Memento Mori

3.6 - THE EIGHT

Notably, Wishbone and the Anvil are unaccompanied in the room. As is Ulysses. But I've never seen him bring backup, either.

Ulysses eases into his chair with an arthritic grunt. More salt than pepper in his hair than I remember, dark circles fresh under his eyes, beard still filed close and sharp. Brow narrowed, hard. Along with the Anvil, he's the most simply dressed at the table. Olive-green shirt with short sleeves stretched around his torso, rugged tan pants, left his jacket on a peg by the torch behind his chair. Arms thick, body strong. But that patience I remember so well is all but gone as he clears his throat and runs a hand down his beard.

"I don't want to be here longer than any of you do," he says, laying one scarred hand on the table. "Nero. You obviously have something to say, rendezvousing first."

I've never heard him talk like this before, like a hand on a sheathed blade. There's a callousness to his tone. The other half of the most brutal Martial Artist in the Vents. The reason the others at the table still fear him, despite the mundanity of his lone class. I devote all my attention to him. He and Nero are the only ones at the table who are guaranteed to know Sarah's fate. If Ulysses is opening with a misdirection, what's his play? Is he trying to make the others show their hands first?

Nero responds to Ulysses' question with a slow blink, then motions to the empty seats between them. "I would suggest we wait for the woman who spearheaded this gathering, but in the spirit of simplicity, I'll voice my doubts instead." His mechanical voice rasps through the silent room. "We've all seen by now what happened to Dax. I've received firsthand reports that his entire gang was wiped out. The Vector Seven block is in ashes. And I imagine that Sarah Morninghawk, if she's not already met the same fate, will not be joining us tonight."

He disguises the lie amongst so many truths that the others can't help but bite on. Wishbone perks up first from the foot of the table, boots kicked up and dripping off the marble edge. His mask distorts his natural voice into a monochromatic warble, all the emotion of a dental drill at rest.

"Firsthand reports from whom?"

Ulysses watches the snake.

"We each have our sources," Nero says. "It isn't becoming to play the fool, doctor."

Yelena chuckles. "He's only poking holes, Nero. You've got more of an idea what's happening than the rest of us."

"Dynasty," the Anvil interjects. Like a younger Ulysses, he's even broader, more diverse in his capabilities, and less scrupulous in morals. His flinty grey eyes sweep the table's occupants in one pass, challenging each in turn. "Dynasty is what is happening. Sarah already told us that much in her communique. Her absence doesn't prevent us from coming to an agreement on her proposal."

Yelena meets the challenge with a glossed smirk. "I came to entertain her ideas. Not the silence of an empty seat. An alliance and a war against Dynasty?" She chuckles lightly and motions to Dax's vacant chair. "What harm has the syndicate done us besides exterminating our competition?"

Silence from the rest of the table.

No one is eager to join her in pissing on the memory of a man who did more good for their children than the rest of the Eight combined. Dax's gang was large, but all kids. Street rats like me. None over twenty-five. Even in my room, the lieutenants stir angrily, battle lines instantly drawn between Yelena's Elementals and everyone else.

Surprisingly, Nero is the first to respond. "If you believe the syndicate will stop at Dax because he was the weakest of us, I imagine yours will be the next seat empty," he says, not even bothering to look at the woman. "His fate was a testing strike. A prod to garner a reaction."