9 October 2017. Justice City. Old City. Eastern Side.
The raging flames reflected off the firefighters’ helmets like dozens of angry fireflies. Dancing shadows gave the area a surreal appearance. Black smoke rose towards the sky, mostly unnoticed in the darkness, and soon lost into the blanket of clouds. Panicked people were being escorted out of the burning building or rescued from the upper floors. They were then directed to overwhelmed paramedics. Gawkers had gathered, attracted by morbid fascination, and photo flashes joined the flames and car and truck headlights in brightening up the night.
A frown on her dark face, Raff made her way through the running and shouting. Her target was a tall man visibly directing this organized mayhem. “Excuse me!” she shouted to be heard. It seemed to be the norm around here.
“What?!” The man barked harshly and turned around. He paused, his scowl dropping, replaced by confusion, then he looked down and finally noticed her—and the badge she all but shoved into his face.
“Detective Íñiguez. JCPD. I’ve been dispatched from the Southern Precinct.”
“Well, officer—”
“Detective,” Raff snapped reflexively, then cursed mentally, at herself.
Taken aback, the firefighter raised an eyebrow beading with sweat. His expression clearly said he wanted to ask what her problem was. She got that a lot. She repressed a grimace. Stupid. Now he already thinks you’re a madwoman. Thankfully the man abstained from commenting. “Well, Detective Ing...Sorry. I’m not sure I heard right. How do I pronounce your name?"
Raff sighed. That too she got a lot. “Ee-n-ee-g-y-eh-s.”
“Detective Any-guess...is that right?”
“Close enough.” She sighed again. Faced with such calm politeness—so at odds with the man’s heavyset features—she found it hard to hold onto her anger. Besides, he wasn’t the one she was angry at in the first place. And she wanted to be angry, at least at someone. But a small treacherous inner voice was whispering this man had done nothing to deserve her cranky bulldog attitude.
He extended a hand, which she shook, uncaring of the sweat and grime. “John Taylor.” He introduced himself and threw a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m in charge of those guys. You’re a bit early, aren’t you? Normally I get Officer Marco. You detective people usually don’t show up until there’s something to, you know…detectivate.” He chuckled a bit at his own joke, only to stop when he noticed she wasn’t sharing his amusement.
“Yeah…We’re short on people,” she grumbled, unwilling to go into details. Truth was, she hadn’t conducted any real detective work in months. Whether it was because she was a woman, Hispanic, and a parahuman, or all the above, she didn’t know, but she strongly suspected the latter. In her opinion, her colleagues and superiors were all chauvinistic racist pigs.
“Don’t we all…” John sighed sympathetically.
“What?”
“Short on people.” He gestured in direction of the ambulances, where a handful of paramedics were rushing from injured patient to the other, then towards the two firefighters trying to hold back the growing crowd of onlookers.
“Right…” She nodded with a frown. “And I’m here because Officer Marco is on a leave.” If recovering from a stab wound could be considered as such, she didn’t say. Raff actually felt sorry for the man. Marco was far from the worse of the bunch.
Eager to change the subject, she turned to the fire. “Well, since I’m here…I might as well ‘detectivate’. Anything you can tell me yet?” Even with the distance, she could feel the heat radiating from the burning building. Blinded, she squinted against the brightness. The flow of people being carried out of their ruined apartments had all but stopped. Now the men and women in uniform were focusing on dousing the flames.
Quickly she looked away, her head pounding. Too many details, she inwardly swore. Sometimes her power was more of a curse. Bright colors, fast randomly moving objects, and loud noises were especially bad. So right now she felt like in her own personal corner of Hell on Earth.
John too shot a quick glance towards the building before answering her question. “Not sure. We’ll need to wait for the experts and them. But from experience, I’d say it was a gas leak or something.”
She gestured for him to elaborate—while also popping an aspirin as discreetly as she could. He pointed at an alleyway left of the building. Reluctantly, she looked once more in direction of the flames.
“The fire started from there, not actually inside the building,” John began to explain. “We’re still not sure why. We’re waiting for the fire to die some to check out the alley. But those old places have shitty pipes and nobody cares much about upkeep. My guess? There was a small leak. Then someone lit up a cigarette and…boom.” He moved his hands apart to illustrate his onomatopoeia. “We were lucky it didn’t explode.”
“You think someone could have done it on purpose?”
“Dunno. You’re the cop.” A second later, he corrected, “Detective.”
She had a wry smile. “Point taken. Anything else?”
“Like I said, it started there at the bottom left. Then the fire spread from the basement up.” His finger moved, following his explanations. Indeed, the lower left side of the building looked the worst, while the upper right seemed still almost untouched. Raff burned all the details into her memory—not that she had a choice, and no pun intended. “It’s only my opinion, though,” the fireman concluded.
“Thanks anyway. Anything can help…if a case actually opens up.”
He threw her a side-glance. “You think it was criminal?”
“Can’t tell yet.” Arson wasn’t Raff’s area of expertise. Hers was more the white-collar criminals, conmen and traffickers lurking in the more upscale side of town, not people setting fire to dilapidated buildings. Or at least it had been her area. Her transfer to the Southern Precinct hadn’t exactly been her choice. “Were there any victims?”
John shook his head. “Everyone’s accounted for so far. Like I said, we were lucky. It’d have been worse deeper in the Old City. Squatters,” he clarified when she shot him a puzzled glance. “Don’t you need to take notes or something? Marco was always scribbling something in that notebook of his.” He awkwardly rubbed the back of his helmet. He wasn’t used to the serious air this short woman gave off. Marco was more relaxed—not to say slack. Most cops were in these parts.
Oblivious to his discomfort—though only because she was looking in direction of the ambulances, Raff distractedly answered. “No. Don’t worry. I’ll remember.” She marked a pause, then added to herself in a low voice. “I always remember.”
* * *
A couple streets away from the fire, atop an empty roof, a young man suddenly appeared.
No bending light. No warping. No rip through space. One instant he wasn’t there. The next, he was. However, more shocking even than his sudden appearance, was his flashy purple suit—a show of dubious taste—and the two limp bodies that materialized alongside him. The two men slumped down on the roof with loud thuds and stayed unmoving at his feet.
With a tired sigh, the young man raised a hand gloved in thin brown leather, and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if to fend off a headache. “Stupid,” he muttered. He exhaled and then, without warning, abruptly kicked the head of the closest man. The head jerked sideways, but its owner showed no reaction. But dead people rarely did.
“Stupid!” the young man repeated, louder. “Stupid, lousy, incompetent SHIT!!” He punctuated each insult with another kick to the corpse. His delicate features were deformed by insane anger as the kicks turned to stomping. “Can’t. Even. Capture. One. Piece. Of. Lowly. Human. TRASH!!!” Spittle flew out of his mouth.
Only when the head was reduced to a gory pulp, did he finally seem to regain his senses. Panting, he adjusted his orange cravat and wiped his face with a silken handkerchief retrieved from his breast pocket. Slowly, his breathing went back to normal and his pale complexion returned.
He gave one last kick to what used to look like a human head. Then his gaze fell on his bloodied Oxford shoes. In a heartbeat, his scowl transformed into a childish pout. “Aw. And I just got those. Oh well...” He suddenly blinked out of existence and instantly reappeared two steps to the left, his footwear now sparkly clean, while a puddle of blood remained where he’d stood before. He gave a satisfied nod. “Better.”
His eyes moved to the not-so-distant flames rising into the night. He sighed, this time derisively, and raised both palms up in a mocking helpless shrug. “What would those morons do without me? Right. There’s so lucky I’m such a nice guy.” He flipped the other corpse with the tip of his shoe. “Aren’t you, lucky? Couldn’t even grab a single healer who lost his powers, and now it’s Nice Guy Mr. Carrier who has to clean up your mess.” He tutted sadly.
The job had been simple. Grab Merlin. Get him in range of the device. Activate it. Then text Carrier. He couldn't teleport anywhere near Merlin until Harris’ prototype wasn’t disabled. And he refused to expose himself to danger by waiting closer than strictly necessary.
Idly, Carrier wondered whether Director Harris knew her portable space shield—her very untested miniaturized space distortion device—had been stuffed into her godson’s belly. He supposed not, but he could never tell what that woman was thinking. It was the case with most technopaths—one of the reasons why Carrier disliked them so much.
“And, of course, Satsu had to go with a bang. Retard.” He sighed again. “God, this is tiresome. Alright. Let’s do—” He vanished mid-sentence.
He reappeared ten seconds later, holding a fuming black box the size of a microwave. He quickly let go of it and shook his gloved hands wildly. “Hot-hot-hot-hot-hot!! Stupid fire.” Again, he wiped the sweat off his brows with his pricey handkerchief.
At that moment, his phone vibrated in his pocket. Fishing it out, he glanced at the caller’s ID before answering with a bright smile. “Oyabun! What a coincidence. I just finished retrieving the evidence.” He paused, then nodded. “Uh-uh. The box and two—one man. The rest went up in smoke.” His gaze fell on the disfigured henchman. He would need to get rid of that one. “Yes, it’s Tanaka. Satsu got burnt. Ironic, no?” Another pause. “Yes, I know this is serious. Yes, I’m heading back now—Okay, I’ll drop there on the way and tell them. But the beacon got canceled, somehow, so they’ll have to comb the streets the old fashion way.” He grimaced, looking up and pinching his nose. “No, I don’t know how. I apologize. I’ll try to get the backup running. The old fashion way.” He nodded. “See you in a bit, boss!” He ended the call.
Putting the phone away, the young man lowered his gaze back to the mangled corpse and pursed his lips. Well, I’ll just drop him at the Butchers. The thought of a few easy bucks made him feel much better. He’d been a bit peeved since dropping the guard’s daughter back at her grandparents. Contrary to her mom, the girl had been a beauty—or at least she’d grow into one once she passed puberty. She’d have fetched a good price with the right people.
But contrary to the henchman, the boss might have caught on if Carrier made the girl vanish. He wouldn’t have liked that. Their gang leader was very strict on keeping promises. And the teleporter really didn’t wish to anger the old yakuza.
“Well, enough wasted time. Let’s get go—”
And he was gone again, effortlessly taking everything with him, faithful to his nickname. On the roof were left only traces of blood, which would soon be cleared away by the rain that had started falling.
* * *
Elsewhere, although not far, another personal drama was unfolding.
“Come on, girl! You can’t do this to me! To us! Not after everything we went through together! Not now! Not here!”
Horatio-Nelson, HN or Chen to his friends—never mind using a Chinese nickname for a black man—Coach to his students, and Old Man to anyone wishing to lose a few teeth, was having trouble accepting that his longest lasting partner, a beauty half his seventy years of age, had finally decided she had enough. The battered pickup truck had out-of-the-blue just broken down, leaving him stranded miles from his home.
He’d been driving back from a friend’s when his ride had started to show signs of slowing down. He’d barely managed to pull in before everything just stopped. Now, a flashlight held haphazardly between his neck and shoulder, he stood hunched under the raised hood, his nose in the engine, trying to figure out why his faithful girl of thirty years was suddenly being difficult, and in one of the seediest parts of the city at that.
Here, one lamppost out of three was out of commission, trash littered the sidewalk, hoodlums hung about in clusters of two or three, tripping on the latest drug in fashion, while a handful of women covered more in makeup than clothes attempted to sell them yet another type of pleasure. In the distance, the echoing sirens of firetrucks and ambulance announced that some people were having an even shittier night than he did.
Ironically this neighborhood bordered the nicest part of the Old City—not that this title meant much. But the proximity to wealth, as little as may be, had turned the area into a dwelling of choice for the desperate, the penniless, the dealers and the prostitutes, making it very unadvisable to be caught alone at night around here—or during the day to be frank. It was overall not a good place to be. Period.
Admittedly, the neighborhood Chen lived in was only marginally better. But at least it was his seedy part of the city. Everything became less threatening with familiarity—when you knew who was all bark and no bite, and whom not to piss off. And, over there, people usually knew not to piss off Old Chen—or to call him that to his face. He might not be part of any gang himself, but he had connections. Anyone living in the Old City long enough was bound to have some. Otherwise, they’d have left or died long before having lived “long enough”.
Well, that’s how used to be, he thought with an annoyed sigh. The Surge had caused some shifting in the Old City power map, and many old alliances had broken, for various reasons. Mainly because of young parahuman upstarts, out to make a place for themselves on the “supervillain” scene, mostly by removing older ones. It made Chen scoff. “Supervillains…Hah! Just common thugs who think they’re gods.”
Lifting from the engine a gear that really should have been attached to something, Chen let out another deep sigh. Truthfully, he wasn’t too worried about his immediate safety. Even at his age, he could still handle a few street thugs, powers or not. He was just tired and wanted to be back home. And it had started to rain a short while ago. “Aw, darn it.”
Suddenly, a pair of headlights swept over the street, preceding a black van. Chen quickly switched off his flashlight and hid into the shadow of his vehicle. Most of the prostitutes and the druggies who still had enough of a grip on reality had similarly moved out of sight. In an instant, the street became as deserted. Street wisdom dictated that black vans and SUVs equaled trouble. It might sound cliché—and it was—but clichés existed for a reason. No decent person in their right mind would ride in the Old City at night in a black car with tinted windows.
The bulky vehicle slowed down and stopped a dozen meters away from Chen. He stiffened and reached out discreetly to retrieve a steel pipe from the otherwise empty bed of his truck. The sound of a car door opening broke the silence. He heard people speaking loudly in a foreign language. Japanese, he recognized. He quietly cursed his bad luck. There was really only one gang in J City whose members were in majority Japanese, and the old boxing coach had no desire to get in trouble with the Black Lotus.
Risking a peek, he saw a large Asian man in a black suit, visibly arguing with someone still inside the van. Their voices rose higher, turning to insults, until the man outside threw his hands up in annoyance and stepped back inside the van, loudly slamming the door behind him. For a while nothing else happened, tension hanging in the air as if the night itself was holding its breath.
Eventually, the black van simply started again and drove away. Slowly. Like a large predator prowling the streets in search of a prey.
Chen watched until the vehicle disappeared at the next turn. Only then did finally heave a sigh of relief. “God gracious.” He was about to return to his engine when a sudden loud thud caused him to freeze. His gaze shifted across the street. A few yards away, an alleyway went off perpendicular to the main street, almost exactly where the van had stopped just earlier. It can’t be. A frown creased Chen’s graying eyebrows. As he hesitated on what to do, the rain was rapidly worsening.
Then Chen heard a noise he would swear was a groan of pain. He hesitated another couple seconds before his conscience won over his prudence. “Aw. Darn it.” He walked away from his truck. The steel pipe was still firmly within his grasp.
Reaching the corner of the building, he peeked into the alley and discovered...nothing. Unexpectedly the alley looked empty, except for an overflowing dumpster and a padlocked metal door. But the pile of trash blocking the latter showed it hadn’t been opened in a long time. Somewhere down the narrow alley, a security light shone brightly on a lonely section of pavement. But close by, only the indirect glow from the street behind Chen brought pushed the darkness back somewhat.
The shadows moved behind the dumpster. Chen’s eyes snapped in that direction, but he couldn’t make out what hid there.
After one last look in direction of his truck to make sure none of the hoodlums had gotten too close, Chen stepped into the dark back street. Prudently, pipe raised in a batting stance, he braced himself, finally rounded the dumpster.
He found himself staring into a pair of frightened brown eyes.
“P-P-Please do-don’t hurt me! I wasn’t...I wasn’t going to take anything! I swear!” The kid couldn’t be more than eighteen. His dark hair hung in greasy locks, stuck to his scalp by the rain and framing a pale and emaciated face. Rotten teeth, several missing, clattered as he tried to speak. He was wearing a tattered hoodie, torn jeans and a pair of mismatched slippers. It was obvious to anyone that the boy lived in the streets, and had been for some time.
In his hands, he held an opened backpack. Papers had slid out of it, sporting a logo Chen thought he recognized, but he didn’t pay too much attention right now. The kid was frozen in the middle of pulling out what looked like old, old books.
The old man was already frowning deeply when his gaze landed on the body behind the homeless kid and his eyes widened. What in tarnation? First, he thought the man was dead, but a painful moan told him otherwise. Still, he could see a mean bloody gash on the man’s cheek and wanted to check for other injuries. But the boy was in the way. He had now curled into a ball and was repeating “Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me. I’m sorry. Don’t hurt me.” Over and over again. Seeing the state he was in, Chen was hesitant to try and push him aside. It was hard to tell when a delirious person might turn from fear to violence.
On the ground next to the kid, he spotted a needle, clean enough to be new. It stood out. However, now it laid in a pool of blood diluted by the rain, a detail which didn’t presage anything good for the wounded guy.
Chen lowered his improvised weapon, but not his guard, and let out an exasperated sigh. The needle, the kid’s bloodshot eyes, and his behavior made a grisly kind of sense together. One Chen was all too familiar with. Crouching down, he took a business card out of his pocket. One of his acquaintances ran a homeless shelter that doubled as a rehab center. Chen always kept a few of his cards just in case. Of course, he didn’t try to get the kid to take it. The poor bastard was completely lost to the world, crying, clawing at his face with his dirty, bloody chipped nails and gnawing at his fingers.
“Poor bastard.” Chen shoved the card into the only pocket of the boy’s jeans that didn’t look about to fall off. Maybe the boy would find it later, after he came down from whatever filth was now running through his veins. Likely he would just throw it away, because of denial, misplaced pride, or whatever bullshit he told himself to justify the hellhole his life had become. But maybe—just maybe—he would take the opportunity and try to get back on his feet. Chen knew the chances were slim and he couldn’t save everybody—Lord knows I get told that often enough—but he could do at least this much. Even if nobody else gave a crap about these kids, Chen always would.
But right now, there was a man bleeding out on the pavement. Some things took precedence. And the old man didn’t want an unstable junkie nearby to make things worse. Squaring his shoulder and already hating what he was about to do, Chen let his voice drop to its deepest, scariest tone. “Kid, listen to me.”
The boy abruptly interrupted his incoherent mumbling and turned a terrified gaze his way. Chen had to repress a grimace. God knows what that poor bastards’ messed up brain is making of this. But the old coach didn’t allow himself to soften. He pointed a finger towards the street he’d come from. “Scram.”
The boy blinked in confusion. Clearly, he was having trouble understanding. Chen was forced to get rougher—verbally of course. “Fuck off. NOW!!” His echoing shout probably sounded like the Devil’s roar to the tripping kid, because he scampered to his feet faster than his state should have allowed and ran away as if all the demons of Hell were chasing him.
Like the van before, Chen’s eyes followed him until he disappeared from view. Only then did he return his focus to the other man.
He retrieved the flashlight he’d shoved in his pocket earlier and switched it on. Directing the beam towards the shadow of the dumpster, he drew in a sharp breath. “Dear god. What the Hell happened to you...?” The revealed body looked even worse than Chen had guessed it would. He’d predicted to some extent the blood soaked clothes and face beaten black and blue, but this guy looked if he hadn’t eaten in months. Different from the kid before who looked weary and drained, this one looked like a barely alive mummy, minus the bandages, which ironically he was in dire need of.
Crouching by his side, the septuagenarian checked the mummy’s pulse. It was weak but steady. He’d live. Probably. But for that, he required medical attention. Chen didn’t even think of calling an ambulance. None would come in this part of town in the middle of the night. The risk of a setup to rob them of drugs and medicine was just too high. In fact, even during the day, most hospitals wouldn’t send anyone without a police escort. And judging by the huge bloody cutlass this man was clutching like his life depended on it, cops probably weren’t the greatest idea right now.
Chen sighed. “Alex’s gonna be pissed ’bout this.” He was about to take out his cellphone when a sudden burning sensation seared through his fingers.
He gasped and looked down at his right hand. His fingers were sticky from the man’s blood, from when Chen had checked his pulse. Swearing up a storm, he fast wiped the red substance off, even ripping a piece of his pullover and dampening it in a puddle to use as a wet towel. He wanted to make sure he got everything off. He couldn’t conjure up a logical explanation why blood would cause this sort of reaction, but in a world where fire-breathing crocodile-men robbed banks and people shoot lasers out of their nostrils, acidic blood wouldn’t be even remotely far-fetched.
And indeed, as soon as his fingers were cleaned, the worse of the pain vanished, replace by a dull throb and leaving his digits raw, ugly and blackened. “Bloody heck. This can’t be good,” he grunted the obvious. He cast a glare towards the man. “You better not be some sort of infection-man. Dammit. I hope Percy can check this out too.” Using his left hand, he retrieved his phone—a good sturdy old phone, not one of those flimsy touch-screen smartphones that broke at the slightest impact—and dialed a number he knew by heart.
After the fourth ring someone eventually picked up. A groggy but extremely pissed female voice filled his ear. “Someone better be dying, or I'm gonna find you and kill you myself, whoever you are.” A smile lifted the corners of Chen’s mouth. God, I love this woman. Although he loved her only as a surrogate granddaughter.
“Sophia, Horatio-Nelson here. Sorry to wake you up. But it’s kind of an emergency.” He resisted the urge to add someone might actually be dying. It was a terrible joke, and it would just needlessly confuse and worry the woman.
“Chen?” Sophia asked for confirmation, immediately sounding more alert and less prompt to manslaughter. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes, yes. I’m perfectly fine. You won’t get rid of me so easily. I still intend to be around to dote on your great-grandchildren.” He was happy when she chuckled at his bad joke. “Now, is that sorry excuse for a husband of yours there? I need to talk to him. I’m sure he will make a duty to report all the details to you later.”
“Sure...” she drawled, now sounding curious. Her voice became distant as she turned away from the phone and to the person sleeping next to her. “Alex? Alex, wake up.”
A muffled groan came from the line, to which Sophia answered by mentioning Chen’s name. Then her voice was replaced by a much deeper and much more masculine one dripping with sarcasm. “Old man? ‘s that you? Did you suddenly reached enlightenment and decided to retire and leave me the gym?”
“Over my dead body, brat. And does Sophia still let you sleep in the bed, or did she finally come to her senses and downgraded you to the floor yet?"
“No way. She loves me too much.”
“That she does. Only God knows why. You’re one lucky ass.”
“She loves it too,” came the smug reply. He could hear Sophia laugh in the background.
Chen chuckled too. “Cheeky brat. Seriously, though, I need a lift, fast.”
“What? Did that antiquity finally die on you?” Alex continued to mock him, but Chen could hear the ruffle of cloth as the young man readily left the warm comfort of his bed, before even hearing the full reason why the older man needed him out in the cold rain.
He’s a good lad, Chen thought, though he would rather cut off his own tongue than saying it out loud. “Yes, but no. That’s not the issue. If it was just that I wouldn’t have risked bothering Sophia. I have company.”
There was a slight pause. “What kind of company? You’re not in trouble, are you?” There was a dangerous note in his tone that sounded as if he’d take a gun with him should Chen answer by the affirmative. The old man couldn’t tell if he was proud, or if he was annoyed that a kid he practically raised still didn’t trust him to take care of himself.
“No, I’m not. And the company is the beaten, bleeding and unconscious kind.”
“…Oh.”
“Yes.”
“Did you...?”
“No. Found him that way.” He thought funny that the brat could switch from worrying about him to asking if he nearly killed someone in a heartbeat. “And I don’t know who did it.” At the same time he said this, Chen’s mind made a quick connection with the black van he’d seen just before, and even the sirens he’d heard. The man’s face looked badly burnt on the side his cheek had been sliced open. Chen remained silent, though, or Alex would lecture him again about his “reckless charity cases” and how they would get him killed one day. He’s going to get pissed about the hand, the old man thought with a wince.
“Is it serious?” the young man asked over the phone.
“What?” Then he realized Alex was talking about the wounded guy. “He’ll live, I think, but I need to call Percy to make sure.”
“Okay. I’ll hang up then. Where are you?”
“Somewhere between Redford and Tetson.”
“Near the old theater?”
“That one.”
“Okay. I’ll be there in ten.”
“Yes. See you.” His gaze fell on the blood maculating the ground, then his hand again. “Oh. And, Alex?”
“Yes?”
“Bring a tarp.”
* * *
9 October 2017. Justice City. New Industrial Park. NovaTech HQ.
The sound of the television was muted but the images on screen spoke loudly enough for themselves. An eight-floor tall building was going up in flames. Firefighters ran around it, struggling to tame the inferno despite the worsening rain. That same rain which also drummed against the window of the office.
The firemen and women looked so tiny next to the blazing bulk, it was almost laughable. Almost. Morgan was in no mood to laugh. Like children fighting a dragon. She frowned. Where did that come from? Dragons? I’m ten anymore! What next? Fairies and unicorns? The thought made her uncomfortable for some reason, but she was not in a mood to dwell on that either.
She glared at the man before her. “THIS is what you call ‘virtually no possibility to slip away unnoticed’?! Well, you were right, because it got bloody fucking NOTICED!!”
“Miss Pendragon, please calm down.”
“I AM calm!!” Morgan then unproved her own statement by slamming her fist onto the CEO’s desk, startling even herself. Standing in a corner, the CEO’s secretary jumped with a small squeal. Morgan cast an apoplectic glance at Audrey, then met the stern, disapproving gaze of Jonathan Brayers. She took a shaky breath. “I apologize, sir. I was out of line.”
“Apology accepted.” The man turned away, looking at the flat screen on the wall. “And we still have no proof this has any direct link to your brother’s disappearance.”
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Morgan’s scowl abruptly returned. “Disappearance? That’s what we’re calling it? What about kidnapping?!”
“Miss Pendragon.”
“And what do you mean, ‘no direct link’?! Killian was drugged. His partner SHOT herself! All the cameras of the building dysfunctional! Somehow they even cut off Audrey’s power!” The woman in question flinched and muttered a vague sorry that was ignored by the other two. “And you are telling me a fire no two blocks away has NO connection?! Are you even listening to yourself?! This is stupi—”
“Morgan!!”
The heroine took a step back, surprised that the man had suddenly used her first name. In all her years working at NovaTech, it was only the second time he’d done so. And the first had been to ask her if she preferred to be referred to by her surname. Then she noticed she’d been screaming again, at her boss. Her scowl fell, replaced by consternation. She sank into her chair and dropped her face in her hands. “I…I’m truly sorry, sir. I don’t know what’s come over me.”
Surprisingly, the CEO didn’t scold her. “You have all the right to be angry. I’ll admit I have a responsibility in this mess. But you can’t lose control like this. This isn’t like you.” His tone wasn’t exactly comforting, or concerned, or even kind, but he didn’t sound too reproachful either. He was simply stating facts.
She sighed. “I know. I’ve just been so...” So what? Angry? Out of her mind? Going crazy? She settled for: “I've been so tired lately.”
“Have you tried medication?”
“It doesn’t help. I wake up more tired than I fell asleep—if that makes any sense. And I have those nightma—” She stopped herself before she could go any further, but too late.
“Nightmares?”
“It’s nothing.” She tried sounding dismissive.
The CEO considered his star employee pensively. But eventually, he didn’t pursue. He knew too well how stubborn the woman could get, so he abstained from suggesting she sought professional help. However, he would have a word with Director Harris. The aging technopath was the only one who could get through to the heroines when even direct orders didn’t work.
After a brief pause, he spoke again. “Objectively speaking, I agree the chances are slim this incident is unrelated to your brother. However, we must keep our head cool, and not jump to conclusions. Have I made myself clear?”
Morgan straightened in her seat. “Very clear, sir.”
“Good.” Again, he marked a small pause. What he said next surprised Morgan. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
She hesitated a moment. “Yes, sir?”
“Why do you suddenly care so much? Your relationship was never good and tried to kill you, or at least didn’t care about putting you in mortal danger. And, kidnapping aside, we aren’t even sure he wasn’t accomplice of his own disappearance, and by extension Mrs. Dawson’s death.”
Again with that flat factual tone. Hearing him put things so bluntly made Morgan cringe. In fact, she herself had trouble explaining her present behavior. Yes, Merlin was her brother, but she’d recently come to acknowledge that it didn’t matter. Whom she truly cared about wasn’t the current Merlin, but the memory of a kind big brother who’d ceased to exist long ago. Only her delusional inner child still longed for that ghost. Her rational adult self, however, thoroughly despised the scum of a man he’d become, wasting so much potential in drug and alcohol, and treating his own life like it didn’t matter.
Thus, she was the first shocked when the next words left her lips.
“I care because he’s family.” Her voice was ice cold and her tone final, like she’d just enunciated a profound truth that didn’t need any explanation. The problem was, she had no idea where that conviction stemmed from.
The silence stretched in the room. To the side, the forgotten television had moved on from the fire, as if sensing the awkward moment and trying to move past it.
“Ahem.” Eventually, the CEO cleared his throat. “I apologize. It was I who was out of line here. We are all exhausted.” His gaze drifted off to space. “This has been a really exhausting month.”
Morgan agreed—at least that the man looked tired. It was very unlike Jonathan Brayers to stray from the strictly professional. She could count on the fingers of one hand how many times he’d even ask her how she was.
The past month had been especially hard on the CEO. The Head of NovaTech Industries could be seen as stern and unfeeling, but he truly cared for the company. Morgan had never asked, but she suspected he didn’t have much of a life outside of NovaTech. It was something they had in common. And ever since the Surge, he’d been the pillar that kept the company from sinking under the hammering public opinion.
“Miss Pendragon?”
Morgan suddenly realized she hadn’t vocalized her agreement. She too was still a little stunned from what she’d just said. Not only the content but also her tone of voice. It was eerie how similar to her mother she’d sounded just then. Viviane Pendragon had a gift for delivering the most chilling lines. But at least Morgan felt more grounded now.
“Yes, sir.” She stood up. “Will you let me know if something comes up?”
The CEO nodded. “Whether Mr. Browning wakes up, or when we recover the hidden spycams to analyze their memory chip, you will be one of the first informed.”
At least he didn’t lie and tell her she would be the first informed. “Thank you, sir.” She walked to the door, but he stopped her as she was about to turn the knob.
“Ah. Miss Pendragon. One last thing. I know the timing is poor, but Director Harris would like to know when you are ready to resume the tests.”
Morgan sighed. “She wants to know that, now?”
“Yes.”
Leave it to Aunt Sonia to always choose the most inappropriate moments. Sonia Harris was far more rational than most technopaths, but she still was a bit out of sync with the rest of the world sometimes. Even without the present circumstances, it was the middle of the night! Does that woman ever sleep? Sometimes, Morgan doubted it. She didn’t place it above her godmother to have somehow found a way to stay awake twenty-four seven.
“Since your headaches have subsided, it would be best if you could return work as soon as feasible.” He paused. “For everyone.”
“…Yes, sir. I will go see her right after I call my parents.”
He nodded. “After seeing the director, try to get some rest. It’s an order.” With this, he looked back down to the papers on his desks, tacitly dismissing her. It seemed that despite his order to her and own admission of tiredness, the CEO wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon.
Without a word, Morgan stepped out of the office, too distracted to spare more than a parting glance at Audrey, who was still standing frozen in the corner like a antelope trapped in a room with two irritable lions.
Once the door was closed behind her and she found herself alone in the brightly lit hallway, Morgan sighed heavily. I need to call Mom and Dad. She fished her phone out of her pocket.
Seeing the wallpaper, her lips pinched. For several seconds, she stared at the cartoon little girl in skimpy outfit smiling stupidly back at her. Killian had somehow tricked her into losing a bet, and as a penalty, Morgan had to keep the embarrassing picture on her phone for the rest of the month. It was from some Japanese TV show he said. Morgan didn’t really care. He played it off as a joke, but she knew it was his idea of cheering her up. She could feel half of a tired wry smile tugging at her lips.
He was insufferable, but he was a good guy. A good cousin. Her smile dropped. Why was it that only when she nearly or outright lost someone that she started to understand their worth? She shook her head and, taking a deep breath, dialed the number of her parent’s home. She wasn’t looking forwards to telling them what had happened. She especially feared how her father would react.
After all, how do you announce to the strongest superhero of the past millennium that his only son has gone missing?
* * *
Still, inside the CEO’s office, the tension had almost physically dropped after Morgan stepped out. Audrey cast a sideway glance at her boss. “It wasn’t very nice, sir.”
Jonathan Brayers didn’t look up from his documents. “What wasn’t?”
“Letting her believe she would be able to go after her brother once she got back on her feet.”
“I said nothing of the sort.”
“Of course not, sir.”
This time, he put down his pen and directed a raised eyebrow at her. “Are you being sarcastic?”
“Never, sir.” She replied with a straight face.
He sighed and returned to his papers, but after a few seconds, his voice echoed again in the silent office. “We’re a hardware company, Miss Whitmore. We sell technology. No more. No less. If we sponsor heroes, it is for advertisement, not to save the world. Of course, if a few people are helped in the process, all the better for the company’s image. Miss Pendragon is a smart woman, with an excellent business sense. She’ll understand.
“Besides, we don’t have the capability to look for someone who completely evaded all our surveillance. Our heroes are geared towards fighting, not to act as detectives. Your power failed, and even the tracking device inside the portable special shield has stopped functioning. We’re out of options.
“And since he couldn’t have managed this on his own. Who knows how long this has been going on? Or what secrets he’d spilled to his accomplices? I don’t deny his intelligence, but he’s too uncontrolled and impulsive to plan something so intricate. He’s only a pawn in someone else’s game. Now we can only prepare ourselves in case someone tries to attack the company.”
She looked at him with an unreadable face. “So we’re just giving up on Merlin?”
His gripped around his pen tightened for an instant before he relaxed. Once more, he set down his pen. “Yes. We are.” He reclined in his chair and massaged his forehead. “Now fetch me some coffee, will you? Those documents need to be completed tonight.”
* * *
9 October 2017. Justice City. Old City. Near the abandoned Satello theater.
Fourteen minutes after Chen talked with Alex, a gray Ford Fiesta turned into the street. Stepping away from the wall he used as a cover from the rain, Chen hailed the car and it pulled in inside the alley.
As soon as the engine stopped, a young, athletic black-skinned man stepped out, wearing a white tee-shirt and black leather jacket, which he immediately pulled over his head to protect himself from the pounding rain. “Hi!”
“Hi yourself,” replied the old man. “You got the tarp?” he added, cutting the greetings short.
Alex nodded. Neither of them wanted to stay out in this weather any longer than necessary. “It’s in the trunk.” He quickly went to retrieve the waterproof canvas then followed Chen to the dumpster. When his gaze fell on the man lying under a cardboard roof Chen had haphazardly assembled, his eyes widened. “Holly shit.”
“Precisely. Now help me put him on that. Careful, don’t get his blood get on you.”
“Blood?”
“That’s what the tarp is for.” Chen showed him his hand and gave a quick explanation. Alex scowled, unhappy as expected, but thankfully he abstained from commenting. Still, after they’d wrap the unconscious man in the tarp, Alex refused to let the old man help him carry the gory human tortillas into the car. Chen didn’t try to protest, knowing Alex was plenty strong enough to carry one mummy lookalike. In fact, Alex could probably lift the car with one hand, though only for a couple seconds.
The young man had lowered the back seats of the Ford to create more space. Once their passenger was secured, he got behind the wheels while Chen rode shotgun.
“To Percy's?”
“Yes,” confirmed Chen.
They backed out of the alley and drove off into the dark streets of the old city. After a moment of silence, Alex asked: “Will he be up at this hour?”
Chen shot him a glance that clearly meant “are you serious?”
Alex grimaced. “Fair enough.” Then he added, “Does he ever sleep?”
“I hope he does. But you know technopaths.”
“Not really. I only ever met him.”
“Ah, right…”
“But it’s true the guy can’t take care of himself,” Alex commented.
The old man scoffed. “As if you would if Sophia wasn’t there to keep your sorry ass in check.”
Alex nodded with a whistle. “She does love my ass.”
“It’s been twice tonight you told me that. Carful, brat. You’re not too old that I can’t put you over my knee. We’ll see if your wonderful wife still likes your sorry ass once its beat red.”
It was Alex’s turn to snort. “Bah. You’re just jealous.”
Chen mumbled an annoyed retort and that was the end of their attempt at lightening the mood. The rest of the drive went on silently.
Outside, the city landscape was changing. The lamp posts grew taller and fewer. The quantity of trash lying around decreased, but that didn’t make the area any cleaner. Cans, bottles, wrappers, cardboard and newspapers were simply replaced by discarded construction materials and crumbling crates. What little appeal the buildings of the Old City had, it disappeared completely as the low apartment blocks and individual houses gave way to massive warehouses and abandoned factories surrounded by tall metal fences with barbed tops.
This industrial park had once been the thriving, beating heart of the city. However, about thirty years ago had occurred an event many called the Second Great Depression, an economic disaster mostly attributed to the emergence of parahumans, though without conclusive evidence. Factories had quickly begun closing one after another, leaving behind deserted husks.
Nowadays the markets had more or less recovered, but the industries had moved to the new industrial park, built around the NovaTech Center. As for the old estate, it had been abandoned to decay, mainly because the latest environmental regulations required the place to be decontaminated from the downfall of years of heavy industrial pollution, and nobody was willing to foot the bill.
Alex eventually steered the car into what appeared to be a dead end surrounded by windowless warehouses. He parked in front of a nondescript metal door and both men got out of the car. After Alex pulled their tarp-wrapped package out of the trunk, they walked to the door. After a short few seconds, they heard a muffled clank. The metal panel swung open soundlessly. It was dark inside, but they stepped in without hesitation. The door automatically closed behind them, the same noise echoing again when the heavy lock fell into place.
“This place always gives me the creeps,” muttered Alex.
LED lights flickered on above their heads, illuminating a drab but clean hallway with several metal doors on both sides. The last door to the left opened and a tall, lanky silhouette appeared, waving them closer. The pair started moving again and the silhouette vanished back beyond the door.
Soon Chen, Alex, and a still unconscious Merlin followed into a room that looked like what you’d expect to see in Frankenstein’s laboratory—if the events of Mary Shelley’s book took place in the twenty-first century.
At its center stood an operating table completed with restraints. From the ceiling hung three operating lights. They surrounded a humongous contraption made of ten mechanical limbs, each fitted with various surgical tools, as well as others less conventional, such as screwdrivers, a welding laser, or even a circular saw. At one point in the past, the device had been a conventional da Vinci Surgical System, but months of tinkering had turned it into something straight out of a horror sci-fi flick. Many tubes ran along the walls and ceiling, liking the machine to various tanks and gas bottles. Three tables and several closets were tucked in a corner, all filled with even more tools, with all sorts of purposes—most debatably surgical. And right next to the operating table was a large workstation, with four monitors, one large keypad, and two complex joysticks covered in buttons.
Standing by the door, was a young man that didn’t look in the slightest out of place in this extravagant decor. The most unremarkable thing about him was his clothes. Black jeans and a Black Sabbath tee-shirt two sizes too large for him. The rest of him strayed further away from the ordinary.
He was sickly thin—although not as secularly as Merlin—and so pale the former demon would have wondered about a vampire in his ancestry. At nineteen years old, Percy was also extremely...long. The very definition of a twig.
Shaggy black hair fell below his shoulders and over his face, covering the left side of it and partially hiding a mess of burn scars. His right eye sat atop a pile of dark purple-blue rings of exhaustion. The pale gray color of his iris reinforced even further the ghoulish atmosphere he gave out. That eye moved constantly, never stopping on anything more than a couple seconds. And where his left eye should have been, a red light shone through the curtain of hair, twitching and shifting in intensity every time the mechanical replacement for his missing organ changed focus.
His hands too were constantly in movement, tugging at the hem of his shirt, at his sleeves, scratching his head or his neck, rubbing his arms, pulling his hair, clenching and unclenching nervously. His legs finally, were encased in a metal exoskeleton that disappeared under his tee-shirt.
In many aspects, Percy could be called an awkward teen, but further than that, he went beyond the territory of awkwardness and wandered into the realm of creepy.
“Put him there.” His voice came out barely a whisper and he pointed at the operating table. Alex obeyed without a word, lying his unconscious burden on the flat metal bed and unfolding the tarp, which freed a small stream of blood.
“Sorry,” Chen apologized for the mess.
“It’s no problem.” Percy nodded in direction of underneath the table. The floor was slightly sloped towards the center of the room, where the blood disappeared inside a drain. He turned back to Chen and waved him over. “Come here.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Your hand.” Chen had informed him of the situation in details over the phone while waiting for Alex.
Chen tried to refuse. “No, no, no. He’s in a more critical state,” he said, pointing at Merlin. “Take care of him first.”
“No. It’s not—”
“Percy—”
“Old man,” interrupted Alex. Usually he was a little put off by the creepy teen, but right now he couldn't agree more. “Just do what he asks. The more you protest, the more time we waste. You know him, he won’t budge.”
Looking alternatively at the two Afro-American, Percy sighed and shot a glance towards the machine above the operating table. Suddenly, its limbs gained life and started to prod, scan, and clean Merlin, moving like a mad mechanical octopus, only with ten arms. Percy looked back at the two men, who were now staring at him speechless. He scratched his head awkwardly and pulled off a hair, sucking on it. “It’s an automated program. For the preliminary tests. It doesn’t need me. But it needed a little time to start.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“You didn’t let me,” he murmured.
Chen’s expression turned contrite. Finally, he held his hand out. The teen grabbed it and brought it before his left mechanical eye, tilting his head to move his long hair to the side. He dropped Chen’s hand two seconds later and moved to the row of closets. Because of the exoskeleton that permitted him to walk, his steps were strangely even.
Opening the closet, he paused and considered the content for a long while, scratching his jaw ponderously, then his arm. “Clepia...where did I put the PXT-67?”
“It’s on the bottom shelf to the right, Master.” A disembodied, digitalized but clearly female voice came out of unseen speakers.
“Right...thanks.” He started to bend down, but the same voice stopped him.
“It’s in the other closet, Master. To the left.”
“...right.”
The two other men exchanged uncomfortable glances. They both knew how competent Percy was, but because of how he acted, it was often hard to keep in mind.
A minute later, the youth trekked back to Chen with a small container in hand. He put the container down on the table and picked up a scalpel, then held his hand for the hold man to give him his. His head swiveled to Alex, who was leaning patiently against a wall. “Go fetch hot water?”
The young man nodded and stepped out of the room. Ordinarily, Percy didn’t allow people to wander around his home unsupervised. However, Chen, Alex, and Alex’s wife Sophia were exceptions to that otherwise absolute rule. They were family. Especially Chen and Sophia. Alex was mostly just tolerated as an extension.
“Are you going to explain before or after you cut my hand open?” Chen asked, only half-joking, but still trustingly putting his damaged hand on Percy’s outstretched palm.
Percy’s human eye human eye focused on Chen’s face for a moment, before looking down and raising his scalpel. His previously scattered attention suddenly seemed to gather. “There is necrosis. It’s only superficial, but it needs to be removed. The PXT-67 will accelerate the healing. Also serves as antiseptic. It shouldn’t even leave a scar. Ah. But it’ll be a bit sensitive for a few days, though.” Without bothering with anesthesia, or a warning, he started cutting into Chen’s flesh.
“Oh! God dam—!!” The old man gritted his teeth and tried not to look at his own hand being sliced. He wasn’t ordinarily skittish around blood or injuries. But while it was one thing to see a horrible wound, it was another entirely to watch your own skin being slowly, deliberately removed. To occupy his mind, he tried talking to Percy. He knew this much wouldn't distract the teen when he worked. “I thought you said you didn’t do chemicals.”
“I don’t.”
“Then this PXT...65?”
One last scalpel stroke, and a piece of bloodied blackened flesh fell off into a meal plate Percy had prepared beforehand. Then he moved to the next finger. “PXT-67. I received it as payment. From a parahuman.”
Another few precise stroke, and the second finger was dealt with. Chen was in agony, but his pride forbade him to admit it out loud. “Is this safe?”
“Of course. I tested it. On another patient. He didn’t mind. Would have died otherwise.”
“Eh…”
Alex came back just when the last piece of necrotized flesh fell onto the metal plate. He set the basin of fuming water on the table next to Chen and Percy, along with a clean towel. His gaze drifted to the old man’s hand and he winced. Then he looked at his face. His expression turned surprised and he did a double take. “Percy, you madman! Why didn’t you use any anesthetics?!"”
Percy’s hand froze as he was setting his scalpel down. He cast a blank look at a fuming Alex. “I forgot.”
“YOU—”
“Now, now, Alex. I’m fine. And it’s my hand.”
The young man glared at Chen, then ran a hand over his face and sighed. “You are going to be the death of me. Both of you.”
Chen smirked, while Percy just shrugged, looking uninterested. “Clepia, why didn't you remind me?” he still asked, seemingly to no one.
“Your actions were too fast, Master.” The same disembodied voice once again answered his question.
“Too fast...for a computer?”
“I didn’t want to interrupt and prolong Mr. Jackson torment while you searched for analgesics. Moreover, Master, your forgetfulness doesn’t follow a set pattern. Or would you prefer I remind you of any action you have to undertake before you do so?”
Percy seemed to think for a short while. “...please don’t.”
“Very well.” The voice acknowledged in monotone.
While talking, Percy hadn’t stopped working. He had already washed Chen’s hands and was now applying the PXT-67. The regenerative substance looked like some kind of slimy green goo. Despite its suspicious appearance, the old man immediately felt its effectiveness, as an intense relief coursed from his digits up his arm.
“Might itch later,” Percy warned, mumbling. “A lot. Fast healing does that.”
Chen’s smile dropped a little. However, compared to necrosis, itchy fingers were something he could easily tolerate.
Once the old man’s hand was bandaged, Percy finally turned back to the operating table, where the spooky contraption was gradually slowing down. Several electrodes were now stuck to the skeletal man lying unconscious on the table, and a high pitched rhythmical beep was filling the room.
“His turn now.”
* * *
9 October 2017. Indian Ocean. Off the coast of Somalia.
Rebecca took a whiff of the wineglass in her hand and closed her eyes in contemplative pleasure, savoring the fragrance. In her other hand, she held a cigarette away from her face. Above her head, a lone seagull cried out.
She opened her eyes again. For an instant, she lost herself in the vast blue expanses of the Indian Ocean. She imagined she could see the coast of Somalia, just at the edge of the horizon, but that was only imagination. There was nothing but salty water and fishes for miles upon miles in every direction. The closest piece of dry land was an isolated private isle five miles to the North-West, and she knew its owners were currently attending a fundraiser in Los Angeles, guaranteeing Rebecca an almost certain privacy.
She kept the “almost” in mind. A scar running down her right temple, dangerously close to her eye and all the way down to her jaw, reminded her of the consequences of presumptuousness every time she looked in a mirror. After waking up in the hospital that day, she’d also added another tattoo to the fresco now covering her entire left arm. Two reminders were always better than one.
It was the middle of the afternoon, yet the sun still shone brightly. Despite the rather numerous clouds, the heat was close to unbearable. Rebecca’s tank top was soaked with sweat and her denim shorts weren’t far behind. She had tied her reddish brown hair in a loose ponytail to keep the messy locks off her sticky forehead.
Distractedly she fingered a drop of perspiration with her hand holding the smoke. She followed the wet trail to the thin line a knife had left in her otherwise unblemished face. She frowned when she felt the faintest beginning of crow feet under her touch, at the corner of her eye. Age, sadly, was an opponent no amount of alertness could help against. Although, she really shouldn’t complain. At the dawn of her fifties, she looked more than a decade younger and still felt like she was in her twenties. Her toned body also still caused heads to turn whenever she chose to display it.
It was less the aesthetics of her slowly deepening wrinkles that bothered her, rather than the constant reminder of her own mortality. Nobody escaped death. At most, people ran away for as long as they could, until the Grimm Reaper inexorably caught up to them. Some got caught sooner than others. “And some are damn good runners.”
Shaking off those morbid thoughts, Rebecca downed the wine in one swing but still took the time to enjoy its earthy tang. In the sky, the lone seagull seemed to freeze mid-flap. A satisfied moan escaped her as she moved the glass away from her lips, licking them for any traces of alcohol. The seagull echoed her moan with another cry before vanishing into the distance.
“Fuck. That’s the stuff.”
Nonchalantly, she took a drag on her smoke and threw the empty glass into the ocean. She grabbed the bottle out of a bucket of ice, swallowed a couple mouthfuls directly from it, and started pacing calmly down the deck of the luxurious yacht, effortlessly keeping her balance despite the worsening swell.
The soft thumping of waves against the hull, the occasional seagull, and the sound of her boots on the floorboard…except those, only silence reigned on the immense yacht. Walking by the pool, she didn’t spare even a glance at the two dark-skinned men floating face down. Around them, the water had taken a telltale reddish tint. Cigarette hanging from her lips, Rebecca eyed the horizon. Dark clouds were slowly gathering. “Right on time.”
On her way to the helm, she sidestepped three topless girls lying unmoving on the deck. Their vacant eyes stared fixedly at the sky. Their impressive bare—and fake—chests showed no sign of breathing, likely because of the hole each girl sported in her left boob. This caused Rebecca to sigh. “What a waste.” She never felt good about taking out the eye-candy. What could she say? She was a softy.
However, her client had demanded the “no witness” package. So Rebecca had delivered. As a self-employed woman, she needed to show professionalism to keep getting work. Those girls had simply succumbed to the “wrong place, wrong time” syndrome, a tragic illness that each year killed thousands of collateral damages. She didn’t feel exactly bad about it either. Just, she could think of countless better ways to interact with those inflated tits rather than shooting bullets through the silicone.
“Maybe I’ll take a job bodyguarding some rich brat for a couple months. Babysitting is a pain, but those high tension hitman gigs get stressful after a while. A girl needs variety in her life.” She took one last swig of wine, then flung the bottle at the wall of the cabin. The half-filled container shattered, spraying the white exterior with purple, for an amount of several thousand USD. Truly a form of liquidity. Chuckling, Rebecca stepped inside the stained cabin and walked to the dashboard. Fiddling with the commands, she started whistling Once Upon A Dream from Disney’s Sleeping Beauty. She chuckled again. Perhaps she was a bit tipsy.
She redirected the yacht towards the budding storm, locked the direction, and powered the engine, propelling the boat into a lazy glide over the blue waters. She exited the cabin and walked to the back of the yacht, where another much smaller powerboat was attached.
The waterline of the powerboat looked a bit low. Although, the numerous boxes of red wine piled up on board easily explained the overload. Rebecca simply couldn’t let those treasures be lost at the bottom of the ocean. She didn’t intend to drink all of it, of course. She would hand-pick a few bottles for personal consumption, then she’d sell the rest to further fatten her already fat paycheck.
Rebecca glanced again towards the front. The dark clouds were now approaching fast. “Better get moving.” She was about to hop over the railing when all her muscles suddenly tensed. Instantly sobered, she was moving before her brain even consciously registered the gunshot.
As she spun, she drew her own weapon from her shoulder holster. When she had completed her turn, she discovered, inches from her face, a nine-millimeter round that was moving at a snail’s pace. It was already slightly off-course now that she had begun to dodge, but a second later and her brain matter would have redecorated her motorboat. She quickly spotted the shooter.
On the doorstep of the stairs leading down to the crew’s living quarters, a scowling black man laid prone on the floor. He had a gun raised in her direction and was frozen in the middle of screaming something. Without even a shred of hesitation, Rebecca aimed and pressed the trigger.
The instant the bullet left the muzzle of her gun, time returned to normal. Another bullet whizzed harmless past her ear—where her head had been half a second before—and disappeared into the ocean. Hers found its way right between the man’s two eyes and out back, creating a new tunnel through his skull. His scream, which sounded approximately like “DIE BIT—”, was cut short and he fell limp.
Rebecca kept her fighting posture, all senses in alert. After a few seconds, she straightened and walked to the corpse, cursing through gritted teeth. “Shit. Why the fuck was this bastard still alive.” She used her foot to flip the body on its back. Her gun stayed trailed on his face, just in case. “The fuck...” She couldn’t contain her surprise. Like she remembered, two bloody holes pierced the front of his shirt at chest level. She also recalled checking his pulse and finding none. So, either she was growing prematurely senile—and should then seriously start considering retirement—or that bastard had been dead last time she’d seen him.
She shivered, uncomfortable. She’d never been a fan of Z-movies. Understandably so. When you made a living of putting people down, you liked them to stay that way. This guy, however, was likely not the precursor of a zombie apocalypse—unless real undead were much more vocal about their derogatory opinions of women than movies would have you believe…and knew how to use guns. That last point especially would be pretty troublesome. But no. This had to be some freakish parahuman power.
“Never let your guard down, kid. That’s the only way you can be ready for anything.” She could almost hear the voice of her old mentor chiding her.
“I’m a grown girl, fuck!” She unloaded two more rounds in the corpse head, for both good measure and stress relief. Even with all the creepy powers around, this was only the second time someone she’d shot in the chest—and lethally wounded—came back to attack her. And a least the first one hadn’t played dead for two hours just to scare the shit out of her. Seeing someone regrow a heart right before you was far less unnerving than knowing someone you thought dead could stand back up at any moment.
Taking a deep, calming breath, she shot a glance at the approaching storm. It had now gotten a little too close for comfort. The winds had picked up, tugging strands of hair out of her ponytail and whipping them at her face. And she’d dropped her smoke. “Fuck.”
She holstered her gun and quickly leaped back to the railing and over it. Landing on her boat, she drew a blade from a leg sheath and cut off the rope tying it to the yacht. She stepped up to the central console, fishing a key from her pocket. Soon the small motorboat was moving away from the much larger cruiser. Its engine, technopath designed, made no sound as it propelled the small hull and its load across the waves.
Once she reached a sufficient distance, she killed the engine and dived under the console to retrieve a large satellite phone. Whistling again, she began to type a special number. But the device startled her by suddenly vibrating in her hand. “Who the fuck…” Few knew her number, and even fewer would call without warning. Only one, in fact, she finally recalled.
She gulped, mixed emotions warring inside her, but excitement predominating. Her current mission had long been relegated to a very backseat second place in her mind. Still, out of habit she kept an eye on the moving yacht as she answered the call.
“B.T. Is that you?” The voice, cold yet oddly soothing, poured out of the speaker, causing Rebecca’s heart to leap into her throat. It was annoying how, even after all these years, that voice still caused her to revert to that angry teen secretly so eager to be praised. That little idiot whose heart got trampled in the end.
Although, even without the voice, she’d still have recognized the caller. Not many still called her by her old vigilante nickname, and none shorted it that way. She cringed a little hearing it again. Rebecca had come up with the nickname Bullet Time back when she’d been sixteen and convinced of her own “coolness”. Nowadays, she mostly used whatever name was on the fake passport she used at the time. Mercenaries didn’t need more in the way of secret identity.
Rebecca made sure she had her own voice under control before replying. “Hey, Boss! How’s retirement treating you? Still alive?” She chuckled at her own terrible inside joke. But when not even a pity laugh came from the other side, a frown replaced her smile. “What is it, Boss?”
On hindsight, she should have expected this. Her old mentor never called just to say “Hi.” Rebecca tried to squash the jab of disappointment she felt at that.
In truth, they hadn’t spoken to each other in two years. Not because they had a bad relationship—not anymore. But because they hadn’t much to talk about. A conversation could run only so long on past memories, especially ones as dark and painful as theirs, with Rebecca in the role of a young teen with newly awoken parahuman powers, a bad attitude, and a one-track mind focused on getting revenge for her family. It didn’t make for a very pleasant discussion over the phone.
It hadn’t been all bad stuff, but the good was tainted by a bitter separation—in more meaning than one, at least for Rebecca. After her boss had retired, they’d both gone their separate ways. They’d try to stay in touch, but it simply wasn’t working. The Boss had a whole new life, and Rebecca had no part in it. Simple as that.
It had taken a few years, but their relationship had finally found a new status quo, friendly, but strictly professional. Even in retirement, her boss sometimes required a certain individual “removed”, or a piece of information that wasn’t exactly legal to obtain. Little things better entrusted to someone trustworthy. And both knew that despite their past—or maybe because of it—Rebecca would never betray that person.
Though she would still send a bill, with a friendly discount of course.
“I need your help back here.”
Despite herself, at those words, Rebecca’s heart fluttered. Though it might have been just in anticipation of the job. Boss’ requests are never dull.
“Here, as in the US?”
“Here, as in Justice City.”
Rebecca froze. Ever since their separation, she’d never gone back to that city. In fact, whenever she had to go to the US, Rebecca had always avoided even stepping into the state where her mentor lived. To give herself time to think, she cast a glance at the yacht and the storm, then swore silently.
“One second, Boss. I need to do something.”
She put the call on hold, hoping the other wouldn’t mind too much, but this really couldn’t wait. As fast as she could, she dialed the number she’d begun to type earlier. A second later, she was rewarded by a distant explosion and a bright flash of reddish light. Nodding to herself, she set her boat into motion again, steering it away from the storm and towards the distant shores of Africa.
She clipped her phone to a strap of her holster and put on an earpiece and a small microphone. “Sorry Boss. Disposing of some evidence.”
“Are you on a job? Is everything okay?”
Rebecca raised an eyebrow. It was unlike her mentor to stray from the conversation. She answered nevertheless, happy to talk and aware of the long and boring trip she would have to endure to get back to land. “Yes. Easy peasy~. Usual shtick. Someone got a little too squeezy with someone’s daughter, so I got asked to deliver lemons because Life was too busy. Though honestly, I think the daughter thing is just an excuse to take down a rival. Must be hard to be a crime boss. Not only worrying about the law, but also everyone wanting to backstab you.”
“It’s the same everywhere, B.T. Criminals are just more honest about it,” replied the cynical voice.
“Yeah, well...Easy job. Nice reward. Four K, a killer boat, and rare wine as a bonus. Got to see the Indian Ocean from a stupidly luxurious yacht too. Some people are just so rich, it’s filthy.” She wouldn’t spit on the money if offered, though.
“Did you check that ‘killer boat’ of yours?” That could have been mistaken for concern, if not for the distinctly amused tone of the voice. “We wouldn’t want that ‘killer’ boat to become too literal.”
“Oh, I checked. It’s clean. Don’t worry, I'm a big girl.” Rebecca cringed at her own words, both because her tone had been more caustic than she’d intended, and because they echoed those she’d said after nearly fucking up just moments before.
There was a slight lull in the conversation before the voice came back, carrying the faintest hint of bitterness. “I know you are.”
The silence stretched out longer after that, only broken by the water hitting the hull until Rebecca spoke again. “So...err…That job in J. City?”
“Yes.” And they were back to business again. “I need you to find someone.”
“Find...as in?” There was a difference between to find someone, and to “find” someone—the Taken way. Rebecca would never admit it out loud, but she was a bit of a Liam Neeson fangirl. Watching him on screen take out a gang of superpowered yakuza with only his gun was always as fun as it was ridiculous.
“Just get his location and contact me.”
Rebecca raised a dubitative eyebrow, not that her interlocutor could see. “...You want me to fly all the way from Africa just too dumbly locate someone?”
“Yes. It is important. I need the best. You.”
Now the mercenary was rolling her eyes. That’s just cheating. There should be a law against being so smooth. Then again, her mentor had never been one to care much about the law. Neither did Rebecca for that matter.
Rebecca had to admit she was intrigued. Also a little confused. She could claim she was, without fake modesty, a top-class mercenary. But she certainly wasn’t the best investigator around. Her power was more geared towards combat than information gathering. Although…if the state of J. City downtown was even a fourth as bad as what the paper and the internet made it out to be, she might end up doing more ass-kicking than info-gathering after all.
However, these considerations were pointless, since she’d already decided to accept. More than just another job, it was an opportunity to finally make her peace with a past which she’d just realized still had more of a hold on her than she’d thought.
Now if her heart would kindly stop playing skip the rope with her vocal chords, she might be able to answer. “Alright, I’m in. I guess I was starting to miss the shitty weather and the greasy fast-food meals. So that guy, he got a name?”
“…Merlin Pendragon.”
“Well, fuck.”
Her ex-boss’ requests truly were never dull.
* * * * *