The Wicked Way of Our World [Curry/Zahir]

What a drastic change London was undergoing. With Shadow Fall removed, a great many parts were shifting all across Europe, and no place in the world was more influenced by their removal than the United Kingdoms.

Fortunately, the nation received significant support, and it showed. Zahir could see it more clearly than ever, with a view of London's skyline through the large glass windows; buildings being changed, infrastructural alterations, the dense haze in the air of demonic energy replaced by bleak grey skies. He'd been to this city twice before: once with his unit, during Vastime's push beyond France in the war. Before that, he came as an escort to a Vastimian politician. He could even see a pub on a street corner down below, where his fellow knight Mohammed lost his intestinal bearings.

Zahir's wits returned to him at the sound of the door opening. He lifted the sleeve of his coat to check the time. Right on the dot, not even a second off the arranged meeting time.

"You must be Mr. Curry." His Moroccan accent showed, but his words were well spoken and clear. Perhaps it even sounded a bit familiar, the French influences clear in the enunciations.

Zahir stood tall, and his posture exuded his pride, but the man's voice betrayed his frame. Soft-spoken, his tone seemed unconfident. Perhaps Curry would not have expected the stature of the man; from his face on the records and voice from their phone calls, no part of the Vastimian spoke to his being a front-line vanguard of the Mediterannean Theatre.

The man stepped forward to reciprocate. He took his gloves off--it felt more sincere--and took hold of Curry's hand. Zahir's hands were large and thoroughly calloused, but the firmness of his grip felt meek. He remarked with an earnest smile, "You're a very punctual person, Mr. Curry. It makes me feel like my time is appreciated, thank you."

While William continued on to the window, Zahir put his glove back on and joined the man in viewing the cityscape.

"I think it's a beautiful place, London. It fills me with joy to see the wonders of a changing landscape, a changing people, as I have seen it before. What of you?"

Perhaps the spirit of these islands, and that of his own homeland, were quite alike. Perhaps it wasn't a matter of a uniquely mutual strength of their two peoples; resilience was to be spoken of about the human, irrespective of origin. A racial instinct.

"You sound very proud of your people, it's quite admirable. I look forward to it, and I believe whole-heartedly it'll come to that point as well." Zahir let out a soft chuckle, as he just thought of something.

"During my squirehood, we were taught military history. There was a World War five centuries ago; for the populous at the time, on that scale, it may have been more brutal than this recent one. The country of Germans at the time had captured France, and they moved to bomb this city relentlessly. The leader of the country at the time said a famous quote."

He paused for a moment, ruminating on it, and then reciting it as he remembered it, like it was a poem.

"We shall fight on the beaches,
We shall fight on the landing grounds,
We shall fight in the fields and in the streets,
We shall fight in the hills;
We shall never surrender."

Surely, this was what Curry referred to as the British people's resilience.

Zahir snapped back once more, apologising with a sheepish voice, "Excuse me for the abruptness of my recital.

You're right, a minute's delay is wasteful. Let me reaffirm the purpose to our meeting. I was hoping to find out information on a select few people, fellow Vastimian Knights, my brothers by the blood of our covenant."

The man took out papers from an inside pocket of his coat. They were minimal, as Zahir had faith that Curry had done his diligence. They were older pictures, their names, and AI generated pictures predicting what they could look like all these years after the war. Just to compare and verify that, had Curry successfully found anything, it was information on the right people.

"These nine people. And, as for what you wanted in exchange?"

Is that what resilience meant? To be resilient--was it to resist?

The idea of resilience seemed straight forward; to persist until triumph. But, as Zahir knew well, even the strongest of hearts, ever without falter, could fail. Even in his own knighthood's beliefs, it was not victory that marked the true warrior. It was to fight, to keep on fighting, and to breath your last breath in battle. It was defiance.

"I feel like I learned something valuable, thank you."

As the folder came up, Zahir steeled his eyes and his heart. He needed to. As prepared and steadfast as he was, pain and grief was indiscriminate.

The lettering was familiar. BLCKSPDR. He heard of it in the Mediterranean Theatre. They were an organisation that operated in the dark. Information trickled down from his superiors; at times, they were used as a third party faction to "mediate" transactions between the Vastimian Government. He knew with some level of certainty that, during the war, they were present in Corsica and Tuscany.

More pressingly, Zahir was familiar with their emblem. He received a 'hint' when visiting his friend, Alexander. His wife came to the door disheveled and expressed her unwilligness to receive Zahir into the home. It was a bitter experience, but he left knowing that shortly after the war, when Alexander returned home, he came back with an obsessive grudge. One that likely contributed to his disappearance. Even through the crack in the door, Zahir could see a wall littered with papers, pictures, and the distinctive symbol of an arachnid silhouette with red specks.

"Malmignatta. They are most certainly active, even today."

Zahir closed his eyes to recall what he saw on the wall that day. A harsh feeling came up in his stomach at the thought that he might need to revisit Alexander's home.

"2420. Sometime in March; forgive me, I can't seem to remember the exact date.

Two trade ships were set to leave an Algerian Harbour, set for Spain. The ships crashed into the docks of a port in Valencia. All crewmembers were absent on the ships. According to communication logs, their disappearance happened within 20 nautical miles of the city. When the city investigated the incident, records of one connex onboard were omitted."

The incident in and of itself, mysterious as they were, had no inherit relation to BLCKSPDR. However, if they were on Alexander's notes, it surely meant something. Zahir had no issues sharing what he knew on the subject first. It was an action in good faith, as he believed William would no doubt honour their trade. In fact, given the two of them had mutual interest in this organisation, this business relationship that was likely to continue beyond this meeting.

With bated breath, Zahir listened to Curry's words. He breathed a sigh of relief at the mention of Lukas. A young boy, as Zahir saw it, equal in height. Vastime was formed when he was just a teen, and like Zahir, he grew up orphaned, on the streets of Mogadishu, in Somalia. Free-spirited at heart, Lukas was a quiet boy, someone Zahir took under his wing in many ways. There was worry as to why he tried to stay off the grid, and what could compel him to do so; but, at the least, Lukas was alive. And being alive meant that he could bring him home, or ascertain the reasons why.

He meant to exhale in relief, his whole posture relaxed in response, but Curry's next folder was no relief. It was instead like a punch that forced the wind out of him.

Dead. Memories flooded of Yvonne. The times they spent on the coasts of the Indian Ocean. The merriness of their campfires, and her passion for music. She sung the anthems of Vastime with such pride and beauty, they'd lift the spirits of the dead straight from the soil in allegiant furor. She had a child at home, cared for by her grandmother. She must've been nearly nine by now.

There was a tightness in Zahir's chest, and weight that pressed on his knees. It pushed on him to fall to the floor, but he grit his teeth and remained standing to hear the rest, until Curry tossed the papers to floor. Then, he bent down to pick them up, sorting them back into their folder. Zahir rustled through their contents, and the pictures nearly made him look away on reflex.

"Do you know what happened to her body? Yvonne had wishes for how she wanted to be taken care of after death, and I intend to fulfill them."

It was unbelievable news, but having the documents in his own hands made it feel tangible.

One document in particular, and an attached picture, had his eyes focused and mind reeling.

"This one. The ballistics report that you mentioned. I've seen this type of bullet before, even felt it in my hands. They've been... They were used by a paramilitary group I intercepted in Greece. This was a good while before the war, I remember because it was our first mission, as an escort to a Vastimian politician."

Zahir looked up to Curry, a sense of confusion developing in his own eyes. Ideas unraveled, though he denied them at first. Zahir misspoke a moment ago, or perhaps was not completely honest--with Curry or himself. He knew that this bullet was not only used against Vastime, but by Vastime. In a hanger, during the war, a task force whose identity he was not privy to was preparing for a flight. They loaded their magazines, bullet by bullet. One of the members dropped their shot, and it rolled over to Zahir who was assisting his troops with their harnesses for their own flight.

He picked it up and returned it to the member. It was only noticeable when he walked up to them, but the members of the task force were gargantuan, some of them probably seven feet tall or above. The bullets themselves had a certain characteristic to them that he made note of, a distinctive bezel in the shells and ringed indent at the tip of the bullet. Just like the one in the picture.