Brother / Hood

[Misericorde]

OOC INFORMATION ABOUT THIS THREAD:
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This thread will be used to detail some of Misericorde's earlier "adventures," and their present-day repercussions, before attending St. Joe's. They will probably NOT be in chronological order, so let me know if it gets confusing, and I'll see what I can do.

I ask only a few things of anyone viewing this thread:

A) Please confine OOC comments, fan mail, corrections, or flames, to either PMs, or the "Roleplaying Chat" Forum. (Unless you're me.)

B) Any information revealed in this thread will probably NOT be common knowledge, so if you wish to use this information in-game, please check with me first. Some of the events that occur may easily be known to your character, so don't be afraid to ask, or want to use something.

C) If you want to post in this thread, please, just ASK first. Some stories may seesaw between present and past; plus Misericorde's foes may post from time to time. Just ask, you are all a bunch of talented writers, hands down!

Otherwise, I hope you like.

THREAD CHANGES

Episode i - Added a "postscript" to clear up which assassin was which - 03/24/2006, Cleaned up some of the verbage 04/10/2006.

Episode ii - Cleaned up verbage, grammar 04/11/2006

Episode iii - Added some purple prose 05/12/2006

Episode vii - Ok, a new Episode 7. I like it a little better than the last one.

[Misericorde]

Episode i - The Mark
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His name, was Tyler Spence.

A nice enough guy, if you got past that weird mole on his face. Looked like it had a life of it's own. A pretty typical guy. Late thirties, greying hair; very conservative. Cute wife, cute kids...ages three, five, and seven.

Prime numbers, for a prime target.

He lived with his family in a nice little brownstone on the east side of town. Fixed rates, he paid all his bills on time. Not clever enough to shred his financial documents, but nobody's perfect. He didn't like red wine. He's allergic to avocados and bee-stings.

He had sex with his wife regularly...every Sunday night. He and wifey went out to eat on those nights, too. Gran'ma once told me, she said "Boys romanticize women. Men romance them." Maybe Spence's grandma gave him the same advice? Nice house, nice car (Mercedes, a fine machine,) nice wife, nice kids.

Overall, a nice guy.
Too bad, really...he's my target.

So I erase the surveillance recordings, and delete all the intel I've gathered on him, then head down to the "flight deck." It's my basement, really; added a few bits of specialized equipment here and there, to serve as a flight deck for my powersuit.

The flight suit fits me well, in spite of the love handles; it allows me to sync up with the powered armor. As I step into the carapace, the clamshell eases onto my shoulders, settling there like the heavy arm of an old friend. Neck joint, that seal there, it's not been sealing right. After this job, I can fix it right.

My kid, he thinks I look like some kinda Roboticon he watches on tv every Saturday morning. He doesn't know about the jobs I do. It's been hard to make ends meet since his mom died; after that incident at the Lab, I took the suit I'd designed, to do some jobs, get us a nest egg, move out of the country.

I become Nightgaunt, powersuit pilot, super-villain, and assassin for hire.

I think about Spence, how easy he has it; that makes the work easier. Then I start to think about his kids, and I lose my nerve...for a second.

My son, he's asleep; he'll be safe with the sitter. I worry about leaving him alone, since the Security system's been a little buggy. After this job, we can get it fixed, too. I take off into the night, with strong leaps, gliding from rooftop to rooftop.

Local heroes aren't a problem like they are in Paragon, they fall into habits too easily...pay off the right bureaucrats, you get some stats, predict the nightly patrols.

I find Spence alone, in his office. He's an accountant, and he's got some information my employer doesn't want him to. Nothing personal; it's all business. I wait across the street; he always works late on Wednesdays. He takes the "skywalk" over to the parking garage...just like he always does.

That's where we meet. I deliver the message, as my client requested. Juvenile, trite crap. Still, it pays the bills.

Then, I see the kid. A little kid, standing right next to him. He's got some sort of red scarf around his face; it's a chilly night. He never took his kids to work before...still, I charged up the gauntlets anyway. The kid says something to Spence.

Something's not right, but I'm cmmitted now. I step forward...something's wrong. The mark, Spence he....he's not surprised. And the boy...he's not scared, he's not impressed, he's not, well...anything.

The boy is fast. I almost didn't see him move. Saw those crazy knives, though..where did they come from? Almost as long as his arm. Hard to track him..., he is so damn fast...my neck...it's...there's something cold there. I can't swallow. I can't speak...My knees give out.

I collapse to all fours, like a dog, looking down stupidly at the bright red blood welling onto the pavement. The inside of my suit feels hot..am I sweating? No. It's the blood. Soaking my flight suit. It doesn't hurt.

The boy steps back, he has something sharp in his hand...knives, or...I try to speak. The boy kneels in front of me, he says something to me, but I can't hear the words; the rushing in my ears, my head is so loud. A waterfall in my brain. Like an idiot, I reach out to him, then to Spence. He looks horrified; I try to ask them to save me, please save me...my own son...but my throat can't force the words. The kid places a hand on my head. What is he...he's praying?

Stupid, sloppy....security system failure? Neck seal malfunction? How could I see it as coincidence? Complacency and overconfidence. Who the hell IS this kid? Oh, God...that red scarf....it's not a scarf at all. It's a hood. A Red hood. One of those bastard kids from the Hood just sanctioned me.

I place my head on the concrete. This helmet, it's so heavy. Can't keep it up. I think I'm falling asleep, but there won't be any waking, not this time. I feel cold.

I think of my son.

Tyler Spence looks at the boy...Misericorde, as the boy administers the Last Rights. Dead, kneeling, his helmet pressed to the cold concrete of the skywalk; the one-time assassin looks like he's praying to the boy...or bowing to him. He's shaking, because he'd never seen anyone move with the brutal efficiency of that child, and it terrifies him. He considers the pistol in his pocket, then thinks better of it.

The boy stands, drawing the red hood over his face. The cowl hangs low over his eyes, as he speaks. The voice of an angel.

"Brother Hood reminds you to pay the "Indulgences" in a timely manner, or I will return for you within a fortnight."

Spence swallows roughly, then speaks "I'll make the drop tonight..."

Misericorde nods, still looking down upon his work. "Amen."

[Misericorde]

Episode ii - The Prisoner
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"Ok, this kid gives me the creeps."

SPC Slifke rocked uncomfortably on his feet, which were sweaty despite the new moisture-wicking socks he'd spent way too much of a his clothing allowance on. He didn't like that his post required him to stand with his back to the containment field that restrained the boy. The Docs said the boy was eleven years old. Slifke glanced down at his watch: five minutes until the General got there.

"Relax, Specialist. He's not gonna hurt ya so long as we stay sharp." That would be Sergeant Lant, NCOIC for tonight. He was about as squared away as an NCO could be, even though he was a couple years younger than Slifke. Not that Slifke minded. Lant wasn't hard to work for, and he took good care of his soldiers.

Slifke glanced over his shoulder at the kid standing there, still like a photo. The kid hadn't moved in six hours; when Slifke had relieved the previous patrol, that guy said the kid hadn't moved, either. The kid had been detained almost three days, and he still hadn't moved an inch. Just standing there, behind that impenetrable "soap bubble," for two days, twenty-three hours and fifty-five minutes.

There was a pool going amongst the soldiers, as to when the kid would move. Slifke remembered the kid had to move during this shift for him to win, come to think of it. Three days. Slifke smiled at the kid for a second, because he was the kind of guy who smiled at kids. He had two at home himself, and one on the way. Lant made a habit of teasing Slifke that he was the kind of guy who would get himself blown up giving a kid a candy bar one day.

"Looks like you're gonna be out of the running, Sliffy," Lant said through a smile. "You got less than three minutes to get the kid to move."

Slifke chuckled politely, then smiled apologetically at the kid. The kid didn't smile back.

The warning strobes came on, preceding the groan-hiss of the Vault doors unsealing themselves; indicating the General was on his way in to see the prisoner. Both soldiers inside the Vault came to attention as the General entered the room. He was followed by his entourage; attaches, a couple observers. SGT Lant brought his tranq rifle to "sling arms" and saluted the General; he didn't salute back, but instead launched into a question.

"Is this the assassin?"

SGT Lant frowned slightly, then ended his salute. "Yes, sir. That's him, sir."

"Well...he certainly doesn't look like much, even in that outfit of his. Our enemy must be desperate, to send such an inexperienced child..." The General was close to the detention field, too close, Slifke thought. The General continued "..well, when we find out how this child got into the garrison, heads will roll, I promise you that, gentlemen. Heads. Will. Roll."

Slifke was nervous. The General was way too close to the Detention Field. He decided to warn the General, when it happened. He noticed SGT Lant suddenly fumbling the sling from his shoulder, trying to bring his weapon up.

The kid....had moved.

So quickly. One moment the kid was stock still; the next, he had stepped to the field and placed his palms to it, just in front of the General, who had cocked his head in disbelief. Slifke and Lant were still bringing their weapons to the ready, but the General was in the way, still in the way when the field went down with an almost comical "pop."

Slifke backed towards the Vault door, his feet on auto-pilot. Prevent escape was his only mission now. As Slifke brought his weapon up, he saw the time on his chrono. Seventy-one hours, fifty-nine minutes. It was still happening in slow-motion for him. He saw everything by the strobes of the alarm, pulsing red-white, red-white, red-white.

The General still had the look of complete surprise on his face as his head hit the floor. His body was still standing. His uniform looked very sharp.

SGT Lant had dropped his weapon; both hands clutched to left side of his neck. There was a lot of blood. Where was the QRF Team? Where the hell was the medic?

Slifke swung his weapon left to right in a tight figure eight. The alarms made it hard to hear anything with his hearing protection in, and the strobes made him feel like he was stuck in a heliotrope. He almost shot a couple members of the General's entourage as they fled out the Vault door.

His weapon fell into two pieces in his hands. "Oh, no..." he said. Slifke thought of his children at home, and wanted desperately to cry.

He heard a soft voice at his ear, and froze.

"You win," the boy said.

The child smiled at him shyly, then backed out the Vault door before spinning expertly and vanishing around a corner. Slifke heard gunfire and the muffled thumps of flash-bangs. Then he remembered to breathe, and hurried over to help SGT Lant.

[Misericorde]

Episode iii - The Wolf
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The fog tonight crouched low and heavy among the branches of the evergreens. It lay thick and moist; so thick one felt as though it had to be parted with both hands. The scent of the forest, the tress, the moss, crept into the nostrils and lingered there like smoke.

Amongst the trees The Beast waited. He had forgotten his name years before, though he had heard and understood their cries as he passed amongst them, in the times he walked amongst them unnoticed.

Ruvaush.
Roggenwulf.
Loup-Garou.

The little one passed again, through the trees, passed him and said nothing. She did not know he was here. This small child, so innocent, in her white frock, and dark coat, hood pulled about her head to beat away the heavy fog.

Every day, she walked past his seat outside the tavern, where he worked washing the dishes. He had watched her pass him on this day, too, as he smoked his Gauloise during breaktime. Then he had hurried to the vantage spot he watched her from each day.

Now , he would hunt once more, and then move on. It was his way.

So innocent of the world. Unafraid, to walk the woods in the deepening dusk, where he waited. Where he changed. Into the Beast, with the sharp gnawing in it's belly, that bit and scratched at his innards and loins until he hunted once more. He had tried to resist it for a time, but there was no escaping the hunger.

The Hunger now was as much him as the Beast that gnawed and bit at his soul.

The Beast he had become, leapt forward at the girl with no warning snarl, no growl of anticipation, just the heavy sounds of his leap, the crash through the brush as he sprung towards his prey.

The girl turned to him then, and although he could not see her eyes below that heavy hood, he saw her pale, innocent lips. Curving into a smile.

Pain! Something cold struck across his eyes, struck him headlong, knocking him aside before he could reach the prey! The Beast snarled and snapped, rolling through the pine needles and snow, as his unseen foe tore at his innards, cold, sharp claws digging at his face, his flanks.

White pain tore at his innards, tearing his will and the Hunger from him more sharply than even that gnawing Beast had torn him before. He fought and bit and clawed at the implacable thing that tore at him. The Beast smelled blood, his own and anothers, and fought harder to taste it, to drink deep. There was not enough to warm the growing coldness in his limbs.

Soon, he lay still, and whined, then moaned; then moved no more.

Misericorde rose from the damaged, bloodied thing that had terrorized the villages of the forest. Stealing their children away; leaving nothing but bones and scraps. The Beast of Alsace.

Beast no more. A naked man, of no fierce countenance. A man with dishwasher's hands.

The girl tackled him with a fierce hug, as they both giggled and laughed like the children they were; neither older than nine or ten. "Michael, you were wonderful! I never was afraid, not even once!"

"Sophie, you were supposed to get out of the way! What if I hadn't gotten to him fast enough!" He scolded, half-heartedly. She answered him by mashing some snow in his face.

"Michael, you'll always be there to save me! That's why we're such a good team," Sophie giggled as he sat upright, wiping snow from his eyes. "Besides, I'm a Hood, same as you! Race you to the extraction point!" She ran off into the forest, as night settled in upon the heavy timbers of the woods.

Misericorde stood slowly, glanced over at the still steaming body of the Beast. He tossed the locater tag onto the corpse, and sped off after Sophie.

[Misericorde]

Episode iv - The Girl
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She came to his bedside, in the night, as she often had, since they'd come to this place.

She crawled beneath the coverlet with him, and lay her head upon his shoulder; lay a hand across his stomach. Her breath was slightly sour from the half sleep her memories had interrupted. Hair tickled his nostrils; it always smelled sweet, and had, since they were children. The tears came, and she shook silently as she wept. Carefully, he laid a hand across her hair. After several minutes, she lay still.

Sophie.

They had reserved their given names for each other, risking the harshest of disciplines. No operative used any name but the one given by Brother Hood, whether in public or private, as it was expressly forbidden. Of course, so was non-mission related physical contact, but Sophie and Michael were experts in misdirection and evasion.

They were two of the Seven, the Red Hoods who enforced the will of God, protecting "innocent lambs," under the guidance of Brother Hood. Michael...Misericorde...was the only male.

Michael was unsure how long they had been here; he was fifteen now, or so he was told. "Heretical" thoughts and other doubts, had slowly grown in his mind. As had Sophie.

"Michael?" she queried, softly. Her fingers crabbed against his abdomen. "Michael, come with me." His sharp intake of breath prompted her to continue. "Michael, they will not catch me. They can not catch me. We can escape." This was not a new debate.

Sophie...she was the one who slipped into his bed late at night for comfort, but he knew in his heart that she was the one with courage for them both. She was the one who stole from her room to see him. He knew, and suspected she did as well, why he refused her suggestions of escape. She cried for them both, because she was the one with the courage to remember who she had been, before.

He was afraid. Terrified. Not of the torture, but of losing Sophie in the process. Michael would rather remain here, with her, as a prisoner, than risk losing her. Would rather kill than risk losing her. Was Sophie aware, that the only thing keeping him in this place...was her?

Sophie was used to his long silences. "Michael, I'm leaving tonight..." His heart sank fathoms. "Please come with me; I won't stay here another night. I won't kill for them again. It's wrong and we both know it's wrong. Please, Michael...please..." she pleaded with him, but there was a finality to her question tonight.

She turned her head, and their eyes met. She pleaded with him silently, and he agonized for several seconds with indecision. She lay her head upon his chest, and sighed.

Something tore free inside him, unwound itself from a place inside his chest, and escaped with a heavy sigh.

"Okay."

He felt her grow tense, her toes curling aginst his leg. She looked at him then, with tears in her eyes and a weclome smile he'd seen far too little, before sliding from the bed, and walking over to the locker where he kept his fighting clothes. She selected a suit, and tossed it onto the bed, where he sat upright, arms wrapped about his knees.

"Get dressed, and leave your room in three minutes. Meet me by the outer gate," she ordered. She didn't look at him, but he could sense her smile. As Sophie went to exit the room, he heard her quietly utter, "they'll never catch me now."

He slipped from the bed, and drew on his fighting clothes, flexed his claws, and began his breathing exercises. Red Hoods were allowed to come and go at all times with relative freedom, but you never knew when Brother Hood was watching...

Two minutes after she left, the intrusion alarms began their lonely wail.

Something had gone wrong. He fled from the room, heading for the outer gate as quickly as he could. "No, no, no," he whispered to himself. "They can't catch you." He leapt over a squad of Hood Power Armored Quick Reactionary Force without breaking stride as he passed through the halls.

Michael passed through the final set of gates a minute later, his arrival heralded by the sharp chatter of automatic gunfire. He saw little more than muzzle flash and something lithe and red moving amongst the chaos of dark powersuited shapes.

He leapt amidst the fray, knowing who danced among the men of the Hood so effortlessly; her kicks powerful enough to collapse faceplates and power armored bracers alike. Her red hood was pulled down about her neck, and she was beautiful in that moment, caught in the light of a sudden spotlight from above. The last troop fell, clutching at his crushed neck.

"Michael," she stated simply, softly, and smiled, as the red pinpoint singled out her breast; a single red bud that blossomed into a deadly rain of gunfire from the autoturrets above. He tried to move to her, throwing back his hood, but the heavy rounds caused her to dance like a marionette, as he watched, seconds from her. She fell to the ground.

It took a lifetime.

He went to her, and kneeled beside her mechanically, taking her pale, soft hand in his. She smiled at him, her eyes glittering; motioned him closer, an arm curling about his neck, fingers curling into his hair. Summoning the last of her strength, she whispered to him, and passed her final breath into his ear.

Michael lay her gently upon the ground, her hand still clasped in his.

Her words had chilled him, and only the flood of combat drugs in his system kept him from shaking uncontrollably. He steeled himself for the nights to come. Nothing kept him in this place now. No reason to kill; nothing left to protect.

Her words coiled around his heart, and wound themselves tightly.

"They will never catch me...they cannot catch me, now..."

[Misericorde]

Episode v - The Storm

The air was crisp with the metallic scent of wind screaming and cutting through the evergreens, biting into flesh as deeply as any blade. Visibility was near-zero, optics were useful only to prevent eyes from freezing in their sockets.

Even the polymers of their armor had difficulty keeping up with the almost preternatural chill of the storm. However, the storm itself was not the worst of their worries; in fact, it was those who lurked within it.

Red Six was the last of six platoons of Longbow Spec Ops involved in Operation Schwarzwald. They had been inserted near the city of Wolfach, and trekked nearly thirty kilometers through the frozen beech trees and conifers in this storm to end all storms to reach the Hood compound - or close to it.

Unseen assailants, at least two, were slowly dissassembling the fire team one by one, under cover of the fierce storm. It had started slowly, and at first, the team thought a sniper had struck. Then the next agent fell to an unseen blade; and the next.

Eventually, someone thought they saw a small shape moving among the fireteam, nearly invisible. An outline.

"Hoods," Longbow Warden RedBolt had said, and the remaining members of Red Six looked at each other grimly. They lost two more team members in the next hour. Any more losses, and the mission would be over...for them, at least - assuming they could make it to the rally point alive.

Red Six tightened up the formation and drove on in a tight wedge through the strengthening storm.

RedBolt saw a flash of movement and moved to intercept the assailant, when the attacker stopped mid-flight with a sharp jerk, the strangled cry of a young girl and the noisome crack of shattered vertebrae. Slender fingers dropped stilettos to the snow, as the slender frame of the enemy swung and spun in the storm. A thin wire had been looped tightly about her neck, unseen; the tension of the cable slackening as the red-hooded girl was dropped to a bed of pine needles and half-frozen snow. She lay there, curled and broken. A forgotten doll in winter.

The platoon circled up, back to back in the storm, readying weapons. RedBolt readied his namesake plasma charge, the need for survival outweighing light discipline. "What the hell?" he growled, and set his optics for maximum gain.

Something small sprung at them from beneath a mound of windblown snow, wickedly curved blades crossed and ready, singing in the bitter gales and gusts. RedBolt sent a ball of superheated plasma crackling towards her, yet the girl-assassin crossed the blades through the blast and scattered it, then reversed those knives and leapt at him swiftly, before he had time to ready another. The hero steeled himself, determined to take this monster with him...

A flutter of fabric from above, a figure nearly invisible in the swirling snow; catching the leaping Hood by her neck in the crook of an elbow, and bringing her down hard to the ground meters away from her intended victims.

RedBolt frowned in confusion. Their savior was apparently a Hood as well; could easily be the mirror of the girl who was poised to strike him down a moment ago.

As they sprang to their feet, the remaining members of Red Six took up defensive positions, while the two Hoods feinted at each other. The girl suddenly sprang at the other, unarmed Hood with a cry of "Heretic!" Her target stepped forward efficiently in a brutal uppercut, catching her mid-torso as she leapt.

There was a sharp, wet sound, and the girl slowly fell backwards into the snow, a marionette with cut strings. A deepening red stain blossomed upon the white canvas of the winter ground. Knives still clenched tightly in her slim hands.

"Don't move," RedBolt ordered, motioning his team to surround the remaining Hood, who complied. The figure stood motionless, as RedBolt searched him, pulling back the red material that concealed the face of a boy. Fifteen years old, if a day. Fifteen going on Fifty, by the look in his eyes...eyes unaffected by the bitter wind.

"You're the insider," RedBolt stated matter-of-factly. The boy nodded, then slowly pointed east, without turning his head.

"This way," Misericorde said.

[Misericorde]

Episode vi - The Question
_________________

Misericorde sped low through the halls, a grim arrow of execution pointed straight at the very heart of the sanctum of the self-proclaimed saviors of the children of Heaven.

He was implacable. His efficiency was peerless. Emotionlessly, an Engine that dispatched his foes with an ennui that made him terrifying.

He was fifteen.

Even as the bitter storm raged outside the walls in the Black Forest, and the battle between the Coalition forces against the Hood mercenaries raged within it, there was a terrible silence within the walls of the compound. Still, even that awesome stillness was not deep enough to compare to that which inhabited the murderous slender figure who raced through these chill stone halls.

The boy rounded a corner, his red hood and goggles dangling carelessly from his neck; the remainder of his cloak in tatters. He leaned heavily around the turn, and dimly he was aware of the caltrops strewn about the floor; his mind registering the soft sounds of dozens of crossbow bolts peppering his body. His face a mask, Misericorde recognized the three remaining Red Hoods who stood between his objective, crossbows levelled.

Clotho, who was always kind to him. Lachesis, who was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. Atropos, who had cried when she heard how Sophie died, had cried for him, she had said, though he never knew why.

Misericorde stood, scores of bolts bristling from him impossibly, gleaming claws slid from his knuckles slowly. Something in his dead eyes gave the trio pause; Lachesis took one step backwards, then seemed resolved to hold her ground.

"Misericorde..." Clotho said, her voice muffled by the hood. "...don't...please." Still, she didn't lower her crossbow from the ready. Their fear was palpable, a living thing. They had heard what he had done to the other two remaining Hoods in the snows outside.

Misericorde stood stock still atop the caltrops. The Machine he was, the battle-fugue, paused.

"Misericorde," Atropos continued, "Sophie lured you from us...away from us. You two were always the best of us, and she...turned away. When we heard she had left us, we all mourned her, but...she's dead now. Don't turn your backs on us, too. We're your family..."

Lachesis spoke softly; a normal human couldn't have heard her. Misericorde wasn't normal; he was, in fact, far from it.

"Keep him busy," Lachesis whispered. "I think the tranquilizer is starting to take effect."

Atropos suddenly cried out and spun, her crossbow discharging a bolt into Lachesis' throat; the girl clutched at the object and fell, making wet noises.

Misericorde wasn't in front of them anymore; wasn't anywhere, and Clotho turned, confused, as Atropos fell against her, then collapsed with a small cry, leaving a hot, wet stain against Clotho's leathers. The blood didn't show against the black and crimson. It never did.

He had moved so quickly, even across the caltrops, that they hadn't even seen. Misericorde had never done that before. She didn't know he could do that. None of them did.

There was a tickle at her throat; or three. She swallowed; there was no where to move; her back was to the wall. Her weapons fell from her hands, but her arms stayed low.

His face cleared suddenly, and she saw his eyes full of tears; regret, remorse, longing for...something unattainable. "Misericorde..." she began. "Mis, we had no choice...he made us...and now..."

He spoke quietly, his voice ragged. "We always have a choice."

Clotho tried to smile, and failed. "No, Mis, only you do." She brought a foot up expertly, knocking the blades from her throat, then reached for the blade on her back. She was fast; her hand almost closed on the blade as she died.

Misericorde lowered her to the floor, and rubbed one forearm across his eyes, then stood, shoulders slumped. Slowly, he straightened, the last of them all.

The boy turned and craned his head upwards to regard the optics of the internal security system. His ears caught the tiny hum and whir of the camera coming to focus on him.

"Do you remember?" Misericorde asked of the unfeeling optics. "Do you remember, what you said?"

[Misericorde]

Episode vii - The Door
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Someone was at the Door.

He sat in his cloister, and waited.

The cloister was only fifteen feet square, and had ceilings that ended only in a cloying darkness above, swathed in shadow. In and of itself, the cloister was sparse; a bed with a light sleeping mat. A wool blanket and hard pillow. A roughly hewn wooden nightstand and chair. A chamber pot, a porcelain bowl, a washcloth. A Bible. A candlabra burned in a corner, illuminating the cloister in a soothing yellow light.

One feature of the cloister was out of place, jarring the effect of the simple cloister of a penitent monk.

The Door.

The Door was massive, round, and highly technical; it was set into the walls of the cloister opposite the Cross. A marvel of the modern age and access control, an unmuted counterpoint to the Cross. Crafted from the densest of alloys, the intricate locks that bound the Door were deemed nearly as impenetrable as the Door itself.

Of course, now someone was at the Door.

Naturally, he knew who it was. One did not reach the position he had attained in life, without knowing the identity of those who sought you out. As had happened many other times, the boy outside his door had come to see him, to ask him questions.

To test him.

He felt an obligation to this boy, his Only Son, though he had trained many daughters in the indelicate arts of protecting the children of God's Kingdom from those who would prey upon them. This was his boy, his only boy, and that made him special. The boy had a question that had to be answered, and he knew. He knew.

Brother Hood knew What He Had Said.

The man drew his simple Red Hood and cloak about his face, and ensured that he was prepared to answer the boy's final question. The lovely boy, his Angel of Mercy. He smiled; the boy had learned so well, and dispatched even the most vicious foes as painlessly as possible.

"It is a shame," he said softly, then stood, and morked the mechanism to open the Door. With a near silent hiss-and-moan that bordered on the ecstatic, the massive portal begun to swing and grind and slide open, revealing the boy on the other side, standing in the hall. Behind him lay the girls, his Sisters Clotho. Lachesis. Atropos. All three good girls.

The boy stood, framed in the doorway, and illuminated as he was by the lights in the hall, his face wet with tears, his face that had been concealed by a Hood for so long, that Brother Hood wondered if he were not an Angel sent by the Lord Himself to visit His Mercy upon him.

Misericord, Michael Corde, Misericorde, given to those in need to appease their pain.

"You killed her," the boy stated flatly. His lips hardly moved.

"I did," Brother Hood nodded, unrepentant.

"I love her," the boy said, and his lip trembled as he did.

"I know," Brother Hood replied, and still there was no regret in his voice.

"Do you remember, What You Said?" the boy cried, his voice rising and breaking at the end. His body shook, and tears rolled from his face, left hot trails down his cheeks, cooling as they met at his chin, hanging there expectantly.

"I do," Brother Hood stood impassively.

The tears dropped, and the boy and Brother Hood moved in a blur, met, and the pair slammed into far wall inside the cloister with such force that a fine patina of dust covered them as it fell from the unseen limitless ceiling. Brother Hood found himself pinned to the wall by his hood and cloak, the boy's claws driven into the wall itself.

"She was the only thing that mattered, more than me, you took it, you took it all away and then you said...you said...you took it all, every inch of my lifeandnowshe'sgone, I am lost and...you said...you said..." Misericorde shook and screamed, his eyes flashed and there was murder there. Not the cool, calm murder of the countless nights of mercy, but the scream of a thing that hunted those that haunted the night, the monsters that preyed upon children.

Monsters like Brother Hood.

"...I said, This is the way it has to be." Brother Hood whispered, the cloak drawn so tight across his neck by the pinioning claws that he found it difficult to draw breath.

Misericorde closed his eyes and squeezed out the last of his tears. His face took on the impassive mask of that Machine, that Engine, the terrible Hunter that carried him through so many nights, alone in this terrible place. This place that ate children alive. The Hunter got to work. There was one last thing to be done, to kill this final Monster, this final place, that devoured children whole. The hunter promised Brother Hood that it would be messy. Quite messy indeed. The Hunter promised Brother Hood that it would take a long time; but not so much time that Longbow would arrive before he was finished.

The Hunter, at least, agreed with Brother Hood: This was the way it had to be.

He got started, and the Door closed silently behind them.