1
The time up to the field mission seemed to flit by as a blur. Lilith and Ember started training with Scott and Cleaver. Scott was growing uncomfortable with the way he was always stuck with Ember. The way she smiled at him made him feel gross. Cleaver said she liked him, Scott said he’d rather date a turnip. But finally it was time to receive their assignments. The novices were standing in their assembly lines but instead of looking at the giant screen, their eyes were set on a large stage and a podium where Smokey stood, a beacon of murderous intent.
“This is it man,” Cleaver said. Since they were expected to set off with their partner right after their name was read; Cleaver was practically clanking with knives. Scott gingerly touched the sunburnt skin on his shoulder. Leading up to the field mission they had undergone conditioning. They were exposed to extreme heat, extreme cold, they were deprived of food and water and they worked their way through perilous obstacle courses. They all ached as they stood there in attention but nobody made a sound. And Scott zoned out, listening only for the names of the people he knew.
“Archer Buckshot, you’re with Striker Bolt.”
“Ember Torchwood, Singe Inferno.”
“Lilith Nightshade, Hemlock Bane.”
“Cleaver Hatchet, Blackscythe.” Cleaver could barely contain his joy; he practically worshipped the ground Blackscythe walked on, second only to Gray Macabre. Blackscythe was also an expert on anything sharp. On and on the list went until about half of the names had been called and half of the novices remained.
“Alexander Scotch, Gray Macabre.” Scott stood there for a moment, stunned. He, the ‘golden child’ who didn’t want to kill, was paired with the greatest assassin of all time? Snapping back to reality, Scott adjusted his bag and looked around for Gray. He saw him standing in the corner of the courtyard, leaning against a cast iron building. Gray had dark brown, near-black hair and sharp blue eyes. He was willowy and stood a head taller than Scott. Looking at him, you wouldn’t think that he’d killed so many people.
“Alexander I presume?”
“Yeah, but my friends call me Scott.”
“I’m not here to be your friend.” Then Gray turned and started walking away. It took Scott a moment to realise that he was meant to fall into step behind him. “Do you know the kid who got Blackscythe?”
“Yeah, Cleaver, he’s my best friend.”
“Funny,” Gray muttered. “Back when we were training, Blackscythe and I were best friends. Things change. Remember that. To an assassin there are only two kinds of people, people you kill and people you don’t. But people you don’t kill are usually only on that list because they’re the ones telling you who to kill.” Gray hesitated, thinking. “That and they pay you.”
“Right. Now where are we going?”
“Hell’s Gate.” Scott felt his heart plummet and was vaguely aware that he was gaping like an idiot. Hell’s Gate was an ocean of chaos; it was the heart of the Anarchist territory. It truly was the gate to Hell.
Minister Hunt wiped the sweat from his forehead. The heat that came off the desert just south of Angel City was near unbearable and Hunt was a small, sweaty man as it was, the heat just made him sweatier. Not to mention he was sure he was shrinking, his desk wasn’t that high before...
“Minister?” Cynthia, his secretary, said on the intercom, crackling slightly. “Smokey Merlot is here to see you, he came straight up.” Literally thought Hunt with a chuckle. He’d never say it out loud. The Stadt Wahrheit didn’t exist and you didn’t make jokes about things that didn’t exist. Except perhaps leprechauns. Hunt did like a good leprechaun joke.
“Alright, send him in.” Hunt could barely contain a shudder as the freakishly tall, freakishly pale and undeniably insane Smokey Merlot ducked into his office. Literally, he’s higher up than the top of the door frame. “What can I do for you Mr Merlot?”
“Call me Smokey,” his visitor chuckled, settling into a chair that was too small for him. Hunt estimated that Smokey wouldn’t be the same height as him even if he were on his knees. Smokey was just that tall and Minister Hunt was just that small.
“I’d rather not,” Hunt said curtly. “Now just tell me what it is you want. I have alot of, uh, paperwork.”
“Please Minister, cut the bullshit. You have no work to do because you don’t work. You’re a figurehead for the Order. You’re supposed to look triumphant and bitter, triumphantly bitter, and tell the people what they want to hear. It’s all sunshine and rainbows with you Minister and don’t pretend otherwise.” Hunt was not unduly offended by Smokey’s disregard for his authority. He was still the minister, figurehead or not.
“You’re not really one to talk Mr Merlot. You kill people. That’s all you do. You kill who we tell you to and then you go back underground and teach other people how to kill who we tell them to.” Smokey ground his razor sharp teeth. His dark brown hair was streaked with silver and it was tied back into a ponytail at the base of his neck. You’d think a ponytail wouldn’t be threatening but you haven’t met Smokey Merlot. After a few minutes of teeth-grinding, Smokey suddenly started laughing, cackling maniacally.
“You politicians crack me up!” he cackled. “Oh, you’re funny sir, you are fun-ny! I’d kill you if you weren’t so damn amusing!”
“Alright, you’ve had your fun, now just spit it out; you wouldn’t surface without a reason. What is it?”
Smokey stopped laughing, suddenly serious. It made Minister Hunt uncomfortable, how the man could switch like that. “Alexander Scotch.”
“What about him?” Hunt stiffened. He knew the boy all too well.
“I paired him with Gray Macabre.”
“Why the hell would you do that, you ignoramus?” Hunt exploded. This was disastrous! Those two couldn’t be put together! If they found out, the entire Order would be at risk! Either that or one of them would end up dead. And that wasn’t good. Those two were valuable. Very valuable. Killing was a lucrative business and you always got your money’s worth with Gray and the only novice even close to taking him over was Alexander Scotch.
“I did it for a spot of fun,” Smokey grinned, baring his shark-like teeth.
“You do realise what this could mean?”
“Of course I do Minister. I do not act without consideration. There is method to my madness... or is it that there is madness to my madness?” he shrugged. “Either way, people are going to die. It’s all very fascinating.”
“Is that all you came to say?” asked the Minister, afraid there was more.
“No.” The Minister’s heart sunk. “They’re going to Hell’s Gate.” And with that the assassin walked out of the minister’s office with a cheerful gait and a tune whistling on his lips. When Smokey was most definitely gone, Hunt pressed the button on the intercom.
“Cynthia, cancel all further appointments,” he paused. “And bring me a bucket-load of aspirins.”
Hell’s Gate was visible over the vast desert that Scott and Gray were crossing. The sun beat down and Scott was grateful that his thermo-suit covered all of his pale skin. It kept his body nice and cool so he didn’t overheat. He trudged up yet another sand dune after Gray, who was not wearing a thermo-suit but seemed to be coping just fine. He was humming. It felt odd to Scott that the greatest killer of all time hummed. “Hurry up you moron, keep moving,” Gray called over his shoulder. Scott made an obscene gesture at his mentor’s back and muttered something that sounded like ‘duck cough’. Gray suddenly stopped and dropped his pack. “Here’s a good place to camp.”
“Are you insane? It’s the middle of the day; it won’t get dark for hours yet.”
"You’ll be wanting to approach Hell’s Gate at night. Trust me. It’s Gaming Season.” Scott opened his mouth to ask about ‘Gaming Season’ but was interrupted by the very loud grumbling of his stomach. “Sounds like lunch.” Gray sat down on the sand rather merrily and pulled out of his bag two plastic plates, two canteens and a jar of a disgusting substance. It was all fleshy and gross. He scooped some of the jar’s foul-smelling content onto one plate and the rest onto another. “Eat.” He jerked a plate into Scott’s hands.
“What the hell is this crap?”
“It’s not crap,” Gray said defensively. “But it’s close. This stuff kind of helps make crap. It’s intestines.”
“Intestines of what?” asked Scott, looking faintly green. Gray poked around the ‘food’.
“You know, I’m not entirely sure. Well, we best dig in.” Gray set about eating the intestines on his plate while Scott sat and tried not to even look at them. “Eat, or I’ll kill you. I promised I’d take you with me on a kill, I didn’t promise that I’d refrain from killing you too.” With that incentive, Scott slowly ate his foul and meagre dinner.
“Gray?”
“What.”
“Do you like killing?”
“Hell no.”
“Then why do you do it?”
He looked at Scott as if he had just told Gray he was a hot pink elephant with green wings that ate faces. “What else would I do?”
“I don’t know... something.”
“Thank you for that valuable suggestion. Now shut up and eat your intestines.” Scott did, and afterwards he lay on the sand and, despite the bright sun, he fell asleep, his nightmarish memories gripping his body and his mind and dragging him under. Down...down...down into cold, black waters.
Scott was tired and in pain, fear clenched his heart like a tight fist. He was running, his heart pounding in his ears and his feet keeping in rhythm. The guards chased after him as he tried to make his way to the tunnel, the tunnel that would lead him to the surface.
It had been two weeks since another recruit had escaped and they had stopped looking for him. They would stop looking for him, too. If only he could get out. Run faster, faster, he thought. He could hear the guards’ feet, hear their breath and felt their body heat as they got closer. And soon enough, two arms wrapped around his stomach, dragging him back. The tunnels were so close, but he hadn’t made it.
“Get back here Alexander, Merlot would hate it if we lost you,” the guard growled, pulling Scott back with him, down the elevator, back to Smokey’s chambers. Tears ran down Scott’s ten-year-old cheeks as the screams carried up the shaft to him. He felt like he was descending into Hell itself. The lift shuddered to a sickening halt and Scott stepped out, with the guards gripping his shoulders.
“Don’t try anything, kid,” whispered a guard. “You don’t want to end up like one of these sorry souls.” They passed barred cells filled with filthy, malnourished people. Anarchists that had been taken prisoner. They reached their dirt-caked hands through the bar, trying to touch Scott but the boy cringed in a mix of disgust and fear. Wails and screams filled the dank, damp air. At last they reached a closed door at the end of the hall. The guards knocked and Smokey’s voice called them in. The door opened with a creak to reveal Smokey towering over a man strapped to a wooden table, a searing hot poker in his hand. He set down the poker and turned to face Scott as if he were a host welcoming a guest to a party.
“I hear you tried to escape Alexander, not a wise decision,” Smokey paced the room, seemingly unaware of the moaning, tortured man behind him. “I wouldn’t like to lose you. And I think it’s rather ungrateful after all I’ve given you. I think a night down here will make you more appreciative.” Scott felt whatever colour his skin had drain away. “Besides, I have plans for you.”
“W-what sort of plan?” he asked timidly.
Smokey went right up to Scott’s face so that their noses were almost touching. “All kinds of plans.” And with that, Scott was dragged away and thrust into a cell to spend a night amidst the screams...
Scott sat up, cold sweat trickling down his forehead and the back of his neck, his dark hair clinging to his skin. The moon was just a sliver hanging in the sky but it supplied more than enough light. The cold night forced Scott under his scratchy blanket. Gray was moaning in his sleep, causing memories to come flashing back, wailing, screaming, dying. Gray’s moans grew louder and feverish, as if he too was having a nightmare. Gray’s moans were quickly turning into shouts and yelps and Scoot had to cover his mentor’s mouth before Gray unleashed a sound that would reveal their position.
“Wake up,” Scott hissed shaking his mentor. “Wake up!”
“Angel!” Gray cried, sitting upright, tears welling in his usually calculating eyes. “Angel,” he whispered again, his breath was heavy and laboured. Scott knew it wasn’t ‘angel’ in the religious sense, there was no religion. The land was godless. When most of the world turned into desert, there was no salvation. Prayers weren’t answered and if there was a God, he didn’t care. And if he didn’t care about them, why would they care about him. Why worship a God who did nothing to deserve worship? That was what the world thought. So it wasn’t religious, it was a name.
“You have the nightmares too?” Scott whispered. Gray looked at him and blinked back the tears.
“Come on,” Gray cleared his throat. “It’s time we got going.” The two packed up camp and Scott kept looking up at Gray. What was it about Gray that made Scott calm? Scott never felt calm, never. Even with Cleaver Scott was always on edge. Always waiting for the catch, the trick, the lie. He had learned the hard way to play along, to do as they said. Scott payed attention in lessons and he trained harder than anyone else. He made them trust him, pamper him and accept him so that he’d never go back to the screaming place again. Maybe Gray knew what it was like to become someone else – to hide who you are – to survive.
“You understand,” Scott whispered.
“What?” Gray asked and looked up from the blanket he was rolling up.
“Nothing.”
“Well don’t just stand there; we’ve got to get a move on. It’s Gaming Season.” Scott set to work packing up his bedding.
“What is Gaming Season?”
Gray looked at Scott and chuckled coldly. “Trust me kiddo, you don’t want to find out.”
Arianne Hilt, known as Ari, gazed out the window of her bedroom. It faced the desert and in the distance she could almost make out the shiny glint of the Angel City as it was struck by the moonlight. How she longed to get out of Hell’s Gate and to explore the world. She wanted to be free to explore this world; free of the war her father was so desperate to drag her into. Ari’s father was the right hand man of Peter Bedlam. Peter was the leader of the Anarchists. And he was young, twenty. He’d inherited his position from his father who’d been killed by an assassin. Ari often wondered whether the people of Angel City knew about the killers their government hired. Ari didn’t like Peter, mostly because he upheld the tradition of Gaming Season. Ari hated Gaming Season; the Trials were the most horrific thing she’d ever seen. The cheers, the sweat, the blood.
Her father had left her alone in this massive mansion, holed up in there with only books to entertain herself. He was Gaming. Ari pitied the poor souls even if nobody else did.
She was about to turn away from the window when something caught her eye, two figures travelling across the desert. They weren’t from Angel City but they were incredibly different from the explosion of colour that Anarchists were. They shouldn’t be there, they were in danger. “Run,” she whispered. “Turn around and run away.” But it was too late, the Gamers had surrounded them, she watched the travellers put up a fight but in the end, they were captured. There were just too many Gamers.
“You could’ve fought them back you know,” Scott muttered to Gray as they sat in a dank, dark, cell. It reminded Scott of Stadt Wahrheit, of his home. He wrapped his arms around his knees. “You could’ve killed them easily.”
“If I had, you’d have died.”
“I thought you didn’t care whether or not I lived or not.”
“Well,” shrugged Gray. “I’m allowed to change my mind.”
“But we’ll die anyway,” Scott reasoned.
Gray pulled a flask out of his long coat and took a swig of the alcoholic contents. “Probably.”
“Definitely,” said a massive man in the next cell. He had golden skin and tattoos swirling from his forehead onto his cheek. “You’ll die in the Trials for sure kid.”
“Shut up, Titan,” Gray spat before taking another swig of his drink. Scott’s ears pricked. Titan? Titans were legendary warriors from outside the country, from another land where a man’s worth was measured by his strength and skill, his honour and valour.
“You can’t silence me through bars assassin. You and I are both resigned to our fate, don’t act like you have hope.”
“No, I don’t have hope. I accept that I’m going to die,” Gray looked at the Titan studiously. “You’re probably going to kill me. Anyway, I know all this; I’d just rather wait in silence.”
“And get piss drunk,” Scott muttered. Scott expected Gray to get angry with him, or to say something dry or sarcastic. Instead, his mentor threw back his head and laughed. And then, even worse, he began to sing.
Oh young lad, don’t be so scared
You’ve entered a war and you’re barely prepared
You’re stuck in your cell
On your way down to hell
But it’s not like anybody cared
Oh young lad, no need to dread
Coz by morning you’ll likely be dead
Forget this foul place
Drink ‘til you’re off your face
And ‘til there isn’t a thought in your head
Oh young lad, draw your sword
Fight ‘til your enemies get bored
And they’ll cut off your head
What a shame, you’re dead
Just tell me where your beer is stored
You’ve entered a war and you’re barely prepared
You’re stuck in your cell
On your way down to hell
But it’s not like anybody cared
Oh young lad, no need to dread
Coz by morning you’ll likely be dead
Forget this foul place
Drink ‘til you’re off your face
And ‘til there isn’t a thought in your head
Oh young lad, draw your sword
Fight ‘til your enemies get bored
And they’ll cut off your head
What a shame, you’re dead
Just tell me where your beer is stored
When Gray fell silent the dungeon was still. Gray took another gulp of his flask and, much to his disappointment, polished it off. He looked at Scott and gave a bit of a hysterical chuckle before passing out on the stone floor, drunk as hell.
“And that is my mentor,” Scott sighed, covering the unconscious Gray with his coat.
“I pity you and am amazed you’ve survived thus far,” said the Titan. “Though you won’t have by tomorrow’s end, I promise you that.”
“What is your name Titan?” Scott asked as he lay back on the cold, hard floor.
“Lothe. That is what you may call me.” He pronounced it like ‘loathe’.
“Is that your real name?”
“No, but since we’re both to die I hardly think it matters.”
“I suppose not.”
“Go to sleep, boy, and pray to whatever god you believe in. You’ll likely meet them in the morning.”
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