9 October 2017. Justice City. Old Industrial Park. Percy’s clandestine clinic.
With an unpleasant suction noise, and under Percy’s watchful eye, the mechanical decapod finally extracted a fist-sized lump of metal from the skinny man’s abdomen. Sitting at the nearby workstation, the technopath languidly controlled the surgical robot to drop the bloody thing into a watertight metal container. That done, he reclined in his swivel chair with a sigh.
Done, finally…Percy was tired. Even for him, who was used to all-nighters, the past three hours had been trying. He’d operated on parahumans before, but never on one with such a troublesome constitution. Never before had he seen a power like this, which appeared to both try to heal and kill its wielder at the same time, resulting in a fragile status quo that any of Percy’s interventions would inevitably upset.
When he’d first noticed something strange, he’d paused the operation to analyze a tissue sample. The odd spectacles of cells dying and being born constantly had greatly stunned him.
Although, this baffling phenomenon only lasted for about ten minutes after the sample was severed from the main body. Afterward, the tissues became inert. This proved at least that the man’s ability belonged to the active category, in opposition to passive powers, like a genetic condition. The best example of a passive power would be any of the parahumans who had been transformed into anthropomorphic beasts.
Although this might change. With such strong effects down to a cellular level, this man would undoubtedly evolve to better handle his power…or he’d die. One of the two, Percy distractedly thought while manipulating the console.
I really want to study his body, another idle fancy crossed his jumbled mind. His left hand nervously rubbed the contour of a scarred hole where his left ear used to be. If it was possible to stimulate the healing portion of his power—no. It’s not the time to think about that. With a shake of his head, Percy filed the information away for later. It was irrelevant at the moment.
What was relevant, however, was the impact this power had on the surgery. The man’s wounds simply refused to heal properly. Either they healed too fast or too slowly. And contrary to popular belief, the former could be far worse than the latter—especially when flesh and bones mended incorrectly. Percy wondered briefly if that weird power was also to blame for the man’s mummy-like appearance. It could be cannibalizing the resources of his body.
Meanwhile, the tinkered surgical robot was already busy sewing the man close and injecting him with sleeping agents, painkillers, and a diluted form of the PXT-67. The technopath had tested before that none of the chemicals reacted adversely with the man’s power.
Percy’s eyes, both the real and the artificial one, landed on his unconscious patient. Everywhere he focused, data was displayed, either in written form or as schematics—colors, moving shapes, and lines highlighting the world around him. This wasn’t his power at work but the Augmented Reality he had programmed into his fake left eye. A contact lens over his right eye assured it too shared the information and allowed for stereoscopic tridimensional imagery.
In Percy’s vision, the man’s heart rate, size, weight, blood type, and other details were depicted by floating texts. Red lines marked each of the annotated wounds, with different shades depending on their seriousness—though they’d all been treated by now. A cartoon thumbs-up hovering above the man’s skeletal head signaled the operation had been successful.
Upon arriving, the stranger brought by Chen and Alex had been suffering from seven broken ribs, one punctured lung, a bullet wound in his leg, and contusions on about every inch of his face and torso. And those this was only the most obvious damage. If not for the bullet wound, Percy would have questioned whether that guy had been in a fist-fight with a truck. Not to mention that his internal organs were just about mashed. Lastly, there was this mean gash in his right cheek, going all the way from the corner of his mouth to his ear. In some places, teeth had been visible through the sliced flesh.
This one injury had been especially troublesome for Percy to take care of. Apparently, its sides had been cauterized by whatever had caused it. Percy suspected a white-hot blade, although the burn marks on the man’s face suggested something a little fierier. The PXT-67 would ensure the scarring was minimal, but there would be a scar. The young technopath-cum-surgeon wasn’t too concerned, however. As long as the main threats to the patient’s health were dealt with, further cosmetic surgery could be performed at a later date if necessary.
The teen’s fingers distractedly trailed over the half of his own face ravaged by fire. He could have removed these scars himself—grafting skin wasn’t anything hard to him—but he didn’t really care about his appearance or what others thought of him. He also didn’t mind the reminder. Having seen death up close and felt it creeping onto him was a much-needed wake-up call whenever his power made him feel like an all-powerful god.
And besides, he was only a teenager. A small part of him thought it looked a little cool, reason why he had made his eye prosthesis so obviously cybernetic instead of camouflaging it with synthetic skin and a painted lens. Even as a child, he’d always been a fan of robots, especially cyborgs. He’d lost count how many times he’d rewatched both seasons of Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex.
His train of thought then abruptly shifted to the large foreign body he’d fished out from the man’s abdominal cavity. Rolling his chair away from the workstation, Percy stood up and walked to the operating table, the exoskeleton encasing his legs propelling him forwards at an oddly even velocity.
“Clepia…you recorded that?” he asked slowly and softly. Ever since awakening to his power, he’d found talking to be a hassle. His mouth couldn’t keep up with his rapid thoughts and he had to focus on every single word to pronounce them at a manageable speed.
“Yes, master. I should be able to perform such an operation on my own with 89.67 percent of certitude should the need arise henceforth.”
“Uh-uh.” Percy nodded
“Percy,” Chen’s voice echoed in the room for the first time since the three-hours long operation had begun, “was Clepia always this…vocal?” His healing hand had been itching like crazy. He hid it well. But now that he could talk without the risk to distract the technopath surgeon, the old man jumped on the opportunity to divert his own thoughts from the maddening prickling
“Uhn…” Percy hummed. Briefly, he looked at the old man before looking away. “Ah…err…yes. She’s…I…I upgraded her…last month…”
“I see…” the boxing coach didn’t pursue further. He went back to not scratching his hand, closing his eyes to focus and thus missing the slight twitch of guilt on the teen’s usually slack expression.
Percy didn’t want to lie to the old man, who had been like a father to him ever since the fire that had killed his real parents. However, in truth, he himself was unsure how to answer. Saying he upgraded the AI wasn’t wrong, technically speaking, but “upgrade” didn’t come even close to covering what he’d done…whatever that might be. He had no memories of the three days following the Surge. He’d woken up on the fourth day, dehydrated and his head thumping, with Clepia calling out to him in a strangely worried voice instead of her previous clipped monotone.
Shaking his head, he pushed the guilt and confusion away—or rather he let them fade into the maelstrom of ideas and thoughts playing dodgem in his brain—and turned back to the metal box. Without concern, he reached inside with his left hand and picked up the bloody lump of metal. Blood quickly coated his fingers, but even as seconds passed, he remained unaffected by whatever had caused Chen’s hand to necrose.
Still, he made sure to hold the object so that none of the blood trickled down to his arm. Unlike his eye, his left hand—although as fake—looked perfectly human. However, the prosthesis only went halfway up his forearm.
His vision zoomed in on the bloody thing, scanning its surface. His fingers did the same thanks to captors located just underneath the layer of fake skin. Everything Percy saw or felt was simultaneously sent wirelessly to Clepia’s mainframe, analyzed, and bounced back to his AR interface in real time, which accelerated his reflections even further.
“Any idea?” he asked his artificial assistant.
“I require a more in-depth analysis to be able to produce an accurate hypothesis.”
“Rough idea?”
“Yes, master. At the very least this is obviously a very high-tech construct. The probability of it being technopath-designed is currently at 72.29 percent. I cannot detect any electromagnetic emission or vibration of any sort, thus I would conjecture the device is at present non-functional. The charred flesh sticking to its frame corroborates this deduction by hinting at an overheating of its internal components. As does its moderately bent shape.”
“Cause?”
“Inconclusive.”
“Purpose?”
“With the information currently available, the highest probable answers are terrorism, smuggling, suicide device, and some form of prototypical protection and-or complex tracking device. The third possibility ties into the first.”
“Dangers?”
“If my assessment of its non-operability is correct—which I am certain it is at 97.89 percent,” Percy couldn’t help but think she sounded a bit smug when saying this, “the device represents no immediate threat to your person aside from the noxious effects of the blood covering it. I still suggest to promptly conduct a more advanced scanner, Master.”
“Uh-uh…” Percy nodded distractedly. This wasn’t much to go by, but he’d open this thing up soon enough. As long as it was unlikely to blow him up within the hour, he wasn’t too worried.
He put the deformed lump back into the container and wiped his prosthetic hand on the unconscious man’s trousers. A small pulse of electricity vaporized the last traces of the fluid.
Percy turned back to the old man sitting in a corner of the room.
As if feeling the gaze on him, Chen opened his eyes and met his. “Yes?”
The teen tilted his head, his left hand playing with a loose threat in his shirt. “Was there…anything…with him?” He ordinarily didn’t pry into his patients business, but this didn’t fully count as ordinary circumstances.
“Ah. Yes. A bag.” Chen frowned, remembering the scene in the alley. “It’s in the trunk. Do you want to see it?” He’d shoved it into a plastic bag, along with the cutlass the man had been carrying.
“Please.”
The old man nodded, stood up, and walked out of the operating room, passing at the door a puzzled Alex who was coming back in with two coffees and a glass of cranberry juice. After a glance at the departing back of his coach, he turned towards the younger technopath. “Where is he going?”
“Out. Back soon.” Without explaining further, Percy snatched the cranberry juice from Alex’s hand, only giving him a side-glance. The right corner of his mouth lifted imperceptibly at the sight of Alex’s head, where his AR was projecting doodles of a top hat, a manacle, and a twirling mustache. Percy didn’t like Alex much and Clepia had visibly picked up on that.
Then he turned a back to the unconscious man whom the machine was finishing patching up.
Pensively, he took a sip of the juice.
Bitter.
* * *
9 October 2017. Justice City. Old City. Southern Precinct of the JCPD.
Lieutenant Kevin Brown of the Justice City Police Department massaged the bridge of his nose as he reclined back in his seat. The old padded chair creaked loudly under his shifting weight, sounding almost as weary as the man felt. Almost. The lieutenant had been sitting in this chair, in his office, with his nose deep into paperwork, for the past four hours—ever since he’d stepped into the precinct at seven o’clock sharp, finding the place almost empty as usual.
Also as usual, reports were flooding him. Armed robberies, illegal solicitation, drugs, assault, rape, or straight-out good old-fashioned murder, less old-fashioned murder…
He thanked the Lord every day that his position spared him from the speeding and parking tickets. Granted, he was the one who insisted on personally taking care of those reports, but that didn’t mean he forfeited his right to complain about his job. Being hypocritically grumpy and cynical was the privilege of any self-respecting, middle-aged, Catholic white American male. This was exactly the greatness of freedom of thoughts: nobody could tell him to be happy if he didn’t want to. And God bless America, Brown thought with a joyless chuckle.
He stopped trying to smoothen the wrinkles on his face to focus once more on the report before him.
The past five weeks since the Surge had brought a fair share of more unusual events—from a man farting mustard gas to reports of a car-sized Doberman haunting the streets around the old library. However, the flow of ridiculousness was finally dying down, as proved by this boring commonplace report Brown was currently reviewing.
Not that the lieutenant cared much either way. People always freaked out when superpowers were involved. It only made him scoff. You’d think after more than four decades, the public would be used to this mess. He snorted. The only ones who, in his opinion, had any right to complain were old timers such as himself, who still remembered how things used to be back when flying people wearing their underwear on the outside weren’t considered normal.
Sighing deeply, Brown reached out for his coffee mug while squinting at his old department-issued computer. Although people still talked about “paper”-work, most of these documents were now digitalized—for better or worse, mainly worse in his opinion. All Brown retained from this so-called “progress” were the headaches he got every evening for squinting at his computer all day long. At forty-eight, he prided himself on his eyesight and lack of need for glasses, but he could only wonder how long this would last.
He brought the mug to his lips and tilted it. Nothing came out. His brows furrowed when he failed to feel the lukewarm liquid enter his mouth.
With a critical eye, he peered down into the cup. Yet another sigh escaped him. The cup was empty—like it had been the four previous times he’d tried to take a sip. He shook his head and he set the mug aside. He could have stepped out of his office to fetch a refill, of course, but he’d gladly endure the caffeine withdrawal if it meant avoiding his so-called colleagues and subordinates. Of the lone wolf, Lieutenant Kevin Brown only lacked the fur.
Without the reprieve of his bitter stimulant, Brown’s tired gaze scanned through the typed lines of the report—something about a shooting between three officers and a group of “armed criminals”, resulting in the “gang” getting away and one of the officers being “gravely” wounded while “performing his duty”.
Brown snorted. “Right…” Here was what he thought—what he knew had happened. Those three officers had gone to visit their dealers. They’d disagreed on the price of whatever dope they’d been buying. The officers had tried to strong-arm the dealers and naturally a fight had broken out. “Typical,” Brown sighed for the umpteenth time and reached for his coffee mug, before halting his gesture with a silent curse. Instead, he searched his breast pocket for a cigarette, until he remembered he had once again let his wife talk him into trying to quit smoking. “Damn it.” Gritting his teeth, he refocused on his computer.
The report was filled with vague descriptions, continuity errors in the events, no clear mention of who exactly had shot first—just that the officers had fired “in response to violent actions.” This reeked so much of bad cover-up, he was almost surprised not to see a couple of vultures from Internal Affairs already perched on his windowsill, attracted by the smell of rotten cops. But then, he thought, this whole darn place probably stinks too much for even those carrion-eaters to come close.
A knock on his door snapped Brown out of his dark musings. A stern expression fast set on his face, replacing the previous tired one as if it had never existed. He straightened his back and quickly cleaned his desk—while at the same time idly wondering why he even bothered.
“Enter,” he barked.
The door creaked open, and a young and pretty little blonde thing, wearing a tight, low-neck white blouse, leaned timorously into the opening. Only her bust crossed the door, like a doe peeking out of a bush, ready to flee at a moment’s notice at any sight of a threat. And speaking of threat and flight, her massive round breasts were ostensibly menacing to escape from her top—and her leaning forward made that event only more impending.
The blonde’s sky-blue eyes skittered around the office without meeting Brown’s gaze. Her bright red lips were quivering as if she were on the verge of a breakdown, while she tried to gather enough courage to address him.
Brown idly wondered if he could sprain a lung from too much sighing. He knew his broad physique alone was intimidating, and he also possessed a bit of a reputation in the precinct for his bad temper—a reputation with enough truth that he’d never really tried to dispel it. Sometimes it helped keep idiots off his back. However, at other times, it conversely caused more problems. Like now, with this girl turning into a frightful critter whenever the lieutenant as much as glanced in her general direction.
But then, the chief hadn’t hired his secretary for her mental fortitude…or anything else remotely related to her brain. Although to be fair to the girl, outside of Lieutenant Brown’s intimidating presence, she usually performed much better—meaning she could align two coherent words in the right order, smile prettily, and find her way to and back from the coffee maker.
After one last glance at the fidgeting creature’s jiggling appendages, Brown took pity on the poor thing. “Cindi, does the chief wants to see me?” he asked in his quietest voice, like talking to a frightened animal, yet watching her flinch as if he’d shouted at her nonetheless.
Barely looking his way, Cindi nodded nervously.
“Well, tell him I’ll be there in a minute. Can you do that, Doll?”
She nodded again, then stayed there, frozen in place.
“…go then.” He dismissed her with a wave.
The secretary disappeared so fast he worried she’d trip on her high heels.
On second thought, however, the skirts she favored were typically too short to hinder her movement in any way. He’d caught enough glimpses of her behind to be sure of that fact. So, maybe the heels and the skirt compensated each other by some unknown principle of physics. Of course, that was without putting in the equation her misplaced center of gravity due to her bust. But Brown preferred to reserve his own brain power for problems that actually were solvable.
With a glance at his computer screen, he added his virtual stamp of approval and then sent the fraudulent report on its merry way, to the central archive, to be buried amongst countless others and never exhumed again. The lieutenant shut down his computer and put a few important documents away inside a safe. His confidence in the lock of his office approximated the void. The safe, however, he’d bought himself—engulfing several months of salary, but it was worth it if only to buy him some peace of mind.
After one last check to verify he hadn’t forgotten anything, Brown walked out. He still locked the door behind him—no need to tempt fate. The chief’s office was just down the hallway. Brown passed Cindi’s empty desk and stopped in front of a door sporting a gold plate announcing “Charles Woodson. Police Chief.” He knocked once, then entered without waiting for a reply.
“You wanted to see me?” he dropped flatly in place of a greeting.
Sitting behind a polished wooden desk, a short pudgy man looked up at his entrance. The large piece of mahogany furniture was surely intended as a show of status and power, but it only served to emphasize how smaller its owner was in contrast. To his credit, however, the paunchy chief showed no surprise at Brown’s brusque manners. He only silently handed the lieutenant a manila folder, which the latter took also without a word.
Taking a seat to stop towering over his superior, Brown skimmed through the few documents the file contained. When he finished, he lowered it to his lap and shot a frown at the chief. “Is that an alias, or are we working for the Round Table now?”
Unjoining his hands from under his trembling double-chin, the other exhaled in exasperation. “The name’s real. This man was reported missing to the night shift today at five.”
“Uh-uh…” Brown made no further comment. He didn’t ask why a report that had arrived at five in the morning was only being handled at near midday. The reason was simply that the chief usually didn’t come in until eleven AM. Brown was more interested in whoever had “reported” this “disappearance”. Charles Woodson wouldn’t bother his old lieutenant if not to deal with sensitive material.
As the silence stretched, Brown observed the chief more closely. He took note of his clammy hands and the faint sheen of sweat pearling on his balding scalp. Neither were a good sign. Eventually, pursed his lips and asked. “Who?”
“The Black Lotus.”
The answer was as he’d expected, but somehow he’d still hoped he was mistaken. Hearing his fears confirmed, Brown had to refrain from grabbing the shorter man by the front of his pressed shirt and shake him to see if there was still a brain somewhere in that big empty skull. Maybe he’d even shout Charles Woodson’s head off while was at it.
Instead, however, Brown closed his eyes and balled his fists, taking two deep and long breaths to calm himself down. “What did you—no, never mind,” he stopped himself.
He didn’t want to know what his superior had done to own a favor to those yakuza. Whether he’d simply borrowed money or something more sinister, if Brown didn’t know, he wouldn’t have to lie when asked about it. He was done with trying to keep Woodson out of trouble. In the first place, he had only helped the chief clean to keep troubles off his own back.
However, the drawbacks had finally transcended the benefits. If the corrupt officer wanted to forget what a small fish he truly was and try to swim with the sharks, Brown washed his hands of this mess. He wanted no part in it. Those who desire to be rich fall into temptation, into a snare, into many senseless and harmful desires that plunge people into ruin and destruction. He imperceptibly shook his head.
His gaze dropped to the manila folder sitting in his lap. Standing up, he stuck the folder under his armpit and turn to leave the office. “I’ll put Chase and Mack on the case.”
“No. I want you to handle this, personally.”
Brown paused and gritted his teeth. Of course, reality wasn’t that easy. In fact, he’d known the chief wouldn’t have summoned him if not for this exact reason. He’d had to try anyway. He hadn’t survived this long in such a cutthroat environment by assuming he couldn’t get out of bad situations. Unfortunately, it seemed this here shit was one he couldn’t avoid stepping into. He only hoped he could distance himself enough before the remainder of that shit hit the proverbial fan.
In one last attempt, Brown looked back and glared at his superior. “You must be joking.”
“I am dead serious,” the chief practically hissed in response. Brown wondered whether stressing the word ‘dead’ had been intentional on the chief’s part. “And you will be reporting everything directly to me.”
“…yes, sir.”
“I’m counting on you, Kevin. Find this guy.” Woodson said while wiping his damp forehead. He seemed to believe a decade of working together allowed him to address Brown familiarly. Brown himself disagreed but he remained silent—whatever kept the short fatty off his back.
“Just doing my job,” Brown replied with dripping sarcasm and took another step outwards.
“And you’ll take the puppy out with you.”
Brown whirled back toward the inside of the room, his wrinkled eyes narrowing. “No. I don’t need a partner. Much less some girl.”
“Those are the rules,” the chief stated flatly. “A detective cannot go out alone on a case.”
“Since when does ‘the rules’ matter to anyone in this place? And I outrank any detective here,” Brown retorted in the same tone.
“This is an order, Kevin.” The chief made his best attempt at a menacing glare. Maybe it would have worked on a very impressionable toddler. “I need this done, and her power will be useful.”
“I don’t want to babysit some parahuman chick.”
“Dammit, Kevin!” Woodson slapped his desk. “This isn’t negotiable! You two will work together.” His voice dropped to something of a passable authoritative tone. “I am still in charge here, Kevin.”
Only when it suits you. The words were on the tip of the lieutenant’s tongue, but he kept them in. With only a glare, he spun on his heels and marched out of the office, nearly scaring to death the poor Cindi who was coming back with two mugs of hot coffee.
The secretary gasped, stumbled back and tripped—those high heels, of course. The scalding beverage spilled all over her white blouse, turning it even more see-through than it had been. Not that it mattered, because she was already hurriedly removing it, in the middle of the hallway, while yelping in pain.
The commotion had alerted the chief, who poked his head out of his office. His beady eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when he saw the half-naked young woman. With a sputter, he rushed to her aid. After a quick glance to ensure the girl hadn’t been burned too badly, Brown continued his way, leaving the chief to deal with the sorry klutz. He was sure the greedy man would make a pleasure of “helping” his now topless secretary.
Brown made a short detour to his office to pick up his long coat before hunting down his imposed partner. He easily found the female detective in the common room. Not only were there only five women working at the Southern Precinct, Cindi included, but Raphaela Íñiguez stood one head shorter than everybody else, making her easily identifiable. She was also one of their four parahumans. So, obviously, he knew who she was and what she looked like.
It also helped that she was the sole person conscientiously working at her desk in an otherwise empty room.
Right, he mentally chided himself, lunch. He’d forgotten about the time. The rest of the staff was on break, either in the station’s small kitchenette or outside by the hot-dog trailer. Brown didn’t know if he found Íñiguez’s dedication impressive or if her lack of effort to fit in pissed him off. It might sound hypocritical coming from him, but he was old and a superior, he could afford to be distant.
She hadn’t noticed him yet, so he paused an instant by the door to take a better look at the woman. He’d seen her before, of course, and had carefully read her file which included pictures. However, he’d never paid her much attention up to now, neither officially nor personally. In his opinion, women had no place on the force, and he wasn’t attracted to girls so young he could have fathered them.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
The right corner of his mouth twitched in annoyance at the sight of her dark skin and black hair, clear telltales of her Hispanic roots. Nervously, he patted his empty breast pocket. God, I need a smoke. Quelling his instinctive aversion, he forced himself to assess the woman objectively.
After her skin tone and height, the next thing people noticed about her were her lean and taut muscles. She was a small, athletic, and compact woman. Added to her temperament, this had quickly earned her the nickname “bulldog.” The nickname had then turned into “puppy” on account on her being the latest and youngest addition to their ragtag bunch.
If that second nickname sounded demeaning, it was on purpose. Her inability to fit in, her attitude, and her cumulated membership to so many minorities—parahuman, Latino, woman—had made her even less popular than he was. But then, again, he was a top dog here and she was just some wet-behind-the-ears cachorro. He could afford being disliked, she couldn’t.
A glance at a clock on the wall told him time was flying by. He wanted to be out before everybody else flocked back inside. Also, the faster they started, the sooner this farce would be over. Without stepping into the room, he raised his voice. “Hoy, chica!”
The girl straightened with a start and swiveled her chair in his direction. Their gaze met and her eyes widened slightly in recognition, before narrowing in anger. “Are you talking to me?” she nearly growled.
Tsk. I hope she isn’t one of those blasted feminists. He couldn’t stand those people he considered whiny brats with a persecution complex. In any case, he had neither the time nor the patience to deal with her small temper tantrum. “No, the other female spic in the room— of course, you!” He rolled his eyes. “Get your things, we’re going out for a case.”
Her face turned both livid and confused at the same time. With creased eyebrows and through tightly gritted teeth, she managed to ask: “A case? But…”
“You got nothing better to do now, do you?”
“Well…” She half-turned to the screen. “I was—”
“I don’t care.” He cut her off. “I want you in the parking lot in five minutes. Five. Not six. Otherwise, I’m leaving without you. Capisce, chica?” He pointed a warning finger at her, then left without waiting for an answer.
Four minutes later, the female detective arrived running into the parking lot behind the station. She stopped, a little breathless, next to Brown’s Volkswagen Jetta, the 1998 model. Her earlier anger had subsided, but a dubious expression crossed her face as she looked at the old car. “Err…”
“Hop in.” He was in no mood for chitchat.
“Sir…” She tried hesitantly, pointing at a much newer and slicker Mitsubishi Eclipse across the lot. “We could use my—”
“Hah! As if I’d trust a woman’s driving. I know I’m old, but I ain’t that hurried to die,” he jeered. And that little pricey toy of yours would get stolen the instant we lose sight of it. That was exactly why he hated to babysit. He didn’t care how much experience she’d gotten at Central before coming here. The Old City had its own rules and common sense. She lacked knowledge of them and he lacked the patience to teach her.
Ignoring the sputters of indignation coming from the girl, he slid into the driver seat of his old car and started the engine. He immediately put the car in reverse and backed out of the parking spot. Once aligned with the aisle, he lowered the window passenger side. “So, you’re coming, chica? Or are you waiting for the rain to fall and hope it’ll make you grow taller?”
She shot him a silent seething glare. Inwardly, he chuckled without joy. If glares could kill… In the end, though, she joined him inside nonetheless, slamming the door behind her to prove some kind of point. “I have a name, you know?” she seethed. Seeing as he was not replying, she exhaled angrily. “So, what are we going to do exactly?”
He threw her the file. “We’re trying to find some guy named Merlin Pendragon. He was reported missing at five this morning.”
The detective stared at her superior with a blank look on her face. “You must be joking.”
“My words exactly, chica,” Brown mumbled.
With jerky movement, he drove his old car out of the lot.
My words exactly.
* * *
9 October 2017. Justice City. 17 Cherry Hill Street.
Morgan slammed her palm on her blaring alarm clock. Groaning, she half-raised from the pillow to cast a murderous glare at the device. Twelve forty. Her appointment with Sonia Harris was at half past one.
Even after all that had happened during the night, her slave-driver of a godmother had mercilessly set up a test of her physical abilities today. “It’s like a horse, the sooner you get back up, the better,” she’d said. Harris had also argued Morgan needed to relieve stress, and that punching people would accomplish just that.
The heroine didn’t disagree. In fact, this resonated a little too much for comfort with her current mindset. These past few days, she’d felt constantly on edge, irritable, and much more confrontational than she was used to—as clearly proven by her earlier uncharacteristic altercation with the CEO. She normally didn’t display her emotions so openly, even less in front of a hierarchical superior.
“Excalibur, get off me, girl.” Morgan pushed the large gray cat which had taken a liking to using its mistress as a pillow. With a meow of protest, the British Shorthair rolled aside, only to fall asleep elsewhere on the bed. Like its homonymous sword, this feline was hard to move without its consent. Morgan sent a jealous glance at the napping animal before getting off the bed herself.
Without bothering to open the blinds, she crossed the dark bedroom and entered the en suite. “Lights on,” she mumbled. The bathroom ceiling lamp flickered on and Morgan was suddenly faced with tired emerald-green eyes, ringed with black half-circles, staring back at her from the depths of the bathroom mirror. These eyes were framed with messy raven black hair and sunken pale cheeks. For a split second, the skeletal visage of her brother superimposed to her own image, causing her to gasp and take a step back.
A hand on her heart to calm its beating, she raised her gaze once more at the mirror and saw only her own exhausted reflection. Shaking her head in annoyance, she proceeded to get out of her pajamas.
Truth be told, despite her appearance, she actually felt better than she had in weeks. This morning, after Sonia had forced Morgan to get back home to rest—the middle-aged technopath even went as far as ordering one of her overworked assistants to drive Morgan back home—the heroine had just had enough clarity of mind to set her alarm before she collapsed on her bed and unconsciousness claimed her. Maybe because she basically fainting from too much physical and mental exhaustion, for the first time in weeks, her sleep had been mercifully dreamless. Therefore, although worries still spiraled inside her mind, at least she could think clearly.
Soon she was dressed in casual clothes, beige shirt and blue jeans, and with her hair fashioned in a simple ponytail. Morgan only refreshed herself slightly at the sink before heading to her kitchen for a light midday breakfast. She would we sweating in less than an hour and, despite feeling relatively more rested, she was still too tired to rush through a shower. In fact, if not for this strange aggressiveness that had awoken inside her, she would have been far more reluctant to head to NovaTech for physical and combat tests.
A cup of coffee and two-and-a-half toasts topped with marmalade—eaten standing up by the kitchen counter—were all she could swallow. After wiping as much jam as she could and transferring it back to its jar, she threw the remaining half slice to Excalibur, which had finally waddled off the bed, attracted by the smell of toasting bread.
With a glance at the clock and a resigned sigh, she walked to the entrance, donned a pair of sneakers, and exited her apartment. The door locked behind her with a satisfying beep. NovaTech owned the building, and every apartment was equipped with the latest technology—locks, air-conditioning, vocal command, et cetera.
This also meant the vast majority of the other tenants were employees of the large company and thus currently at work. Morgan met no one on her way to the elevator, nor down twelve floors, nor across the underground parking lot to her black Land Rover.
She drove out of the building basement and to the street. Her car infiltrated the traffic seamlessly, joining with others vehicles uselessly big for the city. At the back of her mind, she was enjoying the feeling of anonymity—being just another person driving to work amongst countless ones. She pressed down the accelerator and sped up away from Cherry Hill Street—where she had never seen a single cherry tree—and toward the large NovaTech complex presiding over the new industrial park west of Justice City.
* * *
“Good, Morgan, you’re here.” Sonia Harris greeted her goddaughter tersely when she stepped into the small observation room.
Behind the director, a long reinforced bay window occupied most of the wall, overlooking a vast underground arena. This was NovaTech’s training center, designed to resist a thermonuclear explosion and so stuffed to the brim with state-of-the-art cameras, captors and sensors that Morgan was convinced they could pick up her mood from the twitch of her eyelashes.
Klaus Hoffmann, all in belly and beard, stood next to the Research and Development Director. The rotund Santa-like Marketing Director came to Morgan with a much warmer smile than his female counterpart. “So good to see you, even at a time like this.” He gave her upper arms a squeeze. “It’s a tragedy what happened yesterday—or this morning, I suppose. But I’m sure Merlin will be found. Please, don’t worry too much and focus on getting back in shape yourself. Alright?”
Morgan returned a nod and a slight smile. In truth, though, the paper clips sticking to the man’s bald forehead were doing much more to uplift her mood than his interested speech. She liked and respected Director Hoffmann, but it was no secret the man first and second priorities were the stock value of the company, which were partly tied to how “in shape” she was.
“Yes, yes. Now, if you’ve finished spouting formulaic platitudes, go stand in a corner and shut up.” Director Harris’ voice cut through them as she pulled Morgan away and directed a bored glance towards her colleague.
It was another open secret that Harris and Hoffmann disliked each other. In fact, the issue was broader, with a constant conflict existing within NovaTech between the “money making” faction, made up of the Marketing and Finance divisions, and the “money spending” faction centered around the R&D Department—or, like Hoffmann himself liked to call it, the “money wasting” department.
The corpulent man turned red from indignation. “I am only trying to make sure you don’t overwork my precious personnel!”
Harris rolled her eyes. “Morgan is not made of glass, Klaus. She’s a tough girl. Stop worrying.” Standing between them, Morgan felt a little warmth at the indirect compliment. The older woman turned to her. “Alright, you too. Stop standing there smiling like a simpleton and get in the training room. Klaus, go find a place out of the way and, please, don’t get too close to anything magneto-sensitive.”
Unwilling to get nagged by the older woman, Morgan hurried down the spiral ramp and through the airlock leading to the adjacent room. She had already changed out of her casual clothes and donned a comfortable training outfit, and she was actually eager to stretch her muscles. Any dark thought that still plagued her mind, she turned them into food for her focus. Meanwhile, Director Harris took place in front of a series of monitors.
For this session, they didn’t plan on using any of the more complex equipment of the arena. In one corner of the room, the floor was covered in dojo mats. Six people were already waiting there, all dressed in the same company-issued workout outfit as the heroine.
Morgan recognized most of them. Her would-be opponents were all members of the security teams. NovaTech only selected the best. All guards had a military background and all were “excellently proficient in the art of ass-kicking”, as Killian liked to put it. None were parahumans, but that did not matter here. In fact, they were actually Morgan’s worst type of adversaries, considering she had it the easiest against parahumans who over-relied on their abilities but otherwise possessed no combat skills.
Which didn’t mean Morgan was defenseless against such skilled opponents. The heroine herself was well aware her lack of offensive superpowers was her Achilles’ heel. Thus, she had trained with near obsessive single-mindedness in any streetwise martial art she could get an instructor for, from Krav Maga to Muay Thai via Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. She wasn’t so arrogant she’d call herself a master in any of those disciplines, but she was confident that by mixing a bit of each she became a force to be reckoned with. And that was without even taking her usual arsenal of high-tech weapons and equipment into consideration.
After all, she wasn’t one of the most famous superheroines of the time simply on account of her obscene bodysuit. Though she cynically acknowledged it had to contribute to at least half of her popularity.
In fact, some amongst the men and women she was about to face had been her instructors at some point in time. Inwardly, she cringed. She was well aware of the capabilities of these people, and after her month-long forced break in training, she was less than confident in doing well against them. This seemed a bit harsh for a simple test of her physical state. However, surprising even herself, she felt none of her usual irritation. In fact, she could only feel her blood boil at the thought of going up against these hardened veterans.
“We will start with simple hand-to-hand combat,” Director Harris’ voice echoed through the room from well-hidden speakers. “Morgan, don’t hurt yourself. This is only a test after all.”
The heroine bit down a retort and only nodded. She stepped onto the mats, where one of the security guards was already waiting. She came to stand in front of him.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
There was no salute, nor any politeness exchanged. This was not some martial arts competition. In real life combat, attackers very rarely announced themselves before attacking. Rarely. Some parahuman criminals tended to be a bit eccentric.
Unable to stay in place, Morgan decided to move in first to quickly try and subdue her opponent. However, the latter got the jump on her by rushing at her before she could. As he ran, he pulled back his right elbow, pivoted his upper body, and then, stepping forward, released powerful punch aimed straightforwardly at her face. She prepared to evade to the side, waiting for the optimal moment to be able to right away launch a devastating counter strike.
Then she took a fist right to the face.
She saw stars and the room spun around her. She landed on her butt on the mat, where she remained groggily sitting for a while, trying to process what had just happened.
She must have been out of it longer than she thought, because she suddenly felt a grip on her shoulder and when she looked up, Sonia Harris was crouching next to her, a worried look on her usually stern visage. “Morgan, are you alright?”
Morgan blinked. “Yes…I, I think so.” She looked down at her hands and slowly clenched and unclenched the right, then the left. She returned her gaze to her godmother. “I must have misjudged the distance.” She addressed a nod at her opponent, who looked a bit at loss, and stood up. “I can keep going.”
Sonia grabbed Morgan’s chin and forced the heroine to face her. She observed the younger woman’s face intently for a good minute before releasing her. “There doesn’t seem to be anything serious. Alright, you can continue. But be careful this time.” Turning around, she walked back out of the arena.
Morgan waited to give her time to get back to the observation room, then turned to her opponent. Again, she only gave a short nod to signify she was ready. This time, however, she didn’t try to attack first. She waited for the other to come at her, which he did. He came charging straight, seemingly going to reenact his previous actions. At the last second, however, he feinted to the right before launching a lighting kick to the left.
Morgan stood unmoving as the kick whipped at her. Her eyebrows were scrunched up and she didn’t even seem to pay attention to the incoming attack. All the onlooker cringed, thinking this was going to be a repeat of the previous exchange.
However, suddenly, Morgan took a step back, evading the blow by a hair’s breath. Her hand shot down, catching the man’s ankle as it shot past her and whipper her own leg around. Before anyone could understand what had happened, Morgan’s opponent laid passed out on the mat.
A stunned silence fell on the arena.
Even in the observation room, Harris and Hoffmann shared a bewildered glance. In a few keystrokes on the console, the middle-aged technopath brought up a slow-motion replay of the last seconds. Both directors clearly saw as the man kicked at Morgan and as she grabbed his leg. Then the heroine simply pulled him sideways, using his own inertia against him. In a swift movement, she pivoted, bend a knee and extended her other foot, sweeping her opponent’s other leg from underneath him. Then, as he fell, his temple collided with Morgan’s talon. After tripping him, she had spun, her foot making a full turn to come back as a backward kick. The man collapsed and did not get up.
The two executives were speechless. While the moves were impressive by themselves—what with how precisely they had been executed—the most bewildering thing was how Morgan made it look so easy, like she was just taking a walk in the park or as if performing high-level martial arts was as common as breathing for her. They knew she was good, but this was simply absurd.
“Did her power evolve somehow?” Hoffmann asked confusedly.
“Nothing showed up on the test results.” Director Harris was obviously displeased. She hated nothing more than when things spin out of her control or comprehension. “But I’m working on a new testing method. We got a lot of data from the Surge. I think we might have misunderstood a great deal about the very nature of parahuman powers.” He fingers tapped nervously on the side of the workstation. “For now, let’s continue this. Maybe this was a fluke.”
The other director grunted in agreement. Although, neither truly believed this was only a coincidence.
As everyone continued to stare at the young woman with baffled faces, the most confused of them all was Morgan herself. Once again looking down at her hands and slowly clenching and unclenching her fist, she couldn’t understand what she had just done.
For an instant, it had been as if her body was moving on its own—or, rather, as if she’d seen this kind of attack a hundred thousand times before and didn’t even need to think for a counter. But more than anything, she was confused at how easily she had been able to read her opponent’s movements. She had not even considered her foot would land anywhere but straight on his temple.
Her gaze shifted to the man who was already waking up.
She frowned remembering the short exchange.
Were they always so…slow?
* * *
9 October 2017. Justice City. Old Industrial Park. Percy’s clandestine clinic.
Inside a well-lit bedroom-cum-workshop, Percy stared puzzled at the device he’d found in his surprise patient’s abdomen. The lump of metal had now been cleaned and freed from its molten shell. As he’d expected, the insides were a mess of fried components even him couldn't make heads nor tails of.
Not to say, however, that he hadn’t learned anything from it—for example, the name of the maker. Every technopath had their own touch, their own “signature,” which they imprinted onto their work whether they noticed or not. It was for experienced eyes to spot it. And Percy had seen this person’s work many times before, or at least reproductions.
It wasn’t much of an achievement, though. More than half of NovaTech’s products were based on Sonia Harris’ original designs, and she had a hand in the creation of most of the rest. The woman was also sort of a living legend amongst technopaths, having made a name for herself during the First Golden Age of Heroes, alongside famous and notorious figures like Justice Man or The Immortal. Her originals were sold for a fortune on the black market.
“Clepia? Archive on Harris’ works?” Percy asked, directing his request at the sixteen inches tall silver-haired young woman dressed in British maid uniform, who was apparently sitting on the edge of his desk. Although, this again was just a projection of his AR, made after Percy had voiced his thoughts on talking to an empty room. As for Clepia’s chosen avatar, he suspected she had made a thorough search through his browser history. He didn’t mind, however, and the silver wolf ears and tail were indeed a nice plus.
Barely showing any expression beyond a nod of acknowledgment, the virtual woman retrieved a translucent folder from seemingly nowhere and started perusing the file. As she read, she droned off a list of inventions attributed with various degrees of certitude to the famous technopath. Percy let her go on for a short while before interrupting.
“...vacuum generator for airpla—”
“Stop. Narrow to match the device.”
“Yes, Master. May I suggest also restraining the search to previously existing instruments which would benefit from such miniaturization?”
“Sure.” Sometimes, he wondered if she talked so verbosely just to get a rise out of him.
“This should take a minute.”
“Uh-uh…”
For a couple seconds, Percy’s eyes followed the rhythmic swaying of Clepia’s silver fuzzy tail. Then his gaze moved to the papers fanned out on the other side of his desk. On each page was printed the unmistakable NT logo. This too had heavily weighted in his theory about the origin of the unidentified device.
As for the three heavy occult books and the erotic magazine he’d also found in the blood-stained bag which Chen had given him, Percy had set them aside for now, unsure what exactly to make of them. A dismissal document, magic grimoires, and porn…Oh, and some kind of bloody machete. He shot another quick glance at the name written on top of the first page of the document. Owned by a guy named Merlin Pendragon. Percy shook his head. What is this? Some kind of shitty light novel?
Although superheroes were an irrefutable reality, magic was considered little more than fiction and a joke. But Percy found nothing funny about finding a man on the brink of death. If that man carried those three heavy books through a life-threatening situation, even though they were sure to slow him down, there had to be more to them.
But what about the porn magazine then? Percy scratched his scalp. He couldn’t make heads nor tail of this situation.
The man at the center of this mess was currently recuperating inside one of the fortified rooms of Percy’s clinic—as the technopath liked to call the rearranged warehouse he lived in. Sometimes, if their injuries were too serious, his patients would remain here for a while. Rarely were there many of them at the same time, though. Currently, he only had two “guests,” including the latest mysterious addition.
Percy had convinced Chen, with Alex’s insistent help, to leave the living mummy in his care. The old coach felt responsible, but Percy had argued his clinic was safer, while Alex had reminded that Chen had already enough troubles as it was without bringing home potentially murderous strangers. For once, Percy agreed with Alex. He’d have even preferred for the old man too to spend the nights here.
Snapping back to the present, Percy nervously rubbed his forearms together. His robotic eye shifted slightly to focus on the time displayed in a corner of his Augmented Reality interface. Five to six PM. Chen should be closing his gym about right now. A faint discontent twitch contracted the right corner of his mouth. I hope the old man is safe.
The young technopath wasn’t the violent type. He didn’t shy away from it and often made business with people who used it profusely, but he personally preferred peace, quiet and the low purring and buzzing of machinery. However, he was also fiercely protective of the few friends and family he had. He didn’t know what he’d do if anything happened to the man whom he owed more than his life to.
About half through her announced delay of one minute, Clepia’s virtual image suddenly straightened, the two pointed ears atop her silver mane twitching attentively, like listening to a distant noise. Percy noted those details with attention. He couldn’t remember ever programming her with such lifelike expressions. “Master, the patient woke up in room two.”
Percy started nodding but then stopped and frowned. “Two? Not one?”
“Affirmative, Master. The one who woke up is the presumed Merlin Pendragon.”
His frown deepened. Already? Those wounds would have put a grown man out of commission for months—weeks with Percy’s help—and the man had been pumped full of drugs to keep him under and help him recover faster. Waking up after not even a full day was simply preposterous.
What kind of vitality does he have? Is it another effect of his powers? He needed to go and check.
As he stood up, however, the third surprise of the day occurred in the form of a loud banging at the front metal door. Pausing in his movement, Percy glanced quizzically at his vulpine virtual maid.
“Wang’s men,” she answered to his unspoken question.
“...Wang?”
He’d almost swear he heard the AI sigh.
“Zi Wang, leader of the gang, the Risen Demons. They are a minor triad established near the eastern dock. Master, you replaced his crushed foot five days ago.”
“Oh, right…them. Aren’t they too early?” His lack of interest wasn’t what most would expect from someone when agents of a triad came banging at their door.
He eyed a video feed that had appeared in the top left corner of his field of vision, displaying four Chinese men in identical black suits. One was holding a slick briefcase. One could imagine it was filled with wads of cash. However, this was too soon. Percy usually allowed a month for payment to be delivered for his services. To others than Chen, he did not come cheap, if only on account of the price of the materials needed to build a cybernetic prosthetics to his standards.
“I’ll see…what they want.”
Finishing to stand up, he walked to the door, then up a flight of stairs and through another armored door, before stepping into the hallway that led to the front door—through which Alex had carried the man named Merlin earlier in the day. As he reached the thick metal gate, the large bolts moved as if on their own and unlocked the door, which switched open, again as if of its own volition.
Percy came face to faces with the four deadpan Chinese men—or rather face to scalps, considering he was such a lanky person and Asians weren’t exactly famed for their height.
“You’re early,” he simply stated.
The man standing closest to him smiled without it reaching his eyes. “Yes, there was slight change of plan.” He spoke with an accent.
Percy only tilted his head in confusion.
“See, after deep thinking, Mr. Wang considers price you asked too high.”
Percy awkwardly scratched his chin. “Yeah…that…happens…but…” he looked at the man straight into the eyes. “I can’t really…lower the price…” He tilted his head to the other side. “…sorry?”
The man’s smiling expression didn’t change. “Yes, Mr. Wang afraid of this.” Suddenly, he pulled a gun from underneath his jacket and pointed it at Percy’s face. “This only business.” He marked a pause, then added with sarcasm, “Sorry?”
Percy’s sigh was covered by the sound of gunshots.
* * *
9 October 2017. Justice City. Old City. Jackson Boxing Club.
Chen’s boxing club wasn’t really a high-class place, to speak kindly. In fact, it was less akin to a professional gym and more like a place where young men, and surprisingly often young women, could learn a better way to channel the aggressiveness so many of them felt growing up in the gloomy environment of the Old City.
Most of the equipment was old and worn out. The sandbags were held together with duct tape. Buckets scattered across the wooden floor collected the water that trickled through the roof on rainy days. Yellowed posters of ancient boxers covered the chipped off paint on the brick walls. Rusted lockers contained well-worn gloves, headgears, mitts, and ropes, all of which had been gifted by current and former members. It was a place that lacked class but exuded a feeling of use and history.
After seeing off the last of the youth, Chen had retreated to the backroom to patch up some of the most damaged equipment. He was alone in the silent gym, Alex having gone back to his wife for the night after Chen threatened him with a mop.
Suddenly, a loud screeching noise broke the silence, like metal being ripped apart.
Chen’s hands froze in the middle of sewing back together the seams of an old glove. Raising his head towards the door that led to the main room, he slowly set down his work and picked up a crowbar leaning against the wall beside him. His bandaged hand had stopped bothering him a couple hours ago and now it felt as if he had never been wounded in the first place. He stood up with more nimbleness than one would expect from a man his age, and quietly approached the door. On the other side, the noise had stopped, replaced by muffled voices.
“…look for him … can’t be far … break anything…”
Chen’s traits darkened. His gaze shifted briefly to the back door at the other end of the room. He could escape through there, but then who knew what would happen to his gym? And more importantly, what about all the young people who treated this place as a sanctuary from their otherwise crappy lives? Chen had long since passed the age to worry about himself. All that truly mattered to him now was this gym and what little relief and guidance he could provide to those lost kids.
Without even trying to conceal his presence, he pushed the door opened. The rusted hinges creaked loudly, announcing his entrance. Immediately, several large shadows around the training room stopped moving. Chen’s eyes noted them, and first and furthermost took notice of the huge tear that had been wedged into the steel curtain normally blocking off the main entrance into the gym.
Casually propping the crowbar against his shoulder, he flipped a switch to his left. Light flooded the room, revealing the intruders. “Sorry, we’re closed for the day,” he dropped, his nonchalant tone not betraying any of the shock he was, in fact, feeling. Goodness. They’re huge!
He could see six people in the room. Out of the six, five were mountains of bulging muscles that could barely be called human anymore. They looked like what one pictured when thinking of bodybuilding gone too far, but ten times worse. They stood hunched, unable to fully stand despite the good nine feet between the floor and the ceiling. In their eyes, Chen detected something animal, brutality bridled only by some basic intelligence.
Upon his arrival, the five human monsters took one glance at him before shifting their attention to the sixth person in the room, like dogs awaiting further instructions from their masters. Chen waited to confirm they weren’t about to rush at him before following their gazes.
Sitting casually on a bench next to the ring, was a man wearing a simple white shirt and black jeans. He wasn’t looking at Chen, nor at the five monstrosities, but instead seemed focused on something on his lap. It took a second for the old boxing coach to understand the man was actually folding a paper plane, as if oblivious to his surroundings. He took his time neatly overlapping both sides, making sure the plane was symmetrical. Only when he lifted it into the air to look at his work did Chen finally recognize one of the posters coming from the walls.
After long minutes of silence, the man eventually set the paper plane next to him on the bench and looked up. “Mr. Jackson!” he said as if greeting an old friend. Although, Chen was positive he had never seen this person in his life. That impression was confirmed with the other’s next words. “I don’t believe we’ve ever met in person. My name is Donald. You can call me Don if you want.” His display of polite friendliness was quite undermined by the fact he didn’t even bother to stand up—and that he’d broken into Chen’s home.
Not losing his nonchalant demeanor, Chen shifted his weight from one foot to another and rubbed his shoulder with the hand that wasn’t holding the crowbar. “I’d rather not. Look, son, it’s late and I’ve been getting slightly older. I need a good night sleep, so why don’t you and your gorillas come back another day at a more civilized hour. You might not even need to break the door to get in then.”
Donald only smiled at Chen’s retort and even let out a small laugh as if he’d heard a great joke. “Hahaha. Mr. Jackson, I couldn’t agree more. It is true seniors need a peaceful sleep. And it just so happens that this is exactly what I’m proposing. Peace, security…protection.” He marked a small pause and shrugged helplessly. “For a fee, of course.”
“I don’t need your protection, sonny. I’ve been living in this place longer than you’ve been alive and I’m still here.” Chen scoffed in his heart. Protection? He knew well what kind of “protection” was implied here. The only ones these ruffians would protect anyone against were themselves. It was extortion, pure and simple.
Up until last month, Chan had had an agreement with the boss who had held this part of the city. He had been an old Italian mafioso, a crook, but with his own crooked code of honor, with whom Chen had made a pact. The mobster would not bother the people in an area of a few blocks around Chen’s gym—not sell any drugs, not try to recruit for his gang, not extort “protection money”—and in exchange, Chen prevented any completion from setting up shop in the neighborhood.
For years, that pact had held, until the Surge had caused a massive rise in new parahumans determined to take a piece of the pie that was the local underworld. Those ruthless social climbers had nearly toppled the old order on its head, with only the most powerful monolithic gangs, like the Black Lotus, remaining untouched. In fact, new parahuman criminals rather wanted to become part of the Black Lotus. Trying to beat them was suicidal, so people either avoided or joined them.
As many of the less powerful boss, the old mafioso had been swept away by the tide of shameless newbies who didn’t give a crap about the rules of the old order, and ever since Chen had dreaded something like this would happen.
“Now, now, Mr. Nelson. Don’t be so categorical. I represent someone with great interests in the development of this neighborhood. Mr. Sexybeast only wants to help the people in his territory.”
Chen would have snorted at the corny nickname if, for one, he hadn’t heard worse before—The whole freaking agglomeration is named “Justice City” for God’s sake—and, for two, if he didn’t know exactly whom this Donald was talking about and what his plan to “help” the neighborhood entailed.
“Turning the whole area in a red-light district with brothels at every corner, turning all the local girls into cheap prostitutes and the men into your goons? That’s what you called helping!” He had to stop himself from shouting at the end. Thick veins were pulsating on his forehead and his knuckles were white around the crowbar.
Donald did not look the least bit impressed by Chen’s anger. This probably had to do with the five behemoths who, as soon as the old coach had raised his voice, had taken a step into his direction, only to be stopped by Donald’s raised hand. Truly like trained attack dogs.
Lowering his hand, he smiled brightly at Chen, displaying at least one golden tooth. “Well, Mr. Jackson, a job is a job. You can’t argue people around here are in dire need of employment. We only propose to offer them what they want. Money.”
“And then extort it right back in the name of ‘protection’?” Chen’s voice had dropped to a low growl by this point.
Instead of answering right away, the man calmly picked up his previously folded paper plane and made it twirl between his fingers. Then he revealed a sadistic smile. “Well. It is only right for a king to raise some taxes upon his domain, is it not?”
Chen spat on the floor. “You’re insane.” Then he changed the subject, seemingly at random. “Do you know why the previous bosses of this city actually followed rules and honor?”
“…Enlighten me?”
“Because without rules, there is only chaos. And when it’s back to the law of the jungle…” Chen shook his head, a disdainful sneer on his face. “There will always be someone stronger. So play the big bad wolf and gloat in your little sandpit while you can, sonny, because soon, your little white ass will get spanked by someone even more ruthless than you are, and because it’s every man for himself, nobody will come to save you when you squirm and scream like a little bi—”
Chen’s tirade was brusquely interrupted by a hard sound just next to his ear, followed by a sharp pain in his cheek. He felt blood trickle down his chin. His gaze shifted slightly to the right, and his eyes widen upon seeing the neatly folded plane that an instant before had been in Donald’s hand now stuck into the wall as if it had been made of steel instead of paper.
He looked back at the man on the bench. Donald wasn’t smiling anymore.
“I think you’ve made your point. So, are you going to cooperate, old man? Or do you want to do it the hard way.”
Chen lowered the crowbar and stared straight into the younger man’s eyes, making sure he spoke slowly and the other could hear clearly each of his words.
“Over. My. Dead. Body. Brat.”
Donald’s traits hardened.
“That can be arranged.”
He snapped his fingers and the five mastodons rushed at Chen.
* * * * *