Seven

Hand of Fate

Baron Von Strab stood at a viewport of the Kenjin hotel, watching his loyal followers incinerate one of the hotel rooms. He took a puff of smoke from his cigarette, watching the flame-lighted night of Belias. His attention was focused on the old district where his followers were doing his work, eradicating the filth from the city.

And yet, it all could have been avoided as he crushed his cigarette.

Slowly, he took out the faded, wrinkled card from his pocket that the old man had given him, musing over its frayed artwork with a distasteful look. He had given him a choice, tell the future of the cards and do not lie to him.

But he had to pull out the death card.

So now his whole block must argue against the bullets of the faithful and taste the pyre in which they burn.

Baron Von Strab crumbled the card and watched the wind seize the little paper and carry it onto the night as it faded away.

They had all lied to him, the false prophet. Death was a mortal concept for the feeble man, He had wrestled Belias from the Imperium’s grasp, seized the public with an iron fist, and controlled the public market.

He signed, adjusting one of the little suspenders that guarded his fat body against the pull of gravity. It was just another day and he smiled more broadly, laughing at himself at the simple idea that people didn’t learn not to bite the hand that feeds them. The whole universe lay at his finger, open to the man who could make the right decision. And those heretics had to be exposed, routed, and burned to show them his mercy. And they make it so easy.

A door opened behind him. Baron Von Strab studied the reflection in the night-blacked viewport, clicking a small red button on his cane before turning.

Thane Silverwit advanced into the chamber, but Baron saw through the facade. He watched his skin slough off, his uniform drop to the floor, and his body shrink as his face shifted into the more feminine feature to reveal pale skin like polished marble. Her movement gave her away from the start, there was no weight to his movement, everything was controlled, every movement fluid and perfectly timed. It was deliberate, or at least he had hope.

“Hello, assassin. Your presence does not surprise me at all. I have known you were here since you arrived, an ill-bearing gift from the emperor himself. After all, you aren’t the first,” the Baron rumbled.

He studied the somber mask she wore, the unblemished face, and the shaded slits of almond brown that showed no sign of human emotion. A trained killer at birth from the academy, but this was the first time he had seen a skin-changer.

She drew a thin knife from her skin-tight uniform, seemingly from thin air, raising the knife to her forehead in a mocking salute, “So you are Baron Von Strab. You’re a lot smaller than I heard.”

There was a motion of men at the door, the mutton face of his guard peering at him, waiting for his command. They looked oddly sheeplike as he watched them through the blacked window.

The assassin moved closer, and he watched, taking another drag from his cigar. It would only take one move, a raise of his hand and she would be either caught or dead.

Baron Von Strab saw the calculated look in her eyes. Her movement was catlike in its sudden fluidity. The knife, glistening in the night, flashed, posied for his open chest.

But no blood spilled as his soldier flooded the room, setting their gun to stun mode as they took aim.

She toppled. No bending or softening. It was like watching a tree fall, all the grace and prosperity seemingly leaving her body as she crumbled.

“Take her to the interrogation cell,” he declared triumphantly. It was another victory for him, securing himself as the tyrant of Belias.

The voice felt far away. She could feel the chain around her wrist, the ache of her muscles, her cracked lip, and the dry taster of thirst whispering in her mouth. Time became a sequence of layers for her as she slowly felt the drug effects wear off.

Opening her eyes, she was greeted with the scantly clad dungeon room, the low-bearing lights swinging above her and casting long shadows against the wall. A table separated her from a gross, fat man on the other side, the remains of a well-to-do meal laid out in front of him. She felt the chain and noticed the firmness of the chair as she looked around, taking in her surroundings.

The Baron was an odious man. In a world ruled by poverty and strength, he seem contridict every aspect of life on Belias. Since she arrived, she noticed the difference between the mass and the elite, but the Baron was something different entirely. Everyone here was underweight, the skin stretched tight against their bone and their body tanned from the unbearable heat that caressed Belias. But the Baron showed no signs that he lived here, he was nearly 1,0000 pounds, drank and eat excessively while the poor struggle earning a morsel. Everything about him was grotesque, to the excess food that linger on his face to the way his lips were upturned, proud of his latest catch.

They stood, facing each, as she noted the passage of time but without a way of telling, its length escaped him until the baron spoke, his raspy voice mocking.

“Who sent you to kill me!”

She stared at him. Watching the frustration bubbling underneath the thinly veiled attempt at being civil.

“I will not ask again!” the Baron sneered, spraying spit all over the table.

“I did not come here to kill you,” the assassain sneered.

“Then what do you call this,” Von Strab threw down five cards and the knife they had confiscated onto the table. With delicate precision, he flipped the cards down, replaying the same message that all those false prophet had deliver.

Sundering,Harbringer,Fool,Death

“This seems to tell a different story!”

The assassin laughed, and a vein twitched in the Baron face, anger seething and bubbling over as he slammed his fist into the table. She reached over, grabbing the knife to twirl it in her finger. With a swift catlike motion she brought the blade down, pinning her hand against the table before pulling it free with a single shred of emotion.

“You cannot break me Baron.”

“Many have claimed that,” the Baron retorted, spittle flying out of his bright red face as he took a drag from his cigar.

“You are a man whose cruelty only matches his arrogance,” the assassin calmly spoke, “And the tarot card, the prophets you burned like slumps of trash, they were all right.”

Something snapped in the Baron face as he threw the plate across the room, shards of glass shattering upon impact with the wall.

“Read them to me,” the Baron screamed, teeth clenched with hidden rage. He felt his blood boiling, his lifesupport beeping from his side that was warning him to take a breath.

“Fine,” the assassin muttered, reaching over to tap two cards, “ You were a promising man, with all your training and might you could have been the harbinger of the emperor light. But you tasted greed, knew what it felt like and hungered for more. A child you were once, marred by the atrocities of war and yet you were saved only to repay that favor with your betrayal.”

“What do the other cards mean!”

The assassin leaned back, “Have you ever faced the horrors of the universe. I am no mere acolyte or one of your handy man. I have seen the myriad forms of death, fought against the xenos and the untrusted. You have spent years avoiding death and yet it was always here to begin with.”

The Baron chuckled, laughing at the absurdity she was making, “You are a dangerous thing for sure, but you dare come here and make fun of me. I give you credit but you, like all the rest, have failed.”

“Are you sure? I’m not your assassin,” she laughed, “I’ve come to play a double role. Keep you distracted like the fool you are.”

A confused expression crossed Baron Von Strab’s face as he struggled to gasp her understanding. It wasn’t possible, the Imperium would never send another assassin unless…

The assassin cocked her head, smirking as she watched his shocked expression cross his face before the window shattered, spraying glass all over the table in between them. His face slumped forward, a blossom of red sprouting from his chest as she slipped out of the handcuffs.

Leaning forward, she signed and picked up the Death card from the tarot that lay prayed out in front of her, waving it in front of the window to signal the other assassin.

Hubris is the tool that the man uses to cut his own throat after all,” the assassin mocked, slowly changing into Baron Von Straub before exiting the room.

Humans after all were so easy to manipulate, she thought, waving to an oblivious soldier as she headed back to her ship.