"It will be done soon."
Ujuor watches the black-clad Lenisker agents powering down the last portal they'd maintained to that other place. He strokes his bare chin, contemplative. Tense.
"Interesting how they move, isn't it?" the Lady chimes in, hanging over his shoulder.
"Interesting how they don't move," Ujuor replies.
"Dr. B. used to work for Brantley, didn't he?" Oscuro asks, sullen, idly turning the glass between his hands. He is dissatisfied in this place, this above, this waiting.
"That was before his blood transfusion," Abbadonando answers quickly, throwing back his shot before he can take another breath. If only they had Hate Syrup.
"No, that doesn't follow. There is something missing. Some crucial piece of information."
"We could go down, break a few faces for info."
Oscuro downs his drink, shaking his head.
"You know the rule."
"He'll be back, won't he?" Abbadonando trembles, a voice uncertain.
"The Owl knows the Way to the Land of the Dead. You think he doesn't know the way back?"
Unconvincing. It has been weeks. The rest of the gang has dispersed, finding new haunts, new masters to serve. Was it part of a plan? Was there a plan? The lieutenants become more uncertain with each night gone by. Things in motion all around, nothing they can influence themselves.
Oscuro holds up two fingers to the bartender.
Two more. Two more. Two more.
The last lights of the sun machine. Soon the overgrowth will move in, taking back into itself all that was borrowed for that short window of time.
Dr. B. is enamoured by the flames, watching as the patient records burn up, all of them discharged back into the world. The great work would continue through their efforts, now free to their purpose.
"It will be done soon," he whispers, closing his eyes.
Darkness covers the abandoned plantation.
The mutant awakens, all wrapped in dirty bandages. The face, Brantley's face, now gone, only flesh mangled, full of sink holes. It was more than corrosive spray; brittle, pointed shards of hematite are collected in labelled vials, still sitting bedside.
No memory. Self is meaningless. Only the mission.
Find him out. Draw him out.
Young Brantley climbs down off the northward train, uneasily finding his footing.
"Too damn cold."
He fishes a cigarette packet out of an interior breast pocket, only to find it empty. Crushed, discarded. Frustration builds as he anxiously searches his other pockets, always coming up empty-handed. His attention distracted by the addiction's quest, he does not hear the light drop of his other self, now directly behind him.
"You're slow, gotten fat, getting stupid," Brantley says to himself, receiving a middle finger in return.
"And happy enough to be working for the Deep. At least until you fucked that up," the younger Brantley snorts and spits, only barely missing the body of the assassin, his travelling companion.
"More important works to be doing, you lazy punk," comes the stern reply. "Get moving."
"Lead the way, good sir," Brantley replies, gesturing out into the great snowbanks. "I'd say I hope you brought a map, but I doubt that it'd do much good."
"Sometimes," Brantley answers, "you just have to feel these things out."