by Declan Finn
He was a specialist—indeed, a pioneer in a new area of the field of dermatology. He had discovered a way to ‘restore’ the life to the parts of the body that provided skin pigmentation, and indeed, to allow albinos, if they wished it, to have the skin color of whatever race it was in particular that they belonged to. It was a relatively new area of study within medicine, and the techniques involved had not yet come anywhere near to being perfectly reliable. There were a great many uncertainties to the surgery, and the consequences, if something went wrong, could be extraordinary.
Dr. Yeager had tried to warn Mister Sobel about the chances they were going to be taking with his son’s life if Alek underwent the surgery. He had attempted to get the man to take his son’s feelings about the matter in to consideration. He tried to make Mister Sobel understand Alek might be left unable to feel anything with his hands or feet, and that there might even be more significant consequences, if any complications occurred. Mister Sobel had not cared. It was obvious the man was driven by a desire to have a son who looked like what he considered ‘normal’ to be, and anything else didn’t matter, be it risks or otherwise.
Mister Sobel was a friend of Doctor Yeager’s employer, and so Yeager had been left no choice but to perform the operation. Morals didn’t seem to matter in his profession, anymore, at least in the eyes of some of its members, and he could not risk being blacklisted—it would end his career. Mister Sobel was ignoring what his son wanted. His only concern was that as far as he believed it to be, his son would be “normal.”
Still, Doctor Yeager had been made to take the case, and had promised Alek he would do his very best to deal with the situation at hand. Several days went by without anything unusual going on, after that. Days became weeks, and finally came the time for Alek to go under the knife. Doctor Yeager once again expressed his reluctance to undertake the operation, but he was left no choice—either do the operation, or risk ending his medical career permanently.
At the start, it had seemed as if everything was going as planned. The operation seemed to be proceeding with no difficulties, and Doctor Yeager had started to feel a little more confident about the whole situation. It was, unfortunately, only a few moments later, that the situation took a significant turn for the worse.
The newly colored portions of Alek’s skin had begun to revert to an empty white shade once more, and his heart had stopped. Dr. Yeager and his associates were able to restart it, but the damage had been done. There would be no making Alek, as his father had put it, ‘normal’, now. His skin could never be capable of maintaining pigmentation.
That, and there had been another significant consequence. Something that, when it was finally noticed, had terrified every person in the operating theater. A scream from a nurse had brought it to their attention, including Doctor Yeager, who was crying tears of bitter rage. He had brought nothing but more hell to this poor boy… and a moment later his tears stopped as he realized exactly what the nurse had been screaming about.
Alek’s eyes no longer had any irises. No color at all, just white-on-white, the red of his blood vessels showing, and the tiny black spots in the center of the now-otherwise-empty eyes that had been his pupils. It was immediately clear that he could still see. His reaction to the nurse’s screams had made that clear to Yeager.
“What the hell is going on, Doctor Yeager?” His voice was agitated, and not a single person could or would respond to his question. They were all too frightened by what had taken place to speak. Restarting Alek’s heart had been nothing unusual—but whatever it was that had happened to his eyes… that they had never seen the like of, before.
Alek frowned, sitting up. “What? Did this stupid operation not work, and your nurse is a little afraid of a naked man on a hospital be....” He stopped as his father entered the room, glaring at him like he was some kind of monstrous animal.
“You freak!” His father was screaming at him, pointing at him. “That’s all you are! A freak! You’re not my son, because my son would never have done this to me!”
Alek was confused for a moment. He had done precisely what his father wanted, and yet here his father was, going berserk? It was then that he looked at his arm, and saw that his skin was still colorless. It hadn’t worked. A moment later, he got a look at himself in the mirror a few feet away from his bed, and realized himself what the nurse had been screaming about.
His eyes were gone, in the sense that these fools would have seen them to be eyes… and here was the man who had made this happen screaming, calling him a freak! He pushed his way off the bed, an IV tube popping loose from its connection to his arm, leaving saline to drip all over the floor of the room. He stood, moving toward his ‘father’.
“You bastard. You stupid bastard…" he snarled. "…you made me go through this and I’m the freak?” Alek’s voice had begun to rise. “You and your fucking ego make me go through this operation, and it leaves me as something that really will scare people!” He spat on his father’s feet, glaring at him, the disgust he felt for the man made clear by his body language.
The growl in Alek’s voice was clear as he spoke. “Your imagination…” He clenched his fists, the rage building far past where it had previously halted. "Made you see every damn person who saw walking past us as staring at me! That they were staring at you, and pitying you because your son was a freak!”
Alek opened his hand, and a moment later, the same hand whipped across his father’s face, the slap snapping the older man’s head around and cutting the flesh of his cheek. “Now, you stupid, egotistical bastard, I’m the freak you always said the rest of the world thought I was. Are you happy? You couldn’t get your….” He snorted, glaring at his ’father’. “Perfect son, so instead now you’ve got something else for people supposedly to look down at you for! To pity you for! Your son really is a freak to them, now!” A moment later, Alek kicked his ‘father’ in the crotch, shoving him out the door with a push on his shoulders a second afterward. His father stumbled out the doors, rolling to lie on the tiled floor outside, making no attempt to stand up. It was clear he could not stand, even if he had tried.
“Go back to pretending you have no son, old man. It’s what you’ve always done, anyway. You’ve made me in to what you always said I was, now, and it’s no surprise you’re not willing to accept that what happened is entirely your fault!” His voice began to rise to a scream, the startled doctor and nurse staring after his father, who was lying on the floor out in the hall, gasping in pain and whimpering softly, clutching at his groin and wincing as he did so.
“This is your fault, old man! Accept it!” Alek spat at him again, walking out in to the hall nude a moment later, taking the money and cards from his former father’s wallet and then returned to the bed, sitting down. He turned a moment later to glance at the doctor. “Give me my clothes. I don’t belong here anymore, and I don’t want to be around you pathetic fools. That’s all you are. A collection of pathetic cowards.” He spat at Yeager, his voice and face showing the disgust his eyes no longer could.
“You kept warning him, and he refused to hear it. You had the choice, Doctor, to do this operation or not, and you figured your career was more important than your supposed morals!” He spat on the doctor’s feet, and turned to glance at the nurse, who was staring at him, clearly frightened silent.
“Get me my clothes.” His voice was cold, and he frowned as he looked at her, his pupils shifting open, which sent her skittering toward the door. “Get them now, you stupid bitch…” His tone was threatening, and a moment later, she slowly moved to the closet at one end of the room, and took his clothes out from it, along with his shoes. Alek smiled viciously at her as she dropped the clothes on the bed, shaking visibly. A moment later he spoke again, still smiling. “Now… get out.”
The nurse raced out of the room. Alek was sure she was headed precisely where anyone else in this stinking shit hole they called a world would be going—someplace where no one would bother her, that no one would ho
ld her responsible or hurt her because of what had happened. Doctor Yeager hadn’t moved a muscle. If he hadn’t been breathing, Aleksandyr would have thought he was dead.
Alek chuckled as he got dressed, his contempt for the rest of the world becoming more and more clear to both him and to the doctor. Yeager finally closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He spoke a moment later. “I’m sorry, Alek. I should have refused to do the op…” He was silenced as Alek’s hand slapped down on his mouth, palm-down.
Alek’s voice was thick with contempt. “Yes, I know what you’re going to say. Should’ve, would’ve, could’ve, Doctor. You’re just as pathetic as that worthless old shit lying out in the hall.”
Alek spat on Yeager’s feet again and exited the room, headed for the elevator. He stopped for a moment, and turned back to kick his former ‘father’ again, this time in the stomach. The man heaved violently as Alek spoke, his voice full of contempt. “You should just have had another kid if you didn’t get the first one right, moron. Even two. Third time is supposed to be the charm, after all.” He smirked. “I would spit on you now, but you aren’t worth the energy. You are pathetic. I may be a freak, but at least I’m not you!”
Alek left the hospital without any difficulty of any sort. Anyone who saw him immediately stepped out of his way. They were afraid of him, now, and with good reason. He saw them for what they were, now. They were a waste of life, just as pathetic as the old man. But there were more important things to concern him, now, than the garbage that made up the rest of the world.
Los Angeles was a waste of his time and energy. He would stop at the bank, take everything he could from his father’s accounts, and find someplace where if he had to deal with the losers that made up the rest of the human race, he would be able to do it on his terms. Those were the only terms that mattered. The only terms that would ever matter.
Chapter 7: Strange Happenings
Fees will always be collected on the following percentage scale: 45% payment before the completion of the contract (to allow for operating expenses, etc.), with the remaining 55% of the fee to be paid after completion of above. 55% of that remaining total will be given to the guild for dues.
Code of Professional Ethics (Assassins’ Guild)
San Francisco was built upon forty-six individual hills, and it had always been a place where the climate was radically different from the rest of the West Coast. Surrounded on all sides by water, the annual temperature was between 56 and 65 degrees, prompting the writer Mark Twain to make the comment once that “The coldest winter I’d ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.”
That climate differential affected the wind currents; that had made certain that any wind blowing nuclear fallout had been blown around, rather than through, San Francisco.
The only downside to the environment being unaffected was the fog. It was still now as it had been for hundreds of years—during December to March, the days were perfectly clear, but the rest of the year San Francisco was covered in one thick fog bank that concealed the entire city from view.
Kevin walked along a particular street towards the Ground Zero. It was a sizable building, three floors, two taken up by the club and its bar, but the rest was assumed to be living space for the triplet owners. It was just another post-destruction social post.
A glance from Kevin took him right past the bouncer at the entrance, much to the consternation of the other people trying to get inside, but a look over his shoulder silenced them instantly.
Tables started a few feet in from the door, and most were full that night, various Corporate officials, gang members, thugs and informants doing business and enjoying the evening, some drinking, others simply talking over the loud music from the speakers overhead. Below them, open to view, and separated from the main floor by a three-foot high metal ’fence’ was the dance floor, covered overhead by a flashing panorama of lights. Surprisingly, Mac was not downstairs at the deejay’s station, on the controls for the lighting system and the music. The stairs by the door leading down were filled with people.
It was built like something from before the Last Day for a typical ‘industrial dance club’; a solid steel ledge attached to an angled metal base-plate. At various points, drink coasters and small napkins were available, and a good portion of the bar was covered with bottles and glasses, every one seemingly accompanied by its drinker, alone or otherwise.
Mickie was behind the bar, her bright orange hair a definite eyesore to the customers. She was not a tall woman, but her attitude more than made up for it. Her eyes were bright blue, and a seemingly perfect contrast to her hair. She was so amazingly mercenary that not even Kevin found it funny. If a customer’s tab ran into the double digits, she would get cranky, even with Kyle, no matter the risk that entailed.
Kyle was on a stool a short distance from Kevin, a glass of water sitting on the bar in front of him. He took a drink as Kevin came toward the bar, putting the glass down as he turned to face the Exile. “Good evening, Mister Anderson.”
“Hey, Kyle. How’s your day been?”
Kyle shrugged. “Normal. A new contract on the Burners came in earlier.”
“About bloody time. Someone has to call out the exterminator on these fuckers. Is the target anyone in particular, or are you being paid by the scalp?”
“Someone in particular. Their leader, actually, but I do not have a name.”
Kevin thought for a moment, remembering back to his first encounter with the Burners. “Do you remember Nero?”
Kyle considered it. “I remember the name.”
“I also had a little chat with him while he was en brochette.”
“And what did you learn from him?”
“Well, would it help you to know that they meet in Golden Gate Park and that the man’s name is Alek Soubel? That he’s an albino without an iris?”
Kyle exhaled his breath. “Thank you, Mister Anderson. I knew of his skin condition, but his name and their meeting site will be quite useful to me.”
“Well,” Kevin drawled, “I don’t know how useful Golden Gate Park is, considering its size. However, considering that most albinos have pink irises, you’ve got to wonder how many guys like that there are even in existence.”
Kyle nodded. “Yes. That should narrow down the field considerably.”
Kevin waved it off. “Think nothin’ of it. How’s the research going on that other matter?”
Kyle frowned a moment, his brow furrowed, as though wondering what Kevin had been talking about. He blinked, and said, “It slipped my mind.”
Kevin was about to ask how Kyle could have forgotten about a 3 A.M. body in the middle of Chinatown, but then considered that Kyle was highly intelligent, and slightly absent-minded at times, not to mention that Kyle had been living in San Francisco for four years since the April Fool’s War. Three A.M. bodies were nothing unusual.
“Well,” Kevin continued, “I’ve got a name to run by you. Does Derek Ruedés sound familiar at all?”
Kyle frowned, and for a moment, his eyes seemed to flare. “I know the name, Mister Anderson. He was a candidate to join the Guild.” He paused a moment. “He was removed from our ranks before he even finished his training.”
Kevin nodded. “Then you would probably be interested in hearing that he’s selling himself as a trainer of Assassins, ‘cause not only did he train Mercenaries in Assassin’s hand-to-hand combat, training Mercenaries was part of the payment for the Mercs to go after the Assassin’s Guild.”
Kyle’s nostrils flared, and his shoulders tensed. “He was involved in the attack?”
Kevin nodded again. “Yeah, Kyle. I’m sorry.”
“You have no reason to be, Mister Anderson.” The Assassin took a breath, stood, and then picked up his glass of water. “If you will excuse me, though, I need a few minutes to consider what you have told me.” He took a drink. “Thank you.”
“Glad to be of service, Kyle.”
Without another word, the Assassin moved toward the doo
r of the VIP room in the back of the Ground Zero. He walked through it, and shut it behind him, the sound of the deadbolt shutting after him audible at the bar.
Kevin heard the first piece of glass shatter a few moments later, followed by a wild scream, going into a full-throated roar. The sound of a chair slamming into a wall came afterward. Following was what sounded like a hammer slamming into a piece of sheet metal, or maybe a weightlifting machine.
Kevin turned to Mickie and smiled. “Barkeep,” he called out over the crash of music and the crash of the VIP room, “we’re going to need another round.”
Another scream of rage, followed by the shattering of glass came out of the VIP room, and the short, sour bartender glanced back that way as she came over. “Something wrong with Kyle?”
Kevin smiled as charming as he could. “I taught him about primal scream therapy—” something snapped in the VIP room, and then hit the door. The door bulged “—he’s trying it out a little.” Kevin gave a small cough.
The door opened, and Kyle stepped out, looking prim and proper, as though nothing had changed. Not even a hair was out of place. He looked to Mickie and said, “Pardon me, where is Lotus?”
“With the computers, where else?”
“Thank you.”
***
Kyle started for the offices. Robert Hollyfeld, Mac, stepped out of the offices and into his way. Mac was of about average height and wiry, with a checkered mix of red and blonde hair. It was obvious that his was natural, unlike the clear dye job Mickie wore. The grin he was wearing almost seemed to want to be perpetual, and the mischief in his eyes would have been obvious to the blindest of people. He took a step in to Kyle’s way and mocked a bow. “Mr. Assassin, sir! Welcome! Here to pick up your money, I assume?”
Elsen stopped in his tracks. “Money? I haven’t earned anything, not even a commission on my latest assignment. There shouldn’t be any money.”
