Spoony the Pussy One: Life is in the Render Queue

[Guest]

/pol-lite/ where brainlets think vaccination against a pandemic is a globohomo conspiracy headed up by the Elders of Zion?

>muh /pol/
Indeed, seethe more

[Le Redditeur]

Seethe, cope, and dilate.

[casual pleb]

[Newhalf]

This bunny thread is pretty great.

Also this highlander fan fic better be more well written than The Source or I'm really losing all my faith in boss

[Guest]

[Guest]

Also this highlander fan fic better be more well written than The Source

It isn't, but he predicted his future pretty well:

Drinking alone is one of the worst things a professional alcoholic can do. It keeps one in the house, away from friends, away from help, away from supervision. Such sessions usually degenerate into an angry, self-pitying depression that ends in unconsciousness and accidental eruptions from at least two of the major three evacuation portals of the human body. Quint preferred it that way. He didn’t feel like talking to anybody. He didn’t feel like being cheered up.

[Newhalf]

Really feels like a bit of a self insert character, what with the "witty" wisecracks and the gloomy self pity away from the normal world (crawling in my skiiiin)..
I'm also amused that as much as he screamed and bitched in his highlander reviews about whenever immortal characters would fight on holy ground and break a rule, it is pretty much the first thing that happens in his story.
"It's okay if I do it", he would probably tell me, adding: "For I am much smarter than any of those writers."

[wulfenlord]

Time for Spoonys Magnum Opus to break the forum software, time for all y'all to suffer :3
Expect at least 6 parts because this MF gets wordy


Chapter Two: Saturday Calculus

SpoilerShow

State Highway 104, about 5 miles south of Seattle, Washington
October 23, 2004 – 12:16 AM

Mamaaaaas daw lecher babies graw up to be cowboahs...

Quint punched the POWER button on the radio with a sticky thumb. He clicked his tongue in frustration at the sight of the dark red fingerprint smudged on the console and fussed in his duffel bag for his towel. The duffel was huge and piled awkwardly on Quint's lap, and the passenger seat of Kelli's Pacer was pulled up much too far to allow him to sit comfortably. He sifted through the bag's contents with his clean hand, wrenching items aside to get to the bottom. He muscled his sleeping bag aside and his elbow smacked into the shoulder of the woman sitting in the driver's seat. She squawked loudly and cast a glare at him that could freeze magma.

Quint yanked a black towel out of his duffel bag with a triumphant laugh and scrubbed at his bloody hands. It didn't work any miracles, but the towel helped to remove the worst of the gore. He muscled his bag between the seats, towards the back. The bag bulged awkwardly and mashed against Kelli's face, completely setting her high-tension hairdo out of alignment. He started snooping.

"You said you'd let me go," Kelli mumbled, her eyes shifting back to the center line of the road.

"Holy s***, you actually keep gloves in your glove compartment. Check this out. Isotoners."

"You said—“

"I can only imagine the illness that put you inside a department store, gazing at a rack of faux-leather driving gloves, twenty bucks burning a hole in your pocket, and made you think,’ It’s wrong to have that space occupied only with my registration and Hardees wrappers’.”

“You said—“

“G’heh, they’re still in the box, I love it.” Quint held the box inches from his face and squinted his eyes to read the box by the moonlight through the window.

“Maybe I was…rebelling against the notion of such an antiquated concept as a glove compartment by being the only person alive using it as it was intended,” Kelli improvised. Her leg was thumping against the floor mat in anxiety.

“I thought of that,” Quint said as he opened the box, “But I don’t think anyone’s that iconoclastic.”

“What?”

“Iconoclastic.”

“Oh.” She fell silent instead of asking what the word meant.

“Hey, one-size-fits-all. Can I have these?” He dangled the black gloves so she could see. Kelli sputtered and tried to insult him about four ways at the same time, and the divergent speeches crashed together in an incoherent jumble.

“What the f—I mean—you f***ing—I can’t—You kidnapped—You said you were gonna let me go!!”

“No I didn’t.” Quint said quietly, trying not to sound like an a**h***. But he did. “Not specifically.”

“A**h***,” she steamed.

“I know.”

Kelli rubbed her knuckles into her forehead, trying to grind some stability into her thoughts. Quint was trying on the gloves and looking completely innocent despite everything that had happened that night. His left arm was no longer mangled and broken as she’d seen it before, though his leather jacket would never be the same again. She concentrated on the road; thinking about anything else rose a panic in her.

“And they were fifty dollars,” she corrected.

“Haaaa!”

“You know-- They’re not mine. I got them for Stace for her birthday. She was saying--”

“Wait,” Quint looked puzzled. “This isn’t your car?” She looked sheepish and drummed her thumbs on the steering wheel. Quint turned away and chuckled at his reflection in the window. “So you borrow your friend’s car and then run over a homeless person.” Kelli started to vibrate and her skin shifted to a reddish hue. “Someone’s in trouble…” Quint sing-songed.

Kelli smacked her palm against the wheel. “It’s not funny, Quinn. I’ve—“

“Quint.”

“What?”

“Quint. Me Quint. You Jane.”

She sputtered again, but managed to put her train of thought back on the rails. “I don’t have a car. I’m not gonna have a car after tonight because you went through the windshield,” she pointed at the insultingly obvious spider web of crushed glass that comprised the passenger-side windshield. Quint self-consciously brushed glass off the dashboard, seeming to think it might score him points. “And even if you do let me live, I’ve got a final tomorrow that I’m going to fail. I’m in such deep s*** right now…”

“In what?”

“S***. Deep s***.”

“No, a final in what?”

“Calculus.” She said the word “calculus” as if it were a mortal enemy.

“On a Saturday?”

“Yes!” she moaned at the unfairness of it. “At 7:40 in the morning.”

“Jesus.” Quint looked awestruck at the sadism of the American collegiate institution. “You’re in deep s***.”

“I’m not ready to start thinking about calculus until 3 PM,” Kelli griped. Quint lit up a cigarette. His calm aggravated her to no end.

“I think your professor will give you an extension considering…” Quint mused. That actually seemed to satisfy her for the moment. They lapsed into silence. Quint gazed out the window at the highway mile markers flying past. “I was never going to hurt you,” he said finally. “I only said that so you wouldn’t drive away.” Kelli made a sarcastic noise. “Once we get to Bellingham, you can go. I promise. Oh come on…” he sighed loudly as she kept shaking her head in disbelief.

“What’s in Bellingham?” she asked, but received no answer. “We headed for the border?” Again, Quint said nothing. “Fine. I don’t believe you anyway.”

“All right,” Quint said. He balanced his cigarette in his mouth and slapped his hands against his knees. Kelli looked over. “I’ll tell you why I needed you.”

“A hostage,” she cut in bitterly.

“No.” Quint hesitated and bit his lip. He shook his head, rolled his eyes, and looked back out the window.

“What? Why?”

“I…” Quint grimaced again and threw his hands up in the air. “I haven’t driven a stick in over 25, 30 years. I don’t think I remember how.” A smirk tugged at the corner of Kelli’s mouth. “Shut up,” Quint barked, and covered his mouth with his fist.

“I believe you,” she announced. “I actually believe you.”

“I’m so happy.”

“You might be the worst kidnapper ever. How does someone grow up and not learn how to drive a stick?” Kelli prodded, and found herself smiling despite herself.

“I hitch, I take buses, I’m excellent at bumming rides, and when I must, must drive, I drive automatics. They’re better.”

“Oh my God,” she cackled.

“They’re better. I push the gas pedal, car goes forward. I push brake, car slow down. I don’t have to worry about that thing and that thing…” Quint pointed menacingly at the clutch and stick shift as if they were vermin that should be eradicated at once. “I don’t have to think about it with an automatic. The technology is available, I say use it.”

“You don’t have to think about this!” she exclaimed. “You sound just like my mother.” Quint sighed.

“At least you’re calmer now,” he mumbled.

“Not really,” Kelli admitted. After a moment, she reached for the radio.

“Aw no, please…” Quint whined.

“I need music.”

“I hate country music.”

“Then shoot me, Mr. Hardcore.” Kelli teased. “I’m driving, I pick the station.” She jabbed the button.

… there's always one more city
I'm on the run, the highway is my home
I raised a lot of cane back in my younger days
While Mama used to pray my crops would fail
I'm a hunted fugitive with just two ways:
Outrun the law or spend my life in jail…

Quint leaned his head against the window and gazed out at the road, through the beautifully-shattered windshield. The moonlight caught and refracted in the angular cracks of the glass, shimmering and twinkling with a pleasantness that surprised him. Biting cold air seeped in and caressed his face, and kept his unkempt dirty blond hair out of his eyes. It felt good. He watched the mile markers again, and realized that like Kelli, he too was shaking.

I'd like to settle down but they won't let me
A fugitive must be a rolling stone
Down every road there's always one more city
I'm on the run, the highway is my home

I'm lonely but I can't afford the luxury
Of having one I love to come along
She'd only slow me down and they'd catch up with me
For he who travels fastest goes alone

His thoughts drifted. Now that Kelli wasn’t talking, and Quint had run out of things to say, he didn’t want to dwell on what he had just done that night. The shock absorbers on this Pacer might as well have been nonexistent, but the feel of the wind on his face and the car’s jostling rhythm were almost hypnotic. And Merle Haggard was actually pretty relaxing. Not bad at all.

I'd like to settle down but they won't let me
A fugitive must be a rolling stone
Down every road there's always one more city
I'm on the run, the highway is my home

I'm on the run, the highway is my home…

CHAPTER THREE: A GIFT FOR CAESAR

SpoilerShow

The Palace of King Ptolemy XIII
Pelusium, Egypt
September 26, 48 BC

No starlight shone on the dun-colored city of Pelusium; the moon’s gleam was smothered under a layer of thin clouds that shrouded the sky like a veil. Dexion’s heart was racing. He felt as if he had led his men to flight, towards a more certain death than if they had stayed behind. Despite the clouds and the rushing breeze, the air was strangely hot and thick, as if it were a sweltering summer’s day instead of midnight in fall. He was uncomfortable, and his armor was not entirely to blame for the sticky sweat that clung to his skin. He felt cornered, desperately alone, and uncertain of the future. Even when he led men into battle he felt a lesser fear than now. He feared death, but at least he knew when it might come at the end of javelin, spear, or sword. Before a battle, one could prepare himself for death. But his fate now could not be neatly symbolized by two sides of a coin: life or death. There were so many possibilities, so many ways that this day could end, that it made his stomach feel knotted and raw to think of them all.

He marched with two other centurions towards the palace of the boy-king Ptolemy XIII. The palace looked sharp and angular, silhouetted harshly against the twilight. The other centurions had left their men camped outside of the city, as Dexion had. Servants paced ahead, and some trod behind the Roman soldiers. They followed Salvius and Septimius; Dexion had chosen to come alone. Some of the servants held aloft torches, some served as porters, and there was one whom Dexion did not know, bearing a bundle of papyrus scrolls. Centurion Salvius had also insisted on bringing eight bodyguards from his own century. Dexion saw no point in this; eight men or eighty could follow but it would make no difference should a trap be laid before them. The entire army of Ptolemy was massed here for a march. Dexion said nothing to Salvius, as it was an argument unworthy of fighting. The armsmen ringed around the group in a loose circle, and chased away any who wandered too close with little more than a harsh glare.

“We are no politicians,” Dexion said after clearing his throat, “I know nothing of courtly affairs. I fear I will wrongly offend their king through a mistake or breach of protocol I have not been told of.”

Septimius looked over the head of a servant that walked between them in the road and gave an accommodating smile. “There’s little worry of that, Dexion. I have already been inside. The king is still young. I doubt we will actually see him. Instead, all matters of state fall upon the regent, Potheinus the eunuch until the king comes of age.”

Salvius laughed and also looked back to Dexion, “I think dear Quintus believes the great Egyptian army here marches at the command of a boy no taller than my knee.”

“Warring with his sister over toys?” Septimius teased, “And making battle plans with puppets, eh?”

“I have seen worse leaders in my time,” Dexion grinned back, “And maybe a few worse reasons to fight.”

“Well spoken.” Septimius muttered with a prolonged rolling of his eyes. He gestured idly to the palace. “Have you not been told why Potheinus has summoned us to the palace?”

“I was at the shore when Salvius bade me to follow,” Dexion said, “I was watching the ships that arrived yesterday morning. At first I thought it was Caesar’s men come to slaughter us, but they fly the colors of Pompey from their masts. Nearly two days have passed and they draw no closer than a mile to the shore.” Dexion seemed perplexed once more, but soon brightened at his next thought. “Septimius, let me send a messenger to invite them here. If they too are still loyal to Pompey perhaps they fear—“

“It is Pompey,” Septimius interrupted.

Dexion’s face registered an antipathy of emotions so complex that Salvius laughed to see it. “Pompey the Great is here?”

“He is.”

“How do you know?” Dexion rushed over to Septimius’ side and turned him by the shoulder to look in his eyes, “He still lives? How do you know?”

“Because,” Septimius answered with labored patience, “he sent a messenger to the palace during the night. I told you, I was there.”

“Perhaps now with those ships and men, Pompey himself can lead us back to Rome,” Salvius growled. “Think of it: sailing with Pompey himself at the head of the greatest fleet of war Rome has ever known. If this is not all some kind of trick.”

“Ah, so now you both have reasoned for yourself the reason Potheinus calls us to his council,” Septimius praised with a playful hint of condescension. “And it is no trick. I was at the battle at the plains of Pharsalia. I recognized the man he sent.”

“Pharsalia?” Dexion pressed, “You escaped from Pharsalia? I would have never thought anyone could have escaped that battle.”

Septimius’ face was gray as he seemed lost in his memory of the battle. “Some. Some. I saw such death that day, the blood collected as lakes on the plain. No less than six thousand put to the sword, I think. I still cannot say how we were defeated; we had twice the men. We had—we had cavalry like you have never seen, Dexion. But…it was fortunate you were not there to see. It was as if we were struck down by the disfavor of the gods themselves.”

“You did not speak of this when you found us. Even so, I would have preferred to fight by your side,” Dexion comforted. “I have felt cornered, waiting here for my own countrymen to hunt me down in the name of that usurper.”

The group ascended a short stair lined with simple iron braziers and entered the palace. Septimius told the servants to await their return outside, and even Salvius left his guard behind. Only the strange one bearing many scrolls continued to follow behind them. He said nothing and plodded behind Septimius, who seemed to not notice or care. The halls of the palace were oppressively close and the air was thick with smoke and dust that seemed to hold the heat like an oven. Dexion swept a hand across his brow and saw that it glistened greasily in the harsh orange glow of the braziers. Once inside, the walls seemed to absorb the light, barren of decorations save for sparsely-placed sconces.

Septimius led the way through a curtained archway. Inside the room was cluttered with furniture and servants busied with the task of arranging them. A long table stretched across the center of the hall, around which many people stood. They were clustered into groups of two or three, all carrying on excited conversations that together made the enclosed space full of raucous noise. As the noise seemed to grow, the people found it more difficult to hear one another, and so they all spoke louder over the din, making it even more difficult to hear, and so on. The air was thick with incense to mask the stink of humanity packed inside, and the room was poorly ventilated. Dexion’s head felt stuffy and swam with dizziness for a moment as he struggled to make sense of the cacophony of voices. He squinted so his eyes could grow accustomed more easily to the relative brightness of the room.

None took notice of the centurions when they entered. They stood together at the archway until Septimius gestured to a group at one end of the table. Around this group stood two youths bearing wide fans. They both had a vacant look in their eyes, performing their menial task dutifully but also making their presence in the room as minimal as possible. Their ministrations were centered on a small Egyptian man, clothed in an ostentatiously-colored vermillion robe. He was perhaps a little more than half as tall as Dexion. The robe was loose and slight, and it clung to his birdlike features. He was a waifish sort, almost skeletal in frame. The eunuch had a disconcerting way of speaking, Dexion noticed; he had a habit of speaking to one person with his eyes fixed on another. Despite his size, he seemed a powerful man, and his eyes held much cunning and dark secrets.

The man caught sight of them from the corner of his eye and hushed the men around him with a swift swatting gesture of his left hand. Dexion was surprised to notice that everyone in the room silenced themselves soon after. The eunuch Potheinus spoke in a strange commanding voice as a child’s, but with a practiced mode of projection that originated deep in his belly. “Ah, the wayward centurions!” Potheinus greeted, seeming much too pleased to see them for Dexion’s tastes. “What good fortune led you to Pelusium continues to grow, eh?”

“A chance to return home,” Septimius agreed. “Again I thank you for your hospitality.”

Potheinus inclined his head downward in a failed attempt at modesty. “What else should I have done? Turned you away? Sent you back into the waiting arms of your enemy? Or imprisoned you?” The eunuch chuckled at his own joke. The Romans forced smiles of courtesy on their faces. “No! We all have enough enemies. We never have enough friends. Don’t you think so?”

“Indeed,” nodded Septimius.

“Please, sit,” beckoned Potheinus. Dexion chose the chair nearest the regent that he could; Potheinus occupied the head of the table alone, save for his servants who stood to his flanks. Salvius seemed uncomfortable in the room surrounded by unfamiliar people, but sat, his eyes shifting around the table in rapid circuits. Dexion watched Potheinus closely, observing the regent’s face and movements while Septimius engaged him in conversation. Dexion could tell that Potheinus was hiding something, but then, all men of his position were. He wore the smile of a junk vendor in the local market: a familial, warm smile combined with a practiced innocence. He projected the aura of a man whose only desire was to help. Dexion had seen many of his type before in Rome, but few so singularly powerful.

Most people in the room left without urging; but many of the eldest men remained to occupy the rest of the chairs around the table. Potheinus’ eyes moved across the assembled council, and he waited to take a drink of wine before he spoke. “Many ships have arrived near this city: ships that sail under the banner of Pompey, once a great leader of men in Rome and the noble centurions who have joined us tonight.”

“What do you mean, ‘once‘?” Salvius demanded, his face red with outrage. Septimius put a hand quickly on Salvius’ arm to calm him. Salvius blushed when he realized his foolishness at interrupting Potheinus, and his face grew redder.

Potheinus held up his hand, as if he were holding the attention of the room fixed in the center of his palm. “I offer my apologies for my poor choice in words, centurion. But you are not aware of the true nature of things in the land you so hastily fled from. I have heard news from Rome, and rumors from men I trust. Septimius has seen, yes? He has told me of how he came to Pelusium. Pompey’s defeat at the fields of Pharsalia was more than a simple loss. It shattered the head of the spear.”

Septimius tried to speak, but the regent continued, locking eyes with the centurions in turn. “You told me yourself. With an army that numbered half of Pompey’s, he killed thousands of your men. He routed Pompey’s forces into leaderless, frightened groups. Pompey himself fled to the south, and to the sea, pursued inexorably by Caesar’s men. And that is how these Romans come to us. They are the few scattered remnants that remain of a broken army. Many threw down their arms after the defeat at Pharsalia.”

“We remained loyal,” Salvius insisted when Potheinus fell silent, “Artorius Dexion and I led our men here when Septimius found us seeking aid. We would not abandon hope so easily.”

“And there is hope,” Potheinus conceded. “There is hope. But it does not lie with Pompey.”

A dread silence and a darkness fell over the centurions. Dexion spoke in a low voice, and he stared as his fingers. He could not bring himself to look at the regent. “What do you mean?”

Potheinus stood up and leaned forward, resting his fists on the table. He spoke with grave honesty, casting no doubt on the truth of his words. “You were wise to leave your country, centurions. I have heard that Caesar has slaughtered his way southward towards us, killing all who took up arms with Pompey. There is no amnesty for you. There will be no prisoners. Caesar is coming for Pompey with all his fury. If you stand with him, Caesar will cut you down. You are no more than four hundred men with few supplies. Out there,” Potheinus pointed towards the sea, “are perhaps a thousand. How will you stand against that? Septimius, you have seen what Caesar can do. You have seen it, yes?”

Septimius would not look at the regent. His chin trembled in an effort to keep his face expressionless. Dexion could not be sure, but it seemed that Septimius gave the slightest of nods.

“So you have refused to allow Pompey sanctuary here?” Dexion asked.

“I have granted it,” replied the regent as he turned his back on the rest of the council. He clasped his hands behind his back and walked a slow circle.

“You have granted it?” exclaimed Salvius, “But why would you do such a thing? Caesar would bring war down on you as well.”

“You swine,” spat Dexion. The centurions gaped at him in horror, and the rest of the councilmen sucked in frantic breaths. Potheinus’ face remained passive. “I know what you’re scheming. Do you not see, Septimius? Salvius? He cannot refuse Pompey and send him away. Caesar would grudge Potheinus for allowing his quarry to escape. And he cannot let Pompey stay here, for that would make Caesar an enemy, and bring his armies down on the city.”

Potheinus took a sip of his wine, his eyes reading Dexion with a cold regard a butcher might give livestock. Salvius looked between Dexion and the regent, looking afraid. “What does this mean? Dexion?”

Septimius spoke in a creaking voice, visibly choking down his rising bile. “It means we deliver Pompey into Caesar’s hands. That is what you want, isn’t it Potheinus?”

The regent thumped his goblet down on the table. “There is a world of difference between what I want, and what must be done, centurion. I invited you here so that I could help you, I swear it. Your man Dexion thinks me a liar; I can see it in his eyes. And he is wise to think so. But you are good men, and loyal. Loyal to your country. Your country. You must remember that. You do not deserve to die. I would see you live. And if you do as I bid, you shall.”

Salvius stared at the table, his pallor white and sickly.

“You will be heroes in your country,” Potheinus declared. “Honored forever. Free to return to your homes and your wives. You will save your own lives and the lives of the men who serve you with a gift for Caesar.”

Chapter Four: Breakfast

SpoilerShow

A McDonald’s Parking Lot near Interstate 5
Bellingham, Washington
October 23, 2004 – 6:42 AM


Quint awoke with a phlegmy jolt as a dense weight wrapped in wax paper dropped in his lap. His eyes were sticky and blurred with sleep, but his nose was assaulted with the clashing scents of synthetic maple syrup and rotting potatoes. He smacked his eyes open and looked through the foggy passenger-side window, and saw that the Pacer was parked out behind a dumpster. He scrunched his eyes shut and coughed out a morning wheeze. His neck spasmed, and he groaned. Sleeping in the car seat was akin to medieval torture; long-broken springs jabbed through the naugahyde into his back and rear like a bed of nails.

He slapped his hand against the object on his leg, and he felt it was warm and coated in a thin sheen of grease. He raised his eyes and found himself staring down the barrel of his thirty-eight. Kelli leaned against the side of her door, looking squarely at him, her arms propped up on her knees that were drawn up to her chest. She had an amused look on her face, probably because Quint was staring cross-eyed at the weapon with fresh drool collecting on his coat’s collar.

“I suppose I could have just run away while you were sleeping,” Kelli pondered aloud, “Actually for a little while I thought you’d bled to death. Because of the car and all. But once I got into town I had a better idea.”

“Oh no,” Quint moaned. His head sank. “You’re going to kill me. A McGriddle? This might actually finish me off.”

Kelli bobbed her head back and forth, weighing the option of killing him, “Well that was the first thing I came up with. But then I realized you can really help me out.”

“Help you?”

“Yeah. I’m not some screaming Rae Dawn Chong spaz chick you can—you can just bully around, expecting me to stick around while you joyride around the country hacking people’s heads off. I’ve got to deal with stalker movie nerds at the theater, and student loan billth on the horizon so bad they’ll throw me into a gulag when they finally realize it’ll take me an ice age to pay ‘em back on a teacher’s salary.”

Quint nodded, and wore a blasted look on his face that would infuriate a Shaolin monk, “Clearly I’m screwing with the wrong person here.”

Kelli smirked.

“So…” Quint’s hands searched in the air for the rest of her point.

“So now I’ve got some psycho serial killer here with a broken leg, beat up to s***, and I called the cops from that payphone over there.” She gestured quickly to the restaurant beyond the dumpster with the gun. “I don’t pretend to know what happened at the church or at my dorm, all I know is that in a few minutes the cops get here and I can basically tell them anything I want because I got you—quite literally—red-handed.”

“I’m missing the connection to the student loans, here.” Quint looked at his stained hands and the blood caked under his fingernails. He clicked his tongue in disgust and poked his McGriddle to make sure it was really dead.

Kelli put her hand to her forehead in faux-maudlin horror. “Oh Jane Pauley, I saw the whole thing!” Quint rolled his eyes and unwrapped his flattened breakfast sandwich with the look of a man approaching the gallows. “Hey it’s not like I’m going to lie. The story’s good enough I don’t need to. I make the circuit around the talk-shows, I get a month on CourtTV while you plead insanity—and you clearly will—and if I luck out, I’m sure some network somewhere will pony up royalties for a TV movie or something.”

Quint crushed the sandwich into his mouth and mumbled through a mass of indestructible carbohydrates, “You’re handling this all really quite well. In fact,” he swallowed, “I rather unfairly sold you short. You’re a very dangerous sort. Believe it or not, more dangerous than me if you applied yourself properly. You have no idea.”

“At the moment, I have some idea,” she gestured with the gun. “Now stop with your stupid bulls***-with-a-smile routine. I know what you are.”

“Uh huh.”

“You killed that man. And I don’t even know what you were up to in that church, but you came out with blood all over you. And you had a gun in your hand.”

“It’s very easy for you to forget everything you’ve seen,” Quint frowned, “Since the only thing you care about is saving your own a**. You’re a survivor, kid. A damn good one. But in this case you’re just wrong about me. You’re just sticking your head in the sand if you’re willing to ignore all of the strange things you saw.”

“You killed that man.”

“He came after me.”

“Maybe he was a cop or something. Or…”

“Who spoke nothing but French and carried his police-issue sword. Don’t be stupid. You know better.”

Kelli’s face flushed. She wiped her nose on her sleeve as she tried to collect a jumble of confused thoughts, but kept the gun trained on Quint. “I don’t care! You killed—“

“Temps de mourir,” Quint recited from memory. “He said, ‘Time to die, Quint’.” Kelli shook her head fiercely, but Quint continued. “When he was on the floor, I asked him why—why he was trying to kill me. I had no more idea than you. He said ‘you have to die’.”

“Shut up,” Kelli spat, her body trembling violently as she relived the bloody ordeal in her mind. Her eyes were shot pink with extreme lack of sleep. “I don’t believe you.”

“I asked him to leave me alone,” Quint shouted, “And he said—“ Quint stopped, mouthing the words that sprung to his mind. He scratched at the stubble at his throat, and looked confused, suddenly realizing even he hadn’t fully absorbed the memory of the previous night. "Vous allez causer notre perte." Quint fell silent, repeating the words to himself. He stared out his window and tapped his finger against the fogged glass.

Kelli choked out the words, “What does that mean?” but it came out airy and half-complete. She swallowed fiercely and shouted it again, her voice ringing through the interior of the car. “What does that mean?”

Quint’s head whipped around, his eyes lost. It looked almost as if he had forgotten she were there. He licked his chapped lips and stumbled through the translation. He still wished that he knew what soul was shouting the words up from the hell inside him. The little voice he heard was laughing. “He said, ‘Never. You will bring about our downfall.’ Or…something like that. The last part is strange…”

“Keep talking,” Kelli dared him. “You can tell it to the cops. I don’t care.”

Quint popped the passenger door open and swung his legs out. As frigid air flooded the car, Quint gave a shrill celebratory shout at the change in temperature. Kelli gawked as Quint drummed his feet against the ground, trying to rattle some life back into them after an extended period of sitting. “Hey!” she cried out, and called out again when he ignored her. “Hey!”

“I uh,” Quint started without turning his head, “I don’t really have anything to give you to repay you for everything you’ve done for me.” He stood up slowly to allow his cramped back time to prepare itself for action. He twisted around and hauled his cumbersome duffel bag out of the back seat. The bag bulged and resisted his pull when he tried to muscle it over the seats, and it flopped down into Kelli. She shouted again and threw herself against the steering wheel in an attempt to keep the gun pointed at Quint. He stopped to think for a moment and slung the bag over his shoulder. “Actually,” he mused, “you should keep the gun. Listen, even if I thought you’d believe me I can’t explain any more than I already have. The less you know right now, the safer you are. Hide that from the cops, and if anyone comes to you asking for me, use that and run as far away as you can.”

Quint turned away and started walking northward, farther into the awakening town. Kelli clambered over the seats and chased him down. She jabbed the snubnose of the gun into his back. Quint writhed away and looked back with a mirthful grin, “Quit it! That tickles.” That was the last straw. Kelli aimed squarely at Quint’s kneecaps and with an enraged cry pulled the trigger back. The hammer smacked loudly against a spent primer with a cracking sound that snapped through the sharp air. Kelli tried to fire the weapon three more times, and ground her teeth more tightly each time the gun produced nothing more than mounting humiliation.

“A**h***!” she roared like a goddess defied. Quint gave her that maddening ‘you prick me’ look again before resuming his stroll.

“This from the girl who would have happily sold me out to appear on FOX. Relax, Kelli. This had to be much more stimulating than a calculus exam.” Quint crammed the last of his sandwich into his mouth, waved, and disappeared around the corner.

Chapter Five: Kelli Green

SpoilerShow

Bellingham Police Department
Bellingham, Washington
October 23, 2004 – 10:05 AM


Kelli’s jaw clacked like a machinegun as she looked up at the air vent with scorn. Why would they turn the air conditioning on, she thought, in Washington at this time of year? Maybe it was some kind of d***headed police interrogation technique similar to grilling suspects under a hot lamp and teasing them with water. “I’ll tell you anything,” they’d say, “For God’s sake, give me that coffee!” She huddled miserably under the blanket that Sergeant Herkowicz had given her.

He’d produced it right out of the trunk of his squad car. She’d always seen that on television, too. She hated to think she was ungrateful, but what was with the blankets? Is it some kind of universal comfort gift, like giving candy to a kid after a visit to the dentist? Do the police have a closet full of them, restocked and paid for with a special line item in the yearly budget? Turn up the f***ing thermostat! She could feel her butt freezing to the industrial steel chair. The blanket was cute and all, but it did nothing for the fact that Kelli felt dirty, salty, and buttered. All that toxic movie theater crud had been given time to absorb into her skin.

Jockeying the concession counter at a movie theater was a special kind of hell that even prison inmates would turn down. Inmates probably wouldn’t be suitable for such a job, of course; people would be too afraid of them spitting in their sodas or strangling them. On the other hand, it was a struggle every night for Kelli to avoid throttling random customers. Her favorite fantasy was currently finding someone destined for a Brett Ratner movie, grabbing them by their bottom lip, and hurling them headwards through the glass countertop. She would be doing them a favor.

The detective across the table continued to scribble cursive onto his legal pad—the kind indecipherable to any but the author. He looked up every once in a while at her, squinted, then looked down and wrote again. She sighed and tried to turn the thermostat behind the detective with her mind in vain. Then she decided she didn’t like this detective. He was too good at his job. He had the same smug method of questioning as the really sadistic liberal arts teachers: to ask a question, listen to the response, and then to remain quiet for exactly 5 seconds longer before speaking again.

It seemed silly, but it was perfect in its simplicity. After a response to a question, whether it be truth or falsehood, he just stared at Kelli with a slight frown. He looked hurt, or disappointed that was all she had to say. So, like an idiot, she would blabber on with meaningless details, explanations rife with circular reasoning, or off-the-cuff lies. All of these served only to dig her own grave and make her feel guilty, despite having done nothing wrong.

The detective adjusted his narrow glasses and tapped the point of his pen down on the paper. He dotted the hell out of that sentence and nodded in satisfaction, his expression reading “Boom. Period. So there.”

“Are you hungry at all, Ms. Green?” he asked. He leaned back in his chair.

Kelli blinked. She hadn’t expected that one. She thought he was going to ask her more details about the drive, or the fight, or…or something. “Um…I don’t know,” she murmured, drawing her blanked closer around her neck. She tried to think whether or not she was. She felt like she could eat, but fatigue and stress made her guts a tangled knot so tense she feared food might upset a fragile balance internally and leap straight back out of her.

He stared at her for five seconds. “So tell me what happened when you arrived in town. I just want to get your report on that on paper and document what happened.”

“I stopped at the McDon—“ she froze, suddenly realizing that she hadn’t adequately prepared for this part. She swallowed and centered herself. It was fine, everything normal. I’ve done nothing wrong, it’s that psychopath who’s in trouble. They just want to know where he’s gone and that’ll be that. “At the McDonalds!” she smiled. Then she realized smiling was stupid and she stopped it. She frowned. A lot.

5. 4. Kelli’s lip began to quiver. 3. 2. Her will collapsed. “He told me to. To drive there. To the McDonald’s. He said to—um, to stop and get some food. Because he was hungry.”

“And he made you go inside to get it.”

“Yeah.” Back on track.

The detective chewed on his pen. “Why not the drive-thru?”

F***!! “Uh…well I think he was going to let me go afterward. I think.”

He nodded and seemed satisfied with that answer. He scribbled some more. “And you made the call inside the restaurant?”

“Yeah.” 5. 4. 3. Damn him!! 2. 1. Yes!!

“That was really brave of you.”

“Yeah!” Kelli pushed her bangs out of her eyes and let out a heady laugh. “Yeah I guess so. I was really scared. And—“

“But weren’t you afraid that’d be the first thing he’d expect you to do? If I were him—“ he put his hands up and slapped them gently on the table, “well I wouldn’t trust you not to run or call for help. Ms. Green?”

“I was—God, it’s cold in here. Could you—“ she pointed to the thermostat with a trembling hand and wore the best sweet, innocent, hangdog “Please Mister Man, I need someone with testicles to protect wittle bitty me” look she could muster. She’d grown up in a house full of boys; she’d honed that look into a weapon that could blast apart small cities. The cop’s chair flew back from the force of her innocent face, the four legs of the chair digging twin trenches into the cheap carpet. His legs churned until the chair was clear of the table, and he spun around to fiddle with the dial. It bought her enough time to come up with something appropriately feminine and full of . “I told him I had to use the bathroom.”

“Oh.” He looked uncertain.

“I had some things I needed to take care of.”

Checkmate. The detective looked regretful he’d even bothered to ask. Since the dawn of American history, and probably a lot longer back than that, the ladies’ room has remained one of the few territories still held sacrosanct against invasion or even inquiry. They were inviolable no-chest-hair zones that provided safe haven from leers and unwelcome eavesdroppers. Through careful manipulations over the years, the mystique of the ladies’ room had formed a protective field where the rules of etiquette and manners were turned on their ears. For someone like Kelli on a social evening with others, she could announce her intention to use the facilities and often, her friends would volunteer to come along. Guys who made that offer usually never heard from their friend again (Or perhaps made an even better friend than before. Hey, it’s the 21st century.)

Men didn’t know what went on in there. Men didn’t want to know what went on in there. They probably imagined it to be some kind of elaborate spy network, with linked computers in the mirrors so women could talk to each other globally like in the Batcave. Although in some cases, it wasn’t far from the truth. They still knew that something plain weird was going on in there—something that filled them with fear. It’s hard enough for most boys to master hygiene for their own set of parts; even thinking about the differences in washroom behavior between the genders confused and frightened them. Only centuries of evolution had taught man to avoid sticking their fingers in their ears and shouting “La la la la!” at the top of their lungs at the mere mention of menstruation.

The majority of men, at least.

The word ‘bathroom’ conjured images of potpourri bowls and tampons in the detective’s mind. She could tell it was all he could do to not run screaming from the room. Kelli didn’t take an interest in the activities across the hall, she just had grown accustomed to the vagaries of both genders early on. In reality, most of the time she used public bathrooms she was shirking her duties to clean the restroom in favor of smoking a joint in one of the stalls. During one particularly bleak evening at work at the national release of Pearl Harbor, she did a jay while working the counter just to see if she could get fired. Someone complained, but they just put her to work pushing one of those piece-of- carpet sweepers that (in theory) collected the trampled shards of popcorn that littered the floors. It was a Sisyphusian exercise; as soon as she’d cleaned one section of the floor, five hundred people had crossed another, spilled a bucket, dropped their Dr. Pepper, and vomited on the shoes of the person next to them. Then she had to go to the closet, push aside a giant furry penguin suit (nobody knew how it got their or what its function was), and get the granulated pink scented sawdust substitute. When applied to pools of vomit, it replaced the horrible retching smell of puke with the horrible retching smell of base cleaning product.

“So. Eh,” the detective sat back down and fussed with his pen, “you made the call and then brought the food out?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t get anything for yourself?”

“Well no.” He kept staring at her. “He was very specific!”

“It’s just strange that he’d let you use the bathroom and not let you get something for yourself.”

“I don’t think I could have eaten around him anyway,” she scowled. She had to put the focus back on this Quint character. “He had a gun.”

“I understand. I’m not trying to upset you. There are just some things about your story that are confusing me.” He started reaching into his folder.

“Like what?”

He showed Kelli a digital photograph of her Pacer, its front end dented and crumpled at one end. The windshield on the passenger side was crushed inward, the shattered creases in the glass glistened red with blood. A dark hole was opened near the hood where Quint’s knee had punched through the windshield. “This is what your car looks like,” he said, as one would speak to an idiot. “After you struck the man with your car. Your statement says that you tried to brake, but you were going around forty miles per hour at the time of the collision. When we arrived at the scene, you’d told the officers that he had run away.”

“That’s right.” She thought it was best to stick to her guns here.

“He ran?”

“He ran.” Kelli put her hands up in the classic “I don’t know what to tell you” gesture.

The detective crossed his arms defensively and stared at her some more, seeming to hope she’d fall into the trap again. She didn’t. “Miss Green, if you hit a man going that fast he’d be lucky to ever walk again. And you’re telling me he killed a man, made you drive overnight into Bellingham, and then ran away?”

“Hey you think you’re surprised? I thought I’d killed him at first. This guy is just…just inhuman.”

“Sounds like it,” the detective agreed. He scratched his goatee for a moment and leaned forward, propping his head on his fist. “Did he discuss anything with you? Where he said he was planning to go?”

“We were heading north. I think he just wanted to get as close to the border as possible in the car before heading into Canada on foot.”

“Sounds about right.” The detective bobbed his head in affirmation as he finished another sentence on his legal pad. “There’s a border patrol station just out of town; we’ve already alerted them to look for a man matching the description you gave. Got the airport covered, too. We’d prefer that you stay in town. We’ll definitely have more questions for you later once we’ve had time to investigate the crime scenes. I’m afraid that includes your dorm room, too, Miss Green.”

“I can’t stay in town,” Kelli protested, “I’ve got finals to do. I’ve already missed one.”

“Well that’s fine,” he shrugged, “as long as we can contact you when we need to. Is there anyone else on campus you know, or can your parents—“

“I have some friends on campus,” she snapped, sounding angrier than she meant to. “I don’t know how I’m going to get back there though, since you’ve got my car.”

“After we get you something to eat I’ll drive you back to Seattle. I want to take a look at the scene myself. Exchange notes with the local precinct. You know.”

The heavy door to the room opened inward, and another man in a tie stuck his head in. “Phone and about a dozen faxes for you, Luis,” he said, and pulled his head back out of the door.

“Okay,” the detective called behind him. He smiled at Kelli as he stood up and backed toward the door. “Relax here for a minute. You’ll be back home and safe in no time. We’ll get this guy. He’s injured and he’s desperate. He won’t get far.”


***********************************************


Andrea looked up from her computer as a tourist tromped up to the counter in cheap sneakers, blue jeans, and a South Park t-shirt featuring an angry big-headed cop of some kind shouting “Respect Mah Authoritay!” He had a huge, frayed army-issue duffel bag slung over his shoulder. A think wire led out of the bag and linked into a pair of headphones that he wore.

“Can I help you?”

“Wassat?” He smiled and whipped his shades from his head with a practiced flair, then tugged off his headphones. “Hey!” he grinned. “Sorry, I just got new batteries for these things. I was listening to Iron Man. I love Sabbath.”

“Can I help you,” she repeated. She remained patient. Tourists always found unique ways of being annoying. This was no different.

“Yeah! The ferry goes all the way to Juneau, right?” He tossed his glasses on the counter and dropped his bag heavily to the ground.

“Sure does,” she nodded, “we go all the way up the Alaska Marine Highway up to Skagway.”

“Really!” He looked astonished. “What the hell, I’ll go to the end of the line, hah! One round-trip ticket!”

She punched some keys on her computer. “Name?”

“Dex. Can I pay in cash?”

[wulfenlord]

.... and, it's SPOONY time again! No, dad, no!



Chapter Six:The Reason for the Rain

SpoilerShow

Bellarmine Hall Dormitory, Seattle University
Seattle, Washington
October 23, 2004 – 6:10 PM


Kelli watched for the lightning, eyes scanning the eastern sky. She sat on the porch of her house back in McKeesport, Pennsylvania—the one they had before dad lost his job. The sound of rain was heavy in the air, drumming against the wooden overhang that kept her dry. Every now and then a rush of wind would spray her with a cool mist. It felt cleansing; she liked the feel of the wind against her face, her hair trailing free behind her.

A jagged light raked across the sky, and Kelli grinned. She began to count. At the count of eight, a peal of thunder rolled over her head. It sounded like a rockslide, with a slow windup into a tremendous crash. She jumped, but threw her hands up in the air as she announced “Eight!” It was a game she used to play; she remembered that her dad told her she could judge the distance of the lightning by counting off the seconds before you heard the thunder after the flash. She remembered the counting part, but not how the seconds translated into distance. She always just used to shout out the number and dad would tell her.

There was no answer from her father. “Daaaad,” she whined, “How far is it?” Still no answer. All Kelli heard was the growing hiss of the rain falling around her. She turned her head around to where her dad always stood, his arms crossed and eyes closed. The first thing she saw were mad, rage-filled eyes staring at the black clouds in defiance. The Frenchman scowled, and he turned his gaze down on Kelli. He smiled. Kelli shrank away from the man, hands outward to ward him away. She was panicked, unsure of what to say at this presence, whether to call for help or flee.

“Do you think there is a God, Kelli?” The Frenchman’s face was gnarled and strange. He was smiling and yet his eyes held untold malice. She screamed and flattened herself against the rail of the patio, putting her back to the storm. “A father who made you? Made me?”

The wind picked up. Kelli felt the railing bow inwards against her back, felt the patio shift somewhat as the driven rain sheared onto the deck. The Frenchman pointed towards the lightning, “You have the choice to fight other men. But we fight for the storm.” The wind screamed in Kelli’s ears, and she threw her arms over her head. The patio groaned and then screeched in agony as the gale tore the wood apart. The roof was ripped from the patio, exposing everything to the elements. She was soaked almost instantly.

“No choice, no choice for us,” the man hissed through his teeth. “Why is the storm there? Why do I fight for it? Why is the storm so dark?”

The clouds were torn apart overhead. Lightning forked together into a nexus and split downward in an instant, striking the Frenchman down. Kelli groped in a blind panic. Her eyes stung from the rain and could only see a chaotic green afterimage of the flash. She could make out the shape of a man collapsed on the floor on his hands and knees. She could hear his labored breathing and the rain sizzling on his back. She could smell ozone, and a foul mix of burnt wood, wool, and flesh.

“Kelli,” the man groaned. He had a different voice now. Quint’s? “The storm is coming for me. I need to know how close it is. I need to know.”

Kelli crawled forward and touched the burning man. Her wonder had outweighed her horror somehow. She pulled her hand back as her hand stung against his skin. It felt like a live wire, numbing her hand into a fist. “Please,” he begged, “the storm is coming. I need to know. I can’t see. I can’t hear. The voices inside me are screaming. I can’t see. They scream all the time…”

She flung herself around to confront the storm. But it was right on top of them. The lightning struck all around them. Each strike grew closer and closer, sending plumes of scorched glass and fire into the sky. It was everywhere, circling.

“How close?” Quint cried. He scrubbed at his eyes.

She knew the answer this time. The answer was zero.

“It’s here.”


Kelli’s head jerked upward violently at a loud thud that rattled her body. It came from just over her head. Her neck tensed and then spasmed at the sudden movement. She grimaced and dug her fingers into the clenched muscles. The harsh orange light of the setting sun flooded in through the windows. Kelli scrunched her eyes shut against the glare, and sat up in the car seat. An ugly clanking noise came from the window nearby as Detective Villareal smacked the back of his hand against it. His wedding ring popped into the glass.

“We’re here,” he said, his voice a mumble through the door.

Kelli had slept as a child after her first trip to an amusement park. She flopped into the backseat of Detective Villareal’s car and was out before the car left the parking lot. She’d been fed the Seattle cop’s breakfast of champions: bad coffee and some fossilized Entenmann’s cake from the vending machine. The detective meant well with the lunch, but even Kelli ate better in the dorms most days by scavenging loose Pop Tarts.

Villareal’s car was almost as big of a piece of s**t as Kelli’s was. The heater didn’t work, and the shocks were so bad it would make the old settlers on the Oregon Trail look at each other and say “we gotta get this damn wagon fixed.” Still, as tired as she was, Kelli could have slept an uninterrupted eight hours if warriors from Thunderdome attacked the car on motorcycles and semis converted into battlewagons.

She tossed her trusty police-issue blanket away and made a gurgling moaning sound from deep in her chest—a sound that in caveman translated to “I hate this planet.” Kelli was not a morning person. In fact, she wasn’t even an afternoon person. Some people seemed genetically predisposed to be perky and sunny at four in the morning, thinking their happy joy thoughts, and living only to :):):) the nocturnal people off by watching daytime TV. Of course, it wasn’t early morning now, but now she feared that by waking up at night her whole schedule had been inverted. Worse, if it stayed that way she would become one of those morning people. Those sad bastards who watched Total Request Live and listened to the morning DJs crank out Nickelback on their drive to work every other song.

“Careful,” Villareal said. He opened the door for her. Still grinding her knuckles into her eyes, Kelli swung her legs out of the door and hopped out into the parking lot. Something crunched under her feet, a painful noise that made her grimace like someone was tearing Velcro next to her ear. She looked down and saw that the ground was covered in an awkward mosaic of glass. The shards were hard to look at, as the abrupt angles caught and reflected the glare of the setting sun. No matter which way she looked, there were at least a dozen pieces flashing light in her face that made her see spots. She made a confused sound as she saw that the entire dormitory was covered in the stuff: the sidewalks, the grass, even some of the cars. All the windows in the dorm were blown outward, as were the headlights and the windows of almost every car in the lot. The ones farthest away from the building seemed to have fared better, but not much.

“Jesus…” the detective said.

The parking lot was roped off with yellow police tape. Despite the fact that the scene was still over eight hours old, there were police photographers and several other investigative personnel about. Two ambulances blocked the entranceways into the parking lot, and a white hearse was parked diagonally across the three handicapped spots in front of the building. It was marked as the coroner’s vehicle, but she wondered why it was still there; surely they would have removed that man’s body by now. A couple of news vans were parked across the street, away from the police cordon. They had their antennae and telescoping dishes fully extended and stabilizing legs deployed from the undercarriage to support the displaced center of gravity.

Villareal led the way towards the dormitory hall. One patrolman at the door didn’t recognize him because he was from a different precinct, and tried to stop him. Villareal brandished his badge and held it before the man like a priest warding off a vampire with a crucifix. The patrolman wilted before the badge’s awesome power and shrunk into the shadows. The power of Christ compels you!

“Who’s in charge here?” the detective asked.

The patrolman pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Detective Forbeck. Second floor.”

Upstairs, the same story. Many of the dorm rooms here were accessed from an exterior walkway that encircled a grassy field where people could play sports and hold barbeques. Usually people just went there to throw up or burn themselves trying to hold barbeques. Right now, Kelli’s dorm was something of a campus legend because someone had taken some herbicide to the field and used it to spell out the words “WAYNE EATS C**K” in six-foot letters of dead grass. For the entire winter season and up until the spring when the grass grows back, everyone on campus would know that Wayne ate c**k.

On the other hand, maybe Wayne was making an offer. It’s the 21st century. It’s a nifty alternative to a personal ad. No, that didn’t make sense. He would have made sure to leave his phone number. Kelli tried to see the positive side of things, but that’s the sort of thing one needs a lot of practice at.

The rooms around this field all had exterior windows, and the walkway was usually lit with yellow hazard lights between the doors. All of these were shattered, bits of glass thrown out onto the concrete to crunch underfoot with every step.

“Careful, careful,” Villareal repeated in a motherly tone.

The door to Kelli’s dorm was still open. It was a microscopic room, even smaller than most normal housing. They were packed together like egg crates, with barely enough room to wedge a bed and a dresser inside. She was lucky to get a bathroom and a closet of her own. She’d heard that one apartment building had rooms little more than caskets; open the door and flop forward and you’d hit the bed. That building had a communal shower and toilet on the bottom floor where three hundred people went to mingle their body fluids and combine their illnesses into killer superstrains that could infect the entire building. Transients would use the place to shower, and you had to wear rubber flip-flops in the showers to keep from getting warts on your feet. Compared to that, Kelli’s dorm was a Japanese mansion. The creative mind found ways to use vertical space to store other necessities. Stash clothes and videos under the bed. Stack your TV on top of the mini-fridge, and your books on top of that.

It’s an arrangement that worked out as long as you weren’t claustrophobic. The place was a disaster area of ad hoc piles of clothes and aluminum cans crafted into pagan shrines: the overflowing wastebasket and the great pyramid. Despite the outward madness of the scheme, Kelli knew everything’s place and liked it. She didn’t have to deal with a roommate’s bulls**t. She did have to deal with people having parties and embarrassingly sloppy sex at all hours of the night. That was the worst part. She wasn’t stuck-up, she just had standards. Quality, not quantity. It was hard to dig some drunken Cro-Magnon who was done faster than she could get through a cigarette. Lately the cigarettes were more satisfying.

Investigators swarmed around the dorm room, packed inside taking samples and snapping photos. They’d placed little Dixie cups on the floor and numbered them with permanent marker. It was a mob of at least a dozen people with their own individual tasks, all pressing against each other and begging their pardon as they moved about their business. It looked like a badly-organized attempt to pile into a phone booth.

“I’m going to get some clean clothes,” Kelli commanded. Villareal might have said something about not being able to do that yet, but who the hell cares? She started muscling her way through the group and got as far as the door before one brave patrolman put a hand to her chest and halted her progress with a condescending “whoa whoa whoa!”

“This is my place.”

He wasn’t listening. He had been brainwashed and had been planning his reply for hours. “Uh huh. I’m gonna need to have you wait over there, k?” None shall pass! Kelli tried to protest and speak rationally with the policeman, but he’d settled into the typical cop routine of not listening at all and repeating his ultimatums, usually with a mounting threat each iteration.

“Look I’ve got clean clothes under the—“

“Ma’am please just wait over there, k?”

“But—“

“Ma’am, just wait over there or I’m gonna have to escort you out.”

She gave him a defiant “this isn’t over” look and stepped back over to Villareal, who seemed to have found Detective Forbeck, an older cop with the kind of body that indicated over twenty years surviving on the cop diet of take-out and coffee. His hairline had retreated long ago, and he’d had the good sense not to bother with a comb-over. Forbeck probably got his suits off the rack at J.C. Penny’s and had the same set of nine ties in his closet in a daily rotation, like a polyester batting order. Forbeck didn’t look good, but it wasn’t the fault of his clothes. His clothes were a predictable routine, as was most murder, Kelli suspected. This case was a weird one, and Forbeck’s face wore a look of consternation. Weirdness made his job a whole lot worse, and he’d probably been here all day.

“I’ve got no shame,” Kelli heard as she approached the detectives. Forbeck itched behind his ear and indicated the inside of Kelli’s room. “I’ll take all the help I can get with this one. The only question is, where do you want to start?” Forbeck saw Kelli approach and he stuck out his hand in greeting. “Miss Green? I’m Detective Forbeck. How do you feel?”

A complicated question. “I’m really not sure. Confused I guess.” Forbeck grunted in agreement, and Kelli gave him a hip-hop handshake just to disorient him.

“Witnesses,” Villareal said. “Who saw something?”

Forbeck gave a sardonic laugh, “Everybody saw something. Around a hundred and fifty people in the immediate area and they all saw and heard the same thing. You know how rare that is?”

“Well what was it?”

“They all said something to the effect of a storm waking them up. A power surge hit and blew out their computers and TVs, and the wind broke out their windows. But look around you. The glass is on the outside, and not just here. It’s been blown outward from all sides.”

Villareal looked back and forth between the hallway and the room. “It almost sounds like a bomb went off. You didn’t find anything like that in the room, did you?”

Forbeck shook his head, “No. We were thinking the same thing. The first officers on the scene put in a call for the bomb squad. Searched the building room by room for some kind of concussive device, and the most explosive thing we found was a six-foot bong shaped like a didgeridoo.”

“Doesn’t make any sense,” Villareal muttered, “Besides, don’t you figure anything powerful enough to do that would have injured a lot of people?”

Forbeck scratched at the stubble on his neck. “Did you see him carry any kind of electronic device, Miss Green? Anything unusual that might account for this?”

Kelli shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

“What do you think it was?”

“I just don’t know. It was freakish. There was wind and lightning. It—“ she thought of Quint floating unsupported in the air and bit her lip. She must have been seeing things.

“It what?”

“I just don’t think it was any kind of bomb,” she sighed. “I mean, I was in the room when he killed that man.”

Forbeck reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a notepad. He removed the cap from his pen with his mouth and mumbled, “Can you describe the man who was killed for me? As detailed as you can remember Miss Green.”

Kelli opened her mouth to speak, but Detective Villareal raised his hand and stepped between the two. “Hold it. What’s this about?”

“I need a description of the victim.”

Villareal hesitated, and then grew angry. “There’s no body?”

“Well there’s a hell of a lot of blood. Sending that down to tr—“

“There’s no body,” Villareal fumed, “Someone stole the-- How? When?”

“We’ve got a lot of statements from witnesses who might have seen that. Everyone ran outside when the explosion occurred. He’s definitely not in this area. It looks like one, maybe two people ran off with something wrapped in Hefty bags and drove off in a white van. On the other hand, we’ve had about two dozen reports of stoners looting each other in the confusion.”

“Great,” Villareal groaned, “So now we have no idea who this guy was. What about prints?”

“Got lots of prints. Still checking ‘em.”

“What about the sword he had?” Kelli asked.

“Haven’t found one of those, but the walls inside are slashed up and broken.” Forbeck leaned with his back to the rail overlooking the field. “But that’s a good angle to follow. It’s unique as a weapon, might be traceable locally, and we can probably get samples of the metal off the wall. Excuse me.” Forbeck straightened his tie, then forged into the group of investigators to shout out some more instructions to the people inside.

Villareal looked over at Kelli. “I’ll give him a copy of your statement. You already told me everything he’s likely to ask. You should go find your friend. You have a cell phone we can reach you at?”

“Yeah,” she said, “But I left it inside there. You’ll have to go get it for me.”

Armed once again with her phone, she decided to go to her one place of refuge: Denny’s—sanctuary for the insomniac student, land of eggs and free refills. And when the anime club wasn’t f***ing around on meeting nights discussing how awesome Mobile Suit Gundam was, and how the new StarOcean game owned their souls, Denny’s provided some blissful solitude. Kelli liked anime, but anime clubs just seemed like a depressing Otaku Anonymous where people came to admit they had a problem too. She just didn’t see how watching anime with more people made it any better.

Villareal had even managed to scavenge her some clothes from under the bed, including her prized red leather jacket. For some reason he even included three complete sets of underwear and handled the whole stack as if it were a complex nuclear device that might go off if jostled. None of the clothes really matched and she looked like even more of a fashion victim than normal, but at least the clothes were clean and she was warm.

Kelli felt safer the moment she crossed the threshold into the restaurant. After six P.M. the pies were fresh and filled the air with a sweet aroma of cherries and apples. She passed a dating couple that were cramming dollars into the requisite Denny’s claw-game machine, and stopped to watch them fail. There was no winning the Denny’s claw game. Even the few toys that were remotely attainable (not the Shrek DVD) had entered into the long process of geological shifting. The various strata of plush animals had, over the decades, compressed together and formed a solid crust that was impenetrable unless a complicated and precise array of shape charges were applied. In other words, they had a snowball’s chance in Phoenix of nabbing that Powerpuff Girl that Betty Bubblehead coveted so badly.

She picked a booth and crashed in it. Most other Denny’s you couldn’t do that; the senior citizens in line would break your knees with their walkers. No such worries of that on campus. She ordered a proper meal this time, with proper nutrients and somewhat natural origins. Eggs, ham, toast, greens. It was heavy stuff, but Kelli hadn’t eaten anything worthy of being called food in about two days. She was owed.

She was shoveling eggs into her mouth without shame when she felt a presence approach from behind her. “Umm good,” she mumbled with a full mouth, and held up her empty glass of Coke to be taken away.

“Good evenin’ to yeh, Miss Green,” spoke an older voice at her shoulder, thick with an accent she hadn’t heard since she visited her grandparents. “D’yeh moind if I join yeh?” But the man was asking permission ex post facto. By the time he’d finished the question, he’d already landed in the seat across from her.

Kelli swallowed. “What are you, some kind of reporter?” He probably wasn’t, but she was hoping.

“In a manner a speakin’.” He looked almost as tired as she was. Looked like everyone was pulling long hours lately. He looked enviously at her food and flagged down the waiter from across the room. “Oi’ve ne’er been in a Denny’s. Can yeh get a pint in this place?”

“Of what, beer?”

“Of anything.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Ah Jaysus, really? It’s like yeh’re all ashamed of havin’ a bevvie now and again. That stuff looks good though.” The old man pointed at her plate and played a brief game of charades with the waiter to get him more of the same.

“So…” Kelli motioned for the Irishman to get on with it.

“Oh right! My name’s Jack, and you’re lucky I found yeh first. Because if me gut instincts are right there are others lookin’ for yeh, and they won’t ask yeh nearly as nicely as I will.”

Kelli’s face fell. All her fatigue immediately came crashing down on her, and she planted her face in her hand. “Ask me what?”

“Where in the high holy hell did Quint run off tae?”

Chapter Seven:Dex, Lies, and Videotape

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Denny’s Parking Lot
Seattle, Washington
October 23, 2004 – 6:45 PM


“Il ne peut y en avoir qu'un,”
“At the risk of sounding unsportsmanlike, you started it.”
BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM!!

Kelli flicked the pause button on the video camera and tossed her head around to look at Donahl, her movements swift and clumsy with curiosity. “That last part, what did he say?”

Donahl stood against the side of his rental car with his arms crossed. At Kelli’s question, he picked the cigarette from his mouth and spoke after exhaling a column of smoke. “There can be only one.”

“What does that mean?” Donahl stuck the cigarette back between his lips. Kelli pointed a finger at the LCD monitor of the camera. Two bright red and orange human-shaped blobs blazed brightly against a field of deep blue. She motioned to the taller one—the Frenchman. “I want to know who he is.”

“He’s dead.”

“God damn it!” Kelli snapped.

“His name was Vincent Rousseau. He was born around ten or twenty years before the French Revolution. And from what little else Oi know of him, he’d almost never left Europe. Oi thought he was one of the good ones, but Oi’ve been a bahd judge o’ people lately.”

“The Fr—what do you mean, he was one of the good ones?”

Donahl sighed and turned to look at Kelli. His face was somber and tired. “Farst things farst, miss. Oi realize the video an’ sound quality is fer sh**e considerin’ Oi ‘ad to film it in thermo. But d’yeh believe what I was tellin’ yeh befare? About Quint, eh?”

Kelli pulled the hair tie off her ponytail and put the camera down. She smoothed her hair back, then spoke after a moment to think. “This Rousseau guy…he jumped Quint in a church for like, no good reason. And what about that third man? I could only barely hear his voice before they fought.”

“Oi dunno. Wish Oi did, Oi can tell yeh that. But I was a mite preoccupied an’ Oi ne’er saw ‘im leave at the time. A right barmy bastard he is, though.”

“Just…tell me what this is all about,” Kelli burst.

Donahl had never had to explain all of this before, but he decided to try and relate to her slowly, mounting one unbelievable claim at a time. “Quint an’ Rousseau are nae like us. The man yeh know as Quint has walked the planet for roundabout two thousand years. Rousseau for hundreds. Some far longer than either. At sometime in their natural lives, somethin’ ‘appened where they shoulda died, but they didn’t. They kept livin’, and they’ll keep livin’. Yeh’ve seen it. Shot, stabbed, run over, it donnae matter. They’ll live. There be only one end taen Immortal, and that’s the removal of their ‘ead from their body. An’ many of them believe that they must fight until only one remains. They believe that in the end, there can be only one.”

Kelli picked at her lip and finally threw her hands up in resignation. “Fine. Why?”

“Why?”

“Why do they think that they have to fight?”

“When one Immortal kills another, something ‘appens. Yeh saw it, didn’t yeh? Wind…lightning…that sort of thing? Eh? It’s said that the winner takes the memories and the strength of his opponent into himself. They claim the power of the loser, d’yeh see? And they say that when only one remains, well…that Immortal lays claim to the Prize. I don’t think anyone really knows what it is, but everyone knows that they want it, and they’d do almost anything to keep anyone else from having it.”

“How do they know it even exists?”

“What?”

“This Prize,” Kelli shrugged, “How can any of them really know there’s any kind of prize at the end of the rainbow? Is there some kind of handbook that explains this sh**? Sounds to me that it’s some kind of religious crap one of ‘em invented a long time ago and everyone bought into it because it brought some kind of sense to it all.”

Donahl blinked. He looked for a moment like a fuse blew in his mind. “At’s a damn good question, that.”

“So that explains why he wanted to kill Quint.”

Donahl shook his head furiously. “Like ‘ell it does. He jumped Quint in a church. They’ve got rules, and one of the most important is no fightin’ on holy ground. I dunno who came up with the rules either, but…well, yeh might think it’s a matter o’ politeness. Something so they’d have some chance a sleepin’ at night somewhere safe. An’ it might be, but it’s more’n that for a lot of ‘em.”

“What, like they’re afraid God will get pissed off?”

Donahl knelt down to look evenly with Kelli at eye level. “I dunno. Maybe. There’s a story that’s kicked around the Watchers. They say that there’s only one documented occurrence o’ two Immortals fighting on holy ground. And that was in the city of Pompeii. Near Mount Vesuvius.”

Kelli had to think for a moment to make the connection from her history classes, but not long. Her face twitched in uncertainty as she pondered the weight of what she just heard.

“Now if yeh ask me, it’s probably all a loada sh**e,” Donahl said, but raised a finger in warning. “Probably. Now yeh might call it tradition, honor, or just plain bein’ polite. It’s the one thing even the real scum of the earth usually agree on. Partly because it’s a place o’ truce. And partly because…well, yeh never know. Best not to tempt the fates.”

“Okay,” Kelli said, slapping her knees with her hands to declare that subject dead. “So why would Rousseau do it now?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I been kickin’ around in me head.”

“Did Quint do something to :):):) him off.”

“He’s done a lot of things to :):):) a lot o’ people off. But I’ve been watchin’ Quint for nearly eight years. Everywhere he’s gone, everything he’s done. Did he do anything specific to Rousseau? I don’ think so.”

“Do they all have Watchers like you? Did Rousseau have one? Maybe you could ask—“

“No,” Donahl snapped gruffly, “Not anymore. His Watcher tried to kill me, too. Besides, I don’t think he would have known anything, and I don’t think this even has anything to do with Rousseau. No… I think whatever the reason, it has to do with the third man. That nutter who held his leash and kept spouting Keats.”

Kelli cringed and scooted back from Donahl, farther into his car. “Oh no, don’t tell me you’ve killed someone too.”

Donahl reached into his coat pocket and tossed a small boxy device onto the seat in front of her. It looked like a cheap black device made from Radio Shack parts, nothing more than a hunk of plastic the size of a pack of cigarettes with two switches on the top. “He tried to poison me, the little sh**e. An’ to destroy the evidence—of the Watchers an’ everythin’, he left a lovely little bomb. A bomb he was gonna set off with that soon as he was clear.”

Kelli swallowed and backed away even more from the remote, retreating into the driver’s seat. “Okay that’s great. Can you take that thing away now? Where did he get a bomb like that anyway?”

“He didn’t,” Donahl rumbled. His eyebrows drew down into a sharp point, “He left a thermos full o’ Semtex on that rooftop. Homebrew stuff. Vaughn was good, but…”

“Semtex?”

“It’s a plastic explosive. It’s an auld favorite for blowin’ up restaurants and crowded areas. Fill somethin’ up with Semtex and nails and…well…you’ve got yourself a terrorist anti-personnel device on the cheap. I haven’t seen anythin' like that in years.”

“What??”

“I wasnae t’always a Watcher, lass. Les just leave it at that, yea?”

Kelli frowned.

Donahl plucked up the makeshift detonator and put it back in his pocket. “There’s somethin’ bad happenin’, Miss Green. Somethin’ fockin’ evil. This is bigger than two maniacs tryin’ ta hack each other apart with swords. Whoever’s behind alla this has convinced at least one Immortal into breaking a rule that nobody’s even thoughta breakin’. An’ it’s gotten inta the Watchers, and I dunno how deep. Maybe it was just Vaughn. Maybe no. But Oi do know that they want Quint, and they don’ seem to care a mule’s nadsack about the rules. It’s only a mattera time before they get to yeh.”

“What about the police?” Kelli asked with weak optimism.

“Well it’s an option,” Donahl shrugged, “They seem alright. Oi came to yeh because I need your help. Yeh don’t have to, but I promise soon as Oi leave ye’ll never see me again. Oi won’t be able to help yeh.”

“Finding Quint? You’re the Watcher, don’t you have some kind of homing beacon on him or something ?”

“Oi did.” Donahl pointed into the backseat. Kelli twisted around to look, and saw Quint’s old coat, filthy and slashed up from the previous night’s battle. “Found it in a dumpster about two blocks from where he ran off. He ditched his clothes and by now he could be anywhere.”

“Jeez,” Kelli groaned.

“Yea, exactly. Did he say anything specific about where he was headed?”

“No, he didn’t tell me anything. Said it was for my safety, and I wouldn’t believe him anyway.”

Donahl muttered something in Gaelic that sounded unflattering to a number of saints. “Then there’s only one way to find him. And I’ll still need your help.”

“Ouija board?”

Donahl gave her a smile and rolled up one of his sleeves. He showed her a dark circular tattoo on the inside of his wrist, the inside of which was filled with a bold design, perhaps a bird of some kind. “How would you like a temporary membership into the Watchers? Free tat and night-vision goggles this week only.”

“You throw in a secret decoder ring, Jack, and I’ll think about it. You sure this is all worth it? You could just hide.”

Donahl moved to the driver’s-side door of his car and motioned for Kelli to move over. “It’s worth it. Quint is one of the good ones, even if nobody else think so.”

“What do you mean?”

“You ever hear the old saying, ‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions’?”

CHAPTER EIGHT: TYRANT’S DOOR

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Gulf of Pelusium, near Egypt
September 27, 48 BC

A chill rose from low in Dexion’s spine. The sun had only begun to climb over the horizon, and it would be hours before the weather grew from far too cold to much too hot. The skies were a swirling wash of deep violet and gray, a sight too beautiful to suit him. He felt ill, only partially because of the rolling deck of the fishing boat. He grimaced and folded his arms into his cloak.

Septimius walked the length of the boat, periodically stopping to speak to the others aboard. He circled the mast and walked towards the fore, towards Dexion. He turned away so that he might avoid speaking. The sail was reefed tightly and tied; the boat stood a mile from the coast, waiting. Septimius passed Dexion and gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder.

“Courage, Dexion my friend,” the veteran said quietly in his ear, “You will see Rome again. I swear it.”

Dexion thrashed his arm away from Septimius’ touch and cast a vile look over his shoulder. Septimius left him and wandered to the rail to speak to Salvius and an Egyptian who dressed as a noble. The Egyptian was called Achillas, a man Dexion had seen at the council meeting. He was a gifted orator, and often employed by the regent Potheinus for much of King Ptolemy’s diplomatic relations. It was Achillas who greeted Dexion’s century when their ship arrived in Pelusium, and allowed them to stay camped outside of the city. It was Achillas whom Potheinus had chosen to go with them to greet Pompey. The plan required an Egyptian face aboard.

Achillas pounded his fist against the port-side rail—a rare show of emotion for the diplomat. He was afraid, visibly aware that he was in more immediate mortal danger than he had ever been before. The Egyptian flashed his hand out to the ocean beyond. He indicated a lone ship to the north, a large Roman vessel that also sat motionless in the black waters about a mile away. Dexion could see no movement on the galley’s deck, but he could see the dark shapes of men standing idle near the masts, the sails reefed up tightly. The Roman ship came alone, bearing Pompey at the invitation of the Egyptian king. The rest of Pompey’s fleet remained passive farther north, arrayed defensively in the deeper waters. They awaited pursuit from Caesar.

“Why does he delay?” Achillas asked Dexion, pointing again to Pompey’s ship. “Why does he not come to us?”

Dexion motioned for Achillas to speak more quietly with a subtle push of his hand downward. “This fisherman’s boat is not what he was expecting,” he replied. His voice sounded hoarse even to himself. “It is too mean a vessel to entertain one such as he. Neither princely nor honorable, no doubt they question the manner of their reception.”

“Then why did we not bring one of your Roman ships?” Achillas demanded. His eyes were wide, seeming fearful that Pompey’s ship would attack and overwhelm them.

“Because I dare not ask any of my men to be a part of this,” Dexion muttered. “I would be ashamed to face them.”

“Then why are you here, Dexion?”

“To save my men. To see my wife again. So my men can see their wives again. But the cost is bitter. I fear I pay with my very soul this day.”

Salvius leaned against the rail on Dexion’s other side. With his dark and deep eyes and his thick raven-colored beard, Dexion could barely see his friend’s face in the dawn’s light. Salvius was a taller man, but leaned forward so his elbows rested on the rail, and this brought them all to an equal height. “You should not speak so, Dexion. You have heard the tales of Caesar’s savagery. You save hundreds today. Think of it as the least of evil choices.”

“But it is still evil,” Dexion snapped.

Salvius sighed and after a moment, nodded his head towards Pompey’s ship. “Look there, Dexion. They are coming.”

Dexion saw that the deck of the Roman ship had grown busy with men tending to ropes. The large square sails of the ship were unfurled and angled to catch the wind. In a short while, the galley grew closer, and they again rigged their sails up. A shout rose from the deck, and long sweeping oars spread from both sides. These oars pushed the vessel delicately and swiftly so it drew parallel to the fishing boat. When it was close enough, there was another shout and the oars pulled back within the ship. The Roman ship dwarfed the long fishing boat. Many of the men on the galley’s deck peered down at them, their heads almost even with the top of their boat’s sail.

Roman soldiers stood on the deck, at least forty in number with more below decks. In the poor light, they seemed deadly shadows ready to leap forward. Only lanterns suspended from hooks on the ships provided any light, and then just enough to work with. Dexion could not identify faces, merely guess at their station by their shape. Septimius and Achillas stood forth centrally.

“Welcome, Imperator!” barked Septimius in the Latin language. He addressed Pompey thus, and by his title of office perhaps to assure all aboard his ship that they were indeed also Romans. He yelled his greeting loudly and with practiced clarity. Perhaps too loudly, but as he called up to the other ship, it was best to be safe so there could be no misunderstandings.

“Welcome, Great and Noble Pompey,” exclaimed Achillas in the Greek tongue. “I am Achillas, emissary of King Ptolemy XIII. My king sends his greetings and wishes to speak with you, for he is most honored at your visit. He offers you and your men safety in his kingdom. If it pleases you, come aboard so we might personally escort you to the palace.”

Moments passed, and three men approached the side of the galley. They were not dressed as the soldiers were, in their deep red cloaks. They were plainly dressed, their cloaks gray or brown. The man in the center was Pompey, it was clear. He seemed the youngest of the three, but still Quint’s senior by far. While he wore no gold or jewels, he had a noble carriage and seemed somehow greater than everyone on the ship. His face was not hard, but strong. His eyes were steely, narrow and tight from squinting against the sun for years. The other two men were older still, their hair long and white. They wore white clothes that had aged to a pale gray from exposure to wind, rain, and dust.

Behind them stood a slender woman, clad in fine linens. She was of an age close to Pompey’s, and wore a necklace of gold, a small pendant of stones shimmering at her bosom. Dexion guessed she was Pompey’s wife, named Cornelia. She seemed to be weeping, as she kept raising her hands to her face and making faint sniffling sounds. She kept a hand on their son; he was a strong-looking youth, but anxiously shifted his weight from foot to foot and looked cornered. Near her stood a bare-chested slave and a freedman who seemed to be personal companions of Pompey.

“Greetings, Achillas,” shouted down the oldest man to the left. “Where are the centurions our messenger spoke of? He told us of three. We are eager to see how they have been treated.”

Achillas looked insulted, but motioned to Dexion, and Salvius and Septimius behind him. “We have been made most welcome,” called Salvius.

“Where is Artorius Dexion?” Pompey demanded, stepping forward to look at the three. The other centurions made the answer clear by casting startled looks squarely upon him. Dexion felt their stares upon him, but did not react. He angled his head up to look on his honored leader.

“I am Dexion, Imperator.”

Pompey nodded deeply, his eyes searching the shadows as if he could read Dexion’s sins. It filled Dexion with fear at what he might see. “Do you remember the day I was elected consul, and your father brought you and your brothers to the celebration?”

“I do, Imperator, but I was no more than eight years old.”

“Do you remember what we talked about?”

“You asked what I wanted to be when I grew to be a man, and I said I wanted to fight with a hero such as you. You laughed and said that I could never march in a legion if I held a sword in my left hand.”

Pompey laughed, and even the soldiers on his ship flinched in surprise. “I have always remembered your name, young Artorius, because you rather rudely told me not to laugh. I see you have learned.”

“I have,” Dexion agreed. “I await your command.”

The other man to Pompey’s right shouted in a nasal voice down to them, “We will follow you into the harbor.”

Achillas raised his hand in warning, “Your pardon; but the harbor is shallow near the shore. I fear that a galley of such burden as yours would strike upon the sands.

At that, Pompey’s wife and son stepped forward and shouted in protest. “You cannot go with them!” Cornelia cried. “Please!”

“Father, can you not see—“ Pompey’s son shouted, angrily thrusting his hand to point at the shore of Pelusium before a sharp hushed word silenced him. Pompey turned to face his family and they spoke quietly so that none on the fishing boat could hear.

Pompey gestured urgently for calm and turned away, and Cornelia again cried out “No!”

Several men brought up a long plank and placed it between the vessels, angled steeply downward. At his command, two centurions, then Pompey’s slave and attendant freedman descended the plank. Achillas and Salvius reached out their arms to aid each man onto the boat. Dexion remained where he was, preferring to stay out of the way and watch Pompey bid farewell to his family. Cornelia wept openly, and entreated her husband to reconsider. His son also battled tears, but said nothing more. From here, Dexion could see Pompey’s face and somewhat read his lips. So it was that he could barely hear and understand Pompey’s parting words to his wife and son.

“He that once enters at a tyrant's door, Becomes a slave, though he were free before.”

Pompey boarded the ship in silence, and long in silence they sailed. He stood near his centurion guard as the boat neared the shores of Pelusium. He looked intently to Salvius and Dexion, as if inviting them to speak, but none had words of greeting or friendly things to say. Dexion could not meet Pompey’s look, and Septimius busied himself overseeing the voyage. When Septimius neared Pompey, the great leader’s face was troubled at the foul and somber mood among the crew. Septimius even seemed to scowl a bit at Pompey’s look.

"I am not mistaken, surely, in believing you to have been formerly my fellow-soldier,” said Pompey, his tone hurt at Septimius’ coldness. “I remember you as well, Septimius. We fought together for many years, and you served me with honor.”

But Septimius only nodded, and offered nothing more when he passed by. Pompey began to read a book that he carried, and muttered the words written within as if he were rehearsing for a speech. The words written in the book were also in Greek, a language that the king would understand. He sat, and when he had finished reading a page, he allowed a slight smile to cross his countenance, and looked up at Dexion.

“I know that you have been made to come here and welcome me, Dexion,” Pompey said with comfort in his voice. “I did not expect to arrive at the court of Ptolemy as anything other than a servant forever indebted to his hospitality. He knows my flight from Rome is desperate and my need for aid dire, and it will be costly indeed. But it is a start, Dexion. Come, sit with me and tell me of your family.” Pompey tapped the palm of his hand on the deck nearby.

Dexion wavered, but remained standing. He lowered his head and breathed, “I am sorry I deceived you. It is inexcusable.”

“Deceived me? Nonsense. You do as you must. You have ever done what is best. You have a good soul, Dexion. I know this.”

The boat reached the shore, and all aboard could see a large honor guard of Egyptian soldiers amassed in formation to await Pompey’s arrival. They carried tall spears and long banners that trailed in the wind.

“Help an old man to his feet, Dexion? Philip?” Pompey chuckled and extended his hands out to Dexion and the freedman. They grasped the great leader’s arms and eased his way to his feet.

With a flash of motion, an arm lashed around Pompey’s neck from behind, and pulled him savagely backwards into a waiting sword thrust. Septimius snarled in exertion as he plunged his sword up through Pompey’s back and out through his chest. A crimson spike protruded from under Pompey’s robe, and fell as Septimius wrenched his sword free in a bloody deluge.

Pompey’s bodyguards reached for their own blades and shouted warnings, but too late. Salvius and Achillas had already reached their flanks. Salvius dispatched one of the centurions with a quick thrust up into the underside of the man’s armpit and through his heart. Achillas hacked down into another centurions skull with much less practice, pounding the man with the edged blade into his face was a jagged and leaking mess of bloody strips and oozing crushed bone. Philip and Pompey’s slave screamed and fell to their knees in shock, unable to comprehend what they saw.

Pompey’s legs trembled, and he wobbled on uncertain feet, regarding the spreading stain on his robe. His teeth were bared, clenched in a rictus of agony. He fell against Dexion, who dropped to a knee and tried to hold him upright. Pompey groaned weakly through his punctured lungs and gathered up handfuls of his robe, pressing them to his eyes to mask his face and muffle his pained moans.

Dexion watched the murders around him and froze. He stared at his fallen hero, but could only see blood. Ptolemy’s honor guard stormed onto the boat and slaughtered the servants immediately with their spears. Septimius pushed Dexion with his boot.

“Dexion. He is soon dead, Dexion. Finish it quickly, or I shall.”

Dexion lurched forward and pushed Septimius away; a tortured cry arose from the depths of his chest. He unsheathed his sword, wiping his tears away with his sleeve. His sleeve was slick, wet with Pompey’s blood, and he only managed to smear his master’s blood across his face. Dexion considered asking for forgiveness, but failed to find the will to do so. He raised his blade high over his head and brought his full weight down on the back of Pompey’s neck, channeled through the sword’s edge. His blows were errant and imprecise; it took three full blows delivered thus before great Pompey’s head fell from his body.

Septimius spat over the side of the boat. “You never mentioned that you met him as a boy.”

Dexion fell back against the side of the boat and cast his sword away as if it were a viper. Vitality had drained from his face. “What have I done?”

Salvius seemed not to notice Dexion’s despair, and he clapped him about the shoulder. “What have you done? You’ve ended a war, Dexion. You’ve saved the lives of thousands of Romans.”

“There is but one thing left to do,” Septimius intoned. “Await Caesar.”

Chapter NINE:Talons of the Three Dragons

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Foredeck of the M/V Lituya
30 miles east of Sitka, Alaska
October 25, 2004 – 2:01 AM


Quint was torn away from his murky dreams as though they were a fabric rent in half. His nights were rarely his own; it was often the Others who dictated his visions when the safeguards of his waking consciousness were lowered in sleep. This dream was his, but it was a powerful memory that must have battled mightily to overpower the Others’. They raged inside his soul, howling furies restrained only by the gates of his will. They cursed him and damned him for their imprisonment, and yet their knowledge came unbidden to him. Their memories swam up from his inner abyss, and he would find himself musing on recollections that were not his own. The voices in his mind were at all times truthful and willing to help, but always wishing aloud that he would perish in payment for their eternal slavery.

They were all bitter, all filled with torment and rage. Except one. And for some reason, her quiet voice of comfort cut through the hellish din like sunlight through darkness. And a word from that voice hurt more deeply than a thousand years of their condemnations.

“You are not an evil man.”
“Shut up.”
“You’ve always tried to do the right thing. Even Pompey told you this.”

Quint’s fists ached from clenching them so tightly in his sleep, his bones felt frozen in the Alaskan night, with air so bitterly cold that every breeze made his skin crawl back and prickle like stretched leather. He was alone on the foredeck of the ferry; few were hardy (or foolish) enough to stand the oncoming northern winter nights outside and so elected for passenger berths below decks. Quint had borne much worse. The deck was painted white, washed with silvery water that glowed with the light of the moon above. Islands to both sides of the ferry rolled past with majestic grace, almost like dark and luminous clouds. A bell tolled forlornly behind him, probably to mark the passing hour.

He’d broken his own rule; he’d spoken back to the voices. It made no sense, but he felt that he wasn’t insane for hearing the Others speak. The day he started responding to them was the day he was truly mad. So much for that. The voices never lied. It was true; he’d always tried to do the right thing, and yet he never did. Maybe it didn’t make him evil, but it still made him pathetic.

Quint sat up and opened his sleeping bag. His arms freed, he reached up to feel the briar patch of a beard that was growing on his face. He hadn’t shaven in a week or more, nor bathed properly in twice that time. No doubt he seemed like a transient, offending the eyes and nose alike. But life had grown complicated lately. He sighed and realized that he’d never get back to sleep tonight. Even if he did, he wasn’t willing to confront the dreams the Others might summon up for him. He felt polluted walking through the memories and lives of other people.

He stood up and decided that now was as good a time as any to shave and shower, even if the water was bound to be just above freezing. They’d left the last port hours ago, and it would be daybreak before they reached Angoon, probably a safe place to leave and shake the police at last. Quint walked along the portside railing and drew his coat tightly against his body as a gust of wind picked up and made him grimace. The wind stung his eyes and caused the corner of a nearby tarp that covered a life boat to flap wildly. Quint’s gaze was drawn by the noise and motion. He saw the fabric whip about and settle as the breeze died, the metal ring in the corner popped down on the metal railing of the life boat. Near it, he saw the broken rope that formerly held the tarp down.

No, he realized, not broken. Cut.

Steel lanced out from the covered lifeboat. The point of the straight-edged sword thrust for a point directly between his eyes, and instinct alone sent Quint leaping backward against the wall to avoid the attack. He reached into his coat for his own swords and heard cats paw feet hit the deck gently to his left and his right as they swung on board the ferry from outside. They were soaking wet and covered entirely in black wetsuits and appeared in the moonlight to be oily wraiths. They wore dull gray metal forearm bracers that ended in long hooked claws, probably used to scale the side of the ship. A third man emerged from under the lifeboat directly in front of him, bearing a slender straight blade. They all wore headbands embroidered with an intricate red design, but Quint didn’t dwell on it long.

Quint spun his twin gladii and swept his glance between the three men. He was glad he’d taken to wearing his weapons again. He realized that it was foolish to think that he could ever hope to walk anywhere— anywhere—defenseless, no matter how much he might long to walk the earth as a normal person. Confusion reigned in his mind. He didn’t feel them approach. They weren’t Immortals. How did they--?

The swordsman barked out a sharp kiai and swung his blade downward for Quint’s throat. Quint juked to the right and charged left, back to where he came from. Both men to his sides leapt backwards and flung their hands out to him. From their hands sprang whirling bladed stars that caught the moonlight so briefly and so brightly that it left spots in Quint’s vision. He did his best to twist to the side to present a smaller target, but he was peppered on both sides with the shurikens. He couldn’t count how many, but his legs and arms lit up with shooting pain that threatened to paralyze him in this cold.

Quint dashed forward and attacked with a double-stab. The shuriken wheels were buried to their halfway points in his arms, the edges tearing into his muscles with each slight motion. His opponent tried to catch his swords between his tiger claws and twist them away with the hooks. But Quint’s thrusts were a feint. The ninja hooked the swords, but Quint kept running forward through his defense in mid-maneuver. He smashed his forehead into the masked face, crushing the bridge of the man’s nose flat. All technique was forgotten when Quint did this. The ninja brought his hands to his face, and Quint gave him a front-kick to the sternum that propelled him backwards into a twitching heap.

He had to move fast. Quint dove behind the corner as another volley of shurikens came. Only one more hit, but it sank squarely into his Achilles tendon. Quint fell to his face as his leg seized up and refused to cooperate any longer. He dragged himself upright and plucked the star-shaped weapons from his body with frantic speed, caring little for the pain and blood. He needed to be mobile. He needed to be calm and focused. He was sick of being ambushed by cowards. He latched onto his anger and with its strength hauled himself upright, his legs numbed and spasming with the threat of collapse under his weight.

The other two sprinted around the corner and moved to flank him on either side. The swordsman changed the grip on his weapon and gave a shout, and both moved in with measured steps. He snapped his head back and forth between them to see who would make the first move. If they were trained martial artists, he had to take them off their routine, to put them in a situation their training didn’t account for. Cute thought, but he had no idea how to do that. He attacked the swordsman immediately to keep the most lethal threat in focus and to try and put them on the defensive. It didn’t work, as they immediately closed in and went for blood.

Quint’s blades whirled as fast as reflex. He pressed the attack against the swordsman, the battle ranging across the deck as his enemy backpedaled. The man behind him fought warily, kept at bay by the Immortal’s broad slashes. The fight drew close to a steep staircase, and the swordsman retreated momentarily to climb up and gain the high ground. Quint turned his full attention on the attacker with the tiger claws now that his partner had abandoned the fight. He thrust forward with his gladius and the ninja sidestepped, parrying it aside with his heavy bracers. Quint flowed smoothly with the deflection and strode with it, but drew his elbow sharply upward as he crossed past. The point of his elbow struck the man in the side of the throat. The ninja made a choked, gurgling sound and arched his back upwards from the force of the blow. Quint grappled the stunned man, locked his throat under his armpit, squeezed, and dropped to a knee. He could feel the man’s neck splinter with a wet crunching sound muffled against his body. The ninja’s fingers scrabbled helplessly at his arm, and Quint let him fall against the deck.

Shouts came from below decks and the bridge. Lights flared from opened doorways, framing the silhouettes of curious tourists and crew members. The sudden change ruined Quint’s night vision, and he raised a hand too late to block out the light. He could barely see the last remaining ninja standing above him at the top of the stairs. The man ran forward and leapt from the top stair. He somersaulted with ease, as if he were a gymnast who weighed no more than a hundred pounds. Quint regained his feet and readied himself to fight in front of all the waking crew and passengers.

The ninja hit the ground running. Or at least, he tried to. One of the padded slippers he used to walk silently with landed in a standing puddle of water on deck and slid without any friction to secure his landing. His knee was wrenched to the side and he fell in an awkward tumble. Quint was sure he heard something snap low in the man’s leg. The ninja-to sword bounced across the deck and settled at Quint’s feet. The ninja tried to stand, but snarled in pain and fell backwards.

“Kill me, Immortal,” he said, his voice muffled through the mask. “I am beaten.”

Quint had a thousand questions for him, but right now the crew was calling the police, the coast guard, and anyone who might listen that there were murderers and maniacs on board. Soon they would overwhelm him. “No honor in it now.”

“Failure is death,” the ninja retorted.

“Who sent you? How did you find me?” But the ninja said nothing, simply stared at him. Quint knelt down by him and pulled his mask off. The man was of Asian descent, most likely Japanese given his current hobby, but Quint didn’t care about his face as much as the symbol on his headband. It was a crimson symbol of three dragons swarming around each other in a figure eight, talons wrapped around each other’s throats. It was a perversion of the ouroboros, a symbol for infinity. He knew who it was all along. He thought he recognized the symbol at first glance. He was just truly hoping that he was wrong, that it would turn out to be someone else. Anyone else.

“Kill me!”

Quint shook the mask in the man’s face and took him by the throat. “Shut up. If the Three Dragons wanted a fight with me, all they had to do was ask me to come. They would never send mortals to take my head. Why didn’t they come themselves? The quickening would be wasted on you.”

“They want you dead.”

“But—“

“They want you,” the ninja repeated, pausing significantly, “dead. Just dead.”

“That doesn’t make any f***ing sense! Why??”

A shot rang out and someone yelled from the stairs, “Don’t move! Put your hands up!” Quint grabbed up his swords dove over the railing. The black water swallowed him eagerly. He felt like he’d just been electrocuted. The water wasn’t cold, the water was liquid pain. His lungs imploded and felt like they’d been crushed in a vice. His mouth snapped open in a frozen, horrific death mask. Entangled by the weight of his coat and boots, he sank like a stone into the inky depths. As Quint’s heart slowed, the voices of the Others taunted him and applauded his failure. The voices chased his fading consciousness until soon, he heard nothing at all.

[Newhalf]

Frak me, this is a hard read. Yeouch.
But then this is from 2005, right?
So he was like.. 25, 26?
That's like only 4 years old in Spoony years.