- Yann Martel, Life of Pi (2001), Chapter 56, p. 178
He couldn't remember the name of the town, nor what problem he'd solved in the first place.
All he knew was that it was early in the morning, he was fully dressed for some reason and he had a bottle of bourbon in one hand. His head was thumping, although he'd grown used to that by now, and there was a market sale going on outside. From the window of the inn, he could see the populace engaged in the fine art of bartering - shoving, shouting and shilling, the Three S's of Commerce - and filling the air with loud, impatient voices and the clattering of goods. Even though he knew full well this was just going to join the hundreds of other market scenes he'd seen in a big blurry smear, he watched them anyway, in the detached way a dog watches lizards scurrying around.
They probably didn't even remember he was here. Typical. He'd probably put his life on the line for them again, judging from the claw marks on his torso, and they completely forgot about it over the course of a single night. Shows you exactly the kind of gratitude he got - a fleeting "thank you" party, with cake on rare occasions, a speech from a mayor, perhaps a kiss from his daughter. Thank you for saving our lives, Destined Hero, now fuck off so we can get on with our miserable lives and pretend there wasn't a horrible monster that needed killing. Nobody put up any statues or left a plaque in his name or stuff like that. He liked plaques.
Then again, the claw marks could have been from that cute girl who'd been ogling him last night. He remembered that much, at least.
He was in the middle of taking a swig from the bottle when there was a knocking sound to his right.
Puzzled, he looked towards the door, mouth full of bourbon. Then he swallowed, heaved a heavy sigh and set the bottle down on the table that stood between him and the window, when it would have been much better next to the bed. The glass, unused but taken out from force of habit, went back in the drawer to avoid aside glances and awkward questions from the visitor at his door. As he approached the door, he ran one hand through sweaty blonde locks in a futile attempt to make himself look at least presentable, just in case it was the mayor's daughter looking to throw another present his way for his earlier actions.
...Hey, maybe she left those scratches on him.
"Yes?" he asked, half mumbled, as he opened the door.
And then Mr. Silver punched him in the face.
-------
Okay, this one is gonna take some explaining...
It was some time after... Whitestone - I forget just how long. I'd taken a few jobs after that, slain a few monsters and rescued a few girls. Met a weird alternate universe version of myself at a ruined church - I'm still not sure what happened there. Oh, yeah, and I killed Marduk, who turned out to look nothing like it did on that mural, I'm sorry to say. But my heart wasn't in it anymore. The old gang had left me, I was struggling to survive on my own and nobody in the world had any sympathy - it was still them asking me to mow the lawn and me rolling my eyes. Only replace the rolling of eyes with heavy drinking and fantasies of caving their heads in. Dark times, indeed.
Anyway, I may have said something before about how everyone loves the Destined Hero. That may have been bullshit, because it turns out there's quite a few people who don't like the idea of one man beeing preordained to be oh so fucking great at everything. Not that I asked for the job, mind you, but some fuckwits will always be ready to point fingers, it seems. They usually come in two varieties, in my experience - cackling "Dark Lords" that handle the concept of being evil like it's a party balloon full of helium, or raving extremists who rant on about how I'm an affront to whatever bullshit religion or morals they hold so dear.
Mr. Silver wasn't any of those.
-------
Spots flared in front of Sam's eyes, yet his reflexes were still sharp. Automatically, he yanked the door shut as the second punch came flying at him, wood splintering as Mr. Silver made a ragged hole in it. Quickly, the other arm came swinging at him, but the blond warrior ducked smoothly under it, causing his attacker to stumble against the door and into the room, leaving his side exposed. A jab to the solar plexus elicited a cough, and was followed by a haymaker to the face that clanged. But none of these fazed Mr. Silver in any way, and his response was a vicious backhand that made Sam spin around, toppling like a felled tree to the floor.
Dimly, the Destined Hero was aware of the poor door breaking up even further, and made an effort to get to his feet and fight back. He got as far as one knee before two fists slammed between his shoulder blades, knocking the breath from his body and his body to the floor, and his forehead bounced against the wood panelling in a manner that whispered "concussion" in his ears. Those same hands then clasped hold of him, one on his jacket and the other on the hem of his pants, and Mr. Silver lifted him clear off the floor before throwing him across the room with a grunt of effort.
By chance, Nicodemus' flailing hands grabbed onto the chandelier that hung over the room, and his momentum brought him into a clumsy swing rather than a collision with the opposite wall. The ceiling creaked ominously as he reached the apex, but he ignored it, twisting around as he came down to bring both feet into Mr. Silver's chest. It felt like kicking a brick wall, the impact shivering up his legs like icy water, but by the same token the bulky oppressor staggered backwards a fair distance, giving Samuel some breathing room. Releasing his grip, the shorter man dropped heavily to the floor, now able to get a clear look at his attacker.
It was some time after... Whitestone - I forget just how long. I'd taken a few jobs after that, slain a few monsters and rescued a few girls. Met a weird alternate universe version of myself at a ruined church - I'm still not sure what happened there. Oh, yeah, and I killed Marduk, who turned out to look nothing like it did on that mural, I'm sorry to say. But my heart wasn't in it anymore. The old gang had left me, I was struggling to survive on my own and nobody in the world had any sympathy - it was still them asking me to mow the lawn and me rolling my eyes. Only replace the rolling of eyes with heavy drinking and fantasies of caving their heads in. Dark times, indeed.
Anyway, I may have said something before about how everyone loves the Destined Hero. That may have been bullshit, because it turns out there's quite a few people who don't like the idea of one man beeing preordained to be oh so fucking great at everything. Not that I asked for the job, mind you, but some fuckwits will always be ready to point fingers, it seems. They usually come in two varieties, in my experience - cackling "Dark Lords" that handle the concept of being evil like it's a party balloon full of helium, or raving extremists who rant on about how I'm an affront to whatever bullshit religion or morals they hold so dear.
Mr. Silver wasn't any of those.
-------
Spots flared in front of Sam's eyes, yet his reflexes were still sharp. Automatically, he yanked the door shut as the second punch came flying at him, wood splintering as Mr. Silver made a ragged hole in it. Quickly, the other arm came swinging at him, but the blond warrior ducked smoothly under it, causing his attacker to stumble against the door and into the room, leaving his side exposed. A jab to the solar plexus elicited a cough, and was followed by a haymaker to the face that clanged. But none of these fazed Mr. Silver in any way, and his response was a vicious backhand that made Sam spin around, toppling like a felled tree to the floor.
Dimly, the Destined Hero was aware of the poor door breaking up even further, and made an effort to get to his feet and fight back. He got as far as one knee before two fists slammed between his shoulder blades, knocking the breath from his body and his body to the floor, and his forehead bounced against the wood panelling in a manner that whispered "concussion" in his ears. Those same hands then clasped hold of him, one on his jacket and the other on the hem of his pants, and Mr. Silver lifted him clear off the floor before throwing him across the room with a grunt of effort.
By chance, Nicodemus' flailing hands grabbed onto the chandelier that hung over the room, and his momentum brought him into a clumsy swing rather than a collision with the opposite wall. The ceiling creaked ominously as he reached the apex, but he ignored it, twisting around as he came down to bring both feet into Mr. Silver's chest. It felt like kicking a brick wall, the impact shivering up his legs like icy water, but by the same token the bulky oppressor staggered backwards a fair distance, giving Samuel some breathing room. Releasing his grip, the shorter man dropped heavily to the floor, now able to get a clear look at his attacker.
The metal-clad man soon recovered, advancing slowly towards Samuel with ponderous footfalls that rattled the loose objects on the shelves. Mind racing, the Destined Hero looked about the room, seeking a weapon of some sort. Vases, chairs and lamps were immediately available, but all of them were no good - they'd shatter on impact and wouldn't even so much as scratch on his attacker. There was the Grandius, but it was too heavy for such a small, enclosed space. By the time he'd swung it, his head would be caved in, or in the act of picking it up he'd have his head taken off. If only there was a-
Ah-hah.
Sam moved like a cheetah on caffeine, grabbing the hilt of the Grandius and yanking it upwards with a sharp tug. The hidden blade drew out with it's trademark sharp snikt of metal scraping on metal, and the blonde wheeled about just as Mr. Silver was looming over him, expressionless eyes staring down at him as he approached. With a cry born of desperate terror, Nicodemus lunged forward, burying the blade right into his opponent's left shoulder with a crack of breaking metal and the squish of punctured flesh. Blood immediately tricked from the wound, oozing over the ruptured iron like dark red treacle, and Sam gave a shout of triumph as he looked up at his foe.
And turned pale as the wound elicited no reaction at all.
He couldn't tell, for the mask obscured every bit of Mr. Silver's face save his eyes, but the chrome-plated killer seemed as though he was smiling triumphantly. Then a gloved hand clamped itself around his wrist, and the vice-like grip forced a gasp of pain and surprise from the young man as his adversary tugged on it sharply. He tried to fight back, but the inexorable strength of his foe was too much, slowly drawing the blood-coated blade out of the flesh with a sickening slurp as the Destined Hero's arm was forced backwards. Mr. Silver didn't even give any sign that it hurt, continuing to glare down with faceless indifference.
"Um," was as far as Nicodemus got before a foot slammed into his crotch. The blond doubled over, eyes wide with agony, and he would have screamed out loud had a hand not wrapped around his throat, choking him. The next thing he knew, he was being hoisted into the air and shoved against the wall with a thump, the breath leaving his body once more as Mr. Silver pinned him to the cheap plasterboard. But the worst sight of all, which he caught from the corner of his eye, was the glint of the blade crawling slowly closer - his own weapon was slowly being forced back towards him by the hand that gripped his own wrist, his foe's intentions clear.
Fear lanced through Sam's mind and his free arm reached up to grasp the opposing arm, pushing back with all his might.
It didn't work.
With the precision of a surgeon, the armoured assassin pushed the metal point deep into the left shoulder.
And this time, Sam really did scream.
-------
Mr. Silver was a Class A - Magnetism. Only problem was, when it first activated, it was so powerful it ended up attracting loads of junk metal to his body, where it stuck and never came off. It also ended up muffling his powers, so in the end he could only use it in a really localized area around him, about the size of the average bedroom. Not that it mattered - when you're capable of throwing trucks clear across the street, powers don't really make a difference. For that reason, he got tough and mean real quick, and soon nobody dared say his name out loud without looking over their shoulder first. Just in case.
At some point in his life, he ended up joining a special group of powerful Ubers, seven in all, that worked as mercenaries for hire. They were known as the Magpies, because of course they fucking were, and they specialized in swaggering about being massive dicks. But they soon grew unruly and out of control, and thus four even stronger Ubers were elected by... some dumbass... to govern the four major territories for the King. Under the tougher laws and penalties of the Heavenly Kings, the Magpies just basically got stifled, unable to do anything without the law coming down on them. Most of them went into hiding - only Mr. Silver carried on with the old ways, like a stubborn mule.
-------
Mr. Silver was a Class A - Magnetism. Only problem was, when it first activated, it was so powerful it ended up attracting loads of junk metal to his body, where it stuck and never came off. It also ended up muffling his powers, so in the end he could only use it in a really localized area around him, about the size of the average bedroom. Not that it mattered - when you're capable of throwing trucks clear across the street, powers don't really make a difference. For that reason, he got tough and mean real quick, and soon nobody dared say his name out loud without looking over their shoulder first. Just in case.
At some point in his life, he ended up joining a special group of powerful Ubers, seven in all, that worked as mercenaries for hire. They were known as the Magpies, because of course they fucking were, and they specialized in swaggering about being massive dicks. But they soon grew unruly and out of control, and thus four even stronger Ubers were elected by... some dumbass... to govern the four major territories for the King. Under the tougher laws and penalties of the Heavenly Kings, the Magpies just basically got stifled, unable to do anything without the law coming down on them. Most of them went into hiding - only Mr. Silver carried on with the old ways, like a stubborn mule.
-------
Suitcases were still a thing in this world. Of course they were - they were an absolute necessity. It's quite amazing that in any world, no matter the tech level and no matter the culture, this humble piece of luggage should be an enduring constant. Here, for example, they were often seen in the company of travellers and bards looking to make a name for themselves, as well as the typical tourists and holidaymakers that can be found almost anywhere. And as is always the case, they come in many varieties, from the simple flat style carried under one arm or over a shoulder, to the wheeled trolley pulled along by the classic extendable handle.
Most suitcases, however, aren't made of reinforced Valarium. One of the toughest metals on this world.
This one was.
It wasn't Sam's - he never carried much more than the Grandius, his wallet and a few other small necessities. Whose it was, however, the blonde warrior didn't dwell on, instead reaching up with one arm, yanking it from the shelf and bringing it down onto Mr. Silver's head. There was a terrific clang, and the huge attacker staggered backwards from the impact, dropping his victim to the ground and inadvertently yanking the knife from his shoulder at the same time. For the briefest of moments, as Sam gasped for air, he thought he was finally going to get some space from this rutheless madman.
He was proven wrong when Mr. Silver came for him again, slamming him against the wall once more, and his head bounced off a solid surface for the second time that day. Oh, yes, and there was a knee being rammed into his crotch - the wheezy howl that tore itself from the Destined Hero was more than proof enough of how painful that was getting. Then the world span as the tin-plated titan dragged him away from the wall and flung him across the room again, this time to bounce against the table he'd been standing near a minute or so ago. Funny how things had come full circle now.
Alright, said Sam's brain, status report. Head: rings like a fucking whore-house doorbell during the Summer Sale. Ribs: more than likely cracked from that impact just now. Shoulder: hurts like a bitch, but we still got the knife, so that's something. Spine: hates plasterboard right now. Dick: aaaaaaargh. Overall, not looking so good.
As he struggled to stand up, head swimming and short on breath, the warrior's ears once again heard the ponderous footfalls approaching.
Need something bigger.
The hand grasping the knife searched, found, fumbled.
Got you.
Click.
The fist that was on it's way down suddenly rebounded, and the Grandius went schwing as it cut through the air. Before Mr. Silver had a chance to move again, Sam was on his feet and swinging again, and this time he was the faster mover. The flat of the blade caught the bigger man a terrific ding across his face, his body jerking backwards and sideways from the force of it, and to the smaller man's surprise something actually came off, clattering to to the floor. For a moment, as Samuel Baker shuffled backwards, sword poised in readiness for another swing, there was stillness and quiet.
It wasn't Sam's - he never carried much more than the Grandius, his wallet and a few other small necessities. Whose it was, however, the blonde warrior didn't dwell on, instead reaching up with one arm, yanking it from the shelf and bringing it down onto Mr. Silver's head. There was a terrific clang, and the huge attacker staggered backwards from the impact, dropping his victim to the ground and inadvertently yanking the knife from his shoulder at the same time. For the briefest of moments, as Sam gasped for air, he thought he was finally going to get some space from this rutheless madman.
He was proven wrong when Mr. Silver came for him again, slamming him against the wall once more, and his head bounced off a solid surface for the second time that day. Oh, yes, and there was a knee being rammed into his crotch - the wheezy howl that tore itself from the Destined Hero was more than proof enough of how painful that was getting. Then the world span as the tin-plated titan dragged him away from the wall and flung him across the room again, this time to bounce against the table he'd been standing near a minute or so ago. Funny how things had come full circle now.
Alright, said Sam's brain, status report. Head: rings like a fucking whore-house doorbell during the Summer Sale. Ribs: more than likely cracked from that impact just now. Shoulder: hurts like a bitch, but we still got the knife, so that's something. Spine: hates plasterboard right now. Dick: aaaaaaargh. Overall, not looking so good.
As he struggled to stand up, head swimming and short on breath, the warrior's ears once again heard the ponderous footfalls approaching.
Need something bigger.
The hand grasping the knife searched, found, fumbled.
Got you.
Click.
The fist that was on it's way down suddenly rebounded, and the Grandius went schwing as it cut through the air. Before Mr. Silver had a chance to move again, Sam was on his feet and swinging again, and this time he was the faster mover. The flat of the blade caught the bigger man a terrific ding across his face, his body jerking backwards and sideways from the force of it, and to the smaller man's surprise something actually came off, clattering to to the floor. For a moment, as Samuel Baker shuffled backwards, sword poised in readiness for another swing, there was stillness and quiet.
Then Mr. Silver turned.
And Sam nearly swore.
The man's faceplate had been completely sheared off, a ragged edge over the left check being all that remained. His face was wizened and gaunt, with a darkened complexion and scraggly whips of grey hair peeking from the top of the helm. Blood was flowing freely from a broken nose, and a bruise was beginning to develop beneath one eye. But once again the Magpie was showing complete indifference to his injuries, standing as tall as if he'd just gotten dressed for the day ahead.
The thin lips cracked into a smile, showing yellowing teeth.
"You fight well, friend," croaked Mr. Silver, speaking for the first time.
Nicodemus swung again, and yelped as two strong hands caught the Grandius.
"But not well enough."
-------
Funnily enough, the man who named his establishment the "Inn Between Worlds" had no idea at all of what that action would entail. At the time, he thought he was just making some clever pun that would help the place get a few more customers in the area. And who could blame him - the village was in the middle of assfuck nowhere and needed all the revenue it could get from whoever was passing through at the time. The yearly gala was becoming more and more of a farce, and it seemed all the tax money nowadays was going towards that doddering mayor and his whore of a daughter, whom only last night had thrown herself upon that rodeo clown Nicodemus. Any means to ensure income, right?
It wasn't long, however, before he began to notice something a bit off about the clientele. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on - the unusual languages they spoke, the occasional yellowish tentacle, the one giant spider who'd politely asked for a coffee - but there was definitely something... off about the people who came here. Not that he minded, for strange business is better than no business after all, but it would have been a lot less unnerving if he could actually see the customers entering and exiting, rather than simply appearing and disappearing at random.
This man would soon learn that building a pub on top of a hairline fault in space and time, invisible to all but the most sensitive thaumokinetics, has some very strange consequences.
But right now, as he cowered behind his bar counter, he was learning that when a metallic man walks into your bar and asks for Nicodemus on "urgent business", you call the fucking police.
Because that man may end up slamming someone's head in a fridge door.
Because that man may end up slamming someone's head in a fridge door.
-------
"My God," drawled Mr. Silver a minute later, "you take eternity to kill."
Sam's only response to this was a drawn-out, croaking wail as he dragged himself away from the battered fridge, pushing himself through the wreckage of a commode as he did so. To elaborate - after being thrown across the room by the metal-plated maniac, the Destined Hero had crawled to what he had thought was safety in the bathroom, only to be reminded that wooden doors do not stop a determined giant coated in scrap. Yet another kick in the crotch (that wasn't getting old, no sir) sent him out of the way as Mr. Silver reached down and pulled the toilet out of it's fixtures. And which unfortunate soul had it thrown into his gut just as he was staggering to his feet, sending him through the wall?
It was amazing he'd kept hold of the Grandius during all this.
Not good, his brain was croaking out in between spurting blood out of his ears. Head hurts, ribs now broken, skull fractured, less said about the dick the better. Gotta do something. Preferably find the divine being who set this shit up and cut his fucking head off. But until then...
A glint of light flashed across his eye, and out of reflex he looked up, although it was painful to do so. There, lying innocuously on the floor, was a small service pistol, of the kind most landlords bought for barkeeps to deter criminals. How it got there was a mystery - perhaps the man had pulled it out when he heard the commotion, but dropped it when the blonde had crashed through the wall and Mr. Silver had pursued him. But now was not the time to solve mysteries - now was the time to get rid of this maniac trying to reduce him to fine paste.
A trembling free hand reached out, fumbled with the handle of the pistol, found a grip. WIth a cry of triumph, Nicodemus swung around-
CRUNCH
And that was all it took to dash the blond's hopes like waves on a beach. As the hand released and fell away, Sam stared at the flattened barrel of the weapon for a few moments, as if it only existed in some horrible dream and he was going to wake up at any moment. When that didn't happen, he looked up at Mr. Silver, who was standing over him the same way a dog looms over the food bowl before din-dins.
"I fucking hate you," the hero croaked out.
"Is just business," was the reply.
And then, although he wasn't sure just how or why because his brain felt like porridge, Samuel Baker found himself flying towards a door again.
-------
I thought for sure that this was the end. That I was gonna get my shit ruined by a walking tin can with a vaguely European accent and bad dental hygiene. This was the end for me, for poor ol' Nicodemus, who'd died in his duty to defeat the evil Morpheus and his armies of darkness. Or, to be more accurate, the poor sod known as Samuel Baker who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time, almost every day of his life.
Seems that was just the beginning.
"My God," drawled Mr. Silver a minute later, "you take eternity to kill."
Sam's only response to this was a drawn-out, croaking wail as he dragged himself away from the battered fridge, pushing himself through the wreckage of a commode as he did so. To elaborate - after being thrown across the room by the metal-plated maniac, the Destined Hero had crawled to what he had thought was safety in the bathroom, only to be reminded that wooden doors do not stop a determined giant coated in scrap. Yet another kick in the crotch (that wasn't getting old, no sir) sent him out of the way as Mr. Silver reached down and pulled the toilet out of it's fixtures. And which unfortunate soul had it thrown into his gut just as he was staggering to his feet, sending him through the wall?
It was amazing he'd kept hold of the Grandius during all this.
Not good, his brain was croaking out in between spurting blood out of his ears. Head hurts, ribs now broken, skull fractured, less said about the dick the better. Gotta do something. Preferably find the divine being who set this shit up and cut his fucking head off. But until then...
A glint of light flashed across his eye, and out of reflex he looked up, although it was painful to do so. There, lying innocuously on the floor, was a small service pistol, of the kind most landlords bought for barkeeps to deter criminals. How it got there was a mystery - perhaps the man had pulled it out when he heard the commotion, but dropped it when the blonde had crashed through the wall and Mr. Silver had pursued him. But now was not the time to solve mysteries - now was the time to get rid of this maniac trying to reduce him to fine paste.
A trembling free hand reached out, fumbled with the handle of the pistol, found a grip. WIth a cry of triumph, Nicodemus swung around-
CRUNCH
And that was all it took to dash the blond's hopes like waves on a beach. As the hand released and fell away, Sam stared at the flattened barrel of the weapon for a few moments, as if it only existed in some horrible dream and he was going to wake up at any moment. When that didn't happen, he looked up at Mr. Silver, who was standing over him the same way a dog looms over the food bowl before din-dins.
"I fucking hate you," the hero croaked out.
"Is just business," was the reply.
And then, although he wasn't sure just how or why because his brain felt like porridge, Samuel Baker found himself flying towards a door again.
-------
I thought for sure that this was the end. That I was gonna get my shit ruined by a walking tin can with a vaguely European accent and bad dental hygiene. This was the end for me, for poor ol' Nicodemus, who'd died in his duty to defeat the evil Morpheus and his armies of darkness. Or, to be more accurate, the poor sod known as Samuel Baker who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time, almost every day of his life.
Seems that was just the beginning.
TO BE CONTINUED
Sooner than you think!
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