Petyr had chosen the rearmost tram for being virtually empty. It was just him on the far end of it, and a man dressed like an office worker on the other end by the door to the connecting tram. Sometimes his mind just wanted to roam about, and it did so best in privacy and silence.

Sure, the tram itself was a far cry from silent, with its shifts and squeals and groans, but familiarity had made it almost into a soothing rhythm. With no human noises he was free to gaze out the window and let his thoughts flutter whichever way they wanted.

The buildings passing by served as shutters, each momentarily blocking the overall view of the city. One moment he was looking into utter blackness, the next he saw the wider sprawl before him in the night, marked by little dots of electric light, then it was blackness again. And so on.

There was nothing more for him to say about the Green Bomber; not until the man either struck again or was dealt with. That left the Woodforth Building as the big story; doubly so because no one else was really focused on it. Not with the homicidal madman providing such a fine distraction for the masses.

What was going on in that building that either the chief of police or the city leaders themselves wanted kept quiet? If the son of a city councillor had staggered in drunk to scream at his mistress or some such, then Petyr could certainly see that facing an attempted hush-up. But closing the place down? No. Whatever the problem was, it was still in there, and it was something that couldn’t simply be smuggled out in a bag under cover of darkness.

However much he tried, Petyr couldn’t come up with a reasonable hypothesis that accounted for all of the known factors. It was equal parts tantalising and infuriating. But there WAS an answer somewhere out there, and that meant he could find it. He would find it, if he just kept on pushing and prodding. Someone knew. Chief Matew certainly knew, but had defied every single one of Petyr’s attempts at a direct meeting.

That visit to Redda in the late night returned to the forefront of his mind. If those men had been wearing police uniforms then surely her neighbour would have mentioned that detail. Was the chief sending plainclothes officers to intimidate witnesses? Or was there some other party in all of this?

The Hounds occurred to him. Wolf himself had seemed particularly interested in keeping the fellow in the diner silent. But what connected a pack of street brutes to the police AND a big secret lurking inside an office building?

How absolutely maddening. But oh, how sweet uncovering this thing would be.

The tram slowed to a stop, giving Petyr a still image of the city. The track had turned enough for him to have a wide view of High Town, and sadly all its lights served as a fine backdrop to make the factory smoke all the more visible. With all the factories that had gone out of business or simply been destroyed in the war, it seemed that all of the most polluting ones had survived.

Someone’s joke, it seemed to Petyr.

The doors a couple of trams down the line opened, then closed in short order, and they set off again. The rhythm continued, the beating and squeaking and clattering, and for some reason it again put him in mind of horses.

Up ahead in the line of trams a rough voice started singing loudly.

Midnight, and I’m here with you

Midnight, and my heart is true

Petyr looked up. The tram was going through a turn, obscuring his view into the frontal trams. But the man by the door did see up ahead, and looked startled.

Tell me dear, when I’m near

Does your heart fill with cheer

Even over the rhythmic noise Petyr thought he could recognise the timbre and stood up out of his seat.

Starlight looks on us with a wink

But it may all end in a blink

The trams straightened out and he could see the few people riding at this time of night fearfully getting out of the way as the singer slowly advanced down the length. There was an unpleasant scratching noise.

Oh, how I do hope and pray

Oh, darling, that you will stay

Wolf came into view, followed by two of his men. His eyes were fixed into that final tram car. Right on Petyr. The man was slightly hunched and there was a happily feral look on his face.

Because when I give what is due

Oh, darling it’s gonna be you

The gang leader had a knife in his hand and was scraping the tip along the ceiling as he strolled along.

Because when I give what is due

Oh, darling it’s gonna be you

There was nowhere to go. Not even any place to fall back to, given that he’d sat down in the aft car. Petyr held the cane like a sword as he defied fear and walked slowly towards the door, giving himself a bit of space behind him. Wolf slowed down as he saw him coming, but clearly only to amuse himself.

Despite the slower pace the scraping noise got louder as the distance between them shrank. The office man could see what was coming but didn’t seem to spot a way out. He wound up either panicking or making a wager and exited the tram, getting closer to Wolf for the sake of being able to press up against the wall and letting him pass.

It’s gonna be yooou

Petyr stepped just a little bit closer, bringing his cane into range with the door

Wolf switched the scraping out for poking the wall as he entered the final stretch to the door, ignoring the terrified man who hugged the wall as if standing on a ledge while inching sideways. The gang leader quickly glanced down at Petyr’s bad leg, then went back to staring into his eyes. He was having fun. The two behind him simply looked fierce and angry.

“Found you, paperman,” Wolf said.

Petyr kept his limbs steady and his fear under control; it was something to be used, not used by.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“Here for your interview?” he asked and forced forth a smile.

Wolf split his lips apart, pretty much exactly like his namesake.

“Yeah.”

Petyr saw the attack coming, in a second or two, and his body hummed with tensed energy. Would his leg hold up?

The green blast erupted in the doorway, singeing Petyr’s exposed skin. He covered his face and shrank back as metal groaned and the tram shook. Then the floor flipped sideways with an almighty, deafening screech as the aft tram derailed.

Petyr rolled, flipped and smashed about, and before he could even understand what was happening it stopped. The tram leaned sideways and for a moment he thought it would flip again. But it simply plopped down on its side and lay still.

For a breath or two he lay there in daze. He heard the other tram cars continue on, squeaking their way off into the night, and bits of glass falling from the side that was now the ceiling, like the first few drops of a rain. But he also heard footsteps, and that was what got him back up.

His limbs still worked and by some miracle his bad leg hadn’t taken a noteworthy hit. He was battered and his ears rang, but there was danger and he could take it.

There was another flash of green, accompanied by that soft whoosh. Petyr flinched, but the flash was outside, shining through the now-sideways door. It did illuminate his cane on the floor/wall and he snatched it up in passing. His body sang a soft song of pain that would become a screaming chorus soon enough, but for the moment he could move through the doorway without it hampering him much.

The connection to the tram in front had been melted apart by that inexplicable blast, and Petyr carefully stepped over the damage for fear of his shoes or even feet suffering the same fate.

The auto had come to a stop in one of the ruined segments of Fields. On either side of him were the broken remains of walls, the one that should have faced the tracks was gone entirely, and only the one in front of the tram doorway remained fully standing. A few flames burned in junk amidst the rubble, presumably started by the blast. And backlit by one of them was the Green Bomber himself.

The madman was dressed exactly like in the loft; in that dull red coat and his face still largely hidden by the hood and scarf combo. He clutched the staff or rod or whatever it was in his hand, and there was a twitchy wildness to his body language as he strode a short distance in one direction then back again.

“I know you,” the Bomber muttered. “I know you, I know you.”

“Yes,” Petyr said carefully as he straightened out his back. “From the loft.”

“Yes,” the Bomber said as he did another short walk. “N-no. Wha-”

He stopped and did an angry, full-bodied twitch of frustration.

“What will it take for you people to wake to his work?!”

There were about eight metres between them. Would his leg hold up for the sprint? And would he make it before the Bomber unleashed his strange weapon?

“Look...” Petyr said. “I am a journalist-”

“You are not!” the Bomber insisted, firmly pointing a finger at him. “I know you. I know you.”

“Well, then you know that I work in stories,” Petyr said. “Tell me yours. Start at the beginning.”

The Bomber looked uncertain, and Petyr found himself facing a dilemma between hearing him out or knocking him out the moment the opportunity rose. He risked taking a couple of steps closer to the man.

“Clearly you have things to say,” Petyr said. “Say them!”

“The... war,” the man said hesitantly.

“Yes, the war,” Petyr said. “I fought in it.”

“It all fell into darkness after the war,” the Bomber went on, although Petyr wondered if he was simply talking to himself. “Darkness and deception...”

Petyr risked getting a little closer. His leg continued to hold up.

“I can’t... I can’t trust anything. He is watching. Eyes. He has eyes. Lots of eyes. And I will put them all out if I must!”

Petyr started his charge, holding the cane up for a blow. The Bomber turned on his heels with startling speed and aimed his rod. A green light emerged from it, setting off a blast right between them, scorching Petyr’s exposed skin some more. He shrank back.

“I cannot trust you,” the madman said. “You might not be you. Prove it.”

“Wha-”

“Prove it! Fight me!”

There was no getting out of it. The man’s frenzied body language made that much clear. So Petyr charged again, right as the rod lit up a second time. This time he made it and swung. The blast didn’t go off, as the Bomber raised the rod to defend himself. Their respective sticks met with a loud bang and the madman was pushed back a step.

He recovered, and parried Petyr’s second attack more readily. He moved like a fighter, using agile footwork to avoid having to take all of Petyr’s superior strength. Petyr pressed the assault furiously, not wanting to give him a chance to set off whatever the hell that rod was. He feinted a high blow, then struck the Bomber in the torso. There was the impact of some sort of hard chest piece, but the force of the blow still sent him backwards.

Petyr pressed close, reaching for his dominant arm. He got a loose grip but the Bomber struck with his rod and Petyr’s parry was only half-successful. The strange weapon clipped him on the head and he lost the grip. The Bomber tried retreating out of his reach, swinging as he did so. Petyr parried again, then shot his fist out in a jab that connected solidly with the man’s half-hidden face.

The man was pushed back some more, nearly into one of the little fires that burned on the rubble-strewn ground. Petyr meant to end this with a strong cane-blow to the head, but in another show of skill the Bomber regained his footing and nimbly evaded. The cane whooshed right by his head, stroking against the hood, but Petyr pressed his attack and simply slammed into the Bomber, using his weight to continue pushing the man back.

The Bomber staggered into the fire, throwing up sparks and flaming trash as his feet shuffled through it. He didn’t scream. He just turned it to an advantage as he kicked up, throwing the sparks at Petyr’s face. It was the distraction he needed to swing and land a hit on Petyr’s head.

It only stunned him for a moment, but between that and the fire the Bomber was able to hop out of reach. He raised the rod before Petyr could gain his footing, and that horrid green glow started at the end of it.

Unbalanced and dizzy, Petyr couldn’t dive to the side. In a moment of pure, blind instinct he swung the cane as the strange shot came at him. The green flash mixed with blue in a large blast between the two of them.

“Ah!” the Bomber exclaimed.

Petyr stood, both hands holding up the cane in a ready pose, barely comprehending that he was still alive. The madman still aimed his rod, and Petyr waited to see how the next shot would go.

Dodge, then take him out.

“Hold it!” shouted a female voice.

The Bomber looked towards the tracks. Petyr charged, batting the rod-arm aside before the other man could react. He barrelled into the Bomber, his full strength and weight hitting the distracted man and bearing him to the rocky ground.

The Bomber landed on his side with Petyr on top. A moment of wriggling ended with the madman facing down, and Petyr swung a sideways punch into his face.

“I said-” the female voice shouted again, but cut itself off.

Petyr heard running, but was busy fighting. The Bomber reached for his dropped rod, getting it an instant before Petyr’s hand gripped his forearm. The madman tried aiming it, but Petyr shifted his grip up to the wrist, severely halting its mobility. The Bomber was just barely able to shift the tip towards the one fully standing wall, and another green blast went off.

Just as Inspector Myra reached them the centre base of the wall burst. In the final light of green sparks as well as the flames on the ground, Petyr could see it start to collapse inwards. Towards them.

Suddenly he didn’t feel quick or strong. He felt small and clumsy and fragile as he stood up. The Bomber got up on one knee and the inspector turned on her heel. They all scattered like a group of startled mice; he and the cop away from the coming wall, and the Bomber towards it.

“Where is the dawn!?”

The wall seemed to move languidly, almost taunting them as this awful giant came down unstoppably, while Petyr’s feet tried to find their way amidst the rocks. A stumble would be his doom. It really was like a nightmare; a horrible doom coming down in the dark, roaring as it did.

It hit the ground with an awful noise, blasting his back with wind and debris alike. Petyr was thrown off his feet, landing on more rocks and covering his head. A cloud of dust immediately followed, blinding and choking him. For a moment his ears didn’t work either, but then he heard the inspector coughing on his left. It occurred to him to try to move, and he found that somehow, impossibly, his limbs still worked.

“Insp-”

He coughed.

“Inspec... Inspector!”

He waved his hands around, trying to dismiss the dust. He felt utterly on edge, his battered, tensed body not entirely convinced that another wall wasn’t on the way. And the Green Bomber... was he dead? Had the crazy bastard actually gotten himself crushed beneath however many tons of bricks?

He made it closer to the inspector and the dust began to clear up. She seemed to have been hit with her share of the debris, but no more than that.

“What. Happened?” the woman said as she started to recover a bit.

“The Bomber... I...”

Petyr trailed off. He didn’t really know what to say, so he settled for holding his hand out to her. She clasped it and let him help her to her feet. She groaned, and Petyr did as well when the effort caused a stab of pain in his back. She bent over with another groan and picked her revolver off the ground.

The dust continued to clear up, giving them both a hazy view of the fallen wall. There was no sign of the Bomber, but then there wouldn’t be. Myra tried taking a step, but let out an involuntary choked gasp and swayed on her feet for a moment.

Petyr was able to take a full, satisfying breath, as well as dreading the building pains from these very eventful moments.

“On the bright side, Inspector... I can give a more detailed description now.”