The Hive was at once alive with activity and deathly still. The Wolves and their allies were there in force. Armed, disciplined, and ready to deal extreme force towards any attempt at intervention. This time, no Wardens were sent to even make a show of authority. As tensions had tun higher and higher in the past few days, the Wardens had been hanging back, not wanting to get caught in the middle of the inevitable hostilities. When gang violence had threatened to escalate to this level before now, the Wardens preferred to save their numbers, let the warring factions beat each-other into a stalemate, before reengaging to clear up the mess made by the now much smaller gangs.
Nikolai had stepped into the ring. While most of the Pack wore their ceremonial skins as a show of intimidation, Nikolai had more practical concerns, and as such was dressed in nothing but loose-fitting tracksuit bottoms, for maximum agility and endurance. The floodlit arena always brought his already badly scarred and burned torso into even more grisly focus, while the glare reflecting off his pale skin made his muscle contours look absolutely obscene.
He looked up to the fourth floor, where Azrael had made a royal box of sorts. He was flanked by his other lieutenants, who in turn had covered the balcony with elite guards. He had made Kusanagi kneel at his feet, where she stared down with a blank, lock-jawed expression. Looking, but not seeing. Azrael had his hands on her shoulders, almost caressing her. If Orphan really saw Kusanagi as something akin to a daughter, then Azrael intended that the last thing he would see before he died was the girl in his grip, completely under his control. Placing so much as a finger on her would be seen as akin to defiling her, and Azrael knew it.
"The Orphan is running out of time." Azrael announced, in his voice that seemed to carry without effort.
"Maybe we should make 'is ***** call for 'im?" came Sharptooth's gravelly response "See from 'ow far away 'e can 'ear 'er screamin'."
"Give him a few minutes more. It takes a lot for a Rat to change its nature, I almost sympathise."
============================================================================================================================
Once again Lee stood looking out from the roof of the ATC tower at his facility. It looked slightly less foreboding in the fading light. Captain Montoya stood at his side, but the two of them didn't speak. After two years of meticulous planning and moral agonising, what else was there left to say? They had arrived at the culmination of their efforts, and the wheels that they had set in motion had now reached a critical velocity. There could be no turning back.
He was doing the right thing. He knew it, he had to know it. Time and again he'd sought other, more ethical avenues, trying in vain to find an excuse to abort. The current establishment of The Pit, and the corruption that supported it, had to be removed before any progress could be made. That much was self-evident, and only a man like Lee could possess the countenance and long-term thinking to do what must be done. It broke every code of honour that had been drilled into him since birth. These were not deeds that a man could ever be proud of, regardless of results.
The honourable Lee, the proud Lee, wasn't here. That man had died in the desert. What he was now was an instrument of change, cold as steel. Korovich would be here soon, then everything would be in place; and the icy wind would still and silence, as the very earth waited for the starting gun to fire.
