unfold.
“Obviously, you have a lot to consider,” he said. “I will be outside.”
He turned away and their eyes followed him as he sauntered out of the room.
He already knew exactly how the deliberation would proceed in his absence,
having innumerably replayed every possible way the scenario could unfold to its
inevitable conclusion since he had first come upon Elijah Malachi of the Scythe
Guild more than a month ago. Within five minutes of their first conversation,
he had had Malachi figured out as the type of martial very easily lured by the
possibility of attracting an Ares-caster into his circle of associates.
The sting of cognitive dissonance will subside, he thought, as he stepped out
onto the edge of the rooftop terrace, overlooking the Dragon. After that,
Malachi would do what all men of his kind do: weigh the risks and see that he
stood to lose a lot more by rescinding the contract so close the assignment
date. If the slightly more drastic measure of his assassination was considered,
the penalty for killing a high-caster in cold blood entailed no less than
allowing him to flee under the pretension that he was dead, and there was as
much risk of the Commission finding out either way.
He puffed away at his cigarette and gazed wistfully down the Dragon and up at
the Milidome, resolute that the next time he walked into the jaws of the
three-headed beast, it would be for the last time. Malachi’s words rung
disturbingly in his head. “They always find out…”
His thoughts were interrupted by a stir below, which seemed to have been caused
by a dreg that had wandered out from the dark backstreets and stumbled into the
light of the Dragon. The dreg stumbled weakly to the floor. There were
cackles and three martials appeared from the dark and surrounded him. They
lashed out with low kicks to his legs, knocking the dreg over on his back, then
driving their shins into his gut over and over again.
Just as the anger started to bubble up, a firm hand seized him by the shoulder
and nipped his rapidly rising fury at the bud.
“What are you doing?”
Celyn came up quietly by his side, arms crossed, showing no sign of discomfort
when the frigid breeze lashed against her sending the long weaves of hair
swaying. She looked away and took out the black neural canister. He followed
her movements through the corners of his eyes as she popped open the lid and
rolled three tablets into her hand. “You know,” she said, cocking her head
back and gulping the tablet down, “the last time I saw you, I knew you had lost
it...”
“Then, why are you here?”
“I told them I’d try and talk some sense into you.”
“You are wasting your time.”
“Fine,” she said, tucking the canister back in her coat. “At least tell us the
reason.”
“What difference does it make whether or not you know my reasons?”
“Maybe I care.”
“That is impossible,” he said. “Neurals erase empathy.”
“And that’s the way it has to be,” came the rejoinder. “Look, you and I both
know the only reason you’re putting yourself through this is because you’re off
the program. Every damn martial in this city is out there killing and dying,
trying to get what you have. You’re putting yourself through hell. And for
what?”
A pause ensued wherein the stumbling dreg on the Dragon had now come to his
feet and attracted more laughing and taunting from passersby. He was struck on
the face and knocked down again. SGs stood by and watched, making no attempt
to intervene. The laughs and hisses of the leering mob surrounding the dreg
became bawls of bloodlust. They had kicked and beaten him until he was a
twitching mound of raw flesh and bone, blood leaking from his gob and nostrils.
Finally, when the dreg could do naught except prop his weight up on his hands
and knees, three blades
“Obviously, you have a lot to consider,” he said. “I will be outside.”
He turned away and their eyes followed him as he sauntered out of the room.
He already knew exactly how the deliberation would proceed in his absence,
having innumerably replayed every possible way the scenario could unfold to its
inevitable conclusion since he had first come upon Elijah Malachi of the Scythe
Guild more than a month ago. Within five minutes of their first conversation,
he had had Malachi figured out as the type of martial very easily lured by the
possibility of attracting an Ares-caster into his circle of associates.
The sting of cognitive dissonance will subside, he thought, as he stepped out
onto the edge of the rooftop terrace, overlooking the Dragon. After that,
Malachi would do what all men of his kind do: weigh the risks and see that he
stood to lose a lot more by rescinding the contract so close the assignment
date. If the slightly more drastic measure of his assassination was considered,
the penalty for killing a high-caster in cold blood entailed no less than
allowing him to flee under the pretension that he was dead, and there was as
much risk of the Commission finding out either way.
He puffed away at his cigarette and gazed wistfully down the Dragon and up at
the Milidome, resolute that the next time he walked into the jaws of the
three-headed beast, it would be for the last time. Malachi’s words rung
disturbingly in his head. “They always find out…”
His thoughts were interrupted by a stir below, which seemed to have been caused
by a dreg that had wandered out from the dark backstreets and stumbled into the
light of the Dragon. The dreg stumbled weakly to the floor. There were
cackles and three martials appeared from the dark and surrounded him. They
lashed out with low kicks to his legs, knocking the dreg over on his back, then
driving their shins into his gut over and over again.
Just as the anger started to bubble up, a firm hand seized him by the shoulder
and nipped his rapidly rising fury at the bud.
“What are you doing?”
Celyn came up quietly by his side, arms crossed, showing no sign of discomfort
when the frigid breeze lashed against her sending the long weaves of hair
swaying. She looked away and took out the black neural canister. He followed
her movements through the corners of his eyes as she popped open the lid and
rolled three tablets into her hand. “You know,” she said, cocking her head
back and gulping the tablet down, “the last time I saw you, I knew you had lost
it...”
“Then, why are you here?”
“I told them I’d try and talk some sense into you.”
“You are wasting your time.”
“Fine,” she said, tucking the canister back in her coat. “At least tell us the
reason.”
“What difference does it make whether or not you know my reasons?”
“Maybe I care.”
“That is impossible,” he said. “Neurals erase empathy.”
“And that’s the way it has to be,” came the rejoinder. “Look, you and I both
know the only reason you’re putting yourself through this is because you’re off
the program. Every damn martial in this city is out there killing and dying,
trying to get what you have. You’re putting yourself through hell. And for
what?”
A pause ensued wherein the stumbling dreg on the Dragon had now come to his
feet and attracted more laughing and taunting from passersby. He was struck on
the face and knocked down again. SGs stood by and watched, making no attempt
to intervene. The laughs and hisses of the leering mob surrounding the dreg
became bawls of bloodlust. They had kicked and beaten him until he was a
twitching mound of raw flesh and bone, blood leaking from his gob and nostrils.
Finally, when the dreg could do naught except prop his weight up on his hands
and knees, three blades
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