Imprint - 9. Ch. 2 Part IV

IV

Sometimes Veil was tolerable, from the shadows, way off the beaten path, strolling through a park in the middle of the night with not a single human being in sight. It could almost be beautiful sometimes if not for that itching, clogging, suffocating feeling Strife wrapped around himself like a cloak of misery, making sure he was aware of it every second of every day lest he ever become complacent. Fat chance of that.

Strife didn't like to think of how long it had been, didn't want to think of how that scrawny little shit with the purple eyes and painted hair he barely remembered anymore might have been right; this was a much bigger task than he had anticipated, and he hadn't realized how dependent he had become on his old tricks until he suddenly couldn't use them anymore. He also hadn't realized his insular Outworld was, and what few people had broader connections in Veil could offer him little help. It was just a matter of searching and hoping for a lucky break; it could take forever.

And yet it never occurred to him to give up, move on, find something else. If he ever paused to think of it, he might have rolled his eyes at what a sap he had become; really, who would have seen that coming?

He filled his time with work, paying loyalty to no one in particular, offering his services to whoever paid him. It was the sort of life he once imagined he'd have after his goals were accomplished, until chance had offered him something better; he might have found it satisfying once, but now it was empty, meaningless, fucking lonely. He was coming back from one of those jobs now; nothing too exciting, go here, steal that, bring it there, yawn snore. Reduced to a petty thief, unbelievable.

When he felt that initial touch of heat around his neck, Strife first thought nothing of it; when it grew in intensity he was momentarily confused. It was that stupid chain, that he'd had to remake because this place sucks, out of habit and a long ingrained need to be prepared, not because he actually thought it would ever been needed.

Fuck, whatever it was picking up on, it was big; damn near burning his neck.

He stopped walking, reaching a hand into the opposite sleeve, just getting his fingers on the handle of the knife he had hidden up there (the weapons ban was so easy to get around, he didn't even have to get too creative with concealment; they never looked, it never occurred to them to). “You got less than a minute to get out here,” he spoke loudly, calm and firm, without turning around, “I have to go back and get you, I'm going to turn your bowel into a belt.”

“Calm yourself,” that deep velvet rumble echoed and sighed through the breeze at his back, “I am no threat. Just want to know what power it is that passes by.”

Strife could have laughed; he knew that semi disembodied voice, and it was one of the last things he had ever expected to run into here. He let his fingers fall from the knife hilt, useless and unnecessary, and pulled those stupid glasses from his face instead. “I think you're going to be sorry you stopped,” he mused as he spun around, gesturing to himself dramatically, “Ta-da.”

The resounding groan shook a few tree branches, “You?!”

This time he did laugh, “Yeah, me. What did you expect?” Strife's eyes focused on the midnight shadows in the trees a few feet in front of him; couldn't see anything (interesting to note but not terribly surprising) but knew that was where the voice was coming from. Well, echoing anywhere from a stretch of a few yards across, but even that was more precise than usual; usually that voice would sound from everywhere and nowhere when its owner wasn't visible, like what he imagined it would sound like from inside the man's head. Seems even the Watcher wasn't entirely immune to Veil's crippling influence; it was the sort of thing he might have liked to ask about, talk it over, commiserate – you know, if they were friends.

“Come on now, Lynk. Come out where I can see you.”

He emerged from the shadows seamlessly, shedding the night like a layer of skin until he was visible a mere stone's throw away. Lynk's height could vary and here he was as short as he ever was, which was still close to a foot taller than Strife; his dark silver robes rippled and shimmered oddly around him, still clinging to the surrounding night. Hands folded in front of him, dark skinned face its usual unreadable mask framed by long straight silver hair, he still seemed to radiate disapproval. “I thought you would be dead by now,” that voice still seemed to be coming from the air around him, his lips never moved.

Strife scoffed, “I do hope you mean you were hoping, because otherwise that's insulting. I'm not that fucking old.” A pause, and he relented, “Relatively anyway.”

Lynk had been a patron of Khar'tal and as such he would never forgive Strife what he did there; leading the Wolf to the door, letting him loose. And yet the man was still willing to speak with him, even be halfway civil at times; he always took it as proof that Lynk understood, even if he'd never admit to it.

“I thought you had given up the effort,” was the cool reply, “It has been so quiet.”

“What, I'm capable of quiet.” He pulled up the corner of his shirt, where the dark red-orange jewel was burned on the skin of his hip; it had been pierced through with two black pins now, also burned on, and there was yet room for more. “Got an update before I came over here,” he willingly explained, “Got a while left before I really have to worry, and why would I want it any other way? When I got so much to live for.”

“Here on Veil?” he cocked his head just slightly, his chiseled features still set in stone, “Not what I would have thought for you.”

Strife barked another laugh. “Yeah well, I guess that makes two of us. But I'm sure we both have our reasons.” For the first time in a depressingly long time, a lucky break. He wasn't about to let it pass him by, whatever he had to do.

“Speaking of which,” Strife took a single step closer, looking inquisitively up at the imposing Watcher, “Where is he?”

His eyes were pools of liquid mercury, lidless and usually still. Every now and then though a ripple would form, pass through that calm surface; it would start at the point where the pupil would be, a drop like a thrown stone and spread outward to the edge. Strife had heard it said Lynk's emotions could be read in those ripples, but he didn't know how; it was likely telling to see anything at all, whatever it might mean.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Lynk's lips moved this time, his voice coming clearly from between them.

He scoffed, “Don't bullshit me, Lynk. I think I've earned at least that much. Now where is he?”

Another ripple, “I do not know what makes you think-”

“Because Drake told me,” embarrassing to admit to, but might as well be honest, “And he would know.”

“You talk to Drake?” some surprise worked its way into his flat tone and his loathing was palpable; that was one subject they could agree on. “You take him at his word?”

Strife rolled his eyes, “Drake is about as subtle as a flamethrower to the nuts, I know when he's lying to me. And he was more than happy to share, since that dried up, useless eunuch gimp didn't think I could get myself over here, didn't think I could handle it.” He smiled to himself, “Everyone's always underestimating me.”

Another ripple, stronger than before and Strife found himself wondering if he'd feel a splash if Lynk got mad enough. “Do they indeed,” he mused to himself before getting back on point, “I still do not see why you think I can help you.”

“Because I don't believe for half a second your being here is a coincidence.” When he remained silent, Strife continued goading, “What, are you all watching him, is that what this is? Because that is mighty pathetic.”

Yet another quicksilver ripple and a corner of his lip pulled upward, showing a row of tiny, pointed teeth. “I am the Watcher,” he calmly replied, “Not the Minder.”

Strife blinked slowly. Did...did Lynk just crack wise at me? Wow. “What else would you be doing here?”

“My duty?” Lynk's voice sounded from outside him again, his lips shut once more, “I do watch Veil as well, you know.”

“And even if I was going to swallow that, watching doesn't involve chasing down abnormal blips like me,” he shook his head, “I don't think so.”

“Of course I do not expect you to understand the concept of duty. You have never been beholden to anything but yourself and your own desires.”

“Oh yeah, I'm a selfish fuck. That's why I've been tromping around this backwoods dump for the last who knows how long, for my fucking health.”

Lynk was quiet. He raised his folded hands in a slight gesture of apology, his voice coming again from his mouth, “That was uncalled for.”

“Damn fucking right it is.” Of all of them, he would have expected Lynk to understand. What little light there was in the park glinted off his long, thick silver nails, making them shine like metal, like knife points.

Lynk was ancient, if he wasn't one of the Primordials he was only a generation off; as such he looked like a beast masquerading as a man and doing a piss poor job of it. That seemed to have gotten better with the younger generations, Drake for example, he looked odd to be sure but more human than not – or one should say he did look human, once upon a time, before he got put through the shredder; now he looked like something that shouldn't still be alive. Drogan too, from what he had heard, what he had seen in the few still images available that he had hunted down out of a sick, morbid need to know, to see the face of what he was replacing, had also looked human enough; dead, but human.

I'm definitely the much better looking one, that's for sure, he would still think even though he knew it didn't matter, because he got one of the few men who didn't care. Either way, I will still never understand how you could have brought yourself to touch one of those things. To want to even. I mean, the very idea of it....wait a minute...

“Its your wife,” he spoke aloud, looking intently at the Watcher. “That's it, isn't it, that's why you're here? Your wife is in Veil.”

Lynk was still immobile as usual, but the night around them was suddenly much quieter, dead silent; darker, too. “I don't know what makes you think-”

“Because I'm a smart boy, always have been, why do you think I'm still alive?” Strife grinned in delight at his valuable find, “The only reason you would have tracked me down to see who I was is if there was something near by you were trying to protect. If you're not minding him, she's the only thing left.”

Lynk didn't speak, didn't try to deny; waited to see what Strife would do with his knowledge.

Strife grinned wider, “So, how is the old girl doing? You know, I always thought she had a lovely smile.”

The effect of his words was instantaneous, all the light was sucked out of the air so quickly Strife swore he could hear the whoosh of its departure, plunging them into utter darkness except for the Watcher himself who glowed like a black sun. “Do not presume to threaten me and mine, witch.” His silver eyes shone like two full moons, blinding beacons and they were rising, towering now two feet above, “I am not a broken cripple to be pushed around by the likes of you.” His voice thundered all around them, painfully loud, shaking the ground, “If your shadow were to so much as touch her doorstep, you will envy Drake long before I am done with you. You will need lifetimes to heal, do you understand me?”

He would be foolish to even pretend he was not afraid; Strife had too much exposure to Drake, hobbled as he is, no more dangerous (and in some ways less so) than anyone else. One of the old gods in all his glory and terror, breathing down your neck, that wasn't something any mortal could prepare for; whatever company said mortal may keep. Strife snapped his mouth shut and backed away a few steps.

The light bled gradually back into the air; Lynk, now back to his former height, was smirking at him, an expression he no doubt learned from his human wife. With his featureless silver eyes and piranha like grin it was a ghastly expression, little better than the previous divine wrath. “You are not your mate,” he spoke with his mouth again, “Best to learn your place.”

Frightened or not, he was not about to back down. And if that show of power put some strain on Lynk, noticeable only in small facial tics, a slight slump in the shoulders (the joys of being in Veil), he knew better than to point it out. “I have no interest in your blushing bride,” he said instead, keeping his voice low so it didn't shake, “I have my own business I'm trying to mind over here. But if you're going to mind it for me, I don't see why I shouldn't return the favor.”

“And why do you think I can help you?”

“Because you're the fucking Watcher.”

“Near omniscient, not complete. I don't see all.”

“And I already told you, I don't believe for a second you two could co-exist on the same plane without you knowing, especially now that I know about your wife.”

Lynk fell silent and Strife knew he was thinking, weighing his options, if continuing his denials was worth it. When a strong breeze sighed through the trees, he knew he had won.

“Have you stopped to consider what you are doing here?”

Strife raised a brow at this new diversion. “Uh, getting my mate back?”

“This is not about you, there is more to this than what you want. What it means for him, for the world at large.”

Strife's other brow went up, “I was under the impression the situation was what it was, how the fuck am I going to-”

“The situation has changed,” Lynk interrupted, “Drogan is dead.”

Strife waited for some elaboration; when it didn't come he shrugged in confusion, “Yeah, so? He's been dead my entire life, this is not news.”

“Yes, but this is the first time since his death that we are back at the beginning. We don't know what it might affect.”

Strife frowned in thought, “Again, I thought the situation was what it was, already set in place.”

“Obviously it does not negate all else, or we would not be here having this delightful conversation. There could still be some effect.”

“You don't know?”

Lynk's head cocked again, “How often do you think this has happened? How else to know but to observe?”

“I see your point,” Strife clenched his hand into a tight fist, feeling his braided ring dig into the surrounding digits; he refused to admit he was worried. “So, what do you...”

“Without Drogan, his modifications may never reactivate,” Lynk calmly explained, “He may remember little to nothing.”

Strife nodded, “Okay, that's...not that bad,” something of a relief actually. “I still don't see why that means I-”

“Of course you don't see, because you don't think.” Lynk's eyes rippled. “This could be his chance for a normal life.”

Strife waited for the punchline, all ready to congratulate Lynk on his growing sense of humor. When it didn't come he could only gape angrily, “Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me with this shit. Normal life? Doing what? Herding sheep? Being a fucking blacksmith? Whatever people do around here when they're boring?” He shook his head, “No, my man is a warrior. Drogan had nothing to do with that.”

Another ripple but this one was easy to read, even for the uninitiated: disbelief. “You truly do not believe Drogan had something to do with that?”

Okay, he deserved that; still, “I don't recall him going out to buy a farm after he killed that miserable bastard.”

“As I said, the situation has changed.”

“I still don't see it happening.”

“And how would you know?” Lynk's head cocked again, Strife thought he might have been raising his brows if he had any. “You never knew him free of Drogan's influence. You don't know who he was, could have been?”

“I know it doesn't fucking matter,” Lynk looked skeptical, but what would he know. Strife shook his head, “Who gives a shit if he could've been happy little island farmer boy once upon a time, and for the record I doubt that. I could have been a citadel lord with a high class wife and a lot of pampered children, people singing songs about my bravery and valor, instead of skip rope limericks about how I steal the organs of naughty children while they sleep.” He loved those though, very catchy, got stuck in his head a lot (you can run and scream for help; but none escape the Bloody Elf). He shrugged, “If a lot of shit had happened differently, but it didn't and here we are. You see, Lynk, that's how people work.”

“Again, you are not your mate. You don't have the benefit of a clean slate.”

“No slate is that clean,” Strife insisted, “But hey, I'll make you a solemn promise, if I find him cultivating the earth with a big stupid grin on his face, I'll keep right on walking. But I think its more likely I'll find him gnawing his own arm off trying to escape this pseudo prison.”

Lynk smiled again, another ghastly display of tiny needle teeth. “Veil is much like a prison, is it not?” he mused, “Difficult to escape from unless you come in on your own from the outside, unless you know the exits. Men do adjust to prison, just as they adjust to those like Drogan. After time, they can learn to be happy enough.”

Strife was about to ask him what the fuck he was talking about, then it all clicked into place. The ensuing anger was cold, as most useless anger is. “So, its not so much that you think he's suddenly craving the quiet life, its that you think he won't have any choice in the matter as long as someone like me doesn't come along and offer him a life line.”

Lynk didn't attempt a denial, “When the lord has fallen, it is customary to lay his sword down with him. It is high time for this drama to be over.”

“We're not talking about a piece of metal here.”

“Would that I was, it would be easier handled.” Lynk was quiet a moment, then, “He would learn to be happy.”

“You mean he would learn to be numb, and how long would that take?”

“And how would you have?” Lynk demanded, “Back to business as usual? Pillage and burn?”

“I never had him doing anything, that was always his show, I was just along for the ride. And I would at least give him a fucking choice, I wouldn't just leave him out here.” This was making his head hurt, hit a little too close to home, wounds that would never quite heal. “How long do you really think you could keep that ruse up? How long before one of these Outworld nitwits puts two and two together? Yeah, they're ignorant and slow but if you stare at a problem long enough.”

Lynk's head tilted, a small unconcerned ripple passing through the silver pools. “It was only ever at best an open secret, on the cusp of fading into history altogether. I am not worried.”

“What if I'm not the only one looking for him?”

Lynk paused, “Are you talking about the boy?”

Strife hadn't, he had been thinking of some of their more determined enemies. But now that he mentioned it there was that too; it would go a long way toward explaining the disappearing act.

“I am not concerned about that either,” Lynk continued, “The boy would not interfere, he has the perspective that you lack.”

He scoffed, “I don't think you know the boy as well as you think you do.” especially since you can't even remember his fucking name. Irritating from someone that hated Drake as much as anyone, to still unconsciously adopt some of his more disgusting habits.

Lynk watched him with something resembling patience, “This should never have been allowed to happen in the first place, you know that. As I can't end it myself, this is the next best thing. For everyone.”

“Fuck everyone,” Strife very calmly replied.

Lynk's eyes rippled, he didn't appear too surprised. “That you can say that so carelessly, so clearly mean it-”

“Its a fucking brain teaser, I know,” the calm was becoming harder to maintain, “I wonder how you can stand there and say this shit to me, I never knew you were such a fucking hypocrite, Lynk.”

Lynk's head cocked, he almost seemed to be frowning. “Pardon?”

Strife's eyes narrowed, “Remind me, when was the last time I saw you?” He pretended to think, tapping a scarred finger against his temple, “Oh, right. It was when you came banging on our door, begging for our help.” He took a single, forceful step forward. “You remember London, don't you?”

Lynk would not reply, but again the night grew dark and silent, and he thought those silver pools were glowing brighter than before.

The very image of relentless determination, Strife moved two steps closer to the seething Watcher. “So, how's it work? We're only rabid dogs that need to be contained, until you need us to take someone out for you? Then we're your very best friends?”

The Watcher's jaw was tight, Strife thought he might have been grinding his teeth. Was that another human mannerism adopted from his wife? Had to be dangerous with features like his.

Strife stepped calmly into his frustrated aura, glaring upwards, “I seem to remember something about a collection of still images we pulled out of his compound when it was over. A young woman with a lovely smile?” He stepped close enough to feel the Watcher's excess body heat. “You owe me,” he insisted, “You owe both of us.”

Lynk was still, teeth grinding, eyes rippling violently, twin tsunamis but no splash after all, how disappointing. Finally he groaned, sounding in the air around him, echoing in Strife's ears, raising one of his hands and dropping his face into it. His silver claws dug into the sides of his head hard enough it was a wonder he didn't split skin, spill blood, expose bone. It was a little unsettling, to see the Watcher so...human.

“I only saw him once,” Lynk spoke into the palm of his hand, low and reluctant. “And it was long ago.”

“Just once?” Strife asked skeptically.

“I didn't want to see,” Lynk's head raised again, his voice forceful, “I do not want to be a party to this anymore, I have made that very clear.” A frustrated scoff blew through the trees, upset a few birds from the sound of it. “One gone, the other might as well be, and yet their mess lives on.”

Strife folded his arms and waited; none of that had anything to do with him.

Lynk continued, “I had just followed an anomaly as I did with you. I did not know it was him, I did not recognize him at first. Until I saw his eyes, and the shadows, still only shadows then. And I knew.” Lynk had opened one hand as he spoke, proffering first his smooth black palm, then touching a finger to his throat, knife point nail dragging lightly across the flesh there.

Strife felt his breath catch, his body coiling in repressed excitement; he hadn't realized until then how worried Lynk's speculations had made him, but he knew better than to let his relief show. Doesn't remember anything, my ass.

“How long ago?” he asked instead.

Lynk gave him another look and he could read the impatience clear enough. “I do not know that. Long. He was...small.” His hand wandered down from his throat as far as his arm would allow, vaguely indicating.

“He was in a yard,” Lynk continued, “with many other small things. They were...playing, I believe. I stayed on the border, but he came right over to me. I do not know if he saw me precisely, or just sensed something...”

“Where was it?” With his goal so close at hand, Strife's limited capacity for patience was gone; if only Lynk had been human, he would have been breaking fingers already.

“I told you, it was long ago. He likely is not there anymore.”

“That doesn't matter,” Strife spoke through gritted teeth, “As long as he was there at any point, that's all I need. I can find him.”

He liked to think he could read surprise in Lynk's stoic features and was tempted to gloat; oh yeah, that's right, I'm that fucking good. He would not give Lynk another excuse to delay.

The Watcher kept his silence as long as he could, but failing to find a way out, he spoke into the surrounding air. “New York.”

Strife frowned, “The city?” that had been one of the first places he had checked.

Lynk's eyes rippled, “The...country.” A pause, “North...Bright...something bright.”

Strife made the appropriate mental notes; it wasn't exact coordinates but more than he'd had an hour ago, he had worked with less. “All right then,” he glanced up at Lynk with a smirk, “I'd say thanks but I doubt you want to hear that. Consider your debt repaid then.”

He tried to brush past, already eager to get this trinket to the drop point and get out of here; he had no other jobs lined up, no favors promised for some time, perfect to disappear for a while. Lynk grabbed his arm before he could escape, his hot hand mingling oddly with the mod burn on Strife's right bicep, knife point nails biting into his leather coat, fuck those things were as sharp as they looked. I wonder if he could tear my arm off with those, Strife found himself idly wondering, I bet those would be convenient to have.

“I beg you reconsider this,” Lynk spoke with his mouth, rippling silver pools shining brightly. “Or if you must be at his side, can you not make a life here? Can you not keep your silence?”

Strife met those eyes and answered honestly. “I make no promises on that.”

Lynk's hand tightened threatening, he could see his anger. “You never could leave well enough alone.”

Strife shrugged carelessly, “If I did, I would've died a whore in Kandha'l-har, a long fucking time ago now.” He smiled, “I'd say bucking the status quo has worked out nicely for me, huh?”

Lynk's features hardened, jaw tightening as he ripped his arm away from Strife like he was poisonous. “I do not see you again.” that divine declaration could probably have been felt for miles around.

Strife shrugged again, turning his back on the Watcher in what he hoped was an obnoxious show of disregard. “You stay out of my face, Lynk, I'll stay out of yours.” Unable to resist, he turned back to quip, “Until you need us to kill someone for you, that is.”

But Lynk was already gone from sight, the surrounding night pulled back around himself, riding the pathways in the shadows back out. Only the slight burning around Strife's neck suggested the Watcher might still be there; of course that could just be the after effect, lingering essence of the old god's presence. Strife wiggled his fingers in a wave at the empty space just in case.

So...New York, then...