4 comments/ 3632 views/ 4 favorites The Book of Rai: SoH Ch. 01 By: HommeVivant (These words are but the vacuous exposition of mind yet untorn. There exists within it neither an intent to remonstrate nor demonstrate any person living or dead. Let these grains of time pass without offense, for they would wish it on none. Not a fap on the first page story.) The Book of Rai: Sons of Heather He watched. It was not so important as to the fact that he watched but to who and what he watched from the balcony. The choked street, boiled in heat, raw from the singe of the sun commanded his view. The day was brutally hot, the kind of day that deadens the senses, blinding the eyes and bleaching the stone underfoot. Sandstone, he thought. To match the sky. A short buzz alerted him to an incoming whistle and he jumped at the distraction. "Carter, still alive I see?" He held to his head, touching his temple, a disk pronged, metal, cool to touch but naked warm from the heat of the day and its place in his pocket. It, when buzzed, received a signal that hit the resonant frequency of the device, canceling a part of the signal, then carried through to the bone underneath, canceling again with the resonant frequency of the jaw bone and skull. The result was a sound wave transmitted through the jawbone directly to the inner ear, skipping the ear drum, delivering a stunning quality of audio, calibrated to the unique resonant frequency of his skull, it was a nearly indecipherable method of communication. People weren't running around with exact copies of his skull. "No thanks to you, subject is late and I'm bored out of my mind," His eyes roamed the walk to the harbor, islands and the white stone beaches sparkling in sunshine. There was a line in the waves, where the green glass folds met the wine dark infinite. "So who is this chick anyway? I heard the Vanguard is trying to crack down." "Look for dark hair, black not brown, athletic build. Runner not She-Man." The voice was friendly but to the point. He smiled, the voice was always friendly. "No boats in yet... you sure she's coming today?" "Increased chatter around the Assassin level, Blade coms are an enigma, per usual." The breeze coming off the port city smoothed the furrow in Carter's brow. A steamer settled into view on the edge of the horizon and sat still, comfortable in keeping pace with the arc of the sun. The breeze stiffened, shifting the dark trusses that Carter was never fond of. Warm eyes the color of honey in sunshine focused now on the Whistler he used to connect to his contact. It vibrated twice before growing lava hot, scalding his hand. He threw it away like the hot coal it was, relieved that it found the bed and not the balcony's edge. Broken. Again. They never could get Vanguard tech to work just right. The breeze had died in the glare of the sun and seeking the conditioned air, he wandered into his small apartment, bought and paid for by someone he would never know, with money he would never see. The circumstance of going from rich, to poor, to poor in a rich man's apartment was not lost on him, his current domicile having been selected for its tacit view of the harbor, and thusly the ships. There was a hum in the sleepy city, of cafes charged with ward and word, of streets met by the arguments of their travelers. He estimated an hour and fifteen minutes until the steamer was boarded by the port authority, and he didn't want to miss that. If the stories they told about what Vanguard could do had any truth, there would be explosions. Stepping lightly from the raised bed space, he sought the comfort of steel in hand. On the table lay a short sword of Vanguard make. Katana edged, small, light, designed to be used in the pistol's off hand. For his purpose, a defensive weapon. He could still hear the fury of his instructors. "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME CRAIG? THAT BLADE WOULD BE THROUGH YOUR THROAT." Level. He kept the blade level. So would they. The 'they' that would come for him. He shuddered despite the heat. He swiped the blade into a socket for its design, a scabbard to be worn across the lower back. The Projectile Injection System gave him pause. Vanguard design, Vanguard tested, Vanguard approved. It was almost funny that they used as much of their enemy's tech as they could get, opposing a thing with its own products. Sleek, ergonomic, futuristic. Words came to mind as he looked at the thing. It fired a subsonic projectile with near zero recoil, mitigated by a blowback mechanism that fed into a downward v-spring. The projectile was design to penetrate and tumble, even expanding as it did so. An entry point the size of a pinky resulted in exit wounds that would be a comfortable housing of a grapefruit. He loaded a magazine, designed by his people to fit the structure with rounds as close as they could make to fit. Even in its half working state it was more reliable, more powerful, quieter and more accurate than anything his organization could otherwise obtain. V-tech was like that. He felt strong with it at his side. Patting himself up and down, he frowned to realize that his wind breaker would be a necessity... It was light enough to not look clownish in the heat and besides, armed men usually don't like to show it. A quick mental checklist found only his wallet in need. "All the organizational skills of a dump truck." The nightstand table wasn't very big, but he knew the wallet was black leather and certainly not on it. Grid searching the apartment, he was about to leave without it when he did a double take at a realization. It was under the nightstand. Calling himself an idiot, he was ready to face the day. His whistler glinted on the bed. 'No use leaving it here,' he thought, 'They'll search the place anyway.' Checking the eyepiece on the door and the pin holes he'd made in the walls the night before, Carter opened the door almost like a man who knew what he was doing. "10 meters to the steps, 5 flights down. Sandstone provides minimal cushioning, you can jump it if necessary," his contact's words rang in his head with echoes of cynicism. He was too young for cynicism. At least his organization had a plan b. They'd likely need it. Carter spotted three Vanguard Assassins on rooftop, watching his location. That meant one on the street and that they'd decided to let him live, at least for the morning. He knew more about the Vanguard than most, always four to a squad, always one sharp shooter, always one up close maniac, either of which was usually the leader type, and always two that stuck close, that fought better together than apart. Assassins sounded bad, but they were usually no worse than the Navy Seals, determined, battle hardened veterans, the kind of people who could kill you with a napkin, but ultimately human. The name, though ominous, was actually what they called themselves. His organization was quick to apply what they learned about the shadows, never knew when it'd come in handy. Assassin leaders were the most dangerous man in the squad. Blades, were another story. Blade squads usually didn't kill people unless the odds were otherwise stacked against an Assassin squad. Blade squads were the boogeymen of the black ops world. Funny, Marseille was beautiful this time of year. Earth tones and cracked sunshine, broken for the moment on dappled stone and dappled men. The thoroughfare, Canebiere it was called, stretched from the old port through the city. The little coffee shop next to his apartment waved him in. "Eh! WanaThese!" Carter couldn't help but smile as he pointed out a croissant and the espresso menu. He announced, as he did every day, "One of these, and one of these." He was fluent in French, Italian, English, Russian, Mandarin, Japanese and Arabic. He tried to act "The American" whenever possible; the Vanguard didn't know he was multi-lingual. The counter girl, slim and Mediterranean in tone blushed as he flashed a furtive smile. He tried to focus on the sun, rather than the shade. The deck of the ship was Spartan, wood with a steel hull of sturdy construction. As a small cargo ship they could more easily pass customs, less inventory to review, less passports checked, and of course they were all crew right? She had been forced to play the wife of the Ship's captain, girls like her didn't load ships. Sunbathing in dark shades, she skimmed the file she had read at least fifty times and broken down at least five. Cornelius Tiresias Craig. -Goes by Carter, fluent in French, Italian, English, Russian, Mandarin, Japanese and Arabic. -Status: Son of Heather, equivalent Blade Captain. -Works for the American Government, although he appears oblivious to his organization's political standing. The team is unlisted in the DOMINO registry of U.S. spec ops groups: led by Cornelius Craig, Anton Marcus, and one John Donovan. Suspected equivalence with the Peerless Few. -Surveillance Reports. -Action Reports. -After Action reports. -Psychological summary (theoretical motivational complex inclusive). -Note: Men like these are weapons. It is our responsibility to ensure that he is an aimed weapon. –Bombastic Enterprise -Recon and reclaim on order of A.I. - NEGLECTED BENIFICENCE BOMBASTIC ENTERPRISE INFALLIBLE CHASTITY The file was incredibly detailed, work history, SAT scores, IQ, ASVAB, and a remarkably high score on the Vanguards Scales, an approximation of individual imposed threat level on a scale of 1-631. He managed 487, considering his socio-political impact, duration of activity, and field flexibility. A thermonuclear ICBM benchmarks at 500. The file wasn't kidding when they said he was a weapon, video of his counter terrorism ops and even counter-V ops had something of a following in the upper ranks. Everyone loves an underdog. His skirmishes were quick, decisive and relatively clean, showed improvisation when necessary and poise under incredible pressure. In an offhand way, she admired him. Never the type for fad or fanfare she thought him beautiful, but weak. Slow. Watching his videos, she could see where she would put her hand. See where her palm would land, where her blade would slice at his errors. She could feel the ripple of his neck where the spine would brake. She shook it off. He was good. Better than good, his form was excellent. Strong and swift and brave. She paused, considering him. Events had taken a dangerous turn in recent weeks, Carter, Marcus, and Donovan obviously had begun to break through the fundamental obfuscation of their organization, fought Blades and lived to tell about it. The Blades were the line. That which separated them from the world. The skin. They were broached. These three were... disruptive, and would continue to be so without a gross over commitment of resources, resources the Village was not prepared to risk. Not to mention the risk of outright operation. 'Economy of force...' She mused. If a nail sticks up, you don't roll the bombers. Especially if that nail happens be as cute as Carter T. Craig. They needed him for themselves. V girls had their hearts set on the counter-op bad boy, fighting naively for truth and justice or whatever his superiors told him that day. He was strong and swift and brave, like all the rest. 'Stupid,' She thought, 'He's stupid, they're stupid this is stupid. Insipid. He can't think for himself.' she pulled the vid screen on her file, zooming on the only full face shot they had from non-pre military, non- computer generated imagery. "He doesn't look stupid" echoed her subconscious. 'Looks deceive.' "....his don't..." she sighed. Okay. Maybe he was cute. In a Marlon Brando meets Seattle coffee shop kind of way. Time in the Mediterranean had tanned his lithe frame. The file said dark coffee and dark hair. And there was the reclamation order. He was fair game. The headshot for the file was clipped from the video, and everyone remembered when it was taken. What sanguine elements were left on his blade were cleared by a black cloth and a quick flick. 28 dead. Christ. Four representatives for four major black market weapons dealers, ten prospective high paying clients/client reps, ten of his men down and thanks to their efforts that of the four remaining and himself, four very dead Blades. Well, probably... The maniac was just that, 6' even, big enough to run through a wall. He dropped from an overhanging deck before they could get the room's layout. One projectile injection system pulled from his belt, doing its work. Metal to forehead, on the first man, no hesitation. Just a clip and a cough as he fell to the floor, landing on knees and a hand, immediately twisting up and out. A bullet from the second point man lambasted the concrete where the maniac's head had been on touchdown, that selfsame head had moved to second point man's ear as the maniac settled the weapon under his chin. The blood splatter provided distraction for a split second, he using the recoil to position himself for third shot, clipping the third man through the door between the eyes as he tried to tackle. Bissig tried to sneak up on him. Tried. The murderer spun, pinning Bissig to a wall with his forearm, broke his teeth with the heel of his weapon. Carter wondered if he tasted the piece of lead that the barbarian put through his mouth. He pulled the trigger, that is, Carter and the barbarian. One round into Bissig, the other into the maniac's shoulder, through collar, clipping an artery? Blood went wild, soaking what was a black athletic shirt a midnight red. Carter could easily say he had never seen anything like it. Fibrin, connectin, platelets. Wounds just don't clot like that. Or they did, did and he'd simply never seen it before, how the broken red brown melted over the skin, pulling the flesh together before flaking off. Seconds or minutes for what took weeks. He'd hit the brachial artery, he was sure of it. The skin and tissue just knitted together. His team backed away, searching instead to contain the duels. Carter was knocked back to earth by a gunshot and the sound of squelching skull. Carter's rear guard hit the wall from the force of the shot, sliding to the ground in a forming pool of what were once his thoughts. Carter immediately fired five rounds at the sound's source, suppressing one threat before focusing on his priority. He drew his blade from where it sat on his lower back, holding a reverse grip and tossing his Beretta into his left. The maniac smiled, whipping his blade into a forward grip, turning through his abs for a horizontal slice. Carter blocked deftly with his own, not wanting the obvious test to go unpunished. He pulled the trigger, ripping the injection system from the barbarian's claws. To his credit, the maniac almost gave pause as the shrapnel pushed itself out of his skin, switching to a two handed hold on his sword and coming like storm in the night. Right, Left, Overhead, a reverse grip to parry Carter's slide and dodge, turning to face the now knee bound operative. He beat the man like a drum, from every angle as Carter was forced to switch grips. Backing off half an inch, Carter returned to his back hand hold, moving his blade in a figure 8, creating a defensive whirlwind, and again closing to flip the maniac's paused blade. Two fingers hit the floor with the clink of the katana's metal. The maniac was ferocious, inflamed by his disarmament. The nubs on his right hand were already beginning to lengthen. He threw himself back a foot, smiling. A hand found the collar of his athletic shirt tearing it from his frame. Carter didn't wait for whatever show was coming, firing point blank into his chest. The pinholes trickled shut. The cloth wrapped between his hands, the maniac flew into a spinning kick, Carter forced to parry with blade. It was a ruse. The fabric of the shirt followed the kick immediately, wrapping his blade and ripping it to the ground. The Vanguard point switched his grip grabbing the other side of the fabric and pulling, twisting the blade out of Carter's reach and into the air. Carter wasted no time. Before the blade had fully left his hand, his other jabbed his enemy's chest,a clean solarplexus hit. He followed with a right and tried for an uppercut. He missed. The barbarian twisted the cloth, throwing it around Carter's neck. The sword was falling. It's arc would land it two steps to his rear. The maniac had rolled his cloth into a garrotte. Carter turned, letting the sword's handle come to within the level of his motion, grabbing, and in one motion swinging through. Shock. There was a shock in those dying eyes. The man was less adept at growing a new head. Taking the opportunity, the duals shifted their fire and flame his way, expecting an off guard opponent. Initially, they got just that. They rolled short distances together, flipping around, over and beneath each other, slamming themselves in a whip like momentum. His team was doing their best to contain but the ranger on over-watch was a crack shot, putting bullets in joints, disabling one man at a time. Initially wondering what kind of hell he'd stepped into, he had been immediately pressed to stay alive. He'd gotten one to stab the other with a block and dodge tact that he'd thrown together when they tried striking him from separate angles. Taking the shock of friendly fire as an opening, he de-limbed the perpetrator as quickly as he could, four Mississippi. A team member clipped the other twice, center mass and head. The sharpshooter was the leader. Blue eyes, like the richest Sapphire. Almost too rich, they didn't seem natural. The sharpshooter popped Carter's men's skulls like bubble-wrap. On his rifle's last click the captain had immediately whipped out twin Berretta M92FS pistols, rounds apparently pre-chambered, and had four shots off before Carter could tackle, bringing him to the ground. All four were headshots from about 40 yards. Carter pinned arms and legs and whatever he could grasp, beating into him with fists and forehead for the friends who fell behind. The eyes that met his had lost their glimmer. He didn't hesitate in breaking the man's neck. He stood slowly, and felt the black cloth of grief resisting the movement. Those were good men. Some were fathers, brothers, sons, all. They had done their job. He picked his way over the dead, what remained of his team, scavenging whatever the Vanguard had. The haul was good, even for a total intervention. A glass plate of some kind, 4 whistlers, pistols, some kind of foam that blended with the skin and seemed to add an extra layer, Vanguard MREs (Meals Ready to Eat by army lingo, V composition was different though, some kind of seaweed, something that looked and tasted like honey, water and a few pills was the usual), and a projectile injection system as they understood it, a pistol like weapon of unknown manufacture that fired a barely sub sonic projectile designed to penetrate tissue, bone, and rubber. No sights, but those who utilized them did so to great effect. Of course, they also collected those mysterious blades they each carried. The maniac carried a Katana-like blade, the duals had two of Wikazashi length with a 7.5" knife strapped to the thigh at the level their hands fell. The last was different though, the sharpshooter's Katana had an incredibly intricate serrated edge across its entire length. Serrations on serrations, as tight as his eyes could see. Something new. Not something he wanted to touch. "Hey, top down this beats the hell out of office work eh man? Get a load of the swords. Swords. Did someone forget to tell these guys it ain't the middle ages?" "Seemed to work pretty well when the guy with flaky skin put it through Dave's neck. They're dead George. Ricks, Astley, dead." "Yeah, and we killed the assholes who killed them. Look, I'm just glad to be breathing, you should be to. You'll see your kids." The Book of Rai: SoH Ch. 01 "I need to get out of the business." "We won." "Yeah... To think. Blades. And we won." Carter watched as the wall mounted camera adjusted. 'Those are supposed to be stationary.' it twisted towards him seductively, almost. He allowed himself a grin, smirking at first then knowingly, enemies closer than friends, or so they say. That smile had made women of all ages in the Village melt. Somber but hopeful, pressed, but determined. Intuition, knowing that we were watching... she couldn't stop the smile from spreading on herself. It didn't hurt that the Mizarat he'd killed was a blood traitor and a rogue. It gave him a fan group in both houses. Political brilliance. His eyes had focus, depth... she wanted a closer look more than her next breath, a reality to know instead of an image to chase. She'd never been the kind of girl to fall for a trend, but there was something in those eyes... She let a hand fall slowly over her ivory waist, trailing over her taught stomach inching south with the slowest of motions. Like electric charges she could feel each hair she brushed, by wind, by touch. A quick scan of the deck let her know she was alone, the crew and the "crew" making last minutes preps for the port authority. More relaxed, she began to draw circles on her stomach, spiraling downward over her porcelain snow skin. Her bikini bottoms clung to her sex, the moisture drawing the cloth and putting but the slightest of pressures on her lips. The breath of the wind caught her hardening nipples as the breath of lovers, lost. They stiffened under unexpected care as they had under the few who had come before. Former suitors, lovers, men. She could picture them, few but none too distinct, tall, dark... handsome. Her peach toned areolas, almost visible through the white top that seemed to strangle her C cup mounds, caught her eyes as she drifted down her frame. She circled her slit, brushing where her lips met her legs, just circling over the white silky material. She cast in her mind a vaguery, a syndicate for them. He was their representative, and he would have to do. His touch was flush with hers, was hers. She was dripping wet, more from her own ministrations then from her poor fantasy, but wet all the same. The boat rocked well, even for its size. She knew it would help. She slipped one finger below the material, over what remained of her abdomen. Separating her lips already slick with her moisture the intruder breached slow, just the nail, just the knuckle, and halfway to the next, her body needed more. She sighed as the base of her finger touched her entrance. She began slow steady strokes, even with her breathing. Her thumb levered on her clit as she switched between circling her pearl and penetrating herself in time with the waves. Her excitement built, her breath with it and her strokes with her breath. The heat of her body doubled quickly. She closed her eyes, breathing ragged. She moved her other hand to swirl more firmly around the button, the nub of flesh that gave her so much pleasure. She gyrated her hips, squirming under her own attention. Her back arched off the cushion, the ocean breeze wrapping her legs and stinging her sex. It drove her on. Her fingers flew as she leaped ever closer to the summit, tingles, chills, lightning and fire, she was alive in herself. She felt the edge of her abyss and backed off, and closed, backed off and closed searching for something to send her over, a memory of a lover, a touch once felt, her eyes fluttering around the deck and back into her head she discarded them more quickly than they came to mind and then there he was, cheeky smile peering into her from the file left open on the deck. She felt the strings holding her together snap, she rocketed high, her muscles clenching iron around her fingers, pulsing through her frame, twisting and vibrating on the plastic strips. Her vision went dim as her capsule of sentience floated back to earth. Parachutes, warmth, and a smile. "Monsieur, your change." The baguette was warm, like pleated silk and captured cloud. He leaned right to the sandstone pillar, cool in the shade and content in tearing off pieces of breakfast. The girl behind the counter called to the back in a loud but eloquent French that she was taking a break. "Imbécile." She huffed as she thrust into the street. Carter caught her eyes and raised an eyebrow in question. "Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't... Not you." Her tousled black hair was shoulder length, mousy but contained. Olive skinned clashed with the silk white of her top, cut clear from pastel shorts and a baker's apron. Flour had patched itself to her legs, shaped like thin pistons, her shorts, covering a well-toned ass, her apron, hung low to accentuate the ruffled fabric and the cleavage beneath it. A sprinkle of flour dusted her nose. He tucked the memory away for later. Probably a runner, she'd know the roads. Maybe she could show me around? "Good to know. I'm Carter, you?" "Josephine. You got a smoke?" "Nah, but I've got a light." "Fair enough." She gingerly extracted a beat up pack of Marlboro's from her cheek pocket. He took a peak at the pockets and shape beneath them, admiring the movement of her accidental sway before he dropped his hands, pressing his sides. He tossed her a plastic Bic, glad he'd bought the afterthought. "Sooo, American?" She eyed him up and down, a smile curling behind the smoke. "What gave it away? The accent, or the rugged good looks?" "Hah, a bit of both. Marseille, she is beautiful, but we don't get tourists this time of year. Too hot." Carter paused, considering the bait. "I'm here on business. You? Local or...?" "Something like that. My parents... I'm Catalan. You understand?" "Yes. Proud in heritage, unique, fire, something like that." Her grinned waxed sarcastic in the morning shade. "Oh? You know so much. Please tell me more." "I'd prefer to listen. You're right though, I'm new in town. Looking for a bit of a tour actually. Do you... get off work?" "No, I live here, sleep in the oven. A neuf heures, ici. I'll give you that tour." The smokescreen couldn't hide her eyes, darting as they did from his legs to his chest, his arms, and his shoulders. He joked about it, but he was good looking. Well-dressed to. Worth her time. "I've got to get back." She dropped the stick with disdain, knowing she should quit. It died quietly, under her heel. "Carter," She said, his eyes flashing from the harbor to hers, "Don't be late." She twisted in the shadow, crossing the doorframe and returning to soot and flower. Carter tossed what remained of his bread, and headed to the dock. "Monsieur, the records you speak of do not exist. I would give them to you, but I do not have them." "You don't know what's going into and out of your port?" "Only what is supposed to come in, customs checks the ships and we make a list at the end of the day. There are many ports here. It is Marseille." "Fine. I will need the port authority on standby. Call customs and tell them to have eyes up." "May I ask why?" "Because I said so." His titanic frame, steel against the clinging t-shirt, midnight on his ebon skin turned and broached the door. He flicked the metal disk out of his pocket, flipping it like a coin in the air. The cuts, grooves, indents in the disk caught the wind and with a note clenched in teeth, it hit a harmonic. The disk magnetized off the iron in his blood, hovering an inch above his flattened hand. He spoke clearly, once. "Carter T. Craig." It vibrated thrice in his hand before growing lava hot. The message was clear, beyond tactical support the port authority of Marseille was a liability. The only information they had would be garnered from previously gathered intelligence or seen firsthand, with their own eyes. Luckily, approval had just been given. The dive team was ready, re-breathers equipped, they'd be an hour under before the bubbles were detected. He scanned the shore for Craig, ensuring he was in place. "Go." The fishing boat pushed smoothly off the white stone beach cliff side, the pusher jumping gracefully in, despite his wetsuit. "Six minutes to dive. 15 on approach. 15 to scan. 15 back. We find nothing, we find nothing." He would never see the material, no matter what it was. The scans would go to command, they'd be interpreted, autopsied, and sent back to him sewed up for closed casket use in his next op. "No sound under there. Visibility is silty for the Med, but otherwise crystal. They'll be expecting us, but the port authority won't be. Don't hide from them, the port will believe you're with the vessel and will tie them up with questions about divers in the water. They can't very well shoot you out of the water under custom's nose. Watch the propeller, watch your blood/nitrogen." He tucked his hair, windswept and sandy blonde under his mask. Too warm for a hood down there, or so he'd learned on his first day. He'd been down for every cargo ship over the past three days, running the dive tables like a crack addict, trying to figure out just which dose would kill him. Raichel would be waiting for him at the hotel. Fluffy white robe lining voluptuous curves, a full ass and perky upturned breasts capped in dark nipples. He'd role one in his mouth before the day was out, have her taste the salt on his body. Carter had told him once, "Focus on the sunshine, rather than the shade." Raichel, was his sunshine. Light, in the darkness. The binoculars stuck to his eyes as he traced the ship deck, the neoprene sucking at his skin. Carter was running out of ships. He'd been told this was one to watch, for the fact of its nondescript nature. It was carrying weapons, bought and paid for by the French Government. Every crew member triple checked, so at minimum there would be a few Vanguard on it, maybe stowed away in the hull. The deck showed a lone beach chair, the kind of empty that seemed to say it had never been filled. Customs pulled up in a powerboat to examine the cargo, tap crates, take bribes and move on with their day. There was one who didn't look right. Where the others were windswept and swarthy, he was pale and hulking. Bald, skin taught over a wide frame and pulsating veins, his vascularity was exceeded only by how out of place he looked on a sun beat deck on the Mediterranean. Carter noted it for later, could be a welcoming party. They stepped out and below deck, staying for what seemed far longer than the standard search. He began to turn, sliding his binoculars to his side before... "Hold on, where's the big one?" The pale horseman was gone from the group, so obvious an omission he nearly missed it. Observe and report. He noted the absence as the ship passed where he stood on the pier, no longer needing aid to closely scope the deck. When it passed, he missed the woman in white, as she stepped out and onto the deck. She marked the back of his head with a silent target, remembering her pursuer. 'Wrong, guy, wrong boat.' He thought, turning away and back to shore. Following the line of the ports and the white stone waterfront, his eyes took him first to the dive team, still scanning, then back to the sandstone cityscape. Too bad he'd have to stay a little longer. He smiled into the thought. 'What kind of steamer, wooden deck, carries weapons?' He knew. He knew exactly which kind. But then, the port authority were undisturbed, the dive team was backing off and there were no reports otherwise. Not that he'd expected there to be any. Six days in a city of sunshine. Beautiful women. Good Coffee. He decided to give the boat another look and caught just the top of raven hair as it sank below deck. He pulled his whistler into his hand, making sure that onlookers were otherwise occupied, he flipped it in the air and whistled a harmonic, speaking slowly, once, "Anton D. Marcus." Forming a cleft between his palms, he held it like he was trying to light a smoke, biting on his words and darting his eyes to dissuade onlookers. "You rang?" "Did you see the leach on legs? Big sucker." "Couldn't be more than 6'3" but yeah. I could see those veins from up here. Think it's one of their conditions?" "Don't know. Honestly I'd be surprised if he wasn't with them. The whole, 'not coming back up' is pretty ominous. Did you catch anyone else of note?" "There was a chick in a sundress, but she didn't stick around. Poked her head out, then went back down." "I missed her." "Funny, she didn't miss you. One thing she did look at during her dockside catwalk." "Did they give you the target description?" "No, only that I'm to lead block for you. And of course, some specifics on how I could do it." "Is there anything I can do to prevent you from spending all night pouring over cargo manifests?" "Unlikely." "How's Donovan holding up? He should be out of the water in a few. Can you contact him and get the scans?" "They're already on order, besides, we'll see him tomorrow." "We will?" "3 a.m., you know where." A bar in the old city. 3 to 5 were the dead hours. Least populated time of day, any tails would be obvious, even in the city. "Right, I meant before that." "You forgot, didn't you?" "I misplaced the memory." "Don't be late." Carter came to a pause at Marcus's last words, remembering their origins. He put two book ends in his mind, from his tour to his meeting, considering the time frame. 6 hours. Plenty. "Hey, Marcus. Any Idea how to turn these things off? Mine usually just cuts power and burns me." "You idiot, that's caused by a break in the inter-" Carter's Whistler dropped the inch to his hand, scalding at the touch. He winced, then gritted his teeth into a pained smile. He was starting to suspect it wasn't a burn. It never did cause any tissue damage, for all the feel of searing flesh. It was 10 a.m. Taking stock of his surrounding and time differential, he decided to get to work. Jogging on the cobblestone streets, he dodged by the café before stealing into his apartment. The assassin group on the opposite roof were chatting animatedly, pointing at some kind of screen. One wolf-whistled, the ranger, correction, the captain, hit him. He snatched a rifle from where it lay against the wall and motioned with his fingers to Carter. Carter paid them no mind. He was outmanned, but they'd let him live this long. They were scouts. Observe and report. His apartment's lock was solid, clicking into place with the prongs of the key. Each item, everything he could see was exactly as he left it. Except of course, the carpet. Thick and white, like lamb's wool pleated into cotton candy, it was next to impossible to see anything once it was dropped into the sea of shag. Except footprints. They were light, but apparent, leading lazily from the door, to the right along the wall and into a small marble kitchen. The cliché of radiation poisoning from milk heavy in polonium wasn't impossible considering its effectiveness, but he didn't believe it was their goal. He slid his running shoes off, one foot at a time, feeling the loss of custom support as he sank into the shag. He followed one footprint at a time, finding them resume at the other end of the marble. Pandering they seemed, twisting to look, this way and that. They stopped by the white leather couched, backed as it was against the kitchen wall. He could see where they had removed the stitching and redone it. If unprofessional in their foot work, they at least knew how to sew. Another set, breaking from the first pair, proceeded to the disconnected flat screen, having cracked and glued the back. Thorough. Behind it, the den area ended, leading up a step into the bed and deck area capped to the right by the bed itself and the left and forward by doors to the deck. Around were a scattering of white leather chairs and midnight black furniture. It tried quite hard to be Art Deco, all geometric. He smiled inwardly at the cream shag between his toes, and how it subtly violated the otherwise pristine order. A foam of chaos, scrambling under the surface. Maybe that was why they never bothered to look down. They had checked the bed, the nightstand. Not the drawers of course. Under them, the sides of them, where they slid into the frame. They'd misaligned the second in their leave. They'd only been once through, the footprints ended at the balcony. He could see it from across the room, almost at the balcony entrance. There, on the thin sheet coverlet, was a circular imprint, palm sized and coin shaped ruffled subtly around the edges. Where his whistler had lain before he grabbed it. If they didn't before, they knew now. He was in there network. He sighed, stretching his arms out and back, feeling the wave of satisfaction ripple through his muscles. Score one for the whispers. Dropping his hand, he passed along the zipper to his jacket, ignoring it and shelling it off his body, his t-shit caught in the lift. A swimmer's build he thought, noting as he passed the mirror, the halfway settle for a body that needed muscle and the ability to use it for duration. He'd never break through walls like Marcus, never break a man's skull with his fists. Unlike Donovan, he'd never run across countries, ever sprint to catch a moving vehicle. Each had their specialty. Carter just did. Did what he was asked, what he could, steeled himself for the minute and the moment. They liked to say that he never walked, never talked, never breathed. He operated. All motions and thoughts, actions and movements subservient to the goal at hand, the task. For all the ways they looked at it, tried to isolate him as an exceptional specimen of this that or the other thing, he knew they would fail. That is, the them that was his enemy or the them that were his friends. Those that would judge him. He was a person, first and foremost. Anything he did was subservient to that, just being. Stepping to the bed, he slid a new athletic shirt from a drawer between it and the back of the den's flat screen dropping his shorts and boxers to get at the compression shorts that would mask him. Pitiful he frowned. Wrinkled and unnerved by the heat, his circumcised dick sat at almost two inches, shriveled as it was inside his shorts. The toned thighs that enclosed them might produce a fair effort, but it was only so much dynamite that he could pack into his member. 'Grower not a shower...' he thought, knowing that the two would grow to six, if given the motivation. He stuffed all of it, clean shaven, into the compression shorts, relishing the subtle resistance and muscular alignment they provided. There was a reason he preferred them for field work. Over them came shorts, athletic socks and the running shoes that had last pressed sandstone underfoot. His would be a 10 mile run in an hour. Less, if the wind backed him. A battery of assaults followed, arms, back, chest, and to cap it off, abs. He could feel the eyes of the Vanguard on him with each step, each lift, each flexion. Motivation comes in many forms today, it was fear. "Do you know when the last reclamation order was signed?" The voice lent itself to courtesy and accent, English to the trained ear but missing the Londoner lilt that so often disguised their truth. The Vanguard truth. The man's pale skin clashed with the wrought-iron chair beneath him, matching quite well the veins of the wire frame with those that pulsated through him. Latticework on latticework. The café was bright in the afternoon, accenting the shade he drew to himself. His companion was more or less as comfortable, matching the city in her white summer dress and darkened shades. "19th century? The French revolution produced some names of note." She bit her words. She hated these games he played, asking obscure questions with obscure answers, barely relevant but always sweet nectar for his ego. The Book of Rai: SoH Ch. 01 "Reconnaissance and Contact orders, all. Try again." He eased in the frame, angling it back a degree at an instance, and again at another. The white V-neck framing his physique cut again the body before her, striking the straight v against the organic webbing of artery and wrought-iron that he was. 'Disgusting.' She considered the vein pulsing near his temple. She was sure she could see the subtle operation of a valve, opening and closing. He used it, she knew. Other's disgust. Used it to force the potency of his view as that of the opposing party, to be parried certainly, but just as certainly to be heard. "Come now, be a good sport." "More or less recent?" "It's been quite a while." "We took the sons of that Lankan lord. Ravana was it? "The multiple. His sons were stronger. We took the daughter too. She rose to archivist. Obviously, not one of the good ones." "Were they heather? "No, children of Rai, all. 9th generation, a good one for resurgence. They weren't the last though. You're getting warmer." "Charlemagne's? I'm sure we took note after the generation." "No. Although Charles Martel's grandson, his progeny were 11th generation, their gift was too much a wildcard. The generation in between and those that followed were lackluster at best. We left them to fallow. Still have tabs actually, in case we get lucky." "I give. When?" "Before these three? We grabbed what we could of Tokugawa's children, the ones who wouldn't have risen to the new shogunate. Early 17th century, 4th generation. Homei Mizarat rose to High Blade captain of an archivist support. Fell in the rising. It's been a while. Longer still since the order went for sons of heather. Few thought that the common grain could produce such fine stock." "I never bought that. Sure, Raians are strong, swift, brave. So is everyone else. So are many of the heather. It was only a matter of time before they produced someone with a physique and a brain." "Bombastic Enterprise would beg to differ. He railed against them, really turned heads. For a while, he even convinced Infallible Chastity. Nothing for centuries, then 3 at once? All unrelated? These were questions Bombastic Enterprise did not wish to entertain, given his way, I'd be holding those dark trusses in hand and pumping his chest to speed exsanguination." "What saved them?" "Neglected Beneficence. She refused to give them up, played it pretty close to the chest actually. Argued that deeds and fact outweighed lack of genetic catalogue." "That antiquated equation? I saw her in the file but I thought it was a rubber stamp on the reclamation order." She fidgeted, spotting their waitress on approach. Mousy, effervescent, yet understood well enough to keep it bottled around the vascular man. People seemed to understand monstrosity better than they could express it. Her eyes darted to him, sure that he wouldn't let anything important slip. "Rubber stamped reclamation order is an oxymoron." Their waitress stepped quietly by, leaving Darjeeling and espresso in her wake. She took the espresso, eyeing the waitress' rolling hips as she swayed between the tables, noting her companion's eyes on the same. Poor girl might never see another sunrise. She sipped the acrid tang. "Few people respect her because of her relative detachment from day to day events. She actually holds more sway than Dynamic Obliterant. Recruitment over waged war I imagine." "Why are you here?" She whispered, flicking her eyes to his, knowing the answer would be as discreet. "He has need of me... Look, your reclamation order supersedes my intentions. I won't kill any of your little friends while I'm in town. Its above my head, and you have near infinite leeway." He paused, pushing his chair back into the grime underfoot. "We are the vanguard of hope and sanity in a dying world. I think political stratagems and melodramatic grim triggers can wait a few days." He pushed his chair out behind him, standing in a ripple of blood. "I leave for Avignon in the morning, New York the day after. You have that long to establish contact." He turned to leave, slipping into a crowd more easily than she would have liked. She swirled the darkness at the bottom of her cup, unable not to see the comparison to the events. Swirling darkness. 'Homme Vivant is giving them space. Calling off the dogs.' She thought. She didn't know what it meant. He'd been escalating his interests, forwarding groups of a more radical destructive process, breeding fear in their strongest bastions. With or without his intervention, she knew things were going to accelerate quickly. She stood, dropping too much by far for the coffee and tea, leaving without a glance. She ducked into a side street, another and another adjacent, and conscious of the pronged piece of metal sitting in her hand. She needed to relieve the scout squad before they did something stupid, if they hadn't already. A flick, a harmonic, a whisper of name and rank, so small a gap in time and there, instantaneous connection. "Squad Captain, report." "Green since last report, no visitors. Subject journeyed at 9 a.m. to the port. We used the opportunity for base reconnaissance. He has a whistler Ma'am." "We know." "Subject began workout 1 and 1 half hours prior to this contact, is continuing as we speak." "You will be relieved at 14:00. You are to leave all materials and weaponry, excluding skins, overskins, projectile injection systems and whistlers. You are to arrive at Marseille safe house Epsilon by 15:00. Further instructions will be detailed there. You have each been wired 3 credits with an additional 2 from my personal account." "I- I don't... Thank you." She tongued her cheek considering the familiarity. Unprofessional. Whistling a harmonic and twisting her fingers round the device, it steadily demagnetized and fell to her hand, producing a pleasant warmth as the iron slowly reintegrated into her blood stream. Stowing it, she noted a gypsy examining her from around the corner. Bombastic would have demanded the girl's death, young as she was. Couldn't have been more than 12. She promised herself she'd produce an order to silence, knowing that she would never sign it. "So Bombastic an Enterprise..." she mused, fading into the Marseille heat. Dappled in salt and balmy of nature, Carter drank in the taste of thickening night. The Marseille breeze tickled through his half open shirt, trickling down his rolled sleeves and across his rolled musculature. Collared and white, he felt the Mediterranean accent over pastel shorts a nice touch. Combined with a gifted watch of which he dare not ask the price, Carter stood next to the living room adjacent mirror and admired his preparations. 'Well the hair's a mess. Might as well enjoy it, they'll have it shaved once I'm stateside.' He slammed his fist to the edge of the table, the lever of his compression pulling a stiletto into the air. He caught it back handed before slipping it into a sheath behind his pocket. Another man might have flourished it first. 8", and unlikely to be found should the date trend to the adventurous, he felt sure he could utilize the piece in a close environment, throwing it for a disable if it came to it. He checked the eyepiece on his door, unsurprised by the lack of light from the opposing rooftop. It was only once he regarded his pin holes that he grew suspicious. No movement. Nothing. Sure they were careful but... No activity at all? He bit his lip, alabaster on cream. "Maintain a state of normalcy. Go to movies. Date. You are to blend into your environ at any and all opportunities." His contacts words bit his better judgment. "Just go. So what if they come? You can use their weapons. Just go. Where the fuck are they?" He stopped, rolling his back to the wall and sliding to the floor. "Breath." He stood, levering to his full 6 feet. He smiled. "You've got a date. She'll be waiting for you." He traced his hand along the wall, connecting the dots between the pinholes, pulling his right from his hip to the door knob. "Relax. Breathe. Pull the trigger." He opened the door almost like a man who knew what he was doing. The sandstone pulled the heat of the air out and in, drinking the balm breeze in sips and pulls, melting the night into one singular breath. In it, on the cusp of it, occupying the doorframe and the frame of mind of one who seeks another, Carter strode. And she watched. Watched when he turned for the stairs, watched as each foot slid to ground, watched as his fingers trailed along the wall, watched as he did, looking for what was next to come. The screen door of the cafe's kitchen burst in the blackness, a hair's length from Carter's nose. "Ohmondieu desole! Oh, you're early." Her fingers worked the knot of her apron. His brow furrowed into the words, striking a smirk to shield his embarrassment. "Its 9:00, isn't it?" "Most people are fashionably late." "I'm not most people." "No," She said, twisting to hang her apron on the inner door, "You are not." He considered the compliment, if that, and leaned into the door frame as she passed, out and into the night. "So where to?" He said. She smiled slowly, the moonlight catching on flecks of flour unchecked. "Everywhere." She turned, jogging off and into the street, Carter left lost and dazed. Not wanting to lose his guide, he kicked off after, catching quickly the bobbing raven. "Think you're fast?" She switched gears, pulling ahead and onto the curb, rushing over roots and gutters, sidewalk stones and cobbled earth. The shops and apartments, doors and windows blurred into a tunnel of him and her and nothing but space between. The roll of each step awoke the breath within him. He wanted this. Not consciously, but still. The chase, the lust, like every great relationship, boiled down to one run in the night warmth. She came to the port, spinning on her toes to sit on the rail, watching Carter's powerful gate crawl in. "C'mon. Big and strong and you cannot catch une petite fille?" "A very fast girl." He puffed catching her examination and righting himself for round two. "So what do you think?" The light from the Harbor broke a golden glow around her, slipping through her curls and igniting fire, skimming and clashing black where the moonlight caught cold off the water. If there were a more beautiful woman in all the world, he should never find her but for the minute and the moment in front of him. Her chest heaved under her white blouse, the subtle machinations drawing his eyes over her body, stopping at the pulsations and fidgetations of her tanned and shapely legs. Perfect smooth, like velvet. "I think you look pretty." "Oh... Merci? I meant the harbor. She is the old port. Can you see the island in the waves?" She nodded to the wine dark sea behind her, rolling as it did the thousand miles of glass to the sand shore of Africa. There among the caps was a stone that stood above the others, crenellations and structure twisting into itself, so stout a fortress that it seemed grown or carved from the rock itself. Gibraltar reformed. "C'est le Chateau D'If. You know the Count of Monte Cristo? Monsieur le Compte, he spent 15 years in the darkness there. He was betrayed by his friends, those who were closest to him. His love, Mercedes, was taken by another." "Did he die in there?" "Non, il s'est echappe, rose to tremendous power and destroyed those who sought to destroy him." "Sounds more like a villain than a hero." "We're all villains Carter." She turned into the harbor, looking out and over the waves to the hulking prison. Carter strode slowly to the rail placing a hand and an elbow on the metal, surprised to find it chill in the summer warmth. He leaned as the position required, out and over, nearer her and nearer the sea. "Are you? A villain?" He asked. She shivered, despite the night. "I don't know. Je ne s'ai pas. My mother used to tell me that all men, all people, were equal in their villainy, that the only way we ever got to where we are was climbing a mountain of villains crushed by other villains, the cruel replaced by the less cruel and deified for the whisper of mercy." She blinked, a sniffle on the tip of her nose and clouding in the corners of her eyes. "I was told that a man is defined by his actions, his output." "That makes sense. What does that make you Monsieur?" 'A weapon. An operative.' "A worker. I do what I'm told, and I work." "I having the feeling you aren't as boring as you pretend to be. Are you enjoying the tour?" "We've only been to one place." "There isn't much else outside the business district, and I doubt they'll let us into the tower. The art museums are lovely, but closed for now. You picked a bad time for a tour Carter." "Or did I pick the best time? I'm with a beautiful girl in the midnight. Doesn't get much better than that." "Thank you." "Hmm?" "You called me beautiful. Thank you. I get it sometimes, from les drageurs. The pick-up artists. I always say thank you." A pregnant pause lay upon them, the space between filled by the rail's sharp force in her pliant ass and his gradual realization of her discomfort. "Let's go somewhere." "Where? I thought I was the tour guide." The chopsticks broke with a discrete click, the wax paper cartons folding over in the streetlights. They walked along, fumbling with chopsticks and pieces of chicken, noodles and taste. "They're the only place in town with oyster pails. American style y'know? The boxes." "I like them. Do they remind you of home?" "Who says I'm American?" "Non, truly you are kidding me. Café American? Chinese food in Marseille? You even got chicken. You are American." "You think in English." "How so?" "French thought puts the person outside of their body, outside everything. They never are, the verb to be is never really used. You say, I have cold, I have hunger. Even names. You have your name, you are not the name. J'ai Carter. I have the name. You say I am something." A particularly succulent lump of chicken followed his musing. She chewed on his words. "Are you something?" "I'm American," He smiled, "you got me." He finished his last bite, hers already spent. Stowing the boxes in the trash of a nearby store front, they moved in the moonlight. "Are we going back to the café?" "We could. We're pretty near my place. When I eat Chinese, I become sleepy... How do you say it? Would you like some coffee? Something to get me out of this." He could think of a few things he would like to get her out of. "I'd like that. Where is your-" before he could finish, a hand whisked his away and up a flight of steps, the apartment block similar to Carter's in its design, steps and a balcony walkway to each apartment, even if hers wasn't quite as luxurious. She pressed him into the corner wall, lips flitting across his cheeks. His hands found her hips and lifted her away. Her eyes were green, and searched his for some sign of acceptance, some sign of return. They flashed across his face, his body, hungry in that way, that way that is a shallow breath, that is panted murmurs and that exists only in the hearts and eyes of those who are to be lovers. Her breasts, pert and entrapped in her bra were mashed and mashing upon his chest, inflaming their already burning passion. There was a press, there on the stairwell, when the game was not the brush of finger tips, was not the play of tongue in cheek but the attempt to enshroud. His hands surrounded her ass, pulling her crotch to his and ground his turgid shaft across her shorts. Her arms shawled his shoulders, lips locked to his entirety, the entirety of her body within the hollow of his. Their hands flit in the darkness, switching grips and ripping over so thin the barrier between skins. She was the one to break their kiss, leaning out for air. Before she could open her mouth, his lips had shifted to her neck, pecking first and kissing the line of her jaw, his right hand sliding to her left breast. "Mon Dieu. Nous allez... Carter we... My apartment. I'm on the pill." Without word and without sound, he broke his ministrations. His eyes were still on the line of her neck and the deepening of her cleavage, the caps of her B cups breasts visible at the top of her bra. Ebony nubs on olive complexion. His eyes, as they followed the line of her chin and into her eyes did not quiver, did not shift, did not ask. They show only his need, naked and complete. Desire was there as plain as the amber depth in which it was housed. He pulled his hand from her breast to her cheek, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I- We...Carter..." She looked down and away, taking the hand on her cheek with her own as she pulled him the rest of the way to her apartment door, without haste but in each discrete step the full determination that she was going to fuck this man. There was simply no alternative. Her keys fumbling in her hand, it was only with a sad look that she slipped her hand from his to steady the key as it entered the lock, twisting the door at once and in one motion. Bathroom to the immediate left, wall behind the door as it opened to his right. His hands were on her hips before she'd even turned around, his foot kicking the door closed behind him. Across the street a panting and disappointed woman with Binoculars realized she'd have to switch to her thermal monitoring system. 'Oh my God that was fucking hot.' Carter's shoes were his next move as Josephine's were kicked to the wall behind him. His graces were of no match, and with the removal of his second shoe he caught off balance and fell into her, the two tumbling back and onto her bed, brilliant silver casting from white sheets in the moon's mirrored gaze. Carter had started laughing as soon as he'd tipped. Josephine as soon as she'd heard his laugh. They faced each other, pooled in the sheets. He turned to her as the laugh diffused, his smile inching to hers. His kiss pecked her lips, and his hands found the place where her blouse met her shorts. As his tongue penetrated her, his hands penetrated that of her person, running the course of her back and her bra, slipping under the material but without unhooking it. His goal was her to feel his touch. As much she did, his fingers brushed down her back and to the top of her sinew cheeks. She was lost in the sensation he elicited, the magic that came with his fingers. Her eyes flicked into focus, and into a determination resolute. She kicked her arm under her, throwing herself up and into a straddle over him. The question was on his brow before she'd even fully seated herself. "Shhhh. Let me do this." Her hands trailed the buttons of his shirt, weaving beneath the fabric and over his solid athleticism. She sat up straight and moved to pull her shirt over her head, each iota of her Mediterranean complexion loved from first sight. As she decoupled her bra, he'd shifted to sit up slightly, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it to the chair in the corner. Her breasts were perfect in his sight, filling his reaching hands and just so responsive to his fondling. He could hear her plaintive mewling as she arched her back, her crotch grinding feverishly into his. Seeing her distraction, Carter smiled. His hands drifted to her sides, and in one motion they'd flipped, her raven halo feathered across the bed. Eyes, smiling, even as her teeth pinched her lip. "You have me. What is your intent monsieur?" His grin waxed wolfish as it slid over her body, inching down to her steaming sex. Her head alternated pressing into the blankets behind her and flashing up to examine his movements, dying she was, slowly in anticipation. His palms washed her sides, fingers finding and hooking the waist band of her shorts, careful not to disturb the line of her panties. Her legs folding together, he slid the shorts over her feet and across the room, her legs opening to accept him. She wore a midnight blue thong, disappearing at the back of her sex. His motion glacial, he slid face and body an inch away from her groin, exhaling softly over the soaked material. She shivered bodily, as his thumbs hooked around them, a simple arch of her back, acquiescing to his request. The panties found the floor next to the bed, and with that his lips found her pubis.