A Story of Cinders: From the Ashes

Prologue: Man in Black

     The sun had just disappeared behind the western bounds of the Sonoran Desert, hiding behind the mountains and bluffs of what used to be the Southwestern United States, before completing its journey into the Pacific Ocean. The reds and oranges of the sunset were giving way now to midnight blues, and the other stars had come out to play, no longer hidden behind the dominating light of the sun. Behind a thin pane of glass, a man stood alone behind a thick mahogany desk, watching all this transpire. It was summertime now, and these were coming earlier and earlier. He would be spending more time working in the starry nights of the wasteland soon. Not that it bothered him. For him, work was never done. Not when you had tens of thousands of people to shepherd. Not when you had bandits knocking at your gates. Not when you had the most feared man in the world breathing down your neck, watching over your shoulder with eyes like a hawk.
A flashing light in the corner of his eye finally took his attention off the scenery. It was the intercom on his desk. He pressed the button. "What is it?" he asked annoyed. He spoke with a thick Irish accent.
"Sir, there's someone here to see you," a female voice said from the other end.
"I'm not taking visitors right now," he replied, his fingers drumming against the top of his mahogany desk. "Tell him to try again tomorrow. Or, I don't know, make an appointment like a fucking civilized human being."
"I can't, sir, he's already on his way," the woman said, with a panicked voice.
"Miranda, I swear to God, if you fuck up like this again, I'm gonna make you eat a bowl of sand. Who is he?" he asked.
"My name is not important, Mr. Spillane," replied a robotic voice from behind him, inside the room. Frantically, Mr. Spillane turned to face the voice, tearing the intercom out of the wall as he did. "But mine is," Spillane replied quietly. "Around here, people know me as 'the Saint.'" He slowly moved his hand to the pistol on his hip. He took a look at the man speaking. The man was covered head to toe in a black robe, tied around the waist. His head was covered in a hood, and his face was shrouded in darkness.

"Don't worry, I'm not armed, Mr. Spillane," the man said, calmly. "I left all my weapons at the front desk. I would say you could ask your maid for proof, but you destroyed your intercom."

"What can I say, you startled me. And again, that whole Saint thing..."

"An ironic name, considering."

"Yes, yes, but that's what they call me. Guess because I kinda brought them out of living in dirt and sand... Now back to the point at hand, what the fuck are you doing here? And also who the fuck are you?"

"I am known as Nox. And I am here because we have similar interests. A similar foe."

"I don't have a foe."

"Yes, you do. You have one."

The Saint rolled his eyes. He knew exactly about whom this man was talking. "That's an impossible fight."

"I know you've tried."

"How do you know that? Nobody survived who wasn't..." the Saint reached for his pistol again.

"I'm in the business of intelligence, it's my job to know. And I'm not your enemy, don't worry," Nox replied.

"If you know I've tried to fight them, you know it's a suicide mission. You would be asking me to throw all my soldiers and all my money away. I can't do that."

"Then don't throw your army at them. Don't risk open war. Sometimes a fire team can do what an army can't."

"I don't have such a team. Not one that's good enough, anyway."

"I can get you one. Easily."
"What is it you would have this team do?"
"They wouldn't be able to face this army head-on. So we would have them cut off the head of the snake."

"People who speak in clichés..." the Saint muttered. "But why? What's in this for you?"

Nox chuckled. "Not power, if that's what you're worried about."

"It still seems like you're dragging me into your problem. Why should I be concerned?"

"Tell me, Saint. How did you go about having this city? Is it a secret settlement? That has to be difficult considering it's so large..."

"Why do you ask?"

"No, you must be paying a tithe. How much a month?" The Saint didn't respond. "How much?"

"Fifty percent."

"That's a lot of money to rent freedom from your enemy. Money you could be using to feed people. Or improving infrastructure. Or--"

"I get it!" the Saint shouted, slamming his hand against the desk.

"So what is your decision?"

The Saint breathed in slowly through his nose, thinking hard about the proposal. He genuinely did want to accept this. He could use the extra funds. And he wanted some payback, too. But he simply could not afford an open war. An elite team, on the other hand, could be useful. Easier to maneuver, much stealthier. And he could deny responsibility, should the worst happen. That just might work.

"Bring me the fire team," the Saint responded, turning around to face the stars again.

Nox chuckled slightly. "Very well. Give me three months, and I'll have your team. They will not disappoint."

"They better not! I wanna inspect them before we get started!" the Saint shouted, turning back around. But Nox was gone. The Saint looked around for a few moments, wondering. He stepped out the door of his office, looking down the hallway. Nox was nowhere to be seen. Weird... The Saint shook his head, making no note of it, then stormed down the hallway again. "Miranda!" he shouted. "Get in here and fix my intercom!"