"Anyway, I think a financial incentive for Chernobyl would make it significantly easier for the Kingdom to convert him to their aims. And given Chernobyl's personal history, I don't doubt it would work, either. So, obviously, we have to cut this off at the head before it gets any further," Torres continues, as if none of the preceding awkward conversation bits had happened.
I raise an eyebrow. "What does that mean, 'given his personal history'?"
"Well, he's an exile from his home country, but still has living family. He's a fugitive, so the federal government would never allow him a legitimate passport or citizenship, but the Kingdom could very easily forge one for him, to return home and see his wife and daughter. I think for a man of his psychology, that would be a very tempting carrot on a stick. I think he'd do innumerable crimes for the opportunity to see his family again," Agent Torres explains, and as the words come out, I find myself nodding in agreement. "Plus, having disposable income means he can send it back to Ukraine for them. His wife isn't exactly in a lucrative profession. As a nuclear engineer, he was the primary breadwinner for the household."
I can't say I don't understand. I'd ki… Well… I'd do a lot to make sure my family was safe. Even if they're a little overbearing sometimes.
"He was a nuclear engineer?" Spinelli asks, leaning in, extremely interested. "That's awesome."
"An extremely intelligent one. He did build his entire suit himself. A multi-disciplinarian. Either way, a lot of people can be convinced to do things they wouldn't otherwise do using their loved ones as leverage. I think it's extremely important we move fast," he says, getting up and adjusting his suit and tie. "Now, ideally."
"Now?" Jordan and I ask in unison.
"Are you going to, like, raid the Kingdom's base?" Jordan asks.
"Wait, do you even know where Chernobyl is? I thought he was hard to find," I follow up.
Torres smiles, but it's clearly forced. Fake. A sort of businessman's smile. The kind of tight-lipped smile a businessman makes before they bite someone. "We know exactly where he is," he breathes out.
My annoyance bubbles up, almost spilling over, but I force it down. Torres’s revelation that they've known Chernobyl's location for weeks sets my teeth on edge. "So, you knew where he was and did nothing? Just let him roam free?" My voice is sharp, edged with disbelief and anger.
Torres maintains his composure, but I can tell he's treading carefully. "Our policy was to avoid provoking him unless he posed a direct threat. The plan was to monitor his movements until he left the city. We didn't want to risk a confrontation in a populated area."
"That's insane," Jordan interjects, their voice tinged with frustration. "He's a walking nuclear threat, and you just let him wander around?"
Torres nods solemnly. "I understand your concern, but he's been discreet. Using the city's old subway tunnels has kept him under the radar. There's a network of abandoned tunnels and stations under Philly – it's part of the city's history."
I cross my arms, trying to process this. "Thanks for the civics 101 class. So, where is he now?"
"He's been using the old Arch Street Subway station under the 1300 block as a base between his… activities," Torres reveals. "It's abandoned, remote, and secure. Perfect for someone like him."
Spinelli whistles lowly. "That's right under our noses."
The room falls into a tense silence as we all consider the implications. Chernobyl, the man at the center of all this chaos, has been hiding in plain sight.
"And you're telling us this now because…?" I probe, my gaze fixed on Torres.
"The Kingdom's involvement changes the game," he replies, his tone serious. "We can't risk them getting to him first. If they recruit Chernobyl, the consequences could be catastrophic."
Jordan leans in, a mix of curiosity and skepticism in their eyes. "So, what's the plan?" they ask, their tone indicating they're not fully on board with just sitting back.
Agent Torres, still standing, turns to face Jordan. "The plan, is for you three to stay out of it. I appreciate your help, but we're dealing with dangerous criminals. I'll take some of this information back to the office," he says, gesturing towards Jordan's laptop.
Jordan hesitates but eventually nods, allowing Torres to copy the necessary files. "I don't care about 'National Security,'" Jordan mutters, "I just want to grind the Kingdom down to dust."
Torres nods, understanding. "That's fine. I'm not going to court martial you for that."
"But we can help," I protest, feeling a mix of frustration and determination. "We've been tracking this for months."
Torres shakes his head. "I know you want to help, but these are seasoned criminals. They won't hesitate to harm you. I can't let you put yourselves in danger, not in good conscience. You're kids."
I can't help but interject, a faint murmur escaping my lips. "I think Chernobyl would hesitate," but my voice lacks conviction.
Torres gives me a dismissive wave. "You might think so, but don't bet on it. Leave this to the professionals. We'll set up a perimeter and coordinate with local superhero teams to ensure that nobody gets in or out of the subway systems. Sorry to all the urban spelunkers."
The room falls silent. It's clear Torres isn't going to budge on this. He treats the situation like it's a ticking time bomb, too dangerous for us to be anywhere near.
He emphasizes his point as he finishes gathering the files, the documents, everything we've been working towards for months, "This is a delicate operation. I need you to promise me you'll stand down. I'm here as a gesture of good will and cooperation with your team, but we're not deputizing you. Don't interfere."
It's painfully quiet, for a good five minutes, as he goes about his business. I feel… weird. I should be happy - our investigation is bearing fruit, and we're getting it into the proper channels. As soon as they get their hands on Mr. Polygraph, he's going away for good, for a good long while. I should feel great, really, knowing that things are going to be handled by adults.
But I don't.
I don't feel great at all.
Something unresolved clings at me, gnawing like a rat. Hanging over my shoulders. Weighing me down.
"Remember, stay safe and let the heroes handle this," Torres says as he heads towards the door. "I'll do what I can to redirect the heat away from Miasma, as a thank you for your cooperation. I believe Mrs. Westwood when she said she saw him here, but I'll… take my time with the search warrant. I can tell he was here for a reason, and the so-called 'agents' showing up lead me to believe he's been played."
"Yeah," I grumble. "That was our assumption,"
He tries to smile at me, but it doesn't really take on his face. His jaw is a little too square and angular for it to work.
"Take care, you three," he says, vanishing around the corner and then down the stairs.
As the door shuts behind him, a sense of helplessness settles over us. We're back to square one, our hands tied by bureaucracy and red tape.
Jordan breaks the silence, their voice tinged with frustration. "So, that's it? We just sit here and do nothing?"
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
"Are you kidding me?" I reply after waiting for the telltale sound of the front door shutting. "Get your boots on and stuff. We're going right now."
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The ten minutes we wait feel like a year, me nervously peeking through the blinds every thirty seconds, checking, double-checking that Agent Torres isn't coming back. Spinelli's pacing, each step a thud against the old wooden floor, while Jordan just leans cool against the wall, all nonchalant, like we're waiting for a pizza and not about to defy a federal agent's direct order.
We step out into the chill, the cold gnawing through our clothes as we wait. The snow has turned to sludge beneath our feet, gray and uninviting, but we stamp our feet against it to keep warm. I watch our breath fog up in the air, mixing with the city smog. Our masks are shoved into Jordan's backpack, along with the rest of our gear and equipment, while the basics of our costumes are layered underneath jackets and thermal pants.
The world is quiet in anticipation, or maybe that's just in my head. Cars slide by, tires hissing against the wet road, and I find myself counting the seconds, the minutes, until our ride arrives.
Finally, headlights cut through the dreariness of the winter afternoon, and the Russian driver pulls up. His grin is immediate, a slash of confidence in an otherwise dreary day. "I get you there fast," he repeats, and we believe him. We pile into the taxi, shoving the backpack under the seat, our gear secure, our hearts racing for what's to come.
As soon as we're in the taxi, it's like the world outside transforms into a blur. The driver wasn't kidding about fast. Buildings and cars turn into smears of color as we zip through the streets, the taxi's engine growling like some caged beast finally let loose. Spinelli's gripping the seat, knuckles white, while I'm trying to seem tough, not letting the speed faze me. But it's Jordan who's having the time of their life, laughing, whooping even, as if this mad dash through the city is the best rollercoaster ride ever.
I catch glimpses of the river, the bridges, the expanse of the city stretching out, all while my heart's hammering in my chest. We're doing this. We're really doing this. Going against what we were told, because it's what we have to do. It's what Diane would have done, I tell myself. She didn't play by the rules, not when it mattered, and neither will we.
The Russian driver doesn't disappoint. He gets us there in eleven minutes, a new record I'm sure, and as we tumble out of the cab, my legs are shaky, but there's this fire inside me, burning bright and hot. We're ready. Whatever comes next, we're ready. We have to be.
The cab halts, and we spill out into the grey slush of Philly's winter, the bustle of Reading Terminal Market a stark contrast to the quiet, tense bubble we've been living in. I draw in a deep breath, tasting the city—the mix of street food, exhaust, and that faint tang of fear that's been clinging to the air since Miasma's breakout.
"Okay, focus, Sam," I mutter to myself, trying to tap into my blood sense in a way deeper than subconscious. I might've mentioned it once or twice, but in a busy city street like this, I have pretty much perfect spatial awareness, at least on the ground, because someone's always spilled blood on the sidewalk at some point. And even if the street cleaners come up, they don't cleanse it of every single particle, and over time, it becomes this… patina. A lacquer of blood that I can just reach out and feel with my brain.
And, when necessary, I can feel where it isn't. Where people aren't. Where nobody bleeds, even in the alleyways.
Jordan and Spinelli are a step behind me, silent, trusting me to lead. I'm doing my best bloodhound impression, minus the sniffing — just sort of extending my senses out, feeling for the patterns of life around us, the thrumming of hearts, the rush of traffic. And there, west of the market's chaos, is a stillness. A gap in the pattern where people don't go, haven't been. That's our in.
We slip through the crowds, dodging a street musician here, a cluster of tourists there, until the noise fades and the city's pulse changes. It's quieter here, the sounds of life muffled, like we're walking into a different world.
And then we see it — a nondescript service door, half-hidden by an out-of-service transit sign. It's so normal-looking that it's almost invisible, which is probably the point. It's locked, but Jordan's got this little electronic gizmo they've been itching to try out. Not that the lock is electric - it's an old padlock - but the electric thing's got some wobbly metal part at the end. Jordan crams it into the key slot and presses a button, and it makes a loud CLANG before the padlock just falls off.
"I could've done that faster with a paperclip. And quieter," Spinelli brags.
"Yes you could've, snookums. This thing is a piece of shit," Jordan agrees, pushing the door open.
We slip inside, and the door closes with a heavy, final thud behind us. It's dark, but not pitch-black. There are cracks and crevices where light sneaks in, painting lines on the concrete. The air smells like rust and old water, and it's cold, colder than outside, like the chill's been waiting for us.
I can hear our breathing, see our breath fog in the air. Spinelli's already got a flashlight out, sweeping it around, revealing the graffiti-streaked walls of the tunnel. We're in. Now we just need to find him.
"Keep quiet," I whisper, "and stay close." My heart's pounding a rhythm of anticipation and fear. We're here to find a monster, after all. But as we start to walk deeper into the tunnel, I can't help but feel a thrill. We're doing something. Finally. We're moving.
And somewhere ahead, in the dark, I'm sure Chernobyl's heart is beating, waiting for us.
We've been scouring the underground for what feels like hours, but it's only been fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of trailing my fingers along cold, damp walls, my senses stretched out like cobwebs, trying to catch a whiff of something hot, something that doesn't belong.
"There," I breathe, pointing to a splotch only I can see. "Chernobyl's been here. His blood's all… white-hot in my senses."
Spinelli's looking at me like I've grown a second head, but Jordan just nods, accepting my weirdness without question. I wish I could see more, tell more, but Chernobyl's not here. Not now. His presence is just a ghost, haunting these tunnels with the threat of what he's become.
"Do we… wait for him?" I ask, the doubt creeping into my voice.
Jordan shrugs, kicking at a stray pebble. "What's the rush? You wanted to get here first, right? Mission accomplished."
I hate it when they're right. I wanted to be proactive, get ahead of the game. But now we're here, and it's like standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down and realizing you forgot to pack the parachute.
"You're here to avenge Liberty Belle, aren't you? That's the goal," Jordan says, their voice echoing slightly in the emptiness.
I look down at my hands, thinking of Diane — of Liberty Belle. Her strength, her resolve, it all feels like a legend now, something out of reach. I flex my fingers, imagining them as weapons, as tools of justice. But then I remember — Chernobyl, no, Illya, he has a family, a wife, a daughter. What justice is there in ripping them apart? Would I just be continuing the cycle Diane fell to?
And that's when it hits me — the doubt, the hesitation, like punching me in the stomach. I've been so sure, so full of fire and fury, but now… Can I really do this? Can I face Illya and come out the other side? Can I even, like, physically do it? Liberty Belle was stronger, braver, better than I could ever hope to be. If she couldn't stop him, what chance do I have? What am I really here for?
Jordan thumps me on the back, breaking me out of my reverie. "Chin up. At the very least, we have our surveillance stuff, we can set it up, get some pictures, get some more data, you know? Stuff for the others to use. It's not a total waste."
Jordan's thump on my back feels like an anchor, pulling me back to the here and now. "Yeah, you're right," I whisper back, trying to rally the bits of my resolve that haven't scurried off into the shadows yet.
Suddenly, the air changes, thickens, as if charged with an ominous current. A voice, too familiar and unwelcome, slices through the tension. "Au contraire," it says, a cruel sneer in its tone.
The click of a gun being cocked is like a thunderclap in the silence. Spinelli's flashlight beam catches a glint of metal and the round sunglasses that seem to mock us with their gleam. It's him - the man who called himself Agent Evans. His presence chokes the space, more threatening than the cold metal he points at us.
He's not alone. Behind him, the lumbering form of Mr. Mudslide, his brown paper bag mask a grotesque caricature, casts a shadow that seems to absorb the light, absorbing our hope along with it. Mudslide thumps his fist into his open palm, a little too enthusiastically, and I can tell already he's happy as a clam.
Agent Evans's proper introduction comes with the air of a final act, a curtain call on our little play. "They call me Mr. ESP," he states, as if we're supposed to be impressed — or maybe he just wants it to be the last thing we ever hear. "Today I woke up with 'remote listening'. This made spying on the three of you extremely easy. So, I offer you my deepest gratitude for making an NSRA agent feel so guilty with your petty squabbles that he helped lead us right to Chernobyl. Thanks," he gloats. His thank you is a hiss, a serpent's gratitude for leading him straight to its prey.
"Go to hell," Jordan spits, trying to move. But it's no use - with total silence, the concrete has swallowed up Jordan's boots, all the way to the ankle. They struggle fruitlessly against the liquid, and I don't bother looking down to assess my own feet. I know, just by twitching my ankles, that I've been caught too.
"I'll give you each five seconds. I'll start with the scrawny one. Pick your favorite god, and start praying," Mr. ESP threatens, his gun pointed at Spinelli's head. His ultimatum hangs in the air, a sentence waiting to be executed. But it's the silence that follows that's truly terrifying—the countdown to what feels inevitable. I don't want to pray. I want to fight, run, do anything but stand here waiting for the end.
Jordan and I exchange glances. I can tell the gears are turning in their head, too, but I can't tell what they're planning. We aren't telepaths. I don't know if they're going to pull me in close or push them away.
I'm just going to have to trust them, and get really, really brave.
I try to calculate distances. We're not too far - I could pounce, but before getting shot? Not likely. I've never been shot directly before - I've been shot at, I've been skimmed, but never penetrated all the way through by a bullet. I have a feeling that's going to have to change very soon. Five seconds, he said. It's a lifetime and a blink, all at once. And as the first second ticks by, I realize I don't want to spend it praying or pleading.