Fire and Blood
Fire and blood swirled in a frenzy.
Black smoke choked the air no matter where he looked. Crimson flashes pierced through it, vicious arcs bent solely on killing. Their wielders bellowed.
"Traitor!"
"You dare point your blade at us!"
"I'll never forgive you!"
In that instant, a gray flash sliced through the shadows. It cleaved their shouts. It parted the storm of raging flames and blood beyond. Then a voice echoed from the other side. A heavy voice.
"I saw you as my own son."
"You were my successor."
But the gray flash in his hand sliced even that voice. Deeper, stickier tones reverberated then.
"You'll never set down your sword. It's your nature now—strife is your soul."
It was true. The gray flash was one with his hand, inseparable. So he raised that hand and severed the deep voice too.
Beyond it stood a woman. Dying in his arms. Looking up at him with endlessly sorrowful eyes.
Even on the brink of death, she spoke calmly.
"I love you, Roque."
Roque's eyes fluttered open.
He lay there staring blankly at the ceiling. After a moment, he touched his eyes. Just a bit of sleep crust—dry as bone. He seemed to remember tears once upon a time.
Lazing in bed, Roque finally sat up. He gazed out the window at the pitch-black night sky.
A dark sky, devoid of stars. The ground lights were too bright. Beneath the black canopy, the city's glow shimmered like stars and galaxies spilled down to earth. Of course, Roque knew well that the glittering city's heart was as cold as ice, far from the warmth its lights suggested.
Gazing out the window, he draped the thin blanket over his shoulders like a shawl and rose. He shuffled to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Its light illuminated his face.
Half-eaten pizza, a sandwich—nothing appealing. Roque snorted and grabbed a beer can. The fridge clunked shut.
Beer in hand, he ambled to the living room and flopped onto the sofa. The can hissed, bubbling with tiny foam. Roque sank deep into the cushions, eyes downcast on the froth.
He hadn't turned on any lights, so the apartment was dim. City lights from the window and the occasional sweep of police aerodyne—flying vehicle—headlights provided fleeting brightness. Then shadows reclaimed the space.
The beer's foam settled. Condensation beaded the cold can instead.
His finger idly toyed with a droplet. It smeared and trickled down.
Roque looked up and murmured quietly.
"Television."
The screen in the corner flickered on. A sharply dressed host chattered away as studio audience laughter and cheers erupted. Then a famous actor joined, bantering noisily with the host.
Jokes from the host. Witty retorts from the actor. Roaring applause from the crowd. Band music, smooth camera work. Roque fiddled with the beer's moisture, watching silently.
About two weeks since the last job, he figured. He hadn't tracked the days precisely. Philip hadn't called after wiring the payout. Probably cleaning up Melissa's mess and dealing with her referrer. Those two gigs must've rattled him.
Roque didn't mind much. The pay was solid, and if Philip proved unreliable, plenty of other brokers in Midland's mercenary scene. Clean operators like him were rare.
He lounged deep in the sofa, eyes on the colorful TV flicker for a long while. The show ended, ads rolled, then an old black-and-white film began.
A tale of family vendetta, lover's passion, and young hearts torn between. The woman on screen said,
"Let's just run away. Far away, where even your father can't find us."
"I'm sorry. I can't do that. Forgive me, my love."
"Ah... alright. But I still love you—"
"Power off."
The screen went dark. The apartment's sole light vanished, shadows swallowing everything. Roque sank into them. Then light filtered in from outside—a hologram ad on the opposite building. Red light bathed the room like a darkroom's safelight.
The hazy glow hit the beer can. The droplets had long dried, but Roque hadn't taken a sip.
Staring at it, he tossed the blanket aside and stood. He dumped the beer in the kitchen sink, crushed the empty can into the trash, grabbed his jacket from the sofa back, and left the apartment.
Through the gloomy hall and creaky elevator to the parking garage. He slid into his beloved ride and fired it up. The Black Knight glided out.
The black knight charged into the city nightscape. Glaring signs and towering skyscrapers framed its path.
Roque drove without destination. Multicolored lights flashed past the windows. His deep eyes stared blankly, like watching TV back home.
After a long drive, a sign caught his eye: Change Diner, open 24 hours. The Black Knight slowed.
He pulled to the curb, got out, and walked in. Busier than last time—four or five patrons now, up from two or three.
Scanning the room, he took a stool at the bar. A waitress approached with a menu, pen clicking.
"Welcome. What can I get..."
Her eyes widened. Meeting her gaze, Roque nodded casually in greeting. A warm smile lit the brown-haired waitress's face.
"Back again. How've you been?"
"Surviving."
"Thanks for last time."
Roque shrugged it off. Gratitude made him awkward. Reading him, she kept smiling.
"What'll it be?"
"Coffee."
"Right away."
True to her word, she set a steaming mug before him, poured from the pot, and added a slice of cake.
Roque glanced up. She winked with a soft "On the house" and left. He felt his lips twitch upward.
Coffee and cake. A few forkfuls finished it. He sipped quietly. Then a tsk-tsk from nearby.
"End times, I tell ya. Terrorists running wild."
He turned. An old man at the far bar shook his head at the diner's TV. It covered today's implant factory bombing by the Tree's Children, reading their statement aloud.
"End times? They just gave those corporate scum a taste of their own medicine."
A voice from a back table. Roque and the old man turned. A burly orc in shades, face tattooed black, toyed with his tusks.
The old man frowned. "Doesn't make it right to hurt people."
"Only one exec got dinged, not the workers. Licking corp boots for a paycheck? Gotta expect that."
"Heavens, if those corps collapse, Midland's economy..."
Red glow flashed in the orc's shades.
"Economy that crumbles without 'em? Better it falls fast. How many crushed under those golden towers already—or soon to be?"
"Still, those corps made Midland a world city..."
"Try that crap in front of families of factory workers who died of cancer, no comp."
The debate soured to glares. The orc's cyber eyes gleamed menacingly through shades—trouble brewing.
But a voice cut in.
"More coffee?"
The brown-haired waitress. The old man coughed. The orc crossed his arms, staring out the window. As she refilled the old man's mug, he asked,
"Emily. You agree with that?"
"Dunno. Not really my thing."
She smoothly deflected, then refilled the orc's too. He stayed silent, gaze outward.
Roque watched blankly, sipped his coffee. No brawl after all. Old folks weren't pushovers anymore—pricey implants let 90-year-olds sprint 100 meters in nine seconds. The orc hadn't backed down either.
As he sipped, a face appeared across the bar. The waitress.
Meeting his eyes, she said bluntly,
"Okay. I'm Emily."
"...Roque."
"Too bad. Wanted to hear yours first."
"What's the difference?"
Emily smiled softly.
"Not much, I guess."
Her smile was nice; Roque felt a faint one tug at his own lips. Her cheeks pinked.
Hesitating, she fidgeted on.
"Um... my shift ends in an hour today..."
Roque's eyes widened. Crystal-clear signal. No reason to refuse. He started to nod with a smile.
But a voice echoed in his mind. Those eyes gazing at him.
I love you, Roque.
He stared into space, silent. Emily tilted her head.
"Roque?"
"...Sorry. Got business at dawn."
Her eyes rounded.
"Oh... yeah, okay. Heh. Actually, I forgot something too. Didn't have to be tonight anyway."
Face flushed, she babbled, grabbed the coffee pot, and fled. Roque toyed with his mug handle, steam rising faintly.
Then he felt eyes. The old man glared disapprovingly. Catching Roque's gaze, he coughed, shook his head slowly, and turned back to the TV. Roque gave a wry smile.
Awkward to linger, he left bills on the counter and stood. Emily, taking orders nearby, hurried over.
"Leaving?"
"I'll come back. When dawn's free."
Her face brightened.
"...See you next time."
Roque nodded, left without looking back. The door jingled shut.
Back in the car, he gunned it. The Black Knight roared forward.
He wandered neon-drenched streets. Through crowded downtown, along winding coastal roads. The radio blared orc ballads to frantic synth pop.
Wherever the road led, he floored it. Eventually, he crested Dragon Hills on Midland's east side.
Westward, skyscrapers choked the horizon.
But dawn's fierce light from the east turned them to blazing desert pillars. The city that shone alone through the dark was truly beautiful only now, as the sun rose.
Roque leaned on the hood, taking it in. Was all that wandering for this view?
Then the car's terminal lit up. A voice boomed.
A familiar voice. Another broker like Philip—a goblin named William.
Turning from Midland's shining pillars, Roque faced the terminal. The car door thunked shut. The muscle car's engine growled to life. His hand shifted into gear.
Backlit by the brilliant sunrise, the Black Knight tore down the road.