* * * * *
Perception is reality, and time is but a construct.
Change your own perceptions, and you shape your world.
* * * * *
* Val -
Val was decidedly nervous, and she had every right to be. Her hazel grey eyes were twitching at every loud sound that clattered its way through the wrought iron complex. Her hair, which was never exactly stylised, was in complete disarray, left side frazzled with static. Compared to the Night Watch’s liaison with the Sponsors - Forrester - with his bloodshot eyes, and purple bags, she was doing well. Her brother - and fellow Faction Head - Bobby, looked the worst. He’d bitten his fingernails so low, he’d drawn blood.
The room, consisting of four corrugated iron sheets loosely held together by cable ties, held the solemnity of a funeral. The lights that hung overhead cast them all in dark shadows. They were harsh, yellow, and dangled from naked cables. Much like anything found in the Night Watch HQ, they were a bodged job. Hand me down materials, scavenged resources or stolen equipment.
The room held its own brand of depression. Not that the others were depressed. Far from it. Everyone here was energetic with anxious anticipation. Yet, for that very same reason, nobody was speaking much - too enraptured within their own worries.
Morning wind wheezed through the slits of the room. Heavy with the scent of rain and pine, it was refreshing, sweeping away the stifling oppression the room held so well. Val drew it in and ran her hand through her hair once more, bristling yet more strands, peered away from her own list, and back to the focal point.
Their cumulative stressors lay illuminated on a large map. The map, actually an interactive screen inset into a conference table, had on its left a small key explaining what each item meant. Val didn't need this assistance, being involved in Night Watch operations since they’d taken her in. Despite this, she felt her glassy eyes following these icons around the city.
Top of the list and, most numerous, compared to their rival’s resources, were the dark blue points that represented Night Watch vehicles. She watched two of them travelling towards one another. From her perspective, she watched one pause at an intersection, its compatriot passing unaware. Her eyes tracked that shipment and brought it’s tracking number up on her tablet, inspecting it. A shipment from Pioneer Square headed back to base for offload. Val closed the tab. Back to the icon key, her eyes drifted, meandering sluggishly through the districts, matching each to its overarching Faction. She paused when she landed on the warehouses the Shifters owned; a repressed snarl trembling her upper lip.
Squinting her eyes at the text scrolling on her tablet, she forced her fuzzy brain back to work. It wasn’t easy. There was so much to try and hold together, all at once, from so many directions. A nagging feeling had now rotted the pit of her stomach; telling her over and over again that she was missing something.
‘But what?!’ She snapped at the elusive voice.
It, as always, refused to answer. The silence of her own mind seemed to laugh. It shifted, skulking beyond the reach of her periphery. The harder she tried to push herself to focus on it, the faster it moved, stealing away another piece of her jigsaw that she was pouring herself over. It was maddeningly frustrating.
Going through the list for perhaps the twentieth time that morning, Val tried again to unravel the dilemma. First and foremost, the movement of the goods they were responsible for delivering. With the Shifters blockade on the city’s import-export set to continue, the trade ‘within’ the city had escalated to fever pitch. The magical community had been quick to conclude the best way to weather the trade drought, was to stockpile goods for a trade war once the blockade lifted.
Typically, this would have been cause for celebration. While most of the other Factions had the luxury of large contracts ‘outside’ the city, trading with other magical hubs up and down the West coast, they could never afford such lofty ambitions. Instead, the Night Watch had focused their attention internally, snatching up courier duties whenever they could. The sniping of the contract out from under the Tiandihui was one such example of this ethos. However, this wasn’t a ‘normal’ day and nobody was cheering the plight of their competitors.
Problem one: their assimilation of Georgetown Syndicate territory back into the fold. The solution: mobilise everyone to ‘dissuade’ their rivals from swiping their new acquisition. That solution, rolled right into problem two: they didn’t have enough people to handle orders, while maintaining a patrol. And that problem was the reason Bobby was feasting on his fingernails.
Even rising as early as she had, Bobby and Forrester were already present. Silently she doubted the Old Man had slept since the central meeting. She had wanted to help wherever she could, but the simple truth remained: they were purposefully being stretched.
Everyone knew Georgetown was ‘technically’ dead, and rightfully theirs to take thanks to Ian. That didn’t mean the other Factions would make it easy on them. Fabian tactics dictated the movements of their enemies in an almost predictable manner. Force one's enemy to commit resources in every direction and cripple their ability to respond to a threat. Any space that wasn’t defended would be candidly snatched by any number of opportunistic individuals, looking to get a leg up on the competition. And so, orders flooded in from the Sponsors that backed their rivals, drawing their resources thin and leaving as little as possible to spare for the indoctrination of their reclaimed territory.
It was a double-edged sword, one that was tarted up like the belle of the ball, all the while concealing the ladyboy’s raging prick directed up their ass. The orders meant money, meant contracts and meant they were being taken seriously once more, not used as a last resort for shipments nobody else wanted to touch. The curse to go with this blessing lay in the fact they couldn’t turn down the contracts; to do so was to accept their inability to deliver. They might as well kiss all they’d worked and bled for goodbye.
It wasn’t like they could claim an imminent attack was coming their way… There was always an imminent attack coming their way. The Factions were at war! In the short term it meant they needed to smile, thank profusely for the opportunity while knowing any failure would result in those ‘benevolent’ Sponsors - who wanted them to fail in the first place - leaning on their compatriots to boycott the ‘unreliable’ group.
‘Damned if we do, damned if we don't.’ Val thought morosely.
Bobby had used their limited resources to hold onto any means of delivery the diminished group could muster. She had to accept he was right to defend their patch of Industrial. Their workshops kept them primed with vans, trucks and now, with the money and room to expand, a couple of rigs and trailers - though they were being stored under Inquisition protection to ward off sabotage. The glaring hole in their patchwork solution should have been easy to spot. That though, was why everyone was stressing. It ‘was’ easy to spot, and that meant only one thing.
Ian may, and that was a large may, have made inroads with the Kin, but everyone was still an enemy. Beacon Hill would be the largest Faction striving to take over the outer territories around former Syndicate borders. With Lance, the Thunderbolt, turned into fertiliser, the Lightning Mages leading the rivalling Faction had little to fear. Val and the rest of the Night Watch knew that Ian couldn’t do everything, but with so much new ground to cover, many wished he could.
She did smile slightly at that thought. The Champion of Beacon Hill was a lightning focused white trash moron, often spouting one of a variety of slogans whenever he, or his triumvirate, spoke up in central meetings. More often than not it was a poor mimicry of intelligence. Something about 'being a beacon in the dark,' or 'a storm to blow away the enemy!' While it made her cringe to just think of the cheesy lines, she grudgingly admitted they had some merit. Lance was a powerful Mage - emphasis on was - but he stood alone and that had cost him his life. Beacon Hill was organised and tactical compared to the impulsive buffoon.
Forrester eyeballed her curiously from beneath his salt and pepper hair, but didn’t ask. The Old Man’s worry lines were vast canyons on his wizened features, only exaggerated by the narrow beam of the overhead light. She wondered what he thought of her in times like this. Did he still think her too young? Perhaps too quick, or slow, to act?
She remembered the catastrophic events of her first foray into leadership. A guilty pang still quavered her stomach whenever she thought of that blood bath. She didn’t care if it ‘could have been worse.’ She, Valentine Romero, had cost her entire squad their lives. She never wanted to be in a position like that again.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Never though, was sooner than she thought.
Forrester was back to talking with Bobby and his lieutenants, heads close together and words soft, almost caressingly so. “We're doing well. Better than expected really. But that doesn’t feel right to me. Delridge can’t mobilise, according to our source. That still leaves Beacon Hill sniffing around. What’ve we got on them?”
Doc, who was quietly taking notes, spoke up, “What’s up with Delridge?”
“The war on their turf’s almost stopped." Val announced her attentiveness to the room. "With the Militia losing two Mages and their last one gone missing, they can’t project power over the river. Their politics are so fucked up it makes taming a Were seem easy.” The room chuckled at the image.
“That still leaves the other fragments.” Doc replied cautiously. He flapped his arm, allowing the sleeve of his lab coat to fall back to his skinny elbow. Replacing his revealed, ink stained, hand back on his page, he added, “Do we know anything else on whatever’s going on over there?”
“The large Faction is taking over, though the in-fighting hasn’t stopped.”
“Hasn’t stopped?! If they keep that up they’ll have no Mages left!”
Val nodded but didn’t say anything. ‘That’s what that freak wants.’
Distracted by dark thoughts, she missed the Night Watch’s Captain gazing at her. His features in complexion matched her own. The same intensity to the eye, the same tone of skin. Yet they held many differences, Bobby looked mature, sharp, honed by the job he’d taken on. He also looked far older than he should - a gift of the Warlock that had almost cost him his life, and his Soul.
Bobby was indeed watching her, marvelling at how she had grown from a scared little kid into a competent and wise commander. “Val has it right. Delridge isn’t our problem, but we shouldn’t ignore something dark lurking in the shadows either.”
The room felt cold at the mention. The Dark Caster, Mage type unknown, had originally divided the area by publicly dismantling the previous Champion in an unsanctioned duel. The Sponsors had refused his claim and backed their own hand-picked patsy. Said patsy was now dead and their private civil-war had been kept on the fringe only by geography. None in the room much enjoyed relying on that tenuous safety line.
Val probed her tablet and brought up what they knew. It wasn’t much. The place absorbed everything like a blackhole, a null of any credible source. They knew the Mage was a loose cannon with some form of mental issue, but that only made him increasingly dangerous and erratic. Val brought up the various eye witness testimonies she’d stolen from a Tiandihui operative on one of the many dust-ups. Speculation and conjecture aside, one thing was certain about the old Wizard’s death. She was found hanging, from her eyeballs, tongue ripped out.
“I agree; we’ve moved far too easily into contested territory.” An elder member waved a hand over the map. “Georgetown wasn’t stupid. Even if we now have most of their resources and manpower, Beacon Hill should’ve put up some sort of a fight.”
“A trap.” Forrester stated the obvious, flatly. Everyone shared the look of a kid told Christmas was cancelled.
Val studied the grid map. With Industrial ‘fully’ back under their control, they could do a lot of good, but that good could do a lot of damage if it fell into the wrong hands. Her focus snapped back at the mention of Ian.
“… Ian can’t protect the materials and area. He can’t do everything himself.” Bobby was reprimanding his Squad Leader, a tall fellow with blonde hair tinged with a hint of red.
"What do you mean 'can’t do both?'” Asked Val, turning her brother's gaze away from the shrunken kid.
“We’ve got a massive order going to the Were, and we need it under heavy protection." Bobby didn't need to mention how poorly their previous encounter with the Werewolves had gone. "With the possibility of a trap, he wants Ian on patrol with us.”
The way Bobby said ‘he’ rather than Lincoln’s name revealed just how stupid he thought the idea was. That confused Val.
“That doesn’t sound unreasonable,” Val mediated gently. “I mean, we can’t leave the Were on hold, but why can’t Ian join for the delivery? He did a pretty good job last time we interacted with them.”
Everyone knew not to keep the Were waiting. Mistakes happened and deadlines could be ‘tampered’ with, but a delay to them meant a delay, with interest, as retribution. People could bitch and whine to the Sponsors about it - and the Sponsors weren’t happy about the situation either - but it wasn’t like the Sponsors could do much about it. The Werewolves remained fiercely independent. They refused to become beholden to anyone. In the past they’d lost millions, just to make a statement.
“Because if, and I do hope ‘if,’ this goes south, we need him ready to repel whatever trap Beacon Hill’s playing at. The Were might be plotting a trap, but Beacon Hill are.”
“He’s right. Our focus should be on Beacon Hill,” Forrester intoned in his deeper voice. “I don’t think the Shifters are the type to set a trap. Not under the circumstances.”
Val didn’t like the level of assurance Forrester held in his words, but said nothing. She told herself it had nothing to do with the prickle of fear she held after the narrow escape they had made. A small voice though, a silky murmured croon told her she was lying.
“Ember.” Val looked up at the name. Seeing that eyes were on her, she realised she had been the one to speak. Hiding her blush behind a semi-glare. “Ian isn't the only magic user we've got on our side, he's got constructs we can use too. If he goes with you to the Were, Ember or whatever that rag thing is called, can stay in reserve for the trap we know is coming.”
“That isn’t the issue here,” Forrester ran a hand through his thinning hairline. “We can do the drop-off during the daylight hours, it’s the patrols afterwards; but you raise a good point.” He sighed, lips pressed into a flat thin line. “You think splitting them up is the better path?”
“I do,” Val stated with confidence, drawing herself up to her full height. “We aren’t asking for a fight, but if they throw the first punch we need someone to defend, while the rest get out.”
Without a word, they confirmed with a group nod. Every man, woman, child and…, undead, had to pull their weight. Forrester and Bobby started issuing orders. Vans were recalled, bikes prepped, ‘Goons-4-Hire’ was contacted and a squad of gunners were added to the quickly expanding list. Soon the drafty hollowed out shells of the warehouses thrummed with the energy of people preparing for a job. Val caught Bobby just as he ended a call. The mix of curiosity and stupefied disbelief would have been comical if the situation weren't so serious. Val waited, expectantly, foot tapping on the grey concrete floor.
Bobby shrugged helplessly, "Apparently the Banshee is coming with him."
"What?!" Val squawked. The eavesdropping silence proved she wasn’t the only one dumbfounded. "What the hell for!" The accusation disguised as a question flinched him, the taller shrinking away from her by half a step. “Well?!”
Bobby raised his palms helplessly, "I don't know!” He defended, “He just said she’s coming along."
“A word, Bobby,” Forrester intervened.
Eager to escape, the Latino scuttled all of four steps before Val snatched him back by the arm. “I’m not done with you!” She menaced. “You can’t be seriously thinking of letting that wailing cunt in here, can you?”
“Well when you put it like that…” Bobby tried to joke. It didn’t work.
“You listen and you listen good, brother,” She said in subsonic growls, “We are not letting that bitch near us. Ever since she showed up she’s done nothing but try and kill us. I don’t know what stupidity you’re planning but it wont work.”
“Val,” Bobby put his free hand on his siblings shoulder. “I’m not planning anything. I swear. I called, he said he’d be down soon, and that she was with him. I’ve got nothing to do with it.”
“Perhaps he’s putting some faith in the choices of our young friend?” Forrester said pointedly, stepping in beside the quarrelling family members. “Besides, nobody said anything about letting Miss Lin into any of our efforts.”
The silent battle of wills could have sent sparks flying if either were a Mage. Thankfully for those observing, the area remained spark free. Val threw down Bobby’s arm as she gave in - though he winced at the jarring shock to his shoulder.
“I know we’ve not known Ian that long, but I trust his word on things like that.” Bobby said after introspection. “He’s not stupid and if he says he’s got her under control, I’ll take him at his word.”
That took the wind from her sails. She wanted to argue that this was foolish. That inviting the ‘Champion’ of the most powerful Faction in the city inside was a huge mistake. She wanted to remind them of all the trouble she had caused them, to remind them that within the last month the Banshee was personally responsible for their current economic difficulties - her penchant for collateral damage was second to only the Kin sisters, what with them taking huge chunks from buildings, roads and cars to use as weapons. The problem was, and loathe she was to admit it, Bobby was right. They had trusted Ian, they had put their chips on his green zero, and they had been richly rewarded.
She didn’t want to jeopardise that. And so, without an immediate comeback, Forrester pulled Bobby away. She watched them go, uncertain and conflicted. In the time it took her to unclench her fists held at her side, she was striding through doorways - rectangular cutouts in the sheet iron with drapes for doors - towards the ready rooms.
Opening an actual door, Val pulled out a chest filled with enchanted bullets. ‘Just to be safe,’ She thought with a vicious sneer. As she constructed the new clips she tried to imagine the reasons the Tiandihui’s favourite Mage would be with Ian. She didn’t like any of the reasons she came up with.
‘How did he get that screaming bitch on a leash in the first place?' She growled, storming into the locker and snatching up one of the few Kalashnikov’s. Slapping the magazine into the deadly firearm, she spared a glance around at the dilapidated state of their armoury, ‘Beggars can't be choosers.’