Imprint - 24. Chapter Five: The Fire Knight

I

He now had the memory of waking up in a moderately comfortable bed, large window letting in plenty of light, seeing those beautiful blue eyes looking down at him, cool fingers moving shyly through his hair. It had been a relief, that it was real, a small part of him during the night convinced he'd been turned out after his admission, that this was nothing more than a fantasy his mind concocted to keep himself from breaking down.

Something in that smile had answered his question without it needing to be asked, hazy memories between sleep. “Did you kiss me?” There had been no answer, but those pale cheeks colored impressively. “So are we doing that now? I mean, I can play too, right?” The shy smile he got in exchange was all the invitation he needed.

That had been a perfect morning, not the last of its sort but sweeter for being the first after such a long time of pining. Those memories made it easier for Tallen, the mornings he had to wake up alone to the sight of concrete and dim light shining through the bars on the narrow window above his head. It was a source of hope now, that this would not be forever.

The invitation was there he knew, these past two weeks Frost let him come over as he wanted to, stay the night when he asked, probably would've let him move in if he brought it up, and that was too tempting a thought to contemplate for long. It wasn't time yet. And until then, like it or not, Tallen had a life here that had to be lived. A life Frost mostly didn't know about, some of which he just wasn't sure yet how to explain, parts of which had to be kept from him at all cost.

Stretching on the thin mattress, Tallen pushed aside the last of the sleep haze; it was one of those mornings and he had early appointments. He reached over and grabbed up two of his phones, the regular mobile and the hybrid model (its aether tech cousin of course didn't work here), checking for any calls or messages bringing last minute changes or, gods forbid, additional trips. The hybrid was clear; the mobile showed five texts from Trick but nothing else. Letting out a sigh on behalf of his friend, Tallen opened them up.

The first, from two hours ago. Quiet breakfast. Body count 0. Maybe good day?

Then twenty minutes later. Well, fuck that.

Remind me why I don't kill them.

They're in the basement, I can still hear them.

How is it only 8 am? O.o

Tallen laughed, henpecking a quick reply: Poor baby, you need anything? Guiltily, he hoped this wouldn't end with Trick needing to spend the night again; guilty because none of this was Trick's fault, who was aware he was cutting into Tallen's time with Frost and was trying to curb it. It would've been much easier if Trick could've stayed here alone, but that was against the rules and its not as though Tallen didn't understand why, or why that made him one of Trick's few avenues of escape from his temperamental room mates. This space was really too small to share with someone you're not intimate with, let alone someone you need to be careful not to accidentally touch; he didn't even know how they made the arrangement work, but somehow they did.

Tallen's eyes wandered waiting for the reply, to the concrete wall next to his bed and the growing collection of photographs he had hanging there. A few days of Sophie stalking them with her cell phone camera and showing him the results convinced Tallen to actually invest in a slightly more up to date model. It was fast becoming an addiction that Frost reluctantly indulged, trying to catch him relaxed and smiling; happy, with him.

Among the newer photos, the original was still there, hanging off in the corner like a guilty secret. It was from a distance but you could see Frost there waiting at the bus stop near the book store, his arms folded around himself, a slight breeze blowing the hair back from his down turned face. Tallen had taken that first picture from his truck parked across the street, having thought en route that he would be much braver than he ended up being, seeing that face again after so long. That photo was all he had during the months wasted figuring out an approach; he regarded it with mixed feelings now, but still couldn't bring himself to be rid of it.

It had always been a part of things with them, those mixed feelings, pure joy and the persistent edge of doubt. It would be wrong to say he didn't understand where concern came from, back then, from an outside perspective; the boy had almost been a mannequin when he first laid eyes on him, the spark of life so deeply buried it was hard to see at times. But Tallen did see it, only him; it was the subtle leaning into his touch, a slight tilt to the head that suggestion attention, the first time he pressed his mouth to those lips and, after a long uncertain moment, felt them move in response. It had been heaven, all of it, every little step forward; heavenly, but small enough to make him wonder, in the dead of night, if there wasn't a line he was crossing somewhere.

(...cant-...shouldn't-...I-)

Always easy to forget again in the morning, when Frost was there welcoming his presence, his touch, the few times they had sex however briefly and afterward when Frost would look right at him, and Tallen knew he was seen just as he could see the real man hiding behind that blank expression. Easy to wonder at when alone, how much was real and how much was wishful thinking; Tallen had been alone for a long time.

He had wondered what Frost thought when he was alone, if he would judge Tallen's actions more harshly like everyone else seemed to. He had half expected to find Frost in much worse shape, expected to have to start again from square one if not many squares even further back. Tentative plans were even made to break him out of a long term care facility, if that proved to be necessary. It had been a pleasant surprise to find Frost mostly together and living something close to a real life; Tallen was glad for him, even if it did present its own problems.

The phone pinged a new message; if Trick had the phone in hand things must be pretty bad over there. Yes, a hammer.

Tallen chuckled. Like you need a hammer to kill someone.

The reply was immediate, Don't need, want.

Tallen laughed again, getting to his feet and making his way to the toilet in the furthest corner of the single room from the bed, behind a thin screen for appearance sake. One of the few perks, he supposed, of living in a former prison, upgraded aether tech and better ventilation made it barely noticeable. Far better than having to share, other boarding houses didn't get that lucky.

He typed another quick reply, Got to go to NGR today, supply run, come with? He kind of hoped Trick would say yes, Tallen hated that city, company might make it better.

He struggled with the clothing chest, trying to pull out something to wear. He missed the days when he had a limited wardrobe, when this chest could actually be closed. Spending more time on the other side though required at least a few concessions to social norms, one of which being some sort of variety in appearance. It was a facet of the culture he hadn't missed much, and if it had only been Frost he might've let it go, Frost wouldn't notice or care; the girls would though, and it was better not to draw unnecessary attention, he stood out too much as it was.

There was a slightly longer pause between replies this time. No, got an errand. Thankfully. Coffee after?

Definitely. After a moment, he added, Need a place for the night?

The answer wasn't immediately forthcoming, Tallen held out some hope for improvement. Hope, because he had to put in an appearance there today, and he was tired of playing mediator while ducking thrown objects. He tossed the phone on the bed, grabbed a towel and left the room.

He had to remove the padlock on the inside, repositioning it on the outside, a harder to pick aether lock model the all mighty boss men supplied him with; the hallway wall of his apartment cell was metal siding welded to the bars on the inside, with a door that swung outward instead of sliding. He doesn't almost trip over Naomi lying asleep right in front of his door, because by now he expected her to be there. Naomi was not actually her name but Tallen had never heard her say it in a voice that wasn't heavily slurred, her first language wasn't one he knew and there were a lot of sounds in it that were foreign to his tongue. Naomi was close though and she was willing to respond to it; or maybe it was that Tallen spoke to her in a friendly tone and sometimes gave her money for food while keeping his pants zipped that she responded to. For a little while there she seemed determined to move in on him, and that had made coming home an awkward dance the times he couldn't avoid it, but she seemed content now with the relationship they did have as...he hesitated to say neighbors, though that was kind of what they were. She was asleep now so Tallen carefully tip toed around her locking his door; she'd probably be awake when he came back to make some comment about how good he looks wet which will only be half serious because that's just the way she talks to men, and he'll be very sincerely embarrassed because he has never learned to deal gracefully with unwanted attention.

The one time prison retained its shower room, on the first floor past a veritable obstacle course of people sleeping in the hall and along the staircase. He thinks it too was modified sometime after slipping through the cracks, or at least the movies he remembered watching way back in childhood told him he should expect a wide open room; someone installed a series of rickety wooden stalls along where the shower heads were, cutting down on the humiliation factor (not to mention the risk of assault). It was still a public bathroom and people everywhere were pigs, Tallen learned long ago not to look too closely at any surface or spend much time wondering what he was stepping in. He showered as quickly as he could, brushing his teeth at the same time (no way he'd brave the sinks, they were green and they smelled).

Trick's message was waiting for him when he got back. Keep you updated. Try not to. And there was that small stab of guilt again and a wish that this could be easier. Flipping through his contacts list, Tallen sent one message to Nix on the hybrid and one to the all mighty boss men on the mobile, neither of which he expected to be answered.

Tallen gathered up his phones, all three of them in the messenger bag. One of the side effects of living partial lives in three places, everything comes in triples: three phones, three sets of keys, three different forms of currency at least, a different face to wear in each location. He was never sure how he managed to keep it all straight, how he dealt with it all; when he was honest with himself, he knew the answer to that was not well.

On his way out, Tallen flipped a coin to Naomi and a few other people he stepped over in is path to the exit. It was force of habit now, and it wasn't like it was a burden he was doing well enough for himself on this side, better than most people crashing on the floor of the tenement; in the beginning it was a more carefully calculated move to buy him some good will, he had been too much an outsider and needed all the help he could get. At this point he was connected enough to not have to be too worried for his safety, but these people here he'd won over first and by himself. No, he wouldn't trust them to water his plants or ever eat any brownies they might bring, but they did once try to get between him and a first time client that was trying to remove him from the premises; armed themselves with whatever they had on hand, stood in front of his car and would not move until they were certain Tallen was okay with leaving. That situation ended up well for him, the client merely wanted to introduce him to his partners and they helped to sponsor his fledging enterprise; it could've easily gone the other way, still could at some point, and it was good to know his neighbors were willing to face down a hitman for him.

The front of the former Pikesville Penitentiary (so said the sign above the door, so it was still called) lead into an expansive parking lot that he imagined was once useful when the place was a prison. Now it housed a squatter's camp, tents and slightly more stable structures cobbled together from scrap metal, the smell of too many grills cooking too many breakfasts all at once. This was a prime location, especially in some circles, some professions; securing a room here was difficult, Tallen had called in every favor he then had to get one. Convenient, but he hated it; the place, the necessity of it, everything.

There were only ever two cars in the lot, they weren't practical here unless someone went into Veil or went Out – through one of the official sanctioned pathways, of course, since the unofficial routes tended to be in old warehouses and people's basements. Not many people did or could do that, just himself and Ayn-el, a priestess to the Nomad, a minor branch off of the Watcher's cult (it was his brother or his son, or both at once somehow, lineage is more confusing with the Primordials, apparently). She lived here voluntarily as a go between, in as comfortable a set up as anyone had in what had once been the warden's office. Tallen liked her, the nights he spent in her rooms just talking did a lot to keep him sane when he first moved in; in thanks he sometimes helps her transport food for the kitchens and the occasional piece of legal aether tech, no charge.

While Ayn-el was afforded the kind of respect Veil people gave to nuns and her vehicle was left alone, Tallen would have to chase a crowd off his truck every fucking morning. At least they were just hanging out now, sitting and smoking, hadn't always been that way; people had literally jumped all over his truck, threw garbage in it, he'd even once caught a prostitute entertaining clients in the truck bed (it took seven car washes before his skin stopped crawling). And at least the crowd moved without much fanfare, that had also not always been the case and time was he carried a knife on him whenever he left.

He had to head to the East Central Gate today, across the country as far as conventional maps go; it would take him about twenty minutes, weaving through the hidden paths between.

Tallen wouldn't be able to tell you what, exactly, it was that he'd seen all those years ago in Chicago, on that trip to the movies that changed his life forever. He thinks it must have been something, seen from the corner of his eye, nothing that made a conscious impression but served as some subtle signal to his brain.

This is the night. Get ready.

It put him on alert, so that he saw his chance when it came, took it. And after he'd stolen the truck, driving down back roads in a desperate attempt to not be seen, something else had lead him to make the correct series of turns to find his permanent escape. Of course, almost ten years later he knows the signs very well, could spot even the most well hidden easily enough; he doesn't know how he ever found it in the first place.

Tallen knows he's not the first person from Veil to ever slip out of it, into Outworld or, even more rarely, past it and beyond. He knows it from stories that he's heard others tell, about people that may or may not have been real, not from any personal experience; his one boss had spent some years living in Veil, maintained a residence there, that was as close as it got and it was hardly the same thing. Not unique, but it was rare and no one knows why it happens, or why it happened to him. He joked that he wanted out so badly it served as a sort of magic, and hey, that could be it. Trick said he was obviously meant to be here, and there may be something to that, it was even more rare for someone from Veil to survive and thrive here the way he has.

Tallen dug through the messenger bag, looking for the proper identification; another thing he collected with his multiple lives, ID here, there and everywhere, some with his name, some with aliases, at least one with the name he'd long left behind because there were still pieces of that life left. The line at the East Central Gate was short as always, two people ahead of him and both on foot so he kept a polite distance. The paperwork to travel officially was hard to get and normally he wouldn't have been granted it but that his mentor signed him up as a courier, his mentor who was neither wanted nor exiled, an actual upstanding citizen.

This, of course, made him ideal as a smuggler.

He watched as one of the four guards started walking toward his vehicle, steps echoing oddly along the cobblestone street, a clear indication this little corner of Outworld had slipped away a very long time ago. The guards were from New Green River, which ran the East Central Gate being the closest major city and an important trade center (an image the city had used to rebuild itself from ruin, or so he had heard); the guards rotated frequently since this was not a popular shift, but there are a few Tallen knew reasonably well. This guy wasn't familiar, young enough that he might be new; Tallen prepared himself for the third degree.

Rolling down his window, he paused a moment while the kid (and it was a kid, probably not even old enough to grow a beard – assuming that was a possibility here, you didn't always know) stared at his truck in open mouthed wonder, likely had never seen one before and that reaction would always be funny to him. Eyes turned to him eventually, a rather unsettling shade between brown and gold, and he tried to screw a serious expression on his face. “Can I see your papers and state your business.”

He passed over his ID, “Tallen, I'm a runner for Nix.” he saw the kid's eyes flicker to him in recognition – of Nix's name certainly, but maybe his own as well? Something else he had mixed feelings on.

The card looked similar to a Veil side passport, and he was sure that was where the inspiration came from. In addition to the expected bad photo and basic details (name, birth date, place of origin, sector of residence) there was a pattern of embedded aether stones that the guard scanned into the hand held device he carried. They gave off a unique sequence of color, sound and vibration that would be recognizable as his own. The locks he was issued over there were programmed with the same pattern, and to anyone in Veil the master key just looked like a colorful key chain, people often wanted to know where he bought it.

“Import or export?”

“Little of both,” Tallen handed over the official paperwork Nix had filled out for the drop off and pick up.

The kid looked it all over with a carefulness that was definitely new on the job. Tallen drummed his fingers lazily against the wheel, wondering when he'd learned to lie so casually.

“How long are you expecting to be?”

He shrugged, “Hopefully not all day. Definitely not overnight.” He never understood the point of that question; the unofficial channels moved much faster in his experience, time had never been an issue.

Tallen glanced up at the sound of footsteps, and here came a friendly face. “Back off, back off,” spoken to the kid, waving him away to take his place at the car window, “This one's okay.”

Tallen gave the older guard a smile, “Drew the short straw again, huh, Ran?”

“I could say the same to you,” Ran called him by a name he often heard in the area, an exotic sounding language that used elongated vowels and teeth and tongue clicks, something that fell out of popular use long before trader's common became the primary language but which survived mostly in slang and vulgarity. Trick had explained it to him once, when they were out together and the man couldn't stop smiling at the name; Trick often acted as a translator, his knowledge was amazing.

“The actual word would make no sense to you,” he had said, pausing to think, “I suppose it is...something close to, well, hillbilly.”

That had come as a surprise, Tallen had been expecting something more like useless fuckwit, that one he knew in at least twelve dialects by now. “Are you kidding? I'm from Chicago.”

“You're from Veil,” Trick had said, it was possible he had no idea what Chicago was.

Tallen had frowned, quiet a moment, “So...are you telling me Veil is, essentially, the Alabama of the universe?”

That had earned him a laugh, and he wondered if Trick knew Alabama or if he got the point anyway, “It is all a matter of perspective, yes?”

“The wife is pregnant again,” Ran answered him, “Could use the extra funds. This shift has perks if nothing else.”

“Congratulations,” Tallen said and meant it, even if he had to swallow down a lump of envy to say it. Less so now than it once would have been, but things were starting to fall into place for him now, life didn't feel as hopeless anymore. “I'll have to bring you a cigar or something, yeah?”

“I'd be happier if you brought me another bottle of that, what was it, brandy?”

“Yeah, brandy. And yeah, I can do that.” Not an outright bribe, not really, just a gift to someone he was friendly with. It was still hard at times not to wonder, if he should feel guilty.

Of course Tallen often found himself wondering if they didn't already know, these guards, especially the older ones like Ran; if someone wasn't paying them off to look the other way when people like Tallen drove through. The almighty boss men he knew could and would, and there were a few others in Outworld he had dealings with who had the weight to pull that off. He would never ask, he wasn't sure he really wanted to know.

“Don't want to take up anymore of your time,” Ran glanced back over his shoulder inquisitively at the kid, who nodded quickly and handed back the paperwork he'd taken off Tallen. “Go on then, Tallen. Enjoy your day.”

“I always try.” Tallen rolled up the window, started the truck, inching it forward nice and slow, don't want to go too fast or the sudden pull would make him sick. As one of the few official passageways it was well constructed, unlike some of the sketchy back doors that would leave him feeling like he'd been turned inside out; it was just a quick drop in your stomach, like falling, plunging down a hill at high speed. At this point he barely felt it anymore; he looked forward to the day he'd never had to feel it again.

Inch forward, a held breath, and Tallen crossed the border.

II

He always knew when they were coming, even before he saw them; a sudden hush would come over the bar, it was better than any alarm system. People around here regarded the militia men with a sort of awe and respect, which sickened him to no end, sad ignorant bastards that they were. In a place like The Winter Moon, not exactly the most reputable in the rapidly regrowing city, there was a measure of caution there as well for these lawmen passing through to retrieve their barely tamed psycho. Tallen had made that table just around the corner his own so he could have this warning, giving him bare seconds to steel himself for what was to come.

If it was anyone else, any one of the faceless foot soldiers, that meant official business, official business was safe, or safer at any rate. If it was Sandar though...

Tallen's breath held, keeping half an eye on that corner in a practiced disinterest he'd perfected over the years. He could track the footsteps even over the muted chatter, impending doom.

A large shadow darkened the corner. A tall, broad framed man, just starting to go soft in the middle thanks to a bad knee taking him off the field; close cropped hair, pink sunburned scalp peeking out behind a salt and pepper fuzz, beady black eyes. Sandar.

Fuck.

Tallen's eyes shifted away, back to the tiles spread out on the table in front of him: four face up and four face down; blue, white, two violet; pearl, horse, tree, dawnbringer, that was the trump. He pretended to consider his odds, though he'd already decided his next move. He pretended to be interested in Cath's legs draped over his lap, running a hand along her nearly bare thigh, smirking like it was enjoyable though he couldn't feel anything through the gloves, just a sensation of movement. He ignored the presence now looming over the table; even if it was a petty victory, he'd make the other man speak first.

Eventually, a throat cleared, “Your presence has been requested at the compound.”

Now Tallen deigned to raise his eyes enough to peer at the asshole just over the tops of his round sunglasses that sat pushed down the end of his nose. Another practiced expression, it looked arrogant and he knew it pissed Sandar off something awful, even if the man wouldn't dare say so.

“Kind of busy here, in case you didn't notice,” and he slapped at Cath's thigh, just to be obnoxious. She squealed loudly in a way that turned a few heads and made Sandar's eye twitch in discomfort. It wasn't serious though, with her; they had an understanding, she was just trying to help out.

“I wasn't aware playing Push constituted busy.”

“Well, that's because you don't have an Arionium watch in the pot,” a smirk, “I know its cheap, but I like to win.”

Sandar stared at him, jaw tight; the man was seething, but he'd never let it on. “This takes precedent. I'm sure we can get you another watch.”

“Why?” Tallen made a point to sound casual, raising a quizzical eyebrow, “Does London want me for something? Or is this just about tucking me in for the night like a good little boy?”

Your move, asshole.

He watched Sandar's expression go through a myriad of tiny, subtle changes as he worked out what to say, each one a bright beautiful spark of joy it was a wonder Tallen didn't burst out laughing. Because there was nothing to say, not in public, not with people watching who might wonder later; Sandar was off the books, and London needed it to remain that way.

“Very well then.” The man's tone was painfully polite, “By all means, finish your game.” Tallen could hear how badly the man wished he could do something, drag Tallen out of there by the hair, lay in wait for him outside and give him a beating for his insolence, making him look impotent in front of a crowd. Sandar would do nothing of the sort, of course, however much he wished he could; he wouldn't for one simple reason,

Sandar was afraid of him.

“Good. Why don't you piss off then, you're bad luck.”

The man bristled but let it slide. After a moment of indecision, he added, “There is the presentation later this evening, if you remember. Perhaps you'll want to be there for that.”

Tallen shrugged without promise. He'd forgotten over the last week spent avoiding the boss like the plague that he was, London's long awaited presentation. It was bullshit he knew, but he had to admit he was still curious how the shit would be dressed up. He might have to be there for that.

He glared at Sandar until the man retreated; the moment he slithered out of the bar the entire room seemed to let out a sigh of relief and the noise cranked back up again.

There were several sets of eyes staring at him.

Tallen felt his face start to heat, immediately channeling it into anger, “What the fuck are you looking at?” Appeased only when he saw the onlookers scurry away, they were afraid of him, too, in a different sense than they were of Sandar and the rest of the hunters; it wasn't the judging outside eyes, Tallen was more one of them, just one of the worst of them.

“...hear about the girl at Willow's Peak? They say he...”

“...should be put down like a rabid...”

“...everything you touch. And it will be the same with-”

He stared across at this opponent, “And hurry the fuck up, I want my watch back.”

The man, someone he played on occasion but didn't know the name of, gave him a tentative smile. “We'll see, mate. We'll see.”

Tallen returned the watch to his coat pocket after dumping a bottle of alcohol over his head, standard protocol for returning home. He never drank more than enough to be numbing and that was a low threshold, but it seemed smelling like a brewery kept people even further away from him than usual; they assumed him an angry drunk, if only that were actually true.

The streets of New Green River had filled out since Tallen had first arrived ten years ago. Back then it had still been a lot of rubble and blasted earth, the few people here lived in temporary housing, there had been a store and a bar and little else; now it was looking like a city again, now there were homes and families, there were farms, there were shops, so many of those. And that's probably thanks to him, not that anyone would thank him. Its one thing to have a champion, a champion that had risen heroically from the ashes of the previous tragedy (unlikely as that is), one with a strange charisma and an ability to pool resources (and where do those come from in the first place? No one ever asks), but that alone is not enough when people live in fear of lightning striking twice. The champion needs an appropriate weapon, and how better to fight a demon than with a flaming freak?

Not that Tallen was fighting demons, or expected to ever be. No one ever questioned that, either.

London had set himself up at the northern edge of the city proper, on a hill all but looking down on everyone, and how that didn't set off any alarms he'd never know. It had been one of the few buildings left that was more or less intact; London didn't try to claim it as his childhood home, no that was conveniently destroyed in the assault, lost along with the man's family, his son and his arm. He'd been a crafter with a background in the military before settling down, such a humble beginning. Why not a dirt farmer, Tallen often wondered, why not have been born out of the thin air that very night, constructed of righteous vengeance and the tears of the Wolf's victims? Why not, there was no one around who knew better, no one to contradict, you can say whatever you want.

People in the compound scattered out of his way, pointedly did not look him in the eye, not if they didn't have to. It had been years since anyone did, and there were many fist sized scorch marks marring the walls testifying as to why; Tallen didn't remember making half of them, but he knew what he got like in a rage and those early years were bad. He knew he once reveled in their fear but he didn't have the energy for it anymore, the whole show just made him tired. He started automatically up the stairs toward the man's suite of rooms, caught himself and headed toward the assembly room instead.

It was routine, the way Tallen slammed in through the double doors, bringing everything to a halt and drawing every eye in the room to him. There was only one set of eyes he was paying attention to, dark brown and glaring disapprovingly under the lights of the podium; with cold satisfaction, Tallen flashed a big drunken grin and a sloppy, one fingered salute to the man of the hour.

It would be easy to think, what with the authoritative position he willingly took on, that London would be more of a people person, that he enjoyed the limelight; Tallen knew better. Anti-social and strangely awkward, London preferred to be a figurehead, employing assistants (legitimate ones, as well as rats like Sandar) to deal with the public for him; he addressed people only from a distance, with a carefully planned speech he did not deviate from, possibly written by someone else or at least he was rarely that verbose on the spot. It was so easy, in situations like this, to rattle the man, throw him off script and make him look like a fool; Tallen would pay for it later he knew, but his punishment would be private, unlike this. Petty victories, whatever he could get. Tallen took his seat in the back of the room, right side to the wall of course, sitting back and waiting.

London's eyes had tracked his movements, human hand clutching his stack of notes just a little tighter. The metal arm was draped over the front of the podium in a way that was likely supposed to look casual and kept it on prominent display. Why not have a fucking spotlight shining down on it, something that sparkles? Yet, Tallen was the only one disgusted.

Because of course, London was a fucking hero; a knight in shining fucking armor, or at least with a shiny high tech arm. The arm he valiantly lost fighting for home and country against the forces of evil – or saving his own ass from the forces of evil, although at this point Tallen was more inclined to believe he cut it off himself just for a story to tell. A story about facing down the Black Wolf himself and walking away from the encounter. A story that made him valuable in one respect if no other.

He'd seen the Wolf; he knew what the demon looked like.

London had been able to coast on that claim alone for a very long time now, the story just plausible enough to leave people in awe. Awe always runs out eventually, sooner or later its not enough to say you know something, you have to prove it. Still images wouldn't really prove anything, but they could be made to look convincing, and as long as the Wolf stayed smart and didn't get caught, who could ever say for certain?

This show had been promised for months now, and Tallen had been curious to see it, to heckle and jeer if it wasn't up to par and maybe even if it was. Petty victories, but still better than nothing at all.

Tension was thick as people looked quietly between the belligerent pet freak and the master, staring down at the notes in hand, eyes moving rapidly back and forth, trying to recapture his rhythm, an almost physical effort. After a moment, his throat cleared and no one was paying attention to Tallen anymore. “As I was saying, these images were acquired some months back by one of my field operatives.”

Tallen snorted just loudly enough to be heard; the fabled field operatives, often mentioned but never actually seen, by him or anyone else. Tallen wasn't convinced they existed, though he still watched himself in public, just in case he was wrong.

“Who worked tirelessly to collect as much information on the subjects as was possible. Rest assured, work will continue to fill in the gaps, which are more numerous than I would prefer. However little it may seem, it is more information than has been gathered to date.

“Information, that is the key. The Wolf hides behind stories to keep himself safe, letting his mythology grow until none would dare confront him. Who would fight the mighty demon? What could you do against such a creature? The Wolf is not a demon. The Wolf is a man, and he can be killed like one.”

Had to give the man points for theatrics. The projector came to life, a square of light appearing against the wall at London's back; a collective breath held, the militia's foot soldiers and some of the more influential people from the city itself, Tallen waited to see if it was worth the suspense.

...huh.

“This is the man who lead the attack on Green River and burned it to the ground. This is the man who cut off my arm and killed my family. The man who currently holds the title of the Black Wolf.”

Nice save on that last, or people might start to wonder. It doesn't seem anyone is sure exactly when rumors of the Wolf started, but the man in the center of the image was still far too young to have always been top dog. What was he, thirty? Maybe?

Still, had to give credit where it was due; this stand in, whoever he really was and wherever he really came from, at least looked the part. Maybe too young, maybe not a hulking beast of a man, but that would've been too obvious, playing into expectations. There was something, a subtle something, that made it easy to see that man swinging an ax into someone's face. Or cutting an asshole's arm off, slowly and with dull weapons, feeding it to animals...or that was how Tallen liked to imagine it happening.

He took note of the background, the man walking out of a building, a house, very nondescript as was the middle of nowhere that surrounded it. No details that could make localization possible, that was not a surprise. That faded away as each image focused closer and closer on man himself, until his features were better visible.

“His people refer to him as Canaan. It is unknown if this is a name or an alias.”

Light olive toned skin, black hair, most oddly one pale blue eye, one pale brown one. A neck someone tried very hard to hack through once.

“His features place him as being from the Illeathen Isles, though no official we spoke with would claim this man had ever lived there. It is unfortunate though, I imagine, not surprising the Wolf himself is still very much an unknown.”

Strange choice, Tallen had been expecting to see a face so generic it could be anyone at all; this man, in contrast, looked like no one he'd ever seen. Odd combination of features (weren't Illeathens paler normally?), odd markings up both bare arms, black and red chains winding around his limbs.

“As you can see here, the Wolf is heavily modified. Something exotic that we have yet to identify in either origin or purpose. Though I wish to dispel the image of the Wolf as an invulnerable creature, it would be a mistake to underestimate him. He is a highly skilled fighter on his own, without knowing just what those do. Possible to kill does not mean easy, he is not to be approached lightly. Never alone, never without a plan.”

Strategy of course wouldn't be discussed with civilians in the room, don't want to encourage people or some such bullshit, always an excuse. Tallen would probably never hear them anyway, he had more important things to do.

The top note card was flicked away with a thumb to rest on the podium, London's speech halted a moment while his eyes rapidly scanned the paper in hand. Switching gears was almost a physical effort with this man, for which Tallen once mocked him loudly for, lest he start mistaking Tallen for some pathetic child quaking under his literal iron fist. He opted for silence now, eyes on the lighted wall, knowing the next image would be a different one.

If possible, it was more unexpected.

“And here we have the Wolf's Number Two, the so called Bloody Elf.”

...holy shit, that's – that's an elf. That's an actual fucking elf. Not that Tallen had ever seen an elf, of course not, but... No ear tips were visible, the hair was just long enough to cover them, but that looked like an exile brand on his face; Tallen had read plenty, history books, had seen artistic representations therein, they don't all look the same but there is a certain pattern and placement. The man looked almost human, all black leather and blond hair, tall and lean and painfully pretty; almost but just not quite, just slightly off, Tallen doubted he would've noticed if he hadn't been looking for it.

Where the fuck did London find an elf?

“This one goes by Strife, a name much more appropriate in the original elvish.” There were maybe two chuckles from the audience, so that must've meant something though Tallen didn't know what. “Strife is a Khar'tal exile. Khar'tal, as you are no doubt aware, was the target of a now infamous massacre, carried out by the Wolf yes, but organized by Strife himself.

“This is what he does to his own people.” And there the stock footage, the standard images they've all seen before, plastered here again purely for shock value. What had been left of Khar'tal, found weeks after the actual siege, ashes in the wind and bodies left rotting on the streets, the courthouse that had been left intact and the eight bodies inside that were very much not. That blood soaked room and pile of elven remains seemed to accompany any discussion of the Wolf, as though it said all that needed to be said: look what he did here, what a monster.

As before, the images focused more intently on the elf himself, walking out of the same nondescript building in the same middle of nowhere, closer and closer until details were more clearly visible: his own markings, the brand, the unusual yellow eyes. “Strife's features make him easily recognizable. As you see here, he is modified as well, high class enhancements but nothing we haven't seen before. Most important to remember where the elf is concerned: do not, under any circumstances, allow him to put his hands in his pockets or at his ears. You do so, and you're dead. He is the reason you burn the bodies you can not take, do not underestimate him.”

More than a few sets of eyes flickered to him at that; Tallen wanted to punch them. What the fuck do you expect me to do? I'm a one trick freak who barely gets the trick. Someone like that would eat me alive. At least he'd spit me back out in your faces when he's done.

“One more thing of note.” The images kept flickering, following the elf through the Nowhere, out of sight of the building and there was an aether block vehicle coming into view, and the Wolf again waiting next to it. The two men met, speaking presumably, standing close; the Wolf's back was turned but the elf was clearly seen, bright eyed and smiling, body language relaxed and open toward the other. If it had been anyone else, any pair of normal people it might have been easy to see the inevitable progression of that scene, but they weren't and the kiss caught between them came as a slight surprise.

“The Wolf and the elf are married. They rarely travel apart. If you see one, always assume the other is nearby.”

Tallen narrowed his eyes, wondering again at the crowd of idiots around him. Why was no one asking? Are they supposed to believe the Wolf engages in a heart to hearts about life and love before proceeding to hack limbs off? Or were the two of them registered somewhere? Yet Tallen was the only one with doubts, even if they were not the doubts he thought he'd have.

The show continued, the images switching to that of the Wolf's inner circle, shown here lugging crates out to the vehicle, some unknown loot from an unknown raid, while their names and extensive criminal histories appeared beside them. Tallen tuned it out at this point, this was nothing he didn't already have memorized, the Wolf's crew, a band of psychos mostly picked from Kandha'l-har and Jiiroka, had been public knowledge for years, the rumor mill in Murderville could put a sewing circle to shame.

He'd expected this to be nothing more than an elaborate farce; he was no longer so convinced. Oh it was something, of that he was certain, London was nothing if not chock full of shit, but maybe – just maybe, he really did know what the Wolf looked like? Maybe not the Wolf but someone with him, an Illeathen native with strange half red mod burns, high enough up the food chain to be in bed with the Bloody Elf? Some secret weapon not yet seen? Hard to say, but London was clearly better informed than first suspected; the question now becomes how and why?

“This here is an odd case, but noteworthy nonetheless. This one is listed in the archives as Unknown Subject Number Four. He is not one of the Wolf's combatants, but he does seem to be inner circle. As has been observed, Canaan keeps him close and cared for, he even has a personal attendant following him around. We have no other information, not even a name, I suspect he is nothing more than a pretty bauble decorating the Wolf's bed. He is easily recognizable, tattooed and half blind as you see, more vulnerable than the rest and could prove an easy lead or lure to the Wolf himself, if the opportunity were presented.”

Tallen let the information sink in, quietly memorizing every detail best he could while maintaining an air of bored indifference. Something was going on here, and he was going to find out what. Find out and use it to his advantage if at all possible, beat that asshole at his own game and fuck him through the wall.

There was so much to repay.

London had caught his eye after the presentation concluded, trying to signal him to follow to his private suite. Tallen spitefully made him wait another hour, lingering outside the compound entrance smoking and lighting his gloved hand on fire whenever he saw someone passing, just to be sure they stayed away. When that lost its charm, he made his reluctant way to the second floor.

The outer door at the top of the stairs was unlocked as always, utilitarian gave way to luxury, plush white carpets and paintings along the walls, so bright it was near blinding. Tallen often wondered where the decoration came from, London hardly seemed the type to care; maybe it was left over from the previous occupants. London was not the only one who lived up here, Sandar's rat hole was probably on this floor, as well as...others. London still claimed half of it for himself; Tallen had access to the office and he thought he knew which was the bedroom, the others a mystery he was dying to solve. Anyone with that many locked rooms, had to be hiding something.

He barged into the office without knocking.

London was seated at the desk, a book open in front of him; he didn't look up from his reading. “I believe I summoned you hours ago.”

Tallen shrugged, taking the chair opposite and putting his feet on the desk top, as per usual. “Yeah, well. If you want me to come when called, maybe you should find a messenger that isn't afraid of me.”

His eyes scanned the open book automatically; it wasn't written in any script Tallen had ever seen, done by hand but hard to say if it was London's writing or someone else's, field agents or informants or any of the other unseen people the man claimed to have working for him. “I would be careful who you toy with. May come back to bite you one day.”

“I could say the same to you.”

“And you do. Yet I'm still here.” The book closed.

Tallen's eyes shifted to the left, taking note of the metal arm resting across a series of hooks on the far wall; it could be quickly reattached from that position, but not so quickly Tallen wouldn't be out of the room first. Not that he was concerned anymore, London had long since stopped giving Tallen the satisfaction of seeing him lose his temper; their relationship was set, little need for grand shows from either side.

He took his feet off the desk with a tired sigh, “Look, why don't you just say whatever you want to say and we can get out of each other's faces.”

The man smiled tightly, his hand moving to open a desk drawer, “Yes, of course. I understand I'm interrupting important drinking and whoring in the lower town.”

“You know me.”

A folder was removed from the drawer, tossed lightly across the desk in front of him. “Your assignment,” quick and to the point, “You have a few hours to get ready, transportation will be provided.”

Tallen eyed the folder grimly, tempted despite all his talk to leave it where it was, to never have to know. He picked it up before his reluctance became too obvious, hoping quietly for something acceptable. An image of someone's home taunted him from the top page.

“Clean it up,” London added casually, he was already returning to his reading.

Second page, third page; names mean nothing, don't look too closely at any faces. Tallen hit page four and stopped cold, he glared across the desk, “No.”

The asshole didn't even bother looking up, “Wasn't a request.”

“Fuck you,” Tallen slammed the folder back down right in the center of that open book, “Do it yourself.”

“But that's what I keep you for,” brown eyes raised, maddeningly calm and unperturbed, “Did you think it was your charming personality?”

“I don't give a fuck.” He crossed his arms, struggling to keep his reaction under control, “Its not necessary.”

“That is for me to decide.”

“Oh, this ought to be good.”

“I do not owe you an explanation.” London's jaw clenched, smile tight and unpleasant, “What is this now, Tallen? Fancy yourself above it?”

What Tallen wouldn't give to punch the man right in his smug fucking face; he wasn't even sure why he didn't just do it, a thousand times over. “I am not-”

“Not what?” sharply cutting off any further words, the man's cold gaze pierced through him. “You are a mindless, rutting animal. You will do as you're told. I have no need for a disobedient pet.” An eyebrow rose, “You think anyone here would mourn you? I imagine a collective sigh of relief, myself.”

Someone would... But he couldn't even be sure of that anymore. Tallen's hands curled into fists, hearing the leather creek, feeling the press of thin metal strips woven into the gloves; that heat was so close to the surface now, bubbling just under his skin, wanting out, to rage and consume until everything in sight was ash.

“Are you going to fight me on this, boy? I thought we had both tired of the game. Your little display will change nothing, you know that.”

To see that much hated face blacken, crack and split, his eyes melt and run, teeth pop like chestnuts. It would be beautiful; it was useless. Tallen snatched the folder back, standing up to his full height in an impotent attempt at intimidation.

“You're an asshole.”

“I would be more concerned with what this makes you.”

He left.