Ain't War Hell?
By: Maximillian von Fischgeist
Chapter Four
The Enemy
The light in the room was dim. A small lamp clinging to a corner provided a stale, yellow glow. A
silver face, given a sinister golden tint by the whispered light, stared up at the rough ceiling. What
did it see there? What did it ever see?
______________________________________________________
Continued in Part Five!
The man seated at the table on which the metal mask rested should have known, but even he
sometimes wondered. That silver face was its own entity. It was tradition. It represented a long
line of... what? Proud men who attacked life rather than succumb to it? Noble men whose duty it
was to uphold the reputation of their family and safety of their lands? Or mercenaries who killed
for profit? Each bearer of that silver face had swept his way into conquest under the name
"Destro", but what did the name mean? Where exactly was the glory in hiding behind a false
visage, behind an assumed identity?
What special place would History hold for the name "Destro"?
"And if I knew, would I alter my ways?" the deep-voiced man at the table asked softly of no one
in particular. Indeed, he was alone in the stiflingly tiny room, his makeshift office. Alone except for
that face. That link to so many unknown selves who must have sat in a similar room, haunted by
similar questions.
He felt some cold relief as a knock sounded at the door; the coded knock of a trusted associate.
He was free now to let pride swallow philosophy as he took the silver face in hand and used it to
conceal his own. Face in place, identities merged into the persona of Destro, he intoned crisply,
"Come."
The door glided open (it hadn't been locked; the fact that the door was closed was lock enough)
and new light flooded into the dimness. Silhouetted in the door's frame was an ugly figure. If Mary
Shelley had lived in this time, she might have based the description of her doctor's monster on
Sebastian Bludd, who stepped into the room and closed the door. The details of his appearance
coalesced with the shifting of light back to its normal yellow haze. One dark eye, the good one,
glittering a peculiar amber in the dim lighting, stared at Destro. The other eye, a misshapen milky
blue marble embedded in a pink-taloned gray claw of dead flesh, was focused in no particular
direction (probably because the eye no longer had the power of focus). Ah, what a gory sight the
original wound must have been. What had caused it, Bludd never said. But, then, Destro never
asked. Bludd's jet black hair, highlighted by the soft glow to match the good eye, was a mess of
contradiction. It was dyed, Destro knew. The hair must have been naturally quite gray, but Bludd
was hellbent on keeping it darkened. Why he then ignored any styling of the hair (beyond keeping
it generally pretty short) was a mystery. The result was like black wildfire, caught and held in
mid-eruption as though by a clumsy Polaroid snapshot.
Bludd's lumpy face, scarred and battered, forever locked in a twisted sneer, hardly moved as he
spoke. "You wanted a report when it was done," he said, his Australian accent grinding the words
like an insect underfoot.
Destro pressed his hands together, pyramid-base to pyramid-base. "I heard the shots. Our bait
was taken?"
"It was. You remember, of course, our monetary arrangement for the men I've sacrificed?"
Destro cleared his throat, and wondered how it sounded to Bludd, whose interception of the
sound was on the other side of that second face. "Of course," he replied in a soothing tone. Ever
the mercenary, Bludd was concerned now with his payment. Destro knew he didn't care about the
loss of the men on the perimeter - after all, appearances had to be maintained for the assassins.
Bludd equated everything with money. He wanted compensation pay for five pieces of equipment.
That these particular tools were made of flesh and blood was of little consequence. "Our friends at
Extensive Enterprises are handling the transaction. The money should already be in your account.
Did you identify the assassins?"
"The redhead and the one called Lowlight," Bludd answered, noticeably relieved by Destro's
promise of payment. Everyone knew that Destro did not promise falsely. "And we got a bit of
luck. The redhead may not make it out alive."
Destro's arms tensed, his body froze in a sudden grip of horror. But he managed to keep the usual
reason in his voice. "You had strict orders not to kill."
Bludd smiled. Not a pretty sight. Reminiscent of a knife wound being pulled taut. "Only the pretty
was hit. One of them, at least, will get away safely."
Destro considered the situation. The bait (one Mr. Havershaw, former Cobra agent who'd lost
favor with his superiors over what was reportedly a small matter... again, Destro hadn't asked),
altered in appearance to be a twin for Remick Odem, was dead. Havershaw's assassins had made
their kill, one of them having been injured - perhaps fatally - in the process, and now were
assumedly fleeing. Assumedly? Destro never relied on assumption. "Have you ordered pursuit of
the... redhead" - Bludd's term was infectious - "and Lowlight?"
"Only a shadow." He was quick to add, "With specific orders not to hinder. Only to observe, at a
safe distance."
The pyramids of Destro's hands melded into a locked double-fist. "Then we have come to the end
of this charade. And now the real work can begin." He leaned back in his chair. "Anything else
important of which I should be aware?"
"Only that our transport out of here is on its way."
"They will make a thorough search of this place once we have fled. Burn the body, but leave some
remains. A corpse must be found, but must not be identifiable as not being Odem." Destro
unclasped his hands and rested them flat on the table, keeping his steady gaze on Bludd. "Our
'failure' here must look authentic. In what will be taken as haste to escape with our lives, we must
be sure to leave the usual false leads, as though we didn't have time to properly cover our tracks."
Bludd turned to leave and spoke over his shoulder. "I'm already on that. We leave in 20 minutes."
He opened the door and dissolved into the brightness from the hallway. The door shut, and once
again, Destro was alone.
Transport was imminent. Odem was still alive, though soon would be officially dead. This risky
gambit would be a success. Destro hadn't been comfortable with the idea from the beginning, but
could not dispute its cleverness. The Odem kidnapping had been quite bold. The only way to cool
the heat of such an undertaking was to have him recovered or killed. Well, now he had been
killed. Officially. Living on unofficially, he would, sooner or later (and now they had plenty of time
to work on him), provide Cobra with the means to hobble the United States.
Cobra would be the dominant force in North America. And at its head, wearing a silver face, the
man called Destro would build an empire to humble any that had come before.
There was just one small obstacle: The Cobra Commander...
Back to Maximillan's Fics!
Back to Authors Page!