Seoul Welcome to Seoul, Mr. Blake!

[Helfdan]

Part 1 ((Blake has not yet met the bees))

"Blake, Jericho. Captain. Service number AAAARRRRGGGGHHHHHH! The hoarse shout of pain was loud in the small basement room. The torturer chuckled as he pressed the electrodes into his captives broad chest for a few long moments.

"I told you I don't care about this military nonsense," the thin, wiry man answered in English, with a strong Asian accent. "You are not one of ours, but you will soon tell me whether you are Blue or Red. I believe the latter, from your arrogant bearing."

The tall, brawny, sandy haired Marine officer was strapped to a wooden table, his wrists and ankles held by leather manacles. He was only wearing his service trousers, and there already were multiple scorch marks on his muscled chest. He looked toward his captor, pausing only to see the small table holding various knives, saws, and other implements of torture that had yet to be used on him. Not that the electrodes connected to the car battery had been a picnic.

"Mister..." He panted, catching his breath. "I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about. I told you..." He shouted again as the wiry asian shook his head and applied the electrodes. "You're stubborn. Gotta be a Red. But I have time..." As the electrical current caused him severe pain and muscle contractions, Jericho's mind went back to the event that led to his current predicament.

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He thought of it almost as a vacation. Blake was in a sabbatical of sorts, stationed in Okinawa. He had needed some time off active duty, and there all his duties were administrative, as XO of a Rifle battalion. He spent most of his time practicing martial arts, which was one of the reasons he requested Japan.

Although other spec ops officers would have cringed at the lack of action in such a post, Blake needed the break. It was not that he tired of the missions, it was there that he thrived. But the visions... Those hateful spirits of destruction and violence he saw whenever combat was joined... They were getting worse. He knew he was going insane. But he did not want to go to a military nuthouse, thus he kept quiet about it and requested a support position.

This was his second attempt. He had been assigned as an officer of the embassy protection service. Escorting ambassadors and their families to parties and theaters in Europe sounded easy enough. But with his background, Blake was called upon to assist the CIA in countless highly illegal ops. He learned much in those two years, and got an offer to go work for the Company if he ever tired of the Corps. But his concern about this perceived mental illness, and what could happen if he finally lost it during an op, led him to seek calmer waters.

The call from the ambassador was unexpected. Blake had been Head of Mr. Rollins's guard detail when the former was ambassador to Russia. Now Rollins was heading to Seoul, for an important meeting of which he could not give details to Jericho. But the arrangement was one guard per diplomat, and as Rollins knew Blake was in Okinawa, he made a couple of calls.

So it was that on one overcast morning in Seoul, Jericho Blake was standing by a black sedan in front of a fancy hotel, awaiting Mr. Rollins. He adjusted his khaki overcoat against the morning chill. Everything looked normal. The streets were crowded with people on their way to work as you would expect in a city of such large population. They did get a couple of glances - a western military man standing by a large sedan bearing a small American flag - but all glances had been curious and understandable. He gave a small grin and tipped his peaked cover at a group of young ladies who walked past, sneaking glances at him and giggling amongst themselves, probably coworkers of some sort. And then his icy blue eyes narrowed as he saw trouble.

He saw a young Korean man wearing a business suit and overcoat, smoking a cigarette in a corner. An alert bodyguard would have noticed that people seldom smoke in the rain. Or that the man's coat was over large, as if to conceal a weapon or weapons. But it took a man with Jericho's curse? illness? to see the spirit of hatred and death swirling, like some inky, floating, eel, about the man. He cursed under his breath as he noticed the man was looking, nonchalantly but directly, at the ambassador. Blake looked around and soon identified, despite the crowd, at least another half-dozen young men who were loitering rather than rushing to work. Two others had spirits swirling around them.

Blake vaulted over the car's hood and grabbed a stunned ambassador. He opened the back door of the sedan, and unceremoniously hurled Rollins in. "To the Embassy. Now!" The seasoned corporal at the wheel answered with a crisp ""Aye, aye, sir!" The sedan tore off into traffic as soon as Blake slammed the door, the ambassador too stunned to even question the events. Jericho turned back to see a group of suit-wearing men bearing down on him, all wielding swords, sai, knives, nunchucks, or other eastern weapons, the spirits wailing in fury.

The next few seconds were a blur. Blake stepped in close to the first swordsman and grabbed his sword wrist in a bone-crushing grip. He turned the man around just in time to use him as a shield, and a sai and a knife meant for Blake's flanks slammed deeply into the thug's back almost simultaneously. Jericho cursed as the sword dropped before he could grab it, and met another sword wielder with a savage side kick to the solar plexus that sent him crashing back against the hotel wall. He tossed the knifed corpse into the two knife-men, and barely dodged a strike from a tonfa. He elbowed the club-wielder in the face, and caught the tonfa in the air -- just as a nunchuck hit the back of his skull. He staggered, and a circle kick to the gut brought him down. Soon he was in a storm of kicks and punches, and all he could do was use his arms to shield his head. As unconsciousness claimed him, his last thought was wondering why they weren't using the blades.

He woke up trapped to the table in the windowless room. As he shook his aching head, the wiry asian man stepped up into the small circle of light shed by the single lightbulb. The man grinned as he said "Welcome to Seoul, Mr. Blake," before applying the electrodes to Jericho's broad chest for the first of many, many times.


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[Helfdan]

Part 2

A hard open hand slap across his face awoke Blake. The wiry, middle aged torturer chuckled. "I am not stupid, gwai lo. For your kind, death is but a quick release. You will stay here, very much alive, until you talk."
Jericho blinked, but knew further words would not deter this madman. With what little moisture was left in his mouth, he spit into the older man's face. The Asian turned red with fury, and began a stream of insults and vituperation in what Blake could only assume was Cantonese. Full of ire, he viciously applied the electrodes to his victim's chest. Once more, Jericho's world was one of pain and spasms. But there was method to his madness.

As he had struggled against the manacles during the previous hours of torture, he had felt their bolts loosen under his considerable strength. Now, he used the pain. He channelled it into anger, and roared as he exerted what little leverage he could against the leather strap at his right wrist. The powerful muscles at his chest and right arm bulged, even as the current caused fasciculations, until with a sharp crack the old, cheap wood of the table gave way, and he tore the restraint free, metal bolt and all. Before the fury-blind torturer could react, Blake had a death grip around his throat.

The Asian received a couple of seconds of his own electricity, conducted through Jericho's frame, before he could release the electrodes. He reached up with both hands to claw at Blake's fingers, but though he was a strong, fit man himself, he could not match the savage strength the captured marine officer was applying, with fingers strong as iron digging through his neck muscles, and squeezing not into his windpipe, but into his carotid arteries. Jericho knew such an attack could cause both cardiac arrhythmia and decrease the blood flow to the brain. He didn't know, or care, which happened first. He just kept squeezing until his former torturer's struggles diminished, then stopped altogether.

"Fuck you and die," he muttered as he tossed the corpse aside and set about removing his restraints. He sat at the side of the table for a few seconds, as he knew he was likely dehydrated and could get dizzy if he arose too quickly. He finally stood and took a look around his surroundings. It was a tiny, windowless room with the stench of sweat, blood, and human suffering. A single door led out. None of the torture implements, sharp though they were, seemed sturdy enough to serve as weapons. The dead asian was clad in dress pants, shoes, and undershirt. He bore many tattoos, all unfamiliar to Blake, but prominently featuring dragons. He had a wallet with a lot of cash, which Blake appropriated, but no I.D.

Jericho opened the door to find a stairway leading up. He climbed cautiously, as silently as he could, to the door at the top. Beyond he heard some voices speaking a foreign tongue, but after a few seconds, he was pretty sure it was a television set. He opened the door to see an office. It was cluttered and messy, with all sorts of books strewn about old shelves and a beat up old desk. There was a TV tuned to a Korean news station, and a computer monitor on the desk. A dress shirt and coat were draped over the back of a well-used but comfortable looking chair.

The clothes were too small for his frame, so he quickly turned his attention to the desk. To his surprise, the numerous books and papers - at least those he could understand - were on occult topics and mysticism. "Who the hell are these crazy bastards?" He muttered as he went through the drawers. He did find a SIG P-229 pistol chambered in .357, with a spare magazine, both of which he quickly pocketed. But there was nothing in any language he could read that gave him a clue as to his captors' identity, or their reasons for attacking the ambassador. About all he could gather from the news ticker is that almost twenty hours had passed since the attack.

The monitor turned out to be connected to a security system. He saw grainy, black and white video of the room where he had been held, of a hallway outside a door, where three asian toughs lounged, and of a busy street, dark and rainy. By a dim streetlight he could see at least a half dozen other toughs guarding a door. Lastly, he saw what appeared to be a hotel lobby, but the employees were all young women of various ethnicities, all scantily clad.

"A whorehouse? What kind of pimp..." He shrugged and headed for the office door, and brazenly threw it open.

As he suspected, it led to the hallway he had seen in the camera, and the three men lounging and chatting - in English - outside turned politely towards the open door, clearly expecting someone else. Blake extended the fingers of his right hand and met the first one with a lightning strike that shattered his larynx. He was still falling as Blake did a low, sweeping spinning kick that knocked the other two down. Jericho kicked one in the face as the other swept out a butterfly knife and advanced in an escrima stance.

The man feinted to his face, then swept in for a disemboweling strike. Blake countered with a wrist block, which flowed into a classic jujutsu wrist throw. The thug landed on his back, winded, and died with his hand still on the hilt of the knife that pierced his chest. The one remaining man, blood flowing from his mouth, drew a set of nunchucks from his belt, and whirled them menacingly before striking at Jericho. The marine dodged the first three strikes and as his attacker drew back for a forth, he sent a sidekick into the thug's midsection, sending him stunned to the floor. Jericho pounced on him and within seconds had him in a painful arm lock.

"Ok, you son of a bitch," Blake kept his voice low, but his anger was evident. "Who the hell are you people, and why did you attack us? And who's the bastard that was questioning me?"

The man tried, fruitlessly, to free himself, and squealed when Blake tightened the lock. "You talk, or you never use this arm again... But you'll have three more limbs for me to hurt!"

The thug cursed in Mandarin, then spoke, pain in his voice. "You are an enemy of The Dragon, what else could you expect? You interfered with our plans, you had to pay the aieeeeeehhh!" He screamed as Blake tightened the hold again, all but pulling the arm from its socket. "I don't know why we were to kill your politician! Mr. Ong ordered it, and we obeyed! The Dragon acts in ways you cannot fa-" Blake shut him up with a brutal knee to the face that rendered him senseless.

Dragon? Reds? Blues? None of it made any sense, and it sounded like a strange gang war. The odd part was that few of these men were Korean. Some sort of pan-asian terrorist group? Killing the ambassador would certainly have destabilized the hopes for better relations with North Korea, as Blake had no doubt this was what the meeting was about. He looked at the three fallen men. Instinctively, he had taken the largest one down first. And only now he noticed the man was sporting his own regulation trench coat.

Blake quickly recovered and donned it, belting it closed. Although still barefoot, and in the middle of a strange city, but his prospects were that much better. He retrieved the butterfly knife, wiped it clean on its previous owner's clothes, and placed it in a coat pocket. Only two more doors were evident in this hallway. One opened to a supply closet. The other opened to another stairway leading up. He shrugged and climbed as quietly as he could.

******************************************

 

[Helfdan]

Part 3


The door at the top of the stairs opened up to a short hallway containing two other doors, a men's and a ladies' room respectively. The hallway opened unto the fancy hotel lobby - cum - bar he had seen on the utility camera. It was luxurious, but all the attendants were scantily clad, mostly young women, but a few were young men. Again he noticed most of the customers were Asian, but the workers were of all ethnicities, the opposite of what he would have expected of a fancy brothel. Such establishments tended to cater to wealthy tourists. Perhaps this was one for rich locals?

There were too many people, and the front door was heavily guarded. He spied another stairway leading up to what he assumed were the business rooms for the brothel. He waited until he thought nobody was looking in that direction, and walked purposefully to the stairs without looking back. He was halfway up the first flight when he heard the commotion behind him, and voices raised in tones of alarm. Tired as he was, he took the stairs two at a time.

He reached the next story to see it looked like a hotel hallway. At the far end of it, there was a window with a fire escape. But with the angry, half-naked people pouring out of the rooms as a general alarm was raised, he knew he would never reach it. He bounded up the stairs as fast as he could, drawing and readying the SIG as he went. He could hear the steps closing behind him, and as he reached the 4th floor, saw signs the next flight led to a roof exit. But before he could climb further, he heard an urgent whisper in British-accented English. "Over here, quickly!"

A tall, slender Chinese woman clad in lingerie beckoned to him from a doorway. "Do you *want* to die?" She asked with impatience, and Jericho shook his head before joining her. She closed the door just as they heard the mob of angry thugs run up the stairs. Blake looked around to see a huge, extremely luxurious hotel room, a suite really. There was a bar with exotic liquors from all over the world, a hot tub, and a huge four poster canopy bed with velvet and silken drapes.

The half-naked woman was not was he expected either. While her face was lovely, she was leanly muscular rather than voluptuous, and she looked at him with amusement and curiosity rather than fear. He pocketed the pistol and walked to the bar, from which he took a bottle of expensive imported water and downed it almost in one gulp. He took a second one and sipped it more slowly as he turned back to her. He looked at her grimly for a few seconds, then finished his water before asking his question. "Who are you, and why did you help me?"

The woman gave a sultry smile and walked around him, as if sizing him up. "You may call me Ling." She ran a manicured fingertip across the breadth of his back as she walked and then stood in front of him, closer than necessary. Blake was conscious of the smell of jasmine, and though he realized it was illogical, briefly felt embarrassed about his own ragged appearance and stench of sweat and blood. "You are a big one, aren't you?" She asked in her half-mocking, half-seductive tones. "You are not yet out of danger... But I invited you here, for I wished to look upon you before... the end."

Ling took one of his coat lapels and gently pushed it to the side, revealing his muscular chest and several scorch marks from the electrodes. "I see Mr Ong has not lost his touch..." And to Blake's shock she leant forward and licked the most severe burn, one where the skin had opened. He shook his head, and pushed her back gently.

"Who the hell are you people? What is it you wanted with the ambassador, and with me?"

She laughed. "You look like fun, American. Too bad you have to leave." She walks to the door, swaying her hips as she goes. "But don't worry, we'll play some more soon..." And with that she opened the door, and started screaming, Blake assumed for help. She never lost her mocking smile as she did so.

Jericho cursed and drew the pistol as he ran out of the room and up the stairs, feeling much better for the water he had imbibed. He raised the SIG as he saw three men coming from what doubtless had been their rooftop watch in response to Ling's screams. He aimed for their torsos, knowing incapacitation was easier than killing. The .357 rounds tore into his foes, two shot in the chest and one in the gut. He leapt over them as he reached the roof, and quickly scanned his surroundings. The near-full moon was bright enough to see by, but that meant he would be easier to follow. He picked the nearest rooftop that was at a level with the brothel's, and made a running leap. The gap was about ten feet, and he made it easily, landing in a graceful shoulder roll that brought him to his feet. He looked back and saw at least half a dozen thugs chasing after him. He waited for the first to leap before shooting him in mid-air, and the heavy caliber round sent the corpse flying back. Blake emptied the ten-round magazine, taking two more down before the others took cover.

He then turned and ran, looking for the next rooftop. But the situation turned significantly worse, as he heard the sound of 9 mil pistols going off behind him, and heard the rounds zoom by like deadly wasps. It seemed he was no longer wanted alive. The next leap was easier, and he exchanged magazines when he landed. He ran, heedless of the trauma to his bare feet, and found he was in a sort of trap. The surrounding buildings were either too tall or too far below to leap safely. The wailing of hateful spirits above his foes told him they were catching up.

A bullet struck the floor less than a foot from him, and Blake saw they now had reinforcements. He went down on one knee, the Sig in a two-handed combat grip, and waited for them to approach. The thugs fired as they ran, wildly inaccurate, yet some rounds came disturbingly close. Blake waited until they were within fifty feet and started shooting as calmly as if in a range. The loud popping sound of handguns filled the air, and he could hear some locals screaming in panic. But he focused. One bullet to one man. Two rounds grazed his right leg. One bullet for each man. Another burned a groove along his left shoulder. Control breathing, squeeze the trigger. And finally his slide stayed back as his magazine emptied. Only one thug was left, and he took a moment to laugh. "Now you die, you foreign bastard! For Mr Ong!" The micro-Uzi in his hand started spitting leaden death.

Blake dodged diagonally, forward and to his own right, to slow the man by making him shoot across his body. 9 millimeter rounds scored the ground where he had been standing. Jericho then dodged in the other direction, doing a forward roll. He came up on one knee, now -as he planned- less than 30 feet from the gun man. As the latter drew a bead on Blake, he noticed the Marine officer's left arm was fully extended, his hand empty. It was too late when he saw an odd flash of moonlight on steel. Before he knew what it was, the butterfly knife was planted to the hilt in his left eye socket.

Jericho stood to catch his breath, and was evaluating his wounds when he heard a familiar, sultry laugh. "Not bad at all, Captain Blake." He turned to see Ling was now clad in some sort of martial arts uniform in black, over which she wore an olive green leather jacket emblazoned with a stylized dragon. "Pity. You show much promise. But you killed Mr. Ong... So now you have to die." Then to his amazement she added: "But don't worry. None of those pesky spirits are allowed. It's just you and me."

From her confidence, Jericho knew he was in for a hell of a fight. He assumed a basic guard position. Ling laughed, looking even more beautiful, before launching a deadly flying kick. He barely dodged away, then counter attacked. Back and forth they fought under the moonlight, on that grimy rooftop. Blake was planning, power, and precision, sending strikes that would have incapacitated the woman if successful. She was speed, fury, and deception. Had there been any onlookers, they would have been impressed at the skill displayed by both fighters... But they would also have been clearly aware that the big man was doomed.

From early on, Blake was sure he now knew how Muhammed Ali's opponents must have felt.
He had the superior reach, but she danced in and out so fast he could not peg her. Though he blocked most of her attacks, enough of them were getting past that he was being nickeled and dimed into defeat, as the body blows sapped his already taxed stamina. She grinned after bloodying his lip with a lightning fast side kick.

"You recognize my style, dead man." She asked mockingly.

"Gung fu, mostly... Praying mantis, looks like."

She nodded, standing at ease in contrast her opponent, whose big chest was working like a bellows. "So you see why you can't win. The female mantis devours the male. Surrender, and you die quickly."

Jericho answered with a flying kick of his own, which she easily dodged. She did not realize it had been a feint until she felt him slap her across the face with his left hand. "You're not my mate, you bitch!" Tiredly, he resumed his guard stance.

"BITCH? Me?" Ling screamed irately as she brought her hand to her stinging cheek. "I meant to give you a warrior's death! Now I shall take you apart, and you will die in pain and humiliation!"

Jericho barely had time to bring up his arms in a boxer's guard before the storm hit. Ling became a dervish of punishing kicks and fists, screaming at him in Mandarin as she went. His arms protected his face, head, throat, and chest, and he managed to defend against vicious groin strikes with his legs, but the beating he took was still brutal. She drove him back, until almost at the edge, then tagged him in the face with a spinning kick he didn't see coming. Jericho fell to his knees before her, and Ling reached out her left hand to take him by the throat, her bottomless black eyes shining with triumph and anger.

"Fight's over, foreigner. Now, what's left of your life is only pain and degradation. Please beg. It will not help you, but it should add to my enjoyment."

Blake put his right hand almost gently over hers, but made no attempt to break free. His voice was hoarse with fatigue as he spoke. "You sure... You want it to end like this?"

She narrowed her eyes. "There could be no other end."

"For once we agree," Blake muttered as his fingers dug into her wrist joint at the same time he twisted. The wrist lock brought her down, then it became an arm lock. She had been too fast for the Jujutsu grappling techniques before. No longer. He whirled behind her, his ground fighting technique flawless, and she screamed in pain and fury as he dislocated her arm at the shoulder.

She fought like a banshee, and a headbutt made him see stars. But on the ground, and with his hands firmly on her, her speed was useless, and his superior strength was pivotal. He evaded strikes from her right elbow as he forced her down. She twisted and managed to make his ears ring with a right hook, but soon he fractured that arm at the elbow with a precise, savage twist. Even as her wails of pain and fury split the night, Blake knew she was still dangerous, too much so to let her gain her feet. As her arms were useless for defense, placing her in a choke hold was simple enough. She never stopped struggling until she passed out. As she did, the last thing she heard was Blake's deep voice. "For what it's worth, I don't think you're a bitch... Just crazy as Hell."

The battered Marine officer stood up slowly, after making sure Ling still had a pulse. There had been enough killing, and he did not understand why. He checked the dead men, and found one whose sneakers would barely fit him. All he needed was to make his way down to the street, and he should be able to get a cab to the embassy. He suddenly laughed, through his pain and fatigue. Who the hell would believe his report? Perhaps he should leave out the details about Reds, Blues and this Dragon of theirs...

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Epilogue

Three men stood in the sub basement, looking at One's corpse by the light of the single bulb in the room. Two of them, Asians, wore dragon jackets like Ling's. The third was an Anglo in his sixties, of moderate height and slim build, dressed in a business suit. The Asians treated him with deference, and listened attentively as he spoke English in an American accent.

"So, Ong and half his crew are dead, and Ling was all but crippled. What the hell happened here? This was supposed to be a recruitment. I expected to get here to find Blake in one of the upstairs beds, banging two or three of the girls, and ready to join us."

One of the men answered fearfully. "Mr. Ong... He was sure you were wrong, sir. He thought this Blake worked for one of the other teams, and that he probably was one of the Chosen...

The American looked down at the corpse. "Ong, you stupid bastard. If the Blues or Reds had a man with spirit vision such as this, would they leave him a mere Captain doing useless crap? And why were you so obsessed with the damn Chosen? There's so few of them..." He sighed. "Oh well. No matter how well he thinks of me, we'll never recruit the son of a bitch now. And this dead asshole does have friends in high places..."

He turned his back on the corpse. "It's what happens to us when we don't share Intel, one of the problems of such a free brotherhood as ours. Now for damage control. Let it be known that Jericho Blake murdered the esteemed Mr. Ong, and is now an enemy of The Dragon. He is not welcome in Seoul... Ever. This will blow over soon enough, so I don't want you giving out any more details. Are we clear?"

The two lieutenants quailed under his steely gaze, and answered simultaneously: "Yes, Mr. Rollins. It shall be as you say."

FINIS