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together, forming a United Tribal Nation in order to take back what was theirs from the white man. They judged these post-virus times to be the perfect catalyst; thought the Great Spirit had granted them this opportunity. Shadow had always gone his own way, though, and used his own methods. He felt certain that they would achieve better results than the entire UTN affair.
    It was why he was on his way to Sherwood, running at a pace that would see him reach the outskirts within the hour. Even though Hood appeared to have turned his back on it for now, in favour of building his army to police this land, the forest was still his seat of power - and it had waited so long for the rightful heir to come along.
    Now Shadow intended to take that power away from the Hooded Man.
    It was the only way to defeat him.
    It was the only way to win.
     
    He couldn't sleep.
    The aching in what had once been his hand was keeping him awake again. Not that he slept soundly anyway; the nightmares of the battlefield saw to that. Bohuslav understood it wasn't possible for the hand itself to be aching, because it wasn't there anymore. He understood it was just the nerve endings from the stump of a wrist, extending out into nothingness - perhaps even missing the lost appendage? Was that it; was the wrist, like him, still in mourning? None of which stopped it feeling real. He felt the pain, just as surely as he felt hatred for those who had done this to him.
    He was grateful for the fact that the weather was starting to turn slightly warmer. Slightly, as you could never truly call it warm during these months. The 'hand' ached more than ever in wintertime, and the winters in Russia were invariably brutal.
    Bohuslav pushed himself up on the enormous bed. One of the benefits of his position was occupancy of the Presidential Suite of the Marriott Grand; the only occupied room in the whole hotel. Back before the virus, he would have had the full five star experience. Even today there was a team of staff dedicated to giving him everything he could possibly desire. That included bringing him certain luxuries he craved. Certain 'items': living items. Male or female, it didn't matter which. Not for sex, or anything like that. Bohuslav's desires ran much deeper. It was a way of taking him back to the days before all this, when he would hunt his prey on the streets.
    At first they'd just brought them to him, knocking on the door and leaving the meat standing there quivering. Where was the sport in that? He'd soon grown bored when there was no chase, no excitement. Then he'd struck upon the notion of letting them loose in the hotel. If they could escape him, they went free. If not...
    None had ever escaped.
    He closed his eyes and could imagine the weight of his sickle - once handheld but which now had to be attached to his stump - as it slashed and gutted. A smile played across his face. The memories of all that bloodshed, before - when he had been one of the most wanted serial killers in this country - and after the virus, came back to him all at once. It made him want to grab the sickle right now and slide it in place. Go out hunting and-
    Bohuslav sighed. He should really try and rest, because he had responsibilities beyond the ending of individual lives at his... hand. Inherited responsibilities from the man who had once been Tsar, who now rotted away in a distant land - killed by Hood.
    It was no use. Bohuslav flicked on his bedside light, powered - like so many things these days - by generator. He padded across the room, yawning. When he reached the door that would take him into the spacious living area, he paused, remembering a meeting here more than a year ago.
    Remembering that large, olive-skinned bastard who'd got them into all this, persuading The Tsar to mount an offensive against Robert Stokes. Tanek. The name brought bile to his throat. If De Falaise's former Second had never come here, things would have continued as they were. They would still be at