Disclaimer: This is long. Don't say I didn't warn you!
Recommended hearing: Muse – Uprising; Muse – Resistance; Franz Ferdinand – Well that was easy


It was the day of the disappearance of Xavia Worshalai from middle class hotel in Romania. It was Day one of his old mission in the Kabals service with new parameters. It was mainly the parameter, that he now had to accomplish alone what was meant to be a job for two. He had left the hotel for a few hours, wandering through streets he did not know. Not caring whether he turned left or right, his feet leading him ever on and on. He did not see whether the streets were beautiful. He did not see whether he was walking on pavement of stones or dirty gray. His thoughts were elsewhere. Not with him. He had entered her room after he had not seen her for a whole day and found it deserted but for her belongings and the shards of glass that had been pushed inwards from the window. Something had come and gotten her, left without a trace he could see. Something in the room was just not right, but it did not matter in these hours. And long he had stared at the remains of her window in silence. And she was gone. And he was alone in her room. His charge on this experiment, the young girl who had been without practice and almost without talent, she had left. Was taken and had left him behind. Big had been the lines he had made in his book that evening. Big because he had retraced them with the pen again and again, just as his steps were leading him now. Without thinking of it. Without thinking on it. Why had it not been him? It was the only question that was left. In a country rounding up mutants and putting them into camps the who was quite easily answered. But this one question that all people his age tended to ask when youth was the victim would just not go away. He was not immune to it. Sometimes he wanted to be, to call the ice, just to stop feeling. Stop the hurt and go through the eons, Martin. Let nothing touch you. Be a king of ice. And then spring came. One way or another. The ice would never last. Touching the heart, extending a hand. So the words in the book had been. Thick in black ink that should have been red, were red in his mind. Why not me? Retracing them a thousand times had not yielded the answerers that he needed. And answers he wanted. He stared at them as he walked.

Break inside and take the fragments out It was a melody form afar, another time, that he was humming, his voice being but a thin thread connecting him with his current self. The last bit that mattered. turn your heart now / inside out He had returned to a place from where there was no escape. The past gripping him with cold hands, ripping on him, bent on taking him apart the pictures of his self, the fragments of the mirror that was him, the things he had done, undone. Sleeping had become a problem. The hunted did not find much sleep. And if they did then it was in uncomfortable places, uncomfortable times, mostly when the sun was up, in some form of public place, where many eyes were on you if you could stand their touch, guarded by the public eye, by the eye of helios, by cameras, CCTV, by all security there was to have with none to pay for it- Such a person was now Martin in the days of his first fights, who, instead of returning to his home, had taken of the sleeping in Parks at noontime, hoping, ever hoping he would not find the rubies in the night that appeared in his dreams. Hoping the precaution would save him the surprise of waking up with a gun in his face, or even worse, with his hands and feet tied up. The bliss of sleep, of oblivion, was but a short reprieve, a time of in between awakenings he had to endure, tortured by the ghosts of his brethren, reminded by their fate.

He shot upright. Not to see that someone had indeed bound his limbs, but that he moved freely in the now dimming sun, the light of fate starting to give of its dreadful gloom. Another night. But it was still day, still time to act, to move freely in what little disguise he could yet acquire. He had taken on not only the form, but also the manner of the homeless, living off alms and on the street, ever clutching, on some part of his body, the black notebook with what preciously little he had found out about the pasts of his ghosts, the horrors and the hauntings. Of the images that would not go away. Rubies and sapphire. His feet marched on their own, toward his hiding place. Not a hiding place for people but for things. Garment. Information. A littered place in a small backyard it was, accessible only via the house, whose green door hung in badly creaking hinges. There he had stored, what remained of his victims. It had taken him a whole week, ice or not, to bring himself to even go near the place again. Not the place where he had done it, but the place where he had hidden their belongings, part of what they were. He still thought there was a smell about the place, not of dirt and garbage, but of blood and madness, the rushing of adrenalin, the widening of eyes into black holes, the dust and sand of his own power. It was a potpourri that did not please him. Yet still, today, driven by need, by the force of necessity, he committed another deadly sin. Fingering through carefully placed layers of discarded things, he retrieved the whole apparel of one of the fighters, of the hunters. The cold didn't last long.

It felt like sandpaper on his skin, slowly grinding away at all that he was, his Humanity, it was illusion. Humanity had not helped his people escape them. Humanity had not helped them at all. E could have no room for it. Not again.

They should see what they had done. Grinding ice, the force of time, tide of eternity. It was with him. His eyes were still lively in those days.

It was a gust of wind that saved him, from images, memories, moved the faint sounds of the song into the darkness of his mind where they belonged. The lines were still lingering. Feeling's not what is allowed / Wind and weather, darkest cloud / breaking storm now, coming tide / wait for us, glorious ride / Ride now the storm, ride now your heart, whence ever we will now depart / Farewell my brother, closest kin / do you believe Ive ever been / Out? Wind blowing through one of the many streets he had wandered. Darkness had fallen without him noticing, leaving him but a shadow amongst shadows. Umbra to umbra. Dust to dust. It was not important anyways. In the light of a streetlamp the gust caught him. Caught the pages of the book as they began turning. If a ghost had touched them then it was the ghost of fate. The sisters three, they had not yet cut his thread. Slowly, one after the other before his eyes, the hand of the wind unveiling what he was, written in German sometimes, sometimes in codes, just depending on when he had written it,, before or after an encounter with an unlucky policeman who had seen a chance in his to further his career. He had taught him otherwise. Only a few pages had to be turned, before he found it.

Name: Belododia, Anatolie

Gender: Male

Address: [Street]

House: Mansion, two stories, garden [approx size], possible level below ground?

Work: Need to gain access to calendar, need to find out more about working habits, works from home?

Misc Home: Guards present at the home, cameras secure, possible further security measures, entrance feasible, but difficult


His own hand seemed different to him now, the lines arrayed in cold precision. They evoked something in him, revoked parts of the spell that he had placed on himself in his confusion. Irrationality was slowly leaving as he got back from the places he had wandered, reclaiming his own body, his own thoughts but ever so slowly like the creeping vines, the arms of green.

There were things that grew in dark places. Poisonous mostly. Bitter the fruit.

The streetlight was flickering and the wind rapidly turned the pages of his book, his history flickering away faster then anyone could read. Almost anyone. He shut the book with a short clap. It lay heavy in his hands. His stomach was greeting him with a grumble. How long he had been gone? Who knows. He had a lot of work to do, that was, what mattered now. A lot of things that lay before him. He retrieved a pen from his coat pocket and opened the book for one last time that evening. To write the answer that he had found in thin lines, almost intelligible under all the other writing there were his words now. And he was quite sure, that he would manage to get what he wanted. But first was to be done the task at hand, the one he had been paid to accomplish here. They would meet a Martin Stein they had never encountered. The flickering light revealed the sharp coutures of a smile on his lips. The wind was still blowing in his face. It was carrying the harsh perfume of cars, of benzene and chemicals, of tobacco and food. City smells. Unlike the sea. Roaring cars were running by. Was this springtime? If so he very much liked it. And the first thing he had to find now... was the place that produced that delicious smell.

A small place it was, a corner restaurant. Small and filthy its patrons, but so was he at the moment. His clothes were crumpled and dirty from his wanderings. He fit right in. In his way, borrowing the accent of one of the patrons to order a standard Romanian dish. A soup. He was silent and listened, while he waited. The music of voices was loud and tinged with the smell of alcohol. Harsh were their tones, their music a bare scratching of fingernails upon a chalkboard. It was unlike any other bar he had ever been in. Not even the Irish Pub he had worked at had been this. Rural. Violent to the nose and the ears, but the air was warm, the lights were dim and the shadows long. It was a bar in every sense of the word. And he might find food here. Comfortably warm. The waiter, who also seemed to be the cook as well as the owner had disappeared into a back room, from whence the delicious smell was entering into the taproom. Food was on his mind. He was almost sick. His skin pale. Oh well Martin. You just need to stay for a little while longer. Just last.... And at last a steaming bowl arrived, accompanied by a glass of crystal liquid that was not water. But it made a fire burn through his intestines. Acceptable.

After leaving the bar he had treated himself to a taxi ride to the hotel, having been borrowed a mobile phone with appropriate number to call by the courteous owner of the bar. He was standing on the street again now, having fully arrived, waiting for the cab to appear from the shadows of the night, waiting for headlights to illuminate his way home, he wondered about possibilities of punishing a politician, while the driver was chattering away in Romanian. “You know, my friend, I'm doing this job for my mother. Poor old thing. Shes living far off in the country and doesn't even have tap water yet.....” Martin stopped listening, just nodded here and there and made the appropriate humming sounds of listening, as the driver approached the illuminated city center. He was all eyes and ears to the driver, yet he wasn't even there. That wretched little man would feel his wrath in every sense of the word. First he had to find out more about him. He took out the book and started drawing what looked like a net... It wasn't. When this was full wrought he would commence. But he would start tonight, filling in the blanks. “My sister and her filthy job would never help her. All these women and their ********. They'll burn in the fires of hell, all of them.” The string of swearwords was what made Martin look up. The drivers sister did not have a usual occupation it seemed. Not a quite well tolerated one at that. And one that was exactly what he needed.

Later in the night he left the Hotel again. If anyone had seen him, he would not have believed the two people to be identical. His hair was was held by pomade in a tight, wet looking style, that had been modern already in the 20s of the last century. He had dressed himself in an attire of gray that in the shadows of the night, only the most experienced would know as mid-priced at best, completed by a necktie that sat uncomfortably close around his throat. He looked young in a manner of speaking, old in another. More like a young businessman on a trip through the night then ever before he left for the city, having called another cab. His instructions to the driver had been clear. To the question where he wanted to go he had simply stated. “Where the fun is.” He had even managed to give his voice a touch of expectation and superiority that was required by his position. His efforts were rewarded by an uptight “Yes.” which was missing the Sir just because it was nowadays considered antique and few people still knew of it. A satisfactory result.

Where the fun is. Indeed. A person who cant dance because he fears to touch people, who cant undress without deadly consequences, who cant even have more then a few drinks for fear of loosing control. Such a person was now on its way to party in a disguise that was sketchy at best, for his studies into the behavioral realm of young professionals had been quite short. Soldiers he could do well. Middle class people, everyday people, hunted mutant, and of course the gardener, these were the prime roles of Martin Stein. And there was somewhere hidden the true gardener and the Capitan. One he wore now beyond the mask another, the other was almost lost behind the many other faces that he had. Not that he knew how to do it (partying that is). It had been long since he had even been at a disco - that was counted in any time. Even his.

The flickering of streetlamps was slowly replaced by the multi-faceted glow of neon signs, a blinking symphony, an orgy of light that was played in the bars and clubs, left through the windows or was fired outside purely to entertain possible customers, entrance them to enter like photonic sirens calls. Dare them to fall for a night of amusement, a night of lost control a night to forget. The illustrious fireworks of energy did nothing but hurt his nightsight. And he wasn't here to party at all after all. He gave the taxi driver a generous tip. He drove off, away from these parts of the city, without picking up the drunken man that was waving at the taxi. Or maybe not waving. The male was walking now and used the whole space the walkway offered for himself. Perhaps only an effort to stay upright? Martin felt sickened by such consent to conscious loss of control. He would not allow himself to ever fall so low. Never would he be able to survive without structure, alcohol dissolving the last and fragile bonds he had with reality. The images of his past were so real sometimes, one could be lost in them, for a while at least one could. Now they resided, closely latched by purpose and distinctly unaware that he was even knowing they were there, in the back of his mind, where they would to no harm. Not to him and not to anyone else in the area. Maybe to his heart. But that was another matter altogether. His heart was dead as a stone. Rock hard it lay in his chest. It had been stolen by people who hurt him, who took away what were his ties. With every one that broke, he was a little less. And he did not care. Not anymore.

There were couples on the street and singles, sometimes triplets and greater groups, bent on having their entertainment. Such and other short sighted nonsense was it that drove them. He was driven too. Chronos child controlled his steps, his steely gaze ever searching, not in the brightest corners, but in the darkest, not in the illuminated doorways of the discos, but in the small and dirty passages that led to quarters that belonged to the cheapest this Romanian city could provide. Loud and smoky in the night, where sleep was not imperative. Dirty and stinking during the day, when the sun baked the leftovers of the nightly parties. It was in short the kind of scene, where not only the partying populace resided during nighttime, but where the ladies of the night found their full-time employment. Yes. Hes wasn't here to party, to risk any more exposure then necessary, both to the general populace as well as this very special situation he found more then slightly distasteful. He was here to hire a prostitute. Maybe even two. Possibly not two. It was good not to get ahead of yourself in your planning. In the back of his mind was wiggling a question, wiggling like the shadows. Why did it just have to be dark alleyways again?

But as far and wide as he looked, there was no such woman to be found. Truth be told, he, coming from a city with one of the most well known red-light districts of the world, did not know how to tell a prostitute on sight. Their dressing styles, often revealing, were an indicator, but it seemed, that here there was a general fashion for revealing as much skin as possible with as little style as was permitted by the few strands of cloth they were wearing. He shook his head and directed his steps to one of the entrances into dark oblivion where there was, shining from afar, light to be seen in hopes of finding what he wanted, luring him, drawing him, a mirage almost, in the distance, around the corner. His steps were light, shoes nearly making no sound on the ground. What am I doing here? Making the first step it seems.... He began hearing voices. Loud voices. Angry voices. If it were not for the jewel in his bowels, working its magic, he was not sure he would have even understood them in English or German. Swearwords they were, full of dark promise, of dreadful intent. He quickened his steps in expectation, unsure of what he would discover.

And he had foreseen much more exotic things then two drunks, both well past the prime of their life but not past their younger years, in ragged clothing close to a brawl, in the middle of the start of one. The prime they had drowsed in alcoholic liquids he judged form their uncertain movements. One had something, that apparently the other wanted quite badly, for their fingers were still interlocked with each other, clasped around an object he could not clearly discern in the shadows. As they could not clearly discern his figure, for they were standing before a door from which emanated a soft golden red glow he had seen as faint light from the street. It was his luck that he was standing in the shadows, one amongst peers, and the two drunkards could not judge how strong or tall he was, the glow having reduced their sight.

Martin sighed as he looked at them, their uncertainty confirmed by what was supposed to be a low whisper. “L'''k 's someone's there.” More close to a stupor really. “S'we ?” One of the drunken duo obviously overestimated both their combined strength and skill quite severely if he had just suggested to rob him. Two heads turned to stare at him intently.

Another sigh left his lips. Why dark alleys? Why was it always him in dark places finding something unlooked for, something dangerous? Sometimes it was blood, often it was blood really. Sometimes even his own. He withdrew into the shadows, quite happy actually that he did not give them the time to decide, between the mindless pair, in their combined intelligence, how they should react to the situation and if their want was great enough to want them risk a severe beating. The clamor of voices following him, until there was silence. And the sounds of the streets were coming closer again, the high and narrow walls having an unforeseen effect on the transfer of auditory signals. He had not found what he was looking for here. Maybe at another place then? He would have to find it.

So went to waste the work of a whole day, because he could not identify what he was looking for. And he was glad.

The next few of earths revolutions around the sun he spent trailing Belododias every move, pacing around his house if he was there, following him to meetings and parties if he wasn't. OK not really the parties. And there was only one of them after all. The subject of his interest did not even sneeze without Martin taking note of it, though, for some reason, the young old timemancer was never to be seen anywhere near him. He wore masks, disguises, in every sense of the word, masks of old people, of young people, of rich or poor, but his own face ever disappeared in a crowd of others, the small one among the few that was a fraud was never clearly identifiable, always hidden in the shadows. Out of sight and out of mind. Cold purpose had been the only thing he allowed himself to feel. That one goal he was focusing on, the prominent aim, it was on his mind, in his mind, was his mind. A mask.
It was the morning of the seventh day since Xavia had disappeared that brought him luck unsought for. He opened his book to see whether his net had progressed and was pleased, since the figure he found drawn out in his hands were ever so slowly creeping to completion, the information he had on the politician increasing with every day, the leverage growing, the points of interest marked with circles or little spots. The Kabal would get more then what they had asked for if all went right. He would get what he had asked for if his plan worked out. Soon now it would come to pass. Today he would supervise another day in the life of a common Romanian politician. He dressed up as a tourist, in wild colors and with a camera around his neck that he had procured at a pawnbrokers. It was probably not wholesomely legally won in the first place, but it should serve as nothing more then a distraction a weapon maybe. A single look, one second, the time between two blinks, was all that he needed. The camera carried a telephoto lens. It was something he had taken care to possess among other things stored in his pockets and a rucksack of black cloth.
The politician was hearing petitioners today, colleagues in crime, was having meeting with people somewhat like him and some unlike him, one or two even like Martin in a way. Some deemed themselves sharks, people coming in expensive cars and with expensive clothes head risen high above all others. Some were far less prominent and it were these that attracted his interest, the interest of the tourist that was here despite the fact that in this part of the town there was no single point of interest to be found. It was a guise that was, in a way quite futile. In others not. He was freely running around in circles again and again around the same block of houses, glancing here and there, peeking over walls and through locks. If one had been cast away of a different shore, why not make it worth your time? And so the seeming tourist looked and took pictures. With his camera and without. Soon he could tell where the guards in the house and about it were positioned, their movements by day and night, their behavioral routines. Even the positions of the camera lenses, the electric part of the security system, it was all unveiled under his eyes, as the years progressed and he stared, his body unmoving, theirs freezing, both only for the while that he decreed. The life of a politician was not under scrutiny or in the public eye. It was in a petri dish under his eye, wiggling, moving. An insect to study. An insect that was very much alive and ready to bite him.

First, as was custom in the household it seemed, came a young man, a runner by appearance and design, quite like him, that quickly left again via the side gate of the house. Shortly after he could be seen riding away on his bike. Second came a person in a dark and expensive car. He entered and left through the front and drove away. Martin actually got a good picture of Belododia and the unknown man -he wore a black suit and a horrible orange tie- shaking hands. The third one was the most interesting one. He wore cheap clothes, but was slightly too old for a courier both of words or writing. His held his body differently too. And most importantly, he entered through the front at a time that was reserved to the more important class of guests. Martin was not able to discern whether the politician had gone, but he was not visible in his study the next time he came by and the man had not left yet. Odd. On his fourth round he took a few pictures of a man that seemed to have adopted Belododias rather unique style and taken it to new extremes, driving a highly customized BMW the color of a canary, the guards looks turned sour and they, maybe finally having caught some of his slightly off air, began to advance on his with threatening helpfulness, their hands placed on their hips, where they did quite possibly not carry tasers. The last time he had done this with real people it had only been tasers. Sad, really. The timemancer had estimated the two men, whose body mass index seemed to have fallen down quite severely on the fat side and increased in muscle with equality, would need another two to five rounds until they thought of something remotely right about him. Really they were bad. Their faces were trimmed with a more predatory simile then he had liked to see on them.
Note to self: Don't underestimate stupid looking guards. They might have bits of a brain after all. He managed to get out but barely. Not stating anything, but falling into a quick-stepped run at their approach, screaming at the pair questions in bad English about what they were up to. They did not grace him with an answer, but were content that the strange tourist was gone.

When he was not. To divert him from a cause would take more then a few impeding humans.

Martin had taken another round back to the house, where he now, from a sideway, was keeping watch on Mr Belodoias office. And there it was. The perfect picture. She was young and quite naked. He had not seen her come in. Naturally not, as the guards had driven him off. Edgy as they were. They had known, not about him, but about her.... Oh wonderful day. His fingers found the camera, pressed the release a few times and then he waited. And so sweet was the reward. So sweet the pictures. Good memories in the making. Why had he tried to do this on his own again? If there was one thing you could trust politicians with... it seemed to be their unfaithfulness. In every sense of the word.

The pain was sharp.

The coming darkness rapid.

Cold...it was cold. His face lay on something cold. More precisely something cold was about his neck, winding up the base of his skull.

Martin had to blink away the bits of darkness that clung to his vision. Moths and a lamp. Damp? Damp cloth had been wrapped about his head. Had he was sitting upright. Something that was felt like he had not done any more the last time he remembered. Head. Cold. Ouch. Darkness. Had he been.

“He's awake.”

He had. The voice was merely stating a fact. It was male. It was combined with a grip at his skull, that produced a strange feeling somewhere between pain and swoon. Perhaps a bit of both, for his vision blurred. When it cleared again, he looked around. An apartment. Windows that showed only sky. He was sitting on a couch. Old patterns. Old patterns on the wall as well, the smell of tobacco lay faintly in the air. A faded photograph.

Someone was sitting at his side, someone behind him, he could hear the breath. And then there was someone in front of him. Someone he recognized. Ordinary clothing. Ordinary face. Extraordinary eyes at this range. They were cold. Commanding. His fingers were placed on the camera he had used to take the important pictures. The things he needed were right there. And three more people besides. The dark-haired man with the unblinking eyes sat on a chair. It stood a good distance away from the couch he had been placed on.

Concentrate. His hands ran over his clothing, especially checking the thing black leather gloves that hid his hands from the outside world. Stopping the gesture, as the dark eyes sucked up every one of his moves. He was silent for a while. His guards were silent. Not all too long though. The man spoke again. “So tell me who ordered you to keep watch on my good friend Anatoli? If I find your answers satisfactory you will be allowed to leave unharmed.” The man, his eyes. This certainty. His voice. He was speaking to a child, a teenager. His voice. He was good at lying, very good. So very good. It was so tempting. He was a child. And the child wanted to trust that man with his camera. He just wanted to tell him everything and get away.

He was no child. He was a man. He knew. He had seen this mans face. He had seen him at the meeting. He had been spying on him. The man was not amused. He would not leave unharmed. No matter what. He knew too much. His gloved hands ran over his clothes. His knife was gone. He finished the motion in a hand-wringing gesture. The dark eye stared. The two men breathed. He needed...time. Slowly, ever so slowly, as the pain in his head increased, their breathing slowed, slowed to a crawl and halted. His hurting head barely mustered the strength to keep them this way. But as long as he could. He needed.... an overview. That was it... and then...well.

Time resumed, as he sprang up, slipping through the hands of the first watcher with youthful agility. Immediately the second one was there. Martin did not look at his face. He had a gun. A gun pointed at him. His Romanian was harsh. Very harsh. “Stop.” Martin stopped, turned around to the interrogator. Ha had raised a hand. Probably the only thing that kept him alive. He needed to be alive. To.... “Don't be childish. Just tell me what I want to know.” His voice had taken on a hint of finality. A last chance? In his lap had appeared, that he had sought in his pocket, as if it were a reminder. It lay dark besides the camera. Reminder of who he really was, what he really was. “You know...Alexei here... he pointed to the one that was sitting still on the couch. Martin had not yet sat back down. He took the chance to look. A hard face. Then he was dragged down again. “Would be very sorry to have to increase the damage to your scalp.” Progression was perfect. One incentive did not work, switch to the other. Oh could he escape this man? Maybe he still underestimated him...that might be a chance. His only one against the group of three. “Its OK.” Child, young, young and innocent Martin sighed, casting down his blue eyes, while something dark awoke there. And then it was there... the guards relaxed...a little. The man watched him expectantly. Expecting to hear his last few words. And it progressed, the little plan. His hands tucked at his shirt, as if he had to make a difficult decision, reducing the distance. Then they shot upwards, the presumed youths hands closing around the neck of his first watcher with surprising force, turning the head, before the body could even react, in an almost caring moment, an easing movement, turning beyond all biological limits, severing the neuronal connections between brain and body. He was rewarded by the faint sound of something braking. Hearts? The first danger was taken care of. There remained only two. And the dance began. He did not need to spin around to know that the other was taking aim and preparing to shoot in these seconds. And so Martin danced, not like dances in the vulgar amusement parks of human reproduction, but danced with the flow of time. To become a dance that was a flowing of swift movements, ever unexpected, of him a show of gymnastics, of cold precision, that was hidden somewhere in the small bones behind a mask of flesh, of blood. Jumped into a flip, away from the dead guard and up unto his questioner, behind him the wave of compressed air approaching, signifying the first shot had been fired and missed its mark. He fell into a backflip at the highest point of which he dropped into a roll, got up and took another step. It was complete. Three volleys had rung in his ears. It was a secure number. Almost. The knife was in his hands, positioned at the neck of the infuriated interrogator. Infuriated he looked, not afraid, by his display of ability, of being able to perceive, whence an arm was moved, before the shot was fired. He remembered a soldier who had simply stared at him in amazement. Poor human. A bit of pain was added to the one in his scalp, a thin line of blood running from his cheek, where a bullet had touched his skin. At this distance concessions had to be made. His look was cold, keeping track of the guard. Professional one could always say. He was mirrored by the other. Two to go.

“You could have simply said that you are one of Pacifia’s little freaks.”

The sound of the voice was irritating. It came from the person at whose throat the knife lay and was slightly dimmed in its annoyance at his discourteous behavior by the fact that every breath had to be taken in careful measures. He even sounded slightly regretful at And he even had the guts to call him Freak.... The word didn't hurt as much as it used to. Not after a decade or two. More interestingly the man remained composed with a knife at his throat. And he knew of the leader of the Romanian resistance movement. Another strange occurrence. But number two was quite ready to shoot him. And had therefore forfeit his life. A flicker of movement, a dark object escaping his hands. At this distance concessions had to be made for him also. A thrown knife. There was no time to escape it for the man with the gun, no room to press escaping triggers. Two down. One to go. Blood was in the air, a heavy perfume. On the ground two men took their last breaths. He was standing behind his sitting questioner now looking at the remainder of his guard. Hands at his throat. Gloved hands. The man spoke again in a very disappointed voice. “Let me restate: We do not wish to fight your little resistance movement...” If he could have seen Martins face in these seconds, he would see a change, a slight one. His tongue moving over dry lips in preparation to loose a few words. His Romanian was without local feature, without high accent. It was thrown at the man like a dead fish. Motionless and slightly smelling of the simple fact, that his life would find an end soon. The fact that he would not regret. “No... you simply don't want a fight with the Resistance.” Little details changed. The voice was dry. He knew it was the truth. Nobody in his mind wanted to fight with mutants. As long as they were human and not politicians. “Who are you working for?” The man thought. And then he laughed. A hearty sound. “So there is another group in the game then?” He coughed up words one after another, in between bursts of laughter. “I am Alexei. I'm the head of one of the smaller organizations in this city. And you, my friend, you have obviously no idea what you are dealing with.” He was quite full of himself. Martins voice did only become colder by this erratic display. “You did not answer my question.” The hands changed position slightly. “Unlike you, I would not be very sorry to damage you until you tell me what I want to know, Alexei.” Not sorry at all. Things he had seen...doing them to other people. It was no option really. Not an option...it was not an option any more. Everything was allowed. At least for the moment. Later? There were always other things to do. And if there were none? Well then he would have to find something to do. Am I really doing this? Quite obviously. His eyes bored into the mans scalp, where his own was irritatingly uncomfortable. What would happen if he hit there?

It seemed though, that Alexei rather liked an intact cranium more then to further test the will of his youthful captor, for his words were without laughter or further comments. “You would call us Mafia.” Oh? Mafia? The grip tightened a little. “Anatolie Belododia is one of our contacts into the local politics. My guards caught you spying on him.” So information could flow freely from this person. Given enough incentive. Martin weighed the scales in his head, considered the questions he had been asked. Live or not live. It was decided in these seconds...not really. The two dead – or rather dying – bodies in this room were more then enough for today. The grip was loosened. Someone sighed. And he changed position, taking the camera out of the mans lap speaking. “As you said: A new player. And I can only say this about us: You do not want to be on the wrong side of our favor.” The words weighed heavily in the room, but there followed more, a string. “You will be forced to sever your contacts to Mr Belododia rather soon I imagine. And you will take care that the pictures on the camera are published before then.” The camera was tossed back into the mans lap, whose fingers closed around it reflexively. Martin bent his knees, until their eyes were on the same level. “I am offering you the chance to replace him by a person of your choosing, rather then mine. There is only one thing they should oppose.” Alexei had nice eyes really. Emotion was missing from them. Some considered that a flaw. But he knew fear at least. And he knew a bargain when he saw one. “I will do as you ask.” His voice was rather cold as he raised his hand, but slightly relieved also. Raised his hand? A strange gesture. What was he supposed to do with it? The hand hung in the air. Waiting. Martin added something…of his own choosing. “I will contact you when I want them published.” He nodded and gave his number. He had no real worries that he would comply with his wishes. It was nice to work with professionals. Sure he would try to kill him one day, because he had killed his guards. When this all was over. People were erratic like that sometimes.

The church portal was still a real portal. Grey oak tiles held together by iron fittings showing the results of long exposure to air and water. Brown streaks were running down on the wood where the nails that pierced them were rotting away slowly, a little more with every gust of wind and rain. Every bit of oxygen that touched them, every drop of water added to destruction. The angles creaked as his touch forced them to move outwards, opening, giving way reluctantly to the interior of the stone building. Romania was an orthodox country mainly. Over 80% of the people were members of an orthodox church. This ones interior was set in stone and gold. Colors were blinking from every wall, every window being of stained glass. Red and blue were the dominating hues, giving the golden shimmer of the altar a dark touch. The appointment had been made via phone. He was dressed this time, like a normal middle-class inhabitant of the city, one afternoon in a café giving him all the linguistic preparation he needed, in his pocket another part of the incentive. The long wooden benches were empty. Martin ignored the basin of water at the entrance. He was not here to do gods errands after all. He was being honest in his way, most of the time he was for some reason it was still calling to him from afar, the thing that was called morals. Do not lie. These callings, he took them as remainders of what he had been, a saddening piece of broken mirror. He was afraid to touch them, lest he cut himself. It was so easy. Rubies falling. The church smelled faintly of the incense that was burned here on occasion. The sounds of the movements of the masked timemancer were amplified by the structure of the building, so that the sounds of life filled the dark room. His eyes fell of the cross, from which, covered in gold and precious stones, hung a small figurine, nailed supposedly to wooden bars. He set down his backpack carefully in the last row of benches, then fingered for the supply of money that he had stocked, removed it from the rucksack and opened it once, to maybe check the sum that was in it, only to proceed into the sacred halls. An impressive structure really.

The priest was dressed in an ornate that was colorful yet not overbearing like the architecture of the church itself. He fit right in. He was sitting on the foremost bench, kneeling, praying. Upon hearing the echo of the steps, his head had but only inclined slightly to the left. A pointer maybe, a reminder in others. The fact that he did not look up was a good thing. One who had never seen his face would not be tempted by anything to remember. And tempting he would, sitting down besides the consecrated male in silence, waiting for the last sound of his steps to disappear form the room, laving only their two breaths and a lot of ornate. “Good day Father.” “Good day my son. How may the mother church help those in need?” Where his own Romanian was that of the middle class, urban mediocracy, every word confirming it, every bit of the puzzle he haded the priest carefully controlled, assigned, the fathers language was refined and educated. His voice held the tone that many of his kind called their own. This soft whispering, the most bare piece of sound and air behind it. It was a silent conversation. “It is not me that is in need father. I hear that there is need in this holy church.” Now the priests head rose slightly, as if he wanted to look up from the crossed hands, but Martin, he spoke on, before the movement would ever draw near completion. “And though my gift may be a only a small contribution, I want to give this to your hands.” He removed the first bit of incentive, the one in his right pocket, a small envelope. White. He dropped on the bench near the hands of the priest, his own being gloved in black leather this time, standing out harshly against the small wrapped gift. It was the color of the priests robes under its embroidery in gold and scarlet.

His hand unfolded, taking up the envelope and found it open to the touch. From the inside there stood out against the white the magenta color of 500€ notes. A small fortune here it was. Enough to ensure that that what he wanted done would happen. Not enough to look wholesomely unbelievable. Now the head of the priest was again rising with a grasp. Martin needed to control him with calming words. “Please father. I do want this gift to be anonymous. My only concern is for the well being of our parishes.” Every word was constructed. Building landscaped of questions. Who am I? Lying to a priest.... This was a church visited by many. It was not the biggest one, but one nearly adjacent to the parish of the upper class-district Mr Belodoia was serving in. It would have to be close enough. This church was visited by many. It was a church of public service, not one of the secluded hoards of riches and prestige that was preferred by the few. Even the golden shimmer of the altar was just a thin layer of hammered gold that had been placed over woodwork. Fine woodwork to be sure, but it was nothing more then that. His language, his unknown face. Language might be fraud. But his word made it almost certainty to the priest. The giver came from this parish, one of the many that had somehow, acquired a good deal of money he wanted to get rid off quite badly. “I thank you for your generous offer, my son, but it is unlawfully won, then please try to undo the harms you caused with it.” Martins feet shuffled uncomfortably. He had not won that money by unlawful means. The Kabal had a near inexhaustible supply of money in different currencies and he was using it to further their goals. But the father still complied with his wishes and kept his head down. “Good father, please believe me... It is all the money I own.” The mask, Martin, what would the mask now do? “I....I...” More shuffling of feet, more uncomfortable silence. “washopingthatyoucoulddomeafavor.” There were the words, they were out. “What is it, that you ask of the mother church?” Strangely his hands had placed themselves back on the envelope that lay between them on the bench. “Its my daughter. My child. I cant bear the shame.” My this was not good. “Speak, Son, speak.” The father tried to encourage Martin, encouraged the giving of money, the gift that would buy him a comfortable lifestyle if he was dishonest or feed a few dozen poor if he was not. “She has taken up an unspeakable profession, but still dares to step into this hallowed halls on every Sunday.” Martins shoulders slumped down as if weighed by a heavy burden, a double burden. Twice the sin at half the price. “You know my son, that we mus....” Here Martins voice became colder, much colder, cutting off the priest. He wanted it to be over and done with. Finally escape the small of incense, of human weakness. “I do not wish her to inherit anything I own... and would only ask of you to preach if you would against adultery in the next masses.” Whether or not it was convincing, the envelope was now drawn toward the faithful, while the faith.... now was there in Martin eyes, that he might do what he wanted. “Of course my child. It is a noble cause and I thank you for your well though gift, even though it would not have been necessary. Fulfill your fatherly duties and pray for her soul. And if she will come again she shall hear in the coming weeks the voice of the lord.” “I thank you so much father.” And indeed it was a burden taken off his shoulders. And though he bowed his head as if in shame, he took the hands of the priest and managed to bring them close to his mouth to with a breath speak a last word of thanks. And then... it was done. “You pray for her, and I will pray for you.” The priest said. “I thank you so much.” Another bare whisper. These prayers would hopefully not be in vain.

The strange petitioner left the church as he had come, many steps they were that echoed from the walls, before they had fallen silent, sound breaking like waves on ornaments and carvings, diminishing with every return. He took the backpack and from it retrieved a small item of the design of a company named Sony. Part of every good tourists equipment, hung it around his neck as if it were a trophy. It was a camcorder. A red button was blinking. He pressed it. The blinking stopped. Just another safety net to ensure compliance by his sheep to his will. The carrot and the stick, sometimes they were handy to have close by. And from the backpack he retrieved the next envelope. There were just three more churches to go. He would not take off his head in a single one of them. He had a wound to hide after all.

And from all the pulpits there shall be heard the word of the lord: Beware ye unfaithful, beware:

And so on the second Tuesday after Xavias disappearance, the Day of Gregorius of Nazianz, grand theologian of the churches, another seed was sown. Lines that spread out on white paper. Dots that were connecting. The net was furthered.

Martin knew now, from his days of watching, that his victim-in-the-making attended church on every Sunday. It was only this time that a little detail had changed, compared to all the Sundays in a very long list. It was a very small detail between on his usual place among his followers and two guards, a small white card, not unlike business cards was it. It had been decorated with few words -copied from an old book it seemed, for they were written in an ornate Latin that was almost intelligible nowadays, one of the oldest books of its kind Martin had been able to find- and then cut out, to be glued on the thick and heavy white paper. It was a card he would find to be sitting in the pages of the hymnal, tucked in securely, so that only he might find it. He would take up every time he sung a song, the message stuck between the pages of the devotional that was destined to be todays vocal before the reading of the scripture. It had been a good Sunday for the politician until now. One half-cooked egg for breakfast, taken together with an internationally renown newspaper of American origin and a few fruit. Belododia, at least as far as Martin could tell by now, despised the local press, they were easily bought and much to swiftly forgotten in the ranks he walked in to be noteworthy. A good deal of money kept them compliant with his wishes and not a single bad word about him had been printed as of today. He was quite confident that that would remain for as long as his grip on them remained tight. When it was time, he called for his guards, two tall man in black suits, and for his car to escort him into the grand church building that serviced this part of town. Right before the sermon, when he shut the book, something white could be seen falling out of the songbook he put down. The white card. It read:

It [wisdom] will save you also from the adulteress, from the wayward wife with her seductive words Prov. 2, 16

Belododia found it. Looked at it. And tucked it in his pocket. His quiet Sunday had been disturbed. How uncivil. He would need to find out who though that he could play games with him and have them taught a lesson. Martin had left the church, his eyes gazing on the golden ornaments, comparing them to the other religious buildings he had been in before, judged ere the politician ever entered - and left smiling. No one had seen him. No one knew but him. That very same Sunday in three of the cities biggest churches flaming swords were raised against those participating the evil business of exploiting young women, hung above their heads with the eloquence of practiced tongue-fighters. Eternal damnation it rained in the pits of hell, where sulfuric clouds chocked the men who participated in such dreadful business. The people he had visited, the seeds he had sown, they were coming to bloom on this very Sunday. And good Mr. Bedoloia had no idea which storm he had called down upon his head. This was to become the worst Sunday of his life. And maybe the last.

When he came home, he left, as he usually did, the guards standing in the garden, doing what they did best. They were annoying one they got too close. Inside they might find out that they needed a rise in payment. The household was in uproar. Not what he expected. There were people standing in the entrance hall with the grand stairs, the crowd slowly advancing on him, people grabbing into their coats and bags. The maid stormed at him, in her hands something black and white, uttering murmurs on the way, trying, and somehow managing to be the first one to reach her employer. “Mr. Belododia, its horrible.” Her looks were indeed appropriate to her statement, the young and pretty female quite as much in turmoil as the people near the stairs. Lights were flashing. Flashlights. From his stairs, down on him. His eyes fell down on the thing that was pressed on him by the shaking woman. A newspaper. One of the cheaper national ones, the ones he never read. She was staring at it, as if it were a viper. And then he looked. Only to find a picture there, that was wholly inappropriate for a first-page design. At least they had obscured her face. But they had not done him the same courtesy. The title was quite fitting. Sex, Drugs and Rock'n'Roll, Political Skandal in Bucharest. The crowd had nearly reached him. He was looking into the eyes of cameras. Of voice recorders. Of a dozen people who had already decided his fate. They erupted in dissonant screams, probably feeling they had given him enough of a fair warning now. “Mr. Belododia a Statement please.” He could not hear them. Just look at the pages. And then at them. Vultures. The mind that came to words. Vultures. They were here to desecrate his corpse. He pushed onwards. Through the thong, through the screams, his voice among them like a deep rumble. “Get them out or you are fired!” The maid looked afraid. Still. He felt like he looked like he needed a whiskey. And was quite inclined to give in to that craving. The reporters were last seen standing at the stairs, waiting, and maybe, bugging the maid. She would get fired anyways.

Something had gone horribly wrong. Whiskey would be good indeed. He rushed into his office. Set down at the glass table. The bottle clinked against the glass. Clinked again. The amber liquid did not enter the crystal container. And with some curiosity, he noted, that his hand was trembling, spilling the liquid on the tabletop instead, glass coloring from the beverage spilled. He abandoned the obviously inefficient approach and went for a more direct method instead, setting the bottle directly to his mouth. And finally there was the burning taste that quelled all ills. The shaking stopped after a while, the burning sensation in his stomach outshining by far the burning on his cheeks, yet not the one question that was flaring brightly in his mind: What was going on here? He was about to lift up the telephone, when he saw, that there was something deposited on his desk, he had not left there. It was like a placement card for a formal event. With a copied text glued onto it. This time it was Romanian. An ancient one still. Back on white stood the letters:

Have no fear of sudden disaster, or ruin that overtakes the wicked Prov. 3, 25

The bottle fell to the ground. Amber and crystal. Like the table.

Martin had left the church and proceeded down the streets he knew well...from experience now. Proceed to the certain cretins house where it would take place. The last act of the grand theater. It was so simple getting into the house really. It felt like coming home after watching it for such a long time, watching the habits of guards and inhabitants alike. And the two most prominent of the first were with Belododia at the church anyways. Martin climbed over the wall and entered, not through the back, but through the front door. Much too easy really. The reporters had already arrived and the ground floor of the house was spinning with confusion, reporters and personnel running around alike. There was nothing noteworthy about the youth that proceeded to the upper halls, hiding himself in the office of the very man they had all come to find this day. And now he was there. The man who had made this mission such a nuisance. The man who had gotten one of the Kabal kidnapped. The man he had promised himself he would teach a lesson. He had done something that would neither be forgiven nor forgotten for as long as he lived. “I think its time for explanations Anatolie.” Martin had taken a sharp breath and stepped out from his hiding place into the open. It was full-wrought after all. His voice, like his eyes was cold as ice. Every fiber of his body was tense, his one hand gripping tightly onto what was hidden in his left pocket, the other just being removed from the right one. And it seemed that an aura of age was about him, an aura of command that was stronger then everything the politician could muster at this hour, for he looked up and stared. And was quiet.

Luckily the timemancer had not waited with his interception longer then he had, for even though Anatolie had already drunken a good share of ethanolic liquid, his mind was still working with enough clarity to identify the unlikely intruder. Someone he had already discarded from his mind, were it not for a very basic skill that all of his kind tended to acquire better sooner then later. Good Anatolie had a very good memory for faces. And though the youth he was confronted with was somewhat much more commanding then him, the burning in his stomach promted him, to give a response finally. An angry one. “Then explain before I get you the beating of your lifetime, pal.” And then he even managed to address something that was bugging him very much in this boys sentence. A primary concern. “And its Mr. Belododia for you.” He was so full of himself. Martin smirked. Yes. He smirked. It a smile motivated by schadenfreude, by the steel that was in him thanks to the insect before him. It was a gesture of admittance in a way to the gift he had made him in denial. A gesture of admitting to a part of himself he liked to hide away. He liked to hide away, because it made it easier to wear the guise of humans, the guise of the ordinary. He was not ordinary. “You do overestimate your own importance Anatolie.” It sounded almost sad, the voice of the late teen, an echo maybe of the voice of the true teenager that was fighting inside him, for one last bit of grace. A blessing. Hands wandered to the telephone as the blue gaze turned away from him, inside, lifted up the receiver. Anatolies fingers and mind were strangely calm as he pressed the buttons.

There was no shimmer to announce its coming. Nor any kind of movement that preceded it. Northing to be discerned, no information that reached the eye, ere it was done. Black coated, laser cut steel did what it was made to do, the tanto, an old Japanese blade design, adopted and improved on, slicing through the wire of the phone without so much as a bit of resistance, cutting off the dialing tone, letting it fall into electronic silence. Anatolie was looking into blue eyes, but centimeters from his face. Seemed to be searching something. And he started to sweat a little it seemed. Finally he was getting somewhat uncomfortable. “Anatolie... I want to know where you put her.” How could a voice so young be so emotionless? How could young eyes hold this little soul? Where was the fire? No, Martin did not want to threaten the man. Threatening was reserved for those that had something of value to give. This tone was reserved for those that had nothing to give any more. For those that came empty-handed. It was a tone he was sure the politician would recognize. Just to be sure...the knife was pushed into the body of the phone, entered with a single snapping sound. And then left again. White it was that was holding the black grip, fist clenched around it, the tip of the knife pointing downward, angles toward the wielders own body. White. His flesh. His last resort. It lay open in the air. Somewhere he had found the time to tuck a pair of gloves into his right pocket. The answer the man gave was... a little dumb. Founded. The voice slightly shaky now, drops extending in size on his forehead. “Who?” If he was bent on enraging the mutant chronomancer...well in a way he did succeed. His voice climbed to new heights of iciness, knife hovering near the youths face, a shadowy tooth between the sparkling portals to his soul and the outer world. “She...” his had approached his. His naked hand. The roaches eyes flickered on it and then rapidly away, as he saw the unnatural paleness of the flesh, the blue vines of his veins under the milky water of his skin alive with every bit of his movements. A hand of the dead, one of the grave. He rolled back in his office chair, rolled back with a kick of his feet to increase his distance to the... maniac? Then he remembered. The sudden spike of pain. The Romani beauty. The mutant beauty. “You don't even know?” Anatoli snorted in disgust. “Shes probably where all of her kind belong...” The words escaped his mouth in alcoholic boldness. How stupid could this person be? Everybody knew where mutants went. It was a bit sad, that now the guards were allowed to play with her instead of him.... just thoughts crossing.

Martin, seeing the attempted escape...jumped. On the desk, his card falling to the ground among other papers. The black was still sucking up the rooms light. The white was littering the ground. And hovering above it. And the ice was with him. “Probably because of you Anatolie.” He hard his voice say. The addressed, he was silent. “And that is a thing I will not tolerate.” Tolerate, from Latin: tollere, tollo, sustuli, sublatum, it all meant one thing: To bear. And finally the politician seemed to grasp something. Something important he had not been keen to know before. The signs. The notes. This situation. He would not get out of it alive. The fact of recognition it was that came with a shudder Martin saw, used to jump of the desk, rising to his full height, and approach Mr Belododia with a few steps. Quick steps the were, light steps. His eyes were heavy, his hand holding the black fang that attracted a scared look from the chairs eyes. “Anatolie, Anatolie, people like you, they're easily replaced. And always remember:” Here his words entered something that sounded almost fatherly, quite personally personal. It really was. “You are alone now.” As...am I. One step at a time. One step per word he came closer, eyes sparkling not dreadful intent but cool purpose. Cruelty beyond all emotion. The politician was pale-faced now. Watery streams were drowsing his shirt. There was no child any more. There never had been. The young form, the golem, the nexus, liar and thief, child and ancient one, they lifted an arm in unison. Not the one with the fang, the dark one, that seemed to attract all eyes, but his. It was more dreadful things he had in mind for the man that was named Anatolie Belododia. It was his right he lifted up. The had of the heart. The one he dreaded when he was in his mind. He had never before felt so crystal-clear.

And he proceeded, with a single finger, one of the long ones, the white ones, to draw a streak over the sweaty face, grinding dams for salty flows in peachy earth. Digging, using force beyond all words. Calling on the ice at last, the blizzard blowing freely. Was there something dying here? Grinding souls to dust.

Later that day the maid found the politician lying in a puddle of his own blood, windows of his office opened wide, babbling wildly, intelligible syllables, screaming them out to the world his hurt, announcing the fact of his early retirement in very unclear words. “ggggnnmhe” There was sand in the room everywhere, piling up to little dunes, being blown away one grain at a time. Where had it come from? And where had the blood come from? The maid was quite unhappy to find that, as it seemed, some of her employers fingertips had gone missing. Her voice was added to his. Chorus of madness. There were lights flashing.
A good story?