The Gift Issue 8

Slowly, Athan lifted his head from the hard, wooden floor. The hallway was dark now. He wondered how long he had laid there. Athan rose to his feet and fumbled along the wall until he found the light switch. He flicked it on, and immediately squinted from the brightness, so he waited a moment for his eyes to adjust. He entered the bedroom and could read the red digital numbers on the clock by his bed. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning. Obviously, the mental communication he had received did a number on him. Even though it put a hamper on his immediate plans, it was probably some rest he definitely needed. If Athan had one complaint it would be that he wished he had awoke on his bed and not the hallway floor. His position of sleep left him with an uncomfortable cramp in his neck and left shoulder. Hopefully that would go away in the course of the evening.

Athan sat on the end of the bed and tried his best to sort through the events prior to his loss of consciousness. It was unmistakable that the communication that he received was from Elise. The fact that she had the energy and power to span an undetermined distance to find him and make contact was truly amazing. What raw power she must possess. It also became all too clear to him that if she is being kept alive, the forces of Semai must have another, darker purpose in mind for her. Had she not been of use to the cultists, they would have let the Justifiers have their way with her. She was alive, and that was enough for Athan.

Athan started to hatch a new plan. Time was of the essence. He knew that he had no true way of finding Elise through simple detective work. Traipsing around the slums late at night wasn’t going to turn up anything either. He’d been doing that for weeks with no fruitful leads. He dropped his plan to find the 4th mysterious voice, deeming it a lost cause.

Athan surmised that if Elise had the power to send him a message, she might have the power to receive a message if he could get close enough to her. From there he could pinpoint her location or get as close as possible. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was certainly better than nothing, and it was enough to get Athan motivated. Come hell or high water, he was going to find her—or die trying.

Athan went back into the hallway, gathered the gear he had dropped, and threw everything onto the bed. Methodically, he began to don his uniform and armor like a pilot performs his preflight checklist. Athan attached the silencer and the modified grenade launcher to his Nemesis, loaded the gun and slid the weapon into its shoulder holster. He then wrapped his weapon belt around his waist, buckled it, and fed the AP Grenades into the slots around the sides of the belt. Scabbard and Mortis were hung from his back by a second weapon belt that fit across his chest, running from his right shoulder to left hip. On that belt he hung a pair of fragmentation grenades and slipped a large hunting knife into an inverted sheath which allowed the blades handle to point downward for easy access. Fishing through the remaining equipment he found a small gun the size of a starter pistol. Powered by CO2, the miniature gun sported a grappling hook with some 50 feet of steel cable. He hung the pistol from a small carabiner on the back of his belt. Among other things he found, a Coag-Injector, a first aid kit and several boxes of ammo for his Nemesis. Athan put on his armor over his leathers ensuring proper fit and comfort. Last, he slung his cape over his back and secured it to his armor with a silver medallion given to him by his mother. The clasp was a decorative medal awarded to a Mortificator for bravery and selflessness in the line of duty. It was an award his father received posthumously. Athan was about to leave through the window when something under the bed caught his eye.

Athan crouched down and lifted the bed sheets. Lying amidst his father’s old uniform he saw the Piranha handgun and picked it up. While he stared at it he thought of his father and how he looked in his old uniform. He remembered how proud he was and how much awe and respect he had for the man. He also remembered the day he watch his father scratch a word into the barrel of the gun. The word was still there—Redeemer. He didn’t understand the meaning of the word when he was young, but now he doesn’t understand the origin. He held the pistol almost lovingly, like he would have held his father’s hand. It was something that connected them across time, and death. Something inside him told him to take the gun. Maybe he’d be able to put it to use. It was good enough for his father… maybe it would serve him just as served his father over a decade ago. Athan grabbed its holster and secured it to his left thigh.

Athan turned, lifted the window, and entered into the night.