A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

What flummoxed Michael the most was that Ahn didn't look like a madman. In fact, he looked like nothing more than an urbane, well-educated, middle-aged oriental man in dark clothes. He had been expecting – what? Horns, a pitchfork? Evil glowing red eyes? He remembered seeing photos of some of the Nazi concentration camp doctors and shuddered. Those men had kissed their wives and children each morning and gone off to work – to torture and kill people in many Horrible and Inhumane Ways, just because they hadn't considered those peoples' lives to be as significant as theirs. Well, it just went to show you that you couldn't judge a book by its cover. In other words, he thought, fighting down his panic, you couldn't plumb the depths of depravity in a man's soul simply by the way he looked. Hundreds of cheap drinks and Happy Hours had taught him that.

And Ahn was watching him, with the same cold, dead eyes as a snake. Michael's skin prickled all over, as though someone had thrown some mild acid on it. His limbs were frozen in place, yet his joints felt weak; he knew his heart was beating so fast he was surprised it hadn't burst. Maybe it would; maybe he'd just keel over dead from a heart attack and Ahn would get away. He looked at Ahn, at the cool emotionless eyes, the mouth curved slightly into an ironic smile, the small, well-kept hands that had created the Sŏndŏk. He straightened his spine. NO. That was not an option. He took a deep breath and tightened his grip on the smoking Glock.

Ahn's dark eyes flicked down at the gun; he seemed almost disinterested. "So," he said; his voice was soft and sibilant, and carried only a hint of an accent. "Which one are you?"

That implied an intimate knowledge of the inner workings of the Chosen, of their names and titles and roles, and Michael wasn't at all sure he liked that. It meant Ahn knew them, knew who they were and where they came from; it meant Ahn had Information, too. He swallowed; it felt like someone had stuck a golf ball down his throat. The last time he'd felt that was when he'd been diagnosed with a nasty case of strep. Should he tell Ahn who he was? Or should he just shoot him and have done with it? Not that Ahn seemed particularly concerned; was he just very brave, or was he hoping to distract Michael somehow? He shifted his feet and raised the Glock, making sure Ahn was in his sights. Ahn smiled again.

"Ah," he said. "The little blond faggot."

Michael flinched. That hurt; that was a name he had heard from adolescence on up. How did Ahn know how much that would hurt? Then he saw a smug look cross that impassive face, and it made him angry. Ahn had said that on purpose; he was trying to hurt Michael. Michael decided it didn't matter what Ahn said – it didn't matter, because Tulkas was with him.

You are with me, aren't you? he asked in his head, desperately afraid.

Yes, Beloved Dreamer. I am here with you. Did I not send you here? Have courage; I will steady your hand. Do not be afraid.

"Easy for him to say," thought Michael, but he felt better nonetheless, knowing Tulkas the Hunter was with him. The prickling in his skin faded, and he straightened up and cocked the gun. Ahn did not even blink.

"You are the gay programmer's lover, yes?" said Ahn calmly.

Michael considered his options. He could say, a la Legolas, "None of your fucking business," but wouldn’t Ahn just smile and know that such language wasn't Normal for him? Or he could assume a matching impassive expression and say, "Well, what of it?" Or he could just do what he was doing at the moment, which was standing there staring at Ahn like a stunned duck. Well, whatever worked. Ahn looked down at the limp form at his feet, at the splayed limbs and splattered blood, and the still, breathless chest, and his smile deepened.

"You are no longer lovers, I think," he said.

Michael's heart turned to cold lead. Faramir was dead – Michael had watched him get gunned down. Please, please don't let me think of it now, he thought. Please, please help me just get through this – the next minute – the next couple of minutes – let me get to the end of this and then I'll break down, I'll scream, I'll cry, I'll shoot myself. But I need to finish this first. He knew that to glance down at Faramir's sprawled bloody body would be the End – it would Hit Him, and he would crack, and Ahn would get away, and he would have Failed. Faramir had been willing to die to make sure Ahn was captured. Michael would have to be willing, too. So he relentlessly blocked that thought, the Michael-is-alone-forever thought, out of his mind and fixed his eyes on Ahn, holding the gun steady. He noticed, with a sort of clinical detachment, that it had already started to cool against his palm.

"You are very heartless," said Ahn softly, his eyes drooping. "Your lover lies at your feet in a pool of blood, and you do not even look to him?"

"Heartless" – that was rich; Ahn telling Michael he was heartless? Michael, who was nearly ALL heart? This man, this soft-voiced, cold-blooded reptile, was the heartless one. Michael felt his jaw clench, and the heat of anger made his pain recede a little. And he could tell Tulkas was there – it was nearly palpable, the strong hand holding him up so that he could do what needed to be done. Michael looked at Ahn, at the cool emotionless face, and his anger increased. Didn't this man KNOW? Didn't he realize what Sŏndŏk could DO? He couldn't POSSIBLY be that stupid, that naïve.

"Pot calling the kettle black," said Michael, suddenly and bitterly. His voice sounded harsh and calloused in the thick night air. He had never sounded like that before; he had always been high-pitched, girlish, lyrical. It was a strangely impressive change. But Ahn only smiled again.

"Ah," said Ahn. He seemed to think he had scored a point somehow, that getting Michael to talk was weighing in his favor. Perhaps it was; perhaps he was trying to buy time. "You refer to my creation, yes?"

To call the Sŏndŏk a "creation" was almost obscene, like photocopying a magazine page, putting it in a gilt frame with a four-figure pricetag, and calling it Art. You could DO it, certainly, but it was only window dressing; ultimately it was worthless, nothing. "It's going to kill millions of people," said Michael. Maybe Ahn didn't know. Maybe he thought this was just another job, that he could wash his hands of it and leave it to the Chinese with no consequences. If he could convince Ahn that the Sŏndŏk was that dangerous, maybe that would at least sway him – this man couldn't POSSIBLY be so cold-blooded, could he? To be willing to kill millions of people just to make some money? Could anyone really be that evil? Despite the damp chill of the murky pre-dawn a trickle of sweat rolled down Michael's shoulder blades, finding the gap in his trousers and making its tickly way down his backside. He wanted to twitch, to clench his buttocks, to stop it, but he didn't dare move. He was facing down his Enemy and the first one who flinched, lost.

Ahn shrugged. "They are only North Koreans," he said carelessly. "Their lives, they are already unhappy. I offer them release from slavery, from their miserable existence."

"What about the Chinese?" asked Michael.

A flicker of surprise and fear marred the marble-whiteness of Ahn's face. Michael could almost hear him think, How did he know about that? Then the shutters went down, angrily this time; Ahn was losing some of his composure. Michael was glad – he didn't want to be the only one with Emotional Issues on this dock.

"You are very clever," he said smoothly. "How did you find out about that?"

Michael hesitated. Dared he tell Ahn how he knew? Would Ahn even believe him? And did it matter? What am I supposed to do? he asked Tulkas desperately, but all Tulkas did was chuckle, which was slightly reassuring but not very helpful. Michael sifted through several responses before deciding to say something he'd heard Arwen say once, dryly and condescendingly. He knew he'd never be able to quite put that insulting edge to his voice that she seemed to have mastered, but he felt certain the phrase itself would put Ahn off.

"I have my sources," he said.

But Ahn smiled at that, and looked down at Faramir again. "Yes," he said, his voice heavy with contempt. "Quite an intelligent man, a very good programmer. He managed to trip up Fitzpatrick at Chinp'yŏng. I was very impressed." Then he looked up at Michael through his lashes, smiling cruelly. "But he will not be any longer a source of information for you, yes? He is finished, like you are finished."

Michael went cold. Is this a trap? Am I going to die, too? Michael asked Tulkas in a panic. He wanted to turn round in circles, look up, hide, try to find whatever operatives were left and get away. But Tulkas was there, soothing, strong.

He is bluffing. He is alone, but you are not alone. Have courage; I am with you. Michael felt better. He had Tulkas; Ahn had no one. He remembered the meeting on Norman Island, when Éowyn talked about killing off the two senators – Ahn didn't have any political support in the United States any more; he remembered Fitzpatrick's death and knew that Ahn didn't have any military support either. All he'd had, at the end of it, were his seven operatives, some money from a Swiss bank account that Gimli had flushed with a grunt of pleasure the morning before, and this crate – whatever was in it, that was supposed to go to Vietnam. That could not happen. Michael thought about the body on the ground, and decided it must have been one operative that Faramir and Gimli had killed first; then he thought about the three he'd "topped," to use Legolas' rather slangy word. That was four. And hadn't Arwen, Éowyn, and Lottie gone to deal with the three at Dover? He spared a quick prayer for their success and focused again on Ahn, who was watching him closely.

"I'm not finished yet," he said. His voice sounded thin and boyish in the thick heavy night, but his words had a chilling effect on Ahn. The dark eyes tightened, and Michael could see desperation there. He wondered what Ahn was going to do next. Really, thought Michael, Ahn didn't have much of a list of choices – try to run, and get shot; stand there, and get shot; try to talk his way out of it, and possibly get shot anyway. Well, if he thought he could talk Michael into letting him go, he had another thing coming. Ahn straightened a little, put on a mask of a smile, and said,

"So tell me, how did you escape the bomb in San Diego? Fitzpatrick's men were very angry, that what they had tried to do had failed."

Michael thought about Legolas, about his insistence that Michael come with him, that he stay put, that he climb down the fire escape to safety. And he thought about Legolas, killing Fitzpatrick's men, rescuing him, shooting Fitzpatrick, generally making a nuisance of himself from Ahn's perspective. FARAMIR tripped people up? Legolas had been a stumbling-block of cosmic proportions; even blinded and deafened he would still be a formidable foe. Had it not been for Legolas' willingness to obey the Valar and stop Ahn at all costs, Ahn would have succeeded. But as it was, despite everything, despite Ulmo and Ossë, Legolas was Ahn's downfall. Michael felt his mouth stretch out into a grin, not a nice grin but a rather Evil and Gloating grin, which had the pleasant effect of making Ahn look very nervous.

"Ancient Chinese Secret," he said, and this time his voice was stronger. But Ahn's unease translated itself into anger.

"You mean that yellow-haired motorcycle driver," he said, and his voice broke and rasped; the milky, soothing quality was gone. "He is dead; I saw the video at Chinp'yŏng. He cannot help you now."

Now. It was an echo of that last word, but from Tulkas it had a very different meaning. Michael put Ahn definitively in his sights, his arms straight and steady; a bead of sweat meandered down Ahn's temple and into his collar.

"Legolas is not dead because he can't die," said Michael, determined to drive the point home so that Ahn would at least understand something about why he'd failed. "He's at the hotel in London, waiting for me."

"I don't believe you," said Ahn flatly, his eyes going narrow. That didn't surprise Michael; it would frankly have been more startling if this cold-blooded scientist accepted the notion that someone was Unkillable.

Michael shrugged. "So what?" He raised the gun. Ahn's hands twitched; it looked as though he were about to raise them, to plead for mercy, but then he stopped himself angrily.

"So this not-dead man, he has left you to do the dirty work, yes?" he said, his voice venomous. "Just sent you out to watch your lover die and to kill me all by yourself. He is not, I think, a trustworthy friend, little homosexual."

"Legolas didn't send me out," said Michael indignantly. "He wanted to do it but couldn't. And," he added, feeling very miffed at having been dragged into a conversation with Ahn, "if he HAD come out you would have been dead BEFORE you could say anything. He's MUCH more efficient than I am."

"Look," said Ahn, raising his hands palm-out in supplication; his face was damp with sweat, and he was smiling nervously. "You have no reason to kill me now. My men are dead, you have my crate. Let me go on the boat and I will go away, I will not come back. You do not need to kill me, I am finished now."

Michael hesitated. Truth be told, he really, REALLY didn't want to kill Ahn; he had killed the three operatives quickly and when his blood was hot, but to stand there, look into this man's eyes, and pull the trigger …. Michael wasn't sure he could do it. And Ahn really did look frightened; he was watching Michael, watching the end of the Glock, staring Eternity in the face, and not liking it one bit. And Ahn was probably right – all his men dead, his effects left behind, his Swiss bank account wiped; what harm could he cause now?

Beware, Beloved Dreamer. His heart is corrupt and his mind is sharp. He will recreate Sŏndŏk and sell it to the Chinese. You must stop him. It is time.

Michael swallowed. Well, this was it. Yes, my lord, he said humbly. That made more sense, actually; hadn't Ahn covered all his steps, proving himself a cold opportunist through all of his disappointments? What could stop him now from doing it all over again – getting political and military support, money, laboratories, hit men? The trappings were gone, but the core, the heart, the brain was still there; the web was torn and tattered but the spider with its venomous sting remained. Ahn could see the resolution grow in Michael's eyes, and his voice grew tight with panic. "They are only North Koreans!" he said again, his eyes a little wild. "Why do you care about them?"

"For the same reason I care about the hundred million Chinese who are going to die because of you," said Michael firmly, setting his shoulders, preparing for the Glock's kick.

Ahn tried to laugh this off. "Ah," he said breathlessly. "There are too many Chinese. This will cull the population so that the rest can have more resources."

That was so Dickensian that Michael almost laughed. "Thank you, Ebenezer, I'll file that away with the rest of my ethical conundrums," he said acidly. Ahn looked confused; Michael reflected that he probably hadn't ever read A Christmas Carol and had no idea what Michael had meant. It didn't matter, though; Michael could feel Tulkas' pressure upon him, and the whispered command to shoot, to end it. Ahn had no conscience; he was only concerned with making money, and if killing millions of people would do it for him, he didn't care. Trying to convince Michael that the deaths were insignificant – almost an economic benefit! As if you could "cull" people, children and old women, the way people culled herds of deer. It reduced Humanity to the same level as brute beasts. Well, if that was the way Ahn thought people should be treated, Tulkas was right – Ahn needed to die. It was an odd feeling, this resolution, this strength; it was as though he could see everything from above – the beginnings of things, the ends of things; the whole world and the way things worked in it – all peppered with tiny, individual, significant souls, crying out for Justice. One callous man was not worth this vague philosophical discussion, and dawn was approaching. "Frankly," said Michael firmly, "if shooting you keeps them alive I don't know why I'm even bothering to talk to you. You obviously think you can do what you want, but I'm here to show you that you can't. You're not God; you've never even met Him. Now. Enough's enough."

Ahn's eyes filled with tears; he looked panic-stricken. He raised his trembling hands in supplication, and he was perspiring freely. "If you kill me you'll go to Hell!" he cried, his voice squeaking with terror.

Michael shook his head sadly, gave Ahn an apologetic look. "I've already been there," he admitted, and squeezed the trigger.