Trace’s knees popped audibly and his back ached as he rose, once again, to a standing position, bringing his scented handkerchief up to cover his nose. It proved to be a largely futile gesture, an attempt to blunt the intense bouquet of suffering and death that was Las Almas in the aftermath of whatever this was. The wind was blowing in from the east, thank God, meaning he got only a fraction of the smells from the town proper, and that suited him just fine. Getting a whiff of a traumatized kid or a bereft parent always got him itching to put down his notepad and take up his iron again.
That was a young man’s game, though.
Tall, battery powered flood lights bathed the old train yard in harsh white that highlighted the wet smudges on his glasses, niggling at the compulsive side of his personality to clean the lenses for the hundredth time.
The bright lights illuminated a forest of numbered evidence markers populated by an army of white-capped technicians that scraped, brushed, picked, and recorded everything from the charred mess that was once a functional building to the tiniest micro-splatter of blood. There were even several techs waving antennae-like wands over the heaviest of the damage to detect the presence of radioactive isotopes.
Trace could have told them it was a waste of time, but they wouldn’t listen. Nor should they have. Procedure was procedure.
A young, grating voice that attacked Trace's ears like ball bearings in a mason jar called out from behind him. “Get anything?” It asked, demanded, eager for something to shoot.
If Trace turned around he’d find his assigned goon of the day, Gonzales. He was fairly sure that was the man’s name, at least, but all the high-speed military types blended together after a while. The QRF guy would be all kitted out in the latest of paramilitary gear, painted black of course. They sure loved their blacks.
Trace didn’t turn though. He just shook his head. “You’ll have my full report once I’m done, young man.”
“You don’t look like you’re getting much done with that rag on your face, grandpa,” Gonzales derided. “If we want a shot at catching this guy, we need a location right now.”
“I’ve told you that’s not how it works. If it did, the world would look a lot different today than it currently does. Now, do you want me to take you to school, or do you want me to get to work?”
“Try it, old man,” Gonzales spat followed by an exasperated grunt. “Whatever. I’ll be back.”
The man’s heavy footsteps crunched over the gravel, away from Trace and probably toward one of the men they’d found bound, gagged, and locked in a container elsewhere in the depot.
Trace’s tired, old muscles relaxed, his body allowing itself a moment of weakness now that his babysitter was off doing macho posturing among his kind. If only his power did work like Gonzales wanted. There would be a lot fewer at large killers out there. Fewer chopper rides out to scenes like this too. Maybe a future where he could retire.
Taking the handkerchief away from his nose, he sucked in a deep, slow sample of the air, allowing it all to play over the sensitive nerves in his olfactory system. There were the obvious traces of gunpowder, rust, oil, propellant, charred flesh, and blood. He discarded those, choosing to focus on the less material of the things that floated around Las Almas. There was a good dose of fear on the wind, which he understood. The little burg would take years to recover from its tragedy, if it ever did at all. There was residual anger, rage even. Guilt. Lots of Guilt.
And-
Something familiar drifted its way toward him, a faint wisp of humanity that demanded his attention. He never forgot a smell, and he, especially, could never forget this one.
Trace looked over his shoulder to check for the presence of QRF or for any eyes that might be on him.
Nothing.
Everyone was busy doing the work they’d been assigned to do, not paying attention to the old man with the bloodhound nose.
Slowly, casually, Trace moseyed his way through the evidence markers, around his forensics peers with their tweezers and plastic bags, and toward the outer edge of the train yard. The smell was stronger now, cosmic dust, immovable presence, ozone, a good dose of weariness.
From the darkened interior of an old boxcar, came a hiss meant to get his attention, but Trace already knew his target was there.
He didn’t turn toward the man in the train car. Instead, he took off his glasses and cleaned them with his handkerchief again. “Derrick. Good to see you.”
“Good to see you again, Trace. Took you a while to notice me. Thought I might have to start throwing pebbles,” Derrick Eckles said in his rich baritone.
Trace scoffed at that. “Nothing wrong with my nose. The wind’s not very favorable today, and I’ve got a lot to sniff through.”
“I thought as much. It’s good to see a familiar face, regardless.” Tyrannis’ sincerity wafted over to Trace, warm and true as always. Its intensity surprised him, though. How long had it been since Derrick had spoken to someone he trusted?
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
“Likewise,” Trace said. “What are you doing skulking around, though? Don’t think that was ever your style.”
“Are you asking this as a friend or a Company man?”
The question implied a binary choice: Friend or foe. That was ominous. “Was doing it as both, but if it makes a difference, I’ll stick to friend for the duration of this conversation.”
There was a brief hint of relief and, simultaneously, regret.
“Okay. Thanks, Trace,” Tyrannis continued. “I’m worried. Really worried. There’s a war out there, and things are getting worse.”
“Yeah,” Trace sighed. “Not sure if you've cracked a history book, but we’ve been having wars constantly for millennia.”
Derrick blew out an exasperated breath. “True. I get that. I really do. I just want to know why.” Frustration. Guilt. Lots of guilt blowing around tonight.
“People have been asking why we wage war for as long as there’s been war,” Trace stated with a plaintive shrug.
There was a shout from behind, and the two of them fell silent to listen. Thirty seconds went by before Trace felt safe to look over his shoulder again, but all he spotted out of the ordinary was a fireteam of QRF jogging to catch a chopper. He rolled his neck to work the tension out.
Tyrannis took this as his cue to continue. “This one is different, Trace. I can feel it. There’s something else going on here, and I’m not equipped to figure it out.”
“I imagine it does rankle you,” Trace said with a chuckle. “not having a problem you can punch. So, what are you doing here?”
“Let’s just say I’m doing what good I can where I can. When I saw someone had kicked the ant hill, I had to come see what was going on.”
After another quick check over his shoulder, Trace turned his head to finally look Derrick in the eyes. Instead of the Tyrannis costume Trace had expected, the Unstoppable Force wore khakis, a jacket, glasses, and a ball cap. It was a ridiculous getup, considering the man and his level of fame.
Trace felt his eyebrows climb up his forehead. “And you think you can do that better as Derrick Eckles than you can as Tyrannis,” he guessed. “No one’s going to buy that look, Derrick. Grow a mustache or something.”
“I think Mars can do without me for a while, and I’m working on the mustache thing,” Derrick replied with a self-conscious frown. “What’s going on, Trace?”
Trace breathed in deep and put his hands in his pockets that way he did when it was time to deliver a report. Old habits and all that. “Officially, this whole thing looks like a dustup between two, maybe three supers. One’s dead. The winner hightailed it out of here and left us to clean up the mess.“
“And unofficially?” Tyrannis asked.
“Unofficially, if I were still a gambling man, I’d wager the one that’s dead probably deserved it. He smells like cruelty and madness through and through. This is a Bravo One scene." To punctuate his point, Trace tapped the tip of his nose. "Sure as sure.”
Derrick pondered for a moment, staring down at the gravel of the train yard. “I’ve heard of him. Small-time vigilante.”
Trace nodded, turning back to stare straight ahead instead of at the most powerful being in the universe in a suburban dad costume. “He’s responsible for taking a couple nasty players out of the game. The higher ups aren’t real pleased about how he goes about it, but it’s never been a priority before now. Why we mobilized half the assets in the U.S. this time is anybody’s guess.“
“So, you think this one’s different.”
“I do,” Trace answered as he checked over his shoulder again. No sign of Gonzales still. “QRF are real jumpy this time. Not sure what that means or what’s changed. Either way, our better response time might just make the difference. The scene is fresher than any of the others they’ve sent me to.”
A hopeful look made its way onto Derrick's face. “You find anything useful?”
“Well, our vigilante left some blood behind this time. He sprayed the spot with chems afterward, but you know my nose doesn’t work like that. I can tell you he’s male, first gen, and in his 30s. “
“Not terribly much then.”
Trace scoffed and wiped at his glasses with the handkerchief again. “That’s actually damned impressive, considering how little we usually get from scenes like this.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just not much to go on. What else are you getting on our guy?”
“Gunpowder, paper, ink, cat dander, evergreen pollen, and a lot of coffee. He’s a shy one too, afraid of human connection. Afraid for himself and others.”
Incredulity drifted over on the wind. "Wow, Trace.”
Trace shrugged. “That’s why I’m here instead of some musclehead. No offense.”
“None taken," Tyrannis paused, seemingly hesitant to proceed, but he struck up the requisite amount of nerve eventually. "Trace, I wanted to ask you-”
“You want me to keep my mouth shut,” Trace inferred with a sigh. “You know if it were anybody else, I’d tell them to pound sand. I like my paycheck.”
“But…” Tyrannis drew out the word, prompting his friend to go on.
The bloodhound super looked up into the night sky, reminding himself just how many times Derrick has been there when it counted. “But for you. Yeah, I can play dumb on this one, as long as you promise me I won’t have to do it for long. If they send me to another scene, I’ll need to get honest or they’ll be suspicious.”
“I just need some time, Trace. “
“You’ll get some, just not too much,” Trace replied, hoping he wasn’t writing checks he couldn’t cash. “Why are you working this one, Derrick?”
“Nimue,” Tyrannis dropped the name like a heavy weight, a tidal wave of emotions billowing out from him like a fog bank. “I’m worried about her and what she’s doing, but she’s a closed book.”
“So, you think tracking what she’s up to will help you with your problem.”
“Her prioritizing this place means something. I'm just not sure what. Maybe finding Bravo One will get me some answers.”
Trace tried to sound reassuring, again bringing the handkerchief up to his nose and letting the concentrated rose oil block out everything else. “Long as it doesn’t come back to bite me, I’ll keep it vague for now.”
“Thanks, Trace. Here comes your assistant.”
“Not my damned assistant.” Trace grumbled, as he did an about face, just in time to see Gonzales barreling his way, a scowl on his face. There was a little puff of power and a sudden gust of displaced air, and with that Trace knew that Tyrannis was in the wind again.