[b]Perm, Russia[/b]

The doors slammed shut before Jun, and he staggered back into dusty darkness. In through the mouth of the cavernous interior of the small chapel. Thin ribbons of sunlight crawled out between the shut doors and along the floor, illuminating thick clouds of dust that floated in the air in thick motes. The sun of gunfire continued to rage outside. But felt more random and untargeted.

“Cut it, he's already dead.” a voice yelled from outside. There was a silent pause, the roar of the shotgun quieting. Distant warbling sirens and alarms rose and fell in the new found peace.

“Should we post a watch?” another asked, hushed.

“No. We need to leave before the police arrive. Let [i]Otluchen[/i] deal with him.”

There was a resigned silence of agreement from how ever many there were outside. If it had been the tank with the shotgun that was speaking or someone else was beyond the Chinese Agent. Feet spread apart, he stood a hand at the pommel of his sword. He expected them to follow.

There were no new words spoken. And there were no footsteps towards the door. Jun held his position, painting heavily as he waited. He had been sure they would have given chase. But they did not. His shoulder relaxed as a feeling of perplexion dawned over him. He had evaded them, and they were too afraid to enter. They knew where he was, but didn't seek to catch him.

Slowly, he lowered his hand from his weapon. His widened stance relaxed. He patted himself down, searching for any injuries he couldn't otherwise feel. He sighed with relief, finding none.

The police – according to his pursuers – were no doubt coming. And if the sirens were any indication they were finding their way in on the location. How long it would take was anyone's guess, complicated possibly by the enormity of damage caused on the streets of Perm. Congested traffic and other mess would delay the official police response as they sought a way to move around. But it wouldn't be complicated for them, and would buy Jun only a few minutes.

All the same, he couldn't go out the way he came. The gunmen might still be close enough to notice, and witnesses seeing him leave would reignite the chase. Knowing that they were onto the agent greatly reduced the odds out of his favor. It was a scary, unnerving thought to say the least. He'd have to readjust to find the people he needs to kill.

But for now, time to lie low. If they were too scarred to enter then no one else would follow any time soon. At best simply pretend, possibly. He could lie in the church, or take the time to find a backdoor and leave in the cover of courtyards and alleys.

He sighed confidently, loosening his posture. Turning to face the interior of the dark church.

Beyond the entrance the entire building was a cavernous, hallow shell darkened deep into its self. From boarded windows or minute cracks in the ceiling thin ribbons of light fell through, illuminating the dust and dirt that came to cover every surface of the inside. Highlighting on the ground a cascading mess of refuse and debris. Heaps of discarded rags littered the dark floor where the light fell and loose electrical cables hung cut and undisturbed from the rafters above. It was a hell of a mess in all, cracked and chipping. Peeling back against the wood and the structure itself.

Someone had been inside as well, pock-marking the walls with explosive holes and rifle-inflicted gauges in the plaster and marble. Crude graffiti had been painted over the white walls only to have been partially scorched off. Jun ran his fingers along the walls as he walked out into the main central hall. The plaster drywall cracking dryly as he went and crumbling into earthen dust as he dragged his nails across their damaged surface. How many had once been here? And how many of them had left when the Empire died? Or how many were slain in the chaos?

The floor boards creaked heavily under his feet as he stepped into the thick soupy shadows. His lungs itched at the thick dust he breathed in. Coughing dryly he heard something that sounded like rustling deeper in the building. Rats perhaps. Or bats higher above. There was a crude animalism to the way the noises moved and pecked across the wood.

Up ahead he could hear something heavy move. Plodding almost. A sense of unease crawled up inside of him and his hand crept down his side to his weapon. His heart beat hard in his chest as the wind of danger rolled up inside of him. His fingers wrapped around the handle of the blade at his side.

“Another puppet enters my den.” a voice said aloud in the church, echoing off the dusty rafters, the cavernous dusty ceiling. Echoing sharp and clear and become like it was calling from all directions. Jun spun swiftly on his heels as he thought it was coming from his side, drawing the silver metal of his dao ready to take on whoever had spoken. Only to moments later turn as the echo of the speaker's last words came from the other direction.

“And a man from the orient, no less.” the voice spoke again, crooning. It sounded dry and raspy. Smoky and low. It sounded choked and tired, but still filled with mental sharpness and swiftness. “I think I have heard of such a man creeping-crawling about Russiya. Sneaking about the countryside like a little spider.

“But not his own spider. Someone else's. You're another puppet. Where's your master? Not in Beijing.”

Jun turned, looking for the owner of the voice. But he only saw into the thick shadows. The words were spoken and echoed from all over the inside of the church. His heart raced with panic as he searched and prepared for something. He hoped whoever it was would pull back the bolt of a rifle, or flip the safety off any other gun. Then might he hear the sound and find where the speaker was hiding. If he could hear it over his loud omnipresent voice.

“I want to know, do you know what game you're playing?” said the voice in a prying tone. It picked and gauged. Not unlike an interrogator. “He came so far, to find himself a bigger spider's net. But will this spider be permitted to devour him?

“Not unless he moves. Then he might find himself more than caught.” the voice said, cracking to impatient anger.

Jun looked excitedly about. Fearfully searching for what it was the voice was implying. His eyes darted and crawled along every surface he could find. Across the black shadows, and the soft blue and yellow highlights of weak streams of light. Looking down to his feet, finding only garbage. Were there mines? Trip wires?

“He doesn't speak. I wonder if I have asked the right questions.” the voice said puzzled. There was a sluggish dragging from nearby, overhead. A dry bony rasping against dry wood. He looked up to the balcony just ahead of him. Not high off the ground. Rising from behind its walls, peeling with paint rose a lumbering limp figure. What looked like a man, with a head craned to one side.

“I wonder if he looks to look upon the eyes of God.”

“Who are you?” Jun finally said, hissing between clenched teeth as he still anxiously searched for the man. Or what he had implied was holding him in place.

“One who has seen the truth behind the actions.” he said, “I have foresaken my name, but not my information; for I must know. I am one who lost all, but retain his skill and the horror from these years of anarchy. In a past life I was hunted and scorned, sought to be snuffed out. But instead I was left to long sordid meditation as I waited for death; such things have a way for making such men think about life and the higher causes.

“And by chance, or some greater master's will: I was free.

“Who I am truly is a long story told in the third person. What I am now is the better answer. I am the enlightened. The revealed to. I achieved understanding over my brothers, and killed them all. I am, to the men who were just outside, [i]Otluchen[/i]. [i]Zài qūzhú[/i] in your language; The Excommunicated.”

“What does that mean then? Mafiya?” Jun demanded, affixed on the shadowy figure that hung above him, leaning over the raised pulpit like a limp doll.

“[i]Was[/i] Mafiya.” Otluchen sneered, there was almost the sound of a grimace in his voice, “That was when I was Petyr Ostolvod. He is a dead man now. Drowned out by the realization of the true identity. One he came to know and be devoured by through the years. It is almost funny, he was scheduled to die not but two years before he passed away and made way for myself.

“I can dissect you. Not without tools or surgical implements. No EKG or anesthesia. I don't even need to kill you to see into you. I know all I need to know to piece it together. You're another hit-man. An assassin. Fortunately for me, I doubt my name was on any list. All the same, by association, would you kill me?”

Jun took deep angered breaths. He stood haunched and ready. If anything seemed off, he would need to defy his demands and move. It was the best chance he had. “What if I said 'yes'?” he asked.

“It would not matter. If I die to you it's because of a higher player than I willed it. Do you know free will?”

Jun was silent on the matter.

“I will assume you do. Or you think you do.” sneered the speaker, “Petyr once spent some time in America. There he attended a conference on liberty. During which an oriental such as yourself pleaded the Chinese knew not of liberty or the force of freely thinking. He doubted he was telling the truth to himself, feeling he was speaking it as someone's token to validate their point. But thinking back on Petyr now, I suspect he was right. The Chinese indeed have not changed their styles from anything more free from what they had before, and follow the beck and call of a new master-slave. From one Jurchen to the next.

“No, thinking back I doubt they know freedom and liberty like we in Russia knew, or in America. Or in Europe. But then, they weren't any closer, but closer than the Chinese all the same. Closer than the Africans. Closer than the Arabs, but they themselves had a closer understanding of what was, while the west and Russia tried to throw off the shackles of being the old society. The Ottoman Empire and Persia over knew – or once knew – the realization of the ultimate relationship between people and to the Higher One.”

“Higher one?” Jun asked. He was willing to humor him, if it gave him a few more minutes.

“There is a distinct relationship between one man to another on how to do his part and to be a part of the whole.” Otluchen monologued. His voice slowly finding one source as the figure over the pulpit rose higher. “Peasent would serve to lord who would serve his Empire. And we thought the line would end there. Sometimes they'd near closer to being correct by claiming divine guidance from God. But then the chain stops there.

“Do you think God controls everything in this world? No, he's just another intermediary controlling the things we understand. But beyond that and into theory? The somehow bizzare and unpredictable way man acts even, from top to bottom? Would God have willed for the Great War to go on for as long as it did and to rape his creation so easily?

“What about the retreat of the Spanish from Helsinki? The rise of China from a backwater state to what it is now, even if it is a red cancerous blemish that should be purged much like the self-proclaimed Republic of Spain?

“One evil or hypocrite to another. Truth prevails over all and all liars will eventually die. Those who admit to the truth will live long and happily, or die knowing well that they served the master to the last word of his final dramatic act. A stage show. This is all a stage show. Put on by the benefit of not one, but several. And who knows how many lives they torture for their own amusement, granting power to some individuals arbitrarily.

“But even I know that beyond them there must be something greater. Well beyond my scope in knowing, or yours, or anyone's.”

The figure over the raised pulpit finally worked over the wooden rails. Swaying wildly from the toying of gravity as it floated down to Jun like a specter, hanging limp like a hangman. As it drew closer the features on its person became clearer. The rich embroidering of its robes. The long tangled mane that was a beard and the twisted white locks of hair. A stretched gaunt face with empty sockets, casting shadows across themselves. Then the wide opened mouth, like a ghost screaming.

Otluchen's voice sounded stronger from it. “In knowing this, thinking this, and expressing myself Petyr distanced himself from the man who titles himself God. His followers grew frightened. Though Petyr inspired his own followers. He stood ideologically opposed. But at the same time, though conflicting, he knew that this stance was necessary for existence. For it is the dramatic dichotomy that drives the Higher One's theater. Do you know who's watching you, orient? Who is applauding for your successes, or against you in your defeats?”

Jun was speechless for a response. He watched in shuddering disgust as the corpse of the priest lowered itself down to Jun. Hanging within conversational distance from him. The shadows in his eyes lifted to reveal empty putrid sockets. His flesh was a gaunt leathery green. And in his gaping maw was a speaker.

“It is understandable to not be able to answer. For we may not be able to identify these actors in our own life.” Otluchen continued, “We may need to die to meet them. Or even in death we won't, because we'll simply cease to exist. Or perhaps we'll be reincarnated, unaware of the stories we once defined.

“When Petyr concluded this, he died. He empties his shell and I came in and took his place. As I do the shells of so many former persons that litter this room.

“I would not look, some are deadly, [i]tovorich[/i].”

Jun stared stunned into the face of the dead man that hung before him. Looking up he saw the faint glimmer of thin cables. “Do not worry about those. They are theater.” the corpse-priest laughed, “You have given me pittance enough to talk. I will not worry. But I still must know, are you here to kill me? Or do you want to see through your cause and the following acts of your life?”

Gobsmacked, Jun stared on at the cables above and the looming dead priest before him. He didn't know however long the body had been dead. But before him it smelled fresh as ever. Bitter, it dug into his tongue and his breaths through his mouth brought in a stifling sour taste. “I don't suppose I would have the chance.” he said, looking around. In the darkness of the interior there could be many places he hid. And he could clearly see him. He was in the cross hairs of a target he could not find. And it knew it.

“I will let you in on some truths.” Otluchen said, “Here in Perm, you have no allies. I am still in the game to play politics among my old brothers. They excluded me, but the fear me too much to remove me. I am unable to move freely – if by choice – but I keep a radio. It is how I know you were coming and that I have a rough idea on who it is destined to die.

“A man like you will need information to carry on. And I have such information. But I'll pass it on under the pretense you kill someone for me, or some persons. Do we understand?”

“I... do...” Jun said unsure. He didn't feel at ease assisting a criminal, one that was a member of or associate to the group he was tasked to destroy to his best abilities. But he already knew his cards, he had no choice.

“Excellent. What do you know of the Angles of Death?” Otluchen asked.

“They sound familiar.”

“They are the personal hitmen of Bog. His physical muscle in this world. One resides here and practices out of here. He goes by the name of Gabriel.

“Kill him and bring me his head so I may appraise it and cheer for being on the right side of the directors and the writers of the universe. Then I will reveal to you the information you seek, and fill you on more.”

“Just for killing this man?” asked Jun.

“It won't be easy.” Otluchen sneered, “And he has company from a wraith.”