Blood On Borrowed Wings: A Dark Fantasy Thriller

by Darren Stapleton

  One of them started to roll up their banner.

  The woman turned to address him: ‘Come on, that’s their fifth final warning, if we all stay we can…’

  ‘Fuck that, I’m off home. It’s lunch time anyway.’

  ‘Yeah. We can live to fight another day,’ said somebody else from the back of the group.

  ‘Fight?’ said the young man, ‘fight? You wouldn’t know a fight if… if… if it came up to you and started a fight… with a punch, in your face.’

  The woman put a placating hand on his shoulder and his head bowed in reluctant defeat.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘we can come back tomorrow.’

  I watched the small crowd leak away like an insipid dishwater puddle through sandstone loam, feeling a mixture of admiration, envy and disgust. Admiration because they were fighting for something they believed in, giving up their time and energy for their beliefs and for the greater good, altruism. I envied them because I missed that. I missed believing in something other than myself; that one voice can make a difference; that personal commitment and heroism can change things; that one soldier’s life matters. Really matters. I used to believe that we lived, or died, for reasons which were noble, for the good of others, for the growth of self.

  But it achieves nothing.

  Means nothing.

  They were trying to take a running piss at the moon, to give their dull lives some kind of meaning that transcended their humdrum existences and, depressingly, they were failing even in that.

  I felt disgust. A deep seated unease spread through my stomach and threatened to end in another violent retch.

  ‘Are they making you sick or is it just your own pessimism?’ asked Pan.

  ‘Ideology and Apathy do not mix. They are pathetic.’

  ‘Really?’ said Pan, and then she looked me up and down, like the woman had looked at her a few moments ago. Her coffee brown eyes called me a hypocrite.

  I turned towards Lacroix who was exiting the large glass double doors to our left, glad of the distraction. I had not seen the Arena executive since the press conference he had begrudgingly run for me. In this case executive meant he was where the credit stopped. He was striding over to us, arms swinging and stiff. The expensive swish of his tailored outfit announced his importance and fastidious nature long before he had arrived. He looked surprised but I couldn’t tell anything else from his expression. Either he was surprised to see us because of the manner in which we had left a couple of nights earlier, or he was surprised we had already escaped, and he, along with the rest of the management team, had known all along what was going to happen. I decided to push him to see if I could learn any more. I was in the mood for an argument. Especially today.

  ‘What’s up, Lacroix? Did you have me showing up here at lunch in the Backstabber Sweepstakes?’ Have we just won you 200 credits and a bottle of house Champers?’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about. The last I saw of you was on the news when you were bundled out of this Arena by the very crew you were here to negate.’

  ‘How did I look?’

  ‘Unimpressive, Mr. Theron, and somewhat, ah, limp.’

  ‘Yeah, well, enough tranqs. in the tank and anyone would wilt.’

  ‘I can vouch for that,’ said Pan, my double entendre queen.

  ‘And you must be Miss…?’ He let the last word trail away implying it was a sentence that needed completing by someone else.

  ‘Yes, I must,’ said Pan being deliberately obtuse and loving it. She flicked her hair and folded her arms and I could not, despite my years of training and hours spent in close proximity with her, decipher if her indignation was real or not.

  ‘I apologise for our, erm, welcoming committee,’ said Lacroix pointing at the receding crowd of Horizoneers, ‘maybe we could ask for your counsel on matters relating to dispersal or disposal.’

  I watched the protesters slowly leaving, to go and lick their wounds and eat their sandwiches.

  ‘Maybe not,’ I said.

  Lacroix lead the way and we all entered through one of the tall glass doors. It swung inwards in a manner that contradicted its weight and allowed easy access to the main lobby. A semi-circular desk was directly opposite and it was swamped in the neon glow of price listings and upcoming fight night propaganda. The girl behind the desk looked like she was part of the fixtures, all shiny and smiling and false. There was a faint smell of disinfectant intermingled with old, hot frying oil and reheated fast food. The lobby was tiled and to our right the floor was in the process of receiving a high polish from two cleaning staff. Small souvenir stands offered up the usual overpriced and under-engineered trinkets. Most of them adorned by pictures of the Angelbrawlers, plastic replicas, pencils, pendants, postcards, caps, bags and posters; the usual plethora of logoed crap that would disintegrate as soon as they left the building.

  You could access the stage by going left or right though we were not heading to the main Arena.

  ‘Sal, can you send three coffees through to the Board room,’ Lacroix said. It was not a question, it was a statement. Sal answered a flat ‘Sir,’ and then dialled a number looking suitably bored.

  ‘Sal,’ I said, ‘make one of those a whisky and send all of the drinks to the main Security Room, not the Board Room.’

  She looked at Lacroix to check this was OK and was greeted with a subtle nod for confirmation.

  Her smile did not falter once.

  Neither did Lacroix’s, maybe it was painted on, or purchased from one of his cheap gift shops as an appendage to his crisp and flawless suit.

  ‘You won’t find what you are looking for,’ said Lacroix.

  ‘Maybe I already have,’ I said.

  We walked the rest of the way without talking. The whir of the floor buffers echoed around the curved walls and the neon seemed somehow brighter reflected in the newly polished tiles.

  Lacroix gave the floor more attention than usual.

  A friend in need is a friend who has long out-served his purpose in the relationship.

  Blackwing Jingoism; An Exposition

  Colonel Hundt

  CHAPTER 25

  ‘Ah, it’s good to be in the air again.’ Croel threw his shoulders back and dropped his head forward, plummeting a hundred feet in a wing-beat. The air rushed around him and his feathers rattled from resistance, flapping like a black quill flag in high winds. He arched his back and flew up, once again alongside Mckeever. ‘My arm still hurts but it is not affecting my flight too much.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  They both looked down as they crossed the Edgelands of Nimbus. Trees downscaled to bushes and then disappeared in a brush waterfall over the lip of the circular land mass. Greens blurred then gave way to more distant browns and greys. A thermal draft hit them both at the same time, and without shock or comment, they circled clockwise in ascent. They did not speak to each other. It would have been pointless at this height and speed. Words would be whipped to the horizon before the keenest of ears had a chance to snatch them from the tumult. Up here words easily became insignificant; whispers into a hurricane’s wall.

  They did not look for windsharks. Fresh blood was no longer issuing from Mckeever’s eye and without that to attract them, they assessed the risk of an attack as negligible, despite Loope's recent, exaggerated tales. If Mckeever and Croel had spotted a windshark, there would be very little they could do anyway, other than shout their last goodbyes to each other’s heads before they were departed from their respective shoulders. Instead they used the thermals to stay in motion. They kept their speed up and hoped for the best. Newton’s wings barely slowed Mckeever down at all.

  The credits were worth the risk.

  As they circled higher they enjoyed the solitude and time for personal reflection. Mckeever dwelled on his new disability and wondered if his auditory perception would be improved by way of compensation for his semi-loss of vision. Maybe that could even help his hunting. He also wondered if working for Ve
dett was such a good idea. He hated politics and religion and Groundbounders, and this current assignment was getting him embroiled in the former and latter far too much for him to be comfortable. But the credits were good, and whilst he was flying everything seemed more acceptable, less important. Concerns were relegated to minor inconveniences nagging at the back of his well-paid, liberated mind. He listened to the sound of the rushing wind fill his ears and tried to discern if it was now, just a little, louder.

  Croel followed Mckeever’s circles. He thought about how he would dispatch the guards at the cells when they landed, and decided that catching birds and people was not that different after all. He thought about whether his partner was up to the task and figured ways he could test his skills and usefulness or uselessness. He was angry with Mckeever for lessening their team's effectiveness. His thin, pinched face cut a slipstream through the cold, coursing air and his brittle teeth were blasted dry as the wind forced his thin, joyless slit of a grin wider. He was even more superior now.

  They levelled out and used their altitude to glide west and down towards the ground, to the place where the ash plains met the reed grass and the swamp. They were looking for a concrete structure, low and rectangular and at the heart of the Deadlands, an abandoned low rise tomb on the barren plains, the cells.

  They flew following their noses, the sulphuric discharge belching acrimony into the atmosphere, a miasmic pointer telling them their heading and hinting at the foulness that might be in store once they arrived. And whilst Mckeever smiled, feeling good to be back in the air, revelling in the simple freedom and satisfaction of flight, Croel plotted and scanned the horizon for their destination through squinted eyes. Once on the ground they would take care of the guards, Drake and the girl as Vedett had requested. He had not ordered, he knew better than that. Only Drake alive, he had said, do as you wish with the others.

  Croel especially looked forward to working on the girl and found a reason deep in the darkness of his being to beat his wings more vigorously and catch up to his partner.

  Mckeever started as Croel pulled alongside him and watched as he then used his afforded element of surprise to move slightly ahead. Mckeever, though a stronger flyer, happily tucked in behind.

  He did not see Croel’s smile spread like a wound. A sickly red gash hacked into his angular, pale face, full of slyness and dark glee. But somehow, maybe due to an overactive imagination or possibly an overcompensating sense and even despite the wind, he thought he heard, very faintly, a chuckle drift down to him from his partner up ahead.

  They both left the time for more personal reflection up in the underbellies of the barely existent clouds and began their descent.

  Oh, how bankers with silken tongues and ties,

  Purvey the dream you had no wish to know.

  Housed, clothed and rich by your darling enterprise,

  Having sold their souls and darlings so very long ago.

  Morals for Sale

  S.Walker

  CHAPTER 26

  I put my empty whisky tumbler down on top of one of the monitors. Their screens were black, reflecting the contents and dour mood of the security room. We looked like warped monochrome apparitions reflected in the glass; ghosts stalking some removed, distant dimension; nobody talking or even making eye contact.

  We looked like we were waiting for absolution or bad news.

  Pan broke the silence.

  ‘So where is the recording from that night? I want to make sure my hair looked OK.’

  Lacroix produced a disc from his pocket.

  ‘Here it is. It’s on quarter time, so it will appear slightly jerky but it allows us to fit more onto one disc. The resolution should be sufficient to identify whatever you need to.’

  I picked up my empty glass and handed it to Pan.

  ‘Can you get me another one of these, please?’

  ‘I’m not your slave, you can’t just...’

  ‘No ice,’ I said.

  She looked at me for a few moments, flicked her hair to show her disapproval and snatched the glass out of my hand. Thankfully she left the room with little more fuss than that.

  Lacroix shifted uneasily in his chair as she closed the door and I took the opportunity to use the silence to my advantage and said nothing. I folded my arms, swivelled my chair to face him and stared. I could almost hear the cogs of his brain clunking around to process why I needed to be alone with him and the computation process was making him sweat. His eyes started to retreat into his skull and I noticed him try to take a drink from his already empty coffee cup. Twice.

  ‘I was set up.’

  He jumped, looked confused.

  ‘But the recording…’

  ‘I was set up and you fucking know it.’

  ‘I do not know what you are talking about, Mr Theron. Why not watch the recording and you will see…’ he swallowed nervously.

  ‘I do not need to. I know exactly what happened.’

  Lacroix looked at his coffee cup again.

  ‘Without looking I can tell you a number of things.’ I stood and was surprised to see that Lacroix did not flinch. ‘On fight night, the two empty seats next to Miss Socorro meant Box Office were in on it. Someone had bought or left those two seats open for a reason. Prime seats do not get left empty like that. Not on a Brawl night.’

  I did not ask him any direct questions, I was not interested in his responses or excuses. Instead I was examining the twitches and ticks and the instrument panel of his face that was telling me all I needed to know. Good card players don’t play the cards, they play the man. I wanted to see what he had.

  ‘They also managed to remove Miss Socorro and me from the building without so much as a scuffle.’

  ‘You were lost in the affray.’

  ‘Affray? It was full on war. It far outweighed any brutality going on in the meshed ring and probably drew more attention. The security team knew where I was and what I was doing. No-one helped or intervened. No police either.’

  Lacroix was suddenly overly interested in his shoes.

  ‘Now I must assume, personal vendettas aside, that the chief of security would normally be all over an event like this?’

  Lacroix did not recognise this as a rhetorical question and tried to answer. ‘When questioned he said he assumed you knew what you were doing and he did not want to, how did he put it? “Cramp your style.”’

  ‘Some style, I had enough drugs in me to stop a small battalion of Blackwings and, to all intents and purposes, they won. They took me out. But what about Pan? How did you let her get taken too?’

  Lacroix recognised this as a rhetorical question and remained silent.

  ‘Fire your Security Chief. He is on the take and he is inept. Both are grounds for dismissal. Get rid of his two assistant managers too, no doubt they are in on this as well. Dig the rotten core out and the pips too, get some decent people in. I’ll give you some names if you like.’

  ‘I’ll discuss it with the board first thing,’ Lacroix said, relieved.

  ‘Someone on the board is in on this, too.’

  Lacroix said nothing.

  ‘That does not exclude you.’

  ‘I have not, at any time…’

  ‘Save it,’ I said. ‘Just sort your security so women stop getting killed, OK?’

  ‘Yes, OK,’ Lacroix said, almost apologetically.

  ‘You will discuss your security overhaul with the Board today, or I will be calling some media favours in. Think they would like this kind of scoop. Then we can both watch as your sales plummet again. The public, after all, is a fickle animal.’

  ‘I'll call an emergency meeting.’

  ‘They'll come,’ I said. ‘It involves money.’

  ‘Your payment is all in the reception safe, waiting as arranged. Even accounting for the furore you exceeded expectations, Mr Theron. The bookings for the next few bouts have gone ballistic, off the scale. Our shareholders and audiences have never been happier. There is a substantial bonu
s in there in light of the extra trauma and inconvenience.’

  I closed my eyes for a second trying to surmount the uprush of bile I felt at having to deal with this over indulged wallflower in a suit.

  Extra trauma and inconvenience made it sound like a ticket mix up, like an often repeated, spurious apology for a bad show. People had died.

  ‘That pleases me no end,’ I said without even the smallest hint of sarcasm, making it an all the more effective jibe. ‘Now give me ten minutes to watch this video nasty and I’ll meet you and Pan by reception. Tell her to have my drink if she hasn’t already.’

  ‘It’s all set up, in the right place,’ said Lacroix as he stood to leave. ‘I’ll see you outside then?’ He wiped his hands down his trousers. He seemed reluctant to go, but when he was not met with an acknowledgement of any kind, he slid around the edge of the open door in the effete way only high level businessmen and small girls can manage.

  I depressed the playback button, sat back and folded my arms. The centre monitor sprang into life with a crackle and whir and then, after a small grey leader denoted the time and date of the recording, the scene was revealed. I entered from the bottom left hand corner in a scratchy, monochrome grey, chewing candied nuts.

  I hoped I would see something to confirm my already cementing suspicions.

  I was not disappointed.

  Always make sure you finish what you finish.

  Blackwing motto

  CHAPTER 27

  ‘Wait,’ said Croel.

  He raised one of his hands and pointed to the cell building.

  Mckeever noticed the door standing ajar and nodded, ‘I’ll do another fly-by.’ He gave Newton’s wings to Croel then ran and took to the air, the beats of his wings so close to the ground that the scorched grass and weeds seemed to bend out of his way, acquiescing, as he flew. His midday shadow stayed close. He banked sharply at the first corner, and again, and returned to his starting point before the first grasses had settled back to attention.