The Red Queen

A few hours later, Curtis was strolling down the street. He has a smugness about him for being released without charge. In his head, he was an infamous crime lord that had “beaten the rap” and “stuck it to the man”. In reality, however, he was still the same snivelling little punk and Bo had simply dropped the charges. Swaggering along down the street, as if he really was the crime lord, he imagined he was, he absently glanced at the wooden surface of the fence that surrounded the abandoned yard, still proudly displaying the moniker; “Mulligan’s Fencing Co.”, which now wore a number of coats of cracked and peeling paint; the uppermost layer was a dreary brown. The neighbourhood kids had evidently had a good time scratching initials and names and various slogans into the paint, which was crisscrossed many times over and, in some places, embellished with the inevitable swaths of spray paint, atop which in one spot a squad of scratchy little letters marched in a drunken line to proclaim “for a good time call Sandy 0784-”, but the rest of the telephone number had been savagely crossed out, perhaps by an indignant Sandy. As he approaches a gap in the fence, where he and some of his cohorts used to gain access to the skeletal structure that lay beyond, he heard what he first thought to be two actors acting out a scene. Peering into the gap in the fence, he sees two men squaring up under the skeletal remains of Mulligan’s warehouse with swords in their hands, the light from a few scattered fires within discarded metal bins dancing across their blades. They circled each other with their swords pointed to each other.

‘I am Andrés Juan Martinez Bertynicus...’ said one.

Curtis recognises him as the FBI guy that busted him a few hours ago.

The one who mocked him for being beaten up by a girl.

‘There’s no need for us to fight, Spaniard...’ replies the other man. He is dressed as some sort of monk, by the looks of it, ‘...why don’t we lay down our arms and renounce this folly...?’

‘To what end, my good sir...?’ said the FBI guy, Bertyn, '...The Game will carry on with or without our participation...’

‘But...’ replied the monk, ‘...it can never end without us. Or all the others...’

‘Others...?’ echoed Bertyn, '...there are others...?’

‘Of course, there are...’ replied the monk, '...many of us have seen the light and retired from The Game...’

‘The only light I want to see...’ started Bertyn, ‘...is the light from your Quickening...!’ he finished, lunging suddenly. The monk, parried with his sword, sending a shower of sparks into the air. They exchange blows with their blades as if they are merely fencing, sparks flying with each impact.

Curtis is suddenly struck with an idea; he could seek vengeance for Freddy’s death, and have this monk take the fall! If you avenge the death of a boss, then you would become the boss!

Well, that’s how it works in the movies, anyhow!

The monk and Bertyn circled each other once again. Curtis took the chance and scuttled into the abandoned yard unnoticed and hid behind a large industrial wheelie bin. Nearby, he spotted a large metal pipe with several rusted, twisted nails poking out of it and silently scooped it up.

Bertyn swung first, with the monk receiving the blow with the flat of his blade. In that instant he turned the edge toward the Spaniard, leveraging Bertyn’s blade and thrusting his own sword towards him. Bertyn frantically swiped the longer blade away. It was all Bertyn could do to avoid being run through by this more experienced warrior.

Bertyn kept moving, not wanting to be stuck too long within the monk’s reach. Bertyn’s El Cid Tizona allowed him more leverage and more precise thrusts, but it greatly lowered his reach. The monk had no such disadvantage.

Bertyn ignored these feelings and focused. The monk was just another enemy, one of countless, and he deserved no thought save for his neutralisation.

Their blades bound together again, releasing a shower of sparks. The monk could feel the warmth from the fire-bin behind him as Bertyn forced him back with every successive blow, until he could go no further. Bertyn pressed down, and the monk stepped aside. This left Bertyn’s left armpit exposed.

Bertyn’s cry was muffled as the monk’s sword ran through his armpit and shoulder, stopping only at the bone. The Spaniard swung wildly with his other arm, completely missing the monk who ducked the swing and circled around the Spaniard and shoved him back against the fire-bin. The metal bin burned at Bertyn’s back and he cried out in pain as he lurched forward. The monk swung once more just as Bertyn looked up, and his blade gleamed in the half-light as it sliced through Bertyn’s neck. The monk threw back his cowl, took a stance with his head bowed, and waited. It looked to Curtis like the monk was saying a prayer for his fallen enemy.

‘Woah...!’ cried Curtis, suddenly popping up from behind the large wheelie bin, '...way to go, man - that was so cool!’. The monk was distracted by this interference, and as the body of Bertyn started glowing and levitating, was completely unprepared for the next part. The lightning began to fork from Bertyn’s body and struck the monk, who cried out in pain. Curtis had to shield his eyes from the sudden flash of the lightning that arced down and struck the monk with such force that some of it splintered off and crackled against the rusted sign, lightening it up once more. For a brief few seconds “Mulligans Fencing Co.” enjoyed a new lease of life, blazing gloriously in the darkness of the night before the sheer amount of raw power overloaded its bulbs and they exploded one by one. A second wave of lightning struck, and the monk convulsed and screamed with the agony of the raw power that coursed through his body. This bolt also splintered off and danced around the fire-bins, igniting them and they exploded like giant firework, screaming high into the air. The third and final bolt wracked Konrad’s body into a spasm and he sank to his knees, his eyes ablaze with untapped power which arced off in several directions destroying a nearby lamppost and setting portions of the ancient fence ablaze.

When it was all over, the monk was still smouldering as he sank further towards the ground breathing heavily, even though he was already on his knees.

After staring at him for what seemed like an eternity, Curtis suddenly took up his pipe in a defensive stance.

‘What the fuck are you, man...?’ screamed Curtis, clearly freaked out at witnessing the Quickening, ‘...some sort of fucking robot, or something...?’.

‘Cool it, kid...’ the monk replied with a grin, as he stood, ‘...this ain’t “Five Nights At Freddy’s” ...!’

‘Oh, yeah...?’ cried Curtis, angrily, '...try to invade my neighbourhood, will you? I’m gonna fuck you up now, boy...!’.

The monk watched as Curtis closed in on him, firmly holding the length of metal pipe over his shoulder.

‘You picked the wrong time to blow a fuse, fucker...!’ yelled Curtis. The monk circled away from him, keeping his sword in motion and continually changing his guard and stance. Mortals were dangerously unpredictable, especially un-trained and undisciplined ones. He’d seen too many experienced fighters cut down by the wild and frenzied attacks of untrained peasants armed with crude and often rusted weapons. Sometimes all it took was a single cut to get infected with Tetanus, and your fighting days were over. You faced a hideously slow death as your jaw locked up, and you’d eventually starve. He knew an Immortal who had contracted the crippling disease from a cut by a rusted sickle. Being Immortal was no defence against it. He eventually had to behead his friend to end his living death.

It wasn’t a fate he was looking forward to.

Curtis roared angrily and brought the pipe down at the monk’s head. He countered by raising his sword high and striking horizontally. His blow offset Curtis’s, and his sword sliced cleanly through the pipe, the tip slicing across Curtis’s face.

As Curtis screamed out in pain and clutched at his face, the monk moved in close. He grabbed Curtis’s right arm, pulled his sword back halfway behind himself, before plunging it into Curtis’s gut.

Curtis’s screaming stopped. He gasped, choked, and stared at the monk with a mix of surprise and malice. He let out a muffled and mournful cry as the monk withdrew the blade and Curtis fell to the ground. Red and blue flashes suddenly filtered through the gaps in the fence accompanied by the wailing sirens of the city’s finest. The monk glanced at Curtis; he was alive, but barely. Satisfied he would be dead before the police could get any useful information from him; the monk fled.