A Story of Cinders: From the Ashes

Chapter 8: Breathe

            This was the first downtime Gray Wolf had had since Homestead. Hopefully this time it wouldn't be interrupted by the Zhar-Ptitsa. The Saint had been kind enough to let the company use his guest rooms to rest. Each room had a complete bathroom and a queen sized bed with fresh sheets and pillows. The maids had given him fresh clothes to wear while they washed his. He put on the pants and wiped the steam off the mirror, taking a good long look at himself. He looked down at the necklace on the counter. It was the chain from his old dog tags. He had long since discarded the tags, leaving them at the memorial he had made for his fallen teammates. From the chain hung a silver cross, made in such a way so that the cross appeared to be lashed together. He picked it up and held the cross in his hand. He remembered the day he got that necklace. It was just before he was deployed. Marissa had given it to him, as something to remember her by. She had a ring with the shape of a cross cut out on it, so the two would fit together. He wore it every day, never taking it off, except to shower. It kept him safe. The cross was the symbol of a promise. A covenant. The two of them had made such a promise. He promised he would come home to her, so long as she was still there when he returned. He clenched his fist, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Memories. Images flashed before his eyes. Sounds, smells, feelings. Her long, brown hair. The soft, warm feel of her skin against his. The sound of her voice. Her infectious laugh. His fist tightened around the cross. This was too much for him. She was gone, and he needed to let her go. But how could he? No. He couldn't betray her like that. He brought the cross to his mouth and kissed it. Then he set it down, rushing out of the room. He sighed. I need a cigarette...

The Brawler was too tall for the shower he was given. The stream was spraying his chest, and he had to duck to wash his head. The hot water hitting his face, stung the scars on his eyes and cheeks, they weren't fresh, but they still hurt like hell. Every one of the Desolate had these scars. Well, at least their corpses did. Some initiates would go blind due to these facial wounds getting infected. But the Brawler was tougher than that. No little bug would bring him down. Looking down, he could visibly see the muck and sweat leaving his body. "It's been a while sense I took an actual wash." He thought to himself. Stepping out of the shower, he had to maneuver his shoulders just to squeeze through. The clothes he traded for himself at the market were just at the right size not to be too tight, but were snug. Putting on the leather pants, and the vulture bracer from his pervious bandit clan, the Vultures. That was the first time the Baron actually controlled his body. He could smell the blood His handiwork. There had to be at least 20 to 25 brothers in the Vulture clan before he slaughtered them all. Sometimes he'd thank the Baron for getting him out of that hellhole. I had to get us out of there, they would have killed us eventually. Paranoia, and ruthlessness was the quality of the Baron. Sometimes it's a pain to keep him under control. Louis actually enjoyed letting the Baron assume control, letting the euphoria of the slaughter come over him. Still, what's done is done, and instead of letting the desert consume him, he found other brothers and formed the Desolate clan. The scars on his lower eyelids stretched all the way down his cheeks and disappeared under him chiseled jaw. Those were the symbols of the Desolates, outcasts, and deserters. Raiders that weren't into killing children and needlessly causing pain. And just when he was about to get comfortable, Nox shows up. EEEEERRRRGGHHHH!! KILL HIM! KILLLL HIM! Rip his face off, lets us see what he really looks like!! At first his vision blurred, slowly forming into tunnel vision. With extreme effort and practice, Louis push, clawed, and fought with everything he had to regain control. Panting at the side of the queen sized bed, he sat down slowly, tenderly. Closing his eyes, feeling the comfort of the bed, he laid down. "I might, be too big." He said to the empty room with a chuckle. His feet dangled at least a foot off the bed. With a deep breath, and great relief, he was finally able to find sleep.

Meanwhile, Red sat in her room meditating. She opened her eyes, looking down at her identification code on her left wrist, usually kept under the console. The numbers 0016100015 in black ink held its spot permanently to remind her of where she came from, who she had been trained to be. She remembered her training. She remembered when she was first brought to the Lancaster's facility. She was encoded into the system, being tatted at such a young age. She walked in fear for the first week, terrified of these new people as she was still innocent herself. Some days she wished she was simple like the common folk. Then again, she was proud to be self-sufficient, never needing a man by her side for protection. She remembered she fought the other subjects as part of her regular evaluations. She had to fight for her life every few weeks, it sounds tragic, but this is what made her who she is. This shaped her to be strong, willful, and almost impossible to break. After she was released, 16 years later, she was hired regularly on various missions. Always sent to interrogate or assassinate a person of importance. This was all she knew, killing was all she could do. To keep her sanity, she made it into a game, forged her own personal style to make her job more enjoyable. She used her stature to manipulate the men and women she interrogated, then she'd turn on them with no remorse. She added her own personal touch to each kill, leaving a red lipstick kiss on their cheeks as some form of sadistic manipulation. She made herself to never be vulnerable, never gave into a temptation, she never created any weaknesses for herself. Her training taught her to completely isolate herself and to never trust anyone. For this reason all of her sadistic behavior was simply all a tease. This was her personality though, she used this as a wall to hide what remained of the little girl she used to be from the men she has to prove herself to. She got up off her mat and walked out to the balcony outside of her room. She looked up at the stars and lets out a heavy sigh placing her hand over her code. Bowing her head she reminded herself of her true name, "Johanna," pausing for a minute, remembering her training, "No! I am the Red Lady." Looking up and standing strong, she turns back building up her walls. Walking back into her room, she quietly says under her breath "No room for feelings in this world." She paused, smelling something. Cigarettes. She glanced over at the source of the smell. Gray Wolf was standing on his balcony enjoying a cigarette. He couldn't have seen that, could he? He glanced over at her. Then he said it. "Johanna." She stormed back into her room, angry. Not at him, but at herself. She let her guard down. How stupid of me.

In a room down the hall, Sarge laid in the queen size bed, thinking about the situation he was in, and the monumental mission he had to complete. Sleep eluded the hardened war veteran. Especially now that his spotter was another casualty in the hunt for Karlov. However the grief from the loss of his spotter was short lived. Sarge knew that there was no room for grief and regrets, even though these emotions were strong in him. As a leader he was supposed to suppress these emotions so that he could make quick and precise decisions so his soldiers could get home safely. The Sarge had found ways to relieve his stress, as well as the emotions of grief and regret. So as in his normal fashion he went to go find a gym so he could work out and practice his hand to hand combat skills. The gym in the compound was fully equipped with any piece of equipment you could think of using to make yourself stronger. To the Sarge's great relief the gym was completely empty. It was a very welcome scenario because Sarge enjoyed solitude while he trained and honed his physical fitness and combat skills. He didn't like to have any outside distractions.