The Jigsaw

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The Harbinger

One year earlier

The evening was blissful. Casey stretched his body on the park bench and exposed his face to the caressing warmth of the sun’s rays. The light, frivolous breeze played with his shoulder-length gold, shimmering hair. He closed his eyes and smiled at his thoughts. The working Friday was over. The young man’s hand reached lazily to his tie and loosened it, undoing two shirt buttons as well. He leaned backwards with a sigh and rested his head on the back of the bench.

He hadn’t felt like hanging out with his colleagues that evening. Certainly he liked them, at least some of them, but their way of celebrating was just to get drunk. It still amazed him that adult people hadn't left that phase of adolescence behind.

Casey had never gone with the flow, having his own rules. Usually people mistook his flexibility and optimistic attitude for sociability, and he intentionally maintained this impression as a façade. He stayed close enough to people to be perceived as friendly and distant enough not to let them know that was an illusion.

Sure, he had maybe one or two good friends, people he admired and respected. People who were better or at least equal to him in the fields he considered vital. And it was enough. Enough for him not to feel lonely; enough to learn and develop. On the other hand, it was a reasonable limit for a number of persons he was able to seriously care about and become involved in their lives, to have something meaningful and whole-hearted to offer.

---

As he drifted off to sleep, Casey heard a muffled shout. He sprang up from the bench, searching for the source of the voice. In the alley, thirty meters from him, two young men were fighting. One, with short blond hair, managed to break free and took flight straight in Casey’s direction. The other, with black hair and olive skin, shot forward after his prey.

When the escaping man, probably the one who had shouted for help, bumped into Casey, the pursuer grasped his hair and pulled back forcefully. With his other arm he shoved at Casey’s chest, but his action was immediately blocked. Casey automatically twisted an attacking arm with one of his well-trained kung-fu catches, making the stranger growl and release the blonde's hair. Sliding under the outstretched arm, he suddenly kicked Casey’s knee, throwing him off balance. Together they fell, but before Casey hit the ground the attacker twisted so Casey was beneath him. He sat on Casey’s chest and snapped his hand out of Casey’s grip.

Casey grunted and gasped for breath, completely disoriented. Technically speaking, he could fight and had well-developed instincts, but he was not a street fighter. Now things were happening at light speed; the actions of the man now sitting on him were very fast and violent. Compared to him, Casey found himself weak and slow. Still in shock, adrenaline pumping into his blood, he didn’t even have time to get scared.

The blond man, who was standing behind the aggressive man’s back, kicked the attacker in the head. The stranger took the punch and gave in to the inertial force. In a fluid movement he leaned forward and hit Casey’s forehead hard with his own. Casey moaned. It felt like his head had been crushed between the pavement and the stranger’s forehead. In one movement the attacker jumped to his feet and faced the blond, shooting out his hand with a powerful blow aimed at the man’s stomach. The blond grunted as he writhed in pain and fell on his knees, his hands pressed to his solar plexus.

Casey, not even thinking of trying to get up, swiped with his legs and performed the perfect scissors, knocking the assailant off his feet. The man fell onto Casey, pinning him to the pavement and hitting him in the face again. Casey managed to partially protect his nose with his left hand and sank his fingers into the enemy’s eyes. The attacker threw himself back, locking Casey’s fingers in an iron grip with one hand and hitting Casey’s temple with the other. Casey winced and moaned.

For a second his vision clouded and before he knew it, the strong hands were locked onto his wrists, the rest of his body stilled by the attacker’s legs. Casey stopped struggling and hesitantly faced the enemy, expecting another punch. His eyes met the sharp, cold glare of black irises hidden under furrowed brows. He had a weird and very unpleasant feeling that those eyes were piercing him through, searching for a place into which to sink the blade. Casey shivered but didn’t turn his eyes away. He was still not afraid, just surprised and…defeated. Like a wild animal lies on its back in a pose of surrender, Casey was expressing respect and admiration, staying vulnerable and not being humiliated at all.

The man apparently was waiting for Casey’s reaction. But Casey just stared, his eyes expressing a mix of respect, fascination, abstraction, and lack of understanding.

A contemptuous smirk crawled onto the attacker’s lips as he released Casey’s hands and pulled back. Then, acting instinctively, the blond shot his arm out and hit the guy straight in the nose. The dark man was quick enough to avoid the punch, but the smirk was blown off his face and for one short moment the black eyes were thoughtfully focused on Casey’s face. With a sudden, rather funny and childish wave of satisfaction Casey smirked. At the same instant, he took a powerful stroke to the head and lost consciousness.

Two men stood up and looked at first at Casey, then at each other.

"Hurts?" the dark-haired man asked, seeing the grimace on his companion’s face.

"Don’t act so surprised." The blonde’s voice sounded sour.

"Just trying to be polite." The dark man shrugged his arms and half-smiled coldly.

"Yeah, you always try." The prey stretched his stomach with a slight hiss and shook his head. "Let’s go."

"The camera."

The blond said nothing but his brow furrowed as he gave his partner a meaningful look. The other man tilted his head and raised his hands in a “no offense” gesture.

They checked Casey’s backpack and pockets—nothing interesting in them—unmounted the small, hidden camera that had been previously installed next to the nearby tree, and moved away, leaving Casey lying on the pavement.

"And?" the blonde asked after a short silence.

"Okay, I guess." The second man nodded his head.

"You know, I was kind of surprised…they always try to explain, make contact. People talk when they feel threatened."

"Natural."

"I know. The belief in the power of communication is carved into human nature, I suppose."

The olive-skinned man gave a brief snort of laughter and brushed his messy hair away from his eyes. "Wow! Power of communication… you been reading some psychological shit, or what? I guess I personally have that belief erased to the bone."

"Damn right, you have."

"Anyway, he’ll do, I guess." The dark-skinned man changed the topic. "They can try him."

"I liked the finish."

"Mm-hm, the guy really can pretend. Quite a convincing performance of giving up."

"You’re usually not so complimentary."

"I don’t usually get deceived by a jock. Well, once in a while I do give honest compliments. Appreciate it.”

"Only if you compliment me."

"Forget it."

"Yeah, I will. Even without your thoughtful advice."

The black-haired man just snorted, patted his hip pockets with both hands, and pulled out the lighter and one crumpled Marlboro. He smoothed the cigarette carefully and slipped it between his lips. He lit it and inhaled the smoke. "Call the center," he suggested.

The blond man took a cell phone out of his jacket pocket and dialed a number. "Hello, Alfa. Ohanzee speaking."

"Hello Ohanzee, it’s Alfa."

"He seems okay."

"You have the tape?"

"Yes, we do."

"Good. See you in the office."

"Yes, sir."

When Casey regained consciousness, the strange pair had disappeared without a trace. His glance fell on his watch. God, he had lain there for a good twenty minutes! His head throbbed with a dull pain. He felt dizzy and nauseous. Turning onto his back, he touched his temple. No blood, just a bruised cheekbone. He hoped it was just superficial, not a break.

He moaned softly and tried to figure out what had happened. As he lay there on his back he remembered two men fighting, and that he had become involved only by accident. And he remembered the skills of the one who had sent him to dreamland with one blow. Someone who could hit that hard from a sitting position...it really was something.

Casey slowly rose up on his elbows and sat on the pavement. He shook his head slightly to fight the dizziness. He moaned as the radiant pain exploded, spreading over his head and creeping down along his spine. He clenched his head with both hands, trying to suppress overwhelming nausea. His stomach contracted twice and he suddenly threw up between his knees on the concrete.

Fuuuck, he thought, letting out a long, loud groan. He felt as if he’d just been taken out of a washing machine. Using his hands and knees and trying not to shake his head, he managed to stand up. A wince of disgust appeared on his face when he focused on the former contents of his stomach and he wondered what the hell he should do about it. He quickly averted his eyes when he felt again the warning cramping in his guts.

Still buffaloed and distracted, he looked around for his backpack. It was still where he had dropped it. Slowly he picked it up from the ground and slung it over his shoulder.

"Shit!" He swore loudly, running both hands through his hair. And here it was supposed to have been a lovely day!

He laughed bitterly at the day’s sudden conclusion and, reeling slightly, set a course for home.

---

At the age of twenty-seven, Casey, working in the IT branch and lately being well paid by the government, could afford his own cozy yet airy apartment. He lived alone, so two rooms—a kitchen and a bathroom—were more than enough.

He took off his shoes, leaving them where they fell, and went straight to the bathroom. He soaked under the hot water, trying to wash away the tension and nasty memories of the day. His swollen cheek hurt and was turning purple and blue. He still had a headache.

Fifteen minutes later he was sleeping soundly on the low, Japanese-style bed, naked and still wet, too tired to bother to dry himself.

---

"Hello?" Lise Moore answered the phone.

"Hi, mom, it's me."

"Oh, hello Cas. You're coming today, right?"

"Well, I feel kind of tired. I was thinking maybe we could meet tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow Dad’s off on a business trip."

"So?"

"So? Casey, it's his birthday today!"

"Oh, shit...I’m sorry, really. It slipped my mind. Okay then, I'll be there at six."

"Glad to hear that. See you then, mister scatterbrain." Lise smiled into the receiver and ended the conversation.

Casey was irritated. Not only did he not like the idea of leaving home, but he had forgot about his father's birthday as well. "This day sucks," he said to himself as he stood in front of the mirror trying to set his face right. All his efforts came to nothing; the bruises were still in the same place, visible, and, what was even worse, growing.

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Lise was bustling about fixing supper, humming the melody from some movie, when the doorbell sounded.

"Coming, coming!"

She opened the door and moved backward, making room for her son. When he stepped into the warm light she noticed the purple bruise on his cheekbone and froze for a moment. "What happened?" He knew she would ask, although Lise, used to the evidence of Casey's training being written all over his body, was trying not to sound oversensitive.

"Well, I did some sparring today." Casey took off his coat and shoes.

Lise shook her head with resignation and said nothing. She didn't approve of her son's apparent enthusiasm for being trashed, but it had been a long time since she’d given up and let him have his way. She closed the door and led him to the dining room.

"Harry!" Lise called to her husband. "Come to welcome your son! While he’s still alive...."

"Yes, yes, I’m coming." Harry Moore walked into the kitchen.

"Hello, Cas." Harry patted his son’s arm and wrinkled his forehead when he saw the purple bump.
"Happy birthday, Dad." Casey grabbed his dad and hugged him strongly. "Stay healthy, wealthy, and whatever else you wish."

"Thanks, son." His father returned the embrace. "You really must have put your heart into it." He pointed to the bruise and took his seat at the table. Over the years he had managed to get used to his son coming home with injuries, dislocations, and strained muscles.

"Mm-hm, I’m good at it. And I want to be better." Casey smiled.

"Good luck, boy. I hope you’ll become good enough before you fall apart." Harry put some bread on his plate, effectively cutting off the subject.

Both of Casey’s parents had scientific minds. His mother was a high school mathematician, while his father was an engineer. The avocation for science and technical subjects was inborn in the Moores. Casey remained faithful to the family tradition, studying networks and telecommunication systems.

Harry Moore was a professor of automation. For many long years he had taught at the university for a starvation-level salary, but then he decided to sell his knowledge for serious money. Together with one of his university colleagues he started a company producing security systems. It turned out they had hit the bullseye, and the company developed into a serious player on the stock market. Thus he had money—and no time whatsoever. The company was sucking up his strength and free time and giving him money instead. That was a fair deal to him. He’d had his fun in life and now it was time to support his children with all of his knowledge.

"Where is Kate, Mom?" Casey asked, seeing only three plates on the table.

"She's staying at Megan’s today. They’re celebrating the end of the school year."

Kate was the younger of the Moore siblings. She was a fifteen-year-old college student, a small, cheerful rascal. She and Casey didn’t look alike—tiny Kate had a head full of short, curly chestnut hair that was in a constant mess, and a snubbed nose. Casey was tall, slim, and blond with bushy but straight, slightly layered hair that reached his shoulders. The one thing they had in common were amber eyes spotted with gold that sometimes seemed to have a source of faint light hidden behind the irises.

"So, you have a business trip tomorrow?" Casey asked his father.

"Yes, we’re going to Phoenix.”

"Phoenix? And what are you going to do in the desert?"

"Business, son. Business," Harry smiled.

"Wow, that explains so much!"

"Oh, come on. We have a new client there—not big, but a thriving company. That's it."

"I see. How long are you going to stay there?"

"Three days."

"Then we won't see each other for two weeks. I start camp on Monday in Velson Creek."

"Aren't you too old for camp?"

"I'm not. I still like it, Dad."

"Sure. Forget I said anything." The Moores had already given up the hope that one day Casey would get bored with fighting and training. It was a part of his life and no one could imagine he would give it up. His parents still carped about it more out of habit than out of any real wish to change the situation.