“What kind of fucking question is that?”

Alexander gave the superheroine an incredulous look, only to take a step back as an ethereal mist began to coalesce behind her. Her face twisted from shock into rage, the mist flowed along the corridor towards him. It may have been terror, but Alexander felt the ambient temperature plummet. He began to back away, looking the woman in the eye as he did like she was some predatory animal.

“One that demands an answer.”

Alexander began to feel something sucking the strength out of him, as if his very soul was being pulled away. He began to feel faint, and the mere effort of standing became almost unbearable. He was barely able to stammer out a response, but he refused to give in.

“Yes, I’m bloody well alive.”

He paused, and looked sheepishly at the ground for a moment of deep reflection.

“I think…”

“You think?” she was incredulous and folded her arms in a gesture of contempt, “either you know or you don’t.”

“Look, you’re the first person who’s been able to see me since yesterday. For all I know I might be a bloody ghost.”

He slammed his fist against the wall, letting out the frustration that had been building up since the loss of Temple. To his irritation, Morgan the Fay simply scoffed at him as she withdrew whatever hold she had on his soul. The mist did not return to its creator, but seemed instead to fade and dissipate until it vanished entirely. Life flowed back into him, and feeling returned to his extremities. It was as if the altercation had never happened.

“Well, your fist didn’t pass through the wall. That’s usually a good sign.” Recognition dawned in her eyes. “You were at Temple, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, got chased onto the roof by gunmen, only for them to act like I wasn’t there. I guess I wasn’t, because no one has been able to see me since.”

“Except for me.”

“I thought you could see me back there so I came here hoping I hadn’t made it up.”

The confession sounded stupid now that he said it out loud. He had come here, to this place, on a whim. In the vain hope that he wasn’t alone. It was a sheer miracle that his efforts hadn’t been in vain. Morgan the Fay looked up at the ceiling, as if drawing attention to the layers of steel and hundreds of soldiers that divided them from the rest of the city.

“You are sure you’re not dead?” she quickly spoke again as an angry countenance fell upon his face, “What I mean is, I see ghosts. Souls. If only I can see you…”

She left the statement unfinished, and the young man fell deep into thought. He thought back to the rooftop, replaying the memory over and over. Had he died? Only the memory of a dying man brought him back to his senses.

“No, that’s not entirely true. Others can see me, if I’m touching them, but they forget I ever existed when I let go.”

“Show me,” she said, walking off as if she expected him to follow. They made their way back through the concrete corridors, Alexander following at her heels. Her pace was fast, and even with his advantage in height he struggled to keep up. It seemed that she abandoned her pretence of grace when not in costume.

“You’re being awfully helpful,” he told the heroine, frankly glad for any conversation after an entire day of silence. She didn’t stop, instead speaking over her shoulder to him.

“This is probably the most fortified place in the country, and you walked in here like a damn tourist. No-one can track you except for me, and everyone thinks I’m mad anyway. You could walk out of here, head straight to Horse Guards, and kill the Lord Protector, and no-one would be able to do anything to stop you.”

She led him into the great hall, before calling Plague Doctor over with a shout.

“Doc! Need to check something, you game?”

Alexander was shocked at the difference between the casual, laid back woman and the ethereal witch who stalked the streets of London. Plague Doctor took it in his stride, however, and looked up from whatever foul concoction he had been mixing to fix, fixing her with a piercing stare even through his max.

“It’ll only take a second,” she pleaded, “promise.”

He sighed, a good natured sound muffled ever so slightly by the mask. To Alexander’s relief, he fixed the foul vial shut with a cork stopper and set it down next to the others.

“What is it, Rose?”

She turned to Alexander, and he saw the callous witch in her smile.

“Grab him.”

He moved, even as the unfortunate bystander looked around in confusion. The moment he touched Plague Doctor’s arm, the man’s eyes lit up in shock. There was none of the hesitation and surprise he had seen in the eyes of the gangers in the pie shop. Instead, within moments the superhero had driven an elbow into Alexander’s throat, and knocked him to the ground. As he lay there, pinned, the hero reached to his belt and pulled out a narrow vial of blood red liquid, holding it with deliberate menace. He flicked off the cork with a finger, and a foul smell emanated from the all-to-fragile glass.

“How did you get in here?” he asked, his tone one of complete seriousness, until he heard the echoing laughter coming from his teammate.

“Rose. Tell me what’s going on.” The slightest hint of confusion was beginning to creep into his voice.

“This is…” she paused for a moment, looking down at the two figures.

“Alexander.” He helpfully provided, as air began to slowly flow back through his windpipe.

“Thanks. This is Alexander. He’s invisible unless he’s touching someone.”

Plague Doctor stood, perhaps motivated by curiosity, and the moment he did, his eyes glazed over and he looked around in confusion. Morgan the Fay, Rose, grinned even harder at that.

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“Rose,” he seemed to regain control of his faculties, “was there something you wanted?”

“Nothing, Doc. Just wandering.”

The hero looked at her in confusion and concern before going back to the vials of dangerous liquid. She left the room and Alexander, not having many other options at this point, followed. Soon they were both seated on a comfortable sofa in a small break room. An admirable effort had been put in to making the room feel homey, with paintings and carpets covering the concrete walls and floor. There was a television, a kitchenette and a kettle, which Alexander immediately made use of. Tea cleared his head, and he found himself sinking into the sofa as the tensions and worries that had been gnawing at him began to fade away.

“I don’t think you’re dead,” Morgan began, drawing him back into the real world, “just half dead.”

He chuckled at that. “Half dead? You can’t be half dead. And what’s all this talk of souls anyway? It hardly seems very rational.”

A cushion stuck him in the face.

“Don’t you start with that as well. What does reason matter now? We live in the age of flying men, and super science. And the less said about Red Dragon the better. Reason’s dead; we live in Wonderland now.”

The heroine was putting on a brave face, treating his words as a joke, but he had clearly touched a nerve. He went back over their conversation, until he grasped a statement he had let go unquestioned.

“So, when you say you see ghosts…”

“I see ghosts, Alex,” she emphasised the word, “that’s my power. I draw upon them to create my mist and I can incite them to attack people in it. Everyone else thinks I’m mad, that I’m just rationalising my power, but I know better. I spent a lot of time in Bedlam, I had been quite,” she paused for a moment, choosing her words with care, “unsettled when my power first emerged, and I needed professional help. What got me through wasn’t convincing myself that they were delusions, but accepting that they were real. When I look at you, it’s like I’m looking at a ghost. The only difference is you look back.”

“I take it the others don’t agree.”

“Most people in, organisations like ours, think I’ve been cured, that I moved away from my delusions. The Runners know differently, of course, but they treat me differently because of it. They care, don’t get me wrong, and they’re great people, but I can’t help but feel like they’re always walking on eggshells around me, which is why I didn’t tell Doc about you.”

“I understand,” Alexander chuckled in spite of himself, “don’t think he would have accepted the idea of an invisible man following you around.”

She laughed again, and Alexander realised that she was getting as much catharsis from this talk as he was. They sat in silence for a few moments, enjoying the plush sofa and rich Persian rugs. It was nice, he remarked to himself, to stop moving and just relax. In time, however, the real world inevitably returns.

“So,” Morgan was hesitant, as if she didn’t want to break the peace, “what are you going to do now?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? He stared off into space as he tried to tie together the jumbling thoughts that had assailed his mind since the attack on Temple, finishing the thoughts that had begun to form in his flat.

“No bloody idea. My work is in ruins, and I can’t exactly go looking for a new job. Home’s in Kray territory, but I don’t like the idea of working for a gang.”

“Well…” she spoke slowly, as if explaining the obvious to a child, “you could always try your hand at heroism.”

He smirked, and turned from his musings to look at her.

“I thought you’d never offer.”

“I was waiting for you to ask.”

They laughed again, how he had missed that sensation. Again they chose to sit in silence, simply enjoying the moment.

“So, what now?”

Her face became stony and professional, and his own mood shifted to match.

“Now you have to persuade the Director”

Director Gregory Fielding sat at his desk on the sixth floor of the under-fortress. His office was spartan, as was the rest of the bunker complex, but an effort had been made to make it more comfortable. The concrete floor had been covered by rugs imported from Pakistan, while the desk behind which he sat was an antique carved from ancient oak. Behind his imposing high-backed chair hung a portrait of Henry Fielding, the satirist-turned-magistrate who had set up the first Bow Street Runners, and laid the groundwork for the city’s future police forces. The Director kept that portrait to remind everyone who entered the room of the illustrious pedigree of the runners, and of the unquestionable moral character of their founder.

He was new to the runners, a government watchdog tacked on after the Gunpowder Plot, but he was determined not to be a poor manager. Over the years, he had earned the respect of the team and the government, managing to balance fighting for his corner with curbing the excesses that superhero teams can easily fall into. The result was an impeccable reputation as an honourable, if stern, man who cared about his work and never did things by halves. When the commander of the city’s defence asked him to prepare for the arrival of the Round Table, he threw himself into the necessary work. Within minutes of leaving the meeting, he had concluded a phone call with his counterpart in the Round Table that defined the jurisdictions in such a way that ensured his team remained preeminent.

Now he was pouring through the paperwork associated with his job, both recording the actions of his team and keeping a watchful eye on the unaligned heroes that ran rampant throughout the city. His in-tray was always increasing, but he worked through the forms and references with a near mechanical efficiency. It was as he was sorting through these forms that he spotted a piece of paper on his desk. He had not put it there, and it had not come from his trays. He gingerly placed the form he had collected back into the pile, before leaning over the note.

The message was absurd, it claimed to be from a newly awakened superhuman who had simply walked into the most secure place in the country. It was ridiculous, except it’s mere existence rendered it undeniably true. The Director slid open a draw on his desk, reaching for his pistol, before his arm was gripped in a firm grasp.

It was as if a shadow fell from his eyes, and he could see a young man standing over him wearing a neatly ironed shirt and suit trousers. The door to his office clicked open, and Morgan the Fay walked in, her black hair not flowing behind her, as it did when she was in costume, but tied back into a ponytail.

“I figured you should see him, boss.”

One did not get the job of managing the city’s flagship superhero team without being adaptable, and Fielding simply looked up at the intruder with an assessing glare.

“I would appreciate it, young man, if you let go of my arm.”

When the stranger didn’t move, he reached out with his left arm in an attempt to grab his keys. Anything could be a weapon, if used correctly.

“I would, sir,” the stranger began, “but the moment I do you will forget I even exist.”

He turned his head to Morgan, inclining it slightly in question. She may be slightly unhinged, but she had always proven a reliable judge of character.

“I’ve verified it on Plague Doctor. The moment you let go, you won’t remember a thing about him.”

“Then it appears we have a problem. I assume you want to join, yes? Then I can’t exactly forget you exist, and you can’t cling to me like a child all the time. Move your hand to my shoulder.”

The stranger complied, sliding his hand up Fielding’s arm, and the director privately remarked that he was lucky this cape was reasonable. He took up a fountain pen, and began scrawling onto the note, adding around a paragraph of information before giving it his signature, date of birth and naming the last present he had given to his wife. He clicked the lid back onto his pen and set it down neatly with the others, before brushing the strangers hand off his shoulder.

The Director looked around in confusion before noticing Morgan the Fay.

“Rose, can I help you?”

She simply walked up to his desk and tapped her finger on a piece of paper. To his credit, the Director didn’t question the information, even as he saw it was written in his own hand, and simply accepted reality as it was presented to him.

“I see, I assume he’s still here.”

“Standing right beside me, boss.” Spoke the only other person in the room.

Director Fielding simply sighed, and began talking to thin air. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering at how a desk job could possibly lead him to such strange places.