to these parts. Name’s Belath,” says a
figure standing over a young man lying against a large trash compactor. A look toward the sound of the voice reveals
what appears to be an older man who, by the looks of him, has had, to put it
lightly, a less than spoiled life. His
dark skin is loose with an almost leathery roughness, like a stretched hide
left in the sun too long. Several of his
teeth have long escaped the captivity of his smile and those left plot against
the warden. The lines of time can be
seen through his mostly grey with spattered black scruff. His posture is the only thing that doesn’t
match his rundown appearance. He stands
straight and proud holding his shoulders square, almost in a protest, refusing
to look weak. He bears the righteous
indignation of an innocent man facing the gallows.
through,” replies a shaky voice trying to sound formidable. A young man, thin, but seemingly fed well
enough, slowly stands and dusts himself off.
His posture seems closer to a beaten animal than a grown man. His boots are scuffed and old, but the heel
gives him a few inches in height, which is probably why he wears them. His knuckles are cracked and healing; more likely
from the heat than any type of hard labor.
The dark circles under his eyes and his unkempt appearance hint that he
hasn’t slept an entire night in years.
His jacket makes him appear even smaller, as it is a few sizes too big
and has small rips that don’t appear to be from wear and tear. He probably fished it from a dumpster. His jeans seem to be the least worn of the
man. Though dirty, they’re nearly
new. This poor sap doesn’t look like he
could fight his way through a paper bag.
The only things that don’t match his overall demeanor are his eyes. Visibly swimming between pale yellow and
bright green, they draw you in and make you trust him.
want to make yourself scarce before patrols make their rounds. They let me stay because I’m the only one
within a few hundred miles with a distiller.
I can’t guarantee they won’t haul you off to camp,” Belath warns.
“What’s your name son?”
know you. I’m not your son and I’m not
staying. Just need a little rest,”
replies the young man. He pulls his hood
over his head and turns to walk down the alley toward the main street.
watching where he was going instead of ignoring the world around him, he would
seen the group of four large men, obviously armed, moving quickly toward
him. He would have heard Belath’s
warning, and wouldn’t have cost himself such precious time. Belath reached him just in time to be added
as a target. The young man realized what
was happening a moment too late. A fist
hit him square in the side of the head, knocking him to one knee. Belath runs to his side and helps him to his
feet. The men must have recognized
Belath because three of them took a few steps back. Even the big one, the apparent the leader,
took a hesitant step backward. They must
have decided they had the advantage because they began to advance yet again.
not ring a bell you can’t unring,” says a stern, direct voice. It came from the young man who, only moments
earlier, seemed too weak to speak. “This
is a fight you will not win, regardless of your numbers,” the young man
leader grabs a bat from one of his men and swings at the young man’s head. Before anyone can realize what is happening,
the young man lunges at the leader. In one
motion, he sidesteps the life ending swing, pulls a long black knife from a
sheath under his jacket, and plunges it deep into the leader’s temple with his
right hand while grabbing the bat from the ground with his left. With his next step, he swings the bat at his
second target, and finds such purchase the man’s head nearly spins
backward. Next, the young man yanks the
blade from the leader’s head and stabs the third man in the side of the neck,
almost as a cobra striking its prey. The
young man looks for the last of his adversaries, and sees him running down the
alley toward the main streets. The young
man takes a deep breath, lifts the bat, takes aim, and hurls it at his
target. The bat’s aim is precise and the
man falls to the ground, screaming in pain.
As the young man calmly walks toward his now-felled enemy, he cleans the
blood off of his knife on his pant leg, and puts it away with such dexterity it
can’t be known exactly where the sheath is hidden.
benefit from being last, sir,” says the young man as he sits on the ground by
the last man’s head. “Enough whimpering! You merely broke your ankle on my
bat. I have no desire to take your
life,” he says as he pulls out a cigarette and lights it. “You will do
something for me. To that end, I spare
you life.” His voice is calm yet direct, “You will tell whomever you work for
it was Jekyll who reduced these men to corpses.
You will tell him this and,” he takes a long, slow drag of his
cigarette, and continues, “you will tell them this, and you will tell them,
they do not wish to meet Hyde. Do we
have a deal?” the last being more statement than question.
believing he is being played, but not wanting to die, gives an exaggerated
nod. The young man stands and begins
walking back to where he had been resting and calls out over his shoulder.
“Belath, I guess
I’ll be staying a while longer,” once again speaking in the same shaky voice he
had spoken with earlier.