The ocher smell of tobacco filled the room. The smoke circled in the air, describing magnificent images that lasted a few seconds before becoming misshapen smoke once more. Aaron, sitting back in his chair with his feet up on the table, inhaled deeply, feeling the nicotine penetrate his very bloodstream. Tobacco plantations were a rarity these days, especially because not all domes could afford to give away part of their fertile lands to plant something non-vital, but Aaron knew a direct supplier, a supplier that produced high quality cigars…
The dimly lit and smoky room matched Aaron Blake’s personality. There was an empty cigar box thrown into a corner, and the table on which rested Aaron’s dirty boots was dusty and stained, but not more stained than the filthy floor. There was a painting hanging on the wall, a relic from before the war. When Blake purchased it, the dealer said it was an imitation of a very famous painting. It probably wasn’t famous enough, since Aaron didn’t knew it, but this was not the reason why Blake bought the art piece. It was because of its name. The painting was called Mona Lisa.
Lisa. Liz. Elizabeth.
Betty.
Blake liked the picture. He stared at it, leaning back in his chair with his feet up, staring at the woman's mysterious smile. She was very beautiful and very similar to Betty, which was part of the reason why there was a Renaissance painting contrasting with the rest of the room. It was a piece of shit, of course, but a classy piece of shit. Blake picked up his lighter from the table, and stood up. He walked to the painting, looked at it one last time with a long sigh, and then the flames from the lighter set fire to the cheap imitation. He watched as the canvas melted and fell in the ground with a hiss, and soon there was nothing left but ashes and a terrible smell mixed with tobacco.
Aaron Blake smiled. Burning something always made him more excited. He crossed the tiny room that served as his house and lifted the box where Betty, the flamethrower, was. It was a huge black briefcase, in which there were the different propane capsules (lethal and non-lethal), the rest of the flamethrower, various explosives (including pulse grenades) and Aaron’s fireproof armor. Blake tied the bag in his back, put the lighter in his pocket and left the room, hoping never to return.
The future League member crossed the city to the barracks. He certainly did not seem like a combatant. He was dressed in a heavy trouser with lots of pockets in it and a white shirt, surprisingly clean. He shifted the cigar from one spot of his mouth to the another while walking, enjoying the smoke.
The situation was irritating. The letter from General Verturum was surprising, but not that much. Aaron knew his reputation preceded him, and he felt it was almost Verturum’s obligation to ask Blake to join the team. The irritating part was starting from the beginning all over again. Blake had already fought in previous tournaments, but things went wrong… He had to disappear. But anyone well-related could find him, and apparently General Verturum was well-related. Blake didn’t see any problem in joining the tournament again, but starting from scratch… He would have to report to the commander officer of the Black Wolves, pretending that he would obey and serve until death, and only then Aaron would be allowed to go to his room and rest until they could fight. In fact, all that mattered was the fight. The heat of the battle was the reason why Blake got up every morning. The only thing there was to care about was the tournament. What happens before it passes through like a dream, just a bunch of people talking and a monotony eat-sleep cycle. And training. Training hard in order to survive the next fight, and then fight again ...
Aaron looked at the white building, and recognizing the Black Wolves’ flag, he moved on. He walked in, approached the guards and unceremoniously asked: "Who is my superior around here?"
The guard pointed silently to a bench where a woman was sitting. Blake turned to the guard, a sarcastic smile on his face, but when he realized he was serious, his smile disappeared. A woman? Aaron Blake would be forced to obey... A woman?
Aaron crossed the hallway several times, attracting a lot of suspicious looks. Finally he decided to confront the commander herself. He approached the woman, and woke her up with a light punch on her shoulder.
Obviously, 'light' to Aaron Blake meant 'do not cripple or kill', and nothing less. When the woman awoke, Blake mumbled, with a tone of contempt in his voice: "Looks like I'll obey you from now on, so let's cut the bullshit. I'm Blake. Aaron Blake. Now you tell me your name, I pretend I care and you stay out of my way the rest of the time. Got it? Good. Now when does our Commanding Officer arrives?"
The dimly lit and smoky room matched Aaron Blake’s personality. There was an empty cigar box thrown into a corner, and the table on which rested Aaron’s dirty boots was dusty and stained, but not more stained than the filthy floor. There was a painting hanging on the wall, a relic from before the war. When Blake purchased it, the dealer said it was an imitation of a very famous painting. It probably wasn’t famous enough, since Aaron didn’t knew it, but this was not the reason why Blake bought the art piece. It was because of its name. The painting was called Mona Lisa.
Lisa. Liz. Elizabeth.
Betty.
Blake liked the picture. He stared at it, leaning back in his chair with his feet up, staring at the woman's mysterious smile. She was very beautiful and very similar to Betty, which was part of the reason why there was a Renaissance painting contrasting with the rest of the room. It was a piece of shit, of course, but a classy piece of shit. Blake picked up his lighter from the table, and stood up. He walked to the painting, looked at it one last time with a long sigh, and then the flames from the lighter set fire to the cheap imitation. He watched as the canvas melted and fell in the ground with a hiss, and soon there was nothing left but ashes and a terrible smell mixed with tobacco.
Aaron Blake smiled. Burning something always made him more excited. He crossed the tiny room that served as his house and lifted the box where Betty, the flamethrower, was. It was a huge black briefcase, in which there were the different propane capsules (lethal and non-lethal), the rest of the flamethrower, various explosives (including pulse grenades) and Aaron’s fireproof armor. Blake tied the bag in his back, put the lighter in his pocket and left the room, hoping never to return.
The future League member crossed the city to the barracks. He certainly did not seem like a combatant. He was dressed in a heavy trouser with lots of pockets in it and a white shirt, surprisingly clean. He shifted the cigar from one spot of his mouth to the another while walking, enjoying the smoke.
The situation was irritating. The letter from General Verturum was surprising, but not that much. Aaron knew his reputation preceded him, and he felt it was almost Verturum’s obligation to ask Blake to join the team. The irritating part was starting from the beginning all over again. Blake had already fought in previous tournaments, but things went wrong… He had to disappear. But anyone well-related could find him, and apparently General Verturum was well-related. Blake didn’t see any problem in joining the tournament again, but starting from scratch… He would have to report to the commander officer of the Black Wolves, pretending that he would obey and serve until death, and only then Aaron would be allowed to go to his room and rest until they could fight. In fact, all that mattered was the fight. The heat of the battle was the reason why Blake got up every morning. The only thing there was to care about was the tournament. What happens before it passes through like a dream, just a bunch of people talking and a monotony eat-sleep cycle. And training. Training hard in order to survive the next fight, and then fight again ...
Aaron looked at the white building, and recognizing the Black Wolves’ flag, he moved on. He walked in, approached the guards and unceremoniously asked: "Who is my superior around here?"
The guard pointed silently to a bench where a woman was sitting. Blake turned to the guard, a sarcastic smile on his face, but when he realized he was serious, his smile disappeared. A woman? Aaron Blake would be forced to obey... A woman?
Aaron crossed the hallway several times, attracting a lot of suspicious looks. Finally he decided to confront the commander herself. He approached the woman, and woke her up with a light punch on her shoulder.
Obviously, 'light' to Aaron Blake meant 'do not cripple or kill', and nothing less. When the woman awoke, Blake mumbled, with a tone of contempt in his voice: "Looks like I'll obey you from now on, so let's cut the bullshit. I'm Blake. Aaron Blake. Now you tell me your name, I pretend I care and you stay out of my way the rest of the time. Got it? Good. Now when does our Commanding Officer arrives?"