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If he cared to trace his history, it would surely be a trail of blood. That much was for certain, if little else about him - or her, or them - could be said to be concrete. Whether a monarch raising banner and sword, one lashing out in blind fury, to a mercenary bullet in the dark, power took far more forms than the humans of the world gave it credit for.
But what it meant, in the end, was almost always blood. In recent times the path he walked had grown increasingly more complex. The lust for violence from the righteous and the sadistic had grown from brother versus brother, petty border disputes, to conflicts that may one day engulf the world….if he was lucky. And he did tend to be lucky. One could not kill one such as him, after all. Merely delay the inevitable.
He had walked the land that eventually came to be known as ‘North America’ alone for centuries. He had his own bloody hand in it, of course, wrenched lands brutally from their original inhabitants leaving them bereft of the sacred and profane. Wearing many faces, wielding many weapons when too bored to rely on his peerless strength alone, he became…known. That was the trouble with humans. Once they thought up ideas, they thought up everything.
The idea of an abstract concept taking anthropomorphic form and posing a visceral threat was one that was, quite exactly, as old as he was. But once a concept was birthed, born too were its opponents and its equals. Some he had sought out and laid out in blood and bone, a thrilling hunt. Other obstacles…were of subtler means. Too subtle for his liking. Too close to human in their will.
At times when solitude did not suit he would seek out like-minded people. The ones who lusted for blood, coin, flesh, or were simply too desperate or stupid to see a predator when they ran into one. Frequently, not long before he shot those ones. He’d become quite fond of the swift and precise death brought by firearms, whose development had only been spurred on by wars small and large. Leave humans to their business and they could be quite…inventive. It saved him the trouble.
One unorthodox invention, at least for his purposes, came in the form of the railway, of all things. Years had past since his band called the ‘Thousand Seven’ - how did that name come about? - had gone their separate ways. A collection of fury, despair and small-minded malice that only drew a few truly curious souls his way. The former soldier drinking his grief into impotent rage, and the man known even to him as ‘Crazy TJ’.
To them he was ‘Gil’, a name doubtless picked up from a bloodied corpse. Or ‘the Snake’ a far older moniker that still brought a feral smile to his lips. And now, he was the mercenary for a new kind of violence. The kind that crushed the weak with gold as much as any weapon. Not Gil’s favourite kind, of course, but until a better opportunity presented itself he would take what he could get.
And take he did, riding down with a new band of fellows to reach Los Angeles. His serpentine mark was worn by each man and woman among them, and each of those left bleeding in their wake would remember it amidst flames. Action and deceit was one thing, he had not lived in each era for long without a measure of both, but long-term deception was another.
Gil was aggressive, so Richard must be meek. Gil was bold, theatrical even, so Richard must play the humble contrast against the brash eccentricities of the Trans-America Wild Race’s competitors. He stayed well away from Ordin, sharper eyed than he remembered, if even less sober.
The Japanese pair gave him pause for thought too, if only through the sheer absurdity of their situation. The small lad was an oddity no matter the age, an anomaly driving ever forward in a world built for others. The samurai, a young man playing responsible caretaker to all….well, it would not be the first time Gil underestimated humans.
After that revelation that left five of his men dead, Richard faded into the background and Gil came to the fore; power incarnate. He should have left that little engineer bleeding out in the dust. Not many could match his speed, and Kosame Isshiki’s dexterity would be impressive if it were not infuriating.
The church’s splintering floorboards smouldered beneath his feet as he entered. Even consecrated ground posed no threat to him. This was just rage. The look on the woman’s face had turned from tears to a chill fury. Again, almost impressive to face down such savagery unblinking. For the first time since the railway manager swollen with his own ego had suggested the whole fucking escapade, Gil realised he was actually enjoying himself. He shot out the sole remaining stained glass window with childish glee.
When they returned, they did so as one. He was known to too many, it seemed. Several were flung aside with ease, exploiting each weakness he knew. He had snatched that boy Appare by the throat, but even as he tried to crush the life from him he saw only defiance in his eyes.
Defiance to power, the will of the strong. Dylan and TJ working in tandem as though they moved as one. A undignified defeat. To say nothing of being thrown in the trunk of a car, left to snarl furious threats to the impassive Appare Sorano who seemed to look through him and see…what?
No matter. ‘Gil’s’ life would end, neck snapped in a noose if someone else didn’t take their chance first. And they would awake reborn elsewhere, to continue a trail of blood.