I will not.” She ignored the twinge of discomfort at the familiar way he addressed Cale. She thought over the situation carefully. If she left with Cale, Phillip would surely die. Perhaps there was a way to salvage the situation. She would buy time for Phillip to escape with Cale.
That time would probably be paid for with her life. She had no illusions of her chances against five supervillains, especially when one of them was Devastation, who was nearly her equal. Deathstroke was tough and tricky, with a variety of gadgets and traps ready for a variety of opponents. Pistolera she was less familiar with, but the Birds of Prey had many run-ins with her in the past. Lady Shiva was the most deadly of them all, and an occasional sparring partner. Doctor Poison was also deadly in her own way, and even the healing powers granted to the Amazon Princess would be taxed by the poisons and diseases she had at her command.
For about two seconds they squared off, the villains waiting her out, and apparently confident in their ability to kill Phillip. Diana waited for Phillip to leave, and she finally heard him lift up Cale in his arms and run away.
Devastation still had that superior smirk on her face, but as her eyes stopped on Phillip’s back as he moved off, and Diana could suddenly see the intense terror in the young girl’s eyes, Devastation momentarily dropping her guard. Wonder Woman did not hesitate; she flew out at Devastation at top speed, landing one powerful blow and sending Devastation crashing through the walls of the building and out of it.
She raised a hand to block a poisoned dart from Poison, and then Deathstroke attacked, his staff thrusting towards her. Diana was about to smack it aside when he pressed a button on his staff, causing one end of it to emit a blinding light that seared her retinas, making her stumble back for a moment. Which was all the time Doctor Poison needed to fire another dart at her, which sank into the white flesh of her shoulder.
Wonder Woman fell to her feet, suddenly weak from the poison coursing through her body. It was the same sort of weakening drug that had been used on her before, designed by some supervillains to deal with heroes with powers beyond that of ordinary mortals. Her own healing factor would neutralize it in a short while, but until then she was no stronger than a mortal.
Lady Shiva smiled at her, standing confidently before the weakened Amazon Champion while the other villains ran past her for their true target. “So, Diana. We have fought before, but always you had the advantage of your powers. Without them, how good are you, hmmm?”
Diana snarled. “Let us find out then.”

The situation was always getting from bad to worse. Phillip thought he’d gotten a handle on things, but as usual, he was wrong. There was always a way for things to get worse.
He could hear them now, Deathstroke, Doctor Poison, and Pistolera chasing after him. And Shadow Thief, lurking around somewhere in the shadows. And Veronica was still bleeding to death. He had several choices. Run with Ronnie and hope to get away fast enough, which was unlikely. Abandon her and run for his own life, which he’d never do. Try to fight them, but while she slowly died without medical attention. Heal her, which would also open him up to their attacks.
There was never a choice at all.
He laid Ronnie down to the ground gently, and unhurriedly opened up the makeshift bandages around her bloody torso. He placed both hands onto the open wound, summoning up his energy, allowing it to filter past his hands and into her body to accelerate her own healing process. He began to sweat with the exertion of using so much energy at once, and his hands began to tremble slightly. For a moment, he was on the verge of something unknown and frightening, then he pushed past the an unseen barrier, his very self dissolving into the wound.
He was standing in a long dark tunnel, a mineshaft. He could see a stream of sunlight in the distance. He walked towards the light, knocking away the support struts and uprights keeping the shaft open. The walls and roof fell in silently behind him, flowing like molten lava and solidifying to form unblemished smooth rock.
He emerged into the light, an open plain after what seemed to be hours. The surface was flat grassland all around, pocked by the mine entrance appearing as an ugly mound. He stretched both arms out, just long enough to pull in the sides of the entrance together, leaving only a tall, thin slit. He reached out with a finger and ran it over the slit, closing it completely. The mound sank down into the grassy surface to become part of the flatness of the plains.
Phillip was back in the abandoned building, his own breathing unnaturally loud, his limbs lethargic with exhaustion. He took a quick look at Veronica’s wound, ignoring the rush of blood at seeing her naked breasts. The wound inflicted by Shadow Thief was gone, without even the trace of a scar. Color had returned to her cheeks. If nothing else, she would survive the day. But for him though…
Amazingly, Deathstroke was still only ten meters behind him. The master assassin swung out with his sword with deadly speed, and Phillip ducked back just in time, rolling onto the ground quickly. Pistolera and Doctor Poison looked as though they were about to use Veronica against him, but Deathstroke simply barked a command at them to leave the unconscious woman where she was.
The two men locked gazes. “Five million to let her go, Slade, and another five to buy her life and protection.”
Slade replied. “Done. But not going to bargain for your own life? How are you going to pay us if you’re dead?”
Phillip glanced around his surroundings. “The bidding war will just go on even if I buy you off. I have a better idea. And don’t worry. I’ll live to pay you.”
“Don’t tell me.” Deathstroke then called out. “Poison, Pistolera, leave the woman. And that goes for you as well, Sands. Touch her, and I’ll go after you when this is over.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me, because you’re going to die right now.” Deathstroke stabbed forward with his sword, and Phillip did the only thing he could, since Veronica was now safe, and he didn’t think he could beat all of them at the same time.
He ran, with Pistolera’s bullets chasing him.

Wonder Woman never quite realized just how much she had relied on her powers, consciously or unconsciously, to gain an edge in battle. Yes, she had fought without her powers before, many times, but never against somebody like Lady Shiva. Her brief duel with Phillip Delacroix had been an inkling of that, but she had dismissed it as an aberration, with all the confidence of an Amazon trained from birth to fight.
She was beginning to realize she had been a fool. Her entire body hurt from blows inflicted by the world’s most skilled martial artist, who had beaten even Batman. None of her best attempts to hurt Shiva had even touched the mercurial woman. She was horrified to realize that when she had brought Shiva up to the Watchtower to train, the assassin had been holding back!
Shiva smiled cruelly. “Where’s that famous Amazon arrogance now, eh?” She snapped a blow against Diana’s arm, and the Princess of Themyscira staggered back in pain, groaning softly. She was vaguely aware of Devastation watching nearby, laughing in glee at her defeat.
“Did you think I would give my all in some play fight for your own personal pleasure?” Shiva kicked out, and Diana fell to the ground, breathing hard. She gathered her arms below her, and tried to push off into at least a sitting position.
“I got you a pardon.” Diana wheezed painfully.
Shiva shrugged. “I would have gotten out anyway. The penal system is just a revolving door for us with the means to get out almost any time we want. How many times has the Joker escaped from Arkham? What a joke you all are.” She lashed out with a leg at Wonder Woman’s arms, causing the Amazon heroine to fall back down onto the floor. “I was just setting you up for a time when I might use the lessons I taught against you. Looks like it was a good idea.”
Diana hung her head, then summoned up her willpower. She would not give up. She whipped a leg around, catching Shiva by surprise, and dumping the assassin onto the ground.
Wonder Woman got to her feet. “I am an Amazon. I shall have to teach you the meaning of the word!”

Deathstroke grunted as they came to what seemed to be a maze of cubicles and rooms, once intended as an office block but abandoned after the land estate bubble broke. Phillip Delacroix had disappeared inside, obviously intending for his group to split up to look for him.
Slade Wilson smiled under his mask. Taking on this job was indeed the correct decision. For months now, he had heard rumors of Phillip Delacroix being somebody very dangerous, but nobody had managed to prove it yet. Luthor’s contract was the perfect opportunity to assess just what he was capable of. It wasn’t about the money. It was professional pride and the need for a challenge.
“Split up.” He told his group. “And be careful.” Actually, he didn’t quite care about Pistolera and Doctor Poison. Amateurs, he thought.
Deathstroke didn’t follow them into the maze. He took up a position outside the building where he could observe all movement. Delacroix won’t run, he was sure of it. The man was simply seeking a better tactical position, or perhaps finding an opportunity to circle back to get Cale.

Phillip panted for breath, worn out from the exertion of healing Veronica and fleeing for his life. He also felt a bit hungry. He moved stealthily through the office block, knowing that he had to find a way back to Wonder Woman. Together, they should be able to find a way out of this mess.
But then again, he could even up the odds first. He found a dark recess, well hidden by old and abandoned materials, and snuck into it. He concentrated on keeping still, his breathing completely soundless.
The slow tread of footsteps told him of somebody approaching. The blond woman with two pistols crept through the corridor, unaware of his presence.
Moments later, he was advancing on Deathstroke’s position, armed with the two pistols taken from the unconscious assassin behind him.
Slade was waiting for him in a secluded corner, where he thought he could observe all movement in and out of the building. But he didn’t count on Phillip being a master of stealth, even before using his assimilation ability.
Phillip raised the pistols, and squeezed the trigger gently.
There was little sound, the pistols specially modified for silence. It didn’t matter. Reacting on the faintest instinct of danger, the orange and blue clad assassin ducked down, neatly avoiding the bullets.
Crap. Phillip fired off a few more shots, but he also knew it was pointless. Slade danced around the bullets, and swept in with his sword, a wicked thing with jagged edges. Phillip tossed the pistols at him, but Slade just batted them out of the air.
Phillip sidestepped the swipe. Before Slade could twist the blade and continue the attack, Phillip grabbed the sword with one hand, and arced a kick into the assassin’s midsection. Slade released his sword, but Phillip quickly flung the sword away, just as tendrils of electricity suddenly played over its hilt, which have electrocuted whoever was holding it.
“Clever.” Deathstroke conceded. “You’re careful.”
Phillip did not bother to reply. He could see that Slade wore a mask without lens, which meant one of his favorite tricks was usable. He flung a handful of sawdust from a pocket, collected from some carpentry workshop in the abandoned building, into the assassin’s eyes.
A flurry of punches, jabs, and vicious kicks later, Deathstroke was knocked out. Phillip leaned tiredly with his hands on his knees, panting for breath. Even momentarily blinded, Deathstroke was still almost too fast and quick for him. But then again, the assassin was not a baseline human, and was augmented with special experimental treatments for enhanced strength and reflexes, while Phillip had not used his skills to even up the odds because he had used up too much internal energy healing Ronnie.
After tying up Deathstroke with pieces of cloth from his own villainous outfit, Phillip ran back into the building. He found Veronica propped up against a wall, still unconscious, but breathing steadily, with no visible sign of injury. He spent a few precious seconds checking up on her, then continued on. The only way to get assassins off his tail permanently was to convince any takers that it was a bad idea. Beating Lady Shiva would be a good place to start the convincing.

Wonder Woman had managed to find a second wind, and she was holding her own, if barely, against Shiva. They exchanged a flurry of blows, but Lady Shiva seemed to be just holding back now, assessing her carefully, and expending far less energy than the determined Amazon. Devastation watched quietly from her perch on Metallo’s unmoving hulk, seemingly unconcerned that her greatest foe, the heroine she was created to defeat, was tied up with some other opponent.
Then all of a sudden, Shiva seemed to tire of the game, perhaps because she was aware that the Amazon might be regaining her powers soon. The female killer went into a series of moves that pummeled Diana so hard that she coughed out blood from the powerful blows to her body. She fell to the ground again, and Shiva did not stop there. She slammed a leg down into Diana’s torso, and all the air left her lungs in a whoosh. The defeated heroine wrapped her arms around her chest, wheezing in pain.
Shiva smiled down at the groaning heroine. “You are good without your powers, but not good enough, it seems, to beat me. Don’t worry, I won’t kill you. Nobody contracted me to take your life.”
“Look!” Deva yelled out as Phillip Delacroix emerged from a doorway. He sprinted for the fallen form of the Trickster, and Deva was so suddenly terrified by her memories of that night when she had faced the Lion of Ares that she did not move, while Shiva glided towards Phillip.
Phillip reached the Trickster first, and quickly picked up the special gun he had used to shoot the dark colored globs. He aimed the weapon at Deva, and before she could react, she was hit by one after another of the slimy projectiles, immobilizing her and pinning her to a pillar. The villainess screamed in rage, struggling to free herself.
Shiva faced Delacroix, and she watched him carefully as he hefted Trickster’s gun, as though considering whether to use it on her. He shrugged, then tossed it aside.
The lady assassin smiled, and bowed solemnly. “I am Shiva Woosnan. Some call me the Paper Monkey.”
He took a deep breath, and bowed back. “I am Phillip Delacroix for the moment. I am the Lion of Ares, his King of Pain.”
“Let us start.”
She snapped a jab forward, which he neatly avoided. She followed with a mid level kick, which he slapped away. She quickly made her deductions about his technique after the next ten moves she made, during which he never made a single counter attack or an offensive of his own. Nominally based on the highly pragmatic combat system developed for the Russian special forces, but including elements from a variety of fighting styles, taken somewhat haphazardly, but uniquely blended into a seamless whole.
She had known of those who had spent years trying to master every style known to man, but that route was a false alley. True mastery depended on taking only those elements suitable to one’s body, rather than some rigid style forced onto an uniquely individual body unable and incapable of utilizing them to maximum effectiveness, along with ingrained bad habits that were almost impossible to break later on. Versatility was good, but only up to a point. And she could see that Phillip Delacroix knew that. He used only basic moves, but timing them and gauging the distances perfectly, never expending more energy than needed to achieve his purposes. Every move he made had been tested and honed in life and death battle with a variety of deadly opponents, not play fighting. The bad habits had probably been beaten out of him.
Shiva allowed herself the glow of satisfaction. Finally, a new challenge and decent opponent!

Phillip finally took the offensive, and they went into a series of classic patterns, their arms flashing to and fro rapidly in the intervening space. Like most men, he was slightly stronger, but she was also slightly faster. But he had one more advantage; he could take a lot more punishment.
He took a painful jab on one shoulder, which deadened the nerves on the arm for an instant, but replied with a vicious hook to the head that nearly smashed Shiva to the floor. Taking advantage of her momentary disorientation, he next made an elementary move that most children learnt pushing one another around in playgrounds.
He stepped on her left foot, and pinned it there with his substantial weight. She lifted her right foot for a kick, but he blocked it with a thigh and went in close, grabbing both her arms as she tried to hit him, ending the move with a head butt, all the while with the foot in place. Shiva snarled away her pain and tried to twist free, but he pulled her forward again and again, smashing his head into her face.
Phillip released her right arm, allowing the assassin to hang loosely from his grasp from her left arm. He saw her grimace of pain and the terrible promise of vengeance in her eyes, but he kept his own face expressionless, devoid of emotion, which was often more scary than anger. He held up her left arm, and without preamble, broke it at the elbow with one swift swing of his free arm.
Shiva wailed in agony, and Phillip tossed her unceremoniously onto the ground. He looked up to see an aghast Wonder Woman staring at him, her lasso tied securely around Devastation, Trickster, and the other villains, some of whom were also staring at him with fear. He vaguely remembered Doctor Poison entering the large storage area, but he had been so intent on Shiva that he had not noticed Diana subduing the rest of the villains. Apparently, her powers had returned. Devastation would have been a problem, but she was unconscious, pummeled by Wonder Woman while she had struggling with the slime.
Diana’s eyes grew wide, and she reached for her lasso, while his instincts screamed at him. He stepped to one side, just as Shadow Thief’s dagger whistled past him, followed by a rather loud whack that made the sense of danger disappear.
He stared back to see a grinning Veronica holding a metal pipe over the fallen villain. “Well, he was a jerk.” She explained offhandedly.
Phillip couldn’t resist a broad smile from appearing on his own face. “Yes, he was.”
“I suppose that was all of them?” Diana asked. “Where is Deathstroke and Pistolera?”
He thumbed a finger over a shoulder. “Deathstroke’s outside. Pistolera’s in another building.”
A sudden creaking sound made all of them tense, then a mechanical roar of pure rage.
Metallo suddenly sprang back to life, the pile of shattered metal reconfiguring itself into a organized whole again.

Cale yelled angrily at Wonder Woman, “You were supposed to have disabled him!”
Diana shouted back heatedly. “I did! This is something else!”
The two women glared at each other before Phillip muscled in between them. “Ladies! No time to argue, just get out of here!”
Veronica looked at the rapidly assembling pile of metal that was Metallo, and paled. Weapons ports, and an assortment of melee weapons popped out, even more than it previous incarnation.
“Watch it!” Wonder Woman suddenly grabbed her, just in time to avoid an energy blast from the metallic horror.
It sprayed laser and plasma fire in all directions, uncaring of its former teammates as they shouted at Metallo to be careful. Cyborgirl woke up, only to see herself being pulled along by a recovered Wonder Woman, while energy blasts chased her and her load. She promptly fainted again, still held in the lasso.
“It’s not Metallo!” Phillip dodged a blast. “Or maybe something else has taken it over!”
Cale noticed that more and more blasts were heading his way, and quickly came to a conclusion. “It’s after you!”
Diana nodded, “Good observation. We have to get him out of here.”
Phillip continued to weave desperately amongst Metallo’s shots. “And once I leave here, the thing chases after me into the city? Not a good idea.” He shouted at them. “Both of you, get out!”
“What?” Veronica was aghast.
“You heard me. Get out!” He yelled at them without malice. “It wants me, so it’ll get me, and nothing else!”
“I won’t leave you!” Wonder Woman shouted.
He waved her off. “Take that sorry bunch out, because no one else can. Don’t get them caught in the crossfire.”
Veronica could see that the Amazon was torn between the choices, but her responsibilities left her with no real option at all.
They left the building.

Phillip grabbed up Trickster’s abandoned gun, and frantically studied it, trying to figure the various options available on the counter and readout on one side. There was the slime setting, blinding light setting? Ahah! Energy blast!
Metallo was moving now, a rolling mess of metal alloy rumbling towards him. Phillip raised his own weapon, ducking a shot that brushed the top of his head and firing back.
It just bounced off some weird energy shield around Metallo. Phillip paled.
He panted for breath as he started to run again, while Metallo blasted the walls of the building after him, which were beginning to collapse with all that structural damage.
An idea came to him. No time to consider anything else. Take the chance. He raised Trickster’s gun, and started blowing apart the supports of the warehouse, contributing to the speed of the collapse. Metallo continued to ‘help’ as he chased Phillip around.
Then it started, a low roar that made Phillip want to look up at what would be a falling ceiling. He did not waste time gawking though, and sprinted for the nearest exit while debris from the falling ceiling rained down, trusting his own instincts to guide him safely through.
He almost made it, before the exit was closed off, and darkness crashed down upon him.

Wonder Woman watched in horror as the warehouse fell in completely. The local services were arriving, along with police to take the villains into custody, but her attention was fixed on the rubble and the cloud of dust billowing from the ruined building. And she could not help but avoid the sick sensation in her stomach, which grew with every passing moment that she did not see Phillip Delacroix emerge.
“Phillip!” Cale screamed, and Diana had to grab the woman by the shoulders as she ran forward.
She warned, “Veronica, stay back! It’s dangerous!”
“Let me go!”
“No!” Diana saw the tears in Cale’s eyes, and felt moisture in her own as well. She fought it back; it would do no good for her to cry now. “He wouldn’t want you running in there either.”
That made Cale stop struggling. She clutched Diana’s arms, “You’re Wonder Woman, you can go in there!”
Diana nodded. “Wait here.”
She flew into the air at the same time that Metallo, or whatever was controlling him, burst out of the rubble, battered and damaged by the pounding from the collapse of the building. Diana swooped in without pause, and grabbed several loose pieces of wiring trailing from Metallo. She flew up with her heavy load into the air. Before the villain could recover and fire his weapons at her, she swung him in a circle several times to build up momentum, before flinging him into low orbit where he could do no harm. The Justice League could easily find him and disable him later.
Wonder Woman landed on the ground, shocked at the sheer completeness of the destruction of the warehouse. Cale walked up next to her, shivering uncontrollably. The businesswoman muttered to herself, “He can’t be dead. He can’t be dead.” There was no reply when she screamed, “PHILLIP! YOU CAN COME OUT NOW! STOP SCARING ME!”
Diana held Veronica close, trying to feed her own strength into the sobbing woman, but she could feel her own cheeks wet with tears. They held each other close for a minute while rescue personnel fearfully approached the building. The Amazon recalled her times with the Lion of Ares, often fighting, often at odds with him, but also the few moments where she glimpsed the man behind the monster he pretended to portray.
There was a shift in the rubble, so minute that Diana almost missed it, but her enhanced hearing did pick it up. “Wait… Over there!” She pointed for everybody, when a hand burst out from the rubble, followed by a series of hacking coughs.
A voice hollered, “Get me out!” It could only be Phillip. Diana quickly wiped away her own tears, and chanced a quick look at Veronica, who was now shedding tears of joy. The rescue workers, galvanized by the sight, started running for the hand’s location.

Phillip sat on the kerb of the road beside a fire truck, a borrowed Marlboro cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, puffing away as though he was without a care in the world even when covered in concrete dust and soot from head to toe. Or at least, he tried to effect a look of nonchalance, but the image was spoiled by the fingers he had stuck in his ears to avoid loss of hearing. It was difficult trying to smoke without using his hands, but he managed to do so anyway.
Deathstroke and Pistolera had disappeared, leaving them with Metallo in orbit, and seven supervillains in custody. Not too bad a haul, he reflected, except that they would probably have escaped in about three weeks. The good thing was, Lady Shiva would probably discourage anybody else from killing him, since she would want to avenge her loss at his hands one day. That made her a de facto bodyguard, which was what he had wanted from the start anyway. In other words, he was safe from assassins for the near future. Once Shiva got out of prison, that is.
Until then, he had other more immediate problems to deal with.
“YOU IDIOT!” Cale stood angrily before him, her chest heaving with frustration. “WHAT DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING? YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED!”
He was about to reply, but he was cut off by the softer but no less insistent tone of Wonder Woman. “You could have told me what you were going to do. We could have found another way to stop Metallo.”
He finally managed to get a word in, after being shouted at for the past few minutes on his idiocy, stubbornness, and downright inanity. “There was no time to think. I did the best I could.”
“I’m sure you did.” Cale sniffed, her volume back to normal, heaving for air after shouting incessantly at him for the past minute. “But guess what? It didn’t have to be you.”
Diana added. “It should have been me. I would have survived that building collapse.”
He tried to convince the two women, “But the robot would have chased me out if I left the scene, and the damage it could have done would be much greater.”
Ronnie glared at him in exasperation, before kicking him in the shin in a fit of petulance. He winced, clutching at his leg as she grabbed hold of Diana and started to drag the Amazon away. “Let’s go, Diana, before I lose my temper with that dimwit.”
“Good idea. I’m tempted to smack his stupid head off myself.” Wonder Woman frowned irritably at him, as though it was all his fault for making them worry, before turning to follow Cale, the two women marching off hand-in-hand. What happened to all of their past enmity?
Phillip stared after them, flabbergasted, the cigarette almost dropping out of his mouth. Rubbing his sore shin, he looked around to see the cleanup workers all staring at him, and exclaimed, “What?”
Meanwhile, the rat sidled up next to him, and started complaining in loud squeaks. Phillip lifted one hand to his face, and groaned.

“Did Shadow Thief really cut me across my stomach? It felt like a dream, and I’m certainly fine now.” Cale stood on the rooftop of the Themysciran embassy, wearing a set of clothes borrowed from one of the staff. Diana had flown her there for a talk, to take advantage of what she had correctly perceived as a lull in Veronica’s campaign to discredit her. It was also time to try understand the other woman’s position.
“No, I saw it very clearly.” Diana sighed. “I’m glad you’re fine now, though I dearly wished to know how Phillip did it.”
“That man keeps his fair share of secrets, doesn’t he?” Veronica grumbled. “I remember seeing him with his chest blasted apart during that dinner at Metropolis, but later he’s up as though nothing has happened.”
“And getting a rat, of all things, to tell me where you were.” Diana added.
Veronica raised an eyebrow in disbelief, “Really?”
“Really. I could not quite believe it either.”
Veronica shook her head. “Incredible.”
“Miss Cale, what else is he hiding? I know, for starters, that he is not really who he seems to be.” It was a gamble saying that, but Diana supposed Cale should know the truth.
“So, Princess, you know about that already?” Cale sighed. “Yes, I found out that the real Phillip Delacroix is dead, and the one we know is an imposter.”
Diana folded her arms, waiting for more.
“That’s all I know. And that he works for Ares, but then again, you should know that.” Cale frowned at the Amazon. “Why were you so concerned for him back there anyway? Isn’t he supposed to be your enemy?”
Wonder Woman started guiltily. “Yes. I mean, not really to your first question, and no, he’s not really my enemy.” She looked out at the New York skyline. “He saved my life too.”
Cale let out a long breath. “I should be angry at you, even more angry at you for this, but I don’t. Funny.” She held up a hand, explained. “I’m really jealous of you, you know.”
Diana looked right back at Cale. “I’m jealous of you too.”
That startled Cale. “You, jealous of me?” Cale barked a short laugh. “Yeah right!”
Diana continued undaunted. “I know I have no right to feel this, but every time I see you with him, I find myself wishing it was me on his arm and not you.” She leaned her hands on the ledge, looking up at the setting sun.
“But you already have everything. Respect, power. A family. Friends who care for you. And now you want Phillip, or whoever that idiot is?” Cale clenched her fists. “Why is it that you must compete with me for everything?”
The Princess of Themyscira lowered her eyes. “But I’m not competing with you for Phillip. He’s my enemy. By default, you’ve already won.” Her eyes flashed back at Cale. “Why all this enmity towards me, Miss Cale? Whatever did I do to you?”
“Just by merely existing.” Cale replied heatedly. “You were blessed by the gods with powers and abilities beyond us ordinary mortals, and yet you strive to be an example for us. What can you teach us? To pray for the same gifts to descend upon us from above? When you should very well know none of us are ever to ascend to your lofty heights, Princess!”
Diana steeled her voice. “Then you have obviously misunderstood my mission. I stand not for encouraging women to become like me, but rather to be all they can be, through my own words and actions. We hold female athletes and successful women like yourself to be role models too, but not everybody is as blessed with physical gifts or mental acuity. But that doesn’t mean they should just give up. Striving to fulfill one’s own potential is always a worthy goal, and that’s what I represent.” Diana shook her head sadly. “We should be standing together, not reaching at each other’s throats.”
“Uh huh.” Cale’s look had softened, but skepticism remained on her expression.
“Miss Cale, regarding Phillip, I was never in the running.” Diana said that with a rueful smile. “I’ve too much to do, too many tasks. I can never give the amount of love required to sustain a romantic relationship, as much as I sometimes want to.” Her tone was wistful. “I am so many things to so many people, I have so much to do.”
“There’s more, isn’t there?” Cale remarked quietly. “You’re afraid that whoever you like would be in danger because of who you are.”
Diana nodded. “You knew about Trevor.” Trevor Barnes had died to help stop the Shattered God. In some part of her mind, Diana knew she was petrified of enduring the sort of heart-rending pain all over again.
“Then you’re just going to allow me to have Phillip?” Cale suddenly shouted. “How magnanimous of you, Princess! Do you know how insulted I am to hear that?” She wiggled a finger at Diana. “No, no, no. We do this fair and square! We compete!”
The Amazon blinked. “What?”
“You heard me, sister. We fight for him. You may be a fount of wisdom to others, but I’ve been in this world of stupid men longer than you have, and you owe it to yourself to try, if nothing else.” She smirked. “I win, prove to myself I’m better than you, not because you let me win. You win, it’s just one more grudge I can hold against you.”
The Amazon Princess stared at the grinning Veronica in disbelief. Ten seconds passed before she managed to say, “Deal.” She stuck out a hand. “Honest competitors?”
Cale shook it solemnly, but with the smirk on her face. “Honest competitors.” Then her smile turned slightly angry. “So, Princess, Phillip and you disappeared for a week some time back. Care to tell me what was going on?”
Diana thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “Come into my office. I’ll tell you about what that idiot did, and maybe you can beat some sense into him, because I’m liable to kill him with my strength if I hit him.”
The two women shared a chuckle as they went into the embassy.
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Interlude 10
One hill cannot hold two tigers.
-Ancient Chinese proverb
Ereskel glanced down at Gawain Sharpe as they stood at the deserted indoor firing range. There were few customers at this time, which was perfect. It had been several weeks since they had arrived on Tukayyid.
From Crimond, they had proceeded to Tukayyid, a major military base, where Ereskel could easily get more jobs, and a place to train his two wards. He had also gotten a doctor to look at Gawain’s condition, and the doctor had quickly deduced that Gawain’s deafness was the result of damage to the nerves to the ears. More importantly, techniques were available to rectify that. Using cellular regeneration technology, the nerves could be repaired. It had been exceedingly costly, but Ereskel used Gawain’s share of the bounty to pay for it.
He recalled the look of wonder on the young man’s face when he had experienced sound for the first time. The bounty hunter, without waiting for the doctor’s permission, had then brought Gawain out to the firing range. They had been here just two weeks ago, before the operation, practicing to shoot, before the operation. But there was a different lesson in store that day, specially set up for Gawain.
They stood without earplugs, Gawain with an inquiring look on his face, still half shocked at the new world he was suddenly hearing. The low hubbub of voices in the hospital, the dull growl of the jeep as they drove from the hospital, the whisper of the wind in the ear, the rough barks of stray dogs as they scavenged for food. But no really loud sounds. Not yet.
Ereskel ordered Gawain to draw his own pistol to shoot. He had shown remarkable proficiency when he still couldn’t hear, probably because his lack of hearing enabled him to concentrate more than most people. Well, that advantage was gone now. He had to learn to fight with sound, and Ereskel knew they didn’t have a lot of time to get him adjusted. It would be a crash course.
Gawain’s face drained of blood upon his first shot, his arm instinctively jerking to one side as though to cover his ears. The round passed wide of the target board.
Ereskel smiled grimly, and pointed a finger at the targets, a signal to Gawain to continue shooting. Gawain shook his head, trembling from the pain assailing his sensitive ear drums.
“Shoot!” Ereskel barked. “Shoot! Or I’ll shoot you.” He drew his own pistol in a warning.
The young man, his hands shaking, raised his pistol again. Just before he fired, Ereskel fired his own weapon down the line, the booming report of the Sternsnacht startling Gawain and making him miss his target.
Gawain hesitated again, and Ereskel walked up to him. “Keep shooting. I don’t have much time for you, boy, so you had better get used to this quick. Hearing carries its own set of dangers. Loud distractions, the cries of your dying comrades, the drums of your enemies in your ears, the beat of hatred on the field. Trust me, this is nothing compared to a real fight.”
The boy closed his eyes for a moment, and opened them with a look of concentration. He started shooting again, studiously trying to ignore Ereskel’s own thunderous blasts from his heavy Sternsnacht, right next to his ear.
An hour later, he was even managing to hit the center of the target boards.

His meditation over, Thomas Serra, formerly the mindless killer named 91, opened his eyes slowly in the small hut, sitting with his legs crossed. He stretched his legs, feeling a cramp in the muscles there after not moving an inch for the past four hours.
The past few months had been a complete change from his former life of slaughter. Father Francis Gravesend had sent him to the hut of his friend to recuperate and reflect. The hut itself was filled with books, and Tom spent most of his time reading, meditating. Trying to understand himself and his past, and where he might go in the future.
It was quiet and calm in the small isolated valley where the hut was located, a perfect place to tidy up one’s thoughts and come to grips with reality. He had cried often in the first days in the hut, clutching at his bed in both fear and regret. The nightmares stayed with him, and he suspected they would be there for the rest of his life.
Francis Gravesend would visit him every week, bringing some food and more books. The food was hardly needed. Tom managed to feed himself through hunting for game, which was plentiful enough, and foraging for berries, tubes, for nutrients that animal meat lacked. He had fish occasionally, taken from a small stream that flowed from a mountain lake, and headed towards a faraway sea. Life was idyllic and carefree, a complete change from the life of blood he had once led.
The books were more welcome. Every visit, the old monk would also discuss philosophy and morality with Tom, as well as the nature of good and evil. He had in turn told Francis of his past, and the cleric had solemnly promised him that he would use his contacts to find those who had created the deadly killer. His old teacher Asem had laughed his tale out of hand; Francis seemed to believe him.
Just the last visit, Francis had even given him a small battered book, which consisted of just a few pages of print and a whole lot of blank pages. “From a friend,” Francis had told him. “I’m too old for this, but perhaps you’re not.”
Tom got the feeling Francis had meant something else regarding the Book of Paths, and the stuff in the book, at least the parts he had been able to read, had been informative, and more than a bit strange. He was also more than a bit leery of the demanding questions that made his head hurt. And the moral commitment that those questions implied.
He sighed, heading towards the small fire pit outside the hut where he would do his cooking, grabbing a pile of chopped wood from a corner of the hut, placed indoors to prevent them from getting wet in case of rain. Night was already falling, the system primary a glowing orb on the horizon.
He stared up a the sky, and that was when he saw it. Two long trails, like meteors, but moving too purposefully to be the natural phenomenon. Adrenaline, which he had not felt since he had come to the valley, surged in his veins. Those were dropships, probably an incoming army, and not for the local garrison. If those had been Ghost Bear troops, they would have headed for the planetary starport instead of the more isolated Carny continent.
For what purpose? Raiding? Invading? Tom didn’t know, and he supposed it wasn’t really his business, but he intended to find out.
He went back into the hut, and quickly packed a small satchel for travel. Maybe Francis knew what was going on.

“Wait a minute while I try to understand what you’re getting at. You, and Major Wessel, are going to leave the camp and head to some corner, meet up with the commander of the local garrison of the planet, the people we were hired to kill, and have a fucking drink?” Rudel Wainwright asked incredulously as Ereskel honed his blade on a whetstone.
The older man nodded. “That’s a good summary, kid.”
“But… We’re supposed to be killing them!”
“Not really. War is not just about killing.” Ereskel smiled slightly.
Gawain stared at them, just as confused as Rudel with the turn of events.
After another week of intensive training, Ereskel had decided they needed actual combat experience. He signed the trio up as a recon squad with a friend of his, Major James ‘Weasel’ Wessel, a commander of a combined arms mercenary battalion that was heading to Predlitz for some heavy raiding, contracted by the interstellar communications company called Comstar. They were to stick around Predlitz, spar a bit with the local Ghost Bear garrison units, test their reaction times, and then get off, preferably with some examples of cutting edge clan combat technology in their hands.
In addition, there was also a strong rumor of a wanted man on Predlitz, and Ereskel wanted the additional bounty cash.
With the entire raiding battalion burning into the system on a gut wrenching 3Gs, Gawain had spent the time trying to speak, exercising his vocal cords and trying to connect sounds to certain mouth shapes. The novelty of traveling in a starship had worn off long before they had reached Tukayyid, with much of it spent packed like sardines in the cramped conditions of the cargo dropships that had been converted into passenger carriers.
It had been great to set foot on solid ground again, but Gawain felt a yearning to see a blue ocean, and smell the tangy sea breeze. But he knew they now had a job to do. The mercenaries had quickly set up a camp around their dropships when they landed, and set out patrols to guard against any sudden enemy advance. In addition, Major Wessel sent out specially trained psyops agents to curry favor with the locals, and glean additional information.
Then around an hour ago, the local garrison commander had called for a meeting with Wessel to talk over the terms of the raid, at night, of all times, in a pavilion, over dinner! Gawain had been of the opinion that Wessel would turn down the offer, but the major had accepted it instead. And the major had asked Ereskel along. Gawain noticed that they both had something in common: they were tattooed with the strange pattern on their arms and torsos.
Gawain got the feeling there was more to this than they were willing to say.
Ereskel walked over to him, and asked, “So, interested in tagging along?”

Francis Gravesend smiled as he spied Jake Kabrinski already waiting at the pavilion, the site for the meeting. Tom trailed after him, lugging along a backpack filled with food and beverage. Sunlight streamed into the pavilion, a rather quaint structure made of marble in Grecian style, probably left behind from the days when some noble owned the surrounding areas and erected the pavilion to entertain visitors.
“Good evening, Star Colonel.” Francis called out.
“Good evening, Father Gravesend.” Jake wasn’t alone. He was accompanied by two more soldiers, another hulking elemental, and a rather small, wiry female who was a mechwarrior. He knew them both. He knew every member of the Thousand, their faces and deeds etched into his memory.
Francis greeted them warmly. “Konas, Caryn.” The two nodded at him, and they exchanged firm handshakes. “It’s been quite a while.”
“And you’re looking good, despite being put out to pasture for so long.” Jake beckoned the priest to sit down. He looked over Tom. “And what do we have here?”
“This is Tom Serra, a young friend of mine. Tom, Jake Kabrinski.” The two looked each other carefully, as though assessing the threat the other man represented, before warily shaking their hands. Francis resisted the urge to chuckle. “I got him here because I don’t think my aging back can handle all that food. He’s free labor.”
Jake frowned. “You should have told me. Konas could have helped you.”
Francis waved it off. “And there are other reasons.”
The clan officer looked at Tom, who was opening up the backpack and taking out its contents. He nodded. “I… see.”
A jeep roared up at that moment, and Francis grinned widely as Weasel and Ereskel hopped out, followed by a youth around Tom’s age. Both men looked well, and they were all wearing the uniform of Weasel’s mercenary battalion, consisting of a simple grey and brown camo pattern.
“Been quite a while, Father Gravesend!” Weasel enfolded Francis in a comradely hug, while Ereskel shook hands with Jake. The two young men stared on in quiet disbelief.
“Wait, wait!” Tom stammered out. “Aren’t you supposed to be enemies?” He jabbed a finger at Weasel and Ereskel. “You’re mercenaries, sent here to raid the Ghost Bears.” He turned to look at Jake. “And I remember clearly that your clan detests mercenaries. So why all…” He gestured to the backslapping going on, “this?”
Jake raised an eyebrow at Francis, and the old monk sighed. “Yes, you’re actually quite right. But like most things, there are exceptions, and every exception has a tale behind it.” He dusted his robes lightly, before sitting down at the table. “Come, sit, and I shall explain.”
The veterans all sat down amicably, while Tom sat down beside the other youth. Francis started talking about a apocalyptic conflict a few years ago, which Tom had some inkling of. A cult of religious maniacs out to impose their beliefs on the rest of humanity had launched an all-out war, and the various factions struggling for power had no choice but to band together for sheer survival. Soldiers who had been trying to kill one another for years found themselves fighting back to back against desperate odds.
On one world, New Earth, a critical staging point for both sides, the cultists landed a massive force which caught their enemies by surprise, smashing up the unprepared units which had attempted to make a stand. Many soldiers of these crippled units, especially their rear echelon and logistic components, and numbering in the tens of thousands, found refuge in a nearby city, which soon became the next target of the cultists because it was in their line of advance.
lang=EN style='mso-ansi-language:EN'>All but a tiny handful of those soldiers fled. This tiny handful, one thousand and twelve doomed souls, to be exact, had decided that there were some things that were worth dying for in a final pointless gesture. So they gathered in the city for the purpose of a stupidly suicidal last stand, without much organization and a haphazard supply system.name=p152>
lang=EN style='mso-ansi-language:EN'>As it turned out, it was not quite a suicide. Their stubborn resistance, and the confusion among the cultists advancing on the city wrought by the vicious city battle, stalemated the enemy just enough for the rest of the allied forces to arrive. Between the allied forces and the city defenders, the huge cultist force, which was later found to be one of their last reserve forces, was eventually destroyed, paving the way for the final assault on Terra.
lang=EN style='mso-ansi-language:EN'>A special medal for gallantry was struck for those thousand and twelve truck drivers and cooks, infantrymen and artillery, mechwarriors and laundrymen, regulars and mercenaries, and one aging priest, from many disparate services and nationalities, who had stood their ground and prepared to go to their afterlives like soldiers. After a brief ceremony, they were supposed to return to their respective units and services, with nothing to remember the encounter but the medal.
However, the story did not end there. The Thousand, as they were later known, stayed together as a reserve formation for the liberation of Terra, and all of them were tattooed with a very specific and unique pattern to mark them for the rest of their lives. Although they broke up after the crusade was over, the memory of a time when they had fought alongside one another and the sense of brotherhood formed would never fade.
Francis was not only their chaplain, but also a fighting man in his own right, a sniper on the rooftops. Jake was the commander of a motley infantry unit, a Ghost Bear elemental officer who had ended up at the wrong place at the right time. Ereskel was a mercenary scout and assassin caught in the logjam from the city and forced to fight. Weasel’s small mercenary unit had been obliterated by the Blakists in the earlier fighting, and he had been seeking revenge and some small measure of satisfaction when he joined the doomed band on their final stand.
But they had survived. Against all odds.
Young Tom was not convinced. “Then if all of you are so chummy, why are you fighting amongst yourselves?”
Francis smiled wistfully, “There’s plenty of reasons for that. Why do men fight at all? For things that they want, or for things that they want to keep. It is as natural as breathing, as central to our lives as food and water. Loyalty, love, respect, financial rewards, you name it.”
Jake continued, “War makes no sense. I fight because my masters demand it, because I owe them my life and my loyalty. Weasel and Ereskel fight for money. Francis has withdrawn; he doesn’t need to fight for anyone. But that’s beside the point. We’re simply pawns for those who control us, and they themselves are simply thralls of whatever beliefs they have. Everything boils down to ideology, my way of life is better than yours, blah blah. On an individual level, I don’t hate Weasel and the others. I can even respect them.”
“But in a war of ideology, there’s bound to be winners and losers. Think of us as lawyers in a courtroom, providing evidence and facts to tilt the jury one way or the other. Ideally, lawyers, even when acting in opposition to each other, are trying to get at the truth, and here the truth we’re trying to find is, which way is better? Except the difference is that we’re playing with lives too.”
Tom shook his head. “You could always walk away…”
Ereskel laughed. “And leave things unresolved? Hah! No, boy, we fight to our utmost, because the war of ideas demands it! How can any one ideology prove its worth, unless it achieves victory by force of arms, or otherwise, over the others? If we die in battle, then at least we know our deaths, even if for the losing side, was not in vain.” He shrugged. “It’s a rather fatuous way of looking at the world, and makes little sense, but then again, life doesn’t make much sense either. And war makes even less sense.”
The other boy glanced nervously at the gathered crowd, then at Tom, fingering the sword by his side uneasily. Francis raised an eyebrow at that, and Ereskel said slowly, “I am surprised, Francis, to see that you’ve taken in a murderer.”
Francis replied. “Ahhh… so you’re here not just for scouting.”
Ereskel pulled out a small notice, and passed it round the table. It was a picture with a long caption beneath. Francis could already guess at the gist of it, and Jake knew as well as he did about Tom Serra.
After all, the small hut Tom stayed at belonged to Jake.
Tom said softly, “So you want to bring me in?”
Ereskel leaned back languidly, one hand holding a cigarette that looked as if it was about to fall out his fingers any moment. “Give me a reason why I shouldn’t.”

Tom could feel his hand inching towards the sword by his side. He forced himself to relax. Ereskel was not acting like somebody hunting him. On the other hand, he could be up to something else.
He started to explain, “For starters, they were about to cheat me of the prize money, when I had won it fair and square. They were about to kill me too, until a friend distracted them.”
“And then you killed them.”
He nodded. “I did.”
“And all the other deaths on your hands were a result of the bounty.”
“Yes.”
Ereskel shook his head. “You’ll never clear your name, you know.”
Tom glared back a the older man. “I don’t care.”
Ereskel held out his hands. “I didn’t expect to see you here, so I didn’t bring a weapon. This was a reunion for us old folks, and I wasn’t looking for a fight. However, somebody else here is.” He nodded slightly to the boy beside him. “Gawain.”
Tom scrutinized the other boy as he stepped forward. Around his own age, his eyes just as keen as his own. He had a head of dirty brown hair in a crew cut, and serious black eyes, seemingly giving way into a soulless void. They stared back at Tom, and he knew that the other boy was sizing him up too.
“Ahah!” Jake Kabrinski yelled out happily. “A Trial of Equals! We will have fine entertainment tonight. Konas, a circle, if it isn’t too much trouble.”
“It’s not.” The big man walked out of the pavilion to a piece of flat ground nearby, and used a stick to dig a furrow into the ground, creating a circle that was about fifteen meters in diameter. The sun was setting, a blazing ball of red fire on the horizon, as though setting alight the long-dormant fire in Tom’s own veins. He didn’t like to be considered entertainment, but neither would he let himself be killed without a fight. He knew he could just take the offensive right there and then without such a contrived show, but somehow, something held him back. It may be silly, it may be ritualistic and unrealistic, but Tom knew there was a purpose behind it. He just hadn’t figured it out yet.
The two young men walked into the circle, their hands still on their sheathed weapons, their eyes fixed on each other.
“I don’t want to do this.” Tom said, even as his raging blood told him how wrong he was about fighting. “We can both walk out of this circle. Pretend I was never here.”
The other boy did not reply, but simply pulled out his sword.
So this is the way it would be. I was a fool to think my life, my fate, could be otherwise. Knowing the time for words had passed, Tom drew his own weapon. His sword, taken to him by Francis, had been oiled and well taken care of in the past few months, but he had dared to dream that he might never have to use it again. He should have known better.
“Not so fast!” Francis said, and Tom noticed that Gawain seemed to shiver slightly as he saw the priest, as though for the first time, rubbing one arm as if he had been wounded there. “Some rules to remember. You can win by several ways. Kill your opponent, push him out of the circle, or get him to concede.”
They both nodded. The priest continued, “Winner decides the fate of the loser. I wish it did not have to come to this, but destiny often decides otherwise.”
Ereskel added, “If you survive this, boy, then I’ll back off, and not disturb you ever again. If you die, or you lose, you’re coming with us.”
Tom did not reply, his eyes boring into his opponent’s, his sword held in a ready stance. He was not aware of the toothy snarl spread across his mouth. He dared not tell himself that this was what he lived for, not the idle life of a hermit woodsman. He was not in the best of shape, but it didn’t matter. He stepped forward, his weapon swinging out in a shining arc while his opponent retreated a step.
The duel was on.

Gawain had never believed he would meet again the old monk who had first opened his eyes to the horrors of the blade. And that anybody could move as fast as his opponent.
Tom Serra went into a series of blinding patterns, and Gawain blocked just as quickly, letting his unconscious mind take over, his instincts guiding his blade. The clash of metal on metal would once have distracted him, the sounds jarring to his newly acquired sense of hearing. But he managed to push it aside, focusing on his sight, picking out the slash of his enemy’s blade as it sought to kill him.
This was no play fight. This was an actual battle, a grim struggle for survival. Gawain knew it; his opponent knew it too. It was also another test thrown his way by Ereskel, to push him to greater heights of his ability.
Well, if he survived.
Serra’s blade whipped near his head, and Gawain ducked low. He saw several strands of hair drift down, and snarled in defiance. He lashed out with his own blade, and Serra blocked. Gawin did not withdraw, but kept up the pressure, stepping in close.
A punch across his face snapped his head back, but he managed to see Serra’s follow up move. He twisted his head to one side, letting Serra’s blade nick him just the slightest on the neck, while his own sword slashed across Serra’s cheek, drawing a thin red line on the skin.
They separated, watching each other carefully, their swords between them.
It was only then that Gawain realized that his own breathing sounded very loud in his ears.
Serra swept in, his sword swinging in hard. Gawain held his blade up to block, but Serra suddenly killed his own momentum and tapped his own sword on Gawain’s, and drew it back slightly. Confused, Gawain was almost unprepared when Serra flicked the sword with deft speed towards his head again. He slapped the blade away, then lunged forward, which the other man avoided with a side step.
Gawain took the offensive now, slashing with controlled violence, his sword battering back and forth in forehand and backhand patterns. The speed of his patterns gave his enemy no chance to seize the offensive, though Gawain knew it would take only the slightest misstep to present an opening.
Serra made the first misstep, losing his balance as he retreated. Gawain swooped in, before he realized it was a trick. The other swordsman whipped his sword back to regain his balance, and leapt up, trapping Gawain’s advancing sword with his boots. He allowed himself to fall, but pulled Gawain’s sword down with him.
Gawain allowed his sword to fall, but keep his hold on it. Serra was on the ground, and he swung his sword horizontally at his feet. Gawain lifted a boot, and stepped on the blade just as it was about to sever his left ankle. Serra swept out with his other arm, and Gawain tumbled to the ground. At the same time, his sword was released.
They did not bother scrambling to their feet. They charged at each other in a clash of ringing steel. When the blades were stalemated, they scratched and kicked out, before finally falling back when they lost their balance.
Gawain pushed himself into a roll backwards, coming up in a rough and ready stance. Serra, on the other hand, had a weird stance with his sword held in an unusual position, the blade held level horizontally at his thigh level. He stepped forward, and Gawain was bewildered for a moment by the dazzling footwork. He switched his eyes to Serra’s sword in time to parry it to his left, and then spun counter clockwise to get within Serra’s reach, his own blade ready to chop into Serra’ left side.
He was foiled as Serra gripped his sword hand, while his own sword came back in. He flung his head forward in a head butt, but Serra stood his ground. They crashed to the ground, rubbing their aching heads.
Gawain gritted his teeth past the pain, and attacked again. Fatigue was setting in, and he could see from Serra’s eyes that his opponent was as tired, if not more.
They locked blades again, and Gawain could hear very clearly the groan of frustration as they tried to overpower each other. Gawain finally managed to summon up a burst of strength, flinging Serra back, but as he advanced, Serra recovered in time to lash out with his own blade.
Stalemate. Again.
They stared at each other, panting hard. Gawain locked gazes with Serra, trying to find a way past the other swordsman’s technique. For long moments they did nothing, just stared at each other, in a grim struggle of will in the light of the setting sun.
If anything, it was even more tiring than Gawain thought.
They sprang into action again simultaneously, their feet kicking up dust. They passed by each other, and Gawain knew he had been hit on his right side. At the same time, he had taken a piece of Serra as well, on the thigh.
They spun around, and roared at the same time as they charged for another pass. A part of Gawain’s mind noted that the spectators were all standing now, but the rest of his mind was fixated on the battle.
Gawain grunted with pain from his ribs, the slash slicing between the ribs, knowing that the injury this time was worse. And Serra held his stomach protectively, while blood seeped out from the wound between the fingers.
They stared at each other, and nodded slowly at the same time. One last exchange.

Jake stared out at the two dueling boys. They were not even eighteen yet, yet they both bore the bearings of true warriors. Death was their trade, and blood their drink.
Warriors do not follow paths. They make them. It is their nature, it is who and what they are. Words spoken long ago, and still very applicable. And Jake knew, deep down in his gut, that these two warriors would one day carve out legends for themselves. If they survived this battle of mutual destruction.
Tom finally got in a substantial hit, and Gawain collapsed to the ground, his sword falling from his grasp. The other man stood over his opponent, blood streaking down one side of his face, dripping down onto the ground, lending him a sinister look as he sucked in air greedily, his mouth open and his tongue hanging out. His sword was held over Gawain, and Jake could see the tension in his sword arm as he prepared to plunge the sword down.
“End it!” Francis yelled out. “Kill him! You’re a killer, kill him! After all, isn’t that what you are?”
Don’t do it, boy, don’t do it. Jake thought in his own mind. You’re no longer a killer. You have to accept that truth for yourself. He knew the boy’s past; Francis had told him of it.
Tom Serra squeezed his eyes shut, and threw his sword away. “I’m not a killer any more, Father Gravesend. I don’t need to kill him to survive.” Tension drained out of him, and Francis was running forward just as the boy’s legs gave way, falling to the ground.
“Well done, Tom. Well done.” Francis said as he supported Tom, propping him up on one shoulder. Gawain sat up painfully clutching his wounds, with a grinning Ereskel walking up to him, his loud laughter booming across the field of battle. Jake walked forward as well, and he smiled. They lifted the boys into the pavilion, hastily bandaged them, and toasted them for the fine entertainment of a duel. The wounds were relatively minor; nothing that needed hospitalization.
The wine never tasted better as the group of erstwhile friends and present enemies ate and drank late into the night. For the moment, they were friends and old comrades. Come the next day, they would still be friends, but they’d also be trying to kill one another.
It was just the way things were in that crazy world of theirs. And Jake, frankly speaking, would not have it any other way. Jake could also see understanding dawn in Tom and Gawain’s eyes. They had learnt a valuable lesson that evening. They even shook hands, enmity put to one side. Tom had learnt that he didn’t have to kill to survive. Gawain had learnt the value of mercy as well.
Jake made a mental note about young Tom Serra. The boy was a born fighter. It might be good for him to learn the art of command as well, group discipline and leadership. But how to go about doing that? He hid a smile as Francis looked his way with a querying look. Yes, he had some ideas. The old monk who was Tom’s de facto guardian might find them interesting.
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The Games that Gods Play