The Thunder of the Drums

I'd always been something of an observer turned reporter. Even back when I was tied up in a life of crime I was always the one with the details for those I worked for and with (”Did you hear so-and-so is giving our hard earned cash to such-and-such’s gang leader?...This person is scamming us in our shipments…See him over there? Don’t do business with him, he’s an undercover cop…That store over there never properly locks up at night”). I always had to stay in the loop, never wanting to be left in the dark. In some ways, being in the know-how was necessary for the kind of life I'd been living.; when it comes down to street smarts, ignorance isn’t bliss. I had a thirst for knowledge that I didn't know how to properly satiate, putting it to misuse. With that being said, as soon as I entered that life, my knowledge turned to experience. Drugs. Hookers. Arms dealing. Theft. Murder. The flame had ignited into a solar flare that burned everything it touched, including my family, leaving me to believe that there was nothing else in this life for me but the path I was on.

Then, shortly before my twenty-first birthday, I was caught.

”Twenty-five to life,” the lawyer had told me. ”Multiple charges.”

For such a fast life, it sure came to an abrupt halt, I'd thought...still think. Though I was young and corrupted, I realized the end when I saw it. And for me, it was over.

My father, however, offered me another way to use my skills, a way out. I'd work for ’the family business’ (one I'd never even knew about) in exchange for my freedom, promising to never misuse my knowledge and experience against innocents for as long as I lived. I'd go into hiding. I'd work for a nobler cause instead of trying to further my own at the expense of others.

I accepted, and Jerome Walker was no more.

I watched from within Assassin walls as reporters plastered my face on every news channel that television had to offer. Watched as the family hired lawyer spoke to them about the words we shared last or swatted them away like flies. Saw as my own parents put on the greatest act in the history of minor theatre, my mother weeping wordlessly by my fathers side while he spoke with a stoic face; ”Wherever Jerome is, we beg him to come home or turn himself in”.

Eventually the hype surrounding me died down, only aided by a forensic detective assuming that the mutilated corpse of a young black man had been my corpse. The news spread. Jerome Walker had been brutally murdered by a rival gang, or possibly (as the detective stated) members of his own gang for exposing them so publically. My parents expressed their grievances and views on gang violence in the city then came back to Headquarters to tell me that all was well. Surreal.

I still think about those days. It will forever make me view the news media with a cynic’s eye. I'll always speculate if my parents set up to have me arrested. Always question if that forensic detective was bribed to quell the mad search for me by purposefully misidentifying that corpse, leaving me wondering about the victim’s actual identity. I'd be lying if I claimed that the consequences of staying a free man didn’t sometimes keep me up at night.

After that I wanted nothing more to do with violence so long as I could avoid it, so once I was trained up I decided to work as a documenter and, at times, an advisor; their scribe. Observe. Analyze. Write. Sounds simple when put in those words, but when you constantly have to be alert to any minor details about your surrounding and even the people you work with, it becomes tedious. And such tedious work was what consumed me now.

Though we watched from within the Compound, it felt as if we heard the bullet burst free of its barrel before it even ripped though the bone of The Tailor’s skull. For a moment I'd thought Shadow had grown so impatient in interrogating the man that he'd shot him in a fit of frustrated rage. Normally, he composes himself, reigning in even the smallest emotions, but certain things set him off like a detonated bomb, a rage that I've only seen once while working with him, something that wasn’t entirely pleasant to do even without him going off like a loose cannon. Yes, there was definitely some hostility behind that façade of calm; the handwritten notes in front of me hinted as much:

Shadow exhibits emotional veiling. Most likely uncomfortable with his own thoughts and feelings, at least around those he doesn't know well. May be a result of upbringing or the aftermath of events unfolded; perhaps a combination. Not very talkative. Rather cynical. Has passionate want (vendetta?) to take out the high ranking Illuminati officials. His lineage into the Order stems from his mother (deceased). No known family members; presumed dead. Paternity research draws up a dead end; name of father cannot be located. Shadow’s christened name is unknown as well.

Several things to delve into but little to nothing to go on. The cynic in me screams that this is so for a reason; I wouldn't doubt it. Have even expressed concerns about it before to Tank, to Falcon. No such luck. I might as well have been talking to brick walls. I wondered if such concerns would be brought into a fresher life with the passing of recent events. Only time would tell. Unsatisfied, I continued reviewing the papers before me.

Fox. Documents linked to her suggest that her first name may be Natasha, though there is no sufficient evidence to support this and with no surname to go by, impossible to background check….

The inability to trace Fox’s origins doesn't surprise me. Most high ranking assassins go to almost any means to eradicate traces of their past lives, starting anew. Yes, I know; how can I feel uncomfortable with Shadow's lack of background information and feel at ease with Fox's? Simple. As a double agent, anonymity and name changes are considered necessary….

…Attended college in New York for some time before dropping out, where she worked her way into a high rank among the Order. Fierce fighter, though this is perhaps one of her only known redeeming qualities. Her extreme, almost bitter distrust/dislike of outsiders (especially those who are new to join) makes her less than likeable. No known relatives, no known contacts outside the Order. The only people within the Order that she regularly talks to are her superiors (including Falcon) and Shadow, who she has worked with often.

Again, not surprising to me. With trust issues as seemingly deep as hers, it only made sense for her to talk to only those she needed to. I looked on, flipping through names and pieces of paper with photos attached to them….

Lilith; born Jaci White. Has a cynic's humor; makes a mockery of certain situations with unneeded sarcasm. Medical records suggest a spree of recklessness in mid to late teens. A police record indicates several acts of petty theft and traffic violations. History of minor hacking. Known best friend of Scratch, though their current dynamic implies a change in the level of closeness that the friendship once held; rebuilding process. Has a ’no person is a stranger’ type of nature. Boorishly stubborn.

Not that half of the new group aren't boorishly stubborn; remarks about their obstinate natures were written on each of their descriptions. I wasn’t worried. Unlike some, I didn't think any of the newcomers had anything to do with what happened today. Falcon and India would call this train of thought naïve, but I just didn't view any of them as threats; if they were, at least not immediate threats. Certainly out of all of them, the one called Seven possessed the usual ruthlessness that many of our Order looked for in selecting those that ’worked the field’, but even with that being said her natural willingness to lead this sort of life bothered me no less than some of the others’ hesitancy. No. Not to underestimate any of them, but something like this would have come from someone with more experience under their belt. There's no doubt in my mind that the only reason The Tailor was murdered was so he didn’t blab the truth to Shadow or Scratch. If I were in the traitor's shoes, it would make the most sense. He was our only lead to go on. And now…well now we’re left with nothing. In the dark.

Completely in the dark.