'Bonds.' Part 1.
When you were an Awakened operative of a secret society, the leadership tended to keep you busy. Able to harness magical power almost immediately whereas mundane spellslingers needed decades of training, gifted with anima infused bodies that could withstand all kinds of occult pathogens that would incapacitate or kill normal humans, and possessed of the ability to travel the mythic Agartha ways without special technology or artifacts, the 'Chosen of Gaia' could go anywhere, survive almost anything, and kill an occult encyclopedia's worth of monstrous foes.
In these dark days, the societies kept them busy indeed.
You're still asleep. Wake up. It's happening to you again.
Despite the high operational tempo, despite being sent from Dagestan to the Barents Sea, the Horn of Africa to Kaidan, and even battling in fabled Agartha itself, Frank always found time to come back to the Marya in Egypt. The rough-hewn, compact good ole' boy turned Templar commando smiled lopsidedly to himself as he crossed over shifting sands and sun baked rocks. Not far from the town of Al-Merayah was a Marya encampment that he, and many other agents, had visited many times. The Marya, the desert partisans that had been waging a war against supernatural evil for generations were tough, dependable, and eminently hospitable folk. Good people with which he had established a bond.
Not real. Wake up, before bad something happens.
Wearing mismatched desert fatigues of Italian and French provenance, floppy hat, desert scarf and dark sunglasses, Frank almost looked more bandit than agent at this point. Holding his runed and charmed FN-FAL across his chest—a gift from a Marya ritualist—Frank stopped as he reached a familiar outcropping that jutted out of the sand a hundred yards from the camp.
Wiping sweat from his face with the scarf, the transplanted Ohioan frowned, his brows knitting above his crooked nose. At this distance he should be hearing something from the camp. There was always activity of some kind, even at night. Sometimes more at night, given the heat of the day. Marya preparing meals, or repairing their mismatched fleet of all terrain vehicles. Weapons training.
At the very least he should have heard music. Whether it was with personal instruments, from a boom box, or just singing, the Young Warriors loved their music.
Standing on outcropping, Frank could only hear the whispering hiss of sand as the dry wind pushed it here and there.
You aren't hearing anything from the camp because this isn't real. Wake. Up.
Something was wrong. Tucking the wooden stock of the FAL into his shoulder, Frank began to lope his way towards the camp. Maybe something truly massive had occurred at the town, and none of the societies had heard? Had the Atenists finally made a serious push on the camp?
Hardening his heart against what he might see, Frank thumbed the selector switch of his rifle off of SAFE.
Soon he was inside the confines of the box canyon that housed the encampment. General purpose tents 'borrowed' from the Egyptian military stood alongside those ordered online from outdoors shops. Boxes and crates were stacked here and there. Jeeps and 4x4s from half a dozen countries were parked in a row.
As he panned his rifle slowly back and forth, Frank could not spot a single person. Not even a body.
“Th' fuck is goin' on?” he drawled slowly under his breath.
“You told us you would come if we called.”
Whirling in place, Frank attempted to find the speaker, eyes wide. It had sounded like it was right next to his ear. He could even feel breath tickling his skin.
There was no one there.
“You promised to aid us.”
Frank slowly walked towards the center of the camp, finger caressing the rifle's trigger guard. What the fuck was this?
What it is is another dream. Wake up! Wake up!
“Where are you? Th' hell is goin' on?” he snarled aloud.
“You...lied to us.”
Exhaling sharply in surprise and revulsion, Frank spotted the speaker. Ten feet to his right, appearing right out of the sweltering air, was a Marya partisan.
A Marya partisan bearing enough caked blood and blade wounds to not possibly be alive.
“W-what?” Frank managed, bringing the rifle to bear hesitantly.
“We...died. We died. Because of you.”
The cadaverous fighter lurched towards him, pointing a gore stained finger.
“You lied. All of you lied!”
There was another walking corpse. And another. And another. All Marya. All horribly disfigured and shredded, yet somehow able to move.
He knew he should open fire. He had enough magical firepower buzzing through his bloodstream to deal with a dozen such foes or more. But he couldn't.
Frank, listen to me. You have to wake up. Just because this is a dream doesn't mean it's safe. Don't you remember? Wake up! Wake up!
“You abandoned us to die!” howled the walking corpses in unison. Frank transitioned from target to target, but still couldn't bring himself to fire. Finally, one was right in front of him. He knew this one—everyone knew this one. It took off the sunglasses it had been so proud of in life, revealing only empty sockets. It rasped at Frank.
“You. Lied.”
Wake. Up. NOW!
Gasping for breath, Frank found himself awake, and in his Darkside apartment. Chest heaving, once again soaked in his own sweat, he noticed with some small satisfaction that at least he hadn't drawn his pistol from its place of concealment in his sleep again. Once again he was having nightmares. Once again, just before something horrific could happen, he was jolted into wakefulness.
By a voice that wasn't his own. He couldn't ever remember what it sounded like, but he knew it wasn't his own somehow.
For a moment his breath caught as he could once more hear the hiss of the wind against the sand--
No. Just a draft somehow managing to get through the plastic sheeting he had taped around his bedroom window frame. He—and one other—had gone hurtling through the window onto the street below.
Gradually breathing out, Frank smirked.
He had to get that damn thing fixed.
Still in the flannel and jeans he'd worn the night before, Frank sat down on the rickety wooden stool he kept the apartments galley kitchen. It was a little after nine in the morning in London. He'd managed to get about four hours of sleep. Better than what he'd gotten lately, really.
Smartphone in hand as his coffee maker burbled and chortled to itself, Frank dialed up the Ealdwic based window repair service he'd been trying to secure the services of for past few weeks. They didn't want to come out to Darkside. Darkside was the 'bad part of town.' Wasn't safe for their employees. Someone 'might get mugged.'
Rolling his eyes as he waited for someone to pick up—it was after nine, damnit, someone had to be there, Frank thought about the fact that he had amassed a small but potent arsenal inside the apartment. Unless muggers arrived in platoon strength and supported by an infantry fighting vehicle, those damned window folks didn't have anything to worry about.
Of course, he couldn't well say that. You didn't advertise things like that, Ealdwic rules (or in this case, Darkside rules) or no.
When the receptionist picked up, Frank once again launched into the same song and dance routine he'd given them before, and, once again, the same statement that they didn't want to send employees to Darkside.
Sighing expressively as he leaned back against his fridge, Frank closed his eyes. Instead of mentioning his arsenal, he offered an extra fifteen percent.
They could have someone there in a hour, he was told.
Smirking to himself as he ended the call, Frank got up off the stool and opened his fridge. A great expanse of diddly-squat greeted him, as he hadn't had a chance to hit any stores yet. He'd been back from Kaidan for less than twenty four hours. After attending Bryn's first 'official' DJ show (he was decently sure between Radio Free Gaia and Gridstream there were approximately twenty seven thousand Djs) he'd hit the Horned God for dinner and brought the leftovers home.
No Vatican investigation worthy miracle had occurred, and the Styrofoam container with half a cheeseburger was still the only thing in the fridge besides a stick of butter and two bottles of Sam Adams.
Cold cheeseburger and hot coffee for breakfast it was then, he thought with a wry grimace.
He pushed aside for the moment the fact it was becoming painfully apparent he had to see someone about his nightmares, and soon. Before the lack of sleep and mental fatigue provoked a mistake he wouldn't be able to make right again.
“Wow. Something really took out your window, eh mate?”
Leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom, Frank chuckled without much mirth. Yes, 'something' really had.
“Like your boss keeps saying...Darksides a rough neighborhood.”
The workman blinked a few times, as if only now remembering where he was, but continued the installation.
“Do I wanna know how it happened?” The man glanced back at Frank as he took out the old frame.
Muscled arms folded across his chest, Frank merely shrugged.
What could he say? 'Yeah, the butt naked doppleganger of Evelyn DeKorte scissor locked its legs around me and then opened its mouth like a fucking snake and tried to tear my face off. Then we fell through the window. And then I melted it like a Popsicle. That was a really interesting Saturday. Did you catch the Arsenal match the other night?'
Christ Almighty.
Resisting the urge to laugh, Frank blinked down at his phone as it started to buzz in his hand. Looking at the number (he didn't recognize it), he brought it up to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Mister Calhoun. I trust you know who this is.”
Oh, he knew that voice all right. There was only one woman he knew with that particular 'I'm polishing something sharp and spiky' voice.
“...yes, ma'am, I do.”
“Good. It's time we discuss the price of the services we provided last month. Meet me at Ealdwic Park. Ten minutes.”
Frank's eyes flickered over to the workman.
“Uh, I'm kinda in the middle of somethin'...”
“Then finish it.” And then the call was over.
For a moment, Frank wanted to toss his smartphone across the room. Nostrils flaring as he snorted, he instead put the phone back in his pocket.
One didn't keep Tova Stolt waiting.
