EPISODE 7 - PART 2

- BLADE’S WHITE SIDE -

[WHITE]

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“I already said it, I can’t give you sensitive information,” Aston says with his arms crossed and looking to the side with an angry expression.

“Please!” Zack pleads. “Anything will help.”

Aston sighs in disapproval. “I won’t tell you anything.” He looks frowning with anger at Zack.

They all are inside Aston’s house, seating on a round light grey table as Fenik and Zack sit to the side closer to a window, which has its view blocked by a blue curtain.

“Aston…” Fenik says.

“Yes!?”

“You know how the WCSG works,” Fenik says methodically. “They don’t care about hostages if their mission gets fulfilled… so I doubt their first worry is to save Vincent.”

“W-Why are so worried about this Vincent guy?”

“Let’s say we have an objective in common.”

“We won’t tell anyone you helped us,” Zack says.

Aston hums in doubt. “I don’t know.”

Fenik sighs tiredly, standing up. “This was a waste of time.” He starts walking to the door. “It looks like we can’t do anything after all.”

“Wait,” Aston says abruptly. “The truth is, I was removed from the mission, all because I spoke to you that time.”

Fenik turns back, ready to listen.

“For what I heard, this is a big operation,” Aston continues. “But nothing justifies using an innocent as bait, that was part of the reason I stopped you from talking with that guy.” He stands up. “And that’s also why I don’t want you to go, I don’t want you to get involved in something this dangerous.”

“So, you are not going to help?”

“But you came here, even when…” Aston closes his fist, stopping himself. “So, if you really want to do it, I’ll help, but I need to know: you want this? Even if you get hurt or even die because of it?”

Zack is sitting on the chair looking at Fenik, unsure of what he’ll respond, but something deep inside his expressionless face says that there’s no doubt in his decision.

“I do.”

‘Why?‘ is the first thing that comes to Aston’s mind, but he didn’t have the courage to ask, looking at Fenik’s eyes, it might look unchanged for most people, but Aston can see it, that he’s determined to put real effort into it.

Just like when he first met him, here in the condominium at the park, long ago when it was used as a training ground, where both of them fought many times.

(“My son needs training; it would be good to have an opponent of the same level as him.” A bulky voice holds the shoulder of a younger Fenik with his hand.)

“Of course, Mr. Blade, I believe this will be good for both ways, and it is an honor for my son to duel one of the Blade family.” A skinnier man nudges the younger Aston.

“Right!” Aston says with a kind smile. “Nice to meet you, I’m Aston Elliott.” He goes a step forward and extends his arm for a handshake.

Fenik’s stares with cold eyes directly at Aston, making him retract his handshake attempt at the next second, then slightly bending his body as a greeting and opening a grin.

‘How dare you, dumb little shit, just because you’re “royal” you can’t handshake? I’m so going to beat your ass.’

“Be sure to treat him well, Aston.”

“Sure father, I always wanted a big brother, anyway,” Aston says with a happy smile.

With a single strike, Aston sends Fenik’s sword flying, and with another quick swing, he trusts his weapon to Fenik’s chest, pushing him to the ground.

‘Eat it, royal trash.’

Fenik seats before standing up again, placing his hand on the chest, but his face was still emotionless.

“Sorry, big brother, I fight so much with my father, that I’m not used to fight people way weaker than me,” Aston says with a gentle smile. “Are you all right?”

“I see.” Fenik pats his clothes. “Let’s do one more round.”

‘Sure, we will do plenty of those.’

Fight after fight, after less than four moves, Fenik was always the loser, the entire Sunday went by, until sunset when Mr. Blade came to pick Fenik up.

For some reason, as Fenik had to go, something seemed different about him, like he was sadder, but Aston chooses to ignore it, thinking it was his misinterpretation.

The next day he came back and they started training again. Battle after battle, Fenik lost all of them. After that day forward, they thought every weekend. It wasn’t only Aston that liked to win by a beating, but his father as well, the feeling of pride was recompensated with praise and rewards, as he received more toys, books and food, anything he could ask.

Beating a Blade never was so lucrative.

But day after day, Fenik’s skill increased quickly, at the beginning he didn’t even react besides blocking Aston’s blows, but then he started swinging the first attacks, then parrying, counter-attacks and soon enough his first clean body hit, and with that his first win.

Aston was angry, that was the worst day of his life, it was right on a round which his father came back home and stayed to watch a couple matches. And Fenik’s face was still emotionless.

“That was a good one!” Aston says with a gleeful grin “You finally won, I’ll start going in more seriously then.”

The next round, Aston indeed got more serious, actually, he did everything he got, just to have a technical win by an inch. He didn’t even need to look at his father’s worried face to know how bad it was, if that was a real battle, Aston would have taken off Fenik’s left arm, while he himself would be decapitated. What a win that would be.

The next rounds weren’t a piece of cake either, Aston started using all the techniques that once he used to win even against his father once or twice by tricking him, but not even them worked, right on the first try, they were blocked, just like it was any other swing. The rounds that lasted seconds, now are hours-long. Soon enough, there wasn’t even a single match Aston had won in a day.

“Son, are you okay?” His father asks. “You didn’t win once today, did you? I’ve seen it from the window, you aren’t going fast enough, or strong enough, are you sick?”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Aston looks up at his father, he needed a second to build his happy smile before continuing. “I’m okay, it’s just… I’m using the matches as a practice for Fenik, he looked so down when he just always lost, then I started letting him win. And didn’t it work? He got way better than before.”

Aston’s father wasn’t stupid, he knew that was a lie, he knew the swords techniques well enough to know it wasn’t that, but instead of being angry, he was feeling pity and worried, because his son said that confidently and was smiling. ‘Aston is being delusional enough to believe his own lie,’ he thought.

But that wasn’t it. Aston knew he was lying, but what would he do, cry? Stop fighting? Declare that Fenik was better than him? None of those are acceptable decisions.

His father came back inside the house, the sunset was starting, and so it was near the time for Fenik to go. Before they went for a last match, but now this last match can last hours, so it wouldn’t be good to stop it middle way, so they stood there, waiting for Mr. Blade to show up.

“I don’t like you,” Fenik says coldly, looking at the door that Aston’s father entered.

“Hm?”

“Your fake smile is annoying, stop doing it, smile when you want to, don’t force it.”

That was like someone slapped Aston’s face, he thought no one could see through it, but Fenik knew, and for how long?

Aston took a second before doing anything else, then his first action was instinctive, as natural as any human being could be, but it wasn’t to answer back, nor be angry.

“How it is now?” Aston asks.

Fenik looks to Aston’s face with a big happy smile close to him. “Stop faking it, I said it already.”

“Whaat? I thought that was my best one! And this one?”

Fenik hums in anger. “That’s even worse.”

(“And this one? Maybe like this?” He says changing his face with his fingers. “This one is good, right?”)

To be honest, Aston’s life didn’t have any objective, no direction to go, until that emotionless boy that is in front of him appeared, now he does have a dream:

Beat the crap out of this “royal trash”.

The last thing he wants is for his rival to die trying to save a random person that appeared in his life, but…

Fenik looks at his eyes, emotionless, as ever.

…He wouldn’t want his rival to be weak, if Fenik has the will to fight in him, something that he was losing this entire time, ‘then he would help him even if it costs his own life.

“OK, I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Windcut civil area’s outmost layer – Same day, Night

Two people walk on the narrow streets, their shoes almost in sync.

(“On the day he missed, there were reports of a boy yelling for help at night, and near them, someone was killed with a .45 fire gun, one that was shot a few times at the streets.”)

Both of them stop.

“That’s it?” Zack asks.

(“He could be anywhere, but if I were to bet… I don’t think he would be brought to a house, not at first, the houses do have thick walls but I doubt they would be confident enough to have anyone hostage with a bunch of neighbors nearby.”)

In front of them is a double door of metal to what looks like a small square cabin of stone with no windows.

Fenik goes forward, grabbing the long door’s handles and opening it, showing its dark inners to a staircase that leads downwards.

Zack starts going down, but Fenik stops him.

“Don’t be stupid,” Fenik says in a cold tone.

“Aren’t we going in?”

“That’s not it. Do you remember in the first day’s fight?”

“The mockup duel?”

“Yeah.” Fenik nods slightly. “Do you remember why you lost to me so easily?”

“I didn’t ‘lost easily’…”

“You go way too head-on into your problems.” Fenik looks down to the tunnels. “You don’t think or observe, you just keep trying to attack, relentlessly,” his tone is methodical, just like always. “It’ll kill you one day. Try not to do that.”

Zack hesitates for a moment. “Okay,” he nods.

(“A place in the fortress which is forgotten, but has easy access to anyone.”)

They start walking down the stairs.

(“Somewhere you could hide and use as a central base with numerous escape points and rooms to be in.”)

Without much time, they were out of sight from the surface’s street.

(“A place where no one would hear your screams, no matter how loud you make it.”)

The door slowly starts to close until a thud is heard, drawing the attention of a passerby, which looks at it with a frown.

(“There’s only one place those conditions match…”)

Looking up, he could barely read the old warning board above with its brown rust and peeled paint:

    EMERGENCY TUNNEL C 5

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Emergency Tunnel C?

From another entrance to the emergency tunnels, someone walks down the stairs to the underground, his black dress shoes echoes a hollow wood-like noise at the stone walls followed by a more metallic sound after every two steps.

One step at a time, until there were no more stairs.

In front, the yellowish light from a lamp on the ground highlights the two men in casual clothes that are sitting on metal chairs, one on each side of a silver door, both of them were almost asleep before the door’s noise announce its opening with its old rustiness from inside, and other two men appear, both laughing of something, until all four of them look forward with worry in their eyes, making both that were guarding the place to stand up and for the two who came to close the door at their back.

One step at a time, the newcomer with black shoes, a black suit, a black homburg, white gloves and a walking stick comes to face them.

“Hold, sir. What’s your business here?” The right guard asks.

“I’m here to pick up my son,” he responds with a kind smile.

They look at each other.

“Is that a code?” The same guard whispers to the other.

“He does look like a beneficiary, so maybe it is?”

“But why come in person?”

“Is there a problem?” The newcomer asks.

“Uh…” The guard clears his throat. “Sir, I need to check you with my superiors… what’s your name?”

“I see, my name’s Andriel De Vaught.”

“De Vaught… do you know any with that name?”

The two in the middle shake their heads.

“Ok, stay there sir, I’ll be right back.” The guard pushes through to open the door, but before he could go:

“That’s not necessary,” Andriel says, placing his walking stick to the wall so he could stand without it.

“Oh- and why is that, sir?”

“If you’re so kind to spare some of your time,” Andriel lifts his hand, “do you know why I use white gloves?”

“Sir…”

“The thing is, humans are very strange beings, they need to know if someone is dangerous or not, so they always follow the same pattern to search for information.”

The four men look at each other.

“The first thing is that they look at the other’s eyes to check for an expression, if they see any malice, then they know it’s dangerous,” Andriel smiles kindly, closing his eyes and then looking to his left hand.

The men frown in doubt, starting to go for their hidden guns or knives at their waist.

“The next point is the other’s hands, to check if he’s using any weapons, if he does, then you know he is dangerous.” He slowly shows both sides of each hand, showing he’s unarmed.

The door closes, as the guard straightens forward.

“Then, the final place, the other’s entire body, if it has anything suspicious, then he knows it’s dangerous.” He opens his arms so they can see his black suit better, but besides being stylish, it doesn’t have anything special.

The men look confused at Andriel, still trying to comprehend the riddle, if it was some kind of message or the code to enter, but it didn’t look like it.

“Cool and all, but what the hell your gloves have to do with it?” The left middle man asks.

“Oh, that’s simple,” Andriel swiftly cuts the air by extending both of his arms with his palms upwards, as if presenting a surprise, “that’s so I can easily trick my enemies.”

Only the noise of grunts and strong electrical clicks remain, as the blue light brightens Andriel’s face the four men drop to the ground, each one with a knife-like pierced on their bodies, which are generating small bolts between two spikes in the handle.

After about five seconds, the noises come to a stop.

“I’m too old for this…” Andriel mumbles taking his walking stick back and massaging his right shoulder.

Behind him, more steps, but these are silent ones, as a dozen soldiers come in rows from the shadows, all using helmets, black masks, and ballistic vests, armed with dark steel flat-sided submachine guns, with a very thin triangular movable stock and a hexagonal barrel. This armament tells two things to anyone who sees it: first, it’s top military quality, no doubt about it; and second, the hexagonal barrel shows they are for anti-personnel use only, it wasn’t made to kill SAE at all.

By the side of the soldiers' uniforms, the four-letter initials are written in cloth: WC.S.G.

“Let’s make this quick, yes?” Andriel continues forward, not looking back. “My son is waiting for me.”