*

“Steady on guv,” the man in the pinstriped suit replied. He fixed the thin old man with a smirk, though no humour reached his eyes. “Let’s see them first.”

The old man made no move to get up from his chair, but instead slid his gaze over to the nearest soldier with a soft, weary sigh. “Jackson,” he said mildly, “Give Mister Salt his diamonds.”

The tall, hard-faced soldier scowled, appearing displeased at the order – perhaps at the thought of handing anything to Mr Salt, who was grinning at him like a particularly over-fed weasel, or perhaps just displeased in general. He swung his assault rifle to his side, walked over to one of the heavy wooden benches and flipped it easily upside down. On the underside was bolted a rectangular lockbox. Jackson’s fingers dug in around the short edge of the metal and pulled, tearing the top open with a rending screech. The soldier reached inside the strongbox and pulled out a leather briefcase.

“Strong lad ain’t cha?” remarked Mr Salt. The armed, muscular man said nothing, merely scowled. He flipped the table back to how he had found it, then walked towards the group of newcomers, one hand on the briefcase handle, the other on his gun.

“Go ahead, take it,” said the thin man, waving dismissively towards his blue-suited counterpart, “Count them. We’re in no hurry.”

“Yeah?” the Englishman grinned. He reached out and snatched the briefcase from the soldier’s outstretched hand, pulling it close as if to covet. “Awful trusting of ya. Not worried I’ll rabbit?”

“You can run if you like Mister Salt,” the old man said mildly, “The lives of thieves don’t concern me. If you want to end yours so abruptly, if you think we can’t stop or find you, well, that’s your error to make.”

The man they called Mister Salt kept grinning, although the expression grew somewhat strained. He glanced down at the briefcase then up at the old man, the nearby soldiers and Jackson, then back at his crew.

“Just jerking your chain,” he smirked, though his greasy words now somewhat lacked their original lustre. He turned the briefcase around so that the clasps were facing him, still giving the soldiers the odd nervous eye, then clicked the lid open. The thief let out a long whistle.

“Whew. Jesus. Alright.” He balanced the open case with one hand and lifted out one of the diamonds, holding it up to the moonlight. It was the size of a fingernail. “And these’re all proper, ey? Ain’t gonna de-Midas if I shake ‘em too much, not laced through with some poor saps DNA?”

“They are not transmuted, nor bio-organically derived,” the thin man assured him, “Pure diamonds, natural. Perform any test you like.”

Mister Salt gestured to his companion, the large man in the black shirt who looked like his mother was a gargoyle from some second-rate church. “Mind if I… you know.”

His counterpart gestured. “Be my guest.”

Salt eyed the old man with some suspicion, but nevertheless snapped the briefcase shut. He stepped over to his hunched, hulking accomplice and handed him a fist full of the diamonds, which the big man in turn held up to his eye. He licked one, smelt one, tapped it gingerly against his teeth – then he pulled out a small, glue-gun-like device from his back pocket and pressed it gently against the diamond’s side. The device beeped, and a scattering of red to green lights lit up along the LED screen on the side. The giant nodded.

“It’s real.”

“Well I’ll be.” Mr Salt turned back to the man in the chair, who had watched the scene unfold with passive indifference. “You really just handing me half a billion in diamonds. Just like that.”

“Money is no object,” the man replied, “So long as you deliver what you promised.”

“Oh, I always deliver. You know that. Expensive-”

“-but worth your salt. Yes. The nomenclature is fascinating. Skip to the point. Do you have it or not?” Around the warehouse, the soldiers’ grips on their weapons tightened. The Englishman held up his hands.

“Alright guv, alright, Jesus. No need to be tense. Man of my word, ainnai? Pep?” He glanced back at the thick-set woman behind him. The two exchanged nods, then the woman opened her hand and a shimmering blue oval of light materialised vertically in the air beside her. She stuck her arm through, disappearing up to her shoulder as she rummaged around in the portal, drawing back out a few moments later clutching a black velvet jewellery box. She turned around, holding it in front of her, glancing at the soldiers nervously, then passed it to Mister Salt. All eyes bored into the box.

Slowly, slowly, like a two-bit game-show host revealing the grand prize, the blue-suited thief gently pried the lid open, revealing its tiny, precious contents.

A black bed of satin.

And a single strand of hair.

“Give it to me,” the thin man demanded, and though his voice held no agitation or urgency, nor was there any room for argument, “Please.”

The thief held the flat jewellery box in his hand, balanced loosely between his fingers. He flicked a furtive glance towards the assembled mob.

Then he snapped the lid shut.

“See, I’m a man of my word,” he mused. He twisted his heel on the concrete, making a small and scuffing squeak. His eyes flicked to meet the old man’s. “But still, I’ve gotta wonda. Lotta effin power I’m holdin ‘ere. Lotta effin import. You think I dunno what this is?” He held up the box. “You think I dunno what it means? Why should I give it to you? Huh? Why should you ‘av it?”

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And for the first time since he’d got there, he pointed at the TV.

“Why should you ‘av tha power ta kill tha Black Death?”

*

“He attacked me,” Jane recounted, “And then he blew up the Academy.”

“But he didn’t kill you?”

“No. Not most of us. Giselle got people out.”

“This is Giselle Pixus, new head of the Legion?”

“Yeah.”

“Right. She pulled everyone out.”

“Yeah. And then we went to Detroit, and we tried to fight and-” Jane paused, and her face fell. After a few moments, the host rescued her.

“I think we can all say you fought bravely.”

“Yeah.”

“Look, it’s a terrible thing what happened,” said Leno, “You know, we all saw it, and I... I don’t want to dwell too much on this again because I know these are painful memories, for a lot of people, but I still have to ask… so you tried to stop him. You fought bravely, but this is the Black Death.”

“Yeah. He destroyed us.”

“Yeah. And the whole world saw that, I think, which was in a way even scarier than his announcement – because suddenly this is real, isn’t it, this is happening, and these are the best fighters in the world – and they can’t do anything.”

“Yeah.”

“And see this is the part I want to know about,” the host said, leaning in, “Because then he turns the camera off, and it’s clear he’s going to talk to you. What happened then?”

Jane paused for a moment before she spoke, her face deliberately blank. “He wanted me to join him. To be with him. As an empath. As… his wife.”

The crowd gasped, the revulsion palpable. Leno shook his head.

“It’s just layer after layer of despicable, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“So what’d you tell him?”

“I told him to-” and Jane let loose a deluge of violent swear words that streamed out live on national television, to an ecstatic, overwhelming cheer from the crowd and the mock consternation of Jay Leno.

“Okay, okay, let’s, ah, let’s take it down a notch,” he said, grimacing, although the expression didn’t reach his eyes and it was clear he was trying to hold back a grin. People were standing up amongst the crowd, shouting and punching their fists, and with a triumphant smile Jane raised her chin to them. For a moment her eyes glowed, and a rush of golden light streamed through her ‘E’. The crowd went crazy.

“Alright, alright, come on now,” said the host, waving the crowd down until they settled, “Come on. I think, Jane, we can all agree, I don’t know, maybe we need to take a vote on it – but to me that sounds like exactly the right answer.” The audience erupted with further cheering. Once more Leno had to wait for the noise to subside.

“Alright,” he said finally, “So he propositions you, and you say no. What then?”

“I try to blow his head off.” More barks of laughter, followed by more cheers. Jane grinned and the host rolled his eyes in mock despair.

“You try to blow his head off. And how’d that go?”

“Not great.”

“Not great, no, I can imagine. But he left you alive?”

“Yeah,” replied Jane, “He didn’t want to kill me. He…” She let out a long sigh, then sat up a little straighter and continued speaking matter of fact. “He beat me up pretty bloody. But then he teleported me to Morningstar. To the Academy. Or the ruins I guess.”

“Why’d he take you there?”

Jane made a face. “He wanted to show me it was hopeless,” she answered, “He wanted to try and change my mind. About being with him. He said he loved me.”

The host recoiled as dark murmurs rippled across the crowd. “Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

“But he’d killed your mom!”

“Yeah. That was… yeah.”

“But he didn’t seem to care.”

“No, he kept trying. He said we could be… king and queen, if we wanted. Have, I don’t know, some empath dynasty. I don’t know. He wanted us to be like Caitlin Reid and Captain Dawn.”

“Sick. Absolutely twisted.”

“Yeah. He dragged me over to the ruins of their old room, and there’s the display-case with her costume in it. Intact somehow.” Jane paused and shook her head, her mouth taut. “And then he turns to me, and he’s going on and on, and he reaches into his coat and he pulls out this locket, this like… love heart on a chain.”

“He gave you jewellery?”

“Yeah. And he goes ‘this was hers; it could be yours. This could be us. We could rule’. Then he puts it in my hand; then he teleports away.”

“Jesus. Leaving you laying there in the ruins.”

“Yeah.” Jane shifted in her seat. “And I… I don’t know what came over me. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe… I was looking for some kind of strength? Some kind of inspiration or, I don’t know, something…? But I opened the locket, and it was one of those big ones, you know, with a picture of the people on each side?”

The host nodded. “I know the type.”

“Yeah. And there’s this photo of them, Walter and Caitlin, Captain Dawn – and I, I look at them, and I touch it, and it’s clear that it hasn’t been opened since she died.”

“Right.” Across the studio it was like the audience were leaning forward, almost holding their collective breath.

“And then, I don’t know I’m clumsy, I’m hurt, my finger slips and I touch the photo of Caitlin, and I accidentally knock her picture, and…” Jane looked up at the crowd. “There was hair behind it. Brown hair.”

“Wait,” the host said. He leaned back, revelation spreading over his face. “No. It can’t be.”

“Yeah,” said Jane, “It was, it was her hair, because I knew the colour, and then it’s like I’m dreaming because I’m thinking, ‘if her hair’s behind her picture… and there’s a picture of him…’” Her voice trailed off and she glanced up at Leno, looking slightly guilty. “And… yeah.”

“No way.”

“Yeah.”

“Because that was an old-fashioned thing, wasn’t it, a lock of the hair-?”

“Yeah; hair in a locket. And I touch it, his hair and I remember my hands were shaking so hard, just trembling, and I touched it, and I could feel it glowing, still, deep inside, I could feel the power and it was like… I heard his voice.”

The studio was breathlessly silent. Leno leaned in.

“What did it say?” he whispered.

“It said…” Jane’s voice caught and then she steadied herself. She sat up straighter, “It was like it said ‘I’m here. I’m with you’. And I felt this warmth, this incredible, beautiful warmth, and I knew, somehow, this was why I was here. This was what I was supposed to do.”

“So you took it.”

“I took it. And I broke the case, and I put on Caitlin’s armour, because my own was all beat up, and it kind of fit?” The audience laughed. “And then I just… yeah. I knew what I had to do.”

“Wow,” said the host, “Just wow. Absolutely incredible. And of course we all know what happened next, we all saw it – I have to say, I have never been more invested in anything I have seen on TV in my life.” Chuckles went up amongst the crowd. “And I’m on television!” More laughter. Leno turned back to Jane. “And then you beat him.”

“We beat him. Matt helped. So did a lot of people.”

“I remember. Our marketing director at the time, Sally, I remember her bursting into the break room and going, ‘We have to get there, now!’, because she was psychic, see, and I’m going, ‘What in the hell are you talking about?’, but she was grabbing everyone’s hands and being like come on, we’re going to project.”

“It was crazy.”

“Oh, I completely agree, absolute lunacy. I remember saying, I said to Sally, ‘What the hell do you think this is going to accomplish, aren’t we just going to tick him off?’. But no, I didn’t realise, it was the distraction.”

“It was the distraction.”

“You were already engaged, mentally, in the fight and then these tens of thousands of voices, you know, it was just an annoyance but-”

“-but it was enough to distract him. It gave me time. And we destroyed him.”

And once more the studio erupted with noise as every person in the audience rose to their feet in a deafening, cacophonous roar. Leno clapped too, shaking his head.

“All thanks to a lock of hair.”