Castling

by Jack McGlynn

  And you’d have been what? Eight years old at the time?”

  “Nine.”

  Silence engulfed the apartment. Sean’s memory churned, digging through a lifetime of disregarded brawls and forgotten rivalries. His expression leapt as realisation finally dawned.

  “Rook?!”

  “Sean. Long time.”

  ‘Lancet’ leapt down, scotch still clasped firmly in his grip, “My God. You filled out!”

  “It’s all diet.” Rook grinned sheepishly.

  “Isn’t that a coke float?”

  “Diet coke float.”

  Rook raised the murky brown foam for another swig. Chuckling, Sean gulped his tumbler’s remainder, sauntering back for a refill.

  “I heard a dirty rumour you collected so many heads that night, C.A.M.L. offered you a job on the spot. Are you here at their behest? Because I haven’t been to Central America for years.”

  Rook waved away the accusation,

  “No, no. Once Cuba dusted itself off and threw its resources into that peacekeeping meta-human league, they were content to let my contract... expire.”

  “Well I’m not surprised. You were an antisocial git. Hardly the poster child for super-human cooperation...”

  “I wasn’t that bad.” Rook insisted, a sudden uncertainty creeping in.

  “Oh yeah?! Tell that to whats-his-name, the Australian in the trench coat, that ponce everyone loved... Angle... Axel? Axel!”

  “I can’t.”

  “And why is that Rook?” Sean teased, “Is it because you hit him so hard he went deaf?”

  “Okay, maybe I was a little antisocial.”

  “Ha! Bad is the only word that travels in our circles, Rook! Which is why I suspect your newest employer struggles with the basic tenants of irony; sending someone like you to lecture me on morality is a little rich, no?”

  “I’m not here to lecture you, Sean” he smoothly assured his mark. The man’s greying eyebrows hooked.

  “Oh bless, are you really playing the empathy card?

  You understand how I feel, eh? You want to get me help, is it? No doubt the very same help that gave you a renewed purpose? So I give up my wicked ways all will be forgiven?!

  You needn’t waste your breath. This isn’t my first house call. Europe, China, Africa, they all tried to get me on board, threatening then flattering. I’m sure you’ve noticed forgiveness isn’t all that hard to come by for individuals as... talented as us.

  Still you’re due some credit, at least. You’re here alone, unarmed, talking man to man. That’s dignified. Brain dead, but dignified.

  But honestly Rook, are you still so desperate to play the hero?”

  Rook’s reply was immediate, explicit.

  “Nope.”

  Their eyes locked and Sean understood. Rook wasn’t there to lecture him, to bribe him, to strong-arm, threaten or flatter him. Rook was there to murder him. In his own home.

  Decidedly un-heroic.

  “Well, well, all grown up... good for you. So, before we redecorate, what did you want to talk about?”

  Rook swirled the dregs of his coke float, eyeing the brown foam staining the glass’ edge.

  “I want to know the why.”

  Sean’s flinch was almost imperceptible. A cybernetic hand rubbed the nape of his neck as he paused, sighing.

  “I don’t normally discuss the why...”

  “Well, let’s just say I’m doing a survey. So indulge me” Rook insisted, marching around to find a wall he could lean his shoulder into.

  “I had a boy.” Sean began, croaking,

  “Probably would have been about your age now....” he paused, eyes glazed, then took another long swig. He swallowed, “I had a partner, a wife back then too. But we had to travel a lot, as folk of our stature are wont to do.

  Long story short, my son... he had the misfortune of being born in Beijing. And there is no point trying to fight those conscription laws. Trust me, Rook. It can only make matters worse. So, the day he turns five, a couple of suits show up at the house, and they take...” a haggard breath escaped him, “they take my son.

  They pumped him full of that same poison everyone was pushing so hard back then. Same poison they gave you and three hundred other children. And my child, well, he wasn’t you was he? None of them were.

  So you already know he didn’t live through it.

  Because none of them did.

  It hit me pretty hard. But my wife? It-“

  Rook dinked his glass with a fingernail, interrupting,

  “Can I just stop you there, please?! Sean, I don’t have all night. So, if you’re not going to take this seriously-“

  The mercenary threw his head back and howled, giddy laughter bucking his frame. His arm whipped out and snagged the bottle’s neck, pouring its golden contents into his glass.

  “Oh alright! Couldn’t resist, but I have it on good authority that my little fabrication is both endearing and sensitive.”

  Rook sighed, shaking his head,

  “Of which I am clearly neither. Come on, Sean, fess up! I’m just interested in why...”

  He let the suggestion linger. Sean finished the thought for him,

  “Why... I’m such a shit?”

  “Essentially” Rook confirmed with a wink.

  “What do you want me to tell you? That I’m cruel? I’ve proved that on countless occasions, long before my first... lancing.”

  “I reckon we’re beyond euphemisms at this point.” Rook groaned.

  “I remember you being more fun, young man.

  Rook, there’s no secret trauma to me. No twisted-but-originally-benevolent code of honour for you to exploit. I’m neither complicated nor misunderstood.

  I am just really, really good at killing.

  And I want people to know it.”

  Rook mopped at the inside of his glass with a finger, scooping foam into his cheeks, rubbing it into his gums,

  “So just because daddy didn’t praise you enough as a-”

  “Oh, shut your face! Are you a shrink?!” Sean interrupted, “It’s just you’re not dressed as a shrink. You’re dressed as an idiot who breaks into people’s homes and asks them to explain their motivations before they beat you to death!”

  “That sounds like very specific attire...” Rook whispered to himself, glancing down at his clothes.

  “I’d love to stand here and tell you the only opinion that matters is your own. But so far, you’ve seen through my little fibs. So I’ll be candid: Reputation is the only thing that matters.

  Everyone wants to be known for something. Doesn’t really matter what that something is. That’s why some folk get paid to pocket balls with a tapered cue and why some cashiers actually pride themselves on the ability to scan barcodes faster than their co-workers.

  Everyone, everyone, wants their peers to think them impressive, useful, valued.

  Now, as you might imagine, I’m no comedian, I stink at footie and I can barely drink a single pint of larger without skipping to the bathroom like a girl.

  But I am simply exceptional at killing. And the world knows it.

  In the circles I travel in, it tends to make my life easier.”

  Rook looked contemplative. Brow furrowed, he licked the glass’ tall rim, cleaning off the sugary crust. Sean continued,

  “We’re quite similar, Rook. You’re here to make a name for yourself, too. Maybe you’re out to prove to whatever fool put you up to this that you’re the best at fighting.

  Or the best at loyalty.

  Or the best at getting beaten to death by a man twice your age.

  Whatever your alleged motivation, and I honestly could not care one jot as to what that is, you are only here to get a leg up in your peer group.

  And there’s nothing wrong with admitting that. Makes life a lot easier actually. Take it from someone who’s been kicked out of as many groups as you have, just for being good at something ugly.

  Reputation, Rook! It precedes you. Does
most of the hard work for you.”

  Rook scratched at his scalp, sucking in breath between his teeth,

  “You say we’re quite alike but I feel obliged to point out a relatively major dissimilarity between us...”

  “Do enlighten me.” Sean smiled, pacing.

  “Well technically, I’m orders of magnitude better than you-”

  Rook didn’t bother finishing his jibe. Lancet was already sailing across the wooden floors, artificial fist clenched, cocked, and aimed squarely for his unguarded throat.

  *

  Tilting to his left, Rook narrowly evaded the strike that punched a hole in the concrete wall he was slouching against. The structure groaned as Lancet’s knuckles drove through it, launching white detritus into the living room beyond.

  Opponent off balance, Rook casually reached up with his spare hand. As sinewy fingers lunged for Lancet’s windpipe, the older man was forced to retreat. Wrenching his arm free in a hail of plaster and pebbles, he hopped back a few feet.

  Unwilling to let the interruption go unpunished, Rook pitched his glass across the kitchen. Lancet managed to save his face a few dozen deep lacerations by dropping a shoulder and rolling from the glassware missile.

  The tumbler shattered, burst into a hundred shards as it collided with the fridge-freezer beyond.

  “So we’ve started then!” Rook scowled in mock irritation, rolling his shoulders before strolling in to engage the seasoned killer.

  Lancet stepped in too, bouncing his back leg off the floor so hard the wood splintered. His foot sped up, curling towards the younger man’s face. It halted eight inches from his chin, breezily slapped down by a well placed hand.

  He tried again, front leg snapping a roundhouse kick into Rook’s thigh, then higher into the ribs. The former was caught by a raised shin, the latter bounced from a lowered guard.

  Amused, but unimpressed, Lancet arched back out of range and spun on his right foot. His left heel whipped around with enough force to break a man’s neck. His opponent merely dipped his smirking head.

  Landing, the gyros in Lancet’s shoulders were already cranking out a trio of repeating strikes.

  The first was cut down, the ridge of Rook’s palm biting its forearm. The second missed its mark, with the younger combatant rolling his torso aside.

  The final strike buckled as, incredibly, Rook struck it with the point of his elbow. Artificial struts in the framework of Lancet’s hand snapped.

  Yelping, he retracted the wounded limb. Clutching a broken hand, Lancet watched in impotent horror as Rook’s counter, thrown with an insulting apathy, flew forward.

  A large fist hammered Lancet’s solar plexus, rattling the organs within. The blow launched him through the air, across the kitchen and into the folding metal embrace of the standing refrigerator.

  The wizened old killer bounced off the dented fixture, spluttering, eyes wide.

  “Orders of magnitude, Sean” Rook reiterated, marching across the room.

  Dragged up by his shirt collar, Lancet launched a desperate defence, anxious to kill Rook’s momentum. He pushed hard into the arm that was lugging him to his feet, trapping the limb down. Simultaneously, he chopped for the exposed throat.

  A hand snaked out, catching the slice, crumpling the wrist. Lancet was forced to hurl himself into a cartwheel, preventing more prosthetic bone from breaking in Rook’s contorting lock.

  Agility unmarred from months in a hole, the aging fighter sprang. Landing fluidly, he kicked up into his opponent’s unprotected gut.

  Contact!

  Though Lancet’s roundhouse bounced off floating ribs, Rook’s long, bowed frame seemed no more stooped than usual. Lancet followed with a sweeping motion off his back leg, hoping to topple his opponent.

  But Rook simply stepped over the swiping heel, elbows crashing down.

  Lancet raised his guard, and hoped for the best. Shoulders bruised, they took the brunt of the blows. Another close elbow tore upwards. It forced the guard higher, lest his jaw shatter on its point.

  Unseen, Rook’s uppercutting knuckles bit into his liver, lifting Lancet bodily.

  Jesus!

  Wheezing, he caught a telltale twitch in Rook’s stance. Lancet instinctively ducked under the winding hook, a clenched fist harmlessly skimming his scalp. Breathing deep, he pressed the unexpected advantage, launching a hook of his own. It veered for the back of an overexposed skull.

  But Rook’s intolerable speed struck again. The lean black and red figure twisted, reversing an elbow back into Lancet’s haymaker.

  Fractured fingers snapped further. Lancet bellowed.

  Stepping back, he whipped out a lazy jab, praying it might afford him some room to think, to manoeuvre, to breathe.

  It did not.

  Rook swatted the offending jab and stepped in to hoist his victim by the throat. Lifted aloft, Lancet felt a moment of weightless inertia.

  Then he felt the kitchen countertop.

  The hunched fighter had pivoted, slamming Lancet’s dangling body through the kitchen’s marble island fixture. It cracked under the plunging weight. Dark polished stone chipped. Cabinets of varnished wood split and tore. Dishwasher tablets, buckets and bin-liners rolled across the floor.

  “Alright,” Lancet wheezed through aching ribs, as Rook stood above him, waiting ominously. Dishevelled, pots clattered about him as he rolled onto his back. Touching a finger to his throat, he pushed a sub-dermal nodule,

  “I may have underestimated the ease with which I’ll end you... You just wait for it, though...”

  A faint buzzing filled the room.

  “Wait for it...”

  Rook suddenly reeled, tottering backward as a dose of ultrasonics sundered his equilibrium. Inner-ear greatly distressed, the swaying fighter soon doubled over. The contents of his stomach weren’t long in spilling.

  Vomit splashed against the hardwood floor as Lancet climbed to his feet, snatching up a sizeable chunk of smashed countertop. He waited politely for a gap in Rook’s retching before bouncing the marble slab off his face.

  The clatter of metamorphic rock off his temple made the larger man reel once again. This, in turn, made him vomit once again. Thoroughly entertained, Lancet’s chuckling voice rang out,

  “Honestly Rook, what did you expect? Did you really think I’d leave sole responsibility of safeguarding myself up to a man by the name of ‘Big Phil’?”

  Another focused burst of ultrasonics brought Rook, dizzy and nauseated, onto one knee. Another swinging hunk of dark rock crunched against his exposed back, prompting a splutter of bile and string of imaginative profanities from Rook’s lips.

  “Seriously! ‘Big Phil.’ And I was under the impression you had a brain in there...”

  Eyebrow split, cheek a healthy puce and mouth dribbling a cocktail of blood and vomit, Rook shrugged off the goading. Inclining his head, sweat running down his sharp features, he exuded the same cold, confidence.

  So Lancet broke his face.

  The stone’s edge butted his nose with an audible crunch. Rook fell. Slumped against adjacent drawers, nasal wheezing accompanied his every breath while rivulets of red gushed from his nose.

  “Don’t fret,” Lancet teased, cocking his artificially powerful arms for a final swing, “give me a minute and I’ll take a look for myself.”

  The countertop swung diagonally down. It was met halfway by the bony knuckles of Rook’s desperate swing. The marble crunched, knocked from Lancet’s hands. Spinning off, it hit the floor with a dull thud.

  Irate, Lancet attacked. Ultrasonics blaring, he backhanded his stubborn opponent in the teeth. Rook’s head turned, blood whipping across the walls. Leading with the knuckle of his middle finger, the follow-up strike thrust for the exposed mastoid.

  But Rook stopped the mid-knuckle, forearm catching forearm. Meanwhile, the bent fingers of his half-fist shot into Lancet’s squealing larynx.

  This can’t be good... the old killer thought as bent digits passed, unhindered, up
under his chin.

  With the satisfying crack of smashed electronics, the debilitating ultrasound ceased.

  Rook recovered instantaneously. Spinning his torso, he kicked a heel out for his target’s face. Gagging at the damage to his windpipe, Lancet backpedalled as the boot scraped his cheek.

  Clad in black, shoulders rounded like a gorilla, Rook advanced, his amusement evident in the cold smirk hung on his face. Lancet battled to keep his composure. Outfought at every turn, Rook’s prodigious skill and unflappable confidence seemed unassailable.

  Lancet decided his sole recourse was to out-think his opponent.

  Shouldn’t be too hard, he surmised, just managing to hold off a barrage of roundhouse kicks to his thigh, ribs and neck, I’ve got my party tricks. And the advantage of not having been clobbered in the brainpan thrice in the last sixty seconds!

  Lancet threw a jab.

  It was caught.

  He followed with an arcing fist.

  The ridge of Rook’s hand cut it down at the wrist.

  Bouncing off the deadened arm, Rook’s chop sliced diagonally.

  Lancet lent back, pulling his neck clear.

  Rook followed up with a straight cross.

  Lancet’s open palm parried it away as he countered with an uppercut.

  It found his opponent’s solar plexus.

  Which was good.

  It had no effect.

  Which was bad.

  He tried to follow with a sneaky foot to the groin but Rook was quicker; his boot finding the underside of Lancet’s knee.

  Jarred, he landed awkwardly, unable to prevent Rook’s second foot from clouting the inside of his thigh. He wailed, tripping, his stance kicked wide. His attacker stepped in calmly, elbows swinging like hammers. Despite the numbness in both arms, the fractured fingers, the damaged wrist, Lancet covered his head, his guard fending off the pounding strikes.

  It quickly became clear his outthinking strategy needed some better ideas.

  Like Divine Intervention.

  Praying for the best rather than planning his attack, Lancet managed to snatch the back of the bigger man’s neck. He pulled with every ounce of his technologically enhanced strength.

  Rook’s head shot down. Lancet’s knee drove up. A broken nose bore the brunt.