The Templars recruited from many places. A multitude of cultures and ethnic groups could be found under the stark crimson and white banner of the Templars.
The language they all spoke, however, was the language of duty.
Concepts like duty—and its sisters obligation and loyalty--existed in the other societies in only the barest sense. For the Illuminati, you stayed loyal to the organization in the hopes you'd be rewarded for beating down your rival agents (sometimes literally) in an orgy of corporate cannibalism. Most Dragon weren't even aware they were held and directed by a secret society. Loyalty wasn't a concern when one didn't realize they were being strung along and manipulated.
For the Templars, life was duty. It was duty that pushed you to run one more mile when your instructor had already made you run five. Duty that held your tongue as you were critiqued by your 'betters' within the ancient society. Duty that compelled you to brave enemy fire to rescue a fallen comrade who also wore the red.
The Templars tended to recruit those who were already strongly attached to the concept of duty. Easier to mold. To control.
In Frank Calhoun the Templars had found the seeds of duty, obligation, and loyalty already planted in fertile soil and well watered.
“Target in the open,” came the feminine voice of this mission's controller in Frank's earpiece. Known to him only as a distant, faceless operator named 'Athena,' the controller was observing a real time feed of the Transylvanian village he was watching from a small drone flying overhead. “Make it approximately seven hundred meters.”
Through the optic of his bolt-action rifle, the bluff faced man noted the strigoi chieftain exiting the old staff car, quickly surrounded by his followers. A throng of tattered clothes, gas masks and black stained blades. Thanks to intelligence passed down, Frank and Athena both knew the monster came to this village to review his 'troops.' He would have them line up, strut among them in his decrepit military uniform, an unknowing parody of the officer he had been in life.
He kept the vampires around this village organized and disciplined, but only just. Remove him, and they were less of a threat.
“'Bout six seventy-five,” the backwoods good-old-boy turned monster hunter drawled back quietly into his throat mic. He began to line up his shot, adjusting his point of aim for distance and windage.
They'd come to him a week after the strange dreams had started. The manifesting powers. The buzzing voice he was sure was insanity. He'd just left the Army after eight years. Eight years of temporary sanctuary from his conscience.
At eighteen he had lost his sister, Lauren. His best friend. He had affectionately called her 'half-pint.' It had been an accident. They had all told him it wasn't his fault. He didn't believe them. He should have been with her. He had only stopped to talk to his friends for a few minutes as they were walking.
She'd kept going. She wasn't a 'baby' after all, Lauren had told him over her shoulder. His sister had vanished around a corner in their small town.
Squealing tires. The shouts from horrified and alarmed onlookers. He'd run, but he'd already known he was too slow.
Before being pulled away, he'd seen the car that tried to swerve to miss her. And he'd seen his sister.
Bent in a way no living human could even attempt.
Lessons about duty and obligation were taught young. Individuals to the community. Husband to wife. Parent to child.
Brother to sister.
He'd dropped out of college and joined the Army to escape his shame and his grief. He had failed his sister, his family, and his town.
Those lessons ran deeper than the deepest coal mine. Sharper than any mining drill.
The Templars had offered another chance at fulfilling his duty. Meeting his obligations. They had known about his family. About Lauren.
Easier to mold. Easier to control.
Controlling his breathing, he firmly squeezed the trigger. It broke cleanly at exactly three pounds fourteen ounces of pressure.
Anima caressed the round. Like a lover's whisper along the ear.
Like a breeze before a tornado.
The strigoi's head turned into a Jackson Pollock painting, smeared across the faces of his dumbstruck subordinates.
“Hard kill,” Athena confirmed.
Frank got up and vanished into the nearby trees, his duty done for the moment.
But only ever for the moment.
