Ghol’Toruk climbed the old, metal stairs. Each step threatened to buckle under his weight, but this familiar climb merely liked to call out its creaking protests. Ghol appreciated the feeling of isolation he felt while tucked away in the deep recesses of this parking garage. It was abandoned and unused; a urban renewal project that couldn’t find ground. A shame— all that money going to waste, but he found use in this analog for the vast caverns of his home.
Somehow there was no pattern to the underground garages here. None seemed aligned with one another. Stairwells connected the labyrinth, but some times they skipped levels, or only went up a half level. Each door opened into more darkened spaces. Old, yellow decals pointing towards dead elevators were scrawled across the walls, and faded white arrows wound their way through a maze of open space.
His facility was tucked away behind a frail chain link fence somewhere far below. There were numerous fences above, usually sectioning off electrical equipment and areas that were still under construction. His facility was far enough below that the graffiti thinned out on the walls and the needles became sparse in the stairwells. If any hapless wanderer like himself decided to see what was cordoned off that low below ground, they would be met with swift and deadly force. Assuming they were lucky enough to find his home.
He had wandered these quiet spaces numerous times, and he always seemed to locate a new, untouched place. His fingers sometimes brushed the walls, enjoying the sensation of grit and dust.
Ghol stepped through another door, and on the distant side of the parking garage he was the glaring white light of the surface world. His eyes adjusted, but it still took him a moment to find the silhouette of the man waiting for him.
His lieutenants hated how he frequently stalked off alone, but sometimes individual action is more beneficial than pack tactics. They can sit around and discuss what to do about the trespasser, or they could simply go meet him.
“Mr. Ghol’Toruk, am I pronouncing that correctly?”
“As well as could be expected,” Ghol said. His tone sharpened, “Who are you? Why are you here?”
“My name is Stinson. I work with your— rival,” the man said. He spread his arms out wide in peace. He kept moving closer to Ghol.
“What would bring you here? Are you mad? What did he inject you with?” Ghol kept cautiously moving forward. He could smell the high class cologne he was wearing, the sweat from his glands, and the blood on his hands.
“I am here by my own choice. Marcus doesn’t know I’m here, but he’ll figure it out soon enough.”
“Should I kill you now to save you the trouble? I should imagine if he likes to butcher us, you won’t fare much better.”
“He thinks you are easily manipulated,” Stinson continued. “I think differently. You sent an agent to the Raven’s Nest. We only recently found out she went there. What is Grace to you? You sent four different rings after her?”
They now stood nearly face to face. Merely an arms length between them.
“I am not going to tell you anything, until you tell me what you are prepared to offer. You humans play coy games and believe that you are deft with words,” Ghol said. “Why are you here?”
“Because Marcus finally did it. Marcus created a hybrid monster— and I’m not sure why,” Stinson said, lowering his arms. “I thought I’d come ask the person who desperately tried to retrieve her.
“You bore me. You come with questions, nothing to offer, and you are flippant with your own life. You need to start bartering for it or I will take it.”
Stinson’s eyes seemed to be searching the hard angles and deep crevasses of Ghol’s alien face. His eyes were filled with questions— and then maybe he had found an answer within himself.
“Marcus often posits the question to new geneticists: why are the Blue Ring here?” Stinson said after a moment.
Ghol’Toruk bared his teeth in a scowl.
“Why are you here? What is it you and your survivors are running from, Ghol? Why would Marcus offer you such a dangerous weapon? That you could use against him?
“Whatever it is that pushed you out of your home— it’s coming here, isn’t it?”
Write Makes Right 