MONDAY
Even though he was no longer working for them, Frank couldn't help but note the differences between the shooting range that ARTEMIS had had, and the Crucible as he entered the magically warded and reinforced chamber.
It was a tiered space, with an upper level, and lower. The upper space had fine red carpeting, chandeliers, couches and chairs so soft you could get swallowed up in the damn things. It had a fully stocked bar, run by servers in immaculate black and white uniforms. Ties in that particular shade of Templar crimson. As far as Frank could figure, their entire purpose within the Order was the serve drinks. This wasn't a place for weapons training, it was a place for fucking cocktail parties.
The lower tier, on the other hand, was more austere and stark, with stone and concrete (though, even here there was some marble). The section set aside for ranged weapons had distance intervals marked on the floors of the firing lanes with bright red paint. Red as the blood that flowed from the magically bound and sustained rakshasa that served as targets at the far end. Elsewhere they hung on gibbets to be practiced on by those who used more esoteric weaponry.
His former employers had a standardized, modern shooting range. He honestly preferred their take on the concept. The Crucible, however, was what he had now. As he moved down the steps leading to the lower tier, rifle bag and pistol case in hand, Frank could feel the strange glances from the bar staff. Over to his right, a pair of initiate Templars gave him a long look as well. He knew why.
They'd seen him there before, only as a member of a work detail from the Temple Hall dungeons, repairing damage to the Crucible. Such work could be done by magically summoned creatures or automata, but the Hall believed it was 'edifying' to have the work done by those incarcerated for various infractions.
Frank picked a firing lane, and set down bag and case both. The long bag contained his treasured FN-FAL, enchanted by Marya ritualists and currently the only battle rifle he owned. A group of Templars—ones not shocked or embarrassed by him—were joining him for rifle time later. For now, while he waited, Frank would reacquaint himself with his carry piece. He turned his head and stared down the two initiates. After a few seconds they looked away, though one gave him another quick look, like one might an unfamiliar, dangerous dog.
That's fine, he thought to himself.
As he drew his pistol from the case and set it on the provided stand for his firing lane, Frank could hear a clump-click, clump-click behind him. Turning slightly, he came to attention as he realized who had decided to join him at this lane.
Brigadier Lethe was an intimidating presence. It wasn't due to being especially tall or physically powerful looking—he was right around Frank's height, and not much more well built. It was due instead to the very obvious damage done to his body—and how he bore it. The clicking sound came from the leather and metal brace encasing his right leg. Some awful injury had happened to him in battle, and it had partially crippled him. In addition to his right leg, he had a simple black cloth patch over his right eye. The rest of the terrible scar could just be seen peeking past the circumference of the patch.
Even so, Lethe stood ramrod straight, moved in a purposeful manner, glared at anyone who had the temerity to enter his domain. There was no timidity, no hint of 'weakness' in the man. Unlike many Templar officers, Lethe only wore a simple gray collared shirt and black slacks. A row of medals were pinned to the shirt. Those medals, and his wounds, were the only thing he needed to assert his authority. A dress uniform or badge of office couldn't do any more. Right now his arms were folded across his chest, accentuating the presence of the medals.
“Strange, Mister Calhoun, I wasn't informed the Crucible needed further repair.”
“No, sir, I'm not here for that. I'm released. I'm here for weapons retrainin'.”
“Mmm. Let you out, did they. I certainly hope you know in what direction to point that pistol, now. Or do I have to warn the FNGs at the other end of the Crucible?”
Frank resisted the urge to grit his teeth. He had assaulted a member of the Inquisition. It was part of the reason he'd been locked up.
“You don't have to warn them, sir. I broke th' rules, I did th' time.”
“That you did. Could have left you in there for longer, you know.” Lethe circled him, arms still folded. Clump-click, clump-click.
“Enjoying your free time, I wager. I wonder why you're here instead of at the pub. Or the cinema. Or perhaps shagging some Darkside doxie at the Tabula Rasa.”
Frank's eyes narrowed, but he didn't turn, enduring the abuse. He was going to show he was worthy of another field assignment, and with the Templars, that meant proper behavior as well as ability. He couldn't let that statement stand, though.
“Sir, you saw th' circumstances of how I came t'be locked up? Why I did what I did?”
“Oh, I did. I did indeed.”
“Then y'know its cuttin' me t' th' core t' not be with m'brothers and sisters in th' field. They're facin' danger...an' I ain't there 't face it with 'em.”
“Mmmff.” Lethe didn't sound especially convinced, but not entirely doubtful, either. Neutral. He stopped his pacing, behind Frank.
“You were only locked up for forty days in total. Surely your skills haven't atrophied that much.”
Frank continued to stay at attention, hands at his sides. He spoke without facing Lethe.
“Sir, while I was in here, out there someone, somewhere, was usin' that time t' get better 'n me. Now I need t' catch up. I need t' be equal t' th' challenges waitin' on th' outside.”
There was a long silence, and Frank wondered if he'd been dismissed. Lethe hadn't said so, so he continued to stand there. At length, Lethe finally answered.
“Then carry on, Mister Calhoun. I expect swift bloody progress, man. I've seen your qualification scores after all.”
With that, Lethe clanked away, and Frank finally relaxed his body. He reached for one of the pistol's magazines and started to thumb in rounds from a box he'd brought along. Then he heard Lethe's voice again.
“Oh, and Mister Calhoun?”
This time Frank turned to face the brigadier.
“Welcome back.”
TUESDAY
Firelight cast long shadows against the nearby canyon walls that surrounded the Marya camp. Around Frank, men and women from that band of desert partisans relaxed on the ground as soft guitar music filled the night air. He, along with his friend (and for tonight, employer) Felicity Bane had arrived earlier in the day with two M35 trucks full of supplies for the embattled tribe. As a gesture of their appreciation, the Marya had thrown a celebration of sorts once the two 'deuce and a half' trucks were unloaded, with curried goat and dancing in abundance.
Hospitality, Frank had learned long ago, was crucial to the Marya. It was every bit a part of them as their fight against Atenakhen, as important to them as concepts like honor and sacrifice. To experience genuine Marya hospitality was to be welcomed in as, at the least, honored guests. For he and Fel, who had developed a longer term relationship with the Marya, it was to be gathered in as family.
Frank grinned to himself in the shadows. Well, somewhat distant family. 'Long term' had a different meaning for the Marya than it did for virtually everyone else in the world.
The celebration had been boisterous. Now, things were quieter. Bane was by the fire with a dusky skinned Marya woman, who was trying to teach her some of their own folk songs, all of which told their stories: from the initial battles against the Atenists generations ago to the present day. The heavily tattooed ex gang hitwoman had her legs gathered up underneath her, playing slowly back to her companion, who nodded encouragingly.
Felicity Bane had become a close friend and ally. The two shared a down to earth, common sense approach to this new life of theirs. Both came from humble backgrounds, and both had, at their core, strong convictions that weren't always in line with those of their secret society. The two had fought together, bled together, gotten drunk together. They'd cheered their personal victories together, and lamented their tragedies and pains together. They'd even dated, ever so briefly. Now she was in a strongly committed relationship with Mihaela Bereza, another dear friend, and Frank was very happy for them both.
Feeling his gaze, Bane looked up briefly, and flashed Frank a grin, white teeth bright in the dark. He waved back. She'd done him many kindnesses during their friendship, but paying him to ride shotgun on her little supply run was ranking pretty high right now. She didn't know it, but the pay from this job meant he'd be able to get groceries along with paying the rent on his hole in the wall place in Darkside. As she looked away, going back to concentrating on the music, Frank frowned.
When was he going to go grocery shopping, anyway? He wasn't going to leave here any time soon. Tomorrow? There was sparring tomorrow, another part of his efforts to get back into form. Maybe after the sparring. For now, he was going to remain here, at rest. Frank set his hands on his belly as he leaned back on his bedroll. His FAL was near to hand, but not too near that it would cause offense. After all, the camp was guarded by Marya fighters, and it would be a grievous breach of protocol to suggest they weren't enough to keep him safe. Grinning to himself at the knowledge there were few people he trusted more to watch over him, Frank closed his eyes and went to sleep.
WEDNESDAY
Just a librarian, she liked to say. Boring, she'd tell people.
Frank grumbled a disjointed obscenity under his breath as he walked through the aisles of Annapurna, Darkside's grocery store. Only a few steps away was the Haitian Market, but Frank wasn't quite in the mood for pickled scorpion, shrunken heads or the latest fake copy of The Codex of Pnath. Frank had already visited several other Ealdwic shops, picking up various staple items. This was his last stop of the day.
The earlier portion of the day had involved a sparring match with Allie 'Ankhani' Selona. The pale skinned Welshwoman worked in Temple Hall's archives, and as such told people that she was 'a librarian.' Just a librarian.
He was glad their sparring session had been with wooden blades. Otherwise right now he'd be in a hospital. “Just a librarian” who happened to have the footwork of Romankov. She'd given him more than a few stinging blows to the hip. He snorted as he put some potatoes into the plastic basket he was using. A paper bag carrying his other purchases from other shops sat on the ground next to him.
“Librarian my hairy red ass,” he grumbled. At the checkout counter nearby, the teenager running the register looked up.
“You say somethin', man?”
Frank chuckled ruefully and shook his head, leaning down to pick up the paper bag. Moving towards the register, he noticed Annapurna also had boxed cereal for sale. Well, he did need some cereal. After forty days of Templar oatmeal, he was ready for something else. As he leaned in to examine one of the boxes, bag and basket in hand, he blinked.
“Frozen Flakes?”
This time he gave the teenager an arched eyebrow. The young man laughed, and got up from behind the counter, ambling over to join Frank by the boxes of cereal.
“Uh huh,” said the Darkside resident. “Like Frosted Flakes, yeah? Just the packaging on the box is different.”
Frank shook his head. The box was emblazoned with the images of the main characters from Disney's ridiculously successful animated feature.
“I guess someone must've gotten partial use of the rights or somethin',” Frank murmured. The attendant shrugged deeply.
“Sure, man. Yeah. Permission.”
Frank straightened back up, shifting the paper bag so it rested against his body.
“Is that stuff even popular here?” The boy grinned back toothily.
“Oh yeah. Even here in Darkside. Mental, completely mental. There's this family of Blajini, just down Coalwalk? Their little ones love the movie.”
Giving a noncommittal grunt, Frank glanced back at the price. He had to admit, though it sounded terrible, that unless he heard them speak or they were dressed differently he had a real difficult time telling Blajini apart—male, female, children, anything.
Huh. The cereal was pretty cheap, and he was on a budget...
The attendant saw his look.
“Going for it, ain't ya?”
Frank gave the teenager a wry grimace.
“Oh, yeah...gonna get me some Frozen Flakes. Jesus H Christ.”
THURSDAY
The spartan apartment shook as the late night train went rumbling by on an elevated track nearby. Frank held tightly onto the paper plate, not wanting to lose even a crumb of its contents. He had just returned from a dinner with Mihaela and Felicity at the house the two women shared together. Mihaela, or 'Mika' to her friends, had wanted to celebrate his release from custody and the beginning of his journey back to 'normal.'
Or whatever the hell counted as 'normal' for them.
Mika had made a lasagne in a rich tomato sauce that Frank believed, in sufficient amounts, might actually get the arguing factions of Old and New Templars to stop arguing—if only because they were busy shoveling it into their mouths. Hmm. Diplomacy through food.
He had a feeling if he asked, a certain Scottish diplomat would tell him diplomacy through food was the oldest kind there was.
Finally, the train finished, and he was able to actually resume eating. After wolfing down another few bites, Frank resumed the task before him.
Tomorrow, he and Bane were on another supply run mission; this particular run was to the Draculesti in Transylvania. Unlike the Marya, Frank had no especial connection to this group, though they shared many of the Marya's traits: generations old purpose and tradition, close knit family groups, informal but effective martial training. He'd simply never bonded with their warriors as he had the Marya. Still, Bane was paying him. And he needed the Pax. Right now, he was choosing the weapons for the trip.
Occultech weaponry came in two main varieties: the mass produced, relatively inexpensive weapons made of magically reactive or treated materials widely available to the Secret World at large, and those more rare models specially manufactured or modified by a powerful magi. Both could be used to channel ones anima or to cast battle magic. In the field cells, they'd referred to the phenomena as “cake in a box versus cake from scratch.” Templar artificer and magi Solomon Lancaster saw it as comparing cheap but useful knives from Wal-Mart to fine blades made by a knowledgeable smith.
The first kind you could find all over. There was a stand in Ealdwic Market that sold occultech versions of common firearms; Heckler & Koch submachineguns, Glock pistols, Colt rifles. In the Haitian Market, Stanley's “Short Order Revolutionary” sold much the same. And down in Darkside, one could go to “New Model Army.” Even the very well made and potent Manticore firearms still fell into the mass produced category.
The second...well, that was trickier. A heavily enchanted and ensorcelled heavy revolver, built by hand and enchanted over a period of many days was the personal sidearm of Frank's former cell leader, Nigel Warrick. It had been passed down through his family since 1900, and, thanks to its magic, was just as potent today as it had been the day it was produced. Lancaster himself had heavily modified a Marlin 1895 lever action rifle for Frank. The work had not been cheap, and had taken a lot out of Lancaster, but the quality spoke for itself. Weapons from the second category were harder to come by, but generally more powerful. Once the enchanting was done, however, you really couldn't change the weapon. You couldn't add to it or take away.
Both types had their strengths and weaknesses. And Frank had both types on the wood floor in front of him. Sitting on a rolled up sleeping bag (Frank still didn't have actual furniture), the Templar operative examined his arsenal.
Resting next to the Marlin was a Tikka T3 Tactical rifle, bolt action. A gift from Valerie Xi, the Tikka was of the 'cake from a box' variety. It's nature meant Frank would be able to switch out stocks, optics, and so on fairly easily, which was good. He'd need to be able to tweak it as he got used to it. Convoy duty wasn't really where a bolt action sniper rifle could shine, though.
Over to his right was his Stevens Model 520-30. Shotgun. Trench gun. Robust and as good for intimidation as it was close in firepower. The racking of a shotgun slide was universally understood to mean 'I am officially done fucking around.' Like the Tikka, the Stevens was a mass produced model, albeit older. Not quite the range he wanted in a primary, though, for this task.
The Marlin? It was certainly powerful, and had decent range. He'd demonstrated both attributes to oni in Kaidan more than once. It only held four shots, though.
Back to the FAL, then. The FN-FAL had come from the Marya, and its handguard was festooned with charms, its wooden stock scrawled with runes of power. Like the Marlin, it was the product of a powerful spellcaster; even though it hadn't been originally made by the Marya ritualist he'd received it from, the magi had spent a week strengthening and augmenting it with magic.
Backup weapon would be the P239, another 'Wal-Mart knife' kind of occultech weapon. It was currently the only pistol he owned. The weapons he had hastily purchased from Stanley before responding to the 'Coventry' protocol at ARTEMIS months ago had been confiscated by the Inquisition and never returned.
Frank nodded to himself, decision made, and went back to eating the lasagne. Once finished, he'd pack up the other weapons (he'd spent precious Pax on a gun safe instead of furniture so far), and lay out his gear for the next day. The job itself shouldn't be too difficult. Standard supply run, Bane had told him.
