🚀 go-pugleaf

[[Continued from Part Two]]




     While I studied the blade in Germany, Gabrielle found herself in
America and Canada.  She went to University, forging credentials in one
town, using them in the next, and those involved would tell no tales from
the grave.  She learned well, and trained hard, always.  She studied
martial arts, the better to hide her training.  She became a biathelete,
and then concealed her sex and won a National Pentathlon as "Gabe Marks."
She learned English with no accent, and affected American citizenship.
     It was rather easier for her to train with her weapons in America.
They like guns there, it seems.  There was always a question of money, of
course.  At first she took what she wanted, but had to worry about cameras
and surveillance and police inquiries.  This is when she discovered another
profession.  One I would learn later myself... after my final student duel.
     I should sleep.  I should find some way to get hope again.  I
should... the two most valuable words in any language.  They remind us of
the difference between desire and execution, between intent and execution.
     I did not intend to burn a bridge behind myself, at the Academy.  I
did not intend to leave them behind me, forever.  It simply happened.  If
it had not...
     If it had not, Ogden would have made me an instructor and I would be
there today.  But it did happen.
     The aftertaste of Destiny.
     It was the night of Halloween, and we had been drinking and feeling
adventurous.  And there was dueling -- it is the height of foolishness to
drink and fight, but we were students.  And so we drank, swung and fought
like animals -- but damnably graceful animals.
     I had fought four duels myself -- when one was usually considered
exhausting.  My face was yet clean.  I'd fought the last with my left.
     And I was fighting a fifth -- a new student called Perkins, and I was
humiliating him.
     "Come come," I said.  "You do know what a guard is, don't you?  Oh,
did I Coup Ferre?  I beg you humble pardon -- you should want to get that
bandaged, I think...."
     "There is no bravery in fighting an outmatched opponent," came a quiet
voice.
     I shoved the boy off and turned.
     Ogden was there, wearing a rapier.
     "There is indeed," I half-shouted.  "The bravery of young Perkins,
fighting valiantly in the face of ludicrous opposition!"
     Ogden eyes narrowed, and mine locked with his, and my humor dropped.
"How brave are you," he asked.
     "I do not turn away from a challenge," I said.  "No matter how
competent... or incompetent the opponent."
     "Are you insulting me?"  He was deathly quiet.
     "No, Perkins, who you seem to be championing.  Which is your choice
and decision, no matter how little I agree with it."  My own voice was low.
There were student duels, and there were student duels.  And this was no
Halloween revel.
     He drew.  I still held my blade.  The circle spread wide.  He slowly
dropped into En Garde.
     And we came together, driving at one another with steel, eye on eye,
thrust against guard, riposte against block.  The steel between us sang,
and I knew I had never fought anyone so fine.  My heart pounded and
adrenalin flowed in my heart, and I felt something... slowly... *shift*
within me, and I drove at him, strong and quick, and immortal--
     The rapier flared, silver in my eye....
     I could feel the burn a second later.  He stepped back, in sixth
guard, and let me feel my face.  Feel the long, shallow cut.
     I do not know if I can explain how I felt.  Humiliated?  Enraged?
Homicidal?  No.  Not in the least.
     I was *exhilarated.*  It was as though Ogden's blade had cloven into
my soul and let me free.  With that touch I knew this would be a fight -- a
duel!  A true, honest match of steel and I laid *on!*  Fatigue from five
duels before left me as I thrusted and retreated, drove and parried.
Guarded and struck!  Our blades danced in silver, reflecting in the low
light of the bonfire and the lanterns, and I drove again and again -- and
there was a gasp as Ogden's face *bled!*  But I gave him no respite.  I did
not drop back -- I pressed on, his blood splattered on my blade!  I can see
that fight now!  Strike!  Thrust!  Strike!  *Strike* *home!*
     And there were shouts, and Ogden's eyes grew wide... three feet above
where my blade was buried into him, up to it's hilt.
     I trembled, feeling the rush of victory within myself.
     "You are no Cyrano," he whispered.
     "No.  Cyrano was an idiot," I replied, and kicked him off my sword.
     They could have taken me.  A schoolful with swords, most with at least
*some* training?  But I stood there, my blade ruby red, as Ogden silently
died, and stared at them all, *yearning* for them to come at me.
     But no matter what the students believed, in that moment I saw the
truth.  They were exactly like the play-students in France's fencing
schools.  This was a *game* to them.  These weren't weapons, they were
*swords.*  You know, like on the television and in the movies.  And only
the bad people died, and besides, that was fantasy.  This was reality.
     They did not stop me from leaving.  None would dare.  I gathered my
things, cleaned my blade, and left the school.
     And felt *good.*  Ogden, at least, had been a true swordsman.  With
his death, I knew I was as well.
     Years later, Geneva asked why, following the Ubermachine, I still had
a line scar on my face  Not much of one -- it is slightly white against my
skin -- but it is there.  She couldn't understand.  After all, when the
Ubermachine remade her, it purified her, removing all blemish.
     She could not imagine that my scar was part of my purity, part of my
past.  Part of my pride.  It still is.  I feel that ridge, and know that
Anthony DeMarque, born Antoine, was a swordsman before Black Steel or
Egoist.  It is one of the proudest moments of my life.
     But now I needed to find some way to live.
     Dear Lord in Heaven, Jones in Hell and Authors who write us all, they
have started singing, out there.  Do they not know the time?  Do they
have... no sense of *taste?*
     I admit I came to music late in my life, but there is so much of
substance, so much that can exhilarate and enlighten... the passions of
Beethoven, the brilliance of Mozart, the textures of Vivaldi, even the
minimalism of Glass... and these... *brethren* of mine sing of "pick-up
trucks?"
     I knew Goldenrage was a mistake.  I should have killed her when I had
the chance.
     I went on to Frankfort, and from there to Bonn, taking what I needed.
But that attracted attention, which I wasn't interested in doing.  Not
right then.  I simply wanted to find some way to be unconcerned.  So it
was, one night when I had broken into a store to sleep, and was watching
one of the thirty television that was on.  It was some hideous thing --
advertising some sort of scheme to make money without actually having to do
anything.  I was not yet truly assimilated into the modern world, but I
knew better on general principle.  But the cretin who was pushing this
program said something that struck home like a bolt of thunder.
     Or like destiny.  Watching a half-hour commercial indeed.  But there I
was, listening, and the man in the comfortable sweater and slacks with the
glasses said "what everyone *really* wants is to make money doing what they
like."
     I stared at the television.  They were right.  They were exactly
right.  There was one thing that made me truly live -- more than the sword,
more than my sister, more than the Red Cat ever had.  The one true vocation
for me.
     The fight.  The hunt.  The kill.
     A woman despised her daughter-in-law, believing her unfaithful and
scheming to get her son's inheritance.  So her daughter-in-law was found
hacked apart.
     A crime lord was dogged by a diligent detective.  That detective's
throat was slashed, bleeding into the begonias, his pistol still having two
shots left in it.
     A man was passed over for promotion in favor of another man, who had
been there three years less.  So the new Assistant Manager had a hole in
his heart.
     I began to stop worrying about ways to live.  Some hunts were better
than others.  The detective was smart, and good with his weapon.  On the
other hand, the old hag's daughter-in-law hadn't the brain to scheme to
steal half one's sandwich, much less her son's inheritance.  That led to a
satisfying counter-job, however.  Her son loved his wife and resented his
mother.  Her screams were shallow and pathetic.  I drove her off the edge
of her roof.  One wouldn't want it connected to the girl's death, after
all....
     It wasn't long before organized crime acted as my factor.  This was an
easier arrangement for me, though it meant the clients would have to spend
more money.  This was only after they decided I was taking business from
them, and sending enforcers after me.  And that was almost best of all.  Of
course, I could occasionally duel a policeman or three while on the clock,
as it were, but to have hunters come after me, specifically to kill me, or
be killed by me.  *That* was life at its fullest.  One by one they fell,
until finally they negotiated.
     In a way, I suppose I contributed more to crime control than most so
called super-heroes.  But that was a side of the business I wanted to
avoid.  I knew better than to think myself on a par with them, at least at
that point.
     I broadened my horizons.  I acted as a bodyguard or enforcer.  I sent
unique messages -- at least once, I convinced a Drug Lord to work with
another cartel by systematically eliminating each of his bodyguards and
streetworkers.  I was quite popular in Germany, at this point.
     Occasionally, however, the elements I worked for needed champions.
Bloodsports, for gambling and the like.  Those were exhilarating.  The
competition was often better.  There was no question of being caught.  And
if it was barbaric... well, the veneer of civilization is never very thick.
There is in each of us a savage, addicted to the adrenalin in our bodies.
     Destiny... always it comes back to Destiny.
     It was a warehouse in Warsaw in Poland.  We had travelled far.  It was
something of a competition.  Very strict rules -- no paranormals.  This was
human blood for human blood.  Why this was considered illegal and barbaric
in a world where Ultimate Fighting is on Pay Per View, I do not know.  In
any case, it was an arena, where the fights alternated.  I fought through
two rounds, before I walked into the third.  It was the semifinals.  I had
not watched the other rounds -- none of us had.  We were not allowed to
know our opponents.
     But I knew my opponent.  I knew her very well.
     "This cannot continue," she said.  "You cannot ask me to kill my own
brother."
     Destiny.  It had to be destiny.  It was entirely too cliche,
otherwise.  It would be gauche.  I cannot abide the cliche.
     Gabrielle's career had come more naturally to her than it had to me.
For one thing, I enjoyed it too much.  To Gabrielle, it was part of the
day.  Part of work.  It had very little to do with passion.  She needed to
live.  And she was made to be an untraceable assassin.
     Her career started when she was approached at the gun club where she
trained, while living in Memphis, in the United States of America.  He was
a politician.  He said too many things that the people liked, and the
establishment did not.  Powerful interests disliked him.  He wasn't buyable.
     So Gabrielle put on blue jeans and a blouse, and a blue overcoat, got
a rifle, and made twenty thousand dollars in an afternoon.  She moved on
from Memphis after that.
     Gabrielle was always a better assassin than I was.  I really wasn't an
assassin, after all.  I was a hired killer.  She specialized in the victims
never seeing her.  I wanted them to.  Besides, ranged weapons are better
for such things.  I can admit that as well as the next person.
     One other difference between Gabrielle and I was her approach.  I
always used blades.  Sword, knife or what have you.  Gabrielle on the other
hand used rifles, or pistols, or arrows, or anything that would deliver a
deadly payload a considerable distance at a good velocity.  She didn't use
explosives -- well, unless they were attached to a rocket or missile or the
like.  She did that once, but didn't like it.
     It was a better career for her than taking money.  This was for two
reasons.  One, killers do not make good thieves.  This is a basic fact --
the murder increases paranoia.  Besides, one gets used to killing the
witnesses, and that does very little good when you are on videotape.
     Furthermore, murder, especially when one alters the method of it, is
not that significant in our society.  Now, this did not help me much --
when one finds four people killed with swords in one country in one year,
it will make the news.  But people die from bullet wounds every day.  If
Gabrielle stole ten thousand dollars and killed someone, it would be widely
publicized.  If Gabrielle were given ten thousand dollars *to* kill
someone, and the exchange of money were not discovered, it would be a
statistic.  Perhaps ten seconds on a local news program.
     It is a sad truth that loss of money is more important than loss of
life.  I think perhaps that is because we all die, eventually.  But we do
not all get large sums of money.  That makes money mythic, where death is
terribly mundane.
     Gabrielle was very successful.  She too began to act as a bodyguard --
not difficult.  She had one crossbow constructed entirely out of resins,
with a hardened plastic tip for it's quarrels.  It was invisible to metal
detectors.  And though Gabrielle always carries herself as a predator, she
is also an attractive woman.  More people see that than the steel carried
within.
     She was offered a considerable sum to participate in this tournament.
Being a fan of westerns and showdowns, she agreed.
     I was wearing my black turtleneck and black fatigue pants.  She wore a
blue leotard under blue fatigues.  Armor was illegal in the match.
     Le chat noire et le chat bleu.  Together.
     "We don't care who he is," her sponsors demanded.  "Shoot him!"
     "I don't care who she is," my sponsor shouted.  "Cut her!"
     The referees pulled the bolts on their automatic weapons.  They were
wearing the bulletproof armoring we could not.
     I looked in her eyes.  "Gabrielle," I said.  "We must talk."
     "We seem to have no time," she said, slowly resting her hand on her
sidearm.
     I nodded.  "You are right," and put my hand on my sword.
     She fired high, over my shoulder, striking a referee in the eye.  I
drove low, past her hip, impaling another in the groin, shattering his
zipper, which itself was not kevlar.  Swinging wide, I slashed the throat
of another while she lay down support fire covering my flank.  Guards and
referees swarmed to us, but we meshed into combat as though we had never
been separated.  As they got close, my blade ended them, protecting
Gabrielle.  As they jockeyed for position, Gabrielle cut them down from
afar, protecting me.  The crowd began to cheer as we fought our way out.  I
think perhaps our sponsors would have enjoyed the show.
     Save, of course, that they had asked us to kill each other.  Gabrielle
was no stranger to automatic weapons.  She took the thronged crowd,
changing their chants into screams as she blasted them down.  I leapt into
the boxes where the sponsors lay, laying into them like a scythe.
     We burned the building to the ground, and wandered into the Polish
streets.
     "Well," I said, a bit tired and hurt (we were hardly invincible),
"eventually seems to have arrived."
     "Yes it has," she said brightly, favoring her left leg.  "And about
time, as well."
     "Where have you been all this time?"
     "Surviving.  Taking what I want.  And you?"
     "Much the same.  It has been enjoyable.  We should get some food."
     "Yes.  Outside of Poland."
     "You remain the most rational person I know."


[[Concluded in Part Four]]


--
Beta-Cit Eric Alfred Burns  | Takes more than Combat Gear to Make a Man,
<sabre@awenet.com>          | Takes more than a License for a Gun.
http://www.eyrie.org/~sabre | Confront your Enemies, Avoid them when you can,
Writer Type, Poet Boy       | A Gentleman will walk but never run.
Maine Expatriate            |  				--Sting