Hyeonverse: Kissed By Darkness

Author's Notes:

This story runs alongside The Vulture of Minsk.

A big thank you to Decal_Last, Ravenna933 and MrBadKitty357 for your help trying to mold this letter soup of mine into readable form.

In A Game For Six, Cormac mentions he hasn't seen his children in 40 years. This story changes that number to 10-15 years. Retcon whiplash, sorry.

GEMINI FALLEN

There will be no tears when I'm gone.

My life isn't a redemption story of heroic sacrifice, it's a cautionary tale.

I'm the bad guy.

I have no illusions on this subject, I'm an evil prick who's tasted it all: pussy, pleasure, power, and prestige.

In the end, you know what I've learned and what really matters? True friends.

Hold onto them, and cherish them because nothing is as important.

The world is just too unkind on your own.

I never knew how good I had it til I lost mine.

<<<<<>>>>>

Paris, 1985.

Her long white legs wrapped around his colossal black frame, pulling him to her.

Their rhythm was relentless, ferocious. These weren't lovers mating, these were gods fucking.

"Vicky! Oh, fuck! You're amazing!"

"Miam Miam, je sais," she chuckled with mischief, biting Cormac's lower lip. Their greedy eyes devoured each other, refusing to blink and miss one iota.

"Oh! Hmm, oui! Cormac, je... putain..." her voice cracked under a cresting climax.

"Vicky, I'm cumming too! I'm cumming too! Ooh, Vicky!" He raced her toward bliss, straining the bed springs to the limit.

"C-Cormac! Oh, I'm... Cormac, I'm... cyka bl--" she writhed as multiple orgasms rippled across her body.

Their ravenous mouths swallowed each other as the gods peaked, and for one moment, everything in the world was perfect. Panting, their sated bodies merged in a snug embrace.

Amid the sweat-soaked mess of her red hair, Vicky's piercing green eyes glared at me. Cormac followed her fiery gaze to find me gawking at them.

"Cassiel?!" He snapped. "Dude, do you mind?"

"Sorry," I whispered. "I forgot my coat."

"This isn't a spectator sport, man!" He threw a pillow at my silver head, slamming the hostel room door shut.

Wham!

That was the last time I saw Vicky.

To say that my friend fell madly in love with her would have been an understatement.

Cormac was mesmerized by those stern green eyes manning the kiosk outside Chez Morgause, the bashful inn we usually stayed at when visiting Paris in between missions.

Their voracious sexcapade didn't last a week.

Zodiac Team One was a special operations force responsible for paramilitary operations and clandestine or covert political actions the U.S. government does not wish to be associated with. We scrambled the very next Monday to assist Team Four in capturing the terrorist cell behind the Frankfurt Airport bomb attack.

Upon our return, Cormac scoured Paris searching for her, but it was as if Vicky had never existed. Nobody knew or even remembered her. Despair drove him mad, and it broke my heart seeing him this lost, staring at the blank walls for days on end.

"Come on, it's beer o'clock!" I latched onto his arm, dragging the big guy from one bar to another.

The ladies couldn't stop checking my perfect white hair and my splendid shoes. Inviting glances were offered, but I was there for my grieving friend. With my busted vocal cords, I can't talk too much or too loud, so I sat listening to Cormac reminisce about women, embarrassing boot camp memories, the geopolitics of cocoa prices, and the decline of New Wave music. I laughed until my throat ached.

In a way, Cormac Peters was the brother I should have had.

We hit it off right away at Basic Training, he blabbered a lot and I said little. We were the perfect duo.

Cormac was this lanky black kid with the lightest fingers I had ever seen. After spending his youth lifting tourists' wallets at the Detroit Riverfront, his luck eventually ran out and he got into a fight. A bad one, his cop sister Ama had to move Heaven and Earth to save her baby brother from jail. It cost her her job in the force.

Filled with guilt, Cormac enlisted. This was his one chance to clean up his act and it worked. Cormac bulked up, focused on his education and fast tracked his way to the Tier One Special Mission Units where he was handpicked to join, and later lead a Zodiac Team.

His contagious laughter and upbeat personality changed me, his crazy attitude toward life rubbed onto the whole crew. I was just some backwater hick who could handle himself in a knife fight. This magnificent bastard taught me everything I know.

From El Salvador to Lebanon, from Grenada to Chad, he saved my butt more times than I could count and my life in more ways than I could imagine.

I was half drunk, marveling at how screwed up my life could have been if I had never met him when they ambushed us stumbling down Rue Dancourt.

"Vicky! Come back, Vicky! We miss youuuh!" We sang to the moon, laughing like two goofballs.

"Ey-ey-ey, Cormac, I'm sorry she's gone, man, I really am," I sputtered. "The way you two looked at each other, now that was love."

"No, my silver-haired friend, it was just wild sex," he lied. "Wild French redhead sex, a trifecta! A-a quadfecta."

"No-no-no, man trust me on this, this-this is my entire expertise. That was true! Love! Ask me how I know."

A steroid mountain of a beast of a man materialized in front of us, shoving Cormac.

"Watch it, buddy!" Cormac grunted.

"Who's this jackass?" I closed in, fists clenched. Shithead, you don't put your paws on my brother, ever.

""Cassiel, behind you!"--Cormac turned to me, shouting: "Knife!"

Fear sobered me up on the spot.

I spun on my heels, the switchblade stabbed air.

A prostitute in a fur coat creeping up on my six, silent as a ghost. My combat training kicked in on cue, a jab to the chest sent her reeling a step back.

Her massive pimp swung two brass knuckles at Cormac. None connected.

The cocksucker towered over my humongous friend. They traded feints and hooks, sizing each other. It was a stalemate.

"Wro... wrong package, we-we asked the moon for a Vicky"--My tipsy hands reached for my knife, pig on a stick! I had left it at base.

I grabbed and swung a derelict monobloc chair instead: "Ha... have a seat."

Our eyes met and realization struck hers, the element of surprise was lost.

Twice still, her steel stung thermoplastic, pointlessly.

Dismayed, she tilted her head at the pimp and both beat a retreat.

What a way to wrap a perfectly fine drunken evening.

"Boss man, you have eyes on the back of your head!" I grinned, the adrenaline rush pushing my busted voice above a whisper. "How the hell did you see that knife coming?"

"That was Systema." He picked his hat off the ground, dusting it. Fun Cormac was gone, this was serious Cormac now. Mr. Team Leader. I could picture the gears in his head spinning. "That fighting style. They were Spetsnaz."

"Women in the Soviet Special Forces? No way, man no how. Ask me how I know."

"Cassiel." Cormac glared at me. "Do you wanna tell me why the Russians just tried to kill you, Cassiel?"

One, two. A cold shiver crawled down my spine, Cormac only used my name this many times when he was bullshitting or really upset.

"Kill us, you mean," I lied. He was right, the Bratva (Russian Mob) was after my neck.

"No, Cassiel. The big guy was just a distraction, you were the real target." His hulking 6'5 loomed over me. "Cassiel, are you smuggling drugs again?"

"W... why would you say something like that? Cormac, it's me man. Your brother from another Mot--"

The little black book I carried in my breast pocket was in his hands. Those bloody pickpocket fingers of his! Cormac flipped through my handwriting, trying to crack the code to my contacts list and records of transactions and shipments.

He finally gave up, handing it back: "We're done here."

"Cormac, come on..."

"I've told you, repeatedly: Three strikes and you're out. Three strikes and you're out. I am done protecting you, start packing. I'm briefing the Colonel first thing when we get back to Base. You're off Team One."

An abyss opened before me, I was finished. For a moment I was ten years old again, locked up in that basement screaming until I broke my voice.

"Cormac, please... this is all I have. You're my only friend, give me another chance. You used to lift wallets down at the Riverfront and Ama forgave you."

"That is why I gave you more chances than anyone! I trusted you, man I went to bat for you. Broke regulations for you. Three times."

"Don't do this to me, man." My knees hit pavement. "Please don't do this."

"Get up!" He gritted his teeth. The disappointment in his tone hurt more than my imminent Court-Martial. "Stop embarrassing yourself."

It was a gloomy train ride back to Chièvres.

"I can change," I mumbled all the way. "I swear I can change."

"Cassiel, go to sleep," Cormac moved on the seat, covering his face with his hat.

JAG fell on me with the full weight of the judicial system, I was lucky to get off on a dishonorable discharge. No, not luck. Cormac must have cashed in every favor he was owed to lighten my sentence. Dirty or not, I was still one of his boys.

"Go to the authorities and cut a deal before a sniper paints your silver hair red." He gave me his last words of advice.

Team One was reassigned to the USAG Army Base in Yongsan, Korea shortly thereafter.

Chaptered out from the military, I found myself miserable and alone overnight.

How could I have fucked everything up so badly? I had lost everything. I missed my friend. I missed the laughter, the good times and even the bad.

My brother Caspian started haunting me in my sleep shortly after. Figures...

I had lost the brother I chose for myself, only to get back that backstabbing bitch I got boned with. I resorted to alcohol to suppress those nightmares, and soon I was drinking myself into a stupor as I sank into the Parisian underbelly. The days melted into weeks as I burnt through my savings.

Fucking Bratva, this was all their fault! They had taken the best thing to ever happen in my life.

Grabbing my little black book of contacts, I assembled local talent with the last of my money and we hit them hard at L'Impertinent bistro on Rue Jouye-Rouve.

AK-47s at sunset, Russian Mob brains splattered all over the Summer Risotto; it was glorious!

I made it a point to personally behead their Pakhan (Grand Poobah) after the asshole bled all over my calfskin moccasins.

The waitress gawked at me in my ski mask, knees shaking when I dropped 100 Francs on her tray. It must have been a shock to the poor girl, the French don't usually tip, let alone this much.

"Calme-toi, ma petite." I booped her little nose with a bloodsoaked index finger, whispering: "D´ou je viens, on fait ça toujours (Where I'm from, we do this all the time)."

Jackpot!

Their turf, their hookers, all of their business was mine overnight. The exhilaration didn't last. The City of Love no longer held my interest, my eyes were now glued to Yongsan, Korea.

The Bratva retaliated three weeks later.

<<<<<>>>>>

We had finished our outdoor lunch at Saveurs du Matin, a quaint little café bar restaurant on the far end of Rue Riquet, by the water.

The Russian accountant with the profit numbers from the new Bulgarian hookers was running late and I was entertaining introducing my knife to his neck. These Eastern Bloc douchebags clearly didn't like me in charge and it was about time I started making some examples. Terror is good, horror is better.

"No, she had thicker eyebrows. What's the word... épais! Plus épais." I whispered to the washed-up artist sitting by my side and he pressed his pencil harder on the sketchbook.

His lineart was a squiggly mess, probably from cocaine withdrawal or the stress of being surrounded by violent criminals, but the man's talent was unquestionable.

One graphite stroke at a time, Vicky's likeness took shape, emerging from the canvas in all her stern beauty.

'It's her!' I smiled, ready to shout from the rooftops.

"Urk, this coffee is pure merde," Rémi, a disgraced French Foreign Legion vet cussed, breaking the drawing's enchantment. "This is no way to wrap up lunch. I know a place in Aubervilliers that makes homemade mkhabez, have you ever tasted them, Cassiel? Your whole mouth will explode in an orgasm."

"Get the fuck outta my face with that crap, Rémi, Jesus Christ!" My throat stung. The artist flinched with my eruption and his pencil jumped on the paper, carving a scar across Vicky's face. Fuck.

"Hey, it's okay," My arm surrounded his bony shoulders. "It's okay."

"Please," Rémi pleaded. "I promise you, they're to die for!"

"Just humor the little wanker," his older brother Hercule shrugged, lost in his Spirou comic mag. "They're actually quite good."

Hercule was a competent lieutenant, we had worked together many times before. Reliable. He was the one who had introduced me to the artist, 'a fallen star of the Marcinelle School'. You can tell a lot from a person by the shoes they wear and how they treat them. Hercule cared for his combat boots like old friends, polishing them with quiet devotion.

"Fine!" I groaned, throwing Rémi the keys to my sports coupe. "One paint scratch and I'll cut your throat."

The silly git frolicked toward my car, giddy as a goat.

"I swear to you," Rémi grinned, starting it. "They're to die for!"

A metallic click underneath its chassis.

BOOM!

My car exploded in a fireball.

Parasols, plates and cutlery flew in a storm of glass, metal, and plastic stabbing at us. The shockwave knocked me out cold.

<<<<<>>>>>

I woke up on the pavement, lightheaded. No injuries, no pain. How was this possible, was I dead? Vicky crouched by my side, her sharp green eyes studying me.

"They're trying to blow you up now?" She smiled. "You're REALLY not a people's person, are you?"

"Vicky!" I sat up, hugging her. "Where did you go? Cormac searched EVERYWHERE for you."

"I flew away." She pushed me away, then twisted her hands, joining the thumbs to form a dove. "Flap, flap, flap..."

"I'm SO happy I found you! Cormac is gonna be ECSTATIC, I found his girl!"

"I could as easily have been YOUR girl." Her smile grew cold. "With the flip of a coin."

"What do you mean?"

Mists surrounded us, this couldn't possibly be happening. Was I in a dream?

"You will never know." Her smile rekindled. "Why are you still here? I've already left and so has Cormac."

"I thought if I found you, maybe he would take me back..."

"You never will, Cormac searched and searched, and you KNOW how thorough he is. Wake up, I am long gone."

"But what if--"

"No, seriously! it's time to wake up!" She slapped me. "RÉVEILLE-TOI!"

<<<<<>>>>>

A piercing headache brought me back.

The acrid smell of ash filled the air. Burning gas, melted plastic and charred meat.

I was ushered into a silent world by an excruciating ring in my ears.

One of my French legionnaires crept over me, trying to remove my blazing jacket.

To my right, the artist trembled on the ground, pressing Vicky's drawing to his chest. To my left, the other Legionnaire guarded the perimeter with his Uzi at the ready, a sympathetic hand on Hercule's shoulder as my lieutenant sat on the debris weeping his brother's death.

I too had lost a brother to an explosion, once. Caspian, that piece of shit!

I pushed the memory away, I wasn't that terrified little boy screaming in that dark basement anymore.

My hearing returned with the engine of a Renault 4 rolling by, a blue-haired punk girl at the wheel. Those angry Slavic eyes, where had I seen them before?

The ambush! She was the Russian prostitute in the fur coat.

The steroid giant on the back seat flashed a shotgun.

"Ice them!" I snapped, turning to my legionnaires. "Vas-y, tirez sur ces cochons!"

Twin Uzis shouted in vain at the fleeing vehicle:

Trrrat-tat-trrrat!

"Fuck! Fuck! Fucking fuck! " I cursed, anger suppressing the fountain of pain in my larynx: "This sorta crap would never have happened when I had Cormac covering my back!"

He was not only my best friend, but also my lucky charm, my rabbit's foot. My Guardian angel.

The Russian accountant's head was mailed to the Soviet embassy that same day.

Two Mob brigadiers' joined it the next morning, and four more enforcers the day after. Alarmed by the bodycount, the Bratva scrambled a delegation from Little Odessa to negotiate terms.

'Why are you still here? I've already left and so has Cormac,' my dream had told me. My friend was in Korea, why the fuck was I still in Paris? Tired of their crap, I agreed to turn over their territories for a small fortune.

I paid my legionaries handsomely and, with Russian Mob money falling out of my pockets, I waved goodbye to the City of Lights, booking the first flight headed east.

Wearing a finely tailored Lanvin suit, with my sleek white hair combed to the back, I oozed through the Orly airport leaving the fragrance of Jean Paul Gaultier's Le Male behind as I headed for my new life. And the shoes, man, you've gotta invest in your monk straps. It's the first thing the ladies notice.

Aboard, a petite blabbermouth from Merna, in Nebraska claimed the window seat.

First time abroad, she was a College of Saint Mary graduate touring Europe. Freckled pixies aren't my thing, but she was painfully cute and her flaming red hair reminded me of Vicky.

It's as if the fucking stars had winked at me. She could be my olive branch, a peace offering to my friend! My smile grew into a grin.

"First time in Istanbul?"

"Yeah," she beamed. "My friends told me not to miss the Hagia Sophia."

"Oh, you're gonna miss it alright," I peered into her soul, watching her big brown eyes widen. "Ask me how I know."

Her name was Amber Clark, my future wife.

She was blushing like an adolescent when I led her by the hand to a hostel in Harem Iskelesi street. As we waited for the consièrge to hand us our key, I surrounded her in my arms and my lips took hers. Her inexperience was touching, don't kids have sex in college anymore?

Lazy as a Sunday morning, my tongue taught hers how to dance and her whole body melted. Had... had she just bloody fainted on me? My middle finger entered her and the little minx gasped in delight and fake outrage: