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Panting, Vincent burrowed his back into a tree. Above, the helicopter was making rounds, trying to dislodge him through random fire and grenades. One fell a couple of feet away, but the shock was absorbed by his Shadow Armor.
Thanks, asshole, Vincent offered a half-grateful, half-hateful thought to Ludwing. His new skill was an evolution of his Cloak of Darkness, obtained through Corvinus' guidance.
A voice spoke in his ear. "Axe Raven, Axe Raven, this is Thug. Silence lifted. We cleared the mansion. More to follow. Acknowledge. Over."
"Thug, this is Axe Raven," Vincent spoke on the radio attached with a strap over his tactical vest. "Acknowledged, Over".
"Axe Raven, Boogie Man One has moved the hostages. The estimated location is twenty clicks north, on NY thirty-two. The probable destination is South Albany Airport. It's on you. Out."
"Thug, this is Axe Raven. Roger. Willco. Over."
Vincent closed his eyes, thinking of options for a second. How Thug found the information—probably by torturing one of the guards—was irrelevant. Mercenaries were not into being nice business. The important thing was they were late. If the destination was an airport, a private jet was waiting. Once in the air, the rescue would become impossible. He was not Superman, and movies generously underestimated how hard it is to intercept a plane in flight. One second meant a difference of hundreds of meters.
Somehow, the hostiles had found out about the raid. The helicopter above, which Vincent was supposed to lure away and keep occupied, was, in fact, keeping him occupied. He had to spend a few of his precious Karmic Charges to rectify the situation.
He ran forward, seeking an open spot. The hail of bullets followed Vincent closely, but as he hoped, the chopper overcame him and appeared in his vision for a second. He Strode up, directly at the cockpit. The metal folded inward, crushing the pilot.
There was a secret to his skill, one he had found in a moment of illumination. While practicing with his Outsider's Cloak and being bad at it, Vincent had thought: what if he was also bad at Outsider's Stride but didn't realize it? It looked spectacular, but was it? He experimented with using it offensively first. Two objects couldn't occupy the same space, so the failsafe prevented him from jumping inside an object or even putting his weapon in it. Yet, if he concentrated hard, insisting on going where something already was, instead of Vincent being diverted to a safe distance, the object was moved, pushed away. Violently. Magic took precedence. Practicing also increased the radius of the area he could use his skill, and he was very happy with that.
As the helicopter diverted to a side, falling, Vincent met the widened eyes of the gunner. Young, scared. Cursing, he jumped twice, taking the youngster with him, then landing near a road, miles away. The one he just saved collapsed at his feet, prostrated, throwing his AR-15 on the ground.
"Y-you're a s-superhero?" the kid stuttered.
Vincent pushed the young man down and tied his wrists and ankles with zip ties. He signaled cars, but seeing him dressed in tactical gear and with a prisoner, most swerved away, accelerating. A minute later, a pick-up truck stopped abruptly. An older Black man opened the door and hid behind it, aiming his pistol at Vincent.
"Hands up!"
"Are you from The Church?" Vincent asked calmly, raising his hands in the air. The sect that kidnapped the family he was trying to save was notorious in the area.
"I ain't nothing to do with you assholes," the man yelled. "Don't move!"
"He's from The Church," Vincent pointed at the tied man with the tip of his index, keeping his hands up. "They kidnapped the friends of my friends. I need to save them; don't have time to get him to the police station."
"How do I know you're telling the truth?"
Vincent kicked the kid in his back with his boot. The boy screamed: "I confess! Please, take me to the police. He's an alien or something."
Raising his prisoner in one hand, Vincent walked to the truck and threw the cultist in the back. "Not an alien. I work out a lot," he tried to explain to the older man, who was looking at him aghast. Then, Vincent Strode directly above, high in the sky, and right ahead, beyond the airport.
Opening his arms and legs wide, he glided back to the direction he came from. Not quite a wingsuit, his gear had small wings underneath his armpits and air tubes in his pants. He wasn't familiar with those devices before but had parachuting experience from the army. The speed was faster than he thought, and he jumped again to retake altitude.
Vincent's enhanced sight could see details miles away. The car, a Hummer, appeared soon enough. It stood out, the only vehicle speeding, with an emergency light above the roof. The Church had the town sheriff in its pocket.
The driver, the guru, the prophet, the saint, as his fanatics called him, had a maniacal expression on his face. Probably being high. Behind him were three people handcuffed together, two adults and a young woman. Irene's bestie, he was told. She had been lured into the sect and brainwashed to donate her money, and when the rich parents came to claim her back, making a scandal… things went south.
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Vincent glided forward, approaching the Hummer head-on. The driver shook his head, an understandable gesture, as a skydiver dashing at full speed into a car was not usual. Thirty feet before the contact, Vincent snatched the hostages and Strode to the lawn of the Altenschloss castle.
"Markus!" Elina yelled, rushing forward. If Vincent recalled well, the family's father was her cousin.
Pulling off his balaclava, Vincent forwarded his hand in a stopping gesture. "Did any of you geniuses tell your friends we'll come to help?"
"Y-yes?" Elina stuttered. "Markus had his phone with him when they locked them into the storage room, and he—"
"Great. They intercepted the call and were waiting for us. Anyway, you're welcome."
Storing his equipment in the ring of holding and dressing in casual clothes on the way, Vincent entered the manor and poured himself a glass of plum brandy. "Hm…" he sighed, enjoying the taste. It was a good liquor; he had brought it himself from Prague, and only a few connoisseurs knew the farmer who made it.
"I take it all went well?" Irene's father asked, looking at Vincent over the newspaper in his hands and returning to reading before the answer came.
"Yes, Karl, all went well," Vincent said, a bit bitter, sending a message to the mercenary team: 'Had to extract. Hostages safe. Tell the guys I'm sorry they have to hike back on their own.' A thumbs-up arrived in reply.
"Are you afraid when fighting?" Karl asked, this time without lowering the paper.
"You don't really have the time to feel scared. You get used to it… adrenaline takes over. The aftermath is usually what gets you… it's like a withdrawal… many special forces go into drugs when they retire."
"Did you?" Now, Karl was staring directly at him. 'Is the man in love with my daughter a drug addict?' he projected.
"Nah," Vincent waved his hand. "I was used to risks since I started climbing, in my late teens… and our army is not so… well… risk intensive. It's like a holiday, really. If you ignore the sarge yelling at you all the time, waking at five in the morning, and the toilet cleaning duty. Food is great, though."
Putting the paper down, Karl looked out of the window. The greetings had finished, but the trivial problem of getting rid of the handcuffs remained. Elina was trying to pull them off with little success. "Can you break—"
"I can. But I won’t. That would teach Elina to break communication silence. You can afford to pay a locksmith, right?"
"I sure can, but I’ll let my wife do it. We two have to go. Have you forgotten about the appoint—"
"I forgot!" Vincent jumped up. "Oh, gosh… that’s so scary! Do you have a Xanax or something?"
"No drugs," Karl shook his head. "You’ll face your fears like a man."
"Shiiiiiiit….."
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Peeking from behind the curtains, Vincent could see the venue was full. Thousands of people. Just in case, he had emptied his bladder minutes before his name had been called. Soiling himself on live TV was not ideal.
"Go on," the assistant patted his shoulder. Timidly, Vincent advanced on the stage. He felt the crowd's eyes drilling through him.
"Hello," one of the judges said.
"What is your name?" The blonde star had put warmth in her voice to help Vincent overcome his stage fright.
"Err… H-hi… I'm V-Vincent…" For whatever reason, his hand was tucked to his ribs, waving only with the fingers.
"And what will you perform for us tonight, Vincent?" a third judge asked.
"M-magic?"
"You realize this is the Elite Talents show, right? Only the best of the best will go through," the fourth judge spoke with a color of disdain in his voice and squinted eyes. The man was in his fifties and slightly overweight, the classic rock star who hadn't aged graciously but was still chasing skirts and abusing alcohol. He was already moving his hand toward the buzzer, and that annoyed Vincent.
"Yeah, I do," his voice became more assertive.
"The stage is yours, Vincent," the blonde said. "Knock our socks off!"
Yeah… you wish. Vincent noticed how the blonde looked at his perfectly defined muscles, evidenced by the black T-shirt. "Curtains!" he yelled. "As you can see, this show is simultaneously broadcast in Vienna and Prague. I have enrolled in both." Thanks to my billionaire friends' connections…
Behind him, a huge screen showed the jury in Prague, who had listened to his speech and was looking at a similar screen displayed on stage.
"I will ask one of you… you," Vincent looked at the blonde, "to draw something on a piece of paper and put it in an envelope. My trusted assistant, Ludwing van Corvinus, will now bring you a pen, a piece of paper, and an envelope."
A flapping noise grew louder, and the huge raven landed on the jury's desk, the items in its beak. The four jurors jerked back, obviously surprised by the apparition.
"Come here, Ludwing. Your evil aura is scaring them!" Vincent forwarded his arm. The raven flew to land on his hand, only to transform into his normal self in the next second. Gasps erupted in the audience, but the jury was slackjawed as well. "Show your drawing to the public without me seeing it, then put it in the envelope," he asked the blonde.
Approaching the table, he faced the woman. "Maybe you want to touch me to be sure I'm real?" The woman immediately wrapped her hands around his biceps, keeping them there longer than necessary.
"And now," Vincent took the envelope, "can you touch me to see I'm real?"
He was in Prague, in front of the other jury and the other sexy woman celebrity. She yelped but did as asked, with trembling hands. He could see the blonde in Vienna covering her mouth in awe.
"Open the envelope and show the drawing to everyone, please. Is this the drawing from Viena?"
The juror raised the paper to be seen by everyone. It was a heart pierced by an arrow. The public started to applaud, first in Prague, then in Austria. Vincent bowed. As he rose, he changed his clothes, summoning a tuxedo from his ring of holding. Magicians who tore their clothes fast, displaying other dresses previously hidden underneath, were a dime a dozen. Dressing up, though… not so much.
He reappeared in Vienna, with the public roaring. The four jurors were on their feet too, applauding, albeit the rock star reluctantly.
"We look forward to seeing you next week," the blonde said eagerly. The jury in Prague nodded in approval.
"I am, too," Vincent winked at her. The rock star attitude didn't inspire confidence. A bit of flirting with a juror could raise his chances for the next round. Fuck… I'm turning into Ludwing… Nooo, I don't want to become a villain… I love Irene! And maybe the other two too…. Fuuuuk… My head's messed up… "Thank you! Thank you!" he waved at the public.
"Master, don't forget you promised to take me to Iceland tonight to see the Horrora Beaurealis," Ludwing said on queue.
"True, my loyal assistant, I did," Vincent said, cringing inside at how tacky the lines sounded. Calling a fur coat over him to show off his fast dressing again, he grabbed Ludwing, and they disappeared.
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Despite common sense telling Vincent putting Ludwing around his parents wasn’t the best idea, they slept at his parents' apartment. He found Irene’s parents charming but more hyperactive and tiring than his folks. The day had cost Vincent eleven Karmic charges, gaining him four for the lives he had saved. Nevertheless, the next morning, the resource pool had eighty charges. If by killing the guru—news said the car crashed—or inspiring kids watching the show to learn magic, he couldn't know. He had a week to prepare for another act and was terrorized by the prospect. By good luck, a message from the mercenary team arrived. They had flown to the Caraibes, where pirates hijacked a cruiser and were asking him if he wanted to join. Vincent sighed with relief. There was nothing like good, reliable, routine work to put his mind at ease.