May 24, 2001
1:47 P.m.
Approaching The Long Halloween, Los Angeles, California
“You have eight new FTMs awaiting processing.”
“Eight? Seems the Barons are proliferating their horde faster than we thought. Could you message Ted from accounting and tell him to up death rates by six percent?”
As the times change, so too does the way that Heaven operates. No longer are there simply pearly gates, St. Peter judging the masses who need to enter while God himself deals with the day to day affairs of our world below. As populations increase from a stagnant to exponential rate, as the worlds he has to manage go from triple to thirty digits, and as the overlapping and machinations of the devils grow so complicated as to involve multiple timelines our Heavenly Father simply raised an eyebrow one fine morning and declared the old ways were insufficient, that a restructuring was in order.
When did it happen? When war changed, so did the universe to accommodate it. Once killing became a business, so did life; existence was no longer a personal affair, one where everyone’s actions could cause ripples of disruption that spread through the whole world. Now it was simply a game of numbers, of trying to save the most lives at the least cost. Did some intimacy get lost along the way? Maybe for everyone but God… but what’s being a number to you if you’re saved in the end?
So that meant cell phones. Limos. Meetings. Suits… Death himself, now Richard Strife, was simply another bureaucrat as he tried to deal with the high stakes of modern age, where one slip up led to nuclear war, biological mayhem, and economic suicide. Yes, the days where he could simply be the odd ball in the crowd were seldom and fewer… now he had to settle for a literal smart phone powered by a advanced AI that put most biological intelligences to shame as he looked the part of business man, one better fit for concrete complexes and jungles rather than simple towns or countryside.
“Correction; eleven dead FTM at the Long Halloween.”
“Wilson. Did Jack know there would be vampires at the club?”
“Ninety eight percent surety that he did.”
The darkly clad man whistled, watching as his automatic limo that lacked organic driver took a corner with ease, another machine better than any organic driver. With a schedule like his, he needed repetition and guarantees. No late arrivals, no delays, no deviations. Work was a list of items that needed to be checked off in order and within their short constraints. Were it not the case, the department of deceased affairs would shortly be overwhelmed with work. Life only operated because a specific amount of people died within any given moment. Too many go, and you can’t sustain it long term; too few die, and life suddenly has to be inflicted with a war or a plague to stabilize it.
Which is why such surprises like these had a way of causing the immortal black haired deviant’s blood to boil, assuming he had any droplets running through his translated frame. With eyes that changed with the mood, he had surpassed the seventh level of the so called Forced Transfiguration Virus long ago; this was the state shortly before a god, where entire worlds could be crushed with a mere reflex of a hand.
What couldn’t he yet do? Affect human agency, which meant dealing with slow traffic. Cursing as he found himself stuck behind a man going ten miles under the speed limit, death stuck his head out the window and found himself still a few minutes away from the glowing altar to sin in the distance. Rolling his eyes, he put a gloved finger to his blue tooth as he made the voice command, telling
“Call Vicky Hedeon.”
Calling his niece was a pleasure, if only because she answered within five seconds. The electronic block of a device resting in his slacks rang only once as Jack’s daughter, Vic Boss, answered with her usual timid tone… though not because of a lack of courage. The soldier, deployed somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic, was one of the most forceful and heroic fighters that Richard had met. Vic’s weakness simply arose from her being a ghost, a more practical state of being when one considered how quickly spirits could move.
“Howdy uncle. How’s my uptight boss doing?”
“Howdy? Since when did you become a country hick?”
“I’ve been doing interviews all morning for men to deploy to hunt down some warlord in Sudan. I just met a true Texas Ranger. Almost want to go take a vacation just to speak with more of them.”
“We don’t take vacations. Not anymore.”
The lanky scarecrow heard the sigh, knowing that wasn’t exactly what the departed woman wanted to hear. Well, tough break; until things quieted down and the opposition was eliminated, he wouldn’t be getting any days off either. Time travel be damned, there simply wasn’t the possibility in any scenario; Richard was pretty sure there were more than sixteen versions of him running around in this timeline alone, old copies of himself who went back to the past to help with the world load. Here was a reality threatening to destabilize balanced on the head of a needle.
No time to waste arguing. “You see the report I sent to AV-7 this morning?”
“About the attacks on 9/11? Yeah. What did New York do to pist The Boss off?”
“A little something called the cold war. Time tables are being accelerated. The mistreatment, distrust, and atrocities of counter communism are being repaid in full starting in September. Poor Bush is going to kick off the age of counter terrorism. Welcome to the new world.”
“So it’s Al-Qaeda? Jama'at?”
“The former, though it won’t be just the large scale organizations that bleed the world. Modern arms and protection available at affordable prices with a little mix of violent media and unchecked mental disorders is going to a breed a new type of home grown criminal that can massacre dozens within minutes. H. H. Holmes is going to be one of the most popular personas for the freak shows of the twenty first century.”
The line went silent, Vicky unsure of what to say as Richard Strife checked his watch again, the analog device ticking along to the beat and sound of a metronome. Tick, tock, tick, tock was the way the world worked, one gear turning another in what was hopefully perfect unison. It just made working with other components hard; once one was out of synch, the whole device freezes.
One confused soldier delays the battle, costing thousands of lives in a coming war. No room for error.
“That’s… unfortunate. Well, as the end times approach it’s never a happy ending. Mind telling me why you’re really calling though? Why mention this now?” Vicky asked, the one lagging.
“AV-8 launches on September 11th, 2002.”
Good thing Vic Boss was forced to have the device on speaker phone, unable to hold physical objects for long as a mere specter. Choking on a throat that wasn’t entirely there, the blond haired woman half way across the world found herself shocked and stuttering as she tried to say
“The next Adrian Vantel is getting deployed next year? You told me last meeting it’d be ten more before we’d even start preparing for him!”
“God ordered it, Jack verified it. Out of our hands now.”
“Then what the crap am I supposed to do? I was supposed to have over a decade to get ready for his arrival!”
“Plans have been simplified because of it. Inform Grand Boss of the change and have him open Baron’s Gamble. Work with John Constantine in rebuilding Shadow Bastion. You’ll have more than enough time to find the people you need to ensure AV-8’s survival.”
Richard checked the window again, finding he was almost at his destination. That would have been an issue if he didn’t know his niece so well; with a pout Vicky growled and relented, ever ready to do her duty as she closed their conversation.
“Fine. Anything else?”
“Just one. One more change that I wasn’t able to include in the document when I wrote it this morning is Kara Fett. Garland will be delivering her to Constantine’s care directly within the month. Please be sure to say hi when she arrives. It’ll brighten her up.”
“Do I know her?”
“She knows you. It’s a long story. Don’t fret too much over it. Later, Vic.”
“Eh… later.”
“Master, you have arrived at your destination.”
So many voices, so many noises. Death silenced them all as the reaper watched the machine open the door for him, his pointed dress shoe finding the ground steaming as he exited his dark limousine carriage. The city of angels was as hot as ever, melting as the spring approached the length of summer. Not his preferable place to spend the next few months in, though he knew business would drag him back here again and again.
The two lumps of organs, former body guards leaking their liquid blood all over the parking lot, were the evidence. Moving forward, the blood dried up with every step Richard took towards the running life fuel, dissipating into another realm as the embodiment of Death built his kingdom. The effect on the corpses was even more apparent; drying out as the businessman approached, they began to fade and crumble as the invisible aurora of his supernatural mane enveloped them, becoming ash itself when Richard was within five feet. Whatever souls that belonged to the corpses at one time were off to face their judgement; no reason to linger now that the body was gone.
Thankfully, these effects were only on the dead. As Richard entered into the furnace of the cavity of sin, reeking of burning flesh and the soiling that occurs upon a surprising death, Max the mutt bounded up to him as the reaper flashed a rare smile. Leaning down and patting the dog, the master of the canine called out from the other end of the room just as the mammal began to wag its tail.
“Bad traffic?”
“Always is. Certainly did a number on this place. Haven’t seen this much carnage from you in a while.”
Carnage was being polite. It was a literal gore fest, with limbs and bodies strewn all over the broken and battered building. The entire third floor was gone, it’s structures and flooring in rubble that was strewn all over the place; tables had dozens of bullet holes, poles broken in twos and threes. Crimson covered the entirety of the visible floor space, some sectors so full of it that they would have swallowed boots. Richard almost wondered if the man had called him just to clean it up, the violent remnants around him disappearing with every step.
Jack was untouched from it all. Not a single hole appeared in his clothing, no scratches or battle damage to be seen. Yet even then, he wasn’t celebrating yet. A row of half-dressed people, still alive from their slow breathes, were lined up in a row as the glass eyed man meticulously placed their hands on each of their heads, muttering a prayer that Richard had many a time before.
The effect was clear; the scars, wounds and hurt on the person evaporated away from the body like white out to blank paper, so carefully applied there was no evidence it had been there before. The soldier, who had killed so many, was now going about to give instead of take, healing instead of hurting.
The master of life and death.
“The victims?”
“I’m removing the wounds… blocking their memories. I’ll have Fabio drop them off at their homes, give him some time to think… some pains are just too much to bear, even with the gospel. An immediate use of the atonement seems fair in their case…”
“No complaints from me, brother. I’d do the same… but what’s this about Fabio? That the Argentinian chango you’re working with? Where’s he at right now?”
Jack titled his head, motioning to a booth right on over. Unlike the bearded man, who looked as if he just walked out of a gas station instead of a massacre, Fabio had the part of a soldier who fought a hard battle. His suit was covered with several knife wounds, though the actual bodily damage had already been healed by the one eyed man. The blood would need more work than a simple prayer; he was painted head to toe from it, his brown skin invisible beneath the thick layer of rose that covered him.
“Someone went ham.” Richard commented, the sight familiar to him who dealt in death. “Guessing you knocked him out? Or did he actually faint from the combat high?”
“The latter… Primary objective was to interrogate a man by the name of Pichette Falcone. The owner of the club… never got the chance once Fabio found him. Look to the stage.”
Death did, only to laugh. A large naked Italian’s head was buried in a subbuffer, his neck broken from the impact and draining out its internal fluids from the shards of wires and glass buried within its flesh. Hard to have a conversation if your neck is sliced through.
“That why you called me? Need me to do an other worldly interview and find out what Pichette knows? Could have texted me Brother, though I do enjoy our visits.”
“That’s not it…” Jack slowly annunciated, taking even more care to sound out his thoughts than usual. “Take a look at one of the FTMs. All of them have Martyr’s mark; all of them were drained before their transformations.”
Unlike normal people, FTMs did not automatically become one with the earth until Richard touched their departed bodies. Additionally, they gave off a cool glow that was a remnant of their strength and power; they had a hue to them, matching the shade of their eyes and level of their power. Looking around and finding one giving off an orange shade, Richard decided he would settle for the lower classed vampire as he casually moved forward, gore around him continuing to disappear as the hall of the dead became nothing more than an empty shell.
Like Jack had said, the vampires had their own martyr’s mark on them. Some FTMs, particularly those who wanted to scare their enemies or make a statement, chose to leave a sort of signature when they drained the blood of their victims, a mark left exactly where the humans had been bitten. While it was rarer now than the days of old, many new FTMs knowing the mark was a sure way to trace their actions back to them, a few ancient spirits still chose to leave their statement on their work.
What Richard wasn’t expecting was the image he found on this man’s neck. A black V, one that emanated hate, fear and envy as the immortal man found himself going cold. Even touching it brought about a strange effect; the corpse lingered, the V merely sizzling as the body refused to depart from the world.
Death wouldn’t have that. Reaching into his suit, he drew a custom revolver adorned with a prayer of burial as he opened fire, a single shot to the head. The corpse obeyed in response; the curse lifted as the V hissed and separated, floating away and burning up as the body became nothing more than ash itself.
The work of only one man. “Volgin. Volgin has returned.”
The only man that Jack hated, the only one he could not bring himself to offer mercy to caused the one eyed soldier to tense up, his last prayer said as he walked away from the healed angels trapped in this horrid hell. Stomping across the ground, his steps motivated by bad memories, the soldier looked like he was about to enter a battle once more even though he had already removed his eyepatch.
“Colonel Satan Volgin. He knew I was coming… these FTM were planted here to send a message. Volgin wants me to know he’s entered the game, taking a direct part in the coming war with the Robber Barons… he’s made a threat.”
“Of what kind? A few dead vampires isn’t much of a statement or show of force.”
“Come with me and tell no one but Henry… something you have to see.”
Death joined his brother at his side, causing the blood to evaporate before them as they took a side passage into a more private sector. Given the increased dismemberment, Richard could only guess what kind of savagery occurred in these secret rooms given how promiscuous the dance floor was; in fact, it was almost too violent according to Jack’s standards.
That’s when he looked inside a room and saw an electric table and a gimp suit, causing Richard to realize what he’d stumble upon. Sexual violence was the kind of atrocity that makes even the crudest among us shudder, and now the angelic figure had just found one of the capitals for it. Suffice to say, the temptation to burn the whole accursed building down and be done with it was rising.
He should have. When the two made a turn,
the man in black finally understood what had his big brother so disturbed. Hanging on a cross was a Mexican girl, no older than sixteen if Richard had to guess. Even worst was the sign that was cut into her naked chest, scars spelling out words that would haunt many a nightmare for days to come.
“What I did to Soledad, I will do to Padma. V.”
“Volgin the home wrecker… first Violet, followed by Soledad… the mother of my dear Vicky… now he’s threatening to take another love from me… that devil is going all out again. World War Three will come and go before his newest flash of anger subsides.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
Jack, turning his dead glass eye to Richard, made it clear that it wasn’t anything good. “I want Padma protected by the Breach Doctrine.”
“Boss… I checked her life expectancy. She’s not going to die until she’s-”
“I don’t care… Volgin wants to push my buttons, then let him. Anyone who tries to hurt Padma will suffer immediate justice… My mercy died with this poor girl who Volgin sacrificed just to send me a message. Are we clear?”
The Grim Reaper was certainly moody as he placed his finger to his blue tooth, his changing eyes shining grey as he spoke the words of the same ancient language only the oldest of FTMs knew. Whatever it meant, the order worked; with a frown Richard dropped his finger as his eyes turned yellow, concern apparent as he explained “It’s done. The Breach Protection is now in effect; anyone who tries to harm Padma will simply be reflecting their own foul deeds onto themselves. Here’s hoping she doesn’t attract crime to her.”
“If she does, it’s Volgin’s fault… now, how long before you can get Morales location from Pichette?
Richard checked his watch. “I have a meeting with the VM in New York in ten minutes. After that I have to check on Cato and give him the next dosage in forty. After that… I have a meeting with Null about his part for 9/11 followed by a quick stop in China to take care of a certain rice farmer threatening to poison his countrymen and wipe out ten percent of the population. Give me two hours and I’ll give you your intel, unless you need me to time travel.”
“Hm… this timeline is unstable enough as is. Leave it be; I have other business to take care of before I worry about Rodrigo Morales… all of these FTMs are fresh. Someone changed them recently, someone with no restraint in making the FTV potion. Someone who shouldn’t know the formula…”
Jack reached into his pocket, taking his eyepatch out as he flicked his hand, taking his shotgun off his belt as the rounds inside of it were transformed to be loaded with vials of white phosphorus. For him to use his supernatural abilities, especially when he avoided them save for dire situations, meant only one thing. “I’m going to hunt a vampire.”
Times of Peace: Volume 1 of the side adventures to The Mercenary's Salvation Page 19
