LotS/The Story/Between Heaven and Hell/The Man in Black (1)

The Man in Black (1)

Alexa Haelia moved to the door with halting, hesitating steps. The metal portal slid aside with a soft hiss. She leapt back as though it were an animal's yawning maw.

It was a trap... She'd step outside the door, and they'd be there. Her captors. It was a lie. A trick to give her hope.

But even as those thoughts crossed her mind, she realized how absurd they sounded. What purpose would deception serve? She was already their prisoner. They could have left her shackled to the soft slab, naked, fastened to the machines. Instead she was standing in front of an open doorway, clad in a cyan jumpsuit Emera Tresc had given her.

"I'm afraid I can't let you leave. Not yet. But you're free to wander this place as you will."

The words, the warm, kind voice, whispered in her mind. Alexa took a deep breath and stepped out into the brightly lit corridor. It stretched away in both directions, expanses of wall decorated with azure and cyan patterns. Untenanted save for her.

She walked down the passage, her eyes roaming across the doors she passed. None of them opened to her presence or her touch. So she continued onward, turning from one corridor into another. And there she was no longer alone.

Alexa froze. A man in a jumpsuit just like hers was approaching, his face angled over the screen of the datapad he held in his hands. He glanced up as he drew near.

"I-" She didn't know what she was about to blurt out. But he forestalled her.

"Kalaxia watch over you."

The man smiled, nodded his head, and walked past her -- returning his attention to the datapad. Alexa stared after him until he disappeared round the corner.

She continued on her way, confused but emboldened. Rooms lined the passage on either side, and these ones stood open. They were large chambers, where men and women chatted, watched holo-screens, read, and whiled away the time. Some of them looked up at Alexa, but no one made a move to stop her or demanded to know who she was, what she was doing. In one room there were even children. Children! Playing their little games. Playing in this building that had seemed a horrific prison only weeks... No. Days? Hours? That was impossible... It had to have been...

She shook her head. That wasn't important.

Deep within, her flames mumbled in their sleep, offering somnolent approval. Their return had helped a great deal. They still hadn't spoken. But she could feel them resting within her, loyal dogs slumbering before a fireplace. In time they'd awaken, just as she'd awakened.

Alexa kept walking. She didn't know where she was going, or what she intended to do. When Emera had first told her of this, said she'd be allowed to roam the facility, Alexa had thought of escape -- of finding an exit and fleeing out into whatever settlement or landscape waited beyond. But now she wasn't so sure.

A heavyset man stepped out into the corridor ahead. His face lit up as his gaze fell on her.

"Ah, Ms. Haelia!" His broad smile made his big jowls wobble. "I'm so pleased to see you. There's so much I would enjoy discussing."

"I... I don't..."

"Ah, but of course. How rude of me. All that can wait until you're more settled."

He bowed and strode into a chamber on the opposite side of the passage. Alexa glanced into it as she passed, before the door slid closed behind him. And her heart thudded. The old woman was inside, sat at a table, staring at her with those hideous cyan gem-eyes.

Alexa hurried down the corridor, and the next, and the next. She had to get away from those eyes...

But now there were no more corridors before her. She'd come to a dead end, where a sealed doorway stood in lieu of an adjoining passage. It crossed her mind to retrace her steps. Yet that would mean going back towards the desiccated face and multifaceted glare. So she crept up to the door instead.

It slid open.

And once again Alexia Haelia's heart pounded against her ribs.

The room was dark, its walls clad in shadow. But the light from the corridor thrust a luminescent spear across the floor. And its tip illuminated the raised circular platform where a man sat cross-legged. A man dressed in black, his face hidden behind a featureless mask. Two burning azure slits stared at her.

Him...

Every fiber of Alexa's being told her to run. To flee from the brute who'd invaded her dressing room, strode through her flames, slaughtered the security guards, kicked her protector through a window...

But she couldn't. Those azure eyes transfixed her. And there was no escape. Not from this one. She knew how fast he could move...

"You killed her!"

The words flew from her mouth with such swiftness that her horrified brain only realized she'd uttered them a few seconds later. Her face grew pale. He'd murder her for that! He'd-

"You are speaking of [Player Name]?" the man's strange voice asked, with its curious accent and underlying growl.

"She was trying to help me, and you... you..."

"Tell me, what do you know of this woman to whom you ran for aid?"

"She..."

Alexa's eyes widened. What had he called her? [Player Name]? Oh... Oh! That name, and that face -- the one which had emerged from a holographic shimmer as the punches and kicks flew. She hadn't recognized it in the bar. Things had been too crazy, too...

"I have killed men and women. She has slain entire worlds. Destroyed escape pods filled with children. This is the woman whose death concerns you?"

Alexa Haelia blinked. Strength and courage flowed back into her limbs. She stepped away from the entrance. The door slid shut. Alexa stared it at for several moments, but he didn't pursue her.

She turned around and followed a different path through the branching corridors. The man's voice echoed in her ears as she went.

Noir looked away from the closed door.

[Player Name]...

Such a disappointment. He had been looking forward to the encounter, to destroying a worthy enemy. But [Player Name] had been weak. Perhaps one day he would find a better opponent. A foe whose own might was equal to the power that flowed within him.

The man in black closed his eyes and returned to his introspection.

Love

He shouldn't remember this. No man's memory should stretch so far. But he does.

A woman holds him swaddled against her bosom. She gazes down at her child with the purest love ever conceived by gods, men, or nature. There's awe in her eyes as well. For even now she can't believe that she has brought another being into the universe, added a spark of life to the untold billions of man's sprawling diaspora.

The blanket she's wrapped him in is black. He notes this with both amusement and interest. How early the seeds of destiny are sown... But he should know that better than anyone.

A man smiles down at the infant too. A father who feels love, delight, and awe vying for supremacy in his breast as the mother does in hers. There's pride as well. He and his wife have brought forth a fine son, who will become part of the great celestial purpose that governs them.

Mother and father speak of this. The infant listens, though he won't understand the import of their words until many years later. They say a name as they talk. His name. But it's of no consequence. In time he will wear his true name, one far more fitting.

When the man brings out the medallion, the baby is curious. He reaches for it with his tiny, undexterous hands. It's shiny. He likes shiny things.

The man and woman are overjoyed. They laugh, smile, and call it a sign. Perhaps it is.

There's an image on the medallion, a fearsome visage that might scare a child some years older. But the baby isn't afraid. He stares at the dragon, his mouth open. His parents are as amused and captivated by this as he is by the wyrm's countenance.

The dragon's eyes flash cyan. He giggles and waves his arms. It's the most wonderful thing he's ever seen.

His father touches the object to his head. The metal is warm against the baby's brow.

"Hail Kalaxia," the parents say together.

The baby laughs.

Loyalty

The boy is older now. His body has grown in strength just as his brain has gained in wit and resolve.

Someone's knocking on the front door. A shrill woman's voice demands to know what's going on. The boy doesn't answer. He stands where he is, his mind considering what he's done and what he should do next. Fate and determination drip from the thing in his hand.

He wonders whether he should open the door and kill the woman. But her death would serve no purpose.

Soon another, larger fist is knocking. The voice that shouts is gruff, masculine. It's heavy with authority. Locks click and retract, cast aside by that same authority. The policeman kicks the door open. He comes into the room, brandishing his gun. His partner is behind him. She has her weapon drawn as well.

They stop when they see the boy. Their eyes fasten on the bloody blade in his hand. Two gazes track the crimson trail from his feet to a darkened doorway.

The policeman tells the boy to drop the knife.

The boy wonders if he should attack. But again, it would serve no purpose.

His weapon is snatched away. Soon there's shouting, fear and horror even from two seasoned cops. Questions fly at him. Why? Why did he kill his parents?

The boy says nothing. Because he knows that he must say nothing. Nor does he speak to the doctors and psychologists when they add their questions. Even a psionic fails to elicit a response, cannot penetrate his young mind. This perturbs her. But the boy's will is strong. And his secrets aren't for the likes of these people to know.

Time flows on its inexorable path. Three years of questions and chemicals and therapy thwarted by his reticence. His lips remain sealed. He understands the value of secrecy.

And then a new psychiatrist comes. The one who waits till they're alone in her office before showing him a medallion emblazoned with a dragon's face. Cyan eyes shine at the boy.

"Hail Kalaxia," she says.

And when she asks why he killed his parents, he tells the truth. It's because they intended to betray the cult, and reveal its machinations. To betray Kalaxia. Their faith had grown weak, their loyalty rotten. The words and promises of investigators had proven an irresistible temptation. So the boy killed them.

The woman listens to all this. That night she takes the boy away. He has been tested, and now he has earned the right to join his true family.

Courage

The boy is strong, fast, cunning. His muscles and mind are becoming weapons worthy of his destiny.

Black still shrouds his limbs as it has from his earliest days. Even when the Kalaxians meet, hidden from uninitiated eyes, and the rest are clad in azure or cyan, he wears nothing else. Some questioned this. They said he should dress in the holy colors. The hues of allegiance and ceremony. But Lady Victoria Ashdown whispered words of the things she'd seen. And her voice quelled all others.

Greatness lies in the boy's future. But his present... His present is tiresome. He isn't yet entrusted with the cult's grand work, given the opportunity to do great things with his skills and abilities. So he finds his own diversions.

Another Kalaxian, a girl little older than he is, has been preyed upon by the dregs of society. A gang of lowly miscreants. If she tells the adults, justice will be done. But she has secrets she wishes kept, sins that brought her into their path and must not be laid bare before cyan eyes. The boy learns of this. And he decides to show the gang what becomes of those who make enemies of the Kalaxians.

He finds them where she said he would, in the wretched place they call their 'turf'. Rats in their warren. The first one opens a gold-toothed mouth, perhaps to utter a threat or demand, or else offer to sell him chems. But the words become a shower of blood and yellow metal. The boy's fist hurts, cut and bruised by the murderous force of the blow. It's a good pain. The pain of battle.

The next tries to reach for a weapon. But he's slow and stupid. A knee smashes his groin and an elbow breaks his jaw. The third provides more satisfaction. He's trained. A martial artist, all full of cries and kicks. The boy blocks his attacks, but their force bruises his forearms and rocks his body. It's exhilarating.

He counterattacks with a kick of his own, a powerful sideways thrust of his leg that smashes his enemy in the chest. Ribs crack. The enemy's martial shout becomes a wail. Then the boy is standing above three moaning, pleading, writhing forms.

No one will miss them. He knows this.

So he finishes them one by one.

Destiny

The boy has become a man. And he has done many great things for his family. The most important Kalaxians trust him, both for his deeds and for what Lady Ashdown has glimpsed with her far-seeing multifaceted eyes.

He has been chosen. The destiny which loomed above his footsteps for all the years of his life is now descending.

A dozen people stand before him, watching as he's fastened into the chair. Lady Victoria's old, severe face has twisted into a smile. Her gemstones shine. For all her visions and portents, she's excited. It twitches in every inch of her. Professor Bonderbrand's jowls quiver. He too can barely contain his delight, the child-like thrill of seeing this plan come to fruition after unnumbered generations. Multheru's alien face is less scrutable. But the young man reads enough in the twitching of those oral tentacles.

Yet though their gazes are locked on him, his rests on them for only a moment. Then it travels to the thing from the Jospur System that casts its shadow across the chamber.

There are many machines, attached to him by snaking cables. Marvels and miracles of technology. But science won't act alone. Chanting voices intone ancient prayers, ushering in the young man's fate.

Pain racks his body. His muscles convulse. Lashing tendrils flay the surface of his brain. And he laughs.

Master Hao

His destiny has come upon him. And with it his true name. He is Noir, the greatest of the Kalaxians' agents and warriors. The one the others look to with awe and deference. Even Lady Victoria Ashdown's haughtiness is gone whenever she addresses him.

The moment he rose from the chair and spoke, his words underscored by a low growl, their cheers filled the chamber. A grand design had come to fruition. An event of such magnitude that it would strengthen the faith of all who learned of it, and imbue them with redoubled yearning to carry out the rest of their lofty ambitions.

But Noir's first thought had been of battle...

He sniffs the air. Torrents of mingled scents flow into his mind, a mass of raw sensation almost overwhelming in its potency. In time he will grow used to this. But for now it's strange and intoxicating.

For several moments he drinks it all in, and tries to discern each thing from the next. Aureate threads run through it all. These flash knowledge in his brain.

Noir runs across the rooftop. His body, always strong and agile, now responds with inconceivable prowess. It's like wearing a panoply of armor. A powerful articulated battlesuit that encases him with its effortless strength and boundless potential. This too will pass, as he becomes more accustomed to it. He will no longer feel like a passenger or driver in his body. The irksome itching that surrounds his skin will diminish and eventually disappear. Until then, these things are a small price to pay.

He leaps over an alleyway, springing from one building to the next with such grace that he almost imagines he's flying. Perhaps after this is done he'll return here and keep running. Spend hours navigating the upper reaches of the city. For the moment he lets the golden particles draw him onwards.

The temple is hidden away behind an old, unimposing facade. Few who pass by would know what lies within. And none of them would care. Another religious building among countless which are scattered all over the city. As long as its adherents don't accost them on street corners or ring their doorbells to bring the good news, ask for donations, or inquire about the sound of one hand clapping, they can be ignored.

But Noir knows better. Their scent is strong because their faith is powerful. It weaves their chi in potent patterns, and harks back to ancient mysteries. The order's monks are mighty enemies. Lady Victoria has foreseen the harm they might do to the Kalaxians' schemes if they're left unchecked. So what better place for Noir to test himself?

The inside of the building is splendid, decorated in sumptuous saffron shades. Chinese art mingles with a style that only those with esoteric knowledge might recognize for what it truly is. This hybrid of cultures, civilizations, worlds, and peoples is displayed in all its glory by the Buddha statues. For each of those idols bears pointed ears.

Men and women in yellow robes occupy a large central chamber, flanked and framed by this splendor. Some are meditating. Others perform martial routines -- moving their lithe, agile bodies through sequences of attack and defense. Others still are sparring, bowing to their fellows before meeting them in skillful combat. All of them turn when Noir enters.

His aspect is enough to surprise them. For now his face is hidden, his features concealed by the smooth darkness of his ebon mask. Azure eyes stare from a cold black visage. And yet that isn't what causes them to abandon their activities and advance on him. It's his chi. They sense something terrible in its depths.

Fists and feet fly. And Noir exults in violence.

A woman's leg flails at his face. He knocks it aside, letting the kick's momentum carry her, and drives his knee into her spine. The crunch makes him laugh. Such speed... So much power...

Bones shatter beneath his blows. Throats are crushed. Organs ruptured. The human body breaks so very easily, and souls are sent flitting away to whatever awaits beyond.

Some of the monks grab weapons. A Chinese broadsword slashes Noir's back, tearing through his costume and scraping against his flesh. There's pain. But mere steel can't stop him. He whirls round, snatches the blade from startled hands, and lops the fool's head from his shoulders.

The man in black's clothes are already repairing themselves, expensive fabric and its miniscule machines knitting together to conceal his hide from those who might look upon it. Their work is made harder when a few of his opponents resort to more advanced armaments. Blasts of energy burn fresh holes, make his nostrils tingle with the scent of immolation.

He leaps between the shots and lashes out with his pilfered weapon. The carnage is supreme.

A door opens. A man cries out in rage and anguish.

The newcomer, a man with dark skin and Chinese eyes, stares in horror at Noir -- who stands triumphant above the strewn bodies.

Noir sniffs the air. This one is strong... A master far greater than any of his followers.

The broadsword falls to the floor. This will be a contest of flesh, not steel.

---

The master's fist is a blur. It strikes Noir's chest with immense speed and thunderous power -- bursting not against the surface but deep inside. An ordinary man would perish, felled by massive trauma and internal injury. Even a robot's metal body would break beneath the blow. Noir himself staggers back, impressed. He hasn't yet realized his full potential. His newfound abilities are still alien. And the warrior he's fighting is the greatest he's faced.

Snapping kicks knock the black helmet from side to side. His vision dances beneath the onslaught.

This warrior monk fights with a lifetime of training and martial learning sharpened by a moment of pure, murderous anger. The combination is devastating. Blows rain on Noir, battering him. Such a bombardment that it's almost as if the dead monks have risen to lend their limbs to the torrential violence.

For a second the man in black considers the possibility of defeat. He growls. His azure eyes blaze.

He leaps like a panther, a werewolf. An elbow catches him in mid-air. It buffets his sternum with the force of a speeding vehicle. He falls, crashes down on his back.

"That strike is of the Black Orchard," Noir says, "not the Golden Garden."

The master's eyes widen. Even his fury can't suppress his shock.

"Who are you?"

Noir flips backwards, throws his legs over his head and lands on his feet in a single graceful movement.

"My name is Noir."

"Your chi..." His guard falters as he perceives what went unnoticed in the heat of rage, revenge, and battle. "It's..."

He hurls himself at the man in black, legs sweeping, arms lashing in intricate circles. The master has sensed the truth. And now his purpose is not to avenge his students or punish a murderer. It's to destroy an abomination, a being that has no place in the galaxy. A creature that must be destroyed for its very nature and for what it might help usher in.

Noir understands all these things. They're written in the master's eyes, inscribed in every technique launched to bring about that destruction.

It isn't hate. It's fear.

That knowledge thrills and empowers.

The man in black feints for the first time. All his other blows have been thrown in earnest, fueled by confidence in his speed and strength. So when he begins high, the master counterpunches. And is caught when Noir lunges low instead. The monk's punch arcs over him. He grabs the attacking limb with his left arm. His right hooks his enemy's near leg.

A wrestler would recognize the beginnings of a fireman's carry, a judoka that of the kata guruma. Perhaps neither would be prepared for the explosive jump that accompanies the technique -- powered by thews beyond mere human muscle. Nor is the master.

When Noir leaps and spins, the sensation of flying fills him once more. But the air only holds the grappling fighters for an instant. Then they land. And their combined weight, all their momentum, drives the master's head straight down into the floor.

Physics is as inescapable as destiny.

Noir rises. The monk does not.

Azure eyes opened. Memories of the battle receded back into his mind.

He'd been careless, drunk with his new state of existence -- all of the power and potential that hadn't yet settled to rest easy about his being. And the master had been skilled. Today the fight would be far different.

Yet he treasured the recollection nonetheless. Strong enemies sharpened the Kalaxians and hardened their resolve. So it had been throughout the millennia of their existence, pitted against those of the betrayer's blood and others who tried to thwart them and bring about their destruction.

A pity (Player's name) perished so easily...

But there would be enough foes later. When the cyan eyes opened.