by Tyler Leslie
The warrior Arr’itaoll had chosen to demonstrate the armor’s effects stepped past the Warlord and his son, bowing before his overlord and averting his eyes in the process.
“Warlord, what is it you would have me do?”
Arr’itaoll placed his hand on the warrior’s head, a sign of acknowledgement of his loyalty. “Stand, warrior. My son wishes to be educated on the procedures and effects of our glorious armor. I have chosen you to demonstrate.”
“I am humbled at the honor, Warlord.”
Arr’itaoll nodded as a king would to his servant, and the warrior slowly wended his way to the far side of the room, standing beside one of the tub devices. “Please, tell your son to follow me.”
Arr’itaoll gently pushed Ptuy’kka toward the warrior, and the youth hurriedly skittered off. When Ptuy’kka was standing beside the tub, the warrior gingerly climbed inside it and laid down, his arms on his chest in the position the humans’ Egyptian mummies had so often demonstrated.
Ptuy’kka stood by, watching with intense interest.
The warrior closed his eyes, and a soft gurgling sound began to fill the cavernous room. A thick, black stream of liquid Kordon began flowing into the tub, making sloshing noises as it passed over the warrior’s body. In moments the warrior was completely covered head to foot in the liquified armor. To a bystander that had not witnessed the complete process, it would appear as if no one were in the tub. Then, slowly, the armor began to curve back on itself, conforming to the many contours of the warrior’s enormous body, hardening within seconds. The warrior stood, deftly leapt over the edge of the tub, and stood in the center of the room, the dark, sculpted chunk of Kordon glistening in the overhead lights.
As the warrior stood there, motionless, vicious looking spikes began to protrude from the armor’s shoulders, arms, and calves.
A few moments later, once the spikes had come to rest in their final positions, the warrior turned to Ptuy’kka, saying, “The armor is now fully applied and uploaded to the MindGate server. I am ready for battle.” He then grabbed at a protruding piece of Kordon that ran along his forearm, pulling the piece free with ease and snapping it like a whip.
“The armor is capable of hiding within it several types of weaponry, such as this whip. We call this weapon the ‘Reaver.’ It has two forms. Whip—,” he twisted the handle of the whip in opposite directions, and it quickly straightened out and solidified, sharpening along the edges in the process, “—and sword.”
The warrior swung the newly created weapon as if attacking an invisible enemy, and it made a soft whistling sound as it cut through the air. “This is but the basic weapon of the Scuratt’kan warrior. There are other, much more deadly ones, within our grasp.”
He looked toward Arr’itaoll, and received a slight nod from the Warlord. To Ptuy’kka’s surprise, the warrior swiftly pulled a small glob of his armor off, and hurled it at the Warlord as hard as he could. In mid-air, the glob thinned, transforming into a multi-edged throwing star that surely would have beheaded a being not ready for it. The Warlord, however, was never unprepared. He stood his ground, catching the shuriken at the last possible moment, holding it mere inches from his face.
Ptuy’kka was dumbfounded; he had no idea his father was such an adept warrior.
The Warlord threw the shuriken back at the warrior, who raised his arm, reabsorbing the weapon as it made contact with the armor. He smiled, giving the Warlord a nod of approval.
“I see you have been keeping up with your combat training. I would expect nothing less from a Warlord.” He bowed low.
The Warlord acknowledged the compliment by spreading his hands apart slightly—a gesture of accepted flattery. “Thank you for serving to demonstrate our militaristic prowess to my son.” He sent an amused glance in Ptuy’kka’s direction. “I have no doubt he will put this newfound knowledge to use. Perhaps one day he will enhance our Kordon technology?” He nodded once more, this time to his son. “We shall see.”
Arr’itaoll turned to the warrior. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have battle plans to review, and my son no doubt has studying waiting for him.”
“Certainly, Warlord. I am always privileged to serve you. If you require assistance in the future, please do not hesitate to call upon me.”
The Warlord smiled at the member of his personal army. “You have my word, warrior.” He turned and led his son out of the ready room, intent on adding new, brilliant tactics to his battle plans.
Andy Witkis was doing exactly what he liked to do on a Friday afternoon. Work. Unlike most people, Andy found work both intoxicating and cathartic. He was one of the lucky few individuals who actually enjoyed his job. Every day he would wake up at 5:00 without fail, never tired, always ready to demolish the day ahead of him. Every second spent behind his desk was another dollar earned for his family’s security.
He stamped another of the several papers he had been pouring over for the last three hours. As the Chief Financial Officer of Witkis Financial, there was always work to be done. Insurance claims had to be gone over, invoices calculated and filed; even the payroll of every single Witkis Financial employee passed through his hands. Everyone in the office that knew Andy knew he loved his job. They knew he could always be found putting in overtime, making sure things were absolutely flawless in every regard. What they didn’t know was that Andy had a secret. Sure, the work helped keep his family secure. It helped him feel like he was accomplishing something in this world. However, the reason he truly kept busy nearly every hour of every day was a mystery to most. He had a dark secret in his past. A secret not even his family had uncovered. He furrowed his brow in concentration, trying to keep his mind in check, to keep the dark edge of his past from creeping around the corners. It was no use. This was one of those nights when he would be unable to stop the apparition of his past from bouncing through his mind like a circus performer.
Andy pushed open the door to his modest Manhattan apartment with his heavy briefcase, pausing just for a second to take in the sounds of life within. Strangely, there was nothing. No laughter from his children, no cooing chastisement from their mother. Just heavy, oppressing silence. Andy immediately knew something was wrong. Kelsey was never late from work. By this time the children were always bouncing around the house as if they had pogo-sticks permanently attached to their feet. It was the greatest sound in the world, the sound of contentment.
Andy put his briefcase down in the small foyer and took a step inside, listening for his family. To a normal man, the absence of his family’s stentorian antics would be nothing to become upset about. It would be likely that his wife had taken the children somewhere and left a note explaining why and where she had taken them. But Kelsey was not like most men’s wives.
She was a perfectionist in the most complete sense of the term. If she had taken the kids somewhere, she would have called Andy. She never left notes. Her penmanship was as perfect as everything else about her. Andy had never understood why she refused to leave him a note. Regardless, she always found a way to make sure he was updated as to his family’s whereabouts.
Andy and Kelsey had been married ten years. In those ten years she had never once kept him in the dark; he had never once come home to find the house empty without a phone call explaining why.
Andy walked to the back of the house slowly, the sense of unease creeping through every vein and artery in his body. Something was very wrong here. He reached the kitchen and gingerly pulled out the Colt .45 he kept hidden in the top of a cabinet. He had no idea how to use a handgun; it had been bought at the last minute as a precaution in the event of an intrusion. He prayed he would know how to use it if the time ever came to do so. Now he seriously wished he had taken some firearms classes.
The door to the basement was slightly ajar. Another pang of terror shot through Andy.
Kelsey would never leave the door open. His
3-year-old child Joey was extremely curious and would undoubtedly investigate, probably falling down the staircase and hurting himself.
Andy eased the door open with the muzzle of the gun. Still no sounds. He tried to relax. Just because everything was quiet didn’t mean something was wrong. He mentally repeated this several times, yet he knew he was lying to himself. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, his hand was shaking uncontrollably. His mind went through a thousand different possibilities, all of them terrible and all ending in tragedy. What did it say about him when in every single scenario he could concoct he was completely powerless?
Suddenly a loud whooshing noise filled his eardrums and he was thrown into complete darkness. Pain erupted from the back of his head for a split second, then he fell into unconsciousness.
When he awoke he could still see nothing. He tried to reach up and feel his face, fearing he had lost his eyes or something equally terrible. He quickly discovered his hands were bound to the arms of a chair. A quick work of his legs revealed the same had been done to his feet. It was difficult to breathe; something kept filling his mouth every time he inhaled.
I must have a bag over my head or something, he thought. He tried to yell, but his mouth was sealed shut with what was most likely duct-tape. In a final attempt to escape from whatever or whoever was holding him, he began thrashing wildly, succeeding in doing nothing but lacerating his wrists and knocking the chair over. The fall stunned him, and he lay there for a few seconds before cognition returned.
“What a bloody idiot.” Someone sneered over his shoulder. “Why the heck can’t you find an intelligent captive, Mark?”
“Speaking of intelligence,” another voice answered, “why don’t you say my name out loud again.”
The first man laughed derisively. “Please, as if anyone here is going to live to remember your name, Mark.” He spit the name out as if it was a bad piece of fruit.
A curse and the sound of a pistol cocking filled Andy’s ears.
“Don’t be a fool. Put that thing away.”
Andy could feel eyes burning into him. He resolved to stay still and try to play his hand right. A moment later he felt strong, rough hands grab him and pull him and the chair upright. Another rough movement and the bag covering his head was removed.
Andy squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light, dim though it was. He was in his own basement, as he expected. The unfinished appearance had always been slightly unwelcoming. Now it was downright oppressive.
One of the men stepped forward into his line of sight and appraised him with a grim look. He gave a gruff snort and moved behind Andy. “Are your bindings too tight?” he said, so close to Andy’s ear it made him jump. Andy tried to turn his head and glare at the man but was unable to move his head far enough. Instead, he settled for a muffled curse.
“Careful there, buddy,” Mark said quietly. “I’d hate to have to make you even more uncomfortable than you already are.” He grabbed the ropes holding Andy’s wrists to the chair and gave them a sharp tug. Andy cried out in pain as the ropes dug even further into his wrists. A thin stream of blood began to trickle from each arm to the floor, making a soft pattering sound.
“Stop toying with him,” the other man said as he moved to face Andy. This man was tall and imposing, with the cruelest blue eyes Andy had ever seen. A thick mustache danced on his lips as he chuckled to himself, obviously pleased with his work. He regarded the bound man for a few seconds, then launched into an interrogation. “Do you have any idea why you are here, Andy Witkis?” The man raised his eyebrows in expectation.
Andy shook his head slowly, trying to burn holes in the man’s face with his eyes. The man chuckled and reached forward, tearing the tape off of Andy’s mouth. Before Andy could say anything the man’s fist lashed out and tore into his face, the rings adorning every single one of the man’s fingers carving canyons into his skin. Andy resisted the urge to yell. He knew no one could hear him. It was a waste of time and energy. If he wanted to get out of here alive, he knew he had better try to save as much energy as possible.
The man walked to the corner of the basement and picked up a chair, returning to where Andy sat, and sitting in it. He turned the chair around so he rested his hands on the back of the chair.
“My name is Charles Phillip,” the man began. “You have no idea who I am, but I know exactly who you are.”
A cruel smile crossed his lips for the briefest of moments. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He regarded it for a second before turning it so Andy could see. It was a picture of Kelsey and their two boys. “You have a great family,” Phillip interjected as Andy began to protest. “They really made quite an impression on me.”
Andy cursed and tried to lash out at this Charles Phillip. All he succeeded in doing was carving his wrists up even more.
Phillip chuckled and slapped Andy across the face. “Is that what you want to do to me right now? Hit me?” He leaned in close to Andy’s face. “Make me suffer?” He chuckled again and leaned back. “But I haven’t even told you why you’re here yet.”
He studied Andy for what seemed like an eternity before continuing. “You see, Andy. Your constant meanderings in the realms of business have put you in quite a precarious position. All those stocks you keep purchasing have really put a strain on your bank account. So much so that you’ve had to borrow money from a… reputable source, yes?”
“What do you want me to say, Phillip? No? I admit I’ve been forced down that road once before. What of it? I paid back everything I borrowed, with interest. I’m done with that life.”
Phillip leaned forward again and wagged a finger at Andy. “Oh no, no, Andy. You’ve just begun to pay back your loan.” He smiled again. “Surely you know that Prince Davenport isn’t one to just let a business partner off the hook without spending some quality time with him first?” Phillip put his hands up in the air in a shrug.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Davenport couldn’t join in on the festivities today, but he sends his regards.” Phillip motioned to Mark, telling him to come to him. He put his arm on Mark’s back as he regarded Andy once more. “This is Mark Karnes. He will serve in the Prince’s stead in this trial. Treat him like a brother.”
Andy cursed again and told Mark to go screw himself. Mark replied with a backhand to the face, an act that, surprisingly, was even more painful than Phillip’s first hit.
Andy spit blood and glared at Mark.
“Now, now,” Phillip cooed, “that’s not how you would treat your brother, is it?” He turned the chair around and sprawled out in it like a teenager. “This is how things are going to work, Andy. I’m going to ask you a question, and if you respond in a manner that displeases me, I’m going to hurt you. Understand?”
Andy nodded. If he got out of this somehow, he was going to make sure this man pay dearly.
Phillip pulled out another piece of paper and put it on his leg. He bored his blue eyes into Andy for a moment. “Prince Davenport would like you to do another favor for him. We have some garbage that needs to be disposed of. Biological garbage, to be precise.” That cruel smile once again played across his lips. “It seems one of the Prince’s business partners decided to renege on one of their deals. That was… unwise.”
Mark held up a pair of keys. “There is a car out front. The garbage is in the trunk. All you have to do is drive the car to the junkyard and tell them to crush it. Job done. Everybody wins. You get a piece of your life back, and the Prince gets another piece of his loan.”
Andy considered for a moment, then with considerable effort, gave Mark the finger.
Phillip gave Andy a disapproving look, the kind a father would give to a mischievous child. “Now you see, Andy, that’s exactly the kind of response we don’t want from you.” Phillip slowly held up the piece of paper so Andy could see. It was another picture of his wife, o
nly this time she was bound and gagged in a dark room.
Andy flew into a rage, twisting in the chair in a vain attempt to escape, all the while spouting obscenities at Phillip. Finally, after exhausting all his strength, he collapsed in the chair, his head hanging.
Phillip clucked his tongue. “Your wife, as you can tell, is currently in our care. As are your two children. There is nothing you can do about it. You will never find out where they are unless you cooperate. If you do, you will get them back safely. Resist, and it will be my unfortunate task to… deal with them.”
Andy figured Phillip was bluffing. He was as ruthless as they come, but nothing more than a typical bully. And like any bully, if one was to stand up to him, it would reveal he was all show and tell, nothing more.
Andy spit in Phillip’s face. “Do your worst, Phillip. I’m through with the Prince and his stupid game. It was a mistake to go to him for money. A mistake I’ll never make again.”
Phillip started at Andy. “You’re right about that, Witkis. You won’t.”
Andy slowly came back from his reverie. The old-
fashioned fountain pen he always used was grasped in his fingers so tightly it felt as if it would break; ink dripped from the tip onto the insurance claim beneath it, forming a pattern that resembled the blood stain in Phillip’s pictures. Andy shoved the papers off his desk in a fit of grief. Phillip had made good on his promise. He had killed Andy’s entire family, even going so far as to send Andy his wife’s bloody ring back. His current family had no idea Andy had even been married. He had been sure to permanently bury his past as deep as he humanly could. This did nothing to stop the sudden and painful resurgence of memories, however.