The Boo of Rai: Soh

(These words are but the vacuous exposition of mind yet untorn. There exists within it neither an intent to remonstrate nor demonstrate any person living or dead. Let these grains of time pass without offense, for they would wish it on none. Not a fap on the first page story.)

The Book of Rai: Sons of Heather

He watched. It was not so important as to the fact that he watched but to who and what he watched from the balcony. The choked street, boiled in heat, raw from the singe of the sun commanded his view. The day was brutally hot, the kind of day that deadens the senses, blinding the eyes and bleaching the stone underfoot. Sandstone, he thought. To match the sky. A short buzz alerted him to an incoming whistle and he jumped at the distraction.

"Carter, still alive I see?"

He held to his head, touching his temple, a disk pronged, metal, cool to touch but naked warm from the heat of the day and its place in his pocket. It, when buzzed, received a signal that hit the resonant frequency of the device, canceling a part of the signal, then carried through to the bone underneath, canceling again with the resonant frequency of the jaw bone and skull. The result was a sound wave transmitted through the jawbone directly to the inner ear, skipping the ear drum, delivering a stunning quality of audio, calibrated to the unique resonant frequency of his skull, it was a nearly indecipherable method of communication. People weren't running around with exact copies of his skull.

"No thanks to you, subject is late and I'm bored out of my mind," His eyes roamed the walk to the harbor, islands and the white stone beaches sparkling in sunshine. There was a line in the waves, where the green glass folds met the wine dark infinite. "So who is this chick anyway? I heard the Vanguard is trying to crack down."

"Look for dark hair, black not brown, athletic build. Runner not She-Man." The voice was friendly but to the point. He smiled, the voice was always friendly.

"No boats in yet... you sure she's coming today?"

"Increased chatter around the Assassin level, Blade coms are an enigma, per usual."

The breeze coming off the port city smoothed the furrow in Carter's brow. A steamer settled into view on the edge of the horizon and sat still, comfortable in keeping pace with the arc of the sun. The breeze stiffened, shifting the dark trusses that Carter was never fond of. Warm eyes the color of honey in sunshine focused now on the Whistler he used to connect to his contact. It vibrated twice before growing lava hot, scalding his hand. He threw it away like the hot coal it was, relieved that it found the bed and not the balcony's edge. Broken. Again. They never could get Vanguard tech to work just right. The breeze had died in the glare of the sun and seeking the conditioned air, he wandered into his small apartment, bought and paid for by someone he would never know, with money he would never see. The circumstance of going from rich, to poor, to poor in a rich man's apartment was not lost on him, his current domicile having been selected for its tacit view of the harbor, and thusly the ships. There was a hum in the sleepy city, of cafes charged with ward and word, of streets met by the arguments of their travelers. He estimated an hour and fifteen minutes until the steamer was boarded by the port authority, and he didn't want to miss that. If the stories they told about what Vanguard could do had any truth, there would be explosions. Stepping lightly from the raised bed space, he sought the comfort of steel in hand. On the table lay a short sword of Vanguard make. Katana edged, small, light, designed to be used in the pistol's off hand. For his purpose, a defensive weapon. He could still hear the fury of his instructors.

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME CRAIG? THAT BLADE WOULD BE THROUGH YOUR

THROAT."

Level. He kept the blade level. So would they. The 'they' that would come for him. He shuddered despite the heat. He swiped the blade into a socket for its design, a scabbard to be worn across the lower back. The Projectile Injection System gave him pause. Vanguard design, Vanguard tested, Vanguard approved. It was almost funny that they used as much of their enemy's tech as they could get, opposing a thing with its own products. Sleek, ergonomic, futuristic. Words came to mind as he looked at the thing. It fired a subsonic projectile with near zero recoil, mitigated by a blowback mechanism that fed into a downward v-spring. The projectile was design to penetrate and tumble, even expanding as it did so. An entry point the size of a pinky resulted in exit wounds that would be a comfortable housing of a grapefruit. He loaded a magazine, designed by his people to fit the structure with rounds as close as they could make to fit. Even in its half working state it was more reliable, more powerful, quieter and more accurate than anything his organization could otherwise obtain. V-tech was like that. He felt strong with it at his side. Patting himself up and down, he frowned to realize that his wind breaker would be a necessity... It was light enough to not look clownish in the heat and besides, armed men usually don't like to show it. A quick mental checklist found only his wallet in need.

"All the organizational skills of a dump truck."

The nightstand table wasn't very big, but he knew the wallet was black leather and certainly not on it. Grid searching the apartment, he was about to leave without it when he did a double take at a realization. It was under the nightstand. Calling himself an idiot, he was ready to face the day. His whistler glinted on the bed. 'No use leaving it here,' he thought, 'They'll search the place anyway.' Checking the eyepiece on the door and the pin holes he'd made in the walls the night before, Carter opened the door almost like a man who knew what he was doing.

"10 meters to the steps, 5 flights down. Sandstone provides minimal cushioning, you can jump it if necessary," his contact's words rang in his head with echoes of cynicism. He was too young for cynicism.

At least his organization had a plan b. They'd likely need it. Carter spotted three Vanguard Assassins on rooftop, watching his location. That meant one on the street and that they'd decided to let him live, at least for the morning. He knew more about the Vanguard than most, always four to a squad, always one sharp shooter, always one up close maniac, either of which was usually the leader type, and always two that stuck close, that fought better together than apart. Assassins sounded bad, but they were usually no worse than the Navy Seals, determined, battle hardened veterans, the kind of people who could kill you with a napkin, but ultimately human. The name, though ominous, was actually what they called themselves. His organization was quick to apply what they learned about the shadows, never knew when it'd come in handy. Assassin leaders were the most dangerous man in the squad. Blades, were another story. Blade squads usually didn't kill people unless the odds were otherwise stacked against an Assassin squad. Blade squads were the boogeymen of the black ops world. Funny, Marseille was beautiful this time of year. Earth tones and cracked sunshine, broken for the moment on dappled stone and dappled men. The thoroughfare, Canebiere it was called, stretched from the old port through the city. The little coffee shop next to his apartment waved him in.

"Eh! WanaThese!"

Carter couldn't help but smile as he pointed out a croissant and the espresso menu. He announced, as he did every day,

"One of these, and one of these."

He was fluent in French, Italian, English, Russian, Mandarin, Japanese and Arabic. He tried to act "The American" whenever possible; the Vanguard didn't know he was multi-lingual. The counter girl, slim and Mediterranean in tone blushed as he flashed a furtive smile. He tried to focus on the sun, rather than the shade.

The deck of the ship was Spartan, wood with a steel hull of sturdy construction. As a small cargo ship they could more easily pass customs, less inventory to review, less passports checked, and of course they were all crew right? She had been forced to play the wife of the Ship's captain, girls like her didn't load ships. Sunbathing in dark shades, she skimmed the file she had read at least fifty times and broken down at least five.

Cornelius Tiresias Craig.

-Goes by Carter, fluent in French, Italian, English, Russian, Mandarin, Japanese and Arabic.

-Status: Son of Heather, equivalent Blade Captain.

-Works for the American Government, although he appears oblivious to his organization's political standing. The team is unlisted in the DOMINO registry of U.S. spec ops groups: led by Cornelius Craig, Anton Marcus, and one John Donovan. Suspected equivalence with the Peerless Few.

-Surveillance Reports.

-Action Reports.

-After Action reports.

-Psychological summary (theoretical motivational complex inclusive).

-Note: Men like these are weapons. It is our responsibility to ensure that he is an aimed weapon. –

Bombastic Enterprise

-Recon and reclaim on order of A.I. -

NEGLECTED BENIFICENCE

BOMBASTIC ENTERPRISE

INFALLIBLE CHASTITY

The file was incredibly detailed, work history, SAT scores, IQ, ASVAB, and a remarkably high score on the Vanguards Scales, an approximation of individual imposed threat level on a scale of 1-631. He managed 487, considering his socio-political impact, duration of activity, and field flexibility. A thermonuclear ICBM benchmarks at 500. The file wasn't kidding when they said he was a weapon, video of his counter terrorism ops and even counter-V ops had something of a following in the upper ranks. Everyone loves an underdog. His skirmishes were quick, decisive and relatively clean, showed improvisation when necessary and poise under incredible pressure. In an offhand way, she admired him. Never the type for fad or fanfare she thought him beautiful, but weak. Slow. Watching his videos, she could see where she would put her hand. See where her palm would land, where her blade would slice at his errors. She could feel the ripple of his neck where the spine would brake. She shook it off. He was good. Better than good, his form was excellent. Strong and swift and brave. She paused, considering him. Events had taken a dangerous turn in recent weeks, Carter, Marcus, and Donovan obviously had begun to break through the fundamental obfuscation of their organization, fought Blades and lived to tell about it. The Blades were the line. That which separated them from the world. The skin. They were broached. These three were... disruptive, and would continue to be so without a gross over commitment of resources, resources the Village was not prepared to risk. Not to mention the risk of outright operation.

'Economy of force...'

She mused. If a nail sticks up, you don't roll the bombers. Especially if that nail happens be as cute as Carter T. Craig. They needed him for themselves. V girls had their hearts set on the counter-op bad boy, fighting naively for truth and justice or whatever his superiors told him that day. He was strong and swift and brave, like all the rest.

'Stupid,' She thought, 'He's stupid, they're stupid this is stupid. Insipid. He can't think for himself.' she pulled the vid screen on her file, zooming on the only full face shot they had from non-pre military, non- computer generated imagery.

"He doesn't look stupid" echoed her subconscious.

'Looks deceive.'

"....his don't..." she sighed. Okay. Maybe he was cute. In a Marlon Brando meets Seattle coffee shop kind of way. Time in the Mediterranean had tanned his lithe frame. The file said dark coffee and dark hair. And there was the reclamation order. He was fair game. The headshot for the file was clipped from the video, and everyone remembered when it was taken.

What sanguine elements were left on his blade were cleared by a black cloth and a quick flick. 28 dead. Christ. Four representatives for four major black market weapons dealers, ten prospective high paying clients/client reps, ten of his men down and thanks to their efforts that of the four remaining and himself, four very dead Blades. Well, probably... The maniac was just that, 6' even, big enough to run through a wall. He dropped from an overhanging deck before they could get the room's layout. One projectile injection system pulled from his belt, doing its work. Metal to forehead, on the first man, no hesitation. Just a clip and a cough as he fell to the floor, landing on knees and a hand, immediately twisting up and out. A bullet from the second point man lambasted the concrete where the maniac's head had been on touchdown, that selfsame head had moved to second point man's ear as the maniac settled the weapon under his chin. The blood splatter provided distraction for a split second, he using the recoil to position himself for third shot, clipping the third man through the door between the eyes as he tried to tackle. Bissig tried to sneak up on him. Tried. The murderer spun, pinning Bissig to a wall with his forearm, broke his teeth with the heel of his weapon. Carter wondered if he tasted the piece of lead that the barbarian put through his mouth. He pulled the trigger, that is, Carter and the barbarian. One round into Bissig, the other into the maniac's shoulder, through collar, clipping an artery? Blood went wild, soaking what was a black athletic shirt a midnight red. Carter could easily say he had never seen anything like it. Fibrin, connectin, platelets. Wounds just don't clot like that. Or they did, did and he'd simply never seen it before, how the broken red brown melted over the skin, pulling the flesh together before flaking off. Seconds or minutes for what took weeks. He'd hit the brachial artery, he was sure of it. The skin and tissue just knitted together. His team backed away, searching instead to contain the duels.

Carter was knocked back to earth by a gunshot and the sound of squelching skull. Carter's rear guard hit the wall from the force of the shot, sliding to the ground in a forming pool of what were once his thoughts. Carter immediately fired five rounds at the sound's source, suppressing one threat before focusing on his priority. He drew his blade from where it sat on his lower back, holding a reverse grip and tossing his Beretta into his left. The maniac smiled, whipping his blade into a forward grip, turning through his abs for a horizontal slice. Carter blocked deftly with his own, not wanting the obvious test to go unpunished. He pulled the trigger, ripping the injection system from the barbarian's claws.

To his credit, the maniac almost gave pause as the shrapnel pushed itself out of his skin, switching to a two handed hold on his sword and coming like storm in the night. Right, Left, Overhead, a reverse grip to parry Carter's slide and dodge, turning to face the now knee bound operative. He beat the man like a drum, from every angle as Carter was forced to switch grips. Backing off half an inch, Carter returned to his back hand hold, moving his blade in a figure 8, creating a defensive whirlwind, and again closing to flip the maniac's paused blade. Two fingers hit the floor with the clink of the katana's metal. The maniac was ferocious, inflamed by his disarmament. The nubs on his right hand were already beginning to lengthen. He threw himself back a foot, smiling. A hand found the collar of his athletic shirt tearing it from his frame. Carter didn't wait for whatever show was coming, firing point blank into his chest. The pinholes trickled shut.

The cloth wrapped between his hands, the maniac flew into a spinning kick, Carter forced to parry with blade. It was a ruse. The fabric of the shirt followed the kick immediately, wrapping his blade and ripping it to the ground. The Vanguard point switched his grip grabbing the other side of the fabric and pulling, twisting the blade out of Carter's reach and into the air. Carter wasted no time. Before the blade had fully left his hand, his other jabbed his enemy's chest,a clean solarplexus hit. He followed with a right and tried for an uppercut. He missed. The barbarian twisted the cloth, throwing it around Carter's neck. The sword was falling. It's arc would land it two steps to his rear. The maniac had rolled his cloth into a garrotte. Carter turned, letting the sword's handle come to within the level of his motion, grabbing, and in one motion swinging through. Shock. There was a shock in those dying eyes. The man was less adept at growing a new head.

Taking the opportunity, the duals shifted their fire and flame his way, expecting an off guard opponent. Initially, they got just that. They rolled short distances together, flipping around, over and beneath each other, slamming themselves in a whip like momentum. His team was doing their best to contain but the ranger on over-watch was a crack shot, putting bullets in joints, disabling one man at a time. Initially wondering what kind of hell he'd stepped into, he had been immediately pressed to stay alive. He'd gotten one to stab the other with a block and dodge tact that he'd thrown together when they tried striking him from separate angles. Taking the shock of friendly fire as an opening, he de-limbed the perpetrator as quickly as he could, four Mississippi. A team member clipped the other twice, center mass and head. The sharpshooter was the leader. Blue eyes, like the richest Sapphire. Almost too rich, they didn't seem natural. The sharpshooter popped Carter's men's skulls like bubble-wrap. On his rifle's last click the captain had immediately whipped out twin Berretta M92FS pistols, rounds apparently pre-chambered, and had four shots off before Carter could tackle, bringing him to the ground. All four were headshots from about 40 yards. Carter pinned arms and legs and whatever he could grasp, beating into him with fists and forehead for the friends who fell behind. The eyes that met his had lost their glimmer. He didn't hesitate in breaking the man's neck. He stood slowly, and felt the black cloth of grief resisting the movement. Those were good men. Some were fathers, brothers, sons, all. They had done their job. He picked his way over the dead, what remained of his team, scavenging whatever the Vanguard had. The haul was good, even for a total intervention. A glass plate of some kind, 4 whistlers, pistols, some kind of foam that blended with the skin and seemed to add an extra layer, Vanguard MREs (Meals Ready to Eat by army lingo, V composition was different though, some kind of seaweed, something that looked and tasted like honey, water and a few pills was the usual), and a projectile injection system as they understood it, a pistol like weapon of unknown manufacture that fired a barely sub sonic projectile designed to penetrate tissue, bone, and rubber. No sights, but those who utilized them did so to great effect. Of course, they also collected those mysterious blades they each carried. The maniac carried a Katana-like blade, the duals had two of Wikazashi length with a 7.5" knife strapped to the thigh at the level their hands fell. The last was different though, the sharpshooter's Katana had an incredibly intricate serrated edge across its entire length. Serrations on serrations, as tight as his eyes could see. Something new. Not something he wanted to touch.

"Hey, top down this beats the hell out of office work eh man? Get a load of the swords. Swords. Did someone forget to tell these guys it ain't the middle ages?"

"Seemed to work pretty well when the guy with flaky skin put it through Dave's neck. They're dead George. Ricks, Astley, dead."

"Yeah, and we killed the assholes who killed them. Look, I'm just glad to be breathing, you should be to. You'll see your kids."