Post by Kwan on Jan 16, 2012 16:08:30 GMT -5
* * * Entry One * * *
The Flesh Fare
The show would be five minutes late, the announcer promised. Fair enough. Karl could use five more minutes to prepare himself.
The spectators were all in their seats, save a few couples trickling in, their cheeks red from cold. Karl himself hadn't taken his coat off as yet. It had been the coldest winter he could remember, deathly so. Karl imagined there would be at least another month of this unnatural chill before the first glimpses of spring could be seen.
If I live 'till spring, he thought as he glanced discreetly at the shrouded catwalks above. He didn't like it, not knowing what was going on up there. Neither did Ren, sitting a few rows in front, completely stiff. He's not so discreet, Karl noticed disapprovingly. Hope the lad doesn't bring down this entire operation on our heads.
Suddenly, the lights were dimming, the announcer was speaking, and the curtains began to rise. Karl shifted in his seat.
Showtime.
Jets of fire roared into bloom beneath the fading curtains igniting the diaphanous fabrics and reducing them to airy cinders in colorful torrent of flame. Startled, Karl jumped in his seat and shielded his face, so recently freezing, both from the light and heat. More pyrotechnics; reds and yellows, greens and blues, erupted to his right and left while earsplitting techno music thundered out of concealed amplifiers surrounding the crowd on all sides, thumping and squealing and grinding like angry machinery. It was all awfully bombastic for a rundown warehouse down by the docks. Whoever was sponsoring this particular show had done a good job of masking what was outside from the inside. Karl could barely make out the oxidized open beams above him, or the broken down industrial equipment hidden behind the backdrops and amplifiers. Stepping out of the bleak and frozen cold of Old Moscow into this land of fire and color was quite a system shock.
Tall, lean figures appeared on the stage and charged forward along the pale celluloid catwalks to either side of him. Long, slender, naked legs, stomping in perfect rhythm with the mechanical cacophony, peaked out before floor-length black cloaks. The cold plastic of the catwalk lit up beneath the touch of each delicate bare foot, commanding that its presence be noted; and they were. The gathered crowd, now on its feet, leaned in to examine the minute nuances of skin tones and flexing musculature as the figures stomped past.
They’re like cannibals. Karl thought, watching the mob crowd against the elevated walkways to get a closer look at those beautifully feminine legs from any angle available. Not that I can blame them. He thought. The figures were close enough now that he could see the cloaks were done in raven black feathers which brushed the floor. Bulging epaulets stood out in stark contrast to the clearly petite bodies concealed beneath. Each wore a deep hood, tied at the neck, bathing their heads in shadow. Right now, legs and feet were on showcase, the rest would come later.
Murmurs circulated through the crowd, Karl could hear prices being negotiated and specifications being rattled off between buyers in a lingo he could’ve barely understood only if he’d been able to hear it.
Rumors had persisted all his life about what exactly went on at these things. These “Flesh Faires” as they were sometimes called. They were typically reserved for the morally ambiguous and the very, very wealthy. A list of regular attendants would read like a roster of the crème de la crème of criminal bourgeoisie. This one was no different; a glance around the room revealed the faces of some of the wealthiest, most infamous men and women in the world. Surely, most of them were nothing more than famous faces, but a few might even be the real deal.
Scattered in among them were a collection of entourages and body guards, most of which bore some form of augmentation; either biotech, or the more crude cybernetics. Most weren’t valuable enough to spring for full blown genetic augmentation; that was a patient man’s past time, and many in that line of employment didn’t live long enough to fully exploit the technology.
Ren still stood, nearly motionless, in the jostling crowd. Karl couldn’t help but smirk at his earlier fears that his mostly mechanical cohort would attract undue attention. Fits in better that I do. He mused, looking down at his aged, rugged hands. So few in attendance looked anything beyond twenty or thirty years old; and those few who did only appeared so due to old model cyber-mod fashions. Karl adjusted his tie and straightened his suit. Today, though, he wasn’t Karl. Today he was Carter Davis, CEO of New New York, a mind as prideful of his body’s purity as he was of his cities redundant name. Karl stood a little straighter, a little prouder; rule number one: Be the character.
Ren’s head turned to his left, jerking in almost unnoticeable fits and starts as his hand came to the side of his face and adjusted his auditory circuits. Almost a decade ago, Ren had been involved in a . . . a workplace mishap which had left most of his body badly burned. That was an understatement. Ren had been barely recognizable as human afterward. He had also saved the life of one Georgio Bellacosta; weapons mogul, cybernetics distributor and the head of one of the most powerful crime families in the East American Conglomerates. Funny we still call it that, Karl thought. Hasn’t been a West American Conglomerates in a long, long time. Washington DC has been awash in maple leafs for nearly fifty years now.
Ren’s reward for his heroics was a shiny new body and tenured employment with the Bellacosta corporation. New heart, new lungs, state of the art gastric metabolization unit, reinforced torso replacement, CyberTech Brand right appendage; the works. Hell, he even got a cranium upgrade. Surgeons dismantled his entire skull and reconstructed it, bone by bone with reinforced armor plating over the course of four years. By the time all the work was completed, a number of the parts they’d started with were nearly obsolete leaving Ren as creaky and cranky as an old man. Think I’ll send him a can of WD-40 for his birthday, he’s gonna need it.
Ren had to be in his sixties by now and it was obvious by his interest in this particular operation that he was hoping to score an upgrade or two on the way out. Still plenty of opportunity to make a mess of this thing.
The creatures on the catwalk reached their respective perches and paused dramatically, doing a quarter turn in both directions as the music melted into something more akin to a twentieth century air raid siren. Simultaneously they opened their cloaks in a flourish of honest to god wings; they weren’t cloaks at all. The Gen-mods were amazing, perfect even. Naked but for a few miniscule bits of clothing, she was flawless. They were flawless, for there were two of them, utterly identical. Tight and muscular, their bodies were sleek and gleaming like goddesses in the flashing lights and fire. Well, Karl assumed they were female. The bodies themselves appeared completely androgynous, as is the fashion. The context clues betraying her sex came less from the black thong worn on the pelvic region, and more by the archaic bathing suit style top covering what may or may not have been pre-pubescent breasts; an aesthetic affectation of an older, more modest time.
Davis, standing in one majestic shadow, smiled to himself as the figure before him slowly rotated in place to reveal the back side; as lithe and tight as the front. He had to admit that, despite his uncertainty that there was a certain eroticism to their utterly sexless figures. Perhaps more impressive, though, were the actual bird-like wings sprouting from the flesh on either side of the spine. Seamless, natural, beautiful. Surely they weren’t functional and these creatures could not fly; but to see how far the technology had come was a marvel to behold. The crowd agreed, as they circled and surged once more to get a closer look at the torsos on display.
So enthralled was Davis, that he almost failed to note that both women brandished assault rifles. Not in a threatening sense, but rather in a series of dramatic poses. Both weapons were of very old stock and probably no functional than any other stage prop; yet another nod to bygone days. The designers whose work was being showcased clearly had a thing for late twentieth century technology and fashion.
Genetic Augmentation was an infant technology, still rife with danger and uncertainty. The science of being able to alter the base genetics of a patient to provide medical and cosmetic results was a thing out of dreams. A much cleaner, more legal alternative to its father-science, Biotech, Gen-Mods were becoming incredibly popular not just among the criminal underground, but also in the more mundane public celebrity circles; despite the fairly regular occurrence of mishaps and cancers. It was ironic, really, considering its seedy origins.
Almost seventy-five years ago, an American doctor by the name of Gregory Vanni popularized what is today’s cosmetic biotech practice. The act of customizing and growing, in a lab, exactly those features a patient might wish to possess and transplanting them onto the patient’s body. It began primarily as a dermal procedure, but evolved quickly to encompass muscle, bone or organ modification; athletes might want better lungs, stronger hearts. The short wished to be taller, the tall wished to be shorter. It was cybernetics for the robophobic.
Of course, growing human pieces in a petri dish got the attention of the moralists who wanted to shut the whole thing down under the belief that these living pieces were living things and could feel their own pain . . . Not untrue. It took too long to grow components and many, many labs were shut down with patients having paid for products that would never come to fruition. This caused what, in retrospect, seems like a self-fulfilling prophecy. It was only a matter of time before impatience took over and growing body parts gave way to taking body parts.
The practice went underground where Dr. Vanni’s prodigal son further advanced the science with funding from various criminal organizations; most notably the Bellacosta and Callero families. Soon, Dr. Vanni the younger was able to transplant features not only from person to person, but with various tweaks at the genetic level, from some animals to other animals, and with more tweaking from animal to human. From there, it was only a few small steps from animal-to-man transplants, to genetic mimicry; altering the genetics of the patient to mimic, in some ways, that of the desired human or animalistic feature effectively growing the desired traits onto the patient. It took longer, sure, but the process was cleaner and the results often more fulfilling than either cybernetics or biotech.
Wings, fur, pointed ears, eyes, scales, tails, you name it; Dr. Vanni could make it happen. He became very, very wealthy. He taught assistants how to use his own procedures to prolong his own life span, not just to ward off aging. Men with that much money, in a profession which boasted somewhat unreliable results, had a tendency to make enemies. Dr. Vanni made a habit of often changing his features. He became known in the underworld as the Skinwalker, an ancient creature of myth that would pulverize the insides of its victims, drink them dry and wear their skin. He grew addicted to the science and moved about often; leaving in his wake a trail of research assistants and empty laboratories.
Nine years ago the triad of families, Callero, Bellacosta, and Vanni had a falling out. And in what is now referred to only as The Incident in Bellarustan, Dr. Vanni dropped off the map, presumed dead. The Callero and Bellacosta families, though officially under armistice, continued to feud privately to this day. Ren preferred not to talk about the Incident, but Karl remembered it well enough that discussion wasn’t necessary.
It was those self-same abandoned research assistants who brought the practice of Genetic Augmentation to the public. Many of them were now also very wealthy.
There’s something about the combination of money and beauty which breaks a man; makes them do things they would never consider if they were poor and ugly. These Flesh Faires were almost universally illegal. More often than not they not only showed off the legal results of genetic modification, but also contained an auction segment where various items were placed on the block.
The newest lines of cybernetics, both mundane, and highly illegal (and impractical) weapon systems were often displayed. Animals were also regular features; everything from the once common domestic house cat, to the rarest of frogs and fish were on display. But the finale was always the humans for sale. More often than not the homeless who had just enough good fortune to possess a strong jawline, or dignified nose, or particularly toned calves; each of whom were offered a portion of money to donate genetic markers or have their face mesh-mapped. Some of them even walked away unscathed and happy; but depending on who won the bid, their chances were just as likely that they would end up as spare parts.
Davis scanned the crowd for his target as another perfect model, this one with a lion’s tail and delicately teased mane of fur at her neck like a scarf, strutted across the stage carrying a cage containing a strange blue and yellow bird. Bids flew about as the announcer rattled off a string of figures in a language Karl neither knew nor cared about. He saw Ren grow about three inches taller, making equal effort to locate their prey. Ren had never seen the man, that’s why Karl was here to begin with. To be a spotter, to ensure the deed was done.
The CEO pushed his way lightly through the hustle and bustle of bidders and bodyguards making a more active effort to search. Almost an hour had passed and the Faire was drawing to a close and still somewhere in this crowd was Javier Callero. Javier Callero, first born of Mendoza Callero and heir to the Callero cartel had to die.
Karl sighted him a moment later nearest the forward stage examining a clear plastic box containing a coiled snake. Not surprising. Javier Callero had a thing about snakes; rumor had it he was in the market for a set of venom glands.
Davis approached more steadily. The crowd jostled and shoved him, mussing his intricately tailored suit. Ren spotted the moment and mirrored him, approaching Callero and his entourage from the opposite angle. Ren was not a particularly large man before his accident, now though; he was roughly eight-hundred pounds of alloyed armored plating. The crowd presented less of an obstacle for him.
The businessman arrived at the box first, adjusting his tie and pushing into the quarter of Callero and bodyguards as though trying to get his own glimpse at the boxed beast. Bidding was still open, after all. He brushed against the first born, shoving him some and behaving utterly indifferent. Be the character.
A trio of guards laid hands on Davis, lifting his feet from the floor half shoving, half carrying him away from Mr. Callero. He made a show of being indignant, arguing, apologizing and generally causing a scene; though his eye lingered over the shoulder of one of the guards.
Ren approached Callero with swift confidence. His final step coordinated one smooth motion with the draw of his pistol. Callero and the surrounding crowd didn’t even notice his approach so attentive they were to the irate business man being hauled off his feet in the other direction.
Ren’s electronic voice caught him by surprise, “Georgio Bellacosta says, ‘Hello.’”
The barrel of the weapon touched Callero’s chest and the cartridge entered his torso with an almost inaudible thump. Javier clutched his chest, blood pouring between curling fingers. He managed to cry out, alerting his still unaware guards.
They dropped the offending CEO and hurried to Callero’s defense. One rushing directly to his aid, the other two pulling weapons and firing on Ren. A round caught him in the arm, deflecting wild off the armor plating; another passed him by all together shattering an amplifier and raining sparks into the startled mob. The crowd scattered, people huddled behind chairs and beneath the catwalks. Models ran to and fro seeking sanctuary from errant gunfire.
Davis pulled his own pistol firing into the skull of a guard facing away from him. The man pitched forward onto his face from the impact exposing burnt metal beneath the synthetic flesh of his head.
“Shit. Ren!” Davis called out. Callero, with the help of his body guard, was getting to his feet.
Ren charged forward tackling the third of the guards, taking another round to the chest, and half-leaping over his tumbling body. Ren lifted Davis off his feet and fireman carried him toward the nearest door. Davis fired wildly from his precarious position. His ribs ached from and his aim was terrible. A shot went wide and brought down a pyrotechnic engine, fire belched in time with the music into a panicking crowd of onlookers.
“We’re clear! Blow it!”
Ren set him down and began to fumble with a setting on his weapon. Davis ducked behind him, scanning the chaos for an easy escape. Across the room Javier Callero exploded in a fine red mist dotted with bits of bone and gore. The body guard carrying him stumbled about, minus one arm and all rational faculties. A moment later a second guard exploded; this one more fire and alloy based. Shrapnel tore into the surroundings with little heed for person or property. More bystanders went down.
This is all going to hell. Karl thought. He dropped his weapon to the floor, a Bellacosta brand calling card, and started moving toward the door, grabbing hold of a fleeing body shield on his way out. He heard the dull thump of Ren sending still more firepower down range. Additional explosions followed.
It was snowing outside and still miserably cold. So cold in fact that Karl still noticed it despite everything else. Fires blazed purple and green from the lower windows of the warehouse. Ren was still inside. Automatic weapons fire could be heard from outside; perhaps those old guns weren’t props after all?
Karl approached an old, rundown transport slipping on an ice patch as he opened to rear double doors. Taking the crying body shield by the hair he forced him side. The man whimpered his indignity but did not attempt to flee. Karl slammed the doors shut and crawled into the passenger side of the cab.
“Drive, Uri.” He commended the controls, “Back it up to those bay doors.”
The engine fired to life eagerly and Uri obeyed without question. The rear treads slipped at first on the gathering ice but once they got grip the transport guided itself to loading bay door with mechanical precision, and amazing speed.
Karl kicked the rear doors open on approach and threw up the rolling bay door as soon as he could reach it. Smoke billowed out into the freezing cold and the heat from inside nearly knocked him over. People were fleeing the building now, many burned or bleeding. Most inside were not moving.
Ren appeared from within a black cloud and hopped, almost nonchalant, into the rear of the transport. “Let’s go.”
“Uri. Protocol Seven. Mind the traffic laws.” The transport pulled away from the burning building, fast at first with its emergency overrides overriding commands and escaping danger, then slowing to within the confines of the local law as the light from the warehouse faded into the distance.
“Well?” Karl turned on Ren. “What was that about?”
Ren reached up to the back of his head, adjusting something. The metallic skull-plates parted along minute seams bisecting the helmet vertically. Shining alloy hands lifted it free exposing the sweating face of a woman. She shook out close-cropped blonde hair and smiled at Karl. “Sorry, Hun. Something fell in front of the door right after you got out.” She leaned in for a kiss.
Karl complied. She continued to strip off metallic body armor exposing more and more skin with each piece. “That was some cold-hearted shit in there, Tanya.”
She removed the chest piece, smiling suggestively. Her body was bruised in a dozen places, didn’t look like anything serious. She certainly didn’t appear to be feeling injured. “Rule number one.” She replied simply.
Rule number one, indeed. Tomorrow morning the real Ren will almost assuredly have a rude awakening courtesy of the Callero cartel. Karl couldn’t be sure if Javier Callero was killed in the attack, he couldn’t even be sure that had been the real Javier Callero. What he could be sure of was that the attempt had been made, by one of the most notorious employees of the Bellacosta Corporation.
That old war was back on for sure, and he had front row seats.
Tanya wrapped a long coat around her naked body. Karl leaned back in his seat as she crawled on top of him; the smell of her sweat was strong in his nose. He felt a stirring in his slacks.
There was a muffled whimper from the corner. Karl had almost forgotten about him. The poor man was obviously shaken; he appeared to have soiled himself. Tanya turned to acknowledge the shaking, near-naked model.
“Oh. You brought a guest?” She purred. “What do you intend to do with him, Dr. Vanni?” She eyed his young muscular form with an almost bestial hunger.
Doctor Karl “Skinwalker” Vanni cocked an eyebrow at Tanya’s reaction. “I think he and I can make an arrangement.” He placed his fingers on her chin and guided her eyes back to his own, “Until then, hands off.”
She frowned playfully. “Yes, Doctor.”
* * * Entry Two * * *
The show would be five minutes late, the announcer promised. Fair enough. Karl could use five more minutes to prepare himself.
The spectators were all in their seats, save a few couples trickling in, their cheeks red from cold. Karl himself hadn't taken his coat off as yet. It had been the coldest winter he could remember, deathly so. Karl imagined there would be at least another month of this unnatural chill before the first glimpses of spring could be seen.
If I live 'till spring, he thought as he glanced discreetly at the shrouded catwalks above. He didn't like it, not knowing what was going on up there. Neither did Ren, sitting a few rows in front, completely stiff. He's not so discreet, Karl noticed disapprovingly. Hope the lad doesn't bring down this entire operation on our heads.
Suddenly, the lights were dimming, the announcer was speaking, and the curtains began to rise. Karl shifted in his seat.
Showtime.
The announcer was a big man, with a full, auburn beard in the new patriotic style. He had committed his lines to memory, and so, without a teleprompter in front of him or a script in his hands, he gazed out over his audience and at the cameras. He sat erect, with priestly dignity, his hands folded atop his desk. When he spoke, his voice was soft and deep. “Good evening, my fellow Alaskans. I am John Murray, and tonight, I will be moderating the debate between our Presidential candidates.”
Karl scanned the audience. Ren was still practicing to be a statue. The five Senators in the front row all had their arms folded in expectation and perhaps from the cold as well. Before them, the curtains had fully risen, revealing the three candidates.
Edward Jacobs, the Autarkist candidate, was the first to talk, a hollow-cheeked man with staring eyes and flamboyant gestures. Karl listened to the flow of propaganda, and found that it was beautiful, like a work of music. The main theme was brought up, the fervent plea for sovereignty, and then it evolved into variations on the cry for self-determination. The Autarkist was the best speaker of the three, as everyone knew, and he played his audience’s passions like the strings of a guitar. Karl was reminded of The Triumph of the Will: the Autarkist was beginning to shout and to slam his hands against the podium, moving with a frenetic energy born of his unshakeable convictions. He would have forged a new destiny for his people, were he not for that night.
“For what is a nation without its spirit?” Jacobs was crying out. “Why should we bow to the demands of the world beyond? We are the last frontier! Why should we pioneers open our land to the rapacity of the outlanders? Look at my arm!” He drew back his sleeve, showing the spiralling tattoo from his wrist to his elbow. “I got this for killing a San Francisco general with his own gun!” He leered at the other candidates, and at the audience. “Can you say the same?”
Hung-tzu Lee, the Republican candidate, cleared his throat significantly, and John Murray looked to him, nodding permission to speak. “Mr. Jacobs, nobody doubts your patriotism or your military experience, but your party’s economic policy cannot hope to enrich the people of Alaska. It will reinforce our independence, yes, but at the cost of our wealth, or even our safety. We Alaskans are some of the last oil suppliers left in the world, and to hoard all of that petroleum to ourselves could be a disaster. The Celestial Emperor of Japan, I know, has recently declared that his nation’s need for fuel transcends the interests of peaceful diplomacy. Are you willing to risk a second invasion for the sake of a party platform?”
“Let them come!” Jacobs roared. “We proved ourselves against the Union, didn’t we?” He stared out at the audience, his face rigid with fanaticism. “Let them wait for a good winter like this one,” he added with a sly grin. He raised his left hand, and wiggled the frostbite-shortened stumps. A ripple of grim laughter went through the audience.
Karl remembered the days spent out in the forest glades, with a gun strapped to his back, watching the sun come up over Mount McKinley while the spring birds were twittering in the bushes. Why should he feel ashamed of what he was doing now? He had done his people service enough, as good as these people in their suits. As the Autarkist spoke and the other two candidates listened, Karl found himself glancing up at the lights constantly. Security had been too tight; there would have been no chance to plan this ahead of time. They had to respond to the demands of the moment. Spontaneity might have made Ren nervous, but Karl loved it. It was like jazz, the thrilling uncertainty and the sudden outburst of improvisation. He could feel it coming on, the excitement building in him.
The Nationalist candidate now got permission to speak. Esmeralda Alvarez was the incumbent, the Hispanic woman who had defected to the Alaskan side during the War of Independence against San Francisco. If she was thinking of the xenophobic comments that Jacobs had made about her on the campaign trail, she showed no sign of it. “While I agree with Mr. Jacobs that we should be unafraid to protect our territory and our interests against any Imperial incursion from Asia, Senator Lee’s proposal of open trade with the outside world will be critical to our war effort. The fact is that we do not have enough manufacturing to sustain a long-term and full-blown war effort. The guerrilla fighting of the War of Independence against the forces of a country already crippled by the Chaos Rebellion was one thing, but if it comes to war with Japan, the Empire will be coming in full force with state-of-the-art weaponry. We need the support of allied nations in Europe if we are to be able to protect our national security.”
Karl wondered if it had been the Swedes or the Russians who had bribed her to say that. He thought he saw the ambassadors from both countries in the front rows of the audience. That would create some diplomatic problems later. Well, it couldn’t be helped. He looked over at Ren, who had shifted slightly in his seat but sat with the same old tension. With his Asian features, at least, it would make sense for him to be nervous to any of his neighbours. All of the immigrants from the Far East were worried about the possibilities of the Empire coming to Alaska and accusing them of being traitors to the nation. Karl, however, was blonde, tall, and pale, and he forced himself to appear as calm as he could be. Yet his pulse was ever quickening.
Lee was making his rebuttal, stating that such bellicose language would only provoke the hostility of the Empire and become a self-fulfilling prophecy. There were boos in the audience from the war hawks, but John Murray said loudly on his microphone, “I ask that we all please remain civil here to the candidates.” Karl looked up intently at the catwalks, and then, there! One of the blue lights was turning on and off regularly, the exact one that had been pointed out. Karl was almost shaking with anticipation.
On his cue, Ren turned around and looked significantly at Karl. Karl nodded, and both of them got up from their seats, apologetically making their way to the aisle. Ren walked up: he had styled himself perfectly for the part, with gold earrings, spiked hair, and designer shoes. Karl slipped his arm around Ren’s waist, and the two sauntered up the aisle. Karl even noticed, to his satisfaction, that one conservative-looking old woman shot them a dirty look as they passed. Nobody would think it strange that they were leaving together.
When they were out in the desolate, unploughed streets, Karl and Ren slowly made their way behind an old block of shops across the street from the hall. The moon was disappearing, veiling her face like a virgin. They looked at each other, the crudely made wireless for the bomb held fast in Ren’s hand. They did not say anything, but both felt the weight of what had to be done pressing upon them. Ren’s golden face was slack and his eyes were wide, and Karl knew it to be horror. He reached over and gently prised the boy’s hands apart, taking the remote. For a moment, Karl thought of what he was doing: destroying the leaders of his nation, dooming it to a swift conquest by an alien race. Though he had justified it a thousand times, Karl felt himself at last for what he had always denied himself to be. It sickened him. But then, he emptied his mind of all but his duty, which was before him. Karl slammed the heel of his hand against the switch.
The hall collapsed, howling its death-curse in tongues of fire.
Ren and Karl ran together as fleet as hunted harts, the gelid wind beating against their faces as they went. An eldritch light filled the air around them as the fire’s vivid glow infused the blizzard. The snow came swirling down, innumerable freezing flakes. As Karl fled the scene of his treason, he felt the chill seizing him like a nightmare, surrounding him and making him its own. It burned. Fear struck him, and he ran faster, gasping for the bittersweet succour of winter air. Ren was ahead of him, leading the way. Ren dodged and turned so swiftly that sometimes he looked as if he were about to lose his balance and fall, but he would always recover and then tirelessly continue onwards. Karl lumbered after him, grunting as he went. Though his heart hammered so hard that it seemed like it would burst, he dared not slow down, for he could imagine that they were being pursued. The light of the fire behind them had painted the sky. Karl kept no track of where they were going, for nothing could be seen beyond the churning cloud of white that hung about them on every side. Ahead, Ren was always on the verge of disappearing, a dark and bolting shape. At last, he turned down a side alley, and slowed to a stop. Karl followed him, and almost buckled to his knees for exhaustion. He was shuddering from the cold, despite his winter gear.
“Goddamn it, Ren!” Karl roared after the two of them had regained their breath. His hands were jammed beneath his armpit and his face bowed against the wind. The rage was welcome warmth, thudding in his neck and giving strength to his clenched, tingling fists. Never had he felt such bitter cold, not even when he had fought in the mountains against the Californian army all those years ago. “We don’t have time for all these evasions! We need to find shelter now until the storm blows over!” His eyes were squinted, and the light was fading, so by the time that he could tell that his partner had drawn his pistol, it was far too late.
The gun leapt slightly in Ren’s hand, its sound muffled by the silencer, and by all the falling snow. Agony tore through Karl’s chest, expelling the breath from his lungs in a soft gasp. His feet were suddenly all uncertain beneath him. Karl felt a jolt as his back slammed against the brick wall behind him. He slumped down to the cold ground. Steam coiled from his gushing blood and from his mouth, hanging agape despite the bitter chill upon his tongue and lips.
“Oh, Karl,” Ren said as he lowered the gun and looked down. “Did you think that our father the Emperor would pardon a traitor of his own people? Did you think that we had any further use for you?” His shoulders were hunched, as though he carried some terrible burden.
The cold was not upon Karl’s face alone. It was coursing through his dying brain. Sinking into his gut. Filling his arms. Everywhere. He felt the snow settle on his legs and the wind stinging at his eyes. Breath was like frozen fire. There was no anger now, nor fear, but only suffering, focused into perfect clarity. He could not move at all, but for the last violent shivers that still wracked him, his body’s futile attempt at self-preservation.
Ren’s boyish, sincere face twisted slightly, and he crouched down before the fallen man. He was crying. “Does it hurt so very much?” he whispered.
Karl moaned.
Ren took out his gun and examined it. “I am out of bullets.” Then he looked at Karl’s breath, still managing to steam the air. Ren put forward one gloved hand, and touched a numb cheek gently. Then he pulled off Karl’s hat, his gloves, and his boots, one by one. He took fistfuls of snow and pushed them down the front of Karl’s coat, and unbuttoned his pants and packed snow there, as well. Lastly, he packed it in Karl’s mouth. The shivers halted. Karl looked through hooded eyes as Ren wiped the freezing tears from his eyes. Ren tried to say something, but the words died upon his lips. He got to his feet, and vanished into the deathly haze of the night.
And so did Karl.
