by M. T. Miller
Good, thought the Nameless. It was getting late.
The tallest of the bunch spoke again, right before a series of dull thuds resounded from somewhere behind the Nameless. “Seems that we’ve caught ourselves an intruder, fellas!”
Did they leap down from the surrounding rooftops?
“You spy, you die!” another man said while unsheathing a crude, yet sharp-looking Asian broadsword. The others did the same, and a museum of hand-to-hand weaponry soon gleamed in a circle around the Nameless.
“Good sirs, I beg of you!” The Nameless gripped the handle of the revolver in his right pocket. He had made a hole in the fabric, and now he let the barrel slide downward through it. If any one of them came at him, he would not be slow on the trigger.
But first, some due courtesy. “I seem to have lost my way. Please, take pity on a sick man!”
“Sick man, my ass!” the tallest man said as he approached. The others followed suit, albeit more slowly.
Here he comes.
“You’ve been prowlin’ our turf for a good while now. I’ll give you one chance to tell me who you’re workin’ for, and then I start stabbin’!” He raised his sword as he spoke—a straight, well-kept thing.
With a speed no one expected from someone so feeble-looking, the Nameless took a swift backstep, lifted the side of his coat where he hid his gun, and pulled the trigger. The gunshot took the man by surprise almost as much as the hole in his chest did. Clutching the area around his heart, the gang member collapsed to the ground, convulsing and fighting for breath.
“I have five more bullets!” the Nameless bellowed as he turned around rapidly. “Enough for the lot of you to share his fate. That will happen unless you drop your weapons and flee!”
The gang members took another look at their fallen comrade, practically in unison. He had stopped moving, and a puddle of crimson was forming beneath his body. The men’s stares turned back toward the Nameless, and he gripped his revolver even tighter. Do not be stupid. I will need these bullets.
“This ain’t over!” one of the men shouted. Then, as if he feared retribution, he let his spiked chain drop, turned around, and ran in the opposite direction. The whole archaic arsenal followed in the clangor, and within moments, the Nameless was alone in the street.
Thank you.
“I did ask you to show pity,” he said to the deceased while he was picking up the weapons. “This is no one’s fault but your own.”
The dead man was speechless.
An exquisite straight sword, two curved broadswords, a spiked chain, and a couple of clubs. He placed everything on the ground near the body, considering what to try and smuggle up. I can wrap the chain around my body without too much trouble. I can hide the straight sword if I strap it to my leg and walk with a limp…
It would be a bother, but it was too good to leave behind. With some more effort, he could try to sneak the broadswords up as well, but ultimately decided it wasn’t worth the risk.
And now to get off the road.
Some ten minutes later, the Nameless’ filthy, limping figure strode back toward the Gate. He had dropped the sick act, but his right hand still rested on the grip of his revolver. Just in case.
He considered paying a visit to the girl’s house, but quickly dismissed the idea. What comfort could I possibly offer? She had shown him a kindness, even tried to save his life in the only way she could.
And I have repaid her by murdering her father and leaving the body for her to see. His fingers twitched. It was only at the last moment that he managed to prevent himself from wasting another bullet. No, I do not think I should see her. Not yet, anyway.
Now almost at the central pillar, the Nameless pulled out his ID and pass and lifted them above his head for the guards to see. After hearing their approval, he came near, showed them everything again, and proceeded into the elevator. As expected, they did not frisk him at all.
Does no one notice the potential for abusing this system? The touch of cold steel on his skin was familiar, and he could tell that whoever he used to be had a fondness for such weapons, a fondness that seemed to have translated well. He traced his fingers over the outlines of the sword on his leg, immediately noting its potential for slaughter. It was exhilarating. So different from the way the pistol felt, and yet so similar.
The grinding sounds of the elevator stopped, reminding him that it was time to rejoin the hive. He let go of the weapon he was admiring and got his documents ready for another round of checks.
The hard part of my day is over. The guards seemed to recognize him this time around, and the procedure went much quicker. Having made certain that everything was in its proper place while he descended the stairs, the Nameless took a deep breath before immersing himself into the river of people.
Now to bathe and rest, he thought as he proceeded toward his apartment. Tomorrow will be a busy day.
Interlude Two
The chamber was far too large than was reasonable for such a small meeting. Five hundred feet long and wide, and paved with mirrors, it was more suited to putting on a show. Still, this particular part of the great city of Babylon, located precisely at its top, was opened only to the Management.
The very same Management that was now gathered for their weekly discussion.
“Coyote is absent again,” a man in a white suit said in a booming voice. Even though he was breathtaking on his own, the moonlight that fell on him through the Pyramid’s open roof made his appearance unnatural. With strong features and a pair of glowing golden eyes on a full head of long silver hair, he completely dominated the scene.
“Not unlike the last time,” a woman said. Beautiful, young, and shapely, she tested the limits of her denim get-up. She sat at the opposite end of the table, playing with one of her coal-black braids. “He never did like these meetings.”
“He doesn’t have to like them,” the silver-haired man said. “It’s his job!”
“And his floor functions with no trouble at all, at least from what I hear,” a third figure commented, sitting on the woman’s left. Apparently somewhere in his thirties, he had no hair to speak of, not on his head nor on what little could be seen of his lean body. Like the other man, he wore a suit, albeit his was green.
“You are missing the point, and I know that you are doing it on purpose,” the silver-haired man said. “This is disrespect, and it should be dealt with.”
“Oh?” The woman’s tone was amused, but her expression was anything but. “Like how you’ve dealt with the situation around the Underbelly? If so, please don’t deal with anything ever again.”
“I did only what had to be done,” the silver-haired man said in a tone as emotionless as his face.
“And the reports say… what, exactly?” The woman turned toward the bald man.
“The city, as well as everything around it, is in flames. Without a leader, the Skulls are thrashing about like a headless chicken. The populace is beyond terrified.”
“Need I say anything else?” The woman turned her gaze back toward the silver-haired man.
“You could if you really wanted to. Be a good little spider, tug on those threads, and tell the rest of us what fate has in store.”
“Like I did the last time?” She rose from her seat. “No, thanks. All my reports are on the table, and I’ve shown up. As far as I’m concerned, my duty here is done.” She turned around and walked away from the table.
“It was the right choice. You know that,” the silver-haired man said after she was gone.
“I believe that you believe it to be true.” The bald man rose as well, fixing his tie as he took his leave.
Now alone in the room, the silver-haired man turned to his thoughts. There was a time, now so long ago, when what he believed actually was true. No one ever doubted a single part of it, and the result was utopia. Then, something horrible happened, and the dream became a nightmare.
Lost within his memories, he rose, approached one of the pillars that supporte
d the roof, and put his palm against its mirror-like surface. So, so beautiful. He let his fingers slide down its center, and starlight shone off the pillar reflected in a different pattern.
Mankind should be like this. He pulled out a handkerchief from one of his inner pockets and very, very carefully wiped the imperfection he had created. Immaculately polished, and put in its proper place. Working in service to a greater goal. He saw his own reflection after withdrawing his hand. He almost smiled.
Almost. The Sun God has not laughed in centuries.
Chapter Six
The agony was excruciating.
Lying stomach-down on the floor, he crawled through the filthy, waste-encrusted hallway. The wound in his stomach felt massive, and he was too afraid to look at it. Still, he had to keep moving forward. His salvation, the old sick man, lay on a bed at the very end of his path. All I need to do is take his life, and this horror will be over.
Even though it appeared smooth, to him the floor felt as if it was covered in spikes. With every move he made, a little more of his insides fell out through the hole in his gut, leaving a grotesque trail. He screamed to try and take his mind off the pain, but all he managed to do was conjure up more.
Seconds, minutes, hours went by like that. He had no way to tell. All he knew was that by the time he had found himself near the bed, the old man was not breathing anymore.
“No!” he tried to shout, only managing to cough out blood. One by one, his muscles started relaxing. There was nothing else to do. With no life to take, he would succumb to his wound, and that would be that.
At least I tried. He exhaled. More blood trickled out.
“You didn’t strike me as the type to give up so easily,” a woman said from somewhere behind him.
Conjuring up every last bit of strength he still had, he lifted himself off the ground just a little. Then, after painfully realizing that his knee was resting on a piece of intestine, he lost his balance and dropped right back on the floor. Agony took over, wresting control of his limbs and senses, and ejecting him out of the body he inhabited. He was not in there anymore, but instead hovered over the gruesome sight.
Not one, but two women stood above it, both beautiful in their own right. He recognized them instantly: Sister Chastity, and the Native girl.
“I am afraid that I do not cater to refuse,” the Sister said, without giving the man on the floor as much as a glance.
He was just about to look at the bloody mess himself, but then something else appeared behind the women, grabbing his attention. It was a man, rising from the ground. It did not take long for the Nameless to recognize himself.
But… but then, who is… He quickly turned his gaze back down to the body on the floor, the one that had just crawled down the hallway.
It was Horace.
“Nothing is wasted on a good friend,” the Nameless’ body said from behind the women as he raised a revolver. At the same time, Horace’s body moved as well, lifting his head upright so he stared right into the observer’s invisible face. Just like when it had actually happened, he was crying.
The gunshot followed, and the dream died.
***
The Nameless awoke in his own bed, drenched in sweat. Still shivering, he felt up his own stomach, checking whether it was still in one piece. Then, having made certain that his intestines would not spill out in the attempt, he rose.
Not on the floor this time? I am making progress. He forced himself to smile, as if to pay respect to the joke. Then, just when he was about to make his way to the bathroom, he noticed that his newfound sleep stability came with a cost: besides being drenched, the sheets were in pieces.
I will buy new ones later today, he thought as he proceeded to the shower cabin. He cleaned up, got into his new clothes, and pocketed his ID. After making certain that his new arsenal was well hidden underneath the mattress, he exited the apartment and set a course toward the fighting cages.
Once again avoiding the black man’s shrine, he instead forced himself to endure a trek through the area with the food stands. The sweet and sour aromas mixed inside his nostrils, teasing him with hints of something that lay beyond his reach. With gritted teeth, he used what was left of yesterday’s earnings on a loaf of bread, and chomped it up within minutes. Patience. Tonight, I dine like a king.
Finding the fighting cages proved much easier this time around. With a wave of his hand, the Nameless greeted Jake, and proceeded toward one of the place’s many changing booths.
“Stop right there!” Jake shouted, and the entire amphitheater went silent.
“Who the hell are you and what do you think you are doing there?” he asked, turning right toward the Nameless.
The Nameless stopped in his tracks. “What have I done wrong?”
“Ah, it’s you! Bones, isn’t it?” Jake made a spinning motion with his index finger, and everyone went about their business again. Yelling, stomping, and a whole lot of swearing filled the air again. “Didn’t recognize you without, you know, fifteen layers of filth! Go ahead, don’t mind me!”
Indeed, this place only seems chaotic. The Nameless nodded as he stepped into the changing booth, ready to begin his workday.
The next several hours went by in a haze of blood and sweat, mostly that of his opponents. The men he was tasked to fight were competent, but the Nameless was something else entirely. One by one, he won every match he took part in, before finally deciding to take a break after reaching a value of three hundred and forty five. Without any money to buy food or refreshments, he sat on one of the amphitheater’s lowest seats, and let his stare drift into the distance.
“You fight like something I’ve never seen before,” someone said from his right. “Mind telling me your secret?”
Violently pulled out of the trance he had drifted into, the Nameless turned toward the speaker. It was Max. His forehead was purple and swollen, but other than that, he barely showed any trace of the beating he had been subjected to yesterday.
“I seem to have had a lot of practice,” the Nameless said while admiring his handiwork.
“So have I. But you don’t see me pulling half the stuff you did,” Max said.
“I reckon you can call me talented, then.” The Nameless let his gaze drift back toward one of the cages.
“I reckon I can call you out on bullshit!”
“Pardon me?” The Nameless kept staring forward. “Did you not have enough last time?”
Max fell silent, at least for a moment. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know?” he finally said. “I’ve seen all sorts: special forces members, mob enforcers, your regular psychos… the works. I know when someone comes with baggage. And you don’t learn what I’ve seen you do without having to lug a ton.”
The Nameless slowly turned back. “What is the point of this?”
“Nothing at all,” Max said as he slowly turned around. “I figured since you’re new here, and obviously troubled, that you might use some unwinding with the rest of us. After work, of course. But I guess you’re way too busy being an asshole.”
The Nameless said nothing as Max walked away.
I think I will unwind in a different way, he thought as he rose. There was another man alone in a cage; a signal that he was looking for a fight. Making sure to maintain eye contact, the Nameless made his way toward him.
“What are you worth?” he said as he stepped into the cage.
“Four hundred and twelve.” The man’s expression was not all that enthusiastic, despite how fast he gave his response. Like the Nameless, he was tall and wiry, but his grey hair betrayed his advancing age.
“Perfect,” the Nameless said, signaling for the man behind him to lock the cage. “Horace Bones. It will be an honor to fight you.”
“Yeah, likewise.” The man extended his hand while the Nameless proceeded to grab it. “They call me the Turtle.”
Intimidating. The Nameless scoffed.
The referee did his usual routine while they stepped back, and
the match was ready to begin.
He has the look of experience, the Nameless concluded as he raised his fists. His opponent’s posture, unflinching gaze, and knuckle scars were all clear indicators of years’ worth of unarmed combat. However, there was something else there, and it did not fit in with the rest of the picture. Eager to learn just what it was, the Nameless struck first.
Despite his age, the man’s reaction time was exquisite. He avoided the Nameless’ left jab with little effort, but instead of using the window of opportunity in any way, he stepped back. Is he scared of me?
Surprised, the Nameless attacked again. Once more, he proceeded in a straightforward fashion, all to measure his opponent’s intentions. The result was no different: with simple yet effective footwork, the Turtle dodged the punch, and increased the distance even more.
What is he trying to do? With both fists clenched, the Turtle stood his ground, waiting. After considering joining him in that game, the Nameless instead chose to maintain pressure. Alternating his pace, he stepped forward, feinted his left jab, and leapt to his right looking for an opening. There wasn’t one. Having apparently given up on all kinds of offense, the man was completely closed up.
You are the most boring opponent I have ever met, the Nameless thought as he kept circling around the Turtle. There was no way in. The Nameless decided he would have to make a mistake. Nothing less would make this one attack.
Ready for the pain it might result in, he proceeded with his plan. As before, he opened up with a left jab, followed with a right hook. Predictably, both strikes missed. Giving his opponent no time to think, he immediately advanced, following up with a low kick and a right straight. The Turtle retreated again.
If this does not get you going, nothing will! Not having to feign his irritation, the Nameless darted forward. Both of the Turtle’s arms were raised, but that was to be expected. Regardless, the Nameless swung his right arm in as wide an arc as possible.