Prep

[Jacques]

Torri's warning was met with a sly grin on Jacques' part that seemed almost out of place for his apparent boundlessly casual nature, "Do not worry, Doctor. I am quite good at playing the part of a responsible adult when required."
The real question was whether he was actually good at pretending to be responsible, or whether he was very good at pretending not to be.

He frowned comically as she drew the fourth vial of blood from his arm, as if expecting to see it deflate at any moment, or for the vial to fill with dust. Weren't they beyond this sort of thing by now? Modern computers and science was surely to the point that entire vials of blood weren't needed anymore? So just what was she up to? Was it an excuse to keep him around? Surely not, the good Doctor couldn't possibly have been cooped up with her job so long as that, right?

"Ah! A fellow army brat, is it? It truly is a small world, is it not Doctor? There are many a story in the Kitāb alf laylah wa-laylah that begin with seemingly innocent and unconnected encounters as this. Well, after that whole fiasco with that nuclear plant, I am sure it will not be much longer, although I fear they will not be so calm about it as Europe."
The book, One Thousand and One Arabian Nights, had made for some light reading on the flight from Morocco. Sometimes it surprised him just how ancient recorded history really was, and some of the stories from the oft-translated collection of stories were decidedly old.

He pressed two fingers to the cotton ball she pressed to his arm and by the time she returned he had tossed the cotton-ball into the waste receptacle and had somehow managed to get comfortable in the provided chair, legs crossed at the ankle and hands clasped behind his head. Her prompt return was met with a surprised jerk reaction as he sat up properly again. "You really are an unusual doctor, aren't you? Quite prompt. I suppose the CCD would send only their best for this detail though."

[Torri]

Perhaps she was tired. Perhaps Jacques was talking nonsense, but she had to blink a few times through that first bit of babbling. Rather than try and twist her mind around his logic, she just shook her head and disappeared.

The vials in her hand were still warm, but they needed the proper cares taken soon. So she deposited them with the technicians and made reference to the orders placed when they first arrived.

When she returned, Jacques was splayed out like he were sunbathing on the Riviera. He jerked into a more proper positioning, and Torri was once more left blinking and confused. This fellow was the Chief Executive Officer of the Legion Premiere? A company whose reputation was laser-sharp.

She returned to the wall mount and summoned Jacques' records. It took a moment's concentration to recall her latest in an infernal string of passwords, then proceeded to have the results of his tests bypass the wider databases and upload straight to the Facility. When the screen blacked out, she felt her own shoulders sigh. She had a feeling this was coming.

This time it was her turn to roll up one sleeve. She thrust a bared arm along the scanner and let it do its thing while she looked over one shoulder behind him.

"You really are an unusual CEO, aren't you? Did you just get the job yesterday?"
She looked up and down the line of him, assessing what little there was to judge. Okay, so she was judging, but he started it.

The thing beeped clear and the black screen dissolved into actual files, thank God. The technicians now had a place to upload the data, without ever seeing the results themselves - if they could even make sense of it, Torri barely could, and she supposedly the best Medical Geneticist in the army.

She pivoted fully, fixing her sleeve back in place. She crossed toward the door. "I'll take you out,"
she started and grabbed the handle. Thoughts of protocol flattened her voice again. "Once this is done, I'll give the Legion's records another comb-over, and sign off if everything is in order."


Just as she was pulling the door, it opened abruptly from the other side. Torri jerked with a start, blinking yet again, and actually a little embarrassed to have jumped in front of Jacques like that.

On the other side was revealed a woman from Special Forces. A Knight? Torri didn't recognize her, but she knew the insignia well enough. The woman's stern jaw and blunt haircut hid any embarrassment on her end, if she had any.

"Dr. Weston," the woman nodded firm greeting and turned to Jacques, "I've been instructed to escort Mr. Danjou to Mr. Vellas as soon as you were done with him."

Torri's jaw parted but she didn't speak right away. Her brows furrowed low. "And what does Mr. Vellas want with him?"
Torri laid her hands in the wide pockets of her white coat, fiddling with her Wallet. Michael hadn't sent her any messages. How could he have known what she'd done so fast? Then again, he had a blood White Knight mewling outside the door of her laboratory ready to pounce the second she was done.

The woman gave her a very flat look. "He didn't tell me, ma'am." She said through snug teeth.

She exchanged a look with Jacques, but only partly apologetic. Stay on your guard, she tried to tell him and wondered if a foreigner's intuition would match her own, baseless as it was.

"Well, I'm done then,"
and she let him go, and like any other patient, she wondered if she'd ever see him again. Most of her hoped she wouldn't. People weren't sent to her unless things rolled a long way downhill.


Edited by Torri, Jan 22 2014, 09:02 PM.

[Jacques]

"22 May, 2041. The battle of Maiduguri. And thank you! I do try very hard to maintain my reputation. I am the center of attention at parties, I will have you know."
In response to her statement that he hadn't been CEO long, she was mostly right. Four years wasn't very long, was it? He bounced from the chair jovially and went about pulling his shirt and jacket back on, before fixing the door with a curious look at what transpired there.

If he wasn't terribly off the mark, the woman that was revealed was exactly the sort he would love to have in the employ of Légion Première, and was exactly the sort that was too loyal to make the switch. A shame, really. Mr Vellas, was it? Not a rank, but a Mister. A civilian then, in a position that could boss around someone like this woman and use her as a simple messenger? Curiouser and curiouser. And there was perhaps some hint of dislike between the woman in the hall and the good Doctor? How very odd.

His mind raced to piece the puzzle together in the few seconds he was afforded in their conversation. Special forces, clearly. Special enough to make the good Doctor Weston, whom he had already pieced together was pretty high on the food chain around here, nervous. The Doctor had been transferred to Moscow, a very prestigious posting surely, and then hand-picked to help lay the ground work for the Ascendancy's visit to Saudi Arabia. Of course he could still call it by it's ancestral name in his head. They couldn't arrest him for that, could they? Not yet at least.

So Doctor Weston was important. Had connections, good at her job, trusted with a very important mission. And she was nervous around this other woman. A Knight, maybe? That would make sense. Who better for this sort of task, after all? So now he was facing a Knight, who was being used as an errand boy..err...girl, and not a bad looking one really, if she could manage to speak properly and not grit her teeth like that. Very unbecoming, that was.

So who could send a Knight to fetch him? A civilian. Not a politician, he suspected. No, those types would love to send someone like a Knight on their personal errands, yes. But he doubted any special forces operative would actually do the task for a politician. They'd find an excuse to make it take longer then needed, just to dick around the dick that misused them. So this was someone more important.

What was the name she said? Mr Vellas. Vellas. CCD, could boss around Knights, was here possibly on the same mission packet as the Doctor. Or perhaps the other side of the coin? She was the peaceful side, and he the back-up plan maybe? Vellas. "Michael Vellas? Wrote that piece on the importance of educated, thinking soldiers in the battlespace and frowned on the reliance on drones and satellites? A brilliant piece, really. Too bad it didn't get much coverage. Read it in an old copy of Soldier of Fortune. Can you believe they're still printing that rag? Catering to washed-out wanna be special force alpha male types whoring out their skills to the highest bidder. Present company excluded, of course. I'll have you know I'm an excellent judge of character."


Jacques caught Torri's warning glance and met it with his usual care-free grin and a wink that the waiting Knight wouldn't catch as he walked out the door, "Thank you for the attention to detail, Dr Weston. It's people like you that keep these bureaucracy's from caving in on themselves. Heart of War, I think it was called? Well, lead on young lady. Have you read the article, by chance? Speaks very highly of the thinking soldier. I think you would like it."


A short way down the hall, Jacques turned on a heel to walk backwards and call back to Torri, "Ah, good Doctor! Should everything work out and you my men and I the pass, perhaps we could meet for dinner some time? I understand you are very busy of course, as will I be, but it is the thought that counts, yes? So long as one tries from time to time, it keeps the door to one's heart open!"
He smiled warmly then turned to resume following along with the female Knight, talking her ear off about the fine points of the importance of infantry on the ground in modern conflict. Quite contradictory to recent military history and it's reliance on drones and reconnaissance crafts.

Some many minutes later, he was led to Michael's office, where after the proper niceties were paid Jacques was eventually shown in, leaving a clearly exhausted Knight in the hallway. "Jacques Danjou, CEO of Légion Première. You rang?"



Edited by Jacques, Jan 23 2014, 12:27 AM.

[Michael Vellas]

Shakir's assessment of al-Hasan was...enlightening. Michael had no doubt that the man's immense hatred clouded his judgement, but it was a start.

He sat alone in silent contemplation, absently watching the reports flicker across the various pop-up screens in front of him. All passed by, stored in his data-bank to read over later. He had customized the computer to sort and colour code each report by importance or anomaly so he was not missing anything urgent.

All was calm. At least, as calm as a coiled viper ready to strike could get. For the moment at least, the gathering storm was held at bay. However, he was increasingly sure that the presence of the Ascendancy would only lead to war. These fanatics would accept nothing less than blood, and he doubted even Ascendancy's powers of reason could sate their thirst. Mecca was a city - hell, the entire Middle East itself! - merely waited for the order to march.

No, there was no peace to be had here.

Michael was relieved of the dark thoughts as he heard the commotion that was 'necessary protocol' outside of his office. Thus, he was not surprised when the man popped his head in and entered.

"Jacques Danjou, CEO of Légion Première. You rang?"


"Jacques Danjou,"
he repeated, rolling the name off his tongue while he surveyed it's owner. The lanky man with his almost comic expression and tone could be said to be an oddity, but Michael was not deceived. The Légion Première were no fools, and neither was this man. "La Légion meurt, il ne renonce pas."


He waited a moment for the man's reaction before proceeding. "It is my responsibility to ensure the safety of this centre. Tell me, Mr. Danjou, why has the Légion come to Mecca, and at such a crucial time?"

[Jacques]

Jacques was actually caught off guard by the greeting. Twenty years was a long time, and the Légion étrangère had faded even from educated memory. Either this Mr Vellas was quite the historian, or he had done his homework. Of course, that didn't answer why he had been summoned to the man's office. The CCD's insistence on red tape was legendary, but both the good Dr Weston and now this mysterious fellow were entirely unusual layers. These people were playing their own games now, with himself and his men seeming to be sized up as new toys and pawns for whatever they were up to.

"Nous ne renonçons pas."
He indicated to a seat across from Michael's desk, but sat whether he was invited to or not. If he was going to be forced to jump through hoops for these people, he was at least going to be comfortable doing it. He still hadn't quite gotten a firm grip on just what was going on, other then that he had stumbled into a nest of Moscovite big-wigs working hard to make their Ascendancy happy.

His question was met with a confused look, which quickly flopped to an amused laugh and knee-slap, "You give me far too much credit, Mr Vellas. I am no Gypsy foreteller. These contracts have been many long months in the works. It just good luck that we are finally ready to step foot into so lucrative a market."


"I assure you, Mr Vellas, there are no ulterior motives behind this. Your government has ratified laws, ending the ambiguous laws regarding private armies. And Légion Première is here to capitalize."
They were the first of what would surely be many such companies that had been operational in Africa for decades to make the leap into the CCD market.

Of course, being the first, they would also be the ones to set the bar for other companies still working to make the same leap. And Légion Première would set the bar very, very high. Most of the 250 operators Jacques had selected for the initial contracts were Muslim. Cultural and language training had been ongoing for over a year already. Many of their rival companies were made up almost entirely of ex-military types, the sort prone to shooting first and asking questions later. Légion Première's members were also mostly ex-military, but the recruitment screening were entirely different then the norm.

"Besides, if I were able to see the future, Mr Vellas, I would have brought a copy of Soldier of Fortune for you to autograph. You wrote a most interesting piece some years ago, did you not? Quite insightful for one so young and without, at that time at least, any actual experience, yes?"
He grinned warmly, then shifted in his seat to sit with his legs crossed, and briefly drummed a finger on his knee as if in thought.

"Perhaps it is fate? Maybe this shall all lead to an interesting story some day? A man who knows off the cuff a proper greeting for the Legion, to meet a man who knows a paper written years ago? And now to meet, in a city where neither have any right to stand? I fear a great chapter of history is soon to be writ here, Mr Vellas. Of the only sort we ever seem to remember, yet always ignore, yes?"
The smile was gone, replaced with a far more serious tone. As much as he may act otherwise, Jacques was more then just another business man. There were no shortage of those in the world.

He had kept a close eye on Dominance V in the past year or so. More so then usual, perhaps. He was aware the place was a powder keg, that all it would take was one more spark to set it off. That there weren't already riots in the streets over the 'honour killing' of that poor girl was a miracle. And now with the Ascendancy himself coming to Mecca and who knew how many special forces skulking in the shadows, that spark wasn't likely to be far off.

[Michael Vellas]

Michael watched as Jacques sat and began to laugh. Perhaps he had given the man too much credit. Perhaps he was being too wary. Jacques's explanation made perfect sense. Talk about the change in laws towards mercenaries - for that is what they were, whatever words the bureaucrats used - had been crammed in his face for months by excited or disgusted military personnel.

Michael did not particularly care what the CCD did. Mercenaries could be equal parts useful and dangerous; if the CCD erred, they would pay for their own failings.

And where did the Legion fall, useful or dangerous?

Michael's brows lifted in surprise when Jacques mentioned the essay he had written years ago. A surprise indeed. He had barely read the thing himself - although that was circumstance rather than intent - he was shocked it had reached the distant shores of...well, anywhere. That Jacques had remembered it - and connected the name in so short a time was impressive.

Jacques then banished any doubt from Michael's mind when his tone turned. While he had remained impassive at the earlier flattery, his lips curved into something akin to a pleased smile - so small, but a quick mind could not fail to notice. His eyes shone with excitement and an anticipation he had only felt when he challenged himself with the power.

Already ideas were framed, modified and discarded in his mind as is turned over the possibilities like cog-works. Here was a chance for something more than just insipid military indoctrinated process.

"We are all but pawns in the game of life. The smallest of pieces on the chess board."
He leaned forward, itching to seize the power that was life. "Do you play chess, Mr. Danjou? I find the pawn an extremely interesting piece. It is the only piece that does not move backwards. The others are often caught up in their own importance and lose sight of the goal."


He waved a hand with calculated disregard and opened the visual database network. He spent a moment searching before bringing up the item he needed, then compressed it into a blank portable visual storage device - or something similar, he was not exactly sure what they called them these days.

He turned on the screen - the cover of an old Soldier of Fortune issue appearing in the small window - and continued. "Perhaps it is simply an indulgent past-time,"
he dismissed his earlier comments, although he had to refrain from gritting his teeth. He hated the need for secrecy, but if Tony had taught him anything, it was a semblance of subtlety, even if the old bastard would never admit it. "While all eyes are averted, the pawn simply moves forward through the storm,
" here he locked eyes with Jacques to make his meaning abundantly clear. "And the storm shapes the pawn into one of the most effective pieces, no?"


He signed the copy of Solider of Fortune with his digital pen and handed it to Jacques. Of course, the signature was merely pretence. A smart leader - and he was sure that Jacques was no fool - would find the code linked to Michael's private and secured communication line embedded in the device. "My apologies for summoning you, Mr. Danjou,"
he continued in a lighter, business-like tone. "Merely a precaution, you will understand, surely. You are free to go."
He stood, extending a hand. "I hear Jerusalem or Dubai are quite nice this time of year, if you ever get the chance to visit. At least, that's what I hear, anyway."



Edited by Michael Vellas, Jan 30 2014, 12:52 PM.

[Jacques]

"It is strangely comforting to know your only option is to continue forwards. But even then, one cannot loose the big picture. I am not sure pawns appreciate when their more powerful pieces leave them on the line, and a fallen pawn is gone. It's sacrifice must be for a worthy goal."
To a careful eye and a studious mind, Jacques Danjou and Légion Première could be predictable. And to others, they were predictable in their goal to earn profit and renown. They were pawns in the grand scheme of things, yes, but pawns with their own goals and agendas, and their own values.

Michael's gesture of signing the electronic copy of the magazine would probably seem to most as just a simple polite gesture. Having an autographed data-file copy of the magazine would have little true meaning or value, but it was certainly more then a fan may have hoped for in such a situation. Of course, Jaques doubted that Michael cared so much about prestige and recognition for a paper written so long ago.

And, much like himself, the man seemed less then interested in technology. So there was surely something more to the gesture then simply offering a parting gift.

He flashed his usual charming smile and stood to accept the token, neatly tucking it away in his jacket pocket, "I appreciate the gesture. Both this, and the need for the added security. Just goes to show you CCD types are not yet blinded by your power, yes? Took but one tiny stone in a boy's sling to down the giant, Goliath."


He turned to leave but stopped at the door at Michael's last comment. "Jerusalem, yes. I fly there next, to finalize the paperwork for the Légion's field office, and warehouses in Ashdod. Adieu, Mr Vellas."


Minutes later he exited the building to the compound. His waiting men were ready to go by the time he reached the vehicles, and Jacques handed Cpl Ime the e-file from Mr Vellas. "Top priority. I need this turned into a framed poster for my office."
He fixed the man with a knowing look, and after a moment's hesitation the clerk caught on and nodded his understanding.

"Provost Boipello. Back to the hotel please. But take the scenic route, will you? We might as well enjoy the sights while we are here, yes?"
Jacques chuckled at the man's annoyed expression; driving on the streets of Mecca was a pain in the ass, to say the least. Half the time the streets were choked with camels and horses from those bass-ackwards desert tribes, or were impromptu open-air markets. Or the protests, peaceful or otherwise. Or the pilgrims. He shook his head quietly and turned to talk to the two escort vehicle drivers, as well as that of the Citroën. They were going to draw a lot of looks on those streets, he was certain.

With them constantly on the move, Ime would have the time he would need to figure out what Michael had hidden in the file and Jacques would have plenty of time to peruse it before they need be concerned about surveillance again.

[Michael Vellas]

After Jacques left, Michael was left in thought. The Legion was both a thrilling and dangerous piece on the board. If only he knew where the CCD had placed them...

He dismissed the clerical staff when they inquired about any further requirements and ordered his guards to inform anyone who wished to see him that he had retired for the day. That done, he opened his private line and imprinted a small coded message: AN EYE ON THE STORM. Hopefully the message was clear enough; he dare not make it any plainer in case the CCD had decided to hack his private system – which was all too possible.

The rest, as they say, is in the lap of the Gods.

***
Nights in old Saudi Arabia were infinitely more comfortable than the days but it was still a far cry from peaceful.

Michael sat at his desk, his stiff black coat buttoned up to the throat. While the northerners burned in the sun, Michael found it a refreshing reminder of winter back home, if a bit chilly as the cold swept in from the desert night.

It was a rare moment of quiet that allowed him time to savour the power undisturbed. He had intensified his nightly exercises, pushing himself to the limits of capacity and fatigue. The prospect of imminent war stuck in his mind like a leech, draining his patience and equilibrium – rare as it was.

This night he spun his nets with a renewed vibrancy, the tendrils of Spirit mixed with a touch of each of the other four spreading from the room, pulsing with power. His control and variance of the spun Wards was increasing rapidly. He had begun to discern male from female, human from beast although with mixed success.

His eyes closed of their own accord and he let instinct and practise guide the patterns that formed – he saw them clearly in his mind – drinking in all that was liquid life and death. Lately, he had experimented with multiple webs spinning concurrently. At first he had almost killed himself in a backlash of disrupted power, but such things happened infrequently now. Alongside the nets of Warding tendrils of Air and Fire whipped the air around him at regulated intervals like lashes of lightning. Filled to the brim with power, Michael was content.

The Wardings were the only thing that saved him. His eyes flashed open in surprise as a blur struck. He only had time to see the faint traces of mist curl in the dim light before the air was ripped from his lungs as he started to move.

Pain lanced through his chest and his grip on the power strained. Metallic wetness flowed upwards through his throat. His vision wavered like a magnifying glass passing over his eyes before he scrambled his wits and forced himself to focus.

“Who...”
the words were hard to form, so he abandoned them; it wasn't important if he died for it in any case. He lifted his eyes to meet the dead gaze of a pale-faced man. At least, it took the form of one, but not even the hardest of soldiers had such inhuman eyes.

It lifted a dripping red hand with a smile before becoming a blur once more. Michael’s only link was the vague sense of movement set off by his Wardings. He lashed out with the power – a vicious web of rage and hatred – throwing himself to the left towards the back wall.

The web flew wide and dissipated as another sharp pain deadened his right shoulder. Michael’s left hand shot out to grip the thing’s arm but caught only mist. His eyes widened and a wordless growl escaped his throat.

Human blended seamlessly with mist as it undulated and jumped backwards. Desperate, Michael spun Fire, razing a wall of molten flame before his eyes, separating himself from the thing. Its face hardened like a beast deprived of a meal and Michael managed to straighten himself to lock eyes. He would not show weakness to the bastard; it deserved nothing but contempt, even if it killed him.

As the flames crackled, Michael felt his legs grow heavy and his shoulders began to slump. The power allowed him to ignore the pain, but he knew time grew short. He attempted another net, but it was all he could do to keep the power in his grasp and his body upright.

After what could have been years, the creature’s eyes flickered towards the entrance. Michael heard something... but it was faint and distant, the last vestiges of his concentration were reserved on one thing alone. The noise grew louder and the creature scowled, giving him a look that promised death before fading to mist before his eyes.

He released the fires and swayed on his feet before stumbling back to sit at his desk. Pain now consumed his entire body. Whatever the thing was, Michael hoped from the marrow in his bones that he never laid eyes on it again.
Edited by Michael Vellas, Feb 3 2014, 04:49 PM.

[Torri]

Torri spent the entire day tapping away at the keyboard, swiping through mountains of data, and perched on the edge of her seat until the results came through. Jacques' DNA workup took no time at all, but what slowed her up was the cross-analysis with about a half-million other genotypes.

Finally, she was in the middle of a chat with her mom when the alert flooded her workscreen. "Mom, I have to go."
Torri said swiftly, "Love to dad,"
and disconnected.

She filtered through screen after screen of data and sought the summary at the end.

'Environmental causation: negative. She read. A slow grin crossed her face for the first time since the Facility transfer went into effect.

"This means the genetic commonality linking Sickness patients has no environmental effect."
She'd never been so excited to see negative data in her whole life. How much she'd give for Jacques (or a first degree relative of his) to have had the Sickness! The conclusions would have been in the bag.

She sat back in her desk chair like a sack of potatoes. She finally had a straight path to pursue, thanks to a little extra blood of one charming French transplant. As she thought, her eyes drifted to the Ascendancy's symbol hovering on the edge of the screen, and she suddenly realized an idea.

Curiosity blinked away the fatigue from her eyes, and she went back to the reports from the Ascendancy's bloodwork. She chastised herself for not thinking of this sooner. Nikolai Brandon was another transplant just like Jacques. An American living in Russia! She ran the same cross-correlation analysis and after a moment of thinking, the system delivered the same result.

'Environmental causation: negative. But this time, there was an extra novelty. The same biomarker tags for the Sickness were flagged significant. Torri's brow furrowed in confusion. "The Ascendancy had the Sickness?"
If he had, she'd remained ignorant of it. Of course the man was in his sixties. If his onset fit the generic profile, his Sickness would have emerged at... the turn of the century! This discovery raised a whole other level of disturbance.

"Michael."
She said aloud, and decided it was time to talk to him. Not only about Jacques, but perhaps to pitch ideas back and forth. Besides, she was bloody tired of being treated like an outsider on base by everyone else. She shrugged into her uniform jacket, and left her white labcoat behind for the moment, and sought his office.

She raised her hand to knock, but noises behind the door gave her pause. She hesitantly turned the knob, and when the door swung open, she was met with the roaring heat of fire.

"Oh my God!"
She uttered, and was ready to spin to trigger an alarm when she realized the flames occupied a single towering sheet, like a pane of glass. Michael stood on one side, and on the other hovered a shimmering, opaque shape of a man lusting for blood.

On base, she wore no sidearm or other means of weaponry, but she wasn't sure it would have done her much good anyway. The creature screamed silent frustration, then dissolved like fog on a hot mirror.

The fire quenched suddenly, but smoke hung heavy on the air. Michael collapsed in his chair, seemingly unaware of her presence.

"Michael!"
She said. The pain on his face was plain. At least to Torri. She entered against all instinct to run away, and went to his side to assess the damage. Apart from making sure he was all in one piece, she had no words. "The hell?"

[Michael Vellas]

The power brought sharper awareness, something Michael wished he could do without, although he suspected his consciousness would fade if he released it. As it was, he was sharply aware of pain and little else. Perhaps he was dying, he could not tell. It was probably best to have the wounds tended to, but he could not muster the strength to rise. Relief flooded throughout his body like a hypnotic wave. It was gone. It was gone.

Despite the power, it took him long moments to realise someone had entered. It took another moment to recognize the face and voice.

"The hell?"


He drew on the power to breaking point to muster his facilities. It took long moments to achieve, but when he did, his gaze was alert and mind clear. "I think you just saved me life,"
he said in a tight voice, cool in the detachment he forced upon himself. "Thank you."


Clarity also allowed him to assess the situation, although he did not waste time dwelling on the specifics. "It would be best to keep this as quiet as possible. This was not an attempt by al-Hasan's men."
He could not know for sure, but he doubted the...thing was hired. "There can be no friction, not from this."
Not that the bastards would care, but it might rile their pride in the CCD and take offence.

He paused a moment, catching the look in Dr. Weston's eye for the first time, realising the incredibility of what had happened. He could not quite believe it himself. He was likely in grave danger of bleeding to death, but he needed to know. "What did you see?"



Edited by Michael Vellas, Feb 5 2014, 04:50 PM.