Chapter 15: ¿Quien es mi Hermano?
May 24, 2001
9:28 P.m.
Welcome sign, Albuquerque, New Mexico
Night had finally settled in, the sun having set as the darkness covered the land, lit up only by the stars and the pale moonlight. Cars roamed, street lights worked, and many a person went here and there as they continued their lives, acting as if it was still mid-day. No one seemed to bug the man standing beneath the sign that welcomed all to the city of Albuquerque, a growing metropolitan area that was quickly becoming a hive of activity for the state of New Mexico.
Henry Lionel’s interest did not lay within the city, the only one in the area that didn’t have an opinion of the streets and buildings that stood in the distance. Instead, just as formal as his many companions in Dockers and a Purple waist coat covering a crisp White collared shirt, the man tapped his dress shoes to the rhythm of a metronome as he thought of a song he had been practicing the days past, a thought provoking tune meant for the infamous Stradivarius.
Thankfully, he wasn’t left to muse the song until it had lost its appeal. A Turquois Ford Falcon, now with only two passengers and a mutt, rolled off the road and up to the welcome sign as the man took his seat in the back, not caring to wait for the butler to do it for him as he found himself seated safely.
With their passenger within, they sped back onto the road as they continued their trip for South Carolina, Fred at the wheel and Max asleep in the back. Jack, sitting up front, looked behind as he extended a warm handshake to his elder kind, the latter taking it graciously with a humor the one eyed man so sorely lacked.
“To this day I haven’t figured out if your choice in cars is a result of an obsession with movies or a attraction to the past. Perhaps a little bit of both.”
“Maybe because no one wants to try and steal a car that’s clearly past its prime.”
“Just like no one wants to hire a soldier who needs to settle down. Good to see you brother, and you to Sir Dornez.”
“Sir… haven’t heard that title in years. Had a good ring to it.” The driver commented, casting his eyes towards the rear view mirror for a moment.
“I’m not calling you sir, Fred.”
“Ah… well it was worth a shot.”
The Brown haired, fair skinned Lithuanian sitting in the passenger area laughed at that, stretching out as he made himself comfortable for the appointment. This is all it was, really; just a frank checkup, suggested by Roger, in ensuring the continued progress of the instrumentality project.
For without Jack, where would they be? No, even as sudden as it was Henry paid no heed, knowing how important his part could be. So, summoning his note book from the great nether through the use of Red light, the man uncapped a pen hanging from his waist shirt as he wrote the day’s date.
“So, what about massacring a bunch of gangsters has you troubled today, Jack? Was it ripping Rodrigo in half after he used the EEV, or did fighting your way through a sex den prove to make you ponder the worth of a man?”
“You know the details… Richard tell you?”
“I have him send reports whenever you take one of these so called field trips. For your wellbeing, of course.” The psychologist replied, writing a note to himself as the younger brother who appeared to be the same ago smirked. Though Henry was nearly eight years his superior, the man deliberately made himself look as if he was the equal; the lack of a beard and the well brushed, trimmed hair parted to the right helped a lot when you compared it to the unkempt soldier who wore jeans six days a week.
“Of course… well, then I’ll be quick. I had several people today call me out as a villain… who said I was either worst then them or their equal.”
“Black always thinks itself White. That is to be expected, especially as a tactic to deter you from your mission.”
“But today was different… I ripped Rodrigo in two. I killed hundreds of people at the Long Halloween… There is a sink hole bigger than a racing arena where Oliver’s racing stadium used to be… that’s not the markings of a man who’s supposed to represent mercy.”
The sound of a felt pen moving against the sheets was all that was said for nearly a minute, Henry articulating his thoughts as he made sure to document everything, even going back to previous entries and making connections on the spot as he evaluated his brother. So far, he had no sign to worry; this was all to be expected, all feelings that came with every good soldier, the sense of doubt in one’s mission.
So once he had done his work, Henry felt comfortable with what he had to say. “Your apostles, the twelve you will appoint, are charged to represent mercy. You are their boss, yes… but like Garland, you are expected to be complete. You are called to be judge, jury, and executioner, to be even as God in the sense of what liberties you have to fulfill your calling.
“It would be easier if you didn’t kill, of course. You have the strength to do so; there is not a single person you couldn’t capture alive. Yet you have been asked to execute permeant justice on the spot, however, to remind you of your overall duty. For that it is good that you continue to kill, even though none of your other apostles do.
“Which leads me to believe your guilt may be one of two things. Can you guess what they are?”
Jack pondered the question, his old mind working hard and coming up short. “One is that I feel as if I failed my calling… but the other I can’t guess.”
“The other is what happens to all soldiers. It’s the guilt that you’re succeeding in your duty.”
The driver, Fred Dornez, arched a eyebrow as he came to a Red light and pushed the brakes gently. Finding a moment to rest, he looked over his shoulder as he faced the Lithuanian with sharp, short sideburns that came to the bottom of his ear as the Spaniard asked
“Did you just say the Boss feels bad because he won?”
“Yes, I am. Does that really seem that strange to you… and the light’s green.”
The car moved, hitting a small bump as Henry nearly dropped his pen. Recovering, he began to write some more as he kept his head down, his voice elevating as he made himself heard.
“Survivor’s guilt is the more common name for it, though the reasons for its existence vary. Some do mourn the dead, wishing they had perished alongside their allies. Others find themselves wondering, fantasizing about how the world would have been better if they had failed.
“I interviewed your daughter, Vicky, after a mission where she was sent to North Korea during the Korean War to assassinate their leading nuclear scientist. Being Vic Boss, she was successful in the endeavor and returned home safely.
“When I questioned her afterwards about it, she nearly cried as she told me that she wished she hadn’t killed him. Crazy to us on the outside, of course; we know North Korea would have built a nuke and caused Armageddon during that Cold War.
“Yet Vicky saw it differently. She thought if he had lived, the Korean War would have ended two years early as they reached a treaty. All she could think about is how many of her own countrymen she could have saved, besides the families of those she widowed and orphaned would have been able to live happily.”
“I don’t see myself imagining a better world with Rodrigo in it.” Big Boss replied, the psychologist shaking his head at the comment.
“Yet you do imagine a time line where all the dealers, all the abusers, and all the other criminals you hunted down could go home tonight to see their friends and family. Every person you kill, young or old, woman or man, leaves a legacy and a void to be filled with his departure, no matter if it’s early or not. A reverberation, if you will, felt by all.”
Nothing he could say to argue against that, so they kept silent as they heard Max snore the night away, the driver doing his best to dodge cars as they sped along the road through the heart of the city. No sights caught their eye; nothing to distract them as Jack Wallace thought the meaning of his brother’s words to himself, unsure still of what to think.<
br />
So Henry did it for him. “You’ve been around for a long time, Jack. Killed and fought more than any other person I’ve met, save Garland and myself. Do you know I still feel guilty somedays that I shouldn’t do what I do? I eat people as a hobby, cooking the wicked and giving them their just punishment, and yet there are mornings where I pierce a slice of Bacon with my fork and hold it in front of me, unsure of whether hunting those worthy of death is something to be commended.
“Yet I always eat the rib, the bacon, the steak or anything else that I have made out of the damned that I consume. Do you know why I can?”
“Because you’re persona is Hannibal the Cannibal?” Fred joked, a bit of levity to help the tense air.
“Because if it’s not sausage I’m looking at, it’ll be the grave of the innocent. The promise of wickedness is death, and all those who do that which is pure evil will cause nothing but pure destruction. A bullet through a kidnapper spares dozens of children from losing their homes; a knife in the gut of a dealer prevents the hospital from receiving those who have either overdosed or acquired a STD. Rodrigo’s departure means not only that those he hurt are avenged, their wrongs made right, but that every Latin cop in LA can now rest easy, knowing they can answer the door without worrying that they’ll be eviscerated like it’s the second coming of the Spanish Inquisition.
“The worth of a soul is great in the eyes of the Lord, so much so that if you were to put a price on it would be infinity. If that is the case, than do the Calculus; doesn’t infinity to the tenth, the hundredth, and the thousandth power have more cardinality than that of infinity to the first power? Even if they’re technically equal in concept, in practice we do not regard them the same. Just as God sacrificed his one pure son to save all of corrupt humanity, so should we be willing to sacrifice one to aid the rest.
“That was the lesson taught to Abraham with Isaac. That is all we’re doing; living the Abrahamic covenant, peace makers by sacrificing all that the lord requires, even if it’s our own personal state of mind.”
“Abraham wasn’t a soldier.”
“Yet even Abraham is recorded to have used mercenaries. If the three hundred and eighteen who went with him to destroy the Elamites and rescue Lot do not fit the definition of warriors paid to kill, than I don’t know what you can call men like Constantine, Trevor and Adrian.”
The mutt Max growled in his sleep, rolling onto his back while Jack finally let himself rest, breathing hard as he continued to mull the brother’s wisdom. It wasn’t absolute; the soldier was finding that nothing would completely clear and alleviate him from all of the violence which he had wrought.
Yet it was enough for the night, at least to let him sleep. Closing his eye, he yawned once more as the weight of the day finally lifted, addressing his brother in both gratitude and departure.
“Thank you Henry… I’ll think it over. For now, I really need to rest… you can go if you like.”
“I think I will, though if you could drop me off that would be great. My good deed of the day, if you don’t mind.”
Fred could care less, pulling into the parking lot of some run down restaurant that had been foreclosed upon and boarded up over three years ago. It seemed no one was there, nothing of interest, though the butler could tell that the Lithuanian had picked out something in the darkness. Asking about it, he was ignored as Henry opened the door and closed it behind him, walking away without another word as the family separated once more, to be seen who knows when.
So the Ford Falcon left, pulling back onto the main street as it exited the city, already at the border as it began to accelerate and continue its way East. Fine by Henry; he’d find his own way home, once his so called charity was done.
Lying on the ground behind the dumpster was a lass, one bruised and bloodied with half of her teeth missing, her hair falling out and eyes Yellow from the long time abuse of meth. The wounds, however, were from a different source; her dealer, a burly man with a short fuse and even shorter stature, stood over her as he continued to beat her half naked form, his pants unzipped and falling off more and more with every movement as he prepared to receive payment for the debt the addict had to him in a form other than money.
At least, he would have, if he didn’t hear the tapping of shoes across the pavement, turning to find this thin man walking towards him with rhythm, his arms wrapped behind his back. Nothing to be afraid of; the dealer took out a knife and held it high, letting the rich stranger playing as Bruce Wayne see it as he waved the pig sticker.
“Hey prick. Buzz off, will ya? Man has the right to enjoy his go-”
Before he knew it, the dealer found his arm restrained with a strong, gloved hand wrapped around it, the boil covered dealer looking from his trapped appendage up to see that stranger was smiling, eyes shifting and beginning to Glow with a hungry, bloodthirsty Red that matched his waist coat. Only now did the dealer realize that the leather could not have been that shade naturally; only when he was this close did the dealer smell through the scents and the perfume the psychologist wore to detect the lingering aroma of barbecue and gore.
Meaning it was too late for the dealer to escape, Henry offering only one phrase of advice.
“Try not to scream. Causes the meat to ruin faster.”
The drug distributer couldn’t if he wanted to, Henry Lionel forcing his arm up as he bent his hand, causing the pig sticker to jab the side of his head and pierce his skull. The blade went deep and fast, cutting right through the Broca’s area and thus losing the ability to make any coherent sound.
Or really control his body at all, collateral damage from the nasty knife turned on him. Henry let the attempted rapist drop, the man clattering on the ground unmoving as his eyes darted wildly about, focusing for a moment on the women he was in the process of hurting as she stood and ran. An apology may have even tried to escape his throat, a plea for forgiveness, though it was hard to tell given that all he could sound was a long, soft moan.
“Hm. Given the color of your skin, the ginger hair, that short stature… you must be Irish, maybe Danish. Shame; I’ve had Angelo Saxon for the last three nights in a row. Ah well; at least I can prepare you with noodles. Ramen sounds particularly swell, especially for the guest that I’m having.
“Off we go.”
The man, a monster above that of Vampire, placed a hand on the dealer’s chest as Henry’s eyes shifted to Brown, his inherent power emanating from his soul escaping from his chest and covering the two. A few seconds past, time in which the dealer slowly began to move his hand to try and push his captor away, fearing for his life as he processed what fate had befell him.
No escape though. When the five second timer was done, the two were gone; nothing remained save a few drops of blood, marks that would wash away with the next day’s rain. One less ass hole in the world, one less demon to plague it.
With no memorial to remember his misdeeds, just as it should be.