prologues {burn} - [Kheft]

This man wanted to play games with him, with his life…and Marcellus felt far, far too weary to match him in it. The last few weeks had been brutal, and he’d watched children die; others fall apart like empty shells of human life. He’d helped pick apart their minds, pushing them beyond the limits of sanity and then recording each action and reaction that their animal instinct drove them to. He was stained, in a way that a criminal life had never come close to. He’d always managed to keep his hands clean, his conscience quiet. But now it threatened to break through and overwhelm him. Did it matter that everything done was for a good cause? Is it worth killing five unknown kids so that one very precious face could be saved?

Shades of gray

The food laid out was quality, if not elaborate, certainly far better than he’d eaten in…god knew when. Prisons and experimental facilities are not renowned for their exquisite cuisine. The smell of it was intoxicating. Spices and fresh produce…

With movements carefully restrained and measured, he allowed himself to fill one of the bread bowls with stew, accept a small dish of the sliced fruit, all the while repressing the desire to snatch at whatever was in arm’s reach. It is very easy to have the most formal of table manners when your stomach is ritually treated to a full meal, it takes a great deal of practice and control to do so when one’s navel is intimately associated with the backbone. It was, however, the front that he needed to present to Volkov, and it was what he wanted. Bored, this man was bored, and Marcellus presented an interesting puzzle to tinker with. If this is what it took to buy his freedom, then the games were afoot…for now.

“You have my file, it should tell you all that you need to know. I have no great mysteries Mr. Volkov, I am just a man ready to live under his own command once more.”

The cuff on the head was more insulting than it was painful, but revealing. It had been unlikely that Volkov would react to the insult, but his guards presented a plainer target. How controlled were they, and how familiar was Volkov with their reactions? How much had he trained them? These details were so much more than idle speculation; they were priceless nuggets of information if any escape attempt was to be made successfully. For all Marcellus’ knew, this could be an impeccably, hand-trained squadron that Volkov had worked with for years. Or, they could be a sloppy crew thrown together and handed over for this mission only. If the latter was true—and he was hoping for that—then it would be much easier to create some chaos and slip away. Alexei was not the weak link here; it would be the trust and cohesion between himself and his men.

The fact that the keeper reacted physically meant that while he might have been handpicked, he certainly hadn’t been fully trained by Volkov. That their leader hadn’t anticipated the reaction, also told Marcellus that it wasn’t likely his own man whose weaknesses he would be familiar with. With only the smallest of gestures, the guard was banished elsewhere, and he complied without a hint of argument. That fact, while not negating the other observances, was still a matter for concern. Obviously this man was someone that the underlings knew to obey regardless of their own tempers and desires.

His spoon had dipped back into the stew, dismissing the guards as if the incident had not occurred, when Alexei moved on to a topic that Marcellus was far from open to discussing. He lifted the spoonful to his lips, forcing a suddenly constricted throat to swallow the food without hesitation. Any small tic on his part would be easily read as concern or anxiety. “None that I’ve heard word of in over twenty years. Probably still some brothers and sisters about, if they haven’t died in stabbings or overdoses. The streets aren’t a kind place to grow up, and they don't lend themselves to growing old.”