Everyone has scars. And yet here I sit, scarred and beaten…and coming back for more.
“ You want me to revoke your status as a Southern Claw officer,” Pike said slowly, visibly clenching his teeth at the words, “but to retain your services as an operative for the Alliance.” He took a drag from his cigarillo. “So, in essence, you want to become a mercenary, working for us.”
“ Working only for the Southern Claw,” Cross added quietly.
Pike laughed, and blew out a stream of smoke. Dank afternoon light fell through the tall windows of the sandstone chamber. Cross heard the moans of patients in the medical wing, a massive network of bed-filled chambers located beyond the reinforced wooden door across the hall. The air was dry and cold and filled with dust and cobwebs, and unnaturally thick shadows clung to every corner of the hospital, lending the entire structure an exceedingly ominous atmosphere. Graves used to joke that the hospital looked more like a place to party with vampires, not fight them.
“ If that's the case, why not just stay?” Pike said. There was a hint of anger to his tone, but that was more or less a given when you talked to Pike. He was an excellent field commander, but not much of a people person.
“ I’d consider it, if you’ll take on Danica Black and Mike Kane.”
Pike laughed quietly again.
It’s better than him chewing me out, I guess.
“ I read their files,” Pike nodded as he smoked and paced around the table. Cross kept his eyes forward. “Kane is a criminal and thief, and he was a gladiator at Krul. Black is a long-standing member of the Revengers, an organization that we have tenuous relations with, at best.” He paused. “You know we can’t do that.”
“ The Southern Claw allowed my sister to join my squad,” Cross said, trying to contain the bitterness in his voice. “So they can allow a couple of seasoned fighters — who, by the way, helped destroy a major threat — to join the Southern Claw as special operatives.”
Pike finished his circle of the table, and stopped.
“ It’s unlikely to happen, Cross.”
Cross nodded.
“ Then you know my decision. You gave me the option whether or not to stay on when I returned from Viper Squad’s last mission.”
“ And you never really gave me an answer,” Pike said.
“ I am now. Sir…the Southern Claw uses mercenaries all the time. Give my team the shit jobs — we’re used to it. You know we’re capable. We’ll be a much bigger help as freelancers than we will as part of the regular army, anyways.” He saw Pike raise his eyebrows as he pondered the possibilities. Everything Cross said was true: while the Alliance didn’t like to talk to about it openly, they made use of quite a few mercenary bands to act as backup for undermanned Companies, or else to do routine investigating or carry out patrols in understaffed areas. It had been a mercenary outfit — the so-called Storm Riders — who’d helped bail Wolf Company out of the fire when they were ambushed by Ebon Cities regulars at Blackmarsh. “Most of the mercenaries that the Alliance uses aren’t reputable,” Cross continued. “I’m offering you the services of some that are.”
Pike sat back down, and lit another cigarillo.
“ I don’t get it, Cross. What’s so important about these two? I know you’ve been through a lot together, but…”
“ More than can ever be told,” Cross said. “Sir, I…” Cross paused. It was going to be difficult to explain. He wasn’t sure if anyone would really understand. “A lot of soldiers died up there.”
“ Are you going to feed me some shit about how that’s your fault?” Pike said. “Come on, Cross…every single one of them knew what they signed up for.”
“ That doesn’t matter,” Cross said. He shifted in his chair. “Not to me.” He leaned forward over the table. “Sir…me, and Black, and Kane…we might pick up some other mercs, people we know we can trust…but we work well together. I didn’t think we would, but we do. I’d trust my life to either one of them. And they…none of us have any family, any ties, or any friends apart from one another.” He stood up. “If we die, no one will care.” Pike gave him an irritated and dubious look. “Look, we can do some good. We can clear out vampire barracks or track down missing criminals. We can explore lost temples or back up Hunter Squads. Pay us by assignment. We’ll report to you or to whoever you tell us to report to.” Cross shrugged. “I guess…that’s my pitch.”
Pike sat there, quiet. After a minute or so spent appraising Cross, Pike nodded, approving.
“ You know you don’t have to leave the service,” he said.
“ I think I do. I think I’ll do more good like this.” Cross made to leave.
He’d just reached the door when Pike spoke again.
“ Good job out there, Cross. You saved a hell of a lot of people. Maybe all of us.” He took a drag. “Again. You’re a real hero, even if you’re the only one who doesn’t see it.”
Cross put his head against the door.
“ I don’t know what I am,” he said quietly. His spirit, who’d kept to the background and had remained a tangential presence throughout the conversation, decided to come close then. She pressed against Cross, and flushed his cold skin with her heat. His gauntlet crackled at her proximity as gauges set into motion, ready to channel her. But she couldn’t stop him from shaking.
Not all that long ago, I was almost at peace. But I was just deluding myself. Look at me. Something died inside of me a long time ago. I have to find it. I think Black and Kane might be able to help me. If not…I guess at least I’ll die in decent company.
He opened the door.
“ Cross?”
“ Yes, Sir?”
“ Assuming I agree to this…what should I call your team?”
Cross looked out of the window. The skies had turned dark red, the color of a wound. A white spider crawled across the window, so quick Cross might have imagined it.
“ I don’t know,” Cross said. “Don’t call us anything.”
Dear Jeraline,
My name is Eric Cross. I knew your brother.
I’m sorry that I won’t be able to make the trip to see you in person. As it happens, while I thought I was going to have a bit of freedom to travel, the fighting between Thornn and the Bonespire across the plains recently started again, and my team is going to be needed.
I spent a few months in Dillon’s company. I can’t say that I got to know him terribly well — he was not the most loquacious man, and neither, as it happens, am I — but at the same time I very much considered him a friend.
I’ve been told that word of his death has reached you. I wrote to tell you that he died well. I know that doesn’t mean much — my own sister died as part of a mission just over a year ago, and the fact that she died serving the Southern Claw and fighting for our survival does little to quell my guilt and pain at knowing that she is gone.
Regardless, I wanted you to know that your brother was a good man. One of the best men I have ever known, in fact. It was my honor and my pleasure to serve with him. In the end, his death ultimately saved the lives of thousands of people…maybe the lives of everyone in the Alliance.
I hope to meet you in person someday, but I don’t know if we’ll ever really have the chance. If that is the case, I hope this letter finds you well. I miss your brother dearly. I know that he loved you and your son very much.
Take care.
Eric Cross
“ What’s that?” Jonas asked.
Cross folded up the letter. The Black Hag was particularly loud that evening. Thick smoke and dank lighting made it all but impossible to see anything that was more than a few feet away.
Cross was still working on his first drink. In spite of Jonas’ prodding, that was all he planned on having.
“ Something I need to send off.”
“ Love letter?” Jonas asked. The warrior priest had long hair, and a deep scar ran down one side of his face. For a priest, he could put away liquor like no one else that Cross had ever se
en. Even Graves hadn’t been able to keep pace with him.
Jonas and Graves had been good friends for a long time. Jonas had taken news of Sam’s death particularly hard, and he’d smashed up the Black Hag and spent a few nights in jail because of it.
“ An apology,” Cross said. He had to all but shout to be heard through the din of the Hag's tinny industrial drums set to Middle-Eastern chants, the roar of gamblers, the laughter and song of drinkers and dancers. Muted lights cast the smoke-filled tavern in shadow.
“ You apologize too much,” Jonas laughed. “Drink!”
“ Maybe later,” Cross said, and he patted the priest's shoulder and pushed his way past dancers and waitresses.
Black and Kane sat at their table, quietly sharing a drink in an unquiet place. Both wore dark shirts and armored coats. In Thornn, it was unwise to ever go unarmored, or unarmed.
“ How are we doing?” Cross asked them. The corner they'd tucked themselves away in was a bit quieter than the rest of the Hag; you could actually hold a conversation, provided you got close enough.
Cross set down his black guava. He felt a bit dizzy, and he knew he'd need to eat soon.
“ You know,” Kane said. “I may actually need to have another drink.”
“ You've had four,” Black laughed. “I have no qualms about leaving your drunken ass here…just so we're clear on that.”
“ I can't feel a thing,” Kane shrugged.
“ That’s evidence that you've had too many!” Black laughed. She'd had a few too many, herself.
Cross watched them, and smiled. In reality, he still only barely knew them, and he wasn't sure how well he'd ever really know them…or how well he really needed to.
I know you both need this, he thought. Kane needs to kill vampires, and find Jennar. Black needs a cause, something to do that doesn't involve taking bribes and mistreating prisoners…something good.
They both needed something good.
How about you? Cross asked himself, and he was surprised at the question. Everything seemed to fade, the sound in the bar, the smoke, the choking tobacco air. Even the table fell away, along with Black and Kane and his slithering and anxious spirit. It was as if Cross sat alone.
What do you need?
I don't know. I don't know what I need. But I hope that I find it soon.
He came back, and took a drink.
Black told Kane about how all of his various escape plans from Black Scar would have failed. Kane, in turn, explained to her how he'd have easily beaten her had they been matched up in Krul. Both of them laughed, and drank, and smiled. Cross had never imagined seeing either of them like this: so present, and so full of life.
I need to feel like that. I need this, and I need them.
“ Was that a spider?” Black said as she leapt up from her stool.
“ You're afraid of spiders?” Kane laughed.
Black splashed her drink onto Kane’s face. Kane laughed, Black laughed, and Cross laughed, too, and they kept laughing together deep into the night.
Steven Alan Montano
Black Scars
It stirs. It breathes.
It slips through oceans of pain. Eyes like sharp white blades blink and struggle against the tide of blood that washes its body down the river. The flow is turgid and thick. Unknown fish, eyeless and pale, slither against its legs. Its body thuds against rough stones in the river.
It is underground again, confined to black fluid.
Another prison.
No. This is different. Not a prison. An escape.
It fell. The Pale Goddess has bested it again. Her servant found a way to reform, to pass its powers on so that they could be yielded by the warlock.
The Sleeper will do the same. Even now, a fragment of its greater whole lives on. It rests in the consciousness of this man, this barely living creature who floats in oil-black waters in an underground river. The body is not whole. It has been engineered, modified by unnatural means. Some of those means are familiar to the Sleeper, as the science is based on its own physiognomy.
Curious, the Sleeper looks closer, into the heart of this man. He has been re-imagined, organs and limbs replaced. His blade, an unholy thing made of fused realities and twisted thaumaturgic science, is still in his hand, and its power sustains him, keeps him alive.
He will do. Even that fragment of the Sleeper's form is enough to animate this dying husk, this hybridized being. He will live as a host.
His muscles darken as the Sleeper takes full control of his faculties. It slides into his pulsing muscles and forces itself into the space behind his eyes. It activates necrotic engines in the man's circulatory system so that they pump blood into his darkened heart. It grips the blade, and dark power that even the brilliant architects of the weapon couldn't fathom pour through its body and lend it strength.
When the waters exit the ruins beneath the ice city and spill into the arctic wastes, the man called Jennar rises, infused with the power of The Black.
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Document creation date: 23.08.2012
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Black Scars bs-2 Page 28
