Enemies Without, Enemies Within [Dobson]

[PepsiWhirda]

Dobson stalked through the deserted streets, his knuckles white around the iron ring atop the cage. The sound of his heels click-clacking against the cobbestones filled the air, magnified in the stillness.

He passed walls plastered with posters displaying the smug grin of Karl Jax. Dante's Abyss! they trumpeted. Calling all Primes! Ultimate showcase of cunning, survival, and ruthlessness! He had only met the foppish madcap once, during his promotional visit to the village, but the sight of him turned Dobson's already uneasy stomach. Behind his dancing eyes, Karl Jax was callous in the face of their suffering, treating death as a spectacle to be beheld. Every Prime he recruited for his insane game was one fewer defender Dobson could call on for assistance, every coin flowing into his bulging pockets a shameful mockery of their very real plight.

Holding the head of his closest friend, Dobson felt backed into a corner from which there was no escape, his entire world crumbling around him.

Lost in thought, Dobson didn't hear the sound of approaching boots until the young soldier bowled him over, the two hitting the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. The cage hit the ground with a dull thud, the door swinging wide. Dobson let out a strangled cry as Van Helsing's head hit the street, rolling grotesquely on its side, the professor's lips parting and his blackened tongue slithering between them.

For a long moment, both soldiers froze, fixated on the scene.

Dobson snapped back first, shoving the young soldier off of him. He stood, slapping dust off his tunic with both hands. Dobson tried his best to suppress the horror before him and focus his ire on the kid, drawing to his full height to loom over him as he struggled to climb to his feet.

"To attention!" he barked, hardly recognizing his own voice from behind his facade of authority.

The soldier went rigid before him, his eyes wide and swelling with tears. "My apologies L-Lieutenant," he managed, literally shaking in his boots. "There's word from the gates. Whirda Windstrom has returned!"

At the recruit's mention of Whirda, Dobson momentarily slipped out of character, confusion flashing across his narrow features. Rather than put the mask back on, he took a steadying breath and let calm overtake him. Whirda is an opportunity. She can help me.

"Tell them I'm on my way," he said.

After the soldier had turned and prepared to run off, Dobson clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Not a word of this to anyone," he hissed. "Understood?"

The soldier shook his head vigorously. "Understood, sir."

"Dismissed."

As the recruit's footsteps footsteps receded down the street, Dobson bent down. His hand hesitated a few inches above the professor's head. Keep breathing. He cupped Van Helsing in both hands and put him back in the cage, closing the door with a click. He was presented with an impossible choice: bring the professor's head with him to the gate, risking an information leak that could plunge the village into chaos, or discard it like so much rubbish, to be retrieved later.

He squared his shoulders and straightened, still carrying the professor. There was no chance he would bring that indignity upon the memory of his oldest friend. Leading Darkshire's militia was a life rife with hard choices, but he was no monster. He had to hope Whirda wasn't either.