Times of Peace: Volume 1 of the side adventures to The Mercenary's Salvation

by Anthony M. Johnson

Tur-

  “Crétin, je pensais que je vous ai dit de le quitter!”

  The three of us, sitting at my dining table, turned to find Pierre shouting at the heavens once more though none of us spoke a lick of French. Whatever he said was enough to settle him down; his favorite football team scored a point just then, distracting him from whatever irritation had caused such an outburst, as things returned to their relative tranquility.

  Lloyd and I sat opposite of each other, the little prince sitting at the end of the table and sipping on a bowl of ramen that I had hastily prepared. The Englishman and myself were content with water, though there was a hint of dissatisfaction when I had informed the visitors I didn’t have any tea. Thomas had even laughed at me when I said that.

  The displeasure had past though and, now that the children were settled in, we could finally get to work. With a folder in my hand, one brought to me by Lloyd himself, I only had to read a few notes hand written by my adoptive daughter in a rare mark of secrecy as I remarked

  “So. You’re playing me tomorrow… Lance Fletcher. You’ve seem to have gone out of your way to hide yourself.”

  “Well, a delicate world requires cautious action. Your tactics may be to tread lightly with a big stick; we prefer not to be seen at all, not since that mess with our overt influence and India those years past. We are still the champions of espionage, which is quite useful for situations like these.

  “Especially since I’ll be losing to you tomorrow. I’ll be trying my best, mind you… but we also know when we’re licked. I have no hope to beat you in a match, Mr. Sears.”

  Well, with that defeatist attitude at least half of the match was already played. While I’m not the sort to typically analyze the tactics of my opponents based on personality, these Cromwell men were just to appetizing to ignore; unless it was a trick, Lloyd would start the game slowly and defensively, only picking up once a few pawns have been eliminated.

  Nothing I couldn’t handle, but that was never the real objective of this tournament now, was it?

  “Well, then may the best man win… though, that’s not the only thing we have to discuss, do we? Sherry said in her notes that what you have to share is strictly confidential, that I’m to burn the folder and memorize everything you have to say with my mind alone. Usually she writes with a sort of boredom that leaks into her handwriting; this was oddly bolded, tense and hard.

  “I’m not going to like what I have to hear, will I?”

  The gentleman shook his head, wet hair spraying a few droplets here and there. Glancing at the boy first, Thomas continuing to simply eat his lunch, the man turned back and pulled at his collar before he slowly began to get into the heart of the matter.

  “Yes, well… have you been following the PMC situations as of late, Mr. Sears?”

  “I know general sales of weaponry and ammunition have gone up every year since the destruction of the Robber Barons and the renewed conflict in the Middle East. Business is booming for PMCs, State Armies, weapons distributors, the media, anyone who has an interest in war.”

  “And do you know what the term ‘permeant war economy’ means, Seth?”

  The kid at the head of the table looked up for just the briefest of moments, judging me as if it should have been obvious by name alone. Thankfully I had something to say, even if it wasn’t entirely to his nigh unachievable satisfaction.

  “It’s about a state of government, where it continues to spend a lot of money in military expenditures even if it’s peace time. Running things like you’re in war, even though you’re not.”

  The boy rolled his eye and went back to eating, his father chuckling as he took note of Seth’s dissatisfaction. “You’ll have to forgive my son. He’s in an academy ran for the best and the brightest, the so called B.O.N.D program. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it.”

  “Never.”

  Pierre, forced to interact with us now that the TV had gone on yet another commercial break, laughed at the mere suggestion that I would be aware of what that meant. “If Seth had heard about your program, he would have told the entire world about it. Kid can’t keep a secret if his life depended on it.”

  Troubling news, considering the task that was asked of me. “… that defeats the point of sending you as a messenger.”

  “It doesn’t. Tell me whatever you want to know, Lloyd. I’ll be dead before I can spill the beans; something called WOLFDIE was given to me to ensure I’d kick the bucket. Be sure to thank Alucard for that the next time you see him.”

  “WOLFDIE? Not FOXDIE?” Thomas Cromwell asked, tilting his head ever so slightly with intrigue once more. As he starred and analyzed what I had to say, I couldn’t help but shake the feeling that Cato was connected to him somehow; was it the face, the hair, the voice, or something more?

  “I don’t know. It’s a virus that’s going to give me a forced heart attack and somehow selectively targeted only me. What does that sound like?”

  “… like the Patriots have been playing you the fool, Mr. Kaiba.”

  Remember how concerned Pierre had been when we first heard that knock on the door? That same face of fear, that same contorted eyebrow and panicked look as if the devil himself had arrived to make amuck of our lives appeared on his face as he twisted about, a hand tensely clutching the frame of the sofa as if unsure what to say or do. I myself thought nothing of it, the name no longer having any power over me, while Lloyd moved on without the slightest concern for what had been said.

  “Well, in either case, as long as we have a promise of your secrecy than we can pass the intel your boss so desperately needs.

  “Have you heard of Ingersoll’s Hounds?”

  Pierre needed to quit his football game already. It was getting annoying seeing him turn his head every five seconds, his single working eye furrowed as if ready to shoot a laser and vaporize us. Was he irritated that we spoke so openly about such secretive matters, or was he annoyed that he wasn’t directly asked to take part in our discussion?

  Resolve them both. “Hey, Pierre. You know you can come over here if you want...”

  “No, don’t mind me. Curiosity and the cat.”

  Whatever. I turned back to our English friends, speaking to them with a tone kinder than what I had reserved for my father.

  “Ingersoll’s Hounds is an up and coming PMC in the UK, right? I had to steal one of their engineers from them earlier this month.”

  “That bloke in the plane crash? Thought that was fishy.” Lloyd answered, rubbing his smooth and freshly shaved chin. “Though I have no complaints about it.

  “Ingersoll’s Hounds isn’t just a PMC; they are the PMC for our united lands. With growing tensions in the Middle East and a rising, youthful generation that cares about as much for religion as they do for the concept of celibacy before marriage, Ingersoll’s Hounds is just as much an answer to a problem as it is an inspiration for all of those who feel oppressed. Who cares what morality or ethics are; if it feels good, why not do it?”

  “At the cost of killing anyone who disagrees with you.” Thomas muttered, spinning his spoon a few times before he took another bite. Smarter than anything I’ve heard from kids double his age in a long while.

  “Precisely. A private military that is not only paid to eliminate Muslims and any Religious Zealots that are a threat to national security, but one that does so happily. While I do have my concerns about the growing threat posed by radical Islam, there’s no justification in making a business out of stopping them. This is just turning into a sort of neo-crusade, a reincarnation of everything we abhorred our ancestors doing in the Middle Ages.”

  Lloyd was certainly a spokesperson, if only one that needed plenty of water to keep him going. He took a long sip, draining about half his tall glass as I was left to muse his words, all too glad now knowing that I wouldn’t have to deal with these godless men as I passed on to the next life.

  Still, this wasn’t enough to pique our interests. Even
if they were a sort of opposite to our company, they weren’t so deadly that Alucard of MSF couldn’t deal with them. No, there was something more to be said, a matter which Lloyd was all too willing to get to now that he was refreshed.

  “The B.O.N.D program, or boys ordained for national defense, is one of our top intel systems installed within our half of the world. You’d be surprised at just what kinds of things that a man would never day to say in the company of adults they’ve known for years but would more than gladly share within the ear sight of boys they’ve met a few days prior. The greatest failure of our modern age seems to lay in underestimating children, as Thomas will quickly demonstrate.

  “Thomas. You’re free to answer anything Seth asks of you, but you aren’t to repeat any information that you have to share. Is that clear?”

  “Of course, father.”

  Father… dam it, it could have very well been the phantom of Cato that sat here before us, the kid staring now at me from behind his long bangs. While he was just as calm as ever, I could tell now that a change of some sorts had come over Lloyd; he seemed nervous, agitated, as if he didn’t even want to be around for what came next. Even Pierre had begun to turn down the TV, commentary heard only by him now as the boy patiently waited my questions.

  After what I heard, I wouldn’t blame him.

  “Thomas. Your father is nervous. Why is that?”

  “Because what I found could potentially start World War Three. Ingersoll’s Hounds are playing with the Devil, and the only thing that awaits us is Nuclear Hellfire.”

  “What do you mean? What are they planning that would cause that?”

  “Ingersoll’s Hounds are planning on restoring Colonel Satan Volgin of the KGB to life.”

  Just like that, Pierre’s favorite team not only lost the lead but the man himself nearly exploded as well. Rolling off the couch, the Frenchman barely had time to grab his feathered hat before he was rushing over to the table, nearly slamming into me as he stood beside me and said with all the enthusiasm the mercenary could muster

  “Ce que l'enfer que vous voulez dire?”

  I don’t know what was more surprising. That the kid understood my father’s slurred speech or that he himself was fluent in perfect French. “Ce docteur Shalashaska est un menteur et sa mémoire de la défaite de Volgin est viciée.”

  “Shalashaska? Mais est-il pas Roger Piddock?”

  Apparently the Politician was still the man in control, even if his son seemed the superior of the duo. It was obvious, at least to me, that Lloyd was a hundred percent human… butI was just beginning to have my doubts about Thomas, suspicions growing the more and more I thought about it.

  Except, even when I myself was human I found I had a knack for discovering who was a Forced Transfigured Mutant or not… and nothing about Thomas Cromwell indicated that he was.

  “Thomas! We are to discuss this matter with Seth Sears. Sorry Pierre, but this information is a need to know basis only. If you want to know more, than keep quiet; that you’re even in this room right now would get me in trouble with my superiors if they were to find out.”

  So Thomas kept his peace, Pierre struggling to refrain himself as he fished out a brand new cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. A smoke was the only thing that could keep him quiet at this point, perhaps the only time that I was grateful for the man’s otherwise obnoxious addiction.

  With the matter settled, it seemed it was my turn to talk again. “This Volgin… Sylvester mentioned him once and nothing more. I don’t want to waste your time on specifics, so I’ll let Sherry figure it out herself.

  “The better question is how; what do you mean they plan on restoring him?”

  “Volgin was defeated and badly burnt in his last fight with… you know… but it did not kill him as everyone assumed. While his spirit left his comatose body in order to spread his influence, it still lives on thanks to life support. If his body can be healed, Volgin can come back to life and begin his reign of terror anew.”

  A simple affair, given our current modern day sciences and technology. The question that came to mind became words themselves. “Why isn’t he back yet? Viruses like the FTV and EEV can fix almost anything that isn’t dead.”

  “Piddock’s XO, (REDACTED UNDER ORDERS OF FLOWEY), tried to kill Volgin after his defeat and found that the man’s hate surpassed even the Devil and entitled him to certain abilities that made him invulnerable. As such, (REDACTED) settled for placing a curse on him that used his own cruelty against him.

  “Even if his body is healed, because Volgin abandoned his body he will never be able to use it again until someone with greater hate than his is found. Until now, no one has even tried to hunt someone with such malice… until Void came into play.”

  Pierre nearly chomped his cigarette in half. “Son of a-”

  “Void. I know I’ve heard that name more and more as of late; who is he?”

  Thomas chose his words carefully, unable to fully answer that even himself. “My teacher taught me that until the twentieth century, there had never been more than seven Class Six FTMS born and raised in this timeline. Horus, Hades, those pagan deities were sixes and sevens, but all came from an Earth that was never our own…

  “One of those mutants though was a man by the name of Void. No one knows who he is, who gave him his powers or how he has managed to evade capture for so long.”

  “We don’t even know if it’s the same man.” Pierre complained, taking his cigarette out and blowing a ring of smoke into the air. “I’ve faced him twice now on the battlefield, Void speaking with a different voice each time. I’d be certain he was different if he didn’t fight and look the same way every time we’ve encountered.

  “Or how perfectly his Kabuki mask fit.”

  “A Kabuki mask? Isn’t that some sort of Japanese thing?”

  Thomas was quick to fill in the details as ever. “Kabuki is a type of Japanese theater, often with makeup and masks for the actors. I would not refer to Void’s mask as being that of a Kabuki though, but an Oni. A Japanese Devil.”

  “You make it sound like there’s more than one devil to worry about.”

  Pierre nearly coughed at that, glancing at the boy and trying to get him to change the subject with a great shake of his head. This was about the time Lloyd felt the need to intervene as well, any chance of my greater knowledge growing cut off once more as he explained to his son

  “Pierre is right. We’re getting off topic. It’s enough for Seth to know that Void is running Ingersoll’s Hounds and that he is working on reviving Volgin.

  “Although, that isn’t everything we have to share now, is it?”

  Thomas, his ramen done, nodded as he bushed the bowl away and, reaching into his pockets, withdrew a bunch of pick up sticks. While such a thing would be normal for a child his age, perhaps a bit quaint given our twenty first century tendencies, that he was already making an image out of it seemed to show that it was more than a mere game he had in mind.

  “Everything I know I found out because I was sent to clean the gutter of a pup. It did not take me long to realize the scent of a FTM lingered among the wasted booze and piss that lead down a long and empty cavity, some sort of remnant of the old roads that used to exist in the more flooded out sections of London.

  “I spent several hours wandering in darkness before I traced the scent back to the source, an abandoned train station outside of the city overran with Ingersoll’s soldiers… yet it was not the ghost of Volgin or Void that disturbed me or my father.

  “It was the nuclear ballistic missiles they are preparing to load on a Metal Tank. Ingersoll’s Hounds are going to destroy the world if they do not drive each of us to do it first.”