» Sat May 28, 2011 7:44 pm
Kaleb Stern, South Chelsea
It was dark by the time Kaleb made it back to his apartment in southern Chelsea. It was a decent sized place: a central living area with two smaller rooms, and a balcony that spanned the entire space, giving an unparalleled view of the city. This was prime living space for anyone living in Manhattan, both pre-war and now. And it would have been occupied before except for one reason: accessibility. To get to this place required a five-story climb up the inside of a collapsed elevator shaft, followed by a one-story climb by elevator cables. In fact, it was the only way to get to the upper levels, the stairwells having long been clogged by rubble. It was fair to say that Kaleb didn’t just live in that one apartment, he had free run of the entire upper area of the building. Suffice to say, he did not get many visitors.
Yet, someone had been here. When he entered, he saw a piece of paper on the normally-empty table in the middle of the room, facing towards the door and leaning against an empty bottle of wine. Dropping his pack, he quickly shut the door and unholstered his pistol. Creeping into the apartment, he checked every room and found nothing. He checked all his triggers, active, passive, and warning, and found them all intact. Even the door trigger, which he disarmed himself on the way in. Whoever the intruder was, he knew his way around traps.
Sure that nobody else was in the apartment, he regarded the paper on the table. Kaleb picked it up and realized it was folded in half. Unfolding it, he saw a symbol stenciled on the inside: two circumscribed circles fronted by a simplified gothic cross. A Gothic Crosshair. The Business, of course, comprehending at last. Figures they would send someone that knows their way around traps to deliver a message.
Hidden underneath the note was brown cardboard box. Picking up the box, he gave it a slight shake; it felt light, and it rattled quietly. Opening the box, he discovered a small, brass colored tube about the size of his middle finger, topped with a copper cone . .308 Winchester, based on its size and shape. Putting the bullet aside, he picked up the picture that lay underneath.
It showed a man hacking into an unidentified victim. The figure had long, flowing brown hair and was encased in polished silver armor. In one hand, he carried a buckler, a small round shield with a brass hub over where the fist held the shield. In his other hand, he held a single-edged blade, with the upper half angling forward towards the point, giving the edge a concave shape. Kaleb recognized it as a falcata, a dangerous close combat weapon capable of delivering a blow with the momentum of an axe.
Flipping to the back of the photo, he saw a name: Michael Fairfax.
Between the bullet, the picture, and the name, the Business’ message was clear. Kaleb walked over to the dresser in the corner. He opened it and beheld a dark turtleneck and a set of black pants; a hooded cloak camoed in shades of gray. An alcove below held a pair of combat boots and a pair of bracers embedded with the image of the gothic crosshair. He began to put on the clothes.
Kaleb Stern, Greenwich Village
A few hours later, Kaleb stood in the shadow of a window a few stories above the melee between the Knights of Arthur and the Rebellion. He should have been hunting for his target below, had he not seen movement in the building across from him. Panning his night-scoped rifle across the building’s surface, he finally spotted a barrel sticking out of a window a few stories below. Zooming closer, he could see the vague outline of a figure behind the gun. Contemplating whether to take out this possible threat, the decision was taken out of his hands when the figure withdrew the rifle from the windowsill and retreated. Kaleb waited, scanning the building for the figure or his gun to reemerge. Nothing.
Deciding that the mysterious figure was gone, he went about searching for his target. Sweeping the battle below, Kaleb spotted something: a slight figure in leather armor, hefting a huge longsword. He watched as the swordsman disarmed, literally, a pistol-wielding opponent, and then drilled a crossbow bolt into a Rebel’s skull a considerable distance away. Impressive, to say the least, but not his target.
Scanning the fracas some more, he sighted a massively armored figure, flanked by a phalanx of steel-clad warriors. He wielded a machete and a bullpup rifle of some sort, which he used to great effect, slashing and blasting opponents in equal measure. By the way the others deferred to him, it was clear that this was the leader of this attack, maybe even fabled Arthur that everyone was gossiping about. Still, not his target.
Kaleb searched the crowd some more and was about to call it a day when he finally spotted him. He was at the forefront of the assault, taking the fight to the Rebels, bashing in skulls and chopping off limbs, a look of pure joy on his face, his hair matted with blood. He seemed to inspire the Knights, those around him seemed to fight with a zealous fury that bordered on fanatical.
Kaleb sighted down at his target, waiting for an opening. Waiting. Waiting. There! Both hands up. A victory pose. The sniper rifle bucked into his shoulder as he sent the .308 round down into the writhing mob, the rifle’s report echoing across the urban landscape. Below, the target’s head disintegrated, showering the Knights with bloody gray matter.
The effect was instantaneous. The Knights, seeing their hero die violently, faltered in their attack. The Rebels redoubled their efforts and pushed the Knights onto the back foot; Knights died in droves. Eventually, the Knights recovered, and pushed back the Rebels, setting up for the final assault against Fort Suicide.
But by then, Kaleb was long gone. His mission accomplished, he packed up his gear and sneaked away into the shadows.
