Imprint - 19. Ch. 4 Part II

II

The long walk back didn't clear his thoughts the way he had hoped it might, more distracted by the effort at staying unseen, both more necessary and a bigger production than normal, and Strife was no more certain of what he was doing now faced with that familiar apartment door. He put down the case he was carrying, took a deep breath, and knocked loudly.

Too late now...

It was well passed midnight, he couldn't have risked it any earlier, especially here in this city, which never really shut down even if it was less intense; he never did quite understand why everyone seemed to disappear at sundown when, as far as he could tell, the vast majority did nothing that required daylight, but he had learned to count on it the times he needed to pass through – leave it up to Canaan to pick one of the few contrary places to set up home. Strife knew the man would still be awake, waiting for him, even if he'd never admit to it.

This is a bad idea, its too big a risk. Veil isn't like what we're used to, they don't deal with the same shit here. Even if enough of him remained, enough so he isn't that fucking weak, it hasn't been that long. This might be too much, too soon, it could blow up in my face. And then what?

It was a thought he'd already had, a thousand times between the warehouse and here; it was a valid argument that made sense as much as he wished it didn't. But he was ignoring it, risking it anyway. Because...

Because a year is a long time, to sit and think.

A year, that was how long it took, from his chance encounter with Lynk to this moment now. A year to figure out exactly which town the Watcher had meant, arriving only to find his target long gone; to track down exactly where he had gone (not far, thankfully, Strife wasn't sure he could've found it otherwise), to recover from the unexpected physical strain that search was. A year to have Lynk's ominous prediction rolling around in his head.

“...his chance for a normal life...might remember little to nothing...”

Strife had gotten this far by not thinking too much about it; he'd heard all the stories, knew the history, believed it easily when it all seemed so distant. Thinking about it made it seem crazy, and the additional concerns Lynk piled on him insurmountable. He entered New York City convinced he was going only to retrieve an empty shell, a stranger wearing his husband's face, a man he wouldn't know, who wouldn't know him. Spying the man for the first time from across the street as he left his apartment building, seeing that unexpected physical anomaly, Strife had felt the last of his hope shatter; that had seemed like the final proof. He couldn't even bring himself to march right over and reclaim the man in some obnoxious showy fashion like he'd always planned; followed him to the club, hung back and watched, unsure what to do.

Until, that is, his gaze was noticed; until he saw that naked look of surprise; until he felt that presence, long missed, slide up next to him, eyes boring into the side of his head, a demand for acknowledgment so familiar he slipped right into old habits and made the bastard earn it first.

The sex was exactly the same, and by the time Strife woke up the next morning in a bed that felt familiar if only because of the body sleeping next to him (the man even smelled the same, one of those odd details you don't realize you ever noticed until its gone; one of those things he'd suffer torture before admitting he missed and he's glad Canaan isn't mentally together enough to really wonder why his clothes kept getting stolen), he'd felt relieved. Things were going to be okay again.

The relief lasted maybe two days; then the frustration set in.

Strife was not, by nature, a patient man; he could manage it at times, for long stretches even when necessary, if he had a solid plan, small goals to work toward, when he felt some control, like he was accomplishing something. Too much of this felt out of his hands, like all he could do was sit back and wait, like he hadn't already been doing that for how long now? He wanted to sit Canaan down, explain everything, quit with these ridiculous games; but even if he could make the man listen to him, he knew he couldn't make him accept it, force his mind to make those connections. Pushing too hard, so he was told, might make it more difficult, make it take longer, if he wasn't careful. And Strife had never had a gentle hand.

Canaan knew him, that much was clear from the start, from the first time his ungiven name fell from the man's lips; Canaan seemed to know quite a bit about him and their history together even if he was having trouble believing it, connecting the pieces in the right way. Weird red hair aside, he seemed the same, same attitude and mannerisms, and there were times, sitting next to him, bantering back and forth, where Strife could easily forget there was anything wrong. At least until Canaan would say something off, or not respond to something he said except with a look of confusion, and Strife would be right back to wanting to tear his hair out. So close, after too much time and so much effort; close, but not enough, not there yet.

He wondered idly at times how Drogan ever dealt with it, almost wished he could've kicked the old bastard up for some advice. That Drogan probably never had to deal with this, not to this extent, was a thought that Strife was consciously ignoring, for the sake of his sanity.

So much remained that was familiar, and yet from what Strife heard of the man's upbringing (what he saw for himself the brief time he was there) and the cultural research he did with the television, suggested this should not be the case. It was further reason for optimism, and made what he was doing now seem like less of a gamble.

Canaan wanted to know, after all, he could tell. The man was as much a stone wall as ever, his facial expressions had always been very slight, but you live with someone long enough you learn to read them, however difficult they might make it for you. Canaan was thinking, every minute of every day, trying to remember, trying to force everything to make sense. It was a wonder blood didn't start shooting out his nose. And every now and then, he would throw Strife a look that was as close to pleading as a man like him ever got; Strife had to figure the man forgot he knew what he was looking at or else it wouldn't have been there. It depressed him, to see Canaan so frustrated, on the verge of begging; he was too good to be reduced to that.

Telling him outright might not be an option, but there were ways around that, yes? He wanted to know, why not try to help? Create a situation, something out of the ordinary (or the new ordinary, anyway), give him a push, see what it does. What could be wrong with that?

Not that he created this situation, per se, just lucky chance. Or not so lucky, at the time, considering they had been in the middle of sex when it happened, when Strife's Veil side phone started to ring. That lilting ring tone he set for the only few numbers that should've been calling him at all; it had been so long since he last heard it. He had froze his movements on Canaan's lap, uncertain at first what to do, before quickly scrambling up and off.

Grateful at least things had only been in the beginning stages; far enough along to be annoying, not far enough that anyone's balls were in danger of falling off. Canaan handled it with remarkable calm.

“Do I look like I'm finished here? Where the fuck do you think you're going?”

Calm, of course, being a relative term.

Strife snatched the phone off the nightstand, moving partway across the room to give himself some space. “Sorry, love, you know I wouldn't do this if it wasn't important.”

Canaan's features softened just a touch, he knew that much at least. “So what the fuck is it then?”

Strife shrugged, glancing down at the phone still chiming in his hand, “Guess I'll find out.” He had made it very clear, early on, that he wasn't to be bothered for the sort of piddling ass jobs he always got stuck with, just shoot him a message and he'll get back to you when he does; it was always nice to have the sort of reputation where he can make such demands and expect them to be adhered to. There were only a precious few requests people were allowed to actually call him for, all things that would interest him and hence he would never normally ignore a call that came. And he couldn't do it now.

He had glanced up at Canaan, hesitating before making the request he knew he needed to, wondering how to word it, “You going to shut up and let me talk now, right?”

Canaan looked mildly annoyed, “I'm not going to interrupt your important fucking phone call, just get it over with.”

“No,” he corrected, “I need you to be quiet. Not a sound. Got it?” He only hoped Canaan wouldn't ask too many questions, not yet anyway.

He should've known better; one weird red eyebrow went up, tone suspicious, “Why?”

Strife rolled his eyes, “Because I fucking said so, and I think you can give me this one thing, for five fucking seconds.” He paused, “Please?”

That was not something easily said, not sincerely anyway, and either Canaan remembered that much or else just figured it out, and he relaxed back on the bed with a look of boredom.

The phone was still ringing, they knew to give him time; Strife took a breath, collected himself, and answered. “What?” he could sound irritated, that was expected, just not too much.

He listened, impatiently hurrying the nitwit along when she refused to get to the point (why do people have such a hard time with that?), and then Strife heard those magic words, the siren's song he wouldn't be able to refuse.

Its been too long, way too long here...

His partner was silent and still; he might've expected Canaan to either leave the room altogether and finish himself off elsewhere, or do it right there, maintaining his silence as promised but finding other ways to test Strife's resolve to focus on business. Strife would've welcomed the show, but alas that was what Canaan would've done, Canaan who would've had an idea what this was about; Xander Cain, on the other hand, was clueless and so he had held back, listened, made mental lists of who he needed to pay back for interrupting (or at least that would be a very Canaan thing to do).

Strife listened, nodding his head, cursing the rotten timing but still unable to be that upset. “All right,” he eventually cut her off, “I can be at the Rampaging Bull in two hours, give me details then.” Pause, listening, “Because that's where I do meetings.” Longer pause, response more irritated, “I wasn't asking for permission, okay? I'm telling you where I'm going to be, so if you want something from me you be there, too. Otherwise piss off, I don't work for you.” The expected grumbling ensued, but the power struggle was conceded; Canaan observed his win with a raised eyebrow.

He hammered out the details of the meeting, a small part of him, the part that felt like he'd been put on a shelf for too long wasting time, was actually excited, at least a little bit. Canaan watched him, thoughtfully, and when Strife hung up he sat still, seeing the question in those mismatched eyes and waiting for it, trying to compose a reasonable response in his head.

“Are you hiding me?”

That was not what he had been expecting; it derailed Strife for a moment, unable to figure out even what that meant. His lip quirked in a half smile, this at least he didn't have to think about. “Yes.” Snickering at Canaan's slight frown, “For the moment anyway. You're not exactly fit to wheel out to the public now. When you are, I will. Until then, I don't need the hens gossiping about who I'm suddenly shacking up with.” And they would, too; Strife had made a point of being solitary for as long as he'd been here, the sudden change in habit would not go unnoticed. He didn't want the questions, even the chance, however slim, that anyone would guess the truth before he was ready for the reveal, when things seemed less uncertain.

Canaan's frown deepened; he couldn't resist teasing, “Why? Are you hurt?”

It had the desired effect, Canaan responded in kind, “I just think if anyone should be hiding someone, it ought to be me.”

“And yet I've met all your friends.”

A snort, “Or something.” Canaan's eyes met his a moment, calmly, the question still in them, “So, you're leaving then?”

Strife nodded, calm in return, “Yeah. Probably be gone longer than normal. But don't worry, I'll be back.”

Another snort, “Like that's in doubt.” Canaan pulled himself into a sitting position, “You owe me.”

“Owe what?”

“For the sex I'm not having,” Canaan moved to get up.

Strife caught him by the shoulder, pushing him back down, “What are you talking about? You heard me ask for two hours, didn't you?”

He couldn't remember loving the man more; he wanted to know, but he didn't ask, he left Strife to his business. A good thing, Strife hadn't known how to begin explaining, where he was going, much less what he'd do when he got there. Not without resorting to outright lies, which was not a line he wanted to have to cross.

I wanted to. Gods, did I ever. I wanted to bring you with me. You and me, that's the way it would've been, if you hadn't been such an idiot. I miss that, and I know you do too, somewhere. You want it, you want it back, I can see that, so why can't I give it to you? Why can't this just work?

Which brings us back to the present moment, a day and a half later, tired and dirty and carrying a case he maybe shouldn't have brought here; about to take a huge risk and hoping it would be enough, be the key to unlock the rest.

Or he'd be out on his ass in ten minutes. One or the other.

Canaan didn't answer right away, giving it a few so maybe Strife would believe he had been sleeping; certainly not waiting, not expecting anything, oh no. After a few minutes the door cracked open and there he was, half dressed, looking decidedly disinterested. Strife chose to remain quiet, wait for him to make the first move.

An eyebrow went up. “What's with the get up? This some weird sex game? You going to flash me?”

He frowned, not that Canaan could currently see much of his face, “Why would I? I'm not the one with the-”

“With what?” was asked when he didn't continue.

Fetish, he had been going to say, but why bring up the memory of men that were no longer here. “I didn't get a chance to get cleaned up, I'm not exactly presentable under here.” A quick hosing down was all he bothered with, enough so that his clothes wouldn't stick to him anymore; the long coat was too heavy, his various mod burns were screaming in protest, and Canaan was still blocking the door.

“Well, lucky me,” Canaan seemed to have instantly lost all prior interest.

How insulting. “Well, I wouldn't dismiss me just yet, at least wait and see what I have planned.” Strife took that ridiculous hat off his head, running fingers through his hair, “I still got some work I got to do here first, and I left my kit here, so if you don't mind.” There hadn't been any reason for him to bring the kit here in the first place except habit demanding it be close at hand; later, when he was still waffling about this, it seemed like the perfect excuse. It would be much easier than having to stop at his rented room, come back here only to leave again; it was practical, right?

Canaan's interest was piqued again, “Work, huh? Never thought I'd say it, but that I want to see.” His eyes wandered back, paused; his lip curled slowly down into a confused frown.

Strife could've laughed, “See anything you like, Canaan?” Such relief, he'd been more worried than he thought.

“...what is that on your face?”

“Hmm?” Strife cocked his head to the side, letting the light from the hallway illuminate the left half of his face, down at his jaw, his neck, the few scattered spots he had deliberately left alone; he doubted his hair looked that great either, needed a more thorough washing than he'd been able to do, one of the drawbacks of being blond, too easily dyed, “You tell me. What does it look like?” he took a step closer, and another, “Surely you would know it, right?”

Another step and Canaan's eyes fluttered shut, inhaling sharply through his nose. Strife grinned, that's what he had been looking for, that old instinctual response he remembered so well; Canaan had always been sensitive to the smell, it was almost like an aphrodisiac, one Strife didn't mind indulging at times as long as he didn't think much about the reason why.

Another step closer, they were almost touching, and his next words came without thought, in a silken whisper, half teasing. “Didn't you always love a man in red?”

Canaan's eyes snapped back open, staring at him again, widened just a fraction but even a fraction was telling; it was an effort not to sneer. He remembers that? Asshole. He vowed to make the man pay for that, just as soon as he was together enough to fully appreciate why.

“You're fucking with me again, aren't you?” those eyes stayed fixed on the side of his face.

“I've never fucked with you, Canaan, but keep trying to convince yourself of that.” Strife took another step closer and saw the man's eye twitch in response; he was trying to fight off the reaction. “Now, are you going to let me in some time soon? I'd like to get this over with, get back to where we were.”

Reluctant but not, so pleased to note, unwilling, Canaan opened the door wider and stepped out of the way. Strife peeled that ridiculous coat off his body, dropping it behind him and making his way for the kitchen area.

“Jesus.”

“What? I'll clean up, I always do.”

“Is any of that yours?”

“Nope.” Strife placed the case on the kitchen island, looking back with a wink, “Thanks for the concern, though.”

Canaan's expression was equal parts your welcome and go fuck yourself. “So were you crawling around inside someone then?”

“Close enough,” Strife walked further away, into the bedroom; he'd tucked his kit away under the bed, near where he spent the most time. Is that sex toys? Canaan had asked when he first noticed; depends on how you look at it, he'd replied.

“Am I going to have to worry about the cops busting down my door?”

Kit in hand, Strife returned to the main room, “Who?”

Canaan had moved closer to the counter, eying the case with ill concealed interest, “You know, the cops? Looking to arrest your ass?”

Comprehension dawned, “Oh, your lawmen.” he shook his head, “Nah, no worries.”

“You sound so certain.”

“I'm kind of outside their notice.” Strife opened his kit, setting himself up to work at the counter.

Canaan sat on a nearby stool, watching calmly as an array of colorful, opaque glass jars were laid out in front of him, a beat up heavily stained wooden cutting board set down; the thick canvas roll up unraveled, pockets containing his various tools: blades of different sizes, pliers, clippers, crushers, saws, so on, and most importantly now, the carving knife. His first tool, Strife could still remember having forged it by hand back when he was still what many would consider to be a child, though he himself had been through so much by that point the label had felt meaningless.

“And here I was expecting a human head.” Canaan indicated toward the case yet to be opened, “Maybe that's what that's for, then.”

His tone was so bland it was hard to tell if he was serious or not; Strife answered as though he was, “Why would I lug around a whole head?”

Canaan shrugged, “I don't know. As a trophy or some such shit?”

Strife thought he understood, “Oh, that. It was a hand that was requested and I already dropped it off. This,” he pulled the case closer, undid the four latches keeping it closed, “is my work.”

“So then your work doesn't involve-” he fell silent when the first wrapped bundle came out of the case, emptying out at the edge of the cutting board.

Strife kept talking, “I got to say, though, I was pissed about having to give up that other hand. I mean its not as though viable fingers aren't really easy to find, but still. Couldn't I have achieved the same effect with a foot? Its not like I wanted his nasty toes anyway.”

Canaan watched him lining up the five now homeless digits with a mild look that was almost trying for surprise, but only in a very surface level sort of way. What Canaan might've called a knee jerk, a preprogrammed response designed to blend in and look normal, like why he asked after things he had no interest in or made apologies when he wasn't sorry; Canaan tried to feel surprise because he thought that he should, but he really didn't. He wasn't backing away from the table, he wasn't telling Strife to leave; he even reached out and prodded one fingertip with his own, as if just to be sure.

“But even that I'm not complaining about too much. Here's the real prize,” he took out the larger leather wrapped package.

“What is it?” Canaan asked when it lay unbound on the cutting board; he made as if to poke at it, too, wrinkled his nose slightly and changed his mind.

“What does it look like? Its a liver,” Strife grinned, “Makes the whole trip worth it, you know how long its been since I've seen a viable liver?”

“Viable?”

“Yeah. I think its something with the alcohol around here, its a lot harsher than what I'm used to, kills any usefulness for me real quick.” He pulled out the last bundle, just a handful of broken teeth; he dropped them in the green glass vial with the rest.

“And I've needed this, too,” he continued, spreading the organ out as flat as possible; he'd have to go outside Veil to actually finish the process, but he could prepare here. “I promised Nutsack I'd do a burn for him.” He smiled at his partner, “That's right, I can do aether burns now. And I know you don't remember enough now to be properly impressed, that's why I'm going to mention this again when you do, because I deserve the praise.”

“Burn?” Canaan frowned, thoughtful, “Is that...what you say I have?”

Strife snorted, “Uh, yeah, I guess. Sort of in the sense that you and a cockroach are the same because you're both alive.” He shook his head, “I couldn't do something even close to what I got. They're just minor charms and wards, but still its the sort of thing that, if you're going to do it, you specialize in it and you start young. That I can get any affect at all, at my age, in this time, its pretty fucking good.” He picked the fingers up off the cutting board, “I promised Nutsack I'd do this more than a year ago, but I had to keep putting him off since I didn't have the parts. Good thing I'm the only game in town, so I can do that without losing customers. Which reminds me, I should call him.”

“Nutsack?” Canaan looked up from the counter, a slight smile on his face, “That a name?”

“Its what I call him. You know I don't bother remembering names unless the people are worth remembering.” Fingers in hand, Strife paused, eying his partner carefully; maybe time for one more little test. “Hand me that, would you?”

Canaan glanced at him, back down at the collection on the counter, frowning thoughtfully. Strife waited, eyes carefully ahead, trying to give nothing away. After a minute of silence Canaan's hand moved, hovering in the air uncertainly before touching down on a clear glass jar filled with cloudy liquid, pushing it forward.

Strife smiled, swallowing down the small lump in his throat, “Thanks, love.”

Canaan watched him with it, studying his movements as though to make sure he wasn't being indulged. Strife pulled the top off, dropped the fingers in, resealed and shook it, watching the cloudy liquid slowly turn red; he put it off to the side, that would take a while to strip the useless flesh away.

Canaan kept watching, still frowning, “What happened?”

“What happened what?”

“This,” Canaan indicated the counter, “What, did someone look at you the wrong way, or...” He stopped himself, thinking something through. “Wait a minute. You got a phone call, you disappeared and then...” A smile crept over his face, a little stronger than usual, he snorted a laugh, “Shit, you really are an assassin, aren't you?”

Strife shrugged a shoulder, “More of a hired thug actually,” he said, “and its mostly boring. Its stealing shit, or standing there looking scary, occasional leg breaking and ass kicking, but that's about it.” He shook his head, “Seriously, the way they talk, you'd think people were getting killed every fucking day in Outworld. And I don't know, maybe it is really dangerous compared to stuff here, it is all relative, right? But remember, I spent most of my pre-you years bouncing back and forth between Kandha'l-har and Jiiroka, I'm not easily impressed.” He grabbed up his old knife, testing the edge, “I can count how many times I actually got to do this, you have to seriously piss someone off before they sent me to the warehouse.”

Canaan was listening, calm, thinking, “So, what did this asshole do?”

“Fucked the wrong person. And he should've known better, too.”

“So, they sent you to cut him to pieces?”

Strife shook his head, “I cut his throat, he died quick. This was all after, and its for myself.”

“For...work,” Canaan seemed to be trying the word out, seeing if it fit, “And what work are you doing here?”

“Right now,” he answered, “I'm going to chop this thing up into itty bitty pieces. Later, after I've relaxed a little, I'll go back to my room and do what I need to do with it.”

“Which would be what?” Canaan asked, “...burn someone with it?”

“Its called a burn, it is and isn't what you think.” He grinned, “Maybe if you're real good, I'll bring you with me and you can see what I mean.” If Strife could convince himself it was okay, that progress here meant another step could be taken, that it wouldn't be too much too soon. And I have to talk myself out of that, the next step can't be taking him out. That would be a bad idea.

Time passed in silence, Strife making thin, careful cuts to the organ with the blade made for that purpose, which had done this so many times before. This was one task Strife had infinite patience with, if only because his old teacher had beaten it into his head with her sharp toed boot every time she caught him rushing off, cutting corners; if you're not going to have the respect to do it right, get the fuck out of here and don't waste my time, and that had been a lesson that stuck and the results from that were amazing and worth it. Canaan watched the process, pausing in observation only to make himself a sandwich, eating half of it and leaving the rest sitting on the plate until Strife figured out it was meant for him.

It was almost an hour before Canaan opted to speak again, “This isn't bothering me.”

“Hmm?” Strife paused in his task, close to halfway done slicing the liver into strips; he had not expected anymore talk, and it took him a moment to process what was said.

“This,” Canaan gestured at the counter, the bloody mess laid out before him; his tone was still mild, which seemed to surprise him slightly, “All of it, it isn't bothering me. It should, but it isn't.” He frowned, eyes turning up to meet Strife's, “Why is that?”

Strife shrugged, “Why would it? I mean, who do you think you are, Canaan? You think you were some common farmer? You think I met you out picking fucking vegetables?

Canaan grinned, the kind of smile Strife didn't get to see that often; he was glad this was amusing someone, “No, I imagine not.” A pause, “I've not been able to imagine much, as far as that goes.”

“Have you been trying?”

“Repeatedly,” the smile broadened a touch, “I don't think it was a nightclub.”

He laughed, “No, it wasn't,” a pause and, against better sense, “It was killing people.”

“Really?” Canaan didn't sound disbelieving, “What people?”

“A person,” Strife replied, returning to his work as he spoke, “Useless Jackass.”

“Is that another of your affectionate nicknames?”

“If only I could've thought of something better,” Strife said, “He was a jackass. And an idiot, and a coward. But he was an idiot, coward jackass with resources, family connections, and a known weakness for a pretty face.” He glanced up with a wink, “And that's where I came in.”

Canaan frowned at that, “...this is someone you were fucking?”

“I wasn't enjoying it, if it makes you feel better,” he shrugged, “It wasn't about that though, it was business. I was trying to wrap him around my finger so he'd do what I wanted him to do. It wasn't exactly working out, I was getting the feeling his cowardice was stronger than his lust, and there really isn't a whole lot I can do about that. Only reason I was still there I was trying to figure out where to go next, hoping I could just pawn myself off on one of Jackass's less spineless contacts. And that didn't look like it was going to pan out either, and then suddenly, out of the blue,” he smiled, “oh happy day, here comes the Black Wolf.”

Canaan winced at that, visibly grinding his teeth; the familiar sight made Strife laugh, “Good to know some things never change.”

He groaned, “That's awful.”

“I like it, never understood your aversion.”

“Well, no one asked you,” Canaan paused, his eyes turning to the side, going distant, as it did when he was thinking, making some connection; something about that was familiar, rang some distant bell way back in his memory, and now Canaan knew why. And that was good to see. Eventually, he nodded to himself and his eyes drifted back. “Go on.”

He shouldn't. Maybe. Probably. But he was going to anyway. What did it fucking matter, really; what could it hurt? He already whipped out a human liver and Canaan barely batted an eye; fuck, he accidentally dropped Drogan's name a while back and no heads exploded. Clearly the man's system was not as delicate as Strife had been lead to believe, what did those people really know anyway?

It was just telling a story; either Canaan believed him, or would think it exaggerated bullshit until he remembered better. That's it, all he had to worry about, because clearly, at this stage the man wasn't going to break down, and nothing would make him push Strife away or kick him out.

He continued, “Now, I have no idea what that man did to piss you off, after it was over I was too busy to care to ask. I have to imagine it was something very indirect, because that's all he was ever capable of. Said something he didn't think would get back to you, took something of yours thinking you wouldn't notice it was gone, or if you did you wouldn't be bothered enough to do anything. Well, he was wrong. You showed up, middle of the night because you weren't interested in apologies, and that was the messy end of Jackass.” He shrugged carelessly, “But a lucky break for me. I'd always wanted to meet you, and that was my chance to do it.”

“So, you knew me?” Canaan asked, then corrected, “Of me?”

Strife smiled, “Heard of you? Are you kidding? You were the fucking boogeyman.”

A calm eyebrow raised, “What does that mean?”

“That you were this half nightmare figure people told stupid stories about and were always afraid was right around the corner ready to kill them all.” He snorted, “People seem to need that kind of entertainment. By then, the Butcher was far enough back to not be interesting anymore, and they needed something more immediate.” Another smile, “They did love talking about you.”

“...let's assume I believe you,” but Canaan didn't look as skeptical as he wanted to be, as he might have been had they been having this conversation two weeks ago; his resistance was cracking, little by little. “What kind of thing are you talking about?”

“Ridiculous shit,” Strife answered, combing back through his memory for examples, “Let's see... You were a demon, you were the son of a demon, you were the lover of a demon. You sold your soul to a demon for power, you gave your body to a demon for power, you killed a demon and ate it and absorbed its power. And now you're invisible and flames shoot out your mouth and flowers wilt at the sight of you. You can make people explode with your mind, you wear human skin and bathe in blood and stomp kittens and eat babies. You know the drill.”

The other eyebrow went up, Canaan looked like he was trying to decide if he should be laughing, “All that, huh?”

“I know, with all that going on, its a wonder you ever got a chance to sleep.”

“And based on that...you wanted to meet me?”

Strife glanced up with a wink, “Us kitten stomping baby eaters ought to stick together, don't you think?” Met only with a bemused expression, Strife decided to skip the jokes. “I told you, it was business. I was trying to get something done, something I couldn't do on my own or otherwise I would've. I needed someone to help me and that's what I was doing, looking for candidates. As far as that goes, you were a good choice, maybe the best choice, ability wise. I knew you could do it easily, the only real question was would you?” He laughed, “Of course, back then I was young and arrogant, thought I could get any man to do whatever I wanted just by taking my clothes off. Though admittedly, I thought that because that's usually how it worked. Either way, I had the idea that all I needed to do was meet you and that would be enough.”

Canaan took a guess, “That's not how it worked?”

“If you were that easy, I would've lost interest in you a long time ago.” Strife shook his head, still chopping away, “At first, I couldn't even get close enough to you to try. You kept yourself so fucking cloistered, with a small inner circle that were all intensely loyal to you, and other than them no one even knew what you looked like.” He glanced up again, “Its smart, that's what kept people from getting to you. But it kept me out, too, and I gave up early when I couldn't find an in.”

“But then, lucky chance?” It was difficult to tell what Canaan thought at this point, if he was listening seriously or merely marveling at Strife's ability to tell a story. But he was still listening, and as long as he kept listening...

“Looking back, there was enough overlap it was probably inevitable we'd end up in the same place together. At the time it seemed like a fucking miracle, like the gods themselves were rewarding me for all the time I wasted with Jackass. So, even though I could've slipped out the window before anyone even knew I was there, I stayed and let myself get caught.”

Not that much of a gamble, though people talked about the Wolf as though he were a ravenous monster, Strife had heard from more reliable sources that the help was usually released unharmed. Strife had swallowed his pride and did what he could to further create a suggestion he may not have been there of his own free will, begging mercy from the henchmen who found him until they agreed to bring him to the one man who could grant it.

After so many demon fairy tales, Strife couldn't say what he had been expecting from the Wolf. Some grizzled old warrior likely, of the kind whose beds he had been keeping for years while they worked to push his agenda forward; eyes and demeanor cold, face and body remapped in interesting ways by scar tissue and broken bones, someone with few needs easily satisfied. And yet, to his initial surprise, Strife had found himself deposited in front of a man who could not have been older than thirty; who, aside from a slightly mangled hand and the gnarled remains of a botched beheading, was entirely unmarked; someone with the dark complexion and pale, mismatched eyes that marked him as an Illeathean native, no demonic origin (though there was something odd about that, even from the first, and it would be a while before Strife could put his finger on what he was seeing – or rather, what he wasn't seeing, evidence of mixed blood the man should've had and didn't).

Unexpected, but it made a sort of sense, fell along with some of the other less ridiculous rumors he had heard: that there was more than one Wolf, and this must be the new guy. No doubt he had earned his place, the man had an unusually powerful aura, drew every eye in the room right to him. No doubt he could fulfill the agenda nicely.

“Strife? Curious name, for a whore.”

“Or a very promising one. Depending on how you want to look at it. Sir.”

“Is that so?”

“You took my bait, and I was in your bed that night. I thought I'd won.” Strife paused a moment, averting his eyes before reluctantly admitting the rest, for the first time aloud, “But you were a lot smarter than what I was used to dealing with. You saw right through me, before I even opened my mouth, and I didn't realize it. The whole time, I thought I was playing you, and you were playing me...”